The next day was wet and miserable; and waiting about, and feeling
strange and uncomfortable, as I did, made matters ever so much worse.
We were all in the schoolroom; and first one and then another
stiff-backed, new-smelling book was pushed before me, and the odour of
them made me feel quite wretched, it was so different to what of late I
had been accustomed. For don't, pray, think I dislike the smell of a
new book--oh, no, not at all, I delight in it; but then it must be from
Mudie's, or Smith's, or the Saint James's Square place, while as for
these new books--one was that nasty, stupid old Miss Mangnall's
"Questions," and another was Fenwick de Porquet's this, and another
Fenwick de Porquet's that, and, soon after, Noehden's German Grammar,
thrust before me with a grin by the Fraulein. At last, as if to drive
me quite mad, as a very culmination of my miseries, I was set, with
Clara Fitzacre and five more girls, to write an essay on "The tendencies
towards folly of the present age."
"What shall I say about it, ma'am?" I said to Miss Furness, who gave me
the paper.
"Say?" she exclaimed, as if quite astonished at such a question. "Why,
give your own opinions upon the subject."
"Oh, shouldn't I like to write an essay, and give my own opinions upon
you," I said to myself; while there I sat with the sheets of paper
before me, biting and indenting the penholder, without the slightest
idea how to begin.
I did think once of dividing the subject into three parts or heads, like
Mr Saint Purre did his sermons; but there, nearly everybody I have
heard in public does that, so it must be right. So I was almost
determined to begin with a firstly, and then go on to a secondly, and
then a thirdly; and when I felt quite determined, I wrote down the
title, and under it "firstly." I allowed the whole of the first page
for that head, put "secondly" at the beginning of the second page, and
"thirdly" upon the next, which I meant to be the longest.
Then I turned back, and wondered what I had better say, and whether
either of the girls would do it for me if I offered her a shilling.
"What shall I say next," I asked myself, and then corrected my question;
for it ought to have been, "What shall I say first?" And then I
exclaimed under my breath, "A nasty, stupid, spiteful old thing, to set
me this to do, on purpose to annoy me!" just as I looked on one side and
found the girl next me was nearly at the bottom of her sheet of paper,
while I could do nothing but tap my white teeth with my pen.
I looked on the other side, where sat Miss Patty Smith, glaring horribly
down at her blank paper, nibbling the end of her pen, and smelling
dreadfully of peppermint; and her forehead was all wrinkled up, as if
the big atlas were upon her head, and squeezing down the skin.
Just then I caught Clara's eye--for she was busy making a great deal of
fuss with her blotting-paper, as if she had quite ended her task--when,
upon seeing my miserable, hopeless look, she came round and sat down by
me.
"Never mind the essay," she whispered; "say you had the headache. I
dare say it will be correct, won't it? For it always used to give me
the headache when I first came."
"Oh, yes," I said, with truth, "my head aches horribly."
"Of course it does, dear," said Clara; "so leave that rubbish. It will
be dancing in about five minutes."
"I say," drawled Miss Smith to Clara, "what's tendencies towards folly?
I'm sure I don't know."
"Patty Smith's," said Clara, in a sharp voice; and the great fat, stupid
thing sat there, glaring at her with her big, round eyes, as much as to
say, "What do you mean?"
Sure enough, five minutes had not elapsed before we were summoned to our
places in the room devoted to dancing and calisthenic exercises; and, as
a matter of course, I was all in a flutter to see the French dancing
master, who would be, I felt sure, a noble-looking refugee--a count in
disguise--and I felt quite ready to let him make a favourable
impression; for one cannot help sympathising with political exiles,
since one has had a Louis Napoleon here in difficulties. But there, I
declare it was too bad; and I looked across at Clara, who had slipped on
first, and was holding her handkerchief to her mouth to keep from
laughing as she watched my astonished looks; for you never did see such
a droll little man, and I felt ready to cry with vexation at the whole
place.
There he stood--Monsieur de Kittville--the thinnest, funniest little man
I ever saw off the stage. He seemed to have been made on purpose to
take up as little room as possible in the world and he looked so droll
and squeezy, one could not feel cross long in his presence. If I had
not been in such terribly low spirits, I'm sure I must have laughed
aloud at the funny, capering little fellow, as he skipped about, now
here and now there--going through all the figures, and stopping every
now and then to scrape through the tune upon his little fiddle.
But it would have been a shame to laugh, for he was so good and patient;
and I know he could feel how some of the girls made fun of him, though
he bore it all amiably and never said a word.
I know he must have thought me terribly stupid, for there was not one
girl so awkward, and grumpy, and clumsy over the lesson. But think,
although it was done kindly enough, what did I want with being pushed
here, and poked there, and shouted at and called after in bad English,
when I had been used to float round and round brilliantly-lighted rooms
in dreamy waltzes and polkas, till day-break? And I declare the very
thoughts of such scenes at a time like this were quite maddening.
