IV
It was just before I was five years old that I first met fear. Nursie and I were primrosing one spring day. We had crossed the railway line and gone up Shiphay lane, picking primroses from the hedges, where they grew thickly.
We turned in through an open gate and went on picking. Our basket was growing full when a voice shouted at us, angry and rough:
a€?Wot da€?you think youa€?re doing a€?ere?a€?
He seemed to me a giant of a man, angry and red-faced.
Nursie said we were doing no harm, only primrosing.
a€?Trespassing, thata€?s what youa€?re at. Get out of it. If youa€?re not out of that gate in one minute, Ia€?ll boil you alive, see?a€?
I tugged desperately at Nursiea€?s hand as we went. Nursie could not go fast, and indeed did not try to do so. My fear mounted. When we were at last safely in the lane I almost collapsed with relief. I was white and sick, as Nursie suddenly noticed.
a€?Dearie,a€she said gently, a€?you didna€?t think he meant it, did youNot to boil you or whatever it was?a€?
I nodded dumbly. I had visualised it. A great steaming cauldron on a fire, myself being thrust into it. My agonised screams. It was all deadly real to me.
Nursie talked soothingly. It was a way people had of speaking. A kind of joke, as it were. Not a nice man, a very rude, unpleasant man, but he hadna€?t meant what he said. It was a joke.
It had been no joke to me, and even now when I go into a field a slight tremor goes down my spine. From that day to this I have never known so real a terror.
Yet in nightmares I never relived this particular experience. All children have nightmares, and I doubt if they are a result of nursemaids or others a€?frighteninga€them, or of any happening in real life. My own particular nightmare centred round someone I called a€?The Gunmana€?. I never read a story about anyone of the kind. I called him The Gunman because he carried a gun, not because I was frightened of his shooting me, or for any reason connected with the gun. The gun was part of his appearance, which seems to me now to have been that of a Frenchman in grey-blue uniform, powdered hair in a queue and a kind of three-cornered hat, and the gun was some old-fashioned kind of musket. It was his mere presence that was frightening. The dream would be quite ordinarya€“a tea-party, or a walk with various people, usually a mild festivity of some kind. Then suddenly a feeling of uneasiness would come. There was someonea€“someone who ought not to be therea€“a horrid feeling of fear: and then I would see hima€“sitting at the tea-table, walking along the beach, joining in the game. His pale blue eyes would meet mine, and I would wake up shrieking: a€?The Gunman, the Gunman!a€?
a€?Miss Agatha had one of her gunman dreams last night,a€Nursie would report in her placid voice.
a€?Why is he so frightening, darling?a€my mother would ask. a€?What do you think he will do to you?a€?
I didna€?t know why he was frightening. Later the dream varied. The Gunman was not always in costume. Sometimes, as we sat round a tea-table, I would look across at a friend, or a member of the family, and I would suddenly realise that it was not Dorothy or Phyllis or Monty, or my mother or whoever it might be. The pale blue eyes in the familiar face met minea€“under the familiar appearance. It was really the Gunman.
At the age of four I fell in love. It was a shattering and wonderful experience. The object of my passion was one of the Dartmouth cadets, a friend of my brothera€?s. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, he appealed to all my romantic instincts. He himself could have had no idea of the emotions he aroused. Gloriously uninterested in the a€?kid sistera€of his friend Monty, he would probably have said, if asked, that I disliked him. An excess of emotion caused me to go in the opposite direction if I saw him coming, and when seated at the dining-table, to keep my head resolutely turned away. My mother took me gently to task.
a€?I know youa€?re shy, dear, but you must be polite. Ita€?s so rude to turn your head away from Philip all the time, and if he speaks to you, you only mutter. Even if you dislike him, you must be polite.a€?
Dislike him! How little anyone knew. When I think of it now, how supremely satisfying early love can be. It demands nothinga€“not a look nor a word. It is pure adoration. Sustained by it, one walks on air, creating in onea€?s own mind heroic occasions on which one will be of service to the beloved one. Going into a plague camp to nurse him. Saving him from fire. Shielding him from a fatal bullet. Anything, indeed, that has caught the imagination in a story. In these imaginings there is never a happy ending. You yourself are burnt to death, shot, or succumb to the plague. The hero does not even know of the supreme sacrifice you have made. I sat on the nursery floor, and played with Tony, looking solemn and priggish, whilst inside my head a glorious exultation swirled in extravagant fancies. The months passed. Philip became a midshipman and left the Britannia. For a short while his image persisted and then dwindled. Love vanished, to return three years later, when I adored hopelessly a tall dark young Army captain who was courting my sister.
Ashfield was home and accepted as such; Ealing, however, was an excitement. It had all the romance of a foreign country. One of its principal joys was its lavatory. It had a splendidly large mahogany lavatory seat. Sitting on it one felt exactly like a Queen on her throne, and I rapidly translated Dicksmistress into Queen Marguerite, and Dickie became her son, Prince Goldie, the heir to the throne. He sat at her right hand on the small circle which enclosed the handsome Wedgwood plug handle. Here in the morning I woud retreat, sit bowing, giving audience, and extending my hand to be kissed until summoned angrily to come out by others wishing to enter. On the wall there hung a coloured map of New York City, also an object of interest to me. There were several American prints in the house. In the spare bedroom was a set of coloured prints for which I had a deep affection. One, entitled a€?Winter Sportsa€?, depicted a very cold-looking man on a sheet of ice, dragging up a fish through a small hole. It seemed rather a melancholy sport to me. On the other hand, Grey Eddy, the trotter, was fascinatingly dashing.
