English Humour for Beginners Page 8
Next day Kohn comes to see him in despair. ‘What did you do, Rabbi? … Gruen is a swindler, a thief … He got the money out of you and escaped to America. I shall never see him or my money again. I am ruined. I am awfully sorry, Rabbi, but I shall have to sue you for the money.’
And he does. At the trial the rabbi’s defence is this:
‘It is true that it was an absolute condition that I must not give the money to either of them, only to the two together. I have honoured that condition and intend to honour it in the future. It is true that I have given 10,000 crowns from my own money to Gruen but that has nothing to do with Kohn. If and when Kohn and Gruen come together to claim their 10,000 crowns they can have it.’
New York Jewish jokes have a special flavour.
A woman is travelling in a half-empty bus in Brooklyn. She asks the driver: ‘Driver, are you Jewish?’
‘No’, is the curt reply.
Two stops later: ‘Are you Jewish, Driver?’
‘I have already told you, lady, that I am not Jewish.’
Another two stops further: ‘You are Jewish, Driver, aren’t you?’
The man breaks down: ‘Of course, I am Jewish.’
The lady scrutinizes him more closely: ‘You don’t look Jewish.’
I cannot imagine a better and more concise description of the habit of claiming all prominent people – after all, the driver is the man of authority in a bus – but as soon as they want to belong, rejecting them.
English and Jewish humour possess the same element of self-mockery, the ability to laugh at themselves. But I thought understatement was not a conspicuously Jewish habit. I was put right about that in Israel. An Israeli was boasting about his country, about their achievements, blowing his own trumpet at full blast, and then said something about typical Jewish understatement.
‘Wait a minute,’ I interrupted. ‘You’ve just spoken at great length about the Israelis being the greatest of all nations, intellectually, militarily, in every possible way. You said they had no rivals on earth and they were just superb.’
He nodded agreement: ‘Yes. But still an understatement.’
Part Two:
* * *
PRACTICE
English humour might be defined as the sum total of all humorous writing in English. Some examples of that follow here. The selection I have made is, inevitably, subjective. This is simply a dish, designed to whet the appetite.
I have tried to include typically English pieces which could not have been written by, say, a Swede or a Bulgarian.
Most of the pieces are personal favourites. On the other hand I am not particularly enamoured of limericks, yet I felt I had to include them as a specially English type of humorous verse.
The following pieces are mostly verses. I have left out nearly all prose, from the very English Charles Dickens to the equally English Evelyn Waugh and Stephen Potter, simply because the temptation to include too much would have been irresistible and the publishers have urged me to keep this volume – if possible – under 12,500 pages.
Nonsense
Lear
Nonsense poetry is an English invention, made famous by Edward Lear. What is it? According to the Encyclopaedia Britannica: ‘Nonsense verse. Humorous or whimsical poetry that differs from other comic poetry in its resistance to any rational or allegorical interpretation.’ This is a bad definition but excellent nonsense. Nonsense poetry, far from defying all allegorical interpretation, is allegorical interpretation itself.
Its meaning, its deeper significance may be defined in two ways. It may be seen as the ultimate literary rebellion against an orderly universe; shaking off the unbearable chains of everyday orderliness and logic; the anarchist’s triumph over Nature and Sense. People (I used to be one of them) are fond of saying that the English are the most law-abiding people in the world. Football hooligans and flagellation perverts do pose a problem, but exceptions are held to confirm the rule. The English obviously need a few outlets and nonsense poetry is one of these. The English find it a great relief to stand the world on its head and make it look absurd.
But I am inclined towards the second explanation for nonsense poetry: its essence is that it is poetry. Put down something meaningless and irrational with intense and deadly seriousness, and people will nod knowingly, be impressed and even overawed. Edward Lear does it with humour, charm and wisdom, so people refuse to see the beauty, the deeper meaning and the allegory in what he writes. A lot of people are silly enough to think that if something is funny it cannot be serious. They fail to see that Lear is a serious and often a very sad poet. He describes the world as it should be; as it could be. He invents words because he needs them and people laugh at these words. I laugh at them, too, because they are funny. But they are lovely words and there is profundity in their form and shape and smell. Runcible is not a word one can find in a dictionary, but it definitely ought to exist and mean something. On the other hand, its meaning should not be too precise (well, no meaning of any word is too precise). If it did exist, if it did find its way into a dictionary, it would be tamed, circumscribed and put in chains. As an ordinary, run-of-the-mill word it would have a limited meaning. As it is, it has all the meaning you care to attach to it. Far from being meaningless, its meaning is infinite. Nonsense is infinite and that is why it means much more than sheer, vulgar, commonsense.
Edward Lear was born in 1812, a hundred years before me and in the same year as Charles Dickens and Robert Browning. He was the twentieth of twenty-one children, and his mother – who had had enough by the time he arrived – wanted nothing to do with him. He was brought up by his sister Ann who gave him all the care and affection she could; but no amount of sisterly affection can make up for the lack of a mother’s love. On top of this he was an ugly man, with a ridiculously ugly nose which could be described as runcible. Or that’s what he thought of it, at any rate. I have examined it on many photographs and found nothing either particularly ugly or particularly enchanting in it. It’s a nose. Runcible it is, I agree. He had extremely bad eyes and was an epileptic. But he was also a man of irresistible charm and of great talent. His speciality was the drawing of animals and landscapes and at the age of twenty he was engaged by the London Zoo to draw parrots. He saw and observed parrots all day long; he heard parrots; he smelt parrots; he lived with parrots; he dreamt of parrots; he was convinced that he would be turned into a parrot one day and he was quite content – indeed, delighted – with the prospect.
