LINCOLN AND DEMONIACAL POSSESSION
Those three and a half years at Lincoln appear to have lasted for
decades, so eventful was the unfolding of the world, and all the years
which have passed since then, with their travels to many foreign lands,
and climbings of perilous peaks, seem to have contained no exploration
so thrilling as the revelation of Riseholme, where lived Bishop
Wordsworth of Lincoln, who wrote the “Holy Year,” and his wife, and his
family and Janet the housekeeper. (The latter, like Mrs. Wordsworth, had
ringlets down the sides of her face, and dispensed Marie biscuits and
cowslip wine in unstinted profusion.) The family, too, were interesting,
for one daughter when she laughed said, “Sss-sss,” and another,
“Kick-kick-kick,” and the Bishop himself had a face like a lion, and a
hollow ecclesiastical voice. My sisters considered him very formidable,
but I was not afraid of him, chiefly because at an early stage of our
acquaintance he gave me an ink-bottle of pottery, with a gilded lion
(like himself) on top of it, and a receptacle to hold sand for the
blotting of your letter, if you had managed to write it. This argued an
amiable disposition, and when I came in contact with him, I was
conscious of no embarrassment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
but Xanadu was nothing to Riseholme for domes and stateliness. There
were two lakes peopled with dace and water-lilies and pike and swans,
and an island where the swans nested, and a sluice, around which the
water was of fabulous depth, where we fished for dace. There was a
boat-house, on the roof of which in the autumn a great chestnut tree
used to shed its fruit, bursting the husks, and disclosing the shiny
brown kernels; and at Riseholme, as far as I remember, we were allowed
to do precisely as we pleased. We used to go out alone in the boat, with
paste for bait, and splash the water at each other, and come home with a
couple of dace, dirty and wet and hopelessly happy. Swans used to scold
and hiss at us, the boat did everything but capsize, and æons of bliss
were our portion. There were water-snails to be collected, if the fish
would not bite (they seldom did), and wreaths of stinking water-weed,
and broken fragments of swan eggs lined inside with a tough kind of
parchment, which we called “swan-paper.” Then dace (when there were any)
were cooked for tea, and provided a bony mouthful for one; the
swan-paper was taken home for the Museum, together, on one glorious
occasion, with the addled swan’s egg; and the wreaths of stinking
water-weed were laid out on sheets of cartridge-paper and pressed. This
pressing resulted in an awful fricassee of weed and paper, and then
something else occupied us. On the banks of the lake, at intervals,
appeared a sympathetic Bishop with daughters, to whom we shouted the
results of our explorations, and one of the daughters said,
“Kick-kick-kick,” and another, “Sss-sss-sss.” For larger people, such as
Arthur, there was more grown-up fishing, and once with a spoon-bait he
caught a pike that weighed three pounds. But not even the sympathetic
and combined appetites of the juniors could finish that toothsome dish.
Then there were expeditions into the vast forest that lay below the
sluice, where marsh-marigolds grew, and the willow shoots flew back and
slapped the faces of those who followed the leader in these excursions.
Maggie and I formed a small club or society (I suppose Nellie was too
old then, being about eleven) to get lost in this pathless place, but we
never quite succeeded in doing so. Just as we thought there was no hope
of our ever being discovered, in which case we proposed to live on
leaves and drink the water that came from the sluice in a small stream,
Beth’s voice would sound quite near at hand, or, by mistake, we came
back into the meadow beyond the lake, or into the path that bordered it.
So instead, we collected chestnuts, if there was not a marine or
lacustrine expedition, and ground up the kernels into a nutritive
powder, or mixed it with lake-water to form a paste. About this time
Maggie and I formed a special alliance, which continued till the end of
her life, and the light of it was never quite obscured by those dusky
years of darkened mind through which her way led, for she was always
willing to talk of the days at Lincoln, and the collections and the
amazing stories which we invented to beguile our walks. They were
compounded of strange adventures, with the finding of gold and immense
diamonds, of desert islands and bandits, and the central figures were
she and I and the collie, Watch. All was coloured with the vividness of
dreams, and the seriousness of childhood.
Riseholme was about two and a half miles from Lincoln, and the most
exciting experience I ever had in its connection was that of being sent
over there by my father with a note for the Bishop. I took Watch with
me, and “Kick-kick-kick” and “Sss-sss-sss” were so entertaining and the
Bishop so long in writing his answer that it was nearly dark before,
with sinkings of the heart, I started on my return. “Sss-sss-sss” I
think offered to accompany me till I got out of the loneliness of the
road and in touch with the lights of Lincoln, but I was too cowardly to
say I was afraid of the darkness and the emptiness, and started off
alone. Wanting to get it over as quickly as possible, I ran, and was
frightened at the noise of my running. Then, one after the other, my
stockings came down, and I thought that the strip of whiteness would
encourage highwaymen to attack me, and so had to stop every third step
to pull them up. Then I talked to Watch in order to hearten myself,
saying, in so many words, “Watch, aren’t we benighted?” (new word) and
then was frightened at the sound of my voice in the frosty stillness.
