by Saki
‘Then if I was to ask you for a small loan –’ began the greybeard fawningly, edging nearer on the seat and hurriedly wondering how large he might safely make his request, ‘if I was to ask you for, say –’
‘At any other time, certainly,’ said Crosby; ‘in the months of November and December, however, it is absolutely forbidden for any one of our race to give or receive loans or gifts; in fact, one does not willingly speak of them. It is considered unlucky. We will therefore close this discussion.’
‘But it is still October!’ exclaimed the adventurer with an eager, angry whine, as Crosby rose from his seat; ‘wants eight days to the end of the month!’
‘The Afghan November began yesterday,’ said Crosby severely, and in another moment he was striding across the Park, leaving his recent companion scowling and muttering furiously on the seat.
‘I don’t believe a word of his story,’ he chattered to himself; ‘pack of nasty lies from beginning to end. Wish I’d told him so to his face. Calling himself an Afghan!’
The snorts and snarls that escaped from him for the next quarter of an hour went far to support the truth of the old saying that two of a trade never agree.
The Schartz-Metterklume Method
Lady Carlotta stepped out on to the platform of the small wayside station and took a turn or two up and down its uninteresting length, to kill time till the train should be pleased to proceed on its way. Then, in the roadway beyond, she saw a horse struggling with a more than ample load, and a carter of the sort that seems to bear a sullen hatred against the animal that helps him to earn a living. Lady Carlotta promptly betook her to the roadway, and put rather a different complexion on the struggle. Certain of her acquaintances were wont to give her plentiful admonition as to the undesirability of interfering on behalf of a distressed animal, such interference being ‘none of her business’. Only once had she put the doctrine of non-interference into practice, when one of its most eloquent exponents had been besieged for nearly three hours in a small and extremely uncomfortable may-tree by an angry boar-pig, while Lady Carlotta, on the other side of the fence, had proceeded with the water-colour sketch she was engaged on, and refused to interfere between the boar and his prisoner. It is to be feared that she lost the friendship of the ultimately rescued lady. On this occasion she merely lost the train, which gave way to the first sign of impatience it had shown throughout the journey, and steamed off without her. She bore the desertion with philosophical indifference; her friends and relations were thoroughly well used to the fact of her luggage arriving without her. She wired a vague non-committal message to her destination to say that she was coming on ‘by another train’. Before she had time to think what her next move might be she was confronted by an imposingly attired lady, who seemed to be taking a prolonged mental inventory of her clothes and looks.
‘You must be Miss Hope, the governess I’ve come to meet,’ said the apparition, in a tone that admitted of very little argument.
‘Very well, if I must I must,’ said Lady Carlotta to herself with dangerous meekness.
‘I am Mrs Quabarl,’ continued the lady; ‘and where, pray, is your luggage.’
‘It’s gone astray,’ said the alleged governess, falling in with the excellent rule of life that the absent are always to blame; the luggage had, in point of fact, behaved with perfect correctitude. ‘I’ve just telegraphed about it,’ she added, with a nearer approach to truth.
‘How provoking,’ said Mrs Quabarl; ‘these railway companies are so careless. However, my maid can lend you things for the night,’ and she led the way to her car.
During the drive to the Quabarl mansion Lady Carlotta was impressively introduced to the nature of the charge that had been thrust upon her; she learned that Claude and Wilfrid were delicate, sensitive young people, that Irene had the artistic temperament highly developed, and that Viola was something or other else of a mould equally commonplace among children of that class and type in the twentieth century.
‘I wish them not only to be taught,’ said Mrs Quabarl, ‘but interested in what they learn. In their history lessons, for instance, you must try to make them feel that they are being introduced to the life-stories of men and women who really lived, not merely committing a mass of names and dates to memory. French, of course, I shall expect you to talk at mealtimes several days in the week.’
‘I shall talk French four days of the week and Russian in the remaining three.’
‘Russian? My dear Miss Hope, no one in the house speaks or understands Russian.’
‘That will not embarrass me in the least,’ said Lady Carlotta coldly.
