Reginald's Christmas revel by Saki. They say, said Reginald, that there's nothing
sadder than victory except defeat. If you've ever stayed with dull people during what
is alleged to be the festive season, you can probably revise that saying,
I shall never forget putting in a Christmas at the Babwalds. Missus Babwald is
some relation of my father's, a sort of to be left still called for
cousin, and that was considered sufficient reason for my having to accept her invitation
at about the sixth time of asking though, why the sins of the father
should be visited by the children. You won't find any note paper in that
drawer. That's where I keep old menus and first night programs. Missus Babwald
wears a rather solemn personality and has never been known to smile, even when
saying disagreeable things to her friends or making out the stor's list. She takes
her pleasures sadly. A state elephant at d'urbar gives one a very similar impression.
Her husband gardens in all weathers. When a man goes out in the
pouring rain to brush caterpillars off rose trees. I generally imagine his life indoors
leaves something to be desired. Anyway, it must be very unsettling for the
caterpillars. Of course, there were some other people there. There was a
major, somebody who had shot things in Lapland or somewhere of that sort.
I forget what they were, but it wasn't for want of reminding. We
had them cold with every meal, almost and he was continually giving us details
of what they measured, from tip to tip, as though he thought we
were going to make them warm under things for the winter. I used to
listen to him with a rapt attention that I thought rather suited me. And
then one day I quite modestly gave the dimensions of an o'copy I had shot
in the Lincolnshire Fens. The Major turned a beautiful Tyrian scarlet. I remember
thinking at the time that I should like my bathroom hung in that color.
And I think that at that moment he almost found it in his heart to
dislike me. Missus Babwold put on a first aid to the injured expression and
asked him why he didn't publish a book of his sporting reminiscences. It would
be so interesting. She didn't remember till afterwards that he had given her two
fat volumes on the subject, with his portrait and autograph as a frontis piece,
and an appendix on the habits of the Arctic muscle. It was in
the evening that we cast aside the cares and distractions of the day and really
lived. Cards were thought to be too frivolous and empty a way of passing
the time, so most of them played what they called a book game.
You went out into the hall to get an inspiration, I suppose, then
you came in again with a muffler tied round your neck and looked silly,
and the others were supposed to guess that you were wee mac greegor. I
held out against the inanity as long as I decently could, But at last,
in a lapse of good nature, I consented to masquerade as a book
only I warned them that it would take some time to carry out. They
waited for the best part of forty minutes while I went and played wineglass skittles
with the page boy in the pantry. You play it with the champagne cork,
you know, and the one who knocks down the most glasses without breaking
them winds. I won with four unbroken out of seven. I think William
suffered from over anxiousness. They were rather mad in the drawing room at my
not having come back, and they weren't a bit pacified when I told them
afterwards that I was at the end of the passage. I never did like
Kipling. Was missus Babwald's comment when the situation dawned upon her. I couldn't
see anything clever in earthworms out of Tuscany? Or is that by Darwin?
Of course these games are very educational, but personally I prefer Bridge. On
Christmas evening we were supposed to be specially festive in the old English fashion.
The hall was horribly drafty, but it seemed to be the proper place to
revel in, and it was decorated with Japanese fans and Chinese lanterns, which
gave it a very old English effect. A young lady with a confidential voice
favored us with a long recitation about a little girl who died or did something
equally hackneyed, and then the major gave us a graphic account of a struggle
he had with a wounded bear. I privately wished that the bears would win
sometimes on these occasions, at least they wouldn't go vaporing about it. Afterwards,
before we had time to recover our spirits, we were indulged with some
thought reading by a young man whom one knew instinctively had a good mother and
an indifferent tailor, the sort of young man who talks unflaggingly through the thing
kest soup and smooths his hair dubiously as though he thought it might hit back.
The thought reading was rather a success. He announced that the hostess was
thinking about poetry, and she admitted that her mind was dwelling on one of
Austin's odes, which was near enough. I fancy she had been really wondering
whether a scrag end of mutton and some cold plum pudding would do for the
kitchen dinner next day. As a crowning dissipation, they all sat down to
play progressive Halma with milk chocolate for prizes. I've been carefully brought up,
and I don't like to play games of skill for milk chocolate, so I
invented a headache and retired from the scene. I had been preceded a few
minutes earlier by Miss Langshon Smith, a rather formidable lady who always got up
at some uncomfortable hour in the morning and gave you the impression that she had
been in communication with most of the European governments. Before breakfast, there was
a paper pinned on her door with a signed request that she might be called
particularly early on the morrow. Such an opportunity does not come twice in a
lifetime. I covered up everything except the signature with another notice to the effect
that before these words should meet the eye, she would have ended a misspent
life, or sorry for the trouble she was giving, and would like a
military funeral. A few minutes later, I violently exploded an air filled paper
bag on the landing and gave a stage moan that could have been heard in
the cellars. Then I pursued my original intention and went to bed. The
noise those people made in forcing open the good lady's door was positively indecorous.
She resisted gallantly, but I believe they searched her for bullets for about a
quarter of an hour, as if she had been an historic battle field.
I hate traveling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally do things that one
dislikes end of Reginald's Christmas revel by Saki