But there was pleasure in this sense of adventure, and I was given an
egg for tea.
There were expeditions to Nocton, where in a wood of vast extent the
whole ground was white with lilies of the valley growing wild, and the
still languid air beneath the trees swooned with the scent of them,
which, I am told (though never since that day have I been able to
believe it), is extremely pleasant. For the last of these expeditions to
Nocton had a tragic sequel so far as I was concerned. We had lunch there
after picking lilies all the morning, and I suppose I ate too much, and
it began to rain as we drove homewards so that the carriage, full of hot
children and lilies of the valley, had to be closed. The effect was that
I was exceedingly unwell and never since that day have been able to
dissociate the smell of lilies of the valley from being sick. To
balance that bilious day was a glorious expedition to Skegness, where I
saw the sea for the first time, and fell in love with it with a devotion
that has never wavered. I took with me a small black handbag in which to
stow the treasures of the shore, among which I rather mistakenly
selected a dead decaying skate. An odour as unpleasant to others as was
that of lilies of the valley to me filled the railway carriage on the
return, which was eventually traced to my bag, and the dead skate which
would have looked, anyhow, interesting in the Museum, was thrown out of
the window. That first impression of the sea was confirmed by summer
holidays spent at Torquay, and it was there, I think, that I must have
learned to swim, and then have forgotten that I knew how. For when some
years later I went to Marlborough and began to learn in the school
bathing-place, I instantly did swim, and the old instructor who sat with
small boys in a strap at the end of a fishing-rod, said with disgust,
“Why you swims already!” Torquay was responsible for a whole host of
further activities, for it was there, I believe, that we began those
scribblings which subsequently developed into the _Saturday Magazine_
(an industry so important that it must presently have a paragraph to
itself) and it was certainly there that there were hot twisty rolls for
breakfast which were only to be obtained by reciting some sort of rhyme,
of which one of my mother’s seemed to me to touch the high-water mark of
inspired wit and poetry. This ran:
Bread is the staff of life, the proverbs say,
So give me of its twisted staff to-day.
Surely that was far better than a miserable effusion by Bishop Temple,
of Exeter, who merely said:
An egg,
I beg,
and was sycophantically applauded by the grown-up people present. You
could have eggs without making rhymes ... but perhaps he didn’t
understand, and anyhow it was no use wasting time over him. There, among
the diversions of Torquay we all violently embraced the career of
artists, and drew miles of cottages and churches and painted leagues of
the English Channel. The shell collection was started then, so also
collections of wild flowers, and there was bathing and Devonshire cream,
and a steep garden with gladioli and aloes in its beds. I think my
birthday must have been celebrated there, for certainly I received a
present of a terra-cotta teapot with lines of blue enamel on it, after
receiving which it was difficult to imagine circumstances that could
have the power to hurt one ever again.
Never can I sufficiently admire or be sufficiently thankful for the
encouragement my father and mother both gave to these multitudinous
hobbies, for hobbies, as they well knew, whether literary, artistic, or
scientific, are a priceless panacea for the preservation of youth, and
the stimulation of the world-wonder of beauty. At this time we were all
of us draughtsmen, ornithologists, conchologists, geologists, poets, and
literary folk: we all drew and wrote and collected shells and birds’
eggs, and smashed stones in order to discover fossils. I claim no
measure of eminence or even promise in any of us, but that is not the
point. The point is that under parental encouragement we did all these
things with extreme zest and interest. In sports and games my father
gave us less support, for he looked on them only as a recreation which
would enable the mind to get to work again, and as having no intrinsic
value beyond what a brisk walk could have brought. But we had enough
keenness among ourselves for these, and a ball and something to hit it
with filled the rest of the vacant hours with ardour. For music, among
the arts, he had likewise no sympathy at all: he liked the singing of
Psalms and Handel and hymns entirely because of the words, and when he
joined in the hymns in chapel, he produced a buzzing noise that bore no
relation to any known melody. By this time my own love of music, sown in
me by the adored chorister, had taken firm hold, and with help from my
mother to start me, and an elementary book of instruction, music became
to me a thing apart. I wanted no companionship or sympathizer in it, and
though as far as execution on the piano went I was leagues behind my
sisters, I felt certain in my own mind that I had opened a door for
myself into a kingdom to which they did not really penetrate though they
could execute (both counting very loud) Diabelli’s Celebrated Duet in D
which I considered below contempt, though it was very clever of them to
move their fingers so fast. At that time my mother, who had always an
Athenian disposition with regard to the joy of a new thing, went in for
a course of instruction somehow connected with Dr. Farmer of Harrow.
