because of the Gettysburg Address.
“Either Pericles anticipated Lincoln,” said Hari, referring to the famous funeral oration of the Peloponnesian War, “or we must believe the Great Emancipator to be a plagiarist.”
“God,” cried Moloch, half in earnest, half in jest, “if you’re going to take Lincoln from us too”—he scratched his head vigorously—”you may as well summon the angel Gabriel. That’s the last ditch! I didn’t mind seeing Washington go. In his pajamas he was nothing, you might say, but a British realtor with a strong propensity for the wenches. Franklin—he had to be exposed, too, as a bibulous, whoring son of a chessplayer who liked nothing better than to loll about on the sidewalks of Paris with immoral Frenchwomen. But when it comes to Lincoln .. . hang it, there ought to be something sacred in this democracy of ours. A plagiarist, you say? Teh! Teh! Teh! And he knew such good jokes.... But then the Civil War was too big a joke for him, I guess.”
“Tell me, you’re not holding anything up your sleeve against Robert E. Lee?” he added as an afterthought.
Hari appeared mystified.
“What? You don’t know Robert E. Lee? Man, he’s the only figure in American history that no one can throw dirt at. Beside him General Grant was just a horny gaffer given to smoking cheap cigars. As for General Sherman—well, to put it politely, he was a common, low-down Jack the Ripper. When he finished marching through Georgia there wasn’t enough vegetation left for a plant louse to cling to. All our national heroes—Webster, Brigham Young, Barnum, Buffalo Bill, Jesse James—they were all tainted. There isn’t even a good word to be said for that pathetic washboiler Carrie Nation. She wasn’t an epileptic, but she heard voices too.”
These names were as familiar to Hari Das as an almanac of Polynesian deities, or Lydia Pinkham’s remedies for women’s complaints.
Blanche had been listening to all this nonsense with a polite sneer. Several times she had been on the point of blowing up.
Finally, she got up, made an inarticulate reference to her husband’s diseased mind, and signified that she was retiring.
“So early, my zephyr?” Moloch tauntingly placed his hand on her shoulder to detain her. “I had something to say to you concerning our friend here.”
” Your friend , if you please…. You’re not going to ask me to fix a place for him, I hope?” She made the feeble excuse that she was expecting her mother.
“You never dropped a word about that, Blanche.”
“Oh, didn't I? ” She turned to Hari as if he were a judge before whom she was pleading a case. “He goes about in a trance when he’s home. You’d think I was a piece of furniture instead of his wife.”
“Come, come,” said Moloch, “Hari doesn’t want to hear that nonsense. Look here, why can’t Hari sleep with Matt? I’m sure Matt won’t mind.”
“How do you know he won’t?”
“Because they’re great friends already, isn’t that so, Hari?”
The latter was perplexed and exceedingly uncomfortable. He begged them not to inconvenience themselves on his account.
“Tut, tut!” cried Moloch. “It’s a pleasure.”
More fruitless words were exchanged—with dagger thrusts and cobra venom. Nevertheless, Moloch was determined to have his way.
Hari Das derived a somewhat malicious enjoyment from this wretched, absurd squabble. Instinctively he aligned himself with his host, not because there was more justice on that side, but because the Hindu view of women made Blanche appear in his eyes as a sinister example of the fruits of that Occidental evil called feminism. He said nothing, but if one could read his thought it was that a sound thrashing would terminate a lot of unnecessary argument.
Outside a searchlight was spraying the trees and walls with violet rays. When it had finished spraying the earth it tilted upwards and swept the firmament clear of Stardust.
Moloch glanced at Hari.
“Either Pericles anticipated Lincoln,” said Hari, referring to the famous funeral oration of the Peloponnesian War, “or we must believe the Great Emancipator to be a plagiarist.”
“God,” cried Moloch, half in earnest, half in jest, “if you’re going to take Lincoln from us too”—he scratched his head vigorously—”you may as well summon the angel Gabriel. That’s the last ditch! I didn’t mind seeing Washington go. In his pajamas he was nothing, you might say, but a British realtor with a strong propensity for the wenches. Franklin—he had to be exposed, too, as a bibulous, whoring son of a chessplayer who liked nothing better than to loll about on the sidewalks of Paris with immoral Frenchwomen. But when it comes to Lincoln .. . hang it, there ought to be something sacred in this democracy of ours. A plagiarist, you say? Teh! Teh! Teh! And he knew such good jokes.... But then the Civil War was too big a joke for him, I guess.”
“Tell me, you’re not holding anything up your sleeve against Robert E. Lee?” he added as an afterthought.
Hari appeared mystified.
“What? You don’t know Robert E. Lee? Man, he’s the only figure in American history that no one can throw dirt at. Beside him General Grant was just a horny gaffer given to smoking cheap cigars. As for General Sherman—well, to put it politely, he was a common, low-down Jack the Ripper. When he finished marching through Georgia there wasn’t enough vegetation left for a plant louse to cling to. All our national heroes—Webster, Brigham Young, Barnum, Buffalo Bill, Jesse James—they were all tainted. There isn’t even a good word to be said for that pathetic washboiler Carrie Nation. She wasn’t an epileptic, but she heard voices too.”
These names were as familiar to Hari Das as an almanac of Polynesian deities, or Lydia Pinkham’s remedies for women’s complaints.
Blanche had been listening to all this nonsense with a polite sneer. Several times she had been on the point of blowing up.
Finally, she got up, made an inarticulate reference to her husband’s diseased mind, and signified that she was retiring.
“So early, my zephyr?” Moloch tauntingly placed his hand on her shoulder to detain her. “I had something to say to you concerning our friend here.”
” Your friend , if you please…. You’re not going to ask me to fix a place for him, I hope?” She made the feeble excuse that she was expecting her mother.
“You never dropped a word about that, Blanche.”
“Oh, didn't I? ” She turned to Hari as if he were a judge before whom she was pleading a case. “He goes about in a trance when he’s home. You’d think I was a piece of furniture instead of his wife.”
“Come, come,” said Moloch, “Hari doesn’t want to hear that nonsense. Look here, why can’t Hari sleep with Matt? I’m sure Matt won’t mind.”
“How do you know he won’t?”
“Because they’re great friends already, isn’t that so, Hari?”
The latter was perplexed and exceedingly uncomfortable. He begged them not to inconvenience themselves on his account.
“Tut, tut!” cried Moloch. “It’s a pleasure.”
More fruitless words were exchanged—with dagger thrusts and cobra venom. Nevertheless, Moloch was determined to have his way.
Hari Das derived a somewhat malicious enjoyment from this wretched, absurd squabble. Instinctively he aligned himself with his host, not because there was more justice on that side, but because the Hindu view of women made Blanche appear in his eyes as a sinister example of the fruits of that Occidental evil called feminism. He said nothing, but if one could read his thought it was that a sound thrashing would terminate a lot of unnecessary argument.
Outside a searchlight was spraying the trees and walls with violet rays. When it had finished spraying the earth it tilted upwards and swept the firmament clear of Stardust.
Moloch glanced at Hari.
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