Down Pens

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　"Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for whatthey sent us?" asked Egbert."No," said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance inher voice; "I've written eleven letters to-day expressingsurprise and gratitude for sundry unmerited gifts, but Ihaven't written to the Froplinsons.""Some one will have to write to them," said Egbert."I don't dispute the necessity, but I don't thinkthe some one should be me," said Janetta. "I wouldn'tmind writing a letter of angry recrimination or heartlesssatire to some suitable recipient; in fact, I shouldrather enjoy it, but I've come to the end of my capacityfor expressing servile amiability. Eleven letters to-dayand nine yesterday, all couched in the same strain ofecstatic thankfulness: really, you can't expect me to sitdown to another. There is such a thing as writingoneself out.""I've written nearly as many," said Egbert, "andI've had my usual business correspondence to get through,too. Besides, I don't know what it was that theFroplinsons sent us.""A William the Conqueror calendar," said Janetta,"with a quotation of one of his great thoughts for everyday in the year.""Impossible," said Egbert; "he didn't have threehundred and sixty-five thoughts in the whole of his life,or, if he did, he kept them to himself. He was a man ofaction, not of introspection.""Well, it was William Wordsworth, then," saidJanetta; "I know William came into it somewhere.""That sounds more probable," said Egbert; "well,let's collaborate on this letter of thanks and get itdone. I'll dictate, and you can scribble it down. 'DearMrs. Froplinson - thank you and your husband so much forthe very pretty calendar you sent us. It was very goodof you to think of us.' ""You can't possibly say that," said Janetta, layingdown her pen."It's what I always do say, and what every one saysto me," protested Egbert."We sent them something on the twenty-second," saidJanetta, "so they simply had to think of us. There wasno getting away from it.""What did we send them?" asked Egbert gloomily."Bridge-markers," said Janetta, "in a cardboardcase, with some inanity about 'digging for fortune with aroyal spade' emblazoned on the cover. The moment I sawit in the shop I said to myself 'Froplinsons' and to theattendant 'How much?' When he said 'Ninepence,' I gavehim their address, jabbed our card in, paid tenpence orelevenpence to cover the postage, and thanked heaven.With less sincerity and infinitely more trouble theyeventually thanked me.""The Froplinsons don't play bridge," said Egbert."One is not supposed to notice social deformities ofthat sort," said Janetta; "it wouldn't be polite.Besides, what trouble did they take to find out whetherwe read Wordsworth with gladness? For all they knew orcared we might be frantically embedded in the belief thatall poetry begins and ends with John Masefield, and itmight infuriate or depress us to have a daily sample ofWordsworthian products flung at us.""Well, let's get on with the letter of thanks," saidEgbert."Proceed," said Janetta." 'How clever of you to guess that Wordsworth is ourfavourite poet,' " dictated Egbert.Again Janetta laid down her pen."Do you realise what that means?" she asked; "aWordsworth booklet next Christmas, and another calendarthe Christmas after, with the same problem of having towrite suitable letters of thankfulness. No, the bestthing to do is to drop all further allusion to thecalendar and switch off on to some other topic.""But what other topic?""Oh, something like this: 'What do you think of theNew Year Honours List? A friend of ours made such aclever remark when he read it.' Then you can stick inany remark that comes into your head; it needn't beclever. The Froplinsons won't know whether it is orisn't.""We don't even know on which side they are inpolitics," objected Egbert; "and anyhow you can'tsuddenly dismiss the subject of the calendar. Surelythere must be some intelligent remark that can be madeabout it.""Well, we can't think of one," said Janetta wearily;"the fact is, we've both written ourselves out. Heavens!I've just remembered Mrs. Stephen Ludberry. I haven'tthanked her for what she sent.""What did she send?""I forget; I think it was a calendar."There was a long silence, the forlorn silence ofthose who are bereft of hope and have almost ceased tocare.Presently Egbert started from his seat with an airof resolution. The light of battle was in his eyes."Let me come to the writing-table," he exclaimed."Gladly," said Janetta. "Are you going to write toMrs. Ludberry or the Froplinsons?""To neither," said Egbert, drawing a stack ofnotepaper towards him; "I'm going to write to the editorof every enlightened and influential newspaper in theKingdom, I'm going to suggest that there should be a sortof epistolary Truce of God during the festivities ofChristmas and New Year. From the twenty-fourth ofDecember to the third or fourth of January it shall beconsidered an offence against good sense and good feelingto write or expect any letter or communication that doesnot deal with the necessary events of the moment.Answers to invitations, arrangements about trains,renewal of club subscriptions, and, of course, all theordinary everyday affairs of business, sickness, engagingnew cooks, and so forth, these will be dealt with in theusual manner as something inevitable, a legitimate partof our daily life. But all the devastating accretions ofcorrespondence, incident to the festive season, theseshould be swept away to give the season a chance of beingreally festive, a time of untroubled, unpunctuated peaceand good will.""But you would have to make some acknowledgment ofpresents received," objected Janetta; "otherwise peoplewould never know whether they had arrived safely.""Of course, I have thought of that," said Egbert;"every present that was sent off would be accompanied bya ticket bearing the date of dispatch and the signatureof the sender, and some conventional hieroglyphic to showthat it was intended to be a Christmas or New Year gift;there would be a counterfoil with space for therecipient's name and the date of arrival, and all youwould have to do would be to sign and date thecounterfoil, add a conventional hieroglyphic indicatingheartfelt thanks and gratified surprise, put the thinginto an envelope and post it.""It sounds delightfully simple," said Janettawistfully, "but people would consider it too cut-and-dried, too perfunctory.""It is not a bit more perfunctory than the presentsystem," said Egbert; "I have only the same conventionallanguage of gratitude at my disposal with which to thankdear old Colonel Chuttle for his perfectly deliciousStilton, which we shall devour to the last morsel, andthe Froplinsons for their calendar, which we shall neverlook at. Colonel Chuttle knows that we are grateful forthe Stilton, without having to be told so, and theFroplinsons know that we are bored with their calendar,whatever we may say to the contrary, just as we know thatthey are bored with the bridge-markers in spite of theirwritten assurance that they thanked us for our charminglittle gift. What is more, the Colonel knows that evenif we had taken a sudden aversion to Stilton or beenforbidden it by the doctor, we should still have writtena letter of hearty thanks around it. So you see thepresent system of acknowledgment is just as perfunctoryand conventional as the counterfoil business would be,only ten times more tiresome and brain-racking.""Your plan would certainly bring the ideal of aHappy Christmas a step nearer realisation," said Janetta."There are exceptions, of course," said Egbert,"people who really try to infuse a breath of reality intotheir letters of acknowledgment. Aunt Susan, forinstance, who writes: 'Thank you very much for the ham;not such a good flavour as the one you sent last year,which itself was not a particularly good one. Hams arenot what they used to be.' It would be a pity to bedeprived of her Christmas comments, but that loss wouldbe swallowed up in the general gain.""Meanwhile," said Janetta, "what am I to say to theFroplinsons?"