Most people, I imagine, who live in London are asked by their relatives
and friends who live in the country to shop for them. My post is often
nothing more upsetting than on a very hot summer's morning, or a wet
winter's one, to find an envelope on my plate, or beside it, addressed
in Cousin Anastasia's large handwriting. "Dearest," the letter inside
it begins, "if" (heavily underlined) "you should be passing Paternoster
Row, will you choose me a nice little prayer-book, without a cross
on it, please; people tell me they are cheaper there than elsewhere,
prayer-books, I mean, for Jane, who is going to be confirmed. She
is such a nice clean girl. I do hope she will be as clean after her
confirmation, but one never can tell. In any case I feel I ought to give
her something, and a prayer-book, under the circumstances, seems the
most suitable thing."
Jane, I remember, is a kitchen-maid. Of course I never pass Paternoster
Row, but that to a country cousin of Anastasia's mental caliber is not
worth consideration. She has no knowledge of geography, London's or
otherwise, and is doubtless one of those people who think New Zealand is
another name for Australia.
On another occasion she writes to say that Martha, the head housemaid,
"such an excellent servant," (all heavily under lined), who has been
with them seventeen years, is going to marry a nice, clean widower with
six children. She must give her a nice present; "nice" is underlined
several times. She has heard that in the Edgeware Road there are to be
had, complete in case, for three-and-sixpence, excellent clocks. She
doesn't know the name of the shop, but she believes it begins with "P,"
and if I could look in as I pass, she would be most grateful. As will be
guessed, Anastasia is a wealthy woman with no sense of humor. She knows
she has none, and she says she doesn't know what rich people want it
for. Of course for poor people it is an excellent thing, because it
enables them to look at the bright side of things; but as Anastasia's
things, life in particular, are bright on all sides, she doesn't need
that particular sense.
Then there is another country cousin she is so sweet and diffident about
asking me to do anything, that I feel I ought willingly to look into
every shop window in the Edgeware Road beginning with "P" or any other
letter, however wet or hot the day! And I am not sure that I wouldn't!
Her writing is as meek as Anastasia's is aggressive, and she never
descends to the transparency of an underlined "if." She says, would I
mind sending her a book, called so-and-so, by such and such an author,
price so much? It is all plain sailing with Cousin Penelope. She knows
just what she wants and where to get it; so much so that I sometimes
wonder why she doesn't send straight to the shop. But country cousins
never do that; for wherein would lie the use of London cousins, if they
didn't shop for their country cousins? How would they occupy their time?
She would like me please to get it at Bumpus's, because they are so
very civil and they knew her dear father. I might mention his name if I
thought fit! Now, I know quite well that it is impossible that any
one at Bumpus's, be he ever so venerable, can ever have known Cousin
Penelope's father. The name, being Smith, may no doubt be familiar. Of
course Cousin Penelope would repay any expense I incurred. In fact she
must insist on so doing.
"Insist" seems too strong a word to apply to any power that Cousin
Penelope could enforce. It would be something so gentle; persistent,
perhaps, but insistent? Never! "I beg, I implore, I entreat," would all
be suitable, but "I insist" does not suggest Cousin Penelope.
Dear Cousin Penelope, we are told, had a love-story in her youth, the
sadness of which ruined her life. It must have been a very beautiful
thing, that sorrow, to have made her what she is. One feels that it
must be a very wonderful love that is laid away in the wrappings of
submission and tied with the ribbons of resignation. There is assuredly
no bitterness about it, and I sometimes wonder if one's own sorrow
which tears and tugs at one's heart will some day leave such a record
of holiness and patience on one's face! I am afraid not. I look in the
glass, but I see nothing in the reflection which in the least resembles
Cousin Penelope, nor can I believe that time will do it, nor am I brave
enough to wish it. I cannot yet pray for a peace like hers. People say
time can do everything, but
"Time is
Too slow for those who wait,
Too swift for those who fear,
Too long for those who grieve,
Too short for those who rejoice,
But for those who love Time is
Eternity."
So it is written on a sun-dial I know, and when I have a sun-dial of my
own, those words shall be written thereon.
