A Diary by Myself: the Remains of the Shattered Man

(These quotes are all that remain of the diary of Carrie Nation’s husband. They were found in Quotes from the Husbands of Famous Wives along with statements from Tony, the lover of Cleopatra; Henry VIII, the sometimes husband of Ann (with an e) Boleyn; a professor, the husband of Harriet Beecher Stowe; and other not-so-famous of renowned wives.)

…at woman will drive me to drinking. I have never had a taste for alcohol. Even my mother, when I was cutting my teeth on water and lemons, had praised me for my temperance. “Look, son,” she said to me before I could understand English, “them boys thar has got no lick of sense. They done spend thar pennies on bottles of liquid sin.” I remembered her words to this day. But my wife—she’s the very devil, I tell you. She asked me if she could go to Wichita to throw rocks at a saloon. My goodness! I don’t even let my sons throw rocks at the Catholics.

June 12. My sermon was on temperance today. I said--and I thought it really something else--“Saints and friends, don’t give in to the devil liquor. Be temperate. Resist with all your soul. Remember that we are sinners and our souls destroyed by sin. We can do nothing but sin. So resist the devil, whose name is Liquor.” Afterwards, Carrie came in hot as—not physically, of course--hot as a turtle shell on a Texas winter’s day. “Those Catholics,” she said--the Lord has blessed her with a mouth as wide as the Mississippi and twice as loud as Niagra Falls--she said, “Brother David!” And I said, “Yes, Sister Carrie.” “Brother David,” she continued, “Those Catholics spoke about temperance today too. Only they didn’t say, as you so elegantly--she meant, eloquently--stated, ‘Stray not near the bars and taverns, the fountains of sin and lust and fornication and debauchery and adultery and blasphemy and drunkenness.’ That priest said, ‘Follow the example of Lord our God when He changed the water into wine at the marriage of Cana. Drink, but drink with moderation; eat, but eat with moderation; sleep, but sleep with moderation. Do all things in moderation.’ By jingo, what does he mean by ‘moderation’?” She tossed some stones at the Catholics.

July 29. Today, I’m about to give up preaching. I simply see no point to it. Carrie doesn’t even listen to me. My pa used to say, “Son, ef yer wife don’t pay y’all no heed. Ain’t no use talkin’ ta y’all’s kin or frinds cuse sur as shootin’ no one else gonna.” (I think I used to talk too much as a child.)

December 1. It was a long summer. Between law suits and paying for damages, I think I am going broke. Hopefully the winter will cool her down. I had my palm read. The clairvoyant—sounds better than soothsayer, sounds too superstitious—said the spring looks brighter. It better be. All of this smashing is making Carrie really obnoxious.

December 2. Wife is out of control. Some say it’s my fault. I can’t see how, I’ve given her everything she’s wanted. Anyhow, she smashed all the milk bottles, glasses, pitchers, etc. Anything she can get her hatchet on is BAM! Smithereens. I really need to be more wary about what I give my wife for her birthday.

janubary 35. Can’t tell what day it is today. All’s I know is my head aches like a son of a gun. Drank all last night. First time. Alcohol, damn good. Sure silenced Carrie. She ain’t said a word all day.
Ma? Gave up on time and Gypsy was right. Spring sure looks brighter. Found three bottles on the floor this morning. Can’t believe I really drunk that much. Must have been out for—calendar’s off, so who knows. Carrie sued for—I signed. She said I could have waited for her to finish. Divorce begins tomorrow. I think I’ll have a drink on that…maybe another.

From the unfinished autobiography of Julius Caesar, Recasting the Die

Tour Day XIIth. Been on this election tour for XII days. Persnickety voters! It's not like the army days. Rough and relaxed, that's what they called me. Now, it's promising ridiculous things like change and progress. Who ever heard of a politician bringing about such things? Maybe Cleopatra. But it wasn't her politicing, I can promise you that. Back in the old days, I would trot up over any old bridge and a legion would follow. That would get things done. Perhaps it’s the weather. Heard Pompey is really hooting it up Egypt. He always had a way with women. Ah well, I guess my day will come soon.

Tour Day XIIIth. By Hercules, those Italians. If it isn’t some sentimental music about piazza’s and kissing, it’s pizza, wine, and hooligans. They can’t let a man walk through his own city in peace without making fools of themselves. Some old codger, obviously had one bottle too many, tottered up to me and said something ridiculous. It might have been Greek or even classical Latin. Something about the Hides of Mark.

Tour Day XIVth. Rained all day. Felt like I was back in Gaul. In fact, I felt like a school boy coming back from a playing hooky at the Coliseum. I jumped and clicked my heels and said, “weni, widi, wincki.” A page said history will never forget those words. The boy had a few too many. But I still don’t have a slogan. Perhaps, I will say, “Let me have fat men around me.”