Finished! I felt as if I should be regularly finished long before the
year had expired; and, after the short season of gaiety I had enjoyed in
London, I would far rather have gone back to Guisnes and spent my days
with dear old Soeur Charite in the convent. After all, I fancy papa was
right when he said it was only a quiet advertising dodge--he will say
such vulgar things, that he picks up in the City--and that it was not a
genuine convent at all. I mean one of those places we used to read
about, where they built the sisters up in walls, and all that sort of
thing. But there: things do grow so dreadfully matter-of-fact, and so I
found it; for here was I feeling, not so dreadfully young, but so
horribly old, to be back at school.
The place seemed so stupid; the lessons seemed stupid; girls, teachers,
everything seemed stupid. There were regular times for this, and
regular times for that, and one could not do a single thing as one
liked. If I went upstairs to brush my hair, and sat down before the
glass, there would be a horrible, cracked voice crying, "Miss Bozerne,
young ladies are not allowed in the dormitories out of hours;" and then
I had to go down.
For the old wretch hated me because I was young and handsome, I am sure.
Yes: I was handsome then, I believe; before all these terrible troubles
came upon me, and made me look so old--ah! so old. And, oh! it was
dreadful, having one's time turned into a yard measure, and doled out to
one in quarter-inches for this and half-inches for that, and not have a
single scrap to do just what one liked with. Perhaps I could have borne
it the better if I had not been used to do just as I liked at home. For
mamma very seldom interfered; and I'm sure I was as good as could be
always, till they nearly drove me out of my mind with this horrible
school.
For it was a school, and nothing else but a school; and as they all
ill-used me, and trod upon me like a worm in the path, why, of course I
turned and annoyed them all I could at the Cedars, and persisted in
calling it school. Finishing establishment--pah! Young ladies,
indeed--fah! Why, didn't I get to know about Miss Hicks being the
grocer's daughter, and being paid for in sugar? And wasn't Patty Smith
the butcher's girl? Why, she really smelt of meat, and her hair always
looked like that of those horrible butcher-boys in London, who never
wear caps, but make their heads so shiny and matty with fat. Patty was
just like them; and I declare the nasty thing might have eaten pomatum,
she used such a quantity. Why, she used to leave the marks of her head
right through her nightcap on to the pillow; and I once had the nasty
thing put on my bed by mistake, when if it didn't smell like the crust
of Mrs Blunt's apple-dumplings, and set me against them more than ever.
Dear, sensitive reader, did you ever eat finishing establishment
"_poudings aux pommes_" as Mrs Blunt used to call them?--that is to say
school apple-dumplings, or as we used to call them "pasty wasters." If
you never did, never do; for they are horrible. Ours used to be nasty,
wet, slimy, splashy things, that slipped about in the great blue dish.
And one did slide right off once on to the cloth, when the servant was
putting it upon the table; and then the horrible thing collapsed in a
most disgusting way, and had to be scraped up with a spoon. Ugh! such a
mess! I declare I felt as if I was one of a herd of little pigs, about
to be fed; and I told Clara so, when she burst out laughing, and Miss
Furness ordered her to leave the table. If they would only have boiled
the dreadful dumplings in basins, it would not have mattered so much;
but I could see plainly enough that they were only tied up loosely in
cloths, so that the water came in to make them wet and pappy; while they
were always made in a hurry, and the crust would be in one place
half-an-inch, and in another three inches thick; and I always had the
thick mass upon my plate. Then, too, they used to be made of nasty,
viciously acid apples, with horrible cores that never used to be half
cut out, and would get upon your palate and then would not come off
again. Oh, dear! would I not rather have been a hermit on bread and
water and sweet herbs than have lived upon Mrs Blunt's greasy mutton--
always half done--and pasty wasters!
The living was quite enough to upset you, without anything else, and it
used to make me quite angry, for one always knew what was for dinner,
and it was always the same every week. It would have been very good if
it had been nicely cooked, no doubt, but then it was not; and I believe
by having things nasty there used to be quite a saving in the
expenditure. "Unlimited," Mrs Blunt told mamma the supplies were for
the young ladies; but only let one of the juniors do what poor little
Oliver Twist did--ask for more--and just see what a look the resident
teacher at the head of the table would give her. It was a great chance
if she would ask again. But there, I must tell you about our living.
Coffee for breakfast that always tasted like Patty Smith's Spanish
liquorice wine that she used to keep in a bottle in her pocket--a nasty
toad! Thick bread-and-butter--all crumby and dab, as if the servant
would not take the trouble to spread the butter properly. For tea there
was what papa used to tease mamma by calling "a mild infusion," though
there was no comparison between our tea and Allsham tea, for mamma
always bought hers at the Stores, and Allsham tea was from Miss Hicks's
father's; and when we turned up our noses at it, and found fault, she
said it was her pa's strong family Congou, only there was so little put
in the pot; while if they used not to sweeten the horrible pinky-looking
stuff with a treacley-brown sugar; and as for the milk--we do hear of
cows kicking over the milking pail, and I'm sure if the bluey-looking
stuff poured into our tea had been shown to any decent cow, and she had
been told that it was milk, she would have kicked it over in an instant.
