The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis Page 15

  His jaw dropped open.

  “Language,” I continued, warming to my favorite subject, “is a living, growing, changing thing. And what makes it live, grow, change? The people, of course. Language belongs to the people, and the way they use it is the correct way. Correctness is determined not by antiquated rules but by public usage. Anyone who takes another view is doctrinaire, reactionary, and obsolete. Thank you.” I sat down.

  The professor had turned a curious blackish color. Only the area around his lips remained white, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a desiccated minstrel man. For several minutes he seemed to be unable to speak, but finally he found his tongue.

  “In the forty years I have devoted to this underpaid profession of teaching,” he said in heated tones, “I have heard many an asinine outburst, but never one so assinine as yours. I can only assume that your mind has been unhinged by your recent passage through puberty.

  “Do you realize,” he said, his voice mounting to a roar, “that centuries of scholarship and the efforts of countless brilliant minds have gone into the codification of the English language? You presumptuous driveler, how dare you suggest that the rules of English usage must give way to the ungrammaticisms of factory hands, hostlers, and college freshmen? You cretinous barbarian, would you exchange the elegance of Macaulay and Addison for the thick-tongued mouthings of every underbred Tom, Dick, and Harry? The rules of usage have been established. In this class they shall be enforced. The tide of vulgarization shall not spill over my threshold. And in future, you will please keep your oafish opinions to yourself.”

  “But, sir—” I cried, blushing hotly.

  He silenced me with a withering glare and addressed the entire class. “That is all for today. The textbook used in this course is Snaith’s English Usage. You will find it at any campus bookstore. See that you are all supplied with copies when the class meets tomorrow. Class dismissed.”

  I was blazing with indignation as I left the classroom. Here I had just tried to enlighten a man, and what did I get in return? Insults and vilification, that’s what. The mossbacked old fool! Bumbling along with his pack of obsolete dogma, turning like an adder on anyone who represented progress and truth. Well, I’d get even some day. Someday he’d be good and sorry.

  As I came into the corridor I caught a glimpse of Poppy, walking out of the building. A surge of longing overwhelmed me, erasing the memory of my recent humiliation at the hands of Professor Snaith. I raced outdoors after Poppy and grasped her arm. “Hello,” I said with a winsome smile.

  “Let go of my arm,” she replied. “The last wolf that made a pass at me is now eating through a tube.”

  “But you misunderstand,” I protested. “I have no designs on you. My admiration is of the highest order.”

  She gave a doubting snort.

  “No, truly,” I insisted. “I am a worshiper of beauty, a terribly sensitive fellow. You appeal to me aesthetically. I am thinking of writing a poem about you.”

  “You write poetry?” she asked, giving me a hard look.

  “A little,” I confessed with lowered eyelids. “Of course it’s not very good, but someday I hope to be a fine poet.”

  She shook her head decisively. “From this you won’t make a living,” she declared.

  I shrugged. “There are more important things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Truth, beauty, art—”

  “Goodbye, friend,” said Poppy. “I’ll see you around.” She started away.

  I clung. “What’s wrong?” I cried.

  “Listen, whatever your name is—”

  “Dobie Gillis.”

  “Listen, Dobie Gillis, I’ve got three sisters, all married, all with kids. Since 1945 all three of my sisters combined have had a total of two new dresses. Why? Because they all married rabbits.”

  “How very odd!” I exclaimed. “Real rabbits?”

  “No, stupid. I mean they married guys with no drive, no gumption. Very cultured types, all of them. One plays a fiddle, one paints water colors, one models in clay. Truth, beauty, art—they’re crawling with it. But not one of them makes a living.”

  “Ah,” I said. “So you are afraid of becoming involved with an artist.”

  “You’re so right,” she said vehemently. “I made up my mind a long time ago that the man I fall in love with is going to be interested in only one thing: money. I don’t care if he doesn’t know Shakespeare from second base; just so he knows how to make a buck.”

  “Can you mean,” I asked, aghast, “that you have deliberately set out to marry money?”

