THE NURSERY AND THE SCHOOLROOM
Life was divided between London from January to August, then Devonshire
till after Christmas. In the nursery and the early part of the schoolroom
period we used to go to Coombe in the summer. Coombe seemed to be
inextricably interwoven with London and parallel to it; and I remember
dinner-parties happening, and a Hungarian band playing on the lawn,
unless I have dreamt that. But there came a time, I think I must have
been six or seven, when Coombe was sold, and we went there no more, and
life was confined to Membland and Charles Street. London in the winter,
and summer in Devonshire, with sometimes brief visits to Devonshire at
Easter and Whitsuntide, and brief visits to London in November, when my
father and mother went up by themselves.
It is not any false illusion or the glamour of the past that makes the
whole of that period of life until school-time was reached seem like
fairyland. I thought so at the time, and grown-up people who came to
Coombe and Membland felt, I think, that they had come to a place of rare
and radiant happiness.
But I will begin with London first.
This was the routine of life. We all had breakfast at nine downstairs. I
remember asking how old my father was, and the answer was fifty-three.
As he was born in 1828 and I was born in 1874, I must have been seven
years old at the time of this question. I always thought of my father as
fifty-three years old. My brothers John, Cecil, and Everard were at Eton
at Warre’s House, and Hugo was five years old and still in the nursery.
After breakfast, at about a quarter to ten, my father drove to the City,
and he never came home to luncheon except on Saturdays.
We went for a walk with Chérie, and after this lessons lasted from
eleven, I think, till two, in the schoolroom.
The schoolroom was a long room with three windows looking out on to the
street. There was a cottage pianoforte at an angle, and in the niche
of one of the windows a small table, where Chérie used to sit and read
the _Daily News_ in the morning. We each of us had a cupboard for our
toys, and there were some tall bookcases, containing all the schoolroom
books, Noel and Chapsal’s Grammar, and many comfortable, shabby books of
fairy-tales. We each of us had a black writing-desk, with a wooden seat
attached to it, in which we kept our copybooks, and at which we did our
work. A long table ran right down the middle of our room, where we did
our lessons, either when everyone did them together, collectively, with
Chérie, who sat at the head of the table, or with Mrs. Christie, who sat
at one side of the table at the farther end.
At two o’clock we all came down to luncheon, and as my mother was at home
to luncheon every day, stray people used to drop in, and that was a great
excitement, as the guests used to be discussed for hours afterwards in
the schoolroom.
Lady Dorothy Nevill, who lived in the same street, used often to come
to luncheon and make paper boats for me. She used also to shock me by
her frank expression of Tory principle, not to say prejudice, as we were
staunch Liberals, and Lady Dorothy used to say that Mr. Gladstone was a
dreadful man.
Mr. Alfred Montgomery was a luncheon visitor, and one day Bobby Spencer,
who was afterwards to be Margaret’s husband, was subjected to a rather
sharp schoolroom criticism owing to the height of his collars. I
sometimes used to embarrass Chérie by sudden interpellations. One day,
when she had refused a dish, I said: “Prends en, Chérie, toi qui es si
gourmande.” Another day at luncheon a visitor called Colonel Edgcumbe bet
my mother a pound there would be war with France within three years. I
expect he forgot the bet, but I never did. Another time my mother asked
Mademoiselle Ida what was the most difficult piece that existed for the
pianoforte, and Mademoiselle Ida said Liszt’s “Spinnelied.” My mother bet
her a pound she would learn it in a month’s time (and she did).
There were two courses at luncheon, some meat and a sweet, and then
cheese, and we were not allowed to have the sweet unless we had the meat
first, but we could always have two helpings if we liked. After luncheon
we went for another walk. At five there were more lessons, and then
schoolroom tea, presided over by Chérie, and after that various games and
occupations, and sometimes a visit to the drawing-room.
