by A. A. Milne
At any rate I am sure that it is the only way in which to post a letter to Father Christmas.
Well, what I want to say is this: if I have been a bad correspondent in the past I am a good one now; and Celia, who was always a good one, is a better one. It takes at least ten letters a day to satisfy us, and we prefer to catch ten different posts. With the ten in your hand together there is always a temptation to waste them in one wild rush of flipperties, all catching each other up. It would be a great moment, but I do not think we can afford it yet; we must wait until we get more practised at letter-writing. And even then I am doubtful; for it might be that, lost in the confusion of that one wild rush, the magic letter would start on its way—flipperty—flipperty—to the never-land, and we should forever have missed it.
So, friends, acquaintances, yes, and even strangers, I beg you now to give me another chance. I will answer your letters, how gladly. I still think that Napoleon (or Canute or the younger Pliny—one of the pre-Raphaelites) took a perfectly correct view of his correspondence…but then he never had a letter-box which went
Flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—flipperty—FLOP.
Heavy Work
Every now and then doctors slap me about and ask me if I was always as thin as this.
“As thin as what?” I say with as much dignity as is possible to a man who has had his shirt taken away from him.
“As thin as this,” says the doctor, hooking his stethoscope on to one of my ribs, and then going round to the other side to see how I am getting on there.
I am slightly better on the other side, but he runs his pencil up and down me and produces that pleasing noise which small boys get by dragging a stick along railings.
I explain that I was always delicately slender, but that latterly my ribs have been overdoing it.
“You must put on more flesh,” he says sternly, running his pencil up and down them again. (He must have been a great nuisance as a small boy.)
“I will,” I say fervently, “I will.”
Satisfied by my promise he gives me back my shirt.
But it is not only the doctor who complains; Celia is even more upset by it. She says tearfully that I remind her of a herring. Unfortunately she does not like herrings. It is my hope some day to remind her of a turbot and make her happy. She, too, has my promise that I will put on flesh.
We had a fortnight’s leave a little while ago, which seemed to give me a good opportunity of putting some on. So we retired to a house in the country where there is a weighing-machine in the bathroom. We felt that the mere sight of this weighing-machine twice daily would stimulate the gaps between my ribs. They would realize that they had been brought down there on business.
The first morning I weighed myself just before stepping into the water. When I got down to breakfast I told Celia the result.
“You are a herring,” she said sadly.
“But think what an opportunity it gives me. If I started the right weight, the rest of the fortnight would be practically wasted. By the way, the doctor talks about putting on flesh, but he didn’t say how much he wanted. What do you think would be a nice amount?”
“About another stone,” said Celia. “You were just a nice size before the War.”
“All right. Perhaps I had better tell the weighing-machine. This is a co-operative job; I can’t do it all myself.”
The next morning I was the same as before, and the next, and the next, and the next.
“Really,” said Celia, pathetically, “we might just as well have gone to a house where there wasn’t a weighing-machine at all. I don’t believe it’s trying. Are you sure you stand on it long enough?”
“Long enough for me. It’s a bit cold, you know.”
“Well, make quite sure to-morrow. I must have you not quite so herringy.”
I made quite sure the next morning. I had eight stone and a half on the weight part, and the-little-thing-you-move-up-and-down was on the “4” notch, and the bar balanced midway between the top and the bottom. To have had a crowd in to see would have been quite unnecessary; the whole machine was shouting eight-stone-eleven as loudly as it could.
“I expect it’s got used to you,” said Celia when I told her the sad state of affairs. “It likes eight-stone-eleven people.”
“We will give it,” I said, “one more chance.”
Next morning the weights were as I had left them, and I stepped on without much hope, expecting that the bar would come slowly up to its midway position of rest. To my immense delight, however, it never hesitated but went straight up to the top. At last I had put on flesh!
Very delicately I moved the-thing-you-move-up-and-down to its next notch. Still the bar stayed at the top. I had put on at least another ounce of flesh!
I continued to put on more ounces. Still the bar remained up! I was eight-stone-thirteen…Good heavens, I was eight-stone-fourteen!
I pushed the-thing-you-move-up-and-down back to the zero position, and exchanged the half-stone weight for a stone one. Excited but a trifle cold, for it was a fresh morning, and the upper part of the window was wide open, I went up from nine stone ounce by ounce…
At nine-stone-twelve I jumped off for a moment and shut the window…
At eleven-stone-eight I had to get off again in order to attend to the bath, which was in danger of overflowing…
At fifteen-stone-eleven the breakfast gong went…
At nineteen-stone-nine I realized that I had overdone it. However I decided to know the worst. The worst that the machine could tell me was twenty-stone-seven. At twenty-stone-seven I left it.
Celia, who had nearly finished breakfast, looked up eagerly as I came in.
