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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35072-8.txt b/35072-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e6d892 --- /dev/null +++ b/35072-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6922 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, In the Mountains, by Elizabeth von Arnim + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: In the Mountains + + +Author: Elizabeth von Arnim + + + +Release Date: January 25, 2011 [eBook #35072] +Most recently updated: February 25, 2011 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS*** + + +E-text prepared by Laura MacDonald (http://www.girlebooks.com) +and Marc D'Hooghe (http://www.freeliterature.org) + + + +IN THE MOUNTAINS + +by + +THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN" + + + + + + + +Macmillan and Co., Limited +St. Martin's Street, London +1920 + + + + +IN THE MOUNTAINS + + +_July 22nd._ + +I want to be quiet now. + +I crawled up here this morning from the valley like a sick +ant,--struggled up to the little house on the mountain side that I +haven't seen since the first August of the war, and dropped down on the +grass outside it, too tired even to be able to thank God that I had got +home. + +Here I am once more, come back alone to the house that used to be so +full of happy life that its little wooden sides nearly burst with the +sound of it. I never could have dreamed that I would come back to it +alone. Five years ago, how rich I was in love; now how poor, how +stripped of all I had. Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I'm too +tired. I want to be quiet now. Till I'm not so tired. If only I can be +quiet.... + + +_July 23rd._ + +Yesterday all day long I lay on the grass in front of the door and +watched the white clouds slowly passing one after the other at long, +lazy intervals over the tops of the delphiniums,--the row of delphiniums +I planted all those years ago. I didn't think of anything; I just lay +there in the hot sun, blinking up and counting the intervals between one +spike being reached and the next. I was conscious of the colour of the +delphiniums, jabbing up stark into the sky, and of how blue they were; +and yet not so blue, so deeply and radiantly blue, as the sky. Behind +them was the great basin of space filled with that other blue of the +air, that lovely blue with violet shades in it; for the mountain I am on +drops sharply away from the edge of my tiny terrace-garden, and the +whole of the space between it and the mountains opposite brims all day +long with blue and violet light. At night the bottom of the valley looks +like water, and the lamps in the little town lying along it like +quivering reflections of the stars. + +I wonder why I write about these things. As if I didn't know them! Why +do I tell myself in writing what I already so well know? Don't I know +about the mountain, and the brimming cup of blue light? It is because, +I suppose, it's lonely to stay inside oneself. One has to come out and +talk. And if there is no one to talk to one imagines someone, as though +one were writing a letter to somebody who loves one, and who will want +to know, with the sweet eagerness and solicitude of love, what one does +and what the place one is in looks like. It makes one feel less lonely +to think like this,--to write it down, as if to one's friend who cares. +For I'm afraid of loneliness; shiveringly, terribly afraid. I don't mean +the ordinary physical loneliness, for here I am, deliberately travelled +away from London to get to it, to its spaciousness and healing. I mean +that awful loneliness of spirit that is the ultimate tragedy of life. +When you've got to that, really reached it, without hope, without +escape, you die. You just can't bear it, and you die. + + +_July 24th._ + +It's queer the urge one has to express oneself, to get one's self into +words. If I weren't alone I wouldn't write, of course, I would talk. But +nearly everything I wanted to say would be things I couldn't say. Not +unless it was to some wonderful, perfect, all-understanding +listener,--the sort one used to imagine God was in the days when one +said prayers. Not quite like God though either, for this listener would +sometimes say something kind and gentle, and sometimes, stroke one's +hand a little to show that he understood. Physically, it is most blessed +to be alone. After all that has happened, it is most blessed. Perhaps I +shall grow well here, alone. Perhaps just sitting on these honey-scented +grass slopes will gradually heal me. I'll sit and lick my wounds. I do +so dreadfully want to get mended! I do so dreadfully want to get back to +confidence in goodness. + + +_July 25th._ + +For three days now I've done nothing but lie in the sun, except when +meals are put in the open doorway for me. Then I get up reluctantly, +like some sleepy animal, and go and eat them and come out again. + +In the evening it is too cold and dewy here for the grass, so I drag a +deep chair into the doorway and sit and stare at the darkening sky and +the brightening stars. At ten o'clock Antoine, the man of all work who +has looked after the house in its years of silence during the war, shuts +up everything except this door and withdraws to his own room and his +wife; and presently I go in too, bolting the door behind me, though +there is nothing really to shut out except the great night, and I creep +upstairs and fall asleep the minute I'm in bed. Indeed, I don't think +I'm much more awake in the day than in the night. I'm so tired that I +want to sleep and sleep; for years and years; for ever and ever. + +There was no unpacking to do. Everything was here as I left it five +years ago. We only took, five years ago, what each could carry, waving +goodbye to the house at the bend of the path and calling to it as the +German soldiers called to their disappearing homes, 'Back for +Christmas!' So that I came again to it with only what I could carry, and +had nothing to unpack. All I had to do was to drop my little bag on the +first chair I found and myself on to the grass, and in that position we +both stayed till bedtime. + +Antoine is surprised at nothing. He usedn't to be surprised at my +gaiety, which yet might well have seemed to him, accustomed to the +sobriety of the peasant women here, excessive; and nor is he now +surprised at my silence. He has made a few inquiries as to the health +and whereabouts of the other members of that confident group that waved +goodbyes five years ago, and showed no surprise when the answer, at +nearly every name, was 'Dead.' He has married since I went away, and +hasn't a single one of the five children he might have had, and he +doesn't seem surprised at that either. I am. I imagined the house, while +I was away, getting steadily fuller, and used to think that when I came +back I would find little Swiss babies scattered all over it; for, after +all, there quite well might have been ten, supposing Antoine had +happened to possess a natural facility in twins. + + +_July 26th._ + +The silence here is astonishing. There are hardly any birds. There is +hardly any wind, so that the leaves are very still and the grass +scarcely stirs. The crickets are busy, and the sound of the bells on +distant cows pasturing higher up on the mountains floats down to me; but +else there is nothing but a great, sun-flooded silence. + +When I left London it was raining. The Peace Day flags, still hanging +along the streets, drooped heavy with wet in what might have been +November air, it was so dank and gloomy. I was prepared to arrive here +in one of the mountain mists that settle down on one sometimes for +days,--vast wet stretches of grey stuff like some cold, sodden blanket, +muffling one away from the mountains opposite, and the valley, and the +sun. Instead I found summer: beautiful clear summer, fresh and warm +together as only summer up on these honey-scented slopes can be, with +the peasants beginning to cut the grass,--for things happen a month +later here than down in the valley, and if you climb higher you can +catch up June, and by climbing higher and higher you can climb, if you +want to, right back into the spring. But you don't want to if you're me. +You don't want to do anything but stay quiet where you are. + + +_July 27th._ + +If only I don't think--if only I don't think and remember--how can I not +get well again here in the beauty and the gentleness? There's all next +month, and September, and perhaps October too may be warm and golden. +After that I must go back, because the weather in this high place while +it is changing from the calms of autumn to the calms of the exquisite +alpine winter is a disagreeable, daunting thing. But I have two whole +months; perhaps three. Surely I'll be stronger, tougher, by then? Surely +I'll at least be better? I couldn't face the winter in London if this +desperate darkness and distrust of life is still in my soul. I don't +want to talk about my soul. I hate to. But what else am I to call the +innermost _Me,_ the thing that has had such wounds, that is so much hurt +and has grown so dim that I'm in terror lest it should give up and go +under, go quite out, and leave me alone in the dark? + + +_July 28th._ + +It is dreadful to be so much like Job. + +Like him I've been extraordinarily stripped of all that made life +lovely. Like him I've lost, in a time that is very short to have been +packed so full of disasters, nearly everything I loved. And it wasn't +only the war. The war passed over me, as it did over everybody, like +some awful cyclone, flattening out hope and fruitfulness, leaving blood +and ruins behind it; but it wasn't only that. In the losses of the war, +in the anguish of losing one's friends, there was the grisly comfort of +companionship in grief; but beyond and besides that life has been +devastated for me. I do feel like Job, and I can't bear it. It is so +humiliating, being so much stricken. I feel ridiculous as well as +wretched; as if somebody had taken my face and rubbed it in dust. + +And still, like Job, I cling on to what I can of trust in goodness, for +if I let that go I know there would be nothing left but death. + + +_July 29th._ + +Oh, what is all this talk of death? To-day I suddenly noticed that each +day since I've been here what I've written down has been a whine, and +that each day while I whined I was in fact being wrapped round by +beautiful things, as safe and as perfectly cared for _really_ as a baby +fortunate enough to have been born into the right sort of family. +Oughtn't I to be ashamed? Of course I ought; and so I am. For, looking +at the hours, each hour as I get to it, they are all good. Why should I +spoil them, the ones I'm at now, by the vivid remembrance, the aching +misery, of those black ones behind me? They, anyhow, are done with; and +the ones I have got to now are plainly good. And as for Job who so much +haunted me yesterday, I can't really be completely like him, for at +least I've not yet had to take a potsherd and sit down somewhere and +scrape. But perhaps I had better touch wood over that, for one has to +keep these days a wary eye on God. + +Mrs. Antoine, small and twenty-five, who has been provided by Antoine, +that expert in dodging inconveniences, with a churn suited to her size +out of which she produces little pats of butter suited to my size every +day, Switzerland not having any butter in it at all for sale,--Mrs. +Antoine looked at me to-day when she brought out food at dinner time, +and catching my eye she smiled at me; and so I smiled at her, and +instantly she began to talk. + +Up to now she has crept about softly on the tips of her toes as if she +were afraid of waking me, and I had supposed it to be her usual fashion +of moving and that it was natural to her to be silent; but to-day, after +we had smiled at each other, she stood over me with a dish in one hand +and a plate in the other, and held forth at length with the utmost +blitheness, like some carolling blacks bird, about her sufferings, and +the sufferings of Antoine, and the sufferings of everybody during the +war. The worse the sufferings she described had been the blither became +her carollings; and with a final chirrup of the most flute-like +cheerfulness she finished this way: + +_'Ah, ma foi, oui--il y avait un temps où il a fallu se fier entièrement +au bon Dieu. C'était affreux._' + + +_July 30th._ + +It's true that the worst pain is the remembering one's happiness when +one is no longer happy and perhaps it may be just as true that past +miseries end by giving one some sort of satisfaction. Just their being +over must dispose one to regard them complacently. Certainly I already I +remember with a smile and a not unaffectionate shrug troubles that +seemed very dreadful a few years back. But this--this misery that has +got me now, isn't it too deep, doesn't it cut too ruthlessly at the very +roots of my life ever to be something that I will smile at? It seems +impossible that I ever should. I think the remembrance of this year will +always come like a knife cutting through any little happiness I may +manage to collect. You see, what has happened has taken away my faith in +_goodness_,--I don't know who _you_ are that I keep on wanting to tell +things to, but I must talk and tell you. Yes; that is what it has done; +and the hurt goes too far down to be healed. Yet I know time is a queer, +wholesome thing. I've lived long enough to have found that out. It is +very sanitary. It cleans up everything. It never fails to sterilise and +purify. Quite possibly I shall end by being a wise old lady who +discourses with, the utmost sprightliness, after her regular meals, on +her past agonies, and extracts much agreeable entertainment from them, +even is amusing about them. You see, they will be so far away, so safely +done with; never, anyhow, going to happen again. Why of course in time, +in years and years, one's troubles must end by being entertaining. But I +don't believe, however old I am and however wisely hilarious, I shall +ever be able to avoid the stab in the back, the clutch of pain at the +heart, that the remembrance of beautiful past happiness gives one. Lost. +Lost. Gone. And one is still alive, and still gets up carefully every +day, and buttons all one's buttons, and goes down to breakfast. + + +_July 31st._ + +Once I knew a bishop rather intimately--oh, nothing that wasn't most +creditable to us both--and he said to me, 'Dear child, you will always +be happy if you are good.' + +I'm afraid he couldn't have been quite candid, or else he was very +inexperienced, for I have never been so terribly good in the bishop's +sense as these last three years, turning my back on every private wish, +dreadfully unselfish, devoted, a perfect monster of goodness. And +unhappiness went with me every step of the way. + +I much prefer what some one else said to me, (not a bishop but yet +wise,) to whom I commented once on the really extraordinary bubbling +happiness that used to wake up with me every morning, the amazing joy of +each day as it came, the warm flooding gratitude that I _should_ be so +happy,--this was before the war. He said, beginning also like the bishop +but, unlike him, failing in delicacy at the end, 'Dear child, it is +because you have a sound stomach.' + + +_August 1st._ + +The last first of August I was here was the 1914 one. It was just such a +day as this,--blue, hot, glorious of colour and light. We in this house, +cut off in our remoteness from the noise and excitement of a world +setting out with cries of enthusiasm on its path of suicide, cut off by +distance and steepness even from the valley where the dusty Swiss +soldiers were collecting and every sort of rumour ran like flames, went +as usual through our pleasant day, reading, talking, clambering in the +pine-woods, eating romantic meals out in the little garden that hangs +like a fringe of flowers along the edge of the rock, unconscious, +serene, confident in life. Just as to-day the delphiniums stood +brilliantly blue, straight, and motionless on this edge, and it might +have been the very same purple pansies crowding at their feet. Nobody +came to tell us anything. We were lapped in peace. Of course even up +here there had been the slight ruffle of the Archduke's murder in June, +and the slight wonder towards the end of July as to what would come of +it; but the ruffle and the wonder died away in what seemed the solid, +ever-enduring comfortableness of life. Such comfortableness went too +deep, was too much settled, too heavy, to make it thinkable that it +should ever really be disturbed. There would be quarrels, but they would +be localised. Why, the mere feeding of the vast modern armies would +etc., etc. We were very innocent and trustful in those days. Looking +back at it, it is so pathetic as to be almost worthy of tears. + +Well, I don't want to remember all that. One turns with a sick weariness +from the recollection. At least one is thankful that we're at Now and +not at Then. This first of August has the great advantage of having all +that was coming after that first of August behind it instead of ahead of +it. At least on this first of August most of the killing, of the +slaughtering of young bodies and bright hopes, has left off. The world +is very horrible still, but nothing can ever be so horrible as killing. + + +_August 2nd._ + +The only thing to do with one's old sorrows is to tuck them up neatly in +their shroud and turn one's face away from their grave towards what is +coming next. + +That is what I am going to do. To-day I have the kind of feelings that +take hold of convalescents. I hardly dare hope it, but I have done +things to-day that do seem convalescent; done them and liked doing them; +things that I haven't till to-day had the faintest desire to do. + +I've been for a walk. And a quite good walk, up in the forest where the +water tumbles over rocks and the air is full of resin. And then when I +got home I burrowed about among my books, arranging their volumes and +loving the feel of them. It is more than ten days since I got here, and +till to-day I haven't moved; till to-day I've lain about with no wish to +move, with no wish at all except to have no wish. Once or twice I have +been ashamed of myself; and once or twice into the sleepy twilight of +my mind has come a little nicker of suspicion that perhaps life still, +after all, may be beautiful, that it may perhaps, after all, be just as +beautiful as ever if only I will open my eyes and look. But the flicker +has soon gone out again, damped out by the vault-like atmosphere of the +place it had got into. + +To-day I do feel different; and oh how glad I'd be if I _could_ be glad! +I don't believe there was ever anybody who loved being happy as much as +I did. What I mean is that I was so acutely conscious of being happy, so +appreciative of it; that I wasn't ever bored, and was always and +continuously grateful for the whole delicious loveliness of the world. + +I think it must be unusual never to have been bored. I realise this when +I hear other people talk. Certainly I'm never bored as people sometimes +appear to be by being alone, by the absence of amusement from without; +and as for bores, persons who obviously were bores, they didn't bore me, +they interested me. It was so wonderful to me, their unawareness that +they were bores. Besides, they were usually very kind; and also, +shameful though it is to confess, bores like me, and I am touched by +being liked, even by a bore. Sometimes it is true I have had to take +temporary refuge in doing what Dr. Johnson found so convenient, +--withdrawing my attention, but this is dangerous because of the +inevitable accompanying glazed and wandering eye. Still, much can be +done by practice in combining coherency of response with private +separate meditation. + +Just before I left London I met a man whose fate it has been for years +to sit daily in the Law Courts delivering judgments, and he told me that +he took a volume of poetry with him--preferably Wordsworth--and read in +it as it lay open on his knees under the table, to the great refreshment +and invigoration of his soul; and yet, so skilled had he become in the +practice of two attentivenesses, he never missed a word that was said or +a point that was made. There are indeed nice people in the world. I did +like that man. It seemed such a wise and pleasant thing to do, to lay +the dust of those sad places, where people who once liked each other go +because they are angry, with the gentle waters of poetry. I am sure that +man is the sort of husband whose wife's heart gives a jump of gladness +each time he comes home. + + +_August 3rd._ + +These burning August days, when I live in so great a glory of light and +colour that it is like living in the glowing heart of a jewel, how +impossible it is to keep from gratitude. I'm so grateful to be here, to +_have_ here to come to. Really I think I'm beginning to feel +different--remote from the old unhappy things that were strangling me +dead; restored; almost as though I might really some day be in tune +again. There's a moon now, and in the evenings I get into a coat and lie +in the low chair in the doorway watching it, and sometimes I forget for +as long as a whole half hour that the happiness I believed in is gone +for ever. I love sitting there and feeling little gusts of scent cross +my face every now and then, as if some one had patted it softly in +passing by. Sometimes it is the scent of the cut grass that has been +baking all day in the sun, but most often it is the scent from a group +of Madonna lilies just outside the door, planted by Antoine in one of +the Septembers of the war. + +'_C'est ma maman qui me les a donnés_,' he said; and when I had done +expressing my joy at their beauty and their fragrance, and my +appreciation of his _maman's_ conduct in having made my garden so lovely +a present, he said that she had given them in order that, by brewing +their leaves and applying the resulting concoction at the right moment, +he and Mrs. Antoine might be cured of suppurating wounds. + +'But you haven't got any suppurating wounds,' I said, astonished and +disillusioned. + +'_Ah, pour ça non_,' said Antoine. '_Mais il ne faut pas attendre qu'on +les a pour se procurer le remède._' + +Well, if he approaches every future contingency with the same prudence +he must be kept very busy; but the long winters of the war up here have +developed in him, I suppose, a Swiss Family Robinson-like ingenuity of +preparation for eventualities. + +What lovely long words I've just been writing. I can't be as +convalescent as I thought. I'm sure real vigour is brief. You don't say +Damn if your vitality is low; you trail among querulous, water-blooded +words like regrettable and unfortunate. But I think, perhaps, being in +my top layers very adaptable, it was really the elderly books I've been +reading the last day or two that made me arrange my language along their +lines. Not old books,--elderly. Written in the great Victorian age, when +the emotions draped themselves chastely in lengths, and avoided the rude +simplicities of shorts. + +There is the oddest lot of books in this house, pitchforked together by +circumstances, and sometimes their accidental rearrangement by Antoine +after cleaning their shelves each spring of my absence would make their +writers, if they could know, curdle between their own covers. Some are +standing on their heads--Antoine has no prejudices about the right side +up of an author--most of those in sets have their volumes wrong, and +yesterday I found a Henry James, lost from the rest of him, lost even, +it looked like, to propriety, held tight between two ladies. The ladies +were Ouida and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. They would hardly let him go, they +had got him so tight. I pulled him out, a little damaged, and restored +him, ruffled in spite of my careful smoothing, to his proper place. It +was the _Son and Brother_; and there he had been for months, perhaps +years, being hugged. Dreadful. + +When I come down to breakfast and find I am a little ahead of the _café +au lait_, I wander into the place that has most books in it--though +indeed books are in every place, and have even oozed along the +passages--and fill up the time, till Mrs. Antoine calls me, in rescue +work of an urgent nature. But it is impossible, I find, to tidy books +without ending by sitting on the floor in the middle of a great +untidiness and reading. The coffee grows cold and the egg repulsive, but +still I read. You open a book idly, and you see: + +_The most glaring anomalies seemed to afford them no intellectual +inconvenience, neither would they listen to any arguments as to the +waste of money and happiness which their folly caused them. I was +allowed almost to call them life-long self-deceivers to their faces, and +they said it was quite true, but that it did not matter._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open another book idly, and you see: + +_Our admiration of King Alfred is greatly increased by the fact that we +know very little about him._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open another book idly, and you see: + +_Organic life, we are told, has developed gradually from the protozoon +to the philosopher, and this development, we are assured, is indubitably +an advance. Unfortunately it is the philosopher, not the protozoon, who +gives us this assurance._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open--but I could go on all day like this, as I do go on being +caught among the books, and only the distant anxious chirps of Mrs. +Antoine, who comes round to the front door to clear away breakfast and +finds it hasn't been begun, can extricate me. + +Perhaps I had better not get arranging books before breakfast. It is too +likely to worry that bird-like Mrs. Antoine, who is afraid, I daresay, +that if I don't drink my coffee while it is hot I may relapse into that +comatose condition that filled her evidently with much uneasiness and +awe. She hadn't expected, I suppose, the mistress of the house, when she +did at last get back to it, to behave like some strange alien slug, +crawled up the mountain only to lie motionless in the sun for the best +part of a fortnight. I heard her, after the first two days of this +conduct, explaining it to Antoine, who however needed no explanation +because of his god-like habit of never being surprised, and her +explanation was that _c'était la guerre_,--convenient explanation that +has been used to excuse many more unnatural and horrible things during +the last five years than somebody's behaving as if she were a slug. + +But, really, the accidental juxtapositions on my bookshelves! Just now I +found George Moore (his _Memories of my Dead Life,_ with its delicate +unmoralities, its delicious paganism) with on one side of him a book +called _Bruey: a Little Worker for Christ_, by Frances Ridley Havergal, +and on the other an American book called _The Unselfishness of God, and +How I Discovered It._ + +The surprise of finding these three with their arms, as it were, round +each other's necks, got me nearer to laughter than I have been for +months. If anybody had been with me I _would_ have laughed. Is it +possible that I am so far on to-day in convalescence that I begin to +want a companion? Somebody to laugh with? Why, if that is so.... + +But I'd best not be too hopeful. + + +_August 4th._ + +This day five years ago! What a thrill went through us up here, how +proud we felt of England, of belonging to England; proud with that +extraordinary intensified patriotism that lays hold of those who are not +in their own country. + +It is very like the renewal of affection, the re-flaming up of love, for +the absent. The really wise are often absent; though, indeed, their +absences should be arranged judiciously. Too much absence is very nearly +as bad as too little,--no, not really very nearly; I should rather say +too much has its drawbacks too, though only at first. Persisted in +these drawbacks turn into merits; for doesn't absence, prolonged enough, +lead in the end to freedom? I suppose, however, for most people complete +freedom is too lonely a thing, therefore the absence should only be just +long enough to make room for one to see clear again. Just a little +withdrawal every now and then, just a little, so as to get a good view +once more of those dear qualities we first loved, so as to be able to +see that they're still there, still shining. + +How can you see anything if your nose is right up against it? I know +when we were in England, enveloped in her life at close quarters, +bewildered by the daily din of the newspapers, stunned by the cries of +the politicians, distracted by the denouncements, accusations, revilings +with which the air was convulsed, and acutely aware of the background of +sad drizzling rain on the pavements, and of places like Cromwell Road +and Shaftesbury Avenue and Ashley Gardens being there all the time, +never different, great ugly houses with the rain dripping on them, +gloomy temporary lodgings for successive processions of the noisy +dead,--I know when we were in the middle of all this, right up tight +against it, we couldn't see, and so we forgot the side of England that +was great. + +But when she went to war we were not there; we had been out of her for +months, and she had got focussed again patriotically. Again she was the +precious stone set in a silver sea, the other Eden, demi-Paradise, the +England my England, the splendid thing that had made splendid poets, the +hope and heart of the world. Long before she had buckled on her +sword--how easily one drops into the old language!--long before there +was any talk of war, just by sheer being away from her we had +re-acquired that peculiar aggressive strut of the spirit that is +patriotism. We liked the Swiss, we esteemed them; and when we crossed +into Italy we liked the Italians too, though esteeming them less,--I +think because they seemed less thrifty and enjoyed themselves more, and +we were still sealed up in the old opinion that undiscriminating joyless +thrift was virtuous. But though we liked and esteemed these people it +was from a height. At the back of our minds we always felt superior, at +the back of our minds we were strutting. Every day of further absence +from England, our England, increased that delicious sub-conscious +smugness. Then when on the 4th of August she 'came in,' came in +gloriously because of her word to Belgium, really this little house +contained so much enthusiasm and pride that it almost could be heard +cracking. + +What shall we do when we all get to heaven and aren't allowed to have +any patriotism? There, surely, we shall at last be forced into one vast +family. But I imagine that every time God isn't looking the original +patriotism of each will break out, right along throughout eternity; and +some miserable English tramp, who has only been let into heaven because +he positively wasn't man enough for hell, will seize his opportunity to +hiss at a neat Swiss business man from Berne, whose life on earth was +blamelessly spent in the production of cuckoo-clocks, and whose +mechanical-ingenuity was such that he even, so ran the heavenly rumours +among the mild, astonished angels, had propagated his family by +machinery, that he, the tramp, is a b--Briton, and if he, the +b--b--b--Swiss (I believe tramps always talk in b's; anyhow newspapers +and books say they do), doubts it, he'd b--well better come outside and +he, the tramp, will b--well soon show him. + +To which the neat Berne gentleman, on other subjects so completely +pervaded by the local heavenly calm, will answer with a sudden furious +mechanical buzzing, much worse and much more cowing to the tramp than +any swear-words, and passionately uphold the might and majesty of +Switzerland in a prolonged terrific _whrrrrr._ + + +_August 5th._ + +I want to talk. I must be better. + + +_August 6th._ + +Of course, the most battered, the most obstinately unhappy person +couldn't hold out for ever against the all-pervading benediction of this +place. I know there is just the same old wretchedness going on as usual +outside it,--cruelty, people wantonly making each other miserable, love +being thrown away or frightened into fits, the dreadful betrayal of +trust that is the blackest wretchedness of all,--I can almost imagine +that if I were to hang over my terrace-wall I would see these well-known +dreary horrors crawling about in the valley below, crawling and tumbling +about together in a ghastly tangle. But at least there isn't down there +now my own particular contribution to the general wretchedness. I +brought that up here; dragged it up with me, not because I wanted to, +but because it would come. Surely, though, I shall leave it here? Surely +there'll be a day when I'll be able to pack it away into a neat bundle +and take it up to the top of some, arid, never-again-to-be-visited rock, +and leave it there and say, 'Goodbye. I'm separate. I've cut the +umbilical cord. Goodbye old misery. Now for what comes next.' + +I can't believe this won't happen. I can't believe I won't go back down +the mountain different from what I was when I came. Lighter, anyhow, and +more wholesome inside. Oh, I do so _want_ to be wholesome inside again! +Nicely aired, sunshiny; instead of all dark, and stuffed up with black +memories. + + +_August 7th._ + +But I am getting on. Every morning now when I wake and see the patch of +bright sunshine on the wall at the foot of my bed that means another +perfect day, my heart goes out in an eager prayer that I may not +disgrace so great a blessing by private gloom. And I do think each of +these last days has been a little less disgraced than its yesterday. +Hardly a smudge, for instance, has touched any part of this afternoon. I +have felt as though indeed I were at last sitting up and taking notice. +And the first thing I want to do, the first use I want to make of having +turned the corner, is to talk. + +How feminine. But I love to talk. Again how feminine. Well, I also love +to listen. But chiefly I love to listen to a man; therefore once more, +how feminine. Well, I'm a woman, so naturally I'm feminine; and a man +does seem to have more to say that one wants to hear than a woman. I do +want to hear what a woman has to say too, but not for so long a time, +and not so often. Not nearly so often. What reason to give for this +reluctance I don't quite know, except that a woman when she talks seems +usually to have forgotten the salt. Also she is apt to go on talking; +sometimes for quite a little while after you have begun to wish she +would leave off. + +One of the last people who stayed here with me alone in 1914, just +before the arrival of the gay holiday group of the final days, was a +woman of many gifts--_le trop est l'ennemi du bien_--who started, +therefore, being full of these gifts and having eloquently to let them +out, talking at the station in the valley where I met her, and didn't, +to my growing amazement and chagrin, for I too wanted to say some +things, leave off (except when night wrapped her up in blessed silence) +till ten days afterwards, when by the mercy of providence she swallowed +a crumb wrong, and so had to stop. + +How eagerly, released for a moment, I rushed in with as much as I could +get out during the brief time I knew she would take to recover! But my +voice, hoarse with disuse, had hardly said three sentences--miserable +little short ones--when she did recover, and fixing impatient and +reproachful eyes on me said: + +'Do you _always_ talk so much?' + +Surely that was unjust? + + +_August 8th._ + +Now see what Henry James wrote to me--to _me_ if you please! I can't get +over it, such a feather in my cap. Why, I had almost forgotten I had a +cap to have a feather in, so profound has been my humbling since last I +was here. + +In the odd, fairy-tale like way I keep on finding bits of the past, of +years ago, as though they were still of the present, even of the last +half hour, I found the letter this morning in a room I wandered into +after breakfast. It is the only room downstairs besides the hall, and I +used to take refuge in it from the other gay inhabitants of the house so +as to open and answer letters somewhere not too distractingly full of +cheerful talk; and there on the table, spotlessly kept clean by Antoine +but else not touched, were all the papers and odds and ends of five +years back exactly as I must have left them. Even some chocolate I had +apparently been eating, and some pennies, and a handful of cigarettes, +and actually a box of matches,--it was all there, all beautifully +dusted, all as it must have been when last I sat there at the table. If +it hadn't been for the silence, the complete, sunny emptiness and +silence of the house, I would certainly have thought I had only been +asleep and having a bad dream, and that not five years but one uneasy +night had gone since I nibbled that chocolate and wrote with those pens. + +Fascinated and curious I sat down and began eating the chocolate again. +It was quite good; made of good, lasting stuff in that good, apparently +lasting age we used to live in. And while I ate it I turned over the +piles of papers, and there at the bottom of them was a letter from Henry +James. + +I expect I kept it near me on the table because I so much loved it and +wanted to re-read it, and wanted, I daresay, at intervals proudly to +show it to my friends and make them envious, for it was written at +Christmas, 1913; months before I left for England. + +Reading it now my feeling is just astonishment that I, _I_ should ever +have had such a letter. But then I am greatly humbled; I have been on +the rocks; and can't believe that such a collection of broken bits as I +am now could ever have been a trim bark with all its little sails puffed +out by the kindliness and affection of anybody as wonderful as Henry +James. + +Here it is; and it isn't any more vain of me now in my lamed and bruised +condition to copy it out and hang on its charming compliments than it is +vain for a woman who once was lovely and is now grown old to talk about +how pretty she used to be: + + 21 Carlyle Mansions, + + Cheyne Walk, S.W., + + December 29th, 1913. + + + +Dear-- + +Let me tell you that I simply delight in your beautiful and generous and +gracious little letter, and that there isn't a single honeyed word of it +that doesn't give me the most exquisite pleasure. You fill the +measure--and how can I tell you how I _like_ the measure to be filled? +None of your quarter-bushels or half-bushels for _my_ insatiable +appetite, but the overflowing heap, pressed down and shaken together +and spilling all over the place. So I pick up the golden grains and +nibble them one by one! Truly, dear lady, it is the charmingest rosy +flower of a letter--handed me straight out of your monstrous snowbank. +That you can grow such flowers in such conditions--besides growing with +such diligence and elegance all sorts of other lovely kinds, has for its +explanation of course only that you have such a regular teeming garden +of a mind. You must mainly inhabit it of course--with your other courts +of exercise so grand, if you will, but so grim. Well, you have caused me +to revel in pride and joy--for I assure you that I have let myself go; +all the more that the revelry of the season here itself has been so far +from engulfing me that till your witching words came I really felt +perched on a mountain of lonely bleakness socially and sensuously +speaking alike--very much like one of those that group themselves, as I +suppose, under your windows. But I have had my Xmastide _now_, and am +your all grateful and faithful and all unforgetting old Henry James. + + * * * * * + +Who wouldn't be proud of getting a letter like that? It was wonderful to +come across it again, wonderful how my chin went up in the air and how +straight I sat up for a bit after reading it. And I laughed, too; for +with what an unbuttoned exuberance must I have engulfed him! 'Spilling +all over the place.' I can quite believe it. I had, I suppose, been +reading or re-reading something of his, and had been swept off sobriety +of expression by delight, and in that condition of emotional +unsteadiness and molten appreciation must have rushed impetuously to the +nearest pen. + +How warmly, with what grateful love, one thinks of Henry James. How +difficult to imagine anyone riper in wisdom, in kindliness, in wit; +greater of affection; more generous of friendship. And his talk, his +wonderful talk,--even more wonderful than his books. If only he had had +a Boswell! I did ask him one day, in a courageous after-dinner mood, if +he wouldn't take me on as his Boswell; a Boswell so deeply devoted that +perhaps qualifications for the post would grow through sheer admiration. +I told him--my courageous levity was not greater on that occasion than +his patience--that I would disguise myself as a man; or better still, +not being quite big enough to make a plausible man and unlikely to grow +any more except, it might be hoped, in grace, I would be an elderly +boy; that I would rise up early and sit up late and learn shorthand and +do anything in the world, if only I might trot about after him taking +notes--the strange pair we should have made! And the judgment he passed +on that reckless suggestion, after considering its impudence with much +working about of his extraordinary mobile mouth, delivering his verdict +with a weight of pretended self-depreciation intended to crush me +speechless,--which it did for nearly a whole second--was: 'Dear lady, it +would be like the slow squeezing out of a big empty sponge.' + + +_August 9th._ + +This little wooden house, clinging on to the side of the mountain by its +eyelashes, or rather by its eyebrows, for it has enormous eaves to +protect it from being smothered in winter in snow that look exactly like +overhanging eyebrows,--is so much cramped up for room to stand on that +the garden along the edge of the rock isn't much bigger than a +handkerchief. + +It is a strip of grass, tended with devotion by Antoine, whose pride it +is that it should be green when all the other grass on the slopes round +us up the mountain and down the mountain are parched pale gold; which +leads him to spend most of his evening hours watering it. There is a low +wall along the edge to keep one from tumbling over, for if one did +tumble over it wouldn't be nice for the people walking about in the +valley five thousand feet below, and along this wall is the narrow +ribbon of the only flowers that will put up with us. + +They aren't many. There are the delphiniums, and some pansies and some +pinks, and a great many purple irises. The irises were just over when I +first got here, but judging from the crowds of flower-stalks they must +have been very beautiful. There is only one flower left; exquisite and +velvety and sun-warmed to kiss--which I do diligently, for one must kiss +something--and with that adorable honey-smell that is the very smell of +summer. + +That's all in the garden. It isn't much, written down, but you should +just see it. Oh yes--I forgot. Round the corner, scrambling up the wall +that protects the house in the early spring from avalanches, are crimson +ramblers, brilliant against the intense blue of the sky. Crimson +ramblers are, I know, ordinary things, but you should just see them. It +is the colour of the sky that makes them so astonishing here. Yes--and I +forgot the lilies that Antoine's _maman_ gave him. They are near the +front door, and next to them is a patch of lavender in full flower now, +and all day long on each of its spikes is poised miraculously something +that looks like a tiny radiant angel, but that flutters up into the sun +when I go near and is a white butterfly. Antoine must have put in the +lavender. It used not to be there. But I don't ask him because of what +he might tell me it is really for, and I couldn't bear to have that +patch of sheer loveliness, with the little shining things hovering over +it, explained as a _remède_ for something horrid. + +If I could paint I would sit all day and paint; as I can't I try to get +down on paper what I see. It gives me pleasure. It is somehow +companionable. I wouldn't, I think, do this if I were not alone. I would +probably exhaust myself and my friend pointing out the beauty. + +The garden, it will be seen, as gardens go, is pathetic in its smallness +and want of variety. Possessors of English gardens, with those immense +wonderful herbaceous borders and skilfully arranged processions of +flowers, might conceivably sniff at it. Let them. I love it. And, if it +were smaller still, if it were shrunk to a single plant with a single +flower on it, it would perhaps only enchant me the more, for then I +would concentrate on that one beauty and not be distracted by the +feeling that does distract me here, that while I am looking one way I am +missing what is going on in other directions. Those beasts in +Revelations--the ones full of eyes before and behind--I wish I had been +constructed on liberal principles like that. + +But one really hardly wants a garden here where God does so much. It is +like Italy in that way, and an old wooden box of pansies or a pot of +lilies stuck anywhere, in a window, on the end of a wall, is enough; +composing instantly with what is so beautifully there already, the +light, the colour, the shapes of the mountains. Really, where God does +it all for you just a yard or two arranged in your way is enough; enough +to assert your independence, and to show a proper determination to make +something of your own. + + +_August 10th._ + +I don't know when it is most beautiful up here,--in the morning, when +the heat lies along the valley in delicate mists, and the folded +mountains, one behind the other, grow dimmer and dimmer beyond sight, +swooning away through tender gradations of violets and greys, or at +night when I look over the edge of the terrace and see the lights in the +valley shimmering as though they were reflected in water. + +I seem to be seeing it now for the first time, with new eyes. I know I +used to see it when I was here before, used to feel it and rejoice in +it, but it was entangled in other things then, it was only part of the +many happinesses with which those days were full, claiming my attention +and my thoughts. They claimed them wonderfully and hopefully it is true, +but they took me much away from what I can only call for want of a +better word--(a better word: what a thing to say!)--God. Now those hopes +and wonders, those other joys and lookings-forward and happy trusts are +gone; and the wounds they left, the dreadful sore places, are slowly +going too. And how I see beauty now is with the new sensitiveness, the +new astonishment at it, of a person who for a long time has been having +awful dreams, and one morning wakes up and the delirium is gone, and he +lies in a state of the most exquisite glad thankfulness, the most +extraordinary minute appreciation of the dear, wonderful common things +of life,--just the sun shining on his counterpane, the scents from the +garden coming in through his window, the very smell of the coffee being +got ready for breakfast. Oh, delight, delight to think one didn't die +this time, that one isn't going to die this time after all, but is going +to get better, going to live, going presently to be quite well again and +able to go back to one's friends, to the people who still love one.... + + +_August 11th._ + +To-day is a saint's day. This is a Catholic part of Switzerland, and +they have a great many holidays because they have a great many saints. +There is hardly a week without some saint in it who has to be +commemorated, and often there are two in the same week, and sometimes +three. I know when we have reached another saint, for then the church +bells of the nearest village begin to jangle, and go on doing it every +two hours. When this happens the peasants leave off work, and the busy, +saint-unencumbered Protestants get ahead. + +Mrs. Antoine was a Catholic before she married, but the sagacious +Antoine, who wasn't one, foreseeing days in most of his weeks when she +might, if he hadn't been quite kind, to her, or rather if she fancied +he hadn't been quite kind to her--and the fancies of wives, he had +heard, were frequent and vivid--the sagacious Antoine, foreseeing these +numerous holy days ahead of him on any of which Mrs. Antoine might +explain as piety what was really pique and decline to cook his dinner, +caused her to turn Protestant before the wedding. Which she did; +conscious, as she told me, that she was getting a _bon mari qui valait +bien ça_; and thus at one stroke Antoine secured his daily dinners +throughout the year and rid himself of all his wife's relations. For +they, consisting I gather principally of aunts, her father and mother +being dead, were naturally displeased and won't know the Antoines; which +is, I am told by those who have managed it, the most refreshing thing in +the world: to get your relations not to know you. So that not only does +he live now in the blessed freedom and dignity that appears to be +reserved for those whose relations are angry, but he has no priests +about him either. Really Antoine is very intelligent. + +And he has done other intelligent things while I have been away. For +instance: + +When first I came here, two or three years before the war, I desired to +keep the place free from the smells of farmyards. 'There shall be no +cows,' I said. + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine. + +'Nor any chickens.' + +'_C'est bien_' said Antoine. + +'Neither shall there be any pigs.' + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine. + +'_Surtout_', I repeated, fancying I saw in his eye a kind of private +piggy regret, '_pas de porcs_.' + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine, the look fading. + +For most of my life up to then had been greatly infested by pigs; and +though they were superior pigs, beautifully kept, housed and fed far +better, shameful to relate, than the peasants of that place, on the days +when the wind blew from where they were to where we were, clean them and +air them as one might there did come blowing over us a great volume of +unmistakeable pig. Eclipsing the lilies. Smothering the roses. Also, on +still days we could hear their voices, and the calm of many a summer +evening was rent asunder by their squeals. There were an enormous number +of little pigs, for in that part of the country it was unfortunately not +the custom to eat sucking-pigs, which is such a convenient as well as +agreeable way of keeping them quiet, and they squealed atrociously; out +of sheer high spirits, I suppose, being pampered pigs and having no +earthly reason to squeal except for joy. + +Remembering all this, I determined that up here at any rate we should be +pure from pigs. And from cows too; and from chickens. For did I not also +remember things both cows and chickens had done to me? The hopes of a +whole year in the garden had often been destroyed by one absent-minded, +wandering cow; and though we did miracles with wire-netting and the +concealing of wire-netting by creepers, sooner or later a crowd of +lustful hens, led by some great bully of a cock, got in and tore up the +crocuses just at that early time of the year when, after an endless +winter, crocuses seem the most precious and important things in the +world. + +Therefore this place had been kept carefully empty of live-stock, and we +bought our eggs and our milk from the peasants, and didn't have any +sausages, and the iris bulbs were not scratched up, and the air had +nothing in it but smells of honey and hay in summer, and nothing in +winter but the ineffable pure cold smell of what, again for want of a +better word, I can only describe as God. But then the war came, and our +hurried return to England; and instead of being back as we had thought +for Christmas, we didn't come back at all. Year after year went, +Christmas after Christmas, and nobody came back. I suppose Antoine began +at last to feel as if nobody ever would come back. I can't guess at what +moment precisely in those years his thoughts began to put out feelers +towards pigs, but he did at last consider it proper to regard my pre-war +instructions as finally out of date, and gathered a suitable selection +of live-stock about him. I expect he got to this stage fairly early, for +having acquired a nice, round little wife he was determined, being a +wise man, to keep her so. And having also an absentee _patrone_--that is +the word that locally means me--absent, and therefore not able to be +disturbed by live-stock, he would keep her placid by keeping her +unconscious. + +How simple, and how intelligent. + +In none of his monthly letters did the word pig, cow, or chicken appear. +He wrote agreeably of the weather: _c'était magnifique,_ or _c'était +bien triste_, according to the season. He wrote of the French and +Belgian sick prisoners of war, interned in those places scattered about +the mountains which used to be the haunts of parties catered for by +Lunn. He wrote appreciatively of the usefulness and good conduct of the +watch-dog, a splendid creature, much bigger than I am, with the +lap-doggy name of Mou-Mou. He lengthily described unexciting objects +like the whiskers of the cat: _favoris superbes qui poussent toujours, +malgré ces jours maigres de guerre_; and though sometimes he expressed a +little disappointment at the behaviour of Mrs. Antoine's _estomac, qui +lui fait beaucoup d'ennuis et paraît mal résister aux grands froids_, he +always ended up soothingly: _Pour la maison tout va bien. Madame peut +être entièrement tranquille._ + +Never a word, you see, about the live-stock. + +So there in England was Madame being _entièrement tranquille_ about her +little house, and glad indeed that she could be; for whatever had +happened to it or to the Antoines she wouldn't have been able to do +anything. Tethered on the other side of the impassable barrier of war, +if the house had caught fire she could only, over there in England, have +wrung her hands; and if Mrs. Antoine's _estomac_ had given out so +completely that she and Antoine had had to abandon their post and take +to the plains and doctors, she could only have sat still and cried. The +soothing letters were her comfort for five years,--_madame peût-être +entièrement tranquille_; how sweetly the words fell, month by month, on +ears otherwise harassed and tormented! + +It wasn't till I had been here nearly a fortnight that I began to be +aware of my breakfast. Surely it was very nice? Such a lot of milk; and +every day a little jug of cream. And surprising butter,--surprising not +only because it was so very fresh but because it was there at all. I had +been told in England that there was no butter to be got here, not an +ounce to be bought from one end of Switzerland to the other. Well, there +it was; fresh every day, and in a singular abundance. + +Through the somnolence of my mind, of all the outward objects +surrounding me I think it was the butter that got in first; and my +awakening intelligence, after a period of slow feeling about and some +relapses, did at last one morning hit on the conviction that at the +other end of that butter was a cow. + +This, so far, was to be expected as the result of reasoning. But where I +began to be pleased with myself, and feel as if Paley's Evidences had +married Sherlock Holmes and I was the bright pledge of their loves, was +when I proceeded from this, without moving from my chair, to discover +by sheer thinking that the cow was very near the butter, because else +the butter couldn't possibly be made fresh every day,--so near that it +must be at that moment grazing on the bit of pasture belonging to me; +and, if that were so, the conclusion was irresistible that it must be my +cow. + +After that my thoughts leaped about the breakfast table with comparative +nimbleness. I remembered that each morning there had been an egg, and +that eggy puddings had appeared at the other meals. Before the war it +was almost impossible to get eggs up here; clearly, then, I had chickens +of my own. And the honey; I felt it would no longer surprise me to +discover that I also had bees, for this honey was the real thing,--not +your made-up stuff of the London shops. And strawberries; every morning +a great cabbage leaf of strawberries had been on the table, real garden +strawberries, over long ago down in the valley and never dreamed of as +things worth growing by the peasants in the mountains. Obviously I +counted these too among my possessions in some corner out of sight. The +one object I couldn't proceed to by inductive reasoning from what was on +the table was a pig. Antoine's courage had failed him over that. Too +definitely must my repeated warning have echoed in his ears: _Surtout +pas de porcs._ + +But how very intelligent he had been. It needs intelligence if one is +conscientious to disobey orders at the right moment. And me so unaware +all the time, and therefore so unworried! + +He passed along the terrace at that moment, a watering-pot in his hand. + +'Antoine,' I said. + +'Madame,' he said, stopping and taking off his cap. + +'This egg--' I said, pointing to the shell. I said it in French, but +prefer not to put my French on paper. + +'_Ah--madame a vu les poules_.' + +'This butter--' + +'_Ah--madame a visité la vache._' + +'The pig--?' I hesitated. 'Is there--is there also a pig?' + +'_Si madame veut descendre à la cave--_' + +'You never keep a pig in the cellar?' I exclaimed. + +'_Comme jambon,_' said Antoine--calm, perfect of manner, without a trace +of emotion. + +And there sure enough I was presently proudly shown by Mrs. Antoine, +whose feelings are less invisible than her husband's, hanging from the +cellar ceiling on hooks that which had once been pig. Several pigs; +though she talked as if there had never been more than one. It may be +so, of course, but if it is so it must have had a great many legs. + +_Un porc centipède_, I remarked thoughtfully, gazing upwards at the +forest of hams. + +Over the thin ice of this comment she slid, however, in a voluble +description of how, when the armistice was signed, she and Antoine had +instantly fallen upon and slain the pig--pig still in the +singular--expecting Madame's arrival after that felicitous event at any +minute, and comprehending that _un porc vivant pourrait déranger madame, +mais que mort il ne fait rien à personne que du plaisir._ And she too +gazed upwards, but with affection and pride. + +There remained then nothing to do but round off these various +transactions by a graceful and grateful paying for them. Which I did +to-day, Antoine presenting the bills, accompanied by complicated +calculations and deductions of the market price of the milk and butter +and eggs he and Mrs. Antoine would otherwise have consumed during the +past years. + +I didn't look too closely into what the pig had cost,--his price, as my +eye skimmed over it was obviously the price of something plural. But my +eye only skimmed. It didn't dwell. Always Antoine and I have behaved to +each other like gentlemen. + + +_August 12th._ + +I wonder why I write all this. Is it because it is so like talking to a +friend at the end of the day, and telling him, who is interested and +loves to hear, everything one has done? I suppose it is that; and that I +want, besides, to pin down these queer days as they pass,--days so +utterly unlike any I ever had before. I want to hold them a minute in my +hand and look at them, before letting them drop away for ever. Then, +perhaps, in lots of years, when I have half forgotten what brought me up +here, and don't mind a bit about anything except to laugh--to laugh with +the tenderness of a wise old thing at the misunderstandings, and +mistakes, and failures that brought me so near shipwreck, and yet +underneath were still somehow packed with love--I'll open this and read +it, and I daresay quote that Psalm about going through the vale of +misery and using it as a well, and be quite pleasantly entertained. + + +_August 13th._ + +If one sets one's face westwards and goes on and on along the side of +the mountain, refusing either to climb higher or go lower, and having +therefore to take things as they come and somehow get through--roaring +torrents, sudden ravines, huge trees blown down in a forgotten blizzard +and lying right across one's way; all the things that mountains have up +their sleeve waiting for one--one comes, after two hours of walk so +varied as to include scowling rocks and gloomy forests, bright stretches +of delicious grass full of flowers, bits of hayfield, clusters of +fruit-trees, wide sun-flooded spaces with nothing between one apparently +and the great snowy mountains, narrow paths where it is hardly light +enough to see, smells of resin and hot fir needles, smells of +traveller's joy, smells of just cut grass, smells of just sawn wood, +smells of water tumbling over stones, muddy smells where the peasants +have turned some of the torrent away through shallow channels into their +fields, honey smells, hot smells, cold smells,--after two hours of this +walking, which would be tiring because of the constant difficulty of the +ground if it weren't for the odd way the air has here of carrying you, +of making you feel as though you were being lifted along, one comes at +last to the edge of a steep slope where there is a little group of +larches. + +Then one sits down. + +These larches are at the very end of a long tongue into which the +mountain one started on has somehow separated, and it is under them that +one eats one's dinner of hard boiled egg and bread and butter, and sits +staring, while one does so, in much astonishment at the view. For it is +an incredibly beautiful view from here, of an entirely different range +of mountains from the one seen from my terrace; and the valley, with its +twisting, tiny silver thread that I know is a great rushing river, has +strange, abrupt, isolated hills scattered over it that appear each to +have a light and colour of its own, with no relation to the light and +colour of the mountains. + +When first I happened on this place the building of my house had already +been started, and it was too late to run to the architect and say: Here +and here only will I live. But I did for a wild moment, so great was the +beauty I had found, hope that perhaps Swiss houses might be like those +Norwegian ones one reads about that take to pieces and can be put up +again somewhere else when you've got bored, and I remember scrambling +back hastily in heat and excitement to ask him whether this were so. + +He said it wasn't; and seemed even a little ruffled, if so calm a man +were capable of ruffling, that I should suppose he would build anything +that could come undone. + +'This house,' he said, pointing at the hopeless-looking mass that +ultimately became so adorable, 'is built for posterity. It is on a rock, +and will partake of the same immovability.' + +And when I told him of the place I had found, the exquisite place, more +beautiful than a dream and a hundred times more beautiful than the place +we had started building on, he, being a native of the district, hardy on +his legs on Sundays and accordingly acquainted with every inch of ground +within twenty miles, told me that it was so remote from villages, so +inaccessible by any road, that it was suited as a habitation only to +goats. + +'Only goats,' he said with finality, waving his hand, 'could dwell +there, and for goats I do not build.' + +So that my excitement cooled down before the inevitable, and I have +lived to be very glad the house is where it is and not where, for a few +wild hours, I wanted it; for now I can go to the other when I am in a +beauty mood and see it every time with fresh wonder, while if I lived +there I would have got used to it long ago, and my ardour been, like +other ardours, turned by possession into complacency. Or, to put it a +little differently, the house here is like an amiable wife to whom it is +comfortable to come back for meals and sleeping purposes, and the other +is a secret love, to be visited only on the crest of an ecstasy. + +To-day I took a hard boiled egg and some bread and butter, and visited +my secret love. + +The hard boiled egg doesn't seem much like an ecstasy, but it is a very +good foundation for one. There is great virtue in a hard boiled egg. It +holds one down, yet not too heavily. It satisfies without inflaming. +Sometimes, after days of living on fruit and bread, a slice of underdone +meat put in a sandwich and eaten before I knew what I was doing, has +gone straight to my head in exactly the way wine would, and I have seen +the mountains double and treble themselves, besides not keeping still, +in a very surprising and distressing way, utterly ruinous to raptures. +So now I distrust sandwiches and will not take them; and all that goes +with me is the hard boiled egg. Oh, and apricots, when I can get them. +I forgot the apricots. I took a handful to-day,--big, beautiful +rosy-golden ones, grown in the hot villages of the valley, a very +apricotty place. And, that every part of me should have sustenance, I +also took Law's _Serious Call_. + +He went because he's the thinnest book I've got on my shelves that has +at the same time been praised by Dr. Johnson. I've got several others +that Dr. Johnson has praised, such as Ogden on _Prayer_, but their bulk, +even if their insides were attractive, makes them have to stay at home. +Johnson, I remembered, as I weighed Law thoughtfully in my hand and felt +how thin he was, said of the _Serious Call_ that he took it up expecting +it to be a dull book, and perhaps to laugh at it--'but I found Law quite +an overmatch for me.' He certainly would be an overmatch for me, I knew, +should I try to stand up to him, but that was not my intention. What I +wanted was a slender book that yet would have enough entertainment in it +to nourish me all day; and opening the _Serious Call_ I was caught at +once by the story of Octavius, a learned and ingenious man who, feeling +that he wasn't going to live much longer, told the friends hanging on +his lips attentive to the wisdom that would, they were sure, drop out, +that in the decay of nature in which he found himself he had left off +all taverns and was now going to be nice in what he drank, so that he +was resolved to furnish his cellar with a little of the very best +whatever it might cost. And hardly had he delivered himself of this +declaration than 'he fell ill, was committed to a nurse, and had his +eyes closed by her before his fresh parcel of wine came in.' + +The effect of this on some one called Eugenius was to send him home a +new man, full of resolutions to devote himself wholly to God; for 'I +never, says Eugenius, was so deeply affected with the wisdom and +importance of religion as when I saw how poorly and meanly the learned +Octavius was to leave the world through the want of it.' + +So Law went with me, and his vivacious pages,--the story of Octavius is +but one of many; there is Matilda and her unhappy daughters ('The eldest +daughter lived as long as she could under this discipline,' but found +she couldn't after her twentieth year and died, 'her entrails much hurt +by being crushed together with her stays';) Eusebia and her happy +daughters, who were so beautifully brought up that they had the +satisfaction of dying virgins; Lepidus, struck down as he was dressing +himself for a feast; the admirable Miranda, whose meals were carefully +kept down to exactly enough to give her proper strength to lift eyes and +hands to heaven, so that 'Miranda will never have her eyes swell with +fatness or pant under a heavy load of flesh until she has changed her +religion'; Mundamus, who if he saw a book of devotion passed it by; +Classicus, who openly and shamelessly preferred learning to +devotion--these vivacious pages greatly enlivened and adorned my day. +But I did feel, as I came home at the end of it, that Dr. Johnson, for +whom no one has more love and less respect than I, ought to have spent +some at least of his earlier years, when he was still accessible to +reason, with, say, Voltaire. + +Now I am going to bed, footsore but glad, for this picnic to-day was a +test. I wanted to see how far on I have got in facing memories. When I +set out I pretended to myself that I was going from sheer +considerateness for servants, because I wished Mrs. Antoine to have a +holiday from cooking my dinner, but I knew in my heart that I was +making, in trepidation and secret doubt, a test. For the way to this +place of larches bristles with happy memories. They would be sitting +waiting for me, I knew, at every bush and corner in radiant rows. If +only they wouldn't be radiant, I thought, I wouldn't mind. The way, I +thought, would have been easier if it had been punctuated with +remembered quarrels. Only then I wouldn't have gone to it at all, for my +spirit shudders away from places where there has been unkindness. It is +the happy record of this little house that never yet have its walls +heard an unkind word or a rude word, and not once has anybody cried in +it. All the houses I have lived in, except this, had their sorrows, and +one at least had worse things than sorrows; but this one, my little +house of peace hung up in the sunshine well on the way to heaven, is +completely free from stains, nothing has ever lived in it that wasn't +kind. And I shall not count the wretchedness I dragged up with me three +weeks ago as a break in this record, as a smudge on its serenity, but +only as a shadow passing across the sun. Because, however beaten down I +was and miserable, I brought no anger with me and no resentment. +Unkindness has still not come into the house. + +Now I am going very happy to bed, for I have passed the test. The whole +of the walk to the larches, and the whole of the way back, and all the +time I was sitting there, what I felt was simply gratitude, gratitude +for the beautiful past times I have had. I found I couldn't help it. It +was as natural as breathing. I wasn't lonely. Everybody I have loved and +shall never see again was with me. And all day, the whole of the +wonderful day of beauty, I was able in that bright companionship to +forget the immediate grief, the aching wretchedness, that brought me up +here to my mountains as a last hope. + + +_August 14th._ + +To-day it is my birthday, so I thought I would expiate it by doing some +useful work. + +It is the first birthday I've ever been alone, with nobody to say Bless +you. I like being blessed on my birthday, seen off into my new year with +encouragement and smiles. Perhaps, I thought, while I dressed, Antoine +would remember. After all, I used to have birthdays when I was here +before, and he must have noticed the ripple of excitement that lay along +the day, how it was wreathed in flowers from breakfast-time on and +dotted thick with presents. Perhaps he would remember, and wish me luck. +Perhaps if he remembered he would tell his wife, and she would wish me +luck too. I did very much long to-day to be wished luck. + +But Antoine, if he had ever known, had obviously forgotten. He was doing +something to the irises when I came down, and though I went out and +lingered round him before beginning breakfast he took no notice; he just +went on with the irises. So I daresay I looked a little wry, for I did +feel rather afraid I might be going to be lonely. + +This, then, I thought, giving myself a hitch of determination, was the +moment for manual labour. As I drank my coffee I decided to celebrate +the day by giving both the Antoines a holiday and doing the work myself. +Why shouldn't my birthday be celebrated by somebody else having a good +time? What did it after all matter who had the good time so long as +somebody did? The Antoines should have a holiday, and I would work. So +would I defend my thoughts from memories that might bite. So would I, by +the easy path of perspiration, find peace. + +Antoine, however, didn't seem to want a holiday. I had difficulty with +him. He wasn't of course surprised when I told him he had got one, +because he never is, but he said, with that level intonation that gives +his conversation so noticeable a calm, that it was the day for cutting +the lawn. + +I said I would cut the lawn; I knew about lawns; I had been brought up +entirely on lawns,--I believe I told him I had been born on one, in my +eagerness to forestall his objections and get him to go. + +He said that such work would be too hot for Madame in the sort of +weather we were having; and I said that no work on an object so +small as our lawn could be too hot. Besides, I liked being hot, I +explained--again with eagerness--I wanted to be hot, I was happy when I +was hot. '_J'aime beaucoup,_ I said, not stopping in my hurry to pick my +words, and anyhow imperfect in French, '_la sueur_.' + +I believe I ought to have said _la transpiration,_ the other word being +held in slight if any esteem as a word for ladies, but I still more +believe that I oughtn't to have said anything about it at all. I don't +know, of course, because of Antoine's immobility of expression; but in +spite of this not varying at what I had said by the least shadow of a +flicker I yet somehow felt, it was yet somehow conveyed to me, that +perhaps in French one doesn't perspire, or if one does one doesn't talk +about it. Not if one is a lady. Not if one is Madame. Not, to ascend +still further the scale of my self-respect enforcing attributes, if one +is that dignified object the _patrone_. + +I find it difficult to be dignified. When I try, I overdo it. Always my +dignity is either over or under done, but its chief condition is that of +being under done. Antoine, however, very kindly helps me up to the +position he has decided I ought to fill, by his own unalterable calm. I +have never seen him smile. I don't believe he could without cracking, of +so unruffled a glassiness is his countenance. + +Once, before the war--everything I have done that has been cheerful and +undesirable was before the war; I've been nothing but exemplary and +wretched since--I was undignified. We dressed up; and on the advice of +my friends--I now see that it was bad advice--I allowed myself to be +dressed as a devil; I, the _patrone_; I, Madame. It was true I was only +a little devil, quite one of the minor ones, what the Germans would call +a _Hausteufelchen_; but a devil I was. And going upstairs again +unexpectedly, to fetch my tail which had been forgotten, I saw at the +very end of the long passage, down which I had to go, Antoine collecting +the day's boots. + +He stood aside and waited. I couldn't go back, because that would have +looked as though I were doing something I knew I oughtn't to. Therefore +I proceeded. + +The passage was long and well lit. Down the whole of it I had to go, +while Antoine at the end stood and waited. I tried to advance with +dignity. I tried to hope he wouldn't recognise me. I tried to feel sure +he wouldn't. How could he? I was quite black, except for a wig that +looked like orange-coloured flames. But when I got to the doors at the +end it was the one to my bedroom that Antoine threw open, and past him I +had to march while he stood gravely aside. And strangely enough, what I +remember feeling most acutely was a quite particular humiliation and +shame that I hadn't got my tail on. + +'_C'est que j'ai oublié ma queue_....' I found myself stammering, with a +look of agonised deprecation and apology at him. + +And even then Antoine wasn't surprised. + +Well, where was I? Oh yes--at the _transpiration_. Antoine let it pass +over him, as I have said, without a ruffle, and drew my attention to the +chickens who would have to be fed and the cow who would have to be +milked. Perhaps the cow might be milked on his return, but the +chickens-- + +Antoine was softening. + +I said quickly that all he had to do would be to put the chickens' food +ready and I would administer it, and as for the cow, why not let her +have a rest for once, why not let her for once not he robbed of what was +after all her own? + +And to cut the conversation short, and determined that my birthday +should not pass without somebody getting a present, I ran upstairs and +fetched down a twenty-franc note and pressed it into Antoine's hand and +said breathlessly in a long and voluble sentence that began with +_Voilà_, but didn't keep it up at that level, that the twenty francs +were for his expenses for himself and Mrs. Antoine down in the valley, +and that I hoped they would enjoy themselves, and would he remember me +very kindly to his _maman_, to whom he would no doubt pay a little visit +during the course of what I trusted would be a long, crowded, and +agreeable day. + +They went off ultimately, but with reluctance. Completely undignified, I +stood on the low wall of the terrace and waved to them as they turned +the corner at the bottom of the path. + +'_Mille félicitations_!' I cried, anxious that somebody should be wished +happiness on my birthday. + +'If I _am_ going to have a lonely birthday it shall be _thoroughly_ +lonely,' I said grimly to myself as, urged entirely by my volition, the +Antoines disappeared and left me to the solitary house. + +I decided to begin my day's work by making my bed, and went upstairs +full of resolution. + +Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that; no doubt while I was arguing with +Antoine. + +The next thing, then, I reflected, was to tidy away breakfast, so I came +downstairs again, full of more resolution. + +Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that too; no doubt while I was still +arguing with Antoine. + +Well then, oughtn't I to begin to do something with potatoes? With a +view to the dinner-hour? Put them on, or something? I was sure the +putting on of potatoes would make me perspire. I longed to start my +_transpiration_ in case by any chance, if I stayed too long inactive and +cool, I should notice how very silent and empty.... + +I hurried into the kitchen, a dear little place of white tiles and +copper saucepans, and found pots simmering gently on the stove: potatoes +in one, and in the other bits of something that well might be chicken. +Also, on a tray was the rest of everything needed for my dinner. All I +would have to do would be to eat it. + +Baulked, but still full of resolution, I set out in search of the +lawn-mower. It couldn't be far away, because nothing is able to be +anything but close on my narrow ledge of rock. + +Mou-Mou, sitting on his haunches in the shade at the back of the house, +watched me with interest as I tried to open the sorts of outside doors +that looked as if they shut in lawn-mowers. + +They were all locked. + +The magnificent Mou-Mou, who manages to imitate Antoine's trick of not +being surprised, though he hasn't yet quite caught his air of absence of +curiosity, got up after the first door and lounged after me as I tried +the others. He could do this because, though tied up, Antoine has +ingeniously provided for his exercise, and at the same time for the +circumvention of burglars, by fixing an iron bar the whole length of the +wall behind the house and fastening Mou-Mou's chain to it by a loose +ring. So that he can run along it whenever he feels inclined; and a +burglar, having noted the kennel at the east end of this wall and +Mou-Mou sitting chained up in front of it, would find, on preparing to +attack the house at its west and apparently dogless end, that the dog +was nevertheless there before him. A rattle and a slide, and there would +be Mou-Mou. Very _morale_-shaking. Very freezing in its unexpectedness +to the burglar's blood, and paralysing to his will to sin. Thus Antoine, +thinking of everything, had calculated. There hasn't ever been a +burglar, but, as he said of his possible suppurating wounds, '_Il ne +faut pas attendre qu'on les a pour se procurer le remède._' + +Mou-Mou accordingly came with me as I went up and down the back of the +house trying the range of outside doors. I think he thought at last it +was a game, for as each door wouldn't open and I paused a moment +thwarted, he gave a loud double bark, as one who should in the Psalms, +after each verse, say _Selah_. + +Antoine had locked up the lawn-mower. The mowing was to be put off till +to-morrow rather than that Madame in the heat should mow. I appreciated +the kindness of his intentions, but for all that was much vexed by being +baulked. On my birthday too. Baulked of the one thing I really wanted, +_la transpiration_. It didn't seem much to ask on my birthday, I who +used, without so much as lifting a finger, to acquire on such occasions +quite other beads. + +Undecided, I stood looking round the tidy yard for something I could be +active over, and Mou-Mou sat upright on his huge haunches watching me. +He is so big that in this position our heads are on a level. He took +advantage of this by presently raising his tongue--it was already out, +hanging in the heat--as I still didn't move or say anything, and giving +my face an enormous lick. So then I went away, for I didn't like that. +Besides, I had thought of something. + +In the flower-border along the terrace would be weeds. Flower-borders +always have weeds, and weeding is arduous. Also, all one wants for +weeding are one's own ten fingers, and Antoine couldn't prevent my using +those. So that was what I would do--bend down and tear up weeds, and in +this way forget the extraordinary sunlit, gaping, empty little house.... + +So great, however, had been the unflagging diligence of Antoine, and +also perhaps so poor and barren the soil, that after half an hour's +search I had only found three weeds, and even those I couldn't be sure +about, and didn't know for certain but what I might be pulling up some +precious bit of alpine flora put in on purpose and cherished by +Antoine. All I really knew was that what I tore up wasn't irises, and +wasn't delphiniums, and wasn't pansies; so that, I argued, it must be +weeds. Anyhow, I pulled three alien objects out, and laid them in a neat +row to show Antoine. Then I sat down and rested. + +The search for them had made me hot, but that of course wouldn't last. +It was ages before I need go and feed the chickens. I sat on the terrace +wall wondering what I could do next. It was a pity that the Antoines +were so admirable. One could overdo virtue. A little less zeal, the +least judicious neglect on their part, and I would have found something +useful to do. + +The place was quite extraordinarily silent. There wasn't a sound. Even +Mou-Mou round at the back, languid in the heat, didn't move. The immense +light beat on the varnished wooden face of the house and on the shut +shutters of all the unused rooms. Those rooms have been shut like that +for five years. The shutters are blistered with the fierce sun of five +summers, and the no less fierce sun of five winters. Their colour, once +a lively, swaggering blue, has faded to a dull grey: I sat staring up at +them. Suppose they were suddenly to be opened from inside, and faces +that used to live in them looked out? + +A faint shudder trickled along my spine. + +Well, but wouldn't I be glad really? Wouldn't they be the dearest +ghosts? That room at the end, for instance, so tightly shut up now, that +was where my brother used to sleep when he came out for his holidays. +Wouldn't I love to see him look out at me? How gaily he used to +arrive,--in such spirits because he had got rid of work for a bit, and +for a series of divine weeks was going to stretch himself in the sun! +The first thing he always did when he got up to his room was to hurry +out on to its little balcony to see if the heavenly view of the valley +towards the east with the chain of snow mountains across the end were +still as heavenly as he remembered it; and I could see him with his head +thrown back, breathing deep breaths of the lovely air, adoring it, +radiant with delight to have got back to it, calling down to me to come +quick and look, for it could never have been so beautiful as at that +moment and could never possibly be so beautiful again. + +I loved him very much. I don't believe anybody ever had so dear a +brother. He was so quick to appreciate and understand, so slow to +anger, so clear of brain and gentle of heart. Of course he was killed. +Such people always are, if there is any killing going on anywhere. He +volunteered at the very beginning of the war, and though his fragility +saved him for a long time he was at last swept in. That was in March +1918. He was killed the first week. I loved him very much, and he loved +me. He called me sweet names, and forgave me all my trespasses. + +And in the next room to that--oh well, I'm not going to dig out every +ghost. I can't really write about some of them, the pain hurts too much. +I've not been into any of the shut rooms since I came back. I couldn't +bear it. Here out of doors I can take a larger view, not mind going to +the places of memories; but I know those rooms will have been kept as +carefully unchanged by Antoine as I found mine. I daren't even think of +them. I had to get up off the wall and come away from staring up at +those shutters, for suddenly I found myself right on the very edge of +the dreadful pit I'm always so afraid of tumbling into--the great, +black, cold, empty pit of horror, of realisation.... + +That's why I've been writing all this, just so as not to think.... + + +_Bedtime._ + +I must put down what happened after that. I ought to be in bed, but I +must put down how my birthday ended. + +Well, there I was sitting, trying by writing to defend myself against +the creeping fear of the silence round me and the awareness of those +shut rooms up stairs, when Mou-Mou barked. He barked suddenly and +furiously; and the long screech of his chain showed that he was rushing +along the wall to the other side of the house. + +Instantly my thoughts became wholesome. I jumped up. Here was the +burglar at last. I flew round to greet him. Anything was better than +those shutters, and that hot, sunlit silence. + +Between my departure from the terrace and my arrival at the other side +of the house I had had time, so quickly did my restored mind work, to +settle that whoever it was, burglar or not, I was going to make friends. +If it really were a burglar I would adopt the line the bishop took +towards Jean Valjean, and save him from the sin of theft by making him a +present of everything he wished to take,--conduct which perhaps might +save me as well, supposing he was the kind of burglar who would want to +strangle opposition. Also, burglar or no burglar, I would ask him to +dinner; compel him, in fact, to come in and share my birthday chicken. + +What I saw when I got round, standing just out of reach of the leaping +Mou-Mou on the top of the avalanche wall, looking down at him with +patience rather than timidity, holding their black skirts back in case +an extra leap of his should reach them, were two women. Strangers, not +natives. Perhaps widows. But anyhow people who had been bereaved. + +I immediately begged them to come in. The relief and refreshment of +seeing them! Two human beings of obvious respectability, warm flesh and +blood persons, not burglars, not ghosts, not even of the sex one +associates with depredation,--just decent, alive women, complete in +every detail, even to each carrying an umbrella. They might have been +standing on the curb in Oxford Street waiting to hail an omnibus, so +complete were they, so prepared in their clothes to face the world. +Button boots, umbrella,--I hadn't seen an umbrella since I got here. +What you usually take for a walk on the mountains is a stout stick with +an iron point to it; but after all, why shouldn't you take an umbrella? +Then if it rains you can put it up, and if the sun is unbearable you +can put it up too, and it too has a metal tip to it which you can dig +into the ground if you begin to slide down precipices. + +'_Bon jour_,' I said eagerly, looking up at these black silhouettes +against the sky. '_Je vous prie de venir me voir._' + +They stared at me, still holding back their skirts from the leaping dog. + +Perhaps they were Italians. I am close to Italy, and Italian women +usually dress in black. + +I know some Italian words, and I know the one you say when you want +somebody to come in, so I tried that. + +'_Avanti_,' I said breathlessly. + +They didn't. They still just stood and stared. + +They couldn't be English I thought, because underneath their black +skirts I could see white cotton petticoats with embroidery on them, the +kind that England has shed these fifty years, and that is only now to be +found in remote and religious parts of abroad, like the more fervent +portions of Lutheran Germany. Could they be Germans? The thought +distracted me. How could I ask two Germans in? How could I sit at meat +with people whose male relations had so recently been killing mine? Or +been killed by them, perhaps, judging from their black clothes. Anyhow +there was blood between us. But how could I resist asking them in, when +if I didn't there would be hours and hours of intolerable silence and +solitude for me, till evening brought those Antoines back who never +ought to have been let go? On my birthday, too. + +I know some German words--it is wonderful what a lot of languages I seem +to know some words in--so I threw one up at them between two of +Mou-Mou's barks. + +'_Deutsch_?' I inquired. + +They ignored it. + +'That's all my languages,' I then said in despair. + +The only thing left that I might still try on them was to talk on my +fingers, which I can a little; but if they didn't happen, I reflected, +to be deaf and dumb perhaps they wouldn't like that. So I just looked up +at them despairingly, and spread out my hands and drew my shoulders to +my ears as Mrs. Antoine does when she is conveying to me that the butter +has come to an end. + +Whereupon the elder of the two--neither was young, but one was less +young--the elder of the two informed me in calm English that they had +lost their way, and she asked me to direct them and also to tell the +dog not to make quite so much noise, in order that they might clearly +understand what I said. 