out the last of the candles in her parlour, “I wonder if I dare!”
The very last candle she blew out, as was her wont, was the one by the image of Mr Toad Senior. He seemed to wink at her, encouragingly, and laugh with all the good humour of the world.
“I could do it,” she whispered, “and I shall! Not today, which is Christmas, nor tomorrow, which is Boxing Day, but the day after that, when all opens up again. Then — I will!”
VII
The Final Straw
Toad of Toad Hall awoke early, with that feeling of despondency and dread he had come to associate with Christmas morning. Not least because it was such very hard work doing the right thing in a house ruled by Mrs Ffleshe, where doing the wrong thing seemed almost inevitable.
The plain fact was that for Toad to survive these twelve long days of Christmas each year he had to be other than he truly was. That glorious triumphant other self, a Toad full of courage, a Toad filled with purpose, a Toad who was the originator and avid proponent of bold schemes far beyond the imaginings of lesser mortals (as Toad perceived it), did not for those twelve days exist.
Nor, come to that, did that vain, conceited, foolhardy, maddening and foolishly generous creature whom the River Bankers knew and loved.
In the place of these two toads, who lived side by side for something more than three hundred and fifty days a year there was a defeated Toad, a ground-down Toad, a Toad overcome by a torrent of harsh words, a Toad flattened by a female steamroller of abuse and contempt, a wan and pallid Toad; a toad, in fact, who was not Toad at all.
How this had come about, Toad himself had long since forgotten, and ceased to concern himself with, for to do otherwise was to cause himself distress, and misery. His only consolation was that but for their brief audience on Christmas morning his friends did not have to see him in this sorry state.
So it was that this Christmas morning Toad rose wearily from his bed, bedraggled in appearance and all but defeated in spirit. He expected nothing of the world that day, nothing at all.
He did not, for example, bother to glance at the bedpost at the end of his bed to which, in happier times, as a child and sometimes as an adult, the Christmas spirit had somehow attached a bulging stocking.
Certainly he did not look out of his window as he had as a child (and, indeed, for all his adult years till the coming of the dreaded Mrs Fleshe), to see if it was to be a white Christmas and he might go sledging or skating.
He did not even peer into the mirror above his fireplace before he commenced his ablutions and whisper, however pathetically, “A Happy Christmas, old chap!”
Toad simply groaned and then, sighing, set about preparing himself for the doleful day, his thoughts entirely concerned with how he might contrive to see as little as possible of Mrs Fleshe, and whatever ghastly guests she had coming that day.
He had to appear at breakfast, that was certain; and luncheon as well. Whether or not he would have to attend dinner depended entirely upon whether or not Mrs Ffleshe had decreed that it was then or at luncheon that they had their Christmas fare. If at lunch, he might avoid evening dinner, so that was his preference, but naturally he was not informed till the last moment.
There was one ritual, however, that he observed with that small part of his spirit Mrs Ffleshe had failed to subjugate — an act of rebellion that took place early in the morning. Mrs Ffleshe had always insisted that Toad should not begin his own breakfast till she had made her appearance, which she normally did some time between nine and ten o’clock. Toad had observed this stricture for a number of years but tended to become rather hungry and ill-tempered by the time Mrs Ffleshe came down, for Toad liked his food and felt faint if he did not have it in good time. The excellent Miss Bugle had circumvented this distressing problem, however, by laying out for him a
The very last candle she blew out, as was her wont, was the one by the image of Mr Toad Senior. He seemed to wink at her, encouragingly, and laugh with all the good humour of the world.
“I could do it,” she whispered, “and I shall! Not today, which is Christmas, nor tomorrow, which is Boxing Day, but the day after that, when all opens up again. Then — I will!”
VII
The Final Straw
Toad of Toad Hall awoke early, with that feeling of despondency and dread he had come to associate with Christmas morning. Not least because it was such very hard work doing the right thing in a house ruled by Mrs Ffleshe, where doing the wrong thing seemed almost inevitable.
The plain fact was that for Toad to survive these twelve long days of Christmas each year he had to be other than he truly was. That glorious triumphant other self, a Toad full of courage, a Toad filled with purpose, a Toad who was the originator and avid proponent of bold schemes far beyond the imaginings of lesser mortals (as Toad perceived it), did not for those twelve days exist.
Nor, come to that, did that vain, conceited, foolhardy, maddening and foolishly generous creature whom the River Bankers knew and loved.
In the place of these two toads, who lived side by side for something more than three hundred and fifty days a year there was a defeated Toad, a ground-down Toad, a Toad overcome by a torrent of harsh words, a Toad flattened by a female steamroller of abuse and contempt, a wan and pallid Toad; a toad, in fact, who was not Toad at all.
How this had come about, Toad himself had long since forgotten, and ceased to concern himself with, for to do otherwise was to cause himself distress, and misery. His only consolation was that but for their brief audience on Christmas morning his friends did not have to see him in this sorry state.
So it was that this Christmas morning Toad rose wearily from his bed, bedraggled in appearance and all but defeated in spirit. He expected nothing of the world that day, nothing at all.
He did not, for example, bother to glance at the bedpost at the end of his bed to which, in happier times, as a child and sometimes as an adult, the Christmas spirit had somehow attached a bulging stocking.
Certainly he did not look out of his window as he had as a child (and, indeed, for all his adult years till the coming of the dreaded Mrs Fleshe), to see if it was to be a white Christmas and he might go sledging or skating.
He did not even peer into the mirror above his fireplace before he commenced his ablutions and whisper, however pathetically, “A Happy Christmas, old chap!”
Toad simply groaned and then, sighing, set about preparing himself for the doleful day, his thoughts entirely concerned with how he might contrive to see as little as possible of Mrs Fleshe, and whatever ghastly guests she had coming that day.
He had to appear at breakfast, that was certain; and luncheon as well. Whether or not he would have to attend dinner depended entirely upon whether or not Mrs Ffleshe had decreed that it was then or at luncheon that they had their Christmas fare. If at lunch, he might avoid evening dinner, so that was his preference, but naturally he was not informed till the last moment.
There was one ritual, however, that he observed with that small part of his spirit Mrs Ffleshe had failed to subjugate — an act of rebellion that took place early in the morning. Mrs Ffleshe had always insisted that Toad should not begin his own breakfast till she had made her appearance, which she normally did some time between nine and ten o’clock. Toad had observed this stricture for a number of years but tended to become rather hungry and ill-tempered by the time Mrs Ffleshe came down, for Toad liked his food and felt faint if he did not have it in good time. The excellent Miss Bugle had circumvented this distressing problem, however, by laying out for him a
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