Чижик Валерий Александрович : другие произведения.

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  • Аннотация:
    Не только для антисемитов и знающих английский, но и для тех, кто любит людей - невзирая на местожительство или национальность.

   THE EDUCATION OF HYMAN KAPLAN
   By Leonard Q. Ross. Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc. New York, 1937
  
   Chapter 1
   THE RATHER DIFFICULT CASE OF MR. K*A*P*L*A*N
  
   In the third week of the new term, Mr. Parkhill was forced to the conclusion that Mr. Kaplan's case was rather difficult. Mr. Kaplan first came to his special attention, out of the thirty-odd adults in the begin-ners' grade of the American Night Preparatory School for Adults ("English-Americanization-Civics-Preparation for Naturalization"), through an exercise the class had submitted. The exercise was entitled "Fifteen Common Nouns and Their Plural Forms." Mr. Parkhill came to one paper which included the following:
  
   house..............makes............houses
   dog................ " ............dogies
   libary............. " ............Public libary
   cat................ " ............Katz
  
   Mr. Parkhlll read this over several times, very thoughtfully. He decided that here was a student who might, unchecked, develop into a "problem case." It was clearly a case that called for special attention. He turned the page over and read the name. It was printed in large, firm letters with red crayon. Each letter was outlined in blue. Between every two letters was a star, carefully drawn, in green. The multi-colored whole spelled, unmistakably, H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N.
   This Mr. Kaplan was in his forties, a plump, red-faced gentleman, with wavy blond hair, two fountain pens in his outer pocket, and a perpetual smile. It was a strange smile, Mr. Parkhill remarked: vague, bland, and consistent in its monotony. The thing that emphasized it for Mr. Parkhill was that it never scemed to leave the face of Mr. Kaplan, even during Recitation and Speech period. This disturbed Mr. Parkhill considerably, because Mr. Kaplan was particularly bad in Recitation and Speech.
   Mr. Parkhlll decided he had not applied himself as conscientiously as he might to Mr. Kaplan's case. That very night he called on Mr. Kaplan first.
   "Won't you take advantage of Recitation and Speech practice, Mr. Kaplan?" he asked, with an encouraging smile.
   Mr. Kaplan smiled back and answered promptly, "Vell, I'll tell abot Prazidents United States. Fife Prazidents United States is Abram Lincohen) he vas freeink de neegers; Hadding, Coolitch, Judge Vashington, an' Benjamin Frenklin."
   Further encouragement revealed that in Mr. Kaplan's literary Valhalla the "most famous tree American wriders" were Jeck Laundon, Valt Viterman, and the author of "Hawk L. Barry-Feen," one Mock-tvain. Mr. Kaplan took pains to point out that he did not mention Relfvaldo Amerson because "He is a poyet, an' I'm talkink abot wriders."
   Mr. Parkhill diagnosed the case as one of "inability to distinguish between 'a' and 'e.'" He concluded that Mr. Kaplan would need special attention. He was, frankly, a little disturbed.
   Mr. Kaplan's English showed no improvement during the next hard weeks. The originality of his spelling and pronunciation, however, flourished--like a sturdy flower in the good, rich earth. A man to whom "Katz" is the plural of "cat" soon soars into higher and more ambitious endeavor. As a one-paragraph "Exercise in Composition," Mr. Kaplan submitted:
  
   When people is meating on the boulvard, on going away one is saying, "I am glad I mat you," and the other is giving answer, "Mutual."
  