'He is a fine fellow,' she said, 'but we should +be glad if he would make less noise.' + +The younger one said nothing, but smiled at me. She was +pleasant-looking, this one, flushed and nicely moist from walking in the +heat. The other one was more rocky; considering the weather, and the +angle of the slope they had either come up or down, she seemed quite +unnaturally arid. + +I seized Mou-Mou by the collar, and ran him along to his kennel. + +'You stay there and be good,' I said to him, though I know he doesn't +understand a word of English. 'He won't hurt you,' I assured the +strangers, going back to them. + +'Ah,' said the elder of the two; and added, 'I used to say that to +people about _my_ dog.' + +They still stood motionless, holding their skirts, the younger one +smiling at me. + +'Won't you come down?' I said. 'Come in and rest a little? I can tell +you better about your road if you'll come in. Look--you go along that +path there, and it brings you round to the front door.' + +'Will the dog be at the front door?' asked the elder. + +'Oh no--besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly.' + +'Ah,' said the elder eyeing Mou-Mou sideways, who, from his kennel, eyed +her, 'I used to say that to people about _my_ dog.' + +The younger one stood smiling at me. They neither of them moved. + +'I'll come up and bring you down,' I said, hurrying round to the path +that leads from the terrace on to the slope. + +When they saw that this path did indeed take them away from Mou-Mou they +came with me. + +Directly they moved he made a rush along his bar, but arrived too late +and could only leap up and down barking. + +'That's just high spirits,' I said. 'He is really most goodnatured and +affectionate.' + +'Ah,' said the elder, 'I used to say that to people--' + +'Mind those loose stones,' I interrupted; and I helped each one down the +last crumbly bit on to the terrace. + +They both had black kid gloves on. More than ever, as I felt these warm +gloves press my hand, was I sure that what they really wanted was an +omnibus along Oxford Street. + +Once on the level and out of sight of Mou-Mou, they walked with an air +of self-respect. Especially the elder. The younger, though she had it +too, seemed rather to be following an example than originating an +attitude. Perhaps they were related to a Lord Mayor, I thought. Or a +rector. But a Lord Mayor would be more likely to be the cause of that +air of glowing private background to life. + +They had been up the mountain, the elder told me, trying to find +somewhere cool to stay in, for the valley this weather was unendurable. +They used to know this district years ago, and recollected a pension +right up in the highest village, and after great exertions and rising +early that morning they had reached it only to find that it had become a +resort for consumptives. With no provision for the needs of the passing +tourist; with no desire, in fact, in any way to minister to them. If it +hadn't been for me, she said, as they sat on the cool side of the house +drinking lemonade and eating biscuits, if it hadn't been for me and what +she described with obvious gratitude--she couldn't guess my joy at +seeing them both!--as my kindness, they would have had somehow to +clamber down foodless by wrong roads, seeing that they had lost the +right one, to the valley again, and in what state they would have +re-entered that scorching and terrible place she didn't like to think. +Tired as they were. Disappointed, and distressingly hot. How very +pleasant it was up here. What a truly delightful spot. Such air. Such a +view. And how agreeable and unexpected to come across one of one's own +country-women. + +To all this the younger in silence smiled agreement. + +They had been so long abroad, continued the elder, that they felt +greatly fatigued by foreigners, who were so very prevalent. In their +pension there were nothing but foreigners and flies. The house wasn't by +any chance--no, of course it couldn't be, but it wasn't by any +chance--her voice had a sudden note of hope in it--a pension? + +I shook my head and laughed at that, and said it wasn't. The younger one +smiled at me. + +Ah no--of course not, continued the elder, her voice fading again. And +she didn't suppose I could tell them of any pension anywhere about, +where they could get taken in while this great heat lasted? Really the +valley was most terribly airless. The best hotel, which had, she knew, +some cool rooms, was beyond their means, so they were staying in one of +the small ones, and the flies worried them. Apparently I had no flies +up here. And what wonderful air. At night, no doubt, it was quite cool. +The nights in the valley were most trying. It was difficult to sleep. + +I asked them to stay to lunch. They accepted gratefully. When I took +them to my room to wash their hands they sighed with pleasure at its +shadiness and quiet. They thought the inside of the house delightfully +roomy, and more spacious, said the elder, while the younger one smiled +agreement, than one would have expected from its outside. I left them, +sunk with sighs of satisfaction, on the sofa in the hall, their black +toques and gloves on a chair beside them, gazing at the view through the +open front door while I went to see how the potatoes were getting on. + +We lunched presently in the shade just outside the house, and the +strange ladies continued to be most grateful, the elder voicing their +gratitude, the younger smiling agreement. If it was possible to like one +more than the other, seeing with what enthusiasm I liked them both, I +liked the younger because she smiled. I love people who smile. It does +usually mean sweet pleasantness somewhere. + +After lunch, while I cleared away, having refused their polite offers +of help,--for they now realised I was alone in the house, on which, +however, though it must have surprised them they made no comment,--they +went indoors to the sofa again, whose soft cushions seemed particularly +attractive to them; and when I came back the last time for the +breadcrumbs and tablecloth, I found they had both fallen asleep, the +elder one with her handkerchief over her face. + +Poor things. How tired they were. How glad I was that they should be +resting and getting cool. A little sleep would do them both good. + +I crept past them on tiptoe with my final armful, and was careful to +move about in the kitchen very quietly. It hadn't been my intention, +with guests to lunch, to wash up and put away, but rather to sit with +them and talk. Not having talked for so long it seemed a godsend, a +particularly welcome birthday present, suddenly to have two English +people drop in on me from the skies. Up to this moment I had been busy, +first getting lemonade to slake their thirst and then lunch to appease +their hunger, and the spare time in between these activities had been +filled with the expression of their gratitude by the elder and her +expatiations on the house and what she called the grounds; but I had +looked forward to about an hour's real talk after lunch, before they +would begin to want to start on their long downward journey to their +pension,--talk in which, without being specially brilliant any of us, +for you only had to look at us to see we wouldn't be specially that, we +yet might at least tell each other amusing things about, say, Lord +Mayors. It is true I don't know any Lord Mayors, though I do know +somebody whose brother married the daughter of one; but if they could +produce a Lord Mayor out of up their sleeve, as I suspected, I could +counter him with a dean. Not quite so showy, perhaps, but more +permanent. And I did want to talk. I have been silent so long that I +felt I could talk about almost anything. + +Well, as they were having a little nap, poor things, I would tidy up the +kitchen meanwhile, and by the time that was done they would be refreshed +and ready for half an hour's agreeable interchange of gossip. + +Every now and then during this tidying I peeped into the hall in case +they were awake, but they seemed if anything to be sounder asleep each +time. The younger one, her flushed face half buried, in a cushion, her +fair hair a little ruffled, had a pathetic look of almost infantile +helplessness; the elder, discreetly veiled by her handkerchief, slept +more stiffly, with less abandonment and more determination. Poor things. +How glad I was they should in this way gather strength for the long, +difficult scramble down the mountain; but also presently I began to wish +they would wake up. + +I finished what I had to do in the kitchen, and came back into the hall. +They had been sleeping now nearly half an hour. I stood about +uncertainly. Poor things, they must be dreadfully tired to sleep like +that. I hardly liked to look at them, they were so defenceless, and I +picked up a book and tried to read; but I couldn't stop my eyes from +wandering over the top of it to the sofa every few minutes, and always I +saw the same picture of profound repose. + +Presently I put down the book, and wandered out on to the terrace and +gazed awhile at the view. That, too, seemed wrapped in afternoon +slumber. After a bit I wandered round the house to Mou-Mou. He, too, was +asleep. Then I came back to the front door and glanced in at my guests. +Still no change. Then I fetched some cigarettes, not moving this time +quite so carefully, and going out again sat on the low terrace-wall at a +point from which I could see straight on to the sofa and notice any +movement that might take place. + +I never smoke except when bored, and as I am never bored I never smoke. +But this afternoon it was just that unmanageable sort of moment come +upon me, that kind of situation I don't know how to deal with, which +does bore me. I sat on the wall and smoked three cigarettes, and the +peace on the sofa remained complete. What ought one to do? What did one +do, faced by obstinately sleeping guests? Impossible deliberately to +wake them up. Yet I was sure--they had now been asleep nearly an +hour--that when they did wake up, polite as they were, they would be +upset by discovering that they had slept. Besides, the afternoon was +getting on. They had a long way to go. If only Mou-Mou would wake up and +bark.... But there wasn't a sound. The hot afternoon brooded over the +mountains in breathless silence. + +Again I went round to the back of the house, and pausing behind the last +corner so as to make what I did next more alarming, suddenly jumped out +at Mou Mou. + +The horribly intelligent dog didn't bother to open more than an eye, +and that one he immediately shut again. + +Disgusted with him, I returned to my seat on the wall and smoked another +cigarette. The picture on the sofa was the same: perfect peace. Oh well, +poor things--but I did want to talk. And after all it was my birthday. + +When I had finished the cigarette I thought a moment, my face in my +hands. A person of tact--ah, but I have no tact; it has been my undoing +on the cardinal occasions of life that I have none. Well, but suppose I +_were_ a person of tact--what would I do? Instantly the answer flashed +into my brain: Knock, by accident, against a table. + +So I did. I got up quickly and crossed into the hall and knocked against +a table, at first with gentleness, and then as there was no result with +greater vigour. + +My elder guest behind the handkerchief continued to draw deep regular +breaths, but to my joy the younger one stirred and opened her eyes. + +'Oh, I do _hope_ I didn't wake you?' I exclaimed, taking an eager step +towards the sofa. + +She looked at me vaguely, and fell asleep again. + +I went back on to the terrace and lit another cigarette. That was five. +I haven't smoked so much before in one day in my life ever. I felt quite +fast. And on my birthday too. By the time I had finished it there was a +look about the shadows on the grass that suggested tea. Even if it were +a little early the noise of the teacups might help to wake up my guests, +and I felt that a call to tea would be a delicate and hospitable way of +doing it. + +I didn't go through the hall on tiptoe this time, but walked naturally; +and I opened the door into the kitchen rather noisily. Then I looked +round at the sofa to see the effect. There wasn't any. + +Presently tea was ready, out on the table where we had lunched. At least +six times I had been backwards and forwards through the hall, the last +twice carrying things that rattled and that I encouraged to rattle. But +on the sofa the strangers slept peacefully on. + +There was nothing for it now but to touch them. Short of that, I didn't +think that anything would wake them. But I don't like touching guests; I +mean, in between whiles. I have never done it. Especially not when they +weren't looking. And still more especially not when they were complete +strangers. + +Therefore I approached the sofa with reluctance, and stood uncertain in +front of it. Poor things, they really were most completely asleep. It +seemed a pity to interrupt. Well, but they had had a nice rest; they had +slept soundly now for two hours. And the tea would be cold if I didn't +wake them up, and besides, how were they going to get home if they +didn't start soon? Still, I don't like touching guests. Especially +strange guests.... + +Manifestly, however, there was nothing else to be done, so I bent over +the younger one--the other one was too awe-inspiring with her +handkerchief over her face--and gingerly put my hand on her shoulder. + +Nothing happened. + +I put it on again, with a slightly increased emphasis. + +She didn't open her eyes, but to my embarrassment laid her cheek on it +affectionately and murmured something that sounded astonishingly like +Siegfried. + +I know about Siegfried, because of going to the opera. He was a German. +He still is, in the form of Siegfried Wagner, and I daresay of others; +and once somebody told me that when Germans wished to indulge their +disrespect for the Kaiser freely--he was not at that time yet an +ex-Kaiser---without being run in for _lèse majesté_, they loudly and +openly abused him under the name of Siegfried Meyer, whose initials, +S.M., also represent _Seine Majestät_; by which simple methods everybody +was able to be pleased and nobody was able to be hurt. So that when my +sleeping guest murmured Siegfried, I couldn't but conclude she was +dreaming of a German; and when at the same time she laid her cheek on my +hand, I was forced to realise that she was dreaming of him +affectionately. Which astonished me. + +Imbued with patriotism--the accumulated patriotism of weeks spent out of +England--I felt that this English lady should instantly be roused from a +dream that did her no credit. She herself, I felt sure, would be the +first to deplore such a dream. So I drew my hand away from beneath her +cheek--even by mistake I didn't like it to be thought the hand of +somebody called Siegfried and, stooping down, said quite loud and +distinctly in her ear, 'Won't you come to tea?' + +This, at last, did wake her. She sat up with a start, and looked at me +for a moment in surprise. + +'Oh,' she said, confused, 'have I been asleep?' + +'I'm very glad you have,' I said, smiling at her, for she was already +again smiling at me. 'Your climb this morning was enough to kill you.' + +'Oh, but,' she murmured, getting up quickly and straightening her hair, +'how dreadful to come to your house and go to sleep--' + +And she turned to the elder one, and again astonished me by, with one +swift movement, twitching the handkerchief off her face and saying +exactly as one says when playing the face-and-handkerchief game with +one's baby, 'Peep bo.' Then she turned back to me and smiled and said +nothing more, for I suppose she knew the elder one, roused thus +competently, would now do all the talking; as indeed she did, being as I +feared greatly upset and horrified when she found she had not only been +asleep but been it for two hours. + +We had tea; and all the while, while the elder one talked of the trouble +she was afraid she had given, and the shame she felt that they should +have slept, and their gratitude for what she called my prolonged and +patient hospitality, I was wondering about the other. Whenever she +caught my pensive and inquiring eye she smiled at me. She had very +sweet eyes, grey ones, gentle and intelligent, and when she smiled an +agreeable dimple appeared. Bringing my Paley's _Evidences_ and Sherlock +Holmes' side to bear on her, I reasoned that my younger guest was, or +had been, a mother,--this because of the practised way she had twitched +the handkerchief off and said Peep bo; that she was either a widow, or +hadn't seen her husband for some time,--this because of the real +affection with which, in her sleep she had laid her cheek on my hand; +and that she liked music and often went to the opera. + +After tea the elder got up stiffly--she had walked much too far already, +and was clearly unfit to go all that long way more--and said, if I would +direct them, they must now set out for the valley. + +The younger one put on her toque obediently at this, and helped the +elder one to pin hers on straight. It was now five o'clock, and if they +didn't once lose their way they would be at their hotel by half-past +seven; in time, said the elder, for the end of _table-d'hôte,_ a meal +much interfered with by the very numerous flies. But if they did go +wrong at any point it would be much later, probably dark. + +I asked them to stay. + +To stay? The elder, engaged in buttoning her tight kid gloves, said it +was most kind of me, but they couldn't possibly stay any longer. It was +far too late already, owing to their so unfortunately having gone to +sleep-- + +'I mean stay the night,' I said; and explained that it would be doing me +a kindness, and because of that they must please overlook anything in +such an invitation that might appear unconventional, for certainly if +they did set out I should lie awake all night thinking of them lost +somewhere among the precipices, or perhaps fallen over one, and how much +better to go down comfortably in daylight, and I could lend them +everything they wanted, including a great many new toothbrushes I found +here,--in short, I not only invited, I pressed; growing more eager by +the sheer gathering momentum of my speech. + +All day, while the elder talked and I listened, I had secretly felt +uneasy. Here was I, one woman in a house arranged for family gatherings, +while they for want of rooms were forced to swelter in the valley. +Gradually, as I listened, my uneasiness increased. Presently I began to +feel guilty. And at last, as I watched them sleeping in such exhaustion +on the sofa, I felt at the bottom of my heart somehow responsible. But +I don't know, of course, that it is wise to invite strangers to stay +with one. + +They accepted gratefully. The moment the elder understood what it was +that my eager words were pressing on her, she drew the pins out of her +toque and laid it on the chair again; and so did the other one, smiling +at me. + +When the Antoines came home I went out to meet them. By that time my +guests were shut up in their bedrooms with new toothbrushes. They had +gone up very early, both of them so stiff that they could hardly walk. +Till they did go up, what moments I had been able to spare from my hasty +preparations for their comfort had been filled entirely, as earlier in +the day, by the elder one's gratitude; there had still been no chance of +real talk. + +'_J'ai des visites_,' I said to the Antoines, going out to meet them +when, through the silence of the evening, I heard their steps coming up +the path. + +Antoine wasn't surprised. He just said, '_Ca sera comme autrefois_,' and +began to shut the shutters. + +But I am. I can't go to bed, I'm so much surprised. I've been sitting +up here scribbling when I ought to have been in bed long ago. Who would +have thought that the day that began so emptily would end with two of my +rooms full,--each containing a widow? For they are widows, they told me: +widows who have lost their husbands by peaceful methods, nothing to do +with the war. Their names are Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks,--at least that +is what the younger one's sounded like; I don't know if I have spelt it +right. They come from Dulwich. I think the elder one had a slight +misgiving at the last, and seemed to remember what was due to the Lord +Mayor, when she found herself going to bed in a strange house belonging +to somebody of whom she knew nothing; for she remarked a little +doubtfully, and with rather a defensive eye fixed on me, that the war +had broken down many barriers, and that people did things now that they +wouldn't have dreamed of doing five years ago. + +The other one didn't say nothing, but actually kissed me. I hope she +wasn't again mistaking me for Siegfried. + + +_August 15th_ + +My guests have gone again, but only to fetch their things and pay their +hotel bill, and then they are coming back to stay with me till it is a +little cooler. They are coming back to-morrow, not to-day. They are +entangled in some arrangement with their pension that makes it difficult +for them to leave at once. + +Mrs. Barnes appeared at breakfast with any misgivings she may have had +last night gone, for when I suggested they should spend this hot weather +up here she immediately accepted. I hadn't slept for thinking of them. +How could I possibly not ask them to stay, seeing their discomfort and +my roominess? Towards morning it was finally clear to me that it wasn't +possible: I would ask them. Though, remembering the look in Mrs. +Barnes's eye the last thing last night, I couldn't be sure she would +accept. She might want to find out about me first, after the cautious +and hampering way of women,--oh, I wish women wouldn't always be so +cautious, but simply get on with their friendships! She might first want +assurances that there was some good reason for my being here all by +myself. Alas, there isn't a good reason; there is only a bad one. But, +fortunately, to be alone is generally regarded as respectable, in spite +of what Seneca says a philosopher said to a young man he saw walking by +himself: 'Have a care,' said he, 'of lewd company.' + +However, I don't suppose Mrs. Barnes knew about Seneca. Anyhow she +didn't hesitate. She accepted at once, and said that under these +circumstances it was certainly due to me to tell me a little about +themselves. + +At this I got my dean ready to meet the Lord Mayor, but after all I was +told nothing more than that my guests are sisters; for at this point, +very soon arrived at, the younger one, Mrs. Jewks, who had slipped away +on our getting up from breakfast, reappeared with the toques and gloves, +and said she thought they had better start before it got any hotter. + +So they went, and the long day here has been most beautiful--so +peaceful, so quiet, with the delicate mountains like opals against the +afternoon sky, and the shadows lengthening along the valley. + +I don't feel to-day as I did yesterday, that I want to talk. To-day I am +content with things exactly as they are: the sun, the silence, the +caresses of the funny little white kitten with the smudge of black round +its left eye that makes it look as though it must be somebody's wife, +and the pleasant knowledge that my new friends are coming back again. + +I think that knowledge makes to-day more precious. It is the last day +for some time, for at least a week judging from the look of the blazing +sky, of what I see now that they are ending have been wonderful days. Up +the ladder of these days I have climbed slowly away from the blackness +at the bottom. It has been like finding some steps under water just as +one was drowning, and crawling up them to air and light. But now that I +have got at least most of myself back to air and light, and feel hopeful +of not slipping down again, it is surely time to arise, shake myself, +and begin to do something active and fruitful. And behold, just as I +realise this, just as I realise that I am, so to speak, ripe for +fruit-bearing, there appear on the scene Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks, as +it were the midwives of Providence. + +Well, that shall be to-morrow. Meanwhile there is still to-day, and each +one of its quiet hours seems very precious. I wonder what my new friends +like to read. Suppose--I was going to say suppose it is _The Rosary_; +but I won't suppose that, for when it comes to supposing, why not +suppose something that isn't _The Rosary_? Why not, for instance, +suppose they like _Eminent Victorians_, and that we three are going to +sit of an evening delicately tickling each other with quotations from +it, and gently squirming in our seats for pleasure? It is just as easy +to suppose that as to suppose anything else, and as I'm not yet +acquainted with these ladies' tastes one supposition is as likely to be +right as another. + +I don't know, though--I forgot their petticoats. I can't believe any +friends of Mr. Lytton Strachey wear that kind of petticoat, eminently +Victorian even though it be; and although he wouldn't, of course, have +direct ocular proof that they did unless he had stood with me yesterday +at the bottom of that wall while they on the top held up their skirts, +still what one has on underneath does somehow ooze through into one's +behaviour. I know once, when impelled by a heat wave in America to cast +aside the undergarments of a candid mind and buy and put on pink +chiffon, the pink chiffon instantly got through all my clothes into my +conduct, which became curiously dashing. Anybody can tell what a woman +has got on underneath by merely watching her behaviour. I have known +just the consciousness of silk stockings, worn by one accustomed only to +wool, produce dictatorialness where all before had been submission. + + +_August 19th_ + +I haven't written for three days because I have been so busy settling +down to my guests. + +They call each other Kitty and Dolly. They explained that these were +inevitably their names because they were born, one fifty, the other +forty years ago. I inquired why this was inevitable, and they drew my +attention to fashions in names, asserting that people's ages could +generally be guessed by their Christian names. If, they said, their +birth had taken place ten years earlier they would have been Ethel and +Maud; if ten years later they would have been Muriel and Gladys; and if +twenty years only ago they had no doubt but what they would have been +Elizabeth and Pamela. It is always Mrs. Barnes who talks; but the effect +is as though they together were telling me things, because of the way +Mrs. Jewks smiles,--I conclude in agreement. + +'Our dear parents, both long since dead,' said Mrs. Barnes, adjusting +her eyeglasses more comfortably on her nose, 'didn't seem to remember +that we would ever grow old, for we weren't even christened Katharine +and Dorothy, to which we might have reverted when we ceased being girls, +but we were Kitty and Dolly from the very beginning, and actually in +that condition came away from the font.' + +'I like being Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. + +Mrs. Barnes looked at her with what I thought was a slight uneasiness, +and rebuked her. 'You shouldn't,' she said. 'After thirty-nine no woman +should willingly be Dolly.' + +'I still feel exactly _like_ Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. + +'It's a misfortune,' said Mrs. Barnes, shaking her head. 'To be called +Dolly after a certain age is bad enough, but it is far worse to feel +like it. What I think of,' she said, turning to me, 'is when we are +really old,--in bath chairs, unable to walk, and no doubt being spoon +fed, and yet obliged to continue to be called by these names. It will +rob us of dignity.' + +'I don't think I'll mind,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. 'I shall still feel +exactly _like_ Dolly.' + +Mrs. Barnes looked at her, again I thought with uneasiness--with, +really, an air of rather anxious responsibility. + +And afterwards, when her sister had gone indoors for something, she +expounded a theory she said she held, the soundness of which had often +been proved to her by events, that names had much influence on +behaviour. + +'Not half as much,' I thought (but didn't say), 'as underclothes.' And +indeed I have for years been acquainted with somebody called Trixy, who +for steady gloom and heaviness of spirit would be hard to equal. Also I +know an Isolda; a most respectable married woman, of a sprightly humour +and much nimbleness in dodging big emotions. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'has never, I am sorry to say, shared my +opinion. If she had, many things in her life would have been different, +for then she would have been on her guard as I have been. I am glad to +say there is nothing I have ever done since I ceased to be a child that +has been even remotely compatible with being called Kitty.' + +I said I thought that was a great deal to be able to say. It suggested, +I said, quite an unusually blameless past. Through my brain ran for an +instant the vision of that devil who, seeking his tail, met Antoine in +the passage. I blushed. Fortunately Mrs. Barnes didn't notice. + +'What did Dol--what did Mrs. Jewks do,' I said, 'that you think was the +direct result of her Christian name? Don't tell me if my question is +indiscreet, which I daresay it is, because I know I often am, but your +theory interests me.' + +Mrs. Barnes hesitated a moment. She was, I think, turning over in her +mind whether she would give herself the relief of complete unreserve, or +continue for a few more days to skim round on the outskirts of +confidences. This was yesterday. After all, she had only been with me +two days. + +She considered awhile, then decided that two days wasn't long enough, so +only said: 'My sister is sometimes a little rash,--or perhaps I should +say has been. But the effects of rashness are felt for a long time; +usually for the rest of one's life.' + +'Yes,' I agreed; and thought ruefully of some of my own. + +This, however, only made me if anything more inquisitive as to the exact +nature and quality of Dolly's resemblance to her name. We all, I suppose +(except Mrs. Barnes, who I am sure hasn't), have been rash, and if we +could induce ourselves to be frank much innocent amusement might be got +by comparing the results of our rashnesses. But Mrs. Barnes was unable +at the moment to induce herself to be frank, and she returned to the +subject she has already treated very fully since her arrival, the +wonderful bracing air up here and her great and grateful appreciation of +it. + +To-day is Tuesday; and on Saturday evening,--the day they arrived back +again, complete with their luggage, which came up in a cart round by the +endless zigzags of the road while they with their peculiar dauntlessness +took the steep short cuts,--we had what might be called an exchange of +cards. Mrs. Barnes told me what she thought fit for me to know about her +late husband, and I responded by telling her and her sister what I +thought fit for them to know of my uncle the Dean. + +There is such a lot of him that is fit to know that it took some time. +He was a great convenience. How glad I am I've got him. A dean, after +all, is of an impressive respectability as a relation. His apron covers +a multitude of family shortcomings. You can hold him up to the light, +and turn him round, and view him from every angle, and there is nothing +about him that doesn't bear inspection. All my relations aren't like +that. One at least, though he denies it, wasn't even born in wedlock. +We're not sure about the others, but we're quite sure about this one, +that he wasn't born altogether as he ought to have been. Except for his +obstinacy in denial he is a very attractive person. My uncle can't be +got to see that he exists. This makes him not able to like my uncle. + +I didn't go beyond the Dean on Saturday night, for he had a most +satisfying effect on my new friends. Mrs. Barnes evidently thinks highly +of deans, and Mrs. Jewks, though she said nothing, smiled very +pleasantly while I held him up to view. No Lord Mayor was produced on +their side. I begin to think there isn't one. I begin to think their +self-respect is simply due to the consciousness that they are British. +Not that Mrs. Jewks says anything about it, but she smiles while Mrs. +Barnes talks on immensely patriotic lines. I gather they haven't been in +England for some time, so that naturally their affection for their +country has been fanned into a great glow. I know all about that sort of +glow. I have had it each time I've been out of England. + + +_August 20th._ + +Mrs. Barnes elaborated the story of him she speaks of always as Mr. +Barnes to-day. + +He was, she said, a business man, and went to the city every day, where +he did things with hides: dried skins, I understood, that he bought and +resold. And though Mr. Barnes drew his sustenance from these hides with +what seemed to Mrs. Barnes great ease and abundance while he was alive, +after his death it was found that, through no fault of his own but +rather, she suggested, to his credit, he had for some time past been +living on his capital. This capital came to an end almost simultaneously +with Mr. Barnes, and all that was left for Mrs. Barnes to live on was +the house at Dulwich, handsomely furnished, it was true, with everything +of the best; for Mr. Barnes had disliked what Mrs. Barnes called +fandangles, and was all for mahogany and keeping a good table. But you +can't live on mahogany, said Mrs. Barnes, nor keep a good table with +nothing to keep it on, so she wished to sell the house and retire into +obscurity on the proceeds. Her brother-in-law, however, suggested paying +guests; so would she be able to continue in her home, even if on a +slightly different basis. Many people at that period were beginning to +take in paying guests. She would not, he thought, lose caste. Especially +if she restricted herself to real gentlefolk, who wouldn't allow her to +feel her position. + +It was a little difficult at first, but she got used to it and was +doing very well when the war broke out. Then, of course, she had to +stand by Dolly. So she gave up her house and guests, and her means were +now very small; for somehow, remarked Mrs. Barnes, directly one wants to +sell nobody seems to want to buy, and she had had to let her beautiful +house go for very little-- + +'But why--' I interrupted; and pulled myself up. + +I was just going to ask why Dolly hadn't gone to Mrs. Barnes and helped +with the paying guests, instead of Mrs. Barnes giving them up and going +to Dolly; but I stopped because I thought perhaps such a question, +seeing that they quite remarkably refrain from asking me questions, +might have been a little indiscreet at our present stage of intimacy. +No, I can't call it intimacy,--friendship, then. No, I can't call it +friendship either, yet; the only word at present is acquaintanceship. + + +_August 21st._ + +The conduct of my guests is so extraordinarily discreet, their careful +avoidance of curiosity, of questions, is so remarkable, that I can but +try to imitate. They haven't asked me a single thing. I positively +thrust the Dean on them. They make no comment on anything either, +except the situation and the view. We seem to talk if not only certainly +chiefly about that. We haven't even got to books yet. I still don't know +about _The Rosary_. Once or twice when I have been alone with Mrs. +Barnes she has begun to talk of Dolly, who appears to fill most of her +thoughts, but each time she has broken off in the middle and resumed her +praises of the situation and the view. I haven't been alone at all yet +with Dolly; nor, though Mr. Barnes has been dwelt upon in detail, have I +been told anything about Mr. Jewks. + + +_August 22nd._ + +Impetuosity sometimes gets the better of me, and out begins to rush a +question; but up to now I have succeeded in catching it and strangling +it before it is complete. For perhaps my new friends have been very +unhappy, just as I have been very unhappy, and they may be struggling +out of it just as I am, still with places in their memories that hurt +too much for them to dare to touch. Perhaps it is only by silence and +reserve that they can manage to be brave. + +There are no signs, though, of anything of the sort on their composed +faces; but then neither, I think, would they see any signs of such +things on mine. The moment as it passes is, I find, somehow a gay thing. +Somebody says something amusing, and I laugh; somebody is kind, and I am +happy. Just the smell of a flower, the turn of a sentence, anything, the +littlest thing, is enough to make the passing moment gay to me. I am +sure my guests can't tell by looking at me that I have ever been +anything but cheerful; and so I, by looking at them, wouldn't be able to +say that they have ever been anything but composed,--Mrs. Barnes +composed and grave, Mrs. Jewks composed and smiling. + +But I refuse now to jump at conclusions in the nimble way I used to. +Even about Mrs. Barnes, who would seem to be an untouched monument of +tranquillity, a cave of calm memories, I can no longer be sure. And so +we sit together quietly on the terrace, and are as presentable as so +many tidy, white-curtained houses in a decent street. We don't know what +we've got inside us each of disorder, of discomfort, of anxieties. +Perhaps there is nothing; perhaps my friends are as tidy and quiet +inside as out. Anyhow up to now we have kept ourselves to ourselves, as +Mrs. Barnes would say, and we make a most creditable show. + +Only I don't believe in that keeping oneself to oneself attitude. Life +is too brief to waste any of it being slow in making friends. I have a +theory--Mrs. Barnes isn't the only one of us three who has +theories--that reticence is a stuffy, hampering thing. Except about +one's extremest bitter grief, which is, like one's extremest joy of +love, too deeply hidden away with God to be told of, one should be +without reserves. And if one makes mistakes, and if the other person +turns out to have been unworthy of being treated frankly and goes away +and distorts, it can't be helped,--one just takes the risk. For isn't +anything better than distrust, and the slowness and selfish fear of +caution? Isn't anything better than not doing one's fellow creatures the +honour of taking it for granted that they are, women and all, gentlemen? +Besides, how lonely.... + + +_August 23rd._ + +The sun goes on blazing, and we go on sitting in the shade in a row. + +Mrs. Barnes does a great deal of knitting. She knits socks for soldiers +all day. She got into this habit during the war, when she sent I don't +know how many pairs a year to the trenches, and now she can't stop. I +suppose these will go to charitable institutions, for although the war +has left off there are, as Mrs. Jewks justly said, still legs in the +world. + +This remark I think came under the heading Dolly in Mrs. Barnes's mind, +for she let her glance rest a moment on her sister in a kind of +affectionate concern. + +Mrs. Jewks hasn't said much yet, but each time she has said anything I +have liked it. Usually she murmurs, almost as if she didn't want Mrs. +Barnes to hear, yet couldn't help saying what she says. She too knits, +but only, I think, because her sister likes to see her sitting beside +her doing it, and never for long at a time. Her chief occupation, I have +discovered, is to read aloud to Mrs. Barnes. + +This wasn't done in my presence the first four days out of consideration +for me, for everybody doesn't like being read to, Mrs. Barnes explained +afterwards; but they went upstairs after lunch to their rooms,--to +sleep, as I supposed, knowing how well they do that, and it was only +gradually that I realised, from the monotonous gentle drone coming +through the window to where I lay below on the grass, that it wasn't +Mrs. Barnes giving long drawn-out counsel to Mrs. Jewks on the best way +to cope with the dangers of being Dolly, but that it was Mrs. Jewks +reading aloud. + +After that I suggested they should do this on the terrace, where it is +so much cooler than anywhere else in the afternoon; so now, reassured +that it in no way disturbs me--Mrs. Barnes's politeness and sense of +duty as a guest never flags for a moment--this is what happens, and it +happens in the mornings also. For, says Mrs. Barnes, how much better it +is to study what persons of note have said than waste the hours of life +saying things oneself. + +They read biographies and histories, but only those, I gather, that are +not recent; and sometimes, Mrs. Barnes said, they lighten what Mrs. +Jewks described in a murmur as these more solid forms of fiction by +reading a really good novel. + +I asked Mrs. Barnes with much interest about the novel. What were the +really good ones they had read? And I hung on the answer, for here was +something we could talk about that wasn't either the situation or the +view and yet was discreet. + +'Ah,' she said, shaking her head, 'there are very few really good +novels. We don't care, of course, except for the very best, and they +don't appear to be printed nowadays.' + +'I expect the very best are unprintable,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, her head +bent over her knitting, for it was one of the moments when she too was +engaged on socks. + +'There used to be very good novels,' continued Mrs. Barnes, who hadn't I +think heard her, 'but of recent years they have indeed been few. I begin +to fear we shall never again see a Thackeray or a Trollope. And yet I +have a theory--and surely these two writers prove it--that it is +possible to be both wholesome and clever.' + +'I don't want to see any more Thackerays and Trollopes,' murmured Mrs. +Jewks. 'I've seen them. Now I want to see something different.' + +This sentence was too long for Mrs. Barnes not to notice, and she looked +at me as one who should say, 'There. What did I tell you? Her name +unsettles her.' + +There was a silence. + +'Our father,' then said Mrs. Barnes, with so great a gravity of tone +that for a moment I thought she was unaccountably and at eleven o'clock +in the morning going to embark on the Lord's Prayer, 'knew Thackeray. He +mixed with him.' + +And as I wasn't quite sure whether this was a rebuke for Dolly or +information for me, I kept quiet. + +As, however, Mrs. Barnes didn't continue, I began to feel that perhaps I +was expected to say something. So I did. + +'That,' I said, 'must have been very--' + +I searched round for an enthusiastic word, but couldn't find one. It is +unfortunate how I can never think of any words more enthusiastic than +what I am feeling. They seem to disappear; and urged by politeness, or a +desire to please, I frantically hunt for them in a perfectly empty mind. +The nearest approach to one that I found this morning was Enjoyable. I +don't think much of Enjoyable. It is a watery word; but it was all I +found, so I said it. 'That must have been very enjoyable,' I said; and +even I could hear that my voice was without excitement. + +Mrs. Jewks looked at me and smiled. + +'It was more than enjoyable,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'it was elevating. Dolly +used to feel just as I do about it,' she added, her eye reproachfully on +her sister. 'It is not Thackeray's fault that she no longer does.' + +'It's only because I've finished with him,' said Mrs. Jewks +apologetically. 'Now I want something _different_.' + +'Dolly and I,' explained Mrs. Barnes to me, 'don't always see alike. I +have a theory that one doesn't finish with the Immortals.' + +'Would you put Thackeray--' I began diffidently. + +Mrs. Barnes stopped me at once. + +'Our father,' she said--again my hands instinctively wanted to +fold--'who was an excellent judge, indeed a specialist if I may say so, +placed him among the Immortals. Therefore I am content to leave him +there.' + +'But isn't that filial piety rather than--' I began again, still +diffident but also obstinate. + +'In any case,' interrupted Mrs. Barnes, raising her hand as though I +were the traffic, 'I shall never forget the influence he and the other +great writers of the period had upon the boys.' + +'The boys?' I couldn't help inquiring, in spite of this being an +interrogation. + +'Our father educated boys. On an unusual and original system. Being +devoid of the classics, which he said was all the better because then he +hadn't to spend any time remembering them, he was a devoted English +linguist. Accordingly he taught boys English,--foreign boys, because +English boys naturally know it already, and his method was to make them +minutely acquainted with the great novels,--the great wholesome novels +of that period. Not a French, or Dutch, or Italian boy but went home--' + +'Or German,' put in Mrs. Jewks. 'Most of them were Germans.' + +Mrs. Barnes turned red. 'Let us forget them,' she said, with a wave of +her hand. 'It is my earnest desire,' she continued, looking at me, 'to +forget Germans.' + +'Do let us,' I said politely. + +'Not one of the boys,' she then went on, 'but returned to his country +with a knowledge of the colloquial English of the best period, and of +the noble views of that period as expressed by the noblest men, +unobtainable by any other method. Our father called himself a +Non-Grammarian. The boys went home knowing no rules of grammar, yet +unable to talk incorrectly. Thackeray himself was the grammar, and his +characters the teachers. And so was Dickens, but not quite to the same +extent, because of people like Sam Weller who might have taught the boys +slang. Thackeray was immensely interested when our father wrote and told +him about the school, and once when he was in London he invited him to +lunch.' + +Not quite clear as to who was in London and which invited which, I said, +'Who?' + +'It was our father who went to London,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and was most +kindly entertained by Thackeray.' + +'He went because he wasn't there already,' explained Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly means,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'that he did not live in London. Our +father was an Oxford man. Not in the narrow, technical meaning that has +come to be attached to the term, but in the simple natural sense of +living there. It was there that we were born, and there that we grew up +in an atmosphere of education. We saw it all round us going on in the +different colleges, and we saw it in detail and at first hand in our own +home. For we too were brought up on Thackeray and Dickens, in whom our +father said we would find everything girls needed to know and nothing +that, they had better not.' + +'I used to have a perfect _itch_,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, 'to know the +things I had better not.' + +And Mrs. Barnes again looked at me as one who should say, 'There. What +did I tell you? Such a word, too. Itch.' + +There was a silence. I could think of nothing to say that wouldn't +appear either inquisitive or to be encouraging Dolly. + +Mrs. Barnes sits between us. This arrangement of our chairs on the grass +happened apparently quite naturally the first day, and now has become +one that I feel I mustn't disturb. For me to drop into the middle chair +would somehow now be impossible. It is Mrs. Barnes's place. Yet I do +want to sit next to Mrs. Jewks and talk to her. Or better still, go for +a walk with her. But Mrs. Barnes always goes for the walks, either with +or without me, but never without Mrs. Jewks. She hasn't yet left us once +alone together. If anything needs fetching it is Mrs. Jewks who fetches +it. They don't seem to want to write letters, but if they did I expect +they would both go in to write them at the same time. + +I do think, though, that we are growing a little more intimate. At least +to-day we have talked of something that wasn't the view. I shouldn't be +surprised if in another week, supposing the hot weather lasts so long, I +shall be asking Mrs. Barnes outright what it is Dolly did that has +apparently so permanently unnerved her sister. + +But suppose she retaliated by asking me,--oh, there are so many things +she could ask me that I couldn't answer! Except with the shameful, +exposing answer of beginning very helplessly to cry.... + + +_August 24th._ + +Last night I ran after Mrs. Jewks just as she was disappearing into her +room and said, 'I'm going to call you Dolly. I don't like Jewks. How do +you spell it?' + +'What--Dolly?' she asked, smiling. + +'No--Jewks.' + +But Mrs. Barnes came out of her bedroom and said, 'Did we forget to bid +you goodnight? How very remiss of us.' + +And we all smiled at each other, and went into our rooms, and shut the +doors. + + +_August 25th._ + +The behaviour of time is a surprising thing. I can't think how it +manages to make weeks sometimes seem like minutes and days sometimes +seem like years. Those weeks I was here alone seemed not longer than a +few minutes. These days since my guests came seem to have gone on for +months. + +I suppose it is because they have been so tightly packed. Nobody coming +up the path and seeing the three figures sitting quietly on the terrace, +the middle one knitting, the right-hand one reading aloud, the +left-hand one sunk apparently in stupor, would guess that these +creatures' days were packed. Many an honest slug stirred by creditable +desires has looked more animate than we. Yet the days _are_ packed. +Mine, at any rate, are. Packed tight with an immense monotony. + +Every day we do exactly the same things: breakfast, read aloud; lunch, +read aloud; tea, go for a walk; supper, read aloud; exhaustion; bed. How +quick and short it is to write down, and how endless to live. At meals +we talk, and on the walk we talk, or rather we say things. At meals the +things we say are about food, and on the walk they are about mountains. +The rest of the time we don't talk, because of the reading aloud. That +fills up every gap; that muzzles all conversation. + +I don't know whether Mrs. Barnes is afraid I'll ask questions, or +whether she is afraid Dolly will start answering questions that I +haven't asked; I only know that she seems to have decided that safety +lies in putting an extinguisher on talk. At the same time she is most +earnest in her endeavours to be an agreeable guest, and is all +politeness; but so am I, most earnest for my part in my desire to be an +agreeable hostess, and we are both so dreadfully polite and so horribly +considerate that things end by being exactly as I would prefer them not +to be. + +For instance, finding Merivale--it is Merivale's _History of the Romans +under the Empire_ that is being read--finding him too much like Gibbon +gone sick and filled with water, a Gibbon with all the kick taken out of +him, shorn of his virility and his foot-notes, yesterday I didn't go and +sit on the terrace after breakfast, but took a volume of the authentic +Gibbon and departed by the back door for a walk. + +It is usually, I know, a bad sign when a hostess begins to use the back +door, but it wasn't a sign of anything in this case except a great +desire to get away from Merivale. After lunch, when, strengthened by my +morning, I prepared to listen to some more of him, I found the chairs on +the terrace empty, and from the window of Mrs. Barnes's room floated +down the familiar muffled drone of the first four days. + +So then I went for another walk, and thought. And the result was polite +affectionate protests at tea-time, decorated with some amiable untruths +about domestic affairs having called me away--God forgive me, but I +believe I said it was the laundress--and such real distress on Mrs. +Barnes's part at the thought of having driven me off my own terrace, +that now so as to shield her from thinking anything so painful to her I +must needs hear Merivale to the end. + +'Dolly,' I said, meeting her by some strange chance alone on the stairs +going down to supper--invariably the sisters go down together--'do you +like reading aloud?' + +I said it very quickly and under my breath, for at the bottom of the +stairs would certainly be Mrs. Barnes. + +'No,' she said, also under her breath. + +'Then why do you do it?' + +'Do you like listening?' she whispered, smiling. + +'No,' I said. + +'Then why do you do it?' + +'Because--' I said. 'Well, because--' + +She nodded and smiled. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'that's my reason too.' + + +_August 26th._ + +All day to-day I have emptied myself of any wishes of my own and tried +to be the perfect hostess. I have given myself up to Mrs. Barnes, and on +the walk I followed where she led, and I made no suggestions when paths +crossed though I have secret passionate preferences in paths, and I +rested on the exact spot she chose in spite of knowing there was a much +prettier one just round the corner, and I joined with her in admiring a +view I didn't really like. In fact I merged myself in Mrs. Barnes, +sitting by her on the mountain side in much the spirit of Wordsworth, +when he sat by his cottage fire without ambition, hope or aim. + + +_August 27th._ + +The weather blazes along in its hot beauty. Each morning, the first +thing I see when I open my eyes is the great patch of golden light on +the wall near my bed that means another perfect day. Nearly always the +sky is cloudless--a deep, incredible blue. Once or twice, when I have +gone quite early to my window towards the east, I have seen what looked +to my sleepy eyes like a flock of little angels floating slowly along +the tops of the mountains, or at any rate, if not the angels themselves, +delicate bright tufts of feathers pulled out of their wings. These +objects, on waking up more completely, I have perceived to be clouds; +and then I have thought that perhaps that day there would be rain. But +there never has been rain. + +The clouds have floated slowly away to Italy, and left us to another day +of intense, burning heat. + +I don't believe the weather will ever break up. Not, anyhow, for a long +time. Not, anyhow, before I have heard Merivale to the end. + + +_August 28th._ + +In the morning when I get up and go and look out of my window at the +splendid east I don't care about Merivale. I defy him. And I make up my +mind that though my body may be present at the reading of him so as to +avoid distressing Mrs. Barnes and driving her off the terrace--we are +minute in our care not to drive each other off the terrace--my ears +shall be deaf to him and my imagination shall wander. Who is Merivale, +that he shall burden my memory with even shreds of his unctuous +imitations? And I go down to breakfast with a fortified and shining +spirit, as one who has arisen refreshed and determined from prayer, and +out on the terrace I do shut my ears. But I think there must be chinks +in them, for I find my mind is much hung about, after all, with +Merivale. Bits of him. Bits like this. + +_Propertius is deficient in that light touch and exquisitely polished +taste which volatilize the sensuality and flattery of Horace. The +playfulness of the Sabine bard is that of the lapdog, while the Umbrian +reminds us of the pranks of a clumsier and less tolerated quadruped._ + +This is what you write if you want to write like Gibbon, and yet remain +at the same time a rector and chaplain to the Speaker of the House of +Commons; and this bit kept on repeating itself in my head like a tune +during luncheon to-day. It worried me that I couldn't decide what the +clumsier and less tolerated quadruped was. + +'A donkey,' said Mrs. Jewks, on my asking my guests what they thought. + +'Surely yes--an ass,' said Mrs. Barnes, whose words are always picked. + +'But why should a donkey be less tolerated than a lapdog?' I asked. 'I +would tolerate it more. If I might tolerate only one, it would certainly +be the donkey.' + +'Perhaps he means a flea,' suggested Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'But fleas do go in for pranks, and are less tolerated than lapdogs,' +said Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes again. + +'Except that,' I said, not heeding Mrs. Barnes for a moment in my +pleasure at having got away from the usual luncheon-table talk of food, +'haven't fleas got more than four legs?' + +'That's centipedes,' said Dolly. + +'Then it's two legs that they've got.' + +'That's birds,' said Dolly. + +We looked at each other and began to laugh. It was the first time we had +laughed, and once we had begun we laughed and laughed, in that foolish +way one does about completely idiotic things when one knows one oughtn't +to and hasn't for a long while. + +There sat Mrs. Barnes, straight and rocky, with worried eyes. She never +smiled; and indeed why should she? But the more she didn't smile the +more we laughed,--helplessly, ridiculously. It was dreadful to laugh, +dreadful to mention objects that distressed her as vulgar; and because +it was dreadful and we knew it was dreadful, we couldn't stop. So was I +once overcome with deplorable laughter in church, only because a cat +came in. So have I seen an ill-starred woman fall a prey to unseasonable +mirth at a wedding. We laughed positively to tears. We couldn't stop. I +did try to. I was really greatly ashamed. For I was doing what I now +feel in all my bones is the thing Mrs. Barnes dreads most,--I was +encouraging Dolly. + +Afterwards, when we had settled down to Merivale, and Dolly finding she +had left the book upstairs went in to fetch it, I begged Mrs. Barnes to +believe that I wasn't often quite so silly and didn't suppose I would be +like that again. + +She was very kind, and laid her hand for a moment on mine,--such a bony +hand, marked all over, I thought as I looked down at it, with the traces +of devotion and self-sacrifice. That hand had never had leisure to get +fat. It may have had it in the spacious days of Mr. Barnes, but the +years afterwards had certainly been lean ones; and since the war, since +the selling of her house and the beginning of the evidently wearing +occupation of what she had called standing by Dolly, the years, I +understand, have been so lean that they were practically bone. + +'I think,' she said, 'I have perhaps got into the way of being too +serious. It is because Dolly, I consider, is not serious enough. If she +were more so I would be less so, and that would be better for us both. +Oh, you musn't suppose,' she added, 'that I cannot enjoy a joke as +merrily as anybody.' And she smiled broadly and amazingly at me, the +rockiest, most determined smile. + +'There wasn't any joke, and we were just absurd,' I said penitently, in +my turn laying my hand on hers. 'Forgive me. I'm always sorry and +ashamed when I have behaved as though I were ten. I do try not to, but +sometimes it comes upon one unexpectedly--' + +'Dolly is a little old to behave as though she were ten,' said Mrs. +Barnes, in sorrow rather than in anger. + +'And I'm a little old too. It's very awkward when you aren't so old +inside as you are outside. For years I've been trying to be dignified, +and I'm always being tripped up by a kind of apparently incurable +natural effervescence.' + +Mrs. Barnes looked grave. + +'That is what is the matter with Dolly,' she said. 'Just that. How +strange that you should have met. For it isn't usual. I cannot believe +it is usual. All her troubles have been caused by it. I do not, however, +regard it as incurable. On the contrary--I have helped her to check it, +and she is much better than she was.' + +'But what are you afraid she will do _now_?' I asked; and Dolly, coming +out with, the book under her arm and that funny little air of jauntiness +that triumphs when she walks over her sobering black skirt and white +cotton petticoat, prevented my getting an answer. + +But I felt in great sympathy with Mrs. Barnes. And when, starting for +our walk after tea, something happened to Dolly's boot--I think the heel +came off--and she had to turn back, I gladly went on alone with her +sister, hoping that perhaps she would continue to talk on these more +intimate lines. + +And so she did. + +'Dolly,' she said almost immediately, almost before we had got round the +turn of the path, 'is the object of my tenderest solicitude and love.' + +'I know. I see that,' I said, sympathetically. + +'She was the object of my love from the moment when she was laid, a new +born baby, in the arms of the little ten year old girl I was then, and +she became, as she grew up and developed the characteristics I associate +with her name, the object of my solicitude. Indeed, of my concern.' + +'I wish,' I said, as she stopped and I began to be afraid this once more +was to be all and the shutters were going to be shut again, 'we might +be real friends.' + +'Are we not?' asked Mrs. Barnes, looking anxious, as though she feared +she had failed somewhere in her duties as a guest. + +'Oh yes--we are friends of course, but I meant by real friends people +who talk together about anything and everything. _Almost_ anything and +everything,' I amended. 'People who tell each other things,' I went on +hesitatingly. '_Most_ things,' I amended. + +'I have a great opinion of discretion,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'I am sure you have. But don't you think that sometimes the very essence +of real friendship consists in--' + +'Mr. Barnes always had his own dressing-room.' + +This was unexpected, and it silenced me. After a moment I said lamely, +'I'm sure he did. But you were saying about Dol--about Mrs. Jewks--' + +'Yes.' Mrs. Barnes sighed. 'Well, it cannot harm you or her,' she went +on after a pause, 'for me to tell you that the first thing Dolly did as +soon as she was grown up was to make an impetuous marriage.' + +'Isn't that rather what most of us begin with?' + +'Few are so impetuous. Mine, for instance, was not. Mine was the +considered union of affection with regard, entered into properly in the +eye of all men, and accompanied by the good wishes of relations and +friends. Dolly's--well, Dolly's was impetuous. I cannot say +ill-advised, because she asked no one's advice. She plunged--it is not +too strong a word, and unfortunately can be applied to some of her +subsequent movements--into a misalliance, and in order to contract it +she let herself down secretly at night from her bedroom window by means +of a sheet.' + +Mrs. Barnes paused. + +'How very--how very spirited,' I couldn't help murmuring. + +Indeed I believe I felt a little jealous. Nothing in my own past +approaches this in enterprise. And I not only doubted if I would ever +have had the courage to commit myself to a sheet, but I felt a momentary +vexation that no one had ever suggested that on his account I should. +Compared to Dolly, I am a poor thing. + +'So you can understand,' continued Mrs. Barnes, 'how earnestly I wish to +keep my sister to lines of normal conduct. She has been much punished +for her departures from them. I am very anxious that nothing should be +said to her that might seem--well, that might seem to be even slightly +in sympathy with actions or ways of looking at life that have in the +past brought her unhappiness, and can only in the future bring her yet +more.' + +'But why,' I asked, still thinking of the sheet, 'didn't she go out to +be married through the front door?' + +'Because our father would never have allowed his front door to be used +for such a marriage. You forget that it was a school, and she was +running away with somebody who up till a year or two previously had been +one of the pupils.' + +'Oh? Did she marry a foreigner?' + +Mrs. Barnes flushed a deep, painful red. She is brown and +weather-beaten, yet through the brownness spread unmistakeably this deep +red. Obviously she had forgotten what she told me the other day about +the boys all being foreigners. + +'Let us not speak evil of the dead,' she said with awful solemnity; and +for the rest of the walk would talk of nothing but the view. + +But in my room to-night I have been thinking. There are guests and +guests, and some guests haunt one. These guests are that kind. They +wouldn't haunt me so much if only we could be really friends; but we'll +never be really friends as long as I am kept from talking to Dolly and +between us is fixed the rugged and hitherto unscaleable barrier of Mrs. +Barnes. Perhaps to-morrow, if I have the courage, I shall make a great +attempt at friendship,--at what Mrs. Barnes would call being thoroughly +indiscreet. For isn't it senseless for us three women, up here alone +together, to spend the precious days when we might be making friends for +life hiding away from each other? Why can't I be told outright that +Dolly married a German? Evidently she did; and if she could bear it I am +sure I can. Twenty years ago it might have happened to us all. Twenty +years ago I might have done it myself, except that there wasn't the +German living who would have got me to go down a sheet for him. And +anyhow Dolly's German is dead; and doesn't even a German leave off being +one after he is dead? Wouldn't he naturally incline, by the sheer action +of time, to dissolve into neutrality? It doesn't seem humane to pursue +him into the recesses of eternity as an alien enemy. Besides, I thought +the war was over. + +For a long while to-night I have been leaning out of my window +thinking. When I look at the stars I don't mind about Germans. It seems +impossible to. I believe if Mrs. Barnes would look at them she wouldn't +be nearly so much worried. It is a very good practice, I think, to lean +out of one's window for a space before going to bed and let the cool +darkness wash over one. After being all day with people, how blessed a +thing it is not to be with them. The night to-night is immensely silent, +and I've been standing so quiet, so motionless that I would have heard +the smallest stirring of a leaf. But nothing is stirring. The air is +quite still. There isn't a sound. The mountains seem to be brooding over +a valley that has gone to sleep. + + +_August 29th._ + +Antoine said to me this morning that he thought if _ces dames_--so he +always speaks of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly--were going to stay any time, +perhaps an assistant for Mrs. Antoine had better be engaged; because +Mrs. Antoine might otherwise possibly presently begin to find the +combination of heat and visitors a little-- + +'Of course,' I said. 'Naturally she might. I regret, Antoine, that I did +not think of this. Why did you not point it out sooner? I will go +myself this very day and search for an assistant.' + +Antoine said that such exertions were not for Madame, and that it was he +who would search for the assistant. + +I said he couldn't possibly leave the chickens and the cow, and that it +was I who would search for the assistant. + +So that is what I have been doing all day--having a most heavenly time +wandering from village to village along the mountain side, my knapsack +over my arm and freedom in my heart. The knapsack had food in it and a +volume of Crabbe, because it was impossible to tell how long the search +might last, and I couldn't not be nourished. I explained to my guests +how easily I mightn't be back till the evening, I commended them to the +special attentiveness of the Antoines, and off I went, accompanied by +Mrs. Barnes's commiseration that I should have to be engaged on so hot a +day in what she with felicitous exactness called a domestic pursuit, and +trying very hard not to be too evidently pleased. + +I went to the villages that lie in the direction of my lovely place of +larches, and having after some search found the assistant I continued +on towards the west, walking fast, almost as if people would know I had +accomplished what I had come out for, and might catch me and take me +home again. + +As I walked it positively was quite difficult not to sing. Only +hostesses know this pure joy. To feel so deep and peculiar an +exhilaration you must have been having guests and still be having them. +Before my guests came I might and did roam about as I chose, but it was +never like to-day, never with that holiday feeling. Oh, I have had a +wonderful day! Everything was delicious. I don't remember having smelt +the woods so good, and there hasn't ever been anything like the deep +cool softness of the grass I lay on at lunch-time. And Crabbe the +delightful,--why don't people talk more about Crabbe? Why don't they +read him more? I have him in eight volumes; none of your little books of +selections, which somehow take away all his true flavour, but every bit +of him from beginning to end. Nobody ever made so many couplets that fit +in to so many occasions of one's life. I believe I could describe my +daily life with Mrs. Barnes and Dolly entirely in couplets from Crabbe. +It is the odd fate of his writings to have turned by the action of time +from serious to droll. He decomposes, as it were, hilariously. I lay +for hours this afternoon enjoying his neat couplets. He enchants me. I +forget time when I am with him. It was Crabbe who made me late for +supper. But he is the last person one takes out for a walk with one if +one isn't happy. Crabbe is a barometer of serenity. You have to be in a +cloudless mood to enjoy him. I was in that mood to-day. I had escaped. + +Well, I have had my outing, I have had my little break, and have come +back filled with renewed zeal to my guests. When I said good-night +to-night I was so much pleased with everything, and felt so happily and +comfortably affectionate, that I not only kissed Dolly but embarked +adventurously on an embrace of Mrs. Barnes. + +She received it with surprise but kindliness. + +I think she considered I was perhaps being a little impulsive. + +I think perhaps I was. + + +_August 30th._ + +In the old days before the war this house was nearly always full of +friends, guests, for they were invited, but they never were in or on my +mind as guests, and I don't remember ever feeling that I was a hostess. +The impression I now have of them is that they were all very young. But +of course they weren't; some were quite as old as Mrs. Barnes, and once +or twice came people even older. They all, however, had this in common, +that whatever their age was when they arrived, by the time they left +they were not more than twenty. + +I can't explain this. It couldn't only have been the air, invigorating +and inspiriting though it is, because my present guests are still +exactly the same age as the first day. That is, Mrs. Barnes is. Dolly is +of no age--she never was and never will be forty; but Mrs. Barnes is +just as firmly fifty as she was a fortnight ago, and it only used to +take those other guests a week to shed every one of their years except +the first twenty. + +Is it this static, rock-like quality in Mrs. Barnes that makes her +remain so unchangeably a guest, that makes her unable to develope into a +friend? Why must I, because she insists on remaining a guest, be kept so +firmly in my proper place as hostess? I want to be friends. I feel as +full of friendliness as a brimming cup. Why am I not let spill some of +it? I should love to be friends with Dolly, and I would like very much +to be friends with Mrs. Barnes. Not that I think she and I would ever be +intimate in the way I am sure Dolly and I would be after ten minutes +together alone, but we might develope a mutually indulgent affection. I +would respect her prejudices, and she would forgive me that I have so +few, and perhaps find it interesting to help me to increase them. + +But the anxious care with which Mrs. Barnes studies to be her idea of a +perfect guest forces me to a corresponding anxious care to be her idea +of a perfect hostess. I find it wearing. There is no easy friendliness +for us, no careless talk, no happy go-as-you-please and naturalness. And +ought a guest to be so constantly grateful? Her gratitude is almost a +reproach. It makes me ashamed of myself; as if I were a plutocrat, a +profiteer, a bloated possessor of more than my share, a bestower of +favours--of all odious things to be! Now I perceive that I never have +had guests before, but only friends. For the first time I am really +entertaining; or rather, owing to the something in Mrs. Barnes that +induces in me a strange submissiveness, a strange acceptance of her +ordering of our days, I am for the first time, not only in my own house, +but in any house that I can remember where I have stayed, being +entertained. + +What is it about Mrs. Barnes that makes Dolly and me sit so quiet and +good? I needn't ask: I know. It is because she is single-minded, +unselfish, genuinely and deeply anxious for everybody's happiness and +welfare, and it is impossible to hurt such goodness. Accordingly we are +bound hand and foot to her wishes, exactly as if she were a tyrant. + +Dolly of course must be bound by a thousand reasons for gratitude. +Hasn't Mrs. Barnes given up everything for her? Hasn't she given up +home, and livelihood, and country and friends to come and be with her? +It is she who magnanimously bears the chief burden of Dolly's marriage. +Without having had any of the joys of Siegfried--I can't think Dolly +would mutter a name in her sleep that wasn't her husband's--she has +spent these years of war cheerfully accepting the results of him, +devoting herself to the forlorn and stranded German widow, spending her +life, and what substance she has, in keeping her company in the dreary +pensions of a neutral country, unable either to take her home to England +or to leave her where she is by herself. + +Such love and self-sacrifice is a very binding thing. If these +conjectures of mine are right, Dolly is indeed bound to Mrs. Barnes, +and not to do everything she wished would be impossible. Naturally she +wears those petticoats, and those long, respectable black clothes: they +are Mrs. Barnes's idea of how a widow should be dressed. Naturally she +goes for excursions in the mountains with an umbrella: it is to Mrs. +Barnes both more prudent and more seemly than a stick. In the smallest +details of her life Dolly's gratitude must penetrate and be expressed. +Yes; I think I understand her situation. The good do bind one very +heavily in chains. + +To an infinitely less degree Mrs. Barnes's goodness has put chains on me +too. I have to walk very carefully and delicately among her feelings. I +could never forgive myself if I were to hurt anyone kind, and if the +kind person is cast in an entirely different mould from oneself, has +different ideas, different tastes, a different or no sense of fun, why +then God help one,--one is ruled by a rod of iron. + +Just the procession each morning after breakfast to the chairs and +Merivale is the measure of Dolly's and my subjection. First goes Dolly +with the book, then comes Mrs. Barnes with her knitting, and then comes +me, casting my eyes about for a plausible excuse for deliverance and +finding none that wouldn't hurt. If I lag, Mrs. Barnes looks uneasily at +me with her, 'Am I driving you off your own terrace?' look; and once +when I lingered indoors on the pretext of housekeeping she came after +me, anxiety on her face, and begged me to allow her to help me, for it +is she and Dolly, she explained, who of course cause the extra +housekeeping, and it distressed her to think that owing to my goodness +in permitting them to be here I should be deprived of the leisure I +would otherwise be enjoying. + +'In your lovely Swiss home,' she said, her face puckered with +earnestness. 'On your summer holiday. After travelling all this distance +for the purpose.' + +'Dear Mrs. Barnes--' I murmured, ashamed; and assured her it was only an +order I had to give, and that I was coming out immediately to the +reading aloud. + + +_August 31st._ + +This morning I made a great effort to be simple. + +Of course I will do everything in my power to make Mrs. Barnes +happy,--I'll sit, walk, be read to, keep away from Dolly, arrange life +for the little time she is here in the way that gives her mind most +peace; but why mayn't I at the same time be natural? It is so natural to +me to be natural. I feel so uncomfortable, I get such a choked sensation +of not enough air, if I can't say what I want to say. Abstinence from +naturalness is easily managed if it isn't to last long; every +gracefulness is possible for a little while. But shut up for weeks +together in the close companionship of two other people in an isolated +house on a mountain one must, sooner or later, be natural or one will, +sooner or later, die. + +So this morning I went down to breakfast determined to be it. More than +usually deep sleep had made me wake up with a feeling of more than usual +enterprise. I dressed quickly, strengthening my determination by many +good arguments, and then stood at the window waiting for the bell to +ring. + +At the first tinkle of the bell I hurry downstairs, because if I am a +minute late, as I have been once or twice, I find my egg wrapped up in +my table napkin, the coffee and hot milk swathed in a white woollen +shawl Mrs. Barnes carries about with her, a plate over the butter in +case there should be dust, a plate over the honey in case there should +be flies, and Mrs. Barnes and Dolly, carefully detached from the least +appearance of reproach or waiting, at the other end of the terrace being +tactfully interested in the view. + +This has made me be very punctual. The bell tinkles, and I appear. I +don't appear before it tinkles, because of the peculiar preciousness of +all the moments I can legitimately spend in my bedroom; but, if I were +to, I would find Mrs. Barnes and Dolly already there. + +I don't know when they go down, but they are always there; and always I +am greeted with the politest solicitude from Mrs. Barnes as to how I +slept. This of course draws forth a corresponding solicitude from me as +to how Mrs. Barnes slept; and the first part of breakfast is spent in +answers to these inquiries, and in the eulogies to which Mrs. Barnes +then proceeds of the bed, and the pure air, that make the +satisfactoriness of her answers possible. + +From this she goes on to tell me how grateful she and Dolly are for my +goodness. She tells me this every morning. It is like a kind of daily +morning prayer. At first I was overcome, and, not knowing how to ward +off such repeated blows of thankfulness, stumbled about awkwardly among +protests and assurances. Now I receive them in silence, copying the +example of the heavenly authorities; but, more visibly embarrassed than +they, I sheepishly smile. + +After the praises of my goodness come those of the goodness of the +coffee and the butter, though this isn't any real relief to me, because +their goodness is so much tangled up in mine. I am the Author of the +coffee and the butter; without me they wouldn't be there at all. + +Dolly, while this is going on, says nothing but just eats her breakfast. +I think she might help me out a little, seeing that it happens every +morning and that she must have noticed my store of deprecations is +exhausted. + +This morning, having made up my mind to be natural, I asked her straight +out why she didn't talk. + +She was in the middle of her egg, and Mrs. Barnes was in the middle of +praising the great goodness of the eggs, and therefore, inextricably, of +my great goodness, so that there was no real knowing where the eggs left +off and I began; and taking the opportunity offered by a pause of +coffee-drinking on Mrs. Barnes's part, I said to Dolly, 'Why do you not +talk at breakfast?' + +'Talk?' repeated Dolly, looking up at me with a smile. + +'Yes. Say things. How are we ever to be friends if we don't say things? +Don't you want to be friends, Dolly?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, smiling. + +Mrs. Barnes put her cup down hastily. 'But are we not--' she began, as I +knew she would. + +'_Real_ friends,' I interrupted. 'Why not,' I said, 'let us have a +holiday from Merivale to-day, and just sit together and talk. Say +things,' I went on, still determined to be natural, yet already a little +nervous. '_Real_ things.' + +'But has the reading--is there any other book you would pref--do you not +care about Merivale?' asked Mrs. Barnes, in deep concern. + +'Oh yes,' I assured her, leaving off being natural for a moment in order +to be polite, 'I like him very much indeed. I only thought--I do +think--it would be pleasant for once to have a change. Pleasant just to +sit and talk. Sit in the shade and--oh well, _say_ things.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly. 'I'd love to.' + +'We might tell each other stories, like the people in the _Earthly +Paradise_. But real stories. Out of our lives.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly again. 'Yes. I'd love to.' + +'We shall be very glad, I am sure,' said Mrs. Barnes politely, 'to +listen to any stories you may like to tell us.' + +'Ah, but you must tell some too--we must play fair.' + +'I'd love to,' said Dolly again, her dimple flickering. + +'Surely we--in any case Dolly and I--are too old to play at anything,' +said Mrs. Barnes with dignity. + +'Not really. You'll like it once you've begun. And anyhow I can't play +by myself, can I,' I said, still trying to be gay and simple. 'You +wouldn't want me to be lonely, would you.' + +But I was faltering. Mrs. Barnes's eye was on me. Impossible to go on +being gay and simple beneath that eye. + +I faltered more and more. 'Sometimes I think,' I said, almost timidly, +'that we're wasting time.' + +'Oh no, do you really?' exclaimed Mrs. Barnes anxiously. 'Do you not +consider Merivale--' (here if I had been a man I would have said damn +Merivale and felt better)--'very instructive? Surely to read a good +history can never be wasting time? And he is not heavy. Surely you do +not find him heavy? His information is always imparted picturesquely, +remarkably so. And though one may be too old for games one is +fortunately never too old for instruction.' + +'I don't _feel_ too old for games,' said Dolly. + +'Feeling has nothing to do with reality,' said Mrs. Barnes sternly, +turning on her. + +'I only thought,' I said, 'that to-day we might talk together instead of +reading. Just for once--just for a change. If you don't like the idea of +telling stories out of our lives let us just talk. Tell each other what +we think of things--of the big things like--well, like love and death +for instance. Things,' I reassured her, 'that don't really touch us at +this moment.' + +'I do not care to talk about love and death,' said Mrs. Barnes frostily. + +'But why?' + +'They are most unsettling.' + +'But why? We would only be speculating--' + +She held up her hand. 