Small Games
Physical Culture
“Why don’t you sit up?” said Adela at dinner, suddenly prodding me in the back. Adela is old enough to take a motherly interest in my figure, and young enough to look extremely pretty while doing so.
“I always stoop at meals,” I explained; “it helps the circulation. My own idea.”
“But it looks so bad. You ought——”
“Don’t improve me,” I begged,
“No wonder you have——”
“Hush! I haven’t. I got a bullet on the liver in the campaign of ’03, due to over-smoking, and sometimes it hurts me a little in the cold weather. That’s all.”
“Why don’t you try the Hyperion?”
“I will. Where is it?”
“It isn’t anywhere; you buy it.”
“Oh, I thought you dined at it. What do you buy it for?”
“It’s one of those developers with elastics and pulleys and so on. Every morning early, for half-an-hour before breakfast——”
“You are trying to improve me,” I said suspiciously.
“But they are such good things,” went on Adela earnestly. “They really do help to make you beautiful——”
“I am beautiful.”
“Well, much more beautiful. And strong——”
“Are you being simply as tactful as you can be?”
“—and graceful.”
“It isn’t as though you were actually a relation,” I protested.
Adela continued, full of her ideas:
“It would do you so much good, you know. Would you promise me to use it every day if I sent you mine?”
“Why don’t you want yours any more now? Are you perfect now?”
“You can easily hook it to the wall——”
“I suppose,” I reflected, “there is a limit of beauty beyond which it is dangerous to go. After that, either the thing would come off the hook, or——”
“Well,” said Adela suddenly, “aren’t I looking well?”
“You’re looking radiant,” I said appreciatively; “but it may only be because you’re going to marry Billy next month.”
She smiled and blushed. “Well, I’ll send it to you,” she said. “And you try it for a week, and then tell me if you don’t feel better. Oh, and don’t do all the exercises to begin with; start with three or four of the easy ones.”
“Of course,” I said.
I undid the wrappings eagerly, took off the lid of the box, and was confronted with (apparently) six pairs of braces. I shook them out of the box and saw I had made a mistake. It was one pair of braces for Magog. I picked it up, and I knew that I was in the presence of the Hyperion. In five minutes I had screwed a hook into the bedroom wall and attached the beautifier. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it.
There was a tin plate, fastened to the top, with the word “LADIES” on it. I got up, removed it with a knife, and sat down again. Everything was very dusty, and I wondered when Adela had last developed herself.
By-and-by I went into the other room to see if I had overlooked anything. I found on the floor a chart of exercises, and returned triumphantly with it.
There were thirty exercises altogether, and the chart gave
(1) A detailed explanation of how to do each particular exercise;
(2) A photograph of a lady doing it.
“After all,” I reassured myself, after the first bashful glance, “it is Adela who has thrust this upon me; and she must have known.” So I studied it.
Nos. 10, 15 and 28 seemed the easiest; I decided to confine myself to them. For the first of these you strap yourself in at the waist, grasp the handles, and fall slowly backwards until your head touches the floor—all the elastic cords being then at full stretch. When I had got very slowly halfway down, an extra piece of elastic which had got hitched somewhere came suddenly into play, and I did the rest of the journey without a stop, finishing up sharply against the towel horse. The chart had said, “Inhale going down,” and I was inhaling hard at the moment that the towel horse and two damp towels spread themselves over my face.
“So much for Exercise 10,” I thought, as I got up. “I’ll just get the idea to-night, and then start properly to-morrow. Now for No. 15.”
Somehow I felt instinctively that No. 15 would cause trouble. For No. 15 you stand on the right foot, fasten the left foot to one of the cords, and stretch it out as far as you can....
What—officially—you do then, I cannot say....
Some people can stand easily upon the right foot, when the left is fastened to the wall... others cannot... it is a gift....
Having recovered from my spontaneous rendering of No. 15 I turned to No. 28. This one, I realised, was extremely important; I would do it twelve times.
You begin by lying flat on the floor, roped in at the waist, and with your hands (grasping the elastic cords) held straight up in the air. The tension on your waist is then extreme, but on your hands only moderate. Then, taking a deep breath, you pull your arms slowly out until they lie along the floor. The tension becomes terrific, the strain on every part of you is immense. While I lay there, taking a deep breath before relaxing, I said to myself, “The strain will be too much for me.”
I was wrong. It was too much for the hook. The hook whizzed out, everything flew at me at once, and I remembered no more....
As I limped into bed, I trod heavily upon something sharp. I shrieked and bent down to see what had bitten me. It was a tin plate bearing the words “LADIES.”
“Well?” said Adela, a week later.
I looked at her for a long time.
“When did you last use the Hyperion?” I asked.
“About a year ago.”
“Ah!... You don’t remember the chart that went with it?”
“Not well. Except, of course, that each exercise was arranged for a particular object according to what you wanted.”
“Exactly. So I discovered yesterday. It was in very small type, and I missed it at first.”
“Well, how many did you do?”
“I limited myself to Exercises 10, 15, and 28. Do you happen to remember what those were for?”
“Not particularly.”
“No. Well, I started with No. 10. No. 10, you may recall, is one of the most perilous. I nearly died over No. 10. And when I had been doing it for a week, I discovered what its particular object was.”
“What?”
“‘To round the forearm!’ Yes, madam,” I said bitterly, “I have spent a week of agony... and I have rounded one forearm.”
“Why didn’t you try another?”
“I did. I tried No. 15. Six times in the pursuit of No. 15 have I been shot up to the ceiling by the left foot... and what for, Adela? ‘To arch the instep!’ Look at my instep! Why should I want to arch it?”
“I wish I could remember which chart I sent you,” said Adela, wrinkling her brow.
“It was the wrong one,” I said....
There was a long silence.
“Oh,” said Adela suddenly, “you never told me about No. 28.”
“Pardon me,” I said, “I cannot bear to speak of 28.”
“Why, was it even more unsuitable than the other two?”
“I found, when I had done it six times, that its object was stated to be, ‘To remove double chin.’ That, however, was not the real effect. And so I crossed out the false comment and wrote the true one in its place.”
“And what is that?” asked Adela.
“‘To remove the hook,’” I said gloomily.
Croquet
“I hear you’re very good at croquet,” said my hostess.
“Oh, well,” I said modestly. (The fact is I can beat them all at home.)
“We have the North Rutland champion staying with us. He’s very keen on a game. Now then, how can we manage?”
This was terrible. I must put it off somehow.
“Is there a north to Rutland,” I began argumentatively. “I always thought——”
“Yes, I see. He shall play with Jane against you and Miss Middleton. By the way, let me introduce you all.”
We bowed to each other for a bit, and then I had another shock. The N.R. champion’s mallet was bound with brass at each end (in case he wanted to hit backwards suddenly) and had a silver plate on it. Jane’s had the brass only. It was absurd that they should play together.
I drew Miss Middleton on one side.
“I say,” I began nervously, “I’m frightfully sorry, but I quite forgot to bring my mallet. Will it matter very much?”
“I haven’t one either.”
“You know, when my man was packing my bag, I particularly said to him, ‘Now, don’t forget to put in a mallet.’ He said, ‘Shall I put the spare one in too, sir, because the best one’s sprung a bit?’”
“Oh, I’ve never had one of my own. I suppose when one is really good——”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve never had one either. We’re fairly in for it now.”
“Never mind, we’ll amuse ourselves somehow, I expect.”
“Oh, I’m quite looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER I
They kicked off from the summer-house end, and, after jockeying for the start a bit, the N.R. champion got going. He went very slowly but very surely. I watched anxiously for ten minutes, expecting my turn every moment. After a quarter of an hour I raised my hat and moved away.
“Shall we sit down?” I said to Miss Middleton.
“We shall be in the way if we sit down here, sha’n’t we?”
“Outside that chalk line we’re safe?”
“I—I suppose so.”
We moved outside and sat down on the grass.
“I never even had a chalk line,” I said mournfully.
“It’s much more fun without.”
“You know,” I went on, “I can beat them all at home. Why even Wilfrid——”
“It’s just the same with me,” said Miss Middleton. “Hilda did win once by a frightful fluke, but——”
“But this is quite different. At home it would be considered jolly bad form to go on all this time.”
“One would simply go in and leave them,” said Miss Middleton.
“You know, it’s awful fun at home. The lawn goes down in terraces, and if you hit the other person’s ball hard enough you can get it right down to the bottom; and it takes at least six to get back on the green again.”
Miss Middleton gurgled to herself.
“We’ve got a stream... round our lawn,” she said, in gasps. “It’s such a joke... and once... when Hilda...”
CHAPTER II
“May I call you ‘Mary?’” I said; “we’re still here.”
“Well, we have known each other a long time, certainly,” said Miss Middleton. “I think you might.”
“Thanks very much.”
“What hoop is he at?”
“He’s just half-way.”
“I suppose, when he’s finished, then, Jane does it all?”
“It practically comes to that. I believe, as a matter of form, I am allowed a shot in between.”
“That won’t make any difference, will it?”
“No....”
“It’s awfully hot, isn’t it?”
“Yes.... Do you bicycle much?”
“No.... Do you?”
“No. I generally sleep in the afternoons.”
“Much the best thing to do. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
CHAPTER III
“Wake up,” I said. “You’ve been asleep for hours. Jane is playing now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Mary, still with her eyes closed. “Then I missed your turn. Was it a good one?”
“Absolutely splendid. I had a very long shot, and hit the champion. Then I took my mallet in both hands, brought it well over the shoulder—are you allowed to do that, by the way?”
“Yes, it’s hockey where you mustn’t.”
“And croqueted him right down to the house—over beds, through bushes, across paths—the longest ball I’ve ever driven.”
“I hope you didn’t make him very cross. You see, he may not be used to our game.”
“Cross? My dear girl, he was fairly chuckling with delight. Told me I’d missed the rest of my turn. It seems that if you go over two beds, and across more than one path, you miss the rest of your turn. Did you know that?”
“I suppose I did really, but I’d forgotten.”
“And here I am again. Jane will be even longer. He’s lying on the grass, and taking sights for her just now.... Why didn’t you answer my last letter?”
CHAPTER IV
“It’s this passion for games,” I said, waking up suddenly, “which has made us Englishmen what we are. Here we have a hot July afternoon, when all Nature is at peace, and the foreigner is taking his siesta. And what do we do? How do we English men and women spend this hot afternoon? Why, immediately after lunch, in one case even before the meal has been digested, we rush off to take part in some violent game like croquet. Hour after hour the play goes on relentlessly; there is no backing out on our part, no pleading for just five minutes in which to get our wind. No, we bear our part manfully, and—— Are you awake by any chance, or am I wasting all this?”
“Of course I’m awake,” said Mary, opening her eyes.
“What years I have known you! Do you remember those days when we used to paddle together—the mixed paddling at Brighton?”
“Ah, yes. And your first paint-box.”
“And your doll——”
“And the pony——”
“And the—good-night.”
“G’night.”
CHAPTER XVIII
“But how absurd,” said Mary, “when we’ve only just met.”
“Oh, but come; it was about two years ago that you let me call you ‘Mary.’”
“True,” said Mary thoughtfully.
“And you can’t say we aren’t suited to one another. We both play without the chalk line.”
“So we do. Yet... Oh, I can’t say all at once. Give me a little time.”
“I’ll give you three of Jane’s hoops. That’s about six months.”
CHAPTER XX
“Twenty-eight,” said the North Rutland champion. “That’s what I won the championship by, I remember.”
“It’s a good winning score,” I said. “Do they play much in North Rutland?”
“I’m afraid it’s been very slow for you and Miss Middleton,” said Jane.
“Not exactly slow,” I said.
“We’ve been talking a lot of nonsense,” explained Miss Middleton.
“Not exactly nonsense,” said I.
“Oh, it was,” said Miss Middleton, “you know it was.”
“I suppose it was,” I sighed. “Well, we’ll try again to-morrow.”
“Right,” said the champion. “But I shall use my other mallet.”
Gardening
There may be gardeners who can appear to be busy all the year round—doing even in the winter their little bit under glass. But for myself I wait reverently until the twenty-second of March is here. Then, spring having officially arrived, I step out on to the lawn, and summon my head-gardener.
“James,” I say, “the winter is over at last. What have we got in that big brown-looking bed in the middle there?”
“Well, sir,” he says, “we don’t seem to have anything, do we, like?”
“Perhaps there’s something down below that hasn’t pushed through yet?”
“Maybe there is.”
“I wish you knew more about it,” I say angrily; “I want to bed out the macaroni there. Have we got a spare bed, with nothing going on underneath?”
“I don’t know, sir. Shall I dig ’em up and have a look?”
“Yes, perhaps you’d better,” I say.
Between ourselves, James is a man of no initiative. He has to be told everything.
However, mention of him brings me to my first rule for young gardeners—
Never sow Spring Onions and New Potatoes in the
same bed
I did this by accident last year. The fact is, when the onions were given to me I quite thought they were young daffodils; a mistake anyone might make. Of course, I don’t generally keep daffodils and potatoes together; but James swore that the hard round things were tulip bulbs. It is perfectly useless to pay your head-gardener half-a-crown a week if he doesn’t know the difference between potatoes and tulip bulbs. Well, anyhow, there they were in the herbaceous border together, and they grew up side by side; the onions getting stronger every day and the potatoes more sensitive. At last, just when they were ripe for picking, I found that the young onions had actually brought tears to the eyes of the potatoes—to such an extent that the latter were too damp for baking or roasting, and had to be mashed. Now, as everybody knows, mashed potatoes are beastly.
THE RHUBARB BORDER
gives me more trouble than all the rest of the garden. I started it a year ago with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations. It acted excellently, and the complexion of the flowers was improved tenfold. Then one day I discovered James busily engaged in pulling up the rhubarb.
“What are you doing?” I cried. “Do you want the young carnations to go all brown?”
“I was going to send some in to the cook,” he grumbled.
“To the cook! What do you mean? Rhubarb isn’t a vegetable.”
“No, it’s a fruit.”
I looked at James anxiously. He had a large hat on, and the sun couldn’t have got to the back of his neck.
“My dear James,” I said, “I don’t pay you half-a-crown a week for being funny. Perhaps we had better make it two shillings in future.”
However, he persisted in his theory that in the spring people stewed rhubarb in tarts and ate it!
Well, I have discovered since that this is actually so. People really do grow it in their gardens, not with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations but under the impression that it is a fruit. Consequently, I have found it necessary to adopt a firm line with my friends’ rhubarb. On arriving at any house for a visit, the first thing I say to my host is, “May I see your rhubarb bed? I have heard such a lot about it.”
“By all means,” he says, feeling rather flattered, and leads the way into the garden.
“What a glorious sunset,” I say, pointing to the west.
“Isn’t it,” he says, turning round; and then I surreptitiously drop a pint of weed-killer on the bed.
Next morning I get up early and paint the roots of the survivors with iodine.
Once my host, who for some reason had got up early too, discovered me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just painting the roots with iodine,” I said, “to prevent the rhubarb falling out.”
“To prevent what?”
“To keep the green fly away,” I corrected myself. “It’s the new French intensive system.”
But he was suspicious, and I had to leave two or three stalks untreated. We had those for lunch that day. There was only one thing for a self-respecting man to do. I obtained a large plateful of the weed and emptied the sugar basin and the cream jug over it. Then I took a mouthful of the pastry, gave a little start, and said, “Oh, is this rhubarb? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Whereupon I pushed my plate away and started on the cheese.
ASPARAGUS
Asparagus wants watching very carefully. It requires to be tended like a child. Frequently, I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if James has remembered to put the hot-water bottle in the asparagus bed. Whenever I get up to look I find that he has forgotten.
He tells me to-day that he is beginning to think that the things which are coming up now are not asparagus after all, but young hyacinths. This is very annoying. I am inclined to fancy that James is not the man he was. For the sake of his reputation in the past I hope he is not.
POTTING OUT
I have spent a busy morning potting out the nasturtiums. We have them in three qualities—mild, medium and full. Nasturtiums are extremely peppery flowers, and take offence so quickly that the utmost tact is required to pot them successfully. In a general way all the red or reddish flowers should be potted as soon as they are old enough to stand it, but it is considered bad form among horticulturists to pot the white.
James has been sowing the roses. I wanted all the pink ones in one bed, and all the yellow ones in another, and so on; but James says you never can tell for certain what colour a flower is going to be until it comes up. Of course, any fool could tell then.
“You should go by the picture on the outside of the packet,” I said.
“They’re very misleading,” said James.
“Anyhow, they must be all brothers in the same packet.”
“You might have a brother with red hair,” says James.
I hadn’t thought of that.
GRAFTING
Grafting is when you try short approaches over the pergola in somebody’s else’s garden, and break the best tulip. You mend it with a ha’penny stamp and hope that nobody will notice; at any rate not until you have gone away on the Monday. Of course in your own garden you never want to graft.
I hope at some future time to be allowed—even encouraged—to refer to such things as the most artistic way to frame cucumbers, how to stop tomatoes blushing (the hom[oe]opathic method of putting them next to the French beans is now discredited), and spring fashions in fox gloves. But for the moment I have said enough. The great thing to remember in gardening is that flowers, fruits and vegetables alike can only be cultivated with sympathy. Special attention should be given to backward and delicate plants. They should be encouraged to make the most of themselves. Never forget that flowers, like ourselves, are particular about the company they keep. If a hyacinth droops in the celery bed, put it among the pansies.
But above all, mind, a firm hand with the rhubarb.
Golf
The documents in the case are these:
Him to Me
“Come and play golf on Thursday. What is your handicap? I expect you will be too good for me.”
Me to Him
“MY GOOD THOMAS,—Don’t be silly. I will play you at cricket, tennis, lawn tennis, football (both codes), croquet, poker-patience, high diving and here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush. If you insist, I will take you on at prisoners’ base and billiards. Moreover I can dance the pavane. Yours ever,
“ADOLPHUS
“P.S.—Anyhow, I haven’t any clubs.”
Him to Me
“MY DEAR ASS,—I gather that you aren’t a golfer; well, why not begin on Thursday? There will be nobody else playing probably. Meet me at Victoria eleven-five. My brother is away, and I will lend you his clubs.”
Me to Him
(Telegram)
“Is your brother out of England? Wire reply.”
Him to Me
“Yes. Sicily.”
Me to Him
“Right you are then.”
CHAPTER II
“You know,” I said to Thomas in the train, “I have played a little on a very small island off the coast of Scotland, but it was such a very small island that we never used a driver at all, or—what’s that other thing called?—a brassy. We should have been into the sea in no time. But I rather fancy myself with a putter.”
“You might go round with a putter to-day.”
“I might, but I sha’n’t. I expect to use the wooden clubs with great ease and dexterity. And I think you will find that I can do some business with the mashie. What’s a niblick?”
“The thing you get out of bunkers with.”
“Then I sha’n’t want that.”
CHAPTER III
The fateful moment arrived. Thomas presented me with a ball called the Colonel, and a caddie offered me Thomas’s brother’s driver. He also asked me what sort of tee I should like.
I leant upon my club and looked at him. Then I turned to Thomas.
“Our young friend Hector,” I said, “is becoming technical. Will you explain?”
“Well, do you want a high or a low one?”
