by Saki
‘I’m so hoarse,’ he protested, when the moment arrived; ‘I don’t believe I can make my voice heard beyond the platform.’
‘Let me do it,’ said the Sheep; ‘I’m rather good at that sort of thing.’
The chairman was popular with all parties, and the Sheep’s opening words of complimentary recognition received a round of applause. The orator smiled expansively on his listeners and seized the opportunity to add a few words of political wisdom on his own account. People looked at the clock or began to grope for umbrellas and discarded neck-wraps. Then, in the midst of a string of meaningless platitudes, the Sheep delivered himself of one of those blundering remarks which travel from one end of a constituency to the other in half an hour, and are seized on by the other side as being more potent on their behalf than a ton of election literature. There was a general shuffling and muttering across the length and breadth of the hall, and a few hisses made themselves heard. The Sheep tried to whittle down his remark, and the chairman unhesitatingly threw him over in his speech of thanks, but the damage was done.
‘I’m afraid I lost touch with the audience rather over that remark,’ said the Sheep afterwards, with his apologetic smile abnormally developed.
‘You lost us the election,’ said the chairman, and he proved a true prophet.
A month or so of winter sport seemed a desirable pick-me-up after the strenuous work and crowning discomfiture of the election. Rupert and Kathleen hied them away to a small Alpine resort that was just coming into prominence, and thither the Sheep followed them in due course, in his rôle of husband-elect. The wedding had been fixed for the end of March.
It was a winter of early and unseasonable thaws, and the far end of the local lake, at a spot where swift currents flowed into it, was decorated with notices, written in three languages, warning skaters not to venture over certain unsafe patches. The folly of approaching too near these danger spots seemed to have a natural fascination for the Sheep.
‘I don’t see what possible danger there can be,’ he protested, with his inevitable smile, when Rupert beckoned him away from the proscribed area; ‘the milk that I put out on my window-sill last night was frozen an inch deep.’
‘It hadn’t got a strong current flowing through it,’ said Rupert; ‘in any case, there is not much sense in hovering round a doubtful piece of ice when there are acres of good ice to skate over. The secretary of the ice-committee has warned you once already.’
A few minutes later Rupert heard a loud squeal of fear, and saw a dark spot blotting the smoothness of the lake’s frozen surface. The Sheep was struggling helplessly in an ice-hole of his own making. Rupert gave one loud curse, and then dashed full tilt for the shore; outside a low stable building on the lake’s edge he remembered having seen a ladder. If he could slide it across the ice-hole before the Sheep went under the rescue would be comparatively simple work. Other skaters were dashing up from a distance, and, with the ladder’s help, they could get him out of his death-trap without having to trust themselves on the margin of rotten ice. Rupert sprang on to the surface of lumpy, frozen snow, and staggered to where the ladder lay. He had already lifted it when the rattle of a chain and a furious outburst of growls burst on his hearing, and he was dashed to the ground by a mass of white and tawny fur. A sturdy young yard-dog, frantic with the pleasure of performing his first piece of active guardian service, was ramping and snarling over him, rendering the task of regaining his feet or securing the ladder a matter of considerable difficulty. When he had at last succeeded in both efforts he was just by a hair’s-breadth too late to be of any use. The Sheep had definitely disappeared under the ice-rift.
Kathleen Athling and her husband stay the greater part of the year with Rupert, and a small Robbie stands in some danger of being idolised by a devoted uncle. But for twelve months of the year Rupert’s most inseparable and valued companion is a sturdy tawny and white yard-dog.
The Oversight
‘It’s like a Chinese puzzle,’ said Lady Prowche resentfully, staring at a scribbled list of names that spread over two or three loose sheets of notepaper on her writing-table. Most of the names had a pencil mark running through them.
‘What is like a Chinese puzzle?’ asked Lena Luddleford briskly; she rather prided herself on being able to grapple with the minor problems of life.
