The Captive Reader

Oh, my friends, how delightful to have been alive in the 1900s and 1910s with a subscription to Punch!  What pleasure those readers had at their fingertips each week, opening their copies to find new pieces signed A.A.M.!  I may have missed the glory days of Punch by more than a few years, but at least I can still read the work of my favourite of its contributors in collections like The Day’s Play by A.A. Milne from 1910.  This is the earliest of the four volumes of his Punch pieces and, having read so much of his work from the late 1910s and onwards this year, it is amazing to see how defined his style already was at this time.

The Day’s Play begins with the introduction of the Rabbits.  I adore the Rabbits, a group of young people whose adventures Milne chronicled over the years as they caroused, married, and reproduced (my favourite piece from Once a Week – “The Heir” – was about the Rabbits).  Though some of the Rabbits are apparently employed, the stories generally catch up with them on the weekend, when they gather at some place or another to entertain us and one another with their frivolous little speeches, endless games, and good humour.  My only quarrel is that there is perhaps an excess of cricket talk in these pieces, most of which I could not remotely follow; all my knowledge of cricket comes from P.G. Wodehouse and now Milne, so I know nothing of rules but quite a lot about chats in the interval.  But the characters, despite their perverse and incomprehensible recreations, are delightful in their ability to make every activity and every conversation fun.  Our narrator, when cornered by his host’s fiancée, gives a typically Rabbit-like recitation (largely falsified) of her future husband’s virtues:

‘You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’

‘We were babes together, madam.  At least, simultaneously.  We actually met at school.  He had blue eyes and curly hair, and fought the captain on the very first day.  On the second day his hair was still curly but he had black eyes.  On the third day he got into the cricket eleven, and on the fourth he was given his footer cap.  Afterwards he sang in the choir, and won the competition for graceful diving.  It was not until his second term that the headmaster really began to confide in him.  By the way, is this the sort of thing you want?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Dahlia.  ‘Something like that.’

‘Well, then we went to Cambridge together.  He never did much work, but his algebra paper in the Little Go was so brilliant that they offered him the Senior Wranglership.  He refused on the ground that it might interfere with his training for the tug of war, for which he had just obtained his blue – and – It’s a great strain making all this up.  Do you mind if I stop now?’

Already in these pieces, Milne was writing remarkably good female characters.  Dahlia and Myra, the two chief female Rabbits, speak as wittily – though usually more intelligently – as the men and are viewed as their equals.  In The Day’s Play, Myra in particular impresses with the strength of her repartee with the narrator.  The highlight of the entire collection, for me, was a disastrous theatrical performance by the Rabbits Dramatic Company, which left Myra and the narrator stranded on stage in front of an audience to improvise until the wounded leading man could take his place.  Forced to rely on their wits, things do not go smoothly and their whispered asides to one another are wonderful as each tries to shift the attention off his or herself:

Rat-catcher. That ass Simpson’s hurt himself.  We’ve got to amuse the audience until he finishes bleeding.

Maid (sitting down with her back to audience). I say, is it really serious?

Rat-catcher. Not for him; it is for us.  Now then, talk away.

Maid.  Er – h’m. (Coyly.) Wilt not tell me of thy early life, noble sir, how thou didst become a catcher of rats?

Rat-catcher (disgusted).  You coward!  (Aloud) Nay, rather let me hear of thine own life. (Aside.) Scored.

Maid. That’s not fair.  I asked you first. (Modestly.) But I am such a little thing, and you are so noble a youth.

Rat-catcher. True.  (Having a dash at it.) ‘Twas thus.  My father, when I was yet a child, didst – did – no, didst – apprentice me to a salad binger –

Maid (with interest). How dost one bing salads?

Rat-catcher (curtly). Ballad singer.

The Rabbits portion of the book ends all too quickly but there are other delights in store.  The pieces are largely autobiographical, which makes them all the more interesting.  To read the “Bachelor Days” section is particularly intriguing, where Milne passionately decries the unsalted butter offered up by his housekeeper (slurs against unsalted butter show up in his work throughout his life), proves utterly incapable of organizing the washing that gets sent to the laundry each week  (causing him to remark: “Of course, it is quite possible to marry for love, but I suspect that a good many bachelors marry so that they may not have to bother about the washing any more.  That, anyhow, will be one of the reasons with me.”) and submits to the tyranny of a beloved sister-in-law intent on spring cleaning.