Mrs Quabarl, to use a colloquial expression, was knocked off her perch. She was one of those imperfectly self-assured individuals who are magnificent and autocratic as long as they are not seriously opposed. The least show of unexpected resistance goes a long way towards rendering them cowed and apologetic. When the new governess failed to express wondering admiration of the large newly purchased and expensive car, and lightly alluded to the superior advantages of one or two makes which had just been put on the market, the discomfiture of her patroness became almost abject. Her feelings were those which might have animated a general of ancient warfaring days, on beholding his heaviest battle-elephant ignominiously driven off the field by slingers and javelin throwers.
At dinner that evening, although reinforced by her husband, who usually duplicated her opinions and lent her moral support generally, Mrs Quabarl regained none of her lost ground. The governess not only helped herself well and truly to wine, but held forth with considerable show of critical knowledge on various vintage matters, concerning which the Quabarls were in no wise able to pose as authorities. Previous governesses had limited their conversation on the wine topic to a respectful and doubtless sincere expression of a preference for water. When this one went as far as to recommend a wine firm in whose hands you could not go very far wrong Mrs Quabarl thought it time to turn the conversation into more usual channels.
‘We got very satisfactory references about you from Canon Teep,’ she observed; ‘a very estimable man, I should think.’
‘Drinks like a fish and beats his wife, otherwise a very lovable character,’ said the governess imperturbably.
‘My dear Miss Hope! I trust you are exaggerating,’ exclaimed the Quabarls in unison.
‘One must in justice admit that there is some provocation,’ continued the romancer. ‘Mrs Teep is quite the most irritating bridge-player that I have ever sat down with; her leads and declarations would condone a certain amount of brutality in her partner, but to souse her with the contents of the only soda-water syphon in the house on a Sunday afternoon, when one couldn’t get another, argues an indifference to the comfort of others which I cannot altogether overlook. You may think me hasty in my judgments, but it was practically on account of the syphon incident that I left.’
‘We will talk of this some other time,’ said Mrs Quabarl hastily.
‘I shall never allude to it again,’ said the governess with decision.
Mr Quabarl made a welcome diversion by asking what studies the new instructress proposed to inaugurate on the morrow.
‘History to begin with,’ she informed him.
‘Ah, history,’ he observed sagely; ‘now in teaching them history you must take care to interest them in what they learn. You must make them feel that they are being introduced to the life-stories of men and women who really lived –’
‘I’ve told her all that,’ interposed Mrs Quabarl.
‘I teach history on the Schartz-Metterklume method,’ said the governess loftily.
‘Ah, yes,’ said her listeners, thinking it expedient to assume an acquaintance at least with the name.
‘What are you children doing out here?’ demanded Mrs Quabarl the next morning, on finding Irene sitting rather glumly at the head of the stairs, while her sister was perched in an attitude of depressed discomfort on the window-seat behind her, with a wolfskin rug almost c
overing her.
‘We are having a history lesson,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘I am supposed to be Rome, and Viola up there is the she-wolf; not a real wolf, but the figure of one that the Romans used to set store by – I forget why. Claude and Wilfrid have gone to fetch the shabby women.’
‘The shabby women?’
‘Yes, they’ve got to carry them off. They didn’t want to, but Miss Hope got one of father’s fives-bats and said she’d give them a number nine spanking if they didn’t, so they’ve gone to do it.’
A loud, angry screaming from the direction of the lawn drew Mrs Quabarl thither in hot haste, fearful lest the threatened castigation might even now be in process of infliction. The outcry, however, came principally from the two small daughters of the lodgekeeper, who were being hauled and pushed towards the house by the panting and dishevelled Claude and Wilfrid, whose task was rendered even more arduous by the incessant, if not very effectual, attacks of the captured maidens’ small brother. The governess, fives-bat in hand, sat negligently on the stone balustrade, presiding over the scene with the cold impartiality of a Goddess of Battles. A furious and repeated chorus of ‘I’ll tell muvver’ rose from the lodge children, but the lodge-mother, who was hard of hearing, was for the moment immersed in the preoccupation of her washtub. After an apprehensive glance in the direction of the lodge (the good woman was gifted with the highly militant temper which is sometimes the privilege of deafness) Mrs Quabarl flew indignantly to the rescue of the struggling captives.
