ON THE GENTLE ART OF WASTING OTHER PEOPLE'S TIME
On the last day of the house-party we decided to hold a family
gathering in the evening, to which each guest must bring a written
sketch of some member of the household. It was to be a very short
sketch, not to consume over ten minutes in the reading, and no one was
to get angry, and no one was to get his feelings hurt.
Aubrey had to go into New York to attend a dress rehearsal of his new
play, but he promised to write something on the train, and have it
ready. His absence left me at once to play hostess and to receive the
queer, curious, and inconsequent persons who flock to the door of the
successful playwright, with every wish from obtaining his autograph to
an offer to stage his plays.
My time was all taken up until eleven o'clock, in ordering and setting
the servants at work, righting their wrongs, and pottering around among
my large family. At three I had an engagement. This left me but a
short time in which to write my sketch. I begged Bee to help me out,
but never yet have I succeeded in impressing Bee with any respect for
my working hours. For this reason I laid down the law with open energy
to Billy, hoping that Bee would see that I meant her.
I began the campaign at breakfast. Bee and Billy and I were alone.
"At eleven o'clock I am going to begin to write," I announced, firmly,
"and, Billy, I want you distinctly to understand that you are not to
run your engine in my hall. Do you hear?"
"Um--huh," said Billy, smiling at me like a cherub.
Bee leaned over and wiped the butter off Billy's chin.
"Before I go to town to-day I want to talk over that blue silk with
you," she said. "I don't know how much to get, and Eugenie is so
extravagant unless I get the stuff and tell her I got all there was in
the piece. Then she makes it do. Would you have it made up with lace?"
"Now, look here, Bee," I said, "I am not going to get my head all
muddled with dressmaking before I begin to write. I have all my ideas
ready to write that article for to-night. I am going to tell about Mr.
and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury. Don't you remember what happened? You
know if you side-track me on clothes I simply cannot do a thing."
"I know," said Bee, placidly. "No, Billy, not another lump of sugar.
Be quiet while mamma talks to Tattah. I know, but it seems to me you
might have selected another day to write. You know I wanted to consult
you about the dinner Thursday."
"I didn't select the day. The day selected me."
"Why didn't you write yesterday?"
"I didn't have any time."
"Why don't you wait until afternoon?"
"You know they are to be read tonight."
"Oh, very well, go ahead, and I won't bother you. I dare say the
dinner will be all right. But if you would just tell me which to use,
lace or chiffon with the blue?"
"Lace," I said, in desperation.
Bee half-way closed her eyes and took Billy's hand out of the
cream-pitcher.
"I think I'll use chiffon," she said.
The only use my advice is to Bee is to fasten her on to the opposite
thing. She says I help her to decide because I am always wrong.
"Now will you keep Billy away and excuse me to all visitors, and don't
come near my door for three hours and send my luncheon up at one
o'clock, and _don't send after the tray_! Leave it there until I have
finished writing."
"It is so untidy," murmured Bee.
"Well, who will see it?"
I am one of those who cleanse the outside of the desk and the bureau.
"Now, Billy, my precious, if you will keep away from Tattah all the
morning, I will give you some candy directly after dinner. You will
find it on the sconce just where I always put it," I said.
The sconce is where Billy and I put things for each other. He is only
three and a half--"thrippence, ha'penny," he says if you ask him, but
beguiling--oh, as beguiling as Cleopatra, or the serpent in the Garden
of Eden, or--or as his mother!
Billy and I went to look at the sconce on my way up-stairs, and he
called me back twice, saying, "Tattah, I want to kiss you," which I
could but feel was something due to the promised candy on the sconce.
I sat down and began to write:
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
Mrs. Jimmie, having been presented at the Court of St. James, always
has more to do in London than she can attend to. As Jimmie hates
functions with all the hatred of the American business man who looks
upon gloves as for warmth only, this leaves Jimmie and me to roam
around London at will. Mrs. Jimmie loathes the top of a "'bus" and
absolutely draws the line at "The Cheshire Cheese." She lunches at
Scott's and dines at the Savoy, while Jimmie and I are never so happy
as in the grill-room at the Trocadero or in a hansom, threading the
mazes of the City, bound for a plate of beefsteak pie at "The Cheshire
Cheese" or on top of a 'bus on Saturday night, going through the
Whitechapel region, creepy with horrors of "Jack the Ripper."
"What in all the world is a beefsteak pie?" she asked us, when she
heard our unctuous exclamations.
"Why, it is a huge meat pie, made out of ham and larks and pigeons and
beef, with a delicious gravy or sauce and a divine pastry. And you eat
it in a little old kitchen with a sanded floor and deal tables, and
where the bread is cut in chunks and where the steins are so thick that
it is like drinking your beer over a stone wall, and where Dr. Samuel
Johnson used to sit so often that the oil from his hair has made a
lovely dirty spot on the wall, and they have it under glass with a
tablet to his memory, so that if you like you can go and kneel down and
worship before it, with your knees grinding into the sand of the
floor," I said.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Jimmie, faintly. "Couldn't they have cleaned it
off?"
