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 anyone else wants, and the prevalent ideas on the subject are not
creditable to a civilised 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 crystallised 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.