'I have a horror of the word. All speculation is +abhorrent to me. My brother-in-law said to me, Never speculate.' + +'But didn't he mean in the business sense?' + +'He meant it, I am certain, in every sense. Physically and morally.' + +'Well then, don't let us speculate. Let us talk about experiences. We've +all had them. I am sure it would be as instructive as Merivale, and we +might perhaps--perhaps we might even laugh a little. Don't you think it +would be pleasant to--to laugh a little?' + +'I'd love to,' said Dolly, her eyes shining. + +'Suppose, instead of being women, we were three men--' + +Mrs. Barnes, who had been stiffening for some minutes, drew herself up +at this. + +'I am afraid I cannot possibly suppose that,' she said. + +'Well, but suppose we _were_--' + +'I do not wish to suppose it,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'Well, then, suppose it wasn't us at all, but three men here, spending +their summer holidays together can't you imagine how they would talk?' + +'I can only imagine it if they were nice men,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and +even so but dimly.' + +'Yes. Of course. Well, let us talk together this morning as if we were +nice men,--about anything and everything. I can't _think_,' I finished +plaintively, 'why we shouldn't talk about anything and everything.' + +Dolly looked at me with dancing eyes. + +Mrs. Barnes sat very straight. She was engaged in twisting the +honey-spoon round and round so as to catch its last trickling neatly. +Her eyes were fixed on this, and if there was a rebuke in them it was +hidden from me. + +'You must forgive me,' she said, carefully winding up the last thread of +honey, 'but as I am not a nice man I fear I cannot join in. Nor, of +course, can Dolly, for the same reason. But I need not say,' she added +earnestly, 'that there is not the slightest reason why you, on your own +terrace, shouldn't, if you wish, imagine yourself to be a nice--' + +'Oh no,' I broke in, giving up. 'Oh no, no. I think perhaps you are +right. I do think perhaps it is best to go on with Merivale.' + +We finished breakfast with the usual courtesies. + +I didn't try to be natural any more. + + +_September 1st._ + +Dolly forgot herself this morning. + +On the first of the month I pay the bills. Antoine reminded me last +month that this used to be my practice before the war, and I remember +how languidly I roused myself from my meditations on the grass to go +indoors and add up figures. But to-day I liked it. I went in cheerfully. + +'This is my day for doing the accounts,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, as she +was about to form the procession to the chairs. 'They take me most of +the morning, so I expect we won't see each other again till luncheon.' + +'Dear me,' said Mrs. Barnes sympathetically, 'how very tiresome for you. +Those terrible settling up days. How well I know them, and how I used to +dread them.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly-- + + _Reines Glück geniesst doch nie_ + _Wer zahlen soll und weiss nicht wie._ + +Poor Kitty. We know all about that, don't we.' And she put her arm round +her sister. + +Dolly had forgotten herself. + +I thought it best not to linger, but to go in quickly to my bills. + +Her accent was perfect. I know enough German to know that. + + +_September 2nd._ + +We've been a little strained all day in our relations because of +yesterday. Dolly drooped at lunch, and for the first time didn't smile. +Mrs. Barnes, I think, had been rebuking her with more than ordinary +thoroughness. Evidently Mrs. Barnes is desperately anxious I shouldn't +know about Siegfried. I wonder if there is any way of delicately +introducing Germans into the conversation, and conveying to her that I +have guessed about Dolly's husband and don't mind him a bit. Why should +I mind somebody else's husband? A really nice woman only minds her own. +But I know of no two subjects more difficult to talk about tactfully +than Germans and husbands; and when both are united, as in this case, my +courage rather fails. + +We went for a dreary walk this afternoon. Mrs. Barnes was watchful, and +Dolly was meek. I tried to be sprightly, but one can't be sprightly by +oneself. + + +_September 3rd._ + +In the night there was a thunderstorm, and for the first time since I +got here I woke up to rain and mist. The mist was pouring in in waves +through the open windows, and the room was quite cold. When I looked at +the thermometer hanging outside, I saw it had dropped twenty degrees. + +We have become so much used to fine weather arrangements that the sudden +change caused an upheaval. I heard much hurrying about downstairs, and +when I went down to breakfast found it was laid in the hall. It was like +breakfasting in a tomb, after the radiance of our meals out of doors. +The front door was shut; the rain pattered on the windows; and right up +against the panes, between us and the world like a great grey flannel +curtain, hung the mist. It might have been some particularly odious +December morning in England. + +'_C'est l'automne_,' said Antoine, bringing in three cane chairs and +putting them round the tea-table on which the breakfast was laid. + +'_C'est un avertissement_,' said Mrs. Antoine, bringing in the coffee. + +Antoine then said that he had conceived it possible that Madame and _ces +dames_ might like a small wood fire. To cheer. To enliven. + +'Pray not on our account,' instantly said Mrs. Barnes to me, very +earnestly. 'Dolly and I do not feel the cold at all, I assure you. Pray +do not have one on our account.' + +'But wouldn't it be cosy--' I began, who am like a cat about warmth. + +'I would far rather you did not have one,' said Mrs. Barnes, her +features puckered. + +'Think of all the wood!' + +'But it would only be a few logs--' + +'What is there nowadays so precious as logs? And it is far, far too +early to begin fires. Why, only last week it was still August. Still the +dog-days.' + +'But if we're cold--' + +'We should indeed be poor creatures, Dolly and I, if the moment it left +off being warm we were cold. Please do not think we don't appreciate +your kindness in wishing to give us a fire, but Dolly and I would feel +it very much if our being here were to make you begin fires so early.' + +'But--' + +'Keep the logs for later on. Let me beg you.' + +So we didn't have a fire; and there we sat, Mrs. Barnes with the white +shawl at last put to its proper use, and all of us trying not to shiver. + +After breakfast, which was taken away bodily, table and all, snatched +from our midst by the Antoines, so that we were left sitting facing each +other round empty space with a curious sensation of sudden nakedness, I +supposed that Merivale would be produced, so I got up and pushed a +comfortable chair conveniently for Dolly, and turned on the light. + +To my surprise I found Mrs. Barnes actually preferred to relinquish the +reading aloud rather than use my electric light in the daytime. It would +be an unpardonable extravagance, she said. Dolly could work at her +knitting. Neither of them needed their eyes for knitting. + +I was greatly touched. From the first she has shown a touching, and at +the same time embarrassing, concern not to cause me avoidable expense, +but never yet such concern as this. I know what store she sets by the +reading. Why, if we just sat there in the gloom we might begin to say +things. I really was very much touched. + +But indeed Mrs. Barnes is touching. It is because she is so touching in +her desire not to give trouble, to make us happy, that one so +continually does exactly what she wishes. I would do almost anything +sooner than hurt Mrs. Barnes. Also I would do almost anything to calm +her. And as for her adhesiveness to an unselfish determination, it is +such that it is mere useless fatigue to try to separate her from it. + +I have learned this gradually. + +At first, most of my time at meals was spent in reassuring her that +things hadn't been got specially on her and Dolly's account, and as the +only other account they could have been got on was mine, my assurances +had the effect of making me seem very greedy. I thought I lived frugally +up here, but Mrs. Barnes must have lived so much more frugally that +almost everything is suspected by her to be a luxury provided by my +hospitality. + +She was, for instance, so deeply persuaded that the apricots were got, +as she says, specially, that at last to calm her I had to tell Mrs. +Antoine to buy no more. And we all liked apricots. And there was a +perfect riot of them down in the valley. After that we had red currants +because they, Mrs. Barnes knew, came out of the garden; but we didn't +eat them because we didn't like them. + +Then there was a jug of lemonade sent in every day for lunch that +worried her. During this period her talk was entirely of lemons and +sugar, of all the lemons and sugar that wouldn't be being used if she +and Dolly were again, in order to calm her, and rather than that she +should be made unhappy, I told Mrs. Antoine to send in only water. + +Cakes disappeared from tea a week ago. Eggs have survived at breakfast, +and so has honey, because Mrs. Barnes can hear the chickens and has seen +the bees and knows they are not things got specially. She will eat +potatoes and cabbages and anything else that the garden produces with +serenity, but grows restive over meat; and a leg of mutton made her +miserable yesterday, for nothing would make her believe that if I had +been here alone it wouldn't have been a cutlet. + +'Let there be no more legs of mutton,' I said to Mrs. Antoine +afterwards. 'Let there instead be three cutlets.' + +I'm afraid Mrs. Antoine is scandalised at the inhospitable rigours she +supposes me to be applying to my guests. My order to Antoine this +morning not to light the fire will have increased her growing suspicion +that I am developing into a cheese-paring Madame. She must have +expressed her fears to Antoine; for the other day, when I told her to +leave the sugar and lemons out of the lemonade and send in only the +water, she looked at him, and as I went away I heard her saying to him +in a low voice--he no doubt having told her I usedn't to be like this, +and she being unable to think of any other explanation--'_C'est la +guerre_.' + +About eleven, having done little good by my presence in the hall whose +cheerlessness wrung from me a thoughtless exclamation that I wished I +smoked a pipe, upon which Dolly instantly said, 'Wouldn't it be a +comfort,' and Mrs. Barnes said, 'Dolly,' I went away to the kitchen, +pretending I wanted to ask what there was for dinner but really so as to +be for a few moments where there was a fire. + +Mrs. Antoine watched me warming myself with respectful disapproval. + +'_Madame devrait faire faire un peu de feu dans la halle_,' she said. +'_Ces dames auront bien froid_.' + +'_Ces dames_ won't let me,' I tried to explain in the most passionate +French I could think of. '_Ces dames_ implore me not to have a fire. +_Ces dames_ reject a fire. _Ces dames_ defend themselves against a fire. +I perish because of the resolve of _ces dames_ not to have a fire.' + +But Mrs. Antoine plainly didn't believe me. She thought, I could see, +that I was practising a repulsive parsimony on defenceless guests. It +was the sorrows of the war, she concluded, that had changed Madame's +nature. This was the kindest, the only possible, explanation. + + +_Evening._ + +There was a knock at my door just then. I thought it must be Mrs. +Antoine come to ask me some domestic question, and said _Entrez,_ and +it was Mrs. Barnes. + +She has not before this penetrated into my bedroom. I hope I didn't look +too much surprised. I think there could hardly have been a gap of more +than a second between my surprise and my recovered hospitality. + +'Oh--_do_ come in,' I said. 'How nice of you.' + +Thus do the civilised clothe their real sensations in splendid robes of +courtesy. + +'Dolly and I haven't driven you away from the hall, I hope?' began Mrs. +Barnes in a worried voice. + +'I only came up here for a minute,' I explained, 'and was coming down +again directly.' + +'Oh, that relieves me. I was afraid perhaps--' + +'I wish you wouldn't so often be afraid you're driving me away,' I said +pleasantly. 'Do I look driven?' + +But Mrs. Barnes took no notice of my pleasantness. She had something on +her mind. She looked like somebody who is reluctant and yet impelled. + +'I think,' she said solemnly, 'that if you have a moment to spare it +might be a good opportunity for a little talk. I would like to talk +with you a little.' + +And she stood regarding me, her eyes full of reluctant but unconquerable +conscientiousness. + +'Do,' I said, with polite enthusiasm. 'Do.' + +This was the backwash, I thought, of Dolly's German outbreak the other +day, and Siegfried was going at last to be explained to me. + +'Won't you sit down in this chair?' I said, pushing a comfortable one +forward, and then sitting down myself on the edge of the sofa. + +'Thank you. What I wish to say is--' + +She hesitated. I supposed her to be finding it difficult to proceed with +Siegfried, and started off impulsively to her rescue. + +'You know, I don't mind a bit about--' I began. + +'What I wish to say is,' she went on again, before I had got out the +fatal word, 'what I wish to point out to you--is that the weather has +considerably cooled.' + +This was so remote from Siegfried that I looked at her a moment in +silence. Then I guessed what was coming, and tried to put it off. + +'Ah,' I said--for I dreaded, the grateful things she would be sure to +say about having been here so long--'you do want a fire in the hall +after all, then.' + +'No, no. We are quite warm enough, I assure you. A fire would distress +us. What I wish to say is--' Again she hesitated, then went on more +firmly, 'Well, I wish to say that the weather having broken and the +great heat having come to an end, the reasons which made you extend your +kind, your delightful hospitality to us, have come to an end also. I +need hardly tell you that we never, never shall be able to express to +you--' + +'Oh, but you're not going to give me notice?' I interrupted, trying to +be sprightly and to clamber over her rock-like persistence in gratitude +with the gaiety of a bright autumnal creeper. This was because I was +nervous. I grow terribly sprightly when I am nervous. + +But indeed I shrink from Mrs. Barnes's gratitude. It abases me to the +dust. It leaves me mourning in much the same way that Simon Lee's +gratitude left Wordsworth mourning. I can't bear it. What a world it is, +I want to cry out,--what a miserable, shameful, battering, crushing +world, when so dreadfully little makes people so dreadfully glad! + +Then it suddenly struck me that the expression giving notice might not +be taken by Mrs. Barnes, she being solemn, in the spirit in which it was +offered by me, I being sprightly; and, desperately afraid of having +possibly offended her, I seized on the first thing I could think of as +most likely to soothe her, which was an extension, glowing and almost +indefinite, of my invitation. 'Because, you know,' I said, swept along +by this wish to prevent a wound, 'I won't accept the notice. I'm not +going to let you go. That is, of course,' I added, 'if you and Dolly +don't mind the quiet up here and the monotony. Won't you stay on here +till I go away myself?' + +Mrs. Barnes opened her mouth to speak, but I got up quickly and crossed +over to her and kissed her. Instinct made me go and kiss her, so as to +gain a little time, so as to put off the moment of having to hear +whatever it was she was going to say; for whether she accepted the +invitation or refused it, I knew there would be an equally immense, +unbearable number of grateful speeches. + +But when I went over and kissed her Mrs. Barnes put her arm round my +neck and held me tight; and there was something in this sudden movement +on the part of one so chary of outward signs of affection that made my +heart give a little leap of response, and I found myself murmuring into +her ear--amazing that I should be murmuring into Mrs. Barnes's +ear--'Please don't go away and leave me--please don't--please stay--' + +And as she didn't say anything I kissed her again, and again murmured, +'Please--' + +And as she still didn't say anything I murmured, 'Won't you? Say you +will--' + +And then I discovered to my horror that why she didn't say anything was +because she was crying. + +I have been slow and unimaginative about Mrs. Barnes. Having guessed +that Dolly was a German widow I might so easily have guessed the rest: +the poverty arising out of such a situation, the vexations and +humiliations of the attitude of people in the pensions she has dragged +about in during and since the war,--places in which Dolly's name must +needs be registered and her nationality known; the fatigue and +loneliness of such a life, with no home anywhere at all, forced to +wander and wander, her little set at Dulwich probably repudiating her +because of Dolly; or scolding her, in rare letters, for the folly of +her sacrifice; with nothing to go back, to and nothing to look forward +to, and the memory stabbing her always of the lost glories of that +ordered life at home in her well-found house, with the church bells +ringing on Sundays, and everybody polite, and a respectful +crossing-sweeper at the end of the road. + +All her life Mrs. Barnes has been luminously respectable. Her +respectability has been, I gather from things she has said, her one +great treasure. To stand clear and plain before her friends, without a +corner in her actions that needed defending or even explaining, was what +the word happiness meant to her. And now here she is, wandering about in +a kind of hiding. With Dolly. With the beloved, the difficult, the +unexplainable Dolly. Unwelcomed, unwanted, and I daresay quite often +asked by the many pension proprietors who are angrily anti-German to go +somewhere else. + +I have been thick-skinned about Mrs. Barnes. I am ashamed. And whether I +have guessed right or wrong she shall keep her secrets. I shall not try +again, however good my silly intentions may seem to me, however much I +may think it would ease our daily intercourse, to blunder in among +things about which she wishes to be silent. When she cried like that +this morning, after a moment of looking at her bewildered and aghast, I +suddenly understood. I knew what I have just been writing as if she had +told me. And I stroked her hand, and tried to pretend I didn't notice +anything, because it was so dreadful to see how she, for her part, was +trying so very hard to pretend she wasn't crying. And I kept on +saying--for indeed I didn't know what to say--'Then you'll stay--how +glad I am--then that's settled--' + +And actually I heard myself expressing pleasure at the certainty of my +now hearing Merivale to a finish! + +How the interview ended was by my conceiving the brilliant idea of going +away on the pretext of giving an order, and leaving Mrs. Barnes alone in +my room till she should have recovered sufficiently to appear +downstairs. + +'I must go and tell Mrs. Antoine something,' I suddenly +said,--'something I've forgotten.' And I hurried away. + +For once I had been tactful. Wonderful. I couldn't help feeling pleased +at having been able to think of this solution to the situation. Mrs. +Barnes wouldn't want Dolly to see she had been crying. She would stay up +quietly in my room till her eyes had left off being red, and would then +come down as calm and as ready to set a good example as ever. + +Continuing to be tactful, I avoided going into the hall, because in it +was Dolly all by herself, offering me my very first opportunity for the +talk alone with her that I have so long been wanting; but of course I +wouldn't do anything now that might make Mrs. Barnes uneasy; I hope I +never may again. + +To avoid the hall, however, meant finding myself in the servants' +quarters. I couldn't take shelter in the kitchen and once more warm +myself, because it was their dinner hour. There remained the back door, +the last refuge of a hostess. It was open; and outside was the yard, the +rain, and Mou-Mou's kennel looming through the mist. + +I went and stood in the door, contemplating what I saw, waiting till I +thought Mrs. Barnes would have had time to be able to come out of my +bedroom. I knew she would stay there till her eyes were ready to face +the world again, so I knew I must have patience. Therefore I stood in +the door and contemplated what I saw from it, while I sought patience +and ensued it. But it is astonishing how cold and penetrating these wet +mountain mists are. They seem to get right through one's body into +one's very spirit, and make it cold too, and doubtful of the future. + + +_September 4th._ + +Dolly looked worried, I thought, yesterday when Mrs. Barnes, as rocky +and apparently arid as ever--but I knew better--told her at tea-time in +my presence that I had invited them to stay on as long as I did. + +There were fortunately few expressions of gratitude this time decorating +Mrs. Barnes's announcement. I think she still wasn't quite sure enough +of herself to be anything but brief. Dolly looked quickly at me, without +her usual smile. I said what a great pleasure it was to know they +weren't going away. 'You do like staying, don't you, Dolly?' I asked, +breaking off suddenly in my speech, for her serious eyes were not the +eyes of the particularly pleased. + +She said she did; of course she did; and added the proper politenesses. +But she went on looking thoughtful, and I believe she wants to tell me, +or have me told by Mrs. Barnes, about Siegfried. I think she thinks I +ought to know what sort of guest I've got before deciding whether I +really want her here any longer or not. + +I wish I could somehow convey to Dolly, without upsetting Mrs. Barnes, +that I do know and don't mind. I tried to smile reassuringly at her, but +the more I smiled the more serious she grew. + +As for Mrs. Barnes, there is now between her and me the shyness, the +affection, of a secret understanding. She may look as arid and stiff as +she likes, but we have kissed each other with real affection and I have +felt her arm tighten round my neck. How much more enlightening, how much +more efficacious than any words, than any explanations, is that very +simple thing, a kiss. I believe if we all talked less and kissed more we +should arrive far quicker at comprehension. I give this opinion with +diffidence. It is rather a conjecture than an opinion. I have not found +it shared in literature--in conversation I would omit it--except once, +and then by a German. He wrote a poem whose first line was: + + _O schwöre nicht und küsse nur_ + +And I thought it sensible advice. + + +_September 5th._ + +The weather after all hasn't broken. We have had the thunderstorm and +the one bad day, and then it cleared up. It didn't clear up back to heat +again--this year there will be no more heat--but to a kind of cool, +pure gold. All day yesterday it was clearing up, and towards evening +there came a great wind and swept the sky clear during the night of +everything but stars; and when I woke this morning there was the +familiar golden patch on the wall again, and I knew the day was to be +beautiful. + +And so it has been, with the snow come much lower down the mountains, +and the still air very fresh. Things sparkle; and one feels like some +bright bubble of light oneself. Actually even Mrs. Barnes has almost +been like that,--has been, for her, astonishingly, awe-inspiringly gay. + +'Ah,' she said, standing on the terrace after breakfast, drawing in deep +draughts of air, 'now I understand the expression so frequently used in +descriptions of scenery. This air indeed is like champagne.' + +'It does make one feel very healthy,' I said. + +There were several things I wanted to say instead of this, things +suggested by her remark, but I refrained. I mean to be careful now to +let my communications with Mrs. Barnes be Yea, yea and Nay, nay--that +is, straightforward and brief, with nothing whatever in them that might +directly or indirectly lead to the encouragement of Dolly. Dolly has +been trying to catch me alone. She has tried twice since Mrs. Barnes +yesterday at tea told her I had asked them to stay on, but I have +avoided her. + +'Healthy?' repeated Mrs. Barnes. 'It makes one feel more than healthy. +It goes to one's head. I can imagine it turning me quite dizzy--quite +turning my head.' + +And then she actually asked me a riddle--Mrs. Barnes asked a riddle, at +ten o'clock in the morning, asked me, a person long since callous to +riddles and at no time since six years old particularly appreciative of +them. + +Of course I answered wrong. Disconcerted, I impetuously hazarded Brandy +as the answer, when it should have been Whisky; but really I think it +was wonderful to have got even so near the right answer as Brandy. I +won't record the riddle. It was old in Mrs. Barnes's youth, for she told +me she had it from her father, who, she said, could enjoy a joke as +heartily as she can herself. + +But what was so surprising was that the effect of the crisp, sunlit air +on Mrs. Barnes should be to engender riddles. It didn't do this to my +pre-war guests. They grew young, but not younger than twenty. Mrs. +Barnes to-day descended to the age of bibs. I never could have believed +it of her. I never could have believed she would come so near what I can +only call an awful friskiness. And it wasn't just this morning, in the +first intoxication of the splendid new air; it has gone on like it all +day. On the mountain slopes, slippery now and difficult to walk on +because of the heavy rain of the thunderstorm, might have been seen this +afternoon three figures, two black ones and a white one, proceeding for +a space in a rather wobbly single file, then pausing in an animated +group, then once more proceeding. When they paused it was because Mrs. +Barnes had thought of another riddle. Dolly was very quick at the +answers,--so quick that I suspected her of having been brought up on +these very ones, as she no doubt was, but I cut a lamentable figure. I +tried to make up for my natural incapacity by great goodwill. Mrs. +Barnes's spirits were too rare and precious, I felt, not to be welcomed; +and having failed in answers I desperately ransacked my memory in search +of questions, so that I could ask riddles too. + +But by a strange perversion of recollection I could remember several +answers and not their questions. In my brain, on inquiry, were fixed +quite firmly things like this,--obviously answers to what once had been +riddles. + + _Because his tail comes out of his head._ + _So did the other donkey._ + _He took a fly and went home._ + _Orleans._ + +Having nothing else to offer Mrs. Barnes I offered her these, and +suggested she should supply the questions. + +She thought this way of dealing with riddles subversive and difficult. +Dolly began to laugh. Mrs. Barnes, filled with the invigorating air, +actually laughed too. It was the first time I have heard her laugh. I +listened with awe. Evidently she laughs very rarely, for Dolly looked so +extraordinarily pleased; evidently her doing it made to-day memorable, +for Dolly's face, turned to her sister in a delighted surprise, had the +expression on it that a mother's has when her offspring suddenly behaves +in a way unhoped for and gratifying. + +So there we stood, gesticulating gaily on the slippery slope. + +This is a strange place. Its effects are incalculable. I suppose it is +because it is five thousand feet up, and has so great a proportion of +sunshine. + + +_September 6th._ + +There were letters this morning from England that wiped out all the +gaiety of yesterday; letters that _reminded_ me. It was as if the cold +mist had come back again, and blotted out the light after I had hoped it +had gone for good. It was as if a weight had dropped down again on my +heart, suffocating it, making it difficult to breathe, after I had hoped +it was lifted off for ever. I feel sick. Sick with the return of the +familiar pain, sick with fear that I am going to fall back hopelessly +into it. I wonder if I am. Oh, I had such _hope_ that I was better! +Shall I ever get quite well again? Won't it at best, after every effort, +every perseverance in struggle, be just a more or less skilful mending, +a more or less successful putting together of broken bits? I thought I +had been growing whole. I thought I wouldn't any longer wince. And now +these letters.... + +Ridiculous, hateful and ridiculous, to be so little master of one's own +body that one has to look on helplessly at one's hands shaking. + +I want to forget. I don't want to be reminded. It is my one chance of +safety, my one hope of escape. To forget--forget till I have got my soul +safe back again, really my own again, no longer a half destroyed thing. +I call it my soul. I don't know what it is. I am very miserable. + +It is details that I find so difficult to bear. As long as in my mind +everything is one great, unhappy blur, there is a chance of quietness, +of gradual creeping back to peace. But details remind me too acutely, +flash back old anguish too sharply focussed. I oughtn't to have opened +the letters till I was by myself. But it pleased me so much to get them. +I love getting letters. They were in the handwriting of friends. How +could I guess, when I saw them on the breakfast-table, that they would +innocently be so full of hurt? And when I had read them, and I picked up +my cup and tried to look as if nothing had happened and I were drinking +coffee like anybody else, my silly hand shook so much that Dolly noticed +it. + +Our eyes met. + +I couldn't get that wretched cup back on to its saucer again without +spilling the coffee. If that is how I still behave, what has been the +good of being here? What has the time been but wasted? What has the cure +been but a failure? + +I have come up to my room. I can't stay downstairs. It would be +unbearable this morning to sit and be read to. But I must try to think +of an excuse, quickly. Mrs. Barnes may be up any minute to ask--oh, I am +hunted! + +It is a comfort to write this. To write does make one in some strange +way less lonely. Yet--having to go and look at oneself in the glass for +companionship,--isn't that to have reached the very bottom level of +loneliness? + + +_Evening._ + +The direct result of those letters has been to bring Dolly and me at +last together. + +She came down to the kitchen-garden after me, where I went this morning +when I had succeeded in straightening myself out a little. On the way I +told Mrs. Barnes, with as tranquil a face as I could manage, that I had +arrangements to discuss with Antoine, and so, I was afraid, would for +once miss the reading. + +Antoine I knew was working in the kitchen-garden, a plot of ground +hidden from the house at the foot of a steep descent, and I went to him +and asked to be allowed to help. I said I would do anything,--dig, weed, +collect slugs, anything at all, but he must let me work. Work with my +hands out of doors was the only thing I felt I could bear to-day. It +wasn't the first time, I reflected, that peace has been found among +cabbages. + +Antoine demurred, of course, but did at last consent to let me pick red +currants. That was an easy task, and useful as well, for it would save +Lisette the assistant's time, who would otherwise presently have to pick +them. So I chose the bushes nearest to where he was digging, because I +wanted to be near some one who neither talked nor noticed, some one +alive, some one kind and good who wouldn't look at me, and I began to +pick these strange belated fruits, finished and forgotten two months ago +in the valley. + +Then I saw Dolly coming down the steps cut in the turf. She was holding +up her long black skirt. She had nothing on her head, and the sun shone +in her eyes and made her screw them up as she stood still for a moment +on the bottom step searching for me. I saw all this, though I was +stooping over the bushes. + +Then she came and stood beside me. + +'You oughtn't to be here,' I said, going on picking and not looking at +her. + +'I know,' said Dolly. + +'Then hadn't you better go back?' + +'Yes. But I'm not going to.' + +I picked in silence. + +'You've been crying,' was what she said next. + +'No,' I said. + +'Perhaps not with your eyes, but you have with your heart.' + +At this I felt very much like Mrs. Barnes; very much like what Mrs. +Barnes must have felt when I tried to get her to be frank. + +'Do you know what your sister said to me the other day?' I asked, busily +picking. 'She said she has a great opinion of discretion.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly. 'But I haven't.' + +'And I haven't either,' I was forced to admit. + +'Well then,' said Dolly. + +I straightened myself, and we looked at each other. Her eyes have a kind +of sweet radiance. Siegfried must have been pleased when he saw her +coming down the sheet into his arms. + +'You mustn't tell me anything you don't quite want to,' said Dolly, her +sweet eyes smiling, 'but I couldn't see you looking so unhappy and not +come and--well, stroke you.' + +'There isn't anything to tell,' I said, comforted by the mere idea of +being stroked. + +'Yes there is.' + +'Not really. It's only that once--oh well, what's the good? I don't +want to think of it--I want to forget.' + +Dolly nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Yes.' + +'You see I came here to get cured by forgetting, and I thought I was +cured. And this morning I found I wasn't, and it has--and it has +disappointed me.' + +'You musn't cry, you know,' said Dolly gently. 'Not in the middle of +picking red currants. There's the man--' + +She glanced at Antoine, digging. + +I snuffled away my tears without the betrayal of a pocket handkerchief, +and managed to smile at her. + +'What idiots we go on being,' I said ruefully. + +'Oh--idiots!' + +Dolly made a gesture as of including the whole world. + +'Does one ever grow up?' I asked. + +'I don't know. I haven't.' + +'But do you think one ever learns to bear pain without wanting to run +crying bitterly to one's mother?' + +'I think it's difficult. It seems to take more time,' she added smiling, +'than I've yet had, and I'm forty. You know I'm forty?' + +'Yes. That is, I've been told so, but it hasn't been proved.' + +'Oh, I never could _prove_ anything,' said Dolly. + +Then she put on an air of determination that would have alarmed Mrs. +Barnes, and said, 'There are several other things that I am that you +don't know, and as I'm here alone with you at last I may as well tell +you what they are. In fact I'm not going away from these currant bushes +till I _have_ told you.' + +'Then,' I said, 'hadn't you better help me with the currants while you +tell?' And I lifted the basket across and put it on the ground between +us. + +Already I felt better. Comforted, cheered by Dolly's mere presence and +the sweet understanding that seems to shine out from her. + +She turned up her sleeves and plunged her arms into the currant bushes. +Luckily currants don't have thorns, for if it had been a gooseberry bush +she would have plunged her bare arms in just the same. + +'You have asked us to stay on,' she began, 'and it isn't fair that you +shouldn't know exactly what you are in for.' + +'If you're going to tell, me how your name is spelt,' I said, 'I've +guessed that already. It is Juchs.' + +'Oh, you're clever!' exclaimed Dolly unexpectedly. + +'Well, if that's clever,' I said modestly, 'I don't know what you would +say to _some_ of the things I think of.' + +Dolly laughed. Then she looked serious again, and tugged at the currants +in a way that wasn't very good for the bush. + +'Yes. His name was Juchs,' she said. 'Kitty always did pronounce it +Jewks. It wasn't the war. It wasn't camouflage. She thought it was the +way. So did the other relations in England. That is when they pronounced +it at all, which I should think wasn't ever.' + +'You mean they called him Siegfried,' I said. + +Dolly stopped short in her picking to look at me in surprise. +'Siegfried?' she repeated, her arrested hands full of currants. + +'That's another of the things I've guessed,' I said proudly. 'By sheer +intelligently putting two and two together.' + +'He wasn't Siegfried,' said Dolly. + +'Not Siegfried?' + +It was my turn to stop picking and look surprised. + +'And in your sleep--? And so affectionately--?' I said. + +'Siegfried wasn't Juchs, he was Bretterstangel,' said Dolly. 'Did I say +his name that day in my sleep? Dear Siegfried.' And her eyes, even while +they rested on mine became softly reminiscent. + +'But Dolly--if Siegfried wasn't your husband, ought you to have--well, +do you think it was wise to be dreaming of him?' + +'But he was my husband.' + +I stared. + +'But you said your husband was Juchs,' I said. + +'So he was,' said Dolly. + +'He was? Then why--I'm fearfully slow, I know, but do tell me--if Juchs +was your husband why wasn't he called Siegfried?' + +'Because Siegfried's name was Bretterstangel. I _began_ with Siegfried.' + +There was a silence. We stood looking at each other, our hands full of +currants. + +Then I said, 'Oh.' And after a moment I said, 'I see.' And after another +moment I said, 'You _began_ with Siegfried.' + +I was greatly taken aback. The guesses which had been arranged so neatly +in my mind were swept into confusion. + +'What you've got to realise,' said Dolly, evidently with an effort, 'is +that I kept on marrying Germans. I ought to have left off at Siegfried. +I wish now I had. But one gets into a habit--' + +'But,' I interrupted, my mouth I think rather open, 'you kept on--?' + +'Yes,' said Dolly, holding herself very straight and defiantly, 'I did +keep on, and that's what I want you to be quite clear about before we +settle down to stay here indefinitely. Kitty can't stay if I won't. I do +put my foot down sometimes, and I would about this. Poor darling--she +feels desperately what I've done, and I try to help her to keep it quiet +with ordinary people as much as I can--oh, I'm always letting little +bits out! But I can't, I won't, not tell a friend who so wonderfully +invites us--' + +'_You're_ not going to begin being grateful?' I interrupted quickly. + +'You've no idea,' Dolly answered irrelevantly, her eyes wide with wonder +at her past self, 'how difficult it is not to marry Germans once you've +begun.' + +'But--how many?' I got out. + +'Oh, only two. It wasn't their number so much. It was their quality.' + +'What--Junkers?' + +'Junkers? Would you mind more if they had been? Do you mind very much +anyhow?' + +'I don't mind anything. I don't mind your being technically German a +scrap. All I think is that it was a little--well, perhaps a little +excessive to marry another German when you had done it once already. But +then I'm always rather on the side of frugality. I do definitely prefer +the few instead of the many and the little instead of the much.' + +'In husbands as well?' + +'Well yes--I think so.' + +Dolly sighed. + +'I wish I had been like that,' she said. 'It would have saved poor Kitty +so much.' + +She dropped the currants she held in her hands slowly bunch by bunch +into the basket. + +'But I don't see,' I said, 'what difference it could make to Kitty. I +mean, once you had started having German husbands at all, what did it +matter one more or less? And wasn't the second one d--I mean, hadn't he +left off being alive when the war began? So I don't see what difference +it could make to Kitty.' + +'But that's just what you've got to realise,' said Dolly, letting the +last bunch of currants drop out of her hand into the basket. + +She looked at me, and I became aware that she was slowly turning red. A +very delicate flush was slowly spreading over her face, so delicate +that for a moment I didn't see what it was that was making her look more +and more guilty, more and more like a child who has got to confess--but +an honourable, good child, determined that it _will_ confess. + +'You know,' she said, 'that I've lived in Germany for years and years.' + +'Yes,' I said. 'I've guessed that.' + +'And it's different from England.' + +'Yes,' I said. 'So I understand.' + +'The way they see things. Their laws.' + +'Yes,' I said. + +Dolly was finding it difficult to say what she had to say. I thought it +might help her if I didn't look at her, so I once more began to pick +currants. She mechanically followed my example. + +'Kitty,' she said, as we both stooped busily over the same bush, 'thinks +what I did too dreadful. So did all our English relations. It's because +you may think so too that I've got to tell you. Then you can decide +whether you really want me here or not.' + +'Dear Dolly,' I murmured, 'don't please make my blood run cold--' + +'Ah, but it's forbidden in the Prayer Book.' + +'What is?' + +'What I did.' + +'_What_ did you do, Dolly?' I asked, now thoroughly uneasy; had her +recklessness gone so far as to lead her to tamper with the Commandments? + +Dolly tore off currants and leaves in handfuls and flung them together +into the basket. 'I married my uncle,' she said. + +'What?' I said, really astonished. + +'Karl--that was my second husband--was Siegfried's--that was my first +husband's--uncle. He was Siegfried's mother's brother--my first +mother-in-law's brother. My second mother-in-law was my first husband's +grandmother. In Germany you can. In Germany you do. But it's forbidden +in the English Prayer Book. It's put in the Table of Kindred and +Affinity that you mustn't. It's number nine of the right-hand +column--Husband's Mother's Brother. And Kitty well, you can guess what +Kitty has felt about it. If it had been my own uncle, my own mother's +brother, she couldn't have been more horrified and heartbroken. I didn't +realise. I didn't think of the effect it might have on them at home. I +just did it. They didn't know till I had done it. I always think it +saves bother to marry first and tell afterwards. I had been so many +years in Germany. It seemed quite natural. I simply stayed on in the +family. It was really habit.' + +She threw some currants into the basket, then faced me. 'There,' she +said, looking me straight in the eyes, 'I've told you, and if you think +me impossible I'll go.' + +'But--' I began. + +Her face was definitely flushed now, and her eyes very bright. + +'Oh, I'd be sorry, sorry,' she said impetuously, 'if this ended _us_!' + +'Us?' + +'You and me. But I couldn't stay here and not tell you, could I. Just +because you may hate it so I had to tell you. You've got a dean in your +family. The Prayer Book is in your blood. And if you do hate it I shall +understand perfectly, and I'll go away and take Kitty and you need never +see or hear of me again, so you musn't mind saying--' + +'Oh do wait a minute!' I cried. 'I don't hate it. I don't mind. I'd only +hate it and mind if it was I who had to marry a German uncle. I can't +imagine why anybody should ever want to marry uncles anyhow, but if they +do, and they're not blood-uncles, and it's the custom of the country, +why not? You'll stay here, Dolly. I won't let you go. I don't care if +you've married fifty German uncles. I've loved you from the moment I +saw you on the top of the wall in your funny petticoat. Why, you don't +suppose,' I finished, suddenly magnificently British, 'that I'm going to +let any mere _German_ come between you and me?' + +Whereupon we kissed each other,--not once, but several times; fell, +indeed, upon each other's necks. And Antoine, coming to fetch the red +currants for Lisette who had been making signs to him from the steps for +some time past, stood waiting quietly till we should have done. + +When he thought we had done he stepped forward and said, '_Pardon, +mesdames_'--and stooping down deftly extracted the basket from between +us. + +As he did so his eye rested an instant on the stripped and broken +branches of the currant bush. + +He wasn't surprised. + + +_September 7th._ + +I couldn't finish about yesterday last night. When I had got as far as +Antoine and the basket I looked at the little clock on my writing-table +and saw to my horror that it was nearly twelve. So I fled into bed; for +what would Mrs. Barnes have said if she had seen me burning the +electric light and doing what she calls trying my eyes at such an hour? +It doesn't matter that they are my eyes and my light: Mrs. Barnes has +become, by virtue of her troubles, the secret standard of my behaviour. +She is like the eye of God to me now,--in every place. And my desire to +please her and make her happy has increased a hundredfold since Dolly +and I have at last, in spite of her precautions, become real friends. + +We decided before we left the kitchen-garden yesterday that this was the +important thing: to keep Mrs. Barnes from any hurt that we can avoid. +She has had so many. She will have so many more. I understand now +Dolly's deep sense of all her poor Kitty has given up and endured for +her sake, and I understand the shackles these sacrifices have put on +Dolly. It is a terrible burden to be very much loved. If Dolly were of a +less naturally serene temperament she would go under beneath the weight, +she would be, after five years of it, a colourless, meek thing. + +We agreed that Mrs. Barnes musn't know that I know about Dolly's +marriages. Dolly said roundly that it would kill her. Mrs. Barnes +regards her misguided sister as having committed a crime. It is +forbidden in the Prayer Book. She brushes aside the possible Prayer +Books of other countries. Therefore the word German shall never I hope +again escape me while she is here, nor will I talk of husbands, and +perhaps it will be as well to avoid mentioning uncles. Dear me, how very +watchful I shall have to be. For the first time in his life the Dean has +become unmentionable. + +I am writing this before breakfast. I haven't seen Dolly alone again +since the kitchen-garden. I don't know how she contrived to appease Mrs. +Barnes and explain her long absence, but that she did contrive it was +evident from the harmonious picture I beheld when, half an hour later, I +too went back to the house. They were sitting together in the sun just +outside the front door knitting. Mrs. Barnes's face was quite contented. +Dolly looked specially radiant. I believe she is made up entirely of +love and laughter--dangerous, endearing ingredients! We just looked at +each other as I came out of the house. It is the most comforting, the +warmest thing, this unexpected finding of a completely understanding +friend. + + +_September 10th._ + +Once you have achieved complete understanding with anybody it isn't +necessary, I know, to talk much. I have been told this by the wise. +They have said mere knowledge that the understanding is there is enough. +They have said that perfect understanding needs no expression, that the +perfect intercourse is without words. That may be; but I want to talk. +Not excessively, but sometimes. Speech does add grace and satisfaction +to friendship. It may not be necessary, but it is very agreeable. + +As far as I can see I am never, except by the rarest chance, going to +get an opportunity of talking to Dolly alone. And there are so many +things I want to ask her. Were her experiences all pleasant? Or is it +her gay, indomitable spirit that has left her, after them, so entirely +unmarked? Anyhow the last five years can't possibly have been pleasant, +and yet they've not left the shadow of a stain on her serenity. I feel +that she would think very sanely about anything her bright mind touched. +There is something disinfecting about Dolly. I believe she would +disinfect me of the last dregs of morbidness I still may have lurking +inside me. + +She and Mrs. Barnes are utterly poor. When the war began Dolly was in +Germany, she told me that morning in the kitchen-garden, and had been a +widow nearly a year. Not Siegfried's widow: Juchs's. I find her +widowhoods confusing. + +'Didn't you ever have a child, Dolly?' I asked. + +'No,' she said. + +'Then how is it you twitched the handkerchief off your sister's sleeping +face that first day and said Peep bo to her so professionally?' + +'I used to do that to Siegfried. We were both quite young to begin with, +and played silly games.' + +'I see,' I said. 'Go on.' + +Juchs had left her some money; just enough to live on. Siegfried hadn't +ever had any, except what he earned as a clerk in a bank, but Juchs had +had some. She hadn't married Juchs for any reason, I gathered, except to +please him. It did please him very much, she said, and I can quite +imagine it. Siegfried too had been pleased in his day. 'I seem to have a +gift for pleasing Germans,' she remarked, smiling. 'They were both very +kind to me. I ended by being very fond of them both. I believe I'd be +fond of anyone who was kind. There's a good deal of the dog about me.' + +Directly the war began she packed up and came to Switzerland; she didn't +wish, under such circumstances, to risk pleasing any more Germans. +Since her marriage to Juchs all her English relations except Kitty had +cast her off, so that only a neutral country was open to her, and Kitty +instantly gave up everybody and everything to come and be with her. At +first her little income was sent to her by her German bank, but after +the first few months it sent no more, and she became entirely dependent +on Kitty. All that Kitty had was what she got from selling her house. +The Germans, Dolly said, would send no money out of the country. Though +the war was over she could get nothing out of them unless she went back. +She would never go back. It would kill Kitty; and she too, she thought, +would very likely die. Her career of pleasing Germans does seem to be +definitely over. + +'So you see,' she said smiling, 'how wonderful it is for us to have +found _you_.' + +'What I can't get over,' I said, 'is having found _you_.' + +But I wish, having found her, I might sometimes talk to her. + + +_September 12th._ + +We live here in an atmosphere of _combats de générosité_. It is +tremendous. Mrs. Barnes and I are always doing things we don't want to +do because we suppose it is what is going to make the other one happy. +The tyranny of unselfishness! I can hardly breathe. + + +_September 19th._ + +I think it isn't good for women to be shut up too long alone together +without a man. They seem to fester. Even the noblest. Taking our +intentions all round they really are quite noble. We do only want to +develope in ideal directions, and remove what we think are the obstacles +to this development in each other's paths; and yet we fester. Not Dolly. +Nothing ever smudges her equable, clear wholesomeness; but there are +moments when I feel as if Mrs. Barnes and I got much mixed up together +in a sort of sticky mass. Faint struggles from time to time, brief +efforts at extrication, show there is still a life in me that is not +flawlessly benevolent, but I repent of them as soon as made because of +the pain and surprise that instantly appear in Mrs. Barnes's tired, +pathetic eyes, and hastily I engulf myself once more in goodness. + +That's why I haven't written lately, not for a whole week. It is +glutinous, the prevailing goodness. I have stuck. I have felt as though +my mind were steeped in treacle. Then to-day I remembered my old age, +and the old lady waiting at the end of the years who will want to be +amused, so I've begun again. I have an idea that what will really most +amuse that old lady, that wrinkled philosophical old thing, will be all +the times when I was being uncomfortable. She will be so very +comfortable herself, so done with everything, so entirely an impartial +looker-on, that the rebellions and contortions and woes of the creature +who used to be herself will only make her laugh. She will be blithe in +her security. Besides, she will know the sequel, she will know what came +next, and will see, I daresay, how vain the expense of trouble and +emotions was. So that naturally she will laugh. 'You _silly_ little +thing!' I can imagine her exclaiming, 'If only you had known how it all +wasn't going to matter!' And she will laugh very heartily; for I am sure +she will be a gay old lady. + +But what we really want here now is an occasional breath of +brutality,--the passage, infrequent and not too much prolonged, of a +man. If he came to tea once in a way it would do. He would be a blast of +fresh air. He would be like opening a window. We have minced about among +solicitudes and delicacies so very long. I want to smell the rankness +of a pipe, and see the cushions thrown anyhow. I want to see somebody +who doesn't knit. I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted. +Especially do I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted ... oh, I'm +afraid I'm still not very good! + + +_September 20th._ + +The grapes are ripe down in the vineyards along the edge of the valley, +and this morning I proposed that we should start off early and spend the +day among them doing a grape-cure. + +Mrs. Barnes liked the idea very much, and sandwiches were ordered, for +we were not to come back till evening; then at the last moment she +thought it would be too hot in the valley, and that her head, which has +been aching lately, might get worse. The sandwiches were ready on the +hall table. Dolly and I were ready too, boots on and sticks in hand. To +our great surprise Mrs. Barnes, contemplating the sandwiches, said that +as they had been cut they mustn't be wasted, and therefore we had better +go without her. + +We were astonished. We were like children being given a holiday. She +kissed us affectionately when we said goodbye, as though, to mark her +trust in us,--in Dolly that she wouldn't tell me the dreadful truth +about herself, in me that I wouldn't encourage her in undesirable points +of view. How safe we were, how deserving of trust, Mrs. Barnes naturally +didn't know. Nothing that either of us could say could possibly upset +the other. + +'If Mrs. Barnes knew the worst, knew I knew everything, wouldn't she be +happier?' I asked Dolly as we went briskly down the mountain. 'Wouldn't +at least part of her daily anxiety be got rid of, her daily fear lest I +_should_ get to know?' + +'It would kill her,' said Dolly firmly. + +'But surely--' + +'You mustn't forget that she thinks what I did was a crime.' + +'You mean the uncle.' + +'Oh, she wouldn't very much mind your knowing about Siegfried. She would +do her utmost to prevent it, because of her horror of Germans and of the +horror she assumes you have of Germans. But once you did know she would +be resigned. The other--' Dolly shook her head. 'It would kill her,' she +said again. + +We came to a green slope starred thick with autumn crocuses, and sat +down to look at them. These delicate, lovely things have been appearing +lately on the mountain, at first one by one and then in flocks,--pale +cups of light, lilac on long white stalks that snap off at a touch. Like +the almond trees in the suburban gardens round London that flower when +the winds are cruellest, the autumn crocuses seem too frail to face the +cold nights we are having now; yet it is just when conditions are +growing unkind that they come out. There they are, all over the mountain +fields, flowering in greater profusion the further the month moves +towards winter. + +This particular field of them was so beautiful that with one accord +Dolly and I sat down to look. One doesn't pass such beauty by. I think +we sat quite half an hour drinking in those crocuses, and their sunny +plateau, and the way the tops of the pine trees on the slope below stood +out against the blue emptiness of the valley. We were most content. The +sun was so warm, the air of such an extraordinary fresh purity. Just to +breathe was happiness. I think that in my life I have been most blest in +this, that so often just to breathe has been happiness. + +Dolly and I, now that we could talk as much as we wanted to, didn't +after all talk much. Suddenly I felt incurious about her Germans. I +didn't want them among the crocuses. The past, both hers and mine, +seemed to matter very little, seemed a stuffy, indifferent thing, in +that clear present. I don't suppose if we hadn't brought an empty basket +with us on purpose to take back grapes to Mrs. Barnes that we would have +gone on down to the vineyards at all, but rather have spent the day just +where we were. The basket, however, had to be filled; it had to be +brought back filled. It was to be the proof that we had done what we +said we would. Kitty, said Dolly, would be fidgeted if we hadn't carried +out the original plan, and might be afraid that, if we weren't eating +grapes all day as arranged, we were probably using our idle mouths for +saying things she wished left unsaid. + +'Does poor Kitty _always_ fidget?' I asked. + +'Always,' said Dolly. + +'About every single thing that might happen?' + +'Every single thing,' said Dolly. 'She spends her life now entirely in +fear--and it's all because of me.' + +'But really, while she is with me she could have a holiday from fear if +we told her I knew about your uncle and had accepted it with calm.' + +'It would kill her,' said Dolly once more, firmly. + +We lunched in the vineyards, and our desert was grapes. We ate them for +a long while with enthusiasm, and went on eating them through every +degree of declining pleasure till we disliked them. For fifty centimes +each the owner gave us permission to eat grapes till we died if we +wished to. For another franc we were allowed to fill the basket for Mrs. +Barnes. Only conscientiousness made us fill it full, for we couldn't +believe anybody would really want to eat such things as grapes. Then we +began to crawl up the mountain again, greatly burdened both inside and +out. + +It took us over three hours to get home. We carried the basket in turns, +half an hour at a time; but what about those other, invisible, grapes, +that came with us as well? I think people who have been doing a +grape-cure should sit quiet for the rest of the day, or else walk only +on the level. To have to take one's cure up five thousand feet with one +is hard. Again we didn't talk; this time because we couldn't. All that +we could do was to pant and to perspire. + +It was a brilliant afternoon, and the way led up when the vineyards left +off through stunted fir trees that gave no shade, along narrow paths +strewn with dry fir needles,--the slipperiest things in the world to +walk on. Through these hot, shadeless trees the sun beat on our bent and +burdened figures. Whenever we stopped to rest and caught sight of each +other's flushed wet faces we laughed. + +'Kitty needn't have been afraid we'd _say_ much,' panted Dolly in one of +these pauses, her eyes screwed up with laughter at my melted state. + +I knew what I must be looking like by looking at her. + +It was five o'clock by the time we reached the field with the crocuses, +and we sank down on the grass where we had sat in the morning, +speechless, dripping, overwhelmed by grapes. For a long while we said +nothing. It was bliss to lie in the cool grass and not to have to carry +anything. The sun, low in the sky, slanted almost level along the field, +and shining right through the thin-petalled crocuses made of each a +little star. I don't know anything more happy than to be where it is +beautiful with some one who sees and loves it as much as you do +yourself. We lay stretched out on the grass, quite silent, watching the +splendour grow and grow till, having reached a supreme moment of +radiance, it suddenly went out. The sun dropped behind the mountains +along to the west, and out went the light; with a flick; in an instant. +And the crocuses, left standing in their drab field, looked like so many +blown-out candles. + +Dolly sat up. + +'There now,' she said. 'That's over. They look as blind and dim as a +woman whose lover has left her. Have you ever,' she asked, turning her +head to me still lying pillowed on Mrs. Barnes's grapes--the basket had +a lid--'seen a woman whose lover has left her?' + +'Of course I have. Everybody has been left by somebody.' + +'I mean _just_ left.' + +'Yes. I've seen that too.' + +'They look exactly like that,' said Dolly, nodding towards the crocuses. +'Smitten colourless. Light gone, life gone, beauty gone,--dead things in +a dead world. I don't,' she concluded, shaking her head slowly, 'hold +with love.' + +At this I sat up too, and began to tidy my hair and put my hat on again. +'It's cold,' I said, 'now that the sun is gone. Let us go home.' + +Dolly didn't move. + +'Do you?' she asked. + +'Do I what?' + +'Hold with love.' + +'Yes,' I said. + +'Whatever happens?' + +'Yes,' I said. + +'Whatever its end is?' + +'Yes,' I said. 'And I won't even say yes _and_ no, as the cautious +Charlotte Brontë did when she was asked if she liked London. I won't be +cautious in love. I won't look at all the reasons for saying no. It's a +glorious thing to have had. It's splendid to have believed all one did +believe.' + +'Even when there never was a shred of justification for the belief?' +asked Dolly, watching me. + +'Yes,' I said; and began passionately to pin my hat on, digging the pins +into my head in my vehemence. 'Yes. The thing is to believe. Not go +round first cautiously on tiptoe so as to be sure before believing and +trusting that your precious belief and trust are going to be safe. Safe! +There's no safety in love. You risk the whole of life. But the great +thing _is_ to risk--to believe, and to risk everything for your belief. +And if there wasn't anything there, if it was you all by yourself who +imagined the beautiful kind things in the other one, the wonderful, +generous, beautiful kind things, what does it matter? They weren't +there, but _you_ for once were capable of imagining them. You _were_ up +among the stars for a little, you _did_ touch heaven. And when you've +had the tumble down again and you're scrunched all to pieces and are +just a miserable heap of blood and brokenness, where's your grit that +you should complain? Haven't you seen wonders up there past all telling, +and had supreme joys? It's because you were up in heaven that your fall +is so tremendous and hurts so. What you've got to do is not to be +killed. You've got at all costs to stay alive, so that for the rest of +your days you may go gratefully, giving thanks to God that once ... you +see,' I finished suddenly, 'I'm a great believer in saying thank you.' + +'Oh,' said Dolly, laying her hand on my knee and looking at me very +kindly, 'I'm so glad!' + +'Now what are you glad about, Dolly?' I asked, turning on her and giving +my hat a pull straight. And I added, my chin in the air, 'Those dead +women of yours in their dead world, indeed! Ashamed of themselves--that's +what they ought to be.' + +'You're cured,' said Dolly. + +'Cured,' I echoed. + +I stared at her severely. 'Oh--I see,' I said. 'You've been drawing me +out.' + +'Of course I have. I couldn't bear to think of you going on being +unhappy--hankering--' + +'Hankering?' + +Dolly got up. 'Now let's go home,' she said. 'It's my turn to carry the +basket. Yes, it's a horrid word. Nobody should ever hanker. I couldn't +bear it if you did. I've been afraid that perhaps--' + +'Hankering!' + +I got up too and stood very straight. + +'Give me those grapes,' said Dolly. + +'Hankering!' I said again. + +And the rest of the way home, along the cool path where the dusk was +gathering among the bushes and the grass was damp now beneath our dusty +shoes, we walked with heads held high--hankering indeed!--two women +surely in perfect harmony with life and the calm evening, women of +wisdom and intelligence, of a proper pride and self-respect, kind women, +good women, pleasant, amiable women, contented women, pleased women; and +at the last corner, the last one between us and Mrs. Barnes's eye on the +terrace, Dolly stopped, put down the basket, and laying both her arms +about my shoulders kissed me. + +'Cured,' she said, kissing me on one side of my face. 'Safe,' she said, +kissing me on the other. + +And we laughed, both of us, confident and glad. And I went up to my room +confident and glad, for if I felt cured and Dolly was sure I was cured, +mustn't it be true? + +Hankering indeed. + + +_September 21st._ + +But I'm not cured. For when I was alone in my room last night and the +house was quiet with sleep, a great emptiness came upon me, and those +fine defiant words of mine in the afternoon seemed poor things, poor +dwindled things, like kaisers in their night-gowns. For hours I lay +awake with only one longing: to creep back,--back into my shattered +beliefs, even if it were the littlest corner of them. Surely there must +be some corner of them still, with squeezing, habitable? I'm so small. I +need hardly any room. I'd curl up. I'd fit myself in. And I wouldn't +look at the ruin of the great splendid spaces I once thought I lived in, +but be content with a few inches. Oh, it's cold, cold, cold, left +outside of faith like this.... + +For hours I lay awake; and being ashamed of myself did no good, because +love doesn't mind about being ashamed. + + +_Evening._ + +All day I've slunk about in silence, watching for a moment alone with +Dolly. I want to tell her that it was only one side of me yesterday, and +that there's another, and another--oh, so many others; that I meant +every word I said, but there are other things, quite different, almost +opposite things that I also mean; that it's true I'm cured, but only +cured in places, and over the rest of me, the rest that is still sick, +great salt waves of memories wash every now and then and bite and +bite.... + +But Dolly, who seems more like an unruffled pool of clear water to-day +than ever, hasn't left Mrs. Barnes's side; making up, I suppose, for +being away from her all yesterday. + +Towards tea-time I became aware that Mrs. Barnes was watching me with a +worried face, the well-known worried, anxious face, and I guessed she +was wondering if Dolly had been indiscreet on our picnic and told me +things that had shocked me into silence. So I cast about in my mind for +something to reassure her, and, as I thought fortunately, very soon +remembered the grapes. + +'I'm afraid I ate too many grapes yesterday,' I said, when next I caught +her worried, questioning eye. + +Her face cleared. I congratulated myself. But I didn't congratulate +myself long; for Mrs. Barnes, all motherly solicitude, inquired if by +any chance I had swallowed some of the stones; and desiring to reassure +her to the utmost as to the reason of my thoughtfulness, I said that +very likely I had; from the feel of things; from the kind of +heaviness.... And she, before I could stop her, had darted into the +kitchen--these lean women are terribly nimble--and before I could turn +round or decide what to do next, for by this time I was suspicious, she +was back again with Mrs. Antoine and all the dreadful paraphernalia of +castor oil. And I had to drink it. And it seemed hard that because I had +been so benevolently desirous to reassure Mrs. Barnes I should have to +drink castor oil and be grateful to her as well. + +'This is petty,' I thought, sombrely eyeing the bottle,--I alluded in my +mind to Fate. + +But as I had to drink the stuff I might as well do it gallantly. And so +I did; tossing it off with an air, after raising the glass and wishing +the onlookers health and happiness in what I tried to make a pleasant +speech. + +Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Antoine and Dolly stood watching me spellbound. A +shudder rippled over them as the last drops slid down. + +Then I came up here. + + +_September 22nd._ + +Let me draw your attention, O ancient woman sitting at the end of my +life, to the colour of the trees and bushes in this place you once lived +in, in autumns that for you are now so far away. Do you remember how it +was like flames, and the very air was golden? The hazel-bushes, do you +remember them? Along the path that led down from the terrace to the +village? How each separate one was like a heap of light? Do you remember +how you spent to-day, the 22nd of September, 1919, lying on a rug in the +sun close up under one of them, content to stare at the clear yellow +leaves against the amazing sky? You ve forgotten, I daresay. You re only +thinking of your next meal and being put to bed. But you did spend a day +to-day worth remembering. You were very content. You were exactly +balanced in the present, without a single oscillation towards either the +past, a period you hadn't then learned to regard with the levity for +which you are now so remarkable, or to the future, which you at that +time, however much the attitude may amuse you now, thought of with doubt +and often with fear. Mrs. Barnes let you go to-day, having an +appreciation of the privileges due to the dosed, and you took a cushion +and a rug--active, weren't you--and there you lay the whole blessed day, +the sun warm on your body, enfolded in freshness, thinking of nothing +but calm things. Rather like a baby you were; a baby on its back sucking +its thumb and placidly contemplating the nursery ceiling. But the +ceiling was the great sky, with, two eagles ever so far up curving in +its depths, and when they sloped their wings the sun caught them and +they flashed. + +It seems a pity to forget these things. They make up, after all, the +real preciousness of life. But I'm afraid my writing them down won't +make you _feel_ any joy in them again, you old thing. You'll be too +brittle and rheumaticky to be able to think of lying on the grass for a +whole day except with horror. I'm beginning to dislike the idea of being +forced into your old body; and, on reflection, your philosophical +detachment, your incapacity to do anything but laugh at the hopes and +griefs and exultations and disappointments and bitter pains of your +past, seems to me very like the fixed grimace of fleshless death. + + +_September 23rd._ + +Mrs. Barnes can't, however hard she tries, be with us absolutely +continuously. Gaps in her attendance do inevitably occur. There was one +of them to-day; and I seized it to say to Dolly across the momentarily +empty middle chair--we were on the terrace and the reading was going +on,--'I've not seen you alone since the grape day. I wanted to tell you +that I'm not cured. I had a relapse that very night. I meant all I said +to you, but I meant too, all I said to myself while I was having the +relapse. You'd better know the worst. I simply intolerably hankered.' + +Dolly let Merivale fall on her lap, and gazed pensively at the distant +mountains across the end of the valley. + +'It's only the last growlings,' she said after a moment. + +'Growlings?' I echoed. + +'It's only the last growlings and mutterings of a thunderstorm that's +going away. Whatever it was that happened to you--you've never told me, +you know, but I'm quite good at somehow knowing--was very like a +thunderstorm. A violent one. It was rather brief, it raged incredibly, +and then it rumbled off. Though you were flattened out while it was +going on, like some otherwise promising crop--' + +'Oh,' I protested; but I had to laugh. + +'--still when it took itself off you missed it. I wouldn't talk like +this,' she said, turning her sweet eyes to me, 'I wouldn't make fun if I +weren't sure you are on the road, anyhow, to being cured. Presently +you'll reach the stage when you begin to realise that falling out of +love is every bit as agreeable as falling in. It is, you know. It's a +wonderful feeling, that gradual restoration to freedom and one's +friends.' + +'You don't understand after all,' I said. + +Dolly said she did. + +'No. Because you talk of falling out of love. What has happened to me is +far worse than that. That? That's nothing. It's what everybody is doing +all the time. What has happened to me is that I've lost my faith. It has +been like losing God, after years of trust in Him. I believed with all +my heart. And I am desolate.' + +But Dolly only shook her head. 'You're not as desolate as you were,' +she said. 'Nobody who loves all this as you do--' and she turned up her +face to the warm sun, blinking her eyes,--'can go on being desolate +long. Besides--really, you know--look at that.' + +And she pointed to the shining mountains across the valley's eastern +end. + +Yes. That is eternal. Beauty is eternal. When I look at that, when I am +in the clear mood that, looking at the mountains, really _sees_ them, +all the rest, the bewilderment and crying out, the clinging and the +hankering, seem indeed unworthy. Imagine, with the vast landscape of the +splendid world spread out before you, not moving freely in it on and on +rejoicing and praising God, but sitting quite still lamenting in one +spot, stuck in sediment. + +'Did you say sentiment?' asked Dolly. + +'Did I say anything?' I asked in surprise, turning my head to her. 'I +thought I was thinking.' + +'You were doing it aloud, then,' said Dolly. 'Was the word sentiment?' + +'No. Sediment.' + +'They're the same thing. I hate them both.' + + +_September 24th._ + +What will happen to Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when I go back to England? The +weather was a little fidgety to-day and yesterday, a little troubled, +like a creature that stirs fretfully in its sleep, and it set me +thinking. For once the change really begins at this time of the year it +doesn't stop any more. It goes on through an increasing unpleasantness +winds, rain, snow, blizzards--till, after Christmas, the real winter +begins, without a cloud, without a stir of the air, its short days +flooded with sunshine, its dawns and twilights miracles of colour. + +All that fuss and noise of snow-flurries and howling winds is only the +preparation for the great final calm. The last blizzard, tearing away +over the mountains, is like an ugly curtain rolling up; and behold a new +world. One night while you are asleep the howls and rattlings suddenly +leave off, and in the morning you look out of the window and for the +first time for weeks you see the mountains at the end of the valley +clear against the eastern sky, clothed in all new snow from head to +foot, and behind them the lovely green where the sunrise is getting +ready. I know, because I was obliged to be here through the October and +November and December of the year the house was built and was being +furnished. They were three most horrid months; and the end of them was +heaven. + +But what will become of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when the weather does +finally break up? + +I can't face the picture of them spending a gloomy, half-warmed winter +down in some cheap pension; an endless winter of doing without things, +of watching every franc. They've been living like that for five years +now. Where does Dolly get her sweet serenity from? I wish I could take +them to England with me. But Dolly can't go to England. She is German. +She is doomed. And Mrs. Barnes is doomed too, inextricably tied up in +Dolly's fate. Of course I am going to beg them to stay on here, but it +seems a poor thing to offer them, to live up here in blizzards that I +run away from myself. It does seem a very doubtful offer of hospitality. +I ought, to make it real, to stay on with them. And I simply couldn't. I +do believe I would die if I had three months shut up with Mrs. Barnes in +blizzards. Let her have everything--the house, the Antoines, all, all +that I possess; but only let me go. + +My spirit faints at the task before me, at the thought of the +persuasions and the protests that will have to be gone through. And +Dolly; how can I leave Dolly? I shall be haunted in London by visions of +these two up here, the wind raging round the house, the snow piled up to +the bedroom windows, sometimes cut off for a whole week from the +village, because only in a pause in the blizzard can the little black +figures that are peasants come sprawling over the snow with their +shovels to dig one out. I know because I have been through it that first +winter. But it was all new to us then, and we were a care-free, cheerful +group inside the house, five people who loved each other and talked +about anything they wanted to, besides being backed reassuringly by a +sack of lentils and several sacks of potatoes that Antoine, even then +prudent and my right hand, had laid in for just this eventuality. We +made great fires, and brewed strange drinks. We sat round till far into +the nights telling ghost stories. We laughed a good deal, and said just +what we felt like saying. But Mrs. Barnes and Dolly? Alone up here, and +undug out? It will haunt me. + + +_September 25th._ + +She hasn't noticed the weather yet. At least, she has drawn no +deductions from it. Evidently she thinks its fitfulness, its gleams of +sunshine and its uneasy cloudings over, are just a passing thing and +that it soon will settle down again to what it was before. After all, +she no doubt says to herself, it is still September. But Antoine knows +better, and so do I, and it is merely hours now before the break-up will +be plain even to Mrs. Barnes. Then the _combats de générosité_ will +begin. I can't, I can't stop here so that Mrs. Barnes may be justified +to herself in stopping too on the ground of cheering my solitude. I +drank the castor oil solely that her mind might be at rest, but I can't +develope any further along lines of such awful magnanimity. I would die. + + +_September 26th._ + +To-day I smoked twelve cigarettes, only that the house should smell +virile. They're not as good as a pipe for that, but they're better than +the eternal characterless clean smell of unselfish women. + +After each cigarette Mrs. Barnes got up unobtrusively and aired the +room. Then I lit another. + +Also I threw the cushions on the floor before flinging myself on the +sofa in the hall; and presently Mrs. Barnes came and tidied them. + +Then I threw them down again. + +Towards evening she asked me if I was feeling quite well. I wasn't, +because of the cigarettes, but I didn't tell her that. I said I felt +very well indeed. Naturally I couldn't explain to her that I had only +been trying to pretend there was a man about. + +'You're sure those grape-stones--?' she began anxiously. + +'Oh, certain!' I cried; and hastily became meek. + + +_September 27th._ + +Oaths, now. I shrink from so much as suggesting it, but there _is_ +something to be said for them. They're so brief. They get the mood over. +They clear the air. Women explain and protest and tiptoe tactfully about +among what they think are your feelings, and there's no end to it. And +then, if they're good women, good, affectionate, unselfish women, they +have a way of forgiving you. They keep on forgiving you. Freely. With a +horrible magnanimousness. Mrs. Barnes insisted on forgiving me +yesterday for the cigarettes, for the untidiness. It isn't a happy +thing, I think, to be shut up in a small lonely house being forgiven. + + +_September 28th._ + +In the night the wind shook the windows and the rain pelted against +them, and I knew that when I went down to breakfast the struggle with +Mrs. Barnes would begin. + +It did. It began directly after breakfast in the hall, where Antoine, +remarking firmly '_C'est l'hiver_,' had lit a roaring fire, determined +this time to stand no parsimonious nonsense, and it has gone on all day, +with the necessary intervals for recuperation. + +Nothing has been settled. I still don't in the least know what to do. +Mrs. Barnes's attitude is obstinately unselfish. She and Dolly, she +reiterates, won't dream of staying on here unless they feel that by +doing so they could be of service to me by keeping me company. If I'm +not here I can't be kept company with; that, she says, I must admit. + +I do. Every time she says it--it has been a day of reiterations--I admit +it. Therefore, if I go they go, she finishes with a kind of sombre +triumph at her determination not to give trouble or be an expense; but +words fail her, she adds, (this is a delusion,) to express her gratitude +for my offer, etc., and never, for the rest of their lives, will she and +Dolly forget the delightful etc., etc. + +What am I to do? I don't know. How lightly one embarks on marriage and +on guests, and in what unexpected directions do both develope! Also, +what a terrible thing is unselfishness. Once it has become a habit, how +tough, how difficult to uproot. A single obstinately unselfish person +can wreck the happiness of a whole household. Is it possible that I +shall have to stay here? And I have so many things waiting for me in +England that have to be done. + +There's a fire in my bedroom, and I've been sitting on the floor staring +into it for the past hour, seeking a solution. Because all the while +Mrs. Barnes is firmly refusing to listen for a moment to my entreaties +to use the house while I'm away, her thin face is hungry with longing to +accept, and the mere talking, however bravely, of taking up the old +homeless wandering again fills her tired eyes with tears. + +Once I got so desperate that I begged her to stay as a kindness to me, +in order to keep an eye on those patently efficient and trustworthy +Antoines. This indeed was the straw-clutching of the drowning, and even +Mrs. Barnes, that rare smiler, smiled. + +No. I don't know what to do. How the wind screams. I'll go to bed. + + +_September 29th._ + +And there's nothing to be done with Dolly either. + +'You told me you put your foot down sometimes,' I said, appealing to her +this morning in one of Mrs. Barnes's brief absences, 'Why don't you put +it down now?' + +'Because I don't want to,' said Dolly. + +'But _why_ not?' I asked, exasperated. 'It's so reasonable what I +suggest, so easy--' + +'I don't want to stay here without you,' said Dolly. 'This place _is_ +you. You've made it. It is soaked in you. I should feel haunted here +without you. Why, I should feel lost.' + +'As though you would! When we hardly speak to each other as it is--' + +'But I watch you,' said Dolly, smiling, 'and I know what you're +thinking. You've no idea how what you're thinking comes out on your +face.' + +'But if it makes your unhappy sister's mind more comfortable? If she +feels free from anxiety here? If she feels you are safe here?' I +passionately reasoned. + +'I don't want to be safe.' + +'Oh Dolly--you're not going to break out again?' I asked, as anxiously +every bit as poor Mrs. Barnes would have asked. + +Dolly laughed. 'I'll never do anything again that makes Kitty unhappy,' +she said. 'But I do like the feeling--' she made a movement with her +arms as though they were wings--'oh, I _like_ the feeling of having +room!' + + +_September 30th._ + +The weather is better again, and there has been a pause in our +strivings. Mrs. Barnes and I have drifted, tired both of us, I resting +in that refuge of the weak, the putting off of making up my mind, back +into talking only of the situation and the view. If Mrs. Barnes were +either less good or more intelligent! But the combination of +non-intelligence with goodness is unassailable. You can't get through. +Nothing gets through. You give in. You are flattened out. You become a +slave. And your case is indeed hopeless if the non-intelligent and +good, are at the same time the victims, nobly enduring, of undeserved +misfortune. + + +_Evening._ + +A really remarkable thing happened to-day: I've had a prayer answered. I +shall never dare pray again. I prayed for a man, any man, to come and +leaven us, and I've got him. + +Let me set it down in order. + +This afternoon on our walk, soon after we had left the house and were +struggling along against gusts of wind and whirling leaves in the +direction, as it happened, of the carriage road up from the valley, +Dolly said, 'Who is that funny little man coming towards us?' + +And I looked, and said after a moment in which my heart stood still--for +what had _he_ come for?--'That funny little man is my uncle.' + +There he was, the authentic uncle: gaiters, apron, shovel hat. He was +holding on his hat, and the rude wind, thwarted in its desire to frolic +with it, frisked instead about his apron, twitching it up, bellying it +out; so that his remaining hand had all it could do to smooth the apron +down again decorously, and he was obliged to carry his umbrella pressed +tightly against his side under his arm. + +'Not your uncle the Dean?' asked Mrs. Barnes in a voice of awe, hastily +arranging her toque; for a whiff of the Church, any whiff, even one so +faint as a curate, is as the breath of life to her. + +'Yes,' I said, amazed and helpless. 'My Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Why, he might be a German,' said Dolly, 'with a name like that.' + +'Oh, but don't say so to him!' I cried. 'He has a perfect _horror_ of +Germans--' + +And it was out before I remembered, before I could stop it. Good +heavens, I thought; good heavens. + +I looked sideways at Mrs. Barnes. She was, I am afraid, very red. So I +plunged in again, eager to reassure her. 'That is to say,' I said, 'he +used to have during the war. But of course now that the war is over it +would be mere silliness--nobody minds now--nobody _ought_ to mind now--' + +My voice, however, trailed out into silence, for I knew, and Mrs. Barnes +knew, that people do mind. + +By this time we were within hail of my uncle, and with that joy one +instinctively assumes on such occasions I waved my stick in exultant +circles at him and called out, 'How very delightful of you, Uncle +Rudolph!' And I advanced to greet him, the others tactfully dropping +behind, alone. + +There on the mountain side, with the rude wind whisking his clothes +irreverently about, we kissed; and in my uncle's kiss I instantly +perceived something of the quality of Mrs. Barnes's speeches the day I +smoked the twelve cigarettes,--he was forgiving me. + +'I have come to escort you home to England,' he said, his face spread +over with the spirit of allowing byegones to be byegones; and in that +spirit he let go of his apron in order reassuringly to pat my shoulder. + +Immediately the apron bellied. His hand had abruptly to leave my +shoulder so as to clutch it down again. 'You are with ladies?' he said a +little distractedly, holding on to this turbulent portion of his +clothing. + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I replied modestly. 'I hope you didn't expect to +find me with gentlemen?' + +'I expected to find you, dear child, as I have always found you,--ready +to admit and retrace. Generously ready to admit and retrace.' + +'Sweet of you,' I murmured. 