Since my father had married the niece of his stepmother (his American fathera€?s English second wife), and since he called her Mother whilst his wife continued to call her Auntie, she was usually known officially as Auntie-Grannie. My grandfather had spent the last years of his life going to and fro between his business in New York and its English branch in Manchester. His had been one of the a€?success storiesa€of America. A poor boy from a family in Massachusetts, he had come to New York, been engaged more or less as an office boy, and had risen to be a partner in the firm. a€?Shirtsleeves to Swivel-chair in Three Generationsa€had certainly come true in our family. My grandfather made a big fortune. My father, mainly owing to trust in his fellow men, let it dwindle away, and my brother ran through what was left of it like a flash of lightning.
Not long before he died my grandfather had bought a large house in Cheshire. He was a sick man by then, and his second wife was left a widow comparatively young. She lived on in Cheshire for a while, but finally bought a house in Ealing, which was then still practically in the country. As she often said, there were fields all around. However, by the time I came to visit her this seemed hard to believe. Rows of neat houses spread in every direction.
Granniea€?s house and garden had a tremendous fascination for me. I divided the nursery into several a€?territoriesa€?. The front part had been built out with a bay window and had a gay striped drugget on the floor. This part I christened the Muriel Room (possibly because I had been fascinated by the term Oriel window). The back part of the nursery, covered with a Brussels carpet, was the Dining Hall. Various mats and pieces of linoleum were allocated by me to different rooms. I moved, busy and important, from one room of my house to another, murmuring under my breath. Nursie, peaceful as ever, sat stitching.
Another fascination was Auntie-Granniea€?s bed, an immense mahogany four-poster closely hemmed in with red damask curtains. It was a feather bed, and early in the morning I would arrive before being dressed and climb in. Grannie was awake from six oa€?clock onwards, and always welcomed me. Downstairs there was the drawing-room, crowded to repletion with marquetry furniture and Dresden china, and perpetually shrouded in gloom because of the conservatory erected outside. The drawing-room was only used for parties. Next to the drawing-room was the morning-room, where almost invariably a a€?sewing-womana€was ensconced. Now that I come to think of it, sewing-women were an inevitable accompaniment of a household. They all had a certain resemblance to each other in that they were usually very refined, in unfortunate circumstances, treated with careful courtesy by the mistress of the house, and the family, and with no courtesy at all by the servants, were sent in meals on trays, anda€“as far as I can remembera€“were unable to produce any article of clothing that fitted. Everything was either too tight everywhere or else hung on one in loose folds. The answer to any complaint was usually: a€?Ah yes, but Miss James has had such an unfortunate life.a€?
So, in the morning-room, Miss James sat and sewed with patterns all around her, and a sewing-machine in front of her.
In the dining-room, Grannie passed her life in Victorian contentment. The furniture was of heavy mahogany with a central table and chairs all round it. The windows were thickly draped with Nottingham lace. Grannie sat either at the table, in a huge leather-backed carvera€?s chair, writing letters, or else in a big velvet armchair by the fireplace. The tables, sofa, and some of the chairs were taken up with books, books that were meant to be there and books escaping out of loosely tied-up parcels. Grannie was always buying books, for herself and for presents, and in the end the books became too much for her and she forgot to whom she had meant to send thema€“or else discovered that a€?Mr Bennetta€?s dear little boy had, unnoticed by her, now reached the age of eighteen and was no longer eligible for The Boys of St. Guldreda€?s or The Adventures of Timothy Tiger.
An indulgent playmate, Grannie would lay aside the long scratchy-looking letter she was writing (heavily crossed a€?to save notepapera€?) and enter into the delightful pastime of a€?a chicken from Mr Whiteleya€?sa€?. Needless to say, I was the chicken. Selected by Grannie with appeals to the shopman as to whether I was really young and tender, brought home, trussed up, skewered (yells of delight from my skewered self), put in the oven, done to a turn, brought on the table dished up, great show of sharpening the carving-knife, when suddenly the chicken comes alive and a€?Ita€?s Me!a€?a€“grand climaxa€“to be repeated ad lib.
One of the morning events was Granniea€?s visit to the store-cupboard which was situated by the side door into the garden. I would immediately appear and Grannie would exclaim, a€?Now what can a little girl want here?a€The little girl would wait hopefully, peering into the interesting recesses. Rows of jars of jam and preserves. Boxes of dates, preserved fruits, figs, French plums, cherries, angelica, packets of raisins and currants, pounds of butter and sacks of sugar, tea and flour. All the household eatables lived there, and were solemnly handed out every day in anticipation of the daya€?s needs. Also a searching inquiry was held as to exactly what had been done with the previous daya€?s allocation. Grannie kept a liberal table for all, but was highly suspicious of waste. Household needs satisfied, and yesterdaya€?s provender satisfactorily accounted for, Grannie would unscrew a jar of French plums and I would go gladly out into the garden with my hands full.
How odd it is, when remembering early days, that the weather seems constant in certain places. In my nursery at Torquay it is always an autumn or winter afternoon. There is a fire in the grate, and clothes drying on the high fireguard, and outside there are leaves swirling down, or sometimes, excitingly, snow. In the Ealing garden it is always summera€“and particularly hot summer. I can relive easily the gasp of dry hot air and the smell of roses as I go out through the side door. That small square of green grass, surrounded with standard rose-trees, does not seem small to me. Again it was a world. First the roses, very important; any dead heads snipped off every day, the other roses cut and brought in and arranged in a number of small vases. Grannie was inordinately proud of her roses, attributing all their size and beauty to a€?the bedroom slops, my dear. Liquid manurea€“nothing like it! No one has roses like mine.a€?