‘Getting people suitably sorted together. Sir Richard likes me to have a house party about this time of year, and gives me a free hand as to whom I should invite; all he asks is that it should be a peaceable party, with no friction or unpleasantness.’
‘That seems reasonable enough,’ said Lena.
‘Not only reasonable, my dear, but necessary. Sir Richard has his literary work to think of; you can’t expect a man to concentrate on the tribal disputes of Central Asian clansmen when he’s got social feuds blazing under his own roof.’
‘But why should they blaze? Why should there be feuds at all within the compass of a house party?’
‘Exactly; why should they blaze or why should they exist?’ echoed Lady Prowche. ‘The point is that they always do. We have been unlucky; persistently unlucky, now that I come to look back on things. We have always got people of violently opposed views under our roof, and the result has been not merely unpleasantness but explosion.’
‘Do you mean people who disagree on matters of political opinion and religious views?’ asked Lena.
‘No, not that. The broader lines of political or religious difference don’t matter. You can have Church of England and Unitarian and Buddhist under the same roof without courting disaster; the only Buddhist I ever had down here quarrelled with everybody, but that was on account of his naturally squabblesome temperament; it had nothing to do with his religion. And I’ve always found that people can differ profoundly about politics and meet on perfectly good terms at breakfast. Now, Miss Larbor Jones, who was staying here last year, worships Lloyd George as a sort of wingless angel, while Mrs Walters, who was down here at the same time, privately considers him to be – an antelope, let us say.’
‘An antelope?’
‘Well, not an antelope exactly, but something with horns and hoofs and tail.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Still, that didn’t prevent them from being the chummiest of mortals on the tennis court and in the billiard-room. They did quarrel finally, about a lead in a doubled hand of no trumps, but that of course is a thing that no amount of judicious guest-grouping could prevent. Mrs Walters had got king, knave, ten, and seven of clubs –’
‘You were saying that there were other lines of demarcation that caused the bother,’ interrupted Lena.
‘Exactly. It is the minor differences and side-issues that give so much trouble,’ said Lady Prowche; ‘not to my dying day shall I forget last year’s upheaval over the Suffragette question. Laura Henniseed left the house in a state of speechless indignation, but before she had reached that state she had used language that would not have been tolerated in the Austrian Reichsrath. Intensive bear-gardening was Sir Richard’s description of the whole affair, and I don’t think he exaggerated.’
‘Of course the Suffragette question is a burning one, and lets loose the most dreadful ill-feeling,’ said Lena; ‘but one can generally find out beforehand what people’s opinions –’
‘My dear, the year before it was worse. It was Christian Science.
‘Selina Goobie is a sort of High Priestess of the Cult, and she put down all opposition with a high hand. Then one evening, after dinner, Clovis Sangrail put a wasp down her back, to see if her theory about the non-existence of pain could be depended on in an emergency. The wasp was small, but very efficient, and it had been soured in temper by being kept in a paper cage all the afternoon. Wasps don’t stand confinement well, at least this one didn’t. I don’t think I ever realised till that moment what the word “invective” could be made to mean. I sometimes wake in the night and think I still hear Selina describing Clovis’s conduct and general character. That was th
e year that Sir Richard was writing his volume on Domestic Life in Tartary. The critics all blamed it for a lack of concentration.’
‘He’s engaged on a very important work this year, isn’t he?’ asked Lena.
‘Land-tenure in Turkestan,’ said Lady Prowche; ‘he is just at work on the final chapters and they require all the concentration he can give them. That is why I am so very anxious not to have any unfortunate disturbance this year. I have taken every precaution I can think of to bring non-conflicting and harmonious elements together; the only two people I am not quite easy about are the Atkinson man and Marcus Popham. They are the two who will be down here longest together, and if they are going to fall foul of one another about any burning question, well, there will be more unpleasantness.’
‘Can’t you find out anything about them? About their opinions, I mean.’