“I want to hit this Colonel ball very hard in the direction of that flag. What do you recommend?”
“Well, that’s just as you——”
“I think a medium one. Slow to medium.”
The preliminaries being arranged, I proceeded to address the ball. My own instinct was to take the address as read and get to business as soon as possible, but in the presence of an expert like Hector I did not dare to omit the trimmings. As it was, after every waggle I felt less and less like hitting the Colonel. When at last I did let fly it was with feelings of relief that I discovered, on returning an eye to the spot, that the tee was indeed empty. I shaded my eyes and gazed into the middle distance.
“No,” said Thomas, “it’s more to the right.” He indicated a spot in the foreground, about ten yards E.N.E. “There you are.”
“That isn’t my ball.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hector, grinning.
“May I have it back?”
Thomas laughed and smote his own into the blue. “You go on from there,” he said.
“I’m still aiming at the same flag?”
“Go on, you ass.”
I went on. The ball again rolled ten yards to the east.
“I don’t know why we’re going in this direction,” I said. “If I get much further east I shall have to send back Bartlett. You know, I don’t believe the Colonel is taking this seriously. He doesn’t seem to me to be trying at all. Has he ever been round the course before?”
“Never. He’s quite new to it.”
“There you are. He’ll come down at the ditch for a certainty.”
I played my third. A third time we went ten yards to the east—well, perhaps with a touch of north in it again. And this time Hector gave a sudden snort of laughter.
I leant upon my club, and stared him into gravity. Then I took Thomas by the coat and led him on one side.
“There are, Thomas,” I said, “other things than golf.”
“There are,” he agreed.
“A man may fail temporarily at the game and yet not be wholly despicable.”
“True.”
“He may, for instance, be able to dance the pavane with grace and distinction.”
“Quite so.”
“Well then, will you take this giggling child away and explain to him that I am not such an ass as I appear? Tell him that the intellectuals of Brook Green think highly of my mental powers. Assure him that in many of the best houses at Wandsworth Common I am held to be an amusing raconteur. Remind him of my villanelle ‘To Autumn.’ For heaven’s sake make him understand that my reputation does not stand or fall with my ability to use this brassy thing. I’m not a golf professional.”
Thomas allowed himself to smile. “I will tell him,” he said, “that you are not a golf professional.”
We veered right round to the east with my fourth and then I became desperate.
“Why,” I shouted, “do I hit the ball with a ridiculous club like this? I could send it farther with a cricket bat. I could push it straighter with a billiard cue. Where’s that bag? I am going to have a lucky dip.”
I dipped, and came up with what Thomas called a cleek. “Now then,” I said. I didn’t stop to address the Colonel, I simply lashed at him. He flew along the ground at a terrific pace.
“Well kept down,” said Thomas admiringly.
“By Jove!” I cried, “that’s never going to stop. See how he flies along... now he breasts the slope... look, he is taking the water jump.... Ah, he has crossed his legs, he’s down.”
“This,” I said to Thomas as we walked after the Colonel, “is golf. A glorious game.”
“What nonsense,” I said to Thomas, “they put in comic papers about golf. All that about digging up the turf!... and missing the ball!... and breaking the clubs! I mean, I simply don’t see how one could! Let’s see, I’ve played four, haven’t I?”
“Five,” said Thomas. “What I am wondering,” he added, “is why you should have been afraid of using any club in your small island off the coast of Scotland.”
CHAPTER IV
Twenty Strokes After
“The green, the green,” I shouted joyfully, in the manner of the ancient Greeks, though I was only on the edge of it.
“Go on,” said Thomas.
I took a careful aim and put the white down.
“You see,” I said carelessly, leaning on my putter.
Stump Cricket
April will soon be here,” said Miss Middleton, with a sigh of happiness.
“Bless it,” I agreed. “My favourite month. Twelve,” I added conversationally, “is my lucky number, and Thursday the day of the week on which I do least work. When next the twelfth of April falls on a Thursday, which may not be for centuries, look out. Something terrific will happen.”
“It’s about now that one begins to wonder if one is in form, or likely to be.”
“Just about now,” I agreed. “I always say that when the draw is announced for the semi-finals of the English Cup, in which, of course, I take not the slightest interest whatever, and in fact hardly know what teams are left in for it, though I must say I hope Southampton wins this year, because, after all, Fry did play for them once, but they’ll have a bit of a job to beat the Wolves you know—and then there’s Newcastle and Fulham after that, and of course, you can’t be...”
“I’m tired of that sentence,” said Miss Middleton.
“So was I. I only wanted to make it clear that I have no use for these spectacular gladiatorial combats. Give me cricket, the game of——”
Miss Middleton did not appear to be listening.
“Do you bowl as fast and as good a length as you talk?” she asked thoughtfully.
“No. More swerve perhaps. And I bowl with my head a good deal.”
“I see. Quite different. Well, then, will you coach me this spring? Do, there’s a dear.”
“I should love to. I know all the things to say.”
She got up excitedly.
“Come along then. I’ve got the rippingest bat. But you must promise not to bowl too fast.”
I had said that I knew all the things to say, but as a matter of fact there is only one thing to say: “You should have come out to ’er, sir.” (Or, I suppose, in Miss Middleton’s case, “You should have come out to him, madam.”) It’s a silly remark to make, because it is just what one is always doing. At school I could come out to anything that was straight and not too high; the difficulty lay in staying in. Nobody ever told me how to do that.
Miss Middleton led the way to a walled-in tennis lawn, which lay next to the broccoli tops and things, and was kept away from it by only six feet of brick. If it had simply been a question of cabbage I should have said nothing, but there would be grapes there too.
“I know,” said Miss Middleton. “But we must play against a wall. Don’t bowl too much to leg.”
I hadn’t bowled since October the Fourth. The first post-October ball was a trifle over-pitched, and a little too much to the right. All the same I was just saying, “You should have come out to that one,” when there was a crash from the direction of long-on.
“By Jove, I didn’t know you were so good. Was that the grapes?”
“How awful! Yes. It simply seemed to fly off the bat. I did ask you not to bowl there, didn’t I?”
She looked so penitent that I had to comfort her.
“It’s all right,” I said consolingly. “I had a man there. You would have been out all the way. Besides,” I went on, “a little air will do the grapes good. They stay all the time in one hot room, and then when they go out into the cold, they don’t muffle up, and the natural consequence is—— Or am I thinking of influenza?”
“Never mind. We must remember not to do it again, that’s all. Give me some to cut.”
There are several ways of cutting. For myself, I was taught to cut “square” with the left leg across and “late” with the right, the consequence being that I can do neither. W.G. (to work downwards) generally uses the fore-arm for the stroke, Ranji the wrist. Miss Middleton keeps both feet together and puts her whole body into it; and the direction in which the ball travels is towards long-on. There was another crash.
“Golf is your game,” I said admiringly. “You lay it dead on the greenhouse every time.”
“I say, what shall we do? Father will be furious.”
I looked at my watch.
“I can just catch the three-twenty-five,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be a coward, when it’s all your fault for bowling so badly.”
“Perhaps the glass is insured,” I suggested. “It is generally.”
“It’s insured against hail,” she said doubtfully.
I looked at the sky. It was one of the most beautiful blues I have seen.
“No,” said Miss Middleton sadly.
“It will be a point for lawyers to argue, I fancy, what is actually meant by hail. You would probably define it at once as aqueous vapour cooled down in the atmosphere to the freezing point of water.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I should.”
“But ‘hail’ here obviously has a wider significance. I take it to mean ‘anything that descends suddenly from the clouds.’ I haven’t ‘Williams on Real Property’ with me, but——”
“Come on,” said Miss Middleton, “let’s say it does mean that. And could you, please, keep them a bit more on the off?”
“It’s no good my keeping them there if you don’t.”
The worst of coaching—I speak now as an expert—is that it is so difficult to know what to say when a lady whirls her bat twice round her head, gives a little shriek, gets the ball on the knee, and says, “What ought I to have done then?” The only answer I could think of was “Not that.”
“I thought you knew all about coaching,” she said scornfully.
“But, you see, it depends on what you were wanting to do,” I said meekly. “If it was a drive you should have come out to it more, and if it was a cut you should have come down on it; while if it was a Highland fling you lacked abandon, and if you were killing a wasp——”
“A good coach would know what was the best thing to do with that particular ball, wouldn’t he? And that’s just what he would tell you.”
“He wouldn’t know,” I said modestly. “You don’t often meet that sort of ball in good cricket.”
“No, I suppose not. That’s why I didn’t know what to do, I expect. You know I generally know exactly what to do, only I can’t do it.”
“Is that really so?” I cried excitedly. “Why, then, of course, you ought to coach me!”
We had a very jolly afternoon. I fancy I shall be in some form this year. Miss Middleton is one of the best bowlers I have seen, but I brought off some beautiful shots. I wanted some tea badly afterwards.
“What glorious days we have now,” said Miss Middleton’s mother, as she handed me a cup.
“Glorious,” said Miss Middleton’s father.
“H’m, yes,” I said doubtfully. “But you know I’m afraid it won’t last. It’s beginning to look rather like—like hail.”
“Yes,” said Miss Middleton. “We both thought so.”
Exploring
Come, gather around, my ‘earties, and listen
a while to me,
For I ’ave a yarn to spin you, a yarn of the
Polar Sea;
It’s as true as I’m standing here, lads, as true as it
blows a gale,
That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the
Great Big Nail—
As sworn to by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.
It was all of a parky morning that wunnerful fourth
of March,
When I put on a hextry weskit and made for the
Marble Arch;
So I sez good-bye to my country, “Lunnon,” I sez,
“adoo!”
And I up and strode down the Edgware Road
athirsting to see it through,
Followed by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.
I ‘adn’t no blooming gum-drops, I ‘adn’t no polar
bears,
I ‘adn’t no sextant neither, but I thinks to myself,
“‘Oo cares?”
And I waggled my watch-chain jaunty, which was
jewelled in every hole.
“I can always steer by my cumpas ’ere, it’s pointing
straight to the Pole.”
So it is!” said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.
I walked for the ’ole of that morning, then I sez
to myself, “Old son,
This here is a dash-for-the-Pole like, and it’s
darn little dash you’ve done.”
So I enters an ‘andy station, and I sez to the
man in the ‘utch,
“’Ere, gimme a ticket as goes to Wick—no, a
first-return—’ow much?—
Ah, and five third singles for Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val.”
We sailed from Wick to the norrard for ‘undreds
of days and nights.
Till we came at last to the ice-floes and followed the
Northern Lights,
The Horroreo-boreo-balis, which it turned us all
‘orrible pale,
And I sez to my men, “To-morrow and then we
shall land at the Great Big Nail.”
“‘Ooray!” said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry
del Val.
’Twas the cumpas as went and found it—it seemed
to have turned its head,
It would spin like mad for a minute and then it
would lay like dead;
It took on just like a wild thing, you’d almost ‘a’
sworn it cried,
Till at last it shot through the glass and got right up
on its end and died.
“That proves it,” cried Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val.
We gave three cheers for ole England and we up
with the Union Jack,
And we plugged our pipes and we smoked
’em and we thought about getting back;
But a wunnerful pride so filled us as we sat on top
of the Ball,
That innocent tears (the first for years) rolled out
of the eyes of all.
Partikerlarly out of those of Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val.
Then I called for a pen and paper, and I wrote to
the King, “Dear King,
“I’ve found the Pole, and I’m tying a piece of it up
with string;
I’ll send it round in the morning for your Majesty’s
grace to see
Just drop me a wire, if you like it, sire, and I’ll
collar the lot! Signed: Me.
Witnesses: Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg, Sir
Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry
del Val.”
So that’s how it ‘appened, my ‘earties, no matter
what others may say.
(Did they see the Pole? They didn’t! That
proves I ’ad took it away).
It’s as true as I’m standing here, lads, as true as
The Daily Mail,
That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the
Great Big Nail.
Shopping
“If you should happen to be in Regent Street tomorrow at four” (ran the assignation), “just where what’s the name of the street comes into it, and a lady in a very pretty new mauve coat and skirt bows to you, raise your hat and say ‘Crisis’ and she will let you help her with her shopping.”
My guess at the name of the street was successful. I raised my hat and said “Good-afternoon.”
“But you had to say ‘Crisis,’” said Miss Middleton. “That’s the password.”
“I can’t. I’ve sworn I’ll never say it again. I took a most fearful oath. Several people heard me taking it, and swooned.”
“But how do I know you’re the right one if you don’t say it? Well, I suppose I shall have to let you come. I’ve just lost mother; she went in at the silver department and out at the art fabrics—like people when they can’t pay for their hansoms.”
“Yes, that’s bad. ‘The accused, who appeared to feel her position acutely, gave a false address.’ What are you going to buy?”
“Well, I thought I’d just help you get your presents first.”
“I’m not giving any this Christmas. I gave a lot only a year ago.”
“Oh, but haven’t they paid you any wages since then?”
“Yes, a few trifling sums, only—— Quick, there’s your mother!” I pulled Miss Middleton hastily into the nearest shop and shut the door.
“What fun!” she said breathlessly. “Mother loves hide-and-seek.”
Mrs Middleton hurried past, covered with parcels, and dived into another door.
“It’s quite safe now,” I said. “Let’s go and——”
“What can I have the pleasure of showing you?” said a soothing voice at our backs.
We turned round in alarm.
“Er—we only just—let me see, what was it you wanted?” said Miss Middleton to me.
“I don’t really want anything. I was going to help you buy one of those—you know.”
“Yes, but I’ve got that. I know there was something you said you wanted very much.”
“Probably tea.”
“Tiaras,” explained Miss Middleton hastily. “Of course.”
“Certainly, madam,” said the shopwalker. “If you will just sit down,” he continued, leading us to a little room out of the main stream of shoppers, “I will send somebody to attend you.”
We sat down mechanically. I leant my stick against a showcase and balanced my hat on the top of it.
“Now you’ve done it,” I said. “How many tiaras shall we have? I’ve got nearly four pounds.”
“We needn’t have any. We can say we don’t much care about their selection.”
“Or that we wanted one specially built for us.”
“One goes into dozens of shops without buying anything,” said Miss Middleton cheerily.
“I never do,” I replied gloomily. “Look out, here he is.”
An attendant advanced briskly towards us. I put my hands in my pockets and tried to count my money.
“Tiaras, madam? Certainly. About what price?”
“Tell him about three pounds eight and six,” I whispered to Miss Middleton. “Three pounds nine,” I corrected, as I ran another sixpence to ground.
“Here is a beautiful one at two hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Too much,” I prompted softly.
“Oh,” broke in Miss Middleton brightly, “I’m so sorry—such a silly mistake! We wanted neck-chains, not tiaras! Barbara has a tiara already, hasn’t she?” she appealed to me.
“Two,” I said quickly. “If not three.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Middleton, with a dazzling smile. “The first gentleman must have misunderstood. Of course we gave her a tiara last year.”
The man was disappointed; I saw that. But the smile melted him, and he went off in all friendliness.
“Tiara doesn’t sound very much like neck-chain,” I remarked after a pause.
“Oh, don’t you think so? It depends how you say it. Like Beauchamp and Cholmondeley.”
“And what is it when pronounced properly?”
“It’s a chain that hangs round your neck, and when you don’t quite know what to say to anybody you play with it carelessly. Same as men smoking cigarettes, only better for you.”
“I see. Well, here we have a hundred of the best.”
The attendant got to business at once.
“This one,” he said, holding up rather a jolly one, “comes out at ten guineas.”
“Tell him,” I whispered to Miss Middleton, “that we’ve only come out with three.”
“That’s very pretty,” she said. “Are those moon-stones?”
“Yes, madam. The fashionable stone this year.”
“It’s more for next year that we want it.”
“I should say this season. I don’t think you will find a prettier one than this, madam.”
“It’s very sweet. But aren’t they unlucky, unless you happen to have been born in the right month?” She turned to me. “When is Barbara’s birthday?”
“May,” I said unhesitatingly. “I mean March.”
“Anyhow,” said Miss Middleton. “I know it’s wrong for moonstones, because I was thinking of giving her some two years ago, and it had to “be opals instead.”
“We both thought of it,” I said.
Miss Middleton looked at me so admiringly that I began to get reckless.
“Besides, we don’t know the size of her neck,” I went on. “And she never smokes—I mean she never doesn’t know what to say to anybody. So I think we should be making a mistake if we gave her this. I do indeed. Now if it had been anybody else but Barbara——”
The man looked from one to the other of us in bewilderment.
“If you could show us some hatpins instead?” said Miss Middleton hurriedly, before he could open his mouth.
“This is excellent,” I said, as he retired in confusion; “we’re working down well. All we’ve got to do now is to wait till he comes back and then say that we’re sorry but we meant hairpins. With hair-pins you’re practically there.”
“Supposing they only had gold ones?”
“Then we should point out that they wouldn’t go with Barbara’s curiously-coloured hair. You leave this to me. I can finish it off now on my head. At the same time I’m sorry I’m not going to spend anything.”
“Oh, but you are,” said Miss Middleton. “You’re going to give me and mother tea.”
“Of course I am,” I agreed.
After tea I went back to the shop by myself.
“I want,” I said “a trifle for about three pounds. A moonstone pendant or something. Yes, that’s very sweet. No, I’ll take it with me.”
They packed it in a pretty little box for me, and I’m going to send it to Miss Middleton on the twenty-fourth. I am putting in a card with the words “From Barbara” on it. As I said, I am not giving any presents myself this year, but I do think that Barbara should repay at least some of the kindnesses which have been showered upon her so wantonly.
Chess
(The author cannot lay claim to any great technical knowledge of chess, but he fancies that he understands the spirit of the game. He feels that, after the many poems on the Boat Race, a few bracing lines on the Inter-University Chess Match would be a welcome change.)
This is the ballad of Edward Bray,
Captain of Catherine’s, Cambridge Blue—
Oh, no one ever had just his way
Of huffing a bishop with KB2!
The day breaks fine, and the evenings brings
A worthy foe in the Oxford man—
A great finesser with pawns and things,
But quick in the loose when the game began.
The board was set, and the rivals tossed
But Fortune (alas!) was Oxford’s friend.
“Tail,” cried Edward, and Edward lost;
So Oxford played from the fireplace end.
We hold our breath, for the game’s begun—
Oh, who so gallant as Edward Bray!
He’s taken a bishop from KQ1,
And ruffed it—just in the Cambridge way!
Then Oxford castles his QB knight
(He follows the old, old Oxford groove;
Though never a gambit saw the light
That’s able to cope with Edward’s move).
The game went on, and the game was fast,
Oh, Oxford huffed and his King was crowned;
The exchange was lost, and a pawn was passed,
And under the table a knight was found!
Then Oxford chuckled; but Edward swore,
A horrible, horrible oath swore he;
And landed him one on the QB4,
And followed it up with an RQ3.
Time was called; with an air of pride
Up to his feet rose Edward Bray.
“Marker, what of the score?” he cried.
“What of the battle I’ve won this day?”
The score was counted; and Bray had won
By two in honours, and four by tricks,
And half of a bishop that came undone,
And all of a bishop on KQ6.
Then here’s to Chess: and a cheer again
For the man who fought on an April day
With never a thought of sordid gain!
