Miss Hughes never came with us on any of these rambles, but she managed during our first term to take each one of us for a long walk alone with her, on some pretext or other, in order that she might get to know us intimately. We gathered this to be her motive, for she slipped out one day that there was no revealer of character like a long walk.
§ 2
Our indoor recreations were for the most part confined to the period between ten o’clock and bed-time, when we paid visits to one another for a goodnight chat. Quite untrammelled by having read any philosophical works, we brought fresh minds to the deepest problems, and found no trouble in deciding the origin of Evil and little points like that. We had a shock of delight on discovering that there is no such thing as Time: the Past was gone, the Future hadn’t come, and the Present appeared to be no more than a kind of decimal point. Then someone started a theory that every object had a soul of its own. It commended itself to me except in respect of my clothes-brush, which was soulless in its way of hiding when wanted, or to use mother’s favourite expression from St. Paul, it had ‘no bowels’. But Miss Rogers thought otherwise. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘the brush has a soul all right; it only follows the law of the total depravity of all inanimate objects.’ Miss Rogers was always ready with a pat saying that dissolved our arguments. The value of introspection was once on the tapis when she broke in with, ‘Surely you know how to conjugate the verb “to be resolute?” It goes like this: “I am firm, thou art obstinate, he is pig-headed”.’
Of course, politics and religion were discussed as freely as anything else, but I can’t remember that we ever grew acrimonious about them. As we none of us knew the exact religious denomination or political party of the others, no one had a ‘label’ and we were thus free to adopt any opinion we liked, comfortably far from what our people at home would think. Probably most of us had been brought up to regard Gladstone as the prop of civilization, and as immortal an institution as Queen Victoria. However, Mr. Wood had given me a glance of the other side of the picture, and the M.O.G. initials had lately been supplanting the G.O.M. in many minds. One morning the first lecture was excused in order that we might all crowd into Miss Rogers’s room to hear her read aloud his now historical Home Rule speech. Bessie Davies was the only one to get really worked up about it. She took this kind of thing more to heart than the rest of us; on St. David’s Day she appeared with an enormous leek fastened to the front of her dress, and although she pretended it was a kind of joke, I think she might have been as touchy as Fluellen if we had tried any funny remarks.
Fortunately we never took ourselves too seriously, for everything we undertook or talked about seemed to be shot with humour, and even the stern admirer of George Eliot would occasionally unbend into a hollow kind of laugh, although we were never sure at exactly what she was laughing, and suspected that sometimes it was at the emptiness of life as a whole.
Every Saturday night we made a point of going entirely silly. It was customary for one of us to give a ‘cocoa’ in her room to all the rest. At ten o’clock each guest arrived with cup and saucer, spoon, cushion to sit on, a bit of sewing, and some kind of contribution to the entertainment—a song, story, puzzle, or what-not. When the student with a piano was the host we had songs from Gilbert and Sullivan and some good old sentimental ballads. Bessie Jones was our only good pianist, but she could only play if she had the music to read. Incredible as it seems now, she had been brought up to think it morally wrong to play from memory. On what scheme of ethics can this have been based? What we all enjoyed most were cumulative rounds, and recitations from Edward Lear, Bret Harte, The Hunting of the Snark, and the Breitman Ballads. Readings from Uncle Remus and Rudder Grange were in constant demand. It was this last book that Miss Hughes introduced to us, and she could hardly read it for the laughter of herself and all of us. She entered with gusto into all our fun, and seemed to have a bottomless store of anecdotes, either true or ben trovato, from her own life or her desultory reading.
