On Sundays we used to take a walk of no great length, giving a rest to sight-seeing, sketching, and botany, and sitting about to read. It was thus that I caught M’Jane with another book that she had privily packed—a selection of rather unusually deep religious pensées and poems. When I showed great interest in these she said, ‘I keep this in the background, dear, as my sister does not care for it. She has been embittered about all kinds of religion. You see, we are Unitarians, and are looked upon as atheists, and by many people as inferior socially.’ That seemed to me an absurd idea, and as soon as occasion offered I asked Yetta what the Unitarian creed was that it should be thought so disgraceful. The answer came out as pat as from a penny in the slot: ‘We believe in the father-hood of God, and the brotherhood of man.’ ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘that’s just what Church people believe, and can’t be offensive to anyone?’ She shrugged her shoulders and spread out her hands, and then added a definition of the sect that evidently pleased her greatly. It was the remark made by a business man who had been asked what Unitarians believe: ‘I don’t know what they believe; all I know about them is that they pay twenty shillings in the pound.’
Her scrupulous honesty about money amounted to a religion in itself, a kind of odd mammon-worship. A penny was a sacred thing, never to be treated lightly, as in the phrase ‘It’s only a penny’. She had a slogan, ‘Never lend more money than you can afford to lose’. Clothes and household goods were never to be given away unless they were clearly of no more use. M’Jane was far looser in her morals. She used to give away things surreptitiously to the undeserving, and try to look innocent when the inevitable question arose, ‘What has become of that spare strip of carpet?’
Yetta’s animosity to the Church was aggravated by the behaviour of the usual visitors in the hotel. On Sunday morning they would turn the dining-room into a temporary church, and have the Anglican service performed by any clergyman who happened to be on holiday. All well and good, but the fuss in clearing the room, arranging seats, setting out flowers, and expecting silence in the hotel, was annoying to those who belonged to another communion and distasteful to many ordinary Church people. While Yetta remained rather snortingly aloof, M’Jane and I would sometimes go in search of any native gathering we could find. Once we enjoyed an ancient ritual to celebrate some saint. On the pilgrim path from Saas im Grund up to Saas-Fee there were a number of little chapels of a fascinating kind, and it was in the largest of these that we joined a congregation of peasants dressed in their gayest clothes, marching, singing, and carrying banners, and M’Jane understood some of what they were praying and singing about.
When we were in Berne we induced Yetta to go with us to the cathedral, since the Lutheran service was bound to be fairly Protestant. Protestant it obviously was, for anything less like a Roman Catholic ritual it would be hard to imagine. Not a word could I understand, and had to deduce from the parson’s manner in the pulpit (where he remained all the time) whether he was reading the Bible or preaching or praying. I got no hints from the attitude of the congregations, for they sat through everything, even when singing a hymn. At least I suppose it was a hymn, but the only sound was a kind of hum, given forth in a rhythmic swing mildly suggestive of a tune. Suddenly M’Jane passed urgent word along the pew that we were to go out. She was so seldom imperative in her mood that we knew it was not to be questioned, and sidled out at once, fearing she was ill. But when we got into the open air she seemed quite herself, and Yetta asked her what on earth she had ordered us out for. ‘I saw Molly’s face,’ said she, ‘and felt sure that one of her sudden bursts of laughter was imminent.’
§ 3
To those who know Switzerland it would be useless to name the centres we visited, and tedious to those who don’t know it. I will only mention a few, just to give an idea of the trouble Yetta must have taken to plan a holiday that would give me an all-round idea of the country. We drove along the Rhône valley to the hotel at its head, and thence we climbed up by the side of the glacier to the St. Gothard Pass. We went by the rack-and-pinion railway to the Rochers de Naye. We cruised on Lake Geneva, and visited the Castle of Chillon. We had the exciting but rather fearful experience of groping along the wooden track through the Aarschlucht. And, far more delightful than any of these, we found remote places where we could gather the small blue gentian, Linnaea borealis, and even the very rare edelweiss.
