Speaker 1: 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