There was one item in these meetings that gave me no pleasure, and that was the bit of mending that it was considered respectable to bring. Not from any lack of mending to be done; my skirt got torn by brambles, frayed round the bottom and needing new braid, and often loose from its gathers; and holes in stockings were always with me. Mother had provided me with needles and cotton and ‘mending’, but she couldn’t supply the constant service with which she had always spoilt me. I could do anything with a needle except sew with it, my bits of mending accumulated, and I soon learnt at least one piece of psychology, that you forget to do what you don’t want to do. So I conceived the plan of arriving at the cocoa with my mending, spreading it out ostentatiously, and beginning to do it more clumsily than I need have done. No expert can endure to watch work being bungled. As I foresaw, my neighbour offered to do it for me. I protested properly, but was eventually persuaded to hand it over to her. After a week or two this device of mine became matter of comment, but as it struck every one as a joke it got caught up into the general fun, and I believe the two Bessies would have been disappointed if there had been no response to their cheery greeting, ‘Well, Molly, what have you got tonight that wants mending?’ They little knew how great was their boon, for I kept to myself how I had once in a desperate hurry been driven to my childhood’s trick of painting with indigo the bit of my leg that was showing through a hole.
One of those Saturdays I specially asked to be the host, without stating the reason. It was my nineteenth birthday, and Tony had promised to send me a big tin of cream and a batch of saffron buns. These made a grand addition to the customary fare of biscuits. Mother had sent me a new dressing-gown of bright blue, and as it was usual to wear dressing-gowns at these parties, the gift was more than welcome. I had never owned such a garment before, and had hitherto appeared in my day dress. Perhaps it was my new gown, or my high spirits, or the cream…but they soon guessed that it was a special occasion, and did their best to make the party go off well. I can still remember some of the contributions. Miss Rogers led off with ‘The Heathen Chinee’, reaching the crisis with a preternatural solemnity.
‘I looked at Nye, and Nye looked at me.’
Bessie Davies gave us ‘Barbara Fritchie’ in mock elocution style, making her teeth disappear as she imitated the old woman’s ‘Shoot if you must this old grey head’. Miss Mears read us Uncle Remus’s story of the Deluge, which even then we felt to be a masterpiece. By this time all had been well plied with cocoa and Cornish fare, mending was brought out, and we looked hopefully to Miss Hughes.
‘I expect you want a story,’ she said. ‘Well, I have an old one that may amuse you: Long ago, in the days of King Solomon, there was a little robin—a specially happy little fellow because his wife thought all the world of him. When accounts reached him of Solomon’s wonderful new Temple “Pooh!” said he, “I have but to place my claw on the top of it for a moment and the whole affair will collapse.” His wife told the neighbours with great pride what her husband could do. By degrees the little robin’s boast reached the ears of Solomon himself. “Send him to me,” said the King. “My dear,” said the robin to his wife, “King Solomon has summoned me to his presence.” “Oh, I hope he has not heard of what you have been saying.” “I have no doubt that he has, and desires a conference with me on the subject.” When he reached the royal presence—“What do you mean,” King Solomon asked, “by saying that you could destroy my Temple?” Rather alarmed, the little robin thought it best to make a clean breast: “To tell you the truth, Sire, I only said it to impress the wife.” “Oh, I see,” laughed the King. “Enough! Wives need that kind of thing, I know. But your kind of talk goes too far. Don’t do it again, you understand.” On the robin’s return his wife was anxiously waiting for the news. “What did the King say to you?” “He begged me not to do it, dear.”’
After this the demand was insistent for another story, and looks were turned on me for an account of one of the wild tricks of my brothers when we were children at
home.
‘I’ve got quite a different story tonight,’ said I, ‘one that I came across somewhere—in some magazine, I suppose. The accuracy of the story was not vouched for, but I think you will say that it has truth stamped upon it.’ Amid incredulous smiles I began:
‘Many years ago two Englishmen, Brown and Robinson, were engaged in a tiger-hunting expedition in India. Shortly after their arrival Brown went out for a sun-down stroll by himself. It was a beautiful evening and beautiful scenery, and he was tempted to stray afar, and was attracted by a narrow terrace-path winding along between the hillside above and a precipice below, and each turn of it gave him a fresh view of delight. A greater surprise was in store for him. Rounding the next bend, some ten yards ahead, swinging along, was a huge tigress. With the wit that flies to our brain in tight places, he squeezed himself as flat as possible against the hillside and kept as doggo as his agitation would let him, holding his breath. With awful slowness the beast swung along towards him, apparently enjoying the evening air as he had been doing. She drew alongside, yes, she was actually passing him. But the tension and the sudden relief were too much, and his nerve gave way. Giving her haunch a mighty smack he exclaimed “Gee up, old lady!”