We were at Saas-Fee one evening, at our usual after-dinner occupations, when I joined Yetta in her itinerary work for the next day. We had her big map spread out on the floor, showing the mountain-ranges all grey and forbidding. ‘How near we seem to Italy,’ I muttered, thinking that perhaps one day Arthur and I might be rich enough to go there together. ‘Let’s go there tomorrow,’ said Yetta quite quietly, without looking up, and running her finger along the map. ‘We could do it from here, but it means a long walk, too far for M’Jane.’ She was within earshot and immediately said, ‘You two go; I shall be so glad of a day to myself here, to look up lots of flowers in my books.’ Whereupon we seized maps and guide-books with fresh energy, and saw that we could reach the Monte Moro Pass if we put up somewhere for a night on the way, and then we could get back by the following night. ‘The view from the summit is grand in the extreme,’ I read aloud from the guide-book, and added, ‘I could have told the author that.’ Yetta was looking pessimistically for a possible place to spend the night. ‘There’s something they call an inn,’ said she, ‘but they say no more at all; goodness knows what it will be like.’ ‘But an inn is an inn,’ said I, ‘it must be able to take us in, and what more do we want?’
We were to be off by 6.30, and Yetta warned me to go as light as possible, taking nothing in my satchel but the barest needs for the night. Keats must stay behind then, but I couldn’t go to Italy without taking some treasure to share it with me. Now I had got in my trunk a very small prayer-book that I never needed but kept by me for its association with my father. He had given it to me when I was four years old—a lovely little volume, bound in leather with a gilt clasp, and bright rubrics that cheered me through the litany. When I could read I thought it would be nice to follow what they were saying in my book, so one Sunday morning I took it to my brother, ‘Tell me, Tom, how far they’ve got in this book. I want to begin reading it today in church.’ ‘Here you are,’ said he, pointing to ‘The wicked man’. ‘How funny,’ said I, ‘that they should be starting today, just when I want to start!’ ‘They start there every time,’ said Tom. I gasped, ‘What! this whole book every time!’ ‘Yes, more or less,’ said he, and I put off my scheme to a future date. In fact the print was too small for easy use, but the little book was a constant companion, and I tucked it into my satchel for Italy.
Our route was unfrequented by tourists, and passed many little villages, each with its cupola-topped church tower, and sketchable bits everywhere, and the weather superb. I can’t remember what we did for lunch, but I know that we arrived very tired and hungry at the ‘Mattmark See Hotel’. I have stayed at many queer hostelries in my time, but none quite so outlandish as that. We were too hungry to be critical of the supper, and too tired to do more than have a look at the lake—a dreary affair—before we felt inclined for bed. There was only one bedroom to be had, and this was only large enough to hold two little beds and a minute washing-stand furnished with a basin no bigger than a pudding-bowl and a jug of water to correspond, and one small towel. But there was no lack of moisture in the beds. Yetta, who was a folio edition of a woman, could hardly get into hers, and I spent much of the night bunching myself up so as to get as little of the damp as possible. ‘It’s a good thing,’ said I, ‘that we are to be called at four; we shan’t have to be in these beds for long.’ The early start was necessary, not only that we might get back to Saas by nightfall, but also that we might see the sunrise effects. Provided with some stale rolls by the inn (I guessed that bread was brought to them once a fortnight, and that we were near the end of a batch) for our lunch on the way, we started off
along the roughest and stiffest road I have ever known. But what mattered the road, what mattered a poor night and a vile breakfast, what mattered anything at all, when one was so blessed as to be able to see the glow on the mountains before the sun rose? No sunset can equal it, nothing on earth can equal it. I think Beethoven must have had such a scene in his mind when he composed the andante movement of his Fifth Symphony.
We reached the top of the pass about midday, and allowed ourselves half an hour for seeing Italy. As we were struggling up I had at the back of my mind the blue distances in Titian’s pictures, and now I saw what he had seen. I sat down in Italy and champed my stale roll in a vast contentment. Thoughts of the great painters, thoughts of Hannibal, scraps of Roman history crowded into my mind, but the dominating interest was the knowledge that it was Virgil’s country, and taking out my little prayer-book I wrote in it ‘Italy’, then the date, and then a favourite phrase from the Aeneid.
