Byron In Exile
Frederick Fucking Chopin
- Joined
- May 3, 2002
- Posts
- 66,591
H.L. Mencken's Diary
Baltimore, April 30, 1945
Old Lillie Fortenbaugh, our next-door neighbor for nearly fifty years, died last Thursday afternoon, April 26, and was buried today. As incredible as it may seem, I did not learn of her death until Saturday, forty-eight hours afterward. The news then reached me from my sister Gertrude, who called up from the country, and reported that she had encountered the death notice in the Sun. August was laid up with bronchitis on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and I was indoors Thursday evening and all day Saturday until after Gertie's call. I was in and out of the house on Friday, but, as usual, used the back gate, and thus did not notice the flowers on the Fortenbaugh push-button.
Lillie must have been close to seventy. She was a complete moron and led a life of utter vacuity. August went to the funeral this afternoon and came back reporting that the officiating clergyman spoke of her church work, and that her brother Charlie, also enormously stupid, mentioned her "civic work" (his own phrase), but all this was probably only funeral politeness. Lillie, in fact, spent most of her time by day roving about the shopping district, looking in windows and pricing things that she didn't buy. When she grew tired she took a seat in a department store rest-room, and there watched the flow of shoppers. Toward the end of the afternoon she went to a movie. Her evenings were devoted to the radio. We could hear it faintly through our wall, but it was not disturbing. To the best of my recollection she rarely turned on music, and never any good music. Her preference seemed to be for speeches, and for the yowling of so-called news commentators.
In her earlier years Lillie banged the piano every evening, and had a good many visitors, but of late strange voices have come through the wall only seldom. There were servants in the house in those days, including a low-comedy colored butler, but of late most of the housework has apparently been done by Lillie's younger half-sister, Ethel. Ethel was married years ago and had a son, but soon her husband left her, taking the son along, and of late she has been at home most of the time, with occasional ventures into practical nursing. When her husband sued her for divorce, his main allegation was that she was sub-normal mentally. I was summoned by the family to deny this, and did so as in duty bound, but the judge was not deceived, for he had her before him. When I returned to Hollins street in 1936 I had a clash with Lillie about the barking of her dog. Her reply to my complaint was to accuse me of shooting at it! The dog barked less after that, but of late it has been resuming its old uproar, and only last week I planned to complain to the police. Now, I suppose, it will disappear.
The lives of such poor simpletons always fascinate me. It is hard to imagine them being endurable. So far as I know, Lillie never did anything in all her years that was worth doing, or said anything worth hearing. Yet she showed a considerable complacency, and I have no doubt that she was well satisfied with herself. The conversations that went on between her and her brother and sister must have been marvellous indeed. I seldom did more than pass the time of day with her myself, and when I called at the door on learning of her death it was the first time I had crossed her threshold for years. The house, in so far as I could see it, turned out to be a museum of archaisms. There was even a crayon portrait of her father hanging over the parlor mantlepiece. The wallpaper and carpets, not to mention the furniture, looked to be at least fifty years old, and it was only too apparent that they were hideous even when young. Thus Lillie lived out her days. She got along somehow, without intelligence, information, or taste. She had no desire to learn anything, and in fact learned nothing. Her ideas at seventy were her ideas at fifteen. It is hard to think of a more placid life, and apparently she enjoyed it, but it is likewise hard to think of one more hollow. It was as insignificant, almost, as the life of her dog.
Baltimore, April 30, 1945
Old Lillie Fortenbaugh, our next-door neighbor for nearly fifty years, died last Thursday afternoon, April 26, and was buried today. As incredible as it may seem, I did not learn of her death until Saturday, forty-eight hours afterward. The news then reached me from my sister Gertrude, who called up from the country, and reported that she had encountered the death notice in the Sun. August was laid up with bronchitis on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and I was indoors Thursday evening and all day Saturday until after Gertie's call. I was in and out of the house on Friday, but, as usual, used the back gate, and thus did not notice the flowers on the Fortenbaugh push-button.
Lillie must have been close to seventy. She was a complete moron and led a life of utter vacuity. August went to the funeral this afternoon and came back reporting that the officiating clergyman spoke of her church work, and that her brother Charlie, also enormously stupid, mentioned her "civic work" (his own phrase), but all this was probably only funeral politeness. Lillie, in fact, spent most of her time by day roving about the shopping district, looking in windows and pricing things that she didn't buy. When she grew tired she took a seat in a department store rest-room, and there watched the flow of shoppers. Toward the end of the afternoon she went to a movie. Her evenings were devoted to the radio. We could hear it faintly through our wall, but it was not disturbing. To the best of my recollection she rarely turned on music, and never any good music. Her preference seemed to be for speeches, and for the yowling of so-called news commentators.
In her earlier years Lillie banged the piano every evening, and had a good many visitors, but of late strange voices have come through the wall only seldom. There were servants in the house in those days, including a low-comedy colored butler, but of late most of the housework has apparently been done by Lillie's younger half-sister, Ethel. Ethel was married years ago and had a son, but soon her husband left her, taking the son along, and of late she has been at home most of the time, with occasional ventures into practical nursing. When her husband sued her for divorce, his main allegation was that she was sub-normal mentally. I was summoned by the family to deny this, and did so as in duty bound, but the judge was not deceived, for he had her before him. When I returned to Hollins street in 1936 I had a clash with Lillie about the barking of her dog. Her reply to my complaint was to accuse me of shooting at it! The dog barked less after that, but of late it has been resuming its old uproar, and only last week I planned to complain to the police. Now, I suppose, it will disappear.
The lives of such poor simpletons always fascinate me. It is hard to imagine them being endurable. So far as I know, Lillie never did anything in all her years that was worth doing, or said anything worth hearing. Yet she showed a considerable complacency, and I have no doubt that she was well satisfied with herself. The conversations that went on between her and her brother and sister must have been marvellous indeed. I seldom did more than pass the time of day with her myself, and when I called at the door on learning of her death it was the first time I had crossed her threshold for years. The house, in so far as I could see it, turned out to be a museum of archaisms. There was even a crayon portrait of her father hanging over the parlor mantlepiece. The wallpaper and carpets, not to mention the furniture, looked to be at least fifty years old, and it was only too apparent that they were hideous even when young. Thus Lillie lived out her days. She got along somehow, without intelligence, information, or taste. She had no desire to learn anything, and in fact learned nothing. Her ideas at seventy were her ideas at fifteen. It is hard to think of a more placid life, and apparently she enjoyed it, but it is likewise hard to think of one more hollow. It was as insignificant, almost, as the life of her dog.
