The Sunny Side. A. A. Milne
Читать онлайн книгу.
and watched the oranges and lemons grow.
So, though we had been to but few of the famous beauty spots around, we had had a delightfully lazy time; and as proof that we had not really been at Brighton there were, as I have said, the luggage labels. But we were to be able to show further proof. At this moment Simpson came out of the house, his face beaming with excitement, his hands carefully concealing something behind his back.
"Guess what I've got," he said eagerly.
"The sack," said Thomas.
"Your new bests," said Archie.
"Something that will interest us all," helped Simpson.
"I withdraw my suggestion," said Archie.
"Something we ought to have brought with us all along."
"More money," said Myra.
The tension was extreme. It was obvious that our consuming anxiety would have to be relieved very speedily. To avoid a riot, Thomas went behind Simpson's back and took his surprise away from him.
"A camera," he said. "Good idea."
Simpson was all over himself with bon-hommy.
"I suddenly thought of it the other night," he said, smiling round at all of us in his happiness, "and I was just going to wake Thomas up to tell him, when I thought I'd keep it a secret. So I wrote to a friend of mine and asked him to send me out one, and some films and things, just as a surprise for you."
"Samuel, you are a dear," said Myra, looking at him lovingly.
"You see, I thought, Myra, you'd like to have some records of the place, because they're so jolly to look back on, and—er, I'm not quite sure how you work it, but I expect some of you know and—er—"
"Come on," said Myra, "I'll show you." She retired with Simpson to a secluded part of the loggia and helped him put the films in.
"Nothing can save us," said Archie. "We are going to be taken together in a group. Simpson will send it to one of the picture papers, and we shall appear as 'Another Merry Little Party of Well-known Sun-seekers. Names from left to right: Blank, blank, Mr. Archibald Mannering, blank, blank.' I'd better go and brush my hair."
Simpson returned to us, nervous and fully charged with advice.
"Right, Myra, I see. That'll be all right. Oh, look here, do you—oh yes, I see. Right. Now then—wait a bit—oh yes, I've got it. Now then, what shall we have first? A group?"
"Take the house and the garden and the village," said Thomas. "You'll see plenty of us afterwards."
"The first one is bound to be a failure," I pointed out. "Rather let him fail at us, who are known to be beautiful, than at the garden, which has its reputation yet to make. Afterwards, when he has got the knack, he will be able to do justice to the scenery."
Archie joined us again, followed by the bull-dog. We grouped ourselves picturesquely.
"That looks ripping," said Simpson. "Oh, look here, Myra, do you—No, don't come; you'll spoil the picture. I suppose you have to—oh, it's all right, I think I've got it."
"I shan't try to look handsome this time," said Archie; "it's not worth it. I shall just put an ordinary blurred expression on."
"Now, are you ready? Don't move. Quite still, please; quite—"
"It's instantaneous, you know," said Myra gently.
This so unnerved Simpson that he let the thing off without any further warning, before we had time to get our expressions natural.
"That was all right, Myra, wasn't it?" he said proudly.
"I'm—I'm afraid you had your hand over the lens, Samuel dear."
"Our new photographic series: 'Palms of the Great.' No. 1, Mr. S.
Simpson's," murmured Archie.
"It wouldn't have been a very good one anyhow," I said encouragingly. "It wasn't typical. Dahlia should have had an orange in her hand, and Myra might have been resting her cheek against a cactus. Try it again, Simpson, and get a little more colour into it."
He tried again and got a lot more colour into it.
"Strictly speaking," said Myra sadly, "you ought to have got it on to a new film."
Simpson looked in horror at the back of his camera, found that he had forgotten to turn the handle, apologized profusely, and wound up very gingerly till the number "2" approached. "Now then," he said, looking up … and found himself alone.
* * * * *
As I write this in London I have Simpson's album in front of me. Should you ever do us the honour of dining with us (as I hope you will), and (which seems impossible) should there ever come a moment when the conversation runs low, and you are revolving in your mind whether it is worth while asking us if we have been to any theatres lately, then I shall produce the album, and you will be left in no doubt that we are just back from the Riviera. You will see oranges and lemons and olives and cactuses and palms; blue sky (if you have enough imagination) and still bluer sea; picturesque villas, curious effects of rocks, distant backgrounds of mountain … and on the last page the clever kindly face of Simpson.
The whole affair will probably bore you to tears.
But with Myra and me the case of course is different. We find these things, as Simpson said, very jolly to look back on.
II. MEN OF LETTERS
MEN OF LETTERS
JOHN PENQUARTO
A TALE OF LITERARY LIFE IN LONDON
(Modelled on the hundred best Authors.)
I
John Penquarto looked round his diminutive bed-sitting-room with a feeling of excitement not unmixed with awe. So this was London! The new life had begun. With a beating heart he unpacked his bag and set out his simple belongings.
First his books, his treasured books; where should he put them? It was comforting to think that, wherever they stood, they would be within reach of his hand as he lay in bed. He placed them on the window-sill and read their titles again reverently: "Half-Hours with our Water-Beetles," "The Fretworker's Companion" and "Strenuous Days in Simla." He owed everything to them. And what an air they gave the room!
But not such an air as was given by his other treasure—the photograph of
Mary.
Mary! He had only met her once, and that was twenty years ago, at his native Polwollop. He had gone to the big house with a message for Mr. Trevena, her ladyship's butler: "Mother's respects, and she has found the other shirt-front and will send it up as soon as it is dry." He had often taken a similar message, for Mrs. Penquarto did the washing for the upper servants at the Hall, but somehow he had known that to-day was going to be different.
There, just inside the gates, was Mary. He was only six, but even then he knew that never would he see again anything so beautiful. She was five; but there was something in her manner of holding herself and the imperious tilt of her head which made her seem almost five-and-a-half.
"I'm Mary," she said.
He wanted to say that he was John, but could not. He stood there tongue-tied.
"I love you," she went on.
His heart beat tumultuously.