IN the changes and chances of our New England climate it isnot so much what a Guest can endure outdoors as what he canoriginate indoors that endears him most to a weather-worriedHost.
Take Rollins, for instance, a small man, dour, insignificant—a prude in the moonlight, a duffer at sailing, a fool attennis—yet once given a rain-patter and a smoky fireplace,of an audacity so impertinent, so altogether absurd, thateven yawns must of necessity turn to laughter—or curses. Thehistoric thunderstorm question, for instance, which he sprangat the old Bishop's house-party after five sweltering days ofsunshine and ecclesiastical argument: "Who was the lastperson you kissed before you were married?"
A question innocent as milk if only swallowed! Butunswallowed? Gurgled? Spat like venom from Bishop to Bishop?And from Bishop's Wife to Bishop's Wife? Oh la! Yet thatRollins himself was the only unmarried person present on thatmomentous occasion shows not at all, I still contend, theslightest "natural mendacity" of the man, but merely theperfectly normal curiosity of a confirmed Anchoret to learnwhat truths he may from those who have been fortunate—orunfortunate enough to live.
Certainly neither my Husband nor myself would ever dream ofrunning a house-party without Rollins!
Yet equally certain it is not at all on Rollins's account butdistinctly on our own that we invariably set the date for ourannual house-party in the second week of May.
For twenty years, in the particular corner of the New Englandsea-coast which my husband and I happen to inhabit, it hasnever, with one single exception only, failed to rain frommorning till night and night till morning again through thesecond week of May!
With all weather-uncertainties thus settled perfectlydefinitely, even for the worst, it is a comparatively easymatter for any Host and Hostess to Stage such events asremain. It is with purely confessional intent that Iemphasize that word "stage." Every human being acknowledges,if honest, some one supreme passion of existence. MyHusband's and mine is for what Highbrows call "theexperimental drama."
We call it "Amateur Theatricals."
Yet even this innocent passion has not proved a serene one!
After inestimable seasons of devotion to that most ruthlessof all goddesses, the Goddess of Amateur Theatricals,involving, as it does, wrangles with
Guests who refuse to accept unless they areassured that therewill be a Play,
wrangles with
Guests who refuse to accept unless assured that there willnot be a Play,
wrangles with
Guests already arrived, unpacked, tubbed, seated at dinner,who discover suddenly that their lines are too long,
wrangles with
Guests already arrived, unpacked, tubbed, seated at dinner,who discover equally suddenly that their lines are too short.
wrangles with
Guests who "can't possibly play in blue."
wrangles with
Guests who "can't possibly play in pink."
wrangles with
Guests who insist upon kissing in every act.
wrangles with
Guests who refuse to kiss in any act, it was my Husband'singenious idea to organize instead an annual Play that shouldnever dream it was a Play, acted by actors who never evenremotely suspected that they were acting, evolving a plotthat no one but the Almighty, Himself, could possiblyforeo