A Miscellany (Revised) Page 5

  “In ruined nest robins build never.

  Flower without smell, marriage without children.”

  The appropriateness of this selection becomes apparent only when the reader understands a supremely important fact, i. e. that, coincident with the throwing open of the secret door by Mr. Bullinski, our astonished eyes beheld—side by side in a single soapbox—no less than five offspring, all males and all in a state of Nature and graduated as to diminutiveness.

  “Jackie, Jamie, Johnny, Jimmie, and my youngest, Joey,” crooned their mother, in quiet ecstasy.

  The father fell upon his enormous knees playfully, and began poking and punching the infants one by one in a delightfully affectionate way. A perfect chorus of ahgoos and dah-dahs greeted his efforts.

  Something told us that we were not needed here. We paused an instant, contemplating the entire beauty of the scene; then, with tears in our eyes and joy in our heart, tiptoed out. We went slowly down the five flights, and into the sunny street—happy in the happiness of Gladys Vanderdecker and her stalwart hero-husband; proud in the conviction that, so long as true love marriages between the rich and the noble, the smart and the good, continue in this country, and as long as institutions like the Bullinski home persist, the destiny of America and of the human race is more than secure.

  From Vanity Fair, December 1924.

  VANITY FAIR’S PRIZE MOVIE SCENARIO

  Contest closes triumphantly with winning manuscript—“A Pair of Jacks”

  by C. E. Niltse, A Master of Screen Continuity

  Editor’s Note: Vanity Fair’s Scenario Editors are broken reeds. For days, weeks, months, they have been swamped by a stream of manuscripts, all competing for the magnificent cash prize (running into several dollars) which, as we announced in a recent issue, would be awarded to the author of the moving picture considered, by our judges, the scenario best qualified to carry on the popular traditions of Art on the Silver Screen. Manuscripts have poured in from every corner of the world; from rich and poor, from hemstitchers and importers of isinglass; from the busy marts of finance and even from Milady’s boudoir. Everyone, it seems, is writing for the movies!

  For the selection of the prize winning manuscript, we appointed a committee of judges comprising some of the most glittering and glamorous names in the country, including Stronghart (the movie star), Dr. Traprock, the Russian Lilliputians and heaps and heaps of others. Accommodations were secured for them at Atlantic City’s most luxurious hostelries, where they repaired for the period of perusal, brows in hand. Since that day, the wires have been humming with an account of what they have jokingly called their “doings.” It is estimated that two of them, in one week, rode farther, and faster, in roller chairs than any other visitors to America’s playground in the past twenty years; while another—an eminent litterateur who modestly requests that his name be withheld—won a large pewter cup on his first night in Atlantic City for dancing the Charleston at Evelyn Nesbit’s “Silver Slipper” cabaret.

  Now, however, their work is done, and Vanity Fair is happy to announce the winner of its epochal Scenario Contest, Mr. C. E. Niltse, whose manuscript, “A Pair of Jacks,” received (practically) the unanimous vote of the judges in the contest. “A Pair of Jacks” is perhaps the most perfect example of the “popular” type of movie, such as may be found at almost any theatre in your own town. It carries to a fine point the sentiment, passion and human interest which are such important factors in our current cinema productions.

  It may be interesting to our readers to learn a little something about Mr. Niltse himself. He is, it seems, a hot embosser by profession, residing in Scranton, Pa., where, fortunately for American letters, the demand for hot embossing is for the moment practically nil. Mr. Niltse thus finds more and more time to devote to literature—his first love. We take great pride and pleasure in presenting this perfect scenario of his for the first, and last, time.

  A PAIR OF JACKS

  FADE IN TITLE: In the sleepy province of Zinacantepec, Northern China, not far from the picturesque valley of the Tlaxcala, and near the Apetatian Mountains, lounges the drowsy village of Xochilhuehuetlan.

  SCENE 1. Exterior Coutryside. FADE IN, on a LONG SHOT of a lovely African landscape, the foothills hazy in the background, and a one-horned Indian rhinoceros nursing its young in the foreground.

  TITLE: Mother love is mother love, no matter where it occurs.

