Part 7

“Will you kindly explain me also?” asked the musician, who had been telling how no one knows his own voice in a phonograph, because every one hears his own speech reverberate through his inner, as well as his outer ear.

“Music is the most emotional and the most rhythmical of the arts,” continued the psychologist, “because the auditory nerve keeps close company in the brain with nerves from the heart and lungs. Melody is merely a series of answers to the body’s expectation of its usual rhythm. As one of your own critics has said, when music seems to be yearning for the unutterable it is only yearning for the next note.”

The musician quelled the psychologist with an imaginary baton, which he then pointed at the biologist, saying, “Pray prove to the psychologist that he is nothing but pulp.”

“He is surely little else,” smiled the biologist, “built by evolution and run by a chemical engine.”

“Out on you scientists and your evolution!” broke in the archaeologist. “Can your mechanism make a Raphael, a Shakespeare, a Beethoven? Can your evolution show any architecture, sculpture, statecraft, drama, or philosophy equal to those of the age of Pericles? The world will produce nothing fine or permanent so long as you fellows tinker with its machinery. Your heresy of universal progress is merely a contemporary mythology that is falser than--”

“Softly, softly,” said Professor Maturin, shaking his long forefinger at the disputants. “The true philosopher, with Dante, loves every part of wisdom. Why can we not all enjoy knowing that cats hear better than dogs, and, at the same time, appreciate Blake’s saying that the sun is not a round ball of fire, but the glory of the universe?”

Everybody prepared to be mollified until Professor Maturin undid his peacemaking by asking the astronomer to tell us all what a comet looked like. When the astronomer replied that he had not looked through a telescope for years, but spent his time entirely in making calculations, the archaeologist threw up his hands and moved over to the painter and the musician, growling that he was going to spend the rest of the evening talking to somebody he understood.

I heard the two eagerly agree with him that the Nile was the finest river in the world, if you were there in November, but that you ought never go to Japan except in summer, and then I moved to other groups, where the mountaineer was comparing the view of the eternal snows from Darjeeling with that of valley, river, and sea from Mount Wellington, in Tasmania; or the diplomat was telling about Bulgaria; or the importer describing the Taj Mahal by moonlight; or the psychologist quoting, with a twinkle toward the archaeologist, Sir Francis Galton’s saying, that men who are too bad for Europe go to Constantinople, those who are too bad for Constantinople go to Cairo, and those who are too bad for Cairo go to Khartoum.

Everybody talked for a long while, since this was the last meeting for the year, and in spite of the earlier disagreement, which was, perhaps, more apparent than real, I remember the evening as one of especial illumination.

XIII

_The Fountain of Youth_

Professor Maturin’s study lamps were dimmed to the mellow glow that makes good talk. But his coffee and cigars were so worthy of the dinner we had just ended that we continued to smoke in silent content, until our host asked about the Vicar’s vacation.

“My plans are about as usual,” answered that worthy, naming his sea-shore place without enthusiasm.

“Mine, too, are about the same,” added Professor Maturin, naming his similar place, with a similar lack of interest.

The Physician hemmed severely and shifted in his chair. “Let us have it,” smiled Professor Maturin.

“Why will you act as though you were a hundred years old?” said he.

“Perhaps we feel so, sometimes,” replied Professor Maturin, while the Vicar nodded. “I fancy we would not ignore the fountain of youth, if we knew where it was.”

“It isn’t far,” retorted the Physician; “it’s merely open air and exercise.”

“I love open air,” said Professor Maturin, “but I hate what is usually called exercise.”

“Naturally,” replied the Physician, “being a man of mind. The cult of muscle is ridiculous in intellectual people. Muscle and vitality are by no means the same, and you cannot do much for either through unnatural gymnastics. But I mean by exercise the maintenance of harmony between one’s specialized functions and what may be called fundamental activity, so that the whole works together happily and spontaneously. Such a balance is as easy to preserve as it is important. We evolved as we are through a series of large general movements, and we need to continue enough of those to preserve a coördination that complements and supplements the particular functions that we most practice. Thus, we walk upright, instead of on all fours, probably as the result of long reaching and climbing. Climbing is not always convenient, but one may practice setting up exercises anywhere until he feels as upright and as sprightly as a primate. I grant you it may not seem dignified,” admitted the Physician, as the Vicar smiled at the picture, “but it means health and happiness, and perhaps life itself.”

“Your suasion is seductive,” said Professor Maturin, “but how is one to know precisely what he needs, and when?”

“Take, for illustration,” resumed the Physician, “those moments when you feel the need of exercise. A little analysis of the sensation will make you aware of a kind of hunger for activity in some particular muscle. A little ingenuity will devise some appropriate exercise, and its moderate practice will both meet the particular need that was felt and diffuse a general tone of well-being.

