A London Girl of the Eighties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  ‘Where do you go to school?’ was of course my first inquiry.

  ‘The North London Collegiate, the biggest school in England, and the finest. You must have heard of it,’ and of its famous headmistress, Miss Buss?’

  No, I hadn’t, but I was not to be squashed, and she had to listen to my glowing description of our Prize-day.

  ‘You call that grand!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, who do you think gave away our prizes? The Princess of Wales!’

  I had been duly impressed with this and with later information about the hundreds of girls, the examinations they were going in for, and the great assembly hall. I hadn’t given much thought to these glories, but they came to my mind when we were wondering what school would be best for me. So I recounted to mother all I could remember about this big school, whose name, ‘The North London Collegiate’, had remained in my mind, as well as its locality—Camden Town. I also recalled the name of the head, Miss Buss. Mother thought that she might venture a note to ask for particulars. A reply came at once to the effect that I might enter the school, provided that I passed the entrance examination, that I obeyed all the regulations, and that my fees were paid in advance.

  ‘Entrance examination?’ said I, ‘Won’t it do if you tell them I’ve passed the Senior Oxford?’

  ‘Apparently not, dear, for I mentioned it in my note.’ I felt that I was indeed up against something big. What would they expect for their entrance examination?

  An afternoon was fixed for me to attend, and taking the train from Highbury to Camden Town I found my way to the school—a formidable-looking building. Seeing some steps labelled ‘Pupils’ Entrance’ I went down them, told the first person I saw the reason of my appearance and was ushered into a room in the basement. Here I was provided with paper, pens, and ink, and various sets of questions which I could take in any order.

  Keyed up as I was for something stiff, these papers seemed to me pifflingly easy. As for an explanation of the tides, I knew much more about them than men of science do today, and drew beautiful diagrams to show how the water was piled up, in Biblical style, with no visible means of support. A blank map of Africa was to be filled in with ‘all you know’, and I was still busily inserting rivers and mountains, towns and capes, when all the papers were collected. I had floored them all, even the arithmetic, and sat back in a slightly supercilious mood. The very large and motherly official (addressed as Miss Begbie) who swam towards me looked a little surprised as she gathered up my stack of answers, and was almost deferential as she said,

  ‘Now, dear, just make a buttonhole before you go.’

  This was a quite unexpected blow. I confessed that I hadn’t the faintest idea how to set about it, and thought that buttonholes just ‘came’. Up went Miss Begbie’s hands in shocked surprise.

  ‘What! A girl of sixteen not know how to make a buttonhole!’

  ‘Can’t I come to the school then?’ I asked in dismay.

  ‘Well, possibly, dear. We shall see. But you must go home, learn to make a buttonhole, and come again this day week to make it.’

  Mother was watching at the window for my return, and as she opened the door I exclaimed, ‘I’ve failed.’ How heartily she laughed when she heard of my disgrace. ‘A buttonhole! Why, I’ll teach you to make one in five minutes.’ So indeed she did, and I practised the trick so assiduously all the week that even now I can make a buttonhole with the best. Meanwhile mother made me a little case to hold needles, cotton, scissors, and thimble, to take with me, ‘to look businesslike’. On the appointed day I appeared, was given a piece of calico, made my buttonhole, and went home. It seemed absurd to take the railway journey just for that, but it was a rule of the school that no girl should enter who couldn’t make a buttonhole.

  A few days later mother received a notice that I had passed, and might enter the school in January. On hearing this, a friend of ours gave me an introduction to a doctor’s family living near, for the eldest daughter, Mary Worley, was one of the head girls of the school, and could tell me more about it. She very kindly called on me, asked me to her house and was friendliness itself. But as to the school she was vague. She had been there for so long that nothing struck her as unusual enough to mention, but she was sure I should like it all right. Although she was going to Girton, and must have been stiff with learning, she was so simple-minded and jolly that she gave mother a happy impression of the type of girl with whom I was to associate. We had many long walks together talking of this and that, but nothing definite about the ways of the school could I extract from her. She was pleased to find that I had done a good bit of Latin by myself and with my brother’s help; she thought it would come in useful, and at her suggestion we read some Livy together. The book was laid open between us, we read silently, and the one who reached the bottom of the page first sat back and waited till the other turned over. She went slowly for my sake I am sure, but always sat back first, and I pretty frequently turned over before I had actually reached the bottom. She also said she enjoyed it. Altogether she was one of the best.

