 | Mark Twain's sketches, new and old |  |
98
THE OFFICE BORE.
HE arrives just as regularly as
the clock strikes nine in the
morning. And so he even
beats the editor sometimes, and the
porter must leave his work and
climb two or three pair of stairs to
unlock the “Sanctum” door and let
him in. He lights one of the office
pipes—not reflecting, perhaps, that
the editor may be one of those
“stuck-up” people who would as
soon have a stranger defile his toothbrush
as his pipe-stem. Then he begins to loll—for a person who can consent
to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit
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then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad, and
stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by
sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the arm of the chair. But
it is still observable that with all his changes of position, he never assumes the
upright or a fraudful affectation of dignity. From time to time he yawns, and
stretches, and scratches himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now
and then he grunts a kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment.
At rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the
eloquent expression of a secret confession, to wit: “I am useless and a nuisance,
a cumberer of the earth.” The bore and his comrades—for there are usually
from two to four on hand, day and night—mix into the conversation when men
come in to see the editors for a moment on business; they hold noisy talks
among themselves about politics in particular, and all other subjects in general
—even warming up, after a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a
real interest in what they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor
from his work with such a remark as: “Did you see this, Smith, in the
`Gazette?”' and proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his
impatient pen and listens: they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after
hour, swapping anecdotes, and relating personal experiences to each other—
hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election reminiscences,
sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all those hours they never
seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of their time, and the
public of journalistic excellence in next day's paper. At other times they
drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive over the
chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn silence is small respite to the editor,
for the next uncomfortable thing to having people look over his shoulders,
perhaps, is to have them sit by in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen.
If a body desires to talk private business with one of the editors, he must call
him outside, for no hint milder than blasting powder or nitro-glycerine would
be likely to move the bores out of listening distance. To have to sit and endure
the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits begin to sink
as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form
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to feel always the fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly for
one single day's privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate
his funeral in fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict
and fearful detail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power to
satisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and millions
of miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure
all this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an affliction
that transcends any other that men suffer. Physical pain is pastime to it,
and hanging a pleasure excursion.
| Mark Twain's sketches, new and old | |