‘Wilfrid! Claude! Let those children go at once. Miss Hope, what on earth is the meaning of this scene?’
‘Early Roman history; the Sabine women, don’t you know? It’s the Schartz-Metterklume method to make children understand history by acting it themselves; fixes it in their memory, you know. Of course, if, thanks to your interference, your boys go through life thinking that the Sabine women ultimately escaped, I really cannot be held responsible.’
‘You may be very clever and modern, Miss Hope,’ said Mrs Quabarl firmly, ‘but I should like you to leave here by the next train. Your luggage will be sent after you as soon as it arrives.’
‘I’m not certain exactly where I shall be for the next few days,’ said the dismissed instructress of youth; ‘you might keep my luggage till I wire my address. There are only a couple of trunks and some golf-clubs and a leopard cub.’
‘A leopard cub!’ gasped Mrs Quabarl. Even in her departure this extraordinary person seemed destined to leave a trail of embarrassment behind her.
‘Well, it’s rather left off being a cub; it’s more than half-grown, you know. A fowl every day and a rabbit on Sundays is what it usually gets. Raw beef makes it too excitable. Don’t trouble about getting the car for me, I’m rather inclined for a walk.’
And Lady Carlotta strode out of the Quabarl horizon.
The advent of the genuine Miss Hope, who had made a mistake as to the day on which she was due to arrive, caused a turmoil which that good lady was quite unused to inspiring. Obviously the Quabarl family had been woefully befooled, but a certain amount of relief came with the knowledge.
‘How tiresome for you, dear Carlotta,’ said her hostess, when the overdue guest ultimately arrived; ‘how very tiresome losing your train and having to stop overnight in a strange place.’
‘Oh, dear, no,’ said Lady Carlotta; ‘not at all tiresome – for me.’
The Seventh Pullet
‘It’s not the daily grind that I complain of,’ said Blenkinthrope resentfully; ‘it’s the dull grey sameness of my life outside of office hours. Nothing of interest comes my way, nothing remarkable or out of the common. Even the little things that I do try to find some interest in don’t seem to interest other people. Things in my garden, for instance.’
‘The potato that weighed just over two pounds,’ said his friend Gorworth.
‘Did I tell you about that?’ said Blenkinthrope; ‘I was telling the others in the train this morning. I forgot if I’d told you.’
‘To be exact you told me that it weighed just under two pounds, but I took into account the fact that abnormal vegetables and freshwater fish have an after-life, in which growth is not arrested.’
‘You’re just like the others,’ said Blenkinthrope sadly, ‘you only make fun of it.’
‘The fault is with the potato, not with us,’ said Gorworth; ‘we are not in the least interested in it because it is not in the least interesting. The men you go up in the train with every day are just in the same case as yourself; their fives are commonplace and not very interesting to themselves, and they certainly are not going to wax enthusiastic over the commonplace events in other men’s fives. Tell them something startling, dramatic, piquant, that has happened to yourself or to some one in your family, and you will capture their interest at once. They will talk about you with a certain personal pride to all their acquaintances. “Man I know intimately, fellow called Blenkinthrope, fives down my way, had two of his fingers clawed clean off by a lobster he was carrying home to supper. Doctor says entire hand may have to come off.” Now that is conversation of a very high order. But imagine walking into a tennis club with the remark: “I know a man who has grown a potato weighing two and a quarter pounds.”’
‘But hang it all, my dear fellow,’ said Blenkinthrope impatiently ‘haven’t I just told you that nothing of a remarkable nature ever happens to me?’
‘Invent something,’ said Gorworth. Since winning a prize for excellence in Scriptural knowledge at a preparatory school he had felt licensed to be a little more unscrupulous than the circle he moved in. Much might surely be excused to one who in early life could give a list of seventeen trees mentioned in the Old Testament.