And, oh! those dinners at the Cedars! On Sundays we had beef--cold
beef--boiled one week, roast the next. On Mondays we had a preparation
of brown slime with lumps of beef in it, and a spiky vandyke of toast
round the dish, which was called "hash," with an afterpiece of "mosh
posh" pudding--Clara christened it so--and that was plain boiled rice,
with a white paste to pour over it out of a butter boat, while the rice
itself always tasted of soapsuds. Tuesday was roast shoulder of mutton
day. Wednesday, stewed steak--such dreadful stuff!--which appeared in
two phases, one hard and leathery, the other rag and tattery. Thursday,
cold roast beef always--when they might just as well have let us have it
hot--and pasty wasters, made of those horrible apples, which seemed to
last all the year round, except midsummer vacation time, when the stock
would be exhausted; but by the time the holidays were over, the new ones
came in off the trees--the new crops--and, of course, more sour, and
vicious, and bitter than ever. We used to call them vinegar pippins;
and I declare if that Patty Smith would not beg them of the cook, and
lie in bed and crunch them, while my teeth would be quite set on edge
with only listening to her.
Heigho! I declare if it isn't almost as hard work to get through this
description of the eatables and drinkables at the Cedars as it was in
reality. Let me see, where was I? Oh, at Thursday! Then on Fridays it
was shoulder of mutton again, with the gravy full of sixpences; and, as
for fat--oh! they used to be so horribly fat, that I'm sure the poor
sheep must have lived in a state of bilious headache all their lives,
until the butcher mercifully killed them; while--only fancy, at a
finishing establishment!--if that odious Patty Smith did not give Clara
and me the horrors one night by an account of how her father's man--I
must do her the credit of saying that she had no stuck-up pride in her,
and never spoke of her "esteemed parent" as anything but father; for
only fancy a "papa," with a greasy red face, cutting steaks, or chopping
at a great wooden block, and crying "What-d'yer-buy--buy--buy?" Let's
see--oh! of how her father's man killed the sheep; and I declare it was
quite dreadful; and I said spitefully to Clara afterwards that I should
write by the next post and tell mamma how nicely my finishing education
was progressing, for I knew already how they killed sheep. Well, there
is only one more day's fare to describe--Saturday's, and that is soon
done, for it was precisely the same as we had on the Wednesday, only the
former used mostly to be the tattery days and the latter the hard ones.
Now, of course, I am aware that I am writing this is a very desultory
manner; but after Mrs Blunt's rules and regulations, what can you
expect? I am writing to ease my mind, and therefore I must write just
as I think; and as this is entirely my own, I intend so to do, and those
may find fault who like. I did mean to go through the different
adventures and impressions of every day; but I have given up that idea,
because the days have managed to run one into the other, and got
themselves confused into a light and shady sad-coloured web, like Miss
Furness's scrimpy silk dress that she wore on Sundays--a dreadful
antique thing, like rhubarb shot with magnesia; for the nasty old puss
always seemed to buy her things to give her the aspect of having been
washed out, though with her dreadfully sharp features and
cheesey-looking hair--which she called auburn--I believe it would have
been impossible to make her look nice.
Whenever there was a lecture, or a missionary meeting, or any public
affair that Mrs Blunt thought suitable, we used all to be marched off,
two and two; while the teachers used to sit behind us and Mrs Blunt
before, when she would always begin conversing in a strident voice, that
every one could hear in the room, before the business of the evening
began--talking upon some French or German author, a translation of whose
works she had read, quite aloud, for every one to hear--and hers was one
of those voices that will penetrate--when people would, of course, take
notice, and attention be drawn to the school. Of course there were some
who could see through the artificial old thing; but for the most part
they were ready to believe in her, and think her clever.
Then the Misses Bellperret's young ladies would be there too, if it was
a lecture, ranged on the other side of the Town Hall. Theirs was the
dissenting school--one which Mrs Blunt would not condescend to mention.
It used to be such fun when the lecture was over, and we had waited for
the principal part of the people to leave, so that the school could go
out in a compact body. Mrs Blunt used to want us to go first, and the
Misses Bellperret used to want their young ladies to go first. Neither
would give way; so we were mixed up altogether, greatly to Mrs Blunt's
disgust and our delight in both schools; for really, you know, I think
it comes natural for young ladies to like to see their teachers put out
of temper.
But always after one of these entertainments, as Mrs Blunt called
them--when, as a rule, the only entertainment was the fun afterwards--
there used to be a lecture in Mrs B.'s study for some one who was
charged with unladylike behaviour in turning her head to look on the
other side, or at the young gentlemen of the grammar-school--fancy, you
know, thin boys in jackets, and with big feet and hands, and a bit of
fluff under their noses--big boys with squeaky, gruff, half-broken
voices, who were caned and looked sheepish; and, I declare, at last
there would be so many of these lectures for looking about, that it used
to make the young ladies worse, putting things into their heads that
they would never have thought of before. Not that I mean to say that
was the case with me, for I must confess to having been dreadfully
wicked out of real spite and annoyance.