I think time lies heavily sometimes on Hugh's hands. He said one day,
"The days pass by, Betty, and we don't grow up!"
To return to booksellers. There is "Truslove and Hanson" in my more or
less immediate neighborhood, who are civil to a degree, but they did
not know Cousin Penelope's father, therefore they are not specially
qualified to sell a book to his daughter! So to Bumpus I must go, and
I love it. A bookshop is a joy to me; the feel of books, the smell of
books, the look of books, I love! I even enjoy cutting the pages of a
book, which I believe every one does not enjoy.
Then there is another country cousin, Pauline. When her letter comes,
I open it with mixed feelings, in which the feeling of fondness
predominates. One can't help loving her. She never asks one to shop for
her, but with her, which is perhaps an even greater test of friendship.
On a particularly hot day, I remember, a letter came from Pauline which
announced her immediate arrival. I was, waiting in the hall for her,
ready to start, which is a stipulation she always makes, as she says
it is such a pity to waste time. She greeted me in the same rather
tempestuous manner that I am accustomed to at the hands of Betty and
Hugh, and then she ran down the steps again to tell the cabman that he
had a very nice horse, which she patted, and said, "Whoa, mare!"
She always does that. She then asked the cabman how long he had been
driving, whether it was difficult to drive at night, and whether it was
true he could only see his horse's ears; and I think she asked if he had
any children, but of that I am not quite sure. If she didn't, it was a
lapse of memory on her part. Even the cab-runner interested her. Hadn't
I noticed what a sad face he had?
I said I hadn't noticed anything except that he was rather dirty.
Pauline said, "Of course he is dirty; what would you be, if you ran
after cabs all day?" I wondered.
Talking of cab-runners, I told her of the children's party I went to
with Cousin Penelope, who, very much afraid that she was late, said in
her sweetest manner to a man who opened the cab-door for us, "Are we
late?" And the man answered, "I really cannot say, madam; I have only
just this moment arrived myself."
He was in rags, which I did not tell her; the sponge cake would have
stuck in her throat at tea if I had. But I gave him something for his
ready wit, and wished for weeks afterwards that I had plunged into the
darkness after him. "What a charming man!" said Cousin Penelope. But to
return to Pauline.
"What a glorious day we are going to have!" she said. "It is good of you
to say I may stay the night, and if I go to a ball, you won't mind? I
have brought a small box,--as you see."
I did see, and to my mind its size bordered on indecency. I like a box
to look sufficiently large to take all I think a woman ought to need
for a night's stay. Pauline often assures me it does hold everything,
squashed tight, of course. I say it must be squashed very tight, and
she says it is. "That's the beauty of the present-day fashion of fluffy
things: everything is so easily squashed, and yet you can't squash them;
an accordion-pleated thing, for instance."
To a man whose admiration for a woman is gauged by the amount of luggage
she can travel without, Pauline would prove irresistible. I know one who
prides himself on his packing, and who has a horror of much luggage. He
was all packed ready to go to Scotland, when his wife asked him if he
could lend her a collar-stud for her flannel shirts, and he said, "Yes,
but you must carry it yourself, I'm full up!"
To that man Pauline, I am sure, would be very attractive.
When Pauline and I started off on our shopping expedition, she demurred
at taking a hansom, although she loves driving in them; but she said
'buses were so much more amusing. "People in 'buses say such funny
things," she said, and so they do. The old lady in particular who, when
the horse got his leg over the trace without hurting himself or any one
else, got up and announced to the 'bus in general: "There, I always did
say I hated horses and dogs," and sat down again. I loved her for that
and for other things too, among them her apple-cheeks and poke bonnet.
Another reason why I insisted upon a hansom is that Pauline is not to be
trusted in a 'bus; her interest in her fellow-creatures is embarrassing.
I have, moreover, sat opposite babies in 'buses with Pauline, and where
a baby is concerned, she has no self-control. So I was firm, and we
started off in a hansom. I was continually besought to look at some
delicious baby, first this side, then that.
Pauline calmly avers that she would go mad if she lived in London. She
couldn't stand seeing so many beautiful children, or babies, beautiful
or otherwise. It is curious how babies in perambulators hold out their
hands to Pauline as she passes, and laugh and gurgle at her.