More sentimentally, there is a section entitled “Margery”, composed of pieces written after the birth of his niece Marjorie Milne, who he preferred to call Margery.  It begins with a series of letters between him and the newborn Margery (the infant’s mama acting as her scribe):

My Dear Margery, – When I heard that you really had arrived, I got out the broken teacup, filled it at the bath, and drank “To my niece!” with the greatest enthusiasm possible.  Had I been on the stage I should then have hurled the cup over my shoulder; and later on the scene-shifter would have come and collected the bits.  As it was, I left that part out; and you will forgive me, will you not, dear baby, when you hear that it was your uncle’s last cup, and he in a bad way financially.

As Margery grows, the letters give way to descriptive pieces about their encounters that are deeply affectionate and show that already Milne was paying attention to the ways of young children, many years before he would turn his hand to writing for them.

Not every piece works so well and some are downright dull.  There is an entire section entitled “More Cricket”; I thought I was confused after reading about the Rabbits’ sporting adventures but I knew nothing.  Some bits feel forced and others, slightly more successful, are amusing enough but hardly memorable – the kind of thing you would be happy to read over your breakfast but have forgotten entirely by lunchtime.  But the pleasure I got from the Rabbits, from Margery, from “Bachelor Days” more than makes up for any passing disappointments.  They are what made me laugh and smile and they are what I will remember.

Read Full Post »

I think I am addicted to A.A. Milne.  I am completely unable to critically examine his work at this point and while reading morph into a giddy, sycophantic disciple only capable of effusive praise.  It is a delightful and highly recommended experience.   I read his books (his plays, his novels, his verses, his sketches) one after the other without ever feeling sated. I finish each book wanting more.  Thankfully, he was a prolific writer and, at this point, there is still more for me to read but the thought that one day I will come to the end horrifies me.  And I have never felt more fearful of that end than while reading the entirely delightful Once a Week.

As any Milne disciple knows (or anyone who took Simon’s advice and read Milne’s wonderful autobiography), Milne spent a number of years before the war working at and writing for the magazine Punch.  I had got the impression from his autobiography that Milne was writing a ridiculous amount for the magazine during this time but I really had no idea of the quality of the output.  Once a Week, published in 1914, is a sampling of those pieces he put out every week and I now know just what a treat readers had to look forward to in each issue.

The book begins with a dedication to Milne’s wife Daphne, referred to in all his writings as his collaborator:

TO

MY COLLABORATOR

who buys the ink and paper

laughs

and, in fact, does all the really difficult

part of the business

this book is gratefully dedicated

in memory of a winter’s morning

in Switzerland

It was moments like these where I particularly appreciated having started my Milne obsession with his autobiography, which meant I already knew who this collaborator was and what had happened on a winter’s morning in Switzerland.  But it is also a very fitting dedication to a volume whose best pieces revolve around the life of young couples, very like the Milnes.

The book begins with a nice lengthy sketched entitled “The Heir”, narrated by a young man who is attending the christening of his fiancée Myra’s nephew.  Archie and Dahlia, the dotting parents of The Heir, are friends of our narrator but have decided against naming him as one of the godfathers.  Perhaps this was a wise decision:

‘What a silly godfather he nearly had!’ whispered Myra at the cradle.  ‘It quite makes you smile, doesn’t it, baby?  Oh, Dahlia, he’s just like Archie when he smiles!’

‘Oh, yes, he’s the living image of Archie,’ said Dahlia confidently.

I looked closely at Archie and then at the baby.

‘I should always know them apart,’ I said at last.  ‘That,’ and I pointed at the one at the tea-table, ‘is Archie, and this,’ and I pointed to the one in the cradle, ‘is the baby.  But then I’ve such a wonderful memory for faces.’

‘Baby,’ said Myra, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to know some very foolish people.’

Baby is certainly surrounded by foolish people but they are marvellously entertaining ones and give Milne the chance to let rip with his trademark comic dialogue.  When Samuel and Thomas, the two young godfathers, arrive they are entirely ignorant of babies but are willing to do their duty, once they figure out what that is. After they have read up on the christening service, they are stunned and slightly terrified by the job being given them but entirely committed to carrying out their responsibilities.  But their idea of the scope of their responsibilities is a tad broader than the parents had imagined, entailing everything from the naming of the child to his schooling.  Getting a bit carried away, they even come up with a list of rules for Archie and Dahlia to follow while raising him, so that his parents may not impair the future baby’s godfather’s have so carefully decided on (Rule One – He must be brought up to be ambidextrous.  It will be very useful when he fields cover for England).  My favourite bit featuring these foolish but briefly serious young men was the conversation over what to name baby:

‘The question before the House,’ said Archie, ‘is what shall the baby be called, and why.  Dahlia and I have practically decided on his names, but it would amuse us to hear your inferior suggestions and point out how ridiculous they are.’

Godfather Simpson looked across in amazement at Godfather Thomas.