   Mr. Parkhill felt that perhaps Mr. Kaplan had overreached himself, and should be confined to the simpler exercises.
   Mr. Kaplan was an earnest student. He worked hard, knit his brows regularly (albeit with that smile), did all his homework, and never missed a class. Only once did Mr. Parkhill feel that Mr. Kap-lan might, perhaps, be a little more serious about his work. That was when he asked Mr. Kaplan to "give a noun."
   "Door," said Mr. Kaplan, smiling.
   It seemed to Mr. Parkhill that "door" had been given only a moment earlier, by Miss Mitnick.
   "Y--es," said Mr. Parkhill. "Er--and another noun?"
   "Another door." Mr. Kaplan replied promptly.
   Mr. Parkhill put him down as a doubtful "C." Everything pointed to the fact that Mr. Kaplan might have to be kept on an extra three months before he was ready for promotion to Composition, Grammar, and Civics, with Miss Higby.
   One night Mrs. Moskowitz read a sentence, from "English for Beginners," in which "the vast deserts of America" were referred to. Mr. Parkhill soon discovered that poor Mrs. Moskowitz did not know the meaning of "vast." "Who can tell us the meaning of 'vast'?" asked Mr. Parkhlll lightly.
   Mr. Kaplan's hand shot up, volunteering wisdom. He was all proud grins. Mr. Parkhill, in the rashness of the moment, nodded to him.
   Mr. Kaplan rose, radiant with joy. "'Vast!' It's commink fromm direction. Ve have four diractions: de naut, de sot, de heast, and de vast."
   Mr. Parkhill shook his head. "Er--that is 'west,' Mr. Kaplan." He wrote "VAST" and "WEST" on the blackboard. To the class he added, tolerantly, that Mr. Kaplan was apparently thinking of "west," whereas it was "vast" which was under discussion.
   This seemed to bring a great light into Mr. Kaplan's inner world. "So is 'vast' vat you eskink?"
   Mr. Parkhill admitted that it was "vast" for which he was asking.
   "Aha! " cried Mr. Kaplan. "You minn 'vast,' not"--with scorn--"'vast.'"
   "Yes," said Mr. Parkhill, faintly.
   "Hau Kay!" said Mr. Kaplan, essaying the vernacular. "Ven I'm buyink a suit clothes, I'm gattink de cawt de pents, an' de vast!"
   Stunned, Mr. Parkhill shook his head, very sadly. "I'm afraid that you've used still another word, Mr. Kaplan."
   Oddly enough, this seemed to give Mr. Kaplan great pleasure.
   Several nights later Mr. Kaplan took advantage of Open Questions period. This ten-minute period was Mr. Parkhill's special innovation in the American Night Preparatory School for Adults. It was devoted to answering any questions which the students might care to raise about any difficulties which they might have encountered during the course of their adventures with the language. Mr. Parkhill enjoyed Open Questions. He liked to clear up practical problems. He felt he was being ever so much more constructive that way. Miss Higby had once told him that he was a born Open Questions teacher.
   "Plizz, Mr. Pockheel," asked Mr. Kaplan as soon as the period opened. "Vat's de minnink fromm--" It sounded, in Mr. Kaplan's rendition, like "a big department."
   "'A big department,' Mr. Kaplan?" asked Mr. Parkhill, to make sure.
   "Yassir!" Mr. Kaplan's smile was beauteous to behold. "ln de stritt, ven I'm valkink, I'm hearink like 'I big de pottment.'"
   It was definitely a pedagogical opportunity.
   "Well, class," Mr. Parkhill began. "I'm sure that you have all--"
   He told them that they had all probably done some shopping in the large downtown stores. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) In these large stores, he said, if they wanted to buy a pair of shoes, for example, they went to a special part of the store, where only shoes were sold--a shoe department. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) If they wanted a table, they went to a different part of the store, where tables were sold. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) If they wanted to buy, say, a goldfish, they went to still another part of the store, where goldfish... . (Mr. Kaplan frowned; it was clear that Mr. Kaplan had never bought a goldfish.)
   "Well, then," Mr. Parkhlll summed up hastily, "each article is sold in a different place. These different and special places are called departments." He printed "D-E-P-A-R-T-M-E-N-T" on the board in large, clear capitals. "And a big department, Mr. Kaplan, is merely such a department which is large--big!"
   He put the chalk down and wiped his fingers.
   "Is that clear now, class?" he asked, with a little smile. (It was rather an ingenious explanaticn, he thought; it might be worth repeating to Miss Higby during the recess.)
   It was clear. There were thirty nods of approval. But Mr. Kaplan looked uncertain. It was obvious that Mr. Kaplan, a man who would not compromise with truth, did not find it clear.
   "Isn't that clear now, Mr. Kaplan?" asked Mr. Parkhlll anxiously.
   Mr. Kaplan pursed his lips in thought. "It's a fine haxplination, Titcher," he said generously, "but I don' unnistand vy I'm hearink de voids de vay I do. Simms to me it's used in annodder minnink."
   "There's really only one meaning for 'a big department.'" Mr. Parkhill was definitely worried by this time. "If that's the phrase you mean."
   Mr. Kaplan nodded gravely. "Oh, dat's de phrase--ufcawss! It sonds like dat--or maybe a leetle more like 'I big de pottment.'"
   Mr. Parkhlll took up the chalk. ("I big department" was obviously a case of Mr. Kaplan's own curious audition.) He repeated the explanation carefully, this time embellishing the illustrations with a shirt department, a victrola section, and "a separate part of the store where, for example, you buy canaries, or other birds."
   Mr. Kaplan sat entranced. He followed it all politely, even the part about "canaries, or other birds." He smiled throughout with consummate reassurance.
   Mr. Parkhill was relieved, assuming, in his folly, that Mr. Kaplan's smiles were a testimony to his exposition. But when he had finished, Mr. Kaplan shook his head once more, this time with a new and superior firmness.
   "Is the explanation still not clear?" Mr. Parkhill was genuinely concerned by this time.
   "Is de haxplination clear!" cried Mr. Kaplan with enthusiasm. "Ha! I should live so! Soitinly! Clear like gold! So clear! An' netcheral too! But Mr. Pockheel--"
   "Go on, Mr. Kaplan," said Mr. Parkhill, studying the white dust on his fingers. There was, after all, nothing more to be done.
   "Vell! I tink it's more like 'I big de pottment.'"
   "Go on, Mr. Kaplan, go on." (Domine, dirige nos.)
   Mr. Kaplan rose. His smile was broad, luminous, transcendent; his manner was regal.
   "I'm hearink it in de stritt. Somtimes I'm stendink in de stritt, talkink to a frand, or mine vife, mine brodder--or maybe only stendink. An' somvun is pessink arond me. An' by hexident he's givink me a bump, you know, a poosh! Vell, he says, 'Axcuse me!' no? But somtimes, an' dis is vat I minn, he's sayink, 'I big de pottment!'"
   Mr. Parkhill studied the picture of "Abram Lincohen" on the back wall, as if reluctant to face reality. He wondered whether he could reconcile it with his conscience if he were to promote Mr. Kaplan to Composition, Grammar, and Civics--at once. Another three months of Recitation and Speech might, after all, be nothing but a waste of Mr. Kaplan's valuable time.
  