England’s proud of you, Edward Bray!
Progressive Bridge
There were twelve tables numbered A, B, C, up to—well, twelve of them, and I started at E, because my name is Ernest. Our host arranged us and, of course, he may have had quite another scheme in his mind. If so, it was an extraordinary coincidence that my partner’s name was Ethel. She herself swore it was Millicent, but I doubt if one can trust a woman in these matters. She looked just like an Ethel. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Ethel to me.
There is only one rule at progressive bridge, and that is, if you lose you go to the next table, and if you win you stay where you are. In any case you get a fresh partner each time. That being so, it seemed hardly worth while to ask Ethel what she discarded from. As it happened, though, she began it.
“I discard from strength,” she said.
“So do I,” I agreed gladly. We already had a lot in common. “Great strength returns the penny,” I added.
“What’s that?”
“Moderate strength rings the bell. It’s a sort of formula I say to myself, and brings luck. May I play to hearts?”
Ethel discarded a small heart on the first round of clubs, and a small club on the first round of hearts. After which, systematically and together, we discarded from great weakness. What with the revoke and other things they scored hundreds and thousands that game.
“You know, where providence goes wrong,” I said, “is in over-estimating our skill. Providence thinks too highly of us. It thinks that if it gives us a knave and two tens between us we can get a grand slam.”
“Yes; and I think—I think, perhaps, that just the least little bit it underrates Dorothy’s abilities.”
“Indeed?” I said. Dorothy was the person who had just taken two hundred and ninety-eight off us.
“Yes. You see Dorothy has played before, and I don’t think providence knew.”
“It rather looks like that.”
“Mind,” said Ethel graciously, “I don’t blame providence for not knowing.”
Dorothy laughed, and cut for me. I dealt myself three aces, and went no trumps. To my surprise Dorothy’s partner doubled, and led the ace of hearts.
“One moment,” I said, and I took it up, and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of hearts. Then I looked at the front of it again, and swore very softly, and played it.
“I’m very sorry,” I apologised at the end of the game. “I had a wolf in sheep’s clothing, an ass in a lion’s skin. You saw me play the three of hearts. Well, do you know—it’s very sad—he actually pretended to be the ace. Hid his head behind one card, and his feet behind another, and only—well, I thought it was the ace.”
At the end of the round Ethel and I moved on.
“Good-bye,” I said to Dorothy, “I like watching you play. If you wait here I shall be round again soon.”
My next partner was called Aggie. Ethel addressed her as Mary, but she was much too lively for Mary. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Aggie to me.
She began at once:
“I discard from weakness, partner. I like hearts led, I never go spades on my own, I live on tapioca and toadstools, and the consequence was——”
“It’s the same with me,” I said, “except about tapioca. I don’t like tapioca. In fact I always—er—discard from tapioca. Otherwise we agree. It’s your deal. Now,” I said to Ethel, “we shall see what providence thinks of our comparative merits.”
Providence made no mistake. In the whole round my partner and I scored once only. Chicane in spades. I moved on to G. I should never see Ethel again.
“I always play the Canadian discard,” said Violet, “and I like spades led.”
I need hardly say that Aggie, whom Ethel called Mary, spoke of Violet as Diana. But she looked much more like Violet, and she will always be Violet to me. I had never seen her before though, and I shall never see her again.
“So do I,” I said. “Do you know Canada at all? I always wish I had been there.”
“I go a good deal to Switzerland,” said Violet. “Are you fond of bridge?”
“No, never; that is, I mean, ‘Very.’ Shall we cut?”
The “Canadian discard” hardly does itself justice under that name. It is no mere discard, but embraces all the finer points of bridge. It leads through weakness, and blocks your partner’s long suits, and trumps his tricks; and, though I couldn’t discover any recognised system about it, revokes now and then. I, too, from tact or sympathy, or some such motive, played the Canadian discard for all I was worth. We got to H without any difficulty....
J, K and L may be passed by, for nothing happened there. For some reason “I” was left out, or, rather, run into J. I cannot understand the point of this. To every man his table, and I feel convinced that I should have done remarkably well at “I.” I had been looking forward to it all the evening. I don’t much care about betting, but I am prepared to wager a hundred pounds that I should have got a grand slam at “I.”
It was somewhere down in the X’s that I met Maud. I had been round I don’t know how many times, and was feeling quite giddy. Alice, Elizabeth, Iris, Mabel—they were all forgotten when I came to play with Maud. Hepzibah (on my right) called her Millicent or something like that, but I knew really that her name must be Maud. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Maud to me.
“I discard from hearts,” I said. “I like my weakest suit led, I have revoked three times this evening, at table G on the right-hand side of the fireplace I played the ‘Canadian discard,’ and I shall never play it again, at K as you go round the lamp I had four aces and my partner went spades, I’ve had rotten luck all through, and I’m enjoying myself very much. Shall we be very cautious, or would you like to play a dashing game?”
“Oh, let’s dash,” said Maud.
I dealt, and went no trumps on two aces. To my great surprise Hepzibah’s partner doubled and led the ace of clubs.
“One moment,” I said, and I took it up and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of clubs. Then I looked at the front of it, and swore very softly, and played it.
“I’m very sorry,” I began at the end of the game, “but——”
“Haven’t we met before?” said Maud, with a smile.
I looked at her hard. “By Jove! Ethel!” I cried.
“My name’s Millicent,” said Maud, “and seeing that we met for the first time a few hours ago——”
“Yes, you were my first partner, ‘Ethel.’”
“I’m sorry. Who is Ethel?”
“I beg your pardon,” I apologised. “But I always call my first partner at progressive bridge Ethel. It’s a sort of hobby with me.”
“I see,” said Maud—I mean Ethel. Well, I suppose I must call her Millicent now. Though I had never seen her before, and shall never see her again, she will always be Millicent to me.
Dressing Up
Our episode is the tenth and last and (I may add unofficially) the most important. The period of it is 1750. In order to lead up to it properly it has been found necessary to start the first episode at 53 B.C. This gives the audience time to get hungry for us. “At last!” they say, when we come on, “this is the end, Maria.”
The Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) says that they don’t say that at all. They say, “Why, Henry, it’s 1750! I had no idea. How the time flies when you are enjoying yourself. We must stay to the end; a few minutes won’t make any difference now, and it’s only cold mutton.”
I must explain that it is the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.)—and do remember the “N.B.,” because she is very particular about it—who in this episode condescends to dance a minuet with me: that stately old measure (if you don’t trip over the sand-hill opposite Block D.) which so delighted our forefathers. It is a very sad thing, but though the whole pageant, as I have explained, hinges upon us, yet our names and description do not appear upon the programme. We are put down briefly, and I think libellously, as “Revellers.” However, we learnt that we were really people of some position—right in the smart set, by all accounts; so I decided to be Lord Tunbridge Wells, and my partner the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). That is just like her—to be a whole county, when I am only a watering-place.
We are supposed to do the “revelling” as soon as we come in. As I lead my partner down the steps I say to her, “Our revel, I think?” and she replies, “Shall we revel, or shall we sit it out?” After a little discussion we decide to revel, partly because there is nowhere to sit down, and partly because the prompter has his eye on us. Now I don’t know what your idea of revelling is, but mine would include at the very least a small ginger ale and a slice of seed-cake. I mean, I don’t think that would be overdoing it at all. But do you suppose we are allowed this—or indeed anything? Not likely. And yet it is just a little touch of that sort which gives verisimilitude to a whole pageant.
Before we have really got through our revelling the band strikes up, and suddenly we are all in our places for the minuet. Now, although you have paid your two guineas like a man, and are sitting in the very front row, you mustn’t think we have taken all this trouble of learning the minuet simply to amuse you. Not at all. We are doing it for the sake of King George the Second, no less; a command performance. And so, when we are all in a line, just ready to start, and I whisper to my partner, “I say, I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve forgotten the minuet. Let’s do the Lancers instead,” she whispers back, “Quick! George is looking at me. Is my patch on straight?” “No,” I say. “Now, don’t forget you have to smile all the time. Hallo, we’re off.”
I am not going to describe the dance to you, because it is too difficult. But I may say briefly that there’s a whole lot of things you do with your feet, and another whole lot with your hands; that you have to sway your body about in an easy and graceful manner; that you must keep one eye on the ground to see that you don’t fall over the sandhills, and another eye on your partner to see that she is doing it all right, and the two of you a joint eye on everybody else to see that the affair is going symmetrically. And then—then comes the final instruction: “Don’t look anxious. Smile, and seem to be enjoying yourself.”
So far I have resisted the inclination to smile. The fact is that when I cast aside my usual habiliments and take upon me the personality of another I like to do the thing thoroughly—to enter into the spirit of the part. Now I will put the case before you, and you shall say whether I am not right.
Here we have, as I conceive the situation, a sprig of the nobility, Tunbridge Wells. He is a modest young man, who spends most of his time at his lovely Kentish seat, flanked by fine old forest trees—preferring the quiet of the country to the noise and bustle of London.
One day, however, he ventures up to town, and looking in at his customary coffee-house is hailed by an acquaintance. Tunbridge Wells, I may mention, is beautifully attired in a long blue coat, white satin waistcoat, fancy breeches, with quaint designs painted on them, silk stockings, and shoes which are too small for him.
“What are you doing to-night?” says his friend. “Come down to Chelsea with me. There’s a grand Venetian fête on, and old George will be there.”
“Right,” says Tunbridge Wells.
When they get to the gardens his friend takes him aside.
“I say,” he begins anxiously, “I hope you won’t mind, but the fact is that I’ve promised you shall dance in a minuet to-night. Old George particularly wants to see one.”
“But I simply couldn’t,” says Tunbridge Wells, in alarm. “Can’t you get somebody else?”
“Oh, but you must. I’ve got you a jolly partner—the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). You know the minuet, of course?”
“Well, I’ve learnt it; but I’ve very nearly forgotten it again. And my shoes are beastly uncomfortable. Before the King too! It’s a bit steep, you know.”
“Well then, you will. Good man.”
“No, no,” cries Tunbridge Wells hastily, and leads his friend aside under the trees. “I say,” he begins mysteriously, “don’t say anything, but—well, it’s rather awkward... I may as well tell you... these—er—these things are a bit tight. They look all right like this, you know, but when you bend down—well, I mean I have to be jolly careful.”
“I was just thinking how pretty they were. A beautiful thing, that,” he adds, pointing to a crescent moon in blue on Tunbridge Wells’ left knee.
“Don’t touch,” says Wells in alarm, “it comes off like anything. I lost a dragon-fly only yesterday. Well, you see how it is, old man. But for them I should have loved it. Only... I say, don’t be a fool.... Your servant, Duchess. I was just saying... yes, I am devoted to it.... Yes.... Yes. Let’s see, it is the left foot, isn’t it? (Confound that idiot!)”
Now then, do you wonder that the poor fellow looks anxious, or that I feel it my duty as a good actor to look anxious too?
I have promised not to describe the whole minuet to you, but I must mention one figure in it of which I am particularly fond. In this you rejoin your partner after a long absence, and you have once more her supporting hand to hold you up. For some hours previously you have been alone in the wild and undulating open, tripping over molehills and falling down ha-has; and it is very pleasant (especially when your shoes fit you too soon) to get back to her and pour all your troubles into her sympathetic ear. It’s a figure in which you stand on one foot each for a considerable time, and paw the air with the others. You preserve your balance better if you converse easily and naturally.
“I nearly came a frightful purler just now; did you see?”
“H’sh, not so loud. Have you found mother yet? She’s here to-day.”
“One of my patches fell off. I hope nobody heard it.”
“You’ve got a different wig to-day. Why?”
“It’s greyer. I had such a very anxious moment yesterday. You know that last bow at the end where you go down and stay under water for about five minutes? Well, I really thought—however, they didn’t.”
“I don’t like you in this one. It doesn’t suit you at all.”
“So I thought at first. But if you gaze at it very earnestly for three hours, and then look up at the ceiling, you——”
“Why, there is mother. Hold up.”
“I fancy we have rather a good action in this figure. Do you think she’s noticing it? I hope she knows that we could stand on one leg without moving the other one at all. I mean I don’t want her to think—— Hallo, here we are. Good-bye. See you again in the next figure but one.” And the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) trips off.
I put in the “N.B.” because she is very particular about it; and I say “trips” because I know the ground.
II. AT A DANCE
“Then you really are coming?” said Queen Elizabeth, as she gave me my third cup of tea.
“Yes, I really am,” I sighed.
“What as?”
“I don’t know at all—something with a cold. I leave it to you, partner, only don’t go a black suit.”
“What about Richelieu?”
“I should never be able to pronounce that,” I confessed. “Besides, I always think that these great scientists—I should say, philos—that is, of course, that these generals—er, which room is the encyclopædia in?”
“You might go as one of the kings of England. Which is your favourite king?”
“William and Mary. Now that would be an original costume. I should have——”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why not Henry VIII.?”
“Do you think I should get a lot of partners as Henry VIII.? Anyhow, I don’t think it’s a very becoming figure.”
“But you don’t wear fancy dress simply because it’s becoming.”
“Well, that is rather the point to settle. Are we going to enhance my natural beauty, or would you like it—er—toned down a little? Of course, I could go as the dog-faced man, only——”
“Very well then, if you don’t like Henry, what about Edward I.?”
“But why do you want to thrust royalty on me? I’d much sooner go as Perkin Warbeck. I should wear a brown perkin—jerkin.”
“Jack is going as Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“Then I shall certainly touch him for a cigarette,” I said, as I got up to go.
It was a week later that I met Elizabeth in Bond Street.
“Well?” she said, “have you got your things?”
“I haven’t,” I confessed.
“I forget who you said you were going as?”
“Somebody who had black hair,” I said. “I have been thinking it over and I have come to the conclusion that I should have knocked them rather if I had had black hair—instead of curly eyes and blue hair. Can you think of anybody for me?”
Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded—— Well, I’m not very good at history.
“Do you mean to say,” she said at last, “that that is as far as you have got? Somebody who had black hair?”
“Hang it,” I protested, “it’s something to have been measured for the wig.”
“Have you been measured for your wig?”
“Well—er—no—that is to say, not exactly what you might call measured. But—well, the fact is I was just going along now, only—I say, where do I get a wig?”
“You’ve done nothing,” said Elizabeth—“absolutely nothing.”
“I say, don’t say that,” I began nervously; “I’ve done an awful lot, really. I’ve practically got the costume. I’m going as Harold the Boy Earl, or Jessica’s Last—— Hallo, there’s my bus; I’ve got a cold, I mustn’t keep it waiting. Good-bye.” And I fled.
“I am going,” I said, “as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald. Think how cool that will be.”
“Do you mean to say,” cried Elizabeth, “that you have altered again?”
“Don’t be rough with me or I shall cry. I’ve got an awful cold.”
“Then you’ve no business to go as Julius Cæsar.”
“I say, now you’re trying to unsettle me. And I was going to-morrow to order the clothes.”
“What! You haven’t——”
“I was really going this afternoon, only—only it’s early closing day. Besides, I wanted to see if my cold would get better. Because if it didn’t—— Look here, I’ll be frank with you. I am going as Charlemagne.”
“Oh!”
“Charlemagne in half-mourning, because Pepin the Short had just died. Something quiet in grey, with a stripe, I thought. Only half-mourning because he only got half the throne. By-the-way I suppose all these people wore pumps and white kid gloves all right? Yes, I thought so. I wonder if Charlemagne really had black hair. Anyhow, they can’t prove he didn’t, seeing when he lived. He flourished about 770, you know. As a matter of fact 770 wasn’t actually his most flourishing year, because the Radicals were in power then, and land went down so. Now 771—yes. Or else as Raymond Blathwayt.”
“Anyhow,” I added indignantly a minute later, “I swear I’m going somehow.”
“Hallo,” I said cheerfully, as I ran into her Majesty in Piccadilly, “I’ve just been ordering—that is to say, I’ve been going——I mean I’m just going to—— Let’s see, it’s next week, isn’t it?”
For a moment Elizabeth was speechless—not at all my idea of the character.
“Now then,” she said at last, “I am going to take you in hand. Will you trust yourself entirely to me?”
“To the death, your Majesty. I’m sickening for something, as it is.”
“How tall are you?”
“Oh, more than that,” I said quickly. “Gent’s large medium, I am.”
“Then, I’ll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There’s no need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher.”
“Quite—blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the neck at tenpence, madam, if you’ll wait a moment while I sharpen the knife. Let’s see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother, they’ve forgotten the strop.”
“Well, it may not be a butcher,” said Elizabeth; “it depends what they’ve got.”
That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had hardly any breakfast; simply couldn’t look a poached egg in the yolk. A day on the sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o’clock was my programme. And then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I remembered that the dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps dressed soberly as a black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour or two... and——
Help!
A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and—no, it’s not an eider-down, it’s a coat.
A yellow—— Pink br——
I am going as Joseph.
I am going as Swan & Edgar.
I am going as the Sick Duke, by Orchardson.
I am going—yes, that’s it, I am going back to bed.
After Dinner
I wat in the drawing-room after dinner with my knees together and my hands in my lap, and waited for the game to be explained to me.
“There’s a pencil for you,” said somebody.
“Thank you very much,” I said, and put it carefully away. Evidently I had won a forfeit already. It wasn’t a very good pencil though.
“Now, has everybody got pencils?” asked somebody else. “The game is called ‘Furnishing a Kitchen.’ It’s quite easy. Will somebody think of a letter?” She turned to me. “Perhaps you’d better.”
“Certainly,” I said, and I immediately thought very hard of N. These thought-reading games are called different things, but they are all the same really, and I don’t believe in any of them.
“Well?” said everybody.
“What?... Yes, I have. Go on.... Oh, I beg your pardon,” I said in confusion. I thought you—— N. is the letter.”
“N or M?”
I smiled knowingly to myself.
“My godfather and my godmother,” I went on cautiously——
“It was N,” interrupted somebody. “Now then, you’ve got five minutes in which to write down everything you can beginning with N. Go.” And they all started to write like anything.
I took my pencil out and began to think. I know it sounds an easy game to you now, as you sit at your desk surrounded by dictionaries; but when you are squeezed on to the edge of a sofa, given a very blunt pencil and a thin piece of paper, and challenged to write in five minutes (on your knees) all the words you can think of beginning with a certain letter—well, it is another matter altogether. I thought of no end of things which started with K, or even L; I thought of “rhinoceros,” which is a very long word and starts with R; but as for——
I looked at my watch and groaned. One minute gone.
“I must keep calm,” I said, and in a bold hand I wrote Napoleon. Then, after a moment’s thought, I added Nitro-glycerine, and Nats.
“This is splendid,” I told myself. “Notting Hill, Nobody and Noon. That makes six.”
At six I stuck for two minutes. I did worse than that in fact; for I suddenly remembered that gnats were spelt with a G. However, I decided to leave them, in case nobody else remembered. And on the fourth minute I added Non-sequitur.
“Time!” said somebody.
“Just a moment,” said everybody. They wrote down another word or two (which isn’t fair) and then began to add up. “I’ve got thirty,” said one.
“Thirty-two.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Good heavens,” I said, “I’ve only got seven.”
There was a shout of laughter.