At this juncture Bee came in with her hat on. "Excuse me for
interrupting you," she said, with a far-away look in her eyes. "But do
you mind if I copy that pink negligee? It hangs so much better than
those I got in Paris. I won't take a moment. Just stand up and let me
see. You needn't look so despairing, I am not going to stay. No,
Billy, you stay there. Mother will be down directly. Oh, baby, why
will you step on poor Tattah's gown? See, you hurt her. Didn't I tell
you to stay with Norah? Six, eight, ten--don't, Billy. Don't touch
any of Tattah's papers. Twelve--and four times seven--I think thirty
yards of lace--Billy, take your engine off the piano. Oh, I forgot to
tell you that Dick just telephoned, and wants us to make up a party for
the theatre, with a supper afterward, next Monday. I telephoned to
Freddie and asked him, and he is delighted, and so I told Dick that we
would all come with pleasure. Now come, Billy, we must not interrupt
Tattah. This is one of the days when she must not be disturbed."
She closed the door with the softness one uses in closing the door of a
death-chamber, in order, I suppose, "not to disturb" me. I pulled
myself together, and went on.
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
"Clean it off? What sacrilege! Why, there are persons who would like
to buy the whole wall, as Taffy tried to buy the wall on which Little
Billee had drawn Trilby's foot," I exclaimed.
Mrs. Jimmie looked incredulous. She is so deliciously lacking in a
sense of humour that in the frivolous society of Jimmie and me she is
as much out of place as the Venus de Milo would be in vaudeville.
"We had such a delightful day at Stoke Pogis Monday, how would you like
to spend Sunday at Canterbury?" she said. "It seems to me that it
would be a most restful thing to wander through that lovely old
cathedral on Sunday."
Before I could reply, Jimmie dug his hands down in his pockets, thrust
his legs out in front of him, dropped his chin on his shirt-bosom and
chuckled.
"What I like are cheerful excursions," he said. "On Monday we went to
Stoke Pogis. It rained, and we had to wear overshoes, and we carried
umbrellas. We lunched at a nasty little inn where we had to eat cold
ham and cold mutton and cold beef, when we were wet and frozen to start
with. What I wanted was a hot Scotch and a hot chop and hot
potatoes--everything _hot_. Then--"
"Wait," I cried. "It was the inn where John Storm and Glory Quayle
lunched that day when she led him such a dance."
"John Fiddlesticks!" said Jimmie. "As if that counted against that
cold lunch! Then we arranged to go in the wagonette, but you got into
such a hot argument with me--"
"I thought you said we didn't have anything hot," I murmured.
"Then we missed the wagonette, and spent an hour finding a cab. Then
when we got there we were waylaid by an old woman in a little cottage,
who showed us a register of tourists, and who artfully mentioned the
sums they had given toward the restoration of Stoke Pogis, and you made
me give more than the day's excursion cost. Then we went along a wet,
bushy lane that muddied my trousers, and when we arrived at Gray's
grave, you found the solemn yew-tree, and perched yourself on a wet,
cold gravestone, and read Gray's Elegy aloud, while I held an umbrella
over your heads and enjoyed myself. Now you want to put in Sunday at
Canterbury, where, if it isn't more cheerful, you will probably have to
bury me."
"Jimmie, you haven't any soul!" I said, in disgust.
Jimmie grunted.
A knock on the door.
"Please excuse me for interrupting you," said Mary, "but there are two
reporters down-stairs, who want to know if they may photograph the
front of the house for the Sunday _Battle Ax_."
"Yes, I don't care. Tell them to go ahead."
She shut the door and went away.
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
"Oh, Jimmie," sighed his wife.
Another knock.
"Mary, what _do_ you want?" I said, savagely.
She stuttered.
"And please, Missis, they want to know if you will just come and sit on
the doorstep a moment with a book in your hand. I told them Mr.
Jardine wasn't at home, so they said you would do!"
"No, I won't. Tell my sister to put on my hat and hold the book in
front of her face and be photographed for me."
"Very well, Missis."
She went out, and again I numbered the page and essayed to write. But
I could not. I was rapidly becoming mired. I stonily refused to leave
my desk, but sat staring at the wall, trying to get the thread of my
narrative, when--Mary again.
She was in tears.
"I am afraid to speak to you, and I am afraid _not_ to speak to you,"
she stammered.
"Well, what is it?"
"Indeed, I try, Missis, but I can't seem to help you any. There are
two young girls in the drawing-room, who want to know if Mr. Jardine
will give his autograph to the Highland Alumnae Club. It has 472
members. They sent up their cards."
