I have (said Reginald) an aunt who worries. She's not really an aunt--a
sort of amateur one, and they aren't really worries. She is a social
success, and has no domestic tragedies worth speaking of, so she adopts
any decorative sorrows that are going, myself included. In that way
she's the antithesis, or whatever you call it, to those sweet,
uncomplaining women one knows who have seen trouble, and worn blinkers
ever since. Of course, one just loves them for it, but I must confess
they make me uncomfy; they remind one so of a duck that goes flapping
about with forced cheerfulness long after its head's been cut off. Ducks
have _no_ repose. Now, my aunt has a shade of hair that suits her, and a
cook who quarrels with the other servants, which is always a hopeful
sign, and a conscience that's absentee for about eleven months of the
year, and only turns up at Lent to annoy her husband's people, who are
considerably Lower than the angels, so to speak: with all these natural
advantages--she says her particular tint of bronze is a natural
advantage, and there can be no two opinions as to the advantage--of
course she has to send out for her afflictions, like those restaurants
where they haven't got a licence. The system has this advantage, that
you can fit your unhappinesses in with your other engagements, whereas
real worries have a way of arriving at meal-times, and when you're
dressing, or other solemn moments. I knew a canary once that had been
trying for months and years to hatch out a family, and everyone looked
upon it as a blameless infatuation, like the sale of Delagoa Bay, which
would be an annual loss to the Press agencies if it ever came to pass;
and one day the bird really did bring it off, in the middle of family
prayers. I say the middle, but it was also the end: you can't go on
being thankful for daily bread when you are wondering what on earth very
new canaries expect to be fed on.
At present she's rather in a Balkan state of mind about the treatment of
the Jews in Roumania. Personally, I think the Jews have estimable
qualities; they're so kind to their poor--and to our rich. I daresay in
Roumania the cost of living beyond one's income isn't so great. Over
here the trouble is that so many people who have money to throw about
seem to have such vague ideas where to throw it. That fund, for
instance, to relieve the victims of sudden disasters--what is a sudden
disaster? There's Marion Mulciber, who _would_ think she could play
bridge, just as she would think she could ride down a hill on a bicycle;
on that occasion she went to a hospital, now she's gone into a
Sisterhood--lost all she had, you know, and gave the rest to Heaven.
Still, you can't call it a sudden calamity; _that_ occurred when poor
dear Marion was born. The doctors said at the time that she couldn't
live more than a fortnight, and she's been trying ever since to see if
she could. Women are so opinionated.
And then there's the Education Question--not that I can see that there's
anything to worry about in that direction. To my mind, education is an
absurdly over-rated affair. At least, one never took it very seriously
at school, where everything was done to bring it prominently under one's
notice. Anything that is worth knowing one practically teaches oneself,
and the rest obtrudes itself sooner or later. The reason one's elders
know so comparatively little is because they have to unlearn so much that
they acquired by way of education before we were born. Of course I'm a
believer in Nature-study; as I said to Lady Beauwhistle, if you want a
lesson in elaborate artificiality, just watch the studied unconcern of a
Persian cat entering a crowded salon, and then go and practise it for a
fortnight. The Beauwhistles weren't born in the Purple, you know, but
they're getting there on the instalment system--so much down, and the
rest when you feel like it. They have kind hearts, and they never forget
birthdays. I forget what he was, something in the City, where the
patriotism comes from; and she--oh, well, her frocks are built in Paris,
but she wears them with a strong English accent. So public-spirited of
her. I think she must have been very strictly brought up, she's so
desperately anxious to do the wrong thing correctly. Not that it really
matters nowadays, as I told her: I know some perfectly virtuous people
who are received everywhere.