There were two drawing-rooms downstairs, a front drawing-room with three
windows looking out on to the street, and a back drawing-room at right
angles to it. The drawing-rooms had a faded green silk on the walls. Over
the chimney-piece there was a fine picture by Cuyp, which years later
I saw in a private house in the Bois de Boulogne. The room was full of
flowers and green Sèvres china. In the back drawing-room there was a
grand pianoforte and some bookcases, and beyond that a room called the
gilding-room, a kind of workshop where my mother did gilding. I only once
saw a part of the operation, which consisted of making size. Later on
this room became the organ room and was enlarged. The drawing-room led to
a small landing and a short staircase to the front hall. On the landing
wall there was an enormous picture of Venice, by Birket Foster, and from
this landing, when there was a dinner-party, we used to peer through the
banisters and watch the guests arriving. We were especially forbidden to
slide down the banisters, as my mother used to tell us that when she was
a little girl she had slid down the banisters and had a terrible fall
which had cut open her throat, so that when you put a spoon in her mouth
it came out again through her throat. When Hugo, the last of the family
to be told this story, heard it, he said, “Did you die?” And my mother
was obliged to say that she did not.
On the ground floor was a room looking out into the street, called the
library, but it only possessed two bookcases let into Louis XV. white
walls, and this led into the dining-room, beyond which was my father’s
dressing-room, where, when we were quite small, we would watch him shave
in the morning.
Dinner downstairs was at eight, and when we were small I was often
allowed to go down to the beginning of dinner and draw at the
dinner-table on a piece of paper, and the girls used to come down to
dessert, bringing an occupation such as needlework. We were always
supposed to have an occupation when we were downstairs, and I remember
Susan, being asked by Chérie what needlework she was going to take to the
dining-room, saying: “Mon bas, ma chemise, et ma petite wobe, Chéwie.”
On Saturday afternoons we often had a treat, and went to the German
Reed’s entertainment and Corney Grain, or to Maskelyne and Cook, and
Hengler’s Circus, and on Sundays we often went to the Zoo, or drove down
to Coombe when Coombe existed.
Lessons were in the hands of Chérie and Mrs. Christie. Chérie taught
me to read and write in French, French history out of Lamé Fleury, not
without arguments on my part to learn it from the bigger grown-up book of
Guizot, and French poetry. Every day began with a hideous ordeal called
“La Page d’Ecriture.” Chérie would write a phrase in enormous letters
in a beautiful copy-book handwriting on the top line of the copy-book,
and we had to copy the sentence on every other line, with a quill pen.
Mrs. Christie, besides struggling with my arithmetic, used to teach us
English literature, and make us learn passages from Shakespeare by heart,
which were quite unintelligible to me, and passages from Byron, Walter
Scott, Campbell, and Southey, and various pieces from the _Children’s
Garland_ and Macaulay’s _Lays of Ancient Rome_. I enjoyed the latter
whole-heartedly.
Sometimes Mrs. Christie and Chérie used to have conversations across the
children, as it were, during lessons. I remember Mrs. Christie saying to
Chérie while I was doing my lessons by Chérie’s side one day: “That child
will give you more trouble than all the others.”
I liked history lessons, especially Lamé Fleury’s French history and
mythology; and in Lamé Fleury’s French history the favourite chapter
was that beginning: “Jean II. dit le bon commença son règne par un
assassinat.” The first book I read with Mrs. Christie was called _Little
Willie_, and described the building of a house, an enchanting book. I
did not like any of the English poetry we read, not understanding how by
any stretch of the imagination it could be called poetry, as Shakespeare
blank verse seemed to be a complicated form of prose full of uncouth
words; what we learnt being Clarence’s dream, King Henry IV.’s battle
speeches, which made me most uncomfortable for Chérie’s sake by their
anti-French tone, and passages from _Childe Harold_, which I also found
difficult to understand. The only poems I remember liking, which were
revealed by Mrs. Christie, were Milton’s _L’Allegro_ and _Penseroso_,
which I copied out in a book as soon as I could write. One day she read
me out Gray’s _Elegy_ and I was greatly impressed. “That is,” she said,
“the most beautiful Elegy in the language.” “Is it the most beautiful
poem in the language?” I asked, rather disappointed at the qualification,
and hankering for an absolute judgment. “It’s the most beautiful _Elegy_
in the language,” she said, and I had to be content with that.
I don’t want to give the impression that we, any of us, disliked Mrs.
