REGINALD ON TARIFFS
I'm not going to discuss the Fiscal Question (said Reginald); I wish tobe original. At the same time, I think one suffers more than onerealises from the system of free imports. I should like, for instance, areally prohibitive duty put upon the partner who declares on a weak redsuit and hopes for the best. Even a free outlet for compressed verbiagedoesn't balance matters. And I think there should be a sort of bounty-fed export (is that the right expression?) of the people who impress onyou that you ought to take life seriously. There are only two classesthat really can't help taking life seriously--schoolgirls of thirteen andHohenzollerns; they might be exempt. Albanians come under anotherheading; they take life whenever they get the opportunity. The oneAlbanian that I was ever on speaking terms with was rather a decadentexample. He was a Christian and a grocer, and I don't fancy he had everkilled anybody. I didn't like to question him on the subject--thatshowed my delicacy. Mrs. Nicorax says I have no delicacy; she hasn'tforgiven me about the mice. You see, when I was staying down there, amouse used to cake-walk about my room half the night, and none of theirsilly patent traps seemed to take its fancy as a bijou residence, so Idetermined to appeal to the better side of it--which with mice is theinside. So I called it Percy, and put little delicacies down near itshole every night, and that kept it quiet while I read Max Nordau's_Degeneration_ and other reproving literature, and went to sleep. Andnow she says there is a whole colony of mice in that room.
That isn't where the indelicacy comes in. She went out riding with me,which was entirely her own suggestion, and as we were coming home throughsome meadows she made a quite unnecessary attempt to see if her ponywould jump a rather messy sort of brook that was there. It wouldn't. Itwent with her as far as the water's edge, and from that point Mrs.Nicorax went on alone. Of course I had to fish her out from the bank,and my riding-breeches are not cut with a view to salmon-fishing--it'srather an art even to ride in them. Her habit-skirt was one of thoseopen questions that need not be adhered to in emergencies, and on thisoccasion it remained behind in some water-weeds. She wanted me to fishabout for that too, but I felt I had done enough Pharaoh's daughterbusiness for an October afternoon, and I was beginning to want my tea. SoI bundled her up on to her pony, and gave her a lead towards home as fastas I cared to go. What with the wet and the unusual responsibility, herabridged costume did not stand the pace particularly well, and she gotquite querulous when I shouted back that I had no pins with me--and nostring. Some women expect so much from a fellow. When we got into thedrive she wanted to go up the back way to the stables, but the ponies_know_ they always get sugar at the front door, and I never attempt tohold a pulling pony; as for Mrs. Nicorax, it took her all she knew tokeep a firm hand on her seceding garments, which, as her maid remarkedafterwards, were more _tout_ than _ensemble_. Of course nearly the wholehouse-party were out on the lawn watching the sunset--the only day thismonth that it's occurred to the sun to show itself, as Mrs. Nic.viciously observed--and I shall never forget the expression on herhusband's face as we pulled up. "My darling, this is too much!" was hisfirst spoken comment; taking into consideration the state of her toilet,it was the most brilliant thing I had ever heard him say, and I went intothe library to be alone and scream. Mrs. Nicorax says I have nodelicacy.
Talking about tariffs, the lift-boy, who reads extensively between thelandings, says it won't do to tax raw commodities. What, exactly, is araw commodity? Mrs. Van Challaby says men are raw commodities till youmarry them; after they've struck Mrs. Van C., I can fancy they prettysoon become a finished article. Certainly she's had a good deal ofexperience to support her opinion. She lost one husband in a railwayaccident, and mislaid another in the Divorce Court, and the current onehas just got himself squeezed in a Beef Trust. "What was he doing in aBeef Trust, anyway?" she asked tearfully, and I suggested that perhaps hehad an unhappy home. I only said it for the sake of making conversation;which it did. Mrs. Van Challaby said things about me which in her calmermoments she would have hesitated to spell. It's a pity people can'tdiscuss fiscal matters without getting wild. However, she wrote next dayto ask if I could get her a Yorkshire terrier of the size and shadethat's being worn now, and that's as near as a woman can be expected toget to owning herself in the wrong. And she will tie a salmon-pink bowto its collar, and call it "Reggie," and take it with her everywhere--likepoor Miriam Klopstock, who _would_ take her Chow with her to thebathroom, and while she was bathing it was playing at she-bears with hergarments. Miriam is always late for breakfast, and she wasn't reallymissed till the middle of lunch.