“Then you’d better begin,” said somebody. “Read them out.”
I coughed doubtfully, and began;
“Napoleon.”
There was another shout of laughter.
“I am afraid we can’t allow that.”
“Why ever not?” I asked in amazement.
“Well, you’d hardly find him in a kitchen, would you?”
I took out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. “I don’t want to find him in a kitchen,” I said nervously. “Why should I? As a matter of fact, he’s dead. I don’t see what the kitchen’s got to do with it. Kitchens begin with a K.”
“But the game is called ‘Furnishing a Kitchen.’ You have to make a list of things beginning with N which you would find in a kitchen. You understood that, didn’t you?”
“Y-y-yes,” I said. “Oh y-y-y-yes. Of course.”
“So Napoleon——”
I pulled myself together with a great effort.
“You don’t understand,” I said with dignity. “The cook’s name was Napoleon.”
“Cooks aren’t called Napoleon,” said everybody.
“This one was. Carrie Napoleon. Her mistress was just as surprised at first as you were, but Carrie assured her that——”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t allow it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said; “I’m wrong about that. Her name was Carrie Smith. But her young man was a soldier, and she had bought a ‘Life of Napoleon’ for a birthday present for him. It stood on the dresser—it did, really—waiting for her next Sunday out.”
“Oh! Oh, well, I suppose that is possible. Go on.”
“Gnats,” I went on nervously and hastily. “Of course I know that——”
“Gnats are spelt with a G,” they shrieked.
“These weren’t. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and consequently couldn’t bite at all, and cook said that——”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I’m sorry,” I said resignedly. “I had about forty of them—on the dresser. If you won’t allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot. Er—then we have Nitro-glycerine.”
There was another howl of derision.
“Not at all,” I said haughtily. “Cook had chapped hands very badly, and she went to the chemist’s one evening for a little glycerine. The chemist was out, and his assistant—a very nervous young fellow—gave her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the dresser, it did, really.”
“Well,” said everybody very reluctantly, “I suppose——”
I went on hastily:
“That’s two. Then Nobody. Of course, you might easily find nobody in the kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say. Three. The next is Noon. It could be noon in the kitchen as well as anywhere else. Don’t be narrow-minded about that.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Non-sequitur,” I said doubtfully.
“What on earth——”
“It’s a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and that is technically called a ‘follow.’ Now, if they didn’t give you a follow, that would be a Non-sequitur.... You do see that, don’t you?”
There was a deadly silence.
“Five,” I said cheerfully. “The last is Notting Hill. I must confess,” I said magnanimously, “that I am a bit doubtful whether you would actually find Notting Hill in a kitchen.”
“You don’t say so!”
“Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the kitchen in Notting Hill. On the other hand, it is just possible that, as Calais was found engraven on Mary’s heart, so, supposing the cook died—— Oh, very well. Then it remains at five.”
Of course you think that, as I only had five, I came out last. But you are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you have any word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count it. And as all the others had the obvious things—such as a nutmeg-grater or a neck of mutton or a nomelette—my five won easily. And you will note that, if only I had been allowed to count my gnats, it would have been forty-five.
II. GETTING THE NEEDLE
He was a pale, enthusiastic young man of the name of Simms; and he held forth to us at great length about his latest hobby.
“Now I’ll just show you a little experiment,” he wound up; “one that I have never known to fail. First of all, I want you to hide a needle somewhere, while I am out of the room. You must stick it where it can be seen—on a chair—or on the floor if you like. Then I shall come back and find it.”
“Oh, Mr Simms!” we all said.
“Now, which one of you has the strongest will?”
We pushed Jack forward. Jack is at any rate a big man.
“Very well. I shall want you to take my hand when I come in, and look steadily at the needle, concentrate all your thoughts on it. I, on the other hand, shall make my mind a perfect blank. Then your thoughts will gradually pass into my brain, and I shall feel myself as it were dragged in the direction of the needle.”
“And I shall feel myself, as it were, dragged after you?” said Jack.
“Yes; you mustn’t put any strain on my arm at all. Let me go just where I like, only will me to go in the right direction. Now then.”
He took out his handkerchief, put it hastily back, and said: “First, I shall want to borrow a handkerchief or something.”
Well, we blindfolded him, and led him out of the room. Then Muriel got a needle, which, after some discussion, was stuck into the back of the Chesterfield. Simms returned, and took Jack’s left hand.
They stood there together, Jack frowning earnestly at the needle, and Simms swaying uncertainly at the knees. Suddenly his knees went in altogether, and he made a little zig-zag dash across the room, as though he were taking cover. Jack lumbered after him, instinctively bending his head too. They were brought up by the piano, which Simms struck with great force. We all laughed, and Jack apologised.
“You told me to let you go where you liked, you know,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said Simms rather peevishly, “but you should have willed me not to hit the piano.”
As he spoke he tripped over a small stool, and, flinging out an arm to save himself, swept two photograph frames off an occasional table.
“By Jove!” said Jack, “that’s jolly good. I saw you were going to do that, and I willed that the flower vase should be spared. I’m getting on.”
“I think you had better start from the door again,” I suggested. “Then you can get a clear run.”
They took up their original positions.
“You must think hard, please,” said Simms again. “My mind is a perfect blank, and yet I can feel nothing coming.”
Jack made terrible faces at the needle. Then, without warning, Simms flopped on to the floor at full length, pulling Jack after him.
“You mustn’t mind if I do that,” he said, getting up slowly.
“No,” said Jack, dusting himself.
“I felt irresistibly compelled to go down,” said Simms.
“So did I,” said Jack.
“The needle is very often hidden in the floor, you see. You are sure you are looking at it?”
They were in a corner with their backs to it; and Jack, after trying in vain to get it over his right shoulder or his left, bent down and focussed it between his legs. This must have connected the current; for Simms turned right round and marched up to the needle.
“There!” he said triumphantly, taking off the bandage.
We all clapped, while Jack poured himself out a whisky. Simms turned to him.
“You have a very strong will indeed,” he said, “one of the strongest I have met. Now, would one of the ladies like to try?”
“Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t,” said all the ladies.
“I should like to do it again,” said Simms modestly. “Perhaps you, sir?”
“All right, I’ll try,” I said.
When Simms was outside I told them my idea.
“I’ll hold the needle in my other hand,” I said, “and then I can always look at it easily, and it will always be in a different place, which ought to muddle him.”
We fetched him in, and he took my left hand....
“No, it’s no good,” he said at last, “I don’t seem to get it. Let me try the other hand....”
I had no time to warn him. He clasped the other hand firmly; and, from the shriek that followed, it seemed that he got it. There ensued the “perfect blank” that he had insisted on all the evening. Then he pulled off the bandage, and showed a very angry face.
Well, we explained how accidental it was, and begged him to try again. He refused rather sulkily.
Suddenly Jack said: “I believe I could do it blindfold. Miss Muriel, will you look at the needle and see if you can will me?”
Simms bucked up a bit, and seemed keen on the idea. So Jack was blindfolded, the needle hid, and Muriel took his hand.
“Now, is your mind a perfect blank?” said Simms to Jack.
“It always is,” said Jack.
“Very well, then. You ought soon to feel in a dreamy state, as though you were in another world. Miss Muriel, you must think only of the needle.”
Jack held her hand tight, and looked most idiotically peaceful. After three minutes Simms spoke again.
“Well?” he said eagerly.
“I’ve got the dreamy, other-world state perfectly,” said Jack, and then he gave at the knees just for the look of the thing.
“This is silly,” said Muriel, trying to get her hand away.
Jack staggered violently, and gripped her hand again.
“Please, Miss Muriel,” implored Simms. “I feel sure he is just going to do it.”
Jack staggered again, sawed the air with his disengaged hand, and then turned right round and marched for the door, dragging Muriel behind him. The door slammed after them....
There is a little trick of sitting on a chair and picking a pin out of it with the teeth. I started Simms—who was all eagerness to follow the pair, and find out the mysterious force that was drawing them—upon this trick, for Jack is one of my best friends. When Jack and Muriel came back from the billiard-room, and announced that they were engaged, Simms was on his back on the floor with the chair on the top of him—explaining, for the fourth time, that if the thing had not overbalanced at the critical moment he would have secured the object. There is much to be said for this view.
Bachelor Days
“You mustn’t think I am afraid of my housekeeper. Not at all. I frequently meet her on the stairs, and give her some such order as “I think—if you don’t mind—I might have breakfast just a little later—er, yes, about eight o’clock, yes, thank you.” Or I ring the bell and say, “I—I—want-my-boots.” We both recognise that it is mine to command and hers to obey. But in the matter of the butter I have let things slide, until the position is rapidly becoming an untenable one. Yet I doubt if a man of imagination and feeling could have acted otherwise, given the initial error. However, you shall hear.
There are two sorts of butter, salt and fresh. Now, nobody is so fond of butter as I am; but butter (as I have often told everybody) isn’t butter at all unless it is salt. The other kind is merely an inferior vaseline—the sort of thing you put on the axles of locomotives. Imagine, then, my disgust, when I took my first breakfast in these rooms eleven months ago, to find that the housekeeper had provided me with a large lump of vaseline!
I hate waste in small things. Take care of the little extravagances, I say, and the big ones will take care of themselves. My first thought on viewing this pat of butter was, “It is difficult, but I will eat it.” My second, “But I must tell the housekeeper to get salt butter next time.”
An ordinary-minded person would have stopped there. I went one further. My third thought was this: “Housekeepers are forgetful creatures. If I tell her now, she will never remember. Obviously I had better wait until this pound is just finished and she is about to get in some more. Then will be the time to speak.” So I waited; and it was here that I made my mistake. For it turned out that it was I who was the forgetful creature. And on the fifteenth day I got up to find another large pound of vaseline on my table. The next fortnight went by slowly. I kept my eye on every day, waiting for the moment to come when I could say to the housekeeper, “You will be getting me in some more butter this morning. Would you get salt, as I don’t much like the other?” Wednesday came, and there was just enough left for two days. I would speak on the morrow.
But, alas! on the morrow there was another new pound waiting. I had evidently misjudged the amount.
I forget what happened after that. I fancy I must have been very busy, so that the question of butter escaped me altogether. Sometimes, too, I would go away for a few days and the old butter would be thrown away and the new butter bought, at a time when I had no opportunity of defending myself. However it was, there came a time when I had been three months in my rooms, and was still eating fresh butter; contentedly, to all appearances—in the greatest anguish of soul, as it happened. And at the end of another month I said: “Now, then, I really must do something about this.”
But what could I do? After eating fresh butter for four months without protest I couldn’t possibly tell the housekeeper that I didn’t like it, and would she get salt in future. That would be too absurd. Fancy taking four months to discover a little thing like that! Nor could I pretend that, though I used to adore fresh butter, I had now grown tired of it. I hate instability of character, and I could not lend myself to any such fickleness. I put it to you that either of these courses would have shown deplorable weakness. No, an explanation with the housekeeper was by that time impossible; and if anything was to be done I must do it on my own responsibility. What about buying a pound of salt butter myself, and feeding on it in secret? True, I should have to get rid of a certain portion of fresh every day, but...
I don’t know if you have ever tried to get rid of a certain portion of fresh butter every day, when you are living in a flat at the very top of chambers in London. Drop it out of the window once or twice, and it is an accident. Three times, and it is a coincidence. Four times, and the policeman on duty begins to think that there is more in it (if I may say so) than meets the eye.... But what about the fire, you will ask. Ah, yes; but I could foresee a day when there would be no fire. One has to look ahead.
Besides, as I said, I hate waste. As any cook will tell you, the whole art of housekeeping can be summed up in three words—Watch the butter.
More months passed and more pats of vaseline. Every day made an explanation more hopeless. I had thoughts at one time of an anonymous letter. Something in this style:
“MADAM,—One who is your friend says beware of vaseline. All is discovered. Fly before it is too late. What is it makes the sea so salt? NaCl. Sodium Chloride. THE BLACK HAND”
That would give her the impression, at any rate, that there were two kinds of butter. Confound it all, by what right did she assume without asking that I had a preference for fresh?
I have now been in my rooms nearly a year. Something must be done soon. My breakfasts are becoming a farce. Meals which I used to enjoy I now face as an ordeal. Is there to be no hope for me in the future?
Well, there is a chance? I shall have to wait until July; but with something definite in view I am content to wait.
In July I hope to go to Switzerland for a month. Two days before returning home I shall write to my housekeeper. Having announced the day of my return, and given one or two instructions, I shall refer briefly to the pleasant holiday which I have been enjoying. I shall remark perhaps on the grandeur of the mountains and the smiling beauty of the valleys, I may mention the area in square miles of the country....
And I shall dwell upon the habits of the native.
“... They live (I shall write) in extraordinary simplicity, chiefly upon the products of their farms. Their butter is the most delightful I have ever tried. It is a little salt to the taste, but after four weeks of it I begin to feel that I shall never be able to do without salt butter again! No doubt, as made in London it would be different from this, but I really think I must give it a trial. So when you are ordering the things I mentioned for me, will you ask for salt butter....”
And if that fails there remains only the one consolation. In three years my lease is up. I shall take a new flat somewhere, and on the very first day I shall have a word with the new housekeeper.
“By the way,” I shall say, “about the butter....”
The Washing
Of course, it is quite possible to marry for love, but I suspect that a good many bachelors marry so that they may not have to bother about the washing any more. That, anyhow, will be one of the reasons with me. “I offer you,” I shall say, “my hand and heart—and the washing; and, oh, do see that six tablecloths and my footer shorts don’t get sent every week.”
We affect Hampstead for some reason. Every week a number of shirts and things goes all the way out to Hampstead and back. I once sent a Panama to Paris to be cleaned, and for quite a year afterwards I used to lead the conversation round to travel, and then come out with, “Ah, I well remember when my Panama was in Paris....” So now, when I am asked at a dance, “Do you know Hampstead at all?” I reply, “Well, I only know it slightly myself; but my collars spend about half the year there. They are in with all the best people.”
I can believe that I am not popular in Hampstead, for I give my laundress a lot of trouble. Take a little thing like handkerchiefs. My rooms, as I have mentioned, are at the very top of the building, and there is no lift. Usually I wait till I am just out into the street before I discover that I have forgotten my handkerchief. It is quite impossible to climb all the stairs again, so I go and buy one for the day. This happens about three times a week. The result is that nearly all my handkerchiefs are single ones—there are no litters of twelve, no twins even, or triplets. Now when you have a lot of strangers in a drawer like this, with no family ties (or anything) to keep them together, what wonder if they gradually drift away from each other?
My laundress does her best for them. She works a sort of birthmark in red cotton in the corner of each, so that she shall know them again. When I saw it first I was frightened. It looked like the password of some secret society.
“Are there many aliens in Hampstead?” I asked the housekeeper.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, look here, what I found on my handkerchief. That’s a secret signal of some sort, you know, that’s what it is. I shall get mixed up in some kind of anarchist row before I know where I am. Will you arrange about getting my clothes washed somewhere else, please?”
“That’s because you haven’t got your name on it. She must mark them somehow.”
“Then, why doesn’t she mark them with my name? So much simpler.”
“It isn’t her business to mark your clothes,” said the housekeeper.
That, I suppose, is true; but it seems to me that she is giving us both a lot of unnecessary trouble. Every week I pick out this decorative design with a penknife, and every week she works it in again. When you consider the time and the red cotton wasted it becomes clear that a sixpenny bottle of marking ink and a quill pen would be cheaper to her in the long run.
But she has a weakness for red cotton. The holes in the handkerchiefs she works round with it—I never quite understand why. To call my attention to them, perhaps, and to prevent me from falling through. Or else to say, “You did this. I only washed up to the red, so it can’t be my fault.”
If I were married and had a house of my own, there would be no man below; consequently he wouldn’t wear the absurd collars he does. I get about two of them a week (so even red cotton is not infallible); and if they were the right size and a decent shape I shouldn’t grumble so much. But I do object to my collars mixing in town with these extraordinary things of his. At Hampstead, it may be, they have to meet on terms of equality, more or less; force of circumstances throws them together a good deal. But in town no collar of mine could be expected to keep up the acquaintance. “You knew me in the bath,” I can imagine one of his monstrosities saying; and, “When I am in the bath I shall know you again,” would be the dignified reply of my “16-Golf.”
Collars trouble me a good deal one way or another. Whenever I buy a new dozen, all the others seem suddenly to have become old-fashioned in shape, and of the wrong size. Nothing will induce me to wear one of them again. They get put away in boxes. Covered with dust, they lie forgotten.
Forgotten, did I say? No. The housekeeper finds them and sends them to the wash. About a month later she finds them again. She is always finding clothes which have been discarded for ever, and sending them to the wash.
The mistake is, that we have not yet come to an agreement as to what really is to go to the wash, and what isn’t. There is a tacit understanding that everything on the floor on Monday morning is intended for Hampstead. The floor is the linen-basket. It seemed a good idea at the time, but it has its faults. Things gets on to the floor somehow, which were never meant for the north-west—blankets, and parts of a tweed suit, and sofa cushions. Things have a mysterious way of dropping. Half-a-dozen pairs of white flannel trousers dropped from a shelf one December. A pair of footer shorts used to go every week—a pair which I would carefully put down to take the bath water when I had finished with it. I wonder what those shorts thought they were doing. Probably they quite fancied themselves at football, and boasted about the goals they shot to companions whom they met at Hampstead.
“You’re always here!” a pair of local wanderers would say.
“My dear man, I play so hard, I don’t care how dirty I get.”
The irony of it!
But, worst of all, the laundry-book. Every week the housekeeper says to me, “Would you pay your book now, as it’s been owing for a month?” And every week I pay. That sounds absurd, but I swear it’s true. Or else the weeks go very quickly.
And such amounts! Great ninepences for a counterpane or a tablecloth or a white tie. Immense numbers of handkerchiefs, counting (apparently) twelve as thirteen. Quaint hieroglyphics, which don’t mean anything but seem to get added into the price. And always that little postscript, “As this has been owing for a month, we must request....”
Taking Stock
Beatrice has been spring-cleaning me to-day, or rather my clothes. I said, wasn’t it rather early for it, as none of the birds were singing properly yet, and she had much better wait till next year; but no, she would do it now. Beatrice is my sister-in-law, and she said—— Well, I forget what she did say, but she took a whole bundle of things away with her in a cab; and I know John will be wearing that purple shirt of mine to-morrow. As a matter of fact, it was a perfectly new one, and I was only waiting till Lent was over.
Beatrice said the things were all lying about anyhow, and how I ever found anything to put on she didn’t know; but I could have told her that they were all arranged on a symmetrical plan of my own. Beatrice doesn’t understand the symmetry of a bachelor’s mind. I like a collar in each drawer, and then, whatever drawer you open, there’s a collar ready for you. Beatrice puts them all in one drawer, and then if you’re in a hurry, and open the wrong drawer by mistake, you probably go up to the office in two waistcoats and no collar at all. That would be very awkward.
Beatrice actually wanted a braces drawer (if she hadn’t married John I should never let her talk to me about braces), but I explained that I had only one pair, and was wearing those, so that it would be absurd. I expect she wanted me to think that John had two pairs. All I can say, is, that, if he has, he ought to be above taking my best shirt....