   Chapter 2
   MR. K*A*P*L*A*N, THE COMPARATIVE, AND THE SUPERLATIVE
  
   For two weeks Mr. Parkhill had been delaying the inescapable: Mr. Kaplan, like the other students in the beginners' grade of the American Night Preparatory School for Adults, would have to present a composition for class analysis. All the students had had their turn writing the assignment on the board, a composition of one hundred words, entitled "My job." Now only Mr. Kaplan's rendition remained.
   It would be more accurate to say Mr. K*A*P*L*A*N's rendition of the assignment remained, for even in thinking of that distinguished student, Mr. Parkhill saw the image of his unmistakable signature, in all its red-blue-green glory. The multicolored characters were more than a trademark; they were an assertion of individuality, a symbol of singularity, a proud expression of Mr. Kaplan's Inner Self. To Mr. Parkhill, the signature took on added meaning because it was associated with the man who had said his youthful ambition had been to become "a physician and sergeant," the Titan who had declined the verb "to fail": "fall, failed, bankropt."
   One night, after the two weeks' procrastination, Mr. Parkhill decided to face the worst. "Mr. Kaplan, I think it's your turn to--er--write your composition on the board."
   Mr. Kaplan's great, buoyant smile grew more great and more buoyant. "My!" he exclaimed. He rose, looked around at the class proudly as if surveying the blessed who were to witness a linguistic tour de force, stumbled over Mrs. Moskowitz's feet with a polite "Vould you be so kindly?" and took his place at the blackboard. There he rejected several pieces of chalk critically, nodded to Mr. Parkhill--it was a nod of distinct reassurance--and then printed in firm letters:
  

My Job A Cotter In Dress Faktory

Comp. by

H*Y*

  
   "You need not write your name on the board," interrupted Mr. Parkhlll quickly. "Er--to save time... ."
   Mr. Kaplan's face expressed astonishment. "Podden me, Mr. Pockheel. But de name is by me pot of mine composition."
   "Your name is part of the composition?" asked Mr. Parkhlll in an anxious tone.
   "Yassir!" said Mr. Kaplan with dignity. He printed the rest of H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N for all to see and admire. You could tell it was a disappointment for him not to have colored chalk for this performance. In pale white the elegance of his work was dissipated. The name, indeed, seemed unreal, the letters stark, anemic, almost denuded.
   His brow wrinkled and perspiring, Mr. Kaplan wrote the saga of A Cotter In Dress Faktory on the board with much scratching of the chalk and an undertone of sound. Mr. Kaplan repeated each word to himself softly, as if trying to give to its spelling some of the flavor and originality of his pronunciation. The smile on the face of Mr. Kaplan had taken on something beatific and imperishable: it was his first experience at the blackboard; it was his moment of glory. He seemed to be writing more slowly than necessary as if to prolong the ecstasy of his Hour. When he had finished he said "Hau Kay" with distinct regret in his voice, and sat down. Mr. Parkhill observed the composition in all its strange beauty:
  

My Job A Cotter In Dress Faktory

Comp. by

H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N

   Shakspere is saying what fulls man is and I am feeling just the same way when I am thinking about mine ob a cotter in Dress Faktory on 38 st. by 7 av. For why should we slafing in dark place by laktric lights and all kinds hot for $30 or maybe $36 with overtime, for Boss who is fat and driving in fency automobil? I ask! Because we are the deprassed workers of world. And are being exployted. By Bosses. In mine shop is no difference. Oh how bad is laktric light, oh how is all kinds hot. And when I am telling Foreman should be better conditions he hollers, Kaplan you redical!
  
   At this point a glazed look came into Mr. Parkhill's eyes, but he read on.
  
   So I keep still and work by bad light and always hot. But somday will the workers making Bosses to work! And then Kaplan will give to them bad laktric and positively no windows for the air should come in! So they can know what it means to slafe! Kaplan will make Foreman a cotter like he is. And give the most bad dezigns to cot out. Justice.

Mine job is cotting Dress dezigns.

