HEMINGWAY VARIATION No. 24
“Do elephants make babies as the chickens do?” asked Puget.
“I already have told him so,” said his sister, Malacca. “He pursues the point because he is of an age which requires adult confirmation.”
“It is your age which is at issue, not mine.”
“My dear,” said their father to their mother, whose attention was absorbed in evaluating the competence of the new maid, Fanny, in preparing Mr. Straits’ bacon, “remind me to write to the Royal Society that our beloved prodigies have solved a problem which has vexed historians for centuries, namely how Hannibal sustained his large army as it made its treacherous wintry way above the Alpine tree line.”
An awkward silence ensued, awkward because the children awaited clarification, while Mr. Straits awaited a plea from them for it. An indulgent parent, Mr. Straits did not allow himself to be nettled by the children’s failure to rise to this particular occasion. “It were the elephant eggs what kept them going,” he said, his colloquializing underscoring the fact that he was making a joke.
“Father, you are busy and important, we know, but you must not let the affairs of the world make you inattentive to your children,” said Puget. “I spoke of making babies, not bringing them into the world.”
At “busy and important” a tremor of consternation flitted among the adults in the kitchen, Fanny included, since she already had taken the measure of her new employers, as they wondered to what degree an eight-year-old was capable of irony.
“I believe the method is the same for all God’s creatures,” said Malacca.
“If not infinite, the number of God’s creatures is so tremendous that there is no common trait we can assign to them all, except that by which we are defining them in this discussion, namely being all creatures of God.”
“I am sorry, Father. I misspoke. I forgot that the manner by which the species in whom God, in his generosity, has instilled souls increases is a sacred mystery, the revelation of which, as mere children, we must resign ourselves patiently to await.”
“Oh, yes. Dear me,” said Puget. “I join my sister in assuring you, darling Father, darling Mother, that it did not cross our minds for a moment that our blessed existence, for which we will eternally be grateful, came about from the servicing of the latter of you by the former.”
“And less than a moment is almost no time at all,” added Malacca, whose inclination towards veracity was inspired less by a devotion to the virtue of truthfulness, since in that regard, at least, she was a normal ten-year-old, than a precocious attraction to the scientific method.
As she spoke she, along with her brother, watched with interest as Fanny, shoulders shaking strangely, rushed from the room. Just as interesting to the children was their parents’ seeming insouciance at the maid’s remarkable exit, especially their mother’s, who until now had been attending to Fanny with all the small, tense adjustments of demeanor of a circling raptor.
“I hope this euphemism was not learnt from the books you have been reading with Miss Bay,” said their father.
“I am sorry, Father, ‘euphemism’ is not yet in our vocabulary,” said Malacca.
“A euphemism is a word or phrase which is used to signal an aspect of everyday life which the speaker prefers to remain a mystery.”
“Ah. That is why Fanny left in such consternation,” said Malacca. “Because she is in service.”
“I believe this has gone far enough,” said Mrs. Straits.
“We are in your domain, my dear, so I leave that judgment in your hands,” said Mr. Straits, referring to the preparation of the bacon, which his wife was now overseeing in Fanny’s absence.
“But is Jenkins considered to be in service, as well? He is the one who describes the occasional flurry of activity in the chicken house as such,” said Malacca. “I hardly think Jenkins capable of euphemism.”
“It is an expedient which our marvelous language extends to all classes,” said Mr. Straits, aglow with chauvinism and democratic benevolence.
Puget, who had been squirming in his chair like any boy awaiting his breakfast, suddenly raised his head and straightened his spine in a posture of discovery. “Is it a mystery to Jenkins, then, why the rooster suddenly becomes excited and ambushes a poor hen who seems to have done nothing at all to deserve the onslaught? Furthermore, is it a mystery to the hen too?”
“Since she is a poor, dumb creature, we will never know.”
“If only she could name it, it might assuage her discomfiture,” said Puget.
“So roosters play a role among fowl similar to that played by the priests in the ancient world, who were repositories of mysteries known only to themselves. It is an observation which will be welcomed by Miss Bay, who always seeks analogies to enliven our history lessons,” said Malacca.
“Not only is it a mystery among the hens. It is a mystery to me, as well,” said her brother.
“Oh, no, we must not compare our spiritual state to that of the ancient world’s or to whatever passes for religion in the chicken house.”
“Quite right, sweet one.” Mr. Straits beamed complacently. “There are no mysteries in the C. of E.”
“Except the one,” said his daughter and, on Mr. Straits declining his head questioningly, she went on. “Heretofore mentioned.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” cried Puget. “We have quite forgotten the elephants.” With a triumphant expression directed at his father, he continued, speaking slowly and emphasizing every word, “We have strayed from the subject.”