I don’t think the waistcoat drawer will be a success. There are twenty-three of them, and some of them don’t blend at all well. Twenty-three in one drawer—you know there are bound to be disputes. I see William has got to the top already. Ah! he was a fine fellow, the first I ever had. I don’t quite know how to describe him, but in colour he was emerald green, with bits of red silk peeping through. Sort of open-work, you know, only where you would expect to see me there was more of William. I wore him at Beatrice’s wedding. He would come. Only he wouldn’t let me into the vestry. I wanted to sign my name; all the others were. I have never worn him since that day, but Beatrice has fished him out, and now he lies on the very top of the drawer.
Of course it’s awfully good of Beatrice to take so much trouble about my clothes, and I’m extremely grateful, and after all she did marry my brother John; but I think sometimes she—— Well, here’s a case. You know, when you have twenty-three waistcoats you perhaps run a bit short of—of other things. So, naturally, the few you have got left, you—— Well, Beatrice took them all away, and said that as I couldn’t possibly wear them again she’d cut them up for house-cloths. And really—half-way between winter and summer is a very awkward time for restocking. But I suppose it is going to be warmer now?
House-cloths! I bet John has a go at them first.
Beatrice found what they call in the profession a “morning-coat and vest” under the bed, and said that she would take it away and sell it for me. I like the way she “finds” things which I have been keeping for years under the bed. It is absurd to talk about “finding” anything in a small flat, because, of course, it’s there all the time: but Beatrice thought that I ought to be grateful to her for the discovery, so I pretended I was. She said she would get at least half-a-crown for it; but I said I would rather have the coat. However, it turned out that I wasn’t even to have had the half-crown....
I used to have thirty pairs of old white gloves in a drawer. I would take them out sometimes, and stroke them affectionately, and say, “Ah, yes, those were the ones I wore at that absolutely ripping dance when I first met Cynthia, and we had supper together. You can see where I spilt the ice pudding.” Or—“This was that Hunt Ball, when I knew nobody and danced with Hildegarde all the time. She wore black; just look at them now.” Well, Beatrice had that drawer out pretty quick. And now they are on their way to Perth or Paris, or wherever it is; except Hildegarde’s pair, which will just do for the girl when she cleans the grates. I expect she really will get them you know; because John doesn’t dance.
You know, you mustn’t make too much fun of Beatrice; she has ripping ideas sometimes. She filled a “summer-trunk” for me—a trunk full of all the clothes I am going to want in the summer. She started with a tennis-racquet (which, strictly speaking, isn’t clothes at all), and went on with some of the jolliest light waistcoats you ever saw; it made me quite hot to look at them. Well, now, that’s really a good idea so far as it goes. But what will happen when the summer does come? Why, we shall have to go through the whole business all over again. And who’ll arrange the winter-trunk? Beatrice. And who’ll get the pink pyjamas and the green socks that there’s really no room for, dear? Why, John.
Yet I am sorry for John. He was once as I am. What a life is his now. Beatrice is a dear, and I will allow no one to say a word against her, but she doesn’t understand that trousers must be folded, not hung; that a collar which has once been a collar can never be opened out and turned into a cuff (supposing one wore cuffs); and that a school eleven blazer, even if it happens to be pink, must not be cut down into a dressing-jacket for the little one. Poor John! Yes, I am glad now that he has that shirt of mine. It is perhaps a little too bright for his complexion, perhaps he has not quite the air to carry it off; but I am glad that it is his. Now I think of it I have a tie and a pair of socks that would go well with it; and even William—can I part with William?—yes, he shall have William. Oh, I see that I must be kind to John.
Dear Beatrice! I wonder when I shall have everything straight again.
Medes and Persians
I have already said that I am not afraid of my housekeeper, so there is no need for me to say it again. There are other motives than fear which prevent a man from arguing with housekeepers; dislike of conversation with his intellectual inferiors may be one, the sporting instinct is certainly another. If one is to play “Medes and Persians” properly, one must be a sportsman about it. Of course, I could say right out to her “Do this,” and she might do it. Or she could say right out to me, “Do that,” and I would reply, “Don’t be absurd.” But that wouldn’t be the game.
As I play it, a “Mede” is a law which she lays down, and to which (after many a struggle) in the end I submit; a “Persian” is a law which I lay down, and to which... after many a struggle... in the end... (when it is too late).... Well, there are many Medes, but so far I have only scored one Persian of note.
The first Mede was established last winter. For many weeks I had opened my bedroom door of a morning to find a small jug of cold water on the mat outside. The thing puzzled me. What do I want with a small jug of cold water, I asked myself, when I have quite enough in the bath as it is? Various happy thoughts occurred to me—as that it was lucky, that it collected the germs, or (who knows?) indicated a wife with five thousand a year—but it was a month before the real solution flashed across my mind. “Perhaps,” I said, “it was hot once. But,” I added, “it must have been a long time ago.”
The discovery upset me a good deal. In the first place, it is annoying suddenly to have all one’s hopes of a rich wife and protection from disease dashed to the ground; in the second, I object to anybody but a relation interfering with my moral character. Here was a comparative stranger trying to instil the habit of early rising into me by leaving shaving-water outside the door at three A.M. Was this a thing to be taken lying down?
Decidedly. So I stayed in bed and ignored the water-jug; save that each morning, as I left my rooms, I gave it a parting sneer. It was gone by the evening, but turned up again all right next day. After a month I began to get angry. My housekeeper was defying me; very well, we would see who could last the longer.
But after two months it was a Mede. Yet I have this triumph over her. That though I take the water in I... pour it into the bath and slip back into bed again. I don’t think she knows that.
Since then there have been many Medes. Little ones as to the position of the chairs; bigger ones as to the number of blankets on the bed. You mustn’t think, though, that I always submit so easily. Sometimes I am firm. In the matter of “Africa Joe” I have been very firm. Here, I know, I have right on my side.
A year ago I was presented with a model of an Irish jolting car (with horse and driver complete), which had been cut out of some sort of black wood. The thing used to stand over my fireplace. Later on I acquired, at different times, a grey hippopotamus (in china) and a black elephant. These I harnessed on in front of the horse; and the whole affair made a very pretty scene, which was known to my friends as “Sunday in the Forest: Africa Joe drives his Family to Church.” Besides all these I had yet another animal—a green frog climbing a cardboard ladder. I leant this against the clock. One had the illusion that the frog was climbing up in order to look at the works—which was particularly pleasing because the clock didn’t go.
Very well. You have the two scenes on the same mantelboard. One, the frog as Bond Street watchmaker and jeweller, and the other (such is Empire), Africa Joe in the heart of the forest. And what does the housekeeper do? If you will believe me, she takes the frog down from the clock and props him up behind the car, just as though he were getting on to it in order to go to church with the others!
Now I do put it to you that this is simply spoiling the picture altogether. Here we have a pleasant domestic episode, such as must occur frequently in the African forests. Black Joe harnesses his horse, elephant, hippopotamus, or what not, and drives his family to the eleven o’clock service. And into this scene of rural simplicity a mere housekeeper elbows her way with irrevelant frogs and ladders!
It is a mystery to me that she cannot see how absurd her contribution is. To begin with, the family is in black (save the hippopotamus, who is in a quiet grey), so is it likely that they would tolerate the presence of a garish green-and-yellow stranger? (More than likely Joe is a churchwarden, and has not only himself to think of.) Then, again, consider the title of the scene: “Africa Joe drives his Family”—not “Africa Joe about to drive.” The horse is trotting, the elephant has one leg uplifted, and even the hippopotamus is not in a position of rest. How then could the frog put a ladder up against a moving cart, and climb in? No; here anyhow was a Mede that must be resisted at all costs. On the question of Africa Joe I would not be dictated to.
But, after re-emphasising my position daily for three weeks, I saw that there was only one thing to do. The frog must be sacrificed to the idea of Empire. So I burnt him.
But it is time I mentioned my one Persian. It was this way. In the winter I used always to dry myself after the bath in front of my sitting-room fire. Now, I know all about refraction, and the difficulty of seeing into a room from outside, and so forth, but this particular room is unusually light, having six large windows along one of its sides. I thought it proper, therefore, to draw down the three end blinds by the fireplace; more especially as the building directly opposite belonged to the Public House Reform Association. In the fierce light that beats from reform associations one cannot be too careful.
Little things like blinds easily escape the memory, and it was obvious that it would be much pleasanter if the housekeeper could be trained always to leave the end three down. The training followed its usual course.
Every morning I found the blinds up and every morning I drew them down and left them there. After a month it seemed impossible that I could ever establish my Persian. But then she forgot somehow; and one day I woke up to find the three blinds down.
By a real stroke of genius I drew them up as soon as my dressing was over. Next morning they were down again. I bathed, dried, dressed and threw them up. She thought it was a Mede, and pulled them down.
But it was a Persian, and, as I pulled them up, I knew that I had scored.
Yet, after all, I am not so sure. For it is now the summer, and I have no fire, and I do not want the blinds left down. And when I pull them up every morning I really want to find them up next morning. But I find them down. So perhaps it really is a Mede. To tell the truth, the distinction between the two is not so clear as it ought to be. I must try to come to some arrangement with the housekeeper about it.
The Cupboard
It was the landlord who first called my attention to the cupboard; I should never have noticed it myself.
“A very useful cupboard you see there,” he said, “I should include that in the fixtures.”
“Indeed,” said I, not at all surprised; for the idea of his taking away the cupboard had not occurred to me.
“You won’t find many rooms in London with a cupboard like that.”
“I suppose not,” I said. “Well, I’ll let you have my decision in a few days. The rent with the cupboard, you say, is——” And I named the price.
“Yes, with the cupboard.”
So that settled the cupboard question.
Settled it so far as it concerned him. For me it was only the beginning. In the year that followed my eyes were opened, so that I learned at last to put the right value on a cupboard. I appreciate now the power of the mind which conceived this thing, the nobility of the great heart which included it among the fixtures. And I am not ungrateful.
You may tell a newly married man by the way he talks of his garden. The pretence is that he grows things there—verbenas and hymantifilums and cinerarias, anything which sounds; but of course one knows that what he really uses it for is to bury in it things which he doesn’t want. Some day I shall have a garden of my own in which to conduct funerals with the best of them; until that day I content myself with my cupboard.
It is marvellous how things lie about and accumulate. Until they are safely in the cupboard we are never quite at ease; they have so much to say outside, and they put themselves just where you want to step, and sometimes they fall on you. Yet even when I have them in the cupboard I am not without moments of regret. For later on I have to open it to introduce companions, and then the sight of some old friend saddens me with the thought of what might have been. “Oh, and I did mean to hang you up over the writing-desk,” I say remorsefully.
I am thinking now of a certain picture—a large portrait of my old headmaster. It lay in a corner for months, waiting to be framed, getting more dingy and dirty every day. For the first few weeks I said to myself, “I must clean that before I send it to the shop. A piece of bread will do it.” Later, “It’s extraordinary how clever these picture people are. You’d think it was hopeless now, but I’ve no doubt, when I take it round to-morrow——”
A month after that somebody trod on it....
Now, then, I ask you—what could I do with it but put it in the cupboard? You cannot give a large photograph of a headmaster, bent across the waistcoat, to a housekeeper, and tell her that you have finished with it. Nor would a dustman make it his business to collect pedagogues along with the usual cabbage stalks. A married man would have buried it under the begonia; but having no garden....
That is my difficulty. For a bachelor in chambers who cannot bury, there should be some other consuming element than fire. In the winter I might possibly have burnt it is small quantities—Monday the head, Tuesday the watch-chain—but in the summer what does one do with it? And what does one do with the thousands of other things which have had their day—the old magazines, letters, papers, collars, chair legs, broken cups? You may say that, with the co-operation of my housekeeper, a firmer line could be adopted towards some of them. Perhaps so; but, alas! she is a willing accessory to my weakness. I fancy that once, a long time ago, she must have thrown away a priceless MS. in an old waistcoat; now she takes no risks with either. In principle it is a virtue; in practice I think I would chance it.
It is a big cupboard; you wouldn’t find many rooms in London with a cupboard like that; and it is included in the fixtures. Yet in the ordinary way, I suppose, I could not go on putting things in for ever. One day, however, I discovered that a family of mice had heard of it too. At first I was horrified. Then I saw that it was all for the best; they might help me to get rid of things. In a week they had eaten three pages of a nautical almanac; interesting pages which would be of real help to a married man at sea who wished to find the latitude by means of two fixed stars, but which, to a bachelor on the fourth floor, were valueless.
The housekeeper missed the point. She went so far as to buy me an extremely patent mousetrap. It was a silly trap, because none of the mice knew how to work it, although I baited it once with a cold poached egg. It is not for us to say what our humbler brethren should like and dislike; we can only discover by trial and error. It occurred to me that, if they did like cold poached eggs, I should be able to keep on good terms with them, for I generally had one over of a morning. However, it turned out that they preferred a vegetable diet—almanacs and such....
The cupboard is nearly full. I don’t usually open it to visitors, but perhaps you would care to look inside for a moment?
That was once a top-hat. What do you do with your old top-hats? Ah, yes, but then I only have a housekeeper here at present.... That is a really good pair of boots, only it’s too small.... All that paper over there? Manuscript.... Well, you see it might be valuable one day....
Broken batting glove. Brown paper—I always keep brown paper, it’s useful if you’re sending off a parcel. Daily Mail war map. Paint-pot—doesn’t belong to me really, but it was left behind, and I got tired of kicking it over. Old letters—all the same handwriting, bills probably....
Ah, no, they are not bills, you mustn’t look at those. (I didn’t know they were there—I swear I didn’t. I thought I had burnt them.) Of course I see now that she was quite right.... Yes, that was the very sweet one where she... well, I knew even then that... I mean I’m not complaining at all, we had a very jolly time....
Still, if it had been a little different—if that last letter.... Well, I might by now have had a garden of my own in which to have buried all this rubbish.
The Post Bag
The other day I received a letter from some very old friends of mine who live in Queen Victoria Street.
Memo from Messrs Robinson, Cigar Shippers
MY DEAR SIR,—We have been very anxious at not having heard from you for nearly a year. We trust that you are in good health and that no illness or bereavement has kept you from writing to us. As you know, it is our one ambition to satisfy you in the matter of cigars, and your long silence on the subject has naturally made us apprehensive. Until we hear from you, however, we shall refuse to believe that the last lot you had from us were fatal.
Write to us frankly on the subject. How did you like the cigars we sent you last Christmas? Were they brown enough? Did they smoke to a finish strongly? One third shipper, who went to Havana especially to select this lot for you, writes us that in this respect they were fit for an ambassador or (we may add) an actor manager. What is it, then, that you are keeping back from us? Perhaps you could not light them? If this was the case you should have written to us before, and we would either have sent you others of a more porous quality or forwarded you our special gimlet, with which you could have brought about the necessary draught. Lay bare your heart to us about these cigars. Do you mind the green spots?
A connoisseur like yourself will, of course, understand that, though we guarantee that all the cigars sent out by us can be smoked, yet the quality of the cigar must necessarily vary with the price. This being so, perhaps you would care to try a slightly higher-priced cigar this time. We have referred to our books and we see that last year we had the pleasure of sending you a box of our famous Flor di Cabajo at 8s. 6d. the hundred. A nicer-coloured cigar is the Blanco Capello at 9s. 6d.; but we are hoping this Christmas that you will see your way to giving our celebrated Pompadoros, at £5 the hundred, a trial. They have all the features of the Cabajo which you approved, together with a breadth and charm of flavour of their own. May we send you a box of these?
Our other special lines are:
The I am Coming—a spirited young cigar at 7s. 6d. the hundred, of which we enclose a sample.
The Mañana—prompt and impressive—10s. the hundred. (Note.—This cigar has a band.)
The There and Back—a good persevering cigar. Only 10s. 6d. Never comes undone.
However we are quite sure that none of these will appeal to such a fastidious palate as yours must be by now, and that we may confidently rely on your order for a box of Pompadoros.
We may say that if you should unfortunately have completely lost your taste for cigars we shall be happy to send a box to any friend of yours. Nothing could make a more acceptable present, and nothing would endear your friend or his relatives to you so completely.
Now please write to us and tell us what you feel about it. We desire to make friends of our customers; we do not wish our business to be a mere commercial undertaking. Talk to us as freely as you would to your old college chum or fellow-clubman. We insist on being of service to you. Hoping to hear from you within a day or two, we are, etc.,
ROBINSON & Co.
I replied at once:
Memo from Me
DEAR OLD FRIEND,—A thousand thanks for your sympathetic letter, and the book with the pictures. Upon my word, I don’t know which of the cigars I like best; they all look so jolly. Are they photographs or water-colours? I mean, are they really as brown as that? I like the tall, well set-up one on page 7. I see you say that it smokes strongly to a finish. That is all very well, Oswald, but what I want to know is, Does it hang the beginning at all? Some of these cigars with a strong finish are very slow forward, you know.
Many thanks for the sample. Bless you, Rupert, I didn’t mind the green spots. What do they mean? That the cigar isn’t quite ripe yet, I suppose. But I think you overdo the light brown spots. Or are they lucky, like those little strangers in the tea?
Yes, I think I must have some of your Pompadoros. Send a box at Christmas to Mr Smithson, of 199 Cornhill, with our love—yours and mine and the third shipper’s. I’ll pay. Not at all, Percy, it’s a pleasure. He sent me some last Christmas; as it happened, I left ’em in the train before I had smoked one; but that wasn’t his fault, was it? I’ll get some for myself later on, if I may. You won’t mind waiting?
Dear old soul, you make a mistake when you say I had some cigars from you last year. I assure you I’ve never heard of your name till to-day. That was why I didn’t write on your birthday. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?
Now it is your turn to write. Tell me all about yourself, and your children, and the third shipper, and the light brown spots and everything. Good-bye! Your very loving college chum.
The correspondence concluded thus:
DEAR SIR,—We have received your esteemed order, which shall be promptly executed. Though the Pompadoros will not be despatched to your friend till Christmas, they are now being selected and will be put aside to cool.
We have referred again to our books and find that a box of our celebrated young Cabajos was indeed despatched to your address last year, on the advice of Mr Smithson, of 199 Cornhill. This was why we were so anxious at your long silence. We are, etc.,
ROBINSON & Co.
DEAR OLD SPORT,—I am afraid you misunderstood my last letter. The Pompadoros are for myself; it was a hundred I am Comings which I wanted for my friend Mr Smithson. I must tell you a funny thing about him; as a friend of both of us you will be interested. He collects cigar bands! I have no use for them myself; so, if it isn’t troubling you, would you send the Pompadoro bands to him, as the I am Comings haven’t any of their own? You might put them on the cigars to save packing. Ever your devoted fellow-clubman.
Going Out
Alone, I can get through an At Home with a certain amount of credit. No doubt, I make mistakes; no doubt people look at me and say: “Who is that person sitting all by himself in the corner, and keeping on eating muffins?” but at any rate I can make the function a tolerable one. When, however, I flutter in under the wing of my sister-in-law, with my hair nicely brushed and my tie pulled straight (she having held a review on the doorstep), then it is another matter altogether. It is then that I feel how necessary it is to say the right thing. Beatrice has pretty ears, but they are long-distance ones. We drifted apart immediately but I was sure she was listening.