‘Really, you are taking a good deal upon yourself, Archie,’ he said coldly.  ‘It is entirely a matter for my colleague and myself to decide whether the ground is fit for – to decide, I should say, what the child is to be called.  Unless this is quite understood we shall hand in our resignations.’

‘We’ve been giving a lot of thought to it,’ said Thomas, opening his eyes for a moment.  ‘And our time is valuable.’  He arranged the cushions at his back and closed his eyes again.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, the competition isn’t quite closed,’ said Archie.  ‘Entries can still be received.’

‘We haven’t really decided at all,’ put in Dahlia gently.  ‘It is so difficult.’

‘In that case,’ said Samuel, ‘Thomas and I will continue to act.  It my pleasant duty to inform you that we had a long consultation yesterday, and finally agreed to called him – er – Samuel Thomas.’

‘Thomas Samuel,’ said Thomas sleepily.

‘How did you think of those names?’ I asked.  ‘It must have taken you a tremendous time.’

‘With a name like Samuel Thomas Mannering,’ went on Simpson [‘Thomas Samuel Mannering,’ murmured Thomas], ‘your child might achieve almost anything.  In private life you would probably call him Sam.’

‘Tom,’ said a tired voice.

‘Or, more familiarly, Sammy.’

‘Tommy,’ came in a whisper from the sofa.

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Dahlia.

‘I mustn’t say,’ said Archie; ‘they’re my guests.  But I’ll tell you privately some time.’

A subsequent piece follows the same group (sans baby, who is left at home) on a skiing holiday to Switzerland.  It is amusing but the dialogue never quite matches the exchanges in “The Heir”.

Milne really does have an ear for domestic conversation.  In “The Order of the Bath”, a young husband and wife, troubled by a slow drain in their apartment’s bath and entirely ignorant of the mechanics of plumbing, bicker over who must take the responsibility for fixing it:

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s absurd to go on like this.  You had better see about it to-day, Celia.’

‘I don’t think – I mean, I think – you know, it’s really your turn to do something for the bathroom.’

‘What do you mean, my turn?  Didn’t I buy the glass shelves for it?  You’d never even heard of glass shelves.’

‘Well, who put them up after they’d been lying about for a month?’ said Celia.  ‘I did.’

‘And who bumped his head against them the next day?  I did.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t really a useful thing to do.  It’s your turn to be useful.’

Anyone who has ever had to split domestic duties, either with a spouse or a housemate, must surely recognize that timeless rejoinder, “It’s your turn to be useful.”  Celia’s husband features in several of the pieces and comes across as a delightful fellow.  His interview with a doctor while getting an insurance medical (in “An Insurance Act”) proves he is in possession of a friendly disposition but not necessarily a keen mind:

The doctor began quietly enough.  He asked, as I had anticipated, after the health of my relations.  I said that they were very fit; and, not to be outdone in politeness, expressed the hope that his people , too, were keeping well in this trying weather.  He wondered if I drank much.  I said, ‘Oh, well, perhaps I will,’ with an apologetic smile, and looked round for the sideboard.  Unfortunately he did not pursue the matter….

But, let us be honest, narrators are all nice and good but what I like best is a bit of the silly, frivolous dialogue that Milne does so well.  The exchange between husband and wife in “The Birthday Present” provides just that:

 ‘It’s my birthday to-morrow,’ said Mrs Jeremy as she turned the pages of her engagement book.

‘Bless us, so it is,’ said Jeremy.  ‘You’re thirty-nine or twenty-seven or something.  I must go and examine the wine-cellar.  I believe there’s one bottle left in the Apollinaris bin.  It’s the only stuff in the house that fizzes.’

‘Jeremy!  I’m only twenty-six!’

‘You don’t look it darling; I mean you do look it, dear.  What I mean – well, never mind that.  Let’s talk about birthday presents.  Think of something absolutely tremendous for me to give you.’

‘A rope of pearls.’

‘I didn’t mean that sort of tremendousness,’ said Jeremy quickly.  ‘Anyone could give you a rope of pearls; it’s simply a question of overdrawing enough from the bank.  I meant something difficult that would really prove my love for you – like Lloyd George’s ear or the Kaiser’s cigar-holder.  Something where I could kill somebody for you first.  I am in a very devoted mood this morning.’

This only skims the offerings in Once a Week, almost all of which I adored.  The only weak point for me was the final section, a compilation of character sketches of “The Men Who Succeed”.  Individually, they are good but I think perhaps they lost some power by being group together since they were all done in very much the same style.

There are still three more volumes of Milne’s pieces for Punch that I have yet to read (The Day’s Play; The Holiday Round; and, The Sunny Side) and which I am eager to start.  I know more delights await me, even though with each book read I grow closer and closer to that dark day when I will have nothing new left to discover of Milne.

Read Full Post »