On Sundays my other grandmother and usually two of my uncles used to come to midday dinner. It was a splendid Victorian day. Granny Boehmer, known as Granny B., who was my mothera€?s mother, would arrive about eleven oa€?clock, panting a little because she was very stout, even stouter than Auntie-Grannie. After taking a succession of trains and omnibuses from London, her first action would be to rid herself of her buttoned boots. Her servant Harriet used to come with her on these occasions. Harriet would kneel before her to remove the boots and substitute a comfortable pair of woolly slippers. Then with a deep sigh Granny B. would settle herself down at the dining-room table, and the two sisters would start their Sunday morning business. This consisted of lengthy and complicated accounts. Granny B. did a great deal of Auntie-Granniea€?s shopping for her at the Army and Navy Stores in Victoria Street. The Army and Navy Stores was the hub of the universe to the two sisters. Lists, figures, accounts were gone into and thoroughly enjoyed by both. Discussions on quality of the goods purchased took place: a€?You wouldna€?t have cared for it, Margaret. Not good quality material, very rawnya€“not at all like that last plum colour velvet.a€Then Auntie-Grannie would bring out her large fat purse, which I always looked upon with awe and considered as an outward and visible sign of immense wealth. It had a lot of gold sovereigns in the middle compartment, and the rest of it was bulging with half-crowns and sixpences and an occasional five shilling piece. The accounts for repairs and small purchases were settled. The Army and Navy Stores, of course, was on a deposit accounta€“and I think that Auntie-Grannie always added a cash present for Granny Ba€?s time and trouble. The sisters were fond of each other, but there was also a good deal of petty jealousy and bickering between them. Each enjoyed teasing the other, and getting the better of her in some way. Granny B. had, by her own account, been the beauty of the family. Auntie-Grannie used to deny this. a€?Mary (or Polly, as she called her) had a pretty face, yes,a€she would say. a€?But of course she hadna€?t got the figure I had. Gentlemen like a figure.a€?
In spite of Pollya€?s lack of figure (for which, I may say, she amply made up latera€“I have never seen such a bust) at the age of sixteen a captain in the Black Watch had fallen in love with her. Though the family had said that she was too young to marry, he pointed out that he was going abroad with his regiment and might not be back in England for some time, and that he would like the marriage to take place straight away. So married Polly was at sixteen. That, I think, was possibly the first point of jealousy. It was a love match. Polly was young and beautiful and her Captain was said to be the handsomest man in the regiment.
Polly soon had five children, one of whom died. Her husband left her a young widow of twenty-sevena€“after a fall from his horse. Auntie-Grannie was not married until much later in life. She had had a romance with a young naval officer, but they were too poor to marry and he turned to a rich widow. She in turn married a rich American with one son.
She was in some ways frustrated, though her good sense and love of life never deserted her. She had no children. However, she was left a very rich widow. With Polly, on the other hand, it was all she could do to feed and clothe her family after her husbanda€?s death. His tiny pension was all she had. I remember her sitting all day in the window of her house, sewing, making fancy pin-cushions, embroidered pictures and screens. She was wonderful with her needle, and she worked without ceasing, far more, I think, than an eight-hour day. So each of them envied the other for something they did not have. I think they quite enjoyed their spirited squabbles. Erupting sounds would fill the ear.
a€?Nonsense, Margaret, I never heard such nonsense in my life!a€Indeed, Mary, let me tell youa€“a€and so on. Polly had been courted by some of her dead husbanda€?s fellow officers and had had several offers of marriage, but she had steadfastly refused to marry again. She would put no one in her husbanda€?s place, she said, and she would be buried with him in his grave in Jersey when her time came.
The Sunday accounts finished, and commissions written down for the coming week, the uncles would arrive. Uncle Ernest was in the Home Office and Uncle Harry secretary of the Army and Navy Stores. The eldest uncle, Uncle Fred, was in India with his regiment. The table was laid and Sunday midday dinner was served.
An enormous joint, usually cherry tart and cream, a vast piece of cheese, and finally dessert on the best Sunday dessert platesa€“very beautiful they were and are: I have them still; I think eighteen out of the original twenty-four, which is not bad for about sixty odd years. I dona€?t know if they were Coalport or French chinaa€“the edges were bright green, scalloped with gold, and in the centre of each plate was a different fruita€“my favourite was then and always has been the Fig, a juicy-looking purple fig. My daughter Rosalinda€?s has always been the Gooseberry, an unusually large and luscious gooseberry. There was also a beautiful Peach, White Currants, Red Currants, Raspberries, Strawberries, and many others. The climax of the meal was when these were placed on the table, with their little lace mats on them, and finger bowls, and then everyone in turn guessed what fruit their plate was. Why this afforded so much satisfaction I cannot say, but it was always a thrilling moment, and when you had guessed right you felt you had done something worthy of esteem.
After a gargantuan meal there was sleep. Aunti-Grannie retired to her secondary chair by the fireplacea€“large and rather low-seated. Granny B. would settle on the sofa, a claret-coloured leather couch, buttoned all over its surface, and over her mountainous form was spread an Afghan rug. I dona€?t know what happened to the uncles. They may have gone for a walk, or retired to the drawing-room, but the drawing-room was seldom used. It was impossible to use the morning-room because that room was sacred to Miss Grant, the present holder of the post of sewing-woman. a€?My dear, such a sad case,a€Grannie would murmur to her friends. a€?Such a poor little creature, deformed, only one passage, like a fowl.a€That phrase always fascinated me, because I didna€?t know what it meant. Where did what I took to be a corridor come in?
After everyone except me had slept soundly for at least an houra€“I used to rock myself cautiously in the rocking-chaira€“we would have a game of Schoolmaster. Both Uncle Harry and Uncle Ernest were splendid exponents of Schoolmaster. We sat in a row, and whoever was schoolmaster, armed with a newspaper truncheon, would pace up and down the line shouting out questions in a hectoring voice: a€?What is the date of the invention of needles?a€Who was Henry VIIIa€?s third wife?a€How did William Rufus meet his death?a€What are the diseases of wheat?a€Anyone who could give a correct answer moved up; those correspondingly disgraced moved down. I suppose it was the Victorian forerunner of the quizzes we enjoy so much nowadays. The uncles, I think, disappeared after that, having done their duty by their mother and their aunt. Granny B. remained, and partook of tea with Madeira cake; then came the terrible moment when the buttoned boots were brought forth, and Harriet started on the task of encasing her in them once more. It was agonising to watch, and must have been anguish to endure. Poor Granny B.a€?s ankles had swollen up like puddings by the end of the day. To force the buttons into their holes with the aid of a button-hook involved an enormous amount of painful pinching, which forced sharp cries from her. Oh! those buttoned boots. Why did anyone wear themWere they recommended by doctorsWere they the price of a slavish devotion to fashionI know boots were said to be good for childrena€?s ankles, to strengthen them, but that could hardly apply in the case of an old lady of seventy. Anyway, finally encased and pale still from the pain, Granny B. started her return by train and bus to her own residence in Bayswater.
