I wish it to be distinctly understood (said Reginald) that
I don't want a “George, Prince of Wales” Prayer-book as a
Christmas present. The fact cannot be too widely known.
There ought (he continued) to be technical education
classes on the science of present-giving. No one seems to
have the faintest notion of what any one else wants, and the
prevalent ideas on the subject are not creditable to a
civilized community.
There is, for instance, the female relative in the country
who “knows a tie is always useful,” and sends you some
spotted horror that you could only wear in secret or in
Tottenham Court Road. It might have been useful had she
kept it to tie up currant bushes with, when it would have
served the double purpose of supporting the branches and
frightening away the birds---for it is an admitted fact that
the ordinary tomtit of commerce has a sounder aesthetic
taste than the average female relative in the country.
Then there are aunts. They are always a difficult class
to deal with in the matter of presents. The trouble is that
one never catches them really young enough. By the time one
has educated them to an appreciation of the fact that one
does not wear red woollen mittens in the West End, they die,
or quarrel with the family, or do something equally
inconsiderate. That is why the supply of trained aunts is
always so precarious.
There is my Aunt Agatha, par exemple, who sent me a pair
of gloves last Christmas, and even got so far as to choose a
kind that was being worn and had the correct number of
buttons. But---they were nines! I sent them to a boy whom
I hated intimately: he didn't wear them, of course, but he
could have---that was where the bitterness of death came in.
It was nearly as consoling as sending white flowers to his
funeral. Of course I wrote and told my aunt that they were
the one thing that had been wanting to make existence
blossom like a rose; I am afraid she thought me
frivolous---she comes from the North, where they live in the
fear of Heaven and the Earl of Durham. (Reginald affects an
exhaustive knowledge of things political, which furnishes an
excellent excuse for not discussing them.) Aunts with a dash
of foreign extraction in them are the most satisfactory in
the way of understanding these things; but if you can't
choose your aunt, it is wisest in the long run to choose the
present and send her the bill.
Even friends of one's own set, who might be expected to
know better, have curious delusions on the subject. I am
not collecting copies of the cheaper editions of Omar
Khayyam. I gave the last four that I received to the
lift-boy, and I like to think of him reading them, with
FitzGerald's notes, to his aged mother. Lift-boys always
have aged mothers; shows such nice feeling on their part, I
think.
Personally, I can't see where the difficulty in choosing
suitable presents lies. No boy who had brought himself up
properly could fail to appreciate one of those decorative
bottles of liqueurs that are so reverently staged in Morel's
window---and it wouldn't in the least matter if one did get
duplicates. And there would always be the supreme moment of
dreadful uncertainty whether it was creme de menthe or
Chartreuse---like the expectant thrill on seeing your
partner's hand turned up at bridge. People may say what
they like about the decay of Christianity; the religious
system that produced green Chartreuse can never really die.
And then, of course, there are liqueur glasses, and
crystallized fruits, and tapestry curtains, and heaps of
other necessaries of life that make really sensible
presents---not to speak of luxuries, such as having one's
bills paid, or getting something quite sweet in the way of
jewellery. Unlike the alleged Good Woman of the Bible, I'm
not above rubies. When found, by the way, she must have
been rather a problem at Christmas-time; nothing short of a
blank cheque would have fitted the situation. Perhaps it's
as well that she's died out.
The great charm about me (concluded Reginald) is that I am
so easily pleased. But I draw the line at a “Prince of
Wales” Prayer-book.