Once in Piccadilly, beautiful babies became less plentiful, and Pauline
turned her thoughts and sympathies to horses and bearing-reins. She was
instantly plunged into the depths of despair. Couldn't I do something,
she asked, to remedy such a crying evil? She said it was the duty of
every woman in London--Something in the catalogue she was carrying
arrested her attention, and what it was the duty of every woman to do I
am not sure. I did not ask, but was grateful for the peace which ensued.
Pauline was glad the sales were on. She loved them, and yet she didn't
like them, because she didn't think they brought out the best side of a
woman's character. "I think," she said, "a woman's behavior at sales is
a test, don't you?"
I said I thought her behavior as regarded swing-doors was a surer one.
She said she hadn't thought of that.
"But I know what you mean; I do dislike the flouncing, pushing woman. I
think every one should be taught to be courteous and gentle, don't you?"
She added, "I hate being pushed."
I told her of a woman next me in a 'bus one day, who said, "You're
a-sittin' on me!" How I rose and politely begged her pardon, whereupon
she said, "Now you're a-standin' on me!" And we agreed that there is no
pleasing some people.
Pauline returned to the perusal of the catalogue, in which she had put
a large cross against the picture of a coat and skirt. She said she was
stock-size. She didn't suppose any really smart women were. "Or would
own to it," I suggested, but she didn't answer; she never does if she
detects any savor of malice in a remark. She was very anxious I should
admire the illustration. I did, but I felt it my duty as a London cousin
to a country cousin to tell her that the illustration might lead her
to expect too much. She warmly agreed that of course as regarded the
figure, etc., the illustration was misleading, because she, of course,
could never look so beautifully willowy as that. She was inclined to
come out where the illustration went in, and she could never be so
slanty, never; but apart from that, of course the coat and skirt would
be exactly as it was pictured. Her figure would be to blame, of course.
Her figure happens to be a very pretty one, but she didn't give me
time to say so. I repeated that I should not put implicit faith in the
illustration. She was a little hurt. She did not think it right to cast
aspersions on the character of so respectable a firm as that whose name
headed the catalogue. I said I didn't see it quite in the same light.
Pauline looked at me reproachfully, and said drawing a lie was as bad as
telling one.
The argument was beyond me; besides, I like Pauline to look
reproachfully at me, she is so pretty. Being as pretty as she
undoubtedly is, I often wonder why she is not more effective.
The right kind of country beauty is very convincing to the jaded
Londoner; but to convince, one must be convinced, and that is exactly
what Pauline is not. She never thinks whether she is beautiful or not,
and I am sure it often lies with the woman herself, how beautiful people
think her, except in the rare cases of real beauty, when there can
be but one opinion. But in the case of ordinary beauty, the woman is
appraised at her own value. Then there is the art of putting on clothes,
of which Pauline is absolutely ignorant. There is even a studied
untidiness which passes under the name of picturesque. All of this is
a closed book to Pauline, and, after all, she is a delightful creature;
but the trouble to me was that, at the time she came up to shop with me,
she didn't wear good boots, and to do that I hold is part, or should be
part, of a woman's creed. She gets her boots from the village shoemaker
because his wife died. Her eyes filled with tears at the mere thought of
the man, and she told me she thought it right to encourage local talent.
In the boots I saw evidences of locality,--bumps, for instance,--but not
of talent. Pauline was very indignant and said she had no bumps on her
feet. "But you see my position?" I did, but I persuaded her to have some
good boots made in London. This she consented to do, rather unwillingly
and on the distinct understanding that in the country she should
continue to encourage local talent. "On wet days," I ventured.
And at flower-shows, she added.
I have seen Pauline in the country, against a background of golden beech
trees and brown bracken, look even beautiful; but in London she lacks
something, possibly the right background. She has glorious hair, but her
maid can't do it. Pauline admits it, but she says she can't send a nice
woman away on that account; besides, she suffers from rheumatism, and
Pauline's particular part of the country suits her better than any
other.
"Couldn't she learn?" I suggested.
"No, she can't," said Pauline. "She had lessons once, and she came back
and did my hair like treacle, all over my head,--no idea, absolutely. I
should never look like you, whatever I did."
