Love Conquers All by Robert C. Benchley

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In order that the change from book to film may be made as quickly as
possible, the author has written his story in the language of the
moving-picture subtitle. All that the continuity-writer in the studio
will have to do will be to take every third sentence from the book and
make a subtitle from it. We might save him the trouble and do it here,
together with some suggestions for incidental decorations.

Remember, nothing will be quoted below which is not in the exact wording
of Zane Grey's text. We first see Columbine Belllounds, adopted
daughter of old Belllounds the rancher of Colorado. She is riding along
the trail overlooking the valley.

"TODAY GIRLISH ORDEALS AND GRIEFS SEEMED BACK IN THE PAST: SHE WAS A
WOMAN AT NINETEEN AND FACE TO FACE WITH THE FIRST GREAT PROBLEM IN HER
LIFE." (Suggestion for title decoration: A pair of reluctant feet
standing at the junction of a brook and a river.)

She stops to pick some columbines and soliloquizes. The author says:
"She spoke aloud, as if the sound of her voice might convince her," but
it is not clear from the text just what she expected to be convinced of.
Here is her argument to herself:

"COLUMBINE!... SO THEY NAMED ME--THOSE MINERS WHO FOUND ME--A BABY--LOST
IN THE WOODS--ASLEEP AMONG THE COLUMBINES." (Decorative nasturtiums.)

Having convinced herself in these reassuring words as she stands alone
on the ridge in God's great outdoors, she explains that she has promised
to marry Jack Belllounds, the worthless son of her foster-father,
although any one can tell that she is in love with Wilson Moore, a
cow-puncher on the ranch. You will understand what a sacrifice this was
to be when the author says that "the lower part of Jack Belllounds's
face was weak."

To the ranch comes "Hell-Bent" Wade, the mysterious man of the plains.
He applies for a job, and not only that, but he gets it, which gives him
a chance to let us know that:

"EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO HE HAD DRIVEN THE WOMAN HE LOVED AWAY FROM HIM, OUT
INTO THE WORLD WITH HER BABY GIRL ... JEALOUS FOOL!... TOO LATE HAD HE
DISCOVERED HIS FATAL BLUNDER.... THAT WAS BENT WADE'S SECRET." (Fancy
sketch of a secret.)

And as we already know that Columbine is almost nineteen (I think she
told herself this fact aloud once when she was out riding alone, just to
convince herself), the shock is not so great as it might have been to
hear Wade murmur aloud (doubtless to convince himself too), "Baby would
have been--let's see--'most nineteen years old now--if she'd lived."

Any bets on who Columbine really is?

* * * * *

Let us digress from the scenario a minute to cite a scintillating
passage, one of many in the book. Wade is speaking:

"'You can never tell what a dog is until you know him. Dogs are like
men. Some of 'em look good, but they're really bad. An' that works the
other way round.'"

Oscar Wilde stuff, that is. How often have you felt the truth of what
Mr. Grey says here, and yet have never been able to put it into words!
It is this ability to put thoughts into words that makes him one of our
most popular authors today.

* * * * *

But enough of this. "Hell-Bent" Wade determines that his little gel
shall not know him as her father, and, furthermore, that she shall not
marry Jack Belllounds. So he goes to the cabin of Wils Moore and tells
him that Columbine is unhappy at the thought of her approaching--you
guessed it--nuptials.

"PARD! SHE LOVES ME--STILL?"

"WILS, HERS IS THE KIND THAT GROWS STRONGER WITH TIME, I KNOW." (Heart
and an hour-glass intertwined.)

* * * * *

Let it be said right here, however, that Jack Belllounds, rough and
villainous as he is, is the kind of cow-puncher who says to his father:
"I still love you, dad, despite the cruel thing you did to me." No
cow-puncher who says "despite" can be entirely bad. Neither can he be a
cow-puncher.

It is later, after a thrilling series of physical encounters, that
Columbine tells Jack Belllounds in so many words that she loves Wils
Moore. "Then Wade saw the glory of her--saw her mother again in that
proud, fierce uplift of face that flamed red and then blazed white--saw
hate and passion and love in all their primal nakedness.

"LOVE HIM! LOVE WILSON MOORE? YES, YOU FOOL! I LOVE HIM! YES! YES! YES!"
(Decorative heart, in which a little door slowly opens, showing the face
of Columbine.)