Christie’s lessons in English literature. On the contrary, we enjoyed
them, and I am grateful for them till this day. She taught us nothing
soppy nor second-rate. The piece of her repertoire I most enjoyed, almost
best, was a fable by Gay called “The Fox at the Point of Death.” She
was always willing to explain things, and took for granted that when we
didn’t ask we knew. This was not always the case. One of the pieces I
learnt by heart was Shelley’s “Arethusa,” the sound of which fascinated
me. But I had not the remotest idea that it was about a river. The poem
begins, as it will be remembered:
“Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains.”
For years I thought “Acroceraunian” was a kind of pin-cushion.
Mrs. Christie had a passion for Sir Walter Scott and for the Waverley
Novels. “You can’t help,” she said, “liking any King of England that
Sir Walter Scott has written about.” She instilled into us a longing to
read Sir Walter Scott by promising that we should read them when we were
older. One of the most interesting discussions to me was that between
Chérie and Mrs. Christie as to what English books the girls should be
allowed to read in the country. Mrs. Christie told, to illustrate a
point, the following story. A French lady had once come across a French
translation of an English novel, and seeing it was an English novel had
at once given it to her daughter to read, as she said, of course, any
English novel was fit for the _jeune personne_. The novel was called _Les
Papillons de Nuit_. “And what do you think that was?” said Mrs. Christie.
“_Moths_, by Ouida!”
The first poem that really moved me was not shown me by Mrs. Christie,
but by Mantle, the maid who looked after the girls. It was Mrs. Hemans’:
“Oh, call my Brother back to me, I cannot play alone.” This poem made
me sob. I still think it is a beautiful and profoundly moving poem.
Besides English, Mrs. Christie used to teach us Latin. I had my first
Latin lesson the day after my eighth birthday. This is how it began:
“Supposing,” said Mrs. Christie, “you knocked at the door and the person
inside said, ‘Who’s there?’ What would you say?” I thought a little, and
then half-unconsciously said, “I.” “Then,” said Mrs. Christie, “that
shows you have a natural gift for grammar.” She explained that I ought
reasonably to have said “Me.” Why I said “I,” I cannot think. I had no
notion what her question was aiming at, and I feel certain I should have
said “Me” in real life. The good grammar was quite unintentional.
As for arithmetic, it was an unmixed pain, and there was an arithmetic
book called _Ibbister_ which represented to me the final expression
of what was loathsome. One day in a passion with Chérie I searched my
mind for the most scathing insult I could think of, and then cried out,
“Vieille Ibbister.”
I learnt to read very quickly, in French first. In the nursery Grace and
Annie read me _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ till they were hoarse, and as soon as
I could read myself I devoured any book of fairy-tales within reach, and
a great many other books; but I was not precocious in reading, and found
grown-up books impossible to understand. One of my favourite books later
was _The Crofton Boys_, which Mrs. Christie gave me on 6th November 1883,
as a “prize for successful card-playing.” It is very difficult for me to
understand now how a child could have enjoyed the intensely sermonising
tone of this book, but I certainly did enjoy it.
I remember another book called _Romance_, or _Chivalry and Romance_.
In it there was a story of a damsel who was really a fairy, and a bad
fairy at that, who went into a cathedral in the guise of a beautiful
princess, and when the bell rang at the Elevation of the Host, changed
into her true shape and vanished. I consulted Mrs. Christie as to what
the Elevation of the Host meant, and she gave me a clear account of what
Transubstantiation meant, and she told me about Henry VIII., the Defender
of the Faith, and the Reformation, and made no comment on the truth or
untruth of the dogma. Transubstantiation seemed to me the most natural
thing in the world, as it always does to children, and I privately made
up my mind that on that point the Reformers must have been mistaken. One
day Chérie said for every _devoir_ I did, and for every time I wasn’t
naughty, I should be given a counter, and if I got twenty counters in
three days I should get a prize. I got the twenty counters and sallied
off to Hatchard’s to get the prize. I chose a book called _The Prince of
the Hundred Soups_ because of its cover. It was by Vernon Lee, an Italian
puppet-show in narrative, about a Doge who had to eat a particular kind
of soup every day for a hundred days. It is a delightful story, and I
revelled in it. On the title-page it was said that the book was by the
author of _Belcaro_. I resolved to get _Belcaro_ some day; _Belcaro_
sounded a most promising name, rich in possible romance and adventure,
and I saved up my money for the purpose. When, after weeks, I had amassed
the necessary six shillings, I went back to Hatchard’s and bought
_Belcaro_. Alas, it was an æsthetic treatise of the stiffest and driest
and most grown-up kind. Years afterwards I told Vernon Lee this story,
and she promised to write me another story instead of _Belcaro_, like
_The Prince of the Hundred Soups_. The first book I read to myself was
_Alice in Wonderland_, which John gave to me. Another book I remember
enjoying very much was _The King of the Golden River_, by Ruskin.
