Part 4

He imagined he had material for a great book. “I’m giving you the thoughts; slap them down, we’ll make a fortune and go whacks. We’ll make a million. I’ll get half and Vic will get half. With half a million we’ll take it easy for a while on this damned measly earth. We’ll live till a hundred and two, and then we’ll skedaddle didoo. At one hundred and two it will be said of Henry Disque Demuth that he shuffled off this mortal coil. We’ll skip into the great idea--hooray! hooray! Take down everything that is significant--with an accent on the cant--Immanuel Kant was a wise man, and I’m a wise man; I am wise, because I’m wise.”

It is to be regretted that in spite of all the gabble concerning the volume that was to make both of us rich, not even one line was dictated by the inspired author. In fact he got no further than the title, and it must be admitted that of all titles in the world, this is the least catchy. It is as follows: “Wise is God; God is Wise.”

Later came a variation in the form of a hissing sound which was meant to be an imitation of the whizzing of Halley’s comet; there was a wild swinging of the sheets as a welcome to the President; a definition of religion as the greatest joke ever perpetrated; some hasheesh-laughter; and the utterance of this original epigram: Shakespeare, seltzer-beer, be cheerful.

A little later all variations ceased, for the subject became a monomaniac, or at any rate, a fanatic. He became thoroly imbued with the great idea that the right attitude to preserve towards life is to take all things on earth as a joke. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times he repeated: “The idea of the great idea, the idea of the great idea, the idea of the great idea.” No question could steer him out of this track. “Who’s up on the comet? Any pretty girls there?” asked Frederic. “The great idea is up there,” was the answer.

“Where would you fall if you fell off the comet?”

“I’d fall into the great idea.”

“What do you do when you want to eat and have no money?”

“You have to get the idea.”

“When will you get married?”

“When I get the idea.”

Midnight came, and he was still talking about his great idea. At one o’clock I felt bored. “If you don’t talk about anything else except the idea, we’ll have to quit,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, “we’ll all quit, we’ll all be wrapped up in the great idea.” He took out his handkerchief to blow his nose, remarking, “The idea of my nose.” I approached him. “Don’t interfere,” he cried, “I’m off with the great idea.”

I began to descend the stairs. When half way down I stopped to listen. He was still a monomaniac. Had he substituted the word thought or theory or conception or notion or belief or opinion or supposition or hypothesis or syllogism or tentative conjecture, I would have returned. But as I still heard only the idea of the great idea, I went to bed.

In the morning his countenance was ashen, which formed a marked contrast to its extreme redness the evening before. He should have slept longer, but I thought of the duties to be performed for Judge Butts, and determined to arouse him, altho I knew my touch would cast him down from the glorious Halley’s comet to the measly little flea-bite of an earth, besides jarring the idea of the great idea.

So I shook him, but instead of manifesting anger, he smiled and extended his hand cordially, as if he had not seen me for a long time. The effects of the drug had not entirely disappeared, and his friends at work thought him drunk, and asked with whom he had been out all night. Mr. Demuth was in first-class spirits, he bubbled over with idealism, and felt a contempt for all commercial transactions. He was the American Bernard Shaw, and looked upon the universe as a joke of the gods. While adding some figures of considerable importance--as salaries depended upon the results--a superintendent passed. Mr. Demuth pointed to the column that needed balancing, and asked, “This is all a joke, isn’t it?” Not appreciating the etiology of the query, the superintendent nodded and passed on.

* * * * *

One midnight, while preparing to retire, it occurred to Courtenay Lemon that this was a good time for him to try hasheesh. As I did not discourage him in the slightest degree, 30 minims were forthwith swallowed, with the result that the Socialist dramatic critic spent an unusual night. It must be remarked that over the bed on which he lay hangs a portrait of Ralph Waldo Emerson. For an hour and a quarter we discussed various topics of mutual interest, such as decadent poetry, and Marx’s influence on the revolutionary youth of Russia. The conversation was cut short by the hasheesh-laugh.