“Conversely, a general or a local sense of well-being will seem to demand expression in action. A little abandon at such moments will suggest exercises that are both pleasant and profitable to the body and interesting and enjoyable to the mind. Similarly, mental and emotional states will often suggest free and exuberant bodily expression.

“Any thoughtful man, moreover, may deduce from the nature of his ordinary occupations what larger vital activities he should have. Thus, trunk and chest exercises would complement your special functions as professional speakers, and your sedentary study calls for supplemental arm and leg exercises in the open air. Professional singers illustrate the successful development and maintenance of special functions through related and supplemental activities.

“In short, if exercise is spontaneous and rational, qualitative rather than quantitative, for the nerves rather than for the muscles, it will improve the efficiency and facility of one’s habitual occupation, will establish a general vigor and stability of body, and maintain mental balance and alertness; and, I repeat, such varied and recreative activities will suggest themselves to any thoughtful person, although it is wise, occasionally, to secure professional approval or amendment of them. In general, any moderate exercise that interests or stirs enthusiasm is good. Games, especially, correct nervousness and banish self-consciousness through their impersonal aim or coöperative effort, and they improve bodily structure and function by the way. Bowling, boxing, fencing, and billiards are good. Tennis and golf are better, because they are out of doors. Golf is almost the best, because it is interesting, moderate, and available throughout life.”

“I could never become interested in any game,” said Professor Maturin; “their artificial rules are irksome to me, and to acquire the skill necessary to make them enjoyable oppresses me as a waste of time.”

“Even so,” rejoined the Physician, “there are plenty of health-giving pursuits that have also some utility in themselves. Among such are the handicrafts and gardening; walking, riding, and all sorts of excursions; swimming, rowing, and sailing. Swimming, especially, is natural and interesting; it employs many members harmoniously, it quiets and invigorates nerve action, and gives strength and grace, self-control and confidence. I should prescribe for you both this summer a daily swim, with plenty of floating on a quiet shore, and then, if you become as refreshed as you should, something more, like learning to sail. What, by the way, is your avoirdupois?” Neither Professor Maturin nor the Vicar had been weighed in years.

“Weight is an important indication of health,” continued the Physician. “Every man, I think, should have a complete health examination and record at least once a year. Defects can then be promptly remedied, and occupation and recreation be properly adjusted to individual capacities or limitations. One’s family and personal history and tendency should be considered in everything. More than a third of us have remediable defects in sight, about a tenth in hearing, and so many people neglect their teeth that they cause, Dr. Osler says, more deterioration than alcohol. Digestion has a way of announcing its disturbances, but the heart and spine disorders that one-tenth of us have are usually allowed to spread their deterioration unheeded; while almost nobody considers the structure and function of the feet as important as they are.”

“I remember,” said the Vicar with a smile, “your first prescription for me--a looser hat, firmer shoes, and a belt instead of braces.”

“But does not such self-knowledge make one morbid?” queried Professor Maturin. “Have I not heard of a physician who had to abandon practice because he fancied himself afflicted with every disease that be diagnosed?”

“Surely,” responded the Physician, “you refer to Ferguson--the less we think about our own anatomy and physiology the better; but your physician must know them to keep you in health, as well as to extricate you from disease. Knowledge about sanitation and hygiene, however, is both intelligible and helpful to a practical belief in personal and social health and good living. I wish that every one would preach as well as practice my favorite prescriptions of less heat and more humidity indoors, gray-green wall-papers and furniture to fit the individual, vacuum cleaners and patent filters, and, ever, more fresh air. Outdoor air is the most valuable therapeutic that we know, just as it is the cheapest and the most neglected. Forty per cent of our mortality is due to neglect of fresh air.

“If, in fine, every aspect of life were considered first from the point of view of health; or if food and sleep and exercise and good air were put even on a par with other interests, we would have so much vitality that we might practically dispense with effort and enjoy all the profit and pleasure of spontaneity. Instead, we so neglect the entire physical basis that we allow a hurried breakfast, a heavy coat, an uncomfortable chair, or a bad light to spoil a whole day’s work, and, perhaps, permanently to damage the worker. Sedentary students ignore the need for activity until interest and perception grow sluggish, memory dims, and minds that should produce snap-shots require long time-exposures. If, on the other hand, we would only practice a complete, instead of a partial, economy, we should all be twice as efficient and happy.”