Ealing at that time had the same characteristics as Cheltenham or Leamington Spa. The retired military and navy came there in large quantities for the a€?healthy aira€and the advantage of being so near London. Grannie led a thoroughly social lifea€“she was a sociable woman at all times. Her house was always full of old Colonels and Generals for whom she would embroider waistcoats and knit bedsocks: a€?I hope your wife wona€?t object,a€she would say as she presented them. a€?I shouldna€?t like to cause trouble!a€The old gentlemen would make gallant rejoinders, and go away feeling thoroughly doggish and pleased with their manly attractions. Their gallantry always made me rather shy. The jokes they cracked for my amusement did not seem funny, and their arch, rallying manner made me nervous.
a€?And whata€?s the little lady going to have for her dessertSweets to the sweet, little lady. A peach nowOr one of these golden plums to match those golden curls?a€?
Pink with embarrassment, I murmured that I would like a peach please. a€?And which peachNow then, choose.a€?
a€?Please,a€I murmured, a€?I would like the biggest and the bestest.a€Roars of laughter. All unaware, I seemed to have made a joke.
a€?You shouldna€?t ask for the biggest, ever,a€said Nursie later. a€?Ita€?s greedy.a€I could admit that it was greedy, but why was it funny?
As a guide to social life, Nursie was in her element.
a€?You must eat up your dinner quicker than that. Suppose now, that you were to be dining at a ducal house when you grow up?a€?
Nothing seemed more unlikely, but I accepted the possibility.
a€?There will be a grand butler and several footmen, and when the moment comes, theya€?ll clear away your plate, whether youa€?ve finsihed or not.a€?
I paled at the prospect and applied myself to boiled mutton with a will. Incidents of the aristocracy were frequently on Nursiea€?s lips. They fired me with ambition. I wanted, above everything in the world, to be the Lady Agatha one day. But Nursiea€?s social knowledge was inexorable. a€?That you can never be,a€she said.
a€?Never?a€I was aghast.
a€?Never,a€said Nursie, a firm realist. a€?To be the Lady Agatha, you have to be born it. You have to be the daughter of a Duke, a Marquis, or an Earl. If you marry a Duke, youa€?ll be a Duchess, but thata€?s because of your husbanda€?s title. Ita€?s not something youa€?re born with.a€?
It was my first brush with the inevitable. There are things that cannot be achieved. It is important to realise this early in life, and very good for you. There are some things that you just cannot havea€“a natural curl in your hair, black eyes (if yours happen to be blue) or the title of Lady Agatha.
On the whole I think the snobbery of my childhood, the snobbery of birth that is, is more palatable than the other snobberies: the snobbery of wealth and intellectual snobbery. Intellectual snobbery seems today to breed a particular form of envy and venom. Parents are determined that their offspring shall shine. a€?Wea€?ve made great sacrifices for you to have a good education,a€they say. The child is burdened with guilt if he does not fulfil their hopes. Everyone is so sure that it is all a matter of opportunitya€“not of natural aptitude.
I think late Victorian parents were more realistic and had more consideration for their children and for what would make a happy and successful life for them. There was much less keeping up with the Joneses. Nowadays I often feel that it is for onea€?s own prestige that one wants onea€?s children to succeed. The Victorians looked dispassionately at their offspring and made up their minds about their capacities. A. was obviously going to be a€?the pretty onea€?. B. was a€?the clever onea€?. C. was going to be plain and was definitely not intellectual. Good works would be C.a€?s best chance. And so on. Sometimes, of course, they were wrong, but on the whole it worked. There is an enormous relief in not being expected to produce something that you havena€?t got.
In contrast to most of our friends, we were not really well off My father, as an American, was considered automatically to be a€?richa€?. All Americans were supposed to be rich. Actually he was merely comfortably off We did not have a butler or a footman. We did not have a carriage and horses and a coachman. We had three servants, which was a minimum then. On a wet day, if you were going out to tea with a friend, you walked a mile and a half in the rain in your machintosh and your goloshes. A a€?caba€was never ordered for a child unless it was going to a real party in a perishable dress.
On the other hand, the food that was served to guests in our house was quite incredibly luxurious compared to present-day standardsa€“indeed you would have to employ a chef and his assistant to provide it! I came across the menu of one of our early dinner parties (for ten) the other day. It began with a choice of thick or clear soup, then boiled turbot, or fillets of sole. After that came a sorbet. Saddle of mutton followed. Then, rather unexpectedly, Lobster Mayonnaise. Pouding Diplomatique and Charlotte Russe were the sweets and then dessert. All this was produced by Jane, single-handed.
Nowadays, of course, on an equivalent income, a family would have a car, perhaps a couple of dailies, and any heavy entertaining would probably be in a restaurant or done at home by the wife.
In our family it was my sister who was early recognised as a€?the clever onea€?. Her headmistress at Brighton urged that she should go to Girton. My father was upset and said a€?We cana€?t have Madge turned into a blue-stocking. Wea€?d better send her to Paris to be a€?finisheda€?.a€So my sister went to Paris, to her own complete satisfaction since she had no wish whatever to go to Girton. She certainly had the brains of the family. She was witty, very entertaining, quick of repartee and successful in everything she attempted. My brother, a year younger than her, had enormous personal charm, a liking for literature, but was otherwise intellectually backward. I think both my father and my mother realised that he was going to be the a€?difficulta€one. He had a great love of practical engineering. My father had hoped that he would go into banking but realised that he did not have the capacity to succeed. So he took up engineeringa€“but there again he could not succeed, as mathematics let him down.
