The Humour of Saki - 150+ Tales & Sketches in One Edition (Illustrated). Saki

practice in this sort of thing, you see. Another time I shall do better.”

      The housemaid, who was engaged to be married to the evening postman, gave way to clamorous grief.

      “Remember that your mistress has a headache,” said J. P. Huddle. (Miss Huddle’s headache was worse.)

      Clovis hastened downstairs, and after a short visit to the library returned with another message:

      “The Bishop is sorry to hear that Miss Huddle has a headache. He is issuing orders that as far as possible no firearms shall be used near the house; any killing that is necessary on the premises will be done with cold steel. The Bishop does not see why a man should not be a gentleman as well as a Christian.”

      That was the last they saw of Clovis; it was nearly seven o’clock, and his elderly relative liked him to dress for dinner. But, though he had left them for ever, the lurking suggestion of his presence haunted the lower regions of the house during the long hours of the wakeful night, and every creak of the stairway, every rustle of wind through the shrubbery, was fraught with horrible meaning. At about seven next morning the gardener’s boy and the early postman finally convinced the watchers that the Twentieth Century was still unblotted.

      “I don’t suppose,” mused Clovis, as an early train bore him townwards, “that they will be in the least grateful for the Unrest-cure.”

      The Jesting of Arlington Stringham

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      Arlington Stringham made a joke in the House of Commons. It was a thin House, and a very thin joke; something about the Anglo–Saxon race having a great many angles. It is possible that it was unintentional, but a fellow-member, who did not wish it to be supposed that he was asleep because his eyes were shut, laughed. One or two of the papers noted “a laugh” in brackets, and another, which was notorious for the carelessness of its political news, mentioned “laughter.” Things often begin in that way.

      “Arlington made a joke in the House last night,” said Eleanor Stringham to her mother; “in all the years we’ve been married neither of us has made jokes, and I don’t like it now. I’m afraid it’s the beginning of the rift in the lute.”

      “What lute?” said her mother.

      “It’s a quotation,” said Eleanor.

      To say that anything was a quotation was an excellent method, in Eleanor’s eyes, for withdrawing it from discussion, just as you could always defend indifferent lamb late in the season by saying “It’s mutton.”

      And, of course, Arlington Stringham continued to tread the thorny path of conscious humour into which Fate had beckoned him.

      “The country’s looking very green, but, after all, that’s what it’s there for,” he remarked to his wife two days later.

      “That’s very modern, and I dare say very clever, but I’m afraid it’s wasted on me,” she observed coldly. If she had known how much effort it had cost him to make the remark she might have greeted it in a kinder spirit. It is the tragedy of human endeavour that it works so often unseen and unguessed.

      Arlington said nothing, not from injured pride, but because he was thinking hard for something to say. Eleanor mistook his silence for an assumption of tolerant superiority, and her anger prompted her to a further gibe.

      “You had better tell it to Lady Isobel. I’ve no doubt she would appreciate it.”

      Lady Isobel was seen everywhere with a fawn coloured collie at a time when every one else kept nothing but Pekinese, and she had once eaten four green apples at an afternoon tea in the Botanical Gardens, so she was widely credited with a rather unpleasant wit. The censorious said she slept in a hammock and understood Yeats’s poems, but her family denied both stories.

      “The rift is widening to an abyss,” said Eleanor to her mother that afternoon.

      “I should not tell that to anyone,” remarked her mother, after long reflection.

      “Naturally, I should not talk about it very much,” said Eleanor, “but why shouldn’t I mention it to anyone?”

      “Because you can’t have an abyss in a lute. There isn’t room.”

      Eleanor’s outlook on life did not improve as the afternoon wore on. The page-boy had brought from the library BY MERE AND WOLD instead of BY MERE CHANCE, the book which every one denied having read. The unwelcome substitute appeared to be a collection of nature notes contributed by the author to the pages of some Northern weekly, and when one had been prepared to plunge with disapproving mind into a regrettable chronicle of ill-spent lives it was intensely irritating to read “the dainty yellow-hammers are now with us and flaunt their jaundiced livery from every bush and hillock.” Besides, the thing was so obviously untrue; either there must be hardly any bushes or hillocks in those parts or the country must be fearfully overstocked with yellow-hammers. The thing scarcely seemed worth telling such a lie about. And the page-boy stood there, with his sleekly brushed and parted hair, and his air of chaste and callous indifference to the desires and passions of the world. Eleanor hated boys, and she would have liked to have whipped this one long and often. It was perhaps the yearning of a woman who had no children of her own.

      She turned at random to another paragraph. “Lie quietly concealed in the fern and bramble in the gap by the old rowan tree, and you may see, almost every evening during early summer, a pair of lesser whitethroats creeping up and down the nettles and hedge-growth that mask their nesting-place.”

      The insufferable monotony of the proposed recreation! Eleanor would not have watched the most brilliant performance at His Majesty’s Theatre for a single evening under such uncomfortable circumstances, and to be asked to watch lesser whitethroats creeping up and down a nettle “almost every evening” during the height of the season struck her as an imputation on her intelligence that was positively offensive. Impatiently she transferred her attention to the dinner menu, which the boy had thoughtfully brought in as an alternative to the more solid literary fare. “Rabbit curry,” met her eye, and the lines of disapproval deepened on her already puckered brow. The cook was a great believer in the influence of environment, and nourished an obstinate conviction that if you brought rabbit and curry-powder together in one dish a rabbit curry would be the result. And Clovis and the odious Bertie van Tahn were coming to dinner. Surely, thought Eleanor, if Arlington knew how much she had had that day to try her, he would refrain from joke-making.

      At dinner that night it was Eleanor herself who mentioned the name of a certain statesman, who may be decently covered under the disguise of X.

      “X,” said Arlington Stringham, “has the soul of a meringue.”

      It was a useful remark to have on hand, because it applied equally well to four prominent statesmen of the day, which quadrupled the opportunities for using it.

      “Meringues haven’t got souls,” said Eleanor’s mother.

      “It’s a mercy that they haven’t,” said Clovis; “they would be always losing them, and people like my aunt would get up missions to meringues, and say it was wonderful how much one could teach them and how much more one could learn from them.”

      “What could you learn from a meringue?” asked Eleanor’s mother.

      “My aunt has been known to learn humility from an exViceroy,” said Clovis.

      “I wish cook would learn to make curry, or have the sense to leave it alone,” said Arlington, suddenly and savagely.

      Eleanor’s face softened. It was like one of his old remarks in the days when there was no abyss between them.

      It was during the debate on the Foreign Office vote that Stringham made his great remark that “the people of Crete unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally.” It was not brilliant, but it came in the middle of a dull speech, and