There was founded at Lincoln a Farmer Society of some kind, and the
ladies met once a week or thereabouts and played easy Bach to each
other, and one of the most rapturous Lincoln days was a certain wet
afternoon, when the Society met at the Chancery. My sisters and I were
allowed to sit in the window-seat, provided we remained quiet, and we
all had acid drops to suck, and books to read when we got tired of
listening. They were soon deep in _Little Women_ and _Good Wives_, but
for me, in spite of a tooth-ache, I listened in an entranced bliss to a
series of Gavottes and Sarabands and Allemandes, while the rain beat on
the windows, and the melodious dusk gathered. The time of the year must
have been near Christmas, for I feel as if I went straight from there to
the nursery, on the floor of which was laid out a large sheet piled with
holly and laurel and ivy, out of which we made wreaths for the doors.
The remaining leaves, when all was done, were put in the fire and roared
and crackled up the chimney, filling the room with an aromatic smell of
burning, that ranks next in preciousness of recollection to the smell of
lilac.
It was in this last year at Lincoln that I had a fit of demoniacal
possession, for I committed three heinous crimes one after the other. On
a shelf in the drawing-room with Dresden figures and vases there was an
Easter egg which had been sent to my father. It was decorated with a
cross and a crown and a halo and some flowers, and was without doubt a
goose’s egg. This trophy was singularly sacred, and my father had told
us that we were never to touch it. Because of that prohibition I wetted
my finger and rubbed off a piece of the crown and the halo. I followed
this up by stealing a quantity of sugar from the tea-table in a yellow
box which I think had contained sweetmeats, and kept it on my knees
under the table-cloth. I suppose I then forgot about it and, getting up,
I caused it to fall to the ground, and spill its contents all over the
floor.
The third piece of devil work was far more daring and inexplicable. I
had a cold one day and was not allowed to go out, but was left instead
by the fire in the sitting-room belonging to my two elder brothers.
There was a white sheepskin rug in front of it, and as soon as my
father with the four eldest children had left the house, I ladled the
whole of the burning coals out of the grate and put them on the
hearthrug. An appalling stench arose as the wool caught fire; the place
was filled with smoke, and I left the room, quite impenitent and merely
interested to know what on earth would happen next. The smoke must by
now have penetrated to the rest of the house, for I met my mother
running downstairs, and she asked me if I knew what that smell was. I
told her that I didn’t, and went up to the nursery. Presently, having
extinguished the fire, she followed me, and again asked me if I was sure
I didn’t know anything about it. Upon which I told her that it was I who
had emptied the fire on to the rug. A fine spanking followed, which I
did not in the least resent, and I was told to go to bed till I was
sorry. I never was sorry--for it was demoniacal possession--but I
suppose that some time I must have got up again.
Friendships had sprung up between us and other children at Mrs. Giles’s
day-school, and among these was May Copeland, who was Nellie’s
particular friend, and told us that she was descended from Oliver
Cromwell. This was very distinguished, and I fully meant to marry her.
There was also a girl whose name I forget, and she was responsible for
one of the greatest surprises of my young life, for one day while she
and I were looking for a tennis ball in the bushes, she took my hands
and drew them upwards against her bosom. I found to my astonishment that
instead of being flat, she had two swellings there, and I asked her if
they were bruises. She seemed rather offended and said that they
certainly were not. Then there was Willie Burton to whom I told, in the
spirit of bravado, what I had done to the sheepskin hearthrug, and he
thought it very magnificent. He used to get phosphorus matches from his
father’s table, which was grand, for we only used Bryant and May’s
safety matches, and our great game was to retire into the blackness of
the tool-house, wet the palms of our hands, and rub on the phosphorus
which glowed with a mysterious light. He had an awful story which I
entirely believed of an aunt of his on whom a practical joker played a
dreadful trick, for he wrote up in phosphorus above his aunt’s bed the
text, “This night shall thy soul be required of thee.” On which his poor
aunt went raving mad, and I got a general distrust of phosphorus....
Willie Burton was dressed in sailor clothes, and I in a short jacket and
knickerbockers, and one day with a sense of almost excessive adventure,
we undressed in the tool-house and each put on the other’s clothes. We
then opened the door in order to let daylight behold this
transformation, and swiftly changed back again. That was a wonderful
thing to have done, and when we met next day at the gymnasium we looked
at each other’s clothes with glances of secret knowledge.
My final remembrance at Lincoln is perhaps the most vivid of all, for
the sense of it was not that of a momentary impression, but of a growing
reality. Every evening now we came down to my mother’s room and for half
an hour before bedtime she read Dickens aloud to us, sitting in front of
the fire. She liked to have her hair stroked, so I used to stand behind
her chair, passing my fingers over the smooth brown hair above her
forehead, and listening to the story of the Kenwigses. Her voice and the
contact of my fingers on her hair wakened in me the knowledge of how I
loved her.