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Blenkinthrope, somewhat snappishly.
‘A snake got into your hen-run yesterday morning and killed six out of seven pullets, first mesmerising them with its eyes and then biting them as they stood helpless. The seventh pullet was one of that French sort, with feathers all over its eyes, so it escaped the mesmeric snare, and just flew at what it could see of the snake and pecked it to pieces.’
‘Thank you,’ said Blenkinthrope stiffly; ‘it’s a very clever invention. If such a thing had really happened in my poultry-run I admit I should have been proud and interested to tell people about it. But I’d rather stick to fact, even if it is plain fact.’ All the same his mind dwelt wistfully on the story of the Seventh Pullet. He could picture himself telling it in the train amid the absorbed interest of his fellow-passengers. Unconsciously all sorts of little details and improvements began to suggest themselves.
Wistfulness was still his dominant mood when he took his seat in the railway carriage the next morning. Opposite him sat Stevenham, who had attained to a recognised brevet of importance through the fact of an uncle having dropped dead in the act of voting at a Parliamentary election. That had happened three years ago, but Stevenham was still deferred to on all questions of home and foreign politics.
‘Hullo, how’s the giant mushroom, or whatever it was?’ was all the notice Blenkinthrope got from his fellow travellers.
Young Duckby, whom he mildly disliked, speedily monopolised the general attention by an account of a domestic bereavement.
‘Had four young pigeons carried off last night by a whacking big rat. Oh, a monster he must have been; you could tell by the size of the hole he made breaking into the loft.’
No moderate-sized rat ever seemed to carry out any predatory operations in these regions; they were all enormous in their enormity.
‘Pretty hard lines that,’ continued Duckby, seeing that he had secured the attention and respect of the company; ‘four squeakers carried off at one swoop. You’d find it rather hard to match that in the way of unlooked-for bad luck.’
‘I had six pullets out of a pen of seven killed by a snake yesterday afternoon,’ said Blenkinthrope, in a voice which he hardly recognised as his own.
‘By a snake?’ came in excited chorus.
‘It fascinated them with its deadly, glittering eyes, one after the other, and struck them down while they stood helpless. A bedridden neighbour, who wasn’t able to call for assistance, witnessed it all from her bedroom window.’
‘Well, I never!’ broke in the chorus, with variations
‘The interesting part of it is about the seventh pullet, the one that didn’t get killed,’ resumed Blenkinthrope, slowly lighting a cigarette. His diffidence had left him, and he was beginning to realise how safe and easy depravity can seem once one has the courage to begin. ‘The six dead birds were Minorcas; the seventh was a Houdan with a mop of feathers all over its eyes. It could hardly see the snake at all, so of course it wasn’t mesmerised like the others. It just could see something wriggling on the ground, and went for it and pecked it to death.’
‘Well, I’m blessed!’ exclaimed the chorus.
In the course of the next few days Blenkinthrope discovered how little the loss of one’s self-respect affects one when one has gained the esteem of the world. His story found its way into one of the poultry papers, and was copied thence into a daily news-sheet as a matter of general interest. A lady wrote from the North of Scotland recounting a similar episode which she had witnessed as occurring between a stoat and a blind grouse. Somehow a lie seems so much less reprehensible when one can call it a lee.
For a while the adapter of the Seventh Pullet story enjoyed to the full his altered standing as a person of consequence, one who had had some share in the strange events of his times. Then he was thrust once again into the cold grey background by the sudden blossoming into importance of Smith-Paddon, a daily fellow-traveller, whose little girl had been knocked down and nearly hurt by a car belonging to a musical-comedy actress. The actress was not in the car at the time, but she was in numerous photographs which appeared in the illustrated papers of Zoto Dobreen inquiring after the well-being of Maisie, daughter of Edmund Smith-Paddon, Esq. With this new human interest to absorb them the travelling companions were almost rude when Blenkinthrope tried to explain his contrivance for keeping vipers and peregrine falcons out of his chicken-run.