Now is the time for a real holiday. Take it in bed, if you are wise. People have tried a holiday in bed before now, and found it a failure, but that was because they were ignorant of the rules. They went to bed with the open intention of staying there, say, three days, and found to their surprise that each morning they wanted to get up. This was a novel experience to them, they flung about restlessly, and probably shortened their holiday. The proper thing is to take your holiday in bed with a vague intention of getting up in another quarter of an hour. The real pleasure of lying in bed after you are awake is largely due to the feeling that you ought to get up. To take another quarter of an hour then becomes a luxury. You are, in short, in the position of the man who dined on larks. Had he seen the hundreds that were ready for him, all set out on one monster dish, they would have turned his stomach; but getting them two at a time, he Sympathy is what all the world is craving for, and sympathy is what the ordinary holiday-maker never gets. How can we be expected to sympathize with you when we know you are off to Perthshire to fish? No; we say we wish we were you, and forget that your holiday is sure to be a hollow mockery; that your child will jam her finger in the railway carriage, and scream to the end of the journey; that you will lose your luggage; that the guard will notice your dog beneath the seat, and insist on its being paid for; that you will be caught in a Scotch mist on the top of a mountain, and be put on gruel for a fortnight; that your wife will fret herself into a fever about the way the servant, who has been left at home, is carrying on with her cousins, the milkman and the policeman; and that you will be had up for trespassing. Yet, when you tell us you are off to-morrow, we have never the sympathy to say, "Poor fellow, I hope you'll pull To enjoy your holiday in bed to the full, you should let it be vaguely understood that there is something amiss with you. Don't go into details, for they are not necessary; and, besides, you want to be dreamy more or less, and the dreamy The ideal holiday in bed does not require the presence of a ministering angel in the room all Those who have never tried it may fancy that there is a lack of incident in a holiday in bed. There could not be a more monstrous mistake. You are in the middle of a chapter, when suddenly you hear a step upon the stair. Your loving ears tell you that your wife has returned, and is hastening to you. Now, what happens? The book disappears beneath the pillow, and when she enters the room softly you are lying there with your eyes shut. This is not merely incident; it is drama. What happens next depends on circumstances. She says in a low voice— "Are you feeling any easier now, John?" No answer. "Oh, I believe he is sleeping." Then she steals from the room, and you begin to read again. During a holiday in bed one never thinks, of course, of analyzing his actions. If you had done so in this instance, you would have seen that you pretended sleep because you had got to an exciting passage. You love your wife, but, wife or no wife, you must see how the passage ends. Possibly the little scene plays differently, as thus— "John, are you feeling any easier now?" No answer. "Are you asleep?" No answer. "What a pity! I don't want to waken him, and yet the fowl will be spoilt." "Is that you back, Marion?" "Yes, dear; I thought you were asleep." "No, only thinking." "You think too much, dear. I have cooked a chicken for you." "I have no appetite." "I'm so sorry, but I can give it to the children." "Oh, as it's cooked, you may as well bring it up." In that case the reason of your change of action is obvious. But why do you not let your wife know that you have been reading? This is People who pretend (for it must be pretence) that they enjoy their holiday in the country, explain that the hills or the sea gave them such an appetite. I could never myself feel the delight of being able to manage an extra herring for breakfast, but it should be pointed out that neither mountains nor oceans give you such an appetite as a holiday in "Really, Marion, I can't touch food." "But this is nothing," she says, "only the wing of a partridge." You take a side glance at it, and see that there is also the other wing and the body and two legs. Your alarm thus dispelled, you say— "I really can't." "But, dear, it is so beautifully cooked." "Yes; but I have no appetite." "But try to take it, John, for my sake." Then for her sake you say she can leave it on the chair, and perhaps you will just taste it. As soon as she has gone you devour that partridge, and when she comes back she has the sense to say— "Why, you have scarcely eaten anything. What could you take for supper?" You say you can take nothing, but if she likes she can cook a large sole, only you won't be able to touch it. "Poor dear!" she says, "your appetite has completely gone," and then she rushes to the kitchen to cook the sole with her own hands. In half-an-hour she steals into your room with it, and then you (who have been wondering why she is such a time) start up protesting, "I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me." "Only the least little bit of a sole, dear." "But I told you I could eat nothing." "Well, this is nothing, it is so small." You look again, and see with relief that it is a large sole. "I would much rather that you took it away." "But, dear——" "I tell you I have no appetite." "Of course I know that; but how can you hope to preserve your strength if you eat so little? You have had nothing all day." You glance at her face to see if she is in earnest, for you can remember three breakfasts, four luncheons, two dinners, and sandwiches between; but evidently she is not jesting. Then you yield. "Oh, well, to keep my health up I may just put a fork into it." "Do, dear; it will do you good, though you have no caring for it." Take a holiday in bed, if only to discover what an angel your wife is. There is only one thing to guard against. Never call it a holiday. Continue not to feel sure what is wrong with you, and to talk vaguely of getting up presently. Your wife will suggest calling in the doctor, but pooh-pooh him. Be firm on that point. The chances are that he won't understand your case. |