Is it to my credit, or to my eternal dishonour that I once made a
powdered footman smile, and that, too, when he was handing a buttered
muffin to an earl's daughter?
It was while we were paying a visit at Marjorimallow Hall, Sir Owen
and Lady Marjorimallow's place in Surrey. This was to be our first
appearance in an English country house, and we made elaborate
preparations. Only our freshest toilettes were packed, and these were
arranged in our trunks with the sole view of impressing the lady's-maid
who should unpack them. We each purchased dressing-cases and new
fittings, Francesca's being of sterling silver, Salemina's of triple
plate, and mine of celluloid, as befitted our several fortunes. Salemina
read up on English politics; Francesca practised a new way of dressing
her hair; and I made up a portfolio of sketches. We counted, therefore,
on representing American letters, beauty, and art to that portion of the
great English public staying at Marjorimallow Hall. (I must interject a
parenthesis here to the effect that matters did not move precisely as we
expected; for at table, where most of our time was passed, Francesca had
for a neighbour a scientist, who asked her plump whether the religion
of the American Indian was or was not a pure theism; Salemina's partner
objected to the word 'politics' in the mouth of a woman; while my
attendant squire adored a good bright-coloured chromo. But this is
anticipating.)
Three days before our departure, I remarked at the breakfast-table,
Dawson being absent: “My dear girls, you are aware that we have ordered
fried eggs, scrambled eggs, buttered eggs, and poached eggs ever since
we came to Dovermarle Street, simply because we do not know how to eat
boiled eggs prettily from the shell, English fashion, and cannot break
them into a cup or a glass, American fashion, on account of the effect
upon Dawson. Now there will certainly be boiled eggs at Marjorimallow
Hall, and we cannot refuse them morning after morning; it will be
cowardly (which is unpleasant), and it will be remarked (which is
worse). Eating them minced in an egg-cup, in a baronial hall, with the
remains of a drawbridge in the grounds, is equally impossible; if we do
that, Lady Marjorimallow will be having our luggage examined, to see
if we carry wigwams and war-whoops about with us. No, it is clearly
necessary that we master the gentle art of eating eggs tidily and
daintily from the shell. I have seen English women--very dull ones,
too--do it without apparent effort; I have even seen an English infant
do it, and that without soiling her apron, or, as Salemina would say,
'messing her pinafore.' I propose, therefore, that we order soft-boiled
eggs daily; that we send Dawson from the room directly breakfast is
served; and that then and there we have a class for opening eggs, lowest
grade, object method. Any person who cuts the shell badly, or permits
the egg to leak over the rim, or allows yellow dabs on the plate, or
upsets the cup, or stains her fingers, shall be fined 'tuppence' and
locked into her bedroom for five minutes.”
The first morning we were all in the bedroom together, and, there
being no blameless person to collect fines, the wildest civil disorder
prevailed.
On the second day Salemina and I improved slightly, but Francesca had
passed a sleepless night, and her hand trembled (the love-letter mail
had come in from America). We were obliged to tell her, as we collected
'tuppence' twice on the same egg, that she must either remain at home,
or take an oilcloth pinafore to Marjorimallow Hall.
But 'ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil,' and it is only a
question of time and desire with Americans, we are so clever. Other
nations have to be trained from birth; but as we need only an ounce
of training where they need a pound, we can afford to procrastinate.
Sometimes we procrastinate too long, but that is a trifle. On the third
morning success crowned our efforts. Salemina smiled, and I told an
anecdote, during the operation, although my egg was cracked in the
boiling, and I question if the Queen's favourite maid-of-honour could
have managed it prettily. Accordingly, when eggs were brought to the
breakfast-table at Marjorimallow Hall, we were only slightly nervous.
Francesca was at the far end of the long table, and I do not know how
she fared, but from various Anglicisms that Salemina dropped, as she
chatted with the Queen's Counsel on her left, I could see that her nerve
was steady and circulation free. We exchanged glances (there was the
mistake!), and with an embarrassed laugh she struck her egg a hasty
blow.
Her egg-cup slipped and lurched; a top fraction of the egg flew in
the direction of the Q.C., and the remaining portion oozed, in yellow
confusion, rapidly into her plate. Alas for that past mistress of
elegant dignity, Salemina! If I had been at Her Majesty's table, I
should have smiled, even if I had gone to the Tower the next moment;
but as it was, I became hysterical. My neighbour, a portly member of
Parliament, looked amazed, Salemina grew scarlet, the situation was
charged with danger; and, rapidly viewing the various exits, I chose the
humorous one, and told as picturesquely as possible the whole story of
our school of egg-opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduous
and encouraging rehearsals conducted there, and the stupendous failure
incident to our first public appearance. Sir Owen led the good-natured
laughter and applause; lords and ladies, Q.C.'s and M.P.'s joined in
with a will; poor Salemina raised her drooping head, opened and ate a
second egg with the repose of a Vere de Vere--and the footman smiled!