“Well?” she said.
“I am sorry I am late,” I apologized, “but I have been putting on flesh.”
“Have you really gone up?” she asked excitedly.
“Yes.” I began mechanically to help myself to porridge, and then stopped.
“No, perhaps not,” I said thoughtfully.
“Have you gone up much?”
“Much,” I said. “Quite much.”
“How much? Quick!”
“Celia,” I said sadly, “I am twenty-stone-seven. I may be more; the weighing-machine gave out then.”
“Oh, but, darling, that’s much too much.”
“Still, it’s what we came here for,” I pointed out. “No, no bacon, thanks; a small piece of dry toast.”
“I suppose the machine couldn’t have made a mistake?”
“It seemed very decided about it. It didn’t hesitate at all.”
“Just try again after breakfast to make sure.”
“Perhaps I’d better try now,” I said, getting up, “because if I turned out to be only twenty-stone-six I might venture on a little porridge after all. I shan’t be long.”
I went upstairs. I didn’t dare face that weighing-machine in my clothes after the way in which I had already strained it without them. I took them off hurriedly and stepped on. To my joy the bar stayed in its downward position. I took off an ounce…then another ounce. The bar remained down…
At eighteen-stone-two I jumped off for a moment in order to shut the window, which some careless housemaid had opened again…
At twelve-stone-seven I shouted through the door to Celia that I shouldn’t be long, and that I should want the porridge after all…
At four-stone-six I said that I had better have an egg or two as well.
At three ounces I stepped off, feeling rather shaken.
I have not used the weighing-machine since; partly because I do not believe it is trustworthy, partly because I spent the rest of my leave in bed with a severe cold. We are now in London again, where I am putting on flesh. At least the doctor who slapped me about yesterday said that I must, and I promised him that I would.
A Question of Light
As soon as Celia had got a cheque-book of her own (and I had explained t
he mysteries of “——& Co.” to her), she looked round for a safe investment of her balance, which amounted to several pounds. My offers, first of an old stocking and afterwards of mines, mortgages and aerated breads, were rejected at once.
“I’ll leave a little in the bank in case of accidents,” she said, “and the rest must go somewhere absolutely safe and earn me five per cent. Otherwise they shan’t have it.”
We did what we could for her; we offered the money to archdeacons and other men of pronounced probity; and finally we invested it in the Blanktown Electric Light Company. Blanktown is not its real name, of course; but I do not like to let out any information which may be of value to Celia’s enemies—the wicked ones who are trying to snatch her little fortune from her. The world, we feel, is a dangerous place for a young woman with money.
“Can’t I possibly lose it now?” she asked.
“Only in two ways,” I said. “Blanktown might disappear in the night, or the inhabitants might give up using electric light.”
It seemed safe enough. At the same time we watched the newspapers anxiously for details of the latest inventions; and anybody who happened to mention when dining with us that he was experimenting with a new and powerful illuminant was handed his hat at once.
You have Blanktown, then, as the depository of Celia’s fortune. Now it comes on the scene in another guise. I made the announcement with some pride at breakfast yesterday.
“My dear,” I said, “I have been asked to deliver a lecture.”
“Whatever on?” asked Celia.
“Anything I like. The last person lectured on ‘The Minor Satellites of Jupiter,’ and the one who comes after me is doing ‘The Architecture of the Byzantine Period,’ so I can take something in between.”
“Like ‘Frostbites,’” said Celia helpfully. “But I don’t quite understand. Where is it, and why?”
“The Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society ask me to lecture to them at Blanktown. The man who was coming is ill.”
“But why you particularly?”
“One comes down to me in the end,” I said modestly.
“I expect it’s because of my electric lights. Do they give you any money for it?”
“They ask me to name my fee.”
“Then say a thousand pounds, and lecture on the need for more electric light. Fancy if I got six per cent!”
“This is a very sordid conversation,” I said. “If I agree to lecture at all, it will be simply because I feel that I have a message to deliver…I will now retire into the library and consider what that message is to be.”
I placed the encyclopaedia handy and sat down at my desk. I had already grasped the fact that the title of my discourse was the important thing. In the list of the Society’s lectures sent to me there was hardly one whose title did not impress the imagination in advance. I must be equally impressive…
After a little thought I began to write.
“WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG
“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th.
“Ladies and Gentlemen—”
“Well,” said Celia, drifting in, “how’s it going?”
I showed her how far I had got.
“I thought you always began, ‘My Lord Mayor, Ladies and Gentlemen,’” she said.
“Only if the Lord Mayor’s there.”
“But how will you know?”
“Yes, that’s rather awkward. I shall have to ask the Secretary beforehand.”
I began again.
“WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG
“Lecture delivered, etc…
“My Lord Mayor, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen—”
It looked much better.