I enjoyed my French lessons infinitely more than my English ones. French
poetry seemed to be the real thing, quite different from the prosaic
English blank verse, except La Fontaine’s _Fables_, which, although
sometimes amusing, seemed to be almost as prosy as Shakespeare. They
had to be learnt by heart, nevertheless. They seemed to be in the same
relation to other poems, Victor Hugo’s “Napoléon II.” and “Dans L’Alcove
sombre,” which I thought quite enchanting, as meat was to pudding at
luncheon, and I was not allowed to indulge in poetry until I had done
my fable, but not without much argument. I sometimes overbore Chérie’s
will, but she more often got her way by saying: “Tu as toujours voulu
écrire avec un stylo avant de savoir écrire avec une plume.” I learnt a
great many French poems by heart, and made sometimes startling use of the
vocabulary. One day at luncheon I said to Chérie before the assembled
company: “Chérie, comme ton front est nubile!” the word _nubile_ having
been applied by the poet, Casimir de la Vigne, to Joan of Arc.
The first French poem which really fired my imagination was a passage
from _Les Enfants d’Édouard_, a play by the same poet, in which one
of the little princes tells a dream, which Margaret used to recite
in bloodcurdling tones, and his brother, the Duke of York, answers
lyrically something about the sunset on the Thames.[1] Those lines fired
my imagination as nothing else did. We once acted a scene from this
play, Margaret and I playing the two brothers, and Susan the tearful and
widowed queen and mother, and Hugo as a beefeater, who had to bawl at the
top of his voice: “Reine, retirez-vous!” when the queen’s sobs became
excessive, and indeed in Susan’s rendering there was nothing wanting in
the way of sobs, as she was a facile weeper, and Margaret used to call
her “Madame la Pluie.” Indeed there was a legend in the schoolroom that
the decline of Louis XIV., King of France, moved her to tears, and being
asked why she was crying, she sobbed out the words: “la vieillesse du
grand Woi.”
As far back as I remember we used to act plays in French. The first one
performed in the back drawing-room in Charles Street was called _Comme
on fait son lit on se couche_, and I played some part in it which I
afterwards almost regretted, as whenever a visitor came to luncheon I
was asked to say a particular phrase out of it, and generally refused.
This was not either from obstinacy or naughtiness; it was simply to
spare my mother humiliation. I was sure grown-up people could not help
thinking the performance inadequate and trifling. I was simply covered
with prospective shame and wished to spare them the same feeling. One
day, when a Frenchman, Monsieur de Jaucourt, came to luncheon, I refused
to say the sentence in question, in spite of the most tempting bribes,
simply for that reason. I was hot with shame at thinking what Monsieur de
Jaucourt—he a Frenchman, too—would think of something so inadequate. And
this shows how impossible it is for grown-up people to put themselves in
children’s shoes and to divine their motives. If only children knew, it
didn’t matter what they said!
Another dramatic performance was a scene from Victor Hugo’s drama,
_Angelo_, in which Margaret, dressed in a crimson velvet cloak bordered
with gold braid, declaimed a speech of Angelo Podesta of Padua, about
the Council of Ten at Venice, while Susan, dressed in pink satin and
lace, sat silent and attentive, looking meek in the part of the Venetian
courtesan.
All this happened during early years in London.
Mademoiselle Ida used to enliven lessons with news from the outside
world, discussions of books and concerts, and especially of other
artists. One day when I was sitting at my slate with Mrs. Christie,
she was discussing English spelling, and saying how difficult it was.