Whenever I am asked if I have visited Italy, I reply ‘Yes,’ and if the inquirer is sufficiently interested (very rare) to ask my impressions of it my reply is ready: ‘I found the scenery magnificent; but I didn’t think much of the food I had there.’ People are usually too anxious to give their own impressions, and to recommend good hotels, to pursue their inquiries further.
I have never paid a proper visit to Italy, nor indeed have I ever been on the Continent at all since those jolly holidays over forty years ago. No doubt there have been vast improvements in travelling since then. But comfort and convenience deprive one of a lot of fun. One incident on our return journey gives me a pleasanter memory than a great deal of smooth travelling in later days on our own railways. At Dijon we had a stop of twenty minutes at about seven o’clock in the evening. The station restaurant was well prepared for the usual invasion of about fifty passengers, all seizing their only chance of dinner. We were swiftly ushered to our seats at long tables, and immediately waiters bore down upon us carrying our first course. Each waiter carried six plates of hot soup extended on his left arm, and dispensed them to us with his right, exhibiting such extraordinary skill that not a drop was spilt. No sooner was the soup delivered than each waiter dashed away and reappeared with plates of fish to be doled out in like manner. Course followed course, and plates were snatched away, till we reached the cheese. At this stage alms-boxes were handed round, into which we dropped our money, and then rushed to the platform where the train was panting for the start. I remember falling head-long on to the floor of the carriage, overcome with laughter. ‘Do try not to laugh, dear,’ said M’Jane; ‘after that dinner, it may make you ill.’
IX. Preparations
§ 1
THE year 1896 was humming with preparations for the Queen’s coming Jubilee. Arthur and I too were humming a little on our own account. The Golden Jubilee had been the occasion of our first meeting, and we thought it a good idea to be married in the Diamond one. The risk was great, but the future was bound to be uncertain, wait we never so long. Arthur had built up a fair practice at the Bar, and I had saved a nest-egg of two hundred pounds, so, we thought, why not? and fixed on 1897 as our second lucky year. Realizing that I should have no more chance, when married, of paying ‘bachelor’ visits to my brothers, I determined to allot my remaining holidays between them—Christmas with Tom and Easter with Dym. A third visit, an earlier summer one, was thrown in, and it so chanced that these three visits served as a preparation for married life, since they gave me a glimpse of it in three important stages—in the second year, in the tenth year, and in middle age. The visits came in the reverse order chronologically, and that is the order I must follow.
It was in the summer that a barrister friend of Arthur’s, named James Corner, invited us both to spend a fortnight at his place in Hereford. Holmer Park was a real ‘place’ in the old-fashioned sense—a mansion in large rambling grounds, with horses and carriages, friendly dogs, and other animals everywhere about. There must be hundreds of such places in England, and I should not mention our visit were it not for the unusual characteristics of the owners. Mr. and Mrs. Corner were rich and contented. Their one son was now grown up, and they were left alone to enjoy together a delightful middle age. I have come across a few wealthy people and an untold number of jolly people, but this combination of wealth, jollity, and middle age is unique in my experience. The servants of the establishment seemed endless—maids, grooms, gardeners, and odd boys about, all busy over something. But it was Mrs. Corner herself who opened the door to us when we drove up from the station; and although we had resplendent meals, there was none of the fussy formality of being over-waited upon that detracts from the fun.
We were taken for long drives in the country, shown the cathedral and other interests of the town, including the old house that had once been the Butchers’ Guildhall. Here the carvings amused us, for the sainted bullocks with wings and what looked like haloes gave the impression of the beasts in Revelation. We had lazy afternoons pottering in the garden, the stables, the kennels, and the poultry-runs, or lying in hammocks and reading. New books and periodicals were scattered about untidily everywhere, competing with the dogs for the best chairs. In short, it was a house to delight a man, being at once comfortable and well mauled.