'But you should have let me know you were +coming. I'd have had things killed for you. Fatted things.' + +'It is not I,' he said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, the +wind being what it was, 'who am the returning prodigal. Indeed I wish +for your sake that I were. My shoulders could bear the burden better +than those little ones of yours.' + +This talk was ominous, so I said, 'I must introduce you to Mrs. Barnes +and her sister Mrs. Jewks. Let me present,' I said ceremoniously, +turning to them who were now fortunately near enough, 'my Uncle Rudolph +to you, of whom you have often heard me speak.' + +'Indeed we have,' said Mrs. Barnes, with as extreme a cordiality as awe +permitted. + +My uncle, obviously relieved to find his niece not eccentrically alone +but flanked by figures so respectable, securely, as it were, embedded in +widows, was very gracious. Mrs. Barnes received his pleasant speeches +with delighted reverence; and as we went back to the house, for the +first thing to do with arrivals from England is to give them a bath, he +and she fell naturally into each other's company along the narrow track, +and Dolly and I followed behind. + +We looked at each other, simultaneously perceiving the advantages of +four rather than of three. Behind Mrs. Barnes's absorbed and obsequious +back we looked at each other with visions in our eyes of unsupervised +talks opening before us. + +'They have their uses, you see,' I said in a low voice,--not that I need +have lowered it in that wind. + +'Deans have,' agreed Dolly, nodding. + +And my desire to laugh,--discreetly, under my breath, ready to pull my +face sober and be gazing at the clouds the minute our relations should +turn round, was strangled by the chill conviction that my uncle's coming +means painful things for me. + +He is going to talk to me; talk about what I am trying so hard not to +think of, what I really am succeeding in not thinking of; and he is +going to approach the desolating subject in, as he will say and perhaps +even persuade himself to believe, a Christian spirit, but in what really +is a spirit of sheer worldliness. He has well-founded hopes of soon +going to be a bishop. I am his niece. The womenkind of bishops should be +inconspicuous, should see to it that comment cannot touch them. +Therefore he is going to try to get me to deliver myself up to a life +of impossible wretchedness again, only that the outside of it may look +in order. The outside of the house,--of the house of a bishop's +niece,--at all costs keep it neat, keep it looking like all the others +in the street; so shall nobody know what is going on inside, and the +neighbours won't talk about one's uncle. + +If I were no relation but just a mere ordinary stranger-soul in +difficulties, he, this very same man, would be full of understanding, +would find himself unable, indeed, the facts being what they are, to be +anything but most earnestly concerned to help me keep clear of all +temptations to do what he calls retrace. And at the same time he would +be concerned also to strengthen me in that mood which is I am sure the +right one, and does very often recur, of being entirely without +resentment and so glad to have the remembrance at least of the beautiful +things I believed in. But I am his niece. He is about to become a +bishop. Naturally he has to be careful not to be too much like Christ. + +Accordingly I followed uneasily in his footsteps towards the house, +dreading what was going to happen next. And nothing has happened next. +Not yet, anyhow. I expect to-morrow.... + +We spent a most bland evening. I'm as sleepy and as much satiated by +ecclesiastical good things as though I had been the whole day in church. +My uncle, washed, shaven, and restored by tea, laid himself out to +entertain. He was the decorous life of the party. He let himself go to +that tempered exuberance with which good men of his calling like to +prove that they really are not so very much different from other people +after all. Round the hall fire we sat after tea, and again after supper, +Dolly and I facing each other at the corners, my uncle and Mrs. Barnes +in the middle, and the room gently echoed with seemly and strictly +wholesome mirth. 'How enjoyable,' my uncle seemed to say, looking at us +at the end of each of his good stories, gathering in the harvest of our +appreciation, 'how enjoyable is the indulgence of legitimate fun. Why +need one ever indulge in illegitimacy?' + +And indeed his stories were so very good that every one of them, before +they reached the point of bringing forth their joke, must have been to +church and got married. + +Dolly sat knitting, the light shining on her infantile fair hair, her +eyes downcast in a dove-like meekness. Punctually her dimple flickered +out at the right moment in each anecdote. She appeared to know by +instinct where to smile; and several times I was only aware that the +moment had come by happening to notice her dimple. + +As for Mrs. Barnes, for the first time since I have known her, her face +was cloudless. My uncle, embarked on anecdote, did not mention the war. +We did not once get on to Germans. Mrs. Barnes could give herself up to +real enjoyment. She beamed. She was suffused with reverential delight. +And her whole body, the very way she sat in her chair, showed an +absorption, an eagerness not to miss a crumb of my uncle's talk, that +would have been very gratifying to him if he were not used to just this. +It is strange how widows cling to clergymen. Ever since I can remember, +like the afflicted Margaret's apprehensions in Wordsworth's poem, they +have come to Uncle Rudolph in crowds. My aunt used to raise her eyebrows +and ask me if I could at all tell her what they saw in him. + +When we bade each other goodnight there was something in Mrs. Barnes's +manner to me that showed me the presence of a man was already doing its +work. She was aerated. Fresh, air had got into her and was circulating +freely. At my bedroom door she embraced me with warm and simple +heartiness, without the usual painful search of my face to see if by any +chance there was anything she had left undone in her duty of being +unselfish. My uncle's arrival has got her thoughts off me for a bit. I +knew that what we wanted was a man. Not that a dean is quite my idea of +a man, but then on the other hand neither is he quite my idea of a +woman, and his arrival does put an end for the moment to Mrs. Barnes's +and my dreadful _combats de générosité_. He infuses fresh blood into our +anaemic little circle. Different blood, perhaps I should rather say; the +blood of deans not being, I think, ever very fresh. + +'Good night, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, getting up at ten o'clock and +holding up my face to him. 'We have to thank you for a delightful +evening.' + +'Most delightful,' echoed Mrs. Barnes enthusiastically, getting up too +and rolling up her knitting. + +My uncle was gratified. He felt he had been at his best, and that his +best had been appreciated. + +'Good night, dear child,' he said, kissing my offered cheek. 'May the +blessed angels watch about your bed.' + +'Thank you, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, bowing my head beneath this +benediction. + +Mrs. Barnes looked on at the little domestic scene with reverential +sympathy. Then her turn came. + +'_Good_ night, Mrs. Barnes,' said my uncle most graciously, shaking +hands and doing what my dancing mistress used to call bending from the +waist. + +And to Dolly, '_Good_ night, Miss--' + +Then he hesitated, groping for the name. 'Mrs.,' said Dolly, sweetly +correcting him, her hand in his. + +'Ah, I beg your pardon. Married. These introductions--especially in that +noisy wind.' + +'No--not exactly married,' said Dolly, still sweetly correcting him, her +hand still in his. + +'Not exactly--?' + +'My sister has lost her--my sister is a widow,' said Mrs. Barnes hastily +and nervously; alas, these complications of Dolly's! + +'Indeed. Indeed. Sad, sad,' said my uncle sympathetically, continuing to +hold her hand. 'And so young. Ah. Yes. Well, good night then, Mrs--' + +But again he had to pause and grope. + +'Jewks,' said Dolly sweetly. + +'Forgive me. You may depend I shall not again be so stupid. Good night. +And may the blessed angels--' + +A third time he stopped; pulled up, I suppose, by the thought that it +was perhaps not quite seemly to draw the attention of even the angels to +an unrelated lady's bed. So he merely very warmly shook her hand, while +she smiled a really heavenly smile at him. + +We left him standing with his back to the fire watching us go up the +stairs, holding almost tenderly, for one must expend one's sympathy on +something, a glass of hot water. + +My uncle is very sympathetic. In matters that do not touch his own +advancement he is all sympathy. That is why widows like him, I expect. +My aunt would have known the reason if she hadn't been his wife. + + +_October 1st._ + +While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open +against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one's eyes can't be +everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don't get quite +satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but +there are other things. This morning the book was the Bible, and in it +I read, _A prudent man_--how much more prudently, then, a +woman--_foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on +and are punished._ + +This made me late for breakfast. I sat looking out of the window, my +hands in my lap, the sensible words of Solomon ringing in my ears, and +considered if there was any way of escaping the fate of the simple. + +There was no way. It seemed hard that without being exactly of the +simple I yet should be doomed to their fate. And outside it was one of +those cold windy mornings when male relations insist on taking one for +what they call a run--as if one were a dog--in order to go through the +bleak process they describe as getting one's cobwebs blown off. I can't +bear being parted from my cobwebs. I never want them blown off. Uncle +Rudolph is small and active, besides having since my aunt's death +considerably dwindled beneath his apron, and I felt sure he intended to +run me up the mountain after breakfast, and, having got me breathless +and speechless on to some cold rock, sit with me there and say all the +things I am dreading having to hear. + +It was quite difficult to get myself to go downstairs. I seemed rooted. +I knew that, seeing that I am that unfortunately situated person the +hostess, my duty lay in morning smiles behind the coffee pot; but the +conviction of what was going to happen to me after the coffee pot kept +me rooted, even when the bell had rung twice. + +When, however, after the second ringing quick footsteps pattered along +the passage to my door I did get up,--jumped up, afraid of what might be +coming-in. Bedrooms are no real protection from uncles. Those quick +footsteps might easily be Uncle Rudolph's. I hurried across to the door +and pulled it open, so that at least by coming out I might stop his +coming in; and there was Mrs. Antoine, her hand lifted up to knock. + +'_Ces dames et Monsieur l'Evêque attendent,_' she said, with an air of +reproachful surprise. + +'_Il n'est pas un évêque_,' I replied a little irritably, for I knew I +was in the wrong staying upstairs like that, and naturally resented not +being allowed to be in the wrong in peace. '_Il est seulement presque +un_.' + +Mrs. Antoine said nothing to that, but stepping aside to let me pass +informed me rather severely that the coffee had been on the table a +whole quarter of an hour. + +'_Comment appelle-t-on chez vous_,' I said, lingering in the doorway to +gain time, '_ce qui vient devant un évêque?_' + +'_Ce qui vient devant un évêque?_' repeated Mrs. Antoine doubtfully. + +'_Oui. L'espèce de monsieur qui n'est pas tout à fait évêque mais +presque?_' + +Mrs. Antoine knit her brows. '_Ma foi--_' she began. + +'_Oh, j'ai oublié_,' I said. '_Vous n'êtes plus catholique. Il n'y a +rien comme des évêques et comme les messieurs qui sont presque évêques +dans votre église protestante, n'est-ce pas?_' + +'_Mais rien, rien, rien_,' asseverated Mrs. Antoine vehemently, her +hands spread out, her shoulders up to her ears, passionately protesting +the empty purity of her adopted church,--'_mais rien du tout, du tout. +Madame peut venir un dimanche voir...._' + +Then, having cleared off these imputations, she switched back to the +coffee. '_Le café--Madame désire que j'en fasse encore? Ces dames et +Monsieur l'Evêque--_' + +'_Il n'est pas un év--_' + +'Ah--here you are!' exclaimed my uncle, his head appearing at the top of +the stairs. 'I was just coming to see if there was anything the matter. +Here she is--coming, coming!' he called out genially to the others; and +on my hurrying to join him, for I am not one to struggle against the +inevitable, he put his arm through mine and we went down together. + +Having got me to the bottom he placed both hands on my shoulders and +twisted me round to the light. 'Dear child,' he said, scrutinizing my +face while he held me firmly in this position, 'we were getting quite +anxious about you. Mrs. Barnes feared you might be ill, and was already +contemplating remedies--' I shuddered--'however--' he twisted me round +to Mrs. Barnes--'nothing ill about this little lady, Mrs. Barnes, eh?' + +Then he took my chin between his finger and thumb and kissed me lightly, +gaily even, on each cheek, and then, letting me go, he rubbed his hands +and briskly approached the table, all the warm things on which were +swathed as usual when I am late either in napkins or in portions of Mrs. +Barnes's clothing. + +'Come along--come along, now,--breakfast, breakfast,' cried my uncle. +'_For these and all Thy mercies Lord_--' he continued with hardly a +break, his eyes shut, his hands outspread over Mrs. Barnes's white +woollen shawl in benediction. + +We were overwhelmed. The male had arrived and taken us in hand. But we +were happily overwhelmed, judging from Mrs. Barnes's face. For the first +time since she has been with me the blessing of heaven had been implored +and presumably obtained for her egg, and I realised from her expression +as she ate it how much she had felt the daily enforced consumption, +owing to my graceless habits, of eggs unsanctified. And Dolly too looked +pleased, as she always does when her poor Kitty is happy. I alone +wasn't. Behind the coffee pot I sat pensive. I knew too well what was +before me. I distrusted my uncle's gaiety. He had thought it all out in +the night, and had decided that the best line of approach to the painful +subject he had come to discuss would be one of cheerful affection. +Certainly I had never seen him in such spirits; but then I haven't seen +him since my aunt's death. + +'Dear child,' he said, when the table had been picked up and carried off +bodily by the Antoines from our midst, leaving us sitting round nothing +with the surprised feeling of sudden nakedness that, as I have already +explained, this way of clearing away produces--my uncle was actually +surprised for a moment into silence,--'dear child, I would like to take +you for a little run before lunch.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?' + +'That we may get rid of our cobwebs.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'I know you are a quick-limbed little lady--' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?' + +'So you shall take the edge off my appetite for exercise.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Then perhaps this afternoon one or other of these ladies--' I noted his +caution in not suggesting both. + +'Oh, delightful,' Mrs. Barnes hastened to assure him. 'We shall be only +too pleased to accompany you. We are great walkers. We think a very +great deal of the benefits to be derived from regular exercise. Our +father brought us up to a keen appreciation of its necessity. If it were +not that we so strongly feel that the greater part of each day should be +employed in some useful pursuit, we would spend it, I believe, almost +altogether in outdoor exercise.' + +'Why not go with my uncle this morning, then?' I asked, catching at a +straw. 'I've got to order dinner--' + +'Oh no, no--not on _any_ account. The Dean's wishes--' + +But who should pass through the hall at that moment, making for the +small room where I settle my household affairs, his arms full of the +monthly books, but Antoine. It is the first of October. Pay day. I had +forgotten. And for this one morning, at least, I knew that I was saved. + +'Look,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, nodding in the direction of Antoine and +his burden. + +I felt certain she would have all the appreciation of the solemnity, the +undeferability, of settling up that is characteristic of the virtuous +poor; she would understand that even the wishes of deans must come +second to this holy household rite. + +'Oh, how unfortunate!' she exclaimed. 'Just this day of all days--your +uncle's first day.' + +But there was nothing to be done. She saw that. And besides, never was a +woman so obstinately determined as I was to do my duty. + +'Dear Uncle Rudolph,' I said very amiably--I did suddenly feel very +amiable--'I'm so sorry. This is the one day in the month when I am +tethered. _Any_ other day--' + +And I withdrew with every appearance of reluctant but indomitable virtue +into my little room and stayed there shut in safe till I heard them go +out. + +From the window I could see them presently starting off up the mountain, +actively led by my uncle who hadn't succeeded in taking only one, Mrs. +Barnes following with the devoutness--she who in our walks goes always +first and chooses the way--of an obedient hen, and some way behind, as +though she disliked having to shed her cobwebs as much as I do, +straggled Dolly. Then, when they had dwindled into just black specks +away up the slope, I turned with lively pleasure to paying the books. + +Those blessed books! If only I could have gone on paying them over and +over again, paying them all day! But when I had done them, and conversed +about the hens and bees and cow with Antoine, and it was getting near +lunch-time, and at any moment through the window I might see the three +specks that had dwindled appearing as three specks that were swelling, I +thought I noticed I had a headache. + +Addings-up often give me a headache, especially when they won't, which +they curiously often won't, add up the same twice running, so that it +was quite likely that I _had_ got a headache. I sat waiting to be quite +sure, and presently, just as the three tiny specks appeared on the sky +line, I was quite sure; and I came up here and put myself to bed. For, I +argued, it isn't grape-stones this time, it's sums, and Mrs. Barnes +can't dose me for what is only arithmetic; also, even if Uncle Rudolph +insists on coming to my bedside he can't be so inhumane as to torment +somebody who isn't very well. + +So here I have been ever since snugly in bed, and I must say my guests +have been most considerate. They have left me almost altogether alone. +Mrs. Barnes did look in once, and when I said, closing my eyes, 'It's +those tradesmens' books--' she understood immediately, and simply nodded +her head and disappeared. + +Dolly came and sat with me for a little, but we hadn't said much before +Mrs. Antoine brought a message from my uncle asking her to go down to +tea. + +'What are you all doing?' I asked. + +'Oh, just sitting round the fire not talking,' she said, smiling. + +'_Not_ talking?' I said, surprised. + +But she was gone. + +Perhaps, I thought, they're not talking for fear of disturbing me. This +really was most considerate. + +As for Uncle Rudolph, he hasn't even tried to come and see me. The only +sign of life he has made was to send me the current number of the +_Nineteenth Century_ he brought out with him, in which he has an +article,--a very good one. Else he too has been quite quiet; and I have +read, and I have pondered, and I have written this, and now it really is +bedtime and I'm going to sleep. + +Well, a whole day has been gained anyhow, and I have had hours and hours +of complete peace. Rather a surprising lot of peace, really. It _is_ +rather surprising, I think. I mean, that they haven't wanted to come and +see me more. Nobody has even been to say goodnight to me. I think I like +being said goodnight to. Especially if nobody does say it. + + +_October 2nd._ + +Twenty-four hours sometimes produce remarkable changes. These have. + +Again it is night, and again I'm in my room on my way to going to sleep; +but before I get any sleepier I'll write what I can about to-day, +because it has been an extremely interesting day. I knew that what we +wanted was a man. + +At breakfast, to which I proceeded punctually, refreshed by my retreat +yesterday, armed from head to foot in all the considerations I had +collected during those quiet hours most likely to make me immune from +Uncle Rudolph's inevitable attacks, having said my prayers and emptied +my mind of weakening memories, I found my three guests silent. Uncle +Rudolph's talkativeness, so conspicuous at yesterday's breakfast, was +confined at to-day's to saying grace. Except for that, he didn't talk at +all. And neither, once having said her Amen, did Mrs. Barnes. Neither +did Dolly, but then she never does. + +'I've not got a headache,' I gently said at last, looking round at them. + +Perhaps they were still going on being considerate, I thought. At least, +perhaps Mrs. Barnes was. My uncle's silence was merely ominous of what I +was in for, of how strongly, after another night's thinking it out, he +felt about my affairs and his own lamentable connection with them owing +to God's having given me to him for a niece. But Mrs. Barnes--why didn't +_she_ talk? She couldn't surely intend, because once I had a headache, +to go on tiptoe for the rest of our days together? + +Nobody having taken any notice of my first announcement I presently +said, 'I'm very well indeed, thank you, this morning.' + +At this Dolly laughed, and her eyes sent little morning kisses across to +me. She, at least, was in her normal state. + +'Aren't you--' I looked at the other two unresponsive breakfasting +heads--'aren't you glad?' + +'Very,' said Mrs. Barnes. 'Very.' But she didn't raise her eyes from her +egg, and my uncle again took no notice. + +So then I thought I might as well not take any notice either, and I ate +my breakfast in dignity and retirement, occasionally fortifying myself +against what awaited me after it by looking at Dolly's restful and +refreshing face. + +Such an unclouded face; so sweet, so clean, so sunny with morning +graciousness. Really an ideal breakfast-table face. Fortunate Juchs and +Siegfried, I thought, to have had it to look forward to every morning. +That they were undeserving of their good fortune I patriotically felt +sure, as I sat considering the gentle sweep of her eyelashes while she +buttered her toast. Yet they did, both of them, make her happy; or +perhaps it was that she made them happy, and caught her own happiness +back again, as it were on the rebound. With any ordinarily kind and +decent husband this must be possible. That she _had_ been happy was +evident, for unhappiness leaves traces, and I've never seen an object +quite so unmarked, quite so candid as Dolly's intelligent and charming +brow. + +We finished our breakfast in silence; and no sooner had the table been +plucked out from our midst by the swift, disconcerting Antoines, than my +uncle got up and went to the window. + +There he stood with his back to us. + +'Do you feel equal to a walk?' he asked, not turning round. + +Profound silence. + +We three, still sitting round the blank the vanished table had left, +looked at each other, our eyes inquiring mutely, 'Is it I?' + +But I knew it was me. + +'Do you mean me, Uncle Rudolph?' I therefore asked; for after all it had +best be got over quickly. + +'Yes, dear child.' + +'Now?' + +'If you will.' + +'There's no esc--you don't think the weather too horrid?' + +'Bracing.' + +I sighed, and went away to put on my nailed boots. + +Relations ... what right had he ... as though I hadn't suffered +horribly ... and on such an unpleasant morning ... if at least it had +been fine and warm ... but to be taken up a mountain in a bitter wind so +as to be made miserable on the top.... + +And two hours later, when I was perched exactly as I had feared on a +cold rock, reached after breathless toil in a searching wind, perched +draughtily and shorn of every cob-web I could ever in my life have +possessed, helplessly exposed to the dreaded talking-to, Uncle Rudolph, +settling himself at my feet, after a long and terrifying silence during +which I tremblingly went over my defences in the vain effort to assure +myself that perhaps I wasn't going to be _much_ hurt, said: + +'How does she spell it?' + +Really one is very fatuous. Absorbed in myself, I hadn't thought of +Dolly. + + +_October 3rd._ + +It was so late last night when I got to that, that I went to bed. Now it +is before breakfast, and I'll finish about yesterday. + +Uncle Rudolph had taken me up the mountain only to talk of Dolly. +Incredible as it may seem, he has fallen in love. At first sight. At +sixty. I am sure a woman can't do that, so that this by itself convinces +me he is a man. Three days ago I wrote in this very book that a dean +isn't quite my idea of a man. I retract. He is. + +Well, while I was shrinking and shivering on my own account, waiting for +him to begin digging about among my raw places, he said instead, 'How +does she spell it?' and threw my thoughts into complete confusion. + +Blankly I gazed at him while I struggled to rearrange them on this new +basis. It was such an entirely unexpected question. I did not at this +stage dream of what had happened to him. It never would have occurred to +me that Dolly would have so immediate an effect, simply by sitting +there, simply by producing her dimple at the right moment. Attractive as +she is, it is her ways rather than her looks that are so adorable; and +what could Uncle Rudolph have seen of her ways in so brief a time? He +has simply fallen in love with a smile. And he sixty. And he one's +uncle. Amazing Dolly; irresistible apparently, to uncles. + +'Do you mean Mrs. Jewks's name?' I asked, when I was able to speak. + +'Yes,' said my uncle. + +'I haven't seen it written,' I said, restored so far by my relief--for +Dolly had saved me--that I had the presence of mind to hedge. I was +obliged to hedge. In my mind's eye I saw Mrs. Barnes's face imploring +me. + +'No doubt,' said my uncle after another silence, 'it is spelt on the +same principle as Molyneux.' + +'Very likely,' I agreed. + +'It sounds as though her late husband's family might originally have +been French.' + +'It does rather.' + +'Possibly Huguenot.' + +'Yes.' + +'I was much astonished that she should be a widow.' + +'_Yet not one widow but two widows...._' ran at this like a refrain in +my mind, perhaps because I was sitting so close to a dean. Aloud I said, +for by now I had completely recovered, 'Why, Uncle Rudolph? Widows do +abound.' + +'Alas, yes. But there is something peculiarly virginal about Mrs. +Jewks.' + +I admitted that this was so. Part of Dolly's attractiveness is the odd +impression she gives of untouchedness, of gay aloofness. + +My uncle broke off a stalk of the withered last summer's grass and began +nibbling it. He was lying on his side a little below me, resting on his +elbow. His black, neat legs looked quaint stuck through the long yellow +grass. He had taken off his hat, hardy creature, and the wind blew his +grey hair this way and that, and sometimes flattened it down in a fringe +over his eyes. When this happened he didn't look a bit like anybody +good, but he pushed it back each time, smoothing it down again with an +abstracted carefulness, his eyes fixed on the valley far below. He +wasn't seeing the valley. + +'How long has the poor young thing--' he began. + +'You will be surprised to hear,' I interrupted him, 'that Mrs. Jewks is +forty.' + +'Really,' said my uncle, staring round at me. 'Really. That is indeed +surprising.' And after a pause he added, 'Surprising and gratifying.' + +'Why gratifying, Uncle Rudolph?' I inquired. + +'When did she lose her husband?' he asked, taking no notice of my +inquiry. + +The preliminary to an accurate answer to this question was, of course, +Which? But again a vision of Mrs. Barnes's imploring face rose before +me, and accordingly, restricting myself to Juchs, I said she had lost +him shortly before the war. + +'Ah. So he was prevented, poor fellow, from having the honour of dying +for England.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Poor fellow. Poor fellow.' + +'Yes.' + +'Poor fellow. Well, he was spared knowing what he had missed. At least +he was spared that. And she--his poor wife--how did she take it?' + +'Well, I think.' + +'Yes. I can believe it. She wouldn't--I am very sure she +wouldn't--intrude her sorrows selfishly on others.' + +It was at this point that I became aware my uncle had fallen in love. Up +to this, oddly enough, it hadn't dawned on me. Now it did more than +dawned, it blazed. + +I looked at him with a new and startled interest. 'Uncle Rudolph,' I +said impetuously, no longer a distrustful niece talking to an uncle she +suspects, but an equal with an equal, a human being with another human +being, 'haven't you ever thought of marrying again? It's quite a long +time now since Aunt Winifred--' + +'Thought?' said my uncle, his voice sounding for the first time simply, +ordinarily human, without a trace in it of the fatal pulpit flavour, +'Thought? I'm always thinking of it.' + +And except for his apron and gaiters he might have been any ordinary +solitary little man eating out his heart for a mate. + +'But then why don't you? Surely a deanery of all places wants a wife in +it?' + +'Of course it does Those strings or rooms--empty, echoing. It shouts +for a wife. Shouts, I tell you. At least mine does. But I've never +found--I hadn't seen--' + +He broke off, biting at the stalk of grass. + +'But I remember you,' I went on eagerly, 'always surrounded by flocks of +devoted women. Weren't any of them--?' + +'No,' said my uncle shortly. And after a second of silence he said +again, and so loud that I jumped, 'No!' And then he went on even more +violently, 'They didn't give me a chance. They never let me alone a +minute. After Winifred's death they were like flies. Stuck to me--made +me sick--great flies crawling--' And he shuddered, and shook himself as +though he were shaking off the lot of them. + +I looked at him in amazement. 'Why,' I cried, 'you're talking exactly +like a man!' + +But he, staring at the view without seeing an inch of it, took no heed +of me, and I heard him say under his breath as though I hadn't been +there at all, 'My God, I'm so lonely at night!' + +That finished it. In that moment I began to love my uncle. At this +authentic cry of forlornness I had great difficulty in not bending over +and putting my arms round him,--just to comfort him, just to keep him +warm. It must be a dreadful thing to be sixty and all alone. You look so +grown up. You look as though you must have so many resources, so few +needs; and you are accepted as provided for, what with your career +accomplished, and your houses and servants and friends and books and all +the rest of it--all the empty, meaningless rest of it; for really you +are the most miserable of motherless cold babies, conscious that you are +motherless, conscious that nobody soft and kind and adoring is ever +again coming to croon over you and kiss you good-night and be there next +morning to smile when you wake up. + +'Uncle Rudolph--' I began. + +Then I stopped, and bending over took the stalk of grass he kept on +biting out of his hand. + +'I can't let you eat any more of that,' I said. 'It's not good for you.' + +And having got hold of his hand I kept it. + +There now, I said, holding it tight. + +He looked up at me vaguely, absorbed in his thoughts; then, realising +how tight his hand was being held, he smiled. + +'You dear child,' he said, scanning my face as though he had never seen +it before. + +'Yes?' I said, smiling in my turn and not letting go of his hand. 'I +like that. I didn't like any of the other dear children I was.' + +'Which other dear children?' + +'Uncle Rudolph,' I said, 'let's go home. This is a bleak place. Why do +we sit here shivering forlornly when there's all that waiting for us +down there?' + +And loosing his hand I got on to my feet, and when I was on them I held +out both my hands to him and pulled him up, and he standing lower than +where I was our eyes were then on a level. + +'All what?' he asked, his eyes searching mine. + +'Oh, Uncle Rudolph! Warmth and Dolly, of course.' + + +_October 4th._ + +But it hasn't been quite so simple. Nothing last night was different. My +uncle remained tongue-tied. Dolly sat waiting to smile at anecdotes that +he never told. Mrs. Barnes knitted uneasily, already fearing, perhaps, +because of his strange silence, that he somehow may have scented +Siegfried, else how inexplicable his silence after that one bright, +wonderful first evening and morning. + +It was I last night who did the talking, it was I who took up the line, +abandoned by my uncle, of wholesome entertainment. I too told anecdotes; +and when I had told all the ones I knew and still nobody said anything, +I began to tell all the ones I didn't know. Anything rather than that +continued uncomfortable silence. But how very difficult it was. I grew +quite damp with effort. And nobody except Dolly so much as smiled; and +even Dolly, though she smiled, especially when I embarked on my second +series of anecdotes, looked at me with a mild inquiry, as if she were +wondering what was the matter with me. + +Wretched, indeed, is the hostess upon whose guests has fallen, from +whatever cause, a blight. + + +_October 5th._ + +Crabbe's son, in the life he wrote of his father, asks: '_Will it seem +wonderful when we consider how he was situated at this time, that with a +most affectionate heart, a peculiar attachment to female society, and +with unwasted passions, Mr. Crabbe, though in his sixty-second year +should have again thought of marriage? I feel satisfied that no one will +be seriously shocked with such an evidence of the freshness of his +feelings._' + +A little shocked; Crabbe's son was prepared to allow this much; but not +_seriously_. + +Well, it is a good thing my uncle didn't live at that period, for it +would have gone hard with him. His feelings are more than fresh, they +are violent. + + +_October 6th._ + +While Dolly is in the room Uncle Rudolph never moves, but sits +tongue-tied staring at her. If she goes away he at once gets up and +takes me by the arm and walks me off on to the terrace, where in a +biting wind we pace up and down. + +Our positions are completely reversed. It is I now who am the wise old +relative, counselling, encouraging, listening to outpours. Up and down +we pace, up and down, very fast because of the freshness of Uncle's +Rudolph's feelings and also of the wind, arm in arm, I trying to keep +step, he not bothering about such things as step, absorbed in his +condition, his hopes, his fears--especially his fears. For he is +terrified lest, having at last found the perfect woman, she won't have +him. 'Why should she?' he asks almost angrily, 'Why should she? Tell me +why she should.' + +'I can't tell you,' I say, for Uncle Rudolph and I are now the frankest +friends. 'But I can't tell you either why she shouldn't. Think how nice +you are, Uncle Rudolph. And Dolly is naturally very affectionate.' + +'She is perfect, perfect,' vehemently declares my uncle. + +And Mrs. Barnes, who from the window watches us while we walk, looks +with anxious questioning eyes at my face when we come in. What can my +uncle have to talk about so eagerly to me when he is out on the terrace, +and why does he stare in such stony silence at Dolly when he comes in? +Poor Mrs. Barnes. + + +_October 7th._ + +The difficulty about Dolly for courting purposes is that she is never to +be got alone, not even into a corner out of earshot of Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. +Barnes doesn't go away for a moment, except together with Dolly. +Wonderful how clever she is at it. She is obsessed by terror lest the +horrid marriage to the German uncle should somehow be discovered. If she +was afraid of my knowing it she is a hundred times more afraid of Uncle +Rudolph's knowing it. So persistent is her humility, so great and remote +a dignitary does he seem to her, that the real situation hasn't even +glimmered on her. All she craves is to keep this holy and distinguished +man's good opinion, to protect her Dolly, her darling erring one, from +his just but unbearable contempt. Therefore she doesn't budge. Dolly is +never to be got alone. + +'A man,' said my uncle violently to me this morning, 'can't propose to a +woman before her sister.' + +'You've quite decided you're going to?' I asked, keeping up with him as +best I could, trotting beside him up and down the terrace. + +'The minute I can catch her alone. I can't stand any more of this. I +must know. If she won't have me--my God, if she won't have me--!' + +I laid hold affectionately of his arm. 'Oh, but she will,' I said +reassuringly. 'Dolly is rather a creature of habit, you know.' + +'You mean she has got used to marriage--' + +'Well, I do think she is rather used to it. Uncle Rudolph,' I went on, +hesitating as I have hesitated a dozen times these last few days as to +whether I oughtn't to tell him about Juchs--Siegfried would be a shock, +but Juchs would be crushing unless very carefully explained--'you don't +feel you don't think you'd like to know something more about Dolly +first? I mean before you propose?' + +'No!' shouted my uncle. + +Afterwards he said more quietly that he could see through a brick wall +as well as most men, and that Dolly wasn't a brick wall but the perfect +woman. What could be told him that he didn't see for himself? Nothing, +said my uncle. + +What can be done with a man in love? Nothing, say I. + + +_October 8th._ + +Sometimes I feel very angry with Dolly that she should have got herself +so tiresomely mixed up with Germans. How simple everything would be now +if only she hadn't! But when I am calm again I realise that she couldn't +help it. It is as natural to her to get mixed up as to breathe. Very +sweet, affectionate natures are always getting mixed up. I suppose if it +weren't for Mrs. Barnes's constant watchfulness and her own earnest +desire never again to distress poor Kitty, she would at an early stage +of their war wanderings have become some ardent Swiss hotelkeeper's +wife. Just to please him; just because else he would be miserable. Dolly +ought to be married. It is the only certain way of saving her from +marriage. + + +_October 9th._ + +It is snowing. The wind howls, and the snow whirls, and we can't go out +and so get away from each other. Uncle Rudolph is obliged, when Dolly +isn't there, to continue sitting with Mrs. Barnes. He can't to-day hurry +me out on to the terrace. There's only the hall in this house to sit in, +for that place I pay the household books in is no more than a cupboard. + +Uncle Rudolph could just bear Mrs. Barnes when he could get away from +her; to-day he can't bear her at all. Everything that should be +characteristic of a dean--patience, courtesy, kindliness, has been +stripped off him by his eagerness to propose and the impossibility of +doing it. There's nothing at all left now of what he was but that empty +symbol, his apron. + + +_October 10th._ + +My uncle is fermenting with checked, prevented courting. And he ought to +be back in England. He ought to have gone back almost at once, he says. +He only came out for three or four days-- + +'Yes; just time to settle _me_ in,' I said. + +'Yes,' he said, smiling, 'and then take you home with me by the ear.' + +He has some very important meetings he is to preside at coming off soon, +and here he is, hung up. It is Mrs. Barnes who is the cause of it, and +naturally he isn't very nice to her. In vain does she try to please him; +the one thing he wants her to do, to go away and leave him with Dolly, +she of course doesn't. She sits there, saying meek things about the +weather, expressing a modest optimism, ready to relinquish even that if +my uncle differs, becoming, when he takes up a book, respectfully quiet, +ready the moment he puts it down to rejoice with him if he wishes to +rejoice or weep with him if he prefers weeping; and the more she is +concerned to give satisfaction the less well-disposed is he towards her. +He can't forgive her inexplicable fixedness. Her persistent, +unintermittent gregariousness is incomprehensible to him. All he wants, +being reduced to simplicity by love, is to be left alone with Dolly. He +can't understand, being a man, why if he wants this he shouldn't get +it. + +'You're not kind to Mrs. Barnes,' I said to him this afternoon. 'You've +made her quite unnatural. She is cowed.' + +'I am unable to like her,' said my uncle shortly. + +'You are quite wrong not to. She has had bitter troubles, and is all +goodness. I don't think I ever met anybody so completely unselfish.' + +'I wish she would go and be unselfish in her own room, then,' said my +uncle. + +'I don't know you,' I said, shrugging my shoulders. 'You arrived here +dripping unction and charitableness, and now--' + +'Why doesn't she give me a chance?' he cried. 'She never budges. These +women who stick, who can't bear to be by themselves--good heavens, +hasn't she prayers she ought to be saying, and underclothes she ought to +mend?' + +'I don't believe you care so very much for Dolly after all,' I said, 'or +you would be kind to the sister she is so deeply devoted to.' + +This sobered him. 'I'll try,' said my uncle; and it was quite hard not +to laugh at the change in our positions--I the grey-beard now, the wise +rebuker, he the hot-headed yet well-intentioned young relative. + + +_October 11th._ + +I think guests ought to like each other; love each other if they prefer +it, but at least like. They too have their duties, and one of them is to +resist nourishing aversions; or, if owing to their implacable +dispositions they can't help nourishing them, oughtn't they to try very +hard not to show it? They should consider the helpless position of the +hostess, she who, at any rate theoretically, is bound to be equally +attached to them all. + +Before my uncle came it is true we had begun to fester, but we festered +nicely. Mrs. Barnes and I did it with every mark of consideration and +politeness. We were ladies. Uncle Rudolph is no lady; and this little +house, which I daresay looks a picture of peace from outside with the +snow falling on its roof and the firelight shining in its windows, +seethes with elemental passions. Fear, love, anger--they all dwell in it +now, all brought into it by him, all coming out of the mixture, so +innocuous one would think, so likely, one would think, to produce only +the fruits of the spirit,--the mixture of two widows and one clergyman. +Wonderful how much can be accomplished with small means. Also, most +wonderful the centuries that seem to separate me from those July days +when I lay innocently on the grass watching the clouds pass over the +blue of the delphinium tops, before ever I had set eyes on Mrs. Barnes +and Dolly, and while Uncle Rudolph, far away at home and not even +beginning to think of a passport, was being normal in his Deanery. + +He has, I am sure, done what he promised and tried to be kinder to Mrs. +Barnes, and I can only conclude he was not able to manage it, for I see +no difference. He glowers and glowers, and she immovably knits. And in +spite of the silence that reigns except when, for a desperate moment, I +make an effort to be amusing, there is a curious feeling that we are +really living in a state of muffled uproar, in a constant condition of +barely suppressed brawl. I feel as though the least thing, the least +touch, even somebody coughing, and the house will blow up. I catch +myself walking carefully across the hall so as not to shake it, not to +knock against the furniture. How secure, how peaceful, of what a great +and splendid simplicity do those July days, those pre-guest days, seem +now! + + +_October 12th._ + +I went into Dolly's bedroom last night, crept in on tiptoe because there +is a door leading from it into Mrs. Barnes's room, caught hold firmly +of her wrist, and led her, without saying a word and taking infinite +care to move quietly, into my bedroom. Then, having shut her in, I said, +'What are you going to do about it?' + +She didn't pretend not to understand. The candour of Dolly's brow is an +exact reflection of the candour of her mind. + +'About your uncle,' she said, nodding. 'I like him very much.' + +'Enough to marry him?' + +'Oh quite. I always like people enough to marry them.' And she added, as +though in explanation of this perhaps rather excessively amiable +tendency, 'Husbands are so kind.' + +'You ought to know,' I conceded. + +'I do,' said Dolly, with the sweetest reminiscent smile. + +'Uncle Rudolph is only waiting to get you alone to propose,' I said. + +Dolly nodded. There was nothing I could tell her that she wasn't already +aware of. + +'As you appear to have noticed everything,' I said, 'I suppose you have +also noticed that he is very much in love with you.' + +'Oh yes,' said Dolly placidly. + +'So much in love that he doesn't seem even to remember that he's a +dignitary of the Church, and when he's alone with me he behaves in a way +I'm sure the Church wouldn't like at all. Why, he almost swears.' + +'_Isn't_ it a good thing?' said Dolly, approvingly. + +'Yes. But now what is to be done about Siegfried--' + +'Dear Siegfried,' murmured Dolly. + +'And Juchs--' + +'Poor darling,' murmured Dolly. + +'Yes, yes. But oughtn't Uncle Rudolph to be told?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, her eyes a little surprised that I should want +to know anything so obvious. + +'You told me it would kill Kitty if I knew about Juchs. It will kill her +twice as much if Uncle Rudolph knows.' + +'Kitty won't know anything about it. At least, not till it's all over. +My dear, when it comes to marrying I can't be stuck all about with +secrets.' + +'Do you mean to tell my uncle yourself?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, again with surprise in her eyes. + +'When?' + +'When he asks me to marry him. Till he does I don't quite see what it +has to do with him.' + +'And you're not afraid--you don't think your second marriage will be a +great shock to him? He being a dean, and nourished on Tables of +Affinity?' + +'I can't help it if it is. He has got to know. If he loves me enough it +won't matter to him, and if he doesn't love me enough it won't matter to +him either.' + +'Because then his objections to Juchs would be greater than his wish to +marry you?' + +'Yes,' said Dolly, smiling. 'It would mean,' she went on, 'that he +wasn't fond of me _enough_.' + +'And you wouldn't mind?' + +Her eyes widened a little. 'Why should I mind?' + +'No. I suppose you wouldn't, as you're not in love.' + +I then remarked that, though I could understand her not being in love +with a man my uncle's age, it was my belief that she had never in her +life been in love. Not even with Siegfried. Not with anybody. + +Dolly said she hadn't, and that she liked people much too much to want +to grab at them. + +'Grab at them!' + +'That's what your being in love does,' said Dolly. 'It grabs.' + +'But you've been grabbed yourself, and you liked it. Uncle Rudolph is +certainly bent on grabbing you.' + +'Yes. But the man gets over it quicker. He grabs and has done with it, +and then settles down to the real things,--affection and kindness. A +woman hasn't ever done with it. She can't let go. And the poor thing, +because she what you call loves, is so dreadfully vulnerable, and gets +so hurt, so hurt--' + +Dolly began kissing me and stroking my hair. + +'I think though,' I said, while she was doing this, 'I'd rather have +loved thoroughly--you can call it grabbing if you like, I don't care +what ugly words you use--and been vulnerable and got hurt, than never +once have felt--than just be a sort of amiable amoeba--' + +'Has it occurred to you,' interrupted Dolly, continuing to kiss me--her +cheek was against mine, and she was stroking my hair very +tenderly--'that if I marry that dear little uncle of yours I shall be +your aunt?' + + +_October 13th._ + +Well, then, if Dolly is ready to marry my uncle and my uncle is dying to +marry Dolly, all that remains to be done is to remove Mrs. Barnes for an +hour from the hall. An hour would be long enough, I think, to include +everything,--five minutes for the proposal, fifteen for presenting +Siegfried, thirty-five for explaining Juchs, and five for the final +happy mutual acceptances. + +This very morning I must somehow manage to get Mrs. Barnes away. How it +is to be done I can't think; especially for so long as an hour. Yet +Juchs and Siegfried couldn't be rendered intelligible, I feel, in less +than fifty minutes between them. Yes; it will have to be an hour. + +I have tried over and over again the last few days to lure Mrs. Barnes +out of the hall, but it has been useless. Is it possible that I shall +have to do something unpleasant to myself, hurt myself, hurt something +that takes time to bandage? The idea is repugnant to me; still, things +can't go on like this. + +I asked Dolly last night if I hadn't better draw Mrs. Barnes's attention +to my uncle's lovelorn condition, for obviously the marriage would be a +solution of all her difficulties and could give her nothing but +extraordinary relief and joy; but Dolly wouldn't let me. She said that +it would only agonise poor Kitty to become aware that my uncle was in +love, for she would be quite certain that the moment he heard about +Juchs horror would take the place of love. How could a dean of the +Church of England, Kitty would say, bring himself to take as wife one +who had previously been married to an item in the forbidden list of the +Tables of Affinity? And Juchs being German would only, she would feel, +make it so much more awful. Besides, said Dolly, smiling and shaking her +head, my uncle mightn't propose at all. He might change again. I myself +had been astonished, she reminded me, at the sudden violent change he +had already undergone from unction to very nearly swearing; he might +easily under-go another back again, and then what a pity to have +disturbed the small amount of peace of mind poor Kitty had. + +'She hasn't any, ever,' I said; impatiently, I'm afraid. + +'Not very much,' admitted Dolly with wistful penitence. 'And it has all +been my fault.' + +But what I was thinking was that Kitty never has any peace of mind +because she hasn't any mind to have peace in. + +I didn't say this, however. + +I practised tact. + + +_Later._ + +Well, it has come off. Mrs. Barnes is out of the hall, and at this very +moment Uncle Rudolph and Dolly are alone together in it, proposing and +being proposed to. He is telling her that he worships her, and in reply +she is gently drawing his attention to Siegfried and Juchs. How much +will he mind them? Will he mind them at all? Will his love triumphantly +consume them, or, having swallowed Siegfried, will he find himself +unable to manage Juchs? + +Oh, I love people to be happy! I love them to love each other! I do hope +it will be all right! Dolly may say what she likes, but love is the only +thing in the world that works miracles. Look at Uncle Rudolph. I'm more +doubtful, though, of the result than I would have been yesterday, +because what brought about Mrs. Barnes's absence from the hall has made +me nervous as to how he will face the disclosing of Juchs. + +While I'm waiting I may as well write it down,--by my clock I count up +that Dolly must be a third of the way through Siegfried now, so that +I've still got three quarters of an hour. + +This is what happened: + +The morning started badly, indeed terribly. Dolly, bored by being stared +at in silence, said something about more wool and went upstairs quite +soon after breakfast. My uncle, casting a despairing glance at the +window past which the snow was driving, scowled for a moment or two at +Mrs. Barnes, then picked up a stale _Times_ and hid himself behind it. + +To make up for his really dreadful scowl at Mrs. Barnes I began a +pleasant conversation with her, but at once she checked me, saying, +'Sh--sh--,' and deferentially indicating, with her knitting needle, my +reading uncle. + +Incensed by such slavishness, I was about to rebel and insist on talking +when he, stirred apparently by something of a bloodthirsty nature that +he saw in the _Times_, exclaimed in a very loud voice, 'Search as I +may--and I have searched most diligently--I can't find a single good +word to say for Germans.' + +It fell like a bomb. He hasn't mentioned Germans once. I had come to +feel quite safe. The shock of it left me dumb. Mrs. Barnes's knitting +needles stopped as if struck. I didn't dare look at her. Dead silence. + +My uncle lowered the paper and glanced round at us, expecting agreement, +impatient of our not instantly saying we thought as he did. + +'Can _you_?' he asked me, as I said nothing, being petrified. + +I was just able to shake my head. + +'Can _you_?' he asked, turning to Mrs. Barnes. + +Her surprising answer--surprising, naturally, to my uncle--was to get up +quickly, drop all her wool on the floor, and hurry upstairs. + +He watched her departure with amazement. Still with amazement, when she +had disappeared, his eyes sought mine. + +Why, he said, staring at me aghast, 'why--the woman's a pro-German!' + +In my turn I stared aghast. + +'Mrs. _Barnes_?' I exclaimed, stung to quite a loud exclamation by the +grossness of this injustice. + +'Yes,' said my uncle, horrified. 'Yes. Didn't you notice her expression? +Good heavens--and I who've taken care not to speak to a pro-German for +five years, and had hoped, God willing, never to speak to one again, +much less--' he banged his fists on the arms of the chair, and the +_Times_ slid on to the floor--'much less be under the same roof with +one.' + +'Well then, you see, God wasn't willing,' I said, greatly shocked. + +Here was the ecclesiastic coming up again with a vengeance in all the +characteristic anti-Christian qualities; and I was so much stirred by +his readiness to believe what he thinks is the very worst of poor, +distracted Mrs. Barnes, that I flung caution to the winds and went +indignantly on: 'It isn't Mrs. Barnes who is pro-German in this +house--it's Dolly.' + +'What?' cried my uncle. + +'Yes,' I repeated, nodding my head at him defiantly, for having said it +I was scared, 'it's Dolly.' + +'Dolly?' echoed my uncle, grasping the arms of his chair. + +'Perhaps pro-German doesn't quite describe it,' I hurried on nervously, +'and yet I don't know--I think it would. Perhaps it's better to say that +she is--she is of an unprejudiced international spirit--' + +Then I suddenly realised that Mrs. Barnes was gone. Driven away. Not +likely to appear again for ages. + +I got up quickly. 'Look here, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, making hastily, +even as Mrs. Barnes had made, for the stairs, 'you ask Dolly about it +yourself. I'll go and tell her to come down. You ask her about being +pro-German. She'll tell you. Only--' I ran back to him and lowered my +voice--'propose first. She won't tell you unless you've proposed first.' + +Then, as he sat clutching the arms of his chair and staring at me, I +bent down and whispered, 'Now's your chance, Uncle Rudolph. You've +settled poor Mrs. Barnes for a bit. She won't interrupt. I'll send +Dolly--goodbye--good luck!' + +And hurriedly kissing him I hastened upstairs to Dolly's room. + +Because of the door leading out of it into Mrs. Barnes's room I had to +be as cautious as I was last night. I did exactly the same things: went +in on tiptoe, took hold of her firmly by the wrist, and led her out +without a word. Then all I had to do was to point to the stairs, and at +the same time make a face--but a kind face, I hope--at her sister's shut +door, and the intelligent Dolly did the rest. + +She proceeded with a sober dignity pleasant to watch, along the passage +in order to be proposed to. Practice in being proposed to has made her +perfect. At the top of the stairs she turned and smiled at me,--her +dimple was adorable. I waved my hand; she disappeared; and here I am. + +Forty minutes of the hour are gone. She must be in the very middle now +of Juchs. + + +_Night._ + +I knew this little house was made for kindness and love. I've always, +since first it was built, had the feeling that it was blest. Sure indeed +was the instinct that brought me away from England, doggedly dragging +myself up the mountain to tumble my burdens down in this place. It +invariably conquers. Nobody can resist it. Nobody can go away from here +quite as they arrived, unless to start with they were of those blessed +ones who wherever they go carry peace with them in their hearts. From +the first I have felt that the worried had only got to come here to be +smoothed out, and the lonely to be exhilarated, and the unhappy to be +comforted, and the old to be made young. Now to this list must be added: +and the widowed to be wedded; because all is well with Uncle Rudolph and +Dolly, and the house once more is in its normal state of having no one +in it who isn't happy. + +For I grew happy--completely so for the moment, and I shouldn't be +surprised if I had really done now with the other thing--the minute I +caught sight of Uncle Rudolph's face when I went downstairs. + +Dolly was sitting by the file looking pleased. My uncle was standing on +the rug; and when he saw me he came across to me holding out both his +hands, and I stopped on the bottom stair, my hands in his, and we looked +at each other and laughed,--sheer happiness we laughed for. + +Then we kissed each other, I still on the bottom stair and therefore +level with him, and then he said, his face full of that sweet affection +for the whole world that radiates from persons in his situation, 'And to +think that I came here only to scold you!' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I said. 'To think of it!' + +'Well, if I came to scold I've stayed to love,' he said. + +'Which,' said I, while we beamed at each other, 'as the Bible says, is +far better.' + +Then Dolly went upstairs to tell Mrs. Barnes--lovely to be going to +strike off somebody's troubles with a single sentence!--and my uncle +confessed to me that for the first time a doubt of Dolly had shadowed +his idea of her when I left him sitting there while I fetched her-- + +'Conceive it--conceive it!' he cried, smiting his hands together. +'Conceive letting Germans--_Germans_, if you please--get even for half +an instant between her and me!'--but that the minute he saw her coming +down the stairs to him such love of her flooded him that he got up and +proposed to her before she had so much as reached the bottom. And it was +from the stairs, as from a pulpit, that Dolly, supporting herself on the +balustrade, expounded Siegfried and Juchs. + +She wouldn't come down till she had finished with them. She was, I +gathered, ample over Siegfried, but when it came to Juchs she was +profuse. Every single aspect of them both that was most likely to make a +dean think it impossible to marry her was pointed out and enlarged upon. +She wouldn't, she announced, come down a stair further till my uncle was +in full possession of all the facts, while at the same time carefully +bearing in mind the Table of Affinity. + +'And were you terribly surprised and shocked, Uncle Rudolph?' I asked, +standing beside him with our backs to the fire in our now familiar +attitude of arm in arm. + +My uncle is an ugly little man, yet at that moment I could have sworn +that he had the face of an angel. He looked at me and smiled. It was the +wonderfullest smile. + +'I don't know what I was,' he said. 'When she had done I just said, "My +Beloved"--and then she came down.' + + +_October 15th._ + +This is my last night here, and this is the last time I shall write in +my old-age book. To-morrow we all go away together, to Bern, where my +uncle and Dolly will be married, and then he takes her to England, and +Mrs. Barnes and I will also proceed there, discreetly, by another route. + +So are the wanderings of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly ended, and Mrs. Barnes +will enter into her idea of perfect bliss, which is to live in the very +bosom of the Church with a cathedral almost in her back garden. For my +uncle, prepared at this moment to love anybody, also loves Mrs. Barnes, +and has invited her to make her home with him. At this moment indeed he +would invite everybody to make their homes with him, for not only has he +invited me but I heard him most cordially pressing those peculiarly +immovable Antoines to use his house as their headquarters whenever they +happen to be in England. + +I think a tendency to invite runs in the family, for I too have been +busy inviting. I have invited Mrs. Barnes to stay with me in London till +she goes to the Deanery, and she has accepted. Together we shall travel +thither, and together we shall dwell there, I am sure, in that unity +which is praised by the Psalmist as a good and pleasant thing. + +She will stay with me for the weeks during which my uncle wishes to have +Dolly all to himself. I think there will be a great many of those weeks, +from what I know of Dolly; but being with a happy Mrs. Barnes will be +different from being with her as she was here. She is so happy that she +consists entirely of unclouded affection. The puckers from her face, and +the fears and concealments from her heart, have all gone together. She +is as simple and as transparent as a child. She always was transparent, +but without knowing it; now she herself has pulled off her veils, and +cordially requests one to look her through and through and see for +oneself how there is nothing there but contentment. A little +happiness,--what wonders it works! Was there ever anything like it? + +This is a place of blessing. When I came up my mountain three months +ago, alone and so miserable, no vision was vouchsafed me that I would go +down it again one of four people, each of whom would leave the little +house full of renewed life, of restored hope, of wholesome +looking-forward, clarified, set on their feet, made useful once more to +themselves and the world. After all, we're none of us going to be +wasted. Whatever there is of good in any of us isn't after all going to +be destroyed by circumstances and thrown aside as useless. When I am so +foolish--_if_ I am so foolish I should say, for I feel completely cured! +as to begin thinking backwards again with anything but a benevolent +calm, I shall instantly come out here and invite the most wretched of my +friends to join me, and watch them and myself being made whole. + +The house, I think, ought to be rechristened. + +It ought to be called _Chalet du Fleuve Jordan_. + +But perhaps my guests mightn't like that. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS*** + + +******* This file should be named 35072-8.txt or 35072-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/5/0/7/35072 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: In the Mountains</p> +<p>Author: Elizabeth von Arnim</p> +<p>Release Date: January 25, 2011 [eBook #35072]<br /> +Most recently updated: February 25, 2011</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by<br /> + Laura MacDonald (http://www.girlebooks.com)<br /> + and<br /> + Marc D'Hooghe (http://www.freeliterature.org)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>IN THE MOUNTAINS</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN"</h2> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h5>MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED</h5> + +<h5>ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON</h5> + +<h5>1920</h5> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="IN_THE_MOUNTAINS" id="IN_THE_MOUNTAINS"></a>IN THE MOUNTAINS</h3> + + +<p><i>July 22nd.</i></p> + +<p>I want to be quiet now.</p> + +<p>I crawled up here this morning from the valley like a sick +ant,—struggled up to the little house on the mountain side that I +haven't seen since the first August of the war, and dropped down on the +grass outside it, too tired even to be able to thank God that I had got +home.<br /></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Here I am once more, come back alone to the house that used to be so +full of happy life that its little wooden sides nearly burst with the +sound of it. I never could have dreamed that I would come back to it +alone. Five years ago, how rich I was in love; now how poor, how +stripped of all I had. Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I'm too +tired. I want to be quiet now. Till I'm not so tired. If only I can be +quiet....</p> + + +<p><i>July 23rd.</i></p> + +<p>Yesterday all day long I lay on the grass in front of the door and +watched the white clouds slowly passing one after the other at long, +lazy intervals over the tops of the delphiniums,—the row of delphiniums +I planted all those years ago. I didn't think of anything; I just lay +there in the hot sun, blinking up and counting the intervals between one +spike being reached and the next. I was conscious of the colour of the +delphiniums, jabbing up stark into the sky, and of how blue they were; +and yet not so blue, so deeply and radiantly blue, as the sky. Behind +them was the great basin of space filled with that other blue of the +air, that lovely blue with violet shades in it; for the mountain I am on +drops sharply away from the edge of my tiny terrace-garden, and the +whole of the space between it and the mountains opposite brims all day +long with blue and violet light. At night the bottom of the valley looks +like water, and the lamps in the little town lying along it like +quivering reflections of the stars.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I wonder why I write about these things. As if I didn't know them! Why +do I tell myself in writing what I already so well know? Don't I know +about the mountain, and the brimming cup of blue light? It is because, +I suppose, it's lonely to stay inside oneself. One has to come out and +talk. And if there is no one to talk to one imagines someone, as though +one were writing a letter to somebody who loves one, and who will want +to know, with the sweet eagerness and solicitude of love, what one does +and what the place one is in looks like. It makes one feel less lonely +to think like this,—to write it down, as if to one's friend who cares. +For I'm afraid of loneliness; shiveringly, terribly afraid. I don't mean +the ordinary physical loneliness, for here I am, deliberately travelled +away from London to get to it, to its spaciousness and healing. I mean +that awful loneliness of spirit that is the ultimate tragedy of life. +When you've got to that, really reached it, without hope, without +escape, you die. You just can't bear it, and you die.</p> + + +<p><i>July 24th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">It's queer the urge one has to express oneself, to get one's self into +words. If I weren't alone I wouldn't write, of course, I would talk. But +nearly everything I wanted to say would be things I couldn't say. Not +unless it was to some wonderful, perfect, all-understanding +listener,—the sort one used to imagine God was in the days when one +said prayers. Not quite like God though either, for this listener would +sometimes say something kind and gentle, and sometimes, stroke one's +hand a little to show that he understood. Physically, it is most blessed +to be alone. After all that has happened, it is most blessed. Perhaps I +shall grow well here, alone. Perhaps just sitting on these honey-scented +grass slopes will gradually heal me. I'll sit and lick my wounds. I do +so dreadfully want to get mended! I do so dreadfully want to get back to +confidence in goodness.</p> + + +<p><i>July 25th.</i></p> + +<p>For three days now I've done nothing but lie in the sun, except when +meals are put in the open doorway for me. Then I get up reluctantly, +like some sleepy animal, and go and eat them and come out again.</p> + +<p>In the evening it is too cold and dewy here for the grass, so I drag a +deep chair into the doorway and sit and stare at the darkening sky and +the brightening stars. At ten o'clock Antoine, the man of all work who +has looked after the house in its years of silence during the war, shuts +up everything except this door and withdraws to his own room and his +wife; and presently I go in too, bolting the door behind me, though +there is nothing really to shut out except the great night, and I creep +upstairs and fall asleep the minute I'm in bed. Indeed, I don't think +I'm much more awake in the day than in the night. I'm so tired that I +want to sleep and sleep; for years and years; for ever and ever.</p> + +<p>There was no unpacking to do. Everything was here as I left it five +years ago. We only took, five years ago, what each could carry, waving +goodbye to the house at the bend of the path and calling to it as the +German soldiers called to their disappearing homes, 'Back for +Christmas!' So that I came again to it with only what I could carry, and +had nothing to unpack. All I had to do was to drop my little bag on the +first chair I found and myself on to the grass, and in that position we +both stayed till bedtime.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Antoine is surprised at nothing. He usedn't to be surprised at my +gaiety, which yet might well have seemed to him, accustomed to the +sobriety of the peasant women here, excessive; and nor is he now +surprised at my silence. He has made a few inquiries as to the health +and whereabouts of the other members of that confident group that waved +goodbyes five years ago, and showed no surprise when the answer, at +nearly every name, was 'Dead.' He has married since I went away, and +hasn't a single one of the five children he might have had, and he +doesn't seem surprised at that either. I am. I imagined the house, while +I was away, getting steadily fuller, and used to think that when I came +back I would find little Swiss babies scattered all over it; for, after +all, there quite well might have been ten, supposing Antoine had +happened to possess a natural facility in twins.</p> + + +<p><i>July 26th.</i></p> + +<p>The silence here is astonishing. There are hardly any birds. There is +hardly any wind, so that the leaves are very still and the grass +scarcely stirs. The crickets are busy, and the sound of the bells on +distant cows pasturing higher up on the mountains floats down to me; but +else there is nothing but a great, sun-flooded silence.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">When I left London it was raining. The Peace Day flags, still hanging +along the streets, drooped heavy with wet in what might have been +November air, it was so dank and gloomy. I was prepared to arrive here +in one of the mountain mists that settle down on one sometimes for +days,—vast wet stretches of grey stuff like some cold, sodden blanket, +muffling one away from the mountains opposite, and the valley, and the +sun. Instead I found summer: beautiful clear summer, fresh and warm +together as only summer up on these honey-scented slopes can be, with +the peasants beginning to cut the grass,—for things happen a month +later here than down in the valley, and if you climb higher you can +catch up June, and by climbing higher and higher you can climb, if you +want to, right back into the spring. But you don't want to if you're me. +You don't want to do anything but stay quiet where you are.</p> + + +<p><i>July 27th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">If only I don't think—if only I don't think and remember—how can I not +get well again here in the beauty and the gentleness? There's all next +month, and September, and perhaps October too may be warm and golden. +After that I must go back, because the weather in this high place while +it is changing from the calms of autumn to the calms of the exquisite +alpine winter is a disagreeable, daunting thing. But I have two whole +months; perhaps three. Surely I'll be stronger, tougher, by then? Surely +I'll at least be better? I couldn't face the winter in London if this +desperate darkness and distrust of life is still in my soul. I don't +want to talk about my soul. I hate to. But what else am I to call the +innermost <i>Me,</i> the thing that has had such wounds, that is so much hurt +and has grown so dim that I'm in terror lest it should give up and go +under, go quite out, and leave me alone in the dark?</p> + + +<p><i>July 28th.</i></p> + +<p>It is dreadful to be so much like Job.</p> + +<p>Like him I've been extraordinarily stripped of all that made life +lovely. Like him I've lost, in a time that is very short to have been +packed so full of disasters, nearly everything I loved. And it wasn't +only the war. The war passed over me, as it did over everybody, like +some awful cyclone, flattening out hope and fruitfulness, leaving blood +and ruins behind it; but it wasn't only that. In the losses of the war, +in the anguish of losing one's friends, there was the grisly comfort of +companionship in grief; but beyond and besides that life has been +devastated for me. I do feel like Job, and I can't bear it. It is so +humiliating, being so much stricken. I feel ridiculous as well as +wretched; as if somebody had taken my face and rubbed it in dust.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">And still, like Job, I cling on to what I can of trust in goodness, for +if I let that go I know there would be nothing left but death.</p> + + +<p><i>July 29th.</i></p> + +<p>Oh, what is all this talk of death? To-day I suddenly noticed that each +day since I've been here what I've written down has been a whine, and +that each day while I whined I was in fact being wrapped round by +beautiful things, as safe and as perfectly cared for <i>really</i> as a baby +fortunate enough to have been born into the right sort of family. +Oughtn't I to be ashamed? Of course I ought; and so I am. For, looking +at the hours, each hour as I get to it, they are all good. Why should I +spoil them, the ones I'm at now, by the vivid remembrance, the aching +misery, of those black ones behind me? They, anyhow, are done with; and +the ones I have got to now are plainly good. And as for Job who so much +haunted me yesterday, I can't really be completely like him, for at +least I've not yet had to take a potsherd and sit down somewhere and +scrape. But perhaps I had better touch wood over that, for one has to +keep these days a wary eye on God.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine, small and twenty-five, who has been provided by Antoine, +that expert in dodging inconveniences, with a churn suited to her size +out of which she produces little pats of butter suited to my size every +day, Switzerland not having any butter in it at all for sale,—Mrs. +Antoine looked at me to-day when she brought out food at dinner time, +and catching my eye she smiled at me; and so I smiled at her, and +instantly she began to talk.</p> + +<p>Up to now she has crept about softly on the tips of her toes as if she +were afraid of waking me, and I had supposed it to be her usual fashion +of moving and that it was natural to her to be silent; but to-day, after +we had smiled at each other, she stood over me with a dish in one hand +and a plate in the other, and held forth at length with the utmost +blitheness, like some carolling blacks bird, about her sufferings, and +the sufferings of Antoine, and the sufferings of everybody during the +war. The worse the sufferings she described had been the blither became +her carollings; and with a final chirrup of the most flute-like +cheerfulness she finished this way:</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em"><i>'Ah, ma foi, oui—il y avait un temps où il a fallu se fier entièrement +au bon Dieu. C'était affreux.</i>'</p> + + +<p><i>July 30th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">It's true that the worst pain is the remembering one's happiness when +one is no longer happy and perhaps it may be just as true that past +miseries end by giving one some sort of satisfaction. Just their being +over must dispose one to regard them complacently. Certainly I already I +remember with a smile and a not unaffectionate shrug troubles that +seemed very dreadful a few years back. But this—this misery that has +got me now, isn't it too deep, doesn't it cut too ruthlessly at the very +roots of my life ever to be something that I will smile at? It seems +impossible that I ever should. I think the remembrance of this year will +always come like a knife cutting through any little happiness I may +manage to collect. You see, what has happened has taken away my faith in +<i>goodness</i>,—I don't know who <i>you</i> are that I keep on wanting to tell +things to, but I must talk and tell you. Yes; that is what it has done; +and the hurt goes too far down to be healed. Yet I know time is a queer, +wholesome thing. I've lived long enough to have found that out. It is +very sanitary. It cleans up everything. It never fails to sterilise and +purify. Quite possibly I shall end by being a wise old lady who +discourses with, the utmost sprightliness, after her regular meals, on +her past agonies, and extracts much agreeable entertainment from them, +even is amusing about them. You see, they will be so far away, so safely +done with; never, anyhow, going to happen again. Why of course in time, +in years and years, one's troubles must end by being entertaining. But I +don't believe, however old I am and however wisely hilarious, I shall +ever be able to avoid the stab in the back, the clutch of pain at the +heart, that the remembrance of beautiful past happiness gives one. Lost. +Lost. Gone. And one is still alive, and still gets up carefully every +day, and buttons all one's buttons, and goes down to breakfast.</p> + + +<p><i>July 31st.</i></p> + +<p>Once I knew a bishop rather intimately—oh, nothing that wasn't most +creditable to us both—and he said to me, 'Dear child, you will always +be happy if you are good.'</p> + +<p>I'm afraid he couldn't have been quite candid, or else he was very +inexperienced, for I have never been so terribly good in the bishop's +sense as these last three years, turning my back on every private wish, +dreadfully unselfish, devoted, a perfect monster of goodness. And +unhappiness went with me every step of the way.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I much prefer what some one else said to me, (not a bishop but yet +wise,) to whom I commented once on the really extraordinary bubbling +happiness that used to wake up with me every morning, the amazing joy of +each day as it came, the warm flooding gratitude that I <i>should</i> be so +happy,—this was before the war. He said, beginning also like the bishop +but, unlike him, failing in delicacy at the end, 'Dear child, it is +because you have a sound stomach.'</p> + + +<p><i>August 1st.</i></p> + +<p>The last first of August I was here was the 1914 one. It was just such a +day as this,—blue, hot, glorious of colour and light. We in this house, +cut off in our remoteness from the noise and excitement of a world +setting out with cries of enthusiasm on its path of suicide, cut off by +distance and steepness even from the valley where the dusty Swiss +soldiers were collecting and every sort of rumour ran like flames, went +as usual through our pleasant day, reading, talking, clambering in the +pine-woods, eating romantic meals out in the little garden that hangs +like a fringe of flowers along the edge of the rock, unconscious, +serene, confident in life. Just as to-day the delphiniums stood +brilliantly blue, straight, and motionless on this edge, and it might +have been the very same purple pansies crowding at their feet. Nobody +came to tell us anything. We were lapped in peace. Of course even up +here there had been the slight ruffle of the Archduke's murder in June, +and the slight wonder towards the end of July as to what would come of +it; but the ruffle and the wonder died away in what seemed the solid, +ever-enduring comfortableness of life. Such comfortableness went too +deep, was too much settled, too heavy, to make it thinkable that it +should ever really be disturbed. There would be quarrels, but they would +be localised. Why, the mere feeding of the vast modern armies would +etc., etc. We were very innocent and trustful in those days. Looking +back at it, it is so pathetic as to be almost worthy of tears.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Well, I don't want to remember all that. One turns with a sick weariness +from the recollection. At least one is thankful that we're at Now and +not at Then. This first of August has the great advantage of having all +that was coming after that first of August behind it instead of ahead of +it. At least on this first of August most of the killing, of the +slaughtering of young bodies and bright hopes, has left off. The world +is very horrible still, but nothing can ever be so horrible as killing.</p> + + +<p><i>August 2nd.</i></p> + +<p>The only thing to do with one's old sorrows is to tuck them up neatly in +their shroud and turn one's face away from their grave towards what is +coming next.</p> + +<p>That is what I am going to do. To-day I have the kind of feelings that +take hold of convalescents. I hardly dare hope it, but I have done +things to-day that do seem convalescent; done them and liked doing them; +things that I haven't till to-day had the faintest desire to do.</p> + +<p>I've been for a walk. And a quite good walk, up in the forest where the +water tumbles over rocks and the air is full of resin. And then when I +got home I burrowed about among my books, arranging their volumes and +loving the feel of them. It is more than ten days since I got here, and +till to-day I haven't moved; till to-day I've lain about with no wish to +move, with no wish at all except to have no wish. Once or twice I have +been ashamed of myself; and once or twice into the sleepy twilight of +my mind has come a little nicker of suspicion that perhaps life still, +after all, may be beautiful, that it may perhaps, after all, be just as +beautiful as ever if only I will open my eyes and look. But the flicker +has soon gone out again, damped out by the vault-like atmosphere of the +place it had got into.</p> + +<p>To-day I do feel different; and oh how glad I'd be if I <i>could</i> be glad! +I don't believe there was ever anybody who loved being happy as much as +I did. What I mean is that I was so acutely conscious of being happy, so +appreciative of it; that I wasn't ever bored, and was always and +continuously grateful for the whole delicious loveliness of the world.</p> + +<p>I think it must be unusual never to have been bored. I realise this when +I hear other people talk. Certainly I'm never bored as people sometimes +appear to be by being alone, by the absence of amusement from without; +and as for bores, persons who obviously were bores, they didn't bore me, +they interested me. It was so wonderful to me, their unawareness that +they were bores. Besides, they were usually very kind; and also, +shameful though it is to confess, bores like me, and I am touched by +being liked, even by a bore. Sometimes it is true I have had to take +temporary refuge in doing what Dr. Johnson found so convenient, +—withdrawing my attention, but this is dangerous because of the +inevitable accompanying glazed and wandering eye. Still, much can be +done by practice in combining coherency of response with private +separate meditation.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Just before I left London I met a man whose fate it has been for years +to sit daily in the Law Courts delivering judgments, and he told me that +he took a volume of poetry with him—preferably Wordsworth—and read in +it as it lay open on his knees under the table, to the great refreshment +and invigoration of his soul; and yet, so skilled had he become in the +practice of two attentivenesses, he never missed a word that was said or +a point that was made. There are indeed nice people in the world. I did +like that man. It seemed such a wise and pleasant thing to do, to lay +the dust of those sad places, where people who once liked each other go +because they are angry, with the gentle waters of poetry. I am sure that +man is the sort of husband whose wife's heart gives a jump of gladness +each time he comes home.</p> + + +<p><i>August 3rd.</i></p> + +<p>These burning August days, when I live in so great a glory of light and +colour that it is like living in the glowing heart of a jewel, how +impossible it is to keep from gratitude. I'm so grateful to be here, to +<i>have</i> here to come to. Really I think I'm beginning to feel +different—remote from the old unhappy things that were strangling me +dead; restored; almost as though I might really some day be in tune +again. There's a moon now, and in the evenings I get into a coat and lie +in the low chair in the doorway watching it, and sometimes I forget for +as long as a whole half hour that the happiness I believed in is gone +for ever. I love sitting there and feeling little gusts of scent cross +my face every now and then, as if some one had patted it softly in +passing by. Sometimes it is the scent of the cut grass that has been +baking all day in the sun, but most often it is the scent from a group +of Madonna lilies just outside the door, planted by Antoine in one of +the Septembers of the war.</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est ma maman qui me les a donnés</i>,' he said; and when I had done +expressing my joy at their beauty and their fragrance, and my +appreciation of his <i>maman's</i> conduct in having made my garden so lovely +a present, he said that she had given them in order that, by brewing +their leaves and applying the resulting concoction at the right moment, +he and Mrs. Antoine might be cured of suppurating wounds.</p> + +<p>'But you haven't got any suppurating wounds,' I said, astonished and +disillusioned.</p> + +<p>'<i>Ah, pour ça non</i>,' said Antoine. '<i>Mais il ne faut pas attendre qu'on +les a pour se procurer le remède.</i>'</p> + +<p>Well, if he approaches every future contingency with the same prudence +he must be kept very busy; but the long winters of the war up here have +developed in him, I suppose, a Swiss Family Robinson-like ingenuity of +preparation for eventualities.</p> + +<p>What lovely long words I've just been writing. I can't be as +convalescent as I thought. I'm sure real vigour is brief. You don't say +Damn if your vitality is low; you trail among querulous, water-blooded +words like regrettable and unfortunate. But I think, perhaps, being in +my top layers very adaptable, it was really the elderly books I've been +reading the last day or two that made me arrange my language along their +lines. Not old books,—elderly. Written in the great Victorian age, when +the emotions draped themselves chastely in lengths, and avoided the rude +simplicities of shorts.