* * * * *

But time is short and there is a Semon comedy to follow immediately
after this. So all that we can divulge is that Jack has Wils Moore
wrongly accused of cattle-rustling, bringing down on his own head the
following chatty bit from his affianced bride:

"SO THAT'S YOUR REVENGE.... BUT YOU'RE TO RECKON WITH ME, JACK
BELLLOUNDS! YOU VILLAIN! YOU DEVIL! YOU"--

It would be unfair to the millions of readers who will struggle for
possession of the circulating-library copies of "The Mysterious Rider"
to tell just what happens after this. But need we hesitate to divulge
that the final subtitle will be:

"'I HAVE FAITH AND HOPE AND LOVE, FOR I AM HIS DAUGHTER.' A FAINT, COOL
BREEZE STRAYED THROUGH THE ASPENS, RUSTLING THE LEAVES WHISPERINGLY, AND
THE SLENDER COLUMBINES, GLEAMING PALE IN THE TWILIGHT LIFTED THEIR SWEET
FACES." (Decorative bull.)

XLIV

SUPPRESSING "JURGEN"

Of course it was silly to suppress "Jurgen." That goes without saying.
But it seems equally silly, because of its being suppressed, to hail it
as high art. It is simply Mr. James Branch Cabell's quaint way of
telling a raw story and it isn't particularly his own way, either.
Personally, I like the modern method much better.

"Jurgen" is a frank imitation of the old-time pornographers and although
it is a very good imitation, it need not rank Mr. Cabell any higher than
the maker of a plaster-of-paris copy of some Boeotian sculptural oddity.

The author, in defense of his fortunate book, lifts his eyebrows and
says, "Honi soit." He claims, and quite rightly, that everything he has
written has at least one decent meaning, and that anyone who reads
anything indecent into it automatically convicts himself of being in a
pathological condition. The question is, if Mr. Cabell had been
convinced beforehand that nowhere in all this broad land would there be
anyone who would read another meaning into his lily-white words, would
he ever have bothered to write the book at all?

Mr. Cabell is admittedly a genealogist. He is an earnest student of the
literature of past centuries. He has become so steeped in the phrases
and literary mannerisms of the middle and upper-middle ages that, even
in his book of modern essays "Beyond Life," he is constantly emitting
strange words which were last used by the correspondents who covered the
crusades. No man has to be as artificially obsolete as Mr. Cabell is. He
likes to be.

In "Jurgen" he has simply let himself go. There is no pretense of
writing like a modern. There is no pretense of writing in the style of
even James Branch Cabell. It is frankly "in the manner of" those ancient
authors whose works are sold surreptitiously to college students by
gentlemen who whisper their selling-talk behind a line of red sample
bindings. And it is not in the manner of Rabelais, although Rabelais's
name has been frequently used in describing "Jurgen." Rabelais seldom
hid his thought behind two meanings. There was only one meaning, and you
could take it or leave it. And Rabelais would never have said "Honi
soit" by way of defense.

The general effect is one of Fielding or Sterne telling the story of
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, with their own embellishments, to the
boys at the club.

* * * * *

If all that is necessary to produce a work of art is to take a drummer's
story and tell it in dusty English, we might try our luck with the
modern smoking-car yarn about the traveling-man who came to the country
hotel late at night, and see how far we can get with it in the manner of
James Branch Cabell imitating Fielding imitating someone else.

* * * * *

It is a tale which they narrate in Nouveau Rochelle, saying: In the old
days there came one night a traveling man to an inn, and the night was
late, and he was sore beset, what with rag-tag-and-bob-tail. Eftsoons he
made known his wants to the churl behind the desk, who was named
Gogyrvan. And thus he spake:

"Any rooms?"

"Indeed, sir, no," was Gogyrvan's glose.

"Now but this is an deplorable thing, God wot," says the traveling man.
"Fie, brother, but you think awry. Come, don smart your thinking-cap and
answer me again. An' you have forgot my query; it was: 'Any rooms,
bo?'"

Whereat the churl behind the desk gat him down from his stool and closed
one eye in a wink.

"There is one room," he says, and places his forefinger along the side
of his nose, in the manner of a man who places his forefinger along the
side of his nose.

But at this point I am stopped short by the warning passage through the
room of a cold, damp current of air as from the grave, and I know that
it is one of Mr. Sumner's vice deputies flitting by on his rounds in
defense of the public morals. So I can go no further, for public morals
must be defended even at the cost of public morality (a statement which
means nothing but which sounds rather well, I think. I shall try to work
it in again some time).