Mrs. Christie rashly said that I could spell very well, upon which
Mademoiselle Ida said to me, “You would spell ‘which’ double u i c h,
wouldn’t you?” And I, anxious to oblige, said, “Yes.” This was a bitter
humiliation.
Besides music lessons we had drawing lessons, first from a Miss
Van Sturmer. Later we had lessons from Mr. Nathaniel Green, a
water-colourist, who taught us perspective. One year I drew the
schoolroom clock, which Mr. Jump used to come to wind once a week, as a
present for my mother on her birthday, the 18th of June.
Sometimes I shared my mother’s lesson in water-colours. Mr. Green used to
say he liked my washes, as they were warm. He used to put his brush in
his mouth, which I considered dangerous, and he sometimes used a colour
called Antwerp blue, which I thought was a pity, as it was supposed to
fade. I was passionately fond of drawing, and drew both indoors and
out of doors on every possible opportunity, and constantly illustrated
various episodes in our life, or books that were being read out at the
time. I took an immense interest in my mother’s painting, especially in
the colours: Rubens madder, cyanine, aureoline, green oxide of chromium,
transparent—all seemed to be magic names. The draughtsman of the family
was Elizabeth. None of my brothers drew. Elizabeth used to paint a bust
of Clytie in oils, and sometimes she went as far as life-size portraits.
Besides this, she was an excellent caricaturist, and used to illustrate
the main episodes of our family life in a little sketch-book.
Lessons, on the whole, used to pass off peacefully. I don’t think we
were ever naughty with Mrs. Christie, although Elizabeth and Margaret
used often to rock with laughter at some private joke of their own
during their lessons, but with Chérie we were often naughty. The usual
punishment was to be _privé de pudding_. When the currant and raspberry
tart came round at luncheon we used to refuse it, and my mother used to
press it on us, not knowing that we had been _privé_. Sometimes, too, we
had to write out three tenses of the verb _aimer_, and on one occasion
I refused to do it. It was a Saturday afternoon; there was a treat
impending, and I was told I would not be allowed to go unless I copied
out the tenses, but I remained firm throughout luncheon. Finally, at
the end of luncheon I capitulated in a flood of tears and accepted the
loan of my mother’s gold pencil-case and scribbled _J’aime, tu aimes, il
aime_, etc., on a piece of writing-paper.
In the drawing-room we were not often naughty, but we were sometimes, and
tried the grown-ups at moments beyond endurance. My mother said that she
had had to whip us all except Hugo. I was whipped three times. Before the
operation my mother always took off her rings.
Upstairs, Margaret and Elizabeth used sometimes to fight, and Susan would
join in the fray, inspired by the impulse of the moment. She was liable
to these sudden impulses, and on one occasion—she was very small—when she
was looking on at a review of volunteers, when the guns suddenly fired,
she stood up in the carriage and boxed everyone’s ears.
Not long ago we found an old mark-book which belonged to this epoch
of schoolroom life, and in it was the following entry in Chérie’s
handwriting: “Elizabeth et Marguerite se sont battues, Suzanne s’est
jetée sur le pauvre petit Maurice.” Whenever Margaret saw that I was on
the verge of tears she used to say that I made a special face, which
meant I was getting ready to cry, and she called this _la première
position_; when the corners of the mouth went down, and the first snuffle
was heard, she called it _la seconde position_; and when tears actually
came, it was _la troisième position_. Nearly always the mention of _la
première position_ averted tears altogether.
On Monday evenings in London my mother used to go regularly to the Monday
Pops at St. James’s Hall, and on Saturday afternoon also. Dinner was
at seven on Mondays, and we used to go down to it, and watch my mother
cut up a leg of chicken and fill it with mustard and pepper and cayenne
pepper to make a devil for supper. Margaret was sometimes taken to the
Monday Pop, as she was supposed to like it, but the others were seldom
taken, in case, my mother used to say, “You say when you are grown up
that you were dragged to concerts, and get to dislike them.” The result
was a feverish longing to go to the Monday Pop. I don’t remember going to
the Monday Pop until I was grown up, but I know that I always wanted to
go. I was taken to the Saturday Pop sometimes, and the first one I went
to was on 8th November 1879. I was five years old. This was the programme:
QUARTET, E FLAT _Mendelssohn_
MME NORMAN NERUDA, RIES, ZERBINI, PIATTI.
