subsequently joined, but he was improvident. His income increased in
arithmetical progression, and his expenditure in geometrical. This, as
Dr. Micawber and Professor Malthus have shown us, must end in disaster.
Looking at it from the noblest point of view--the autobiographical--I
saw that a marriage with Hugo would inevitably cramp my style.
And so the great sacrifice was made. Our feelings were so intense as we
said farewell that my native reserve and reticence forbid me to
describe them. But we parted one night in June, with a tear in the
throat and a catch in the eye. As he strode from the park, I looked
upward and saw in the brown crags above me some graceful animal
silhouetted against an opal sky. I always have said that those Mappin
Terraces were an improvement.
SIXTH EXTRACT
TESTIMONIALS--ROYAL APPRECIATION
Being what I am, it may readily be supposed that I have received many
tributes to the qualities that I possess. I have already exposed many of
these to the public gaze, still have some left, and it seems to me a
pity that my readers should miss any of the evidence. The first
testimonial is from my sister Casey, and a melancholy interest is
attached to it. It was the last one she wrote for me before I took the
momentous step which will be described in my last chapter:
"Marge Askinforit has been in my service for eight years. I should
not be parting with her but for the fact that I am compelled by
reasons of health to leave England. Askinforit is clean, sober,
honest, an early riser, an excellent plate-cleaner and valet, has
perfect manners and high intelligence, takes a great pride in her
work, and is most willing, obliging and industrious. She was with
me as parlour-maid (first of two), and now seeks temporary
employment in that capacity; but there is no branch of domestic
service with which she is not thoroughly well acquainted, and when
the occasion has arisen she has always been willing to undertake
any duties, and has done so with unfailing success. She is tall, of
good appearance, Church of England (or anything else that is
required), and anybody who secures such a treasure will be
exceptionally fortunate. I shall be pleased at any time to give any
further information that may be desired.
"(Mrs.) C. MORGENSTEIN."
I do not say that dear Casey's estimate had the arid accuracy of the
pedant, but she had a rich and helpful imagination. In rare moments of
depression and unhappiness I have found that by reading one of her
testimonials I can always recover my tone. And they were effective for
their purpose. By this time I was accepting no situations except with
titled people; and some of the language that I heard used suggested to
me that the reclamation of baronets during their dinner-hour might after
all be my life's work.
The next exhibit will be a letter from a famous author, a complete
stranger to me, whose work I had long known and admired:
"Dear Madam, For a long time past it has been my privilege to
express in the daily newspapers my keen and heartfelt appreciation
of a certain departmental store. I thought that I knew my work. I
believe even that it gave satisfaction. I could begin an article
with fragments of moral philosophy, easily intelligible and certain
of general acceptance, modulate with consummate skill into the key
of _crepe de chine_, and with a further natural and easy transition
reach the grand theme of the glorious opportunities offered by a
philanthropical Oxford Street to a gasping and excited public. Or I
would adopt with grace and facility the attitude of a prejudiced
and hostile critic, show how cold facts and indisputable figures
reversed my judgment, and end with a life-like picture of myself
heading frantically in a No. 16 'bus for the bargain basement,
haunted by the terror that I might be too late. With what
dignity--even majesty--did I not invest an ordinary transaction in
_lingerie_, when I spoke of 'the policy of this great House'! Yes,
I believed I knew what there was to know of the supreme art of
writing an advertisement.
"But now the mists roll away and I see as it were remote peaks of
delicate and implicating advertising the existence of which I had
never suspected. It is to you I owe it. You have a theme that you
probably find inexhaustible. Fired by your example I shall turn to
my own subject (Government linen at the moment) with a happy
consciousness that I shall do a far, far better thing than I have
ever done before.
"Your obedient servant,
"CALLISTHENIDES."
Of this letter I will only say that few have the courage and candour to
acknowledge an inferiority and an indebtedness, and fewer still could
have done it in the vicious and even succulent style of the above. It is
a letter that I read often and value highly. The only trouble about it
is that I sometimes wonder if it was not really intended for another
lady whose name has one or two points of similarity with my own.