Tour Day XVth. No one likes my slogan. There was blood in some of their eyes. In fact, I think they thought I was talking about Brutus. I said he wasn’t fat, only big boned. Cassius also took offense. He said I was supporting obscenity. I think he meant obesity. Cassius was never too bright. Won’t the joke be on him some day!

Tour Day XVIth. Quite a crowd at the senate building today. Many of the senators looked a little squeamish. Perhaps they’re afraid of blood. The priests were investigating some chicken guts. One particular priest, Flapius—he always is ready with a joke or two—was playing the foot making it open and close by pulling the tendons. HA! Got to love a good sport. Guts weren't too promising, soothsayer said.

Tour Day XVIIth. The people are such simpletons. They asked if I wanted to be king! What next? Emperor! Of course, they might be right. Well, I shan’t let it make me lose sleep.

Tour Day XVIIIth. Lost sleep. No mood to write. Blah!

Tour Day XIVth. Marc Anthony joined the mob in demanding my kingship. Turned him down. Cicero was up in arms with some sort of anti-monarchical speech. The reaction was the same. No one listened, except for Cicero. Brutus had a smirk today. First time I’ve seen him smile since I fell in the river. Cassius was telling a joke which ended with “Is this a dagger I see before me?” The man is a riot when he wants to be. But even then, not a smile crested his lips. Such a stoneface!

Tour Day XVIth. Tomorrow’s the ides of March. Weatherpriest says it’s gonna be a killer day. Perfect for a picnic. Maybe I’ll go to the senate. Surprise the lot of them. Then maybe I’ll go fishing with Flapius.

Rothfeather Letter #3

Dearest Phyllis,

Once again I have been told that I am hopelessly in love with you. I would not have given any more credence to my father’s words than I had before, but he backs them up with such unarguable responses. In addition to a loss of inheritance, he says I have the symptoms of a boy wasting away for love. “If you keep up like this, my boy,” he said to me the other night, “I’m afraid we will have to bury an hairless young man.” (I think he meant heirless. We must remember he did come from England, which explains his inability at times to speak English properly.)

I wasn’t sure, Phyllis, what the symptoms of love were. Some ideas are pretty clear from the various novels I had read. But father squashed all of them and reversed them. I had always imagined a love-lorn lover to be meandering hither and thither, wasting away for lack of nourishment, plucking flowers at random, singing songs about death, despair, and other unhealthy psychological issues, and such odds and ends that are not normally found in the daily habits of men—such as, sometimes is told, work. Now my father said my habit of devouring a three-course meal for breakfast and lunch, and a five-course for dinner, my regular lounging around in the parlor, and my complete detestation for melancholic tunes and gathering colorful weeds were all signs of my advanced state of affections for you.

He could have fooled me. I’ve never felt so out of love in all my life. And yet, my father said that that is how it often appears. While I had my doubts, his inheritance argument won me over. Again I was steadfastly convinced that I love you. Perhaps you can see it between the lines if you look hard enough. Heaven knows I have a hard enough time seeing it myself.

It seems awkward for me to say these things when the novels had implied that I should be gushing with poetry and other sentimental sentiments. At this moment, however, the only I am feeling is a bit peckish. I think the maid has a cold steak in the icebox, which tempts like Salome’s dancing. By the way, do you dance like Salome?

Ghost written by George, Charlie’s friend,
Charlie T. Rothfeather.

Rothfeather Letter #2

Dear Phyllis,

Your response to my first letter raised quite a stir on my homefront. My father was absolutely livid. And he railed for days about my inability to win your love--as if I had not tried! What little he knows. I wrote some three hundred words professing my belief that it would be in the interest of both parties and both families if we were to tie the matrimonial knot. While you disagreed, you definitely could not have made it less subtle than by saying, as your too concise telegram read, "Go fish in another pond, bucko."

I hope you do not think I am being rude, but my father is quite persistent we marry. In fact, his paternal insistence took its typical path with threats of disinheritance. (I am beginning to believe that disinheriting me is the only tool in his arsenal.) "Son," he said to me the other night, "if you cannot win the hand of some foolish girl, how are you going to win over million dollar clients in the real world of business? Marriage, Charlie, is about finance, social status, and a hot dinner ready when we return home from the club." (He knows I don't like the club, so he said it only to annoy me.)

You know, maybe we would make a good couple. You don't agree with my father; I don't agree with my father. We already have common ground. Perhaps we can overlook the other petty differences, such as your being Baptist and my being Methodist. Dad said that your family's fascination with bible-thumping, shrill-shrieking evangelicals is a remnant of your family's Southern days. But, with disinheritance hanging overhead, I was convinced that it was a small matter.

