_UPS AND DOWNS._
_February 19th, Tuesday._
UP early this morning, and had a whole hour's practice before
breakfast. Mother looked so pleased; and Clarissa and Juliet have
really been quite kind. If people would always behave like that, it
would be so much easier to get long smoothly.
After breakfast, I had a busy hour, taking care of the children, and
playing games with them; and they were as good as one could wish.
Certainly it is much nicer to be busy and useful than to be doing
nothing in particular; and I have made up my mind to turn over a new
leaf.
_February 20th._
Desperately hard to get up this morning; and I only managed to secure
twenty minutes for music. Juliet remarked, "Too good to last! I thought
so yesterday!" And though I was not meant to hear, I did hear, and I
knew what she meant. But after all, I made up the full amount later: so
nobody was the worse.
_February 21st, Thursday._
I don't see the good of bothering myself. After all my resolutions, I
only contrived to get down just in time for breakfast. And directly
afterwards, instead of offering to look after the little ones, as I
have done the last day or two, I sat down for one moment with a book
from the library, just to see how it went on. And it was so interesting
that I simply could not put it down again. Addie came to me for a game,
and I told her to go away; and as usual, she must needs begin to cry.
Those children wail about every single thing that they cannot have.
Whereupon, of course, everybody seemed to think I had done something
perfectly shocking; and Juliet petted the twins, and Addie scowled
at me, and Mother was worried, which is the worst of all. Then my
music-master came, and was vexed that I had not practised more. It is
rather wonderful that a music-master is to be had at all in such an
out-of-the-way place as this, but he comes once a week to give lessons
to several families in the neighbourhood, and the girls have seized on
him for me. I am not in the least grateful, for I simply detest music.
_February 27th, Wednesday._
I have not managed to be up in good time for some days past, and I
am vexed with myself every morning. Yet when the next morning comes,
somehow I do just the same. It is provoking, because one does not
like to feel that one is easily beaten. But at the moment when I am
first called, when I ought to spring straight out of bed so as to have
time enough, I only feel that it is perfectly impossible! Nothing on
earth seems of the very smallest consequence then, except getting
half-an-hour more of sleep. Do other people ever feel so, I wonder? And
if they do, how in the world do they get over it?
At all events, one thing is better; there has not been nearly so much
disagreement between me and the girls. Once or twice, when Juliet has
been sharp and unjust, I have borne it quite quietly and have not
said in return what she really did deserve. So I think I "must" be
growing a little more patient and gentle. I am sure I have prayed often
enough lately that I might be made so; and it is nice to feel that
one's prayers are answered. Some people talk as if they were always
having answers to prayers, at least people in books and memoirs do,
but I am afraid that is not my way. Perhaps I don't pray often enough;
and perhaps I don't always mean what I say in my prayers. It is so
difficult to know sometimes what one wants exactly. I am sure I want to
be good, and not to worry my mother; and yet I do not want to be always
knuckling down to the girls, because I really can't see what right they
have to manage everything in our house. However, I am glad to have got
on more smoothly, and I don't mean to be cross any more.
_March 2nd, Saturday._
I am more than half inclined to tear out that last entry. This has been
such a miserable afternoon. Juliet has been so provoking! I don't know
who could bear with her.
She put me out so fearfully that I hardly knew what I said. But I know
I told her that she was for ever meddling with me, and that I did not
want to be meddled with. I said I wished she lived anywhere except with
us.
Juliet turned quite white—I cannot think why!—and said in a voice not
like her own: "There is no need that I should. I have another home. If
we are not wanted here, we are wanted by aunt Jessie."
Mother came in, and was told what I had been saying; and she seemed so
distressed. More distressed, I should think, than there was any real
reason for. She insisted on my begging Juliet's pardon; and at last,
just to please her, I did say that if I had been rude, I was sorry. The
word stuck in my throat, for I don't think I really was sorry.
Mother said—"Much more than 'rude!'"
And Juliet begged that the subject might be dropped. "Some things are
best not discussed," she said. And I saw her afterwards caressing my
mother, as if she had to comfort her for my naughtiness.
If I had been sorry before, that would have cured my sorrow fast enough.
If only everything were different! It is so frightfully hard now to do
right. If only Clarissa and Juliet were pleasant and kind, we might
be so much happier. And if only they did not live with us at all, and
I had my mother and the children to myself, then I know I should be
good. There would be nothing to make me naughty. I can't think why they
should live with us, for they have quite enough money of their own to
get on upon; and besides, aunt Jessie would be glad enough to have them
both. That was true, and I know it was; and why they do not go to her
when she wants them, and when I am sure we don't, is a mystery to me.
Oh, if only they would! I know they do not do me any good by staying
here. To-day I feel perfectly hard and cold, as if I did not care in
the least about anything good. I feel as if religion had no sort of
hold upon me.