  SCENE 2. Exterior Town. A FULL SHOT of the otzolote pee, or mayor, of Xochilhuehuetlan. He is a young woman, with a centripetal red beard. He is between ninety-eight and ninety-nine years old, a type of the typical centrifugal hermaphrodite of the country. His face is large and small, he has the muscular fragility of a sixteen year old baby; there is about him the inherent inebriety of a recently cauterized factotum. He is deep, but also he is round—the mendacity and the propinquity of the Celt lie side by side in his down-right Iberian make-up. He is sucking a snake bite in his ear, and waiting for death.

  TITLE: Tamanlipas Guerrero, whose fingers are five in number, was not afraid to die.

  Back for a glimpse of the official as he sucks his snake bite. There is a flicker of scorn for the snake’s treachery on his face.

  SCENE 3. Exterior Deck. FADE IN on a SEMICLOSEUP of a young girl. She is a mature, manly Negress, with a jade nose-ring, protruding lips, and a wooden leg, dressed in a middy blouse and hip rubberboots over which is thrown carelessly a pair of silk stockings. She is standing wildly by a ventilator and gazing throbbingly over the entire ship, on which everyone else is seasick, as vast breakers dash fiercely from time to time over the entire ship, and as a baby rolls at intervals into the scuppers she stoops and gives the little one a kiss.

  TITLE: In the meantime, Elizabeth Bilge, the girl who held Jack Waters’ esteem, is peacefully cruising homeward.

  SCENE 4. Interior Home. IRIS IN on a New England Homestead, in the foreground Granny is knitting as a mischievous kitten is playing with the yarn, while Mother reads aloud to father, Kitty and Tom, who are both obviously overinterested in each other. In the background, a glimpse of snowcovered Mount Chocorua, named after an old Indian chief and 3,540 feet above sea level.

  TITLE: But the spirit of the hour and the old traditions are not the same like they was once when Mother was a girl.

  SCENE 5. MEDIUM SHOT of a perfectly terrible storm at sea. Even the captain does not know what to do. It is terrible. They will all be drowned. Terrible waves are dashing over the poor ship which is sometimes underneath the top of the water, smashing all the lifeboats. With a terrible crash the unhappy ship strikes a submerged cliff.

  TITLE: Jack Clinton, gentleman garter salesman, had a way with him, and with the ladies.

  SCENE 6. Interior Cabin. CLOSEUP of Jack. The water is pouring in, but he is awake in his pyjamas. The ill-starred ship is sinking. He unwinds the alarm clock with a smile. The bed with everything on it collapses without warning, as, without meaning to, he picks up a telephone. CUT TO

  SCENE 7. The Bottom of the Sea, 9:55 A.M. Interior Cabin. Exterior Town. A shot of a submarine cable winding and unwinding along the valleys of the mountainous sea bottom. Simultaneously each side of this shot recedes toward the middle, discovering, on the left, Jack at his telephone, on the right, Tamanlipas at his telephone, until the cable disappears wholly and Jack and Tamanlipas confront each other in one scene. Dissolve out the telephone. From this point on the two men play their scene as if back to back against a neutral foreground.

  SCENE 8. Interior Cabin. Water pours in deluging Jack who, smiling, hangs up the phone. As he does so—

  SCENE 9. The Bottom of the Sea, 9:56 A.M. Interior Cabin. Exterior Town. The scene breaks in the middle, going back on each side, cutting off the shots of Jack and Tamanlipas, discovering the submarine cable along the bottom of the sea once more.

  SCENE 10. Exterior Town. Tamanlipas Guerrero, nursing his snake bite, puts down the telephone to die.

  TITLE: And the sun’s last rays reflected the passing of a g
ood Indian.

  SCENE 11. Exterior Deck. Shot of Jack Clinton with Elizabeth Bilge in his arms lowering himself from the rail to the open sea on a pair of Boston garters which he has tied to the rail with his free hand as waves pour all over the entire ship and everyone is very sick.

  SCENE 12. Exterior Home. MEDIUM SHOT of Grandma standing gracefully on a piano stool in the middle of the front yard. Above her head is the limb of an apple tree in full bloom. About six inches from the old lady’s nose is a nest into which she is looking, as the excited mother bird beats her wings frantically.

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Don’t worry, birdie, Granny won’t hurt your babies!”

  SCENE 13. The Middle of the Ocean. IRIS IN on Jack Waters standing in his twelve-cylinder Ford sedan, as he spies the scene at one glance of the naked eye. He is a clean-cut, well-dressed, happy-go-lucky will-o’-the-wisp with a bad record at Yale to the credit of his twenty-three years as a rich man’s pampered and only son, holding under one muscular arm a tennis racquet. There is something about him which courts dangers of every sort. He laughs and says:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Give me the binoculars, Captain, it looks like a cane rush!”