I cannot refrain from quoting also one of the many letters that I
received from my dear old friend, Mr. J. A. Bunting:
"And now I must turn to your request for a statement of my opinion
of you, to be published in case an autobiography should set in. It
was I who introduced you to a certain circle. That circle, though
to me an open sessimy, was no doubt particular, and I confess that
I felt some hesitation. Through no fault of your own, you were at
that time in a position which was hardly up to our level. But I
admired your spirit and thought your manners, of which I can claim
to be a good judge, had the correct cashy, though with rather too
much tendency to back-chat. At any rate, I took the step, and I
have never regretted it. You soon made your way to the front, and
it is my firm belief that if you had been dropped into a den of
raging lions you would have done the same thing. You are much
missed. You have my full permission to make what use you please of
this testimonial, which is quite unsolicited, and actuated solely
by an appreciation of the goods supplied.
"Society in London is very so-so at present, and we leave for
Scotland at the end of the week. His lordship's had one fit of his
tantrums, but I had a look in my eye that ipsum factum soon put an
end to it. I wish it was as easy to put a stop to his leaning to
third-class company. Three ordinary M.P.'s at dinner last night and
one R.A. I always did hate riff-raff, and should say it was in my
blood."
Unfortunately, it is not everybody who will put into writing, with the
simple manliness of Mr. Bunting, the very high opinion of me which they
must inevitably have formed. Even George Leghorn has proved a
disappointment. But in his case I am inclined to think there was a
misunderstanding.
I asked him to send his opinion of me as I thought of making a book. He
replied on a postcard: "Don't approve of women in the profession, and
you'd better cut it out. It's hard enough for a man bookmaker to scrape
a living, with everybody expecting the absurd prices quoted in the
press."
Many of the contemporary testimonials that I have received are so
cautiously framed and so wanting in warmth that I decline to make any
use of them. I have always hated cowardice. I have the courage of my
opinions. Why cannot others have the same.
However, I have through my sister Chlorine succeeded in securing the
opinions of some of the greatest in another century. I can only say that
they confirm my belief in her powers as a medium, and in her wonderful
system of wireless telephony.
The first person that I asked her to ring up was Napoleon. She had some
difficulty in getting through. He spoke as follows:
"Yes, I am Napoleon. Oh, that's you, Chlorine, is it?... Quite well,
thank you, but find the heat rather oppressive.... You want my opinion
of your sister Marge? She is wonderful--wonderful! Tell her from me that
if I had but married her when I was a young man, I am confident that
Wellington would have met his Waterloo."
I think he would have liked to say more, but unfortunately the receiver
fused. I think it showed such nice feeling in him that he spoke English.
Poor Chlorine knows no French.
After the apparatus had been repaired, Chlorine got into communication
with Sir Joshua Reynolds. She said that his voice had a fruity
ceremoniousness, and I wish I could have heard it. But I have not
Chlorine's gift of mediumship. Sir Joshua said:
"The more I see of your sister Marge, the more I regret the time that I
spent on Mrs. Siddons, who was also theatrical; my compliment that I
should go down to posterity on the hem of her garment was not
ill-turned, but she is more likely to go down to posterity as the
subject of my art. Why, even Romney would have been good enough for her.
Could I but have painted Marge, my fame had been indeed immortal. Who's
President?... Well, you surprise me."
To prevent any possibility of incredulity, I may add that I wrote those
words down at the time, added the date and address, and signed them; so
there can be no mistake.
But far more interesting is the important and exclusive communication
which Chlorine next received. It was only after much persuasion that I
got her to ring him up; she said it was contrary to etiquette. However,
she at last put through a call to Sir Herbert Taylor, who kindly
arranged the matter for us.
He--not Sir Herbert--showed the greatest readiness to converse. Chlorine
says that he spoke in a quick staccato. He was certainly voluble, and
this is what he said:
"What, what, what? Want my opinion of marriage, do you, Miss
Forget-your-name? I had a long experience of it. Estimable woman,
Charlotte, very estimable, and made a good mother, though she showed
partiality. If I'd had my own way though--between ourselves, what,
what?--I should have preferred Sarah. More lively, more entertaining.
