THE MAN OF UPRIGHT LIFE Horace: Book I; Ode 22 Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus—

De gink dat never croaked a guy

Nor crowned a cop

Nor even bumped a buddy on the beezer

26Nor kicked his frail an’ blacked her eye

(It does ’em good an’ dat’s no lie)

Nor stuck a knife in any scrappy geezer—

A chink or wop,

Nor peddled dope or hop or hooch, nor panned a yid

Nor blew a safe, nor shoved de queer, nor napped a kid

Dat never copped a come-on’s kale

Nor frisked a hayseed’s leather

Ain’t got no fear of judge or jail

Nor de cops all put together

Dey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!

Dat ain’t no loss!

Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.

He’ll never git no third degree

(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.

I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.

I come across!!)

Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoof

And pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roof

He needn’t pack no wicked gat.

Policemen’ll protect him.

If he forgets where home is at,

Kind Central’ll connect him.

L’Envoi

Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,

He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.

But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?

I’ll tell de world! Oh, baby!

27Then the contribs must have a chance. Just now they were busy with Tens. For example, one proposed, as the Ten Most Lovable Old Women in History, a list beginning with (1) Mother Goose and (2) Old Mother Hubbard, and ending with (9) Josephine Daniels and (10) Wilhelmina Jenny Bryan.

Another wrote——

“Sir: If I had to go to a Desert Island and take

Ten Women with me, I’d take

(1) Cyanide of Potassium

And that would be about all.

“G. P. B.”

Then the Diary:

“Wednesday, October 9.

“Up betimes, at ten of the clock and to my office, there half an hour pasting contribs’ contribs to make a full column and amazed to find how short my stint, but with no lack of pleasure or content. Having nothing now in my mind of trouble in the world, did sit and think on many things. So to lunch with H. Broun, my fellow scrivener and a very pleasant fellow withal, though me thought me had heard before some of the bright sayings of his little son, wherewith he regaled me. Thence to the game or play of base-ball, as well played as ever I saw in my life. Thence to tea with Mistress Myssa McMynn, with much merriment 28and wit. Thence to dinner with F. Adams, the satyrickal writer, H. Canby, the excellent critick, C. Morley, the literary philosopher, D. Marquis, the poet, and other wits, and much good talk of this and that. Thence to the playhouse where was enacted a masque entitled “The Follies,” to my great content. Thence to supper with W. Rogers, the antick player, and found him very intelligent, whereat I wondered greatly. And so to bed, very low spirited and lay a long time marvelling at my capacity for work and how, poor wretch, I must earn my bread by the sweat of my paste pot.”

VI

Three weeks passed.

“To-night’s the night,” he cried, rushed from his apartment, plunged recklessly between automobiles going in four different directions at once—obviously Fords—sprang upon the roof of a passing taxicab and told the man to drive like hell for Park Avenue.

He charged up the steps, assaulted the door with his fists, leap-frogged over the impassive butler. He found her in the library and forced the fighting from the start.

It seemed to her that her entire body was encircled by flexible hot bars of iron and that her face, her mouth, were being flagellated.

“Break away!” she managed to gurgle. “No biting in the clinches!”

29“Who are you?” he cried. “I don’t want to know! Will you marry me? Don’t answer!”

Again she was submerged. When she was coming up for the third time, he pushed her head under once more. A left hook to the jaw and he collapsed under a table.

When he came to, his voice was weak.

“A typewriter, please!” he gasped. “It’s stuff for the column.” His news sense rarely failed him.

“Tuesday, October 29th—I to M. Zattiany’s, the toast of the town, and a mighty mystery, whether she be in truth Zattiany or a mischievous impostor, and did kiss and clip her mightily, but the baggage handed me a slapp on the mapp, as a trunk had fallen on me. So I to the mat.”

“What next?” he added feebly.

“Have a drink,” she said.

He took three.

“Who are you, woman? Is your real name Zattiany or Firpo?”

“I am Mary Ogden Zattiany,” she answered quietly; “I married Zattiany forty-five years ago. I was twenty-five at the time. Do your own arithmetic.”

“Five from thirty is twenty and carry two—twice two is five divided by forty—double it and subtract the cube root—think of a number, add a dash of bitters—shake well before using”—his 30voice trailed to silence and his jaw dropped.

“I hated Zattiany but his position appealed to my love of power and intrigue—especially the latter. I was besieged by men—and surrendered at discretion.”