I found myself introduced to a tall, athletic-looking girl.
“There’s a great crowd, isn’t there?” I said. “Can I find you some tea, or anything?”
“Oh, please,” she said, with a smile.
I noted the smile, and thanked heaven that I had read my Lady Grove. In the ordinary way I say to strangers: “Will you take a dish of tea with me?” but just in time Lady Grove had warned me that this was wrong. Left to myself I hit upon the word “find.” “Can I find you some tea?” It gives the idea of pursuit. And the “or anything” rounds it off well—as much as to say, “If I should happen to come back with a sardine on toast, don’t blame me.”
I found some tea after a long struggle, but by that time I had lost the athlete. It was a pity, because I was going to have talked to her about Surrey’s victory over Kent at ladies’ hockey. I don’t know anything about hockey, but it’s obvious that Surrey must play Kent some time, and it would be an even chance that Surrey would win. The good conversationalist takes risks cheerfully.
Well, the international having disappeared, I was going to drink the tea myself, when I caught Beatrice’s eye on me.
“Will you have some tea?” I said to my neighbour.
“I think a little coffee, thank you.”
“Certainly.”
I pressed the tea into the hand of a retired colonel, and hurried off. Now that shows you. Alone, I should have quoted The Lancet on coffee microbes, and insisted on her having my cup of tea. This would have led us easily and naturally to a conversation on drinks and modern journalism. We should have become friends. I should have had an invitation from her mother to lunch; and I should have smoked two of her father’s best cigars.
As it was I said “Certainly,” fetched the coffee, coughed, and observed that there was rather a crowd. She said “Yes” and turned away to somebody else. Two good cigars thrown away because of Beatrice!
I was slowly recovering from my loss when Beatrice herself came up to say that she wanted to introduce me to a very nice girl called Jane something. In the ordinary way, very nice girls aren’t called Jane anything, so here evidently was something exceptional. I buttoned my coat boldly, and followed her, unbuttoning it nervously on the way.
“Here he is,” she said, and left us.
This is what they call introducing.
“How do you do?” I started.
“I’ve heard such a lot about you,” began Jane brightly.
I never know what to say to that. There must be a right answer, if only Lady Grove would tell us. As it was I said “Thank you.”
That felt wrong, so I added, “So have I.”
“About you,” I explained hurriedly. To myself I said, “You know you’re not really carrying this off well. It’s idle to pretend that you are.”
“What have you heard, I wonder?” beamed Jane.
Only that her name was Jane something.
“Ah!” I said.
“Oh, you must tell me!”
“I mean, I’ve heard friends of yours mention your name.”
“Oh,” she said disappointedly, “I thought you meant——”
“But, of course, everybody has heard of Jane—h’r’r’m—of Miss—er, um—I think my sister-in-law—yes, thank you, we have a train to catch, oh, must you really go?—er—good-bye.”
I staggered away in pursuit of Beatrice. She dragged me up to an American girl, as I judged her.
“Here he is,” she said, and passed on.
“So glad to make your acquaintance,” said the American.
There is no answer to that, I know. I ignored it altogether, and said:
“Have you seen the Budget?”
“No. What’s that?”
“Oh, you must see that.”
“I will. We’ll go to-morrow. Where is it?”
I don’t think Americans see as much of Addison Road as they ought to. I gave the usual guide-book directions for getting there, and was just beginning to be interested when I saw Beatrice’s inquiring look. “Are you behaving nicely?” it said. I passed on hastily.
I was very lonely for a while after that. Three times I got a plate of cucumber sandwiches safely into a corner, and three times a sisterly eye dragged us out again. After the third failure I saw that it was hopeless, so I wandered about and tried to decide which was the ugliest hat in the room. A man is the only possible judge in a competition of that sort. A woman lets herself be prejudiced by such facts as that it is so fashionable, or that she saw one just like it in Bond Street, my dear, at five guineas.
I had narrowed the competitors down to five, two of which were, on form, certain for a place, when I turned round and saw, in a corner behind me—
(I don’t know if you will believe me)—
A man with a plate of cucumber sandwiches!
I rubbed my eyes in amazement. A man... at an At Home... sitting down and eating cucum—— Why, where was his sister-in-law?
There was only one thing to be done. The favourite in my competition (green, pink hoops) was disengaged for the moment. I went up to the man, took him by the arm, and dragged him away from his corner. He still held the plate in his hand, and I helped myself to a sandwich. “Must introduce you,” I whispered in his ear. “Famous prize-winner.” We pushed our way up to the lady.
“Here he is,” I said.
And I looked round triumphantly for Beatrice.
The Sidesman
For what seemed weeks, but was the last two days,
I’d pottered up and down that blessed baize—
Sorting out aunts in browns and aunts in greys.
For what seemed always, but was only twice
(Looking, if I may say so, rather nice),
I’d lent a hand with hymn-sheets and with rice.
Once more the dear old bells ring out; once more
I linger, pink but anxious, at the door—
This is the third time. Here she comes! Oh, lor’!
Something on these occasions goes and thrills
My fancy waistcoat at the first “I will’s”;
It can’t be hopeless love—it must be chills.
Something—a sinking feeling—round the heart
Clutches me closely from the very start,
And tells me I am fairly in the cart.
Something.... And yet the fiercest unconcern
So masks me that the vergers never learn
How underneath my chest I yearn and yearn.
“Wilt thou?” And (there you are!) profoundly stirred,
A gleam of hope strikes through me—wild, absurd...
“No luck!” I sigh. “He’s on it like a bird.”
“I, Edward John”—and lonely at the back
I wish my name were Edward; I could hack
Myself that I was never christened Jack.
“I, Amabel (O Amabel!) take thee”—
I groan, and give profoundly at the knee:
“There, but for someone else,” I say, “goes Me.”
Fair friends o’ mine, what is it tries to shove
My heart into my watch-chain, as above?
It can’t be hopeless chills, it must be love.
Yet not for Amabel. No weight of care
Clogs me as I pursue that happy pair
Into the vestry and admire them there;
Save this: I take the clergyman aside—
“Tell me,” I whisper—“you’re the third I’ve tried—
Do I, or do I not, embrace the bride?”
An Awkward Case
This is one of those really difficult cases (being the seventh of the quarter) where the editor of The Perfect Lady simply has to ask his readers what A. should have done. The sort of reply that will be given is; “A. should have carried it off easily.” Remarks like that are unhesitatingly included among the “Answers adjudged idiotic.”
The thing happened in the train, while I was returning to town after a couple of nights in the country. The scene—an empty carriage, myself in one corner. On the seat opposite lay my dressing-case. I had unlocked it in order to take out a book, and was deep in this when we stopped at a wayside station. The opening of the door woke me suddenly; somebody was daring to get into my compartment. Luckily one only—a girl.
Women always wish to travel with their backs to the engine; in the event of an accident you don’t have so far to go. She sat down next to my bag. Naturally I jumped up (full of politeness), seized the handle, and swung the thing up on to the rack.
That, at least, was the idea. It was carried out literally, but not figuratively. The bag went up beautifully; only—on its way it opened, and the contents showered down upon the seats, the floor, and—yes, even upon her....
The contents....
This story shows upon what small accidents great events turn. If I had only been going instead of coming back! A couple of clean shirts, a few snow-white collars, a pair of sky-blue pyjamas perfectly creased, socks and handkerchiefs neatly folded—one would not have minded all these being thrown before a stranger; at least, not so much. Going, too, the brushes and things would have been in their proper compartments; they would have swung up on to the rack. I feel convinced that, if the thing had happened going, I should have carried it off all right. We should have laughed together, we should have told each other of similar accidents which had happened to friends, and we should have then drifted into a general conversation about the weather. Going....
But coming back! It was an early train, and I had packed hurriedly. The brushes and things had been put in anyhow, and they came out anyhow. There was an absurd piece of shaving soap wrapped up in one of “An Englishman’s Letters.” (I always think that things wrapped up like that look so horrible.) There was a shaving-brush in a pink piece of Globe lying on the sky-blue pyjamas (and the pyjamas all anyhow). Then the collars. I do think a dirty collar... besides I had screwed them up tightly in order to get them in.... Of course she wouldn’t understand that....
Socks. Now this is too awful. I don’t know if I can mention this. Well—well then, they had two wretched sock-suspenders attached to them. Odd ones, as I live—black and pink. You see, I had got up in a hurry, and...
Handkerchiefs. They had been shoved into the pumps. I had been pressed for space, and...
You know, there were about thirty-nine different things that I wanted to explain to her. In novels the hero is always throwing upon the heroine an expressive glance, full of meaning. That is what I wanted. There is probably, if one only knew it, a shrug, a wave of the hand, which really does express the fact that you were coming and not going, and took in The Times yourself, and had packed in a hurry, and...
If I could only have handed a Statement to the Press....
And I have yet to mention the unkindest blow of all. The evening clothes themselves, the only presentable things, stayed in the bag. If they had come out too, then I might have done something. I should have left them to the last—conspicuous upon the floor. Then I should have picked them up slowly, examined them, and nodded at the braid on the trousers as if to say, “Hang it, that’s the sort of man I am really.” I think, if they had come out too, I could still have carried the thing off....
What should A. do? Should he say to the girl, “Close your eyes and count twenty, and see what somebody’s brought you,” and then, while she was not looking, push the clothes under the seat? Should he be quite calm, and, stretching in front of her, say, “My sock, I think,” or politely, “Perhaps you would care to look at a piece of The Daily Mail?” Should he disown the thing altogether? “I’m very sorry. Let me put them back for you.” That would have been a master-stroke.
Or should he, to divert attention, pull the alarm, and pay his five pounds like a man?
But what did A. do?
Alas! He did nothing heroic. For one moment he stood there; then he pulled down the bag, fell on his knees, and began throwing the things in madly. He picked up the bag, locked it, and put it on the rack.
Then he turned to the girl. Now he was going to have spoken to her. An apology, a laugh—yes, even now he might have carried it off.
Only he happened to look up... and he saw above her head the cord of his pyjamas dangling over the edge of the rack.
Reverie
Dear Amaryllis,—(may I call you that?
Seeing I do not know your proper name;
And if I did, it might be something dull—
Like Madge). I offer you my broken heart,
Knowing that if you do not want the thing
You will not hesitate to mention it:
Dear Amaryllis, will you please be mine?
We met, ’twas at a dance, ten days ago;
And after sundry smiles and bows from me,
And other rather weary smiles from you,
And certain necessary calculations,
We hit at last upon the second extra,
And made an assignation for the same.
“I shall be at this corner here,” you said:
And I “Right O” or words to that effect.
But when the dance came round we both were tired,
So sat it out instead beneath a palm
(Which probably was just as well for you,
And since I love you, just as well for me).
We talked, but what about I can’t remember—
Save this: that you were rather keen on golf;
That I had never been to Scarborough;
And both of us thought well of Bernard Shaw.
We talked; but all the time I looked at you,
And wondered much what inspiration led
Your nose to tilt at just that perfect angle;
And wondered how on earth you did your hair;
And why your eyes were blue, when it was black;
And why—a hundred other different things.
Until at last, another dance beginning,
You left me lonely; whereupon I went
Back to the supper-room, and filled a glass
And drank, and lit a cigarette, and sighed,
And asked the waiter had he been in love,
And told the waiter, Yes, I am in love,
And gave him twopence, and went home to bed.
Am I in love? Well, no, I hardly think so.
For one, I’m much too happy as I am;
For two, I shall forget you by to-morrow;
For three, I do not care about your friends,
The men you danced with—bounders, all of them;
For four and five and six and all the rest,
I’m fairly sure we shall not meet again.
Not that I mind. No, as I said before,
I’m very much too happy as I am.
Besides, I shall forget you by to-morrow.
Then why this letter? Well, two incidents
Have led me to it. Here you have them both.
First, then, that sitting in my rooms last week,
Sitting and smoking, thinking—not of you,
Not altogether, but of many things,
Politics, football, dinner and tobacco—
Quite suddenly, this thought occurred to me:
“By Jove, I wish I had a little dog,
A terrier, an Irish terrier,
I wonder if the landlord would object.”
And thinking thus, I rose and sighed, and bent
To take my boots off. Had a mouse appeared
I could have loved it in my loneliness.
Had but the humblest cockroach shown his head,
I think I would have said “Good-night” to it.
This too (I give it you for what it’s worth):
Next morning, passing through St James’s Park,
A morning for the gods, all blue and white,
I heard what, strictly, should have been a skylark,
(But, probably, was quite a common bird)
Offering up its very soul to heaven.
Then suddenly I stopped and cried, “Oh, Lord!
Oh, Lord!” I cried, “I wish it were the spring.”
So there you have it. Now it’s off my chest.
Just for one moment you upset me slightly,
Disturbed my usual calm serenity,
Got in my head, and set me vainly wishing
For April, and the country, and one other...
But that is over. I am whole again.
Good-bye! I shall not send this letter now.
I find I have forgotten you already.
Retrospect
Looking back on the past year I can see that it has been (as usual) one of noble endeavour—frequently frustrated, but invariably well meant. In accordance with the custom of the newspapers I have set down here its record of achievement in the different provinces of art, bicycling and the like; and I offer this to the public in full confidence of its sympathy and appreciation.
ART
We have had our photographs taken for the first time for many years, and if the result isn’t art I don’t know what is. The photographer said: “Would you like them en silhouette or straight-fronted?” We said in French that we had thought of carte-de-visite. The result is a sort of three-quarter face with one wing forward, and the man insists that we must have looked like that once. The only other achievement in the world of art is a moleskin waistcoat of some distinction. I had no idea that moles were that colour, but the man swore that when you had taken the feathers out of them you found quite a different coloured skin underneath. As he has been there and I haven’t, I cannot argue with him. Altogether a good year for art.
BICYCLING
At the beginning of the year our eldest brother sold our bicycle for a sovereign and gave the sovereign to our second brother. A bad year for bicycling therefore.
SCIENCE
(I thought for the moment science began with a C, which is why it comes in here.)
Several important discoveries have been made in the year. For instance, the small white raspberries in tapioca pudding are meant to be there; you always thought that they had got in from some other dish, when the cook wasn’t looking. And when your watch gains a foot you don’t put the regulator to A because it is advancing, but to R because you want to retard it. (Or else the other way round—I have forgotten again. Anyhow, I found out that I had been doing it wrong.) Another discovery made in the early part of the year was the meaning of the phrase “Bank Rate Unchanged,” but that is too technical to explain here. A record year for science.
FINANCE
The old system of keeping no accounts and never filling in the counterfoils of cheques again answered admirably.
GAMES
The past year marks an epoch in the history of games. We have retired from football and are not the cricketer we were; but, on the other hand, we have made immense strides in croquet. We improve slowly at billiards. In November we potted the red rather neatly, and everybody said, “There’s no getting away from that—he must have meant it.” As a matter of fact... but it would spoil it to explain. In the latter part of the year we could have shown you a trick or two at tennis. That is all, except that I can no longer jump the ancestral herbaceous border, as the gardener keeps on discovering.
HYDROSTATICS
Archimedes’ Principle—that if a heavy body gets into a cold bath quickly an equal amount of water gets out on to the mat quickly—was demonstrated daily, to the complete dissatisfaction of the man on the floor below, who, however, made a still more important discovery in this interesting branch of dynamics—viz. that water does not find its own level, but prefers something about ten feet lower down.
INDIGO
Indigo has maintained its status quo throughout the year. There have been occasions during this time when we had almost decided to be an Indigo planter in Assam rather than stick it in this beastly country. On each occasion the weather cleared just before we had packed the sandwiches.
MUSIC
Space and time alike fail us to tell of our notable triumphs upon the pianola in the year that has just elapsed. We have played the Sonata Appassionata and “Shuffling Jasper” with equal verve and chiaroscuro. The fruitness and nutty flavour of our rendering of Remorse—Valse Tzigane, No. 1,192,999, kindly return by the end of the month—will never be forgotten. In July one of the black notes stuck down and refused to budge for some time; but we got it up at last with a potted-meat opener. I say, I don’t think much of Liszt. He has pace and staying power and is a good strider; quite a useful man over timber he might be; but he is a little lacking in—what shall I say, Adagio con molto expressione ma non troppo, if you know what I mean.
PETS
Walter, the white mouse, perished in May. The doctor said it was too much exercise on an empty—well, he put it rather crudely. You know what doctors are. And you know how white mice will exercise. The tailor said Walter was too small to make up into a white waistcoat, even an evening one, and that he would be hopeless as a tie. I advertised for a white mole, but they seem to be rare. Altogether it was a sad year for pets.
THOUGHT
Perhaps the past year was, above all, a year for thought. To the pursuit of thought we devoted many days in many positions. Some people would find it impossible to think properly immediately after breakfast but we proved that, given a sufficiently comfortable chair, the impossible could be achieved, that one could be as thoughtfully busy in the morning as in the afternoon.
XYLONITE
We did not do any of this.
YCLEPT
We were yclept every morning punctually at eight (and arose punctually at nine thirty) throughout the year.
ZEUGMA
I suppose you thought I couldn’t do X. Y. Z. Well, this is just to show you. In the ordinary way, of course, I should have referred to the zeugma under music. We ordered a low-strung one last month, but it has not yet been delivered.
So much for my record of the past year. Reading it over now I feel that I have not spent the last twelve months in vain. At the end of them I can say truthfully that I am, if not a year wiser, at least a year older, a year fatter. And still a happy bachelor.
Letters to Charles
I
DEAR CHARLES,—Can you lend me a penny? I have just been making up my accounts for the day (the idea occurred to me suddenly; it’s a thing I have never done before) and I am seven shillings and a penny out. The seven shillings I don’t mind, but the penny worries me dreadfully. I think that if you lent me another one I should gradually be able to settle down again.
I lie when I say I have never made up accounts before—I did it on one memorable occasion years and years ago. When John and I were at school we had certain expenses, such as subscriptions to the mission and to various house competitions, train fares, masters’ wedding presents, haircutting and so on, which did not come out of our pocket money or tips, but which were specially sent to us from home. To save the trouble of this we were given, at the beginning of one term, five pounds to see us through all these expenses, with the understanding that we were to account for it afterwards.
“Afterwards” meant the holidays, which (to begin with) were a long way off. As they came nearer we consoled ourselves with the thought that the required “account” was a mere formality which would probably not be insisted upon; the actual money had been spent—which after all was the main thing, the idea of the whole proceeding, so to say. To wish to linger over the details of its gradual dissolution would be morbid. However to our horror a day did come in the holidays when we were peremptorily ordered to provide our account and to hand over the balance.
There is, as you know, Charles, never any difficulty about providing an account—the trouble is to hand over the balance. In our case the balance was exactly nothing, we had not a penny in our pockets. The money had been spent all right, an unusual number of masters having been married that term (some of them for the third or fourth time in the year), but we could not possibly make up our accounts so that to a farthing the two sides balanced. It would look so unnatural. How could we march solemnly into the library and say “By a perfectly amazing coincidence the money you gave us was just precisely the amount which the circumstances demanded. There is no balance.”