I myself was always recognised, though quite kindly, as a€?the slow onea€of the family. The reactions of my mother and my sister were unusually quicka€“I could never keep up. I was, too, very inarticulate. It was always difficult for me to assemble into words what I wanted to say. a€?Agathaa€?s so terribly slowa€was always the cry. It was quite true, and I knew it and accepted it. It did not worry or distress me. I was resigned to being always a€?the slow onea€?. It was not until I was over twenty that I realised that my home standard had been unusually high and that actually I was quite as quick or quicker than the average. Inarticulate I shall always be. It is probably one of the causes that have made me a writer.
The first real sorrow of my life was parting with Nursie. For some time one of her former nurselings who had an estate in Somerset had been urging her to retire. He offered her a comfortable little cottage on his property where she and her sister could live out their days. Finally she made her decision. The time had come for her to quit work.
I missed her terribly. Every day I wrote to hera€“a short badly-written ill-spelt note: writing and spelling were always terribly difficult for me. My letters were without originality. They were practically always the same: a€?Darling Nursie. I miss you very much. I hope you are quite well. Tony has a flea. Lots and lots of love and kisses. From Agatha.a€?
My mother provided a stamp for these letters, but after a while she was moved to gentle protest.
a€?I dona€?t think you need write every day. Twice a week, perhaps?a€I was appalled.
a€?But I think of her every day. I must write.a€?
She signed, but did not object. Nevertheless she continued gentle suggestion. It was some months before I cut down correspondence to the two letters a week suggested. Nursie herself was a poor hand with a pen, and in any case was too wise, I imagine, to encourage me in my obstinate fidelity. She wrote to me twice a month, gentle nondescript epistles. I think my mother was disturbed that I found her so hard to forget. She told me afterwards that she had discussed the matter with my father, who had replied with an unexpected twinkle: a€?Well, you remembered me very faithfully as a child when I went to America.a€My mother said that that was quite different.
a€?Did you think that I would come back and marry you one day when you were grown up?a€he asked.
My mother said, a€?No, indeed,a€then hesitated and admitted that she had had her day-dream. It was a typically sentimental Victorian one. My father was to make a brilliant but unhappy marriage. Disillusioned, after his wifea€?s death he returned to seek out his quiet cousin Clara. Alas, Clara, a helpless invalid, lay permanently on a sofa, and finally blessed him with her dying breath. She laughed as she told hima€“a€?You see,a€she said, a€?I thought I shouldna€?t look so dumpy lying on a sofaa€“with a pretty soft wool cover thrown over me.a€?
Early death and invalidism were as much the tradition of romance then as toughness seems to be nowadays. No young woman then, as far as I can judge, would ever own up to having rude health. Grannie always told me with great complacence how delicate she had been as a child, a€?never expected to live to maturitya€a slight knock on the hand when playing and she fainted away. Granny B., on the other hand, said of her sister: a€?Margaret was always perfectly strong. I was the delicate one.a€?
Auntie-Grannie lived to ninety-two and Granny B. to eight-six, and personally I doubt if they were ever delicate at all. But extreme sensibility, constant fainting fits, and early consumption (a decline) were fashionable. Indeed, so imbued with this point of view was Grannie that she frequently went out of her way to impart mysteriously to my various young men how terribly delicate and frail I was and how unlikely to reach old age. Often, when I was eighteen, one of my swains would say anxiously to me, a€?Are you sure you wona€?t catch a chillYour grandmother told me how delicate you are!a€Indignantly I would protest the rude health I had always enjoyed, and the anxious face would clear. a€?But why does your grandmother say youa€?re delicate?a€I had to explain that Grannie was doing her loyal best to make me sound interesting. When she herself was young, Grannie told me, young ladies were never able to manage more than a morsel of food at the dinner-table if gentlemen were present. Substantial trays were taken up to bedrooms later.
Illness and early death pervaded even childrena€?s books. A book called Our White Violet was a great favourite of mine. Little Violet, a saintly invalid on page one, died an edifying death surrounded by her weeping family on the last page. Tragedy was relieved by her two naughty brothers, Punny and Firkin, who never ceased getting themselves into mischief. Little Women, a cheerful tale on the whole, had to sacrifice rosy-faced Beth. The death of Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop leaves me cold and slightly nauseated, but in Dickensa€?s time, of course, whole families wept over its pathos.
That article of household furniture, the sofa or couch, is associated nowadays mainly with the psychiatrista€“but in Victorian times it was the symbol of early death, decline, and romance with a capital R. I am inclined to the belief that the Victorian wife and mother cashed in on it pretty well. It excused her from much household drudgery. She often took to it in the early forties and spent a pleasant life, waited on hand and foot, given affectionate consideration by her devoted husband and ungrudging service by her daughters. Friends flocked to visit her, and her patience and sweetness under affliction were admired by all. Was there really anything the matter with herProbably not. No doubt her back ached and she suffered from her feet as most of us do as life goes on. The sofa was the answer.
Another of my favourite books was about a little German girl (naturally an invalid, crippled) who lay all day looking out of the window. Her attendant, a selfish and pleasure-loving young woman, rushed out one day to view a procession. The invalid leaned out too far, fell and was killed. Haunting remorse of the pleasure-loving attendant, white-faced and grief-stricken for life. All these gloomy books I read with great satisfaction.