SONG “O Swallow, Swallow” _Piatti_
MR. SANTLEY.
Violoncello obbligato, SIGNOR PIATTI.
SONATA, C SHARP MINOR “Moonlight” _Beethoven_
MLLE JANOTHA.
SONATA IN F MAJOR FOR PIANOFORTE AND VIOLIN, NO. 9 _Mozart_
MLLE JANOTHA AND MME NORMAN NERUDA.
SONG “The Erl King” _Schubert_
MR. SANTLEY.
TRIO IN C MAJOR _Haydn_
MLLE JANOTHA, MME NORMAN NERUDA, SIGNOR PIATTI.
Every winter we were taken to the pantomime by Lord Antrim, and the
pantomimes I remember seeing were _Mother Goose_, _Robinson Crusoe_,
_Sinbad the Sailor_, _Aladdin_, and _Cinderella_, in which the funny
parts were played by Herbert Campbell and Harry Nicholls, and the
Princess sometimes by the incomparably graceful dancer, Kate Vaughan.
I also remember the first Gilbert and Sullivan operas. _Pinafore_ I was
too young for; but I saw the _Children’s Pinafore_, which was played by
children. _Patience_ and _Iolanthe_ and _Princess Ida_ I saw when they
were first produced at the Savoy.
Irving and Ellen Terry we never saw till I went to school, as Irving’s
acting in Shakespeare made my father angry. When he saw him play Romeo,
he was heard to mutter the whole time: “Remove that man from the stage.”
Then there were children’s parties. Strangely enough, I only remember one
of these, so I don’t expect I enjoyed them. But I remember a children’s
garden party at Marlborough House, and the exquisite beauty, the grace,
and the fairy-tale-like welcome of the Princess of Wales.
Two of the great days for the children in London were Valentine’s Day, on
the eve of which we each of us sent the whole of the rest of the family
Valentines, cushioned and scented Valentines with silken fringes; and
the 1st of April, when Susan was always made an April fool, the best one
being one of Chérie’s, who sent her to look in the schoolroom for _Les
Mémoires de Jonas dans la baleine_. She searched conscientiously, but in
vain, for this interesting book.
On one occasion, on the Prince of Wales’ wedding-day, in March, the whole
family were invited to a children’s ball at Marlborough House. The girls’
frocks were a subject of daily discussion for weeks beforehand, and other
governesses used to come and discuss the matter. They were white frocks,
and when they were ready they were found to be a failure, for some
reason, and they had to be made all over again at another dressmaker’s,
called Mrs. Mason. It was on this occasion that Chérie made a memorable
utterance and said: “Les pointes de Madame Mason sont incomparables,” as
Elizabeth had for the first time risen to the dignity of a _pointe_ (the
end of the pointed “bodies” of the fashions of that day). It was doubtful
whether the new frocks would be ready in time. There was a momentous
discussion as to whether they were to wear black stockings or not.
Finally the frocks arrived, and we were dressed and were all marshalled
downstairs ready to start. My father in knee-breeches and myself in a
black velvet suit, black velvet breeches, and a white waistcoat. I was
told to be careful to remember to kiss the Princess of Wales’ hand.
I can just remember the ballroom, but none of the grown-up
people—nothing, in fact, except a vague crowd of tulle skirts.
One night there was a ball, or rather a small dance, in Charles Street,
and I was allowed to come down after going to bed all day. People shook
their heads over this, and said I was being spoilt, to Chérie, but Chérie
said: “Cet enfant n’est pas gâté mais il se fait gâter.”
The dance led off with a quadrille, in which I and my father both took
part. After having carefully learnt the _pas chassé_ at dancing lessons,
I was rather shocked to find this elegant glide was not observed by the
quadrille dancers.
All this was the delightful epoch of the ’eighties, when the shop windows
were full of photographs of the professional beauties, and bands played
tunes from the new Gilbert and Sullivan in the early morning in the
streets, and people rode in Rotten Row in the evening, and Chérie used to
rush us across the road to get a glimpse of Mrs. Langtry or the Princess
of Wales.