He got suddenly to his feet. “Think I’ll take few more drinks.” He did so and then sat down on the floor, a full glass in either hand.

“I had many lovers—many—many—many—” she went on.

“Bow-wow-wow!” he barked a short laugh.

He gazed at her with relaxing features. His steel-blue eyes goggled sardonically.

“Of all my lovers, I loved but one, Prince Haffanauer, the last. But he married and left me flat.”

“Lef’ your flat? Thought you lived in palazzo.”

“That’s so,” she echoed. “I did until the war came.”

“’Scuse me pers’nal queshion, Mis’ Zattiany, but have you sat in any these genelmen’s laps lately?”

“Not since Haffanauer,” she answered pleadingly.

“Tha’s long time—thirty minutes,” he ruminated. “That’s all ri’. Proceed!”

31“I was sixty-five when Haffanauer—elapsed, so to speak.”

“But you’re young woman now. Please ’splain that—simple queshion—how do you did it?”

“Coué!”

“No, I won’ go ’way—not tell you till me—till you tell me.”

“Coué! Coué! Emile Coué!”

“Are you singin’ song or jes’ making funny noises?”

“Oh, you know! Every day in every way—younger and younger.”

“Sure, I know! Every day Coee, Cooay, he chortled in his joy! Alice Swunderland. S’Lewis Carroll—great columnist—my cousin—same ’nitials.”

“I was sixty-eight when I took the cure. Every day I’ve been getting younger and younger—in every way.”

“Better stop, lady!” he said solemnly. “Some kid now, but—much younger—police in’erfere.”

“Well—that is my story. Do you—do you love me still?” she faltered.

“’Scuse me, ’nother pers’nal queshion. D’you make zis hooch?”

“I did.”

“’En I do love your still. Old as you are, your still’s mos’ beautiful thing in N’York. In hooch signo vinces. With all thy faults, I love 32thy still—now an’ forever—one insepar’ble—death us do part!”

And then he slept as quietly as a child.

VII

Three weeks passed—three weeks of constant companionship with Lee Clavering—almost exhausting her capacity for surprise and her cellar. Then, a wireless telegram—“Wife dead must see you immediately on arrival Berengaria Haffanauer.”

The Prince arrived—straight, thin, erect, broke—in his eyes the glance of the Austrian double-eagle, now selling at 99⁴⁴⁄₁₀₀ off for cash.

“Frau Gräfin.” He lifted her hand to his lips with princely courtesy. “Younger than when I first saw you. Couéing, they tell me—and billing, as well—is it not so?”

“Why are you here, Excellenz?”

“Because Austria needs you—I need you. We need you every hour and—every dollar. Will you marry me?”

“But I am engaged to L. C.”

“What of that? Let me state my case. I am about to rehabilitate Austria. My plans are simple but comprehensible by the meanest intelligence—only. I shall annex Germany, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Moldavia, Bolivia, 33Rumania, Pneumonia, the Jugo and Czecho brothers and all the Balking States. I shall create a Barnum, Bailey and Ringling Brothers Austria—bigger and better than ever.

“And you?” he went on, “you shall be—what you will—queen, empress, my m—er—morganatic wife. The Oesterreich shall shed its plumes for your adornment—if only you’ll buy a little preferred with a large bonus of very common.”

“Old stuff!” she exclaimed disdainfully. “I have the same plan. I shall do it myself—with the aid of my husband’s column—I, Marie, Countess Zattiany!”

“But, no,” he answered. “Return to Austria as Mrs. Lee Clavering and you’ll be cut by every true-born Austrich. We recognize no one without sixteen quarterings—and a few hangings and drawings.”

“What?” she stared aghast. “Mrs. Lee—? Shall I have to take my husband’s name? Isn’t the Lucy Stone League too powerful——”

“Not in Austria,” he said blandly. “No League whether of Nations or denominations is recognized.”

“I love him so!” she moaned. “But this changes everything. I will never give up the gräfinship. Moritz! I am yours!”

“Sign on the dotted line,” he said quietly.

34

VIII

She wrote Lee these stanzas:

When lovely woman takes to Coué-ing

And finds what bills she has to pay

For this—though sweet—untitled wooing.

The next boat takes her down the bay.

You should then be up and doing.

Follow me on Saturday,

Still your happiness pursuing.

Love like ours will find a way.

But he printed it in the column on Saturday and on Monday married the daughter of an eminent bootlegger.

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