But perhaps enough has been said to show that it is perfectly easy to
write something that will sound classic if you can only remember enough
old words. When Mr. Cabell has learned the language, he ought to write a
good book in modern English. There are lots of people who read it and
they speak very highly of it as a means of expression.

But there are certain things that you cannot express in it without
sounding crass, which would be a disadvantage in telling a story like
"Jurgen."

XLV

ANTI-IBANEZ

While on the subject of books which we read because we think we ought
to, and while Vicente Blasco Ibanez is on the ocean and can't hear what
is being said, let's form a secret society.

I will be one of any three to meet behind a barn and admit that I would
not give a good gosh darn if a fortune-teller were to tell me tomorrow
that I should never, never have a chance to read another book by the
great Spanish novelist.

Any of the American reading public who desire to join this secret
society may do so without fear of publicity, as the names will not be
given out. The only means of distinguishing a fellow-member will be a
tiny gold emblem, to be worn in the lapel, representing the figure
(couchant) of Spain's most touted animal. The motto will be
"Nimmermehr," which is a German translation of the Spanish phrase "Not
even once again."

* * * * *

Simply because I myself am not impressed by a book, I have no authority
to brand anyone who does not like it as a poseur and say that he is
only making believe that he likes it. And there must be a great many
highly literary people who really and sincerely do think that Senor
Blasco's books are the finest novels of the epoch.

It would therefore be presumptuous of me to say that Spain is now, for
the first time since before 1898, in a position to kid the United States
and, vicariously through watching her famous son count his royalties and
gate receipts, to feel avenged for the loss of her islands. If America
has found something superfine in Ibanez that his countrymen have missed,
then America is of course to be congratulated and not kidded.

But probably no one was more surprised than Blasco when he suddenly
found himself a lion in our literary arena instead of in his accustomed
role of bull in his home ring. And those who know say that you could
have knocked his compatriots over with a feather when the news came that
old man Ibanez's son had made good in the United States to the extent of
something like five hundred million pesetas.

For, like the prophet whom some one was telling about, Ibanez was not
known at home as a particularly hot tamale. But, then, he never had such
a persistent publisher in Spain, and book-advertising is not the art
there that it is in America. When the final accounting of the great
success of "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" in this country is
taken, honorable mention must be made of the man at the E.P. Dutton &
Co. store who had charge of the advertising.

* * * * *

The great Spanish novelist was in the French propaganda service during
the war. It was his job to make Germany unpopular in Spanish. "The Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse" is obviously propaganda, and not
particularly subtle propaganda either. Certain chapters might have come
direct from our own Creel committee, and one may still be true to the
Allied cause and yet maintain that propaganda and literature do not mix
with any degree of illusion.

There is no question, of course, that those chapters in the book which
are descriptive of the advance and subsequent retreat of the German
troops under the eye of Don Marcelo are masterpieces of descriptive
reporting. But Philip Gibbs has given us a whole book of masterpieces of
descriptive reporting which do not bear the stamp of approval of the
official propaganda bureau. And, furthermore, Philip Gibbs does not wear
a sport shirt open at the neck. At least, he never had his picture taken
that way.

As for the rest of the books that were dragged out from the Spanish for
"storehouse" when "The Four Horsemen" romped in winners, I can speak
only as I would speak of "The World's Most Famous Battles" or "Heroines
in Shakespeare." I have looked them over. I gave "Mare Nostrum" a great
deal of my very valuable time because the advertisements spoke so highly
of it. "Woman Triumphant" took less time because I decided to stop
earlier in the book. "Blood and Sand" I passed up, having once seen a
Madrid bull-fight for myself, which may account for this nasty attitude
I have toward any Spanish product. I am told, however, that this is the
best of them all.

It is remarkable that for a writer who seems to have left such an
indelible imprint in the minds of the American people, whose works have
been ranked with the greatest of all time and who received more
publicity during one day of his visit here than Charles Dickens received
during his whole sojourn in America, Senor Blasco and his works form a
remarkably small part of the spontaneous literary conversation of the
day. The characters which he has created have not taken any appreciable
hold in the public imagination. Their names are never used as examples
of anything. Who were some of his chief characters, by the way? What did
they say that was worth remembering? What did they do that characters
have not been doing for many generations? Did you ever hear anyone say,
"He talks like a character in Ibanez," or "This might have happened in
one of Ibanez's books"?

