MISS MULBERRY--DISCIPLINE AND RECREATION--MADAME--CONVERSATION--ELEANOR'S
OPINION OF THE DRAWING-MASTER--MISS ELLEN'S--ELEANOR'S APOLOGY.
Miss Mulberry was our school-mistress, and the head of the Bush House
establishment. "Madame" was only a French mistress employed by Miss
Mulberry, though she had more to do with the pupils than Miss Mulberry
herself.
Miss Mulberry was stout, and I think by nature disposed to indolence,
especially in warm weather. It was all the more creditable to her that
she had worked hard for many years to support a paralytic mother and a
delicate sister. The mother was dead now. Miss Ellen Mulberry, though an
invalid, gave some help in teaching the younger ones; and Bush House
had for so long been a highly-reputed establishment that Miss Mulberry
was more or less prosperous, and could afford to keep a French governess
to do the hard work.
Miss Mulberry was very conscientious, very kind-hearted, and the pink of
propriety. Her appearance, at once bland and solid, produced a
favourable impression upon parents and guardians. Being stout, and
between fifty and sixty years old, she was often described as
"motherly," though in the timidity, fidgetiness, and primness of her
dealing with girls she was essentially a spinster.
Her good conscience and her timidity both helped to make her feel
school-keeping a heavy responsibility, which should perhaps excuse the
fact that we suffered at Bush House from an excess of the meddlesome
discipline which seems to be _de rigueur_ in girls' schools. I think
Miss Mulberry would have felt that she had neglected her duty if we had
ever been left to our own devices for an hour.
To growing girls, not too robust, leading sedentary lives, working very
hard with our heads, and having (wholesome and sufficient meals, but)
not as much animal food as most of us were accustomed to at home, the
_nag_ of never being free from supervision was both irritating and
depressing. Much worse off were we than boys at school. No
playing-fields had we; no leave could be obtained for country rambles
by ourselves. Our dismal exercise was a promenade in double file under
the eye and ear of Madame herself.
True, we were allowed fifteen minutes' "recreation" together, and by
ourselves, in the school-room, just after dinner; but this inestimable
privilege was always marred by the fact that Madame invariably came for
us before the quarter of an hour had expired. No other part of school
discipline annoyed us as this did. It had that element of injustice
against which children always rebel. Why she did so remains to this day
a puzzle to me. She worked very hard for her living--a fact which did
not occur to us in those days to modify our view of her as our natural
tormentor. In breaking faith with us daily by curtailing our allotted
fifteen minutes of recreation, she deprived herself of rest to the exact
amount by which she defrauded us.
She cannot have pined to begin to teach as soon as she had swallowed her
food! I may do her an injustice, but the only reason I can think of as a
likely one is that, by taking us unawares, she (I won't say hoped, but)
expected to find us "in mischief."
It was a weak point of the arrangements of Bush House that Miss Mulberry
left us so much to the care of Madame. Madame was twice as energetic as
Miss Mulberry. Madame never spared herself if she never spared us.
Madame was indefatigable, and in her own way as conscientious as Miss
Mulberry herself. But Madame was not just, and she was not truthful. She
had--either no sense at all, or--a quite different sense from ours of
honour and uprightness. Perhaps the latter, for she seemed to break
promises, tell lies, open letters, pry into drawers and boxes, and
listen at keyholes from the highest sense of duty. And, which was even
worse for us, she had no belief whatever in the trustworthiness of her
pupils.
Miss Mulberry felt it to be her duty towards our parents and guardians
to keep us under constant supervision; but Madame watched and worried
us, I am convinced, in the persuasion that we were certain to get into
mischief if we had the chance, and equally certain to do so deceitfully.
She gave us full credit (I never could trace that she saw any discredit
in deceit) for slyness in evading her authority, but flattered herself
that her own superior slyness would maintain it in spite of us.
It vexed us all, but there were times when it irritated Eleanor almost
to frenzy. She would have been in disgrace oftener and more seriously on
the subject, but that Madame was a little afraid of her, and was, I
think, not a little fond of her.
Madame was a clever woman, and a good teacher. She was sharp-witted,
ready of tongue, and indefatigably industrious herself; and slow,
stupid, or lazy girls found no mercy at her hands.
Eleanor's unusual abilities, the extent of her knowledge and reading on
general subjects, the rapidity with which she picked up conversational
French and wielded it in discussions with Madame, and finally her
industry and perseverance, won Madame's admiration and good-will. I
think she almost believed that Mademoiselle Arkwright's word was to be
relied upon.
