A Telephonic Conversation
Consider that a conversation by telephone--when you are simply siting by and not taking any part in that conversation--is one of the solemnest curiosities of modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on in the room. I notice that one can always write best when somebody is talking through a telephone close by. Well, the thing began in this way. A member of our household came in and asked me to have our house put into communication with Mr. Bagley's downtown. I have observed, in many cities, that the sex always shrink from calling up the central office themselves. I don't know why, but they do. So I touched the bell, and this talk ensued: CENTRAL OFFICE. (gruffy.) Hello!
I. Is it the Central Office?
C. O. Of course it is. What do you want?
I. Will you switch me on to the Bagleys, please?
C. O. All right. Just keep your ear to the telephone.
Then I heard k-look, k-look, k'look--klook-klook-klook-look-look! then a horrible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a piping female voice: Y-e-s? (rising inflection.) Did you wish to speak to me?
Without answering, I handed the telephone to the applicant, and sat down. Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world-a conversation with only one end of it. You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise or sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says. Well, I heard the following remarkable series of observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted-for you can't ever persuade the sex to speak gently into a telephone:
Yes? Why, how did that happen?
Pause.
What did you say?
Pause.
Oh no, I don't think it was.
Pause.
No! Oh no, I didn't mean that. I meant, put it in while it is still boiling--or just before it comes to a boil.
Pause.
What?
Pause.
I turned it over with a backstitch on the selvage edge.
Pause.
Yes, I like that way, too; but I think it's better to baste it on with Valenciennes or bombazine, or something of that sort. It gives it such an air--and attracts so much noise.
Pause.
It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy, sixty-forth to ninety-seventh inclusive. I think we ought all to read it often.
Pause.
Perhaps so; I generally use a hair pin.
Pause.
What did you say? (aside.) Children, do be quiet!
Pause
Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!
Pause.
Since when?
Pause.
Why, I never heard of it.
Pause.
You astound me! It seems utterly impossible!
Pause.
Who did?
Pause.
Good-ness gracious!
Pause.
Well, what is this world coming to? Was it right in church?
Pause.
And was her mother there?
Pause.
Why, Mrs. Bagley, I should have died of humiliation! What did they do?
Long pause.
I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me; but I think it goes something like this: te-rolly-loll-loll, loll lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-lee-ly-li-I-do! And then repeat, you know.
Pause.
Yes, I think it is very sweet--and very solemn and impressive, if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right.
Pause.
Oh, gum-drops, gum-drops! But I never allow them to eat striped candy. And of course they can't, till they get their teeth, anyway.
Pause.
What?
Pause.
Oh, not in the least--go right on. He's here writing--it doesn't bother him.
Pause.
Very well, I'll come if I can. (aside.) Dear me, how it does tire a person's arm to hold this thing up so long! I wish she'd--
Pause.
Oh no, not at all; I like to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your affairs.
Pause.
Visitors?
Pause.
No, we never use butter on them.
Pause.
Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they are very unhealthy when they are out of season. And he doesn't like them, anyway--especially canned.
Pause.
Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty cents a bunch.
Pause.
Must you go? Well, good-by.
Pause.
Yes, I think so. Good-by.
Pause.
Four o'clock, then--I'll be ready. Good-by.
Pause.
Thank you ever so much. Good-by.
Pause.
Oh, not at all!--just as fresh--which? Oh, I'm glad to hear you say that. Good-by.
(Hangs up the telephone and says, "Oh, it does tire a person's arm so!")
A man delivers a single brutal "Good-by," and that is the end of it. Not so with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise; they cannot abide abruptness.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________I. Is it the Central Office?
C. O. Of course it is. What do you want?
I. Will you switch me on to the Bagleys, please?
C. O. All right. Just keep your ear to the telephone.
Then I heard k-look, k-look, k'look--klook-klook-klook-look-look! then a horrible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a piping female voice: Y-e-s? (rising inflection.) Did you wish to speak to me?
Without answering, I handed the telephone to the applicant, and sat down. Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world-a conversation with only one end of it. You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise or sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says. Well, I heard the following remarkable series of observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted-for you can't ever persuade the sex to speak gently into a telephone:
Yes? Why, how did that happen?
Pause.
What did you say?
Pause.
Oh no, I don't think it was.
Pause.
No! Oh no, I didn't mean that. I meant, put it in while it is still boiling--or just before it comes to a boil.
Pause.
What?
Pause.
I turned it over with a backstitch on the selvage edge.
Pause.
Yes, I like that way, too; but I think it's better to baste it on with Valenciennes or bombazine, or something of that sort. It gives it such an air--and attracts so much noise.