T-H-E E-N-D

  
   Mr. Parkhill read the amazing document over again. His eyes, glazed but a moment before, were haunted now. It was true: spelling, diction, sentence structure, punctuation, capitalization, the use of the present perfect for the present--all true.
   "Is planty mistakes, I s'pose," suggested Mr. Kaplan modestly.
   "'Y-yes ... yes, there are many mistakes."
   "Dat's because I'm tryink to give dip ideas," said Mr. Kaplan with the sigh of those who storm heaven.
   Mr. Parkhill girded his mental loins. "Mr. Kaplan--er--your composition doesn't really meet the assignment. You haven't described your job, what you do, what your work is."
   "Vell, it's not soch a interastink jop," said Mr. Kaplan.
   "Your composition is not a simple exposition. It's more of a--well, an essay on your attitude."
   "Oh fine!" cried Mr. Kaplan with enthusiasm. "No, no," said Mr. Parkhill hastily. "The assignment was meant to be a composition. You see, we must begin with simple exercises before we try--er--more philosophical essays."
   Mr. Kaplan nodded with resignation. "So naxt time should be no ideas, like abot Shaksbeerr? Should be only fects?"
   "Y-yes. No ideas, only--er--facts."
   You could see by Mr. Kaplan's martyred smile that his wings, like those of an eagle's, were being clipped.
   "And Mr. Kaplan--er--why do you use 'Kaplan' in the body of your composition? Why don't you say 'I will make the foreman a cutter' instead of 'Kaplan will make the foreman a cutter?'
   Mr. Kaplan's response was instantaneous. "I'm so glad you eskink me dis! Ha! I'm usink 'Keplen' in de composition for plain and tsimple rizzon: becawss I didn't vant de reader should tink I am prejudiced aganst de foreman, so I said it more like abot a strenger: 'Keplen vill make de foreman a cotter!'"
   In the face of this subtle passion for objectivity, Mr. Parkhill was silent. He called for corrections. A forest of hands went up. Miss Mitnick pointed out errors in spelling, the use of capital letters, punctuation; Mr. Norman Bloom corrected several more words, rearranged sentences, and said, "Workers is exployted with an 'i,' not 'y' as Kaplan makes"; Miss Caravello changed "fulls" to "fools," and declared herself uncertain as to the validity of the word "Jus-tice" standing by itself in "da smalla da sentence"; Mr. Sam Pinsky said he was sure Mr. Kaplan meant "opprassed voikers of de voild, not deprassed, aldough dey are deprassed too," to which Mr. Kaplan replied, "So ve bote got right, no? Don' chenge 'deprassed,' only add 'oppressed.'"
   Then Mr. Parkhill went ahead with his own corrections, changing tenses, substituting prepositions, adding the definite article. Through the whole barrage Mr. Kaplan kept shaking his head, murmuring "Mine gootness!" each time a correction was made. But he smiled all the while. He seemed to be proud of the very number of errors he had made; of the labor to which the class was being forced in his service; of the fact that his ideas, his creation, could survive so concerted an onslaught. And as the composition took more respectable form, Mr. Kaplan's smile grew more expansive.
   "Now, class," said Mr. Parkhill, "I want to spend a few minutes explaining something about adjectives. Mr. Kaplan uses the phrase--er--'most bad.' That's wrong. There is a word for 'most bad.' It is what we call the superlative form of 'bad.'" Mr. Parkhlll explained the use of the positive, comparative, and superlative forms of the adjective. "'Tall, taller, tallest.' 'Rich, richer, richest.' Is that clear? Well then, let us try a few others."
   The class took up the game with enthusiasm. Miss Mitnick submitted "dark, darker, darkest"; Mr. Scymzak, "fat, fatter, fattest."
   "But there are certain exceptions to this general form," Mr. Parkhill went on. The class, which had long ago learned to respect that gaming, The Exception to the Rule, nodded solemnly. "For instance, we don't say 'good, gooder, goodest,' do we?"
   "No, sir!" cried Mr. Kaplan impetuously. "'Good, gooder, goodest?' Ha! It's to leff!"
   "We say that X, for example, is good. Y, however, is--?" Mr. Parkhill arched an eyebrow interrogatively.
   "Batter!" said Mr. Kaplan.
   "Right! And Z is--?"
   "High-cless!"
   Mr. Parkhlll's eyebrow dropped. "No," he said sadly.
   "Not high-cless?" asked Mr. Kaplan incredulously. For him there was no word more superlative.
   "No, Mr. Kaplan, the word is 'best.' And the word 'bad,' of which you tried to use the superlative form... . It isn't 'bad, badder, baddest.' It's 'bad' ... and what's the comparative? Anyone?"
   "Worse," volunteered Mr. Bloom.
   "Correct! And the superlative? Z is the--?"
   "'Worse' also?" asked Mr. Bloom hesitantly. It was evident he had never distinguished the fine difference in sound between the comparative and superlative forms of "bad."
   "No, Mr. Bloom. It's not the same word, although it--er--sounds a good deal like it. Anyone? Come, come. It isn't hard. X is bad, Y is worse, and Z is the--?"
   An embarrassed silence fell upon the class, which, apparently, had been using "worse" for both the comparative and superlative all along. Miss Mitnick blushed and played with her pencil. Mr. Bloom shrugged, conscious that he had given his all. Mr. Kaplan stared at the board, his mouth open, a desperate concentration in his eye.
   "Bad--worse. What is the word you use when you mean 'most bad'?"
   "Aha!" cried Mr. Kaplan suddenly. When Mr. Kaplan cried "Aha!" it signified that a great light had fallen on him. "I know! De exect void! So easy! Ach! I should know dat ven I vas wridink! Bad--voise--"
   "Yes, Mr. Kaplan!" Mr. Parkhill was definitely excited.
   "Rotten!"
   Mr. Parkhill's eyes glazed once more, unmistakably. He shook his head dolorously, as if he had suffered a personal hurt. And as he wrote "W-O-R-S-T" on the blackboard there ran through his head, like a sad refrain, this latest manifestation of Mr. Kap-lan's peculiar genius: "bad--worse--rotten; bad--worse--"
  
  
  