I simply moaned.
"That will be a whole hour's work! I can't do it now. (Mary knows I
always write Aubrey's autographs for him!) Tell them to leave the
cards and call for them to-morrow."
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
"How in the world, Mrs. Jimmie, did you come to throw yourself away on
Jimmie?" I said, with an impertinence which was only appreciated by
Jimmie.
Mrs. Jimmie took me with infinite seriousness, and looked horrified at
the sacrilege. She got up and crossed the room and sat down beside
Jimmie on the sofa, without saying a word. Her tall, full figure
towered above the gentlemanly slouch of Jimmie's boyish proportions,
and her thus silently arraying herself on Jimmie's side as a wordless
rebuke to my impertinence was so delicious that Jimmie gave me a solemn
wink, as he said:
"Now she has only voiced the opinion of the world. Let us face the
question once for all. Why did you marry me?"
Mrs. Jimmie coloured all over her creamy pale face. She looked in
distress from me to Jimmie, divided between her desire to express in
one burst of eloquence the fulness of her reasons for marrying the man
she adored, and her reluctance to display emotion before me. She took
everything with such edifying gravity. It never dawned on her that he
was teasing her.
"Don't torment her so!" I said. "Mrs. Jimmie, I admire your taste, but
I admire Jimmie's more."
"Thank you, dear," she said, seriously, but still with that soft blush
on her cheeks. Then she added, quietly, "Jimmie never torments me."
"_Mon Dieu_," I said, under my breath, with a fierce glance at Jimmie.
But he only shook his head, as one would who had not "fetched it" that
time, but who meant to keep on trying.
Another knock. Mary again, with the mail. She was swallowing
violently, and her eyes were full of tears. I took up the letters and
tore them open.
Sixteen requests for autographs, only one enclosing a stamp. Twelve
letters from young girls, telling Aubrey their stellar capabilities.
Four requests for photographs. Some personal letters, and this choice
effusion, which I copy _verbatim et spellatim_.
"DEAR SIR: Please tell me how you Study human natur do you travle
extensively through close Social relations or do you Study phenology.
You illustrate it So accrately that I would be pleased to know your
method and if you don't think I am too cheeky, would be pleased to know
your income. I remain yours with respect."
I gave a little shriek of delight, and rushed back to the Jimmies with
renewed enthusiasm. This unknown man had inspired me afresh.
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
But although Jimmie growls, there is no one in the world who is so
excellent a travelling companion as he, for he is always ready for
everything. You cannot suggest any jaunt too wild or too impossible
for Jimmie not to bend his energies toward making it possible. The
chief reason that Mrs. Jimmie likes me so much is because I admire
Jimmie, and the reason that Jimmie likes me is because I adore Mrs.
Jimmie.
So I was not at all surprised to find ourselves at Canterbury on
Saturday afternoon, after a short run from London through one of the
loveliest counties of England. Such bewitching shades of green. Such
lovely little hills,--friendly, companionable little hills. I can't
bear mountains. It is like trying to be intimate with queens and
empresses. They overpower me.
Canterbury was enchanted ground to me. We found the very old cellar
over which stood the Canterbury Inn. I could picture the whole thing
to myself. I even reconciled Chaucer's spelling with the quaintness
and curiousness of the old, old town.
We strolled up to St. Martin's Church, said to be the oldest church in
England, and wandered around the churchyard, filled with glorious roses
creeping everywhere over tombs so old that the lettering is illegible.
When the sun set, we had the most beautiful view of Canterbury to be
had anywhere, and one of the most beautiful in all England.
We sat down to a cold supper that night in a charming little inn with
diamond-paned windows. But as Jimmie loves Paris cooking and would
almost barter his chances of heaven for a smoking dish of _sole à la
Normande_ at the Café Marguery, he cast looks of deep aversion at a
side table loaded with all sorts of cold and jellied meats. His choice
of evils finally fell upon chicken, and to the purple-faced waiter with
blue-white eyes, who asked what part of the fowl he would prefer,
Jimmie said:
"The second joint."
The waiter frowned and went away. Presently he came back and asked
Jimmie over again, and again Jimmie said, "The second joint."
He went away and came back with a fine cut of beef.
"What's this?" said Jimmie. "I ordered chicken."
"Yes, sir!" said the waiter, mopping his brow, "What part would you
like, sir?"
"The second joint," said Jimmie, with ominous distinctness. "That is
if English chickens _grow_ any."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," said the poor waiter.
He hurried away, and finally brought up the head waiter.
"What part of the fowl would you like, sir? This man did not
understand your order."
Jimmie leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the waiters without
speaking.
"How many parts are there to a chicken?" said Jimmie. "As your man
does not seem to speak English, you name them over, and when you come
to the one I want, I'll scream."