Holland would have been pleased. But it couldn't be done. Monarchs are
the servants of ministers now. Never admitted that doctrine myself.
Kicked against it all my life. Ah, if North had been the strong man I
was! But as to marriage....
"What, what? You said 'Marge'--not 'marriage'--your sister Marge? You
should speak more clearly. Get nearer the receiver--age plays havoc with
the hearing. Fine woman, Marge, and you can tell her I said so. Great
spirit. Plenty of courage. Always admired courage. If I were a young man
and back on earth again, I might do worse, what, what?"
And then I am sorry to say he changed the subject abruptly. He went on:
"What's this about King Edward potatoes? Stuff and nonsense! I knew all
about potatoes. Grew them at Windsor. Kew too. Wrote an article about
them. Why can't they name a potato after me? What?"
Here Chlorine interposed: "Do you wish for another three minutes, sir,
or have you finished?"
I hoped he would say, "Don't cut us off," but, possibly from habits of
economy, he did not. I have not given his name, for fear of being
thought indiscreet, but possibly those who are deeply read in history
may guess it.
It is the greatest tribute but one that I have ever received, and I
think brings me very nearly up to the level of my Great Example. If I
could only feel that for once I had done that, I could fold my little
hands and be content.
But it is not quite the greatest tribute of all. The greatest is my own
self-estimate of me myself. It demands and shall receive a chapter all
to itself. Wipe your feet, take off your hat, assume a Sunday
expression, and enter upon it reverently.
After all, the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is not to be
desired. In your case for certain it would cause you the most intense
depression. Even in my own case I doubt if it would give me the same
warm, pervading glow of satisfaction that obtain from a more Narcissan
procedure.
By the way, ought one to say "self-estimate" or "self-esteem"? What a
silly girl I am! I quite forgot.
SEVENTH EXTRACT
SELF-ESTIMATE
More trouble. Determined to give an estimate of myself based on the best
models, I turned to the pages of my Great Example, and ran into the
following sentence:
"I do not propose to treat myself like Mr. Bernard Shaw in this
account."
Does this mean that she does not propose to treat herself as if she were
Mr. Bernard Shaw? It might. Does it mean that she does not propose to
treat herself as Mr. Bernard Shaw treats her? It is not impossible.
What one wants it to mean is: "I do not propose to treat myself as Mr.
Bernard Shaw treats himself." But if she had meant that, she would have
said it.
I backed away cautiously, and, a few lines further on, fell over her
statement that she has a conception of beauty "not merely in poetry,
music, art and nature, but in human beings." No doubt. And I have a
conception of slovenly writing not merely in her autobiography, but in
its seventeenth chapter.
I had not gone very much further in that same chapter before I was
caught in the following thicket:
"I have got china, books, whips, knives, matchboxes, and clocks given me
since I was a small child."
If these things were given her since she was a small child, they might
have been given her on the day she wrote--in which case it would not
have been remarkable that she still possessed them. The nearest way out
of the jungle would be to substitute "when" for "since." But it is
incredible that she should have thought of two ways of saying the same
thing, let them run into one another, and sent "The Sunday Times" the
mess resulting from the collision.
She must be right. Mr. Balfour said she was the best letter-writer he
knew. With generous reciprocity she read Mr. Balfour's books and
realized without external help "what a beautiful style he wrote."
And for goodness sake don't ask me how you write a style. You do it in
precisely the same way that you cook a saucepan--that is, by the
omission of the word "in."
Yet one more quotation from the last column of the last extract:
"If I had to confess and expose one opinion of myself which might
differentiate me a little from other people, I should say it was my
power of love coupled with my power of criticism."
No, never mind. The power of love is not an opinion; and in ending a
sentence it is just as well to remember how you began it. But I
absolutely refuse to let my simple faith be shaken. She records the
bones that she has broken, but John Addington Symonds told her that she
retained "_l'oreille juste_." Her husband said she wrote well, and he
must know. Besides, am I to be convinced in my penultimate chapter that
anything can be wrong with the model I have followed? Certainly not. It
would be heartbreaking.
