THE snow was meaning to have a good time of it; there was no question
about that. Further work in the clearing line was obviously impossible.
Virginia tilted up her coal-scoop in the porch, beside the pathetic
remains of small brass shovel No. 1 (which broke in half quite early in
the proceedings), and small brass shovel No. 2 (which also was giving
wobbly indications of impending collapse). Ursula, possessing the only
serviceable tool in the whole collection, had with unusual forethought
carried in the kitchen shovel, and hidden it surreptitiously—realising
that it was a much-coveted treasure at that moment.
But she did suggest that if we just took the ladder upstairs and let
it down out of the end bedroom window she could climb down, and that
would bring her close to the wood shed; she could get from the roof of
that on to a low wall, and walk along the wall to the gate, which she
would then climb over (as it was blocked each side with snow), and in
this way she could get out into the lane to the spring of water, and
bring back a can of water by the same route. This she would tie to a
cord let down from the bedroom window, which could then be hauled up.
Then she would get into the wood shed—which would not be difficult, as
the door opened inwards, and would not be blocked by the snow on the
inside; getting together some logs, she would next lash them up so that
they also could be hauled up like the water; finally, she would herself
return, _viâ_ the roof and the ladder and the bedroom window, to the
bosom of the family.
This suggestion was received with gratitude, only everyone else wanted
to take Ursula’s place, and make the tour instead of her. We pointed
out to her that, as she had already meanly annexed the only workable
shovel, she ought at least to relinquish the rôle of leading lady in
this expedition. We might have wasted much time in arguing with her
had not Eileen reminded us that the ladder—like everything else we
needed—was up the garden safely snowed up under the laurel hedge. So
that project fell through.
“We may as well leave that collection of old metal in the porch,” said
Virginia, “since there is no fear of callers arriving and putting us
to the blush this afternoon.” Then there was nothing left to do but
to stamp off the snow, and shed rubbers, and ulsters, and scarfs, and
woollen gloves, and possess our souls in patience indoors, till such
time as the snow should give over.
“And to think how I’ve always prided myself on going away from home
prepared for _every_ emergency!” sighed Virginia. “My dressing-case
is simply crammed with such valuable data as a bandage for a possible
sprained ankle, court plaster, a pocket-knife with a corkscrew on it, a
specially strong smelling-bottle for fainty ones, a nightlight, a box
of matches, ammoniated quinine, wedges for rattling windows, a box of
tin-tacks—no, not a hammer, I always use the heel of my shoe—a two-foot
rule—what should I want that for? I’m sure I don’t know, but then you
never can tell! But with all my precautions, it never occurred to me to
pack a spade and broom in with my luggage. This snowstorm has shown me
the weak points in my outfit.”
“It has shown _me_ the weak points in my joints,” groaned Ursula. “And,
moreover, I never knew before how many parts of us there were that
could ache. I’m just painful from head to foot. I never realised what
a noble, self-sacrificing calling snow-shovelling is. And when I think
of the men who come round in town, offering to sweep the snow from the
path—and a good long path too—for a few pence, it seems a positive
scandal that they should get so little. I’m sure there is quite ten
shillings’ worth of me used up already!”
We certainly did ache. And only those who have been suddenly called
upon to attack a bank of snow, with inexperience and feeble tools,
can know the extent of our stiffness. We were content to let it snow,
without the slightest desire to crick our backs any further. And after
all there is something exceedingly restful and soothing to over-worked
brain and over-strained nerves, in merely sitting in a low chair by a
roaring fire, taking only such exercise as is required to put on an
extra log, secure in the knowledge that neither telegram, nor visitor,
nor any communication whatsoever from the outside world can possibly
break in upon the quiet and peace. You need to spend your life in the
heart of the great metropolis, amid the never-ceasing turmoil of London
streets, with your days one long maddening distraction of callers,
telephone bells, endless queries and perpetual noise, to appreciate the
joy of the solitude in that snowed-up cottage among the hills.