_March 4th, Monday._
Mother and I have had a long private talk to-day about the girls, and
she has told me things that I did not so much as guess before—things I
had no idea of.
Nobody has ever said a word to me about the heavy money-losses that
my father has had in the last few years. He is not at all well off
now. That is quite a piece of news to me, because I have always
supposed that he had plenty. Another piece of news is that Clarissa
and Juliet are very well off indeed. I knew that they had enough to
make them independent, but I always supposed that they lived partly on
"us,"—instead of which, things are just the other way.
Now that they are both of age, they are entirely free to choose what
home they would wish to live in, and aunt Jessie would be delighted to
have them. I was right there, at any rate. At one time, it was quite
thought that they would make a home with her, and they gave up the
idea, partly because they are so fond of my mother, too fond to put
even aunt Jessie in the same place—I say "even," because they do care
for her very much, though I do not,—and partly because of my father's
losses.
Mother says it is most good and self-denying of them to stay on with
us. It is a great help to her and my father; and the expense of keeping
up a home in England, as well as in India, is so heavy that if the
girls had decided to remain permanently with aunt Jessie, she does not
think she could possibly have come home for another year or two, even
though her health so much needed it. She says that the girls are most
generous in taking upon themselves the main proportion of expenses; far
more, in fact, than she would have had the least right to expect.
"This house," she said, "is literally more theirs than it is mine. And
when you complain of their 'interfering,' Rhoda, they are really doing
what they have every right to do."
"But, Mother, it is almost like living partly on charity!"
"I am much too fond of them both to think of matters in that light," my
mother answered, though she flushed.
"I don't like it," I said indignantly; "I don't like it at all. I would
much rather—oh, much rather—be with you and the little ones in some
tiny house by ourselves. I should not mind how small a house it was, or
how plainly we lived, if only it was really our own."
"Impossible. But for their help, I should not be in England at all now.
So you ought to be grateful to them."
Of course I could not help seeing how my words must have sounded
yesterday; and I asked if I should tell Juliet that I had not
understood how things were. She said "No," for the girls would not like
any talk about their affairs. She had thought it needful to tell me so
much, but I must on no account mention to any one that she had done so.
"I don't see why not. It is nothing very particular to be ashamed of."
"People have their own ways of thinking and doing. I have almost given
up trying to make everybody see everything as I do myself. If it is
their wish to do kindnesses in secret, they have a right to please
themselves in their own fashion."
"Mother, you are always talking about their rights, and never about
mine!"
"My dear, there is not the smallest fear that you will not take
abundant care of your own rights," she replied. And I do not think she
has ever said a harder thing to me. Yet, let me be honest with myself.
Is it not true?
One thing is plain; I must not be vexed any more with either Clarissa
or Juliet, whatever they may choose to do or say. For my mother's sake,
partly, and partly for my own. It puts me too much in their power as
things are now. And suppose I were to annoy them so far that they
should refuse to live any longer with us! Not that I should mind that
in itself—only I do not see how we could get on then. Mother might even
have to go back to India before she is fit for it. And then, suppose
she were taken ill! Why, I could never forgive myself.
Not a very grand reason for keeping my temper.
_March 13th, Wednesday._
We have gone on far more quietly for some days now. I do not know
whether Juliet has heard anything of that talk of ours, but certainly
she has not been so worrying.
A new idea has cropped up. I am to take the twins every day for an
hour of lessons. I said to my mother that I wished I could do anything
to help in the house, and she said this would be a real help. She has
given them about half-an-hour herself, when able, but she is often too
poorly. Juliet has been wanting to undertake it, but my mother has
held back, because she felt that the girls were already doing too much
for us; and certainly I do not think we need go out of our way to be
further indebted to them.
Why did I never think sooner of offering to teach? Mother says she
did think of it, but she fancied that I might not like the trouble.
What nonsense! As if I minded trouble! It just shows how little one is
understood by even those people who love one best. Mother says that
of course she will expect me to be very regular, and not to put aside
the lessons for any other thing that I may want to do. I was almost
indignant with her for even thinking it needful to warn me. As if I
could ever dream of such a thing! Does everybody believe that I really
have no sense of what is right?
I am quite delighted at the thought of having this work. It will be
such an interest; and I shall love to see the pets getting on as fast
as I mean them to do. I intend to make the lesson hour so pleasant that
they will always be sorry to leave off.
_March 15th, Friday._
I never thought I should be such a good hand at teaching. Both
yesterday and to-day the children have been perfect little gems over
their lessons—not a cross word or a tear. They cuddle close up to me,
one on each side, and do exactly what I tell them, and are as quick and
clever as possible. They seem to enjoy my way of teaching so much, that
the only difficulty is to persuade them to leave off. To-day we were
nearly an hour and a-half. Of course, when I spoke of this, Juliet must
needs say—"That is a mistake." As if I didn't know what I was about!