“You are surely right,” said Professor Maturin thoughtfully. “Plato was called so because of his broad shoulders, Xenophon and Erasmus loved horses, and Ronsard gardening. Christopher North walked from London to Oxford after dinner. Fitzgerald sailed half the year. The Physician does well to lecture us, dominie. Let us both reform, and go in for Greek sanity and the joy of the age of chivalry. The times have changed since the Bishop of London was the licenser for physicians. But,” he continued, as we rose to go, “if the Vicar and I promise to practice your preachment this summer, what shall we do when we come back to town? My walking up and down and the Vicar’s riding evidently need something more, by way of paprika.”

“I hope eventually to convert you both to golf,” smiled the Physician, “but until then, observe your needs and invent exercises to meet them, as I have indicated. Write me out a list of your inventions this summer; in the autumn I will go over both you and them, and perhaps suggest others. Next year I may prescribe mountains and motor cars for variety. Meanwhile, use the fountain of youth and prepare to live long and prosper.”

“Good-by, good-by,” said Professor Maturin. “Many thanks. You have surely suggested a great perhaps.”

XIV

_The Contemporary Fiction Company_

“Excellently well met,” said Professor Maturin, as we nearly collided on a down-town sidewalk,--“excellently well met. Come with me to the Contemporary Fiction Company.”

“And what may that be?” I inquired.

“I do not yet quite know,” he replied, “but with your kindly aid I hope soon to learn.”

The visible part of the Contemporary Fiction Company proved to be a private corridor in an office building, surrounded by half a dozen rooms occupied by young men and women and typewriters. Its master-mind was evidently the youthful but most business-like president, who included me in his welcome to Professor Maturin, and described his company as a semi-mutual corporation engaged in the production of fiction for the trade.

“Our staple,” said the president, “is short stories, and in the present state of the market we can scarcely keep even with our orders. Last week we delivered one dozen each of aviation, automobile, rural and suburban, settlement and sociology, power-boat and yachting, and two dozen heart-interest stories. To-day we ship a dozen near-Mexico army and navies, a rush order. We are now at work on a gross of adventure stories for a syndicate. The magazines are delighted to find that we may be depended upon to supply precisely what they want just when they want it, and save them the infinite annoyance of dealing with individual authors; and they also find that our rates for quantity save them a good deal of money. Therefore we are working up to our capacity of about seventy stories a week, and, incidentally, accumulating a tidy little surplus. Our system is very simple. I and the secretary-treasurer control the company, and draw up the specifications for all work. The sketching, filling in, and finishing are done by heads of departments, who hold smaller blocks of stock, and by junior assistants, whose salaries are a share of the profits--a plan that insures their best interest and efficiency. But I fear that I bore you--” he hesitated.

Being assured of our very great interest, the president led us to a long table beside which stood several drawers from filing-cases on a kind of rolling truck. “I have been working here on the specifications for the adventure stories I spoke of,” he continued, taking up a sheaf of printed blanks. “Here are some beginnings from the Action file. This newspaper clipping headed ‘Fireman rescues four’ is not uncommon, but you can see the story grow when you combine it with this one--‘Little girl gets pass to feed fire horses.’ This next clipping is sufficient in itself--‘Freighter sails to Africa to barter beads for wild animals.’ These others--‘Palace ablaze,’ ‘Island sinks,’ and ‘Whole town destroyed’--are also promising. Here is an item from the Anecdote file--‘A young fellow in a supper restaurant stares rudely at a lady, and flicks his cigarette-ash in the face of her remonstrating escort. The latter picks up the offender, shakes him like a bottle, and returns him gently to his chair. The escort happens to be Sandow.’ In dull seasons we make up action outlines from lives of filibusters and explorers, from opera librettos and plays, and, finally, from nursery rhymes. You are perhaps surprised at the last, but they contain a great deal of fundamental human interest.

“Having selected a number of such Action-starts, as we call them, we turn to Situation. Here are some items from that file--‘Saw Flying Dutchman,’ ‘Racing against ship fire,’ ‘Chinese crew burns joss-sticks to comet.’ Cut out the comet, and all of these items go with the African barter ship. ‘Religious sect awaits the end of the world’--that may combine with ‘Island sinks’ or ‘Whole town destroyed.’ These others furnish Situation-starts--‘Smuggling by aeroplane,’ ‘Foreign officers caught spying on forts,’ ‘Colonial returns displeased with home,’ ‘Has custom house search her social rival,’ ‘Fashionable women see prize-fight.’ That last gives a welcome variation from the conventional Monte Carlo gambling-hall opening. Many stories, of course, we begin with ‘Character-starts.’ Some of these come from clippings, like the following--‘Man who feeds nuts to squirrels,’ ‘Dead laborer was wealthy sociologist,’ ‘Former waiter becomes hotel manager.’ Members of the staff, also, turn in suggestions, like the following--‘The man with the wardrobe trunk,’ ‘Doubles in appearance but not in character,’ ‘Hero and centre of story who never appears.’ Gradually we are making up a canon of contemporary characters like the famous stock characters of the Roman or the Restoration comedy. Butlers and sailors, engineers and explorers, are staple. Bosses and spies are a bit stale, and we are going slow on commercial travellers and advertising managers. But we are featuring the army-woman, and we expect a good response to our new ticket-chopper series. Live new characters are always in demand.