</p> + +<p>There is the oddest lot of books in this house, pitchforked together by +circumstances, and sometimes their accidental rearrangement by Antoine +after cleaning their shelves each spring of my absence would make their +writers, if they could know, curdle between their own covers. Some are +standing on their heads—Antoine has no prejudices about the right side +up of an author—most of those in sets have their volumes wrong, and +yesterday I found a Henry James, lost from the rest of him, lost even, +it looked like, to propriety, held tight between two ladies. The ladies +were Ouida and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. They would hardly let him go, they +had got him so tight. I pulled him out, a little damaged, and restored +him, ruffled in spite of my careful smoothing, to his proper place. It +was the <i>Son and Brother</i>; and there he had been for months, perhaps +years, being hugged. Dreadful.</p> + +<p>When I come down to breakfast and find I am a little ahead of the <i>café +au lait</i>, I wander into the place that has most books in it—though +indeed books are in every place, and have even oozed along the +passages—and fill up the time, till Mrs. Antoine calls me, in rescue +work of an urgent nature. But it is impossible, I find, to tidy books +without ending by sitting on the floor in the middle of a great +untidiness and reading. The coffee grows cold and the egg repulsive, but +still I read. You open a book idly, and you see:</p> + +<p><i>The most glaring anomalies seemed to afford them no intellectual +inconvenience, neither would they listen to any arguments as to the +waste of money and happiness which their folly caused them. I was +allowed almost to call them life-long self-deceivers to their faces, and +they said it was quite true, but that it did not matter.</i></p> + +<p>Naturally then you read on.</p> + +<p>You open another book idly, and you see:</p> + +<p><i>Our admiration of King Alfred is greatly increased by the fact that we +know very little about him.</i></p> + +<p>Naturally then you read on.</p> + +<p>You open another book idly, and you see:</p> + +<p><i>Organic life, we are told, has developed gradually from the protozoon +to the philosopher, and this development, we are assured, is indubitably +an advance. Unfortunately it is the philosopher, not the protozoon, who +gives us this assurance.</i></p> + +<p>Naturally then you read on.</p> + +<p>You open—but I could go on all day like this, as I do go on being +caught among the books, and only the distant anxious chirps of Mrs. +Antoine, who comes round to the front door to clear away breakfast and +finds it hasn't been begun, can extricate me.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I had better not get arranging books before breakfast. It is too +likely to worry that bird-like Mrs. Antoine, who is afraid, I daresay, +that if I don't drink my coffee while it is hot I may relapse into that +comatose condition that filled her evidently with much uneasiness and +awe. She hadn't expected, I suppose, the mistress of the house, when she +did at last get back to it, to behave like some strange alien slug, +crawled up the mountain only to lie motionless in the sun for the best +part of a fortnight. I heard her, after the first two days of this +conduct, explaining it to Antoine, who however needed no explanation +because of his god-like habit of never being surprised, and her +explanation was that <i>c'était la guerre</i>,—convenient explanation that +has been used to excuse many more unnatural and horrible things during +the last five years than somebody's behaving as if she were a slug.</p> + +<p>But, really, the accidental juxtapositions on my bookshelves! Just now I +found George Moore (his <i>Memories of my Dead Life,</i> with its delicate +unmoralities, its delicious paganism) with on one side of him a book +called <i>Bruey: a Little Worker for Christ</i>, by Frances Ridley Havergal, +and on the other an American book called <i>The Unselfishness of God, and +How I Discovered It.</i></p> + +<p>The surprise of finding these three with their arms, as it were, round +each other's necks, got me nearer to laughter than I have been for +months. If anybody had been with me I <i>would</i> have laughed. Is it +possible that I am so far on to-day in convalescence that I begin to +want a companion? Somebody to laugh with? Why, if that is so....</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But I'd best not be too hopeful.</p> + + +<p><i>August 4th.</i></p> + +<p>This day five years ago! What a thrill went through us up here, how +proud we felt of England, of belonging to England; proud with that +extraordinary intensified patriotism that lays hold of those who are not +in their own country.</p> + +<p>It is very like the renewal of affection, the re-flaming up of love, for +the absent. The really wise are often absent; though, indeed, their +absences should be arranged judiciously. Too much absence is very nearly +as bad as too little,—no, not really very nearly; I should rather say +too much has its drawbacks too, though only at first. Persisted in +these drawbacks turn into merits; for doesn't absence, prolonged enough, +lead in the end to freedom? I suppose, however, for most people complete +freedom is too lonely a thing, therefore the absence should only be just +long enough to make room for one to see clear again. Just a little +withdrawal every now and then, just a little, so as to get a good view +once more of those dear qualities we first loved, so as to be able to +see that they're still there, still shining.</p> + +<p>How can you see anything if your nose is right up against it? I know +when we were in England, enveloped in her life at close quarters, +bewildered by the daily din of the newspapers, stunned by the cries of +the politicians, distracted by the denouncements, accusations, revilings +with which the air was convulsed, and acutely aware of the background of +sad drizzling rain on the pavements, and of places like Cromwell Road +and Shaftesbury Avenue and Ashley Gardens being there all the time, +never different, great ugly houses with the rain dripping on them, +gloomy temporary lodgings for successive processions of the noisy +dead,—I know when we were in the middle of all this, right up tight +against it, we couldn't see, and so we forgot the side of England that +was great.</p> + +<p>But when she went to war we were not there; we had been out of her for +months, and she had got focussed again patriotically. Again she was the +precious stone set in a silver sea, the other Eden, demi-Paradise, the +England my England, the splendid thing that had made splendid poets, the +hope and heart of the world. Long before she had buckled on her +sword—how easily one drops into the old language!—long before there +was any talk of war, just by sheer being away from her we had +re-acquired that peculiar aggressive strut of the spirit that is +patriotism. We liked the Swiss, we esteemed them; and when we crossed +into Italy we liked the Italians too, though esteeming them less,—I +think because they seemed less thrifty and enjoyed themselves more, and +we were still sealed up in the old opinion that undiscriminating joyless +thrift was virtuous. But though we liked and esteemed these people it +was from a height. At the back of our minds we always felt superior, at +the back of our minds we were strutting. Every day of further absence +from England, our England, increased that delicious sub-conscious +smugness. Then when on the 4th of August she 'came in,' came in +gloriously because of her word to Belgium, really this little house +contained so much enthusiasm and pride that it almost could be heard +cracking.</p> + +<p>What shall we do when we all get to heaven and aren't allowed to have +any patriotism? There, surely, we shall at last be forced into one vast +family. But I imagine that every time God isn't looking the original +patriotism of each will break out, right along throughout eternity; and +some miserable English tramp, who has only been let into heaven because +he positively wasn't man enough for hell, will seize his opportunity to +hiss at a neat Swiss business man from Berne, whose life on earth was +blamelessly spent in the production of cuckoo-clocks, and whose +mechanical-ingenuity was such that he even, so ran the heavenly rumours +among the mild, astonished angels, had propagated his family by +machinery, that he, the tramp, is a b—Briton, and if he, the +b—b—b—Swiss (I believe tramps always talk in b's; anyhow newspapers +and books say they do), doubts it, he'd b—well better come outside and +he, the tramp, will b—well soon show him.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">To which the neat Berne gentleman, on other subjects so completely +pervaded by the local heavenly calm, will answer with a sudden furious +mechanical buzzing, much worse and much more cowing to the tramp than +any swear-words, and passionately uphold the might and majesty of +Switzerland in a prolonged terrific <i>whrrrrr.</i></p> + + +<p><i>August 5th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I want to talk. I must be better.</p> + + +<p><i>August 6th.</i></p> + +<p>Of course, the most battered, the most obstinately unhappy person +couldn't hold out for ever against the all-pervading benediction of this +place. I know there is just the same old wretchedness going on as usual +outside it,—cruelty, people wantonly making each other miserable, love +being thrown away or frightened into fits, the dreadful betrayal of +trust that is the blackest wretchedness of all,—I can almost imagine +that if I were to hang over my terrace-wall I would see these well-known +dreary horrors crawling about in the valley below, crawling and tumbling +about together in a ghastly tangle. But at least there isn't down there +now my own particular contribution to the general wretchedness. I +brought that up here; dragged it up with me, not because I wanted to, +but because it would come. Surely, though, I shall leave it here? Surely +there'll be a day when I'll be able to pack it away into a neat bundle +and take it up to the top of some, arid, never-again-to-be-visited rock, +and leave it there and say, 'Goodbye. I'm separate. I've cut the +umbilical cord. Goodbye old misery. Now for what comes next.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I can't believe this won't happen. I can't believe I won't go back down +the mountain different from what I was when I came. Lighter, anyhow, and +more wholesome inside. Oh, I do so <i>want</i> to be wholesome inside again! +Nicely aired, sunshiny; instead of all dark, and stuffed up with black +memories.</p> + + +<p><i>August 7th.</i></p> + +<p>But I am getting on. Every morning now when I wake and see the patch of +bright sunshine on the wall at the foot of my bed that means another +perfect day, my heart goes out in an eager prayer that I may not +disgrace so great a blessing by private gloom. And I do think each of +these last days has been a little less disgraced than its yesterday. +Hardly a smudge, for instance, has touched any part of this afternoon. I +have felt as though indeed I were at last sitting up and taking notice. +And the first thing I want to do, the first use I want to make of having +turned the corner, is to talk.</p> + +<p>How feminine. But I love to talk. Again how feminine. Well, I also love +to listen. But chiefly I love to listen to a man; therefore once more, +how feminine. Well, I'm a woman, so naturally I'm feminine; and a man +does seem to have more to say that one wants to hear than a woman. I do +want to hear what a woman has to say too, but not for so long a time, +and not so often. Not nearly so often. What reason to give for this +reluctance I don't quite know, except that a woman when she talks seems +usually to have forgotten the salt. Also she is apt to go on talking; +sometimes for quite a little while after you have begun to wish she +would leave off.</p> + +<p>One of the last people who stayed here with me alone in 1914, just +before the arrival of the gay holiday group of the final days, was a +woman of many gifts—<i>le trop est l'ennemi du bien</i>—who started, +therefore, being full of these gifts and having eloquently to let them +out, talking at the station in the valley where I met her, and didn't, +to my growing amazement and chagrin, for I too wanted to say some +things, leave off (except when night wrapped her up in blessed silence) +till ten days afterwards, when by the mercy of providence she swallowed +a crumb wrong, and so had to stop.</p> + +<p>How eagerly, released for a moment, I rushed in with as much as I could +get out during the brief time I knew she would take to recover! But my +voice, hoarse with disuse, had hardly said three sentences—miserable +little short ones—when she did recover, and fixing impatient and +reproachful eyes on me said:</p> + +<p>'Do you <i>always</i> talk so much?'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Surely that was unjust?</p> + + +<p><i>August 8th.</i></p> + +<p>Now see what Henry James wrote to me—to <i>me</i> if you please! I can't get +over it, such a feather in my cap. Why, I had almost forgotten I had a +cap to have a feather in, so profound has been my humbling since last I +was here.</p> + +<p>In the odd, fairy-tale like way I keep on finding bits of the past, of +years ago, as though they were still of the present, even of the last +half hour, I found the letter this morning in a room I wandered into +after breakfast. It is the only room downstairs besides the hall, and I +used to take refuge in it from the other gay inhabitants of the house so +as to open and answer letters somewhere not too distractingly full of +cheerful talk; and there on the table, spotlessly kept clean by Antoine +but else not touched, were all the papers and odds and ends of five +years back exactly as I must have left them. Even some chocolate I had +apparently been eating, and some pennies, and a handful of cigarettes, +and actually a box of matches,—it was all there, all beautifully +dusted, all as it must have been when last I sat there at the table. If +it hadn't been for the silence, the complete, sunny emptiness and +silence of the house, I would certainly have thought I had only been +asleep and having a bad dream, and that not five years but one uneasy +night had gone since I nibbled that chocolate and wrote with those pens.</p> + +<p>Fascinated and curious I sat down and began eating the chocolate again. +It was quite good; made of good, lasting stuff in that good, apparently +lasting age we used to live in. And while I ate it I turned over the +piles of papers, and there at the bottom of them was a letter from Henry +James.</p> + +<p>I expect I kept it near me on the table because I so much loved it and +wanted to re-read it, and wanted, I daresay, at intervals proudly to +show it to my friends and make them envious, for it was written at +Christmas, 1913; months before I left for England.</p> + +<p>Reading it now my feeling is just astonishment that I, <i>I</i> should ever +have had such a letter. But then I am greatly humbled; I have been on +the rocks; and can't believe that such a collection of broken bits as I +am now could ever have been a trim bark with all its little sails puffed +out by the kindliness and affection of anybody as wonderful as Henry +James.</p> + +<p>Here it is; and it isn't any more vain of me now in my lamed and bruised +condition to copy it out and hang on its charming compliments than it is +vain for a woman who once was lovely and is now grown old to talk about +how pretty she used to be:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 14.5em;">21 Carlyle Mansions,</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15.5em;">Cheyne Walk, S.W.,</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 18.5em;">December 29th, 1913.</span><br /> +<br /> +</p> + + +<p>Dear—</p> + +<p>Let me tell you that I simply delight in your beautiful and generous and +gracious little letter, and that there isn't a single honeyed word of it +that doesn't give me the most exquisite pleasure. You fill the +measure—and how can I tell you how I <i>like</i> the measure to be filled? +None of your quarter-bushels or half-bushels for <i>my</i> insatiable +appetite, but the overflowing heap, pressed down and shaken together +and spilling all over the place. So I pick up the golden grains and +nibble them one by one! Truly, dear lady, it is the charmingest rosy +flower of a letter—handed me straight out of your monstrous snowbank. +That you can grow such flowers in such conditions—besides growing with +such diligence and elegance all sorts of other lovely kinds, has for its +explanation of course only that you have such a regular teeming garden +of a mind. You must mainly inhabit it of course—with your other courts +of exercise so grand, if you will, but so grim. Well, you have caused me +to revel in pride and joy—for I assure you that I have let myself go; +all the more that the revelry of the season here itself has been so far +from engulfing me that till your witching words came I really felt +perched on a mountain of lonely bleakness socially and sensuously +speaking alike—very much like one of those that group themselves, as I +suppose, under your windows. But I have had my Xmastide <i>now</i>, and am +your all grateful and faithful and all unforgetting old Henry James.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Who wouldn't be proud of getting a letter like that? It was wonderful to +come across it again, wonderful how my chin went up in the air and how +straight I sat up for a bit after reading it. And I laughed, too; for +with what an unbuttoned exuberance must I have engulfed him! 'Spilling +all over the place.' I can quite believe it. I had, I suppose, been +reading or re-reading something of his, and had been swept off sobriety +of expression by delight, and in that condition of emotional +unsteadiness and molten appreciation must have rushed impetuously to the +nearest pen.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">How warmly, with what grateful love, one thinks of Henry James. How +difficult to imagine anyone riper in wisdom, in kindliness, in wit; +greater of affection; more generous of friendship. And his talk, his +wonderful talk,—even more wonderful than his books. If only he had had +a Boswell! I did ask him one day, in a courageous after-dinner mood, if +he wouldn't take me on as his Boswell; a Boswell so deeply devoted that +perhaps qualifications for the post would grow through sheer admiration. +I told him—my courageous levity was not greater on that occasion than +his patience—that I would disguise myself as a man; or better still, +not being quite big enough to make a plausible man and unlikely to grow +any more except, it might be hoped, in grace, I would be an elderly +boy; that I would rise up early and sit up late and learn shorthand and +do anything in the world, if only I might trot about after him taking +notes—the strange pair we should have made! And the judgment he passed +on that reckless suggestion, after considering its impudence with much +working about of his extraordinary mobile mouth, delivering his verdict +with a weight of pretended self-depreciation intended to crush me +speechless,—which it did for nearly a whole second—was: 'Dear lady, it +would be like the slow squeezing out of a big empty sponge.'</p> + + +<p><i>August 9th.</i></p> + +<p>This little wooden house, clinging on to the side of the mountain by its +eyelashes, or rather by its eyebrows, for it has enormous eaves to +protect it from being smothered in winter in snow that look exactly like +overhanging eyebrows,—is so much cramped up for room to stand on that +the garden along the edge of the rock isn't much bigger than a +handkerchief.</p> + +<p>It is a strip of grass, tended with devotion by Antoine, whose pride it +is that it should be green when all the other grass on the slopes round +us up the mountain and down the mountain are parched pale gold; which +leads him to spend most of his evening hours watering it. There is a low +wall along the edge to keep one from tumbling over, for if one did +tumble over it wouldn't be nice for the people walking about in the +valley five thousand feet below, and along this wall is the narrow +ribbon of the only flowers that will put up with us.</p> + +<p>They aren't many. There are the delphiniums, and some pansies and some +pinks, and a great many purple irises. The irises were just over when I +first got here, but judging from the crowds of flower-stalks they must +have been very beautiful. There is only one flower left; exquisite and +velvety and sun-warmed to kiss—which I do diligently, for one must kiss +something—and with that adorable honey-smell that is the very smell of +summer.</p> + +<p>That's all in the garden. It isn't much, written down, but you should +just see it. Oh yes—I forgot. Round the corner, scrambling up the wall +that protects the house in the early spring from avalanches, are crimson +ramblers, brilliant against the intense blue of the sky. Crimson +ramblers are, I know, ordinary things, but you should just see them. It +is the colour of the sky that makes them so astonishing here. Yes—and I +forgot the lilies that Antoine's <i>maman</i> gave him. They are near the +front door, and next to them is a patch of lavender in full flower now, +and all day long on each of its spikes is poised miraculously something +that looks like a tiny radiant angel, but that flutters up into the sun +when I go near and is a white butterfly. Antoine must have put in the +lavender. It used not to be there. But I don't ask him because of what +he might tell me it is really for, and I couldn't bear to have that +patch of sheer loveliness, with the little shining things hovering over +it, explained as a <i>remède</i> for something horrid.</p> + +<p>If I could paint I would sit all day and paint; as I can't I try to get +down on paper what I see. It gives me pleasure. It is somehow +companionable. I wouldn't, I think, do this if I were not alone. I would +probably exhaust myself and my friend pointing out the beauty.</p> + +<p>The garden, it will be seen, as gardens go, is pathetic in its smallness +and want of variety. Possessors of English gardens, with those immense +wonderful herbaceous borders and skilfully arranged processions of +flowers, might conceivably sniff at it. Let them. I love it. And, if it +were smaller still, if it were shrunk to a single plant with a single +flower on it, it would perhaps only enchant me the more, for then I +would concentrate on that one beauty and not be distracted by the +feeling that does distract me here, that while I am looking one way I am +missing what is going on in other directions. Those beasts in +Revelations—the ones full of eyes before and behind—I wish I had been +constructed on liberal principles like that.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But one really hardly wants a garden here where God does so much. It is +like Italy in that way, and an old wooden box of pansies or a pot of +lilies stuck anywhere, in a window, on the end of a wall, is enough; +composing instantly with what is so beautifully there already, the +light, the colour, the shapes of the mountains. Really, where God does +it all for you just a yard or two arranged in your way is enough; enough +to assert your independence, and to show a proper determination to make +something of your own.</p> + + +<p><i>August 10th.</i></p> + +<p>I don't know when it is most beautiful up here,—in the morning, when +the heat lies along the valley in delicate mists, and the folded +mountains, one behind the other, grow dimmer and dimmer beyond sight, +swooning away through tender gradations of violets and greys, or at +night when I look over the edge of the terrace and see the lights in the +valley shimmering as though they were reflected in water.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I seem to be seeing it now for the first time, with new eyes. I know I +used to see it when I was here before, used to feel it and rejoice in +it, but it was entangled in other things then, it was only part of the +many happinesses with which those days were full, claiming my attention +and my thoughts. They claimed them wonderfully and hopefully it is true, +but they took me much away from what I can only call for want of a +better word—(a better word: what a thing to say!)—God. Now those hopes +and wonders, those other joys and lookings-forward and happy trusts are +gone; and the wounds they left, the dreadful sore places, are slowly +going too. And how I see beauty now is with the new sensitiveness, the +new astonishment at it, of a person who for a long time has been having +awful dreams, and one morning wakes up and the delirium is gone, and he +lies in a state of the most exquisite glad thankfulness, the most +extraordinary minute appreciation of the dear, wonderful common things +of life,—just the sun shining on his counterpane, the scents from the +garden coming in through his window, the very smell of the coffee being +got ready for breakfast. Oh, delight, delight to think one didn't die +this time, that one isn't going to die this time after all, but is going +to get better, going to live, going presently to be quite well again and +able to go back to one's friends, to the people who still love one....</p> + + +<p><i>August 11th.</i></p> + +<p>To-day is a saint's day. This is a Catholic part of Switzerland, and +they have a great many holidays because they have a great many saints. +There is hardly a week without some saint in it who has to be +commemorated, and often there are two in the same week, and sometimes +three. I know when we have reached another saint, for then the church +bells of the nearest village begin to jangle, and go on doing it every +two hours. When this happens the peasants leave off work, and the busy, +saint-unencumbered Protestants get ahead.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine was a Catholic before she married, but the sagacious +Antoine, who wasn't one, foreseeing days in most of his weeks when she +might, if he hadn't been quite kind, to her, or rather if she fancied +he hadn't been quite kind to her—and the fancies of wives, he had +heard, were frequent and vivid—the sagacious Antoine, foreseeing these +numerous holy days ahead of him on any of which Mrs. Antoine might +explain as piety what was really pique and decline to cook his dinner, +caused her to turn Protestant before the wedding. Which she did; +conscious, as she told me, that she was getting a <i>bon mari qui valait +bien ça</i>; and thus at one stroke Antoine secured his daily dinners +throughout the year and rid himself of all his wife's relations. For +they, consisting I gather principally of aunts, her father and mother +being dead, were naturally displeased and won't know the Antoines; which +is, I am told by those who have managed it, the most refreshing thing in +the world: to get your relations not to know you. So that not only does +he live now in the blessed freedom and dignity that appears to be +reserved for those whose relations are angry, but he has no priests +about him either. Really Antoine is very intelligent.</p> + +<p>And he has done other intelligent things while I have been away. For +instance:</p> + +<p>When first I came here, two or three years before the war, I desired to +keep the place free from the smells of farmyards. 'There shall be no +cows,' I said.</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est bien</i>,' said Antoine.</p> + +<p>'Nor any chickens.'</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est bien</i>' said Antoine.</p> + +<p>'Neither shall there be any pigs.'</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est bien</i>,' said Antoine.</p> + +<p>'<i>Surtout</i>', I repeated, fancying I saw in his eye a kind of private +piggy regret, '<i>pas de porcs</i>.'</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est bien</i>,' said Antoine, the look fading.</p> + +<p>For most of my life up to then had been greatly infested by pigs; and +though they were superior pigs, beautifully kept, housed and fed far +better, shameful to relate, than the peasants of that place, on the days +when the wind blew from where they were to where we were, clean them and +air them as one might there did come blowing over us a great volume of +unmistakeable pig. Eclipsing the lilies. Smothering the roses. Also, on +still days we could hear their voices, and the calm of many a summer +evening was rent asunder by their squeals. There were an enormous number +of little pigs, for in that part of the country it was unfortunately not +the custom to eat sucking-pigs, which is such a convenient as well as +agreeable way of keeping them quiet, and they squealed atrociously; out +of sheer high spirits, I suppose, being pampered pigs and having no +earthly reason to squeal except for joy.</p> + +<p>Remembering all this, I determined that up here at any rate we should be +pure from pigs. And from cows too; and from chickens. For did I not also +remember things both cows and chickens had done to me? The hopes of a +whole year in the garden had often been destroyed by one absent-minded, +wandering cow; and though we did miracles with wire-netting and the +concealing of wire-netting by creepers, sooner or later a crowd of +lustful hens, led by some great bully of a cock, got in and tore up the +crocuses just at that early time of the year when, after an endless +winter, crocuses seem the most precious and important things in the +world.</p> + +<p>Therefore this place had been kept carefully empty of live-stock, and we +bought our eggs and our milk from the peasants, and didn't have any +sausages, and the iris bulbs were not scratched up, and the air had +nothing in it but smells of honey and hay in summer, and nothing in +winter but the ineffable pure cold smell of what, again for want of a +better word, I can only describe as God. But then the war came, and our +hurried return to England; and instead of being back as we had thought +for Christmas, we didn't come back at all. Year after year went, +Christmas after Christmas, and nobody came back. I suppose Antoine began +at last to feel as if nobody ever would come back. I can't guess at what +moment precisely in those years his thoughts began to put out feelers +towards pigs, but he did at last consider it proper to regard my pre-war +instructions as finally out of date, and gathered a suitable selection +of live-stock about him. I expect he got to this stage fairly early, for +having acquired a nice, round little wife he was determined, being a +wise man, to keep her so. And having also an absentee <i>patrone</i>—that is +the word that locally means me—absent, and therefore not able to be +disturbed by live-stock, he would keep her placid by keeping her +unconscious.</p> + +<p>How simple, and how intelligent.</p> + +<p>In none of his monthly letters did the word pig, cow, or chicken appear. +He wrote agreeably of the weather: <i>c'était magnifique,</i> or <i>c'était +bien triste</i>, according to the season. He wrote of the French and +Belgian sick prisoners of war, interned in those places scattered about +the mountains which used to be the haunts of parties catered for by +Lunn. He wrote appreciatively of the usefulness and good conduct of the +watch-dog, a splendid creature, much bigger than I am, with the +lap-doggy name of Mou-Mou. He lengthily described unexciting objects +like the whiskers of the cat: <i>favoris superbes qui poussent toujours, +malgré ces jours maigres de guerre</i>; and though sometimes he expressed a +little disappointment at the behaviour of Mrs. Antoine's <i>estomac, qui +lui fait beaucoup d'ennuis et paraît mal résister aux grands froids</i>, he +always ended up soothingly: <i>Pour la maison tout va bien. Madame peut +être entièrement tranquille.</i></p> + +<p>Never a word, you see, about the live-stock.</p> + +<p>So there in England was Madame being <i>entièrement tranquille</i> about her +little house, and glad indeed that she could be; for whatever had +happened to it or to the Antoines she wouldn't have been able to do +anything. Tethered on the other side of the impassable barrier of war, +if the house had caught fire she could only, over there in England, have +wrung her hands; and if Mrs. Antoine's <i>estomac</i> had given out so +completely that she and Antoine had had to abandon their post and take +to the plains and doctors, she could only have sat still and cried. The +soothing letters were her comfort for five years,—<i>madame peût-être +entièrement tranquille</i>; how sweetly the words fell, month by month, on +ears otherwise harassed and tormented!</p> + +<p>It wasn't till I had been here nearly a fortnight that I began to be +aware of my breakfast. Surely it was very nice? Such a lot of milk; and +every day a little jug of cream. And surprising butter,—surprising not +only because it was so very fresh but because it was there at all. I had +been told in England that there was no butter to be got here, not an +ounce to be bought from one end of Switzerland to the other. Well, there +it was; fresh every day, and in a singular abundance.</p> + +<p>Through the somnolence of my mind, of all the outward objects +surrounding me I think it was the butter that got in first; and my +awakening intelligence, after a period of slow feeling about and some +relapses, did at last one morning hit on the conviction that at the +other end of that butter was a cow.</p> + +<p>This, so far, was to be expected as the result of reasoning. But where I +began to be pleased with myself, and feel as if Paley's Evidences had +married Sherlock Holmes and I was the bright pledge of their loves, was +when I proceeded from this, without moving from my chair, to discover +by sheer thinking that the cow was very near the butter, because else +the butter couldn't possibly be made fresh every day,—so near that it +must be at that moment grazing on the bit of pasture belonging to me; +and, if that were so, the conclusion was irresistible that it must be my +cow.</p> + +<p>After that my thoughts leaped about the breakfast table with comparative +nimbleness. I remembered that each morning there had been an egg, and +that eggy puddings had appeared at the other meals. Before the war it +was almost impossible to get eggs up here; clearly, then, I had chickens +of my own. And the honey; I felt it would no longer surprise me to +discover that I also had bees, for this honey was the real thing,—not +your made-up stuff of the London shops. And strawberries; every morning +a great cabbage leaf of strawberries had been on the table, real garden +strawberries, over long ago down in the valley and never dreamed of as +things worth growing by the peasants in the mountains. Obviously I +counted these too among my possessions in some corner out of sight. The +one object I couldn't proceed to by inductive reasoning from what was on +the table was a pig. Antoine's courage had failed him over that. Too +definitely must my repeated warning have echoed in his ears: <i>Surtout +pas de porcs.</i></p> + +<p>But how very intelligent he had been. It needs intelligence if one is +conscientious to disobey orders at the right moment. And me so unaware +all the time, and therefore so unworried!</p> + +<p>He passed along the terrace at that moment, a watering-pot in his hand.</p> + +<p>'Antoine,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Madame,' he said, stopping and taking off his cap.</p> + +<p>'This egg—' I said, pointing to the shell. I said it in French, but +prefer not to put my French on paper.</p> + +<p>'<i>Ah—madame a vu les poules</i>.'</p> + +<p>'This butter—'</p> + +<p>'<i>Ah—madame a visité la vache.</i>'</p> + +<p>'The pig—?' I hesitated. 'Is there—is there also a pig?'</p> + +<p>'<i>Si madame veut descendre à la cave—</i>'</p> + +<p>'You never keep a pig in the cellar?' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'<i>Comme jambon,</i>' said Antoine—calm, perfect of manner, without a trace +of emotion.</p> + +<p>And there sure enough I was presently proudly shown by Mrs. Antoine, +whose feelings are less invisible than her husband's, hanging from the +cellar ceiling on hooks that which had once been pig. Several pigs; +though she talked as if there had never been more than one. It may be +so, of course, but if it is so it must have had a great many legs.</p> + +<p><i>Un porc centipède</i>, I remarked thoughtfully, gazing upwards at the +forest of hams.</p> + +<p>Over the thin ice of this comment she slid, however, in a voluble +description of how, when the armistice was signed, she and Antoine had +instantly fallen upon and slain the pig—pig still in the +singular—expecting Madame's arrival after that felicitous event at any +minute, and comprehending that <i>un porc vivant pourrait déranger madame, +mais que mort il ne fait rien à personne que du plaisir.</i> And she too +gazed upwards, but with affection and pride.</p> + +<p>There remained then nothing to do but round off these various +transactions by a graceful and grateful paying for them. Which I did +to-day, Antoine presenting the bills, accompanied by complicated +calculations and deductions of the market price of the milk and butter +and eggs he and Mrs. Antoine would otherwise have consumed during the +past years.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I didn't look too closely into what the pig had cost,—his price, as my +eye skimmed over it was obviously the price of something plural. But my +eye only skimmed. It didn't dwell. Always Antoine and I have behaved to +each other like gentlemen.</p> + + +<p><i>August 12th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I wonder why I write all this. Is it because it is so like talking to a +friend at the end of the day, and telling him, who is interested and +loves to hear, everything one has done? I suppose it is that; and that I +want, besides, to pin down these queer days as they pass,—days so +utterly unlike any I ever had before. I want to hold them a minute in my +hand and look at them, before letting them drop away for ever. Then, +perhaps, in lots of years, when I have half forgotten what brought me up +here, and don't mind a bit about anything except to laugh—to laugh with +the tenderness of a wise old thing at the misunderstandings, and +mistakes, and failures that brought me so near shipwreck, and yet +underneath were still somehow packed with love—I'll open this and read +it, and I daresay quote that Psalm about going through the vale of +misery and using it as a well, and be quite pleasantly entertained.</p> + + +<p><i>August 13th.</i></p> + +<p>If one sets one's face westwards and goes on and on along the side of +the mountain, refusing either to climb higher or go lower, and having +therefore to take things as they come and somehow get through—roaring +torrents, sudden ravines, huge trees blown down in a forgotten blizzard +and lying right across one's way; all the things that mountains have up +their sleeve waiting for one—one comes, after two hours of walk so +varied as to include scowling rocks and gloomy forests, bright stretches +of delicious grass full of flowers, bits of hayfield, clusters of +fruit-trees, wide sun-flooded spaces with nothing between one apparently +and the great snowy mountains, narrow paths where it is hardly light +enough to see, smells of resin and hot fir needles, smells of +traveller's joy, smells of just cut grass, smells of just sawn wood, +smells of water tumbling over stones, muddy smells where the peasants +have turned some of the torrent away through shallow channels into their +fields, honey smells, hot smells, cold smells,—after two hours of this +walking, which would be tiring because of the constant difficulty of the +ground if it weren't for the odd way the air has here of carrying you, +of making you feel as though you were being lifted along, one comes at +last to the edge of a steep slope where there is a little group of +larches.</p> + +<p>Then one sits down.</p> + +<p>These larches are at the very end of a long tongue into which the +mountain one started on has somehow separated, and it is under them that +one eats one's dinner of hard boiled egg and bread and butter, and sits +staring, while one does so, in much astonishment at the view. For it is +an incredibly beautiful view from here, of an entirely different range +of mountains from the one seen from my terrace; and the valley, with its +twisting, tiny silver thread that I know is a great rushing river, has +strange, abrupt, isolated hills scattered over it that appear each to +have a light and colour of its own, with no relation to the light and +colour of the mountains.</p> + +<p>When first I happened on this place the building of my house had already +been started, and it was too late to run to the architect and say: Here +and here only will I live. But I did for a wild moment, so great was the +beauty I had found, hope that perhaps Swiss houses might be like those +Norwegian ones one reads about that take to pieces and can be put up +again somewhere else when you've got bored, and I remember scrambling +back hastily in heat and excitement to ask him whether this were so.</p> + +<p>He said it wasn't; and seemed even a little ruffled, if so calm a man +were capable of ruffling, that I should suppose he would build anything +that could come undone.</p> + +<p>'This house,' he said, pointing at the hopeless-looking mass that +ultimately became so adorable, 'is built for posterity. It is on a rock, +and will partake of the same immovability.'</p> + +<p>And when I told him of the place I had found, the exquisite place, more +beautiful than a dream and a hundred times more beautiful than the place +we had started building on, he, being a native of the district, hardy on +his legs on Sundays and accordingly acquainted with every inch of ground +within twenty miles, told me that it was so remote from villages, so +inaccessible by any road, that it was suited as a habitation only to +goats.</p> + +<p>'Only goats,' he said with finality, waving his hand, 'could dwell +there, and for goats I do not build.'</p> + +<p>So that my excitement cooled down before the inevitable, and I have +lived to be very glad the house is where it is and not where, for a few +wild hours, I wanted it; for now I can go to the other when I am in a +beauty mood and see it every time with fresh wonder, while if I lived +there I would have got used to it long ago, and my ardour been, like +other ardours, turned by possession into complacency. Or, to put it a +little differently, the house here is like an amiable wife to whom it is +comfortable to come back for meals and sleeping purposes, and the other +is a secret love, to be visited only on the crest of an ecstasy.</p> + +<p>To-day I took a hard boiled egg and some bread and butter, and visited +my secret love.</p> + +<p>The hard boiled egg doesn't seem much like an ecstasy, but it is a very +good foundation for one. There is great virtue in a hard boiled egg. It +holds one down, yet not too heavily. It satisfies without inflaming. +Sometimes, after days of living on fruit and bread, a slice of underdone +meat put in a sandwich and eaten before I knew what I was doing, has +gone straight to my head in exactly the way wine would, and I have seen +the mountains double and treble themselves, besides not keeping still, +in a very surprising and distressing way, utterly ruinous to raptures. +So now I distrust sandwiches and will not take them; and all that goes +with me is the hard boiled egg. Oh, and apricots, when I can get them. +I forgot the apricots. I took a handful to-day,—big, beautiful +rosy-golden ones, grown in the hot villages of the valley, a very +apricotty place. And, that every part of me should have sustenance, I +also took Law's <i>Serious Call</i>.</p> + +<p>He went because he's the thinnest book I've got on my shelves that has +at the same time been praised by Dr. Johnson. I've got several others +that Dr. Johnson has praised, such as Ogden on <i>Prayer</i>, but their bulk, +even if their insides were attractive, makes them have to stay at home. +Johnson, I remembered, as I weighed Law thoughtfully in my hand and felt +how thin he was, said of the <i>Serious Call</i> that he took it up expecting +it to be a dull book, and perhaps to laugh at it—'but I found Law quite +an overmatch for me.' He certainly would be an overmatch for me, I knew, +should I try to stand up to him, but that was not my intention. What I +wanted was a slender book that yet would have enough entertainment in it +to nourish me all day; and opening the <i>Serious Call</i> I was caught at +once by the story of Octavius, a learned and ingenious man who, feeling +that he wasn't going to live much longer, told the friends hanging on +his lips attentive to the wisdom that would, they were sure, drop out, +that in the decay of nature in which he found himself he had left off +all taverns and was now going to be nice in what he drank, so that he +was resolved to furnish his cellar with a little of the very best +whatever it might cost. And hardly had he delivered himself of this +declaration than 'he fell ill, was committed to a nurse, and had his +eyes closed by her before his fresh parcel of wine came in.'</p> + +<p>The effect of this on some one called Eugenius was to send him home a +new man, full of resolutions to devote himself wholly to God; for 'I +never, says Eugenius, was so deeply affected with the wisdom and +importance of religion as when I saw how poorly and meanly the learned +Octavius was to leave the world through the want of it.'</p> + +<p>So Law went with me, and his vivacious pages,—the story of Octavius is +but one of many; there is Matilda and her unhappy daughters ('The eldest +daughter lived as long as she could under this discipline,' but found +she couldn't after her twentieth year and died, 'her entrails much hurt +by being crushed together with her stays';) Eusebia and her happy +daughters, who were so beautifully brought up that they had the +satisfaction of dying virgins; Lepidus, struck down as he was dressing +himself for a feast; the admirable Miranda, whose meals were carefully +kept down to exactly enough to give her proper strength to lift eyes and +hands to heaven, so that 'Miranda will never have her eyes swell with +fatness or pant under a heavy load of flesh until she has changed her +religion'; Mundamus, who if he saw a book of devotion passed it by; +Classicus, who openly and shamelessly preferred learning to +devotion—these vivacious pages greatly enlivened and adorned my day. +But I did feel, as I came home at the end of it, that Dr. Johnson, for +whom no one has more love and less respect than I, ought to have spent +some at least of his earlier years, when he was still accessible to +reason, with, say, Voltaire.</p> + +<p>Now I am going to bed, footsore but glad, for this picnic to-day was a +test. I wanted to see how far on I have got in facing memories. When I +set out I pretended to myself that I was going from sheer +considerateness for servants, because I wished Mrs. Antoine to have a +holiday from cooking my dinner, but I knew in my heart that I was +making, in trepidation and secret doubt, a test. For the way to this +place of larches bristles with happy memories. They would be sitting +waiting for me, I knew, at every bush and corner in radiant rows. If +only they wouldn't be radiant, I thought, I wouldn't mind. The way, I +thought, would have been easier if it had been punctuated with +remembered quarrels. Only then I wouldn't have gone to it at all, for my +spirit shudders away from places where there has been unkindness. It is +the happy record of this little house that never yet have its walls +heard an unkind word or a rude word, and not once has anybody cried in +it. All the houses I have lived in, except this, had their sorrows, and +one at least had worse things than sorrows; but this one, my little +house of peace hung up in the sunshine well on the way to heaven, is +completely free from stains, nothing has ever lived in it that wasn't +kind. And I shall not count the wretchedness I dragged up with me three +weeks ago as a break in this record, as a smudge on its serenity, but +only as a shadow passing across the sun. Because, however beaten down I +was and miserable, I brought no anger with me and no resentment. +Unkindness has still not come into the house.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Now I am going very happy to bed, for I have passed the test. The whole +of the walk to the larches, and the whole of the way back, and all the +time I was sitting there, what I felt was simply gratitude, gratitude +for the beautiful past times I have had. I found I couldn't help it. It +was as natural as breathing. I wasn't lonely. Everybody I have loved and +shall never see again was with me. And all day, the whole of the +wonderful day of beauty, I was able in that bright companionship to +forget the immediate grief, the aching wretchedness, that brought me up +here to my mountains as a last hope.</p> + + +<p><i>August 14th.</i></p> + +<p>To-day it is my birthday, so I thought I would expiate it by doing some +useful work.</p> + +<p>It is the first birthday I've ever been alone, with nobody to say Bless +you. I like being blessed on my birthday, seen off into my new year with +encouragement and smiles. Perhaps, I thought, while I dressed, Antoine +would remember. After all, I used to have birthdays when I was here +before, and he must have noticed the ripple of excitement that lay along +the day, how it was wreathed in flowers from breakfast-time on and +dotted thick with presents. Perhaps he would remember, and wish me luck. +Perhaps if he remembered he would tell his wife, and she would wish me +luck too. I did very much long to-day to be wished luck.</p> + +<p>But Antoine, if he had ever known, had obviously forgotten. He was doing +something to the irises when I came down, and though I went out and +lingered round him before beginning breakfast he took no notice; he just +went on with the irises. So I daresay I looked a little wry, for I did +feel rather afraid I might be going to be lonely.</p> + +<p>This, then, I thought, giving myself a hitch of determination, was the +moment for manual labour. As I drank my coffee I decided to celebrate +the day by giving both the Antoines a holiday and doing the work myself. +Why shouldn't my birthday be celebrated by somebody else having a good +time? What did it after all matter who had the good time so long as +somebody did? The Antoines should have a holiday, and I would work. So +would I defend my thoughts from memories that might bite. So would I, by +the easy path of perspiration, find peace.</p> + +<p>Antoine, however, didn't seem to want a holiday. I had difficulty with +him. He wasn't of course surprised when I told him he had got one, +because he never is, but he said, with that level intonation that gives +his conversation so noticeable a calm, that it was the day for cutting +the lawn.</p> + +<p>I said I would cut the lawn; I knew about lawns; I had been brought up +entirely on lawns,—I believe I told him I had been born on one, in my +eagerness to forestall his objections and get him to go.</p> + +<p>He said that such work would be too hot for Madame in the sort of +weather we were having; and I said that no work on an object so small as +our lawn could be too hot. Besides, I liked being hot, I +explained—again with eagerness—I wanted to be hot, I was happy when I +was hot. '<i>J'aime beaucoup,</i> I said, not stopping in my hurry to pick my +words, and anyhow imperfect in French, '<i>la sueur</i>.'</p> + +<p>I believe I ought to have said <i>la transpiration,</i> the other word being +held in slight if any esteem as a word for ladies, but I still more +believe that I oughtn't to have said anything about it at all. I don't +know, of course, because of Antoine's immobility of expression; but in +spite of this not varying at what I had said by the least shadow of a +flicker I yet somehow felt, it was yet somehow conveyed to me, that +perhaps in French one doesn't perspire, or if one does one doesn't talk +about it. Not if one is a lady. Not if one is Madame. Not, to ascend +still further the scale of my self-respect enforcing attributes, if one +is that dignified object the <i>patrone</i>.</p> + +<p>I find it difficult to be dignified. When I try, I overdo it. Always my +dignity is either over or under done, but its chief condition is that of +being under done. Antoine, however, very kindly helps me up to the +position he has decided I ought to fill, by his own unalterable calm. I +have never seen him smile. I don't believe he could without cracking, of +so unruffled a glassiness is his countenance.</p> + +<p>Once, before the war—everything I have done that has been cheerful and +undesirable was before the war; I've been nothing but exemplary and +wretched since—I was undignified. We dressed up; and on the advice of +my friends—I now see that it was bad advice—I allowed myself to be +dressed as a devil; I, the <i>patrone</i>; I, Madame. It was true I was only +a little devil, quite one of the minor ones, what the Germans would call +a <i>Hausteufelchen</i>; but a devil I was. And going upstairs again +unexpectedly, to fetch my tail which had been forgotten, I saw at the +very end of the long passage, down which I had to go, Antoine collecting +the day's boots.</p> + +<p>He stood aside and waited. I couldn't go back, because that would have +looked as though I were doing something I knew I oughtn't to. Therefore +I proceeded.</p> + +<p>The passage was long and well lit. Down the whole of it I had to go, +while Antoine at the end stood and waited. I tried to advance with +dignity. I tried to hope he wouldn't recognise me. I tried to feel sure +he wouldn't. How could he? I was quite black, except for a wig that +looked like orange-coloured flames. But when I got to the doors at the +end it was the one to my bedroom that Antoine threw open, and past him I +had to march while he stood gravely aside. And strangely enough, what I +remember feeling most acutely was a quite particular humiliation and +shame that I hadn't got my tail on.</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est que j'ai oublié ma queue</i>....' I found myself stammering, with a +look of agonised deprecation and apology at him.</p> + +<p>And even then Antoine wasn't surprised.</p> + +<p>Well, where was I? Oh yes—at the <i>transpiration</i>. Antoine let it pass +over him, as I have said, without a ruffle, and drew my attention to the +chickens who would have to be fed and the cow who would have to be +milked. Perhaps the cow might be milked on his return, but the +chickens—</p> + +<p>Antoine was softening.</p> + +<p>I said quickly that all he had to do would be to put the chickens' food +ready and I would administer it, and as for the cow, why not let her +have a rest for once, why not let her for once not he robbed of what was +after all her own?</p> + +<p>And to cut the conversation short, and determined that my birthday +should not pass without somebody getting a present, I ran upstairs and +fetched down a twenty-franc note and pressed it into Antoine's hand and +said breathlessly in a long and voluble sentence that began with +<i>Voilà</i>, but didn't keep it up at that level, that the twenty francs +were for his expenses for himself and Mrs. Antoine down in the valley, +and that I hoped they would enjoy themselves, and would he remember me +very kindly to his <i>maman</i>, to whom he would no doubt pay a little visit +during the course of what I trusted would be a long, crowded, and +agreeable day.</p> + +<p>They went off ultimately, but with reluctance. Completely undignified, I +stood on the low wall of the terrace and waved to them as they turned +the corner at the bottom of the path.</p> + +<p>'<i>Mille félicitations</i>!' I cried, anxious that somebody should be wished +happiness on my birthday.</p> + +<p>'If I <i>am</i> going to have a lonely birthday it shall be <i>thoroughly</i> +lonely,' I said grimly to myself as, urged entirely by my volition, the +Antoines disappeared and left me to the solitary house.</p> + +<p>I decided to begin my day's work by making my bed, and went upstairs +full of resolution.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that; no doubt while I was arguing with +Antoine.</p> + +<p>The next thing, then, I reflected, was to tidy away breakfast, so I came +downstairs again, full of more resolution.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that too; no doubt while I was still +arguing with Antoine.</p> + +<p>Well then, oughtn't I to begin to do something with potatoes? With a +view to the dinner-hour? Put them on, or something? I was sure the +putting on of potatoes would make me perspire. I longed to start my +<i>transpiration</i> in case by any chance, if I stayed too long inactive and +cool, I should notice how very silent and empty....</p> + +<p>I hurried into the kitchen, a dear little place of white tiles and +copper saucepans, and found pots simmering gently on the stove: potatoes +in one, and in the other bits of something that well might be chicken. +Also, on a tray was the rest of everything needed for my dinner. All I +would have to do would be to eat it.</p> + +<p>Baulked, but still full of resolution, I set out in search of the +lawn-mower. It couldn't be far away, because nothing is able to be +anything but close on my narrow ledge of rock.</p> + +<p>Mou-Mou, sitting on his haunches in the shade at the back of the house, +watched me with interest as I tried to open the sorts of outside doors +that looked as if they shut in lawn-mowers.</p> + +<p>They were all locked.</p> + +<p>The magnificent Mou-Mou, who manages to imitate Antoine's trick of not +being surprised, though he hasn't yet quite caught his air of absence of +curiosity, got up after the first door and lounged after me as I tried +the others. He could do this because, though tied up, Antoine has +ingeniously provided for his exercise, and at the same time for the +circumvention of burglars, by fixing an iron bar the whole length of the +wall behind the house and fastening Mou-Mou's chain to it by a loose +ring. So that he can run along it whenever he feels inclined; and a +burglar, having noted the kennel at the east end of this wall and +Mou-Mou sitting chained up in front of it, would find, on preparing to +attack the house at its west and apparently dogless end, that the dog +was nevertheless there before him. A rattle and a slide, and there would +be Mou-Mou. Very <i>morale</i>-shaking. Very freezing in its unexpectedness +to the burglar's blood, and paralysing to his will to sin. Thus Antoine, +thinking of everything, had calculated. There hasn't ever been a +burglar, but, as he said of his possible suppurating wounds, '<i>Il ne +faut pas attendre qu'on les a pour se procurer le remède.</i>'</p> + +<p>Mou-Mou accordingly came with me as I went up and down the back of the +house trying the range of outside doors. I think he thought at last it +was a game, for as each door wouldn't open and I paused a moment +thwarted, he gave a loud double bark, as one who should in the Psalms, +after each verse, say <i>Selah</i>.</p> + +<p>Antoine had locked up the lawn-mower. The mowing was to be put off till +to-morrow rather than that Madame in the heat should mow. I appreciated +the kindness of his intentions, but for all that was much vexed by being +baulked. On my birthday too. Baulked of the one thing I really wanted, +<i>la transpiration</i>. It didn't seem much to ask on my birthday, I who +used, without so much as lifting a finger, to acquire on such occasions +quite other beads.</p> + +<p>Undecided, I stood looking round the tidy yard for something I could be +active over, and Mou-Mou sat upright on his huge haunches watching me. +He is so big that in this position our heads are on a level. He took +advantage of this by presently raising his tongue—it was already out, +hanging in the heat—as I still didn't move or say anything, and giving +my face an enormous lick. So then I went away, for I didn't like that. +Besides, I had thought of something.</p> + +<p>In the flower-border along the terrace would be weeds. Flower-borders +always have weeds, and weeding is arduous. Also, all one wants for +weeding are one's own ten fingers, and Antoine couldn't prevent my using +those. So that was what I would do—bend down and tear up weeds, and in +this way forget the extraordinary sunlit, gaping, empty little house....</p> + +<p>So great, however, had been the unflagging diligence of Antoine, and +also perhaps so poor and barren the soil, that after half an hour's +search I had only found three weeds, and even those I couldn't be sure +about, and didn't know for certain but what I might be pulling up some +precious bit of alpine flora put in on purpose and cherished by +Antoine. All I really knew was that what I tore up wasn't irises, and +wasn't delphiniums, and wasn't pansies; so that, I argued, it must be +weeds. Anyhow, I pulled three alien objects out, and laid them in a neat +row to show Antoine. Then I sat down and rested.</p> + +<p>The search for them had made me hot, but that of course wouldn't last. +It was ages before I need go and feed the chickens. I sat on the terrace +wall wondering what I could do next. It was a pity that the Antoines +were so admirable. One could overdo virtue. A little less zeal, the +least judicious neglect on their part, and I would have found something +useful to do.</p> + +<p>The place was quite extraordinarily silent. There wasn't a sound. Even +Mou-Mou round at the back, languid in the heat, didn't move. The immense +light beat on the varnished wooden face of the house and on the shut +shutters of all the unused rooms. Those rooms have been shut like that +for five years. The shutters are blistered with the fierce sun of five +summers, and the no less fierce sun of five winters. Their colour, once +a lively, swaggering blue, has faded to a dull grey: I sat staring up at +them. Suppose they were suddenly to be opened from inside, and faces +that used to live in them looked out?</p> + +<p>A faint shudder trickled along my spine.</p> + +<p>Well, but wouldn't I be glad really? Wouldn't they be the dearest +ghosts? That room at the end, for instance, so tightly shut up now, that +was where my brother used to sleep when he came out for his holidays. +Wouldn't I love to see him look out at me? How gaily he used to +arrive,—in such spirits because he had got rid of work for a bit, and +for a series of divine weeks was going to stretch himself in the sun! +The first thing he always did when he got up to his room was to hurry +out on to its little balcony to see if the heavenly view of the valley +towards the east with the chain of snow mountains across the end were +still as heavenly as he remembered it; and I could see him with his head +thrown back, breathing deep breaths of the lovely air, adoring it, +radiant with delight to have got back to it, calling down to me to come +quick and look, for it could never have been so beautiful as at that +moment and could never possibly be so beautiful again.</p> + +<p>I loved him very much. I don't believe anybody ever had so dear a +brother. He was so quick to appreciate and understand, so slow to +anger, so clear of brain and gentle of heart. Of course he was killed. +Such people always are, if there is any killing going on anywhere. He +volunteered at the very beginning of the war, and though his fragility +saved him for a long time he was at last swept in. That was in March +1918. He was killed the first week. I loved him very much, and he loved +me. He called me sweet names, and forgave me all my trespasses.</p> + +<p>And in the next room to that—oh well, I'm not going to dig out every +ghost. I can't really write about some of them, the pain hurts too much. +I've not been into any of the shut rooms since I came back. I couldn't +bear it. Here out of doors I can take a larger view, not mind going to +the places of memories; but I know those rooms will have been kept as +carefully unchanged by Antoine as I found mine. I daren't even think of +them. I had to get up off the wall and come away from staring up at +those shutters, for suddenly I found myself right on the very edge of +the dreadful pit I'm always so afraid of tumbling into—the great, +black, cold, empty pit of horror, of realisation....</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">That's why I've been writing all this, just so as not to think....</p> + + +<p><i>Bedtime.</i></p> + +<p>I must put down what happened after that. I ought to be in bed, but I +must put down how my birthday ended.</p> + +<p>Well, there I was sitting, trying by writing to defend myself against +the creeping fear of the silence round me and the awareness of those +shut rooms up stairs, when Mou-Mou barked. He barked suddenly and +furiously; and the long screech of his chain showed that he was rushing +along the wall to the other side of the house.</p> + +<p>Instantly my thoughts became wholesome. I jumped up. Here was the +burglar at last. I flew round to greet him. Anything was better than +those shutters, and that hot, sunlit silence.</p> + +<p>Between my departure from the terrace and my arrival at the other side +of the house I had had time, so quickly did my restored mind work, to +settle that whoever it was, burglar or not, I was going to make friends. +If it really were a burglar I would adopt the line the bishop took +towards Jean Valjean, and save him from the sin of theft by making him a +present of everything he wished to take,—conduct which perhaps might +save me as well, supposing he was the kind of burglar who would want to +strangle opposition. Also, burglar or no burglar, I would ask him to +dinner; compel him, in fact, to come in and share my birthday chicken.</p> + +<p>What I saw when I got round, standing just out of reach of the leaping +Mou-Mou on the top of the avalanche wall, looking down at him with +patience rather than timidity, holding their black skirts back in case +an extra leap of his should reach them, were two women. Strangers, not +natives. Perhaps widows. But anyhow people who had been bereaved.</p> + +<p>I immediately begged them to come in. The relief and refreshment of +seeing them! Two human beings of obvious respectability, warm flesh and +blood persons, not burglars, not ghosts, not even of the sex one +associates with depredation,—just decent, alive women, complete in +every detail, even to each carrying an umbrella. They might have been +standing on the curb in Oxford Street waiting to hail an omnibus, so +complete were they, so prepared in their clothes to face the world. +Button boots, umbrella,—I hadn't seen an umbrella since I got here. +What you usually take for a walk on the mountains is a stout stick with +an iron point to it; but after all, why shouldn't you take an umbrella? +Then if it rains you can put it up, and if the sun is unbearable you +can put it up too, and it too has a metal tip to it which you can dig +into the ground if you begin to slide down precipices.</p> + +<p>'<i>Bon jour</i>,' I said eagerly, looking up at these black silhouettes +against the sky. '<i>Je vous prie de venir me voir.</i>'</p> + +<p>They stared at me, still holding back their skirts from the leaping dog.</p> + +<p>Perhaps they were Italians. I am close to Italy, and Italian women +usually dress in black.</p> + +<p>I know some Italian words, and I know the one you say when you want +somebody to come in, so I tried that.</p> + +<p>'<i>Avanti</i>,' I said breathlessly.</p> + +<p>They didn't. They still just stood and stared.</p> + +<p>They couldn't be English I thought, because underneath their black +skirts I could see white cotton petticoats with embroidery on them, the +kind that England has shed these fifty years, and that is only now to be +found in remote and religious parts of abroad, like the more fervent +portions of Lutheran Germany. Could they be Germans? The thought +distracted me. How could I ask two Germans in? How could I sit at meat +with people whose male relations had so recently been killing mine? Or +been killed by them, perhaps, judging from their black clothes. Anyhow +there was blood between us. But how could I resist asking them in, when +if I didn't there would be hours and hours of intolerable silence and +solitude for me, till evening brought those Antoines back who never +ought to have been let go? On my birthday, too.</p> + +<p>I know some German words—it is wonderful what a lot of languages I seem +to know some words in—so I threw one up at them between two of +Mou-Mou's barks.</p> + +<p>'<i>Deutsch</i>?' I inquired.</p> + +<p>They ignored it.</p> + +<p>'That's all my languages,' I then said in despair.</p> + +<p>The only thing left that I might still try on them was to talk on my +fingers, which I can a little; but if they didn't happen, I reflected, +to be deaf and dumb perhaps they wouldn't like that. So I just looked up +at them despairingly, and spread out my hands and drew my shoulders to +my ears as Mrs. Antoine does when she is conveying to me that the butter +has come to an end.</p> + +<p>Whereupon the elder of the two—neither was young, but one was less +young—the elder of the two informed me in calm English that they had +lost their way, and she asked me to direct them and also to tell the +dog not to make quite so much noise, in order that they might clearly +understand what I said. 'He is a fine fellow,' she said, 'but we should +be glad if he would make less noise.'</p> + +<p>The younger one said nothing, but smiled at me. She was +pleasant-looking, this one, flushed and nicely moist from walking in the +heat. The other one was more rocky; considering the weather, and the +angle of the slope they had either come up or down, she seemed quite +unnaturally arid.</p> + +<p>I seized Mou-Mou by the collar, and ran him along to his kennel.</p> + +<p>'You stay there and be good,' I said to him, though I know he doesn't +understand a word of English. 'He won't hurt you,' I assured the +strangers, going back to them.</p> + +<p>'Ah,' said the elder of the two; and added, 'I used to say that to +people about <i>my</i> dog.'</p> + +<p>They still stood motionless, holding their skirts, the younger one +smiling at me.</p> + +<p>'Won't you come down?' I said. 'Come in and rest a little? I can tell +you better about your road if you'll come in. Look—you go along that +path there, and it brings you round to the front door.'</p> + +<p>'Will the dog be at the front door?' asked the elder.</p> + +<p>'Oh no—besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly.'</p> + +<p>'Ah,' said the elder eyeing Mou-Mou sideways, who, from his kennel, eyed +her, 'I used to say that to people about <i>my</i> dog.'</p> + +<p>The younger one stood smiling at me. They neither of them moved.</p> + +<p>'I'll come up and bring you down,' I said, hurrying round to the path +that leads from the terrace on to the slope.</p> + +<p>When they saw that this path did indeed take them away from Mou-Mou they +came with me.</p> + +<p>Directly they moved he made a rush along his bar, but arrived too late +and could only leap up and down barking.</p> + +<p>'That's just high spirits,' I said. 'He is really most goodnatured and +affectionate.'</p> + +<p>'Ah,' said the elder, 'I used to say that to people—'</p> + +<p>'Mind those loose stones,' I interrupted; and I helped each one down the +last crumbly bit on to the terrace.</p> + +<p>They both had black kid gloves on. More than ever, as I felt these warm +gloves press my hand, was I sure that what they really wanted was an +omnibus along Oxford Street.</p> + +<p>Once on the level and out of sight of Mou-Mou, they walked with an air +of self-respect. Especially the elder. The younger, though she had it +too, seemed rather to be following an example than originating an +attitude. Perhaps they were related to a Lord Mayor, I thought. Or a +rector. But a Lord Mayor would be more likely to be the cause of that +air of glowing private background to life.</p> + +<p>They had been up the mountain, the elder told me, trying to find +somewhere cool to stay in, for the valley this weather was unendurable. +They used to know this district years ago, and recollected a pension +right up in the highest village, and after great exertions and rising +early that morning they had reached it only to find that it had become a +resort for consumptives. With no provision for the needs of the passing +tourist; with no desire, in fact, in any way to minister to them. If it +hadn't been for me, she said, as they sat on the cool side of the house +drinking lemonade and eating biscuits, if it hadn't been for me and what +she described with obvious gratitude—she couldn't guess my joy at +seeing them both!—as my kindness, they would have had somehow to +clamber down foodless by wrong roads, seeing that they had lost the +right one, to the valley again, and in what state they would have +re-entered that scorching and terrible place she didn't like to think. +Tired as they were. Disappointed, and distressingly hot. How very +pleasant it was up here. What a truly delightful spot. Such air. Such a +view. And how agreeable and unexpected to come across one of one's own +country-women.</p> + +<p>To all this the younger in silence smiled agreement.</p> + +<p>They had been so long abroad, continued the elder, that they felt +greatly fatigued by foreigners, who were so very prevalent. In their +pension there were nothing but foreigners and flies. The house wasn't by +any chance—no, of course it couldn't be, but it wasn't by any +chance—her voice had a sudden note of hope in it—a pension?</p> + +<p>I shook my head and laughed at that, and said it wasn't. The younger one +smiled at me.</p> + +<p>Ah no—of course not, continued the elder, her voice fading again. And +she didn't suppose I could tell them of any pension anywhere about, +where they could get taken in while this great heat lasted? Really the +valley was most terribly airless. The best hotel, which had, she knew, +some cool rooms, was beyond their means, so they were staying in one of +the small ones, and the flies worried them. Apparently I had no flies +up here. And what wonderful air. At night, no doubt, it was quite cool. +The nights in the valley were most trying. It was difficult to sleep.</p> + +<p>I asked them to stay to lunch. They accepted gratefully. When I took +them to my room to wash their hands they sighed with pleasure at its +shadiness and quiet. They thought the inside of the house delightfully +roomy, and more spacious, said the elder, while the younger one smiled +agreement, than one would have expected from its outside. I left them, +sunk with sighs of satisfaction, on the sofa in the hall, their black +toques and gloves on a chair beside them, gazing at the view through the +open front door while I went to see how the potatoes were getting on.</p> + +<p>We lunched presently in the shade just outside the house, and the +strange ladies continued to be most grateful, the elder voicing their +gratitude, the younger smiling agreement. If it was possible to like one +more than the other, seeing with what enthusiasm I liked them both, I +liked the younger because she smiled. I love people who smile. It does +usually mean sweet pleasantness somewhere.</p> + +<p>After lunch, while I cleared away, having refused their polite offers +of help,—for they now realised I was alone in the house, on which, +however, though it must have surprised them they made no comment,—they +went indoors to the sofa again, whose soft cushions seemed particularly +attractive to them; and when I came back the last time for the +breadcrumbs and tablecloth, I found they had both fallen asleep, the +elder one with her handkerchief over her face.</p> + +<p>Poor things. How tired they were. How glad I was that they should be +resting and getting cool. A little sleep would do them both good.</p> + +<p>I crept past them on tiptoe with my final armful, and was careful to +move about in the kitchen very quietly. It hadn't been my intention, +with guests to lunch, to wash up and put away, but rather to sit with +them and talk. Not having talked for so long it seemed a godsend, a +particularly welcome birthday present, suddenly to have two English +people drop in on me from the skies. Up to this moment I had been busy, +first getting lemonade to slake their thirst and then lunch to appease +their hunger, and the spare time in between these activities had been +filled with the expression of their gratitude by the elder and her +expatiations on the house and what she called the grounds; but I had +looked forward to about an hour's real talk after lunch, before they +would begin to want to start on their long downward journey to their +pension,—talk in which, without being specially brilliant any of us, +for you only had to look at us to see we wouldn't be specially that, we +yet might at least tell each other amusing things about, say, Lord +Mayors. It is true I don't know any Lord Mayors, though I do know +somebody whose brother married the daughter of one; but if they could +produce a Lord Mayor out of up their sleeve, as I suspected, I could +counter him with a dean. Not quite so showy, perhaps, but more +permanent. And I did want to talk. I have been silent so long that I +felt I could talk about almost anything.</p> + +<p>Well, as they were having a little nap, poor things, I would tidy up the +kitchen meanwhile, and by the time that was done they would be refreshed +and ready for half an hour's agreeable interchange of gossip.</p> + +<p>Every now and then during this tidying I peeped into the hall in case +they were awake, but they seemed if anything to be sounder asleep each +time. The younger one, her flushed face half buried, in a cushion, her +fair hair a little ruffled, had a pathetic look of almost infantile +helplessness; the elder, discreetly veiled by her handkerchief, slept +more stiffly, with less abandonment and more determination. Poor things. +How glad I was they should in this way gather strength for the long, +difficult scramble down the mountain; but also presently I began to wish +they would wake up.</p> + +<p>I finished what I had to do in the kitchen, and came back into the hall. +They had been sleeping now nearly half an hour. I stood about +uncertainly. Poor things, they must be dreadfully tired to sleep like +that. I hardly liked to look at them, they were so defenceless, and I +picked up a book and tried to read; but I couldn't stop my eyes from +wandering over the top of it to the sofa every few minutes, and always I +saw the same picture of profound repose.</p> + +<p>Presently I put down the book, and wandered out on to the terrace and +gazed awhile at the view. That, too, seemed wrapped in afternoon +slumber. After a bit I wandered round the house to Mou-Mou. He, too, was +asleep. Then I came back to the front door and glanced in at my guests. +Still no change. Then I fetched some cigarettes, not moving this time +quite so carefully, and going out again sat on the low terrace-wall at a +point from which I could see straight on to the sofa and notice any +movement that might take place.</p> + +<p>I never smoke except when bored, and as I am never bored I never smoke. +But this afternoon it was just that unmanageable sort of moment come +upon me, that kind of situation I don't know how to deal with, which +does bore me. I sat on the wall and smoked three cigarettes, and the +peace on the sofa remained complete. What ought one to do? What did one +do, faced by obstinately sleeping guests? Impossible deliberately to +wake them up. Yet I was sure—they had now been asleep nearly an +hour—that when they did wake up, polite as they were, they would be +upset by discovering that they had slept. Besides, the afternoon was +getting on. They had a long way to go. If only Mou-Mou would wake up and +bark.... But there wasn't a sound. The hot afternoon brooded over the +mountains in breathless silence.</p> + +<p>Again I went round to the back of the house, and pausing behind the last +corner so as to make what I did next more alarming, suddenly jumped out +at Mou Mou.</p> + +<p>The horribly intelligent dog didn't bother to open more than an eye, +and that one he immediately shut again.</p> + +<p>Disgusted with him, I returned to my seat on the wall and smoked another +cigarette. The picture on the sofa was the same: perfect peace. Oh well, +poor things—but I did want to talk. And after all it was my birthday.</p> + +<p>When I had finished the cigarette I thought a moment, my face in my +hands. A person of tact—ah, but I have no tact; it has been my undoing +on the cardinal occasions of life that I have none. Well, but suppose I +<i>were</i> a person of tact—what would I do? Instantly the answer flashed +into my brain: Knock, by accident, against a table.</p> + +<p>So I did. I got up quickly and crossed into the hall and knocked against +a table, at first with gentleness, and then as there was no result with +greater vigour.</p> + +<p>My elder guest behind the handkerchief continued to draw deep regular +breaths, but to my joy the younger one stirred and opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>'Oh, I do <i>hope</i> I didn't wake you?' I exclaimed, taking an eager step +towards the sofa.</p> + +<p>She looked at me vaguely, and fell asleep again.</p> + +<p>I went back on to the terrace and lit another cigarette. That was five. +I haven't smoked so much before in one day in my life ever. I felt quite +fast. And on my birthday too. By the time I had finished it there was a +look about the shadows on the grass that suggested tea. Even if it were +a little early the noise of the teacups might help to wake up my guests, +and I felt that a call to tea would be a delicate and hospitable way of +doing it.</p> + +<p>I didn't go through the hall on tiptoe this time, but walked naturally; +and I opened the door into the kitchen rather noisily. Then I looked +round at the sofa to see the effect. There wasn't any.</p> + +<p>Presently tea was ready, out on the table where we had lunched. At least +six times I had been backwards and forwards through the hall, the last +twice carrying things that rattled and that I encouraged to rattle. But +on the sofa the strangers slept peacefully on.</p> + +<p>There was nothing for it now but to touch them. Short of that, I didn't +think that anything would wake them. But I don't like touching guests; I +mean, in between whiles. I have never done it. Especially not when they +weren't looking. And still more especially not when they were complete +strangers.</p> + +<p>Therefore I approached the sofa with reluctance, and stood uncertain in +front of it. Poor things, they really were most completely asleep. It +seemed a pity to interrupt. Well, but they had had a nice rest; they had +slept soundly now for two hours. And the tea would be cold if I didn't +wake them up, and besides, how were they going to get home if they +didn't start soon? Still, I don't like touching guests. Especially +strange guests....</p> + +<p>Manifestly, however, there was nothing else to be done, so I bent over +the younger one—the other one was too awe-inspiring with her +handkerchief over her face—and gingerly put my hand on her shoulder.</p> + +<p>Nothing happened.</p> + +<p>I put it on again, with a slightly increased emphasis.</p> + +<p>She didn't open her eyes, but to my embarrassment laid her cheek on it +affectionately and murmured something that sounded astonishingly like +Siegfried.</p> + +<p>I know about Siegfried, because of going to the opera. He was a German. +He still is, in the form of Siegfried Wagner, and I daresay of others; +and once somebody told me that when Germans wished to indulge their +disrespect for the Kaiser freely—he was not at that time yet an +ex-Kaiser—-without being run in for <i>lèse majesté</i>, they loudly and +openly abused him under the name of Siegfried Meyer, whose initials, +S.M., also represent <i>Seine Majestät</i>; by which simple methods everybody +was able to be pleased and nobody was able to be hurt. So that when my +sleeping guest murmured Siegfried, I couldn't but conclude she was +dreaming of a German; and when at the same time she laid her cheek on my +hand, I was forced to realise that she was dreaming of him +affectionately. Which astonished me.</p> + +<p>Imbued with patriotism—the accumulated patriotism of weeks spent out of +England—I felt that this English lady should instantly be roused from a +dream that did her no credit. She herself, I felt sure, would be the +first to deplore such a dream. So I drew my hand away from beneath her +cheek—even by mistake I didn't like it to be thought the hand of +somebody called Siegfried and, stooping down, said quite loud and +distinctly in her ear, 'Won't you come to tea?'</p> + +<p>This, at last, did wake her. She sat up with a start, and looked at me +for a moment in surprise.</p> + +<p>'Oh,' she said, confused, 'have I been asleep?'</p> + +<p>'I'm very glad you have,' I said, smiling at her, for she was already +again smiling at me. 'Your climb this morning was enough to kill you.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, but,' she murmured, getting up quickly and straightening her hair, +'how dreadful to come to your house and go to sleep—'</p> + +<p>And she turned to the elder one, and again astonished me by, with one +swift movement, twitching the handkerchief off her face and saying +exactly as one says when playing the face-and-handkerchief game with +one's baby, 'Peep bo.' Then she turned back to me and smiled and said +nothing more, for I suppose she knew the elder one, roused thus +competently, would now do all the talking; as indeed she did, being as I +feared greatly upset and horrified when she found she had not only been +asleep but been it for two hours.</p> + +<p>We had tea; and all the while, while the elder one talked of the trouble +she was afraid she had given, and the shame she felt that they should +have slept, and their gratitude for what she called my prolonged and +patient hospitality, I was wondering about the other. Whenever she +caught my pensive and inquiring eye she smiled at me. She had very +sweet eyes, grey ones, gentle and intelligent, and when she smiled an +agreeable dimple appeared. Bringing my Paley's <i>Evidences</i> and Sherlock +Holmes' side to bear on her, I reasoned that my younger guest was, or +had been, a mother,—this because of the practised way she had twitched +the handkerchief off and said Peep bo; that she was either a widow, or +hadn't seen her husband for some time,—this because of the real +affection with which, in her sleep she had laid her cheek on my hand; +and that she liked music and often went to the opera.