The Saki Megapack

by H. H. Munro

  “He seems to have resembled you in more things than in appearance,” said the Baroness.

  “Don’t interrupt at a critical point in the story,” said Clovis. “As soon as he had been carefully adjusted in the prescribed position over the hives, and almost before the gaolers had time to retire to a safe distance, Vespaluus gave a lusty and well-aimed kick, which sent all three hives toppling one over another. The next moment he was wrapped from head to foot in bees; each individual insect nursed the dreadful and humiliating knowledge that in this supreme hour of catastrophe it could not sting, but each felt that it ought to pretend to. Vespaluus squealed and wriggled with laughter, for he was being tickled nearly to death, and now and again he gave a furious kick and used a bad word as one of the few bees that had escaped disarmament got its protest home. But the spectators saw with amazement that he showed no signs of approaching death agony, and as the bees dropped wearily away in clusters from his body his flesh was seen to be as white and smooth as before the ordeal, with a shiny glaze from the honey-smear of innumerable bee-feet, and here and there a small red spot where one of the rare stings had left its mark. It was obvious that a miracle had been performed in his favour, and one loud murmur, of astonishment or exultation, rose from the onlooking crowd. The king gave orders for Vespaluus to be taken down to await further orders, and stalked silently back to his midday meal, at which he was careful to eat heartily and drink copiously as though nothing unusual had happened. After dinner he sent for the Royal Librarian.

  “‘What is the meaning of this fiasco?’ he demanded.

  “‘Your Majesty,’ said that official, ‘either there is something radically wrong with the bees—’

  “‘There is nothing wrong with my bees,’ said the king haughtily, ‘they are the best bees.’

  “‘Or else,’ said the Librarian, ‘there is something irremediably right about Prince Vespaluus.’

  “‘If Vespaluus is right I must be wrong,’ said the king.

  “The Librarian was silent for a moment. Hasty speech has been the downfall of many; ill-considered silence was the undoing of the luckless Court functionary.

  “Forgetting the restraint due to his dignity, and the golden rule which imposes repose of mind and body after a heavy meal, the king rushed upon the keeper of the royal books and hit him repeatedly and promiscuously over the head with an ivory chessboard, a pewter wine-flagon, and a brass candlestick; he knocked him violently and often against an iron torch sconce, and kicked him thrice round the banqueting chamber with rapid, energetic kicks. Finally, he dragged him down a long passage by the hair of his head and flung him out of a window into the courtyard below.”

  “Was he much hurt?” asked the Baroness.

  “More hurt than surprised,” said Clovis. You see, the king was notorious for his violent temper. However, this was the first time he had let himself go so unrestrainedly on the top of a heavy meal. The Librarian lingered for many days—in fact, for all I know, he may have ultimately recovered, but Hkrikros died that same evening. Vespaluus had hardly finished getting the honey stains off his body before a hurried deputation came to put the coronation oil on his head. And what with the publicly-witnessed miracle and the accession of a Christian sovereign, it was not surprising that there was a general scramble of converts to the new religion. A hastily consecrated bishop was overworked with a rush of baptisms in the hastily improvised Cathedral of St. Odilo. And the boy-martyr-that-might-have-been was transposed in the popular imagination into a royal boy-saint, whose fame attracted throngs of curious and devout sightseers to the capital. Vespaluus, who was busily engaged in organizing the games and athletic contests that were to mark the commencement of his reign, had no time to give heed to the religious fervour which was effervescing round his personality; the first indication he had of the existing state of affairs was when the Court Chamberlain (a recent and very ardent addition to the Christian community) brought for his approval the outlines of a projected ceremonial cutting-down of the idolatrous serpent-grove.

  “‘Your Majesty will be graciously pleased to cut down the first tree with a specially consecrated axe,’ said the obsequious official.

  “‘I’ll cut off your head first, with any axe that comes handy,’ said Vespaluus indignantly; ‘do you suppose that I’m going to begin my reign by mortally affronting the sacred serpents? It would be most unlucky.’

