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 an historic
battlefield.
I hate travelling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally do things that
one dislikes.