The Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience lived with
me one terrible week. On the seventh day I came home from shopping with
presents for the twins back in Wisconsin. A day or so earlier, while my
mentor was out of the room, I had asked the chef waiter of our floor
about himself and his family, and found that his family too included
twins. So with the present for my family I also brought some for his.
Mr. MacLeod, the member of Parliament from Scotland, and Lord Lansdowne
happened to be calling when I arrived, and Tom and the Scotch lady were
there. The chef waiter was taking the coats of the gentlemen callers.
I received the guests, acknowledged the introductions, and then, as I
removed my own coat, I handed him the little package.
When we were alone the Scotch lady turned to me. “In England,” she
said, “ladies never converse with their servants, particularly in the
presence of guests.”
Then she sealed her doom. “Ladies never make gifts to their servants,”
she added. “Their secretaries, housekeepers, or companions disburse
their bounty.”
I remembered the old U. S. A. An American chef waiter might hope to be
the father of a President. On the ranch I had cooked for men of less
education and much worse manners than this domestic who brought my
athletic husband's breakfast to his bedside and who happened to be the
proud father of twins.
I would learn table manners from an English lady of aristocratic birth
and social experience; but when it came to the human act of a little
gift to a faithful servant, I declared my American independence.
I was homesick for Wisconsin, homesick for real and simple people.
I wanted to go home! That night Tom and I had our first real quarrel,
and it was over my dismissal of the Scotch lady of aristocratic birth.
Life became intolerable for a while. I dragged through days of bitter
homesickness. Nothing seemed real. No one seemed sincere. Life was a
stage. Everybody seemed to be acting a part and speaking their pieces
with guttural voices. Even my husband's voice sounded different--or
else I realized for the first time that Boston apes London English. Tom
had learned his mother tongue in Boston, and now suddenly he seemed like
a foreigner to me simply because he spoke like these other foreigners.
The sun went out of my heaven. I was dumb with loneliness and sick with
the fear of lost faith. Could it be that my husband was affecting these
English mannerisms? Certainly he seemed at home in England, while I
seemed to be adrift, alone in an arctic ocean.
I had no friend in England, and more and more my husband's special work
was engrossing him. When we were together I felt tongue-tied. He had
tried to be gentle with me; but I was strange in this world of his, and
lonely and sensitive. I had dreamed so much of this world, and now that
I was in it, it was false and petty. I longed for the United States,
for my Northwest, for my hills and wide, far plains. I wanted to meet
somebody from Madison who smiled like a friend.
One day Tom looked at me searchingly, and said I must be ill.
I confessed to a little homesickness. Tom became very attentive.
He took me sightseeing. We lunched at the quaint inn where Dickens
found his inspiration for “Pickwick Papers” and where the literary
lights of London foregathered and still foregather for luncheon. We sat
in one of the cozy little stalls--just Tom and I.
Suddenly it swept over me that life had gone all wrong. Here was a
dream come true, and no joy in my heart. Tom asked me for my thoughts.
I told him, quite frankly, I was thinking of home. I was thinking of
mother in her cotton house dress with her knitted shawl around her
shoulders, of father in his jeans and high boots tramping over the range
with the men; I saw the cow and the pigs and the chickens, the smelly
corral and the water hole, the twins trying to rub each other's face in
the mud. And I was thinking--Tom would n't fit into my world, and I
could not belong to his. That was the second time I heard Tom swear.
He wanted to know what kind of a snob I thought he was. He'd be as much
at home with dad on the ranch as he was in London. “The fault is with
you,” he said. “You 're not adaptable, and you don't try to be.”
Tom did n't understand. He never did. In all the years together, which
he made so rich and happy, Tom never understood how hard and bitter a
school was that first year of my married life. But Tom did try to give
me a good time in London. He took me to interesting places and we were
entertained by a number of people, mostly ponderous and stupid. Tom did
not suggest that we entertain in our turn. I think he felt I was not
ready for it, although even in after years, when we talked frankly about
many things, he would never admit this.
I shall never forget my first week-end party in England. I was not
well, and Tom, manlike, felt sure the change, a trip down to Essex and
new people, would do me good. The thought of the country and a visit
with some good simple country folk appealed to me too, so I packed the
bags and met Tom at Victoria Station at eleven o'clock. Alas! It is a
far cry from a Montana ranch to a gentleman's estate in England! My
vision of a quiet visit “down on a farm” vanished the minute we stepped
off the train. Liveried coachmen collected our baggage. They seemed to
be discussing something; then I heard Tom say: “I guess that 's all.
I 'll wire back for the rest of it.”
We were led to a handsome cart drawn by a fine tandem team, and Tom and
I were alone for a minute.
“My God, Mary!” he burst out, “didn't you bring any clothes for us?”
“I certainly have,” I retorted, sure I was in the right this time.
“Your nightshirt and my nightgown; your toilet articles and mine; a
change of underclothes; a clean shirt and two collars for you, and my
new striped silk waist.”