   Mr. K*A*P*L*A*N's Hobo
  
   Perhaps Mr. Parkhill should have known better. Perhaps he should have known Mr. Kaplan bet-ter. And yet, in Mr. Parkhill's conscientious con-cern for every student in the beginners' grade there could be no discrimination. Despite Mr. Kaplan's distressing class record, despite his amazing renditions of the English language, Mr. Parkhill insisted on treating him as any other stu-dent. Just because Mr. Kaplan referred to rub-ber heels as "robber hills," or called a pencil-sharpener a "pantsil-chopner," was no reason he should not participate in the regular exercises of the class on an equal footing. (Mr. Parkhffl had weakened a bit in this resolution when Mr. Kaplan had given the opposite of "new" as "secondhand.")
   And now Mr. Kaplan stood at the front of the room before the class, ready to speak for five minutes during the Recitation and Speech pe-riod.
   "Speak slowly, Mr. Kaplan," said Mr. Park-hffl. "Watch your pronunciation. Remember it isn't how--er--fast you talk, or how much you say. Try to be accurate. Speak distinctly."
   Mr. Kaplan nodded with a great and confident smile.
   "And do watch your `e's and `a's. You always confuse them in your speech."
   Mr. Kaplan nodded again, beaming. "I'll be so careful, Mr. Pockfill, you'll be soprize," he said gallantly.
   "And the class will feel free to interrupt with corrections at any time." Mr. Parkhill finished bis instructions with an encouraging nod to the class. Allowing the students to interrupt with corrections had proved very successful. It kept them alert, and it made the student reciting par-ticularly careful, since there was a certain stigma attached to being corrected by a fellow-student --much greater than if Mr. Parkhilll did the cor-recting. It was natural for him to catch errors.
   "Very well, Mr. Kaplan" Mr. Рагkhill sighed, aware that he could do no more. Now it was in the hands of God. He took Mr. Kaplan's seat. (He always took the seat of the student recit-ing during Recitation and Speech period. It seemed to establish a comradely rapport in the class; besides, it was easier to hear and watch the student speaking.)
   Mr. Kaplan took a deep breath. For a sus-pended moment he surveyed the class. There was pride in his glance. Mr. Kaplan loved to re-cite. He loved to write on the blackboard. In fact, he loved any activity in which he was the single center of attention. He laughed a strange, soft, rather meaningless laugh. Then he began:
   "Ladies an' gantleman--I s'pose dat's how I should beginnink--an' also Mr. Pockheel an' tal-ler-students--" He cleared his throat, almost with a flourish.
   "Eh--I'm spikking tonight becawss it's Rasitation an' Spitch time an'--"
   "Speech, Mr. Kaplan," Mr. Parkhill inter-polated gently. "Watch your `e's."
   "Becawss it's Rasitation an' Speeeech time, so I'll talkink abot mine vaca--no--my vacation." Mr. Kaplan corrected himself, smiling, as he saw Mr. Parkhill frown. "So is de name fromm my leetle spi--speeeech: My Vacation!"
   Mr. Kaplan stopped sententiously. He had a keen sense of structure. "Foist, I must tell abot my hobo." The class, with the fervent intensity with which it listened to students reciting, looked puzzled. So did Mr. Parkhill. "My hobo is--"
   "Your--er--what?" asked Mr. Parkhill anx-iously. "My hobo?"
   "No soch woid!" cried Mr. Norman Bloom. Whenever Mr. Bloom suspected an error in vo-cabulary, he jumped to the conclusion that there was "no soch woid." It was the safest tactic.
   "Oh, no?" asked Mr. Kaplan, smiling. "Maybe you positif?"
   "Well, there is such a word," said Mr. Parkhill, quickly. "But--er--are you sure you mean 'hobo'?"
   "Aha!" Mr. Kaplan cried triumphantly, look-ing at Mr. Bloom. "So is soch a void! Veil, I tink I minn `hobo.' My hobo is hiking--hiking in de voods, or on de heels, or op de montains--all kinds hiking. Venever is a fine day, mit sonshiink, I go hiking in--"
   "He means `hоbbу,'" hissed Miss Rose Mitnick to Mrs. Rodriguez. Miss Mitnick was a shy girl. Ordinarily she did not volunteer corrections, al-though she was the best student in the class. But between Miss Mitnick and Mr. Kaplan there was something of a feud. Mr. Kaplan heard Miss Mitnick's hiss. So did everyone else.
   "So I'm corracted by Mitnick," said Mr. Kap-lan generously. "Is not my 'hobo,' My hobby-- Hau Kay! But Bloom shouldn't say dere's no void 'hobo.' It's only annoder void, dat's all."
   Mr. Bloom was impotent against this sophis-try. Mr. Kaplan smiled graciously at both Miss Mitnick and Mr. Bloom, with the faintest sugges-tion of irony. Suddenly he straightened up. His smile grew wider, almost beatific. An exalted look came into his eyes. With a sudden motion he stretched both hands outward and cried, "The sky! De son! De stoss! De clods. De frash air in de longs. All--all is pot fromm Netcher!"
   A reverent hush fell over the class as Mr. Kap-lan depicted the glories of Nature.
   "An' do ve human fools taking edwantage? No!"
   Miss Mitnick blushed as if she were person-ally responsible for man's indifference to the out-of-doors.
