The fuss which preceded our wedding was very considerable indeed.
Presents abounded. Even in my house, which is a large one, they got
greatly in the way. There was, for instance, a large picture sent by
Titherington. I do not think he had any malicious intention. He probably
gave an order to a dealer without any details of the kind of work of
art to be supplied. It turned out be a finely coloured photographic
reproduction of a picture which had been very popular a few years
before, called “The Ministering Angel.” It represented a hospital nurse
in the act of exulting over her patient. It reminded me so unpleasantly
of my time in Ballygore that I gave orders to have it set up with its
face to the wall in a passage. There I used to trip over it nearly every
day. Canon Beresford’s position was worse than mine, for his house was
smaller and Lalage’s presents were both numerous and larger than those
sent to me.
I also suffered great inconvenience from the paperers and painters who
came down from Dublin in large numbers and pervaded my favourite rooms.
It was my mother who invited them. She said that the house was in a
disgraceful condition. Lalage took the keenest interest in these men
and their work. She used to come over every morning and harangue them
vehemently.
This was some consolation to me for the paperers and painters certainly
did not like it. I used to enjoy hearing what they said to each after
Lalage had finished with them. Before and after she dealt with the men
she used to consult with my mother about clothes. Miss Battersby was
admitted to these council meetings. I never was. Patterns of materials
arrived from the most distant shops. Some came direct to my mother. I
used to see them piled up behind the letters on the breakfast table.
Others came to Miss Battersby, who brought them over in the Thormanby’s
pony trap. Still more were addressed to Lalage at the rectory. I used to
send for these in the morning and it was while she waited for them that
Lalage gave the paperers and painters her opinion of their incompetence.
It seemed to me quite impossible that any one, during those frenzied six
weeks, could have thought calmly on any serious subject. But Lalage is
a very wonderful young woman and my mother is able to retain her
self-possession under the most trying circumstances. They managed
somehow to snatch an hour or two for that long talk about my future of
which my mother had spoken to me. I do not know whether Miss Battersby’s
advice was asked. Mine certainly was not. Nor was I told at the time the
result of the deliberations. That leaked out long afterward, when the
wedding was over and we had returned home to settle down, I scarcely
hoped, in peace. I suspected, of course, that I should be made to do
something, and I was agreeably surprised that no form of labour was
directly imposed on me for some time. Lalage, acting no doubt on my
mother’s advice, decided to shepherd rather than goad me along the way
on which it was decided that I should go.
She began by saying in a casual way, one night after dinner, that she
did not think I had any real taste for political life. I agreed with
her heartily. Then she and my mother smiled at each other in a way which
made me certain that they had some other career for me in mind. Shortly
afterward they took to talking a great deal about books, especially at
meal times, and several literary papers appeared regularly on my study
table. I came to the conclusion that they wished me to become a patron
of literature, perhaps to collect a library or to invite poets to spend
their holidays with us. I was quite willing to fall in with this plan,
but I determined, privately, only to become acquainted with poets of
a peaceable kind who wrote pastorals or elegies and went out for long,
solitary walks to commune with nature. In my eagerness to please Lalage
I went so far as to write to Selby-Harrison, asking him to make out for
me a list of the leading poets of the meditative and mystical schools. I
also gave an order to a bookseller for all the books of original poetry
published during that autumn. The number of volumes I received surprised
me. I used to exhibit them with great pride to my mother and Lalage. I
once offered to read out extracts from them in the evening.
“The bent of your genius,” said Lalage, “is evidently literary.”
My mother backed her up of course.
“It is,” I said, “and always was. It’s a great pity that it wasn’t found
out sooner. Think of the time I wasted in Portugal and of that wretched
episode in East Connor. However, there’s no use going back on past
mistakes.”
“They weren’t altogether mistakes,” said Lalage. “We couldn’t have known
that you were literary until we found out that you weren’t any good at
anything else.”
“That view of literature,” I said, “as the last refuge of the
incompetent, is quite unworthy of you, Lalage. Recollect that you
once edited a magazine yourself. You should have more respect for the
profession of letters.”
“Don’t argue,” said Lalage. “All we say is that if you can’t do anything
else you must be able to write.”
Then the truth began to become clear to me. My dream of a life of
cultured ease, spent, with intervals for recreation, in the society of
gentle poets, faded.
“Do you mean,” I said, “that I’m to----?”
“Certainly,” said Lalage.
“To write a book?” I said desperately.
“That’s the reason,” said Lalage, “why I refurnished your study and
bought that perfectly sweet Dutch marquetry bureau and hung up the
picture of Milton dictating ‘Paradise Lost’ to his two daughters.”
I have hated that picture since the day it first appeared in in my
study. I only agreed to letting it in because I knew the alternative was
Titherington’s hospital nurse. The Dutch bureau, if it is Dutch, is most
uncomfortable to write at. There was no use, however, wrangling about
details. I brought forward the one strong objection to the plan which
occurred to me at the moment.
“Has my uncle been consulted?” I asked. “From what I know of Thormanby
I should say he’s not at all likely to agree to my spending my life in
writing poetry.”
“His idea,” said my mother, “is that you should bring out a
comprehensive work on the economic condition of Ireland in the twentieth
century.”
“He thinks,” Lalage added, “that when you do go into Parliament it will
be a great advantage to you to be a recognized authority on something,
even if it’s only Irish economics.”
I knew, of course, that I should have to give in to a certain extent
in the end; but I was not prepared to fall in with Thormanby’s absurd
suggestion.