“From the mouths of babes,” said his sister.
Puget briefly extended his tongue and thrust it toward his sister, then said, “One can easily tell a rooster from a hen, but what differentiates a rooster elephant? All elephants look alike.”
“You have seen only the one,” said Malacca, referring to a holiday at the seaside where a traveling zoo had provided some diversion. “Also, I believe the correct term is ‘cock-elephant.’”
“That is more than enough!” cried Mrs. Straits.
“Calm yourself, my angel. Our circumstances are fortunate enough that a rasher charred is a matter of comedy, not tragedy.”
Three sharp raps interrupted their colloquy.
“Who could that be?” said Mr. Straits who, with the rest of his family, could identify any of their usual callers by the manner in which they wielded the front door knocker.
As an inhalation of Mrs. Straits’ rose to coloratura heights, Mr. Strait stated, gravely, “We have forgotten much more than elephants. In a moral sense,” he added, catching his son’s eyes widening in imagining the enormity of what might have just entered the house, as the evidently recovered Fanny opened the door.
“My sister!” cried Mrs. Straits.
With as much bonhomie as he could muster, Mr. Straits bustled out of the kitchen, followed by his wife, who chose, instead, a demeanor of contrition, and then the children, excited and curious in the manner of those of any age about to be spectators at the denouement of a blunder for which they bear no responsibility.
“I am so sorry, Mathilde. We have just received a sudden shock, followed by a great degree of perturbation, and we quite forgot we were to meet your train.”
The rest of Mr. Straits’ family were as chuffed as he that, thanks to the broad compass afforded by his choice of conjunction, his apologies conformed perfectly to the facts, while leaving their sequence obscure.
“I am inured, I am inured,” said Aunt Mathilde, stoutly. “I had an invigorating trek from the station, made even more invigorating by my having periodically to shift this,” she gestured at a rather large suitcase which rested beside her on the hall runner, “from one hand to the other as I climbed the hill.”
As they regarded the suitcase, for the first time that morning the thoughts of the little family divided along generational lines, as Puget and Malacca pondered in pleasure what gifts for them it might contain, while their parents wondered how long a visit its bulk presaged.
Aunt Mathilde tilted her head upwards, sniffed conspicuously, and announced exultantly, since she was able now to give voice to a dudgeon whose expression propriety had been frustrating, “Something is burning!”
“Do elephants make babies as the chickens do?” asked Puget.
“I already have told him so,” said his sister, Malacca. “He pursues the point because he is of an age which requires adult confirmation.”
“It is your age which is at issue, not mine.”
“My dear,” said their father to their mother, whose attention was absorbed in evaluating the competence of the new maid, Fanny, in preparing Mr. Straits’ bacon, “remind me to write to the Royal Society that our beloved prodigies have solved a problem which has vexed historians for centuries, namely how Hannibal sustained his large army as it made its treacherous wintry way above the Alpine tree line.”
An awkward silence ensued, awkward because the children awaited clarification, while Mr. Straits awaited a plea from them for it. An indulgent parent, Mr. Straits did not allow himself to be nettled by the children’s failure to rise to this particular occasion. “It were the elephant eggs what kept them going,” he said, his colloquializing underscoring the fact that he was making a joke.
“Father, you are busy and important, we know, but you must not let the affairs of the world make you inattentive to your children,” said Puget. “I spoke of making babies, not bringing them into the world.”
At “busy and important” a tremor of consternation flitted among the adults in the kitchen, Fanny included, since she already had taken the measure of her new employers, as they wondered to what degree an eight-year-old was capable of irony.
“I believe the method is the same for all God’s creatures,” said Malacca.
“If not infinite, the number of God’s creatures is so tremendous that there is no common trait we can assign to them all, except that by which we are defining them in this discussion, namely being all creatures of God.”
“I am sorry, Father. I misspoke. I forgot that the manner by which the species in whom God, in his generosity, has instilled souls increases is a sacred mystery, the revelation of which, as mere children, we must resign ourselves patiently to await.”
“Oh, yes. Dear me,” said Puget. “I join my sister in assuring you, darling Father, darling Mother, that it did not cross our minds for a moment that our blessed existence, for which we will eternally be grateful, came about from the servicing of the latter of you by the former.”
“And less than a moment is almost no time at all,” added Malacca, whose inclination towards veracity was inspired less by a devotion to the virtue of truthfulness, since in that regard, at least, she was a normal ten-year-old, than a precocious attraction to the scientific method.
As she spoke she, along with her brother, watched with interest as Fanny, shoulders shaking strangely, rushed from the room. Just as interesting to the children was their parents’ seeming insouciance at the maid’s remarkable exit, especially their mother’s, who until now had been attending to Fanny with all the small, tense adjustments of demeanor of a circling raptor.