_March 22nd, Friday._
Work goes pretty smoothly. Sometimes I have a lazy fit, and do not
manage my early practice: but nothing has once interfered with the
twins' hour. So I hope by this time that my mother sees I am to be
trusted.
_March 28th, Thursday._
Teaching is not such easy or pleasant work as I expected. For a few
days the twins were charmed, and everything went as well as one could
wish; and I thought they would both be able to read nicely in a very
few weeks. But now all the novelty has worn off, and Addie will not sit
still for five minutes, and Emmie cries at the least word. And whatever
I manage to get into their heads one day seems to have evaporated by
the next morning. In fact, I cannot see that they get on at all. And
one thing is quite sure—if any single thing happens to go wrong, "I" am
the one to be blamed for it.
_April 5th, Friday._
I am getting most desperately tired of being so hard at work day after
day. What with the twins' hour, and my own practising, and reading
French and German, and mending my clothes, and being sent here and
there, I really seem to have no time at all to myself; hardly an hour
that I can properly call my own. Addie and Emmie have to learn to read,
of course, but anybody could teach them their A B C; and I believe my
mother has given it to me, not in the least because she really wants
the help, but because she thinks the employment will do me good. That
takes away every scrap of interest in it.
For what I want is to be of real use to her, not merely to be busy for
my own sake. And I begin to find that I have no particular gift for
teaching. One has to go over and over and over the same things in such
a wearisome way, till one is perfectly sick of them; and after all, not
a scrap of good is done.
_April 9th, Tuesday._
I could not get up in time for practising again—Juliet says "would
not," but really it did seem impossible. And after all, though such a
fuss is made, what does it matter? I am seventeen years old, and many
girls leave off music altogether at seventeen, when they detest it as
I do. Why should I be made to keep on at my practising as if I were
a little child still, not able to judge for myself? If it were not
for Juliet, I do not believe my mother would care in the very least.
Nothing will ever come of all this strumming. I have no gift for music,
none whatever. And I do not care to do just a little of a thing—just
enough to be respectable, and not so well as perhaps half-a-hundred
other girls. I would much rather leave things alone altogether.
If I only had one great marked talent, then I would make the very best
of it. I would work night and day to get on. I would not mind any
amount of fatigue. But as things are, it does not seem worth while. No
good comes of all the trouble.
Of course I know well enough that, as such a talent has not been given
to me, I ought not to wish for it. All the same I "do" wish, and I
don't see how one is to help wishing. I am not lazy by nature; only
it takes all the spring out of one's practising and reading to know
that, work as one may, one will never be able to shine in anything.
Not really to shine. I suppose I can do most things fairly well,—quite
decently—but that is not enough for me. I want to excel, or else to
leave things alone. And that is just what other people never seem to
have sense enough to understand.
Juliet has been setting my mother on to talk to me about the
twins' lessons: and to complain that I have been irregular lately,
and impatient with the children. I don't know what she means by
"irregular,"—at least, if I know, I don't think it is fair. They almost
always have their full time; and what difference "can" it make if one
begins a few minutes later?
Mother reminded me of a resolution that I made one day lately, not to
read tales until after lunch. If I had kept to that, I should not have
been tempted, she said, to put off calling the little ones at the right
time. I wish I had not told her of my resolution; it is so disagreeable
to be reminded afterwards, when one has changed one's mind. One cannot
always be bound by such fidgety rules. I said so, and my mother
answered,—"No use to make rules, unless one is to be bound by them."
"Then why should one make any?"
"Because, Rhoda, you must be either mistress of yourself, or slave
of yourself. And if you do not master yourself, that Self is sure to
master you."
"But such an absurd little thing, as what time in the day one will read
a particular book!"
"Not absurd at all, if the reading or non-reading of that book means a
part of self-conquest. Wherever your weakness of will lies, there you
have to resist. And most of life's fighting is done in side-skirmishes,
not in great battles. We have a few great battles in the course of
years—most of us—but there are a good many tiny rehearsals beforehand.
The soldier who is beaten in his skirmishing has no chance at all when
the heavier fighting comes on."
"Mother, one would think you were in the army."
Mother said no more, and I think from her face that she was rather
hopeless. She might have known that I felt more than I would show.
I liked what she said, and I do not mean to forget it. But for Juliet,
I believe I should keep all my good resolutions quite easily. She gets
past all bearing.
As for impatience, I do not know who would not be impatient in my
place. The twins are so awfully spoilt and fractious that the merest
word makes them set up a duet of shrieks, and that brings the whole
household about my ears. I told my mother how frightfully cross they
were, and how difficult to manage, and she replied that they were
delicate children and easily upset, but that I, being so much older,
ought to be able to make allowances for them.
But why does nobody ever think of making allowances for me?
Perhaps my mother does behind my back, when she is talking to the
girls. It is her way to excuse everybody.
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