Eleanor never toadied her, which I fear we others (we were so utterly at
her mercy!) did sometimes; assuming an interest we did not feel in her
dissertations on the greatness of France and the character of her
especial idol, the first Napoleon.
If Madame respected Eleanor, we school-girls almost revered her. "She
talks so splendidly," Lucy said one day.
Not that the rest of us were by any means dumb. The fact that English
was forbidden did not silence us, and on Sunday when (to Madame's
undisguised chagrin) Miss Mulberry allowed us to speak English, we
chattered like sparrows during an anthem. But Eleanor introduced a kind
of talk which was new to most of us.
We could all chatter of people and places, and what was said on this
occasion or what happened on another. We had one good mimic (Emma), and
two or three of us were smart in description. We were observant of
details and appearances, and we could one and all "natter" over our
small grievances without wearying of the subject, and without ever
speculating on their causes, or devising remedies for them.
But, with Eleanor, facts served more as points to talk from, than as
talk in themselves. Through her influence the Why and How of things
began to steal into our conversation. We had more discussion and less
gossip, and found it better fun.
"One never tells you anything without your beginning to argue about it,"
said one of the girls to her one day.
"I'm very sorry," said poor Eleanor.
"You're very clever, you mean," said Emma. "What a lawyer you'd have
made, Eleanor! While we growl at the Toad's tyranny, you make a case out
of it."
(I regret to have to confess that, owing to a peculiarity of complexion,
Madame was familiarly known to us, behind her back, as the Toad.)
"Well, I don't know," said Eleanor, puckering her brows and nursing her
knees, as we all sat or lounged on the school-room floor, during the
after-dinner recreation minutes, in various awkward but restful
attitudes; "I can growl as well as anybody, but I never feel satisfied
with bewailing over and over again that black's black. One wants to find
out why it's black, and if anything would make it white. Besides, I
think perhaps when one looks into one's grievances, one sees excuses for
people--there are two sides to every question."
"There'll be one, two, three," said Emma, looking slowly round and
counting the party with a comical imitation of Eleanor's thoughtful
air--"there'll be fifteen sides to every question by the time we've all
learnt to talk like you, my dear."
Eleanor burst out laughing, and we most of us joined her to such good
purpose, that Madame overheard us, and thought it prudent to break up
our sitting, though we had only had a short twelve minutes' rest.
Eleanor not only set the fashion of a more reasonable style of chat in
our brief holiday hours, but she was apt to make lessons the subject of
discussions which were at first resented by the other girls.
"I can't think," she began one day (it was a favourite way with her of
opening a discussion)--"I can't think what makes Mr. Henley always make
us put the shadows in in cobalt. Some shadows are light blue certainly,
I think, especially on these white roads, but I don't think they are
always; not in Yorkshire, at any rate. However, as far as that goes, he
paints his things all in the same colours, whatever they're meant for;
the Bay of Naples or the coast of Northumberland. By the bye, I know
that I've heard that the shadows on the snow in Canada are really
blue--bright blue."
"You're blue, deep blue," said Emma. "How you can talk shop out of
lesson hours, Eleanor, I can't conceive. You began on grammar the other
day, by way of enlivening our ten minutes' rest."
"I'm very sorry," said Eleanor: "I'm fond of drawing, you know."
"Oh, do let her talk, Emma!" cried Peony. "I do so like to hear her. Why
are the shadows on the snow blue, Eleanor?"
"I can't think," said Eleanor, "unless it has something to do with
reflection from the sky."
Eleanor was not always discreet enough to keep her opinion of Mr.
Henley's style to herself and us. She was a very clever girl, and, like
other very young people, her cleverness was apt to be aggressive;
scorned compromises, and was not always sufficiently respectful towards
the powers that be.
Her taste for drawing was known, and Madame taunted her one day with
having a reputation for talent in this line, when her water-colour
copies were not so effective as Lucy's; simply, I believe, with the wish
to stimulate her to excel. I am sure Madame much preferred Eleanor to
Lucy, as a matter of liking.
"Behold, Mademoiselle!" said she, holding up one of Lucy's latest
copies, just glorified with a wide aureole of white cardboard
"mounting"; "what do you think of this?"
"It is very like Mr. Henley's," said Eleanor warmly. "Lucy has taken
great pains, I'm sure. It's quite as good as the copy, I think."
"But what do you think of it?" said Madame impatiently; she was too
quick-witted to be easily "put off." "Is it not beautiful?"