“Very well,” I said, “I shall write a book. I shall write my
reminiscences.”
“Reminiscences,” said Lalage, “are rather rot as a rule.”
“The bent of my genius,” I said, “is entirely reminiscent.”
Rather to my surprise Lalage accepted the reminiscences as a tolerable
substitute for the economic treatise. I suppose she did not really care
what I wrote so long as I wrote something.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll give you six months.”
I had, I am bound to say, a very pleasant and undisturbed life during
the six months allowed me by Lalage. I did my writing, for the most
part, in the morning, working at the Dutch marquetry bureau from ten
o’clock until shortly after noon. I soon came to find a great deal of
pleasure in my work. The only thing which ever put me out of temper was
the picture of Milton dictating to two plump young women who had taken
off their bodices in order to write with more freedom. If there are any
peevish or ill-humoured passages in my book they are to be attributed
entirely to the influence of that picture, chiefly to the tousled look
of the younger daughter. The fact that her father was blind was no
excuse for her neglecting to do her hair when she got up in the morning.
I have secured, by the help of Selby-Harrison, a publisher for the book.
He insists on bringing it out as a novel and refuses to allow it to
be called “Memories of My Early Life,” the title I chose. “Lalage’s
Lovers,” the name under which it appears in his list of forthcoming
fiction, seems to me misleading. It suggests a sentimental narrative and
will, I fear, give rise to some disappointment. However, I suppose
that the book may sell better if we pretend that it is not true. But
in Ireland, at least, this device will be vain. The things with which I
deal were not done in a corner. There are many bishops who still smart
from Lalage’s attack on them, and Titherington, at all events, is not
likely to forget last year’s epidemic of influenza. I shall, indeed,
be very glad if the publisher’s ruse succeeds and the public generally
believes that I have invented the whole story. Now that the moment of
publication comes near and I am engaged in adding a few final sentences
to the last chapter I am beginning to feel nervous and uncomfortable.
There may be a good deal of trouble and annoyance when the book comes
out.
I have set down nothing except the truth and this ought to please
Lalage; but I am not at all sure that it will. I have noticed that of
late she has shown signs of disliking any mention of the _Anti-Tommy-Rot
Gazette_ or the campaign of the Association for the Suppression of
Public Lying in East Connor. She pulled me up very abruptly yesterday
when I asked her what Hilda’s surname really is. I wanted it in order
to make my book as complete as possible. Lalage seemed to think that I
intended to annoy her by talking over past events.
“I wish,” she said, “that you wouldn’t always try to make yourself out a
fool. You’ve known Hilda intimately since she was quite a girl.”
That, of course, was my difficulty all along. I have known Hilda too
intimately. If our friendship had been more formal or had begun more
formally, I should, at first at all events, have called her “Miss”
something instead of simply “Hilda.” Then I should not be in my present
awkward position.
I am also doubtful about Thormanby’s reception of the book. He ought
to be pleased, for he appears in my pages as a bluff, straightforward
nobleman, devoted to the public good and full of sound common-sense
though slightly choleric. This is exactly what he is; but I have
noticed that people are not always pleased with faithful portraits of
themselves.
The case of the Archdeacon, now bishop, is more serious. He has not yet
married Miss Battersby, although Lalage has done her best to throw them
together and the advantages of the match become every day more obvious.
It is just possible that the publication of my reminiscences may create
an awkwardness--a constraint of manner on the part of the bishop, a
modest shrinking in Miss Battersby, which will tend to put off the final
settlement of the affair. I ventured to hint to Lalage that it might
be well to bring the business to a head, if possible, before my book is
published. Lalage expressed considerable surprise.
“What on earth has your book got to do with their marriage?” she said.
I saw no good in anticipating what is likely to be an evil day by
offering a premature explanation.
“Nothing,” I said, “nothing at all.”
“Then why do you want to have them married before the book comes out?”
“I don’t,” I said. “I merely want them to be engaged. My idea is to give
them the book as a wedding present, nicely bound in calf of course.”
“Poor Pussy,” said Lalage; “I intend to give her something better than
that.”
Lalage has not read my book. It was a bargain from the very first that
neither she nor my mother should ask to see the manuscript. She cannot
know, therefore, whether it will be better or worse than the silver
teapot which I expect she has in mind for Miss Battersby’s wedding
present.
Another thing which troubles me is the future of Selby-Harrison. It
has been arranged, chiefly by Lalage, that the bishop, who used to be
Archdeacon, is to ordain Selby-Harrison as curate assistant to Canon
Beresford. There are incidents in the career of Selby-Harrison of which
no bishop can be expected to approve. His part in Lalage’s various
crusades has not hitherto been forced upon the attention of the public.
My book will, I fear, make it plain that he was an active power in
the various reforming societies which caused so much annoyance to
many people. If I could, I would leave Selby-Harrison out of the book
altogether, but to do so would render unintelligible the whole sequence
of events which resulted from the discovery of that text in First
Timothy. Besides, it would scarcely be fair to deprive the young man of
the credit he certainly deserves for the masterly way in which he drew
up the agreements which Titherington and I signed.
All this causes me to hesitate, even now at the eleventh hour, about
publishing the book at all. One consideration, however, decides me to go
on and face the consequences, whatever they may be. This is not the kind
of book which will encourage Thormanby to drive me into Parliament. That
plan, at all events, will be dropped when my reminiscences appear.