  “Not at all,” she answered. “I’m not looking for a man who’s already rich. He can be poor as a churchmouse now, as long as I’m sure he’s going to make money later. I don’t intend to wind up like my sisters. I’m going to have fine clothes and a big house and servants and everything else.”

  “Hm,” I said, sorely troubled. I was obviously going to get nowhere with this girl. And even if I did, what was there to look forward to? What kind of romance would we have? What in the world would we talk about? She had a violent antipathy toward art; I was totally indifferent to business and finance. Clearly, the wise thing was to let this affair die aborning.

  And yet, looking at the body that encased her grubby soul, I could not bring myself to let her go. She was simply too beautiful. Come what might, I had to have her. So I took a deep breath and told a big lie.

  “You,” I said, “have opened my eyes. From now on I’m going to think about nothing but making money.”

  “That’s using the old noggin,” she said approvingly.

  “Would you like to come for a ride in my convertible?” I said.

  Her eyes widened. “You have a convertible?”

  “It isn’t much really,” I said, and really it wasn’t. It was not new nor especially grand, but it was mine and I loved it. I kept it clean and shiny, and every couple of months I changed the squirrel tail on the radiator cap.

  “I’d love to go for a ride,” said Poppy. “But let’s stop at the bookstore first. We have to buy Snaith’s English Usage, remember?”

  I winced at the mention of my tormentor’s name, but the pain quickly vanished. It was impossible to be anything but happy in the presence of the radiant Poppy. “Come,” I cried and, singing all the way, took her to my convertible.

  A short drive brought us to Hammersmith’s Bookstore—New and Used Textbooks Bought and Sold. We went inside. Mr. Hammersmith glided toward us, rubbing his pudgy hands in anticipation. “Yes?” he hissed.

  “How much is Snaith’s English Usage?” Poppy asked loudly. I reddened with embarrassment. I never ask the prices of things; it has no dignity.

  “Four dollars and twenty-five cents,” said Mr. Hammersmith.

  “Outrageous!” snapped Poppy. “How much is a second-hand copy?”

  “Three dollars and seventy-five cents.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” she demanded, “that you only save fifty cents on a secondhand copy?”

  “Well, now, little lady,” he replied with a storekeeper’s chuckle, “that’s quite a saving, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you ‘little lady’ me,” Poppy shot back, prodding his fat chest with her forefinger. He retreated in alarm. “If a student came in here to sell you a secondhand copy of Snaith’s English Usage,” she asked, staying right on top of him, “how much would you pay?”

  He looked wildly around for assistance.

  “How much?” she repeated and backed him into a corner.

  “Two-fifty,” he confessed.

  “What?” she shrieked. “You make a dollar and a quarter on a secondhand textbook? Why, that’s criminal!”

  I was writhing with mortification. “Please, Poppy,” I begged, “I’ll buy the books. Be my guest.”

  Although she accepted my offer, she was by no means pacified. All the way out to the car she kept muttering darkly. I headed the car for the River Road, hoping that a pastoral setting would dispel he
r low-grade emotions. She did, indeed, fall quiet as we drove along the steep, tree-covered bluffs of the Mississippi. Far below us the spring-swollen river churned whitely. The day was warm. The air was laden with the sweet scents of earth, newly awakened after the long winter. In the budding trees nesting birds twittered cheerily. The hills were bright with splashes of early wildflowers. I pulled off the road and parked on a high grassy knoll.

  Poppy leaned languidly in the corner of the seat, more beautiful in repose than I had ever seen her. A soft, pensive look was on her face. I took her unresisting hand, kissed her finger tips. “A penny for your thoughts,” I murmured.

  “I’m thinking about the markup on Snaith’s English Usage,” she cried, sitting erect. “Can you imagine that? A dollar and a quarter profit on a secondhand book!”