One day in 1832 he was drawing parrots, in the Zoo, just as he always did, when Lord Stanley, the son and heir of the twelfth Earl of Derby, saw him at work and, having been impressed, invited him to Knowsley Hall near Liverpool – a large, beautiful and ramshackle thirteenth century castle – to live there and draw the animals in their private zoo. Lear accepted the invitation.
His moving to Knowsley, where he spent four years, changed his life. At first he was treated like any other employee and had his meals with the stewards. He was a shy man and this arrangement suited him. But later the aged Earl of Derby (who originated that most famous of race meetings which carries his name) noticed that the younger members of the family were often late for meals and could hardly wait to be allowed to leave again. He wanted to know the reason for this. He was told that the children just loved Mr Lear, laughed at the stories and verses he improvised on the spot, enjoyed his company and could hardly bear to part with him even for the duration of a meal. Lord Derby decreed that if he was such excellent company, he should have his meals with the family – the table could do with some reinforcements. Lear joined the table, as ordered, and never looked back. From a lonely, shabby existence in a rented room in London he was lifted into a very different world.
But his fate was changed even more significantly. Those funny little verses he invented for the Stanley children became so popular that Lear published them in book form. The title of it was A Book of Nonsense and it appeared under the pseudonym of Derry Down Derry. Lear was afraid of rui
ning his reputation as a serious painter with these trifles. The book was a huge and immediate success with children and adults alike. People were intrigued to know who Derry Down Derry was and, soon enough, Lear informed the public that he was the author. People did not like this revelation. On one occasion he travelled by train to Guildford, when two ladies with two children got in. The children were reading the Book of Nonsense and an elderly gentleman, another fellow-traveller, remarked that the nation must be grateful to a great nobleman for composing such a charming book. He explained that the author of the book was the Earl of Derby himself. The ladies said that they thought the author was a certain Mr Edward Lear. The elderly gentleman shook his head and told the ladies, with a knowing smile, that Lord Derby’s Christian name was Edward and Lear was simply an anagram of Earl. This was too much for Lear. He overcame his shyness and declared that he was Edward Lear and the author of the book. He produced a number of letters addressed to him and other documentary evidence. The man fell silent but did not believe him.
Lear’s nonsense poetry is not nonsensical poetry but poetical nonsense. It catches the imagination and often the heart; it amuses, it charms and sometimes saddens the reader. You may read the Akond of Swat as delightful nonsense; you may read it as the mocking of tyranny; or even an improved kind of Waiting for Godot. (I cannot recall at the moment who it was who summed up Godot by saying: ‘There is less in it than meets the eye’.)
Lear was a man who suffered deep depressions, in those days called melancholy. Emery Kelen in his book* tells a joke which he says (and I agree) fits Lear perfectly.
There was a sad man who went to a doctor and complained about his melancholy. The doctor examined him, and told him: ‘I can’t find anything wrong with you but I have some advice. There is a circus in town; go there tonight. You’ll see a clown who is so funny that you won’t stop laughing for a week.’
‘Doctor,’ said the patient, ‘I am the clown.’
THE AKOND OF SWAT
Edward Lear
Who or why, or which, or what,
Is the Akond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or a COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T’s and finish his I’s
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE?
O the Akond of Swat!
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn’t he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one’s last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a POT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake,
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Someone, or nobody, knows, I wot,
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat!
THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES
Edward Lear
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, ‘Some day you may lose them all’;
He replied, ‘Fish fiddle de-dee!’
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said, ‘The World in general knows
There’s nothing so good for a Pobble’s toes!’
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, ‘No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it’s perfectly known that a Pobble’s toes
Are safe – provided he minds his nose.’
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him
He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side,
‘He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!’
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble’s toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant,
Whether the shrimps or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away –
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
&n
bsp; To his Aunt Jobiska’s park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;
And she said, ‘It’s a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes.’
I should like to say here that in choosing examples I was not trying to discover little-known masterpieces. These are pieces for beginners – but ones which I feel sure more advanced pupils will be pleased to meet again.
Dodgson
If Edward Lear’s life was adventurous, eventful and varied, the life of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was dull and monotonous … or so it outwardly seems. But could a man have written Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking-Glass if he had really been uninteresting and commonplace?
Dodgson’s outward life story may be told in a few words. He was born in 1832 (the year Lear met Lord Stanley), the son of the Reverend Charles Dodgson. He spent four years at Rugby, matriculated at Christ Church, Oxford, in 1850, took a first class honours degree in mathematics at Christ Church and was appointed Lecturer in Mathematics there. He stayed in that job until he retired, at the age of forty-nine. In his spare time he became a brilliant photographer – according to some, one of the best in the nineteenth century. Under his own name he wrote such books as The Formulae of Plane Trigonometry and An Elementary Treatise on Determinants. He died at Guildford in 1898, at the age of sixty-six.
Some biographers maintain that the great event of his life was meeting Ellen Terry. She was eighteen and breathtakingly beautiful. He – it is believed – fell in love with her; some allege that he wanted to marry her. Well, it is all ‘it is believed’ and ‘some allege’ because he never talked of his feelings, certainly never proposed to Miss Terry and never wrote one single line about his feelings for her in his diary. He never married.
Most biographers agree, however, that another meeting was even more important in his life. In 1856 he met Alice Liddell when she was not yet four. He told her lots of wonderful stories inventing them when they went for walks together. One day Alice said: ‘Oh, Mr Dodgson, I wish you would write out Alice’s adventures for me.’