But it was the talk that I enjoyed most. I never can see why ‘shop’ should be considered boring. I wanted nothing more entertaining than to hear Mr. Corner and Arthur discussing their cases and the clever advocacy of Carson and other legal stars of the day. I would hear tantalizing scraps like this: ‘My case was quite hopeless, but I saw my little jury.’ ‘The judge was hesitating…he might come down on either side…so I gave him a cushion to sit on—a little case on all fours with ours—and he sat.’ Both Mrs. Corner and I were pleased with one of her husband’s stories, because it showed how a woman could outwit men: this female criminal had to be conducted by train to prison in the charge of two police-officers. At a junction there was a change and a short wait, she demanded to be released in order to visit the ladies’ room; the two men kept guard outside the waiting-room door; time passed, and they grew anxious about catching their train; on investigation they found that the inner room was connected with the first-class one, and their prisoner had merely walked quietly through and was well away.
When Mrs. Corner and I were alone we had many pleasant talks. She had no pretentions to learning or wide reading, but she had acquired a philosophy of life that filtered through to me as she talked. It might have sounded mere commonplace had it not been illustrated every hour of the day by her own life; and later on I learnt that she and her husband had had their full share of trouble. ‘I’m old enough to give you some advice on married life, dear,’ said she, ‘and, believe me, to be really happily married is a work of art, just like a painting or a piece of music, and I think myself that it’s the greatest of all. Don’t be surprised if there are dark shadows too. Surely life without any griefs or worries would be as fatiguing as if there were nothing else, and certainly dull.’
‘What do you think,’ said I, ‘of Dr. Johnson’s remark when he heard that a married couple had never had a quarrel—“What a damned dull life they must have had!”?’
‘Did he say that? Then I don’t think much of his wisdom.’
‘I’m so glad you feel like that,’ said I, ‘for it has always seemed to me neither funny nor true.’
‘The wonder to me,’ said Mrs. Corner, ‘is that anyone thought it worth preserving. I suppose the old fellow was thinking of those humdrum couples who seem to live like vegetables with no spirit even to be annoyed.’
Encouraged by her views on this subject I then asked her opinion of another thing that had troubled me a little. An uncle’s kindly advice had been, ‘Be sure you don’t expect too much of one another.’ This seemed to me such a half-hearted insipid way of starting a great adventure. ‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Mrs. Corner eagerly, ‘fancy being cautious all the time, afraid to ask, afraid to give, lest you should be asking too much or giving too much! No, dear, just go head
long at things together, and life will get more splendid as time goes on.’
§ 2
The visit to my brother Tom in the Christmas holidays of ’96 showed me married life at a mid-way stage, and in circumstances unlike that of the Corners. Tom was classics master in the High School at Middlesbrough, and lived in a small house in the town with his wife and two boys aged nine and eight. Naturally economy was necessary, but Nell had brought it to a fine art and obviously enjoyed it. This suited my tastes, and one year we had had a race to see which should spend less on clothes. ‘Mind, Molly,’ said Nell, ‘you’ve got to put down every penny you spend, if it’s only a bit of boot-mending.’ The fact that she actually won this race throws a light on her character, for I was near the limit in doing without. Another trait we had in common was the love of little unnecessary expenditures, such as morning coffee at Amos Hinton’s when we were shopping. And we never went for a country walk with the little boys without a packet of sweets. Nell used to excuse herself for this by saying, ‘Sweets adds’—a phrase made more convincing by its oddity of grammar.
Nell and I together tried all sorts of cooking dodges. Her main cookery book was one issued by some meat-extract company. ‘They are splendid recipes,’ she explained, ‘if you do all they say and just leave out the meat-extract.’ Susan, the little daily maid, fetched and carried, stared and laughed, and I am sure hoped for failures, for these she was allowed to carry home, where her young brother, she assured us, was in bed, in a creditable condition.
My term had ended earlier than the school terms, so that I arrived some ten days before Christmas. This provided me with another preparation for married life. On the morning after my arrival the two little boys, Viv and Llew, showed me with great pride the copy-books they had been doing: ‘Auntie is coming’ was displayed a dozen times in large round hand. While I was loudly admiring these Nell broke her scheme to me: would I be a brick and give them a short lesson in arithmetic every morning?
A London Home in the Nineties Page 13