   "But in hiking is all enjoymint fromm soch Netcher. Dat's vy I`m makink a hobby fromm hiking. Ladies an' gandeman, have you one an' all, or even saparate, falt in de soul de trees, de boids, de gress, de bloomers--all de scinnery?"
   A swift titter from the ladies made Mr. Kap-lan pause, his hands arrested in mid-air.
   "Yas, de trees, de boids, de gress, de bloom-ers--"
   "Er--pardon me," said Mr. Parkhill, clearly embarrassed. "But what word are you using, Mr. Kaplan?"
   "All kinds," Mr. Kaplan said with sublime sim-plicity.
   "But--er--you used one word--" "'Bloomers' ain't natural hobjects!" blurted Mrs. Moskowitz firmly. Mrs. Moskowitz was a straight-forward, earthy soul. And, as a married woman, she could speak out where Mr. Parkhill or the class might hesitate. "You mean 'flowers,' Mr. Kaplan, so don't mix op two languages!"
   Mr. Parkhill, who had thought that Mr. Kaplan's use of "bloomers" came from a misconstruc-tion of the verb "to bloom," naively transformed into a noun, suddenly recalled that Blumen meant "flowers" in Mr. Kaplan's native tongue.
   "Hau Kay!" said Mr. Kaplan, promptly. "So podden me an' denk you! Is de void batter 'flower.' So I love to smallink de flowers, like Moskovitz said. I love to breedink de frash air. Mostly, I love to hear de boids sinking."
   "You must watch your `k's and `g's," said Mr. Parkhill earnestly. "'Singing,' not 'sinking.'"
   Mr. Kaplan lifted his eyebrows with a respon-sive "Ah!"
   "An' ven de boids is singing, den is Netcher commink ot in all kinds gorgeous."
   Mr. Parkhill looked at the floor; there was no point in being picayune.
   "Vell, lest veek I took my vife ot to de contry. I told my vife, 'Sarah, you should have an absolute vacation. Slip--eat--valk aron' in Netcher. Stay in de bad how late you vant in de mornink!' But my vife! Ach! Did she slapt late? No! Not my Sarah. Avery mornink she got op six o'clock, no matter vat time it vas!"
   For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then Miss Mitnick interrupted with shy but firm determination. She did not look at Mr. Kaplan. She addressed her words to Mr. Parkhffl--rather, to Mr. ParkhilTs tie. "How can Mr. Kaplan say she got up every morning at six o'clock 'no mat-ter what time it was'? A mistake."
   The class nodded, the full meaning of Mr. Kaplan's paradox sinking in.
   "Yes," said Mr. Parkhill. "I'm sure you didn't mean that, Mr. Kaplan"
   Mr. Kaplan's great smile did not leave his face for a moment. He looked at Miss Mitnick through half-closed eyes and, with infinite supe-riority, said, "I have a foist-class idea vat I'm minnink, Mitnick. My vife gats op so oily in de mornink dat you couldn't tell vat time it vas, I couldn't tell vat time it vas, even Mr. Pockheel couldn't tell. Avery day in de contry she vas gattink op six o'clock, no matter vat time it vas" Miss Mitnick's blush was heart-rending. "Don' be like that, Kaplan!" exclaimed Mr. Bloom, jumping into the gap chivalrously. "If it's six o'clock, so you do know what time it was, no? So how you can say--"
   "Aha!" Mr. Kaplan cried defiantly. "Dat's exactel de mistake you makink just like Mitnick. If I'm slippink an' it's six o'clock, so do I know vat time it is? Vould you know it vas six o'clock if you vas slippink?"
   It was a dazzling dialectical stroke. It silenced Mr. Kaplan's critics with instant and deadly ac-curacy. Mr. Bloom pursed his lips, a miserable man. Miss Mitnick frowned and flushed, such metaphysical reasoning quite beyond her. Mrs. Moskowitz's eyes held awe for Mr. Kaplan's dev-astating logic. It remained for Mr. Parkhffl to break through the impasse.
   "But--er--Mr. Kaplan, if one states the time as six o'clock, then it's incorrect to add `no mat-ter what time it was.' That's a contradiction."
   The class sat breathless. Mr. Kaplan's smile seemed ossified for one long moment as he looked at Mr. Parkhffl. Then it flowed into life and peace again. "Oh, vell. If it's a conterdiction"--he looked haughtily at Miss Mitnick and Mr. Bloom--"dat's difference!"
   Mr. Bloom nodded in acquiescence, as if he understood this masterful denouement; he tried to achieve a profound expression. A bewildered look crept into Miss Mitnick's eyes.
   Mr. Kaplan beamed. He put his hands out dra-matically and exclaimed, "How many you fine city pipple ever saw de son commink op? How many you children fromm Netcher smalled de gress in de mornink all vet mit dues? How many--"
   Just then the bell rang in the corridors of the American Night Preparatory School for Adults. Mr. Kaplan stopped, his hand in mid-air--like a gull coasting. The class seemed suspended, like the hand.
   "I'm afraid the period's up," said Mr. Parkhill. Mr. Kaplan sighed philosophically, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Vell, denks Gott dat's de and fromm de spi-speech of--"he drew himself erect--"Hymen Keplen."
   As Mr. Kaplan uttered his own name, as if he were referring to some celebrity known to them all, Mr. Parkhill, by some visual conditioned re-flex, saw the name. He saw it just as Mr. Kaplan always wrote it. It seemed impossible, fantastic, yet Mr. Kaplan had pronounced his name in red and blue and green: H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N.
   Mr. Parkhill sat quite still, thinking, as the class filed out.
  