</p> + +<p>After tea the elder got up stiffly—she had walked much too far already, +and was clearly unfit to go all that long way more—and said, if I would +direct them, they must now set out for the valley.</p> + +<p>The younger one put on her toque obediently at this, and helped the +elder one to pin hers on straight. It was now five o'clock, and if they +didn't once lose their way they would be at their hotel by half-past +seven; in time, said the elder, for the end of <i>table-d'hôte,</i> a meal +much interfered with by the very numerous flies. But if they did go +wrong at any point it would be much later, probably dark.</p> + +<p>I asked them to stay.</p> + +<p>To stay? The elder, engaged in buttoning her tight kid gloves, said it +was most kind of me, but they couldn't possibly stay any longer. It was +far too late already, owing to their so unfortunately having gone to +sleep—</p> + +<p>'I mean stay the night,' I said; and explained that it would be doing me +a kindness, and because of that they must please overlook anything in +such an invitation that might appear unconventional, for certainly if +they did set out I should lie awake all night thinking of them lost +somewhere among the precipices, or perhaps fallen over one, and how much +better to go down comfortably in daylight, and I could lend them +everything they wanted, including a great many new toothbrushes I found +here,—in short, I not only invited, I pressed; growing more eager by +the sheer gathering momentum of my speech.</p> + +<p>All day, while the elder talked and I listened, I had secretly felt +uneasy. Here was I, one woman in a house arranged for family gatherings, +while they for want of rooms were forced to swelter in the valley. +Gradually, as I listened, my uneasiness increased. Presently I began to +feel guilty. And at last, as I watched them sleeping in such exhaustion +on the sofa, I felt at the bottom of my heart somehow responsible. But +I don't know, of course, that it is wise to invite strangers to stay +with one.</p> + +<p>They accepted gratefully. The moment the elder understood what it was +that my eager words were pressing on her, she drew the pins out of her +toque and laid it on the chair again; and so did the other one, smiling +at me.</p> + +<p>When the Antoines came home I went out to meet them. By that time my +guests were shut up in their bedrooms with new toothbrushes. They had +gone up very early, both of them so stiff that they could hardly walk. +Till they did go up, what moments I had been able to spare from my hasty +preparations for their comfort had been filled entirely, as earlier in +the day, by the elder one's gratitude; there had still been no chance of +real talk.</p> + +<p>'<i>J'ai des visites</i>,' I said to the Antoines, going out to meet them +when, through the silence of the evening, I heard their steps coming up +the path.</p> + +<p>Antoine wasn't surprised. He just said, '<i>Ca sera comme autrefois</i>,' and +began to shut the shutters.</p> + +<p>But I am. I can't go to bed, I'm so much surprised. I've been sitting +up here scribbling when I ought to have been in bed long ago. Who would +have thought that the day that began so emptily would end with two of my +rooms full,—each containing a widow? For they are widows, they told me: +widows who have lost their husbands by peaceful methods, nothing to do +with the war. Their names are Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks,—at least that +is what the younger one's sounded like; I don't know if I have spelt it +right. They come from Dulwich. I think the elder one had a slight +misgiving at the last, and seemed to remember what was due to the Lord +Mayor, when she found herself going to bed in a strange house belonging +to somebody of whom she knew nothing; for she remarked a little +doubtfully, and with rather a defensive eye fixed on me, that the war +had broken down many barriers, and that people did things now that they +wouldn't have dreamed of doing five years ago.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">The other one didn't say nothing, but actually kissed me. I hope she +wasn't again mistaking me for Siegfried.</p> + + +<p><i>August 15th</i></p> + +<p>My guests have gone again, but only to fetch their things and pay their +hotel bill, and then they are coming back to stay with me till it is a +little cooler. They are coming back to-morrow, not to-day. They are +entangled in some arrangement with their pension that makes it difficult +for them to leave at once.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes appeared at breakfast with any misgivings she may have had +last night gone, for when I suggested they should spend this hot weather +up here she immediately accepted. I hadn't slept for thinking of them. +How could I possibly not ask them to stay, seeing their discomfort and +my roominess? Towards morning it was finally clear to me that it wasn't +possible: I would ask them. Though, remembering the look in Mrs. +Barnes's eye the last thing last night, I couldn't be sure she would +accept. She might want to find out about me first, after the cautious +and hampering way of women,—oh, I wish women wouldn't always be so +cautious, but simply get on with their friendships! She might first want +assurances that there was some good reason for my being here all by +myself. Alas, there isn't a good reason; there is only a bad one. But, +fortunately, to be alone is generally regarded as respectable, in spite +of what Seneca says a philosopher said to a young man he saw walking by +himself: 'Have a care,' said he, 'of lewd company.'</p> + +<p>However, I don't suppose Mrs. Barnes knew about Seneca. Anyhow she +didn't hesitate. She accepted at once, and said that under these +circumstances it was certainly due to me to tell me a little about +themselves.</p> + +<p>At this I got my dean ready to meet the Lord Mayor, but after all I was +told nothing more than that my guests are sisters; for at this point, +very soon arrived at, the younger one, Mrs. Jewks, who had slipped away +on our getting up from breakfast, reappeared with the toques and gloves, +and said she thought they had better start before it got any hotter.</p> + +<p>So they went, and the long day here has been most beautiful—so +peaceful, so quiet, with the delicate mountains like opals against the +afternoon sky, and the shadows lengthening along the valley.</p> + +<p>I don't feel to-day as I did yesterday, that I want to talk. To-day I am +content with things exactly as they are: the sun, the silence, the +caresses of the funny little white kitten with the smudge of black round +its left eye that makes it look as though it must be somebody's wife, +and the pleasant knowledge that my new friends are coming back again.</p> + +<p>I think that knowledge makes to-day more precious. It is the last day +for some time, for at least a week judging from the look of the blazing +sky, of what I see now that they are ending have been wonderful days. Up +the ladder of these days I have climbed slowly away from the blackness +at the bottom. It has been like finding some steps under water just as +one was drowning, and crawling up them to air and light. But now that I +have got at least most of myself back to air and light, and feel hopeful +of not slipping down again, it is surely time to arise, shake myself, +and begin to do something active and fruitful. And behold, just as I +realise this, just as I realise that I am, so to speak, ripe for +fruit-bearing, there appear on the scene Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks, as +it were the midwives of Providence.</p> + +<p>Well, that shall be to-morrow. Meanwhile there is still to-day, and each +one of its quiet hours seems very precious. I wonder what my new friends +like to read. Suppose—I was going to say suppose it is <i>The Rosary</i>; +but I won't suppose that, for when it comes to supposing, why not +suppose something that isn't <i>The Rosary</i>? Why not, for instance, +suppose they like <i>Eminent Victorians</i>, and that we three are going to +sit of an evening delicately tickling each other with quotations from +it, and gently squirming in our seats for pleasure? It is just as easy +to suppose that as to suppose anything else, and as I'm not yet +acquainted with these ladies' tastes one supposition is as likely to be +right as another.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I don't know, though—I forgot their petticoats. I can't believe any +friends of Mr. Lytton Strachey wear that kind of petticoat, eminently +Victorian even though it be; and although he wouldn't, of course, have +direct ocular proof that they did unless he had stood with me yesterday +at the bottom of that wall while they on the top held up their skirts, +still what one has on underneath does somehow ooze through into one's +behaviour. I know once, when impelled by a heat wave in America to cast +aside the undergarments of a candid mind and buy and put on pink +chiffon, the pink chiffon instantly got through all my clothes into my +conduct, which became curiously dashing. Anybody can tell what a woman +has got on underneath by merely watching her behaviour. I have known +just the consciousness of silk stockings, worn by one accustomed only to +wool, produce dictatorialness where all before had been submission.</p> + + +<p><i>August 19th</i></p> + +<p>I haven't written for three days because I have been so busy settling +down to my guests.</p> + +<p>They call each other Kitty and Dolly. They explained that these were +inevitably their names because they were born, one fifty, the other +forty years ago. I inquired why this was inevitable, and they drew my +attention to fashions in names, asserting that people's ages could +generally be guessed by their Christian names. If, they said, their +birth had taken place ten years earlier they would have been Ethel and +Maud; if ten years later they would have been Muriel and Gladys; and if +twenty years only ago they had no doubt but what they would have been +Elizabeth and Pamela. It is always Mrs. Barnes who talks; but the effect +is as though they together were telling me things, because of the way +Mrs. Jewks smiles,—I conclude in agreement.</p> + +<p>'Our dear parents, both long since dead,' said Mrs. Barnes, adjusting +her eyeglasses more comfortably on her nose, 'didn't seem to remember +that we would ever grow old, for we weren't even christened Katharine +and Dorothy, to which we might have reverted when we ceased being girls, +but we were Kitty and Dolly from the very beginning, and actually in +that condition came away from the font.'</p> + +<p>'I like being Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes looked at her with what I thought was a slight uneasiness, +and rebuked her. 'You shouldn't,' she said. 'After thirty-nine no woman +should willingly be Dolly.'</p> + +<p>'I still feel exactly <i>like</i> Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks.</p> + +<p>'It's a misfortune,' said Mrs. Barnes, shaking her head. 'To be called +Dolly after a certain age is bad enough, but it is far worse to feel +like it. What I think of,' she said, turning to me, 'is when we are +really old,—in bath chairs, unable to walk, and no doubt being spoon +fed, and yet obliged to continue to be called by these names. It will +rob us of dignity.'</p> + +<p>'I don't think I'll mind,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. 'I shall still feel +exactly <i>like</i> Dolly.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes looked at her, again I thought with uneasiness—with, +really, an air of rather anxious responsibility.</p> + +<p>And afterwards, when her sister had gone indoors for something, she +expounded a theory she said she held, the soundness of which had often +been proved to her by events, that names had much influence on +behaviour.</p> + +<p>'Not half as much,' I thought (but didn't say), 'as underclothes.' And +indeed I have for years been acquainted with somebody called Trixy, who +for steady gloom and heaviness of spirit would be hard to equal. Also I +know an Isolda; a most respectable married woman, of a sprightly humour +and much nimbleness in dodging big emotions.</p> + +<p>'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'has never, I am sorry to say, shared my +opinion. If she had, many things in her life would have been different, +for then she would have been on her guard as I have been. I am glad to +say there is nothing I have ever done since I ceased to be a child that +has been even remotely compatible with being called Kitty.'</p> + +<p>I said I thought that was a great deal to be able to say. It suggested, +I said, quite an unusually blameless past. Through my brain ran for an +instant the vision of that devil who, seeking his tail, met Antoine in +the passage. I blushed. Fortunately Mrs. Barnes didn't notice.</p> + +<p>'What did Dol—what did Mrs. Jewks do,' I said, 'that you think was the +direct result of her Christian name? Don't tell me if my question is +indiscreet, which I daresay it is, because I know I often am, but your +theory interests me.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes hesitated a moment. She was, I think, turning over in her +mind whether she would give herself the relief of complete unreserve, or +continue for a few more days to skim round on the outskirts of +confidences. This was yesterday. After all, she had only been with me +two days.</p> + +<p>She considered awhile, then decided that two days wasn't long enough, so +only said: 'My sister is sometimes a little rash,—or perhaps I should +say has been. But the effects of rashness are felt for a long time; +usually for the rest of one's life.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I agreed; and thought ruefully of some of my own.</p> + +<p>This, however, only made me if anything more inquisitive as to the exact +nature and quality of Dolly's resemblance to her name. We all, I suppose +(except Mrs. Barnes, who I am sure hasn't), have been rash, and if we +could induce ourselves to be frank much innocent amusement might be got +by comparing the results of our rashnesses. But Mrs. Barnes was unable +at the moment to induce herself to be frank, and she returned to the +subject she has already treated very fully since her arrival, the +wonderful bracing air up here and her great and grateful appreciation of +it.</p> + +<p>To-day is Tuesday; and on Saturday evening,—the day they arrived back +again, complete with their luggage, which came up in a cart round by the +endless zigzags of the road while they with their peculiar dauntlessness +took the steep short cuts,—we had what might be called an exchange of +cards. Mrs. Barnes told me what she thought fit for me to know about her +late husband, and I responded by telling her and her sister what I +thought fit for them to know of my uncle the Dean.</p> + +<p>There is such a lot of him that is fit to know that it took some time. +He was a great convenience. How glad I am I've got him. A dean, after +all, is of an impressive respectability as a relation. His apron covers +a multitude of family shortcomings. You can hold him up to the light, +and turn him round, and view him from every angle, and there is nothing +about him that doesn't bear inspection. All my relations aren't like +that. One at least, though he denies it, wasn't even born in wedlock. +We're not sure about the others, but we're quite sure about this one, +that he wasn't born altogether as he ought to have been. Except for his +obstinacy in denial he is a very attractive person. My uncle can't be +got to see that he exists. This makes him not able to like my uncle.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I didn't go beyond the Dean on Saturday night, for he had a most +satisfying effect on my new friends. Mrs. Barnes evidently thinks highly +of deans, and Mrs. Jewks, though she said nothing, smiled very +pleasantly while I held him up to view. No Lord Mayor was produced on +their side. I begin to think there isn't one. I begin to think their +self-respect is simply due to the consciousness that they are British. +Not that Mrs. Jewks says anything about it, but she smiles while Mrs. +Barnes talks on immensely patriotic lines. I gather they haven't been in +England for some time, so that naturally their affection for their +country has been fanned into a great glow. I know all about that sort of +glow. I have had it each time I've been out of England.</p> + + +<p><i>August 20th.</i></p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes elaborated the story of him she speaks of always as Mr. +Barnes to-day.</p> + +<p>He was, she said, a business man, and went to the city every day, where +he did things with hides: dried skins, I understood, that he bought and +resold. And though Mr. Barnes drew his sustenance from these hides with +what seemed to Mrs. Barnes great ease and abundance while he was alive, +after his death it was found that, through no fault of his own but +rather, she suggested, to his credit, he had for some time past been +living on his capital. This capital came to an end almost simultaneously +with Mr. Barnes, and all that was left for Mrs. Barnes to live on was +the house at Dulwich, handsomely furnished, it was true, with everything +of the best; for Mr. Barnes had disliked what Mrs. Barnes called +fandangles, and was all for mahogany and keeping a good table. But you +can't live on mahogany, said Mrs. Barnes, nor keep a good table with +nothing to keep it on, so she wished to sell the house and retire into +obscurity on the proceeds. Her brother-in-law, however, suggested paying +guests; so would she be able to continue in her home, even if on a +slightly different basis. Many people at that period were beginning to +take in paying guests. She would not, he thought, lose caste. Especially +if she restricted herself to real gentlefolk, who wouldn't allow her to +feel her position.</p> + +<p>It was a little difficult at first, but she got used to it and was +doing very well when the war broke out. Then, of course, she had to +stand by Dolly. So she gave up her house and guests, and her means were +now very small; for somehow, remarked Mrs. Barnes, directly one wants to +sell nobody seems to want to buy, and she had had to let her beautiful +house go for very little—</p> + +<p>'But why—' I interrupted; and pulled myself up.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I was just going to ask why Dolly hadn't gone to Mrs. Barnes and helped +with the paying guests, instead of Mrs. Barnes giving them up and going +to Dolly; but I stopped because I thought perhaps such a question, +seeing that they quite remarkably refrain from asking me questions, +might have been a little indiscreet at our present stage of intimacy. +No, I can't call it intimacy,—friendship, then. No, I can't call it +friendship either, yet; the only word at present is acquaintanceship.</p> + + +<p><i>August 21st.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">The conduct of my guests is so extraordinarily discreet, their careful +avoidance of curiosity, of questions, is so remarkable, that I can but +try to imitate. They haven't asked me a single thing. I positively +thrust the Dean on them. They make no comment on anything either, +except the situation and the view. We seem to talk if not only certainly +chiefly about that. We haven't even got to books yet. I still don't know +about <i>The Rosary</i>. Once or twice when I have been alone with Mrs. +Barnes she has begun to talk of Dolly, who appears to fill most of her +thoughts, but each time she has broken off in the middle and resumed her +praises of the situation and the view. I haven't been alone at all yet +with Dolly; nor, though Mr. Barnes has been dwelt upon in detail, have I +been told anything about Mr. Jewks.</p> + + +<p><i>August 22nd.</i></p> + +<p>Impetuosity sometimes gets the better of me, and out begins to rush a +question; but up to now I have succeeded in catching it and strangling +it before it is complete. For perhaps my new friends have been very +unhappy, just as I have been very unhappy, and they may be struggling +out of it just as I am, still with places in their memories that hurt +too much for them to dare to touch. Perhaps it is only by silence and +reserve that they can manage to be brave.</p> + +<p>There are no signs, though, of anything of the sort on their composed +faces; but then neither, I think, would they see any signs of such +things on mine. The moment as it passes is, I find, somehow a gay thing. +Somebody says something amusing, and I laugh; somebody is kind, and I am +happy. Just the smell of a flower, the turn of a sentence, anything, the +littlest thing, is enough to make the passing moment gay to me. I am +sure my guests can't tell by looking at me that I have ever been +anything but cheerful; and so I, by looking at them, wouldn't be able to +say that they have ever been anything but composed,—Mrs. Barnes +composed and grave, Mrs. Jewks composed and smiling.</p> + +<p>But I refuse now to jump at conclusions in the nimble way I used to. +Even about Mrs. Barnes, who would seem to be an untouched monument of +tranquillity, a cave of calm memories, I can no longer be sure. And so +we sit together quietly on the terrace, and are as presentable as so +many tidy, white-curtained houses in a decent street. We don't know what +we've got inside us each of disorder, of discomfort, of anxieties. +Perhaps there is nothing; perhaps my friends are as tidy and quiet +inside as out. Anyhow up to now we have kept ourselves to ourselves, as +Mrs. Barnes would say, and we make a most creditable show.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Only I don't believe in that keeping oneself to oneself attitude. Life +is too brief to waste any of it being slow in making friends. I have a +theory—Mrs. Barnes isn't the only one of us three who has +theories—that reticence is a stuffy, hampering thing. Except about +one's extremest bitter grief, which is, like one's extremest joy of +love, too deeply hidden away with God to be told of, one should be +without reserves. And if one makes mistakes, and if the other person +turns out to have been unworthy of being treated frankly and goes away +and distorts, it can't be helped,—one just takes the risk. For isn't +anything better than distrust, and the slowness and selfish fear of +caution? Isn't anything better than not doing one's fellow creatures the +honour of taking it for granted that they are, women and all, gentlemen? +Besides, how lonely....</p> + + +<p><i>August 23rd.</i></p> + +<p>The sun goes on blazing, and we go on sitting in the shade in a row.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes does a great deal of knitting. She knits socks for soldiers +all day. She got into this habit during the war, when she sent I don't +know how many pairs a year to the trenches, and now she can't stop. I +suppose these will go to charitable institutions, for although the war +has left off there are, as Mrs. Jewks justly said, still legs in the +world.</p> + +<p>This remark I think came under the heading Dolly in Mrs. Barnes's mind, +for she let her glance rest a moment on her sister in a kind of +affectionate concern.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jewks hasn't said much yet, but each time she has said anything I +have liked it. Usually she murmurs, almost as if she didn't want Mrs. +Barnes to hear, yet couldn't help saying what she says. She too knits, +but only, I think, because her sister likes to see her sitting beside +her doing it, and never for long at a time. Her chief occupation, I have +discovered, is to read aloud to Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>This wasn't done in my presence the first four days out of consideration +for me, for everybody doesn't like being read to, Mrs. Barnes explained +afterwards; but they went upstairs after lunch to their rooms,—to +sleep, as I supposed, knowing how well they do that, and it was only +gradually that I realised, from the monotonous gentle drone coming +through the window to where I lay below on the grass, that it wasn't +Mrs. Barnes giving long drawn-out counsel to Mrs. Jewks on the best way +to cope with the dangers of being Dolly, but that it was Mrs. Jewks +reading aloud.</p> + +<p>After that I suggested they should do this on the terrace, where it is +so much cooler than anywhere else in the afternoon; so now, reassured +that it in no way disturbs me—Mrs. Barnes's politeness and sense of +duty as a guest never flags for a moment—this is what happens, and it +happens in the mornings also. For, says Mrs. Barnes, how much better it +is to study what persons of note have said than waste the hours of life +saying things oneself.</p> + +<p>They read biographies and histories, but only those, I gather, that are +not recent; and sometimes, Mrs. Barnes said, they lighten what Mrs. +Jewks described in a murmur as these more solid forms of fiction by +reading a really good novel.</p> + +<p>I asked Mrs. Barnes with much interest about the novel. What were the +really good ones they had read? And I hung on the answer, for here was +something we could talk about that wasn't either the situation or the +view and yet was discreet.</p> + +<p>'Ah,' she said, shaking her head, 'there are very few really good +novels. We don't care, of course, except for the very best, and they +don't appear to be printed nowadays.'</p> + +<p>'I expect the very best are unprintable,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, her head +bent over her knitting, for it was one of the moments when she too was +engaged on socks.</p> + +<p>'There used to be very good novels,' continued Mrs. Barnes, who hadn't I +think heard her, 'but of recent years they have indeed been few. I begin +to fear we shall never again see a Thackeray or a Trollope. And yet I +have a theory—and surely these two writers prove it—that it is +possible to be both wholesome and clever.'</p> + +<p>'I don't want to see any more Thackerays and Trollopes,' murmured Mrs. +Jewks. 'I've seen them. Now I want to see something different.'</p> + +<p>This sentence was too long for Mrs. Barnes not to notice, and she looked +at me as one who should say, 'There. What did I tell you? Her name +unsettles her.'</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>'Our father,' then said Mrs. Barnes, with so great a gravity of tone +that for a moment I thought she was unaccountably and at eleven o'clock +in the morning going to embark on the Lord's Prayer, 'knew Thackeray. He +mixed with him.'</p> + +<p>And as I wasn't quite sure whether this was a rebuke for Dolly or +information for me, I kept quiet.</p> + +<p>As, however, Mrs. Barnes didn't continue, I began to feel that perhaps I +was expected to say something. So I did.</p> + +<p>'That,' I said, 'must have been very—'</p> + +<p>I searched round for an enthusiastic word, but couldn't find one. It is +unfortunate how I can never think of any words more enthusiastic than +what I am feeling. They seem to disappear; and urged by politeness, or a +desire to please, I frantically hunt for them in a perfectly empty mind. +The nearest approach to one that I found this morning was Enjoyable. I +don't think much of Enjoyable. It is a watery word; but it was all I +found, so I said it. 'That must have been very enjoyable,' I said; and +even I could hear that my voice was without excitement.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jewks looked at me and smiled.</p> + +<p>'It was more than enjoyable,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'it was elevating. Dolly +used to feel just as I do about it,' she added, her eye reproachfully on +her sister. 'It is not Thackeray's fault that she no longer does.'</p> + +<p>'It's only because I've finished with him,' said Mrs. Jewks +apologetically. 'Now I want something <i>different</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Dolly and I,' explained Mrs. Barnes to me, 'don't always see alike. I +have a theory that one doesn't finish with the Immortals.'</p> + +<p>'Would you put Thackeray—' I began diffidently.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes stopped me at once.</p> + +<p>'Our father,' she said—again my hands instinctively wanted to +fold—'who was an excellent judge, indeed a specialist if I may say so, +placed him among the Immortals. Therefore I am content to leave him +there.'</p> + +<p>'But isn't that filial piety rather than—' I began again, still +diffident but also obstinate.</p> + +<p>'In any case,' interrupted Mrs. Barnes, raising her hand as though I +were the traffic, 'I shall never forget the influence he and the other +great writers of the period had upon the boys.'</p> + +<p>'The boys?' I couldn't help inquiring, in spite of this being an +interrogation.</p> + +<p>'Our father educated boys. On an unusual and original system. Being +devoid of the classics, which he said was all the better because then he +hadn't to spend any time remembering them, he was a devoted English +linguist. Accordingly he taught boys English,—foreign boys, because +English boys naturally know it already, and his method was to make them +minutely acquainted with the great novels,—the great wholesome novels +of that period. Not a French, or Dutch, or Italian boy but went home—'</p> + +<p>'Or German,' put in Mrs. Jewks. 'Most of them were Germans.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes turned red. 'Let us forget them,' she said, with a wave of +her hand. 'It is my earnest desire,' she continued, looking at me, 'to +forget Germans.'</p> + +<p>'Do let us,' I said politely.</p> + +<p>'Not one of the boys,' she then went on, 'but returned to his country +with a knowledge of the colloquial English of the best period, and of +the noble views of that period as expressed by the noblest men, +unobtainable by any other method. Our father called himself a +Non-Grammarian. The boys went home knowing no rules of grammar, yet +unable to talk incorrectly. Thackeray himself was the grammar, and his +characters the teachers. And so was Dickens, but not quite to the same +extent, because of people like Sam Weller who might have taught the boys +slang. Thackeray was immensely interested when our father wrote and told +him about the school, and once when he was in London he invited him to +lunch.'</p> + +<p>Not quite clear as to who was in London and which invited which, I said, +'Who?'</p> + +<p>'It was our father who went to London,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and was most +kindly entertained by Thackeray.'</p> + +<p>'He went because he wasn't there already,' explained Mrs. Jewks.</p> + +<p>'Dolly means,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'that he did not live in London. Our +father was an Oxford man. Not in the narrow, technical meaning that has +come to be attached to the term, but in the simple natural sense of +living there. It was there that we were born, and there that we grew up +in an atmosphere of education. We saw it all round us going on in the +different colleges, and we saw it in detail and at first hand in our own +home. For we too were brought up on Thackeray and Dickens, in whom our +father said we would find everything girls needed to know and nothing +that, they had better not.'</p> + +<p>'I used to have a perfect <i>itch</i>,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, 'to know the +things I had better not.'</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Barnes again looked at me as one who should say, 'There. What +did I tell you? Such a word, too. Itch.'</p> + +<p>There was a silence. I could think of nothing to say that wouldn't +appear either inquisitive or to be encouraging Dolly.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes sits between us. This arrangement of our chairs on the grass +happened apparently quite naturally the first day, and now has become +one that I feel I mustn't disturb. For me to drop into the middle chair +would somehow now be impossible. It is Mrs. Barnes's place. Yet I do +want to sit next to Mrs. Jewks and talk to her. Or better still, go for +a walk with her. But Mrs. Barnes always goes for the walks, either with +or without me, but never without Mrs. Jewks. She hasn't yet left us once +alone together. If anything needs fetching it is Mrs. Jewks who fetches +it. They don't seem to want to write letters, but if they did I expect +they would both go in to write them at the same time.</p> + +<p>I do think, though, that we are growing a little more intimate. At least +to-day we have talked of something that wasn't the view. I shouldn't be +surprised if in another week, supposing the hot weather lasts so long, I +shall be asking Mrs. Barnes outright what it is Dolly did that has +apparently so permanently unnerved her sister.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But suppose she retaliated by asking me,—oh, there are so many things +she could ask me that I couldn't answer! Except with the shameful, +exposing answer of beginning very helplessly to cry....</p> + + +<p><i>August 24th.</i></p> + +<p>Last night I ran after Mrs. Jewks just as she was disappearing into her +room and said, 'I'm going to call you Dolly. I don't like Jewks. How do +you spell it?'</p> + +<p>'What—Dolly?' she asked, smiling.</p> + +<p>'No—Jewks.'</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Barnes came out of her bedroom and said, 'Did we forget to bid +you goodnight? How very remiss of us.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">And we all smiled at each other, and went into our rooms, and shut the +doors.</p> + + +<p><i>August 25th.</i></p> + +<p>The behaviour of time is a surprising thing. I can't think how it +manages to make weeks sometimes seem like minutes and days sometimes +seem like years. Those weeks I was here alone seemed not longer than a +few minutes. These days since my guests came seem to have gone on for +months.</p> + +<p>I suppose it is because they have been so tightly packed. Nobody coming +up the path and seeing the three figures sitting quietly on the terrace, +the middle one knitting, the right-hand one reading aloud, the +left-hand one sunk apparently in stupor, would guess that these +creatures' days were packed. Many an honest slug stirred by creditable +desires has looked more animate than we. Yet the days <i>are</i> packed. +Mine, at any rate, are. Packed tight with an immense monotony.</p> + +<p>Every day we do exactly the same things: breakfast, read aloud; lunch, +read aloud; tea, go for a walk; supper, read aloud; exhaustion; bed. How +quick and short it is to write down, and how endless to live. At meals +we talk, and on the walk we talk, or rather we say things. At meals the +things we say are about food, and on the walk they are about mountains. +The rest of the time we don't talk, because of the reading aloud. That +fills up every gap; that muzzles all conversation.</p> + +<p>I don't know whether Mrs. Barnes is afraid I'll ask questions, or +whether she is afraid Dolly will start answering questions that I +haven't asked; I only know that she seems to have decided that safety +lies in putting an extinguisher on talk. At the same time she is most +earnest in her endeavours to be an agreeable guest, and is all +politeness; but so am I, most earnest for my part in my desire to be an +agreeable hostess, and we are both so dreadfully polite and so horribly +considerate that things end by being exactly as I would prefer them not +to be.</p> + +<p>For instance, finding Merivale—it is Merivale's <i>History of the Romans +under the Empire</i> that is being read—finding him too much like Gibbon +gone sick and filled with water, a Gibbon with all the kick taken out of +him, shorn of his virility and his foot-notes, yesterday I didn't go and +sit on the terrace after breakfast, but took a volume of the authentic +Gibbon and departed by the back door for a walk.</p> + +<p>It is usually, I know, a bad sign when a hostess begins to use the back +door, but it wasn't a sign of anything in this case except a great +desire to get away from Merivale. After lunch, when, strengthened by my +morning, I prepared to listen to some more of him, I found the chairs on +the terrace empty, and from the window of Mrs. Barnes's room floated +down the familiar muffled drone of the first four days.</p> + +<p>So then I went for another walk, and thought. And the result was polite +affectionate protests at tea-time, decorated with some amiable untruths +about domestic affairs having called me away—God forgive me, but I +believe I said it was the laundress—and such real distress on Mrs. +Barnes's part at the thought of having driven me off my own terrace, +that now so as to shield her from thinking anything so painful to her I +must needs hear Merivale to the end.</p> + +<p>'Dolly,' I said, meeting her by some strange chance alone on the stairs +going down to supper—invariably the sisters go down together—'do you +like reading aloud?'</p> + +<p>I said it very quickly and under my breath, for at the bottom of the +stairs would certainly be Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>'No,' she said, also under her breath.</p> + +<p>'Then why do you do it?'</p> + +<p>'Do you like listening?' she whispered, smiling.</p> + +<p>'No,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Then why do you do it?'</p> + +<p>'Because—' I said. 'Well, because—'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">She nodded and smiled. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'that's my reason too.'</p> + + +<p><i>August 26th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">All day to-day I have emptied myself of any wishes of my own and tried +to be the perfect hostess. I have given myself up to Mrs. Barnes, and on +the walk I followed where she led, and I made no suggestions when paths +crossed though I have secret passionate preferences in paths, and I +rested on the exact spot she chose in spite of knowing there was a much +prettier one just round the corner, and I joined with her in admiring a +view I didn't really like. In fact I merged myself in Mrs. Barnes, +sitting by her on the mountain side in much the spirit of Wordsworth, +when he sat by his cottage fire without ambition, hope or aim.</p> + + +<p><i>August 27th.</i></p> + +<p>The weather blazes along in its hot beauty. Each morning, the first +thing I see when I open my eyes is the great patch of golden light on +the wall near my bed that means another perfect day. Nearly always the +sky is cloudless—a deep, incredible blue. Once or twice, when I have +gone quite early to my window towards the east, I have seen what looked +to my sleepy eyes like a flock of little angels floating slowly along +the tops of the mountains, or at any rate, if not the angels themselves, +delicate bright tufts of feathers pulled out of their wings. These +objects, on waking up more completely, I have perceived to be clouds; +and then I have thought that perhaps that day there would be rain. But +there never has been rain.</p> + +<p>The clouds have floated slowly away to Italy, and left us to another day +of intense, burning heat.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I don't believe the weather will ever break up. Not, anyhow, for a long +time. Not, anyhow, before I have heard Merivale to the end.</p> + + +<p><i>August 28th.</i></p> + +<p>In the morning when I get up and go and look out of my window at the +splendid east I don't care about Merivale. I defy him. And I make up my +mind that though my body may be present at the reading of him so as to +avoid distressing Mrs. Barnes and driving her off the terrace—we are +minute in our care not to drive each other off the terrace—my ears +shall be deaf to him and my imagination shall wander. Who is Merivale, +that he shall burden my memory with even shreds of his unctuous +imitations? And I go down to breakfast with a fortified and shining +spirit, as one who has arisen refreshed and determined from prayer, and +out on the terrace I do shut my ears. But I think there must be chinks +in them, for I find my mind is much hung about, after all, with +Merivale. Bits of him. Bits like this.</p> + +<p><i>Propertius is deficient in that light touch and exquisitely polished +taste which volatilize the sensuality and flattery of Horace. The +playfulness of the Sabine bard is that of the lapdog, while the Umbrian +reminds us of the pranks of a clumsier and less tolerated quadruped.</i></p> + +<p>This is what you write if you want to write like Gibbon, and yet remain +at the same time a rector and chaplain to the Speaker of the House of +Commons; and this bit kept on repeating itself in my head like a tune +during luncheon to-day. It worried me that I couldn't decide what the +clumsier and less tolerated quadruped was.</p> + +<p>'A donkey,' said Mrs. Jewks, on my asking my guests what they thought.</p> + +<p>'Surely yes—an ass,' said Mrs. Barnes, whose words are always picked.</p> + +<p>'But why should a donkey be less tolerated than a lapdog?' I asked. 'I +would tolerate it more. If I might tolerate only one, it would certainly +be the donkey.'</p> + +<p>'Perhaps he means a flea,' suggested Mrs. Jewks.</p> + +<p>'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>'But fleas do go in for pranks, and are less tolerated than lapdogs,' +said Mrs. Jewks.</p> + +<p>'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes again.</p> + +<p>'Except that,' I said, not heeding Mrs. Barnes for a moment in my +pleasure at having got away from the usual luncheon-table talk of food, +'haven't fleas got more than four legs?'</p> + +<p>'That's centipedes,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Then it's two legs that they've got.'</p> + +<p>'That's birds,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>We looked at each other and began to laugh. It was the first time we had +laughed, and once we had begun we laughed and laughed, in that foolish +way one does about completely idiotic things when one knows one oughtn't +to and hasn't for a long while.</p> + +<p>There sat Mrs. Barnes, straight and rocky, with worried eyes. She never +smiled; and indeed why should she? But the more she didn't smile the +more we laughed,—helplessly, ridiculously. It was dreadful to laugh, +dreadful to mention objects that distressed her as vulgar; and because +it was dreadful and we knew it was dreadful, we couldn't stop. So was I +once overcome with deplorable laughter in church, only because a cat +came in. So have I seen an ill-starred woman fall a prey to unseasonable +mirth at a wedding. We laughed positively to tears. We couldn't stop. I +did try to. I was really greatly ashamed. For I was doing what I now +feel in all my bones is the thing Mrs. Barnes dreads most,—I was +encouraging Dolly.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, when we had settled down to Merivale, and Dolly finding she +had left the book upstairs went in to fetch it, I begged Mrs. Barnes to +believe that I wasn't often quite so silly and didn't suppose I would be +like that again.</p> + +<p>She was very kind, and laid her hand for a moment on mine,—such a bony +hand, marked all over, I thought as I looked down at it, with the traces +of devotion and self-sacrifice. That hand had never had leisure to get +fat. It may have had it in the spacious days of Mr. Barnes, but the +years afterwards had certainly been lean ones; and since the war, since +the selling of her house and the beginning of the evidently wearing +occupation of what she had called standing by Dolly, the years, I +understand, have been so lean that they were practically bone.</p> + +<p>'I think,' she said, 'I have perhaps got into the way of being too +serious. It is because Dolly, I consider, is not serious enough. If she +were more so I would be less so, and that would be better for us both. +Oh, you musn't suppose,' she added, 'that I cannot enjoy a joke as +merrily as anybody.' And she smiled broadly and amazingly at me, the +rockiest, most determined smile.</p> + +<p>'There wasn't any joke, and we were just absurd,' I said penitently, in +my turn laying my hand on hers. 'Forgive me. I'm always sorry and +ashamed when I have behaved as though I were ten. I do try not to, but +sometimes it comes upon one unexpectedly—'</p> + +<p>'Dolly is a little old to behave as though she were ten,' said Mrs. +Barnes, in sorrow rather than in anger.</p> + +<p>'And I'm a little old too. It's very awkward when you aren't so old +inside as you are outside. For years I've been trying to be dignified, +and I'm always being tripped up by a kind of apparently incurable +natural effervescence.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes looked grave.</p> + +<p>'That is what is the matter with Dolly,' she said. 'Just that. How +strange that you should have met. For it isn't usual. I cannot believe +it is usual. All her troubles have been caused by it. I do not, however, +regard it as incurable. On the contrary—I have helped her to check it, +and she is much better than she was.'</p> + +<p>'But what are you afraid she will do <i>now</i>?' I asked; and Dolly, coming +out with, the book under her arm and that funny little air of jauntiness +that triumphs when she walks over her sobering black skirt and white +cotton petticoat, prevented my getting an answer.</p> + +<p>But I felt in great sympathy with Mrs. Barnes. And when, starting for +our walk after tea, something happened to Dolly's boot—I think the heel +came off—and she had to turn back, I gladly went on alone with her +sister, hoping that perhaps she would continue to talk on these more +intimate lines.</p> + +<p>And so she did.</p> + +<p>'Dolly,' she said almost immediately, almost before we had got round the +turn of the path, 'is the object of my tenderest solicitude and love.'</p> + +<p>'I know. I see that,' I said, sympathetically.</p> + +<p>'She was the object of my love from the moment when she was laid, a new +born baby, in the arms of the little ten year old girl I was then, and +she became, as she grew up and developed the characteristics I associate +with her name, the object of my solicitude. Indeed, of my concern.'</p> + +<p>'I wish,' I said, as she stopped and I began to be afraid this once more +was to be all and the shutters were going to be shut again, 'we might +be real friends.'</p> + +<p>'Are we not?' asked Mrs. Barnes, looking anxious, as though she feared +she had failed somewhere in her duties as a guest.</p> + +<p>'Oh yes—we are friends of course, but I meant by real friends people +who talk together about anything and everything. <i>Almost</i> anything and +everything,' I amended. 'People who tell each other things,' I went on +hesitatingly. '<i>Most</i> things,' I amended.</p> + +<p>'I have a great opinion of discretion,' said Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>'I am sure you have. But don't you think that sometimes the very essence +of real friendship consists in—'</p> + +<p>'Mr. Barnes always had his own dressing-room.'</p> + +<p>This was unexpected, and it silenced me. After a moment I said lamely, +'I'm sure he did. But you were saying about Dol—about Mrs. Jewks—'</p> + +<p>'Yes.' Mrs. Barnes sighed. 'Well, it cannot harm you or her,' she went +on after a pause, 'for me to tell you that the first thing Dolly did as +soon as she was grown up was to make an impetuous marriage.'</p> + +<p>'Isn't that rather what most of us begin with?'</p> + +<p>'Few are so impetuous. Mine, for instance, was not. Mine was the +considered union of affection with regard, entered into properly in the +eye of all men, and accompanied by the good wishes of relations and +friends. Dolly's—well, Dolly's was impetuous. I cannot say +ill-advised, because she asked no one's advice. She plunged—it is not +too strong a word, and unfortunately can be applied to some of her +subsequent movements—into a misalliance, and in order to contract it +she let herself down secretly at night from her bedroom window by means +of a sheet.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes paused.</p> + +<p>'How very—how very spirited,' I couldn't help murmuring.</p> + +<p>Indeed I believe I felt a little jealous. Nothing in my own past +approaches this in enterprise. And I not only doubted if I would ever +have had the courage to commit myself to a sheet, but I felt a momentary +vexation that no one had ever suggested that on his account I should. +Compared to Dolly, I am a poor thing.</p> + +<p>'So you can understand,' continued Mrs. Barnes, 'how earnestly I wish to +keep my sister to lines of normal conduct. She has been much punished +for her departures from them. I am very anxious that nothing should be +said to her that might seem—well, that might seem to be even slightly +in sympathy with actions or ways of looking at life that have in the +past brought her unhappiness, and can only in the future bring her yet +more.'</p> + +<p>'But why,' I asked, still thinking of the sheet, 'didn't she go out to +be married through the front door?'</p> + +<p>'Because our father would never have allowed his front door to be used +for such a marriage. You forget that it was a school, and she was +running away with somebody who up till a year or two previously had been +one of the pupils.'</p> + +<p>'Oh? Did she marry a foreigner?'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes flushed a deep, painful red. She is brown and +weather-beaten, yet through the brownness spread unmistakeably this deep +red. Obviously she had forgotten what she told me the other day about +the boys all being foreigners.</p> + +<p>'Let us not speak evil of the dead,' she said with awful solemnity; and +for the rest of the walk would talk of nothing but the view.</p> + +<p>But in my room to-night I have been thinking. There are guests and +guests, and some guests haunt one. These guests are that kind. They +wouldn't haunt me so much if only we could be really friends; but we'll +never be really friends as long as I am kept from talking to Dolly and +between us is fixed the rugged and hitherto unscaleable barrier of Mrs. +Barnes. Perhaps to-morrow, if I have the courage, I shall make a great +attempt at friendship,—at what Mrs. Barnes would call being thoroughly +indiscreet. For isn't it senseless for us three women, up here alone +together, to spend the precious days when we might be making friends for +life hiding away from each other? Why can't I be told outright that +Dolly married a German? Evidently she did; and if she could bear it I am +sure I can. Twenty years ago it might have happened to us all. Twenty +years ago I might have done it myself, except that there wasn't the +German living who would have got me to go down a sheet for him. And +anyhow Dolly's German is dead; and doesn't even a German leave off being +one after he is dead? Wouldn't he naturally incline, by the sheer action +of time, to dissolve into neutrality? It doesn't seem humane to pursue +him into the recesses of eternity as an alien enemy. Besides, I thought +the war was over.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">For a long while to-night I have been leaning out of my window +thinking. When I look at the stars I don't mind about Germans. It seems +impossible to. I believe if Mrs. Barnes would look at them she wouldn't +be nearly so much worried. It is a very good practice, I think, to lean +out of one's window for a space before going to bed and let the cool +darkness wash over one. After being all day with people, how blessed a +thing it is not to be with them. The night to-night is immensely silent, +and I've been standing so quiet, so motionless that I would have heard +the smallest stirring of a leaf. But nothing is stirring. The air is +quite still. There isn't a sound. The mountains seem to be brooding over +a valley that has gone to sleep.</p> + + +<p><i>August 29th.</i></p> + +<p>Antoine said to me this morning that he thought if <i>ces dames</i>—so he +always speaks of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly—were going to stay any time, +perhaps an assistant for Mrs. Antoine had better be engaged; because +Mrs. Antoine might otherwise possibly presently begin to find the +combination of heat and visitors a little—</p> + +<p>'Of course,' I said. 'Naturally she might. I regret, Antoine, that I did +not think of this. Why did you not point it out sooner? I will go +myself this very day and search for an assistant.'</p> + +<p>Antoine said that such exertions were not for Madame, and that it was he +who would search for the assistant.</p> + +<p>I said he couldn't possibly leave the chickens and the cow, and that it +was I who would search for the assistant.</p> + +<p>So that is what I have been doing all day—having a most heavenly time +wandering from village to village along the mountain side, my knapsack +over my arm and freedom in my heart. The knapsack had food in it and a +volume of Crabbe, because it was impossible to tell how long the search +might last, and I couldn't not be nourished. I explained to my guests +how easily I mightn't be back till the evening, I commended them to the +special attentiveness of the Antoines, and off I went, accompanied by +Mrs. Barnes's commiseration that I should have to be engaged on so hot a +day in what she with felicitous exactness called a domestic pursuit, and +trying very hard not to be too evidently pleased.</p> + +<p>I went to the villages that lie in the direction of my lovely place of +larches, and having after some search found the assistant I continued +on towards the west, walking fast, almost as if people would know I had +accomplished what I had come out for, and might catch me and take me +home again.</p> + +<p>As I walked it positively was quite difficult not to sing. Only +hostesses know this pure joy. To feel so deep and peculiar an +exhilaration you must have been having guests and still be having them. +Before my guests came I might and did roam about as I chose, but it was +never like to-day, never with that holiday feeling. Oh, I have had a +wonderful day! Everything was delicious. I don't remember having smelt +the woods so good, and there hasn't ever been anything like the deep +cool softness of the grass I lay on at lunch-time. And Crabbe the +delightful,—why don't people talk more about Crabbe? Why don't they +read him more? I have him in eight volumes; none of your little books of +selections, which somehow take away all his true flavour, but every bit +of him from beginning to end. Nobody ever made so many couplets that fit +in to so many occasions of one's life. I believe I could describe my +daily life with Mrs. Barnes and Dolly entirely in couplets from Crabbe. +It is the odd fate of his writings to have turned by the action of time +from serious to droll. He decomposes, as it were, hilariously. I lay +for hours this afternoon enjoying his neat couplets. He enchants me. I +forget time when I am with him. It was Crabbe who made me late for +supper. But he is the last person one takes out for a walk with one if +one isn't happy. Crabbe is a barometer of serenity. You have to be in a +cloudless mood to enjoy him. I was in that mood to-day. I had escaped.</p> + +<p>Well, I have had my outing, I have had my little break, and have come +back filled with renewed zeal to my guests. When I said good-night +to-night I was so much pleased with everything, and felt so happily and +comfortably affectionate, that I not only kissed Dolly but embarked +adventurously on an embrace of Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>She received it with surprise but kindliness.</p> + +<p>I think she considered I was perhaps being a little impulsive.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I think perhaps I was.</p> + + +<p><i>August 30th.</i></p> + +<p>In the old days before the war this house was nearly always full of +friends, guests, for they were invited, but they never were in or on my +mind as guests, and I don't remember ever feeling that I was a hostess. +The impression I now have of them is that they were all very young. But +of course they weren't; some were quite as old as Mrs. Barnes, and once +or twice came people even older. They all, however, had this in common, +that whatever their age was when they arrived, by the time they left +they were not more than twenty.</p> + +<p>I can't explain this. It couldn't only have been the air, invigorating +and inspiriting though it is, because my present guests are still +exactly the same age as the first day. That is, Mrs. Barnes is. Dolly is +of no age—she never was and never will be forty; but Mrs. Barnes is +just as firmly fifty as she was a fortnight ago, and it only used to +take those other guests a week to shed every one of their years except +the first twenty.</p> + +<p>Is it this static, rock-like quality in Mrs. Barnes that makes her +remain so unchangeably a guest, that makes her unable to develope into a +friend? Why must I, because she insists on remaining a guest, be kept so +firmly in my proper place as hostess? I want to be friends. I feel as +full of friendliness as a brimming cup. Why am I not let spill some of +it? I should love to be friends with Dolly, and I would like very much +to be friends with Mrs. Barnes. Not that I think she and I would ever be +intimate in the way I am sure Dolly and I would be after ten minutes +together alone, but we might develope a mutually indulgent affection. I +would respect her prejudices, and she would forgive me that I have so +few, and perhaps find it interesting to help me to increase them.</p> + +<p>But the anxious care with which Mrs. Barnes studies to be her idea of a +perfect guest forces me to a corresponding anxious care to be her idea +of a perfect hostess. I find it wearing. There is no easy friendliness +for us, no careless talk, no happy go-as-you-please and naturalness. And +ought a guest to be so constantly grateful? Her gratitude is almost a +reproach. It makes me ashamed of myself; as if I were a plutocrat, a +profiteer, a bloated possessor of more than my share, a bestower of +favours—of all odious things to be! Now I perceive that I never have +had guests before, but only friends. For the first time I am really +entertaining; or rather, owing to the something in Mrs. Barnes that +induces in me a strange submissiveness, a strange acceptance of her +ordering of our days, I am for the first time, not only in my own house, +but in any house that I can remember where I have stayed, being +entertained.</p> + +<p>What is it about Mrs. Barnes that makes Dolly and me sit so quiet and +good? I needn't ask: I know. It is because she is single-minded, +unselfish, genuinely and deeply anxious for everybody's happiness and +welfare, and it is impossible to hurt such goodness. Accordingly we are +bound hand and foot to her wishes, exactly as if she were a tyrant.</p> + +<p>Dolly of course must be bound by a thousand reasons for gratitude. +Hasn't Mrs. Barnes given up everything for her? Hasn't she given up +home, and livelihood, and country and friends to come and be with her? +It is she who magnanimously bears the chief burden of Dolly's marriage. +Without having had any of the joys of Siegfried—I can't think Dolly +would mutter a name in her sleep that wasn't her husband's—she has +spent these years of war cheerfully accepting the results of him, +devoting herself to the forlorn and stranded German widow, spending her +life, and what substance she has, in keeping her company in the dreary +pensions of a neutral country, unable either to take her home to England +or to leave her where she is by herself.</p> + +<p>Such love and self-sacrifice is a very binding thing. If these +conjectures of mine are right, Dolly is indeed bound to Mrs. Barnes, +and not to do everything she wished would be impossible. Naturally she +wears those petticoats, and those long, respectable black clothes: they +are Mrs. Barnes's idea of how a widow should be dressed. Naturally she +goes for excursions in the mountains with an umbrella: it is to Mrs. +Barnes both more prudent and more seemly than a stick. In the smallest +details of her life Dolly's gratitude must penetrate and be expressed. +Yes; I think I understand her situation. The good do bind one very +heavily in chains.</p> + +<p>To an infinitely less degree Mrs. Barnes's goodness has put chains on me +too. I have to walk very carefully and delicately among her feelings. I +could never forgive myself if I were to hurt anyone kind, and if the +kind person is cast in an entirely different mould from oneself, has +different ideas, different tastes, a different or no sense of fun, why +then God help one,—one is ruled by a rod of iron.</p> + +<p>Just the procession each morning after breakfast to the chairs and +Merivale is the measure of Dolly's and my subjection. First goes Dolly +with the book, then comes Mrs. Barnes with her knitting, and then comes +me, casting my eyes about for a plausible excuse for deliverance and +finding none that wouldn't hurt. If I lag, Mrs. Barnes looks uneasily at +me with her, 'Am I driving you off your own terrace?' look; and once +when I lingered indoors on the pretext of housekeeping she came after +me, anxiety on her face, and begged me to allow her to help me, for it +is she and Dolly, she explained, who of course cause the extra +housekeeping, and it distressed her to think that owing to my goodness +in permitting them to be here I should be deprived of the leisure I +would otherwise be enjoying.</p> + +<p>'In your lovely Swiss home,' she said, her face puckered with +earnestness. 'On your summer holiday. After travelling all this distance +for the purpose.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'Dear Mrs. Barnes—' I murmured, ashamed; and assured her it was only an +order I had to give, and that I was coming out immediately to the +reading aloud.</p> + + +<p><i>August 31st.</i></p> + +<p>This morning I made a great effort to be simple.</p> + +<p>Of course I will do everything in my power to make Mrs. Barnes +happy,—I'll sit, walk, be read to, keep away from Dolly, arrange life +for the little time she is here in the way that gives her mind most +peace; but why mayn't I at the same time be natural? It is so natural to +me to be natural. I feel so uncomfortable, I get such a choked sensation +of not enough air, if I can't say what I want to say. Abstinence from +naturalness is easily managed if it isn't to last long; every +gracefulness is possible for a little while. But shut up for weeks +together in the close companionship of two other people in an isolated +house on a mountain one must, sooner or later, be natural or one will, +sooner or later, die.</p> + +<p>So this morning I went down to breakfast determined to be it. More than +usually deep sleep had made me wake up with a feeling of more than usual +enterprise. I dressed quickly, strengthening my determination by many +good arguments, and then stood at the window waiting for the bell to +ring.</p> + +<p>At the first tinkle of the bell I hurry downstairs, because if I am a +minute late, as I have been once or twice, I find my egg wrapped up in +my table napkin, the coffee and hot milk swathed in a white woollen +shawl Mrs. Barnes carries about with her, a plate over the butter in +case there should be dust, a plate over the honey in case there should +be flies, and Mrs. Barnes and Dolly, carefully detached from the least +appearance of reproach or waiting, at the other end of the terrace being +tactfully interested in the view.</p> + +<p>This has made me be very punctual. The bell tinkles, and I appear. I +don't appear before it tinkles, because of the peculiar preciousness of +all the moments I can legitimately spend in my bedroom; but, if I were +to, I would find Mrs. Barnes and Dolly already there.</p> + +<p>I don't know when they go down, but they are always there; and always I +am greeted with the politest solicitude from Mrs. Barnes as to how I +slept. This of course draws forth a corresponding solicitude from me as +to how Mrs. Barnes slept; and the first part of breakfast is spent in +answers to these inquiries, and in the eulogies to which Mrs. Barnes +then proceeds of the bed, and the pure air, that make the +satisfactoriness of her answers possible.</p> + +<p>From this she goes on to tell me how grateful she and Dolly are for my +goodness. She tells me this every morning. It is like a kind of daily +morning prayer. At first I was overcome, and, not knowing how to ward +off such repeated blows of thankfulness, stumbled about awkwardly among +protests and assurances. Now I receive them in silence, copying the +example of the heavenly authorities; but, more visibly embarrassed than +they, I sheepishly smile.</p> + +<p>After the praises of my goodness come those of the goodness of the +coffee and the butter, though this isn't any real relief to me, because +their goodness is so much tangled up in mine. I am the Author of the +coffee and the butter; without me they wouldn't be there at all.</p> + +<p>Dolly, while this is going on, says nothing but just eats her breakfast. +I think she might help me out a little, seeing that it happens every +morning and that she must have noticed my store of deprecations is +exhausted.</p> + +<p>This morning, having made up my mind to be natural, I asked her straight +out why she didn't talk.</p> + +<p>She was in the middle of her egg, and Mrs. Barnes was in the middle of +praising the great goodness of the eggs, and therefore, inextricably, of +my great goodness, so that there was no real knowing where the eggs left +off and I began; and taking the opportunity offered by a pause of +coffee-drinking on Mrs. Barnes's part, I said to Dolly, 'Why do you not +talk at breakfast?'</p> + +<p>'Talk?' repeated Dolly, looking up at me with a smile.</p> + +<p>'Yes. Say things. How are we ever to be friends if we don't say things? +Don't you want to be friends, Dolly?'</p> + +<p>'Of course,' said Dolly, smiling.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes put her cup down hastily. 'But are we not—' she began, as I +knew she would.</p> + +<p>'<i>Real</i> friends,' I interrupted. 'Why not,' I said, 'let us have a +holiday from Merivale to-day, and just sit together and talk. Say +things,' I went on, still determined to be natural, yet already a little +nervous. '<i>Real</i> things.'</p> + +<p>'But has the reading—is there any other book you would pref—do you not +care about Merivale?' asked Mrs. Barnes, in deep concern.</p> + +<p>'Oh yes,' I assured her, leaving off being natural for a moment in order +to be polite, 'I like him very much indeed. I only thought—I do +think—it would be pleasant for once to have a change. Pleasant just to +sit and talk. Sit in the shade and—oh well, <i>say</i> things.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly. 'I'd love to.'</p> + +<p>'We might tell each other stories, like the people in the <i>Earthly +Paradise</i>. But real stories. Out of our lives.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly again. 'Yes. I'd love to.'</p> + +<p>'We shall be very glad, I am sure,' said Mrs. Barnes politely, 'to +listen to any stories you may like to tell us.'</p> + +<p>'Ah, but you must tell some too—we must play fair.'</p> + +<p>'I'd love to,' said Dolly again, her dimple flickering.</p> + +<p>'Surely we—in any case Dolly and I—are too old to play at anything,' +said Mrs. Barnes with dignity.</p> + +<p>'Not really. You'll like it once you've begun. And anyhow I can't play +by myself, can I,' I said, still trying to be gay and simple. 'You +wouldn't want me to be lonely, would you.'</p> + +<p>But I was faltering. Mrs. Barnes's eye was on me. Impossible to go on +being gay and simple beneath that eye.</p> + +<p>I faltered more and more. 'Sometimes I think,' I said, almost timidly, +'that we're wasting time.'</p> + +<p>'Oh no, do you really?' exclaimed Mrs. Barnes anxiously. 'Do you not +consider Merivale—' (here if I had been a man I would have said damn +Merivale and felt better)—'very instructive? Surely to read a good +history can never be wasting time? And he is not heavy. Surely you do +not find him heavy? His information is always imparted picturesquely, +remarkably so. And though one may be too old for games one is +fortunately never too old for instruction.'</p> + +<p>'I don't <i>feel</i> too old for games,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Feeling has nothing to do with reality,' said Mrs. Barnes sternly, +turning on her.</p> + +<p>'I only thought,' I said, 'that to-day we might talk together instead of +reading. Just for once—just for a change. If you don't like the idea of +telling stories out of our lives let us just talk. Tell each other what +we think of things—of the big things like—well, like love and death +for instance. Things,' I reassured her, 'that don't really touch us at +this moment.'</p> + +<p>'I do not care to talk about love and death,' said Mrs. Barnes frostily.</p> + +<p>'But why?'</p> + +<p>'They are most unsettling.'</p> + +<p>'But why? We would only be speculating—'</p> + +<p>She held up her hand. 'I have a horror of the word. All speculation is +abhorrent to me. My brother-in-law said to me, Never speculate.'</p> + +<p>'But didn't he mean in the business sense?'</p> + +<p>'He meant it, I am certain, in every sense. Physically and morally.'</p> + +<p>'Well then, don't let us speculate. Let us talk about experiences. We've +all had them. I am sure it would be as instructive as Merivale, and we +might perhaps—perhaps we might even laugh a little. Don't you think it +would be pleasant to—to laugh a little?'</p> + +<p>'I'd love to,' said Dolly, her eyes shining.</p> + +<p>'Suppose, instead of being women, we were three men—'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes, who had been stiffening for some minutes, drew herself up +at this.</p> + +<p>'I am afraid I cannot possibly suppose that,' she said.</p> + +<p>'Well, but suppose we <i>were</i>—'</p> + +<p>'I do not wish to suppose it,' said Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>'Well, then, suppose it wasn't us at all, but three men here, spending +their summer holidays together can't you imagine how they would talk?'</p> + +<p>'I can only imagine it if they were nice men,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and +even so but dimly.'</p> + +<p>'Yes. Of course. Well, let us talk together this morning as if we were +nice men,—about anything and everything. I can't <i>think</i>,' I finished +plaintively, 'why we shouldn't talk about anything and everything.'</p> + +<p>Dolly looked at me with dancing eyes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes sat very straight. She was engaged in twisting the +honey-spoon round and round so as to catch its last trickling neatly. +Her eyes were fixed on this, and if there was a rebuke in them it was +hidden from me.</p> + +<p>'You must forgive me,' she said, carefully winding up the last thread of +honey, 'but as I am not a nice man I fear I cannot join in. Nor, of +course, can Dolly, for the same reason. But I need not say,' she added +earnestly, 'that there is not the slightest reason why you, on your own +terrace, shouldn't, if you wish, imagine yourself to be a nice—'</p> + +<p>'Oh no,' I broke in, giving up. 'Oh no, no. I think perhaps you are +right. I do think perhaps it is best to go on with Merivale.'</p> + +<p>We finished breakfast with the usual courtesies.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I didn't try to be natural any more.</p> + + +<p><i>September 1st.</i></p> + +<p>Dolly forgot herself this morning.</p> + +<p>On the first of the month I pay the bills. Antoine reminded me last +month that this used to be my practice before the war, and I remember +how languidly I roused myself from my meditations on the grass to go +indoors and add up figures. But to-day I liked it. I went in cheerfully.</p> + +<p>'This is my day for doing the accounts,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, as she +was about to form the procession to the chairs. 'They take me most of +the morning, so I expect we won't see each other again till luncheon.'</p> + +<p>'Dear me,' said Mrs. Barnes sympathetically, 'how very tiresome for you. +Those terrible settling up days. How well I know them, and how I used to +dread them.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Reines Glück geniesst doch nie</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Wer zahlen soll und weiss nicht wie.</i></span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Poor Kitty. We know all about that, don't we.' And she put her arm round +her sister.</p> + +<p>Dolly had forgotten herself.</p> + +<p>I thought it best not to linger, but to go in quickly to my bills.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Her accent was perfect. I know enough German to know that.</p> + + +<p><i>September 2nd.</i></p> + +<p>We've been a little strained all day in our relations because of +yesterday. Dolly drooped at lunch, and for the first time didn't smile. +Mrs. Barnes, I think, had been rebuking her with more than ordinary +thoroughness. Evidently Mrs. Barnes is desperately anxious I shouldn't +know about Siegfried. I wonder if there is any way of delicately +introducing Germans into the conversation, and conveying to her that I +have guessed about Dolly's husband and don't mind him a bit. Why should +I mind somebody else's husband? A really nice woman only minds her own. +But I know of no two subjects more difficult to talk about tactfully +than Germans and husbands; and when both are united, as in this case, my +courage rather fails.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">We went for a dreary walk this afternoon. Mrs. Barnes was watchful, and +Dolly was meek. I tried to be sprightly, but one can't be sprightly by +oneself.</p> + + +<p><i>September 3rd.</i></p> + +<p>In the night there was a thunderstorm, and for the first time since I +got here I woke up to rain and mist. The mist was pouring in in waves +through the open windows, and the room was quite cold. When I looked at +the thermometer hanging outside, I saw it had dropped twenty degrees.</p> + +<p>We have become so much used to fine weather arrangements that the sudden +change caused an upheaval. I heard much hurrying about downstairs, and +when I went down to breakfast found it was laid in the hall. It was like +breakfasting in a tomb, after the radiance of our meals out of doors. +The front door was shut; the rain pattered on the windows; and right up +against the panes, between us and the world like a great grey flannel +curtain, hung the mist. It might have been some particularly odious +December morning in England.</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est l'automne</i>,' said Antoine, bringing in three cane chairs and +putting them round the tea-table on which the breakfast was laid.</p> + +<p>'<i>C'est un avertissement</i>,' said Mrs. Antoine, bringing in the coffee.</p> + +<p>Antoine then said that he had conceived it possible that Madame and <i>ces +dames</i> might like a small wood fire. To cheer. To enliven.</p> + +<p>'Pray not on our account,' instantly said Mrs. Barnes to me, very +earnestly. 'Dolly and I do not feel the cold at all, I assure you. Pray +do not have one on our account.'</p> + +<p>'But wouldn't it be cosy—' I began, who am like a cat about warmth.</p> + +<p>'I would far rather you did not have one,' said Mrs. Barnes, her +features puckered.</p> + +<p>'Think of all the wood!'</p> + +<p>'But it would only be a few logs—'</p> + +<p>'What is there nowadays so precious as logs? And it is far, far too +early to begin fires. Why, only last week it was still August. Still the +dog-days.'</p> + +<p>'But if we're cold—'</p> + +<p>'We should indeed be poor creatures, Dolly and I, if the moment it left +off being warm we were cold. Please do not think we don't appreciate +your kindness in wishing to give us a fire, but Dolly and I would feel +it very much if our being here were to make you begin fires so early.'</p> + +<p>'But—'</p> + +<p>'Keep the logs for later on. Let me beg you.'</p> + +<p>So we didn't have a fire; and there we sat, Mrs. Barnes with the white +shawl at last put to its proper use, and all of us trying not to shiver.</p> + +<p>After breakfast, which was taken away bodily, table and all, snatched +from our midst by the Antoines, so that we were left sitting facing each +other round empty space with a curious sensation of sudden nakedness, I +supposed that Merivale would be produced, so I got up and pushed a +comfortable chair conveniently for Dolly, and turned on the light.</p> + +<p>To my surprise I found Mrs. Barnes actually preferred to relinquish the +reading aloud rather than use my electric light in the daytime. It would +be an unpardonable extravagance, she said. Dolly could work at her +knitting. Neither of them needed their eyes for knitting.</p> + +<p>I was greatly touched. From the first she has shown a touching, and at +the same time embarrassing, concern not to cause me avoidable expense, +but never yet such concern as this. I know what store she sets by the +reading. Why, if we just sat there in the gloom we might begin to say +things. I really was very much touched.</p> + +<p>But indeed Mrs. Barnes is touching. It is because she is so touching in +her desire not to give trouble, to make us happy, that one so +continually does exactly what she wishes. I would do almost anything +sooner than hurt Mrs. Barnes. Also I would do almost anything to calm +her. And as for her adhesiveness to an unselfish determination, it is +such that it is mere useless fatigue to try to separate her from it.</p> + +<p>I have learned this gradually.</p> + +<p>At first, most of my time at meals was spent in reassuring her that +things hadn't been got specially on her and Dolly's account, and as the +only other account they could have been got on was mine, my assurances +had the effect of making me seem very greedy. I thought I lived frugally +up here, but Mrs. Barnes must have lived so much more frugally that +almost everything is suspected by her to be a luxury provided by my +hospitality.</p> + +<p>She was, for instance, so deeply persuaded that the apricots were got, +as she says, specially, that at last to calm her I had to tell Mrs. +Antoine to buy no more. And we all liked apricots. And there was a +perfect riot of them down in the valley. After that we had red currants +because they, Mrs. Barnes knew, came out of the garden; but we didn't +eat them because we didn't like them.</p> + +<p>Then there was a jug of lemonade sent in every day for lunch that +worried her. During this period her talk was entirely of lemons and +sugar, of all the lemons and sugar that wouldn't be being used if she +and Dolly were again, in order to calm her, and rather than that she +should be made unhappy, I told Mrs. Antoine to send in only water.</p> + +<p>Cakes disappeared from tea a week ago. Eggs have survived at breakfast, +and so has honey, because Mrs. Barnes can hear the chickens and has seen +the bees and knows they are not things got specially. She will eat +potatoes and cabbages and anything else that the garden produces with +serenity, but grows restive over meat; and a leg of mutton made her +miserable yesterday, for nothing would make her believe that if I had +been here alone it wouldn't have been a cutlet.</p> + +<p>'Let there be no more legs of mutton,' I said to Mrs. Antoine +afterwards. 'Let there instead be three cutlets.'</p> + +<p>I'm afraid Mrs. Antoine is scandalised at the inhospitable rigours she +supposes me to be applying to my guests. My order to Antoine this +morning not to light the fire will have increased her growing suspicion +that I am developing into a cheese-paring Madame. She must have +expressed her fears to Antoine; for the other day, when I told her to +leave the sugar and lemons out of the lemonade and send in only the +water, she looked at him, and as I went away I heard her saying to him +in a low voice—he no doubt having told her I usedn't to be like this, +and she being unable to think of any other explanation—'<i>C'est la +guerre</i>.'</p> + +<p>About eleven, having done little good by my presence in the hall whose +cheerlessness wrung from me a thoughtless exclamation that I wished I +smoked a pipe, upon which Dolly instantly said, 'Wouldn't it be a +comfort,' and Mrs. Barnes said, 'Dolly,' I went away to the kitchen, +pretending I wanted to ask what there was for dinner but really so as to +be for a few moments where there was a fire.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine watched me warming myself with respectful disapproval.</p> + +<p>'<i>Madame devrait faire faire un peu de feu dans la halle</i>,' she said. +'<i>Ces dames auront bien froid</i>.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Ces dames</i> won't let me,' I tried to explain in the most passionate +French I could think of. '<i>Ces dames</i> implore me not to have a fire. +<i>Ces dames</i> reject a fire. <i>Ces dames</i> defend themselves against a fire. +I perish because of the resolve of <i>ces dames</i> not to have a fire.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But Mrs. Antoine plainly didn't believe me. She thought, I could see, +that I was practising a repulsive parsimony on defenceless guests. It +was the sorrows of the war, she concluded, that had changed Madame's +nature. This was the kindest, the only possible, explanation.</p> + + +<p><i>Evening.</i></p> + +<p>There was a knock at my door just then. I thought it must be Mrs. +Antoine come to ask me some domestic question, and said <i>Entrez,</i> and +it was Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>She has not before this penetrated into my bedroom. I hope I didn't look +too much surprised. I think there could hardly have been a gap of more +than a second between my surprise and my recovered hospitality.</p> + +<p>'Oh—<i>do</i> come in,' I said. 'How nice of you.'</p> + +<p>Thus do the civilised clothe their real sensations in splendid robes of +courtesy.</p> + +<p>'Dolly and I haven't driven you away from the hall, I hope?' began Mrs. +Barnes in a worried voice.</p> + +<p>'I only came up here for a minute,' I explained, 'and was coming down +again directly.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, that relieves me. I was afraid perhaps—'</p> + +<p>'I wish you wouldn't so often be afraid you're driving me away,' I said +pleasantly. 'Do I look driven?'</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Barnes took no notice of my pleasantness. She had something on +her mind. She looked like somebody who is reluctant and yet impelled.</p> + +<p>'I think,' she said solemnly, 'that if you have a moment to spare it +might be a good opportunity for a little talk. I would like to talk +with you a little.'</p> + +<p>And she stood regarding me, her eyes full of reluctant but unconquerable +conscientiousness.</p> + +<p>'Do,' I said, with polite enthusiasm. 'Do.'</p> + +<p>This was the backwash, I thought, of Dolly's German outbreak the other +day, and Siegfried was going at last to be explained to me.</p> + +<p>'Won't you sit down in this chair?' I said, pushing a comfortable one +forward, and then sitting down myself on the edge of the sofa.</p> + +<p>'Thank you. What I wish to say is—'</p> + +<p>She hesitated. I supposed her to be finding it difficult to proceed with +Siegfried, and started off impulsively to her rescue.</p> + +<p>'You know, I don't mind a bit about—' I began.</p> + +<p>'What I wish to say is,' she went on again, before I had got out the +fatal word, 'what I wish to point out to you—is that the weather has +considerably cooled.'</p> + +<p>This was so remote from Siegfried that I looked at her a moment in +silence. Then I guessed what was coming, and tried to put it off.</p> + +<p>'Ah,' I said—for I dreaded, the grateful things she would be sure to +say about having been here so long—'you do want a fire in the hall +after all, then.'</p> + +<p>'No, no. We are quite warm enough, I assure you. A fire would distress +us. What I wish to say is—' Again she hesitated, then went on more +firmly, 'Well, I wish to say that the weather having broken and the +great heat having come to an end, the reasons which made you extend your +kind, your delightful hospitality to us, have come to an end also. I +need hardly tell you that we never, never shall be able to express to +you—'</p> + +<p>'Oh, but you're not going to give me notice?' I interrupted, trying to +be sprightly and to clamber over her rock-like persistence in gratitude +with the gaiety of a bright autumnal creeper. This was because I was +nervous. I grow terribly sprightly when I am nervous.</p> + +<p>But indeed I shrink from Mrs. Barnes's gratitude. It abases me to the +dust. It leaves me mourning in much the same way that Simon Lee's +gratitude left Wordsworth mourning. I can't bear it. What a world it is, +I want to cry out,—what a miserable, shameful, battering, crushing +world, when so dreadfully little makes people so dreadfully glad!</p> + +<p>Then it suddenly struck me that the expression giving notice might not +be taken by Mrs. Barnes, she being solemn, in the spirit in which it was +offered by me, I being sprightly; and, desperately afraid of having +possibly offended her, I seized on the first thing I could think of as +most likely to soothe her, which was an extension, glowing and almost +indefinite, of my invitation. 'Because, you know,' I said, swept along +by this wish to prevent a wound, 'I won't accept the notice. I'm not +going to let you go. That is, of course,' I added, 'if you and Dolly +don't mind the quiet up here and the monotony. Won't you stay on here +till I go away myself?'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes opened her mouth to speak, but I got up quickly and crossed +over to her and kissed her. Instinct made me go and kiss her, so as to +gain a little time, so as to put off the moment of having to hear +whatever it was she was going to say; for whether she accepted the +invitation or refused it, I knew there would be an equally immense, +unbearable number of grateful speeches.