"My dear Pauline," I said, "what nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense. Father was saying only the other day that you are a
beautiful creature, only no one seems to see it."
"Dear Uncle Jim," I said; "how delightful, and how like him!"
"But it's true you are beautiful; only the part about the people
not seeing it isn't true: that's father's way of putting it. You are
beautiful!"
"My dear child!"
"Why do you say 'dear child' to me? People would think you were years
and years older than I am. Why do you always talk as if life were over?
Have you a secret sorrow?"
If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had, she
would have been the last person to ask such a question.
"Do I look it?" I asked.
"No-o. Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in doing
things for other people, it makes one suspect that they are saying
to themselves, 'As we can't be happy ourselves, we can see that other
people are.'"
"What a philosopher you are, Pauline! If you go on that supposition, you
must have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden behind that happy face of
yours."
Pauline is not meant to live in London. She thanks people in a crowd for
letting her pass. If she is pushed off the pavement, she is only sorry
that the person can be so rude as to do it. She never gets into a 'bus
or takes any vehicular advantage over a widow, and she feels choky if
she sees any one very old. "Do you know why?" she asked. "Because they
are, so near Heaven, and sometimes I think you see the reflection of it
in their faces."
"Like Cousin Penelope," I said.
We arrived at the shop where the coat and skirt were to be had, and
Pauline, having admired the horse and thanked the cabman, and the
commissionaire, who held his arm over a perfectly dry wheel, followed me
into the shop. She admired everything as she went through the different
departments, and apologized to the shop walkers for not being able to
buy everything; but she lived in the country, and although the things
were lovely, they would be no use to her--dogs on her lap most of the
day, and so on.
Everyone looked at Pauline; and old ladies, to whom she always appeals
very much, put their heads on one side, as old ladies do when they
admire anything very much, anything which reminds them of their own
youth, and smiled. Old ladies have this privilege, that when they arrive
at a certain age, they are allowed to think they were beautiful in their
youth, and to tell you so. It is a recognized thing, and one of the
recompenses of old age. We all know that every one had a beautiful
grandmother--one at least; and if a portrait of one grandmother belies
the fact, then there is the other one to fall back upon, of whom,
unfortunately, no portrait exists, and she was abs--so--lute--lee
lovely!
The coat and skirt were found and eagerly compared with the
illustration, and Pauline turned to me and said with a triumphant
ringing her voice: "It wasn't an exaggeration. I knew it wouldn't be.
Mother has dealt here for years."
Then we went upstairs to try it on. In a few minutes Pauline had
discovered that the fitter was supporting her deceased sister's husband
and six children, the eldest of whom wasn't quite right and the youngest
had rickets. She was so distressed that she didn't want the back of her
coat altered, the woman already had so much to bear. But I prevailed
upon her to have the alteration made regardless of the woman's domestic
anxieties. I felt sure it would make no difference. But I cannot help
feeling that Pauline's visit to that shop did make a difference to that
poor woman, if only for a few moments in her life. And I think those
children's lives were made happier too; but it is difficult to get
Pauline to talk of these things.
Then we went to the shoemaker, and Pauline told him all about the
widower bootmaker, and of her scruples about having boots made by any
one else. The bootmaker evidently thought that a foot like Pauline's was
worthy of a good boot and Pauline said there were occasions on which one
had to sink one's own feelings. She was scandalized at London prices,
and told the man so. "But of course it means higher pay for the men, so
it's all right."
On our way home I said to Pauline that I couldn't understand why she was
so economical--ready-made coats and skirts, and afraid of paying a fair
price for good boots! Was her allowance smaller than it used to be? She
got pink and didn't answer. I determined she should, and at last she
did.
"Well, you see, I pay a woman to come and wash the shoemaker's children
on Saturday evenings."
I smiled. "That can't cost much, unless she provides the soap."
Pauline got pinker still. "Well, I pay for the village nurse, and a few
other little things. Then there's a little baby," she dropped her voice,
"who has no mother--she died--and who never had a father, and every one
doesn't care for those sort of babies.--You do like my coat and skirt,
don't you?"