The Humour of Saki - 150+ Tales & Sketches in One Edition (Illustrated). SakiЧитать онлайн книгу.
Figaro.
Maj.: I fancy they want French children. Mine don't even speak French.
Em.: There's always a chance that one of them might turn out depraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard of that being done.
Maj.: But, good gracious, you've got to educate him first. You can't expect a boy to be vicious till he's been to a good school.
Em.: Why couldn't he be naturally depraved. Lots of boys are.
Maj.: Only when they inherit it from depraved parents. You don't suppose there's any depravity in me, do you?
Em.: It sometimes skips a generation, you know. Weren't any of your family bad?
Maj.: There was an aunt who was never spoken of.
Em.: There you are!
Maj.: But one can't build too much on that. In mid-Victorian days they labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we should speak about quite tolerantly. I dare say this particular aunt had only married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of her horse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't wait indefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfully depraved great-aunt. Something else must be thought of.
Em.: Don't people ever adopt children from other families?
Maj.: I've heard of it being done by childless couples, and those sort of people——
Em.: Hush! Some one's coming. Who is it?
Maj.: Mrs. Paly-Paget.
Em.: The very person!
Maj.: What, to adopt a child? Hasn't she got any?
Em.: Only one miserable hen-baby.
Maj.: Let's sound her on the subject.
(Enter Mrs. Paly-Paget, R.)
Ah, good morning. Mrs. Paly-Paget. I was just wondering at breakfast where did we meet last?
Mrs. P.-P.: At the Criterion, wasn't it? (Drops into vacant chair.)
Maj.: At the Criterion, of course.
Mrs. P.-P.: I was dining with Lord and Lady Slugford. Charming people, but so mean. They took us afterwards to the Velodrome, to see some dancer interpreting Mendelssohn's "songs without clothes." We were all packed up in a little box near the roof, and you may imagine how hot it was. It was like a Turkish bath. And, of course, one couldn't see anything.
Maj.: Then it was not like a Turkish bath.
Mrs. P.-P.: Major!
Em.: We were just talking of you when you joined us.
Mrs. P.-P.: Really! Nothing very dreadful, I hope.
Em.: Oh dear, no! It's too early on the voyage for that sort of thing. We were feeling rather sorry for you.
Mrs. P.-P.: Sorry for me? Whatever for?
Maj.: Your childless hearth and all that, you know. No little pattering feet.
Mrs. P.-P.: Major! How dare you? I've got my little girl, I suppose you know. Her feet can patter as well as other children's.
Maj.: Only one pair of feet.
Mrs. P.-P.: Certainly. My child isn't a centipede. Considering the way they move us about in those horrid jungle stations, without a decent bungalow to set one's foot in, I consider I've got a hearthless child, rather than a childless hearth. Thank you for your sympathy all the same. I dare say it was well meant. Impertinence often is.
Em: Dear Mrs. Paly-Paget, we were only feeling sorry for your sweet little girl when she grows older, you know, No little brothers and sisters to play with.
Mrs. P.-P.: Mrs. Carewe, this conversation strikes me as being indelicate, to say the least of it. I've only been married two and a half years, and my family is naturally a small one.
Maj.: Isn't it rather an exaggeration to talk of one little female child as a family? A family suggests numbers,
Mrs. P.-P.: Really, Major, your language is extraordinary. I dare say I've only got a little female child, as you call it, at present——
Maj.: Oh, it won't change into a boy later on, if that's what you're counting on. Take our word for it; we've had so much more experience in these affairs than you have. Once a female, always a female. Nature is not infallible, but she always abides by her mistakes.
Mrs. P.-P. (rising): Major Dumbarton, these boats are uncomfortably small, but I trust we shall find ample accommodation for avoiding each other's society during the rest of the voyage. The same wish applies to you, Mrs. Carewe.
(Exit Mrs. Paly-Paget, L.)
Maj.: What an unnatural mother! (Sinks into chair.)
Em.: I wouldn't trust a child with any one who had a temper like hers. Oh, Dickie, why did you go and have such a large family? You always said you wanted me to be the mother of your children.
Maj.: I wasn't going to wait while you were founding and fostering dynasties in other directions. Why you couldn't be content to have children of your own, without collecting them like batches of postage stamps I can't think. The idea of marrying a man with four children!
Em.: Well, you're asking me to marry one with five.
Maj.: Five! (Springing to his feet) Did I say five?
Em.: You certainly said five.
Maj.: Oh, Emily, supposing I've miscounted them! Listen now, keep count with me. Richard—that's after me, of course.
Em.: One.
Maj.: Albert-Victor—that must have been in Coronation year.
Em.: Two!
Maj.: Maud. She's called after——
Em.: Never mind who's she's called after. Three!
Maj.: And Gerald.
Em.: Four!
Maj.: That's the lot.
Em.: Are you sure?
Maj.: I swear that's the lot. I must have counted Albert-Victor as two.
Em.: Richard!
Maj.: Emily!
(They embrace.)
The Mouse
THEODORIC VOLER had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near the handy-man who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outhouse