"It is very smart, very gay," said Eleanor, who began to lose her
temper. "All Mr. Henley's sketches are gay. The thatch on the house
reminds me of the 'ends' of Berlin wool that are kept, after a big piece
of work, for kettle-holders. The yellow tree and the blue tree are very
pretty: there always is a yellow tree and a blue tree in Mr. Henley's
sketches. I don't know what kind of trees they are. I never do. The
trunks are pink, but that doesn't help one, for the markings on them are
always the same."
Eleanor's French was quite good enough to give this speech its full
weight, as Madame's kindling eyes testified. She flung the drawing from
her, and was bursting forth into reply, when, by good luck, Miss
Mulberry called for her so impatiently that she was obliged to leave the
room.
I had been repeating a lesson to Miss Ellen Mulberry, who lay on a couch
near the window, but we had both paused involuntarily to listen to
Eleanor and Madame.
Miss Ellen was very good. She was also very gentle, and timid to
nervousness. But from her couch she saw a good deal of the daily life of
the school, and often understood matters better than those who were in
the thick of it, I think.
When Madame had left the room, she called Eleanor to her, and in an
almost trembling voice said:
"My dear, do you think you are quite right to speak so to Madame about
that drawing?"
"I am very sorry, Miss Ellen," said Eleanor; "but it's what I think, and
she asked me what I thought."
"You are very clever, my dear," said Miss Ellen, "and no one knows
better than yourself that there are more ways than one of expressing
one's opinion."
"Indeed," Eleanor broke in, "I don't want to be rude. I'm sorry I did
speak so pertly. But oh, Miss Ellen, I wish you could see the trees my
mother draws! How can I say I like those things of Mr. Henley's? Like
green seaweeds on the end of a pink hay-fork! And we've lots of old
etchings at home, with such trees in them! Like--well, like nothing but
real trees and photographs."
Miss Ellen took Eleanor's hand and drew her towards her.
"My dear," said she, "you have plenty of sense; and have evidently used
it to appreciate what your dear mother has shown and taught to you. Use
it now, my dear, to ask yourself if it is reasonable to expect that men
who could draw like the old masters would teach in ordinary girls'
schools, or, if they would, that school-mistresses could afford to pay
them properly without a much greater charge to the parents of pupils
than they would be willing to bear. You have had great advantages at
home, and have learnt enough to make you able to say very smart things;
but fault-finding is an easy trade, my dear, and it would be wiser as
well as kinder to see what good you can get from poor Mr. Henley's
lessons, as to the use of the brush and colours, instead of neglecting
your drawing because you don't like his style, which, after all, you
needn't copy when you sketch from nature yourself. I will tell you, dear
child, that my sister and I have talked this matter over before. Clever
young people are apt to think that their stupid elders have never
perceived what their brilliant young wits can put straight with
half-a-dozen words. But I used to draw a little myself," continued Miss
Ellen very modestly, "and I have never liked Mr. Henley's style. But he
is such a very good old man, and so poor, that my sister has shrunk from
changing. Still, of course our pupils are the first consideration, and
we should have had another master if a much better one could have been
got. But Mr. Markham, who is the only other one within reach, is not so
painstaking and patient with his pupils as Mr. Henley; and though his
style is rather better, it is not so very superior as to lead us, on the
whole, to turn poor Mr. Henley away for him. As to Madame," said Miss
Ellen, in conclusion, "she was quite right, my dear, to contrast your
negligence with Lucy's industry, and your smart speech was not in good
taste towards her, because you know that she knows nothing of drawing,
and could not dispute the point with you. There she comes," added Miss
Ellen rather nervously. She was afraid of Madame.
"I'll go and beg her pardon, dear Miss Ellen," said Eleanor penitently,
and rushing out of the room, she met Madame in the passage, and we heard
her pouring forth a torrent of apology and self-accusation in a style
peculiar to herself. If in her youth and cleverness she was at times a
little sharp-tongued and self-opinionated, the vehemence of her
self-reproaches when she saw herself in fault was always a joke with
those who knew her.
"Eleanor's confessions are only to be matched by her favourite Jeremy
Taylor's," said Jack one day.
"She's just as bumptious next time, all the same," said Clement. He had
been disputing with Eleanor, and the generous grace of meeting an
apology half-way was no part of his character.
He had an arbitrary disposition, in which Eleanor to some extent shared.
He controlled it to fairness in discussions with men, but with men only.
With Eleanor, who persisted in thinking for herself, and was not slow to
express her thoughts, he had many hot disputes, in which he often seemed
unable to be fair, and did not always trouble himself to be reasonable.
By his own account he "detested girls with opinions." Abroad he was
politely contemptuous of feminine ideas; at home he was apt to be rudely
so.
But this was only one, and a later development of many-sided Clement.
And the subject is a digression, and has no business here.