  “‘But your Majesty’s Christian principles?’ exclaimed the bewildered Chamberlain.

  “‘I never had any,’ said Vespaluus; ‘I used to pretend to be a Christian convert just to annoy Hkrikros. He used to fly into such delicious tempers. And it was rather fun being whipped and scolded and shut up in a tower all for nothing. But as to turning Christian in real earnest, like you people seem to do, I couldn’t think of such a thing. And the holy and esteemed serpents have always helped me when I’ve prayed to them for success in my running and wrestling and hunting, and it was through their distinguished intercession that the bees were not able to hurt me with their stings. It would be black ingratitude, to turn against their worship at the very outset of my reign. I hate you for suggesting it.’

  “The Chamberlain wrung his hands despairingly.

  “‘But, your Majesty,’ he wailed, ‘the people are reverencing you as a saint, and the nobles are being Christianized in batches, and neighbouring potentates of that Faith are sending special envoys to welcome you as a brother. There is some talk of making you the patron saint of beehives, and a certain shade of honey-yellow has been christened Vespaluusian gold at the Emperor’s Court. You can’t surely go back on all this.’

  “‘I don’t mind being reverenced and greeted and honoured,’ said Vespaluus; ‘I don’t even mind being sainted in moderation, as long as I’m not expected to be saintly as well. But I wish you clearly and finally to understand that I will not give up the worship of the august and auspicious serpents.’

  “There was a world of unspoken bear-pit in the way he uttered those last words, and the mulberry-dark eyes flashed dangerously.

  “‘A new reign,’ said the Chamberlain to himself, ‘but the same old temper.’

  “Finally, as a State necessity, the matter of the religions was compromised. At stated intervals the king appeared before his subjects in the national cathedral in the character of St. Vespaluus, and the idolatrous grove was gradually pruned and lopped away till nothing remained of it. But the sacred and esteemed serpents were removed to a private shrubbery in the royal gardens, where Vespaluus the Pagan and certain members of his household devoutly and decently worshipped them. That possibly is the reason why the boy-king’s success in sports and hunting never deserted him to the end of his days, and that is also the reason why, in spite of the popular veneration for his sanctity, he never received official canonization.”

  “It has stopped raining,” said the Baroness.

  THE WAY TO THE DAIRY

  The Baroness and Clovis sat in a much-frequented corner of the Park exchanging biographical confidences about the long succession of passers-by.

  “Who are those depressed-looking young women who have just gone by?” asked the Baroness; “they have the air of people who have bowed to destiny and are not quite sure whether the salute will be returned.”

  “Those,” said Clovis, “are the Brimley Bomefields. I dare say you would look depressed if you had been through their experiences.”

  “I’m always having depressing experiences;” said the Baroness, “but I never give them outward expression. It’s as bad as looking one’s age. Tell me about the Brimley Bomefields.”

  “Well,” said Clovis, “the beginning of their tragedy was that they found an aunt. The aunt had been there all the time, but they had very nearly forgotten her existence until a distant relative refreshed their memory by remembering her very distinctly in his will; it is wonderful what the force of example will accomplish. The aunt, who had been unobtrusively poor, became quite pleasantly rich, and the Brimley Bomefields grew suddenly c
oncerned at the loneliness of her life and took her under their collective wings. She had as many wings around her at this time as one of those beast-things in Revelation.”

  “So far I don’t see any tragedy from the Brimley Bomefields’ point of view,” said the Baroness.