Both waiters shifted their weight to the other foot and looked
embarrassed.
"I want the knee of the chicken," said Jimmie. "From the knee-cap to
the thigh. That part which supports the fowl when it walks. Not the
breast nor the neck nor the back nor yet the ankle, but the upper, the
superior part of the leg. Do you understand?"
"The upper part of the leg? I beg pardon, sir, but the waiter
understood that you wanted a cut from the second joint on that table,
sir."
Jimmie simply looked at him.
"The English speak a dialect somewhat resembling the American language,
Jimmie," I said, soothingly.
A knock at the door, and Bee appeared.
"Should Wives Work?" she said. "Answer that offhand! There is a
reporter down-stairs for the _Sunday Gorgon_, who wants five hundred
words from you which he is prepared to take down in shorthand. Should
Wives Work?"
"Should wives work?" I cried, ferociously. "Would they if they got a
chance? Oh, Bee, for heaven's sake, go down and tell him I'm out.
Please, Bee."
"No, just give me a few ideas, and I'll go down and enlarge on them,
and make up your five hundred words. Your opinion is so valuable. You
don't know a single thing about it!"
I got rid of her by some diplomacy, and returned to the Jimmies.
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
"Never mind her, dear," said Mrs. Jimmie. "Think what a beautiful,
restful day we shall have to-morrow, wandering about Canterbury
cathedral. I can't think of a more beautiful way to spend Sunday.
London is simply dreadful on Sunday."
"London is simply dreadful at any time," said Jimmie. "Every
restaurant, even the Savoy, closes at midnight. I got shut into the
Criterion the other evening in the grill, and had to come out through
the hotel, and they unlocked more doors and unclanked more chains than
I've heard since I was the prisoner of Chillon. Talk about going wrong
in London. You simply couldn't. Goodness is thrust upon you, if you
are travelling. If you are a native and belong to the clubs--that's
different. But the way they close things in England at the very time
of all others that you want them to be open--"
Bee entered.
"Excuse me," she said, in a whisper. Bee thinks if she whispers it is
not an interruption. "A committee from the Jewish Hospital would like
to know if Aubrey will present a set of his books to the Hospital
Library."
"If he does, that will be sixty dollars that he will have paid out this
week, for his own books, for the privilege of giving them away. But as
this is the last hospital in town that he has _not_ contributed to,
tell them yes, and then set the dog on them!" I said, savagely.
"You poor thing!" said Bee. "It's a shame the way people torment you."
Billy crowded past his mother, and climbed into my lap.
"Tell me a story, dear Tattah," said this born wheedler, patting my
face with his little black paw.
"No, now Billy--" began Bee.
"Let him stay," I cried, casting down my pen. "It is so seldom that he
cuddles that I'll sacrifice myself upon the altar of aunthood. Well,
once upon a time, Billy, there was a dear little blue hen who stole
away--sit still now! You've more legs than a centipede!--who stole
away every day and went under the barn where it was so cool and shady,
and laid a lovely little smooth, cream-coloured egg. Then when she had
laid it, she was so proud that she could never help coming out and
cackling at the top of her voice, 'Cut-cut-cut-ka-dah-cut!' And then
the lady of the house would run out and say, 'Oh, there's that naughty
little blue hen cackling over a new-laid egg which I did want so much
to make an omelette, but I don't know where she has laid it. The
naughty little blue hen!' So the poor lady would be obliged to use the
red hen's eggs for the omelette, because the little blue hen laid
_hers_ under the barn.
"Well, after the little blue hen had laid six beautiful cream-coloured
eggs, she began to sit on them day after day, covering them with her
feathers, and tucking her lovely little blue wings down around the
edges of her nest to keep the eggs warm, and day after day she sat and
dreamed of six darling little yellow, fluffy chickens with brown wings
and sparkling black eyes and dear little peepy voices, and she was so
happy in thinking of her little children that she was as patient as
possible, and never seemed to care that all the other hens and chickens
were running about in the warm yellow sunshine and snapping up lively
little shiny bugs with their yellow beaks.
"Well, after awhile, this dear little patient blue hen heard the
funniest little tapping, tapping, tapping under her wings." Billy's
eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he tapped the arm of the chair as
I did. "And then she felt the most curious little fluttering under her
wings--oh, Billy, _what_ do you think this little blue hen felt
fluttering under her wings?"
"A _omelette_!" said Billy, excitedly.
I finished the Jimmies as an anticlimax.
_Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie at Canterbury_.
It did not disturb Jimmie the next day to discover that Canterbury
Cathedral is _closed to visitors on Sunday_.
_We_ saw it on Monday.
After such a day it was no surprise to me to have Aubrey come home so
dead tired that our strenuous evening was given up, and we all went out
in Cary's new motor-car instead.