However, I'm not going any further into the Fiscal Question. Only Ishould like to be protected from the partner with a weak red tendency.
REGINALD'S CHRISTMAS REVEL
They say (said Reginald) that there's nothing sadder than victory exceptdefeat. If you've ever stayed with dull people during what is alleged tobe the festive season, you can probably revise that saying. I shallnever forget putting in a Christmas at the Babwolds'. Mrs. Babwold issome relation of my father's--a sort of to-be-left-till-called-forcousin--and that was considered sufficient reason for my having to accepther invitation at about the sixth time of asking; though why the sins ofthe father should be visited by the children--you won't find anynotepaper in that drawer; that's where I keep old menus and first-nightprogrammes.
Mrs. Babwold wears a rather solemn personality, and has never been knownto smile, even when saying disagreeable things to her friends or makingout the Stores list. She takes her pleasures sadly. A state elephant ata Durbar gives one a very similar impression. Her husband gardens in allweathers. When a man goes out in the pouring rain to brush caterpillarsoff rose-trees, I generally imagine his life indoors leaves something tobe desired; anyway, it must be very unsettling for the caterpillars.
Of course there were other people there. There was a Major Somebody whohad shot things in Lapland, or somewhere of that sort; I forget what theywere, but it wasn't for want of reminding. We had them cold with everymeal almost, and he was continually giving us details of what theymeasured from tip to tip, as though he thought we were going to make themwarm under-things for the winter. I used to listen to him with a raptattention that I thought rather suited me, and then one day I quitemodestly gave the dimensions of an okapi I had shot in the Lincolnshirefens. The Major turned a beautiful Tyrian scarlet (I remember thinkingat the time that I should like my bathroom hung in that colour), and Ithink that at that moment he almost found it in his heart to dislike me.Mrs. Babwold put on a first-aid-to-the-injured expression, and asked himwhy he didn't publish a book of his sporting reminiscences; it would be_so_ interesting. She didn't remember till afterwards that he had givenher two fat volumes on the subject, with his portrait and autograph as afrontispiece and an appendix on the habits of the Arctic mussel.
It was in the evening that we cast aside the cares and distractions ofthe day and really lived. Cards were thought to be too frivolous andempty a way of passing the time, so most of them played what they calleda book game. You went out into the hall--to get an inspiration, Isuppose--then you came in again with a muffler tied round your neck andlooked silly, and the others were supposed to guess that you were "WeeMacGreegor." 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 abook, only I warned them that it would take some time to carry out. Theywaited for the best part of forty minutes, while I went and playedwineglass skittles with the page-boy in the pantry; you play it with achampagne cork, you know, and the one who knocks down the most glasseswithout breaking them wins. I won, with four unbroken out of seven; Ithink William suffered from over-anxiousness. They were rather mad inthe drawing-room at my not having come back, and they weren't a bitpacified when I told them afterwards that I was "At the end of thepassage."
"I never did like Kipling," was Mrs. Babwold's comment, when thesituation 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 preferbridge.