‘Anything? My dear Lena, there’s scarcely anything that I haven’t found out about them. They’re both of them moderate Liberal, Evangelical, mildly opposed to female suffrage, they approve of the Falconer Report, and the Stewards’ decision about Craganour. Thank goodness in this country we don’t fly into violent passions about Wagner and Brahms and things of that sort. There is only one thorny subject that I haven’t been able to make sure about, the only stone that I have left unturned. Are they unanimously anti-vivisectionist or do they both uphold the necessity for scientific experiment? There has been a lot of correspondence on the subject in our local newspapers of late, and the vicar is certain to preach a sermon about it; vicars are dreadfully provocative at times. Now, if you could only find out for me whether these two men are divergently for or against –’
‘I!’ exclaimed Lena; ‘how am I to find out? I don’t know either of them to speak to.’
‘Still, you might discover, in some roundabout way. Write to them, under an assumed name, of course, for subscriptions to one or other cause – or, better still, send a stamped typewritten reply postcard, with a request for a declaration for or against vivisection; people who would hesitate to commit themselves to a subscription will cheerfully write Yes or No on a prepaid postcard. If you can’t manage it that way, try and meet them at some one’s house and get into argument on the subject. I think Milly occasionally has one or other of them at her at-homes; you might have the luck to meet both of them there the same evening. Only it must be done soon. My invitations ought to go out by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest, and today is Friday.’
‘Milly’s at-homes are not very amusing, as a rule,’ said Lena; ‘and one never gets a chance of talking uninterruptedly to any one for a couple of minutes at a time; Milly is one of those restless hostesses who always seem to be trying to see how you look in different parts of the room, in fresh grouping effects. Even if I got to speak to Popham or Atkinson I couldn’t plunge into a topic like vivisection straight away. No, I think the postcard scheme would be more hopeful and decidedly less tiresome. How would it be best to word them?’
‘Oh, something like this: “Are you in favour of experiments on living animals for the purpose of scientific research – Yes or No?” That is quite simple and unmistakable. If they don’t answer it will at least be an indication that they are indifferent about the subject, and that is all I want to know.’
‘All right,’ said Lena, ‘I’ll get my brother-in-law to let me have them addressed to his office, and he can telephone the result of the plebiscite direct to you.’
‘Thank you ever so much,’ said Lady Prowche gratefully, ‘and be sure to get the cards sent off as soon as possible.’
On the following Tuesday the voice of an office clerk, speaking through the telephone, informed Lady Prowche that the postcard poll showed unanimous hostility to experiments on living animals.
Lady Prowche thanked the office clerk, and in a louder and more fervent voice she thanked Heaven. The two invitations, already sealed and addressed, were immediately dispatched; in due course they were both accepted. The house party of the halcyon hours, as the prospective hostess called it, was auspiciously launched.
Lena Luddleford was not included among the guests, having previously committed herself to another invitation. At the opening day of a cricket festival, however, she ran across Lady Prowche, who had motored over from the other side of the county. She wore the air of one who is not interested in cricket and not particularly interested in life. She shook hands limply with Lena, and remarked that it was a beastly day.
‘The party, how has it gone off?’ asked Lena quickly.
‘Don’t speak of it!’ was the tragical answer; ‘why do I always have such rotten luck?’
‘But what has happened?’
‘It has been awful. Hyænas could not have behaved with greater savagery. Sir Richard said so, and he has been in countries where hyænas live, so he ought to know. They actually came to blows!’
‘Blows?’
‘Blows and curses. It really might have been a scene from one of Hogarth’s pictures. I never felt so humiliated in my life. What the servants must have thought!’
‘But who were the offenders?’
‘Oh, naturally the very two that we took all the trouble about.’
‘I thought they agreed on every subject that one could violently disagree about – religion, politics, vivisection, the Derby decision, the Falconer Report; what else was there left to quarrel about?’
‘My dear, we were fools not to have thought of it. One of them was Pro-Greek and the other Pro-Bulgar.’