</p> + +<p>But when I went over and kissed her Mrs. Barnes put her arm round my +neck and held me tight; and there was something in this sudden movement +on the part of one so chary of outward signs of affection that made my +heart give a little leap of response, and I found myself murmuring into +her ear—amazing that I should be murmuring into Mrs. Barnes's +ear—'Please don't go away and leave me—please don't—please stay—'</p> + +<p>And as she didn't say anything I kissed her again, and again murmured, +'Please—'</p> + +<p>And as she still didn't say anything I murmured, 'Won't you? Say you +will—'</p> + +<p>And then I discovered to my horror that why she didn't say anything was +because she was crying.</p> + +<p>I have been slow and unimaginative about Mrs. Barnes. Having guessed +that Dolly was a German widow I might so easily have guessed the rest: +the poverty arising out of such a situation, the vexations and +humiliations of the attitude of people in the pensions she has dragged +about in during and since the war,—places in which Dolly's name must +needs be registered and her nationality known; the fatigue and +loneliness of such a life, with no home anywhere at all, forced to +wander and wander, her little set at Dulwich probably repudiating her +because of Dolly; or scolding her, in rare letters, for the folly of +her sacrifice; with nothing to go back, to and nothing to look forward +to, and the memory stabbing her always of the lost glories of that +ordered life at home in her well-found house, with the church bells +ringing on Sundays, and everybody polite, and a respectful +crossing-sweeper at the end of the road.</p> + +<p>All her life Mrs. Barnes has been luminously respectable. Her +respectability has been, I gather from things she has said, her one +great treasure. To stand clear and plain before her friends, without a +corner in her actions that needed defending or even explaining, was what +the word happiness meant to her. And now here she is, wandering about in +a kind of hiding. With Dolly. With the beloved, the difficult, the +unexplainable Dolly. Unwelcomed, unwanted, and I daresay quite often +asked by the many pension proprietors who are angrily anti-German to go +somewhere else.</p> + +<p>I have been thick-skinned about Mrs. Barnes. I am ashamed. And whether I +have guessed right or wrong she shall keep her secrets. I shall not try +again, however good my silly intentions may seem to me, however much I +may think it would ease our daily intercourse, to blunder in among +things about which she wishes to be silent. When she cried like that +this morning, after a moment of looking at her bewildered and aghast, I +suddenly understood. I knew what I have just been writing as if she had +told me. And I stroked her hand, and tried to pretend I didn't notice +anything, because it was so dreadful to see how she, for her part, was +trying so very hard to pretend she wasn't crying. And I kept on +saying—for indeed I didn't know what to say—'Then you'll stay—how +glad I am—then that's settled—'</p> + +<p>And actually I heard myself expressing pleasure at the certainty of my +now hearing Merivale to a finish!</p> + +<p>How the interview ended was by my conceiving the brilliant idea of going +away on the pretext of giving an order, and leaving Mrs. Barnes alone in +my room till she should have recovered sufficiently to appear +downstairs.</p> + +<p>'I must go and tell Mrs. Antoine something,' I suddenly +said,—'something I've forgotten.' And I hurried away.</p> + +<p>For once I had been tactful. Wonderful. I couldn't help feeling pleased +at having been able to think of this solution to the situation. Mrs. +Barnes wouldn't want Dolly to see she had been crying. She would stay up +quietly in my room till her eyes had left off being red, and would then +come down as calm and as ready to set a good example as ever.</p> + +<p>Continuing to be tactful, I avoided going into the hall, because in it +was Dolly all by herself, offering me my very first opportunity for the +talk alone with her that I have so long been wanting; but of course I +wouldn't do anything now that might make Mrs. Barnes uneasy; I hope I +never may again.</p> + +<p>To avoid the hall, however, meant finding myself in the servants' +quarters. I couldn't take shelter in the kitchen and once more warm +myself, because it was their dinner hour. There remained the back door, +the last refuge of a hostess. It was open; and outside was the yard, the +rain, and Mou-Mou's kennel looming through the mist.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I went and stood in the door, contemplating what I saw, waiting till I +thought Mrs. Barnes would have had time to be able to come out of my +bedroom. I knew she would stay there till her eyes were ready to face +the world again, so I knew I must have patience. Therefore I stood in +the door and contemplated what I saw from it, while I sought patience +and ensued it. But it is astonishing how cold and penetrating these wet +mountain mists are. They seem to get right through one's body into +one's very spirit, and make it cold too, and doubtful of the future.</p> + + +<p><i>September 4th.</i></p> + +<p>Dolly looked worried, I thought, yesterday when Mrs. Barnes, as rocky +and apparently arid as ever—but I knew better—told her at tea-time in +my presence that I had invited them to stay on as long as I did.</p> + +<p>There were fortunately few expressions of gratitude this time decorating +Mrs. Barnes's announcement. I think she still wasn't quite sure enough +of herself to be anything but brief. Dolly looked quickly at me, without +her usual smile. I said what a great pleasure it was to know they +weren't going away. 'You do like staying, don't you, Dolly?' I asked, +breaking off suddenly in my speech, for her serious eyes were not the +eyes of the particularly pleased.</p> + +<p>She said she did; of course she did; and added the proper politenesses. +But she went on looking thoughtful, and I believe she wants to tell me, +or have me told by Mrs. Barnes, about Siegfried. I think she thinks I +ought to know what sort of guest I've got before deciding whether I +really want her here any longer or not.</p> + +<p>I wish I could somehow convey to Dolly, without upsetting Mrs. Barnes, +that I do know and don't mind. I tried to smile reassuringly at her, but +the more I smiled the more serious she grew.</p> + +<p>As for Mrs. Barnes, there is now between her and me the shyness, the +affection, of a secret understanding. She may look as arid and stiff as +she likes, but we have kissed each other with real affection and I have +felt her arm tighten round my neck. How much more enlightening, how much +more efficacious than any words, than any explanations, is that very +simple thing, a kiss. I believe if we all talked less and kissed more we +should arrive far quicker at comprehension. I give this opinion with +diffidence. It is rather a conjecture than an opinion. I have not found +it shared in literature—in conversation I would omit it—except once, +and then by a German. He wrote a poem whose first line was:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"><i>O schwöre nicht und küsse nur</i></span><br /> +</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">And I thought it sensible advice.</p> + + +<p><i>September 5th.</i></p> + +<p>The weather after all hasn't broken. We have had the thunderstorm and +the one bad day, and then it cleared up. It didn't clear up back to heat +again—this year there will be no more heat—but to a kind of cool, +pure gold. All day yesterday it was clearing up, and towards evening +there came a great wind and swept the sky clear during the night of +everything but stars; and when I woke this morning there was the +familiar golden patch on the wall again, and I knew the day was to be +beautiful.</p> + +<p>And so it has been, with the snow come much lower down the mountains, +and the still air very fresh. Things sparkle; and one feels like some +bright bubble of light oneself. Actually even Mrs. Barnes has almost +been like that,—has been, for her, astonishingly, awe-inspiringly gay.</p> + +<p>'Ah,' she said, standing on the terrace after breakfast, drawing in deep +draughts of air, 'now I understand the expression so frequently used in +descriptions of scenery. This air indeed is like champagne.'</p> + +<p>'It does make one feel very healthy,' I said.</p> + +<p>There were several things I wanted to say instead of this, things +suggested by her remark, but I refrained. I mean to be careful now to +let my communications with Mrs. Barnes be Yea, yea and Nay, nay—that +is, straightforward and brief, with nothing whatever in them that might +directly or indirectly lead to the encouragement of Dolly. Dolly has +been trying to catch me alone. She has tried twice since Mrs. Barnes +yesterday at tea told her I had asked them to stay on, but I have +avoided her.</p> + +<p>'Healthy?' repeated Mrs. Barnes. 'It makes one feel more than healthy. +It goes to one's head. I can imagine it turning me quite dizzy—quite +turning my head.'</p> + +<p>And then she actually asked me a riddle—Mrs. Barnes asked a riddle, at +ten o'clock in the morning, asked me, a person long since callous to +riddles and at no time since six years old particularly appreciative of +them.</p> + +<p>Of course I answered wrong. Disconcerted, I impetuously hazarded Brandy +as the answer, when it should have been Whisky; but really I think it +was wonderful to have got even so near the right answer as Brandy. I +won't record the riddle. It was old in Mrs. Barnes's youth, for she told +me she had it from her father, who, she said, could enjoy a joke as +heartily as she can herself.</p> + +<p>But what was so surprising was that the effect of the crisp, sunlit air +on Mrs. Barnes should be to engender riddles. It didn't do this to my +pre-war guests. They grew young, but not younger than twenty. Mrs. +Barnes to-day descended to the age of bibs. I never could have believed +it of her. I never could have believed she would come so near what I can +only call an awful friskiness. And it wasn't just this morning, in the +first intoxication of the splendid new air; it has gone on like it all +day. On the mountain slopes, slippery now and difficult to walk on +because of the heavy rain of the thunderstorm, might have been seen this +afternoon three figures, two black ones and a white one, proceeding for +a space in a rather wobbly single file, then pausing in an animated +group, then once more proceeding. When they paused it was because Mrs. +Barnes had thought of another riddle. Dolly was very quick at the +answers,—so quick that I suspected her of having been brought up on +these very ones, as she no doubt was, but I cut a lamentable figure. I +tried to make up for my natural incapacity by great goodwill. Mrs. +Barnes's spirits were too rare and precious, I felt, not to be welcomed; +and having failed in answers I desperately ransacked my memory in search +of questions, so that I could ask riddles too.</p> + +<p>But by a strange perversion of recollection I could remember several +answers and not their questions. In my brain, on inquiry, were fixed +quite firmly things like this,—obviously answers to what once had been +riddles.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"><i>Because his tail comes out of his head.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"><i>So did the other donkey.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"><i>He took a fly and went home.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"><i>Orleans.</i></span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Having nothing else to offer Mrs. Barnes I offered her these, and +suggested she should supply the questions.</p> + +<p>She thought this way of dealing with riddles subversive and difficult. +Dolly began to laugh. Mrs. Barnes, filled with the invigorating air, +actually laughed too. It was the first time I have heard her laugh. I +listened with awe. Evidently she laughs very rarely, for Dolly looked so +extraordinarily pleased; evidently her doing it made to-day memorable, +for Dolly's face, turned to her sister in a delighted surprise, had the +expression on it that a mother's has when her offspring suddenly behaves +in a way unhoped for and gratifying.</p> + +<p>So there we stood, gesticulating gaily on the slippery slope.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">This is a strange place. Its effects are incalculable. I suppose it is +because it is five thousand feet up, and has so great a proportion of +sunshine.</p> + + +<p><i>September 6th.</i></p> + +<p>There were letters this morning from England that wiped out all the +gaiety of yesterday; letters that <i>reminded</i> me. It was as if the cold +mist had come back again, and blotted out the light after I had hoped it +had gone for good. It was as if a weight had dropped down again on my +heart, suffocating it, making it difficult to breathe, after I had hoped +it was lifted off for ever. I feel sick. Sick with the return of the +familiar pain, sick with fear that I am going to fall back hopelessly +into it. I wonder if I am. Oh, I had such <i>hope</i> that I was better! +Shall I ever get quite well again? Won't it at best, after every effort, +every perseverance in struggle, be just a more or less skilful mending, +a more or less successful putting together of broken bits? I thought I +had been growing whole. I thought I wouldn't any longer wince. And now +these letters....</p> + +<p>Ridiculous, hateful and ridiculous, to be so little master of one's own +body that one has to look on helplessly at one's hands shaking.</p> + +<p>I want to forget. I don't want to be reminded. It is my one chance of +safety, my one hope of escape. To forget—forget till I have got my soul +safe back again, really my own again, no longer a half destroyed thing. +I call it my soul. I don't know what it is. I am very miserable.</p> + +<p>It is details that I find so difficult to bear. As long as in my mind +everything is one great, unhappy blur, there is a chance of quietness, +of gradual creeping back to peace. But details remind me too acutely, +flash back old anguish too sharply focussed. I oughtn't to have opened +the letters till I was by myself. But it pleased me so much to get them. +I love getting letters. They were in the handwriting of friends. How +could I guess, when I saw them on the breakfast-table, that they would +innocently be so full of hurt? And when I had read them, and I picked up +my cup and tried to look as if nothing had happened and I were drinking +coffee like anybody else, my silly hand shook so much that Dolly noticed +it.</p> + +<p>Our eyes met.</p> + +<p>I couldn't get that wretched cup back on to its saucer again without +spilling the coffee. If that is how I still behave, what has been the +good of being here? What has the time been but wasted? What has the cure +been but a failure?</p> + +<p>I have come up to my room. I can't stay downstairs. It would be +unbearable this morning to sit and be read to. But I must try to think +of an excuse, quickly. Mrs. Barnes may be up any minute to ask—oh, I am +hunted!</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">It is a comfort to write this. To write does make one in some strange +way less lonely. Yet—having to go and look at oneself in the glass for +companionship,—isn't that to have reached the very bottom level of +loneliness?</p> + + +<p><i>Evening.</i></p> + +<p>The direct result of those letters has been to bring Dolly and me at +last together.</p> + +<p>She came down to the kitchen-garden after me, where I went this morning +when I had succeeded in straightening myself out a little. On the way I +told Mrs. Barnes, with as tranquil a face as I could manage, that I had +arrangements to discuss with Antoine, and so, I was afraid, would for +once miss the reading.</p> + +<p>Antoine I knew was working in the kitchen-garden, a plot of ground +hidden from the house at the foot of a steep descent, and I went to him +and asked to be allowed to help. I said I would do anything,—dig, weed, +collect slugs, anything at all, but he must let me work. Work with my +hands out of doors was the only thing I felt I could bear to-day. It +wasn't the first time, I reflected, that peace has been found among +cabbages.</p> + +<p>Antoine demurred, of course, but did at last consent to let me pick red +currants. That was an easy task, and useful as well, for it would save +Lisette the assistant's time, who would otherwise presently have to pick +them. So I chose the bushes nearest to where he was digging, because I +wanted to be near some one who neither talked nor noticed, some one +alive, some one kind and good who wouldn't look at me, and I began to +pick these strange belated fruits, finished and forgotten two months ago +in the valley.</p> + +<p>Then I saw Dolly coming down the steps cut in the turf. She was holding +up her long black skirt. She had nothing on her head, and the sun shone +in her eyes and made her screw them up as she stood still for a moment +on the bottom step searching for me. I saw all this, though I was +stooping over the bushes.</p> + +<p>Then she came and stood beside me.</p> + +<p>'You oughtn't to be here,' I said, going on picking and not looking at +her.</p> + +<p>'I know,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Then hadn't you better go back?'</p> + +<p>'Yes. But I'm not going to.'</p> + +<p>I picked in silence.</p> + +<p>'You've been crying,' was what she said next.</p> + +<p>'No,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Perhaps not with your eyes, but you have with your heart.'</p> + +<p>At this I felt very much like Mrs. Barnes; very much like what Mrs. +Barnes must have felt when I tried to get her to be frank.</p> + +<p>'Do you know what your sister said to me the other day?' I asked, busily +picking. 'She said she has a great opinion of discretion.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly. 'But I haven't.'</p> + +<p>'And I haven't either,' I was forced to admit.</p> + +<p>'Well then,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>I straightened myself, and we looked at each other. Her eyes have a kind +of sweet radiance. Siegfried must have been pleased when he saw her +coming down the sheet into his arms.</p> + +<p>'You mustn't tell me anything you don't quite want to,' said Dolly, her +sweet eyes smiling, 'but I couldn't see you looking so unhappy and not +come and—well, stroke you.'</p> + +<p>'There isn't anything to tell,' I said, comforted by the mere idea of +being stroked.</p> + +<p>'Yes there is.'</p> + +<p>'Not really. It's only that once—oh well, what's the good? I don't +want to think of it—I want to forget.'</p> + +<p>Dolly nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Yes.'</p> + +<p>'You see I came here to get cured by forgetting, and I thought I was +cured. And this morning I found I wasn't, and it has—and it has +disappointed me.'</p> + +<p>'You musn't cry, you know,' said Dolly gently. 'Not in the middle of +picking red currants. There's the man—'</p> + +<p>She glanced at Antoine, digging.</p> + +<p>I snuffled away my tears without the betrayal of a pocket handkerchief, +and managed to smile at her.</p> + +<p>'What idiots we go on being,' I said ruefully.</p> + +<p>'Oh—idiots!'</p> + +<p>Dolly made a gesture as of including the whole world.</p> + +<p>'Does one ever grow up?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'I don't know. I haven't.'</p> + +<p>'But do you think one ever learns to bear pain without wanting to run +crying bitterly to one's mother?'</p> + +<p>'I think it's difficult. It seems to take more time,' she added smiling, +'than I've yet had, and I'm forty. You know I'm forty?'</p> + +<p>'Yes. That is, I've been told so, but it hasn't been proved.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I never could <i>prove</i> anything,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>Then she put on an air of determination that would have alarmed Mrs. +Barnes, and said, 'There are several other things that I am that you +don't know, and as I'm here alone with you at last I may as well tell +you what they are. In fact I'm not going away from these currant bushes +till I <i>have</i> told you.'</p> + +<p>'Then,' I said, 'hadn't you better help me with the currants while you +tell?' And I lifted the basket across and put it on the ground between +us.</p> + +<p>Already I felt better. Comforted, cheered by Dolly's mere presence and +the sweet understanding that seems to shine out from her.</p> + +<p>She turned up her sleeves and plunged her arms into the currant bushes. +Luckily currants don't have thorns, for if it had been a gooseberry bush +she would have plunged her bare arms in just the same.</p> + +<p>'You have asked us to stay on,' she began, 'and it isn't fair that you +shouldn't know exactly what you are in for.'</p> + +<p>'If you're going to tell, me how your name is spelt,' I said, 'I've +guessed that already. It is Juchs.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, you're clever!' exclaimed Dolly unexpectedly.</p> + +<p>'Well, if that's clever,' I said modestly, 'I don't know what you would +say to <i>some</i> of the things I think of.'</p> + +<p>Dolly laughed. Then she looked serious again, and tugged at the currants +in a way that wasn't very good for the bush.</p> + +<p>'Yes. His name was Juchs,' she said. 'Kitty always did pronounce it +Jewks. It wasn't the war. It wasn't camouflage. She thought it was the +way. So did the other relations in England. That is when they pronounced +it at all, which I should think wasn't ever.'</p> + +<p>'You mean they called him Siegfried,' I said.</p> + +<p>Dolly stopped short in her picking to look at me in surprise. +'Siegfried?' she repeated, her arrested hands full of currants.</p> + +<p>'That's another of the things I've guessed,' I said proudly. 'By sheer +intelligently putting two and two together.'</p> + +<p>'He wasn't Siegfried,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Not Siegfried?'</p> + +<p>It was my turn to stop picking and look surprised.</p> + +<p>'And in your sleep—? And so affectionately—?' I said.</p> + +<p>'Siegfried wasn't Juchs, he was Bretterstangel,' said Dolly. 'Did I say +his name that day in my sleep? Dear Siegfried.' And her eyes, even while +they rested on mine became softly reminiscent.</p> + +<p>'But Dolly—if Siegfried wasn't your husband, ought you to have—well, +do you think it was wise to be dreaming of him?'</p> + +<p>'But he was my husband.'</p> + +<p>I stared.</p> + +<p>'But you said your husband was Juchs,' I said.</p> + +<p>'So he was,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'He was? Then why—I'm fearfully slow, I know, but do tell me—if Juchs +was your husband why wasn't he called Siegfried?'</p> + +<p>'Because Siegfried's name was Bretterstangel. I <i>began</i> with Siegfried.'</p> + +<p>There was a silence. We stood looking at each other, our hands full of +currants.</p> + +<p>Then I said, 'Oh.' And after a moment I said, 'I see.' And after another +moment I said, 'You <i>began</i> with Siegfried.'</p> + +<p>I was greatly taken aback. The guesses which had been arranged so neatly +in my mind were swept into confusion.</p> + +<p>'What you've got to realise,' said Dolly, evidently with an effort, 'is +that I kept on marrying Germans. I ought to have left off at Siegfried. +I wish now I had. But one gets into a habit—'</p> + +<p>'But,' I interrupted, my mouth I think rather open, 'you kept on—?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly, holding herself very straight and defiantly, 'I did +keep on, and that's what I want you to be quite clear about before we +settle down to stay here indefinitely. Kitty can't stay if I won't. I do +put my foot down sometimes, and I would about this. Poor darling—she +feels desperately what I've done, and I try to help her to keep it quiet +with ordinary people as much as I can—oh, I'm always letting little +bits out! But I can't, I won't, not tell a friend who so wonderfully +invites us—'</p> + +<p>'<i>You're</i> not going to begin being grateful?' I interrupted quickly.</p> + +<p>'You've no idea,' Dolly answered irrelevantly, her eyes wide with wonder +at her past self, 'how difficult it is not to marry Germans once you've +begun.'</p> + +<p>'But—how many?' I got out.</p> + +<p>'Oh, only two. It wasn't their number so much. It was their quality.'</p> + +<p>'What—Junkers?'</p> + +<p>'Junkers? Would you mind more if they had been? Do you mind very much +anyhow?'</p> + +<p>'I don't mind anything. I don't mind your being technically German a +scrap. All I think is that it was a little—well, perhaps a little +excessive to marry another German when you had done it once already. But +then I'm always rather on the side of frugality. I do definitely prefer +the few instead of the many and the little instead of the much.'</p> + +<p>'In husbands as well?'</p> + +<p>'Well yes—I think so.'</p> + +<p>Dolly sighed.</p> + +<p>'I wish I had been like that,' she said. 'It would have saved poor Kitty +so much.'</p> + +<p>She dropped the currants she held in her hands slowly bunch by bunch +into the basket.</p> + +<p>'But I don't see,' I said, 'what difference it could make to Kitty. I +mean, once you had started having German husbands at all, what did it +matter one more or less? And wasn't the second one d—I mean, hadn't he +left off being alive when the war began? So I don't see what difference +it could make to Kitty.'</p> + +<p>'But that's just what you've got to realise,' said Dolly, letting the +last bunch of currants drop out of her hand into the basket.</p> + +<p>She looked at me, and I became aware that she was slowly turning red. A +very delicate flush was slowly spreading over her face, so delicate +that for a moment I didn't see what it was that was making her look more +and more guilty, more and more like a child who has got to confess—but +an honourable, good child, determined that it <i>will</i> confess.</p> + +<p>'You know,' she said, 'that I've lived in Germany for years and years.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said. 'I've guessed that.'</p> + +<p>'And it's different from England.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said. 'So I understand.'</p> + +<p>'The way they see things. Their laws.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said.</p> + +<p>Dolly was finding it difficult to say what she had to say. I thought it +might help her if I didn't look at her, so I once more began to pick +currants. She mechanically followed my example.</p> + +<p>'Kitty,' she said, as we both stooped busily over the same bush, 'thinks +what I did too dreadful. So did all our English relations. It's because +you may think so too that I've got to tell you. Then you can decide +whether you really want me here or not.'</p> + +<p>'Dear Dolly,' I murmured, 'don't please make my blood run cold—'</p> + +<p>'Ah, but it's forbidden in the Prayer Book.'</p> + +<p>'What is?'</p> + +<p>'What I did.'</p> + +<p>'<i>What</i> did you do, Dolly?' I asked, now thoroughly uneasy; had her +recklessness gone so far as to lead her to tamper with the Commandments?</p> + +<p>Dolly tore off currants and leaves in handfuls and flung them together +into the basket. 'I married my uncle,' she said.</p> + +<p>'What?' I said, really astonished.</p> + +<p>'Karl—that was my second husband—was Siegfried's—that was my first +husband's—uncle. He was Siegfried's mother's brother—my first +mother-in-law's brother. My second mother-in-law was my first husband's +grandmother. In Germany you can. In Germany you do. But it's forbidden +in the English Prayer Book. It's put in the Table of Kindred and +Affinity that you mustn't. It's number nine of the right-hand +column—Husband's Mother's Brother. And Kitty well, you can guess what +Kitty has felt about it. If it had been my own uncle, my own mother's +brother, she couldn't have been more horrified and heartbroken. I didn't +realise. I didn't think of the effect it might have on them at home. I +just did it. They didn't know till I had done it. I always think it +saves bother to marry first and tell afterwards. I had been so many +years in Germany. It seemed quite natural. I simply stayed on in the +family. It was really habit.'</p> + +<p>She threw some currants into the basket, then faced me. 'There,' she +said, looking me straight in the eyes, 'I've told you, and if you think +me impossible I'll go.'</p> + +<p>'But—' I began.</p> + +<p>Her face was definitely flushed now, and her eyes very bright.</p> + +<p>'Oh, I'd be sorry, sorry,' she said impetuously, 'if this ended <i>us</i>!'</p> + +<p>'Us?'</p> + +<p>'You and me. But I couldn't stay here and not tell you, could I. Just +because you may hate it so I had to tell you. You've got a dean in your +family. The Prayer Book is in your blood. And if you do hate it I shall +understand perfectly, and I'll go away and take Kitty and you need never +see or hear of me again, so you musn't mind saying—'</p> + +<p>'Oh do wait a minute!' I cried. 'I don't hate it. I don't mind. I'd only +hate it and mind if it was I who had to marry a German uncle. I can't +imagine why anybody should ever want to marry uncles anyhow, but if they +do, and they're not blood-uncles, and it's the custom of the country, +why not? You'll stay here, Dolly. I won't let you go. I don't care if +you've married fifty German uncles. I've loved you from the moment I +saw you on the top of the wall in your funny petticoat. Why, you don't +suppose,' I finished, suddenly magnificently British, 'that I'm going to +let any mere <i>German</i> come between you and me?'</p> + +<p>Whereupon we kissed each other,—not once, but several times; fell, +indeed, upon each other's necks. And Antoine, coming to fetch the red +currants for Lisette who had been making signs to him from the steps for +some time past, stood waiting quietly till we should have done.</p> + +<p>When he thought we had done he stepped forward and said, '<i>Pardon, +mesdames</i>'—and stooping down deftly extracted the basket from between +us.</p> + +<p>As he did so his eye rested an instant on the stripped and broken +branches of the currant bush.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">He wasn't surprised.</p> + + +<p><i>September 7th.</i></p> + +<p>I couldn't finish about yesterday last night. When I had got as far as +Antoine and the basket I looked at the little clock on my writing-table +and saw to my horror that it was nearly twelve. So I fled into bed; for +what would Mrs. Barnes have said if she had seen me burning the +electric light and doing what she calls trying my eyes at such an hour? +It doesn't matter that they are my eyes and my light: Mrs. Barnes has +become, by virtue of her troubles, the secret standard of my behaviour. +She is like the eye of God to me now,—in every place. And my desire to +please her and make her happy has increased a hundredfold since Dolly +and I have at last, in spite of her precautions, become real friends.</p> + +<p>We decided before we left the kitchen-garden yesterday that this was the +important thing: to keep Mrs. Barnes from any hurt that we can avoid. +She has had so many. She will have so many more. I understand now +Dolly's deep sense of all her poor Kitty has given up and endured for +her sake, and I understand the shackles these sacrifices have put on +Dolly. It is a terrible burden to be very much loved. If Dolly were of a +less naturally serene temperament she would go under beneath the weight, +she would be, after five years of it, a colourless, meek thing.</p> + +<p>We agreed that Mrs. Barnes musn't know that I know about Dolly's +marriages. Dolly said roundly that it would kill her. Mrs. Barnes +regards her misguided sister as having committed a crime. It is +forbidden in the Prayer Book. She brushes aside the possible Prayer +Books of other countries. Therefore the word German shall never I hope +again escape me while she is here, nor will I talk of husbands, and +perhaps it will be as well to avoid mentioning uncles. Dear me, how very +watchful I shall have to be. For the first time in his life the Dean has +become unmentionable.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I am writing this before breakfast. I haven't seen Dolly alone again +since the kitchen-garden. I don't know how she contrived to appease Mrs. +Barnes and explain her long absence, but that she did contrive it was +evident from the harmonious picture I beheld when, half an hour later, I +too went back to the house. They were sitting together in the sun just +outside the front door knitting. Mrs. Barnes's face was quite contented. +Dolly looked specially radiant. I believe she is made up entirely of +love and laughter—dangerous, endearing ingredients! We just looked at +each other as I came out of the house. It is the most comforting, the +warmest thing, this unexpected finding of a completely understanding +friend.</p> + + +<p><i>September 10th.</i></p> + +<p>Once you have achieved complete understanding with anybody it isn't +necessary, I know, to talk much. I have been told this by the wise. +They have said mere knowledge that the understanding is there is enough. +They have said that perfect understanding needs no expression, that the +perfect intercourse is without words. That may be; but I want to talk. +Not excessively, but sometimes. Speech does add grace and satisfaction +to friendship. It may not be necessary, but it is very agreeable.</p> + +<p>As far as I can see I am never, except by the rarest chance, going to +get an opportunity of talking to Dolly alone. And there are so many +things I want to ask her. Were her experiences all pleasant? Or is it +her gay, indomitable spirit that has left her, after them, so entirely +unmarked? Anyhow the last five years can't possibly have been pleasant, +and yet they've not left the shadow of a stain on her serenity. I feel +that she would think very sanely about anything her bright mind touched. +There is something disinfecting about Dolly. I believe she would +disinfect me of the last dregs of morbidness I still may have lurking +inside me.</p> + +<p>She and Mrs. Barnes are utterly poor. When the war began Dolly was in +Germany, she told me that morning in the kitchen-garden, and had been a +widow nearly a year. Not Siegfried's widow: Juchs's. I find her +widowhoods confusing.</p> + +<p>'Didn't you ever have a child, Dolly?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'No,' she said.</p> + +<p>'Then how is it you twitched the handkerchief off your sister's sleeping +face that first day and said Peep bo to her so professionally?'</p> + +<p>'I used to do that to Siegfried. We were both quite young to begin with, +and played silly games.'</p> + +<p>'I see,' I said. 'Go on.'</p> + +<p>Juchs had left her some money; just enough to live on. Siegfried hadn't +ever had any, except what he earned as a clerk in a bank, but Juchs had +had some. She hadn't married Juchs for any reason, I gathered, except to +please him. It did please him very much, she said, and I can quite +imagine it. Siegfried too had been pleased in his day. 'I seem to have a +gift for pleasing Germans,' she remarked, smiling. 'They were both very +kind to me. I ended by being very fond of them both. I believe I'd be +fond of anyone who was kind. There's a good deal of the dog about me.'</p> + +<p>Directly the war began she packed up and came to Switzerland; she didn't +wish, under such circumstances, to risk pleasing any more Germans. +Since her marriage to Juchs all her English relations except Kitty had +cast her off, so that only a neutral country was open to her, and Kitty +instantly gave up everybody and everything to come and be with her. At +first her little income was sent to her by her German bank, but after +the first few months it sent no more, and she became entirely dependent +on Kitty. All that Kitty had was what she got from selling her house. +The Germans, Dolly said, would send no money out of the country. Though +the war was over she could get nothing out of them unless she went back. +She would never go back. It would kill Kitty; and she too, she thought, +would very likely die. Her career of pleasing Germans does seem to be +definitely over.</p> + +<p>'So you see,' she said smiling, 'how wonderful it is for us to have +found <i>you</i>.'</p> + +<p>'What I can't get over,' I said, 'is having found <i>you</i>.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But I wish, having found her, I might sometimes talk to her.</p> + + +<p><i>September 12th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">We live here in an atmosphere of <i>combats de générosité</i>. It is +tremendous. Mrs. Barnes and I are always doing things we don't want to +do because we suppose it is what is going to make the other one happy. +The tyranny of unselfishness! I can hardly breathe.</p> + + +<p><i>September 19th.</i></p> + +<p>I think it isn't good for women to be shut up too long alone together +without a man. They seem to fester. Even the noblest. Taking our +intentions all round they really are quite noble. We do only want to +develope in ideal directions, and remove what we think are the obstacles +to this development in each other's paths; and yet we fester. Not Dolly. +Nothing ever smudges her equable, clear wholesomeness; but there are +moments when I feel as if Mrs. Barnes and I got much mixed up together +in a sort of sticky mass. Faint struggles from time to time, brief +efforts at extrication, show there is still a life in me that is not +flawlessly benevolent, but I repent of them as soon as made because of +the pain and surprise that instantly appear in Mrs. Barnes's tired, +pathetic eyes, and hastily I engulf myself once more in goodness.</p> + +<p>That's why I haven't written lately, not for a whole week. It is +glutinous, the prevailing goodness. I have stuck. I have felt as though +my mind were steeped in treacle. Then to-day I remembered my old age, +and the old lady waiting at the end of the years who will want to be +amused, so I've begun again. I have an idea that what will really most +amuse that old lady, that wrinkled philosophical old thing, will be all +the times when I was being uncomfortable. She will be so very +comfortable herself, so done with everything, so entirely an impartial +looker-on, that the rebellions and contortions and woes of the creature +who used to be herself will only make her laugh. She will be blithe in +her security. Besides, she will know the sequel, she will know what came +next, and will see, I daresay, how vain the expense of trouble and +emotions was. So that naturally she will laugh. 'You <i>silly</i> little +thing!' I can imagine her exclaiming, 'If only you had known how it all +wasn't going to matter!' And she will laugh very heartily; for I am sure +she will be a gay old lady.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">But what we really want here now is an occasional breath of +brutality,—the passage, infrequent and not too much prolonged, of a +man. If he came to tea once in a way it would do. He would be a blast of +fresh air. He would be like opening a window. We have minced about among +solicitudes and delicacies so very long. I want to smell the rankness +of a pipe, and see the cushions thrown anyhow. I want to see somebody +who doesn't knit. I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted. +Especially do I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted ... oh, I'm +afraid I'm still not very good!</p> + + +<p><i>September 20th.</i></p> + +<p>The grapes are ripe down in the vineyards along the edge of the valley, +and this morning I proposed that we should start off early and spend the +day among them doing a grape-cure.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes liked the idea very much, and sandwiches were ordered, for +we were not to come back till evening; then at the last moment she +thought it would be too hot in the valley, and that her head, which has +been aching lately, might get worse. The sandwiches were ready on the +hall table. Dolly and I were ready too, boots on and sticks in hand. To +our great surprise Mrs. Barnes, contemplating the sandwiches, said that +as they had been cut they mustn't be wasted, and therefore we had better +go without her.</p> + +<p>We were astonished. We were like children being given a holiday. She +kissed us affectionately when we said goodbye, as though, to mark her +trust in us,—in Dolly that she wouldn't tell me the dreadful truth +about herself, in me that I wouldn't encourage her in undesirable points +of view. How safe we were, how deserving of trust, Mrs. Barnes naturally +didn't know. Nothing that either of us could say could possibly upset +the other.</p> + +<p>'If Mrs. Barnes knew the worst, knew I knew everything, wouldn't she be +happier?' I asked Dolly as we went briskly down the mountain. 'Wouldn't +at least part of her daily anxiety be got rid of, her daily fear lest I +<i>should</i> get to know?'</p> + +<p>'It would kill her,' said Dolly firmly.</p> + +<p>'But surely—'</p> + +<p>'You mustn't forget that she thinks what I did was a crime.'</p> + +<p>'You mean the uncle.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, she wouldn't very much mind your knowing about Siegfried. She would +do her utmost to prevent it, because of her horror of Germans and of the +horror she assumes you have of Germans. But once you did know she would +be resigned. The other—' Dolly shook her head. 'It would kill her,' she +said again.</p> + +<p>We came to a green slope starred thick with autumn crocuses, and sat +down to look at them. These delicate, lovely things have been appearing +lately on the mountain, at first one by one and then in flocks,—pale +cups of light, lilac on long white stalks that snap off at a touch. Like +the almond trees in the suburban gardens round London that flower when +the winds are cruellest, the autumn crocuses seem too frail to face the +cold nights we are having now; yet it is just when conditions are +growing unkind that they come out. There they are, all over the mountain +fields, flowering in greater profusion the further the month moves +towards winter.</p> + +<p>This particular field of them was so beautiful that with one accord +Dolly and I sat down to look. One doesn't pass such beauty by. I think +we sat quite half an hour drinking in those crocuses, and their sunny +plateau, and the way the tops of the pine trees on the slope below stood +out against the blue emptiness of the valley. We were most content. The +sun was so warm, the air of such an extraordinary fresh purity. Just to +breathe was happiness. I think that in my life I have been most blest in +this, that so often just to breathe has been happiness.</p> + +<p>Dolly and I, now that we could talk as much as we wanted to, didn't +after all talk much. Suddenly I felt incurious about her Germans. I +didn't want them among the crocuses. The past, both hers and mine, +seemed to matter very little, seemed a stuffy, indifferent thing, in +that clear present. I don't suppose if we hadn't brought an empty basket +with us on purpose to take back grapes to Mrs. Barnes that we would have +gone on down to the vineyards at all, but rather have spent the day just +where we were. The basket, however, had to be filled; it had to be +brought back filled. It was to be the proof that we had done what we +said we would. Kitty, said Dolly, would be fidgeted if we hadn't carried +out the original plan, and might be afraid that, if we weren't eating +grapes all day as arranged, we were probably using our idle mouths for +saying things she wished left unsaid.</p> + +<p>'Does poor Kitty <i>always</i> fidget?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Always,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'About every single thing that might happen?'</p> + +<p>'Every single thing,' said Dolly. 'She spends her life now entirely in +fear—and it's all because of me.'</p> + +<p>'But really, while she is with me she could have a holiday from fear if +we told her I knew about your uncle and had accepted it with calm.'</p> + +<p>'It would kill her,' said Dolly once more, firmly.</p> + +<p>We lunched in the vineyards, and our desert was grapes. We ate them for +a long while with enthusiasm, and went on eating them through every +degree of declining pleasure till we disliked them. For fifty centimes +each the owner gave us permission to eat grapes till we died if we +wished to. For another franc we were allowed to fill the basket for Mrs. +Barnes. Only conscientiousness made us fill it full, for we couldn't +believe anybody would really want to eat such things as grapes. Then we +began to crawl up the mountain again, greatly burdened both inside and +out.</p> + +<p>It took us over three hours to get home. We carried the basket in turns, +half an hour at a time; but what about those other, invisible, grapes, +that came with us as well? I think people who have been doing a +grape-cure should sit quiet for the rest of the day, or else walk only +on the level. To have to take one's cure up five thousand feet with one +is hard. Again we didn't talk; this time because we couldn't. All that +we could do was to pant and to perspire.</p> + +<p>It was a brilliant afternoon, and the way led up when the vineyards left +off through stunted fir trees that gave no shade, along narrow paths +strewn with dry fir needles,—the slipperiest things in the world to +walk on. Through these hot, shadeless trees the sun beat on our bent and +burdened figures. Whenever we stopped to rest and caught sight of each +other's flushed wet faces we laughed.</p> + +<p>'Kitty needn't have been afraid we'd <i>say</i> much,' panted Dolly in one of +these pauses, her eyes screwed up with laughter at my melted state.</p> + +<p>I knew what I must be looking like by looking at her.</p> + +<p>It was five o'clock by the time we reached the field with the crocuses, +and we sank down on the grass where we had sat in the morning, +speechless, dripping, overwhelmed by grapes. For a long while we said +nothing. It was bliss to lie in the cool grass and not to have to carry +anything. The sun, low in the sky, slanted almost level along the field, +and shining right through the thin-petalled crocuses made of each a +little star. I don't know anything more happy than to be where it is +beautiful with some one who sees and loves it as much as you do +yourself. We lay stretched out on the grass, quite silent, watching the +splendour grow and grow till, having reached a supreme moment of +radiance, it suddenly went out. The sun dropped behind the mountains +along to the west, and out went the light; with a flick; in an instant. +And the crocuses, left standing in their drab field, looked like so many +blown-out candles.</p> + +<p>Dolly sat up.</p> + +<p>'There now,' she said. 'That's over. They look as blind and dim as a +woman whose lover has left her. Have you ever,' she asked, turning her +head to me still lying pillowed on Mrs. Barnes's grapes—the basket had +a lid—'seen a woman whose lover has left her?'</p> + +<p>'Of course I have. Everybody has been left by somebody.'</p> + +<p>'I mean <i>just</i> left.'</p> + +<p>'Yes. I've seen that too.'</p> + +<p>'They look exactly like that,' said Dolly, nodding towards the crocuses. +'Smitten colourless. Light gone, life gone, beauty gone,—dead things in +a dead world. I don't,' she concluded, shaking her head slowly, 'hold +with love.'</p> + +<p>At this I sat up too, and began to tidy my hair and put my hat on again. +'It's cold,' I said, 'now that the sun is gone. Let us go home.'</p> + +<p>Dolly didn't move.</p> + +<p>'Do you?' she asked.</p> + +<p>'Do I what?'</p> + +<p>'Hold with love.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Whatever happens?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Whatever its end is?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said. 'And I won't even say yes <i>and</i> no, as the cautious +Charlotte Brontë did when she was asked if she liked London. I won't be +cautious in love. I won't look at all the reasons for saying no. It's a +glorious thing to have had. It's splendid to have believed all one did +believe.'</p> + +<p>'Even when there never was a shred of justification for the belief?' +asked Dolly, watching me.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said; and began passionately to pin my hat on, digging the pins +into my head in my vehemence. 'Yes. The thing is to believe. Not go +round first cautiously on tiptoe so as to be sure before believing and +trusting that your precious belief and trust are going to be safe. Safe! +There's no safety in love. You risk the whole of life. But the great +thing <i>is</i> to risk—to believe, and to risk everything for your belief. +And if there wasn't anything there, if it was you all by yourself who +imagined the beautiful kind things in the other one, the wonderful, +generous, beautiful kind things, what does it matter? They weren't +there, but <i>you</i> for once were capable of imagining them. You <i>were</i> up +among the stars for a little, you <i>did</i> touch heaven. And when you've +had the tumble down again and you're scrunched all to pieces and are +just a miserable heap of blood and brokenness, where's your grit that +you should complain? Haven't you seen wonders up there past all telling, +and had supreme joys? It's because you were up in heaven that your fall +is so tremendous and hurts so. What you've got to do is not to be +killed. You've got at all costs to stay alive, so that for the rest of +your days you may go gratefully, giving thanks to God that once ... you +see,' I finished suddenly, 'I'm a great believer in saying thank you.'</p> + +<p>'Oh,' said Dolly, laying her hand on my knee and looking at me very +kindly, 'I'm so glad!'</p> + +<p>'Now what are you glad about, Dolly?' I asked, turning on her and giving +my hat a pull straight. And I added, my chin in the air, 'Those dead +women of yours in their dead world, indeed! Ashamed of themselves—that's +what they ought to be.'</p> + +<p>'You're cured,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Cured,' I echoed.</p> + +<p>I stared at her severely. 'Oh—I see,' I said. 'You've been drawing me +out.'</p> + +<p>'Of course I have. I couldn't bear to think of you going on being +unhappy—hankering—'</p> + +<p>'Hankering?'</p> + +<p>Dolly got up. 'Now let's go home,' she said. 'It's my turn to carry the +basket. Yes, it's a horrid word. Nobody should ever hanker. I couldn't +bear it if you did. I've been afraid that perhaps—'</p> + +<p>'Hankering!'</p> + +<p>I got up too and stood very straight.</p> + +<p>'Give me those grapes,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Hankering!' I said again.</p> + +<p>And the rest of the way home, along the cool path where the dusk was +gathering among the bushes and the grass was damp now beneath our dusty +shoes, we walked with heads held high—hankering indeed!—two women +surely in perfect harmony with life and the calm evening, women of +wisdom and intelligence, of a proper pride and self-respect, kind women, +good women, pleasant, amiable women, contented women, pleased women; and +at the last corner, the last one between us and Mrs. Barnes's eye on the +terrace, Dolly stopped, put down the basket, and laying both her arms +about my shoulders kissed me.</p> + +<p>'Cured,' she said, kissing me on one side of my face. 'Safe,' she said, +kissing me on the other.</p> + +<p>And we laughed, both of us, confident and glad. And I went up to my room +confident and glad, for if I felt cured and Dolly was sure I was cured, +mustn't it be true?</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Hankering indeed.</p> + + +<p><i>September 21st.</i></p> + +<p>But I'm not cured. For when I was alone in my room last night and the +house was quiet with sleep, a great emptiness came upon me, and those +fine defiant words of mine in the afternoon seemed poor things, poor +dwindled things, like kaisers in their night-gowns. For hours I lay +awake with only one longing: to creep back,—back into my shattered +beliefs, even if it were the littlest corner of them. Surely there must +be some corner of them still, with squeezing, habitable? I'm so small. I +need hardly any room. I'd curl up. I'd fit myself in. And I wouldn't +look at the ruin of the great splendid spaces I once thought I lived in, +but be content with a few inches. Oh, it's cold, cold, cold, left +outside of faith like this....</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">For hours I lay awake; and being ashamed of myself did no good, because +love doesn't mind about being ashamed.</p> + + +<p><i>Evening.</i></p> + +<p>All day I've slunk about in silence, watching for a moment alone with +Dolly. I want to tell her that it was only one side of me yesterday, and +that there's another, and another—oh, so many others; that I meant +every word I said, but there are other things, quite different, almost +opposite things that I also mean; that it's true I'm cured, but only +cured in places, and over the rest of me, the rest that is still sick, +great salt waves of memories wash every now and then and bite and +bite....</p> + +<p>But Dolly, who seems more like an unruffled pool of clear water to-day +than ever, hasn't left Mrs. Barnes's side; making up, I suppose, for +being away from her all yesterday.</p> + +<p>Towards tea-time I became aware that Mrs. Barnes was watching me with a +worried face, the well-known worried, anxious face, and I guessed she +was wondering if Dolly had been indiscreet on our picnic and told me +things that had shocked me into silence. So I cast about in my mind for +something to reassure her, and, as I thought fortunately, very soon +remembered the grapes.</p> + +<p>'I'm afraid I ate too many grapes yesterday,' I said, when next I caught +her worried, questioning eye.</p> + +<p>Her face cleared. I congratulated myself. But I didn't congratulate +myself long; for Mrs. Barnes, all motherly solicitude, inquired if by +any chance I had swallowed some of the stones; and desiring to reassure +her to the utmost as to the reason of my thoughtfulness, I said that +very likely I had; from the feel of things; from the kind of +heaviness.... And she, before I could stop her, had darted into the +kitchen—these lean women are terribly nimble—and before I could turn +round or decide what to do next, for by this time I was suspicious, she +was back again with Mrs. Antoine and all the dreadful paraphernalia of +castor oil. And I had to drink it. And it seemed hard that because I had +been so benevolently desirous to reassure Mrs. Barnes I should have to +drink castor oil and be grateful to her as well.</p> + +<p>'This is petty,' I thought, sombrely eyeing the bottle,—I alluded in my +mind to Fate.</p> + +<p>But as I had to drink the stuff I might as well do it gallantly. And so +I did; tossing it off with an air, after raising the glass and wishing +the onlookers health and happiness in what I tried to make a pleasant +speech.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Antoine and Dolly stood watching me spellbound. A +shudder rippled over them as the last drops slid down.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Then I came up here.</p> + + +<p><i>September 22nd.</i></p> + +<p>Let me draw your attention, O ancient woman sitting at the end of my +life, to the colour of the trees and bushes in this place you once lived +in, in autumns that for you are now so far away. Do you remember how it +was like flames, and the very air was golden? The hazel-bushes, do you +remember them? Along the path that led down from the terrace to the +village? How each separate one was like a heap of light? Do you remember +how you spent to-day, the 22nd of September, 1919, lying on a rug in the +sun close up under one of them, content to stare at the clear yellow +leaves against the amazing sky? You ve forgotten, I daresay. You re only +thinking of your next meal and being put to bed. But you did spend a day +to-day worth remembering. You were very content. You were exactly +balanced in the present, without a single oscillation towards either the +past, a period you hadn't then learned to regard with the levity for +which you are now so remarkable, or to the future, which you at that +time, however much the attitude may amuse you now, thought of with doubt +and often with fear. Mrs. Barnes let you go to-day, having an +appreciation of the privileges due to the dosed, and you took a cushion +and a rug—active, weren't you—and there you lay the whole blessed day, +the sun warm on your body, enfolded in freshness, thinking of nothing +but calm things. Rather like a baby you were; a baby on its back sucking +its thumb and placidly contemplating the nursery ceiling. But the +ceiling was the great sky, with, two eagles ever so far up curving in +its depths, and when they sloped their wings the sun caught them and +they flashed.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">It seems a pity to forget these things. They make up, after all, the +real preciousness of life. But I'm afraid my writing them down won't +make you <i>feel</i> any joy in them again, you old thing. You'll be too +brittle and rheumaticky to be able to think of lying on the grass for a +whole day except with horror. I'm beginning to dislike the idea of being +forced into your old body; and, on reflection, your philosophical +detachment, your incapacity to do anything but laugh at the hopes and +griefs and exultations and disappointments and bitter pains of your +past, seems to me very like the fixed grimace of fleshless death.</p> + + +<p><i>September 23rd.</i></p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes can't, however hard she tries, be with us absolutely +continuously. Gaps in her attendance do inevitably occur. There was one +of them to-day; and I seized it to say to Dolly across the momentarily +empty middle chair—we were on the terrace and the reading was going +on,—'I've not seen you alone since the grape day. I wanted to tell you +that I'm not cured. I had a relapse that very night. I meant all I said +to you, but I meant too, all I said to myself while I was having the +relapse. You'd better know the worst. I simply intolerably hankered.'</p> + +<p>Dolly let Merivale fall on her lap, and gazed pensively at the distant +mountains across the end of the valley.</p> + +<p>'It's only the last growlings,' she said after a moment.</p> + +<p>'Growlings?' I echoed.</p> + +<p>'It's only the last growlings and mutterings of a thunderstorm that's +going away. Whatever it was that happened to you—you've never told me, +you know, but I'm quite good at somehow knowing—was very like a +thunderstorm. A violent one. It was rather brief, it raged incredibly, +and then it rumbled off. Though you were flattened out while it was +going on, like some otherwise promising crop—'</p> + +<p>'Oh,' I protested; but I had to laugh.</p> + +<p>'—still when it took itself off you missed it. I wouldn't talk like +this,' she said, turning her sweet eyes to me, 'I wouldn't make fun if I +weren't sure you are on the road, anyhow, to being cured. Presently +you'll reach the stage when you begin to realise that falling out of +love is every bit as agreeable as falling in. It is, you know. It's a +wonderful feeling, that gradual restoration to freedom and one's +friends.'</p> + +<p>'You don't understand after all,' I said.</p> + +<p>Dolly said she did.</p> + +<p>'No. Because you talk of falling out of love. What has happened to me is +far worse than that. That? That's nothing. It's what everybody is doing +all the time. What has happened to me is that I've lost my faith. It has +been like losing God, after years of trust in Him. I believed with all +my heart. And I am desolate.'</p> + +<p>But Dolly only shook her head. 'You're not as desolate as you were,' +she said. 'Nobody who loves all this as you do—' and she turned up her +face to the warm sun, blinking her eyes,—'can go on being desolate +long. Besides—really, you know—look at that.'</p> + +<p>And she pointed to the shining mountains across the valley's eastern +end.</p> + +<p>Yes. That is eternal. Beauty is eternal. When I look at that, when I am +in the clear mood that, looking at the mountains, really <i>sees</i> them, +all the rest, the bewilderment and crying out, the clinging and the +hankering, seem indeed unworthy. Imagine, with the vast landscape of the +splendid world spread out before you, not moving freely in it on and on +rejoicing and praising God, but sitting quite still lamenting in one +spot, stuck in sediment.</p> + +<p>'Did you say sentiment?' asked Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Did I say anything?' I asked in surprise, turning my head to her. 'I +thought I was thinking.'</p> + +<p>'You were doing it aloud, then,' said Dolly. 'Was the word sentiment?'</p> + +<p>'No. Sediment.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'They're the same thing. I hate them both.'</p> + + +<p><i>September 24th.</i></p> + +<p>What will happen to Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when I go back to England? The +weather was a little fidgety to-day and yesterday, a little troubled, +like a creature that stirs fretfully in its sleep, and it set me +thinking. For once the change really begins at this time of the year it +doesn't stop any more. It goes on through an increasing unpleasantness +winds, rain, snow, blizzards—till, after Christmas, the real winter +begins, without a cloud, without a stir of the air, its short days +flooded with sunshine, its dawns and twilights miracles of colour.</p> + +<p>All that fuss and noise of snow-flurries and howling winds is only the +preparation for the great final calm. The last blizzard, tearing away +over the mountains, is like an ugly curtain rolling up; and behold a new +world. One night while you are asleep the howls and rattlings suddenly +leave off, and in the morning you look out of the window and for the +first time for weeks you see the mountains at the end of the valley +clear against the eastern sky, clothed in all new snow from head to +foot, and behind them the lovely green where the sunrise is getting +ready. I know, because I was obliged to be here through the October and +November and December of the year the house was built and was being +furnished. They were three most horrid months; and the end of them was +heaven.</p> + +<p>But what will become of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when the weather does +finally break up?</p> + +<p>I can't face the picture of them spending a gloomy, half-warmed winter +down in some cheap pension; an endless winter of doing without things, +of watching every franc. They've been living like that for five years +now. Where does Dolly get her sweet serenity from? I wish I could take +them to England with me. But Dolly can't go to England. She is German. +She is doomed. And Mrs. Barnes is doomed too, inextricably tied up in +Dolly's fate. Of course I am going to beg them to stay on here, but it +seems a poor thing to offer them, to live up here in blizzards that I +run away from myself. It does seem a very doubtful offer of hospitality. +I ought, to make it real, to stay on with them. And I simply couldn't. I +do believe I would die if I had three months shut up with Mrs. Barnes in +blizzards. Let her have everything—the house, the Antoines, all, all +that I possess; but only let me go.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">My spirit faints at the task before me, at the thought of the +persuasions and the protests that will have to be gone through. And +Dolly; how can I leave Dolly? I shall be haunted in London by visions of +these two up here, the wind raging round the house, the snow piled up to +the bedroom windows, sometimes cut off for a whole week from the +village, because only in a pause in the blizzard can the little black +figures that are peasants come sprawling over the snow with their +shovels to dig one out. I know because I have been through it that first +winter. But it was all new to us then, and we were a care-free, cheerful +group inside the house, five people who loved each other and talked +about anything they wanted to, besides being backed reassuringly by a +sack of lentils and several sacks of potatoes that Antoine, even then +prudent and my right hand, had laid in for just this eventuality. We +made great fires, and brewed strange drinks. We sat round till far into +the nights telling ghost stories. We laughed a good deal, and said just +what we felt like saying. But Mrs. Barnes and Dolly? Alone up here, and +undug out? It will haunt me.</p> + + +<p><i>September 25th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">She hasn't noticed the weather yet. At least, she has drawn no +deductions from it. Evidently she thinks its fitfulness, its gleams of +sunshine and its uneasy cloudings over, are just a passing thing and +that it soon will settle down again to what it was before. After all, +she no doubt says to herself, it is still September. But Antoine knows +better, and so do I, and it is merely hours now before the break-up will +be plain even to Mrs. Barnes. Then the <i>combats de générosité</i> will +begin. I can't, I can't stop here so that Mrs. Barnes may be justified +to herself in stopping too on the ground of cheering my solitude. I +drank the castor oil solely that her mind might be at rest, but I can't +develope any further along lines of such awful magnanimity. I would die.</p> + + +<p><i>September 26th.</i></p> + +<p>To-day I smoked twelve cigarettes, only that the house should smell +virile. They're not as good as a pipe for that, but they're better than +the eternal characterless clean smell of unselfish women.</p> + +<p>After each cigarette Mrs. Barnes got up unobtrusively and aired the +room. Then I lit another.</p> + +<p>Also I threw the cushions on the floor before flinging myself on the +sofa in the hall; and presently Mrs. Barnes came and tidied them.</p> + +<p>Then I threw them down again.</p> + +<p>Towards evening she asked me if I was feeling quite well. I wasn't, +because of the cigarettes, but I didn't tell her that. I said I felt +very well indeed. Naturally I couldn't explain to her that I had only +been trying to pretend there was a man about.</p> + +<p>'You're sure those grape-stones—?' she began anxiously.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'Oh, certain!' I cried; and hastily became meek.</p> + + +<p><i>September 27th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Oaths, now. I shrink from so much as suggesting it, but there <i>is</i> +something to be said for them. They're so brief. They get the mood over. +They clear the air. Women explain and protest and tiptoe tactfully about +among what they think are your feelings, and there's no end to it. And +then, if they're good women, good, affectionate, unselfish women, they +have a way of forgiving you. They keep on forgiving you. Freely. With a +horrible magnanimousness. Mrs. Barnes insisted on forgiving me +yesterday for the cigarettes, for the untidiness. It isn't a happy +thing, I think, to be shut up in a small lonely house being forgiven.</p> + + +<p><i>September 28th.</i></p> + +<p>In the night the wind shook the windows and the rain pelted against +them, and I knew that when I went down to breakfast the struggle with +Mrs. Barnes would begin.</p> + +<p>It did. It began directly after breakfast in the hall, where Antoine, +remarking firmly '<i>C'est l'hiver</i>,' had lit a roaring fire, determined +this time to stand no parsimonious nonsense, and it has gone on all day, +with the necessary intervals for recuperation.</p> + +<p>Nothing has been settled. I still don't in the least know what to do. +Mrs. Barnes's attitude is obstinately unselfish. She and Dolly, she +reiterates, won't dream of staying on here unless they feel that by +doing so they could be of service to me by keeping me company. If I'm +not here I can't be kept company with; that, she says, I must admit.</p> + +<p>I do. Every time she says it—it has been a day of reiterations—I admit +it. Therefore, if I go they go, she finishes with a kind of sombre +triumph at her determination not to give trouble or be an expense; but +words fail her, she adds, (this is a delusion,) to express her gratitude +for my offer, etc., and never, for the rest of their lives, will she and +Dolly forget the delightful etc., etc.</p> + +<p>What am I to do? I don't know. How lightly one embarks on marriage and +on guests, and in what unexpected directions do both develope! Also, +what a terrible thing is unselfishness. Once it has become a habit, how +tough, how difficult to uproot. A single obstinately unselfish person +can wreck the happiness of a whole household. Is it possible that I +shall have to stay here? And I have so many things waiting for me in +England that have to be done.</p> + +<p>There's a fire in my bedroom, and I've been sitting on the floor staring +into it for the past hour, seeking a solution. Because all the while +Mrs. Barnes is firmly refusing to listen for a moment to my entreaties +to use the house while I'm away, her thin face is hungry with longing to +accept, and the mere talking, however bravely, of taking up the old +homeless wandering again fills her tired eyes with tears.</p> + +<p>Once I got so desperate that I begged her to stay as a kindness to me, +in order to keep an eye on those patently efficient and trustworthy +Antoines. This indeed was the straw-clutching of the drowning, and even +Mrs. Barnes, that rare smiler, smiled.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">No. I don't know what to do. How the wind screams. I'll go to bed.</p> + + +<p><i>September 29th.</i></p> + +<p>And there's nothing to be done with Dolly either.</p> + +<p>'You told me you put your foot down sometimes,' I said, appealing to her +this morning in one of Mrs. Barnes's brief absences, 'Why don't you put +it down now?'</p> + +<p>'Because I don't want to,' said Dolly.</p> + +<p>'But <i>why</i> not?' I asked, exasperated. 'It's so reasonable what I +suggest, so easy—'</p> + +<p>'I don't want to stay here without you,' said Dolly. 'This place <i>is</i> +you. You've made it. It is soaked in you. I should feel haunted here +without you. Why, I should feel lost.'</p> + +<p>'As though you would! When we hardly speak to each other as it is—'</p> + +<p>'But I watch you,' said Dolly, smiling, 'and I know what you're +thinking. You've no idea how what you're thinking comes out on your +face.'</p> + +<p>'But if it makes your unhappy sister's mind more comfortable? If she +feels free from anxiety here? If she feels you are safe here?' I +passionately reasoned.</p> + +<p>'I don't want to be safe.'</p> + +<p>'Oh Dolly—you're not going to break out again?' I asked, as anxiously +every bit as poor Mrs. Barnes would have asked.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Dolly laughed. 'I'll never do anything again that makes Kitty unhappy,' +she said. 'But I do like the feeling—' she made a movement with her +arms as though they were wings—'oh, I <i>like</i> the feeling of having +room!'</p> + + +<p><i>September 30th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">The weather is better again, and there has been a pause in our +strivings. Mrs. Barnes and I have drifted, tired both of us, I resting +in that refuge of the weak, the putting off of making up my mind, back +into talking only of the situation and the view. If Mrs. Barnes were +either less good or more intelligent! But the combination of +non-intelligence with goodness is unassailable. You can't get through. +Nothing gets through. You give in. You are flattened out. You become a +slave. And your case is indeed hopeless if the non-intelligent and +good, are at the same time the victims, nobly enduring, of undeserved +misfortune.</p> + + +<p><i>Evening.</i></p> + +<p>A really remarkable thing happened to-day: I've had a prayer answered. I +shall never dare pray again. I prayed for a man, any man, to come and +leaven us, and I've got him.</p> + +<p>Let me set it down in order.</p> + +<p>This afternoon on our walk, soon after we had left the house and were +struggling along against gusts of wind and whirling leaves in the +direction, as it happened, of the carriage road up from the valley, +Dolly said, 'Who is that funny little man coming towards us?'</p> + +<p>And I looked, and said after a moment in which my heart stood still—for +what had <i>he</i> come for?—'That funny little man is my uncle.'</p> + +<p>There he was, the authentic uncle: gaiters, apron, shovel hat. He was +holding on his hat, and the rude wind, thwarted in its desire to frolic +with it, frisked instead about his apron, twitching it up, bellying it +out; so that his remaining hand had all it could do to smooth the apron +down again decorously, and he was obliged to carry his umbrella pressed +tightly against his side under his arm.</p> + +<p>'Not your uncle the Dean?' asked Mrs. Barnes in a voice of awe, hastily +arranging her toque; for a whiff of the Church, any whiff, even one so +faint as a curate, is as the breath of life to her.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said, amazed and helpless. 'My Uncle Rudolph.'</p> + +<p>'Why, he might be a German,' said Dolly, 'with a name like that.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, but don't say so to him!' I cried. 'He has a perfect <i>horror</i> of +Germans—'</p> + +<p>And it was out before I remembered, before I could stop it. Good +heavens, I thought; good heavens.</p> + +<p>I looked sideways at Mrs. Barnes. She was, I am afraid, very red. So I +plunged in again, eager to reassure her. 'That is to say,' I said, 'he +used to have during the war. But of course now that the war is over it +would be mere silliness—nobody minds now—nobody <i>ought</i> to mind now—'</p> + +<p>My voice, however, trailed out into silence, for I knew, and Mrs. Barnes +knew, that people do mind.</p> + +<p>By this time we were within hail of my uncle, and with that joy one +instinctively assumes on such occasions I waved my stick in exultant +circles at him and called out, 'How very delightful of you, Uncle +Rudolph!' And I advanced to greet him, the others tactfully dropping +behind, alone.</p> + +<p>There on the mountain side, with the rude wind whisking his clothes +irreverently about, we kissed; and in my uncle's kiss I instantly +perceived something of the quality of Mrs. Barnes's speeches the day I +smoked the twelve cigarettes,—he was forgiving me.</p> + +<p>'I have come to escort you home to England,' he said, his face spread +over with the spirit of allowing byegones to be byegones; and in that +spirit he let go of his apron in order reassuringly to pat my shoulder.</p> + +<p>Immediately the apron bellied. His hand had abruptly to leave my +shoulder so as to clutch it down again. 'You are with ladies?' he said a +little distractedly, holding on to this turbulent portion of his +clothing.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I replied modestly. 'I hope you didn't expect to +find me with gentlemen?'</p> + +<p>'I expected to find you, dear child, as I have always found you,—ready +to admit and retrace. Generously ready to admit and retrace.'</p> + +<p>'Sweet of you,' I murmured. 'But you should have let me know you were +coming. I'd have had things killed for you. Fatted things.'</p> + +<p>'It is not I,' he said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, the +wind being what it was, 'who am the returning prodigal. Indeed I wish +for your sake that I were. My shoulders could bear the burden better +than those little ones of yours.'</p> + +<p>This talk was ominous, so I said, 'I must introduce you to Mrs. Barnes +and her sister Mrs. Jewks. Let me present,' I said ceremoniously, +turning to them who were now fortunately near enough, 'my Uncle Rudolph +to you, of whom you have often heard me speak.'</p> + +<p>'Indeed we have,' said Mrs. Barnes, with as extreme a cordiality as awe +permitted.</p> + +<p>My uncle, obviously relieved to find his niece not eccentrically alone +but flanked by figures so respectable, securely, as it were, embedded in +widows, was very gracious. Mrs. Barnes received his pleasant speeches +with delighted reverence; and as we went back to the house, for the +first thing to do with arrivals from England is to give them a bath, he +and she fell naturally into each other's company along the narrow track, +and Dolly and I followed behind.</p> + +<p>We looked at each other, simultaneously perceiving the advantages of +four rather than of three. Behind Mrs. Barnes's absorbed and obsequious +back we looked at each other with visions in our eyes of unsupervised +talks opening before us.</p> + +<p>'They have their uses, you see,' I said in a low voice,—not that I need +have lowered it in that wind.</p> + +<p>'Deans have,' agreed Dolly, nodding.</p> + +<p>And my desire to laugh,—discreetly, under my breath, ready to pull my +face sober and be gazing at the clouds the minute our relations should +turn round, was strangled by the chill conviction that my uncle's coming +means painful things for me.</p> + +<p>He is going to talk to me; talk about what I am trying so hard not to +think of, what I really am succeeding in not thinking of; and he is +going to approach the desolating subject in, as he will say and perhaps +even persuade himself to believe, a Christian spirit, but in what really +is a spirit of sheer worldliness. He has well-founded hopes of soon +going to be a bishop. I am his niece. The womenkind of bishops should be +inconspicuous, should see to it that comment cannot touch them. +Therefore he is going to try to get me to deliver myself up to a life +of impossible wretchedness again, only that the outside of it may look +in order. The outside of the house,—of the house of a bishop's +niece,—at all costs keep it neat, keep it looking like all the others +in the street; so shall nobody know what is going on inside, and the +neighbours won't talk about one's uncle.</p> + +<p>If I were no relation but just a mere ordinary stranger-soul in +difficulties, he, this very same man, would be full of understanding, +would find himself unable, indeed, the facts being what they are, to be +anything but most earnestly concerned to help me keep clear of all +temptations to do what he calls retrace. And at the same time he would +be concerned also to strengthen me in that mood which is I am sure the +right one, and does very often recur, of being entirely without +resentment and so glad to have the remembrance at least of the beautiful +things I believed in. But I am his niece. He is about to become a +bishop. Naturally he has to be careful not to be too much like Christ.</p> + +<p>Accordingly I followed uneasily in his footsteps towards the house, +dreading what was going to happen next. And nothing has happened next. +Not yet, anyhow. I expect to-morrow....</p> + +<p>We spent a most bland evening. I'm as sleepy and as much satiated by +ecclesiastical good things as though I had been the whole day in church. +My uncle, washed, shaven, and restored by tea, laid himself out to +entertain. He was the decorous life of the party. He let himself go to +that tempered exuberance with which good men of his calling like to +prove that they really are not so very much different from other people +after all. Round the hall fire we sat after tea, and again after supper, +Dolly and I facing each other at the corners, my uncle and Mrs. Barnes +in the middle, and the room gently echoed with seemly and strictly +wholesome mirth. 'How enjoyable,' my uncle seemed to say, looking at us +at the end of each of his good stories, gathering in the harvest of our +appreciation, 'how enjoyable is the indulgence of legitimate fun. Why +need one ever indulge in illegitimacy?'</p> + +<p>And indeed his stories were so very good that every one of them, before +they reached the point of bringing forth their joke, must have been to +church and got married.</p> + +<p>Dolly sat knitting, the light shining on her infantile fair hair, her +eyes downcast in a dove-like meekness. Punctually her dimple flickered +out at the right moment in each anecdote. She appeared to know by +instinct where to smile; and several times I was only aware that the +moment had come by happening to notice her dimple.</p> + +<p>As for Mrs. Barnes, for the first time since I have known her, her face +was cloudless. My uncle, embarked on anecdote, did not mention the war. +We did not once get on to Germans. Mrs. Barnes could give herself up to +real enjoyment. She beamed. She was suffused with reverential delight. +And her whole body, the very way she sat in her chair, showed an +absorption, an eagerness not to miss a crumb of my uncle's talk, that +would have been very gratifying to him if he were not used to just this. +It is strange how widows cling to clergymen. Ever since I can remember, +like the afflicted Margaret's apprehensions in Wordsworth's poem, they +have come to Uncle Rudolph in crowds. My aunt used to raise her eyebrows +and ask me if I could at all tell her what they saw in him.</p> + +<p>When we bade each other goodnight there was something in Mrs. Barnes's +manner to me that showed me the presence of a man was already doing its +work. She was aerated. Fresh, air had got into her and was circulating +freely. At my bedroom door she embraced me with warm and simple +heartiness, without the usual painful search of my face to see if by any +chance there was anything she had left undone in her duty of being +unselfish. My uncle's arrival has got her thoughts off me for a bit. I +knew that what we wanted was a man. Not that a dean is quite my idea of +a man, but then on the other hand neither is he quite my idea of a +woman, and his arrival does put an end for the moment to Mrs. Barnes's +and my dreadful <i>combats de générosité</i>. He infuses fresh blood into our +anaemic little circle. Different blood, perhaps I should rather say; the +blood of deans not being, I think, ever very fresh.</p> + +<p>'Good night, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, getting up at ten o'clock and +holding up my face to him. 'We have to thank you for a delightful +evening.'</p> + +<p>'Most delightful,' echoed Mrs. Barnes enthusiastically, getting up too +and rolling up her knitting.</p> + +<p>My uncle was gratified. He felt he had been at his best, and that his +best had been appreciated.</p> + +<p>'Good night, dear child,' he said, kissing my offered cheek. 'May the +blessed angels watch about your bed.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, bowing my head beneath this +benediction.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barnes looked on at the little domestic scene with reverential +sympathy. Then her turn came.</p> + +<p>'<i>Good</i> night, Mrs. Barnes,' said my uncle most graciously, shaking +hands and doing what my dancing mistress used to call bending from the +waist.</p> + +<p>And to Dolly, '<i>Good</i> night, Miss—'</p> + +<p>Then he hesitated, groping for the name. 'Mrs.,' said Dolly, sweetly +correcting him, her hand in his.</p> + +<p>'Ah, I beg your pardon. Married. These introductions—especially in that +noisy wind.'</p> + +<p>'No—not exactly married,' said Dolly, still sweetly correcting him, her +hand still in his.</p> + +<p>'Not exactly—?'</p> + +<p>'My sister has lost her—my sister is a widow,' said Mrs. Barnes hastily +and nervously; alas, these complications of Dolly's!</p> + +<p>'Indeed. Indeed. Sad, sad,' said my uncle sympathetically, continuing to +hold her hand. 'And so young. Ah. Yes. Well, good night then, Mrs—'</p> + +<p>But again he had to pause and grope.</p> + +<p>'Jewks,' said Dolly sweetly.</p> + +<p>'Forgive me. You may depend I shall not again be so stupid. Good night. +And may the blessed angels—'</p> + +<p>A third time he stopped; pulled up, I suppose, by the thought that it +was perhaps not quite seemly to draw the attention of even the angels to +an unrelated lady's bed. So he merely very warmly shook her hand, while +she smiled a really heavenly smile at him.</p> + +<p>We left him standing with his back to the fire watching us go up the +stairs, holding almost tenderly, for one must expend one's sympathy on +something, a glass of hot water.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">My uncle is very sympathetic. In matters that do not touch his own +advancement he is all sympathy. That is why widows like him, I expect. +My aunt would have known the reason if she hadn't been his wife.</p> + + +<p><i>October 1st.</i></p> + +<p>While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open +against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one's eyes can't be +everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don't get quite +satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but +there are other things. This morning the book was the Bible, and in it +I read, <i>A prudent man</i>—how much more prudently, then, a +woman—<i>foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on +and are punished.</i></p> + +<p>This made me late for breakfast. I sat looking out of the window, my +hands in my lap, the sensible words of Solomon ringing in my ears, and +considered if there was any way of escaping the fate of the simple.</p> + +<p>There was no way. It seemed hard that without being exactly of the +simple I yet should be doomed to their fate. And outside it was one of +those cold windy mornings when male relations insist on taking one for +what they call a run—as if one were a dog—in order to go through the +bleak process they describe as getting one's cobwebs blown off. I can't +bear being parted from my cobwebs. I never want them blown off. Uncle +Rudolph is small and active, besides having since my aunt's death +considerably dwindled beneath his apron, and I felt sure he intended to +run me up the mountain after breakfast, and, having got me breathless +and speechless on to some cold rock, sit with me there and say all the +things I am dreading having to hear.</p> + +<p>It was quite difficult to get myself to go downstairs. I seemed rooted. +I knew that, seeing that I am that unfortunately situated person the +hostess, my duty lay in morning smiles behind the coffee pot; but the +conviction of what was going to happen to me after the coffee pot kept +me rooted, even when the bell had rung twice.</p> + +<p>When, however, after the second ringing quick footsteps pattered along +the passage to my door I did get up,—jumped up, afraid of what might be +coming-in. Bedrooms are no real protection from uncles. Those quick +footsteps might easily be Uncle Rudolph's. I hurried across to the door +and pulled it open, so that at least by coming out I might stop his +coming in; and there was Mrs. Antoine, her hand lifted up to knock.</p> + +<p>'<i>Ces dames et Monsieur l'Evêque attendent,</i>' she said, with an air of +reproachful surprise.