“The last general specification is ‘Setting and Scene,’ like--‘Oil fire fogs the river,’ and so forth. We consider scene so important that we have in every office Stevenson’s words, ‘Culminating moments, epoch-making scenes, that strike the mind’s eye, put the last mark of truth upon a story.’”

After again hesitating and being again assured of our extreme interest, the president continued: “Theme, character, action, incident, situation, and scene being thus stated on the specification blanks, we write in hints for Treatment. Thus we keep the characters as simple as possible, trying for individual examples of conventional types, for definite persons that develop sharply, in small groups, with strong contrasts. The presentation we elaborate as much as possible--how the characters affect one another and display themselves in deeds and words. We cut out analysis and comment, but expand on appearance, manner, dress, and speech. Similarly, in action we make the pulsation of interest primary: emphasizing expectation, uncertainty, surprise, and quick solutions. With these various suggestions the specifications go the rounds of the heads of departments, each of whom makes further additions representing his special field. When the blanks come back we finally approve or amend them, and assign the stories for writing. Each junior assistant writes about one story a day, directly on the typewriter. When each story is written to the specified length, the writer adds a title, and the piece goes the round of the heads of departments once more, for approval or amendment. All details of character, or action, or setting that are questioned are either omitted, or verified from sources in the office, or referred to people outside who know. A slight seasoning of humor is also written in wherever the characters would express or display it. We are, however, very conservative about humor, since it is impossible to know how readers will take it. Irony and satire are so generally misunderstood that we exclude them altogether.

“Finally, our style man supervises all dialogue and diction. He is learned in every form of literary speech from Platonic symposia and mediaeval disputation, down to mid-Victorian table talk and contemporary slang. He sees that all conversation is clear and consistent. In style he suffers nothing that is not expressive of the matter or instantly intelligible to the average reader, and yet, under his criticism, the style of our output is on a very high level. He hates adjectives, and has an eye even for syllables and letters, being severe with explosives and gutturals and cordial to liquids and labials. He has a collection of fine lines of verse to be memorized by any assistant whose diction grows commonplace. It was he who devised our system of naming characters from places, in order to avoid the possibility of annoying actual people, although he does sometimes invent names to suit characters--like Mrs. Grandy, or Miss Miniver, or Monsieur Galantin. It was he, also, who devised our system of signing each story with a name appropriate to its variety, so that these signatures become trade names. Many of our best titles, too, are his. He named ‘Mary-Go-Round’ and ‘Helping Harrington,’ ‘Yellow Jacket’ and ‘The Golden Goose,’ ‘The Rule of Three’ and ‘One Hundred and One,’ and our ‘Half-portion’ and ‘Tales of To-day’ series. He becomes an officer of the company shortly, investing some of his large outside earnings from naming apartment houses, sleeping-cars, and manufactured articles like the ‘Fair-price products.’”

* * * * *

“But what will be the effect upon literature?” I wondered, when we were again upon the street.

“It will have no effect upon literature,” said Professor Maturin.

XV

_The Old Doctor_

“The Old Doctor is dead,” said Professor Maturin, holding up a marked newspaper, as he led the way to two easy chairs before the fire. “He was a very individual man of power and integrity, a philosopher as well as a physician--one of those rare people who love and tell the naked truth. So far as I know, he never blinked a fact nor shirked a danger. I feel as though I had known him all his life. For the last twenty years I have seen him only occasionally. But I saw much of him when I was a boy and a young fellow home from college, and my family knew him intimately before I was born.

“As a small boy on some family errand I used often to wait in his outer office, looking through its window to the street, or gazing at its one engraving of a lion staring at the sun, or its portrait of an Italian physician who gave his life to conquer the plague. I always jumped when the doors of the inner office slid apart and the old doctor stood, one hand on each door, with his large head bent and his gray-blue eyes intent upon me from their ambush of tumbled yellowish hair and bristly beard. His rapid questions, in a rich but husky voice, always upset me, and although I knew him to be kindliness itself, I always responded shakily to his summons into his sanctum.

“I can see him, vividly, now, as he sat there writing prescriptions, his tall, thin form bent over his desk, his left hand, white and shapely, holding the paper, his right, heavier and stained, tracing the words with nervous jerks and a lavish expenditure of ink. I see at the same time both the thinning thatch of his broad forehead and the much creased silk skull-cap that crowned his wrinkles later.