On Christmas evening we were supposed to be specially festive in the OldEnglish fashion. The hall was horribly draughty, but it seemed to be theproper place to revel in, and it was decorated with Japanese fans andChinese lanterns, which gave it a very Old English effect. A young ladywith a confidential voice favoured us with a long recitation about alittle girl who died or did something equally hackneyed, and then theMajor 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 vapouring about it afterwards. Before we hadtime to recover our spirits, we were indulged with some thought-readingby a young man whom one knew instinctively had a good mother and anindifferent tailor--the sort of young man who talks unflaggingly throughthe thickest soup, and smooths his hair dubiously as though he thought itmight hit back. The thought-reading was rather a success; he announcedthat the hostess was thinking about poetry, and she admitted that hermind was dwelling on one of Austin's odes. Which was near enough. Ifancy she had been really wondering whether a scrag-end of mutton andsome cold plum-pudding would do for the kitchen dinner next day. As acrowning dissipation, they all sat down to play progressive halma, withmilk-chocolate for prizes. I've been carefully brought up, and I don'tlike to play games of skill for milk-chocolate, so I invented a headacheand retired from the scene. I had been preceded a few minutes earlier byMiss Langshan-Smith, a rather formidable lady, who always got up at someuncomfortable hour in the morning, and gave you the impression that shehad been in communication with most of the European Governments beforebreakfast. There was a paper pinned on her door with a signed requestthat she might be called particularly early on the morrow. Such anopportunity does not come twice in a lifetime. I covered up everythingexcept the signature with another notice, to the effect that before thesewords should meet the eye she would have ended a misspent life, was sorryfor the trouble she was giving, and would like a military funeral. A fewminutes later I violently exploded an air-filled paper bag on thelanding, 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 thosepeople made in forcing open the good lady's door was positivelyindecorous; she resisted gallantly, but I believe they searched her forbullets for about a quarter of an hour, as if she had been an historicbattlefield.
I hate travelling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally do things thatone dislikes.
REGINALD'S RUBAIYAT
The other day (confided Reginald), when I was killing time in thebathroom and making bad resolutions for the New Year, it occurred to methat I would like to be a poet. The chief qualification, I understand,is that you must be born. Well, I hunted up my birth certificate, andfound that I was all right on that score, and then I got to work on aHymn to the New Year, which struck me as having possibilities. Itsuggested extremely unusual things to absolutely unlikely people, which Ibelieve is the art of first-class catering in any department. Quite thebest verse in it went something like this--
"Have you heard the groan of a gravelled grouse, Or the snarl of a snaffled snail (Husband or mother, like me, or spouse), Have you lain a-creep in the darkened house Where the wounded wombats wail?"
It was quite improbable that anyone had, you know, and that's where itstimulated the imagination and took people out of their narrow, humdrumselves. No one has ever called me narrow or humdrum, but even I feltworked up now and then at the thought of that house with the strickenwombats in it. It simply wasn't nice. But the editors were unanimous inleaving it alone; they said the thing had been done before and doneworse, and that the market for that sort of work was extremely limited.
It was just on the top of that discouragement that the Duchess wanted meto write something in her album--something Persian, you know, and just alittle bit decadent--and I thought a quatrain on an unwholesome egg wouldmeet the requirements of the case. So I started in with--
"Cackle, cackle, little hen, How I wonder if and when Once you laid the egg that I Met, alas! too late. Amen."
The Duchess objected to the Amen, which I thought gave an air offorgiveness and _chose jugee_ to the whole thing; also she said it wasn'tPersian enough, as though I were trying to sell her a kitten whose motherhad married for love rather than pedigree. So I recast it entirely, andthe new version read--
"The hen that laid thee moons ago, who knows In what Dead Yesterday her shades repose; To some election turn thy waning span And rain thy rottenness on fiscal foes."
I thought there was enough suggestion of decay in that to satisfy ajackal, and to me there was something infinitely pathetic and appealingin the idea of the egg having a sort of St. Luke's summer of commercialusefulness. But the Duchess begged me to leave out any politicalallusions; she's the president of a Women's Something or other, and shesaid it might be taken as an endorsement of deplorable methods. I nevercan remember which Party Irene discourages with her support, but I shan'tforget an occasion when I was staying at her place and she gave me apamphlet to leave at the house of a doubtful voter, and some grapes andthings for a woman who was suffering from a chill on the top of a patentmedicine. I thought it much cleverer to give the grapes to the formerand the political literature to the sick woman, and the Duchess was quiteabsurdly annoyed about it afterwards. It seems the leaflet was addressed"To those about to wobble"--I wasn't responsible for the silly title ofthe thing--and the woman never recovered; anyway, the voter wascompletely won over by the grapes and jellies, and I think that shouldhave balanced matters. The Duchess called it bribery, and said it mighthave compromised the candidate she was supporting; he was expected tosubscribe to church funds and chapel funds, and football and cricketclubs and regattas, and bazaars and beanfeasts and bellringers, andpoultry shows and ploughing matches, and reading-rooms and choir outings,and shooting trophies and testimonials, and anything of that sort; butbribery would not have been tolerated.