And there were, of course, the Old Testament stories, in which I had revelled from an early age. Going to church was one of the highlights of the week. The parish church of Tor Mohun was the oldest church in Torquay. Torquay itself was a modern watering place, but Tor Mohun was the original hamlet. The old church was a small one, and it was decided that a second, bigger church was needed for the parish. This was built just about the time that I was born, and my father advanced a sum of money in my infant name so that I should be a founder. He explained this to me in due course and I felt very important. a€?When can I go to church?a€had been my constant demanda€“and at last the great day came. I sat next to my father in a pew near the front and followed the service in his big prayer-book. He had told me beforehand that I could go out before the sermon if I liked, and when the time came he whispered to me, a€?Would you like to go?a€I shook my head vigorously and so remained. He took my hand in his and I sat contentedly, trying hard not to fidget.
I enjoyed church services on Sunday very much. At home previously there had been special story-books only allowed to be read on Sundays (which made a treat of them) and books of Bible stories with which I was familiar. There is no doubt that the stories of the Old Testament are, from a childa€?s point of view, rattling good yarns. They have that dramatic cause and effect which a childa€?s mind demands: Joseph and his brethren, his coat of many colours, his rise to power in Egypt, and the dramatic finale of his forgiveness of the wicked brothers. Moses and the burning bush was another favourite. David and Goliath, too, has a sure-fire appeal.
Only a year or two ago, standing on the mound at Nimrud, I watched the local bird-scarer, an old Arab with his handful of stones and his sling, defending the crops from the hordes of predatory birds. Seeing his accuracy of aim and the deadliness of his weapon, I suddenly realised for the first time that it was Goliath against whom the dice were loaded. David was in a superior position from the starta€“the man with a long-distance weapon against the man who had none. Not so much the little fellow against the big one, as brains versus brawn.
A good many interesting people came to our house during my young days, and it seems a pity that I do not remember any of them. All I recall about Henry James is my mother complaining that he always wanted a lump of sugar broken in two for his teaa€“and that it really was affectation, as a small knob would do quite as well Rudyard Kipling came, and again my only memory is a discussion between my mother and a friend as to why he had ever married Mrs Kipling. My mothera€?s friend ended by saying, a€?I know the reason. They are the perfect complement to each other.a€Taking the word to be a€?complimenta€I though it a very obscure remark, but as Nursie explained one day that to ask you to marry him was the highest compliment a gentleman could pay a lady, I began to see the point.
Though I came down to tea-parties, I remember, in white muslin and a yellow satin sash, hardly anyone at the parties remains in my mind. The people I imagined were always more real to me than the flesh and blood ones I met. I do remember a close friend of my mothera€?s, a Miss Tower, mainly because I took endless pains to avoid her. She had black eyebrows and enormous white teeth, and I thought privately that she looked exactly like a wolf. She had a habit of pouncing on me, kissing me vehemently and exclaiming, a€?I could eat you!a€I was always afraid she would. All through my life I have carefully abstained from rushing at children and kissing them unasked. Poor little things, what defence have theyDear Miss Tower, so good and kind and so fond of childrena€“but with so little idea of their feelings.
Lady MacGregor was a social leader in Torquay, and she and I were on happy, joking terms. When I was still in the perambulator she had accosted me one day and asked if I knew who she wasI said truthfully that I didna€?t. a€?Tell your Mama,a€she said, a€?that you met Mrs Snooks out today.a€As soon as she had gone, Nursie took me to task. a€?Thata€?s Lady MacGregor, and you know her quite well.a€But thereafter I always greeted her as Mrs Snooks and it was our own private joke.
A cheerful soul was my godfather, Lord Lifford, then Captain Hewitt. He came to the house one day, and hearing Mr and Mrs Miller were out said cheerfully, a€?Oh, thata€?s all right. Ia€?ll come in and wait for them,a€and attempted to push past the parlourmaid. The conscientious parlourmaid slammed the door in his face and rushed upstairs to call to him from the conveniently situated lavatory window. He finally convinced her that he was a friend of the familya€“principally because he said, a€?And I know the window youa€?re speaking from, ita€?s the W.C.a€This proof of topography convinced her, and she let him in, but retired convulsed with shame at his knowledge that it was the lavatory from which she had been speaking.
We were very delicate about lavatories in those days. It was unthinkable to be seen entering or leaving one except by an intimate member of the family; difficult in our house, since the lavatory was halfway up the stairs and in full view from the hall. The worst, of course, was to be inside and then hear voices below. Impossible to come out. One had to stay immured there until the coast was clear.
Of my own childish friends I do not remember much.
There were Dorothy and Dulcie, younger than I was; stolid children with adenoids, whom I found dull. We had tea in the garden and ran races round a big ilex tree, eating Devonshire cream on a€?tough cakesa€(the local bun). I cannot imagine why this pleased us. Their father, Mr B., was my fathera€?s great crony. Soon after we came to live in Torquay, Mr B. told my father that he was going to be married. A wonderful woman, so he described her, a€?And it frightens me, Joea€?a€“my father was always called Joe by his friendsa€“a€?it positively frightens me how that woman loves me!a€?
Shortly afterwards a friend of my mothera€?s arrived to stay, seriously perturbed. Acting as companion to someone at a hotel in North Devon, she had come across a large, rather handsome young woman, who in a loud voice was conversing with a friend in the hotel lounge.
a€?Ia€?ve landed my bird, Dora,a€she boomed triumphantly. a€?Got him to the point at last, and hea€?s eating out of my hand.a€?
Dora congratulated her, and marriage settlements were freely discussed. Then the name of Mr B. was mentioned as the duly landed bridegroom.
A great consultation was held between my mother and father. What, if anything, was to be done about thisCould they let poor B. be married for his money in this shameful wayWas it too lateWould he believe them if they told him what had been overheard.
My father, at last, made his decision. B. was not to be told anything. Tale-telling was a mean business. And B. was not an ignorant boy. He had chosen with his eyes open.