It had begun: the flood of laughter was loose, the deluge of mirth poured forth, the cascade of cachinnation rushed on till it swelled into a torrent of humor while the waves of snickering and tittering mingled with the freshets of hilarity and jollity till the whole flowed into a marvelous Niagara of merriment. What a pity the audience was so small! What a shame the old humorists could not be present! How the belly of Aristophanes would have thundered a loud papapappax, how Scarron would have grinned, how Sydney Smith would have enjoyed it, how Tom Moore would have held his aching sides, how Rabelais would have raised the rafters with his loud ho-ho-hos! But as these gentlemen were unavoidably detained elsewhere, I must testify that it was the funniest show on earth,--so here’s to you, Courtenay Lemon, you Leyden jar of laughter, charged to the limit.

Never having been a disciple of good old Isaac Pitman, I could not record all that was said, but here are my notes: “I feel a satisfaction,” he says, “in seeing Emerson’s picture, as I always felt like laughing at him.” Rolls on the bed and laughs uncontrollably. “It makes my face tired,” he explains. In reply to my question, he answers that he enjoys laughing. Begins to expound something, but is stopped by a laughing fit. Says he would like to have his photo taken now, and then laughs immoderately. Says it doesn’t seem so much like laughing as like letting wind out of a bag. Says it is worth while staying up to see such a show. Giggles terrifically. Says “Open the window, as I am using up all the air.” Laughs loud and long. Strangely enough his laughter begins to sound exactly like a negro’s, as represented on the stage. He recognizes this and says “I’se laughin’ now jes’ like a niggah.” He is extraordinarily comical. From top to bottom his body is shaking with laughter. He twirls his arms, kicks his feet, and for the first time I understand what Milton meant when he wrote “the light fantastic toe.”

“I feel as if any way I put my leg I have to keep it. If I stuck it in the air and kept it there--wouldn’t that be funny?” Loud laughing. Imitates the music of a military band. His eyes glisten with pleasure, his whole countenance is beaming, and he seems infinitely delighted with himself. “Forward march!” he exclaims. He plays a fife and beats a drum: Boom! Boom! Boom! Says sternly, “I don’t want this band to play any patriotic air, not even in my sleep.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you a story. You think I’m a damn fool, don’t you?” Laughter. “This reminds me of a story.” Laughter. “O what a damn fool am I!” Laughter. “I’m going to tell that story,” he says determinedly. Makes several attempts, but it is a difficult feat, on account of the frequent outbursts of laughter, and because it is next to impossible for him to concentrate his thoughts. At last he gets this out: “A man said he hadn’t laughed so much since his mother-in-law died. Oh, how funny!”

“Mr. Courtenay Lemon: Imitation of laughter. Pretty good, eh?” Makes a speech, imitates the gestures, and bows as politely as it is possible for one who is stretched out in bed.

“This would be a good dope to try on a fellow who is accused of having no sense of humor. Oh, I’m getting funnier every minute.”

“Emerson, O you, you were a kid once too, weren’t you? I don’t believe you ever were. If I had a rotten egg I’d throw it at you.”

“There’s a blue phosphorescent light in your face,--.”

“I’d rather laugh than vomit any day.” Strikes the bowl which was placed near him in case the cannabis produced emesis. “But I’m not a dog and I’ll not return to my vomit. That dog was a damn fool. There are a lot of things in the Bible that are damn fool things.”

“I’ve been doing all sorts of laughter. Couldn’t you have a system of prosody, and divide it off into feet like poetry, and have a Laughing Poet whose contributions would be accepted by the comic papers?” Whistles and sings and drums rhythmically with his finger-tips on the bowl.

When I confirm a statement of his by answering “Yes,” he says, “Don’t be butting in, Victor, this is my show.” Points his finger at me and laughs. Sensations must be very acute, for while clearing my throat to say something, but before uttering anything, he hears me and exclaims. “There you go, butting in again. But don’t be afraid, I’m not getting pugnacious; it all ends in laughter.” But for a moment does become quarrelsome.