Heywood Broun - Seeing Things at Night

Here the curtain descends. It rises again almost immediately, but five days are supposed to have elapsed. Mr. Cottontail is again seated in the center of the room, and he is again reading The Evening Post . The property man should take pains to see that the paper shall be dated five days later than the one used in the prologue. It might also be well to change the headline from "Submarine Crisis Acute" to "Submarine Crisis Still Acute." It is also to be noted that on this occasion Mr. Cottontail has removed his right shoe in favor of a large, roomy slipper. On the opposite side of the table sits Mrs. Cottontail. She is middle-aged but comely. A strong-minded female, one would say, with a will of her own, but rather in awe of the ability and more particularly the virtue of Mr. Cottontail. Yet Mr. Cottontail is evidently in ill humor this evening. He takes no pleasure in his paper, but fidgets uneasily. At last he speaks with great irritation.

MR. COTTONTAIL – Is that doctor ever coming?

MRS. COTTONTAIL – I left word at Doctor Cony's house that you were in a good deal of pain, and that he should come around the minute he got home. ( The door bell rings .) Here he is now. I'll send him up. ( She goes out the door, and a few moments later there enters Dr. Charles Cony. He is a distinguished and forceful physician, but a meager little body for all that. He carries a black bag .)

DR. CONY ( removing his gloves and opening the bag ) – Sorry I couldn't get here any sooner, but I've been on the go all day. An obstetrician gets mighty little rest hereabouts, I can tell you. Well, now, Mr. Cottontail, what can I do for you? What seems to be the trouble?

COTTONTAIL ( pointing to the open door, and lifting one finger to his mouth ) – Shush!

DR. CONY – Really! ( The physician crosses the room in one hop and closes the door .)

COTTONTAIL – The pain's in my foot. My big toe, I think, but that's not what worries me —

DR. CONY ( breaking in ) – Pains worse at night than it does during the daytime, doesn't it? Throbs a bit right now, hey?

COTTONTAIL – Yes, it does, but that isn't the trouble.

DR. CONY – That's trouble enough. I'll try to have you loping around again in a month or so.

COTTONTAIL – But there's more than the pain. It's the worry. I haven't told a soul. I thought at first it might be a nightmare.

DR. CONY – Dreams, eh? Very significant, sometimes, but we'll get to them later.

COTTONTAIL – But I'm afraid it wasn't a dream.

DOCTOR – What wasn't a dream?

COTTONTAIL – Last Tuesday evening I was sitting in this room, quietly reading The Evening Post , when suddenly something tore the ceiling away, and down from above there came ten horrible pink tentacles and seized me in an iron grasp. Then something stabbed me with some sharp instrument. I was too frightened to move for several minutes, but when I looked up the ceiling was back in place as if nothing had touched it. I felt around for the wound, but the only thing I could find, was a tiny scratch that seemed so small I might have had it some time without noticing it. I couldn't be sure it was a wound. In fact, I tried to make myself believe that the whole thing was all a dream, until I was taken sick to-night. Now I'm afraid that the sword, or whatever it was that stabbed me, must have been poisoned.

DR. CONY ( sharply ) – Let me look at your tongue. (Cottontail complies.) Seems all right. Hold out your hands. Spread your fingers. ( He studies the patient for a moment .) Nothing much the matter there. ( Producing pen and paper .) If it was only March now I'd know what to say. Let's see what we can find out about hereditary influence. Father and mother living?

COTTONTAIL – I had no father or mother. I came out of a trick hat in a vaudeville act.

DR. CONY – That makes it a little more difficult, doesn't it? Do you happen to remember what sort of a hat?

COTTONTAIL ( a little proudly ) – It was quite a high hat.

DR. CONY – Yes, it would be. What color?

COTTONTAIL – Black and shiny.

DR. CONY – That seems normal enough. I'm afraid there's nothing significant there. ( Anxiously .) No fixed delusions? You don't think you're Napoleon or the White Rabbit or anything like that, do you? Do you feel like growling or biting anybody?

COTTONTAIL – Of course not. There's nothing the matter with my brain.

DR. CONY – Perhaps you went to sleep and dreamed it all.

COTTONTAIL – No, I distinctly saw the ceiling open and I felt the stab very sharply. I couldn't possibly have been asleep. I was reading a most interesting dramatic review in The Evening Post .

DR. CONY – But you weren't stabbed in the big toe, now, were you?

COTTONTAIL – Well, no.

DR. CONY – And you will admit that the ceiling's just the same as it ever was?

COTTONTAIL – It looks the same from here. I haven't called any workmen in yet to examine it.

DR. CONY – Take my advice and don't. Just let's keep the matter between ourselves and forget it. I'm afraid you've been working too hard. Drop your business. Do a little light reading, and after a bit maybe I'd like to have you go to a show. Something with songs and bunny-hugging and jokes and chorus girls. None of this birth control stuff. I don't see how any self-respecting rabbit could go to a play like the one I saw last night. ( He goes to his instrument case and produces a stethoscope .)

DR. CONY – Have you had your heart examined lately?

COTTONTAIL ( visibly nervous ) – No.

DR. CONY – Any shortness of breath or palpitation?

COTTONTAIL – I don't think so.

DR. CONY – If that's a vest you have on, take it off. There, now. ( He stands in front of Cottontail with his stethoscope poised in the air. Cottontail is trembling. Dr. Cony allows the hand holding the stethoscope to drop to his side and remarks provocatively ), I'll bet you Maranville doesn't hit .250 this season.

COTTONTAIL ( amazed ) – Really, sir, I never bet. No, never. I don't know what you are talking about, anyway.

DR. CONY – That's all right, that's all right. Don't agitate yourself. Just a little professional trick. I wanted to calm you down. Now ( he makes a hurried examination ), Mr. Cottontail, I don't want you to run. I don't want you to climb stairs. Avoid excitement and don't butter your parsnips. Fine words are just as good, no matter what anybody may tell you, and they don't create fatty tissue. Of course, you've got to have some exercise. You might play a little golf. Say, about three holes a day.

COTTONTAIL ( sadly ) – Three holes?

DR. CONY – Yes, that will be enough.

COTTONTAIL ( musing ) – It's a little tough, doctor. I can still remember the day I won my "H" at dear old Hassenpfeffer in the 'cross-country run. I had the lungs and the legs then. Even now I can feel the wind on my face as I came across the meadow and up that last, long hill. They were cheering for me to come on. I can tell you I just leaped along. It was nothing at all for me. If I'd sprinted just a bit sooner I could have been first in a hop. Anyhow, I was second. There was nobody ahead of me but the Tortoise. ( Cheerlessly ) Three holes of golf a day!

DR. CONY – Come, come, sir, be a rabbit. There's no cheating nature, you know. You had your fun, and now you must pay.

COTTONTAIL – What's the matter with me?

DR. CONY – Plain, old-fashioned gout.

COTTONTAIL – What does that come from?

DR. CONY ( with evident relish ) – From too much ale or porter or claret or burgundy or champagne or sherry or Rhine Wine or Clover Clubs or Piper Heidsieck or brandy or Bronxes or absinthe or stingers, but the worst of all and the best of all is port wine.