It was a very hot afternoon, and we were unhappy. The matter of the accounts was not the only shadow which hung over us. John had a fox terrier—so had I; but whereas my dog was a Little Englander, and stayed at home, John’s was an Imperialist, who roamed the country. He had disappeared again the night before, and had been observed in the morning in a village three miles away. Thither toiled John in search of him that hot afternoon, his heart torn between his love for his dog and his duty to his parents. And Rags and I remained at home to see what we could make of finance.
We made but little of it. The more I thought of it, the more impossible it seemed to say that every penny (no more, no less) of the five pounds had been spent properly. One idea I had which touched genius—namely, to furnish an account for five pounds ten (say) and point out that the balance was owing to us. Ours was always a great family for ideas. But you see the weak spot, Charles—that we hadn’t demanded the ten shillings long ago.
And then John returned. No, he had not found his dog, but he had found a shilling in the road. He had spent (he simply had to spend, he said) a penny ha’penny on refreshment, but the tenpence ha’penny he had brought back joyfully. And in the evening a beautiful account (on the double-entry system) and tenpence ha’penny balance were handed over with ceremony.
So much for finance, Charles. Now I’ve got some news for you. I’ve just had a nephew! (Uncle doing well.) Did you know? Look here, we’ll arrange a sporting match between him and your son over hurdles for 1922. Your boy will still be a year older, but, bless you, I don’t mind that. My nephew is so ugly at present that I feel he must be intended for the highest honours at something. Probably hurdles. Of course if either of us perishes in the meantime the nominations become void. (“The nominations become void”—did you notice that? Quite the sportsman.)
What sort of weather are you having? I ask because the weather differs according to the locality, and down at Castle Bumpbrook it may be quite fine, while it is raining here, and vice versa. Why is this? Why shouldn’t the weather be the same everywhere? Something to do with the solstices, I believe. What is a solstice? (I have asked you no end of questions in this letter, and I don’t suppose you will answer one of them.)
Do you grow oranges at Castle? (Forgive the familiarity.) Exhausted by my divings into the remote and wicked past, I have just eaten about six. I get through quite a dozen a day. The fact is I heard a doctor say the other night that they were extremely good for the complexion—or else extremely bad, I couldn’t quite catch which. He spoke very indistinctly. It was a pity that I missed what seems to have been the important word; it wouldn’t have mattered so much about the “extremely.” However, I go on eating them, and if one day you turn up in town and find me a full-blown mulatto, you will know that the word was “bad.” I shall become a sort of test case, like “Wreford v. Partington (1883).” Eminent people will refer to me. How nice to be referred to—not that it would be the first time. “Refer to drawer,” I remember on my cheques at Cambridge. That, sir, was me.
Do you know, I made up the names Wreford and Partington on the spur of the moment. The names are simple enough, but I think the combination is wonderful. There must have been such a case in 1883. Who do you think Wreford was? I fancy he was a small chandler, and he fell down the coal shoot of Partington’s in Cannon Street. James Partington, the senior partner, said (fairly enough) that a great firm like his, which had branches all over England (including Norwich), must have coal some time, if they were to cope successfully with increasing foreign competition, which, owing to the present Gov—— Oh no, this was 1883; I forgot. Well, anyhow, he said they must have coal. Wreford retorted that he didn’t mind their putting coal down their shoot, but when it came to including respectable citizens of London——
You remember the excitement when the case came on? We were only babies then, but I have a recollection that my nurse was a pro-Partington. Wreford won, but as he was heavily fined for having knowingly caused a crowd to collect it did him little good, poor man.
Good-bye. Write to me soon and tell me all about Castle Bumpbrook. What a glorious name. I often say it to myself. It is the only strong language I ever use now.
II
DEAR CHARLES,—Many thanks for your definition of a solstice. Is it really? Fancy! By answering one of my questions you become a unique correspondent. Nobody else answers questions in a letter. Sometimes, of course, one is asked, “What train are you coming down by on Saturday? Let me know at once.” But the proper thing to do in such a case is to wait till Saturday afternoon, and then wire “Just missed the two twenty-two. Hope to catch the next.” Questions in letters are mostly rhetorical; which is why I ask you, How, oh, how could you have the nerve to head your paper “Castle Bumpbrook,” and fill it with arguments against the Budget? It is hardly decent. You know, I doubt if you ought even to have heard of the Budget at Castle Bumpbrook.
What I expect from you is pleasant gossip about the miller’s daughter. Is she engaged yet to the postman? Has the choir begun to practise the Christmas anthem? When does Mrs Bates’ husband come out? These are the things you should tell me. Tell me, too, of your simple recreations. Has whist reached Castle Bumpbrook yet? It is a jolly game for four. One person deals and you turn up the last card, and then the—— But I must send you a book about it.
I have been having a correspondence with my landlord as to what I should do in case of fire. Of course, if your little cottage got alight, you would simply hop out of the window on to the geranium bed; but it is different in London. Particularly when you are on the top floor. Well, he tells me that I can easily get out on to Mr Podby’s roof next door... and so home. This is certainly comforting, but—Podby! I don’t like it, Charles. Supposing anything happened, just think how it would look in the papers. “The unfortunate gentleman was last seen upon Mr Podby’s roof....” No, I shall have to go for the drain-pipe at the back.
Look here, I have two stories to tell you. One is quite true, the other isn’t. Which will you have first? All right, the truth.
When I first came to town I was very—I mean I believed everything I was told. One Sunday I met a small but elderly gentleman on the Embankment, who asked me the way to the German Embassy. He had the river to his south, so obviously all the embassies were in the other direction. I pointed vaguely towards the north. He thanked me and said that—— (By the way, do you prefer oratio recta? I forgot to ask you.) Well, then, he said:
“The embassies would be shut on a Sunday, hein?”
I said: “Doubtless.”
He said: “I am a Professor at Heidelberg. I have just arrived in London, and I have no money. To-morrow I go to my Embassy and get some. Meanwhile, could you lend me five shillings?”
Charles, in those days I was very—— Well, I gave him half-a-crown.
He said: “I should like to pay this back to you.”
I said: “Quite so. That is the idea.”
“Then would you give me your card, so that I can send you the money to-morrow?”
Charles, I—— You see, I had just had some cards printed. They had “Mr” on for the first time. I was very—— Well, I gave him one.
That ends the first scene. An interval of nearly five years elapses, and we come to last Saturday. I was walking through the Green Park, when a small but elderly gentleman came up to me.
He said: “Is this the way to the School of Music?”
I said: “Which one do you want? There is the Guildhall School, and the Royal College, and the Royal Academy, and——”
He thought for a moment, and then he said in German the German for “Do you speak German?” (My dear Charles, I can’t spell it). I said “Nein.”
He considered a little, and said, “Parlez-vous français?” I said—(What’s the French for “Not very well”? Well, that’s what I said).
At this his face brightened. He drew a long breath, and began:
“I am a Professor of Music at Heidelberg——”
Charles, I had to interrupt him. I simply couldn’t help it. I said; “Then you owe me half-a-crown.” He stopped, and looked at me with a sort of sad dignity. Then he turned round with a sigh and plodded wearily across the park. And, oh, I do hope he had better luck with somebody else, because he has been at it for five years now, and it must be a heart-breaking life. His hair had gone quite grey since I saw him last.
Charles, you do see that that is a true story, don’t you? If I had been making it up, I should have said that he gave me back my own card as a reference. I wonder why he didn’t. I suppose it had got rather dirty after five years.
Do you want the other one now? It is the merest anecdote, and Hilda told it me, and I know it’s not true.
She has a cat called “Didums poor little kitty wee, then”; you put the accent on the “then,” and spread it out as long as you can. Well, Didums, etc., goes about eating moths; a curious diet for a cat, but I believe it keeps them thin. He swallowed them whole, you know, and Hilda told him how cruel it was. She seems to have spoken of the sufferings of the imprisoned ones in the most moving terms. Anyhow she found Didums next day up in her bedroom remorsefully eating a sealskin coat.
I am surprised at Hilda. If she is not careful her baby will grow up a journalist. I have seen him since he came back from you. This time I approached from the west, and I noticed a great difference. He is certainly a fine child, and as he let me put him to sleep I love him. After all, looks don’t matter tuppence to a man. The great thing is wisdom. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. I remember a General Knowledge Paper in my Mays. One of the questions was “Give a list of the chief coaling-stations you would pass on your way to New Zealand.” The only two I could think of were Cyprus and Rickett Smith. I never heard whether I got full marks: probably not. But since that day knowledge has come for I have a friend in the Admiralty. He was a very high wrangler the year I wasn’t, and just as Fisher is the man behind the First Lord, so he is the man behind Fisher; at least, he tells me so. And he buys his tobacco by the knot—or is it the quid?—and plays the Hague Convention at bridge, and (as I say) knows all the coaling-stations from Cambridge to New Zealand.
Wisdom Lingers. What a splendid title for a novel. You would expect a fine moral tale, and it would turn out to be the story of the Lingers family. Wisdom K. Lingers. There you have the essence of successful book-naming. I hand the idea to you, Charles, in the certainty that you would steal it anyhow.
Do you know anything about gas? I buy a lot every week for my geyser. You get about 1000 for half-a-crown. A thousand what? I don’t know; but I like to take part in these great business transactions, and I am now writing to ask if they could make it 1200 seeing that I am a regular customer. No harm in asking.
III
DEAR CHARLES,—Do you truly want me to recommend you something to read? Well, why not try the serial story in some ha’penny paper? There you get a glimpse of the real thing. I turned idly to “Lepers in Israel” (or whatever it is called) last night, and found myself suddenly up to the neck in tragedy. Lord Billingham...
Charles, you’re a married man, tell me if it really is so. The gentle Pamela is urged by a cruel mother to espouse Lord Billingham for his money’s sake. Lord B. is a vulgar brute, I’m afraid; in any case Pamela is all for young Prendergast; but one must be sensible, you know, and money does make a difference, doesn’t it? So she becomes Lady Billingham; and a year or two later Prendergast comes back from South Africa to find that it is he who is the real Lord Billingham after all. (I got most of this from the “synopsis,” which enables you to start the story now, so I can’t say how it was they overlooked him in the first place.) It would be extremely cruel (you see that, Charles?) to talk about it, because Pamela would then become plain Mrs Stubbs, and no money at all; so Prendergast decides to say nothing to anybody. But he was reckoning without Mrs Trevelyan, no less. Mrs Trevelyan finds out the secret, and threatens Prendergast that she will tell everybody that he is the real Lord Billingham unless he marries her. So of course he has to.
It is at this moment that we meet Captain Pontifax. Captain Pontifax is in love with Mrs Trevelyan, at least he thinks he is, and he says that if she doesn’t marry him he will let on about what happened to Mr Trevelyan, who was supposed to have died of old age. At the same time the news gets out that Prendergast is really Lord Billingham, and so Pamela does become Mrs Stubbs; and, as Prendergast cannot honourably withdraw from the alliance he is about to contract with Mrs Trevelyan, it looks as though she is going to be Lady Billingham. But on the eve of the wedding a body is found at the bottom of the old chalk quarry.... Whose?...
What I want to hear from you, Charles, is, Do people always get married for this sort of reason? Are you really the Duke of Norfolk, and did Kitty discover your secret and threaten to disclose it? Oh, you coward! I don’t mind anybody knowing that I am the true Earl Billingham.
About the body. We shall know to-morrow. I think it’s Captain Pontifax myself, but I will send you a telegram.
Are you an authority on dress? A man got into my carriage on the District to-day wearing a top-hat, a frock-coat, and brown boots. Is that right? I ask it seriously, because the point I want to discover is this: Supposing you suddenly found that you had nothing in the house but brown boots and a frock-coat, would a bowler or a topper be the better way out of it?
You see the idea, Charles. If you add a bowler then the thing you have to explain away is the coat. I don’t quite see how that is to be managed; you could only put it down to absent-mindedness. But if you add a topper then you have only the brown boots to account for. This could be done in a variety of ways—a foggy morning, a sudden attack of colour-blindness, or that your mother asked you to wear the thickest ones, dear, and never mind about the silly fashion. It is an interesting point which has never been dealt with properly in the etiquette-books. You and I are agreed upon the topper, it seems.
I went to a play last Tuesday. It was not bad, but the funniest scene happened right at the beginning, when I watched an American buy a seat at the box-office. They gave him J13., and he only discovered it after he had paid for it, and had put his change carefully away. Do you know, Charles, he nearly cried. The manager assured him there was nothing in it; people sat there every night, and were heard of again. It was no good. He got his money back, and went away looking quite miserable. Isn’t it childish? I am going to be married on Friday, 13th May, just to show. When is that? Sickening if it’s not for years and years. I have a patent calendar somewhere which tells you the date for any year up to 1928. I never know why it should stop there; something to do with the golden number getting too big. It won’t go backwards either, which is a pity, because I have always wanted to know on what day of the week I was born. Nobody will tell me. It was one of the lucky days I am sure. How can I find out?
(To-morrow.)—I have just sent you a telegram to say that it was Sir Richard Tressider’s body. Strange that you hadn’t thought of him. Charles, I felt very shy in the post office. Yes, about Castle Bumpbrook. She didn’t believe there was such a place; I offered to bet. We went through the Telegraph Directory together. Do you know, you come in the Castles, not in the Bumps at all. (Put me among the Bumps.) Something ought to be done about it. I always thought Castle was your Christian name, kind of.
Yes, it was Sir Richard’s corpse. It occurs to me now that you will get this letter a day after the telegram. How did I put it?
“Body believed to be that of Sir Richard Tressider. Death certified as by drowning. Inspector Stockley suspects foul play.”
An elevenpenny touch, Charles, and I never signed it, and you’ll wonder what on earth it’s all about. Probably you will dismiss it as a joke, and that would be elevenpence thrown away. That cannot be allowed. You can get a telegram repeated at half-price, can’t you? I think I shall go and have a fivepenny-ha’penny repeat.
I say, what are you doing about the weather? Are you taking it lying down? I want to sign a petition, or write to my M.P. (haven’t got one, then I shall write to yours), humbly showing that it’s the rottenest do there’s ever been. Do you remember the story (it comes in Gesta Romanorum, or should) of the man who built a model of another man and threw things at it, and the other man sat in a bath with a mirror in his hand and whenever the first man threw he ducked under the water. If he got under in time his enemy missed, and it was all right. Otherwise he was killed. Well, I am going to rig up a Negretti in my room, and throw boots at it, and if the original has to spend all his time in a cold bath ducking, I think, Charles, we shall get some warmer weather soon.
“Oh, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day.”
Charles, in your courting days was she ever as cold to you as this?
IV
DEAR CHARLES,—Don’t talk to me about politics, or the weather, or anything; I have lost my tobacco-pouch. Oh, Charles, what is to be done? It is too sad.
I bought it in a little shop at Ambleside, my first, my only friend, on the left-hand side as you go down the hill. It was descended from a brown crocodile in the male line, and a piece of indiarubber in the female; at least, I suppose so, but the man wouldn’t say for certain. He called it a trade term. I smoked my first pipe from it—on the top of Scafell Pike, with all England at my feet. The ups and downs it has seen since then—the sweet-smelling briars it has met! In sickness and in sorrow it comforted me; in happiness it kept me calm. Old age came upon it slowly, beautifully. In these later years how many men have looked at it with awe; how many women have insulted it and—stitched its dear sides together!
It passed away on a Saturday, Charles; this scion of the larger Reptilia, which sprang into being among the mountain-tops, passed away in a third-class carriage at Dulwich! The irony of it! Even Denmark Hill—— But it matters not now I have lost it. Nor can I bear that another should take its place. Perhaps in a year or two... I cannot say... but for the present I make shift with an envelope.
Two thoughts sustain me. First, that no strange eye will recognise it as a tobacco-pouch, no strange hand (therefore) dip into it. Secondly, that the Fates, which have taken from me my dearest possession, must needs have some great happiness in store for me.
Charles, I perceive you are crying; let us turn to more cheerful things. Do you play croquet? I have just joined a croquet club (don’t know why), and one of the rules is that you have to supply your own mallet. How do you do this? Of course, I know that ultimately I hand a certain sum of money to a shopman, and he gives me a very awkward parcel in exchange; but what comes before that? I have often bought a bat, and though I have not yet selected one which could make runs, I can generally find something which is pretty comfortable to carry back into the pavilion. But I have never chosen a mallet. What sort of weight should it be, and is it a good thing to say it “doesn’t come up very well”? I have, they tell me, a tendency to bowness in the legs and am about a million round the biceps; I suppose all that is rather important? Perhaps they have their mallets classified for different customers, and you have only to describe yourself to them. I shall ask for a Serviceable mallet for a blond. “Serviceable” means that if you hit the ground very hard by accident it doesn’t break; some of these highly strung mallets splinter up at once, you know. As a matter of fact, you can’t miss the ball at croquet, can you? I am thinking of golf. What about having a splice with mine; is that done much? I don’t want to go on to the ground looking a perfect ass with no splice, when everybody else has two or three. Croquet is a jolly game, because you don’t have to worry about what sort of collar you’ll wear; you just play in your ordinary things. All the same, I shall have some spikes put in my boots so as not to slip. I once took in to dinner the sister of the All England Croquet Champion. I did really. Unfortunately I didn’t happen to strike her subject, and she didn’t strike mine—Butterflies. How bitterly we shall regret that evening—which was a very jolly one all the same. Here am I, not knowing a bit how to select a mallet, and there possibly is she, having just found the egg of the Purple Emperor, labelling it in her collection as that of the Camberwell Beauty. Let this be a lesson to all of us.
Charles, I feel very silly to-night; I must be what they call “fey,” which is why I ask you—How would you like to be a pedigree goat? I have just seen in an evening paper a picture of Mr Brown “with his pedigree goat.” Somehow it had never occurred to me that a goat could have a pedigree; but I see now that it might be so. I think if I had to be a goat at all I should like to be a pedigree one. In a way, I suppose, every goat has a pedigree of some kind; but you would need to have a pretty distinguished one to be spoken of as a P.G. Your father, Charles, would need to have had some renown among the bearded ones; your great-uncle must have been of the blood. And if this were so, I should, in your place, insist upon being photographed as a pedigree goat “with Mr Brown.” Don’t stand any nonsense about that.
If I ever have a goat, and you won’t let me call it Charles, I shall call it David. My eldest brother, you, know, was christened David, and called so for a year; but at the end of that time we had a boot-and-knife-boy who was unfortunately named David too. (I say “we,” but I was still in the Herebefore myself.) This led to great confusion. When the nurse called for David to come and take his bottle, it was very vexing to find the other David turning up with a brown shoe in one hand and a fish-knife in the other. Something had to be done. The baby was just beginning to take notice; the leather polisher had just refused to. In the circumstances the only thing was to call the baby by his second name.
Two or three years passed rapidly, and I arrived. Just as this happened, the boot-boy took the last knife and went. Now was our chance. My second name had already been fixed; it was immediately decided that my first should be David. The new boot-boy didn’t mind a bit; everybody else seemed delighted... and then someone remembered that in ten years’ time I should be going to school.
Yes, Charles, the initials D.A.M.... You know what boys are; it would have been very awkward.
And so now you see why I am going to call my pedigree goat David.