  SCENE 14. Interior Heaven. LONG SHOT of the gates of Heaven: God, angels, cherubim, seraphim, etc. The soul of Tamanlipas Guerrero is walking toward a little house. It is dressed in a crêpe-de-Chine nightie, a straw hat with a fraternity band, and is smoking a pipe. God turns to Michael for information about the unknown visitor. Michael says it is a good Indian.

  God speaks:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Bid him welcome, then, in the name of all that is good.”

  SCENE 15. Exterior Deck. Jack Clinton’s eyes flash black lightning as, with an oath, he falls into the sea with Elizabeth Bilge in his arms as the garters break, and is drowned.

  TITLE: But for once in his life, the clever salesman of a next-to-indispensable commodity found his match in a watery grave.

  SCENE 16. Interior Nest. CLOSEUP of five eggs as one of them begins to hatch.

  TITLE: “Peep, peep.”

  Back for a look at Granny’s wrinkled smiling face as it regards the hatching progeny. Over the tired eyes comes an expression of broad laughter.

  SCENE 17. The Middle of the Ocean. FADE IN on a CLOSEUP of Captain Black of the Ford Sedan, as he hands Jack Waters the binoculars. He is rugged, rough, robust, uncouth, short-spoken, good-hearted, horny-handed, two-fisted, ten-toed specimen of master mariner with a father complex.

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Here they be, God bless you, Mister Jack!”

  SCENE 18. Exterior Deck. MEDIUM SHOT of Elizabeth Bilge who struggles with the waves, supported by her wooden leg. About to go down for the first time, she shouts:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Save me!”

  SCENE 19. Interior Heaven. CLOSEUP of the soul of Tamanlipas Guerrero. Its eyes are fixed on the little house, at a point just over the door, where there is a sign in large letters: Caballeros. Tamanlipas Guerrero’s soul does not read or write. What a terrible predicament! Just then along comes Michael. The soul hails him and asks him something. Michael nods and smiles. The soul starts to hurry off in the direction of the house, when Michael lays a detaining hand on its arm, saying:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “I am instructed to bid you welcome, spirit. You are now in Heaven.”

  SCENE 20. The Middle of the Ocean. LONG SHOT of Jack Waters looking through the binoculars. As he sees something, the glasses fall from his nerveless hands. At the same moment he falls himself but is caught by Captain Black, who works over him for some time with a stomach pump, until the young man’s eyes open. Gazing indistinctly at the Captain, the youth of whom Elizabeth Bilge held the esteem murmurs:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Full speed ahead!”

  SCENE 21. Exterior Home. MEDIUM SHOT of Granny as she gracefully descends from the piano stool. (Hold long enough for human interest.) Shutting her umbrella she enters the house, whereupon it stops raining and the sun comes out.

  SCENE 22. Cross section of the Ocean. CLOSEUP of the descending binoculars, which have fallen overboard, as they start toward the bottom of the sea. Some local colour: a frightened fish or two, for instance.

  (Note: if we could rent an octopus, or something, it would be good here.)

  TITLE: Meanwhile, giving free rein to their intrinsic curiosity, a pair of lenses spontaneously traverse the dim domain of Neptune.

  SCENE 23. Interior Heaven. LONG SHOT of the soul of Tamanlipas Guerrero, as it exits from the little house registering blissful contentment. It says to Michael, touchingly:

  SPOKEN TITLE: “Heaven is right.”

  SCENE 24. IRIS IN on a YIDDISH PICNIC IN THE CATSKILLS. About a fire of driftwood made by girl scouts are seated thousands and thousands of Hebrew maidens, their faces are chewing gum and smileless. A slight dark slip of a feminine thing in the foreground investigates a recently-opened can of sardines.

  TITLE: Lizzie Finklestein, who plays the violin beautifully.

  SCENE 25. The Bottom of the Sea. MEDIUM SHOT of binoculars as they come to rest on the volcano-strewn sea bottom. (Perhaps a whale passes, pursued by another whale, or almost anything to give local colour.)