  § 3

  The close of the year was a time of excitement not only for me but for the family at large, for the boys were at home, and usually during the holidays one or other of them would be suffering from ‘purple fever’. This was the name we gave to the periods of post-seeking, because Messrs. Askin and Gabbitas reproduced their notices in purple ink, and each one that was delivered by the postman brought on a general rise in temperature. Thus for instance one day, ‘Listen to this,’ Charles called out to the breakfast table, ‘here’s a fellow wants someone to teach mathematics, some French, to play the organ in chapel, and should be good at games. Where on earth is Rosscarbery? Fetch the gazetteer, Molly. It’s somewhere in Ireland.’ This was followed by a chorus of comment: ‘You don’t know beyond the First Book,’ ‘You hate games,’ ‘Yes, but he can play anything on the piano’ (this from me as I pored over the map). For my part I thought each one that came a most desirable post, and had no doubt of my brothers’ ability to undertake anything that was wanted. And my natural belief in their powers was increased by their testimonials. It fell to my share to copy these out, and I hardly wondered that the boys objected to this job, for the praise was fulsome. As we had no reproducing device I had to copy them all many times in my neatest handwriting, and soon came to know them by heart. The only one I can now recall is our old doctor’s effort with regard to Tom. Evidently put to it to find something useful to say, he described him as ‘a man of parts’. Tom was not allowed to forget this gem.

  It was a standing marvel in the family how Charles ever managed to be appointed to anything. True, he had never failed in an examination, but then he had never been in for one. His form of application was extremely bare, and he expressed his age, not as twenty-one, but ‘next year I shall be in my twenty-third year’. But if he could secure an interview he was all right. Tall, dark, and good-looking, extremely serious in manner, he could impress any stranger as being widely learned and experienced in life. I have never met anyone who could make a wee bit of knowledge go so far. Of course he didn’t attempt to deceive the family, and gave us amusing accounts of the tight corners he had negotiated. He once undertook to teach a boy Greek, and while the pupil was struggling with the early letters of the alphabet the master was busy acquiring the later ones. But where he came out really strong was in anything to do with music or drawing and painting. Since the average school-master of those days was a blank in these matters, Charles was a useful man to have on the staff, and was allowed a free hand to teach as he liked. He had taught himself to play the organ by practising in the little Cornish church of Penponds, employing a small ‘stamps’ boy to blow for him. His first post was in that little Irish town of Rosscarbery, where the combination of school-chapel and parish-church was no less than a cathedral. Here he managed to get some music out of an organ, which was little more than an old broken box, with the swell destroyed, only two pedals that worked, and nearly all the stops gone.
/>   My brother Dym was the exact opposite. Unless he knew a thing thoroughly he wouldn’t teach it. Magnificent on paper, after continuous successes at school and Cambridge, he was poor at an interview, having not an atom of push. I remember his coming home once, a mixture of rage and mirth, to pour forth his feelings. He had been to see a headmaster who seemed dissatisfied from the first, and at last burst out,

  No, no, you won’t do at all. You’re too young, you have no experience and no degree.’

  ‘No degree!’ gasped Dym, ‘but surely, sir, you noted in my application that I was a Wrangler?’

  Well, I don’t care. I wouldn’t have you, not even if you were a Senior Optime.’