Besides, the explanation is quite simple. When she wrote that last
instalment in "The Sunday Times," the power of criticism had gone to
have the valves ground in.
I will now ask your kind attention for my estimate of me, Marge
Askinforit, by myself.
There is just one quality which I claim to have in an even greater
degree than my prototype. She is unlike real life--no woman was ever
like what any woman supposes herself to be--but I am far more unlike
real life. I have more inconsistency, more self-contradiction, more
anachronism, more impossibility. In fact, I sometimes feel as if some
fool of a man were just making me up as he went along.
And the next article? Yes, my imagination.
I have imagination of a certain kind. It has nothing to do with
invention or fancy. It is not a mental faculty at all. It is not
physical. Neither is it paralysis, butterscotch, or three spades
re-doubled. I should so much like to give some idea of it if I
had any. Perhaps an instance will help.
I remember that I once said to the Dean of Belial that I thought the
naming of a Highland hotel "The Light Brigade" showed a high degree of
imagination.
"Half a moment," said the Dean. "I think I know that one. No--can't get
it. Why was the hotel called that?"
"Because of its terrific charges."
"Yes," he said wearily. "I've heard it. But"--more brightly--"can you
tell me why a Highland regiment was called 'The Black Watch'?"
"I can, Massa Johnson. Because there's a 'b' in both."
"Wrong again. It's because there's an 'e' in each."
I gave him a half-nelson to the jaw and killed him, and the entire
company then sung "Way down upon de Swannee Ribber," with harmonium
accompaniment, thus bringing the afternoon performance to a close. The
front seats were half empty, but then it was late in the season, and
looked like rain, and--
Certainly, I can stop if you like. But you do see what I mean, don't
you? The imagination is something that runs away with you. If I were to
let mine get away with me, it would knock this old autobiography all to
splinters.
But I do not appear to have the kind of imagination that makes me know
what will hurt people's feelings. If I love people I always tell them
what their worst faults are, and repeat what everybody says about them
behind their back. That ought to make people say: "Thank you, Marge, for
your kind words. They will help me to improve myself." It has not
happened yet. It is my miraculous power of criticism that causes the
trouble. Whenever I let it off the lead it seems to bite somebody; a
muzzle has been suggested.
The other day I said to Popsie Bantam: "You're quite right to bob your
hair, Popsie. When you have not got enough of anything, always try to
persuade people that you want less. But your rouge-et-noir make-up is
right off the map. If you could manage to get some of the colours in
some of the right places, people would laugh less. And I can never quite
decide whether it's your clothes that are all wrong, or if it's just
your figure. I wish you'd tell me. Anyhow, you should try for a job at a
photographer's--you're just the girl for a dark-room."
Really, that's all I said--just affectionate, lambent, helpful
criticism, with a little Tarragon in it. Yet next day when I met her on
the staircase she said she didn't want to talk to me any more. So I
heaved her over the balustrade and she had a forty-foot drop on to the
marble below. I am too impulsive--I have always said so. Rather a
pathetic touch was that she died just as the ambulance reached the
hospital. I have lost quite a lot of nice friends in this way.
With the exception of a few teeny-weeny murders, I do not think I have
done anything in my life that I regret. And even the murders--such as
they were--were more the fault of my circumstances than of myself. If,
as I have always wished, I had lived alone on a desert island, I should
never have killed anybody at all. But when you go into the great world
(basement entrance) and have a bad night, or the flies are troublesome,
you do get a feeling of passionate economy; you realize that there are
people you can do without, and you do without them. This is the whole
truth about a little failing of which my detractors have made the most.
Calumny and exaggeration have been carried to such an extent that more
than once I have been accused of being habitually irritable.
My revered model wrote that she had always been a collector "of letters,
old photographs of the family, famous people and odds and ends." I have
not gone quite as far as this.
I have collected odds, and almost every autumn I roam over the moors and
fill a large basket with them, but I have never collected ends.