  “We haven’t got to it yet,” said Clovis. “The aunt had been used to living very simply, and had seen next to nothing of what we should consider life, and her nieces didn’t encourage her to do much in the way of making a splash with her money. Quite a good deal of it would come to them at her death, and she was a fairly old woman, but there was one circumstance which cast a shadow of gloom over the satisfaction they felt in the discovery and acquisition of this desirable aunt: she openly acknowledged that a comfortable slice of her little fortune would go to a nephew on the other side of her family. He was rather a deplorable thing in rotters, and quite hopelessly top-hole in the way of getting through money, but he had been more or less decent to the old lady in her unremembered days, and she wouldn’t hear anything against him. At least, she wouldn’t pay any attention to what she did hear, but her nieces took care that she should have to listen to a good deal in that line. It seemed such a pity, they said among themselves, that good money should fall into such worthless hands. They habitually spoke of their aunt’s money as ‘good money,’ as though other people’s aunts dabbled for the most part in spurious currency.

  “Regularly after the Derby, St. Leger, and other notable racing events they indulged in audible speculations as to how much money Roger had squandered in unfortunate betting transactions.

  “‘His travelling expenses must come to a big sum,’ said the eldest Brimley Bomefield one day; ‘they say he attends every race-meeting in England, besides others abroad. I shouldn’t wonder if he went all the way to India to see the race for the Calcutta Sweepstake that one hears so much about.’

  “‘Travel enlarges the mind, my dear Christine,’ said her aunt.

  “‘Yes, dear aunt, travel undertaken in the right spirit,’ agreed Christine; ‘but travel pursued merely as a means towards gambling and extravagant living is more likely to contract the purse than to enlarge the mind. However, as long as Roger enjoys himself, I suppose he doesn’t care how fast or unprofitably the money goes, or where he is to find more. It seems a pity, that’s all.’

  “The aunt by that time had begun to talk of something else, and it was doubtful if Christine’s moralizing had been even accorded a hearing. It was her remark, however—the aunt’s remark, I mean—about travel enlarging the mind, that gave the youngest Brimley Bomefield her great idea for the showing-up of Roger.

  “‘If aunt could only be taken somewhere to see him gambling and throwing away money,’ she said, ‘it would open her eyes to his character more effectually than anything we can say.’

  “‘My dear Veronique,’ said her sisters, ‘we can’t go following him to race-meetings.’

  “‘Certainly not to race-meetings,’ said Veronique, ‘but we might go to some place where one can look on at gambling without taking part in it.’

  “‘Do you mean Monte Carlo?’ they asked her, beginning to jump rather at the idea.

  “‘Monte Carlo is a long way off, and has a dreadful reputation,’ said Veronique; ‘I shouldn’t like to tell our friends that we were going to Monte Carlo. But I believe Roger usually goes to Dieppe about this time of year, and some quite respectable English people go there, and the journey wouldn’t be expensive. If aunt could stand the Channel crossing the change of scene might do her a lot of good.’

  “And that was how the fateful idea came to the Brimley Bomefields.

  “From the very first set-off disaster hung over the expedition, as they afterwards remembered. To begin with, all the Brimley Bomefields were extremely unwell during the crossing, while the aunt enjoyed the sea air and made friends with all manner of strange travelling companions. Then, although it was many years since she had been on the Continent, she had served a very practical apprenticeship there as a paid companion, and her knowledge of colloquial French beat theirs to a standstill. It became increasingly difficult to keep under their collective wings a person who knew what she wanted and was able to ask for it and to see that she got it. Also, as far as Roger was concerned, they drew Dieppe blank; it turned out that he was staying at Pourville, a little watering-place a mile or two further west. The Brimley Bomefields discovered that Dieppe was too crowded and frivolous, and persuaded the old lady to migrate to the comparative seclusion of Pourville.

  “‘You won’t find it dull, you know,’ they assured her; ‘there is a little casino attached to the hotel, and you can watch the people dancing and throwing away their money at Petits Chevaux.’

  “It was just before Petits Chevaux had been supplanted by Boule.

  “Roger was not staying in the same hotel, but they knew that the casino would be certain of his patronage on most afternoons and evenings.