Whether Mrs B. had married her husband for money or not, she made him an excellent wife, and they appeared to be as happy together as turtle-doves. They had three children, were practically inseparable, and a better home life could not be found. Poor B. eventually died of cancer of the tongue, and all through his long painful ordeal his wife nursed him devotedly. It was a lesson, my mother once said, in not thinking you know whata€?s best for other people.
When one went to lunch or tea with the B.a€?s the talk was entirely of food. a€?Percival, my love,a€Mrs B. would boom, a€?some more of this excellent mutton. Deliciously tender.a€?
a€?As you say, Edith, my dear. Just one more slice. Let me pass you the caper sauce. Excellently made. Dorothy, my love, some more mutton?a€a€?No, thank you, papa.a€?
a€?DulcieJust a small slice from the knucklea€“so tender.a€?
a€?No, thank you, mamma.a€?
I had one other friend called Margaret. She was what might be termed a semi-official friend. We did not visit each othera€?s homes (Margareta€?s mother had bright orange hair and very pink cheeks; I suspect now that she was considered a€?fasta€and that my father would not allow my mother to call), but we took walks together. Our nurses, I gathered, were friends. Margaret was a great talker and she used to cause me horrible embarrassment. She had just lost her front teeth and it made her conversation so indistinct that I could not take in what she said. I felt it would be unkind to say so, so I answered at random, growing more and more desperate. Finally Margaret offered to a€?tell me a storya€?. It was all about a€?thome poithoned thweetsa€?, but what happened to them I shall never know. It went on incomprehensibly for a long time and Margaret ended up triumphantly with, a€?Dona€?t you think thatth a loverly thtory?a€I agreed fervently. a€?Do you think thee really ought toa€“a€I felt questioning on the story would be too much for me to bear. I broke in with decision. a€?Ia€?ll tell you a story now, Margaret.a€Margaret looked undecided. Evidently there was some knotty point in the poisoned sweets story that she wanted to discuss, but I was desperate.
a€?Ita€?s about aa€“aa€“peach-stone,a€I improvised wildly. a€?About a fairy who lived in a peach-stone.a€?
a€?Go on,a€said Margaret.
I went on. I spun things out till Margareta€?s gate was in sight.
a€?Thata€?s a very nice story,a€said Margaret appreciatively. a€?What fairy book does it come out of?a€?
It did not come out of any fairy book. It came out of my head. It was not, I think, a particularly good story. But it had saved me from the awful unkindness of reproaching Margaret for her missing teeth. I said that I could not quite remember which fairy book it was in.
When I was five years old, my sister came back a€?finisheda€from Paris. I remember the excitement of seeing her alight at Ealing from a four-wheeler cab. She wore a gay little straw hat and a white veil with black spots on it, and appeared to me an entirely new person. She was very nice to her little sister and used to tell me stories. She also endeavoured to cope with my education by teaching me French from a manual called Le Petit Precepteur. She was not, I think, a good teacher and I took a fervant dislike to the book. Twice I adroitly concealed it behind other books in the bookshelf; it was a very short time, however, before it came to light again.
I saw that I had to do better. In a corner of the room was an enormous glass case containing a stuffed bald-headed eagle which was my fathera€?s pride and glory. I insinuated Le Petit Pr??cepteur behind the eagle into the unseen corner of the room. This was highly successful. Several days passed and a thorough hunt failed to find the missing book.
My mother, however, defeated my efforts with ease. She proclaimed a prize of a particularly delectable chocolate for whoever should find the book. My greed was my undoing. I fell into the trap, conducted an elaborate search round the room, finally climbed up on a chair, peered behind the eagle, and exclaimed in a surprised voice: a€?Why, there it is!a€Retribution followed. I was reproved and sent to bed for the rest of the day. I accepted this as fair, since I had been found out, but I considered it unjust that I was not given the chocolate. That had been promised to whoever found the book, and I had found it.
My sister had a game which both fascinated and terrified me. This was a€?The Elder Sistera€?. The thesis was that in our family was an elder sister, senior to my sister and myself. She was mad and lived in a cave at Corbina€?s Head, but sometimes she came to the house. She was indistinguishable in appearance from my sister, except for her voice, which was quite different. It was a frightening voice, a soft oily voice.
a€?You know who I am, dona€?t you, dearIa€?m your sister Madge. You dona€?t think Ia€?m anyone else, do youYou wouldna€?t think that?a€?
I used to feel indescribable terror. Of course I knew really it was only Madge pretendinga€“but was itWasna€?t it perhaps trueThat voicea€“those crafty sideways glancing eyes. It was the elder sister!
My mother used to get angry. a€?I wona€?t have you frightening the child with this silly game, Madge.a€?
Madge would reply reasonably enough: a€?But she asks me to do it.a€I did. I would say to her: a€?Will the elder sister be coming soon?a€a€?I dona€?t know. Do you want her to come?a€?
a€?Yesa€“yes, I do.
Did I reallyI suppose so.
My demand was never satisfied at once. Perhaps two days later there would be a knock at the nursery door, and the voice:
a€?Can I come in, dearIta€?s your elder sister.
Many years later, Madge had still only to use the Elder Sister voice and I would feel chills down my spine.
Why did I like being frightenedWhat instinctive need is satisfied by terrorWhy, indeed, do children like stories about bears, wolves and witchesIs it because something rebels in one against the life that is too safeIs a certain amount of danger in life a need of human beingsIs much of the juvenile delinquency nowadays attributable to the fact of too much securityDo you instinctively need something to combat, to overcomea€“to, as it were, prove yourself to yourselfTake away the wolf from Red Riding Hood and would any child enjoy itHowever, like most things in life, you want to be frightened a littlea€“but not too much.
My sister must have had a great gift for story-telling. At an early age her brother would urge her on. a€?Tell it me again.a€?
a€?I dona€?t want to.a€?
a€?Do, do!a€?
a€?No, I dona€?t want to.a€?
a€?Please. Ia€?ll do anything.a€?
a€?Will you let me bite your finger?a€?
a€?Yes.a€?
a€?I shall bite it hard. Perhaps I shall bite it right off!a€?
a€?I dona€?t mind.a€?