‘Next thing he knew he was hanging over the precipice supported by the tigress, who had her teeth in his clothes. She was pulling him up on to the path. He knew that his only hope now was to sham dead, and he lay on the path as limp as possible while she began to sniff him all over. Now he always carried snuff in his pocket, and some of it had been shaken out over his waistcoat in his fall. Presently the tigress gave an almighty sneeze, and bounded off in haste. “A lesson to you, my boy, not to venture out so far without your gun,” was Robinson’s comment on the story. A week or two later the two friends were walking together when Brown pointed to the very turn of the path where it happened. “And look, here’s a fair find,” said Robinson, aiming his gun at a tigress stretched out on a rock below, with her cubs by her. “Stop 1” cried Brown, pulling his arm down, “Don’t shoot her. That’s my tigress. She saved my life.”’
This story tickled Miss Hughes greatly, and frequently she would hail me at any odd time as I was starting off somewhere with ‘Gee up, old lady!’
Sundays were always pleasant for us. With the plethora of places of worship in Cambridge we could sample any kind we liked, and no one remarked on what we did. Before we left school Miss Buss had summoned us few North Londoners for a serious talk and advice. She told us that Cambridge was a hotbed of infidelity, and that we must not be tempted away from our faith, but nail our colours to the mast. This led me to suppose that any college chapel was of the hotbed kind and must be avoided. As I had recently fallen under the spell of E. A. Stewart of Holloway and his too emotional eloquence, I determined to attend the church in Cambridge that he recommended to me. Off I marched by myself to this very low church (I forget its name) near the junction of Petty Cury with Sidney Street, supported through its quite exceptional dullness by the consciousness that I was doing a lot of nailing to the mast. On the third Sunday I suppose I looked a little disgruntled at lunch, for Miss Rogers came to me afterwards with:
‘You might come with me to King’s this afternoon; I should be so grateful for your company; you can go out if you don’t like it.’
I respected Miss Rogers and felt sure that she wouldn’t go anywhere that was too much of a hotbed. So I agreed. She made no reference to the chapel on the way, but talked of this and that. Never shall I forget my shock of delight as we stepped in. The afternoon sun was streaming through the warm colours of the west window. Then we went farther in, all among the deep cool blues of the windows beyond the screen. When we sat down my eye caught sight of the vaulted roof. In spite of my long acquaintance with St. Paul’s Cathedral and occasional visits to Westminster Abbey, I felt that I had never seen anything so lovely. And the anthem finished me; not even St. Paul’s choir could equal the singing of ‘Lord, how long wilt Thou forget me’.
We barely spoke on the way home, for Miss Rogers had the sense not to ‘pat’ the impression by remarking on it. As our walk was ending I said, ‘Thank you for bringing me. In church this morning they sang the hymn, “There is a fountain filled with blood”, and I felt I couldn’t stand it anymore.’ ‘You needn’t thank me,’ said Miss Rogers. ‘I saw your face in King’s, and it was ample reward.’
After that there were no more ordinary churches for me. While you are in Cambridge, see it, was henceforth my slogan. Consequently I seized the chance to go one evening to Trinity chapel, as we were told that it was one of the sights of Cambridge. It certainly was a strange sight. Of the Service I remember nothing. What impressed me was the mental agility of the men who ‘told off’ the undergraduates as they came in. Hundreds of young men in white surplices, all of them looking to me exactly alike, and there were the ‘tellers’ pricking each one off as he went in. Apparently this pricking meant that the young men had to attend whether they liked it or not—a new and uncomfortable idea to me.
