The Innocence of Reginald

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Reginald slid a carnation of the newest shade into thebuttonhole of his latest lounge coat, and surveyed the resultwith approval. "I am just in the mood," he observed, "tohave my portrait painted by someone with an unmistakablefuture. So comforting to go down to posterity as 'Youth witha Pink Carnation' in catalogue--company with 'Child withBunch of Primroses,' and all that crowd.""Youth," said the Other, "should suggest innocence.""But never act on the suggestion. I don't believe the twoever really go together. People talk vaguely about theinnocence of a little child, but they take mighty good carenot to let it out of their sight for twenty minutes. Thewatched pot never boils over. I knew a boy once who reallywas innocent; his parents were in Society, but they nevergave him a moment's anxiety from his infancy. He believed incompany prospectuses, and in the purity of elections, and inwomen marrying for love, and even in a system for winning atroulette. He never quite lost his faith in it, but hedropped more money than his employers could afford to lose.When last I heard of him, he was believing in his innocence;the jury weren't. All the same, I really am innocent justnow of something everyone accuses me of having done, and sofar as I can see, their accusations will remain unfounded.""Rather an unexpected attitude for you.""I love people who do unexpected things. Didn't you alwaysadore the man who slew a lion in a pit on a snowy day? Butabout this unfortunate innocence. Well, quite long ago, whenI'd been quarrelling with more people than usual, you amongthe number--it must have been in November, I never quarrelwith you too near Christmas--I had an idea that I'd like towrite a book. It was to be a book of personal reminiscences,and was to leave out nothing.""Reginald!""Exactly what the Duchess said when I mentioned it to her. Iwas provoking and said nothing, and the next thing, ofcourse, was that everyone heard that I'd written the book andgot it in the press. After that, I might have been a gold-fish in a glass bowl for all the privacy I got. Peopleattacked me about it in the most unexpected places, andimplored or commanded me to leave out things that I'dforgotten had ever happened. I sat behind Miriam Klopstockone night in the dress circle at His Majesty's, and she beganat once about the incident of the Chow dog in the bathroom,which she insisted must be struck out. We had to argue it ina disjointed fashion, because some of the people wanted tolisten to the play, and Miriam takes nines in voices. Theyhad to stop her playing in the 'Macaws' Hockey Club becauseyou could hear what she thought when her shins got mixed upin a scrimmage for half a mile on a still day. They arecalled the Macaws because of their blue-and-yellow costumes,but I understand there was nothing yellow about Miriam'slanguage. I agreed to make one alteration, as I pretended Ihad got it a Spitz instead of a Chow, but beyond that I wasfirm. She megaphoned back two minutes later, 'You promisedyou would never mention it; don't you ever keep a promise?'When people had stopped glaring in our direction, I repliedthat I'd as soon think of keeping white mice. I saw hertearing little bits out of her programme for a minute or two,and then she leaned back and snorted, 'You're not the boy Itook you for,' as though she were an eagle arriving atOlympus with the wrong Ganymede. That was her last audibleremark, but she went on tearing up her programme andscattering the pieces around her, till one of her neighboursasked with immense dignity whether she should send for awastepaper basket. I didn't stay for the last act.""Then there is Mrs.--oh, I never can remember her name; shelives in a street that the cabmen have never heard of, and isat home on Wednesdays. She frightened me horribly once at aprivate view by saying mysteriously, 'I oughtn't to be here,you know; this is one of my days.' I thought she meant thatshe was subject to periodical outbreaks and was expecting anattack at any moment. So embarrassing if she had suddenlytaken it into her head that she was Cesar Borgia or St.Elizabeth of Hungary. That sort of thing would make oneunpleasantly conspicuous even at a private view. However,she merely meant to say that it was Wednesday, which at themoment was incontrovertible. Well, she's on quite adifferent tack to the Klopstock. She doesn't visit anywherevery extensively, and, of course, she's awfully keen for meto drag in an incident that occurred at one of theBeauwhistle garden-parties, when she says she accidentallyhit the shins of a Serene Somebody or other with a croquetmallet and that he swore at her in German. As a matter offact, he went on discoursing on the Gordon-Bennett affair inFrench. (I never can remember if it's a new submarine or adivorce. Of course, how stupid of me!) To be disagreeablyexact, I fancy she missed him by about two inches--over-anxiousness, probably--but she likes to think she hit him.I've felt that way with a partridge which I always imaginekeeps on flying strong, out of false pride, till it's theother side of the hedge. She said she could tell meeverything she was wearing on the occasion. I said I didn'twant my book to read like a laundry list, but she explainedthat she didn't mean those sort of things.""And there's the Chilworth boy, who can be charming as longas he's content to be stupid and wear what he's told to; buthe gets the idea now and then that he'd like to beepigrammatic, and the result is like watching a rook tryingto build a nest in a gale. Since he got wind of the book,he's been persecuting me to work in something of his aboutthe Russians and the Yalu Peril, and is quite sulky because Iwon't do it.""Altogether, I think it would be rather a brilliantinspiration if you were to suggest a fortnight in Paris."

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