  “On the first evening of their visit they wandered into the casino after a fairly early dinner, and hovered near the tables. Bertie van Tahn was staying there at the time, and he described the whole incident to me. The Brimley Bomefields kept a furtive watch on the doors as though they were expecting some one to turn up, and the aunt got more and more amused and interested watching the little horses whirl round and round the board.

  “‘Do you know, poor little number eight hasn’t won for the last thirty-two times,’ she said to Christine; ‘I’ve been keeping count. I shall really have to put five francs on him to encourage him.’

  “‘Come and watch the dancing, dear,’ said Christine nervously. It was scarcely a part of their strategy that Roger should come in and find the old lady backing her fancy at the Petits Chevaux table.

  “‘Just wait while I put five francs on number eight,’ said the aunt, and in another moment her money was lying on the table. The horses commenced to move round, it was a slow race this time, and number eight crept up at the finish like some crafty demon and placed his nose just a fraction in front of number three, who had seemed to be winning easily. Recourse had to be had to measurement, and the number eight was proclaimed the winner. The aunt picked up thirty-five francs. After that the Brimley Bomefields would have had to have used concerted force to get her away from the tables. When Roger appeared on the scene she was fifty-two francs to the good; her nieces were hovering forlornly in the background, like chickens that have been hatched out by a duck and are despairingly watching their parent disporting herself in a dangerous and uncongenial element. The supper-party which Roger insisted on standing that night in honour of his aunt and the three Miss Brimley Bomefields was remarkable for the unrestrained gaiety of two of the participants and the funereal mirthlessness of the remaining guests.

  “‘I do not think,’ Christine confided afterwards to a friend, who re-confided it to Bertie van Tahn, ‘that I shall ever be able to touch paté de foie gras again. It would bring back memories of that awful evening.’

  “For the next two or three days the nieces made plans for returning to England or moving on to some other resort where there was no casino. The aunt was busy making a system for winning at Petits Chevaux. Number eight, her first love, had been running rather unkindly for her, and a series of plunges on number five had turned out even worse.

  “‘Do you know, I dropped over seven hundred francs at the tables this afternoon,’ she announced cheerfully at dinner on the fourth evening of their visit.

  “‘Aunt! Twenty-eight pounds! And you were losing last night too.’

  “‘Oh, I shall get it all back,’ she said optimistically; ‘but not here. These silly little horses are no good. I shall go somewhere where one can play comfortably at roulette. You needn’t look so shocked. I’ve always felt that, given the opportunity, I should be an inveterate gambler, and now you darlings have put the opportunity in my way. I must drink your very good healths. Waiter, a bottle of Pontet Canet. Ah, it’s number seven on the wine list; I shall plunge on number seven to-ni
ght. It won four times running this afternoon when I was backing that silly number five.’

  “Number seven was not in a winning mood that evening. The Brimley Bomefields, tired of watching disaster from a distance, drew near to the table where their aunt was now an honoured habituée, and gazed mournfully at the successive victories of one and five and eight and four, which swept ‘good money’ out of the purse of seven’s obstinate backer. The day’s losses totalled something very near two thousand francs.

  “‘You incorrigible gamblers,’ said Roger chaffingly to them, when he found them at the tables.

  “‘We are not gambling,’ said Christine freezingly; ‘we are looking on.’

  “‘I don’t think,’ said Roger knowingly; ‘of course you’re a syndicate and aunt is putting the stakes on for all of you. Anyone can tell by your looks when the wrong horse wins that you’ve got a stake on.’

  “Aunt and nephew had supper alone that night, or at least they would have if Bertie hadn’t joined them; all the Brimley Bomefields had headaches.

  “The aunt carried them all off to Dieppe the next day and set cheerily about the task of winning back some of her losses. Her luck was variable; in fact, she had some fair streaks of good fortune, just enough to keep her thoroughly amused with her new distraction; but on the whole she was a loser. The Brimley Bomefields had a collective attack of nervous prostration on the day when she sold out a quantity of shares in Argentine rails. ‘Nothing will ever bring that money back,’ they remarked lugubriously to one another.