“What about Baronets?” said Celia. “There’s sure to be lots.”
“Yes, this is going to be difficult. I shall have to have a long talk with the Secretary…How’s this?—’My Lord Mayor, Lords, Baronets, Ladies and Gentlemen and Sundries.’ That’s got in everybody.”
“That’s all right. And I wanted to ask you: Have you got any lantern slides?”
“They’re not necessary.”
“But they’re much more fun. Perhaps they’ll have some old ones of Vesuvius you can work in. Well, good-bye.” And she drifted out.
I went on thinking.
“No,” I said to myself, “I’m on the wrong tack.” So I began again:—
“SOME YORKSHIRE POT-HOLES
“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th.
“My Lord Mayor, my Lords—”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” said Celia coming in suddenly, “but—oh, what’s a pot-hole?”
“A curious underground cavern sometimes found in the North.”
“Aren’t caverns always underground? But you’re busy. Will you be in for lunch?”
“I shall be writing my lecture all day,” I said busily.
At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk with Celia.
“What I feel is this,” I said. “At most I can ask ten guineas for my lecture. Now my expense all the way to the North, with a night at an hotel, will be at least five pounds.”
“Five-pounds-ten profit,” said Celia. “Not bad.”
“Ah, but wait. I have never spoken in public before. In an immense hall, whose acoustics—”
“Who are they?”
“Well, never mind. What I mean is that I shall want some elocution lessons. Say five, at a guinea each.”
“That still leaves five shillings.”
“If only it left that, it might be worth it. But there’s a new white waistcoat. An audience soon gets tired of a lecture, and then there’s nothing for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the white waistcoat of the lecturer. It must be of a virgin whiteness. Say thirty-five shillings. So I lose thirty shillings by it. Can I afford so much?”
“But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat.”
“True. Of course, if you insist—”
“Oh, you must,” said Celia.
So I returned to the library. By tea-time I had got as far as this:—
“ADVENTURES WITH A CAMERA IN SOMALILAND
“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philo—”
And then I had an idea. This time a brilliant one.
“Celia,” I said at tea, “I have been wondering whether I ought to take advantage of your generosity.”
“What generosity?”
“In letting me deliver this lecture.”
“It isn’t generosity, it’s swank. I want to be able to tell everybody.”
“Ah, but the sacrifices you are making.”
“Am I?” said Celia, with interest.
“Of course you are. Consider. I ask a fee of ten guineas. They cannot possibly charge more than a shilling a head to listen to me. It would be robbery. So that if there is to be a profit at all, as presumably they anticipate, I shall have a gate of at least two hundred and fifty.”
“I should hope so.”
“Two hundred and fifty. And what does that mean? It means that at seven-thirty o’clock on the night of December the 8th two hundred and fifty residents of Blanktown will turn out the electric lights in their drawing-rooms… PERHAPS EVEN IN THEIR HALLS…and proceed to the lecture-room. True, the lecture-room will be lit up—a small compensation—but not for long. When the slides of Vesuvius are thrown upon the screen—”
Celia was going pale.
“But if it’s not you,” she faltered, “it will be somebody else.”
“No; if I refuse, it will be too late then to get a substitute. Besides, they must have tried everybody else before they got down to me…Celia it is noble of you to sacrifice—”
“Don’t go!” she cried in anguish.
I gave a deep sigh.
“For your sake,” I said, “I won’t.”
So that settles it. If my lecture on “First Principles in Homoeopathy” is ev
er to be delivered, it must be delivered elsewhere.
Enter Bingo
Before I introduce Bingo I must say a word for Humphrey, his sparring partner. Humphrey found himself on the top of my stocking last December, put there, I fancy, by Celia, though she says it was Father Christmas. He is a small yellow dog, with glass optics, and the label round his neck said, “His eyes move.” When I had finished the oranges and sweets and nuts, when Celia and I had pulled the crackers, Humphrey remained over to sit on the music-stool, with the air of one playing the pianola. In this position he found his uses. There are times when a husband may legitimately be annoyed; at these times it was pleasant to kick Humphrey off his stool on to the divan, to stand on the divan and kick him on to the sofa, to stand on the sofa and kick him on to the bookcase; and then, feeling another man, to replace him on the music-stool and apologize to Celia. It was thus that he lost his tail.
Here we say good-bye to Humphrey for the present; Bingo claims our attention. Bingo arrived as an absurd little black tub of puppiness, warranted (by a pedigree as long as your arm) to grow into a Pekinese. It was Celia’s idea to call him Bingo; because (a ridiculous reason) as a child she had had a poodle called Bingo. The less said about poodles the better; why rake up the past?
“If there is the slightest chance of Bingo—of this animal growing up into a poodle,” I said, “he leaves my house at once.”
