I sat through the Opening of Parliament without a word. Gossip, comment,
praise, and ridicule, bombarded my ears from four sides. I was lost in
reverie. I once more reviewed my experiences, aims, and aspirations, the
workings of my mind, and my schemings, since I came to Mumsie; and while
my ways have been devious I seem to have journeyed from nowhere to—the
same no—place. My first effort towards making friends with Mrs. Mount
has, as Mr. Bang would say, “petered out.” This ambition was lost in
those newer impulses that came from contact with Charlie Lien. How can I
analyze them? Coming like a thought, a visitation from space, from
infinity, I do not recognize them and I may not ask. Had I now a
mother—Ah! Mumsie is a dear—it is with that sentence I began this
diary—but I am not of her; flesh of her flesh, mind of her mind. Had I
a mother, I could ask her and she could explain to me this development
of what Uncle and Mr. Bang call the “social bug.”
And then the rest!
Mr. Bang’s fairy tale to little Jessie, the story of Ambition, really
does not parallel my case, for I have not climbed. I have not had even
the fleeting breath of happiness enjoyed by the “beautiful young lady,”
while still she was amid the flowers of Friendship and Truth. Perhaps
had I never met Charlie Lien and really had luck in securing somebody
like Mrs. Mount to take an interest in me, I might have enjoyed that
fleeting measure of reward. And the flowers of Friendship and Truth!—I
had uprooted and trod them under foot that is true. But it is this
blowing hot and cold over Charlie Lien that mystifies me—I seem to
control myself so little, where he is concerned.
In his court dress, His Excellency, standing before his Senators, their
wives and daughters, the High Court officials with their wives and
daughters, and the Members of Parliament; the reading of his words of
commendation and hope, all appealed to me, as being of a world to which
I truly belonged. To me the assembled officials in their robes, spoke of
a world with which my ancestors were intimate. Perhaps such thoughts are
in keeping with the inherent process of ancestor worship—that Mr. Bang
and Uncle say is ours. In any case, as I have before set down, I can
find in it nothing but good.
It was an impressive scene, a pageant of far more potency than any mere
form would cause. It spoke of great loyalty, a rule of faith and love.
Altogether it was elevating and ennobling. I thank His Excellency for
it: I thank Mr. Bang for it. I must not forget, or rather I must try and
remember the extent of my indebtedness to him. I am certain that my mind
was widened and broadened by this great experience.
There is quite a lot of ceremony about the Opening of Parliament. It
always starts at three in the afternoon, and there are those who can get
entree to the floor of the Senate Chamber by way of the entrance behind
the dais. That is if they have enough “pull.” But I won’t bother with
that.
The drowsiness developed by my musings, and the heat of the Senate
Chamber, was quickly dispelled on our return to the Hotel by meeting
Mrs. Mount.
“Why Mrs. Mount,” exclaimed Mumsie, on finding her in the rotunda.
Mrs. Mount looked at us coldly, said: “How do you do,” and started away
on a long tirade.
“I got so beastly tired of home and, do you know, I said to Doris that I
really thought we must have a change. Doris has never yet attended a
Drawing-room,” etc., etc. It was a long dissertation about her habits
and doings. She was evidently a guest of the Hotel, so was not the guest
of Lady Matthews. Nor did she offer any explanation of the difference
from what she had led us to expect. Probably she had forgotten the
account she gave us a week or so ago, wherein Lady Matthews,—“Clair as
I always call her”—had invited her to the opening. Mrs. Mount I’m
afraid, has lost her novelty for me, and I’m with Uncle in putting her
beyond the pale.
Mr. Bang was most attentive to-day. Probably my latest mood has
attracted him. Still I cannot reconcile myself to the thought of
inscribing on my visiting card, “Mrs. Bang.”
After the opening I fell into a long conversation with Mr. Fraser. He is
a pleasant man to talk to. And I can quite understand how his chief is
the charming personality everybody says he is.
“It is not wonderful,” said he, “that you find Mr. Bang a strange
character. He is of the school of many years ago. Changes of
temperament, like fashions, develop in the great centres, the capitals
of Europe. Jack’s tricks of mind are of another age handed down from
generation to generation, true to its parent culture, that culture which
took life seriously and whose chief diversion was controversy. His
ideals are of that school and have been impervious to change.”
“Oh! I see,” I agreed, in no positive tone.
“I don’t know if I have made myself clear,” continued Mr. Fraser, “but
perhaps you may better understand what I mean when I tell you, that
French scholars say they find in Quebec phrases and expressions that
have been dead for ages in France. So old habits of thought are still
with us. Jack is, however, one of the best of fellows.”
Mr. Fraser’s tone in speaking of Mr. Bang is most sympathetic which
reconciles me somewhat to the man, if not to his name.