From a religious point of view I found a visit to the University sermon at St. Mary’s far more inspiring. Not so much the sermon itself, as to see the church packed with undergraduates who had not been compelled to come, and to hear the volume of sound when they burst into ‘All people that on earth do dwell’. This had always seemed to me a very tame hymn, but given forth like that by so many voices it took on a kind of majesty.
Perhaps Miss Hughes had suffered from sabbatarianism as a child, for she took good care that our Sundays should have no dreariness. In the evening we were always invited to her room for a reading and discussion. Sometimes it was Emerson, sometimes Robertson of Brighton, sometimes modern poetry. There was a vogue for Browning just then, and we all enjoyed trying to understand him—the obscurer the poem the better. How worked up we all were over ‘Bifurcation’! Miss Hughes had a solution of it worthy of Sherlock Holmes: the girl was suffering from tuberculosis, and the man couldn’t make up his mind to marry her. I thought I saw the idea once, but no fresh reading will bring back to me Miss Hughes’s idea, or indeed any other.
The number of new ideas, new friends, new experiences, all coming to me in a rush, made this time at Cambridge seem very long in retrospect, in fact a large slice of my life. I can hardly believe that it lasted only two terms, from September ’85 to April ’86. To make the utmost use of such a short course Miss Hughes arranged for us to pay visits to different types of schools in the neighbourhood of our homes during the vacation. She gave us personal introductions to the Heads and asked us to write our impressions for her to see. This proved one of the most useful bits of our training, for the Heads took quite an interest in showing us round. One of my expeditions was to Croydon High School, where I was told: ‘We have no rules and no punishments.’ This staggered me, after the rigours of the North London. ‘Oh, it works all right,’ said the charming Headmistress, ‘the girls behave quite well without them; after all, nobody wants to forget books or to be untidy, and really there’s no fun in being unruly if you’re not punished for it, is there?’
A visit to a London Training College was a very different experience. I was allowed, along with several other visitors, to attend a ‘Criticism Lesson’. A large number of the students, lecturers, and visitors were seated as in the auditorium of a theatre. A class of children occupied the ‘well’, and the student to be criticized stood in front of them and held forth. By no stretch of the imagination could it be called teaching, in such conditions. When the half-hour was up the children filed out, and the lecturer in charge (a well-known educationist) took the floor. He then called upon student after student to give her criticism of the lesson. It was bad enough for the poor young teacher, but it was almost worse for the critics, whose merciful little remarks were held up to scorn. The strain was almost more than I as a mere onlooker could bear. How thankful I was that my lot had fallen in a pleasanter place, as I thought of our informal criticisms at Cambridge; and I hardly wondered that Miss Hughes gave u
p quite early the practice of having more than two or three critics at a lesson.
§ 3
Those Christmas holidays were an unhappy contrast to all the previous ones I had known. My father’s death had destroyed the extreme hilarity of our childhood, but mother had always done her best to keep the season as gay as she could make it. But now Canonbury with all its jolly associations was a thing of the past. I know now that mother must have been eating her heart out while I was at Cambridge, living with her sister Lizzie in Lee, in a small house in a respectable road—the kind of road that has artistic architectural ornaments, but if you forget the number you can’t tell which house is yours. Fortunately Charles came to spend part of the holidays with us, and enabled us to see the funny side of things. Aunt Lizzie herself was the main source of our amusement, from her adamant seriousness. Religion as ever was her absorbing hobby, but at this time it took the form of high Anglicanism, for she had fallen under the spell of a young curate who had gone all ritualistic. His name was impressed on my memory, for she could never advance an opinion without introducing it with: ‘As I was saying to Mr. Owen the other day’. It must have been out of sheer weariness of having this young man pushed down our throats that mother and I went to a nonconformist place close by. Lizzie, in spite of her many flirtations with nonconformity in the past, was distressed at such falling away.
A London Girl of the Eighties Page 13