I’m afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you
kindly proposed at Homburg. I’m so very very sorry; it’s an immense
disappointment. But I’ve just heard that it has been settled that mamma
and the children come abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes
me to go with them to Hyères, where Georgina has been ordered for her
lungs. She has not been at all well these three months, and now that the
damp weather has begun she’s very poorly indeed; so that last week papa
decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town
and saw some three or four doctors. They all of them ordered the south
of France, but they didn’t agree about the place; so that mamma herself
decided for Hyères, because it’s the most economical. I believe it’s
very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I’m afraid, however,
that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of
herself; I’m afraid she’s very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that
all this month it has taken papa’s positive orders to make her stop
indoors. She’s very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and
doesn’t seem at all to mind the expense papa has been put to—talks very
ill-naturedly about her loss of the hunting and even perhaps of the early
spring meetings. She expected to begin to hunt in December and wants to
know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyères. Fancy that rot when she’s
too ill to sit a horse or to go anywhere. But I daresay that when she
gets there she’ll be glad enough to keep quiet, as they say the heat’s
intense. It may cure Georgina, but I’m sure it will make the rest of us
very ill.
Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide
abroad with her: the others will remain at Kingscote till February (about
the 3rd) when they’ll go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover,
the new governess, who has proved such a very nice person. She’s going
to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but is only qualified
for the younger children, to Hyères, and I believe some of the Kingscote
servants. She has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it’s only a pity the
poor woman has such an odd name. Mamma thought of asking her if she
would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might
object. Lady Battledown makes all her governesses take the same name;
she gives £5 more a year for the purpose. I forget what it is she calls
them; I think it’s Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady’s maid).
Governesses shouldn’t have too pretty a name—they shouldn’t have a nicer
name than the family.
I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I didn’t go back to England
with them. When it began to be talked about that Georgina should be
taken abroad mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in Paris for a
month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to Hyères.
It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and gives me
the opportunity to “finish” a little in French.
You know Harold came here six weeks ago to get up his French for those
dreadful exams that he has to pass so soon. He came to live with some
French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it’s
a kind of coaching-place, only kept by women. Mamma had heard it was
very nice, so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with
Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement or the bargain
or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased,
but he has been very kind and has treated me like an angel. He’s getting
on beautifully with his French, for though I don’t think the place is so
good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can
scarcely help learning. I’m afraid I learn much less, but fortunately I
haven’t to go up for anything—unless perhaps to mamma if she takes it
into her head to examine me. But she’ll have so much to think of with
Georgina that I hope this won’t occur to her. If it does I shall be, as
Harold says, in a dreadful funk.
This isn’t such a nice place for a girl as for a gentleman, and the
Desmonds thought it _exceedingly odd_ that mamma should wish me to come
here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it’s because she’s so very unconventional.
But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains
good-natured about it I shall be content to wait for the caravan—which is
what he calls mamma and the children. The person who keeps the
establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd and _exceedingly
foreign_; but she’s wonderfully civil and is perpetually sending to my
door to see if I want anything. She’s tremendously pretentious and of
course isn’t a lady. The servants are not at all like English ones and
come bursting in, the footman—they’ve only one—and the maids alike, at
all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. Then when one rings it
takes ages. Some of the food too is rather nasty. All of which is very
uncomfortable, and I daresay will be worse at Hyères. There, however,
fortunately, we shall have our own people.
There are some very odd Americans here who keep throwing Harold into fits
of laughter. One’s a dreadful little man whom indeed he also wants to
kick and who’s always sitting over the fire and talking about the colour
of the sky. I don’t believe he ever saw the sky except through the
window-pane. The other day he took hold of my frock—that green one you
thought so nice at Homburg—and told me that it reminded him of the
texture of the Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour
about the Devonshire turf, which I thought such a very extraordinary
subject. Harold firmly believes him mad. It’s rather horrid to be
living in this way with people one doesn’t know—I mean doesn’t know as
one knows them in England.
The other Americans, beside the madman, are two girls about my own age,
one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the mother always sits
in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them
to Kingscote, but I’m afraid mamma wouldn’t like the mother, who’s
awfully vulgar. The other girl is awfully vulgar herself—she’s
travelling about quite alone. I think she’s a middle-class
schoolmistress—sacked perhaps for some irregularity; but the other girl
(I mean the nicer one, with the objectionable mother) tells me she’s more
respectable than she seems. She has, however, the most extraordinary
opinions—wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that
Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc. I don’t see what it
signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which
will be so delightful—except for papa dying. But Harold says she’s mad
too. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he’s so
immensely clever that she can’t answer him, though she has a supply of
the most extraordinary big words.
There’s also a Frenchman, a nephew or cousin or something of the person
of the house, who’s a horrid low cad; and a German professor or doctor
who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I’m so very sorry about
giving up my visit. I’m afraid you’ll never ask me again.
VII
FROM LÉON VERDIER IN PARIS TO PROSPER GOBAIN AT LILLE
_September_ 28.