IN WHICH NAOMI COMMUNICATES A TREMENDOUS PIECE OF NEWS, AND "PLACIDA"
FIGHTS IT OUT WITH "LAVENDER" AND LOSES
Naomi was very quiet at breakfast and, I thought, very beautiful.
She startled me, afterwards, as I stood at the window, watching the
rain, by asking quietly, "Which would you like, Kent, dear, a girl or
a boy?"
I had a moment's giddiness, but did not show it.
"I almost said 'Both,'" I replied.
"I shouldn't mind," she said. "But in case I disappoint you to that
extent, which do you prefer?"
"I would like it to be what you want," I said. "But little girls are
rather nice, and biggish girls are rather nice, and a daughter to
walk about with when one is white-haired--but erect, of course--is
something to look forward to. But you?"
"Oh yes," said Naomi, "I would like a girl."
"Then let it be a girl," I replied.
How differently things happen in novels and in life. Had I been a
husband in a novel or a play I should have been thunderstruck that
anything of this kind could possibly be happening; while my poor wife
would have crimsoned and hid her face on my shoulder. As it was, we
both laughed a little and I stroked her pretty head; and then she sat
down to add up some accounts and I went to the Zoo. But underneath
we were as conscious of the epoch-making moment as any of the
husbands in the novels who, try as they may, cannot succeed in
anticipating these somewhat trite events.
A few days later we began seriously to consider the question of
names. I found on a bookstall a little pocket encyclopædia which
gave two of its precious pages to columns and columns of girls' names
in small print, in alphabetical order. Some of these names I will
admit were outside the domain of practical politics. Jezebel, for
example. No child of mine shall ever be called Jezebel, nor do I
care much for Judith; although Judy I think pretty. But Naomi would
have a boy rather than call her daughter Judy. Privately I may say
that I believe that Naomi wants a boy; I believe that all women would
like their babies to be sons. But she pretends that her wishes
coincide with mine, and, after all, a girl is the next thing to a boy.
Beginning at the wrong end, our first duty was to examine the claims
of Zoë, but that did not take long. No child of ours, we decided,
should have a name that carried a diæresis with it. That is an
axiom. Zoë therefore went.
"Zena?" I said.
"Certainly not," replied Naomi.
The only Y's were Yseult and Yvonne, but these were useless, as we
intend never to live in Kensington. Winifred we also dismissed and
Wilhelmina.
"How about Victoria?" I said.
But Naomi remained firm.
I dwelt fondly on Virginia. Miss Virginia Falconer sounds
distinguished.
Naomi, however, was against it.
I like Veronica too, but not so well as Virginia. The other V's were
negligible--Vashti and Vesta; but I affected to put in a plea for
Volumnia.
"I could never nurse a Volumnia," said Naomi. "It is so immense. It
also sounds like a steamer."
"Still," I said, "there ought to be a Volumnia Falconer, just to
cheer up the birth announcements in the _Times_. Think of the double
portions of samples that you would receive! To call a child Volumnia
is as useful as having twins."
"I don't like it; but if you really want the samples you could call
the child Volumnia in the _Times_ and then change the name. A
_Times_ announcement is not binding," were Naomi's astonishing words:
her first appearance as a profound strategist!
"If you talk like that," I said, "and the child takes after you, we
had better call her Portia at once, or Christabel."
And so we explored the alphabet, rejecting name after name for the
most curious reasons. This one because Naomi was at school with a
girl named like that whom she did not like; that one because some
public _bête noire_ had it; a third because it was too Jewish;
another because it was too scriptural, and Naomi had herself suffered
for that; a fifth because it would not go with Falconer; and many
because they smacked of the stage.
In the end we found ourselves with two names about as different as
they could be, over the merits of which we were obliged to fight.
These were Placida and Lavender. Lavender was Naomi's choice;
Placida was mine.
"Placida is charming," Naomi said, "but if names, as they say, have
an influence on character, won't she be a little too quiet?"
"Can she be?" I replied.
"Well, it would be dreadful if it meant loss of spirit. Meekness is
so unattractive."
"She'd inherit the earth," I said.
"Oh no," exclaimed Naomi, "don't let her do that! I would like
Placida," Naomi went on, "if it could dominate her character only in
her very early days."
"And nights," I added hastily.
"Yes, and nights. But after that? Should a name be so descriptive?
Suppose she became a terrible romp?"
"I hope so," I said. "Then there will be piquancy of contrast added,
and she will be the more likely to attract the millionaire whom all
good fathers hope to descry on the horizon."
"Don't be foolish," said Naomi. "You will be furious when she falls
in love, and unbearable when she is engaged."
"Very well, then," I said; "Lavender. But we can't call her
Lavender. It's too artificial. Its special charm is that it's such
a beautiful word. We can think of her as Lavender, but call her
something else. What shall that be?"
"Nan," said Naomi, by an inspiration; and so it was settled.