I fancy I have perhaps more talent for electioneering than for poetry,and I was really getting extended over this quatrain business. The eggbegan to be unmanageable, and the Duchess suggested something with aFrench literary ring about it. I hunted back in my mind for the mostfamiliar French classic that I could take liberties with, and after alittle exercise of memory I turned out the following:--
"Hast thou the pen that once the gardener had? I have it not; and know, these pears are bad. Oh, larger than the horses of the Prince Are those the general drives in Kaikobad."
Even that didn't altogether satisfy Irene; I fancy the geography of itpuzzled her. She probably thought Kaikobad was an unfashionable Germanspa, where you'd meet matrimonial bargain-hunters and emergency Serviankings. My temper was beginning to slip its moorings by that time. Ilook rather nice when I lose my temper. (I hoped you would say I lose itvery often. I mustn't monopolise the conversation.)
"Of course, if you want something really Persian and passionate, with redwine and bulbuls in it," I went on to suggest; but she grabbed the bookaway from me.
"Not for worlds. Nothing with red wine or passion in it. Dear Agathagave me the album, and she would be mortified to the quick"--
I said I didn't believe Agatha had a quick, and we got quite heated inarguing the matter. Finally, the Duchess declared I shouldn't writeanything nasty in her book, and I said I wouldn't write anything in hernasty book, so there wasn't a very wide point of difference between us.For the rest of the afternoon I pretended to be sulking, but I was reallyworking back to that quatrain, like a fox-terrier that's buried adeferred lunch in a private flower-bed. When I got an opportunity Ihunted up Agatha's autograph, which had the front page all to itself,and, copying her prim handwriting as well as I could, I inserted above itthe following Thibetan fragment:--
"With Thee, oh, my Beloved, to do a dak (a dak I believe is a sort of uncomfor
table post-journey) On the pack-saddle of a grunting yak, With never room for chilling chaperone, 'Twere better than a Panhard in the Park."
That Agatha would get on to a yak in company with a lover even in thecomparative seclusion of Thibet is unthinkable. I very much doubt ifshe'd do it with her own husband in the privacy of the Simplon tunnel.But poetry, as I've remarked before, should always stimulate theimagination.
By the way, when you asked me the other day to dine with you on the 14th,I said I was dining with the Duchess. Well, I'm not. I'm dining withyou.
THE INNOCENCE OF REGINALD
Reginald slid a carnation of the newest shade into the buttonhole of hislatest lounge coat, and surveyed the result with approval. "I am just inthe mood," he observed, "to have my portrait painted by someone with anunmistakable future. So comforting to go down to posterity as 'Youthwith a Pink Carnation' in catalogue--company with 'Child with Bunch ofPrimroses,' and all that crowd."
"Youth," said the Other, "should suggest innocence."
"But never act on the suggestion. I don't believe the two ever really gotogether. People talk vaguely about the innocence of a little child, butthey take mighty good care not to let it out of their sight for twentyminutes. The watched pot never boils over. I knew a boy once who reallywas innocent; his parents were in Society, but they never gave him amoment's anxiety from his infancy. He believed in company prospectuses,and in the purity of elections, and in women marrying for love, and evenin a system for winning at roulette. He never quite lost his faith init, but he dropped more money than his employers could afford to lose.When last I heard of him, he was believing in his innocence; the juryweren't. All the same, I really am innocent just now of somethingeveryone accuses me of having done, and so far as I can see, theiraccusations will remain unfounded."