Dancing lessons played an important part in our lives. Our first dancing
instructor was the famous ex-ballerina, Madame Taglioni, a graceful old
lady with grey curls, who held a class at Lady Granville’s house in
Carlton House Terrace. It was there I had my first dancing lesson and
learnt the Tarantelle, a dance with a tambourine, which I have always
found effective, if not useful, in later life. Then Madame Taglioni’s
class came to an end, and there was a class at Lady Ashburton’s at Bath
House, which was suddenly put a stop to owing to the rough and wild
behaviour of the boys, myself among them. Finally we had a class in our
own house, supervised by a strict lady in black silk, who taught us the
_pas chassé_, the five positions, the valse, the polka, and the Lancers.
Another event was Mrs. Christie’s lottery, which was held once a year
at her house at Kentish Town. All her pupils came, and everyone won a
prize in the lottery. One year I won a stuffed duck. After tea we acted
charades. On the way back we used to pass several railway bridges, and
Chérie, producing a gold pencil, used to say: “Par la vertu de ma petite
baguette,” she would make a train pass. It was perhaps a rash boast, but
it was always successful.
We used to drive to Mrs. Christie’s in a coach, an enormous carriage
driven by Maisy, the coachman, who wore a white wig. It was only used
when the whole family had to be transported somewhere.
Another incident of London life was Mademoiselle Ida’s pupils’ concert,
which happened in the summer. I performed twice at it, I think, but never
a solo. A duet with Mademoiselle Ida playing the bass, and whispering:
“Gare au dièse, gare au bémol,” in my ear. What we enjoyed most about
this was waiting in what was called the artists’ room, and drinking
raspberry vinegar.
But the crowning bliss of London life was Hamilton Gardens, where we used
to meet other children and play flags in the summer evenings.
This was the scene of wild enjoyment, not untinged with romance, for
there the future beauties of England were all at play in their lovely
teens. We were given tickets for concerts at the Albert Hall and
elsewhere in the afternoon, but I remember that often when Hugo and I
were given the choice of going to a concert or playing in the nursery,
we sometimes chose to play. But I do remember hearing Patti sing “Coming
thro’ the Rye” at the Guildhall, and Albani and Santley on several
occasions.
But what we enjoyed most of all was finding some broken and derelict
toy, and inventing a special game for it. Once in a cupboard in the back
drawing-room I came across some old toys which had belonged to John and
Cecil, and must have been there for years. Among other things there was
an engine in perfectly good repair, with a little cone like the end of a
cigar which you put inside the engine under the funnel. You then lit it
and smoke came out, and the engine moved automatically. This seemed too
miraculous for inquiry, and I still wonder how and why it happened. Then
the toy was unaccountably lost, and I never discovered the secret of this
mysterious and wonderful engine.
During all this time there were two worlds of which one gradually became
conscious: the inside world and the outside world. The centre of the
inside world, like the sun to the solar system, was, of course, our
father and mother (Papa and Mamma), the dispenser of everything, the
source of all enjoyment, and the final court of appeal, recourse to which
was often threatened in disputes.
Next came Chérie, then my mother’s maid, Dimmock, then Sheppy,
the housekeeper, who had white grapes, cake, and other treats in
the housekeeper’s room. She was a fervent Salvationist and wore a
Salvationist bonnet, and when my father got violent and shouted out loud
ejaculations, she used to coo softly in a deprecating tone.
Then there was Monsieur Butat, the cook, who used to appear in white
after breakfast when my father ordered dinner; Deacon, his servant, was
the source of all worldly wisdom and experience, and recommended brown
billycock hats in preference to black ones, because they did not fade in
the sea air; Harriet, the housemaid, who used to bring a cup of tea in
the early morning to my mother’s bedroom, and Frank the footman. I can’t
remember a butler in London, but I suppose there was one; but if it was
the same one we had in the country, it was Mr. Watson.