* * * * *
For long months and months the guns in Flanders had sent a muffled boom
over my London garden every hour of the day, and had shaken my windows
violently every hour of the night; and there is no need to set down in
writing the ache and the anxiety that each dull thud brought to the
heart. Every one who has husband or brother or son out yonder knows
what question comes wafted over each time the guns send out their
deadly roll.
But our craving for quiet was not a desire to get out of earshot of the
guns. It dated farther back than the War; it was the inevitable outcome
of the over-wrought hurry of the twentieth century, when one’s nerves
get so frazzled in the vain attempt to do everything, and do it all at
once, that at last life is simply one intense longing for that “nest in
the wilderness” out of reach of the clamour of the market-place and the
vain, foolish, soul-wearing struggle for material things.
In that enchanted period of life, known as “before the War,” we used
often to discuss the desirability of moving to an uninhabited island
and spending the rest of our days there in unalloyed peace. It had
been an absorbing dream with me, ever since I first read Sarah Orne
Jewett’s book, _The Country of the Pointed Firs_. I dare say it was
selfish to think of being _quite_ out of reach of the noise and dirt
and bustle and din of cities, and where there would be no next-door
piano, and no gramophone in the house the other side, and no soots
floating in the windows—but it was a very pleasant one, and I used to
add to it occasionally by imagining what it would be like to wake up
one morning and find that some unknown but generous friend had left me
an uninhabited island as a legacy; one not far from the mainland, and
somewhere around the British Isles, of course.
When such a thing happens, it will find me quite prepared, for we have
built the house there, and furnished it, and mapped out our life there
many and many a time; all I am waiting for is—the island! That seems
hard to come by! I’ve had one or two offered me (not as gifts, but to
purchase), like Lundy, for instance, but they cost too much and are not
uninhabited. So we have still to content ourselves with plans only.
We were recalled to The Island (we always refer to it in capital
letters) as we sat round the fire, by Virginia inquiring what books I
should take with me when I moved there. She said she concluded that,
being a booky sort of a person, a library would be an essential.
But I set my face firmly against taking unnecessary literature. My
house gets choked with books, ninety per cent. of which I never open
a second time. I am for ever turning them out, and yet they go on
accumulating. Virginia has a perfect mania for hoarding impossible
books, that she could never find time to read through again if she
lived to be the age of Methuselah; yet she keeps them all, on the
chance that some day she may require to refer to a solitary sentence
in one of them. Her cupboards are full, and her shelves are packed
behind and before, and she has had sets of drawers made just to hold
“papers”; which means hundredweights of abstruse pamphlets, and learned
magazines, and cuttings—well, I dare say you know the sort of girl she
is, and what it’s like when their flat gets spring-cleaned, and she
insists that no one must lay a finger on _her_ books!
Ursula isn’t much better; but at least she is more practical, and
believes in spring cleaning; hence, in _her_ case, she does have a
turn-out occasionally, and just throws away indiscriminately whole
shelf-loads of books in a fit of desperation, when she has managed to
get every article in the flat jumbled up in a heap in the room it has
no business in, and no one can find anything. I believe at such time
she surreptitiously disposes of some of Virginia’s tomes, too; but this
I only suspect. At any rate, Virginia is always bewailing a number of
“_most_ important books” that never can be found after one of Ursula’s
domestic upheavals.
Knowing all this, I said that only a definite number of books would be
allowed on The Island. Both girls said it would be impossible to fix
any limit that would meet the case. I said I was quite sure humanity,
more especially the intellectual feminine portion of it, could do with
far less books than they thought they could.
Vehement protests!
Then I suggested, to prove my words, that we should each start to
make out a list of the books we couldn’t possibly do without on The
Island—_only_ those we couldn’t possibly do without—and see what it
amounted to. “Jot down any book or author that occurs to us as being
essential, irrespective of any sort of classification,” I said. “And we
had better compare notes every ten books, as we go along.”
Forthwith, we each scribbled down our first ten _absolutely
indispensable_ books (they were to be exclusive of religious and
devotional works). When we compared notes in a few minutes’ time, these
were our lists:—