by Saki
“DOWN PENS”
“Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for what they sent us?” askedEgbert.
“No,” said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance in her voice; “I’vewritten eleven letters to-day expressing surprise and gratitude forsundry unmerited gifts, but I haven’t written to the Froplinsons.”
“Some one will have to write to them,” said Egbert.
“I don’t dispute the necessity, but I don’t think the some one should beme,” said Janetta. “I wouldn’t mind writing a letter of angryrecrimination or heartless satire to some suitable recipient; in fact, Ishould rather enjoy it, but I’ve come to the end of my capacity forexpressing servile amiability. Eleven letters to-day and nine yesterday,all couched in the same strain of ecstatic thankfulness: really, youcan’t expect me to sit down to another. There is such a thing as writingoneself out.”
“I’ve written nearly as many,” said Egbert, “and I’ve had my usualbusiness correspondence to get through, too. Besides, I don’t know whatit was that the Froplinsons sent us.”
“A William the Conqueror calendar,” said Janetta, “with a quotation ofone of his great thoughts for every day in the year.”
“Impossible,” said Egbert; “he didn’t have three hundred and sixty-fivethoughts in the whole of his life, or, if he did, he kept them tohimself. He was a man of action, not of introspection.”
“Well, it was William Wordsworth, then,” said Janetta; “I know Williamcame into it somewhere.”
“That sounds more probable,” said Egbert; “well, let’s collaborate onthis letter of thanks and get it done. I’ll dictate, and you canscribble it down. ‘Dear Mrs. Froplinson—thank you and your husband somuch for the very pretty calendar you sent us. It was very good of youto think of us.’”
“You can’t possibly say that,” said Janetta, laying down her pen.
“It’s what I always do say, and what every one says to me,” protestedEgbert.
“We sent them something on the twenty-second,” said Janetta, “so theysimply _had_ to think of us. There was no getting away from it.”
“What did we send them?” asked Egbert gloomily.
“Bridge-markers,” said Janetta, “in a cardboard case, with some inanityabout ‘digging for fortune with a royal spade’ emblazoned on the cover.The moment I saw it in the shop I said to myself ‘Froplinsons’ and to theattendant ‘How much?’ When he said ‘Ninepence,’ I gave him theiraddress, jabbed our card in, paid tenpence or elevenpence to cover thepostage, and thanked heaven. With less sincerity and infinitely moretrouble they eventually thanked me.”
“The Froplinsons don’t play bridge,” said Egbert.
“One is not supposed to notice social deformities of that sort,” saidJanetta; “it wouldn’t be polite. Besides, what trouble did they take tofind out whether we read Wordsworth with gladness? For all they knew orcared we might be frantically embedded in the belief that all poetrybegins and ends with John Masefield, and it might infuriate or depress usto have a daily sample of Wordsworthian products flung at us.”
“Well, let’s get on with the letter of thanks,” said Egbert.
“Proceed,” said Janetta.
“‘How clever of you to guess that Wordsworth is our favourite poet,’”dictated Egbert.
Again Janetta laid down her pen.
“Do you realise what that means?” she asked; “a Wordsworth booklet nextChristmas, and another calendar the Christmas after, with the sameproblem of having to write suitable letters of thankfulness. No, thebest thing to do is to drop all further allusion to the calendar andswitch off on to some other topic.”
“But what other topic?”
“Oh, something like this: ‘What do you think of the New Year HonoursList? A friend of ours made such a clever remark when he read it.’ Thenyou can stick in any remark that comes into your head; it needn’t beclever. The Froplinsons won’t know whether it is or isn’t.”
“We don’t even know on which side they are in politics,” objected Egbert;“and anyhow you can’t suddenly dismiss the subject of the calendar.Surely there must be some intelligent remark that can be made about it.”
“Well, we can’t think of one,” said Janetta wearily; “the fact is, we’veboth written ourselves out. Heavens! I’ve just remembered Mrs. StephenLudberry. I haven’t thanked her for what she sent.”
“What did she send?”
“I forget; I think it was a calendar.”
There was a long silence, the forlorn silence of those who are bereft ofhope and have almost ceased to care.
Presently Egbert started from his seat with an air of resolution. Thelight of battle was in his eyes.
“Let me come to the writing-table,” he exclaimed.
“Gladly,” said Janetta. “Are you going to write to Mrs. Ludberry or theFroplinsons?”
“To neither,” said Egbert, drawing a stack of notepaper towards him; “I’mgoing to write to the editor of every enlightened and influentialnewspaper in the Kingdom, I’m going to suggest that there should be asort of epistolary Truce of God during the festivities of Christmas andNew Year. From the twenty-fourth of December to the third or fourth ofJanuary it shall be considered an offence against good sense and goodfeeling to write or expect any letter or communication that does not dealwith the necessary events of the moment. Answers to invitations,arrangements about trains, renewal of club subscriptions, and, of course,all the ordinary everyday affairs of business, sickness, engaging newcooks, and so forth, these will be dealt with in the usual manner assomething inevitable, a legitimate part of our daily life. But all thedevastating accretions of correspondence, incident to the festive season,these should be swept away to give the season a chance of being reallyfestive, a time of untroubled, unpunctuated peace and good will.”
“But you would have to make some acknowledgment of presents received,”objected Janetta; “otherwise people would never know whether they hadarrived safely.”
“Of course, I have thought of that,” said Egbert; “every present that wassent off would be accompanied by a ticket bearing the date of dispatchand the signature of the sender, and some conventional hieroglyphic toshow that it was intended to be a Christmas or New Year gift; there wouldbe a counterfoil with space for the recipient’s name and the date ofarrival, and all you would have to do would be to sign and date thecounterfoil, add a conventional hieroglyphic indicating heartfelt thanksand gratified surprise, put the thing into an envelope and post it.”
“It sounds delightfully simple,” said Janetta wistfully, “but peoplewould consider it too cut-and-dried, too perfunctory.”
“It is not a bit more perfunctory than the present system,” said Egbert;“I have only the same conventional language of gratitude at my disposalwith which to thank dear old Colonel Chuttle for his perfectly deliciousStilton, which we shall devour to the last morsel, and the Froplinsonsfor their calendar, which we shall never look at. Colonel Chuttle knowsthat we are grateful for the Stilton, without having to be told so, andthe Froplinsons know that we are bored with their calendar, whatever wemay say to the contrary, just as we know that they are bored with thebridge-markers in spite of their written assurance that they thanked usfor our charming little gift. What is more, the Colonel knows that evenif we had taken a sudden aversion to Stilton or been forbidden it by thedoctor, we should still have written a letter of hearty thanks around it.So you see the present system of acknowledgment is just as perfunctoryand conventional as the counterfoil business would be, only ten timesmore tiresome and brain-racking.”
“Your plan would certainly bring the ideal of a Happy Christmas a stepnearer realisation,” said Janetta.
“There are exceptions, of course,” said Egbert, “people who really try toinfuse a breath of reality into their letters of acknowledgment. AuntSusan, for instance, who writes: ‘Thank you very much for the ham; notsuch a good flavour as the one you sent last year, which itself was not aparticularly good one. Hams ar
e not what they used to be.’ It would bea pity to be deprived of her Christmas comments, but that loss would beswallowed up in the general gain.”
“Meanwhile,” said Janetta, “what am I to say to the Froplinsons?”