I think it was Kierkegaard writing in his journals who said, "I am a Janus Bifrons: I laugh with one face, I weep with the other," and so it is with me. At the club I am happy; anywhere else, not so much.
I wage an ongoing war in this city against philistinism and vulgarities of any kind, but all for naught, I am afraid, as it seems that poetry and kind words are no longer necessary in this new world that is upon us.
My wife worries that I will allow these thoughts to bring me low, and that I could be dead within the month. Sigh.
Speaking of my wife of some 50 years, I receive more than a few missives inquiring after Kitty and what makes her tick. What I find worrisome is that many of the letters contain more than a small amount of pity for her.
First of all, Kitty is a powerful woman with a well-developed forearm and is not to be trifled with under any circumstances.
She is less than engaged with what she calls my frenzied jottings, for she feels that the readers in our happy Victoria have the impression that she is an unreasonable partner.
I think that I write of a more sympathetic woman with an unfortunate predilection for cats, particularly Pericles and Bertram.
Kitty and I met the same year that we married at a dance given by a mutual friend one Saturday night. I was not popular with the fairer sex then as now, which was terribly unfair. I concentrated so hard on my dancing that I had a tendency to drool down their décolleté, which created paroxysms. So my job consisted of changing the records so that the party would be musically seamless and I would leave the girls alone.
Kitty, meanwhile, was engaged to the noxious Philip Strudel, a bakery scion, spoiled and dreadful but with deep pockets.
Women inevitably pick the real rotters and then wonder at their leisure why their lives are deeply sad.
Kitty spoke with a faux Bloomsbury accent then, as did many of her crowd, things like "It is simply too wonderful" over nothing of importance.
I was to take the temperature of the room. After speeding up the dance tempo, I would bring it down so as to keep the women from perspiring freely, which brought a few thankful looks. Suddenly Kitty shouted at her biscuit boyfriend, "You are swinish hog!" after seeing him eye Popsie Smarm licentiously. Apart from being redundant, it was spot-on.
I quickly put a romantic tune on, as I knew she would not think of being in his arms in her present mood, so she flounced over to me as the least offensive alternative. With nary a word she bent me back like a willow and planted an epic kiss on a trembling Nigel, which brought the drool back, accompanied by its cousin, the stammer.
I began to babble wetly while grinning gamely, and she somehow thought I was proposing to her. After one poisonous glance back at the loutish loaf, she said yes!
The years have shot by, including ungrateful offspring and surly relatives, but a wonderful understanding exists between us nonetheless. Kitty is the antidote to my vanity, which breeds within me a humble spirit.
I am left alone in my study at the top of the stairs, knowing I am an object of ridicule to my wife's cronies, for I can hear their raucous laughter as she relates another story concerning her husband.
This does not bother me unduly as I know my girl.
Once at a soiree where all the top guard had gone to feed, someone said cruelly that Kitty could have done much better than me. Kitty turned on the woman, saying loudly, "But he is the best!"
I trust this clears the air as to my wife. I will always love her to bits.
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