Of course it is possible for a man to write a great book from which no
one would quote. That is probably happening all the time. But it is
because no one has read it. Here we have an author whose vogue in this
country, according to statistics, is equal to that of any writer of
novels in the world. And as soon as his publicity department stops
functioning, I should like to lay a little bet that he will not be heard
of again.

XLVI

ON BRICKLAYING

After a series of introspective accounts of the babyhood, childhood,
adolescence and inevitably gloomy maturity of countless men and women,
it is refreshing to turn to "Bricklaying in Modern Practice," by Stewart
Scrimshaw. "Heigh-ho!" one says. "Back to normal again!"

For bricklaying is nothing if not normal, and Mr. Scrimshaw has given
just enough of the romantic charm of artistic enthusiasm to make it
positively fascinating.

"There was a time when man did not know how to lay bricks," he says in
his scholarly introductory chapter on "The Ancient Art," "a time when he
did not know how to make bricks. There was a time when fortresses and
cathedrals were unknown, and churches and residences were not to be seen
on the face of the earth. But today we see wonderful architecture, noble
and glorious structures, magnificent skyscrapers and pretty home-like
bungalows."

To one who has been scouring Westchester County for the past two months
looking at the structures which are being offered for sale as homes,
"pretty home-like bungalows" comes as _le mot juste_. They certainly are
no more than pretty home-like.

* * * * *

One cannot read far in Mr. Scrimshaw's book without blushing for the
inadequacy of modern education. We are turned out of our schools as
educated young men and women, and yet what college graduate here tonight
can tell me when the first brick in America was made? Or even where it
was made?... I thought not.

Well, it was made in New Haven in 1650. Mr. Scrimshaw does not say what
it was made for, but a conjecture would be that it was the handiwork of
Yale students for tactical use in the Harvard game. (Oh, I know that
Yale wasn't running in 1650, but what difference does that make in an
informal little article like this? It is getting so that a man can't
make any statement at all without being caught up on it by some busybody
or other.)

* * * * *

But let's get down to the art itself.

Mr. Scrimshaw's first bit of advice is very sound. "The bricklayer
should first take a keen glance at the scaffolding upon which he is to
work, to see that there is nothing broken or dangerous connected with
it.... This is essential, because more important than anything else to
him is the preservation of his life and limb."

Oh, Mr. Scrimshaw, how true that is! If I were a bricklayer I would
devote practically my whole morning inspecting the scaffolding on which
I was to work. Whatever else I shirked, I would put my whole heart and
soul into this part of my task. Every rope should be tested, every board
examined, and I doubt if even then I would go up on the scaffold. Any
bricks that I could not lay with my feet on terra firma (there is a joke
somewhere about terra cotta, but I'm busy now) could be laid by some one
else.

* * * * *

But we don't seem to be getting ahead in our instruction in practical
bricklaying. Well, all right, take this:

"Pressed bricks, which are buttered, can be laid with a one-eighth-inch
joint, although a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch is to be
preferred."

Joe, get this gentleman a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch,
buttered. Service, that's our motto!

* * * * *

It takes a book like this to make a man realize what he misses in his
everyday life. For instance, who would think that right here in New York
there were people who specialized in corbeling? Rain or shine, hot or
cold, you will find them corbeling around like Trojans. Or when they are
not corbeling they may be toothing. (I too thought that this might be a
misprint for "teething," but it is spelled "toothing" throughout the
book, so I guess that Mr. Scrimshaw knows what he is about.) Of all
departments of bricklaying I should think that it would be more fun to
tooth than to do anything else. But it must be tiring work. I suppose
that many a bricklayer's wife has said to her neighbor, "I am having a
terrible time with my husband this week. He is toothing, and comes home
so cross and irritable that nothing suits him."

Another thing that a bricklayer has to be careful of, according to the
author (and I have no reason to contest his warning), is the danger of
stepping on spawls. If there is one word that I would leave with the
young bricklayer about to enter his trade it is "Beware of the spawls,
my boy." They are insidious, those spawls are. You think you are all
right and then--pouf! Or maybe "crash" would be a better descriptive
word. Whatever noise is made by a spawl when stepped on is the one I
want. Perhaps "swawk" would do. I'll have to look up "spawl" first, I
guess.

Well, anyway, there you have practical bricklaying in a nutshell. Of
course there are lots of other points in the book and some dandy
pictures and it would pay you to read it. But in case you haven't time,
just skim over this resume again and you will have the gist of it.