“I hope this euphemism was not learnt from the books you have been reading with Miss Bay,” said their father.
“I am sorry, Father, ‘euphemism’ is not yet in our vocabulary,” said Malacca.
“A euphemism is a word or phrase which is used to signal an aspect of everyday life which the speaker prefers to remain a mystery.”
“Ah. That is why Fanny left in such consternation,” said Malacca. “Because she is in service.”
“I believe this has gone far enough,” said Mrs. Straits.
“We are in your domain, my dear, so I leave that judgment in your hands,” said Mr. Straits, referring to the preparation of the bacon, which his wife was now overseeing in Fanny’s absence.
“But is Jenkins considered to be in service, as well? He is the one who describes the occasional flurry of activity in the chicken house as such,” said Malacca. “I hardly think Jenkins capable of euphemism.”
“It is an expedient which our marvelous language extends to all classes,” said Mr. Straits, aglow with chauvinism and democratic benevolence.
Puget, who had been squirming in his chair like any boy awaiting his breakfast, suddenly raised his head and straightened his spine in a posture of discovery. “Is it a mystery to Jenkins, then, why the rooster suddenly becomes excited and ambushes a poor hen who seems to have done nothing at all to deserve the onslaught? Furthermore, is it a mystery to the hen too?”
“Since she is a poor, dumb creature, we will never know.”
“If only she could name it, it might assuage her discomfiture,” said Puget.
“So roosters play a role among fowl similar to that played by the priests in the ancient world, who were repositories of mysteries known only to themselves. It is an observation which will be welcomed by Miss Bay, who always seeks analogies to enliven our history lessons,” said Malacca.
“Not only is it a mystery among the hens. It is a mystery to me, as well,” said her brother.
“Oh, no, we must not compare our spiritual state to that of the ancient world’s or to whatever passes for religion in the chicken house.”
“Quite right, sweet one.” Mr. Straits beamed complacently. “There are no mysteries in the C. of E.”
“Except the one,” said his daughter and, on Mr. Straits declining his head questioningly, she went on. “Heretofore mentioned.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” cried Puget. “We have quite forgotten the elephants.” With a triumphant expression directed at his father, he continued, speaking slowly and emphasizing every word, “We have strayed from the subject.”
“From the mouths of babes,” said his sister.
Puget briefly extended his tongue and thrust it toward his sister, then said, “One can easily tell a rooster from a hen, but what differentiates a rooster elephant? All elephants look alike.”
“You have seen only the one,” said Malacca, referring to a holiday at the seaside where a traveling zoo had provided some diversion. “Also, I believe the correct term is ‘cock-elephant.’”
“That is more than enough!” cried Mrs. Straits.
“Calm yourself, my angel. Our circumstances are fortunate enough that a rasher charred is a matter of comedy, not tragedy.”
Three sharp raps interrupted their colloquy.
“Who could that be?” said Mr. Straits who, with the rest of his family, could identify any of their usual callers by the manner in which they wielded the front door knocker.
As an inhalation of Mrs. Straits’ rose to coloratura heights, Mr. Strait stated, gravely, “We have forgotten much more than elephants. In a moral sense,” he added, catching his son’s eyes widening in imagining the enormity of what might have just entered the house, as the evidently recovered Fanny opened the door.
“My sister!” cried Mrs. Straits.
With as much bonhomie as he could muster, Mr. Straits bustled out of the kitchen, followed by his wife, who chose, instead, a demeanor of contrition, and then the children, excited and curious in the manner of those of any age about to be spectators at the denouement of a blunder for which they bear no responsibility.
“I am so sorry, Mathilde. We have just received a sudden shock, followed by a great degree of perturbation, and we quite forgot we were to meet your train.”
The rest of Mr. Straits’ family were as chuffed as he that, thanks to the broad compass afforded by his choice of conjunction, his apologies conformed perfectly to the facts, while leaving their sequence obscure.
“I am inured, I am inured,” said Aunt Mathilde, stoutly. “I had an invigorating trek from the station, made even more invigorating by my having periodically to shift this,” she gestured at a rather large suitcase which rested beside her on the hall runner, “from one hand to the other as I climbed the hill.”
As they regarded the suitcase, for the first time that morning the thoughts of the little family divided along generational lines, as Puget and Malacca pondered in pleasure what gifts for them it might contain, while their parents wondered how long a visit its bulk presaged.
Aunt Mathilde tilted her head upwards, sniffed conspicuously, and announced exultantly, since she was able now to give voice to a dudgeon whose expression propriety had been frustrating, “Something is burning!”