  I stifled a sudden urge to grab her by the leg and throw her down the hill. “Poppy,” I said, trying desperately to change the horrid subject, “isn’t this a lovely place? See how blue the sky is, how green the grass, how white the clouds, how—”

  “Hey!” she cried, thumping my chest. “I got a great idea. Why should the bookstore make all that money on Snaith’s English Usage? Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Poppy, the clouds, the grass, the sky—”

  “Listen. We could buy secondhand books for two-sixty. That’s a dime more than the bookstore pays. We could sell them for three sixty-five, a dime less than the bookstore charges. That would net us a dollar and five cents profit on each book, and we’d be giving the students a better deal than they get at the bookstore.”

  “Look, Poppy, a bluebird. And over here, a scarlet tanager.”

  “We’ll buy the books at the end of the spring semester. I’ll go around and tell the kids to sell them to us, not to the bookstore. Then we’ll hold the books over the summer, and next fall we’ll sell them to the new freshman class.… How many kids take freshman English, do you know, Dobie?”

  “No,” I said glumly.

  “There must be at least three hundred. That means a profit for us of three hundred and fifteen dollars. How do you like them apples, kid?” she asked jovially and jammed her classic elbow into my rib cage.

  “Splendid,” I mumbled.

  “Of course, we’re going to need some capital to buy the books. Let’s see, three hundred books at two-sixty each is seven hundred and eight bucks. Have you got it, Dobie?”

  “Ha,” I said.

  She ran her hand speculatively over the side of my convertible. “I’ll bet you could get eight hundred for this car,” she said.

  “No!” I shrieked. I would no more sell that car than I would sell a limb. I loved that automobile—loved it, I tell you. “No, no, no,” I repeated.

  “But why not? Next fall you’ll be able to buy a better one.”

  “I love this car, Poppy. I’ve washed it and shined it and curried it. I’ve been intimate with it. Can’t you understand how I feel?”

  “Sentiment,” she sneered. “I thought you told me you were going to start thinking about money. Oh well, I should have known. Once a rabbit, always a rabbit. Take me home, Dobie.”

  One voice within me cried, “Good! Take her home. Be rid of this calculating machine in woman’s guise.” But another voice cried, “No! Hold her. Retain, at any cost, those chiseled features, those sculptured prominences, those artfully hinged limbs.” And the second voice was stronger. I could not say it nay.

  “Look, Poppy,” I pleaded, “how about if I didn’t sell the car? If I just got a loan on it from the finance company?”

  “What? And let the carrying charges eat up all our profits? Don’t be dull, Dobie.”

  “I have to sell it, huh?” I asked forlornly.

  She nodded.

  “All right,” I sighed. “But I’ll wait awhile. We don’t need the money till the end of the semester.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” she cautioned. “The market might take a drop.”

  In the weeks that followed she kept prodding me to find a buyer for my car. I kept putting her off with one evasion or another, but the fact was that I had no intention of looking for a buyer. I just couldn’t. The thought of parting with that beloved vehicle reduced me to a jelly. The thought of losing Poppy also reduced me to a jelly. I was spending a good part of my time in a jellied state.

  And as though I were not having trouble enough with Poppy, a new nightmare came into my life. I refer to Snaith’s English Usage. Whenever I opened the book, which was daily, I found something new to enrage me. There were literally dozens of rules in the book that were wrong. They were wrong because nobody followed them. How could a rule remain valid when everybody broke it? After all, language was not like mathematics, where the rules were hard and abiding. Language was a dynamic, living thing. The very essence of English usage was that the rules had to keep up with the people, not the people with the rules.

  Every day in class I burned with a compulsion to cry out this glaring truth to old Snaith, but mindful of my wounds in our first encounter, I held my peace. Only it was not peace; inside I seethed with anger. For I was one who loved language much too deeply to stay calm when I saw it mistreated. Yet what could I do? If I protested to Snaith again, he would give me the same reply: that his rules were broken only by louts and vulgarians.