V
DEAR CHARLES,—I am learning to dance the minuet. I say “the” instead of “a” because I am sure mine is a very particular kind of one. You start off with three slides to the left, then three to the right, and then you stop and waggle the left leg. After that you bow to your partner in acknowledgement of the interest she has taken in it all, and that ends the first figure. There are lots more, but one figure at a time is my motto. At present I slide well, but I am a moderate waggler.
Why am I doing this, you ask. My dear Charles, you never know when a little thing like a minuet will turn out useful. The time may well come when you will say to yourself, “Ah, if only I had seized the opportunity of learning that when I was young, how... etc.” There were once two men who were cast ashore on a desert island. One of them had an axe, and a bag of nails, and a goat, and a box of matches, and a barrel of gunpowder, and a keg of biscuits, and a tarpaulin and some fish-hooks. The other could only dance the minuet. Years rolled by; and one day a ship put in at that island for water. As a matter of fact, there was no water there, but they found two skeletons. Which shows that in certain circumstances proficiency in the minuet is as valuable as an axe, and a bag of nails, and a goat and a box of matches, and all the other things that I mentioned just now. So I am learning in case.
My niece, aged twenty months (do I bore you?), has made her first joke: let it be put on record and handed down to those that come after. She walked into the study, where her father was reading and her mother writing. They agreed not to take any notice of her, in order to see what would happen. She marched up to her father, stroked his face, and said, “Hallo, daddy!” No answer. She gazed round; and then went over to the writing-desk. “Hallo, mummy!” Dead silence. She stood for a moment looking rather puzzled. At last she went back to her father, bent down and patted his slippers and said, “Hallo, boots!” Then she walked quite happily out of the room.
However, we won’t bother about her, because I have something much more exciting to tell you. M’Gubbin has signed on for the something Rovers for next season! I saw it in the paper; it had a little paragraph all to itself. This is splendid news—I haven’t been so happy about anything for a long time. Whaur’s your Wully Gaukrodger now? Let us arrange a Pentathlon for them. I’ll back M’G., and you can hold the towel for Gauk. My man would win at football of course, and yours at cricket, but the other three events would be exciting. Chess, golf and the minuet, I think. I can see M’Gubbin sliding—one, two, three, one, two three—there, now he’s waggling his left leg. Charles, you’re a goner—hand over the stakes.
Look here, I smoke too much, at least I have been lately. Let’s give it up, Charles. I’ll give it up altogether for a week if you will. Did you know that you can allay the craving for tobacco by the judicious use of bull’s-eyes? (“Allay” is the word.) You carry a bag of bull’s-eyes with you—I swear this is true, I saw it in the press—and whenever you feel a desire to smoke you just pop a bull’s-eye in your mouth. In a little while, they say, your taste for tobacco—and I imagine for everything else—is quite gone. This ought to be more widely known, and then your host would say, “Try one of these bull’s-eyes, won’t you? I import them direct,” and you would reply, “Thanks very much, but I would rather have one of my own, if I may.” “Have a bull’s-eye, if you like,” your partner would say at a dance. Of course, too, they would have special bull’s-eye compartments in trains; that would be jolly. But it would ruin the stage. The hero who always lights a cigarette before giving off his best epigram—I don’t know what he’d do. You see he couldn’t... well, he’d have to wait such a time.
Why are they called bull’s-eyes? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a bull’s-eye really close. If you look a bull in the eye he doesn’t go for you. Which eye? He might be a left-handed bull; you’d look at the wrong eye; then where would you be?
The world is too much with me, Charles, but all the same I’ve just ordered a flannel suit which will make Castle Bumpbrook stare. Sort of purplish; and it makes up very smart, and they can do me two pairs of trousers in it, whatever that means. I should have thought they could have done me as many pairs as I liked to ask for, but it seems not. They only print a limited edition, and then destroy the original plates, so that nobody else can walk about looking like me. I asked the man if he thought it would play croquet well, and he said, yes. By the way, I have learnt some more about croquet since I wrote last. First, then, you can go round in one, if you’re frightfully good. I should like to go round in one; I suppose that would be the record? Secondly, if you’re wired from all the balls, “so that you can’t get a clear shot at every part of any one of them,” you go into baulk, and have another turn. This must happen pretty often, because you could never have a clear shot at the back of a ball, unless you went right round the world the other way, and that would be too risky, besides wasting so much time. No, I can see there’s a lot to learn in the game, but patience, Charles, patience. I shall go round in one yet.
VI
DEAR CHARLES,—Are you coming up to town this month? If you do we will make a journey into Shepherd’s Bush together, and see the Exhibition.
I am afraid I have been doing Shepherd’s Bush an injustice all these years. John and I once arranged a system of seven hells, in which we put all the men we hated. Nobody known personally to either of us was eligible (so your name never came up, dear Charles), which meant that they had to be filled with people in the public eye. The seventh division contained two only: one a socialist, who is thought a good deal of—by himself, I mean; the other a novelist who only writes about superior people who drop their “g’s.” The punishment for this class was simple; perpetual life in an open boat on a choppy sea, smoking Virginian cigarettes—John’s idea chiefly, he being a bad sailor. The doom decreed for the unfortunates in the fifth class—now I am coming to the point of this reminiscence—was more subtle: they had to live at Shepherd’s Bush, and go to a musical comedy every afternoon.
There were four men in the fifth class. Three of them we need not bother about, but the latest arrival was a certain cleric who advertised a good deal. One day we met somebody who knew him well. We broke the sad news to him gently, and he was much distressed about it. He asked if there was any hope. We replied that if his friend turned over a new leaf, and kept his name out of the papers for a bit, he might in time be promoted into the fourth division—where, every day, you watched Sussex play Essex at Leyton and had mutton sandwiches for lunch. He was so glad to hear this that he made us promise to let him know when any such step was meditated. Accordingly, after a month of perfect quiet on the part of the reverend gentleman we sent his friend a telegram: “Bernard left Shepherd’s Bush by the nine o’clock steamer this morning.”
And now it looks as if the Bush were much more of a place than we thought.
Every week or so I have an inspiration; and I had one yesterday, when the thought struck me suddenly that it would be a good idea to buy some postcards. You get them at the post office—six stout ones for ninepence. Oh no, that can’t be right—nine stout ones for sixpence. I shouldn’t think a postcard would ever get too stout—not unpleasantly so, I mean; you hardly ever see an obese postcard. I don’t believe I have used one of any dimensions for ten years; yet they are such handy things when you want to say “Right O” or don’t quite know whether you are “very truly” or “sincerely.” The postcard touch is hereditary. Some families have it, ours hasn’t. But now it is going to begin. Tomorrow I buy as many stout ones for sixpence as they will give me.
Talking of buying croquet mallets and things—I went into a little tobacconist’s a little while ago (What for? Guess), and while I was there a man came in and ordered a pipe, two ounces of bird’s-eye, and a box of matches. I wanted to tell him that you really required a rubber pouch as well, and a little silver thing for pressing down the tobacco. It must want some nerve to start straight off like that, especially at his age—forty or so. I am about to play golf seriously, and I shall certainly get my clubs at different shops—a driver at the Stores, a putter in Piccadilly, a niblick (what’s a niblick? Anyhow, I shall have several of them, because of the name)—and several niblicks in Fleet Street. It would be too absurd to buy a dozen assorted clubs, one ball, a jersey and a little red flag all at the same place.
Yes, I should love to come down and play cricket for Castle Bumpbrook, and many thanks for asking me. I don’t make runs nowadays, Charles, but if you feel that the mere presence of a gentleman from Lunnon would inspire and, as it were, give tone to the side, then I am at your service. You do say “Lunnon” in the country, don’t you, when you mean London? And you say “bain’t” too. How jolly! “I bain’t a bowler, zur”—and you pronounce the “b-o-w” as if it were a curtsey and not a cravat. “Put Oi——” It’s no good. I can’t keep it up. Put me in last and I’ll make 3 not out, and that will bring me top of the averages. (If you divide 3 by 0 you get an awful lot, you know.) You have an average bat, I suppose? I like them rather light—or I would take the money, whichever would be more convenient.
I have just written myself a letter, pleasantly standoffish, but not haughty. The reason is that I have my doubts about the post office, so I am giving them a test. My address, as you have discovered, is an awkward one. There are nine distinct ways of getting it wrong, and most people try two or three of them. But the letters do get here eventually, after (I expect) a good deal of sickness on the part of the postman. What I am beginning to wonder now is whether a letter with the right address would arrive; I fancy that the chief of the detective department would suspect a trap, and send it somewhere else; and, as I am certain that I have never received one or two letters which I ought to have had, I am writing to myself to see.
It is a great art, that of writing nicely to yourself; to say enough, yet not too much. When John was getting engaged, he wrote to himself every day. Before he started doing this he used to spend hours sitting and wondering whether the postman had been. The few letters he had had from her came by the eight-thirty post. At eight-fifteen he began to look out; nothing happened. An awful quarter of an hour followed. Eight-thirty—no postman’s knock; never mind, perhaps he’s late. Eight-thirty-five—well, it is rather a busy time; besides he may have fallen down. Eight-forty—one ray of light left; he did come once, you remember, at eight-forty-two. Eight-forty-five—despair. A half-an-hour’s agony, you observe, Charles. Then he thought of writing to himself in time for that delivery. The result was that he remained quite calm, knowing that the postman was bound to come. “Ah, there he is. Will there be a letter from her? Yes—no.” You see? Your heart in your mouth for five seconds only.
I never saw any of these letters. But I should say that at the beginning they were sympathetic—“Buck up, it’s all right”—or hopeful—“Never mind, she’ll write to-morrow”; later on they would become cynical—“Done in the eye again. What on earth do you expect?”; and, finally, I expect, insulting—“You silly ass; chuck it.”... Then, of course, she wrote.
Good-bye. Don’t forget I am going to play for you. Would it be side to wear flannels? White boots would be a bit lofty, anyhow. Then I shall wear one brown pad on the right leg.
VII
DEAR CHARLES,—Many thanks for your letter. Don’t side just because you get up at six o’clock, and feed the cow, or shave the goat, or whatever it is. Other people get up early too. For the last few weeks I have sprung out of bed at seven-thirty. (I always “spring” out—it is so much more classy.) But I doubt if I can keep it up.
The truth is that I have just made an unhappy discovery. I was under the impression that my man’s name was Turley; I should say my third of a man, because I share with him two others, but anyhow I thought his whole name was Turley. So I used to write nice little notes, beginning, “If you’re waking, call me, Turley,” and leave them about for him. He invariably woke at seven and read them—and came and called me, mother dear. Of course I had to get up. Well, I have now heard that his name is really Holland, which makes all the difference. It would be absurd to write him any more notes of that kind. My one satisfaction is that I can claim to own a third of Holland, which is about 4000 square miles. Multiply that by 640 and you get it in acres. Altogether the landowner.
Moreover, Charles, my lad, you are not the one person who knows things about animals. You may be on terms of familiarity with the cow and the goat, but these are not the only beasts. What acquaintance, for example, have you with reptiles? The common newt—do you know anything about him? No. Well, then, now I’ll tell you.
When I was seven and John was eight, we went to a naturalist’s in Hampstead to inquire the price of newts. They were threepence each, not being quite in season. We bought sixpennyworth; the man put them into a paper bag for us, and we took them up on the Heath to give them a gallop. When we opened the bag we found three newts inside. It seemed impossible that the thing could have happened naturally, so we went back to the shop to explain to the man that he had made a mistake. However, he hadn’t; he had merely given us one newt discount. (Remember that when next you’re buying them.) Well, we returned to the Heath, and they showed their paces. Now the newt is an amphibious animal (Greek); he is as much at ease in the bathroom as on the mat. So when we got them home we arranged to try them in our bath.
This is where you cry. For a time all went well. They dived, swam (back and front), trod water, returned to life when apparently drowned, and so forth. Then John pulled up the waste-pipe. He says now that he did it inadvertently, but I fancy that he wanted to see what would happen. What did happen was that they got into the whirlpool and disappeared. We turned on both the hot and cold taps to see if they would come back, but they didn’t. Apparently you don’t. We rushed into the garden to see if they would return by the drain-pipe with the rainwater, but not they. Only the paper bag was left to us... and (to this day I cannot recall it without a tear) it was John who popped it.
Charles, we never saw those newts again. Crusoe, Cleaver and Robinson were their names. Robinson and Crusoe they were to have been; and when the third came, and seemed to take a fancy to Robinson, we called him Cleaver. Where are they now? In the mighty Thames somewhere, I suppose. So, Charles, if ever you are near the river, keep a friendly eye open for them, will you? They may be a little wild now, but they were good newts in their day.
We had a Buforium too in our time, you must know. I have just made that word up, and it means a place where you keep toads. In our case it was the sink. The toad, as you may not have realised, has no vomerine or maxillary teeth, but he has got a distinct tympanum. However, what I really wanted to say was that the toad has a pyriform tongue of incredible length, by means of which he catches his prey—thus differing from the frog, which leaps at ’em. We used to station a toad opposite one of the walls of the sink—of the Buforium—and then run his breakfast down the side. Sometimes it would be a very long centipede, and then you could have one toad for each end; or a—— What brutes little boys are; I’m not going to tell you any more about toads. (Except to say that his omosternum is generally missing. That must be very annoying.)
Did I ever talk to you about hedgehogs? We kept no end of them, but Peter was the only one who stayed. He used to live in the scullery, so as to see that no black-beetles got about. One night the cook woke up suddenly and remembered that she had left the scullery tap running. So she jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, not even stopping to put on slippers....
She was a very heavy woman.... No, Peter wasn’t hurt much; but she refused to have him in the kitchen again.
This is a very zoological letter, but I just wanted to show you that you weren’t the only one. Time fails me to tell you of a mole which we put in the geranium-bed, of a certain kind of caterpillar from which we caught nettlerash, of a particularly handsome triton which we kept in a tank with a crab, giving them fresh and salt water on alternative days, so that there should be no quarrelling. It is enough if I have made it clear that one does not need to have Castle Bumpbrook on one’s notepaper in order to commune with nature.
I want two wedding presents—I don’t mean for myself. What do you suggest? I bar anything for the table. Newly married couples might do nothing but eat to judge from the things they get given them. At present I hesitate between the useful—as, for instance, twenty thousand cubic feet of gas—and the purely ornamental—say, an antimacassar. “Mr and Mrs Samuel Jones—a towel-horse”: you never see that, do you? And yet you could pay anything for a pure-bred one, and they are very useful. The bride always wears “valuable old Honiton lace, the gift of her aunt.” Otherwise it’s not legal. Kitty never had an aunt, had she? Then you aren’t properly married, Charles. I’m sorry.
VIII
DEAR CHARLES,—A thing has just happened to me, which really only happens to people in jokes. You would not believe it did I not lay my hand on my heart—(the heart isn’t on the left side, as you thought, by the way. It’s bang in the middle, only the left auricle does all the work. However)—on my heart, and swear that it is true.
I was in the silver department of Liberty’s buying some spoons. Yes, I fell back on spoons after all. (Never fall back on a spoon, Charles, if you can help it.) It was a hot day and the business of selection was so exhausting that I took off my hat and gloves, and laid them on a chair beside me. When it was all over the man went off to make out the bill. I wandered round the place, looking at all the other things which I wished I had bought instead. Suddenly a voice at my side said:
“Can you tell me if this is where you get ladies’ jerseys for golf?”
(I told you you had to get a jersey for golf.)
I said: “Oh, do you think that is a good thing? I rather thought of spoons myself.... I mean, for a wedding present one does want something which... Oh, I beg your pardon.... Yes, I am Mr Liberty. No liberty at all, madam, I assure you.... This is the silver department, you know.... Yes, all that white shiny stuff.... Well, I daresay we could do you one, if you wouldn’t mind having the lion worked on it.... No, we don’t charge for the lion.... Or what about something quite simple in pewter.... Oh, I see.... The art muslin department would be the nearest thing we have... a freer swing, certainly.... Good-morning.”
Well, no, I didn’t say that exactly. Having my hand on the left side of my heart it would be impossible to pretend that I did. With the best intentions in the world, how easy it is, Lucy, to slip from the rocky path of truth into the crevasse of make-believe. (Maxim from “The Fairchild Family.”) But really and really, Charles, she did take me for the shopwalker in the silver department, and she did ask for ladies’ golf jerseys. What I actually said was: “I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I’m only a customer.” And she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” And then I put on my hat to show that I had one, and took it off again to show that I knew my manners, and she went off to the clock counter, and said she was sorry to trouble the man behind it, but could he tell her where she went for ladies’ jerseys for golf, and he said he was very sorry, they didn’t sell them, but would she like some clocks on her stockings instead. Altogether there was a good deal of sorrow going about.
But not on my part—never. In common tweeds, to be mistaken for one of those splendid frock-coated gentleman, and admitted into a lady’s confidence on a question of jerseys, there was glory for you. I doubt now if I ought to have gone down to Castle Bumpbrook. Anyhow, I should have insisted on all the gate.
What was the gate? I distinctly saw three small boys hiding behind a cow. I suppose they paid all right? Charles, I did enjoy it awfully, as I think I have told you several times. It was good of you to send me in first with the postman, and as a post-man I am sure I should love him very much, but he is too fast for me on the cricket-field. There wasn’t a run there, you know—a simple shot straight to cover. I expect he thought it was an express delivery or late fee stroke, with “Immediate” in the top left-hand corner; or perhaps the brown pad made him think I was a telegram. If I ever go in first with him again I shall register myself.
I gather that the vicar has to bowl at one end all the time, hasn’t he? In lieu of tithes or something. Otherwise you get the Ecclesiastical Commissioners down on you. He varies his pitch cleverly, I admit. His firstly would take any batsman by surprise; I can’t think why it only bounces once—finger-spin, I suppose. Then, immediately afterwards, you get his secondly, a high full pitch which would almost be a wide in a layman. Yet all the time you feel that he is only leading up to his sixthly and lastly, my brethren, which is one of the subtlest half-volleys I have ever seen.
Charles, I love your garden. It was jolly to see the white flower of Mrs Sinkins’ blameless life again. I knew Mrs Sinkins as a bulb—I mean as a boy, and have always regarded her with affection. I suppose I shall have to wait for Dorothy Perkins. She is hardly out yet. My love is like a—— Oh, but Dorothy is pink. Anyhow, she sweetly smiles in June, and it’s just on June, so I’m blowed if I don’t come down to see her next month, whether you ask me or not. Better send me an invitation for form’s sake.
And teach me about flowers, will you? (And I will tell you about motor omnibuses.) Why do they all end in “kins”? It can’t be a coincidence that the only two which I know to talk to should do this. Funnily enough, motor omnibuses all end in Putney, which shows that this is a very small world after all, and we needs must love the highest when we see it. So near and yet so far. Doesn’t it annoy you when you meet a person in London whom you last saw in Uganda, and he fatuously observes that the world is a very small place? It would have been a much smaller place, prima facie, if you had last seen him at Leamington.
To return to Dorothy; we have flowers in London, too. What about the Temple Show? I saw a man there with a kodak; I suppose he wanted to snap the roses as they were growing. That’s the sort of weather we are on the Embankment! Oh, but the fruit there! I wish I were a prize tomato; what a complexion!