  SCENE 26. Interior Home. The old mother falls down a flight of stairs and breaks both her legs simultaneously as Jack Waters, torn between his devotion to his parent and his love for Elizabeth Bilge, does not hesitate a moment, then turns the rudder of the Ford sedan backward and is soon carrying the delighted old lady in his aeroplane to Captain Black’s half-brother’s expensive sanatorium, while Lizzie Finklestein plays her instrument so lovely, until all the picknickers fall one by one asleep, then gets into a breeches buoy and in that terrible predicament rescues Jack Clinton who was not drowned as we all thought, but at this moment a birth certificate is discovered proving that the ghost of Tamanlipas Guerrero is a fourth cousin to Dr. Marie Stopen, whereupon a lawn party is given for no reason whatever by Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney and everyone dances to general hilarity, as

  SCENE 27. Exterior Moon Night. CLOSEUP of a cloud. It nears the moon. It passes over the moon. The moon disppears. The cloud moves on. The moon reappears. A tree appears in front of the moon. A nest appears upon a limb. In the nest are five eggs. Thunder and lightning. All hatch suddenly.

  TITLE: “Poems are made by fools like me, only God can make a tree.”

  VERY SLOW FADE-OUT

  From Vanity Fair, January 1925.

  WHAT OUR LOVING SUBSCRIBERS SAY

  A few diverting epistles, published only with our most profound apologies

  No sooner had Vanity Fair—as usual, in a spirit of pure bravado—invited its subscribers to express their unfettered opinions of the magazine, than a cloudburst of letters, telegrams, cables, and post cards descended upon our heads. Stunned by the impact, we take pleasure in publishing a handful of these responses.

  Cupples, Missouri

  I have read your challenge to express a frank view regardless of all costs and would beg to say that next to the Gettysburg address W. Shakespeare and Dr. Frank Crane I think Vanity Fair is in every way a better kind of magazine.

  I always read it to my pupils (both boys and girls) between the ages of 6 and 19 who find it extra stimulating.

  The pictures, too, are pleasing.

  Cordially yours,

  CORNELIA F. ZERG

  Girlish enthusiasm is always welcome, especially when wafted to us from far off.

  Zeus, Virginia

  What simply marvelous pictures in Vanity Fair! ! ! ! (sic) My heart it just stops beating when I see some of them. That deliciously vague one in your next to the last number of the danseuse with the boyish figure in the distant foreground holding something wonderfully indefinite was perfectly adorable. I want more—more—more—

  SAPHO SMITH

  A ringing greeting:

  Tangerine, Orange, California

  Just a single month without your magazine were worse to bear than a whole year without Christmas. How I know not but you always manage to reflect the very internal esse
nce—sparkling, vivacious, electric—of the hour. My husband, with whom I lived for some time, we were separated in 1906, always particularly enjoyed The Well Dressed Man and, as for me, my motto has been and will ever remain in spite of all: Carpe Diem! Keep up your wonderful work!

  Faithfully,

  (MRS.) ELIZABETH B. ATKINS

  In happy contrast to the preceding, a perfectly soul-mated spouse speaks to us from

  Cream, Minnesota

  I think your stage department most illuminating. The Dolly Sisters I love. Never having seen them, which is which? Also Heywood Broun. Who runs the Hall of Fame? I dote on it. My husband is a candidate for alderman and he is sure he will be elected. He is thirty-eight, tall, strong, handsome, and worked hard all of his life like anyone else. He is terrible popular with the people. Speaks languages, etc. I enclose a photo which does not come near to doing Jim justice.

  MRS. BUCHEWETSKI

  A brief apology for the absence (necessitated by exigencies of space) of Mr. B’s lineaments, and we turn our expecting countenances toward the banks of the tranquil Charles, whence emanates this quaintly cultured expression of scholarly opinion—proving that Fair Harvard is alive to the needs of the hour:

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  I am a professor, well advanced in years, and, as is, under the circumstances, not unnatural, completely, so far as is humanly possible, absorbed in the inexhaustible possibilities of my endearing subject (Cryptogamic Botany).

  Some time ago, the Cambridge police proceeded to enforce an absurd ordinance prohibiting the riding of bicycles on the sidewalks and I was on several occasions arrested. During the war, my son Richard did very well, as we are told, in the army or navy, I forget which. He as well as my wife and I, believe that the menace of the Ku Klux Klan should awaken a throbbing response in the heart of every true American, be he man, woman, or child.