I do want to collect famous people, but for want of a little education I
have not been able to do it. I simply do not know whether it is best to
keep them in spirits of wine, or to have them stuffed in glass
cases--like the canaries and the fish that you could not otherwise
believe in. I have been told that really the best way is to press them
between the leaves of some very heavy book, such as an autobiography,
but I fancy they lose much of their natural brilliance when treated in
this way.
Another difficulty is that the ordinary cyanide bottles that you buy at
the naturalist's, though excellent for moths, are not really large
enough to hold a full-sized celebrity. At the risk of being called a
sentimentalist, I may say that I do not think I could kill famous people
by any method that was not both quick and painless. If anything like
cruelty were involved in their destruction, I would sooner not collect
them at all, but just make a study of them in their wild state.
I am only a poor little girl, and I can find nothing whatever on the
subject in any reference book in the public reading-room. I need expert
advice. There is quite a nice collection of famous--and infamous--people
near Baker Street Station, but I am told these are only simulacra. That
would not suit me at all. I am far too genuine, downright, and truthful
to put up with anything less than the real thing.
There must be some way of doing it. I should like to have a stuffed M.P.
in a glass case at each end of the mantelpiece in my little boudoir.
They need not be of the rarest and most expensive kinds. A pretty Labour
Member with his mouth open and a rustic background, and a Coalitionist
lightly poised on the fence, would please me.
It would be so interesting to display one's treasures when people came
to tea.
"Never seen a real leader-writer?" I should say. "They're plentiful
locally, but mostly come out at night, and so many people miss them. It
is not of the least use to put treacle on the trees. The best way is to
drive a taxi slowly down Fleet Street about one in the morning and look
honest. That's how I got the big leader-writer in the hall. Just press
his top waistcoat button and he'll prove that the lost election was a
moral victory.
"In the next case? Oh, they're just a couple of little Georgian poets.
They look wild, but they're quite tame really. Sprinkle an advance on
account of royalties on the window-sill and they'll come for it. It used
to be pretty to watch those two, pouring adulatory articles over each
other. They sing chopped prose, and it seemed almost a pity to kill
them; but there are plenty more.
"And that very pretty creature is an actress; if you drop an interviewer
into the left hand corner of the dressing-room you will hear her say: 'I
love a country life, and am never happier than when I am working in my
little garden,'--insert here the photograph in the sun-bonnet--'I don't
think the great public often realizes what a vast amount of----'"
But I am talking about collecting other people. I am wandering from my
subject. I must collect myself.
At a very early age I caught the measles and a little later on the
public eye. The latter I still hold. But I do not often lose anything
except friends, and occasionally the last 'bus, and of course my
situations. My great model says it is a positive punishment to her to
be in one position for long at a time, and I must be something like
that--I rarely keep a place much longer than a month. On the other hand,
I still have quite a number of metal discs that formed the wheels of a
toy railway train which I had when I was quite a child. I should have
had them all, but I used some to get chocolates out of the automatic
machines.
I should have liked to have appended here a list of my accomplishments,
but I must positively keep room for my last chapter. So to save space I
will merely give a list of the accomplishments which I have not got, or
have not got to perfection.
The E flat clarionet is not really my instrument, but I will give you
three guesses what is.
I skate beautifully, but not so well as I dance. However, I am saving
the I's out of my autobiography for further practice.
Some people perhaps have better memories. But that's no reason why they
should write to the "Sunday Times" about it.
I cannot write Chinese as fluently as English, though I might
conceivably write it more correctly.
I think I have mentioned everything in which I am not perfectly
accomplished. Truth and modesty make me do it.
I would conclude this estimate of myself as follows. If I had to confess
and expose one opinion of myself which would record what I believe to
be my differentiation from other people, it would be the opinion that I
am a law unto myself and a judgment to everybody else.
LATE EXTRA
TRAGIC DISAPPEARANCE OF MARGE ASKINFORIT
I sometimes think that it must have been a sense of impending
autobiography which made me seek employment in the Lightning Laundry.
After all, the autobiographist merely does in public what the laundry
does in the decent seclusion of its works at Wandsworth or Balham.
The principal difference would appear to be that a respectable laundress
does know where to draw the line.