  In addition to his modesty Dym had the family drawback of looking much younger than his years. One day he called me up to the study to show what he had done to counteract this. He had actually got a post, and knew he could manage the work, but how impress the boys? I found him robed in his gown, with a pince-nez on his nose, flinging about the room, banging his board on the table, and throwing exercise books at imaginary boys, all accompanied by horrid frowns and vituperations.

  ‘How’s that, Molly, for looking grown-up?’

  ‘Splendid! You’ll frighten the biggest boys. But how can you see with those glasses on?’

  ‘Oh, they are only plain glass. I got them for sixpence at Pocklington’s; they’re a kind of toy; I can keep taking them off and on, and wiping them, like this—gives me a gesture.’ It was a large school near Plymouth, and after a day or two he went to have his hair cut in a local shop. On asking the price he was told ‘It’s a shilling, sir, but we do the young gentlemen from the school at half-price.’ Dym paid his sixpence, glad of at least one advantage of his youthful appearance.

  He quickly gained the boys’ respect, more on account of his cricket than his mathematics no doubt. But one great hulking boy was troublesome and had an admiring following of small fry. Dym waited his opportunity, and after some bit of veiled impudence from the boy, told him in very quiet tones to leave the class. As Dym had foreseen, he looked surly and remained seated. With lightning rapidity Dym stepped up to him, seized him by the collar, dragged him to the door, and slung him out far along the passage, resuming the lesson as if nothing had happened. He never had any more trouble nor the boy any more following.

  My youngest brother, Barnholt, had methods entirely his own for getting on in the world. After being at sea for a year or two and passing his various examinations in navigation, he was at home for a brief spell in the throes of getting another ship. Quite content with a job he had secured, he had just signed on when an uncle offered him a far better position in the Pacific Steam Navigation Company. Was Barnholt annoyed at what he had missed? Did he call the family together to share his chagrin? No. He immediately went back to the captain who had taken him on, entered the presence in a deferential manner, and said with becoming hesitation, ‘Excuse me, sir, for troubling you again, but mother thinks that before I join your ship I ought to have some reference as to your personal character, because———’

  The sentence was never finished. It would not have got so far but that the captain was rendered speechless for a moment. The gist of his reply (never fully reported at home) was that he wouldn’t take Barnholt—not as ballast. Looking surprised and hurt, Barnholt got out of the office and wired his uncle that he was ready for the Pacific job at any moment.

  Nothing ever perturbed Barnholt. We used to say that if he were told that St. Paul’s Cathedral was walking down the street he wouldn’t get up to look at it. And his curious mixture of self-depreciation and fastidiousness is shown by the following talk:

  ‘Ever been in love, Barnholt?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Molly, and you may lay that I shall never marry.’

  ‘But why?’ I replied, surprised at such a determination, for he was a prime favourite with everybody.

  Well, it’s like this—any girl who was fool enough to have me would not be intelligent enough for me.’

  § 4

  During the Christmas holidays of ’82 it occurred to the boys that I ought to have a little relaxation, in view of the rigorous time I was likely to have at my new school. How would I like to go to a theatre and see a real play? My experience of acting had been confined to home and school theatricals. I had never been even to a pantomime. A scrap of doggerel summed up my knowledge of the auditorium:

  Silence in the gallery, order in the pit,

  The ladies in the boxes can’t hear a bit.

  Mother was consulted, and thought it wouldn’t do me any harm, especially as Dym said he would choose quite a small theatre and a funny farce—Betsy at the Criterion. Tom and Charles said they couldn’t stand such rubbish, but would go somewhere else and join us at supper afterwards. The play itself has faded from my memory, but the accompaniments are still vivid. An anxious farewell from mother, as Dym and I stepped into a hansom, sent us off.

  ‘Where to, Sir?’ came a voice through the cabby’s little window.

  ‘Criterion.’

  ‘He’ll think we are out on the spree,’ said I.

  ‘He’ll know it,’ said Dym.