  Louts and vulgarians, my foot. My history professor, a most distinguished scholar, split infinitives every day. Would Snaith call him a lout? My anthropology professor, who was studded with degrees like a ham with cloves, used will for shall and ended sentences with prepositions. Would Snaith call him a vulgarian? All of my professors, gentlemen of great culture and learning, broke Snaith’s rules habitually. Would Snaith dismiss all these academicians as fellows of low estate?

  One day an idea came to me—a way to confound Snaith, to repay him for the indignity he had heaped upon me. I would conduct a poll of fifty professors at the university. To each one of them I would bring a list of sentences that were incorrect according to Snaith. I would ask each professor if he could find anything wrong with the sentences. Naturally, he would not be able to. Then when my poll was completed, I would stand up in class and confront Snaith with the results. This time, by George, he wouldn’t blast me into little, writhing pieces. This time I would do the blasting. “Hot damn!” I cried, smiting my thigh, and raced to tell the news to Poppy.

  She heard my tidings without perceptible enthusiasm. “When,” she snarled, “are you going to quit horsing around and find a buyer for your car?”

  “As soon as I finish my poll,” I replied, lying in my teeth. “Right now I’ve got too much work to do. This is a big job, Poppy.”

  “All that work,” she sneered, “and not a penny richer.”

  “But it’s worth it, Poppy. I’m going to demolish old Snaith. You’ll be proud of me, wait and see.”

  She made an indelicate noise.

  Poppy’s non-support notwithstanding, I plunged with great zest into my task. First I went through the textbook and selected the following ten sentences which, according to Snaith’s obsolete rules, were incorrect:

  1. I am anxious to go abroad. (Snaith said you had to use eager for anxious.)

  2. I anticipate trouble. (Snaith said you had to use expect for anticipate.)

  3. I claim that I am taller than he is. (Snaith said you had to use assert for claim.)

  4. I am surprised to see you. (Snaith said you had to use astonished for surprised.)

  5. He was too interested in her to notice me. (Snaith said you had to say “He was too much interested …”)

  6. I doubt that it ever happened. (Snaith said you had to use whether for that.)

  7. Under the circumstances I must agree. (Snaith said you had to say in the circumstances.)

  8. I was oblivious to his presence. (Snaith said you had to use insensible for oblivious.)

  9. The two men greeted each other. (Snaith said you had to say one another.)

  10. I graduated from high school last year. (Snaith said you had to say �
�I was graduated from high school …”)

  I felt sure that everyone—save Snaith—would agree with me that the ten sentences quoted above were perfectly all right. The poll resoundingly vindicated my conviction. Without exception each of the fifty professors I interviewed found nothing wrong with the list. This was, of course, immensely gratifying to me. Only one thing prevented my joy from being complete—Poppy.

  She rode me like a malevolent jockey. “When are you going to finish this stupid poll?” she kept demanding. “When are you going to sell your car? When? When? When?”

  “Soon. Soon. Soon,” I would answer, hating myself for lying and yet powerless to do otherwise. If I confessed that I was not going to sell the car, she would leave me instantly. That I could not abide. My love for this cash-crazy wretch had grown more strong as her dresses had grown more summery. I knew that inevitably she would learn the truth, but meanwhile I procrastinated and temporized and hoped that some miracle would occur to soften her gnarled little heart.

  Between polling the professors and placating Poppy, the weeks sped by at an incredible rate. It was the next-to-the-last day of the semester when I completed my poll. I worked late that night typing up the results. The following day when I came to Professor Snaith’s class I was ready.

  Poppy was waiting for me. As soon as I sat down, she snatched my lapels in a grip of iron. “Have you sold the car yet?” she barked.

  “Ssh,” I said for want of a better answer.

  “What do you mean—ssh? I’ve got the books all lined up. This is the last day of school. We need the money today.”

  “I’ll talk to you after class,” I said. That’s when I would have to tell her the truth; that’s when I would get my lumps. But meanwhile I didn’t want to think about it. I just wanted to enjoy the hour of triumph that lay ahead. The battle with Snaith was about to begin, and it was a battle that could only end in victory—sweet victory—for me. A delicious little shiver ran up my spine at the thought.