Hyacinth
‘The new fashion of introducing the candidate’s children into an election contest is a pretty one,’ said Mrs Panstreppon; ‘it takes away something from the acerbity of party warfare, and it makes an interesting experience for the children to look back on in after years. Still, if you will listen to my advice, Matilda, you will not take Hyacinth with you down to Luffbridge on election day.’
‘Not take Hyacinth!’ exclaimed his mother; ‘but why not? Jutterly is bringing his three children, and they are going to drive a pair of Nubian donkeys about the town, to emphasise the fact that their father has been appointed Colonial Secretary. We are making the demand for a strong Navy a special feature in our campaign, and it will be particularly appropriate to have Hyacinth dressed in his sailor suit. He’ll look heavenly.’
‘The question is, not how he’ll look, but how he’ll behave. He’s a delightful child, of course, but there is a strain of unbridled pugnacity in him that breaks out at times in a really alarming fashion. You may have forgotten the affair of the little Gaffin children; I haven’t.’
‘I was in India at the time, and I’ve only a vague recollection of what happened; he was very naughty, I know.’
‘He was in his goat-carriage, and met the Gaffins in their perambulator, and he drove the goat full tilt at them and sent the perambulator spinning. Little Jacky Gaffin was pinned down under the wreckage, and while the nurse had her hands full with the goat Hyacinth was laying into Jacky’s legs with his belt like a small fury.’
‘I’m not defending him,’ said Matilda, ‘but they must have done something to annoy him.’
‘Nothing intentionally, but some one had unfortunately told him that they were half French – their mother was a Duboc, you know – and he had been having a history lesson that morning, and had just heard of the final loss of Calais by the English, and was furious about it. He said he’d teach the little toads to go snatching towns from us, but we didn’t know at the time that he was referring to the Gaffins. I told him afterwards that all bad feeling between the two nations had died out long ago, and that anyhow the Gaffins were only half French, and he said that it was only the French half of Jacky that he had been hitting; the rest had been buried under the perambulator. If the loss of Calais unloosed such fury in him, I tremble to think what the possible loss of the election might entail.’
‘All that happened when he was eight; he’s older now and knows better.’
‘Children with Hyacinth’s temperament don’t know b
etter as they grow older; they merely know more.’
‘Nonsense. He will enjoy the fun of the election, and in any case he’ll be tired out by the time the poll is declared, and the new sailor suit that I’ve had made for him is just in the right shade of blue for our election colours, and it will exactly match the blue of his eyes. He will be a perfectly charming note of colour.’
‘There is such a thing as letting one’s æsthetic sense override one’s moral sense,’ said Mrs Panstreppon. ‘I believe you would have condoned the South Sea Bubble and the persecution of the Albigenses if they had been carried out in effective colour schemes. However, if anything unfortunate should happen down at Luffbridge, don’t say it wasn’t foreseen by one member of the family.’
The election was keenly but decorously contested. The newly appointed Colonial Secretary was personally popular, while the Government to which he adhered was distinctly unpopular, and there was some expectancy that the majority of four hundred, obtained at the last election, would be altogether wiped out. Both sides were hopeful, but neither could feel confident. The children were a great success; the little Jutterlys drove their chubby donkeys solemnly up and down the main streets, displaying posters which advocated the claims of their father on the broad general grounds that he was their father, while as for Hyacinth, his conduct might have served as a model for any seraph-child that had strayed unwittingly on to the scene of an electoral contest. Of his own accord, and under the delighted eyes of half a dozen camera operators, he had gone up to the Jutterly children and presented them with a packet of butterscotch; ‘we needn’t be enemies because we’re wearing the opposite colours,’ he said with engaging friendliness, and the occupants of the donkey-cart accepted his offering with polite solemnity. The grown-up members of both political camps were delighted at the incident – with the exception of Mrs Panstreppon, who shuddered.