XLVII

"AMERICAN ANNIVERSARIES"

Mr. Phillip R. Dillon has compiled and published in his "American
Anniversaries" a book for men who do things. For every day in the year
there is a record of something which has been accomplished in American
history. For instance, under Jan. 1 we find that the parcel-post system
was inaugurated in the United States in 1913, while Jan. 2 is given as
the anniversary of the battle of Murfreesboro (or Stone's River, as you
prefer). The whole book is like that; just one surprise after another.

What, for instance, do you suppose that Saturday marked the completion
of?... Presuming that no one has answered correctly, I will disclose
(after consulting Mr. Dillon's book) that July 31 marked the completion
of the 253d year since the signing of the Treaty of Breda. But what, you
may say--and doubtless are saying at this very minute--what has the
Treaty of Breda (which everyone knows was signed in Holland by
representatives of England, France, Holland and Denmark) got to do with
American history? And right there is where Mr. Dillon and I would have
you. In the Treaty of Breda, Acadia (or Nova Scotia) was given to France
and New York and New Jersey were confirmed to England. So, you see,
inhabitants of New York and New Jersey (and, after all, who isn't?)
should have especial cause for celebrating July 31 as Breda Day, for if
it hadn't been for that treaty we might have belonged to Poland and been
mixed up in all the mess that is now going on over there.

* * * * *

I must confess that I turned to the date of the anniversary of my own
birth with no little expectation. Of course I am not so very well known
except among the tradespeople in my town, but I should be willing to
enter myself in a popularity contest with the Treaty of Breda. But
evidently there is a conspiracy of silence directed against me on the
part of the makers of anniversary books and calendars. While no mention
was made of my having been born on Sept. 15, considerable space was
given to recording the fact that on that date in 1840 a patent for a
knitting machine was issued to the inventor, who was none other than
Isaac Wixan Lamb of Salem, Mass.

Now I would be the last one to belittle the importance of knitting or
the invention of a knitting machine. I know some very nice people who
knit a great deal. But really, when it comes to anniversaries I don't
see where Isaac Wixon Lamb gets off to crash in ahead of me or a great
many other people that I could name. And it doesn't help any, either, to
find that James Fenimore Cooper and William Howard Taft are both
mentioned as having been born on that day or that the chief basic patent
for gasoline automobiles in America was issued in 1895 to George B.
Selden. It certainly was a big day for patents. But one realizes more
than ever after reading this section that you have to have a big name to
get into an anniversary book. The average citizen has no show at all.

* * * * *

In spite of these rather obvious omissions, Mr. Dillon's Book is both
valuable and readable. Especially in those events which occurred early
in the country's history is there material for comparison with the
happenings of the present day, events which will some day be
incorporated in a similar book compiled by some energetic successor of
Mr. Dillon.

For instance, under Oct. 27, 1659, we find that William Robinson and
Marmaduke Stevenson were banished from New Hampshire on the charge of
being Quakers and were later executed for returning to the colony.
Imagine!

And on Dec. 8, 1837, Wendell Phillips delivered his first abolition
speech at Boston in Faneuil Hall, as a result of which he got himself
known around Boston as an undesirable citizen, a dangerous radical and a
revolutionary trouble-maker. It hardly seems possible now, does it?

And on July 4, 1776--but there, why rub it in?

XLVIII

A WEEK-END WITH WELLS

In the February Bookman there is an informal article by John Elliot
called "At Home with H.G. Wells" in which we are let in on the ground
floor in the Wells household and shown "H.G." (as his friends and his
wife call him) at play. It is an interesting glimpse at the small doings
of a great man, but there is one feature of those doings which has an
ominous sound.

"The Wells that everyone loves who sees him at Easton is the human
Wells, the family Wells, the jovial Wells, Wells the host of some Sunday
afternoon party. For a distance of ten or twenty miles round folks come
on Sunday to play hockey and have tea. Old and young--people from down
London who never played hockey before in their lives; country farmers
and their daughters, and everybody else who lives in the district--troop
over and bring whoever happens to be the week-end guest. Wells is
delightful to them all. He doesn't give a rap if they are solid Tories,
Bolsheviks, Liberals, or men and women of no political leanings, Can
you play hockey? is all that matters. If you say No you are rushed
toward a pile of sticks and given one and told to go in the forward
line; if you say Yes you are probably made a vice captain on the spot."

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