Reginald on Besetting Sins

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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There was once (said Reginald) a woman who told the truth.Not all at once, of course, but the habit grew upon hergradually, like lichen on an apparently healthy tree. Shehad no children--otherwise it might have been different. Itbegan with little things, for no particular reason exceptthat her life was a rather empty one, and it is so easy toslip into the habit of telling the truth in little matters.And then it became difficult to draw the line at moreimportant things, until at last she took to telling the truthabout her age; she said she was forty-two and five months--bythat time, you see, she was veracious even to months. It mayhave been pleasing to the angels, but her elder sister wasnot gratified. On the Woman's birthday, instead of theopera-tickets which she had hoped for, her sister gave her aview of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, which is notquite the same thing. The revenge of an elder sister may belong in coming, but, like a South-Eastern express, it arrivesin its own good time.The friends of the Woman tried to dissuade her from over-indulgence in the practice, but she said she was wedded tothe truth; whereupon it was remarked that it was scarcelylogical to be so much together in public. (No reallyprovident woman lunches regularly with her husband if shewishes to burst upon him as a revelation at dinner. He musthave time to forget; an afternoon is not enough.) And aftera while her friends began to thin out in patches. Herpassion for the truth was not compatible with a largevisiting-list. For instance, she told Miriam Klopstockexactly how she looked at the Ilexes' ball. Certainly Miriamhad asked for her candid opinion, but the Woman prayed inchurch every Sunday for peace in our time, and it was notconsistent.It was unfortunate, everyone agreed, that she had no family;with a child or two in the house, there is an unconsciouscheck upon too free an indulgence in the truth. Children aregiven us to discourage our better emotions. That is why thestage, with all its efforts, can never be as artificial aslife; even in an Ibsen drama one must reveal to the audiencethings that one would suppress before the children orservants.Fate may have ordained the truth-telling from thecommencement and should justly bear some of the blame; but inhaving no children the Woman was guilty, at least, ofcontributory negligence.Little by little she felt she was becoming a slave to whathad once been merely an idle propensity; and one day sheknew. Every woman tells ninety per cent, of the truth to herdressmaker; the other ten per cent, is the irreducibleminimum of deception beyond which no self-respecting clienttrespasses. Madame Draga's establishment was a meeting-ground for naked truths and overdressed fictions, and it washere, the Woman felt, that she might make a final effort torecall the artless mendacity of past days. Madame herselfwas in an inspiring mood, with the air of a sphinx who knewall things and preferred to forget most of them. As a WarMinister she might have been celebrated, but she was contentto be merely rich."If I take it in here, and--Miss Howard, one moment, if youplease--and there, and round like this--so--I really thinkyou will find it quite easy."The Woman hesitated; it seemed to require such a small effortto simply acquiesce in Madame's views. But habit had becometoo strong. "I'm afraid," she faltered, "it's just the leastlittle bit in the world too" -And by that least little bit she measured the deeps andeternities of her thraldom to fact. Madame was not bestpleased at being contradicted on a professional matter, andwhen Madame lost her temper you usually found it afterwardsin the bill.And at last the dreadful thing came, as the Woman hadforeseen all along that it must; it was one of those paltrylittle truths with which she harried her waking hours. On araw Wednesday morning, in a few ill-chosen words, she toldthe cook that she drank. She remembered the scene afterwardsas vividly as though it had been painted in her mind byAbbey. The cook was a good cook, as cooks go; and as cooksgo she went.Miriam Klopstock came to lunch the next day. Women andelephants never forget an injury.

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