  
   Mr. K*A*P*L*A*N and Vocabulary
  
   "Vocabulary!" said Mr. Parkhill. "Above all, we must work on vocabulary."
   He was probably right. For the students in the beginners' grade, vocabulary was a dire and pressing need. Spelling, after all, was not of such immediate importance to people who did little writing during their daily lives. Grammar? They needed the substance--words, phrases, idioms--to which grammar might be applied. Pronunciation? Mr. Parkbill had come to the reluctant conclusion that for some of them ac- curate pronunciation was a near impossibility. Take Mr. Kaplan, for example. Mr. Kaplan was a willing, an earnest, aye! an enthusiastic pupil. And yet, despite Mr. Parkhill's tireless tutelage, Mr. Kaplan referred to the most celebrated of movie lovers as "Clock Cebble," who, it appeared, showed a fine set of teeth "venever he greens." Mr. Kaplan, when asked to use "heaven" in a sentence, had replied promptly, "In sommer, ve all heaven a fine time."
   Yes, vocabulary--that, Mr. Parkhill thought, was the greatest need.
   ". . . And so tonight I shall write a list of new, useful words on the blackboard. To each student I shall assign three words. Write a sentence in your notebooks using each word. Make sure you have no mistakes. You may use your dictionaries, if you wish. Then go to the board and copy your three sentences for class analysis."
   The class was impressed and pleased. Miss Mitnick's ordinarily shy expression changed to one of eager expectancy. Mrs. Moskowitz, simple soul that she was, prepared her notebook with stolid solemnity. And Mr. Kaplan, in the middle of the front row, took out his box of crayons, smiled more broadly than ever (a chance to use his crayons always intensified Mr. Kaplan's natural euphoria), turned to a fresh page in his notebook, and printed, slowly and with great love:
  
   VOCAPULERY
   (Prectice in Book. Then Going to Blackb. and putting on.)
   by
   H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N
  
   For the title he chose purple crayon; for the methodological observation in parentheses, orange; for the "by," yellow. His name he printed, fondly, as always: in red and blue and flamboyant green. As he handled the crayons Mr. Kaplan smiled with the sweet serenity of one in direct communication with his Muse.
   Mr. Parkhill assigned three words to each student and the beginners' grade went into action. Lips pursed, brows wrinkled, distant looks appeared in thoughtful eyes; heads were scratched, chins stroked, dictionaries fluttered. Mr. Kaplan tackled his three words with gusto: pitcher, fascinate, university. Mr. Parkhill noticed that Mr. Kaplan's cerebration was accompanied by strange sounds: he pronounced each word, and tried fitting it into a sentence, in a whisper which could be heard halfway across the room. He muttered the entire process of his reasoning. Mr. Kaplan, it seemed, thought only in dialogue with his other self. There was some- thing uncanny about it.
   "Pitcher . . . pitcher," Mr. Kaplan whispered. "Is maybe a pitcher for milk? Is maybe a pitcher on de vall--art! Aha! Two minninksl "Plizz take milk fromm de pitcher." Fine! "De pitcher hengs cockeye." Also fine! Pitcher...pitcher."
   This private colloquy was not indulged in without a subtle design, for Mr. Kaplan watched Mr. Parkhill's facial expressions carefully out of the corner of his eye as he whispered to himself. Mr. Kaplan hoped to discover which interpretation of "pitcher" was acceptable. But Mr. Parkhill had long ago learned to beware of Mr. Kaplan's strategies; he preserved a stern facial immobility as Mr. Kaplan's stage whispers floated through the classroom.
   When Mr. Kaplan had finished his three sentences he reread them proudly, nodded happily to Mr. Parkhill (who, though pretending to be watching Miss Schneiderman at the blackboard, was watching Mr. Kaplan out of the corner of his eye), and went to the board. He whispered the sentences aloud as he copied them. Ecstasy illuminated his face.
   "Well," said Mr. Parldull after all the students had transcribed their work, "let's start at this end. Mr. Bloom, I think?"
   Mr. Bloom read his sentences quickly:
  
   She declined the money.
   In her red hat she falt conspicuous.
   Last Saturday, I saw a remarkable show.
  
