Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green [59]
services by himself in a mackintosh and goloshes.
He had been spending the winter with his people at Tangiers, and I asked him how he liked the place.
"Oh, a beast of a hole!" he replied. "There is not a court anywhere in the town. We tried playing on the roof, but the mater thought it dangerous."
Switzerland he had been delighted with. He counselled me next time I went to stay at Zermatt.
"There is a capital court at Zermatt," he said. "You might almost fancy yourself at Wimbledon."
A mutual acquaintance whom I subsequently met told me that at the top of the Jungfrau he had said to him, his eyes fixed the while upon a small snow plateau enclosed by precipices a few hundred feet below them -
"By Jove! That wouldn't make half a bad little tennis court--that flat bit down there. Have to be careful you didn't run back too far."
When he was not playing tennis, or practising tennis, or reading about tennis, he was talking about tennis. Renshaw was the prominent figure in the tennis world at that time, and he mentioned Renshaw until there grew up within my soul a dark desire to kill Renshaw in a quiet, unostentatious way, and bury him.
One drenching afternoon he talked tennis to me for three hours on end, referring to Renshaw, so far as I kept count, four thousand nine hundred and thirteen times. After tea he drew his chair to the window beside me, and commenced -
"Have you ever noticed how Renshaw--"
I said -
"Suppose someone took a gun--someone who could aim very straight-- and went out and shot Renshaw till he was quite dead, would you tennis players drop him and talk about somebody else?"
"Oh, but who would shoot Renshaw?" he said indignantly.
"Never mind," I said, "supposing someone did?"
"Well, then, there would be his brother," he replied.
I had forgotten that.
"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are," I said. "Suppose someone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"
"Never," he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a name wherever tennis is spoken of."
I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer been other than it was.
The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent amateur photographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to return to tennis, and sought to interest him in talk about services and returns and volleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not heed them.
Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends, and made them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to fond mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on the home. Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends thought, but the more they talked against her the more he clung to her. Then a happy idea occurred to the father. He got Begglely to photograph her in seven different positions.
When her lover saw the first, he said -
"What an awful looking thing! Who did it?"
When Begglely showed him the second, he said -
"But, my dear fellow, it's not a bit like her. You've made her look an ugly old woman."
At the third he said -
"Whatever have you done to her feet? They can't be that size, you know. It isn't in nature!"
At the fourth he exclaimed -
"But, heavens, man! Look at the shape you've made her. Where on earth did you get the idea from?"
At the first glimpse of the fifth he staggered.
"Great Scott!" he cried with a shudder, "what a ghastly expression you've got into it! It isn't human!"
Begglely was growing offended, but the father, who was standing by, came to his defence.
"It's nothing to do with Begglely," exclaimed the old gentleman suavely. "It can't be HIS fault. What is a photographer? Simply an instrument in the hands of science. He arranges his apparatus, and whatever is in front of it comes into it."
"No," continued the old gentleman, laying a constrained hand upon Begglely, who was about to resume the exhibition, "don't--don't show him the other two."
I was sorry for the poor girl,
He had been spending the winter with his people at Tangiers, and I asked him how he liked the place.
"Oh, a beast of a hole!" he replied. "There is not a court anywhere in the town. We tried playing on the roof, but the mater thought it dangerous."
Switzerland he had been delighted with. He counselled me next time I went to stay at Zermatt.
"There is a capital court at Zermatt," he said. "You might almost fancy yourself at Wimbledon."
A mutual acquaintance whom I subsequently met told me that at the top of the Jungfrau he had said to him, his eyes fixed the while upon a small snow plateau enclosed by precipices a few hundred feet below them -
"By Jove! That wouldn't make half a bad little tennis court--that flat bit down there. Have to be careful you didn't run back too far."
When he was not playing tennis, or practising tennis, or reading about tennis, he was talking about tennis. Renshaw was the prominent figure in the tennis world at that time, and he mentioned Renshaw until there grew up within my soul a dark desire to kill Renshaw in a quiet, unostentatious way, and bury him.
One drenching afternoon he talked tennis to me for three hours on end, referring to Renshaw, so far as I kept count, four thousand nine hundred and thirteen times. After tea he drew his chair to the window beside me, and commenced -
"Have you ever noticed how Renshaw--"
I said -
"Suppose someone took a gun--someone who could aim very straight-- and went out and shot Renshaw till he was quite dead, would you tennis players drop him and talk about somebody else?"
"Oh, but who would shoot Renshaw?" he said indignantly.
"Never mind," I said, "supposing someone did?"
"Well, then, there would be his brother," he replied.
I had forgotten that.
"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are," I said. "Suppose someone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"
"Never," he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a name wherever tennis is spoken of."
I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer been other than it was.
The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent amateur photographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to return to tennis, and sought to interest him in talk about services and returns and volleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not heed them.
Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends, and made them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to fond mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on the home. Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends thought, but the more they talked against her the more he clung to her. Then a happy idea occurred to the father. He got Begglely to photograph her in seven different positions.
When her lover saw the first, he said -
"What an awful looking thing! Who did it?"
When Begglely showed him the second, he said -
"But, my dear fellow, it's not a bit like her. You've made her look an ugly old woman."
At the third he said -
"Whatever have you done to her feet? They can't be that size, you know. It isn't in nature!"
At the fourth he exclaimed -
"But, heavens, man! Look at the shape you've made her. Where on earth did you get the idea from?"
At the first glimpse of the fifth he staggered.
"Great Scott!" he cried with a shudder, "what a ghastly expression you've got into it! It isn't human!"
Begglely was growing offended, but the father, who was standing by, came to his defence.
"It's nothing to do with Begglely," exclaimed the old gentleman suavely. "It can't be HIS fault. What is a photographer? Simply an instrument in the hands of science. He arranges his apparatus, and whatever is in front of it comes into it."
"No," continued the old gentleman, laying a constrained hand upon Begglely, who was about to resume the exhibition, "don't--don't show him the other two."
I was sorry for the poor girl,