  Mother had put me into my nearest approach to an evening dress, which Dym approved, so that I was not too shy when I sat in the dress-circle, and walked into the grill-room after the play. This was full of cheery people and a pleasant hum of enjoyment and hurrying waiters. I felt it to be like something in the Arabian Nights. We had hardly been bowed to our seats when Tom and Charles walked in and joined us. A low-toned chat with the waiter followed, while I looked with amazement at the wide array of knives and forks by our places.

  ‘What can all these be for?’ I asked Charles.

  ‘You’ll see. I’ll tell you which to use as we go on; and remember you needn’t finish everything up; it’s the thing to leave something on your plate.’

  Such a meal as I had never dreamt of was then brought along in easy stages. Never had I been treated so obsequiously as by that waiter. When wine was served I began to wonder what mother would think. It gave that touch of diablerie to the whole evening that was the main charm. To this day I never pass the ‘Cri’ without recalling my one and only visit to it, with those adored brothers.

  I was to have one more treat before the holidays were over. Charles took me to German Reed’s to see Corney Grain, who sat at the piano and chatted to the audience in a most intimate and engaging way. His description of a honeymoon-couple on board a steamer still comes to my mind when I am embarrassed by a public display of affection. They were sitting opposite Corney at the lunch-table, were holding one another’s hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. In order to avoid looking at them without turning too markedly away he had to aim his food into his mouth as best he could—with some casualties.

  Corney’s manner was solemnity itself, and his remarks about the inconvenience of his own fatness were made with such serious concern that some ladies near me seemed quite annoyed by my laughing over it.

  ‘Don’t you mind those people,’ said Charles, ‘Corney likes to hear you laugh. That’s what he’s here for. I noticed him just now turn towards you and give a little smile.’

  II. Under Law, 1883

  § 1

  AND now for my first day in the grand new school. I was as proud of my season-ticket from Highbury to Camden Town as any girl of later days with her latchkey. On it was inscribed ‘with the privilege of alighting at intermediate stations’. This amused the boys, for the only intermediate station was Barnsbury, where no one ever went; Tom said it was only poets and railway-passengers who ‘alighted’. With this talisman in my pocket I was able to pass the booking-office as though it didn’t exist, and mutter ‘season’ in an off-hand manner at the barriers—a taste of life indeed.

  As I walked up Camden Road I indulged in rosy dreams of all the brainy people I was about to meet. Mary Worley would have gone with me, but the new girls had been told to arrive an hour later than the rest. Consequently Prayers were over a
nd the school was absorbed in the quietude of work, when some fifty of us newcomers were ushered into cloakrooms and thence into a large theatre-shaped room, to be instructed in the ways of the school. A melancholy official began to read aloud a number of regulations. She had only read a few when she suddenly stopped, pointed at a girl in the middle of us, and exclaimed,

  ‘Take off that locket, dear.’ (By the way, I soon noticed that every remark to a girl was followed by the word dear .)

  I can see that poor girl now, very red in the face, fumbling with the chain of her locket. It seemed that there was a rule forbidding any unnecessary ornament. This didn’t trouble me because mother had kept me severely puritanical in this line, even reproving me once for wearing a ring out of a Christmas cracker. School uniforms were then unknown, so some restriction in dress was no doubt needed, but the lack of politeness to that poor girl gave me a shock.

  A gracious welcome was certainly not the note of this preliminary harangue, the main object of which was obviously to chasten our spirits, in case we should think the place a free and easy affair like the régime of the despised private governesses or schools to which we had been accustomed. ‘No nonsense here’ was the key-note. It certainly had an imposing effect on me, and I was impatient to get to work, although a little dazed by the many instructions. At last we were dismissed, with orders to go to the various Forms to which we had previously been assigned by letter.

  ‘Whereabouts is the Upper Fourth?’ I asked.

  ‘You must not speak without putting up your hand, dear.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said I, and repeated my question with my hand hoisted.

  ‘You should say “please” at the end of your question, dear.’

  I tried again in proper style and was told,

  ‘You will find the name of the Form on the door, dear.’