   "Excellent!" said Mr. Parldiill. "Are there any questions?" There were no questions. Mr. Park- hill corrected "fall" and the exercise continued. On the whole, all went surprisingly well. Except for those of Mrs. Moskowitz, who worked havoc with "niggardly" ("It was a niggardly night"), the sentences were quite good. Mr. Parkhill was delighted. The experiment in vocabulary-building was proving a decided success. At last Mr. Kaplan's three sentences came up.
   "Mr. Kaplan is next, I believe" There was a note of caution in Mr. Parkhill's voice.
   Mr. Kaplan went to the board. "Mine foist void, ladies an' gantleman," he announced, smiling (Mr. Kaplan always did things with a certain bravado), "is `pitcher.' So de santence is: 'Oh, how beauriful is dis pitcher.'"
   Mr. Parkhill saw that Mr. Kaplan had neatly straddled two words by a deliberately noncommittal usage. "Er--Mr. Kaplan. The word is 'p-i-t-c-h-e-r,' not 'p-i-c-t-u-r-e.'"
   Too late did Mr. Parkhill realize that he had given Mr. Kaplan the clue he had been seeking.
   "Mr. Pockheel," Mr. Kaplan replied with con- summate simplicity, "dis void is 'p-i-t-c-h-e-r.'"
   "But when you say, 'Oh, how beautiful this pitcher is,' said Mr. Parkhill, determined to force Mr. Kaplan to the wall, "you suggest--"
   "Ah!" Mr. Kaplan murmured, with a tolerant smile. "In som houses is even de pitchers beautiful."
   "Read your next sentence, Mr. Kaplan."
   Mr. Kaplan went on, smiling. "De sacond void, ladies an' gantleman, is `fascinate'--an' believe me is a planty hod void! So is mine santence; 'ln India is all kinds snake-fescinators.'"
   "You are thinking of snake-charmers" (Mr. Kaplan seemed to have taken the dictionary's description of "fascinate" too literally.) "Try 'fascinate' in another sentence, please."
   Mr. Kaplan gazed ceilingward with a masterful insouciance, one eye half-closed. Then he ventured; "You fescinate me."
   Mr. Parkhill hurried Mr. Kaplan on to his last word. "Toid void, taller-students, is 'univoisity.' De santence usink dis void; 'Elaven yiss is married mine vife an' minesalf, so is time commink for our tvalft univoisity.'"
   It was the opportunity for which Miss Mitnick had been waiting. "Mr. Kaplan mixes up two words," she said. "He means 'anniversary.' 'University' is a high college--the highest college" Mr. Kaplan listened to this unwelcome correction with a fine sufferance. Then he arched his eyebrows and said, "You got right, Mitnick. Hau Kay! So I'll givink anodder santence: 'Som pipple didn't have aducation in a univoisity'"-- he glanced meaningfully at Miss Mitnick--"'but just de same, dey havink efter elaven yiss de tvalft annivoisery.'"
   With this retort courteous Mr. Kaplan took his seat. Through the next few recitations he was strangely silent. He did not bother to offer a correction of Miss Kowalski's spectacular misuse of "guess" ("Turn out the guess.") He did not as much as volunteer an opinion on Miss Hirschfield's "The cat omits a cry." For all his proud smile it was clear that Mr. Kaplan had suffered a deep hurt: like a smoldering cinder in his soul lay the thought of his humiliation at the mundane hands of one Rose Mitnick. He smiled as bravely as ever, but his silence was ominous. He seemed to be waiting, waiting....
   "Miss Mitnick, please," said Mr. Parkhill. A flame leaped into Mr. Kaplan's eyes.
   Miss Mitnick's first sentence was "Enamel is used for painting chairs." Before she could read it Mr. Kaplan's voice rang out in triumph.
   "Mistake by Mitnick! Ha! Mit enimals she is painting chairs? Ha!"
   "The word is 'enamel,'" said Mr. Parkhill coldly. "Not 'animal.'"
   Rebuffed, Mr. Kaplan let Miss Mitnick's reading of that sentence, and her next, go unchallenged. But the flame burned in his eyes again when she read her final effort: "The prisoner stood in the dock."
   "Well," suggested Mr. Parkhill, before Mr. Kaplan, squirming with excitement in his chair, could offer a rash correction, "that's one way to use the word. The English use it that way. But there is a--er--more common usage. Can you use 'dock' in a more familiar meaning. Miss Mitnick?"
   Miss Mitnick was silent.
   "Anyone?"
   "I like roast duck!" cried Mr. Kaplan promptly.
   "Dock!" Mr. Parkhill said severely. "Not duck!" Once again Mr. Kaplan bowed to a cruel fate.
   "'Dock," isn't hard," said Mr. Parkhill encouragingly. "I'll give you a hint, class. Each of you, in coming to America, has had direct experience with a dock." He smiled almost gaily, and waited.
   The class went into that coma which signified thought, searching its collective memory of "coming to America." Mrs. Moskowitz closed her eyes as the recollection of her sea-sickness surged over her like a wave, and searched her memory no more. Mr. Kaplan, desperate to make the kill, whispered his associations tensely: "'Dock' ... Commink to America ... boat ... feesh ... big vaves ... cremps."
   It was clear they were getting nowhere. (Mr. Norman Bloom, indeed, had forgotten all about "dock" in his sweet recollection of the pinochle game on the boat when he had won four and a half dollars.)
   "Well, I'll make it even easier," said Mr. Parkhill lightly. "Where did your boats land?"
   "New York!" cried Mr. Kaplan eagerly.
   Mr. Parkhill cleared his throat. "Yes--of course. But I mean--"
   A cry of joy came from the lips of Hyman Kaplan. "I got him! Ufcawss! 'Dock!' Plain an' tsimplel Ha!" He shot a look of triumph toward Miss Mitnick. "I'm soprize so high-cless a student like Mitnick, she knows all abot fency voids like 'univoisities' and 'annivoiseries,' she shouldn't know a leetle void like `dock'!"
   Something in Mr. Parkhill warned him. Not for a moment could he believe that Mr. Kaplan's confidence and enthusiasm were authentic indications of a correct answer. Mr. Parkhill would have preferred that some other student try a sentence with "dock." But no one volunteered.
   "Very well, Mr. Kaplan," he said, staring at his fingers, as if to break the impact of Mr. Kaplan's contribution.
   Mr. Kaplan rose, inspiration in his eyes. His smile was so wide that his face seemed to be one ecstatic cavern. He cast majestic glances to both sides, as if reading the tribute in the faces of his fellow-students. Then he said, in one triumphant breath, "Hollo, Doc!"
   Peace fell upon the room. Through the windows, from far away, there came the muted rumble of the Third Avenue elevated. The features of Abraham Lincoln on the wall took on, somehow, a softer understanding. But Mr. Park- hill was aware only of a strange and unaccountable ringing in his ears ("Hello, Doc!" . . . "Hello, Doc!") and, while shaking his head sadly to show Mr. Kaplan that he was wrong, he thought to himself with feverish persistence, "Vocabulary. Above all, vocabulary."
  
  
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