The only really important matter is that the dowry is sufficient for my family's honor. Dad said he will refuse anything under $20,000 and assurance of that spacious territory when your own father kicks the bucket. As I believe that these terms will not convince you in the slightest and your father does not seem as anxious as mine to get rid of you, I have his permission to dicker over the dowry. I can cut you a fifty percent reduction deal if the wedding would include the governor, an archbishop, and three foreign aristocrats. The aristocrats I can easily find as there are dukes and duchesses coming over from England all of the time. They're always looking for some exceptional treatment as in their mother country they are a dime a dozen.

Of course, we could always re-consider eloping. I have a good friend who just did that and got quite a deal on wedding costs from the Justice of the Peace. Regardless of how we go about it, Mother has given me strict orders not to break your heart. Is that possible? I don't know as I am unfamiliar with these sorts of scenarios. I would much rather go golfing.

Dictated to my secretary, Alice, from a tent on the green,
Charlie T. Rothfeather

Your Don Quixote

Let me be your idyllic knight
Who ranges rough, unruly roads
That you may call me a worthy wight
For following the ancient codes.

Then I would from a rusted sheath
My battle-battered sword withdraw
And stand the hero on the heath –
Like Samson with an ass’s jaw.

And though my squire’s a foolish man,
My armor’s scuffed, my clothing’s mean,
My weapon’s blunt, my helmet’s a pan –
It’s granduer when you are my queen.

These all I’d wear, and worse. For you –
And all shall think myself insane –
I’d see a hundred men as two;
A sty with pigs, a rich domain.

I’d roar a challenge by your name
To any heathen hoard or drove
Of bleating sheep – they are the same –
Who mock the lady of my love.

I’d glare in death’s deriding eyes
And laugh aloud in merry scorn
At foes who keep with cackling cries
Some weak, unworthy oaths they’d sworn.

And with my horn, a tarnished toy,
I would defy each bragging star;
And, laughing, I’d the moon annoy,
By gloating o’er each well-won scar.

A fool – but let me be your knight
And walk the wild untempered hills,
Playing the fool for your delight
And tilting lances at the mills.

Rothfeather Letter #1

[NOTE: During my research at the university--I was taking chemistry at the time and spent much of my research time studying the effects of aging liquid rye and barley--I, after a long night in the lab, stumbled--quite literally--upon a series of letters from one of the sons of one of the great Midwest Tycoons. I am yet to discover the tycoon's name. His son is Charlie Rothfeather. He is no relation, as far as I could tell, to the other Rothfeathers or to the Wrathfeathers or to the Rothes or Wrotches. I assume, therefore, that these letters are not fictitious. Most of them are dated between 1921 and 1937.]

Dear Phyllis,

I am sure you are the first girl I have ever loved. My mother said that you are brilliant and my dad has a mind to disinherit me if I don’t find a wife soon. He said that my family is too good to end with me.

I remember the first time I saw you. Your dad’s previous bank—I am told the new one is doing much better—had just closed down and my dad met your dad, who is also a banker, as you most likely know. (My dad owns the building now, you understand.) From what my dad said, your dad has inherited a large bit of property from your granddad (your dad’s dad) which was his dad’s before him. It seemed he wanted to keep it in the family. My own dear dad did a little bit of research and discovered that that trek of land was now worth close to $300,000. That is a little more than loose change in my dad’s book. He told me that I loved you—I am inclined to believe him as I haven’t reason enough not to.

With such things in mind and the impending doom of disinheritance, which I simply cannot afford at this time, I have decided to ask you to come with me to the ball next Saturday. I promise that we will have a jolly time. Though I have never been there myself, a friend of mine—his name is Alfred something or other. I have only known him for two weeks and we met at the pub two blocks down from your house. I spend a good deal of my time there—told me to expect nothing short of hours of pleasant company in the presence of the finest ladies this side of the Appalachian Mountains.

Perhaps afterwards, we might go to the bridge. You know the one that spans the creek. It is commonly called Lovers’ Lane by the more romantically natured folk around. But as you probably are not interested in romance, I figured that we could just pop over to the bridge, I could propose, and we could scurry off to settle accounts with the preacher and our parents.

My dad thought we might elope. He says it’s cheaper that way and that it would save your parents, my parents, and ourselves a ton of money and perhaps a headache or two. I am willing to do whatever it takes to save me us any extra bother.

By the way, I should say before we get too involved with this, that I do make about $936.03 a month. This may not surprise you since, if I don’t say so myself no one will, I am rather bright and expect to rise in the company. My dad thinks so too. As he is the president of the company, I am in no position to argue.

From my desk at my work to yours,
Charlie T. Rothfeather.

P.S. I hope you don’t like vegemite. I had the horrid stuff once when an Australian gave it to me as a gift. I took one bite and almost vomited. After putting the stuff on several mouse traps, I have, however, discovered that rodents admire the stuff greatly.