Dimmock, or D., as we used to call her, played a great part in my early
life, because when I came up to London or went down to the country alone
with my father and mother she used to have sole charge of me, and I slept
in her room. One day, during one of these autumnal visits to London, I
was given an umbrella with a skeleton’s head on it. This came back in
dreams to me with terrific effect, and for several nights running I ran
down from the top to the bottom of the house in terror. The umbrella was
taken away. I used to love these visits to London when half the house
was shut up, and there was no one there except my father and mother
and D., and we used to live in the library downstairs. There used to
be long and almost daily expeditions to shops because Christmas was
coming, as D. used to chant to me every morning, and the Christmas-tree
shopping had to be done. D. and I used to buy all the materials for the
Christmas-tree—the candles, the glass balls, and the fairy to stand at
the top of it—in a shop in the Edgware Road called Eagle. I used to have
dinner in the housekeeper’s room with Sheppy, and spent most of my time
in D.’s working-room. One day she gave me a large piece of red plush, and
I had something sewn round it, and called it _Red Conscience_. Never did
a present make me more happy; I treated it as something half sacred, like
a Mussulman’s mat.
On one occasion D. and I went to a matinée at St. James’s Theatre to see
_A Scrap of Paper_, played by Mr. and Mrs. Kendal. This year I read the
play (it was translated from Sardou’s _Pattes de Mouche_) for the first
time, and I found I could recollect every scene of the play, and Mrs.
Kendal’s expression and intonation.
Another time Madame Neruda, who was a great friend of my mother’s, whom
we saw constantly, gave me two tickets for a ballad concert at which
she was playing. The policeman was told to take me into the artists’
room during the interval. D. was to take me, but for some reason she
thought the concert was in the evening, and it turned out to be in the
afternoon; so as a compensation my father sent us to an operetta called
_Falka_, in which Miss Violet Cameron sang. I enjoyed it more than any
concert. The next day Madame Neruda came to luncheon and heard all about
the misadventure. “And did you enjoy your operetta?” she asked. “Yes,” I
said, with enthusiasm. “Say, not as much as you would have enjoyed the
ballad concert,” said my mother. But I didn’t feel so sure about that.
I used to do lessons with Mrs. Christie, and have music lessons from
Mademoiselle Ida, and in the afternoon I often used to go out shopping in
the carriage with my mother, or for a walk with D. But I will tell more
about her later when I describe Membland.
The girls had a maid who looked after them called Rawlinson, and she and
the nursery made up the rest of the inside world in London.
In the outside world the first person of importance I remember was
Grandmamma, my mother’s mother, Lady Elizabeth Bulteel, who used to paint
exquisite pictures for the children like the pictures on china, and play
songs for us on the pianoforte. She often came to luncheon, and used to
bring toys to be raffled for, and make us, at the end of luncheon, sing a
song which ran:
“A pie sat on a pear tree,
And once so merrily hopped she,
And twice so merrily hopped she,
Three times so merrily hopped she,”
Each singer held a glass in his hand. When the song had got thus far,
everyone drained their glass, and the person who finished first had to
say the last line of the verse, which was:
“Ya-he, ya-ho, ya-ho.”
And the person who said it first, won.
Everything about Grandmamma was soft and exquisite: her touch on the
piano and her delicate manipulation of the painting-brush. She lived
in Green Street, a house I remember as the perfection of comfort and
cultivated dignity. There were amusing drawing-tables with tiles,
pencils, painting-brushes; chintz chairs and books and music; a smell of
potpourri and lavender water; miniatures in glass tables, pretty china,
and finished water-colours.
In November 1880—this is one of the few dates I can place—we were in
London, my father and mother and myself, and Grandmamma was not well.
She must have been over eighty, I think. Every day I used to go to
Green Street with my mother and spend the whole morning illuminating a
text. I was told Grandmamma was very ill, and had to take the nastiest
medicines, and was being so good about it. I was sometimes taken in to
see her. One day I finished the text, and it was given to Grandmamma.
That evening when I was having my tea, my father and mother came into the
dining-room and told me Grandmamma was dead. The text I had finished was
buried with her.
The next day at luncheon I asked my mother to sing “A pie sat on a pear
tree,” as usual. It was the daily ritual of luncheon. She said she
couldn’t do “Hopped she,” as we called it, any longer now that Grandmamma
was not there.
Another thing Grandmamma had always done at luncheon was to break a thin
water biscuit into two halves, so that one half looked like a crescent
moon; and I said to my mother, “We shan’t be able to break biscuits like
that any more.”