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 till called for a 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 notepaper in that drawer.
That's where I keep old menus in 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 stores list. She takes
her pleasures sadly. A state elephant at a d'urbar gives
one a very similar impression. Our 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 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 okapi 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 Babwoll 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 frontispiece, 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 MacGregor. 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
a champagne cork, you know, And the one who knocks
down the most glasses without breaking them wins. 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 especially 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 lifels,
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
thickest 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 Langston 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,
was 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 these 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
a historic battlefield. I hate traveling on Boxing Day, but
one must occasionally do things that one dislikes end of story.
Reginald's Christmas Revel by Saki