Madge obligingly launches into the story once more. Then she picks up his finger and bites it. Now Monty yells. Mother arrives. Madge is punished.
a€?But it was a bargain,a€she says, unrepentant.
I remember well my first written story. It was in the nature of a melodrama, very short, since both writing and spelling were a pain to me. It concerned the noble Lady Madge (good) and the bloody Lady Agatha (bad) and a plot that involved the inheritance of a castle.
I showed it to my sister and suggested we could act it. My sister said immediately that she would rather be the bloody Lady Madge and I could be the noble Lady Agatha.
a€?But dona€?t you want to be the good one?a€I demanded, shocked. My sister said no, she thought it would be much more fun to be wicked. I was pleased, as it had been solely politeness which had led me to ascribe nobility to Lady Madge.
My father, I remember, laughed a good deal at my effort, but in a kindly way, and my mother said that perhaps I had better not use the word bloody as it was not a very nice word. a€?But she was bloody,a€I explained. a€?She killed a lot of people. She was like bloody Mary, who burnt people at the stake.a€?
Fairy books played a great part in life. Grannie gave them to me for birthdays and Christmas. The Yellow Fairy Book, The Blue Fairy Book, and so on. I loved them all and read them again and again. Then there was a collection of animal stories, also by Andrew Lang, including one about Androcles and the Lion. I loved that too.
It must have been about then that I first embarked on a course of Mrs Molesworth, the leading writer of stories for children. They lasted me for many years, and I think, on re-reading them now, that they are very good. Of course children would find them old-fashioned nowadays, but they tell a good story and there is a lot of characterization in them. There was Carrots, just a little Boy, and Herr Baby for very young children, and various fairy story tales. I can still re-read The Cuckoo Clock and The Tapestry Room. My favourite of all, Four Winds Farm, I find uninteresting now and wonder why I loved it so much.
Reading story-books was considered slightly too pleasurable to be really virtuous. No story-books until after lunch. In the mornings you were supposed to find something a€?usefula€to do. Even to this day, if I sit down and read a novel after breakfast I have a feeling of guilt. The same applies to cards on a Sunday. I outgrew Nursiea€?s condemnation of cards as a€?the Devila€?s picture booksa€?, but a€?no cards on Sundaysa€was a rule of the house, and in after years when playing bridge on a Sunday I never quite threw off a feeling of wickedness.
At some period before Nursie left, my mother and father went to America and were away some time. Nursie and I went to Ealing. I must have been several months there, fitting in very happily. The pillar of Granniea€?s establishment was an old, wrinkled cook, Hannah. She was as thin as Jane was fat, a bag of bones with deeply lined face and stooped shoulders. She cooked magnificently. She also made homebaked bread three times a week, and I was allowed in the kitchen to assist and make my own little cottage loaves and twists. I only fell foul of her once, when I asked her what giblets were. Apparently giblets were things nicely brought up young ladies did not ask about. I tried to tease her by running to and fro in the kitchen saying, a€?Hannah, what are gibletsHannah, for the third time, what are giblets?a€etc. I was removed by Nursie in the end and reproved, and Hannah would not speak to me for two days. After that I was much more careful how I transgressed her rules.
Some time during my stay at Ealing I must have been taken to the Diamond Jubilee for I came across a letter not long ago written from America by my father. It is couched in the style of the day, which was singularly unlike my fathera€?s spoken wordsa€“letter-writing fell into a definite and sanctimonious pattern, whereas my fathera€?s speech was usually jolly and slightly ribald.
You must be very very good to dear Auntie-Grannie, Agatha, because remember how very very good she has been to you, and the treats she gives you. I hear you are going to see this wonderful show which you will never forget, it is a thing to be seen only once in a lifetime. You must tell her how very grateful you are; how wonderful it is for you, I wish I could be there, and so does your mother. I know you will never forget it.
My father lacked the gift of prophecy, because I have forgotten it. How maddening children are! When I look back to the past, what do I rememberSilly little things about local sewing-women, the bread twists I made in the kitchen, the smell of Colonel F.a€?s breatha€“and what do I forgetA spectacle that somebody paid a great deal of money for me to see and remember. I feel very angry with myself. What a horrible, ungrateful child!
That reminds me of what I think was a coincidence so amazing that one is so inclined to say it could never have happened. The occasion must have been Queen Victoriaa€?s funeral. Both Auntie-Grannie and Granny B. were going to see it. They had procured a window in a house somewhere near Paddington, and they were to meet each other there on the great day. At five in the morning, so as not to be late, Grannie rose in her house at Ealing, and in due course got to Paddington Station. That would give her, she calculated, a good three hours to get to her vantage point, and she had with her some fancy-work, some food and other necessities to pass the hours of waiting once she arrived there. Alas, the time she had allowed herself was not enough. The streets were crammed. Some time after leaving Paddington Station she was quite unable to make further headway. Two ambulance men rescued her from the crowd, and assured her that she couldna€?t go on. a€?I must, but I must!a€cried Grannie, tears streaming down her face. a€?Ia€?ve got my room, Ia€?ve got my seat; the two first seats in the second window on the second floor, so that I can look down and see everything. I must!a€a€?Ita€?s impossible, Maa€?am, the streets are jammed, nobody has been able to get through for half an hour.a€Grannie wept more. The ambulance man kindly said, a€?You cana€?t see anything, I am afraid, Maa€?am, but Ia€?ll take you down this street to where our ambulance is and you can sit there, and they will make you a nice cup of tea.a€Grannie went with them, still weeping. By the ambulance was sitting a figure not unlike herself, also weeping, a monumental figure in black velvet and bugles. The other figure looked upa€“two wild cries rent the air: a€?Mary!a€a€?Margaret!a€Two gigantic bugle-shaking bosoms met.