Pause.
It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy, sixty-forth to ninety-seventh inclusive. I think we ought all to read it often.
Pause.
Perhaps so; I generally use a hair pin.
Pause.
What did you say? (aside.) Children, do be quiet!
Pause
Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!
Pause.
Since when?
Pause.
Why, I never heard of it.
Pause.
You astound me! It seems utterly impossible!
Pause.
Who did?
Pause.
Good-ness gracious!
Pause.
Well, what is this world coming to? Was it right in church?
Pause.
And was her mother there?
Pause.
Why, Mrs. Bagley, I should have died of humiliation! What did they do?
Long pause.
I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me; but I think it goes something like this: te-rolly-loll-loll, loll lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-lee-ly-li-I-do! And then repeat, you know.
Pause.
Yes, I think it is very sweet--and very solemn and impressive, if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right.
Pause.
Oh, gum-drops, gum-drops! But I never allow them to eat striped candy. And of course they can't, till they get their teeth, anyway.
Pause.
What?
Pause.
Oh, not in the least--go right on. He's here writing--it doesn't bother him.
Pause.
Very well, I'll come if I can. (aside.) Dear me, how it does tire a person's arm to hold this thing up so long! I wish she'd--
Pause.
Oh no, not at all; I like to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your affairs.
Pause.
Visitors?
Pause.
No, we never use butter on them.
Pause.
Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they are very unhealthy when they are out of season. And he doesn't like them, anyway--especially canned.
Pause.
Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty cents a bunch.
Pause.
Must you go? Well, good-by.
Pause.
Yes, I think so. Good-by.
Pause.
Four o'clock, then--I'll be ready. Good-by.
Pause.
Thank you ever so much. Good-by.
Pause.
Oh, not at all!--just as fresh--which? Oh, I'm glad to hear you say that. Good-by.
(Hangs up the telephone and says, "Oh, it does tire a person's arm so!")
A man delivers a single brutal "Good-by," and that is the end of it. Not so with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise; they cannot abide abruptness.
| by Mark Twain | Review by | ||||||||||||||||||
| The Atlantic Monthly, June 1880 Collected Tales, Sketches, Speeches, & Essays, | |||||||||||||||||||
| 1852-1890 | March 2010 | ||||||||||||||||||
| Mark Twain & the telephone Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world, — a conversation with only one end to it. You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. ... You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow, or dismay. You can't make head or tail of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person on the other end of the wire says.Then he provides the overheard half-conversation: tantalizing, amusing, and confusing. Sound familiar? One person's joyous communication may be the next person's overheard confusion and frustration. With the quick rise and ubiquity of cellular-phone technology, these half-conversations now are out of the home and office, babbling in the street and market, in fact almost everywhere. We may think of conversation as one of the most important ingredients in personal chemistry, even as the distinctively human glue which holds our society together. So conversation is a social good, even essential to humanity. But half-conversations — ? A cosmos of half-conversations Before the invention of the telephone, being overheard carrying on an earnest or laughing conversation with a person that no one else could hear, and that even the one-sided speaker readily would admit that he couldn't see himself — well, that was considered madness, pure and simple: perhaps benign talkativeness, a harmless vocal communion with no-one-there, or with the cosmos itself; or perhaps worse. At any rate, around the bend. I presume that one looming technological impact as the transparency juggernaut rolls over us, permeating our culture on the way to the transparent society, is that of telephonic eavesdropping: simple cell-phone applications that will tap into, decrypt, and report others' mobile datastreams. Then we will be able to hear both sides of telephonic conversations (this is simple curiosity); and passing strangers will be able to hear both sides of our own telephonic conversations (that is an outrageous invasion of privacy). Same applies to text messages sent and received, websites visited, and so on. Just another sparkling front in the perpetual war of privacy / barriers / security / encryption, versus openness / gates / transparency / decryption. There is a solution. In the olden days of straightforward physical presence, from prehistory well into the modern age, the simplest solution to ending all conversations, or to cease overhearing a madman's half-conversation, has been to walk away. That still is usable today. And if we ourselves are involved in overlong or even interminable telephonic conversations, to the point of hearing enough or more than enough or even thinking that we are auditors of distant madmen (well-meaning or no) — what then is to be done? How to unstick this cosmic distance-closing glue? When you get the message, hang up the phone.Hello? Are you there? ... Yes, sunshine can be a disinfectant. ... The awesome may transform into farce. And perhaps, a rare bird indeed — back again. ... | |||||||||||||||||||
| © 2010 Robert Wilfred Franson | |||||||||||||||||||
| Mark Twain at Troynovant | |||||||||||||||||||
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