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 Babwolds'. Mrs. Babwold is
some relation of my father's---a sort of
to-be-left-till-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 notepaper in that drawer; that's where I keep old menus
and first-night programmes.
Mrs. Babwold 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 Durbar
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 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 colour), and I think 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 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 mussel.
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 MacGreegor. 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 Mrs. Babwold'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
draughty, 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 favoured 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 vapouring 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 Langshan-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 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 a historic
battlefield.
I hate travelling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally
do things that one dislikes.