</p> + +<p>'<i>Il n'est pas un évêque</i>,' I replied a little irritably, for I knew I +was in the wrong staying upstairs like that, and naturally resented not +being allowed to be in the wrong in peace. '<i>Il est seulement presque +un</i>.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine said nothing to that, but stepping aside to let me pass +informed me rather severely that the coffee had been on the table a +whole quarter of an hour.</p> + +<p>'<i>Comment appelle-t-on chez vous</i>,' I said, lingering in the doorway to +gain time, '<i>ce qui vient devant un évêque?</i>'</p> + +<p>'<i>Ce qui vient devant un évêque?</i>' repeated Mrs. Antoine doubtfully.</p> + +<p>'<i>Oui. L'espèce de monsieur qui n'est pas tout à fait évêque mais +presque?</i>'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Antoine knit her brows. '<i>Ma foi—</i>' she began.</p> + +<p>'<i>Oh, j'ai oublié</i>,' I said. '<i>Vous n'êtes plus catholique. Il n'y a +rien comme des évêques et comme les messieurs qui sont presque évêques +dans votre église protestante, n'est-ce pas?</i>'</p> + +<p>'<i>Mais rien, rien, rien</i>,' asseverated Mrs. Antoine vehemently, her +hands spread out, her shoulders up to her ears, passionately protesting +the empty purity of her adopted church,—'<i>mais rien du tout, du tout. +Madame peut venir un dimanche voir....</i>'</p> + +<p>Then, having cleared off these imputations, she switched back to the +coffee. '<i>Le café—Madame désire que j'en fasse encore? Ces dames et +Monsieur l'Evêque—</i>'</p> + +<p>'<i>Il n'est pas un év—</i>'</p> + +<p>'Ah—here you are!' exclaimed my uncle, his head appearing at the top of +the stairs. 'I was just coming to see if there was anything the matter. +Here she is—coming, coming!' he called out genially to the others; and +on my hurrying to join him, for I am not one to struggle against the +inevitable, he put his arm through mine and we went down together.</p> + +<p>Having got me to the bottom he placed both hands on my shoulders and +twisted me round to the light. 'Dear child,' he said, scrutinizing my +face while he held me firmly in this position, 'we were getting quite +anxious about you. Mrs. Barnes feared you might be ill, and was already +contemplating remedies—' I shuddered—'however—' he twisted me round +to Mrs. Barnes—'nothing ill about this little lady, Mrs. Barnes, eh?'</p> + +<p>Then he took my chin between his finger and thumb and kissed me lightly, +gaily even, on each cheek, and then, letting me go, he rubbed his hands +and briskly approached the table, all the warm things on which were +swathed as usual when I am late either in napkins or in portions of Mrs. +Barnes's clothing.</p> + +<p>'Come along—come along, now,—breakfast, breakfast,' cried my uncle. +'<i>For these and all Thy mercies Lord</i>—' he continued with hardly a +break, his eyes shut, his hands outspread over Mrs. Barnes's white +woollen shawl in benediction.</p> + +<p>We were overwhelmed. The male had arrived and taken us in hand. But we +were happily overwhelmed, judging from Mrs. Barnes's face. For the first +time since she has been with me the blessing of heaven had been implored +and presumably obtained for her egg, and I realised from her expression +as she ate it how much she had felt the daily enforced consumption, +owing to my graceless habits, of eggs unsanctified. And Dolly too looked +pleased, as she always does when her poor Kitty is happy. I alone +wasn't. Behind the coffee pot I sat pensive. I knew too well what was +before me. I distrusted my uncle's gaiety. He had thought it all out in +the night, and had decided that the best line of approach to the painful +subject he had come to discuss would be one of cheerful affection. +Certainly I had never seen him in such spirits; but then I haven't seen +him since my aunt's death.</p> + +<p>'Dear child,' he said, when the table had been picked up and carried off +bodily by the Antoines from our midst, leaving us sitting round nothing +with the surprised feeling of sudden nakedness that, as I have already +explained, this way of clearing away produces—my uncle was actually +surprised for a moment into silence,—'dear child, I would like to take +you for a little run before lunch.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?'</p> + +<p>'That we may get rid of our cobwebs.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.'</p> + +<p>'I know you are a quick-limbed little lady—'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?'</p> + +<p>'So you shall take the edge off my appetite for exercise.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.'</p> + +<p>'Then perhaps this afternoon one or other of these ladies—' I noted his +caution in not suggesting both.</p> + +<p>'Oh, delightful,' Mrs. Barnes hastened to assure him. 'We shall be only +too pleased to accompany you. We are great walkers. We think a very +great deal of the benefits to be derived from regular exercise. Our +father brought us up to a keen appreciation of its necessity. If it were +not that we so strongly feel that the greater part of each day should be +employed in some useful pursuit, we would spend it, I believe, almost +altogether in outdoor exercise.'</p> + +<p>'Why not go with my uncle this morning, then?' I asked, catching at a +straw. 'I've got to order dinner—'</p> + +<p>'Oh no, no—not on <i>any</i> account. The Dean's wishes—'</p> + +<p>But who should pass through the hall at that moment, making for the +small room where I settle my household affairs, his arms full of the +monthly books, but Antoine. It is the first of October. Pay day. I had +forgotten. And for this one morning, at least, I knew that I was saved.</p> + +<p>'Look,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, nodding in the direction of Antoine and +his burden.</p> + +<p>I felt certain she would have all the appreciation of the solemnity, the +undeferability, of settling up that is characteristic of the virtuous +poor; she would understand that even the wishes of deans must come +second to this holy household rite.</p> + +<p>'Oh, how unfortunate!' she exclaimed. 'Just this day of all days—your +uncle's first day.'</p> + +<p>But there was nothing to be done. She saw that. And besides, never was a +woman so obstinately determined as I was to do my duty.</p> + +<p>'Dear Uncle Rudolph,' I said very amiably—I did suddenly feel very +amiable—'I'm so sorry. This is the one day in the month when I am +tethered. <i>Any</i> other day—'</p> + +<p>And I withdrew with every appearance of reluctant but indomitable virtue +into my little room and stayed there shut in safe till I heard them go +out.</p> + +<p>From the window I could see them presently starting off up the mountain, +actively led by my uncle who hadn't succeeded in taking only one, Mrs. +Barnes following with the devoutness—she who in our walks goes always +first and chooses the way—of an obedient hen, and some way behind, as +though she disliked having to shed her cobwebs as much as I do, +straggled Dolly. Then, when they had dwindled into just black specks +away up the slope, I turned with lively pleasure to paying the books.</p> + +<p>Those blessed books! If only I could have gone on paying them over and +over again, paying them all day! But when I had done them, and conversed +about the hens and bees and cow with Antoine, and it was getting near +lunch-time, and at any moment through the window I might see the three +specks that had dwindled appearing as three specks that were swelling, I +thought I noticed I had a headache.</p> + +<p>Addings-up often give me a headache, especially when they won't, which +they curiously often won't, add up the same twice running, so that it +was quite likely that I <i>had</i> got a headache. I sat waiting to be quite +sure, and presently, just as the three tiny specks appeared on the sky +line, I was quite sure; and I came up here and put myself to bed. For, I +argued, it isn't grape-stones this time, it's sums, and Mrs. Barnes +can't dose me for what is only arithmetic; also, even if Uncle Rudolph +insists on coming to my bedside he can't be so inhumane as to torment +somebody who isn't very well.</p> + +<p>So here I have been ever since snugly in bed, and I must say my guests +have been most considerate. They have left me almost altogether alone. +Mrs. Barnes did look in once, and when I said, closing my eyes, 'It's +those tradesmens' books—' she understood immediately, and simply nodded +her head and disappeared.</p> + +<p>Dolly came and sat with me for a little, but we hadn't said much before +Mrs. Antoine brought a message from my uncle asking her to go down to +tea.</p> + +<p>'What are you all doing?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Oh, just sitting round the fire not talking,' she said, smiling.</p> + +<p>'<i>Not</i> talking?' I said, surprised.</p> + +<p>But she was gone.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, I thought, they're not talking for fear of disturbing me. This +really was most considerate.</p> + +<p>As for Uncle Rudolph, he hasn't even tried to come and see me. The only +sign of life he has made was to send me the current number of the +<i>Nineteenth Century</i> he brought out with him, in which he has an +article,—a very good one. Else he too has been quite quiet; and I have +read, and I have pondered, and I have written this, and now it really is +bedtime and I'm going to sleep.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Well, a whole day has been gained anyhow, and I have had hours and hours +of complete peace. Rather a surprising lot of peace, really. It <i>is</i> +rather surprising, I think. I mean, that they haven't wanted to come and +see me more. Nobody has even been to say goodnight to me. I think I like +being said goodnight to. Especially if nobody does say it.</p> + + +<p><i>October 2nd.</i></p> + +<p>Twenty-four hours sometimes produce remarkable changes. These have.</p> + +<p>Again it is night, and again I'm in my room on my way to going to sleep; +but before I get any sleepier I'll write what I can about to-day, +because it has been an extremely interesting day. I knew that what we +wanted was a man.</p> + +<p>At breakfast, to which I proceeded punctually, refreshed by my retreat +yesterday, armed from head to foot in all the considerations I had +collected during those quiet hours most likely to make me immune from +Uncle Rudolph's inevitable attacks, having said my prayers and emptied +my mind of weakening memories, I found my three guests silent. Uncle +Rudolph's talkativeness, so conspicuous at yesterday's breakfast, was +confined at to-day's to saying grace. Except for that, he didn't talk at +all. And neither, once having said her Amen, did Mrs. Barnes. Neither +did Dolly, but then she never does.</p> + +<p>'I've not got a headache,' I gently said at last, looking round at them.</p> + +<p>Perhaps they were still going on being considerate, I thought. At least, +perhaps Mrs. Barnes was. My uncle's silence was merely ominous of what I +was in for, of how strongly, after another night's thinking it out, he +felt about my affairs and his own lamentable connection with them owing +to God's having given me to him for a niece. But Mrs. Barnes—why didn't +<i>she</i> talk? She couldn't surely intend, because once I had a headache, +to go on tiptoe for the rest of our days together?</p> + +<p>Nobody having taken any notice of my first announcement I presently +said, 'I'm very well indeed, thank you, this morning.'</p> + +<p>At this Dolly laughed, and her eyes sent little morning kisses across to +me. She, at least, was in her normal state.</p> + +<p>'Aren't you—' I looked at the other two unresponsive breakfasting +heads—'aren't you glad?'</p> + +<p>'Very,' said Mrs. Barnes. 'Very.' But she didn't raise her eyes from her +egg, and my uncle again took no notice.</p> + +<p>So then I thought I might as well not take any notice either, and I ate +my breakfast in dignity and retirement, occasionally fortifying myself +against what awaited me after it by looking at Dolly's restful and +refreshing face.</p> + +<p>Such an unclouded face; so sweet, so clean, so sunny with morning +graciousness. Really an ideal breakfast-table face. Fortunate Juchs and +Siegfried, I thought, to have had it to look forward to every morning. +That they were undeserving of their good fortune I patriotically felt +sure, as I sat considering the gentle sweep of her eyelashes while she +buttered her toast. Yet they did, both of them, make her happy; or +perhaps it was that she made them happy, and caught her own happiness +back again, as it were on the rebound. With any ordinarily kind and +decent husband this must be possible. That she <i>had</i> been happy was +evident, for unhappiness leaves traces, and I've never seen an object +quite so unmarked, quite so candid as Dolly's intelligent and charming +brow.</p> + +<p>We finished our breakfast in silence; and no sooner had the table been +plucked out from our midst by the swift, disconcerting Antoines, than my +uncle got up and went to the window.</p> + +<p>There he stood with his back to us.</p> + +<p>'Do you feel equal to a walk?' he asked, not turning round.</p> + +<p>Profound silence.</p> + +<p>We three, still sitting round the blank the vanished table had left, +looked at each other, our eyes inquiring mutely, 'Is it I?'</p> + +<p>But I knew it was me.</p> + +<p>'Do you mean me, Uncle Rudolph?' I therefore asked; for after all it had +best be got over quickly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear child.'</p> + +<p>'Now?'</p> + +<p>'If you will.'</p> + +<p>'There's no esc—you don't think the weather too horrid?'</p> + +<p>'Bracing.'</p> + +<p>I sighed, and went away to put on my nailed boots.</p> + +<p>Relations ... what right had he ... as though I hadn't suffered +horribly ... and on such an unpleasant morning ... if at least it had +been fine and warm ... but to be taken up a mountain in a bitter wind so +as to be made miserable on the top....</p> + +<p>And two hours later, when I was perched exactly as I had feared on a +cold rock, reached after breathless toil in a searching wind, perched +draughtily and shorn of every cob-web I could ever in my life have +possessed, helplessly exposed to the dreaded talking-to, Uncle Rudolph, +settling himself at my feet, after a long and terrifying silence during +which I tremblingly went over my defences in the vain effort to assure +myself that perhaps I wasn't going to be <i>much</i> hurt, said:</p> + +<p>'How does she spell it?'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Really one is very fatuous. Absorbed in myself, I hadn't thought of +Dolly.</p> + + +<p><i>October 3rd.</i></p> + +<p>It was so late last night when I got to that, that I went to bed. Now it +is before breakfast, and I'll finish about yesterday.</p> + +<p>Uncle Rudolph had taken me up the mountain only to talk of Dolly. +Incredible as it may seem, he has fallen in love. At first sight. At +sixty. I am sure a woman can't do that, so that this by itself convinces +me he is a man. Three days ago I wrote in this very book that a dean +isn't quite my idea of a man. I retract. He is.</p> + +<p>Well, while I was shrinking and shivering on my own account, waiting for +him to begin digging about among my raw places, he said instead, 'How +does she spell it?' and threw my thoughts into complete confusion.</p> + +<p>Blankly I gazed at him while I struggled to rearrange them on this new +basis. It was such an entirely unexpected question. I did not at this +stage dream of what had happened to him. It never would have occurred to +me that Dolly would have so immediate an effect, simply by sitting +there, simply by producing her dimple at the right moment. Attractive as +she is, it is her ways rather than her looks that are so adorable; and +what could Uncle Rudolph have seen of her ways in so brief a time? He +has simply fallen in love with a smile. And he sixty. And he one's +uncle. Amazing Dolly; irresistible apparently, to uncles.</p> + +<p>'Do you mean Mrs. Jewks's name?' I asked, when I was able to speak.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said my uncle.</p> + +<p>'I haven't seen it written,' I said, restored so far by my relief—for +Dolly had saved me—that I had the presence of mind to hedge. I was +obliged to hedge. In my mind's eye I saw Mrs. Barnes's face imploring +me.</p> + +<p>'No doubt,' said my uncle after another silence, 'it is spelt on the +same principle as Molyneux.'</p> + +<p>'Very likely,' I agreed.</p> + +<p>'It sounds as though her late husband's family might originally have +been French.'</p> + +<p>'It does rather.'</p> + +<p>'Possibly Huguenot.'</p> + +<p>'Yes.'</p> + +<p>'I was much astonished that she should be a widow.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Yet not one widow but two widows....</i>' ran at this like a refrain in +my mind, perhaps because I was sitting so close to a dean. Aloud I said, +for by now I had completely recovered, 'Why, Uncle Rudolph? Widows do +abound.'</p> + +<p>'Alas, yes. But there is something peculiarly virginal about Mrs. +Jewks.'</p> + +<p>I admitted that this was so. Part of Dolly's attractiveness is the odd +impression she gives of untouchedness, of gay aloofness.</p> + +<p>My uncle broke off a stalk of the withered last summer's grass and began +nibbling it. He was lying on his side a little below me, resting on his +elbow. His black, neat legs looked quaint stuck through the long yellow +grass. He had taken off his hat, hardy creature, and the wind blew his +grey hair this way and that, and sometimes flattened it down in a fringe +over his eyes. When this happened he didn't look a bit like anybody +good, but he pushed it back each time, smoothing it down again with an +abstracted carefulness, his eyes fixed on the valley far below. He +wasn't seeing the valley.</p> + +<p>'How long has the poor young thing—' he began.</p> + +<p>'You will be surprised to hear,' I interrupted him, 'that Mrs. Jewks is +forty.'</p> + +<p>'Really,' said my uncle, staring round at me. 'Really. That is indeed +surprising.' And after a pause he added, 'Surprising and gratifying.'</p> + +<p>'Why gratifying, Uncle Rudolph?' I inquired.</p> + +<p>'When did she lose her husband?' he asked, taking no notice of my +inquiry.</p> + +<p>The preliminary to an accurate answer to this question was, of course, +Which? But again a vision of Mrs. Barnes's imploring face rose before +me, and accordingly, restricting myself to Juchs, I said she had lost +him shortly before the war.</p> + +<p>'Ah. So he was prevented, poor fellow, from having the honour of dying +for England.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.'</p> + +<p>'Poor fellow. Poor fellow.'</p> + +<p>'Yes.'</p> + +<p>'Poor fellow. Well, he was spared knowing what he had missed. At least +he was spared that. And she—his poor wife—how did she take it?'</p> + +<p>'Well, I think.'</p> + +<p>'Yes. I can believe it. She wouldn't—I am very sure she +wouldn't—intrude her sorrows selfishly on others.'</p> + +<p>It was at this point that I became aware my uncle had fallen in love. Up +to this, oddly enough, it hadn't dawned on me. Now it did more than +dawned, it blazed.</p> + +<p>I looked at him with a new and startled interest. 'Uncle Rudolph,' I +said impetuously, no longer a distrustful niece talking to an uncle she +suspects, but an equal with an equal, a human being with another human +being, 'haven't you ever thought of marrying again? It's quite a long +time now since Aunt Winifred—'</p> + +<p>'Thought?' said my uncle, his voice sounding for the first time simply, +ordinarily human, without a trace in it of the fatal pulpit flavour, +'Thought? I'm always thinking of it.'</p> + +<p>And except for his apron and gaiters he might have been any ordinary +solitary little man eating out his heart for a mate.</p> + +<p>'But then why don't you? Surely a deanery of all places wants a wife in +it?'</p> + +<p>'Of course it does Those strings or rooms—empty, echoing. It shouts +for a wife. Shouts, I tell you. At least mine does. But I've never +found—I hadn't seen—'</p> + +<p>He broke off, biting at the stalk of grass.</p> + +<p>'But I remember you,' I went on eagerly, 'always surrounded by flocks of +devoted women. Weren't any of them—?'</p> + +<p>'No,' said my uncle shortly. And after a second of silence he said +again, and so loud that I jumped, 'No!' And then he went on even more +violently, 'They didn't give me a chance. They never let me alone a +minute. After Winifred's death they were like flies. Stuck to me—made +me sick—great flies crawling—' And he shuddered, and shook himself as +though he were shaking off the lot of them.</p> + +<p>I looked at him in amazement. 'Why,' I cried, 'you're talking exactly +like a man!'</p> + +<p>But he, staring at the view without seeing an inch of it, took no heed +of me, and I heard him say under his breath as though I hadn't been +there at all, 'My God, I'm so lonely at night!'</p> + +<p>That finished it. In that moment I began to love my uncle. At this +authentic cry of forlornness I had great difficulty in not bending over +and putting my arms round him,—just to comfort him, just to keep him +warm. It must be a dreadful thing to be sixty and all alone. You look so +grown up. You look as though you must have so many resources, so few +needs; and you are accepted as provided for, what with your career +accomplished, and your houses and servants and friends and books and all +the rest of it—all the empty, meaningless rest of it; for really you +are the most miserable of motherless cold babies, conscious that you are +motherless, conscious that nobody soft and kind and adoring is ever +again coming to croon over you and kiss you good-night and be there next +morning to smile when you wake up.</p> + +<p>'Uncle Rudolph—' I began.</p> + +<p>Then I stopped, and bending over took the stalk of grass he kept on +biting out of his hand.</p> + +<p>'I can't let you eat any more of that,' I said. 'It's not good for you.'</p> + +<p>And having got hold of his hand I kept it.</p> + +<p>There now, I said, holding it tight.</p> + +<p>He looked up at me vaguely, absorbed in his thoughts; then, realising +how tight his hand was being held, he smiled.</p> + +<p>'You dear child,' he said, scanning my face as though he had never seen +it before.</p> + +<p>'Yes?' I said, smiling in my turn and not letting go of his hand. 'I +like that. I didn't like any of the other dear children I was.'</p> + +<p>'Which other dear children?'</p> + +<p>'Uncle Rudolph,' I said, 'let's go home. This is a bleak place. Why do +we sit here shivering forlornly when there's all that waiting for us +down there?'</p> + +<p>And loosing his hand I got on to my feet, and when I was on them I held +out both my hands to him and pulled him up, and he standing lower than +where I was our eyes were then on a level.</p> + +<p>'All what?' he asked, his eyes searching mine.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'Oh, Uncle Rudolph! Warmth and Dolly, of course.'</p> + + +<p><i>October 4th.</i></p> + +<p>But it hasn't been quite so simple. Nothing last night was different. My +uncle remained tongue-tied. Dolly sat waiting to smile at anecdotes that +he never told. Mrs. Barnes knitted uneasily, already fearing, perhaps, +because of his strange silence, that he somehow may have scented +Siegfried, else how inexplicable his silence after that one bright, +wonderful first evening and morning.</p> + +<p>It was I last night who did the talking, it was I who took up the line, +abandoned by my uncle, of wholesome entertainment. I too told anecdotes; +and when I had told all the ones I knew and still nobody said anything, +I began to tell all the ones I didn't know. Anything rather than that +continued uncomfortable silence. But how very difficult it was. I grew +quite damp with effort. And nobody except Dolly so much as smiled; and +even Dolly, though she smiled, especially when I embarked on my second +series of anecdotes, looked at me with a mild inquiry, as if she were +wondering what was the matter with me.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Wretched, indeed, is the hostess upon whose guests has fallen, from +whatever cause, a blight.</p> + + +<p><i>October 5th.</i></p> + +<p>Crabbe's son, in the life he wrote of his father, asks: '<i>Will it seem +wonderful when we consider how he was situated at this time, that with a +most affectionate heart, a peculiar attachment to female society, and +with unwasted passions, Mr. Crabbe, though in his sixty-second year +should have again thought of marriage? I feel satisfied that no one will +be seriously shocked with such an evidence of the freshness of his +feelings.</i>'</p> + +<p>A little shocked; Crabbe's son was prepared to allow this much; but not +<i>seriously</i>.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Well, it is a good thing my uncle didn't live at that period, for it +would have gone hard with him. His feelings are more than fresh, they +are violent.</p> + + +<p><i>October 6th.</i></p> + +<p>While Dolly is in the room Uncle Rudolph never moves, but sits +tongue-tied staring at her. If she goes away he at once gets up and +takes me by the arm and walks me off on to the terrace, where in a +biting wind we pace up and down.</p> + +<p>Our positions are completely reversed. It is I now who am the wise old +relative, counselling, encouraging, listening to outpours. Up and down +we pace, up and down, very fast because of the freshness of Uncle's +Rudolph's feelings and also of the wind, arm in arm, I trying to keep +step, he not bothering about such things as step, absorbed in his +condition, his hopes, his fears—especially his fears. For he is +terrified lest, having at last found the perfect woman, she won't have +him. 'Why should she?' he asks almost angrily, 'Why should she? Tell me +why she should.'</p> + +<p>'I can't tell you,' I say, for Uncle Rudolph and I are now the frankest +friends. 'But I can't tell you either why she shouldn't. Think how nice +you are, Uncle Rudolph. And Dolly is naturally very affectionate.'</p> + +<p>'She is perfect, perfect,' vehemently declares my uncle.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">And Mrs. Barnes, who from the window watches us while we walk, looks +with anxious questioning eyes at my face when we come in. What can my +uncle have to talk about so eagerly to me when he is out on the terrace, +and why does he stare in such stony silence at Dolly when he comes in? +Poor Mrs. Barnes.</p> + + +<p><i>October 7th.</i></p> + +<p>The difficulty about Dolly for courting purposes is that she is never to +be got alone, not even into a corner out of earshot of Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. +Barnes doesn't go away for a moment, except together with Dolly. +Wonderful how clever she is at it. She is obsessed by terror lest the +horrid marriage to the German uncle should somehow be discovered. If she +was afraid of my knowing it she is a hundred times more afraid of Uncle +Rudolph's knowing it. So persistent is her humility, so great and remote +a dignitary does he seem to her, that the real situation hasn't even +glimmered on her. All she craves is to keep this holy and distinguished +man's good opinion, to protect her Dolly, her darling erring one, from +his just but unbearable contempt. Therefore she doesn't budge. Dolly is +never to be got alone.</p> + +<p>'A man,' said my uncle violently to me this morning, 'can't propose to a +woman before her sister.'</p> + +<p>'You've quite decided you're going to?' I asked, keeping up with him as +best I could, trotting beside him up and down the terrace.</p> + +<p>'The minute I can catch her alone. I can't stand any more of this. I +must know. If she won't have me—my God, if she won't have me—!'</p> + +<p>I laid hold affectionately of his arm. 'Oh, but she will,' I said +reassuringly. 'Dolly is rather a creature of habit, you know.'</p> + +<p>'You mean she has got used to marriage—'</p> + +<p>'Well, I do think she is rather used to it. Uncle Rudolph,' I went on, +hesitating as I have hesitated a dozen times these last few days as to +whether I oughtn't to tell him about Juchs—Siegfried would be a shock, +but Juchs would be crushing unless very carefully explained—'you don't +feel you don't think you'd like to know something more about Dolly +first? I mean before you propose?'</p> + +<p>'No!' shouted my uncle.</p> + +<p>Afterwards he said more quietly that he could see through a brick wall +as well as most men, and that Dolly wasn't a brick wall but the perfect +woman. What could be told him that he didn't see for himself? Nothing, +said my uncle.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">What can be done with a man in love? Nothing, say I.</p> + + +<p><i>October 8th.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Sometimes I feel very angry with Dolly that she should have got herself +so tiresomely mixed up with Germans. How simple everything would be now +if only she hadn't! But when I am calm again I realise that she couldn't +help it. It is as natural to her to get mixed up as to breathe. Very +sweet, affectionate natures are always getting mixed up. I suppose if it +weren't for Mrs. Barnes's constant watchfulness and her own earnest +desire never again to distress poor Kitty, she would at an early stage +of their war wanderings have become some ardent Swiss hotelkeeper's +wife. Just to please him; just because else he would be miserable. Dolly +ought to be married. It is the only certain way of saving her from +marriage.</p> + + +<p><i>October 9th.</i></p> + +<p>It is snowing. The wind howls, and the snow whirls, and we can't go out +and so get away from each other. Uncle Rudolph is obliged, when Dolly +isn't there, to continue sitting with Mrs. Barnes. He can't to-day hurry +me out on to the terrace. There's only the hall in this house to sit in, +for that place I pay the household books in is no more than a cupboard.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Uncle Rudolph could just bear Mrs. Barnes when he could get away from +her; to-day he can't bear her at all. Everything that should be +characteristic of a dean—patience, courtesy, kindliness, has been +stripped off him by his eagerness to propose and the impossibility of +doing it. There's nothing at all left now of what he was but that empty +symbol, his apron.</p> + + +<p><i>October 10th.</i></p> + +<p>My uncle is fermenting with checked, prevented courting. And he ought to +be back in England. He ought to have gone back almost at once, he says. +He only came out for three or four days—</p> + +<p>'Yes; just time to settle <i>me</i> in,' I said.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' he said, smiling, 'and then take you home with me by the ear.'</p> + +<p>He has some very important meetings he is to preside at coming off soon, +and here he is, hung up. It is Mrs. Barnes who is the cause of it, and +naturally he isn't very nice to her. In vain does she try to please him; +the one thing he wants her to do, to go away and leave him with Dolly, +she of course doesn't. She sits there, saying meek things about the +weather, expressing a modest optimism, ready to relinquish even that if +my uncle differs, becoming, when he takes up a book, respectfully quiet, +ready the moment he puts it down to rejoice with him if he wishes to +rejoice or weep with him if he prefers weeping; and the more she is +concerned to give satisfaction the less well-disposed is he towards her. +He can't forgive her inexplicable fixedness. Her persistent, +unintermittent gregariousness is incomprehensible to him. All he wants, +being reduced to simplicity by love, is to be left alone with Dolly. He +can't understand, being a man, why if he wants this he shouldn't get +it.</p> + +<p>'You're not kind to Mrs. Barnes,' I said to him this afternoon. 'You've +made her quite unnatural. She is cowed.'</p> + +<p>'I am unable to like her,' said my uncle shortly.</p> + +<p>'You are quite wrong not to. She has had bitter troubles, and is all +goodness. I don't think I ever met anybody so completely unselfish.'</p> + +<p>'I wish she would go and be unselfish in her own room, then,' said my +uncle.</p> + +<p>'I don't know you,' I said, shrugging my shoulders. 'You arrived here +dripping unction and charitableness, and now—'</p> + +<p>'Why doesn't she give me a chance?' he cried. 'She never budges. These +women who stick, who can't bear to be by themselves—good heavens, +hasn't she prayers she ought to be saying, and underclothes she ought to +mend?'</p> + +<p>'I don't believe you care so very much for Dolly after all,' I said, 'or +you would be kind to the sister she is so deeply devoted to.'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">This sobered him. 'I'll try,' said my uncle; and it was quite hard not +to laugh at the change in our positions—I the grey-beard now, the wise +rebuker, he the hot-headed yet well-intentioned young relative.</p> + + +<p><i>October 11th.</i></p> + +<p>I think guests ought to like each other; love each other if they prefer +it, but at least like. They too have their duties, and one of them is to +resist nourishing aversions; or, if owing to their implacable +dispositions they can't help nourishing them, oughtn't they to try very +hard not to show it? They should consider the helpless position of the +hostess, she who, at any rate theoretically, is bound to be equally +attached to them all.</p> + +<p>Before my uncle came it is true we had begun to fester, but we festered +nicely. Mrs. Barnes and I did it with every mark of consideration and +politeness. We were ladies. Uncle Rudolph is no lady; and this little +house, which I daresay looks a picture of peace from outside with the +snow falling on its roof and the firelight shining in its windows, +seethes with elemental passions. Fear, love, anger—they all dwell in it +now, all brought into it by him, all coming out of the mixture, so +innocuous one would think, so likely, one would think, to produce only +the fruits of the spirit,—the mixture of two widows and one clergyman. +Wonderful how much can be accomplished with small means. Also, most +wonderful the centuries that seem to separate me from those July days +when I lay innocently on the grass watching the clouds pass over the +blue of the delphinium tops, before ever I had set eyes on Mrs. Barnes +and Dolly, and while Uncle Rudolph, far away at home and not even +beginning to think of a passport, was being normal in his Deanery.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">He has, I am sure, done what he promised and tried to be kinder to Mrs. +Barnes, and I can only conclude he was not able to manage it, for I see +no difference. He glowers and glowers, and she immovably knits. And in +spite of the silence that reigns except when, for a desperate moment, I +make an effort to be amusing, there is a curious feeling that we are +really living in a state of muffled uproar, in a constant condition of +barely suppressed brawl. I feel as though the least thing, the least +touch, even somebody coughing, and the house will blow up. I catch +myself walking carefully across the hall so as not to shake it, not to +knock against the furniture. How secure, how peaceful, of what a great +and splendid simplicity do those July days, those pre-guest days, seem +now!</p> + + +<p><i>October 12th.</i></p> + +<p>I went into Dolly's bedroom last night, crept in on tiptoe because there +is a door leading from it into Mrs. Barnes's room, caught hold firmly +of her wrist, and led her, without saying a word and taking infinite +care to move quietly, into my bedroom. Then, having shut her in, I said, +'What are you going to do about it?'</p> + +<p>She didn't pretend not to understand. The candour of Dolly's brow is an +exact reflection of the candour of her mind.</p> + +<p>'About your uncle,' she said, nodding. 'I like him very much.'</p> + +<p>'Enough to marry him?'</p> + +<p>'Oh quite. I always like people enough to marry them.' And she added, as +though in explanation of this perhaps rather excessively amiable +tendency, 'Husbands are so kind.'</p> + +<p>'You ought to know,' I conceded.</p> + +<p>'I do,' said Dolly, with the sweetest reminiscent smile.</p> + +<p>'Uncle Rudolph is only waiting to get you alone to propose,' I said.</p> + +<p>Dolly nodded. There was nothing I could tell her that she wasn't already +aware of.</p> + +<p>'As you appear to have noticed everything,' I said, 'I suppose you have +also noticed that he is very much in love with you.'</p> + +<p>'Oh yes,' said Dolly placidly.</p> + +<p>'So much in love that he doesn't seem even to remember that he's a +dignitary of the Church, and when he's alone with me he behaves in a way +I'm sure the Church wouldn't like at all. Why, he almost swears.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Isn't</i> it a good thing?' said Dolly, approvingly.</p> + +<p>'Yes. But now what is to be done about Siegfried—'</p> + +<p>'Dear Siegfried,' murmured Dolly.</p> + +<p>'And Juchs—'</p> + +<p>'Poor darling,' murmured Dolly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes. But oughtn't Uncle Rudolph to be told?'</p> + +<p>'Of course,' said Dolly, her eyes a little surprised that I should want +to know anything so obvious.</p> + +<p>'You told me it would kill Kitty if I knew about Juchs. It will kill her +twice as much if Uncle Rudolph knows.'</p> + +<p>'Kitty won't know anything about it. At least, not till it's all over. +My dear, when it comes to marrying I can't be stuck all about with +secrets.'</p> + +<p>'Do you mean to tell my uncle yourself?'</p> + +<p>'Of course,' said Dolly, again with surprise in her eyes.</p> + +<p>'When?'</p> + +<p>'When he asks me to marry him. Till he does I don't quite see what it +has to do with him.'</p> + +<p>'And you're not afraid—you don't think your second marriage will be a +great shock to him? He being a dean, and nourished on Tables of +Affinity?'</p> + +<p>'I can't help it if it is. He has got to know. If he loves me enough it +won't matter to him, and if he doesn't love me enough it won't matter to +him either.'</p> + +<p>'Because then his objections to Juchs would be greater than his wish to +marry you?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Dolly, smiling. 'It would mean,' she went on, 'that he +wasn't fond of me <i>enough</i>.'</p> + +<p>'And you wouldn't mind?'</p> + +<p>Her eyes widened a little. 'Why should I mind?'</p> + +<p>'No. I suppose you wouldn't, as you're not in love.'</p> + +<p>I then remarked that, though I could understand her not being in love +with a man my uncle's age, it was my belief that she had never in her +life been in love. Not even with Siegfried. Not with anybody.</p> + +<p>Dolly said she hadn't, and that she liked people much too much to want +to grab at them.</p> + +<p>'Grab at them!'</p> + +<p>'That's what your being in love does,' said Dolly. 'It grabs.'</p> + +<p>'But you've been grabbed yourself, and you liked it. Uncle Rudolph is +certainly bent on grabbing you.'</p> + +<p>'Yes. But the man gets over it quicker. He grabs and has done with it, +and then settles down to the real things,—affection and kindness. A +woman hasn't ever done with it. She can't let go. And the poor thing, +because she what you call loves, is so dreadfully vulnerable, and gets +so hurt, so hurt—'</p> + +<p>Dolly began kissing me and stroking my hair.</p> + +<p>'I think though,' I said, while she was doing this, 'I'd rather have +loved thoroughly—you can call it grabbing if you like, I don't care +what ugly words you use—and been vulnerable and got hurt, than never +once have felt—than just be a sort of amiable amoeba—'</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'Has it occurred to you,' interrupted Dolly, continuing to kiss me—her +cheek was against mine, and she was stroking my hair very +tenderly—'that if I marry that dear little uncle of yours I shall be +your aunt?'</p> + + +<p><i>October 13th.</i></p> + +<p>Well, then, if Dolly is ready to marry my uncle and my uncle is dying to +marry Dolly, all that remains to be done is to remove Mrs. Barnes for an +hour from the hall. An hour would be long enough, I think, to include +everything,—five minutes for the proposal, fifteen for presenting +Siegfried, thirty-five for explaining Juchs, and five for the final +happy mutual acceptances.</p> + +<p>This very morning I must somehow manage to get Mrs. Barnes away. How it +is to be done I can't think; especially for so long as an hour. Yet +Juchs and Siegfried couldn't be rendered intelligible, I feel, in less +than fifty minutes between them. Yes; it will have to be an hour.</p> + +<p>I have tried over and over again the last few days to lure Mrs. Barnes +out of the hall, but it has been useless. Is it possible that I shall +have to do something unpleasant to myself, hurt myself, hurt something +that takes time to bandage? The idea is repugnant to me; still, things +can't go on like this.</p> + +<p>I asked Dolly last night if I hadn't better draw Mrs. Barnes's attention +to my uncle's lovelorn condition, for obviously the marriage would be a +solution of all her difficulties and could give her nothing but +extraordinary relief and joy; but Dolly wouldn't let me. She said that +it would only agonise poor Kitty to become aware that my uncle was in +love, for she would be quite certain that the moment he heard about +Juchs horror would take the place of love. How could a dean of the +Church of England, Kitty would say, bring himself to take as wife one +who had previously been married to an item in the forbidden list of the +Tables of Affinity? And Juchs being German would only, she would feel, +make it so much more awful. Besides, said Dolly, smiling and shaking her +head, my uncle mightn't propose at all. He might change again. I myself +had been astonished, she reminded me, at the sudden violent change he +had already undergone from unction to very nearly swearing; he might +easily under-go another back again, and then what a pity to have +disturbed the small amount of peace of mind poor Kitty had.</p> + +<p>'She hasn't any, ever,' I said; impatiently, I'm afraid.</p> + +<p>'Not very much,' admitted Dolly with wistful penitence. 'And it has all +been my fault.'</p> + +<p>But what I was thinking was that Kitty never has any peace of mind +because she hasn't any mind to have peace in.</p> + +<p>I didn't say this, however.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">I practised tact.</p> + + +<p><i>Later.</i></p> + +<p>Well, it has come off. Mrs. Barnes is out of the hall, and at this very +moment Uncle Rudolph and Dolly are alone together in it, proposing and +being proposed to. He is telling her that he worships her, and in reply +she is gently drawing his attention to Siegfried and Juchs. How much +will he mind them? Will he mind them at all? Will his love triumphantly +consume them, or, having swallowed Siegfried, will he find himself +unable to manage Juchs?</p> + +<p>Oh, I love people to be happy! I love them to love each other! I do hope +it will be all right! Dolly may say what she likes, but love is the only +thing in the world that works miracles. Look at Uncle Rudolph. I'm more +doubtful, though, of the result than I would have been yesterday, +because what brought about Mrs. Barnes's absence from the hall has made +me nervous as to how he will face the disclosing of Juchs.</p> + +<p>While I'm waiting I may as well write it down,—by my clock I count up +that Dolly must be a third of the way through Siegfried now, so that +I've still got three quarters of an hour.</p> + +<p>This is what happened:</p> + +<p>The morning started badly, indeed terribly. Dolly, bored by being stared +at in silence, said something about more wool and went upstairs quite +soon after breakfast. My uncle, casting a despairing glance at the +window past which the snow was driving, scowled for a moment or two at +Mrs. Barnes, then picked up a stale <i>Times</i> and hid himself behind it.</p> + +<p>To make up for his really dreadful scowl at Mrs. Barnes I began a +pleasant conversation with her, but at once she checked me, saying, +'Sh—sh—,' and deferentially indicating, with her knitting needle, my +reading uncle.</p> + +<p>Incensed by such slavishness, I was about to rebel and insist on talking +when he, stirred apparently by something of a bloodthirsty nature that +he saw in the <i>Times</i>, exclaimed in a very loud voice, 'Search as I +may—and I have searched most diligently—I can't find a single good +word to say for Germans.'</p> + +<p>It fell like a bomb. He hasn't mentioned Germans once. I had come to +feel quite safe. The shock of it left me dumb. Mrs. Barnes's knitting +needles stopped as if struck. I didn't dare look at her. Dead silence.</p> + +<p>My uncle lowered the paper and glanced round at us, expecting agreement, +impatient of our not instantly saying we thought as he did.</p> + +<p>'Can <i>you</i>?' he asked me, as I said nothing, being petrified.</p> + +<p>I was just able to shake my head.</p> + +<p>'Can <i>you</i>?' he asked, turning to Mrs. Barnes.</p> + +<p>Her surprising answer—surprising, naturally, to my uncle—was to get up +quickly, drop all her wool on the floor, and hurry upstairs.</p> + +<p>He watched her departure with amazement. Still with amazement, when she +had disappeared, his eyes sought mine.</p> + +<p>Why, he said, staring at me aghast, 'why—the woman's a pro-German!'</p> + +<p>In my turn I stared aghast.</p> + +<p>'Mrs. <i>Barnes</i>?' I exclaimed, stung to quite a loud exclamation by the +grossness of this injustice.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said my uncle, horrified. 'Yes. Didn't you notice her expression? +Good heavens—and I who've taken care not to speak to a pro-German for +five years, and had hoped, God willing, never to speak to one again, +much less—' he banged his fists on the arms of the chair, and the +<i>Times</i> slid on to the floor—'much less be under the same roof with +one.'</p> + +<p>'Well then, you see, God wasn't willing,' I said, greatly shocked.</p> + +<p>Here was the ecclesiastic coming up again with a vengeance in all the +characteristic anti-Christian qualities; and I was so much stirred by +his readiness to believe what he thinks is the very worst of poor, +distracted Mrs. Barnes, that I flung caution to the winds and went +indignantly on: 'It isn't Mrs. Barnes who is pro-German in this +house—it's Dolly.'</p> + +<p>'What?' cried my uncle.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I repeated, nodding my head at him defiantly, for having said it +I was scared, 'it's Dolly.'</p> + +<p>'Dolly?' echoed my uncle, grasping the arms of his chair.</p> + +<p>'Perhaps pro-German doesn't quite describe it,' I hurried on nervously, +'and yet I don't know—I think it would. Perhaps it's better to say that +she is—she is of an unprejudiced international spirit—'</p> + +<p>Then I suddenly realised that Mrs. Barnes was gone. Driven away. Not +likely to appear again for ages.</p> + +<p>I got up quickly. 'Look here, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, making hastily, +even as Mrs. Barnes had made, for the stairs, 'you ask Dolly about it +yourself. I'll go and tell her to come down. You ask her about being +pro-German. She'll tell you. Only—' I ran back to him and lowered my +voice—'propose first. She won't tell you unless you've proposed first.'</p> + +<p>Then, as he sat clutching the arms of his chair and staring at me, I +bent down and whispered, 'Now's your chance, Uncle Rudolph. You've +settled poor Mrs. Barnes for a bit. She won't interrupt. I'll send +Dolly—goodbye—good luck!'</p> + +<p>And hurriedly kissing him I hastened upstairs to Dolly's room.</p> + +<p>Because of the door leading out of it into Mrs. Barnes's room I had to +be as cautious as I was last night. I did exactly the same things: went +in on tiptoe, took hold of her firmly by the wrist, and led her out +without a word. Then all I had to do was to point to the stairs, and at +the same time make a face—but a kind face, I hope—at her sister's shut +door, and the intelligent Dolly did the rest.</p> + +<p>She proceeded with a sober dignity pleasant to watch, along the passage +in order to be proposed to. Practice in being proposed to has made her +perfect. At the top of the stairs she turned and smiled at me,—her +dimple was adorable. I waved my hand; she disappeared; and here I am.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">Forty minutes of the hour are gone. She must be in the very middle now +of Juchs.</p> + + +<p><i>Night.</i></p> + +<p>I knew this little house was made for kindness and love. I've always, +since first it was built, had the feeling that it was blest. Sure indeed +was the instinct that brought me away from England, doggedly dragging +myself up the mountain to tumble my burdens down in this place. It +invariably conquers. Nobody can resist it. Nobody can go away from here +quite as they arrived, unless to start with they were of those blessed +ones who wherever they go carry peace with them in their hearts. From +the first I have felt that the worried had only got to come here to be +smoothed out, and the lonely to be exhilarated, and the unhappy to be +comforted, and the old to be made young. Now to this list must be added: +and the widowed to be wedded; because all is well with Uncle Rudolph and +Dolly, and the house once more is in its normal state of having no one +in it who isn't happy.</p> + +<p>For I grew happy—completely so for the moment, and I shouldn't be +surprised if I had really done now with the other thing—the minute I +caught sight of Uncle Rudolph's face when I went downstairs.</p> + +<p>Dolly was sitting by the file looking pleased. My uncle was standing on +the rug; and when he saw me he came across to me holding out both his +hands, and I stopped on the bottom stair, my hands in his, and we looked +at each other and laughed,—sheer happiness we laughed for.</p> + +<p>Then we kissed each other, I still on the bottom stair and therefore +level with him, and then he said, his face full of that sweet affection +for the whole world that radiates from persons in his situation, 'And to +think that I came here only to scold you!'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I said. 'To think of it!'</p> + +<p>'Well, if I came to scold I've stayed to love,' he said.</p> + +<p>'Which,' said I, while we beamed at each other, 'as the Bible says, is +far better.'</p> + +<p>Then Dolly went upstairs to tell Mrs. Barnes—lovely to be going to +strike off somebody's troubles with a single sentence!—and my uncle +confessed to me that for the first time a doubt of Dolly had shadowed +his idea of her when I left him sitting there while I fetched her—</p> + +<p>'Conceive it—conceive it!' he cried, smiting his hands together. +'Conceive letting Germans—<i>Germans</i>, if you please—get even for half +an instant between her and me!'—but that the minute he saw her coming +down the stairs to him such love of her flooded him that he got up and +proposed to her before she had so much as reached the bottom. And it was +from the stairs, as from a pulpit, that Dolly, supporting herself on the +balustrade, expounded Siegfried and Juchs.</p> + +<p>She wouldn't come down till she had finished with them. She was, I +gathered, ample over Siegfried, but when it came to Juchs she was +profuse. Every single aspect of them both that was most likely to make a +dean think it impossible to marry her was pointed out and enlarged upon. +She wouldn't, she announced, come down a stair further till my uncle was +in full possession of all the facts, while at the same time carefully +bearing in mind the Table of Affinity.</p> + +<p>'And were you terribly surprised and shocked, Uncle Rudolph?' I asked, +standing beside him with our backs to the fire in our now familiar +attitude of arm in arm.</p> + +<p>My uncle is an ugly little man, yet at that moment I could have sworn +that he had the face of an angel. He looked at me and smiled. It was the +wonderfullest smile.</p> + +<p style="margin-bottom: 1.5em">'I don't know what I was,' he said. 'When she had done I just said, "My +Beloved"—and then she came down.'</p> + + +<p><i>October 15th.</i></p> + +<p>This is my last night here, and this is the last time I shall write in +my old-age book. To-morrow we all go away together, to Bern, where my +uncle and Dolly will be married, and then he takes her to England, and +Mrs. Barnes and I will also proceed there, discreetly, by another route.</p> + +<p>So are the wanderings of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly ended, and Mrs. Barnes +will enter into her idea of perfect bliss, which is to live in the very +bosom of the Church with a cathedral almost in her back garden. For my +uncle, prepared at this moment to love anybody, also loves Mrs. Barnes, +and has invited her to make her home with him. At this moment indeed he +would invite everybody to make their homes with him, for not only has he +invited me but I heard him most cordially pressing those peculiarly +immovable Antoines to use his house as their headquarters whenever they +happen to be in England.</p> + +<p>I think a tendency to invite runs in the family, for I too have been +busy inviting. I have invited Mrs. Barnes to stay with me in London till +she goes to the Deanery, and she has accepted. Together we shall travel +thither, and together we shall dwell there, I am sure, in that unity +which is praised by the Psalmist as a good and pleasant thing.</p> + +<p>She will stay with me for the weeks during which my uncle wishes to have +Dolly all to himself. I think there will be a great many of those weeks, +from what I know of Dolly; but being with a happy Mrs. Barnes will be +different from being with her as she was here. She is so happy that she +consists entirely of unclouded affection. The puckers from her face, and +the fears and concealments from her heart, have all gone together. She +is as simple and as transparent as a child. She always was transparent, +but without knowing it; now she herself has pulled off her veils, and +cordially requests one to look her through and through and see for +oneself how there is nothing there but contentment. A little +happiness,—what wonders it works! Was there ever anything like it?</p> + +<p>This is a place of blessing. When I came up my mountain three months +ago, alone and so miserable, no vision was vouchsafed me that I would go +down it again one of four people, each of whom would leave the little +house full of renewed life, of restored hope, of wholesome +looking-forward, clarified, set on their feet, made useful once more to +themselves and the world. After all, we're none of us going to be +wasted. Whatever there is of good in any of us isn't after all going to +be destroyed by circumstances and thrown aside as useless. When I am so +foolish—<i>if</i> I am so foolish I should say, for I feel completely cured! +as to begin thinking backwards again with anything but a benevolent +calm, I shall instantly come out here and invite the most wretched of my +friends to join me, and watch them and myself being made whole.</p> + +<p>The house, I think, ought to be rechristened.</p> + +<p>It ought to be called <i>Chalet du Fleuve Jordan</i>.</p> + +<p>But perhaps my guests mightn't like that.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 35072-h.txt or 35072-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/5/0/7/35072">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/0/7/35072</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: In the Mountains + + +Author: Elizabeth von Arnim + + + +Release Date: January 25, 2011 [eBook #35072] +Most recently updated: February 25, 2011 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS*** + + +E-text prepared by Laura MacDonald (http://www.girlebooks.com) +and Marc D'Hooghe (http://www.freeliterature.org) + + + +IN THE MOUNTAINS + +by + +THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN" + + + + + + + +Macmillan and Co., Limited +St. Martin's Street, London +1920 + + + + +IN THE MOUNTAINS + + +_July 22nd._ + +I want to be quiet now. + +I crawled up here this morning from the valley like a sick +ant,--struggled up to the little house on the mountain side that I +haven't seen since the first August of the war, and dropped down on the +grass outside it, too tired even to be able to thank God that I had got +home. + +Here I am once more, come back alone to the house that used to be so +full of happy life that its little wooden sides nearly burst with the +sound of it. I never could have dreamed that I would come back to it +alone. Five years ago, how rich I was in love; now how poor, how +stripped of all I had. Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I'm too +tired. I want to be quiet now. Till I'm not so tired. If only I can be +quiet.... + + +_July 23rd._ + +Yesterday all day long I lay on the grass in front of the door and +watched the white clouds slowly passing one after the other at long, +lazy intervals over the tops of the delphiniums,--the row of delphiniums +I planted all those years ago. I didn't think of anything; I just lay +there in the hot sun, blinking up and counting the intervals between one +spike being reached and the next. I was conscious of the colour of the +delphiniums, jabbing up stark into the sky, and of how blue they were; +and yet not so blue, so deeply and radiantly blue, as the sky. Behind +them was the great basin of space filled with that other blue of the +air, that lovely blue with violet shades in it; for the mountain I am on +drops sharply away from the edge of my tiny terrace-garden, and the +whole of the space between it and the mountains opposite brims all day +long with blue and violet light. At night the bottom of the valley looks +like water, and the lamps in the little town lying along it like +quivering reflections of the stars. + +I wonder why I write about these things. As if I didn't know them! Why +do I tell myself in writing what I already so well know? Don't I know +about the mountain, and the brimming cup of blue light? It is because, +I suppose, it's lonely to stay inside oneself. One has to come out and +talk. And if there is no one to talk to one imagines someone, as though +one were writing a letter to somebody who loves one, and who will want +to know, with the sweet eagerness and solicitude of love, what one does +and what the place one is in looks like. It makes one feel less lonely +to think like this,--to write it down, as if to one's friend who cares. +For I'm afraid of loneliness; shiveringly, terribly afraid. I don't mean +the ordinary physical loneliness, for here I am, deliberately travelled +away from London to get to it, to its spaciousness and healing. I mean +that awful loneliness of spirit that is the ultimate tragedy of life. +When you've got to that, really reached it, without hope, without +escape, you die. You just can't bear it, and you die. + + +_July 24th._ + +It's queer the urge one has to express oneself, to get one's self into +words. If I weren't alone I wouldn't write, of course, I would talk. But +nearly everything I wanted to say would be things I couldn't say. Not +unless it was to some wonderful, perfect, all-understanding +listener,--the sort one used to imagine God was in the days when one +said prayers. Not quite like God though either, for this listener would +sometimes say something kind and gentle, and sometimes, stroke one's +hand a little to show that he understood. Physically, it is most blessed +to be alone. After all that has happened, it is most blessed. Perhaps I +shall grow well here, alone. Perhaps just sitting on these honey-scented +grass slopes will gradually heal me. I'll sit and lick my wounds. I do +so dreadfully want to get mended! I do so dreadfully want to get back to +confidence in goodness. + + +_July 25th._ + +For three days now I've done nothing but lie in the sun, except when +meals are put in the open doorway for me. Then I get up reluctantly, +like some sleepy animal, and go and eat them and come out again. + +In the evening it is too cold and dewy here for the grass, so I drag a +deep chair into the doorway and sit and stare at the darkening sky and +the brightening stars. At ten o'clock Antoine, the man of all work who +has looked after the house in its years of silence during the war, shuts +up everything except this door and withdraws to his own room and his +wife; and presently I go in too, bolting the door behind me, though +there is nothing really to shut out except the great night, and I creep +upstairs and fall asleep the minute I'm in bed. Indeed, I don't think +I'm much more awake in the day than in the night. I'm so tired that I +want to sleep and sleep; for years and years; for ever and ever. + +There was no unpacking to do. Everything was here as I left it five +years ago. We only took, five years ago, what each could carry, waving +goodbye to the house at the bend of the path and calling to it as the +German soldiers called to their disappearing homes, 'Back for +Christmas!' So that I came again to it with only what I could carry, and +had nothing to unpack. All I had to do was to drop my little bag on the +first chair I found and myself on to the grass, and in that position we +both stayed till bedtime. + +Antoine is surprised at nothing. He usedn't to be surprised at my +gaiety, which yet might well have seemed to him, accustomed to the +sobriety of the peasant women here, excessive; and nor is he now +surprised at my silence. He has made a few inquiries as to the health +and whereabouts of the other members of that confident group that waved +goodbyes five years ago, and showed no surprise when the answer, at +nearly every name, was 'Dead.' He has married since I went away, and +hasn't a single one of the five children he might have had, and he +doesn't seem surprised at that either. I am. I imagined the house, while +I was away, getting steadily fuller, and used to think that when I came +back I would find little Swiss babies scattered all over it; for, after +all, there quite well might have been ten, supposing Antoine had +happened to possess a natural facility in twins. + + +_July 26th._ + +The silence here is astonishing. There are hardly any birds. There is +hardly any wind, so that the leaves are very still and the grass +scarcely stirs. The crickets are busy, and the sound of the bells on +distant cows pasturing higher up on the mountains floats down to me; but +else there is nothing but a great, sun-flooded silence. + +When I left London it was raining. The Peace Day flags, still hanging +along the streets, drooped heavy with wet in what might have been +November air, it was so dank and gloomy. I was prepared to arrive here +in one of the mountain mists that settle down on one sometimes for +days,--vast wet stretches of grey stuff like some cold, sodden blanket, +muffling one away from the mountains opposite, and the valley, and the +sun. Instead I found summer: beautiful clear summer, fresh and warm +together as only summer up on these honey-scented slopes can be, with +the peasants beginning to cut the grass,--for things happen a month +later here than down in the valley, and if you climb higher you can +catch up June, and by climbing higher and higher you can climb, if you +want to, right back into the spring. But you don't want to if you're me. +You don't want to do anything but stay quiet where you are. + + +_July 27th._ + +If only I don't think--if only I don't think and remember--how can I not +get well again here in the beauty and the gentleness? There's all next +month, and September, and perhaps October too may be warm and golden. +After that I must go back, because the weather in this high place while +it is changing from the calms of autumn to the calms of the exquisite +alpine winter is a disagreeable, daunting thing. But I have two whole +months; perhaps three. Surely I'll be stronger, tougher, by then? Surely +I'll at least be better? I couldn't face the winter in London if this +desperate darkness and distrust of life is still in my soul. I don't +want to talk about my soul. I hate to. But what else am I to call the +innermost _Me,_ the thing that has had such wounds, that is so much hurt +and has grown so dim that I'm in terror lest it should give up and go +under, go quite out, and leave me alone in the dark? + + +_July 28th._ + +It is dreadful to be so much like Job. + +Like him I've been extraordinarily stripped of all that made life +lovely. Like him I've lost, in a time that is very short to have been +packed so full of disasters, nearly everything I loved. And it wasn't +only the war. The war passed over me, as it did over everybody, like +some awful cyclone, flattening out hope and fruitfulness, leaving blood +and ruins behind it; but it wasn't only that. In the losses of the war, +in the anguish of losing one's friends, there was the grisly comfort of +companionship in grief; but beyond and besides that life has been +devastated for me. I do feel like Job, and I can't bear it. It is so +humiliating, being so much stricken. I feel ridiculous as well as +wretched; as if somebody had taken my face and rubbed it in dust. + +And still, like Job, I cling on to what I can of trust in goodness, for +if I let that go I know there would be nothing left but death. + + +_July 29th._ + +Oh, what is all this talk of death? To-day I suddenly noticed that each +day since I've been here what I've written down has been a whine, and +that each day while I whined I was in fact being wrapped round by +beautiful things, as safe and as perfectly cared for _really_ as a baby +fortunate enough to have been born into the right sort of family. +Oughtn't I to be ashamed? Of course I ought; and so I am. For, looking +at the hours, each hour as I get to it, they are all good. Why should I +spoil them, the ones I'm at now, by the vivid remembrance, the aching +misery, of those black ones behind me? They, anyhow, are done with; and +the ones I have got to now are plainly good. And as for Job who so much +haunted me yesterday, I can't really be completely like him, for at +least I've not yet had to take a potsherd and sit down somewhere and +scrape. But perhaps I had better touch wood over that, for one has to +keep these days a wary eye on God. + +Mrs. Antoine, small and twenty-five, who has been provided by Antoine, +that expert in dodging inconveniences, with a churn suited to her size +out of which she produces little pats of butter suited to my size every +day, Switzerland not having any butter in it at all for sale,--Mrs. +Antoine looked at me to-day when she brought out food at dinner time, +and catching my eye she smiled at me; and so I smiled at her, and +instantly she began to talk. + +Up to now she has crept about softly on the tips of her toes as if she +were afraid of waking me, and I had supposed it to be her usual fashion +of moving and that it was natural to her to be silent; but to-day, after +we had smiled at each other, she stood over me with a dish in one hand +and a plate in the other, and held forth at length with the utmost +blitheness, like some carolling blacks bird, about her sufferings, and +the sufferings of Antoine, and the sufferings of everybody during the +war. The worse the sufferings she described had been the blither became +her carollings; and with a final chirrup of the most flute-like +cheerfulness she finished this way: + +_'Ah, ma foi, oui--il y avait un temps ou il a fallu se fier entierement +au bon Dieu. C'etait affreux._' + + +_July 30th._ + +It's true that the worst pain is the remembering one's happiness when +one is no longer happy and perhaps it may be just as true that past +miseries end by giving one some sort of satisfaction. Just their being +over must dispose one to regard them complacently. Certainly I already I +remember with a smile and a not unaffectionate shrug troubles that +seemed very dreadful a few years back. But this--this misery that has +got me now, isn't it too deep, doesn't it cut too ruthlessly at the very +roots of my life ever to be something that I will smile at? It seems +impossible that I ever should. I think the remembrance of this year will +always come like a knife cutting through any little happiness I may +manage to collect. You see, what has happened has taken away my faith in +_goodness_,--I don't know who _you_ are that I keep on wanting to tell +things to, but I must talk and tell you. Yes; that is what it has done; +and the hurt goes too far down to be healed. Yet I know time is a queer, +wholesome thing. I've lived long enough to have found that out. It is +very sanitary. It cleans up everything. It never fails to sterilise and +purify. Quite possibly I shall end by being a wise old lady who +discourses with, the utmost sprightliness, after her regular meals, on +her past agonies, and extracts much agreeable entertainment from them, +even is amusing about them. You see, they will be so far away, so safely +done with; never, anyhow, going to happen again. Why of course in time, +in years and years, one's troubles must end by being entertaining. But I +don't believe, however old I am and however wisely hilarious, I shall +ever be able to avoid the stab in the back, the clutch of pain at the +heart, that the remembrance of beautiful past happiness gives one. Lost. +Lost. Gone. And one is still alive, and still gets up carefully every +day, and buttons all one's buttons, and goes down to breakfast. + + +_July 31st._ + +Once I knew a bishop rather intimately--oh, nothing that wasn't most +creditable to us both--and he said to me, 'Dear child, you will always +be happy if you are good.' + +I'm afraid he couldn't have been quite candid, or else he was very +inexperienced, for I have never been so terribly good in the bishop's +sense as these last three years, turning my back on every private wish, +dreadfully unselfish, devoted, a perfect monster of goodness. And +unhappiness went with me every step of the way. + +I much prefer what some one else said to me, (not a bishop but yet +wise,) to whom I commented once on the really extraordinary bubbling +happiness that used to wake up with me every morning, the amazing joy of +each day as it came, the warm flooding gratitude that I _should_ be so +happy,--this was before the war. He said, beginning also like the bishop +but, unlike him, failing in delicacy at the end, 'Dear child, it is +because you have a sound stomach.' + + +_August 1st._ + +The last first of August I was here was the 1914 one. It was just such a +day as this,--blue, hot, glorious of colour and light. We in this house, +cut off in our remoteness from the noise and excitement of a world +setting out with cries of enthusiasm on its path of suicide, cut off by +distance and steepness even from the valley where the dusty Swiss +soldiers were collecting and every sort of rumour ran like flames, went +as usual through our pleasant day, reading, talking, clambering in the +pine-woods, eating romantic meals out in the little garden that hangs +like a fringe of flowers along the edge of the rock, unconscious, +serene, confident in life. Just as to-day the delphiniums stood +brilliantly blue, straight, and motionless on this edge, and it might +have been the very same purple pansies crowding at their feet. Nobody +came to tell us anything. We were lapped in peace. Of course even up +here there had been the slight ruffle of the Archduke's murder in June, +and the slight wonder towards the end of July as to what would come of +it; but the ruffle and the wonder died away in what seemed the solid, +ever-enduring comfortableness of life. Such comfortableness went too +deep, was too much settled, too heavy, to make it thinkable that it +should ever really be disturbed. There would be quarrels, but they would +be localised. Why, the mere feeding of the vast modern armies would +etc., etc. We were very innocent and trustful in those days. Looking +back at it, it is so pathetic as to be almost worthy of tears. + +Well, I don't want to remember all that. One turns with a sick weariness +from the recollection. At least one is thankful that we're at Now and +not at Then. This first of August has the great advantage of having all +that was coming after that first of August behind it instead of ahead of +it. At least on this first of August most of the killing, of the +slaughtering of young bodies and bright hopes, has left off. The world +is very horrible still, but nothing can ever be so horrible as killing. + + +_August 2nd._ + +The only thing to do with one's old sorrows is to tuck them up neatly in +their shroud and turn one's face away from their grave towards what is +coming next. + +That is what I am going to do. To-day I have the kind of feelings that +take hold of convalescents. I hardly dare hope it, but I have done +things to-day that do seem convalescent; done them and liked doing them; +things that I haven't till to-day had the faintest desire to do. + +I've been for a walk. And a quite good walk, up in the forest where the +water tumbles over rocks and the air is full of resin. And then when I +got home I burrowed about among my books, arranging their volumes and +loving the feel of them. It is more than ten days since I got here, and +till to-day I haven't moved; till to-day I've lain about with no wish to +move, with no wish at all except to have no wish. Once or twice I have +been ashamed of myself; and once or twice into the sleepy twilight of +my mind has come a little nicker of suspicion that perhaps life still, +after all, may be beautiful, that it may perhaps, after all, be just as +beautiful as ever if only I will open my eyes and look. But the flicker +has soon gone out again, damped out by the vault-like atmosphere of the +place it had got into. + +To-day I do feel different; and oh how glad I'd be if I _could_ be glad! +I don't believe there was ever anybody who loved being happy as much as +I did. What I mean is that I was so acutely conscious of being happy, so +appreciative of it; that I wasn't ever bored, and was always and +continuously grateful for the whole delicious loveliness of the world. + +I think it must be unusual never to have been bored. I realise this when +I hear other people talk. Certainly I'm never bored as people sometimes +appear to be by being alone, by the absence of amusement from without; +and as for bores, persons who obviously were bores, they didn't bore me, +they interested me. It was so wonderful to me, their unawareness that +they were bores. Besides, they were usually very kind; and also, +shameful though it is to confess, bores like me, and I am touched by +being liked, even by a bore. Sometimes it is true I have had to take +temporary refuge in doing what Dr. Johnson found so convenient, +--withdrawing my attention, but this is dangerous because of the +inevitable accompanying glazed and wandering eye. Still, much can be +done by practice in combining coherency of response with private +separate meditation. + +Just before I left London I met a man whose fate it has been for years +to sit daily in the Law Courts delivering judgments, and he told me that +he took a volume of poetry with him--preferably Wordsworth--and read in +it as it lay open on his knees under the table, to the great refreshment +and invigoration of his soul; and yet, so skilled had he become in the +practice of two attentivenesses, he never missed a word that was said or +a point that was made. There are indeed nice people in the world. I did +like that man. It seemed such a wise and pleasant thing to do, to lay +the dust of those sad places, where people who once liked each other go +because they are angry, with the gentle waters of poetry. I am sure that +man is the sort of husband whose wife's heart gives a jump of gladness +each time he comes home. + + +_August 3rd._ + +These burning August days, when I live in so great a glory of light and +colour that it is like living in the glowing heart of a jewel, how +impossible it is to keep from gratitude. I'm so grateful to be here, to +_have_ here to come to. Really I think I'm beginning to feel +different--remote from the old unhappy things that were strangling me +dead; restored; almost as though I might really some day be in tune +again. There's a moon now, and in the evenings I get into a coat and lie +in the low chair in the doorway watching it, and sometimes I forget for +as long as a whole half hour that the happiness I believed in is gone +for ever. I love sitting there and feeling little gusts of scent cross +my face every now and then, as if some one had patted it softly in +passing by. Sometimes it is the scent of the cut grass that has been +baking all day in the sun, but most often it is the scent from a group +of Madonna lilies just outside the door, planted by Antoine in one of +the Septembers of the war. + +'_C'est ma maman qui me les a donnes_,' he said; and when I had done +expressing my joy at their beauty and their fragrance, and my +appreciation of his _maman's_ conduct in having made my garden so lovely +a present, he said that she had given them in order that, by brewing +their leaves and applying the resulting concoction at the right moment, +he and Mrs. Antoine might be cured of suppurating wounds. + +'But you haven't got any suppurating wounds,' I said, astonished and +disillusioned. + +'_Ah, pour ca non_,' said Antoine. '_Mais il ne faut pas attendre qu'on +les a pour se procurer le remede._' + +Well, if he approaches every future contingency with the same prudence +he must be kept very busy; but the long winters of the war up here have +developed in him, I suppose, a Swiss Family Robinson-like ingenuity of +preparation for eventualities. + +What lovely long words I've just been writing. I can't be as +convalescent as I thought. I'm sure real vigour is brief. You don't say +Damn if your vitality is low; you trail among querulous, water-blooded +words like regrettable and unfortunate. But I think, perhaps, being in +my top layers very adaptable, it was really the elderly books I've been +reading the last day or two that made me arrange my language along their +lines. Not old books,--elderly. Written in the great Victorian age, when +the emotions draped themselves chastely in lengths, and avoided the rude +simplicities of shorts. + +There is the oddest lot of books in this house, pitchforked together by +circumstances, and sometimes their accidental rearrangement by Antoine +after cleaning their shelves each spring of my absence would make their +writers, if they could know, curdle between their own covers. Some are +standing on their heads--Antoine has no prejudices about the right side +up of an author--most of those in sets have their volumes wrong, and +yesterday I found a Henry James, lost from the rest of him, lost even, +it looked like, to propriety, held tight between two ladies. The ladies +were Ouida and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. They would hardly let him go, they +had got him so tight. I pulled him out, a little damaged, and restored +him, ruffled in spite of my careful smoothing, to his proper place. It +was the _Son and Brother_; and there he had been for months, perhaps +years, being hugged. Dreadful. + +When I come down to breakfast and find I am a little ahead of the _cafe +au lait_, I wander into the place that has most books in it--though +indeed books are in every place, and have even oozed along the +passages--and fill up the time, till Mrs. Antoine calls me, in rescue +work of an urgent nature. But it is impossible, I find, to tidy books +without ending by sitting on the floor in the middle of a great +untidiness and reading. The coffee grows cold and the egg repulsive, but +still I read. You open a book idly, and you see: + +_The most glaring anomalies seemed to afford them no intellectual +inconvenience, neither would they listen to any arguments as to the +waste of money and happiness which their folly caused them. I was +allowed almost to call them life-long self-deceivers to their faces, and +they said it was quite true, but that it did not matter._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open another book idly, and you see: + +_Our admiration of King Alfred is greatly increased by the fact that we +know very little about him._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open another book idly, and you see: + +_Organic life, we are told, has developed gradually from the protozoon +to the philosopher, and this development, we are assured, is indubitably +an advance. Unfortunately it is the philosopher, not the protozoon, who +gives us this assurance._ + +Naturally then you read on. + +You open--but I could go on all day like this, as I do go on being +caught among the books, and only the distant anxious chirps of Mrs. +Antoine, who comes round to the front door to clear away breakfast and +finds it hasn't been begun, can extricate me. + +Perhaps I had better not get arranging books before breakfast. It is too +likely to worry that bird-like Mrs. Antoine, who is afraid, I daresay, +that if I don't drink my coffee while it is hot I may relapse into that +comatose condition that filled her evidently with much uneasiness and +awe. She hadn't expected, I suppose, the mistress of the house, when she +did at last get back to it, to behave like some strange alien slug, +crawled up the mountain only to lie motionless in the sun for the best +part of a fortnight. I heard her, after the first two days of this +conduct, explaining it to Antoine, who however needed no explanation +because of his god-like habit of never being surprised, and her +explanation was that _c'etait la guerre_,--convenient explanation that +has been used to excuse many more unnatural and horrible things during +the last five years than somebody's behaving as if she were a slug. + +But, really, the accidental juxtapositions on my bookshelves! Just now I +found George Moore (his _Memories of my Dead Life,_ with its delicate +unmoralities, its delicious paganism) with on one side of him a book +called _Bruey: a Little Worker for Christ_, by Frances Ridley Havergal, +and on the other an American book called _The Unselfishness of God, and +How I Discovered It._ + +The surprise of finding these three with their arms, as it were, round +each other's necks, got me nearer to laughter than I have been for +months. If anybody had been with me I _would_ have laughed. Is it +possible that I am so far on to-day in convalescence that I begin to +want a companion? Somebody to laugh with? Why, if that is so.... + +But I'd best not be too hopeful. + + +_August 4th._ + +This day five years ago! What a thrill went through us up here, how +proud we felt of England, of belonging to England; proud with that +extraordinary intensified patriotism that lays hold of those who are not +in their own country. + +It is very like the renewal of affection, the re-flaming up of love, for +the absent. The really wise are often absent; though, indeed, their +absences should be arranged judiciously. Too much absence is very nearly +as bad as too little,--no, not really very nearly; I should rather say +too much has its drawbacks too, though only at first. Persisted in +these drawbacks turn into merits; for doesn't absence, prolonged enough, +lead in the end to freedom? I suppose, however, for most people complete +freedom is too lonely a thing, therefore the absence should only be just +long enough to make room for one to see clear again. Just a little +withdrawal every now and then, just a little, so as to get a good view +once more of those dear qualities we first loved, so as to be able to +see that they're still there, still shining. + +How can you see anything if your nose is right up against it? I know +when we were in England, enveloped in her life at close quarters, +bewildered by the daily din of the newspapers, stunned by the cries of +the politicians, distracted by the denouncements, accusations, revilings +with which the air was convulsed, and acutely aware of the background of +sad drizzling rain on the pavements, and of places like Cromwell Road +and Shaftesbury Avenue and Ashley Gardens being there all the time, +never different, great ugly houses with the rain dripping on them, +gloomy temporary lodgings for successive processions of the noisy +dead,--I know when we were in the middle of all this, right up tight +against it, we couldn't see, and so we forgot the side of England that +was great. + +But when she went to war we were not there; we had been out of her for +months, and she had got focussed again patriotically. Again she was the +precious stone set in a silver sea, the other Eden, demi-Paradise, the +England my England, the splendid thing that had made splendid poets, the +hope and heart of the world. Long before she had buckled on her +sword--how easily one drops into the old language!--long before there +was any talk of war, just by sheer being away from her we had +re-acquired that peculiar aggressive strut of the spirit that is +patriotism. We liked the Swiss, we esteemed them; and when we crossed +into Italy we liked the Italians too, though esteeming them less,--I +think because they seemed less thrifty and enjoyed themselves more, and +we were still sealed up in the old opinion that undiscriminating joyless +thrift was virtuous. But though we liked and esteemed these people it +was from a height. At the back of our minds we always felt superior, at +the back of our minds we were strutting. Every day of further absence +from England, our England, increased that delicious sub-conscious +smugness. Then when on the 4th of August she 'came in,' came in +gloriously because of her word to Belgium, really this little house +contained so much enthusiasm and pride that it almost could be heard +cracking. + +What shall we do when we all get to heaven and aren't allowed to have +any patriotism? There, surely, we shall at last be forced into one vast +family. But I imagine that every time God isn't looking the original +patriotism of each will break out, right along throughout eternity; and +some miserable English tramp, who has only been let into heaven because +he positively wasn't man enough for hell, will seize his opportunity to +hiss at a neat Swiss business man from Berne, whose life on earth was +blamelessly spent in the production of cuckoo-clocks, and whose +mechanical-ingenuity was such that he even, so ran the heavenly rumours +among the mild, astonished angels, had propagated his family by +machinery, that he, the tramp, is a b--Briton, and if he, the +b--b--b--Swiss (I believe tramps always talk in b's; anyhow newspapers +and books say they do), doubts it, he'd b--well better come outside and +he, the tramp, will b--well soon show him. + +To which the neat Berne gentleman, on other subjects so completely +pervaded by the local heavenly calm, will answer with a sudden furious +mechanical buzzing, much worse and much more cowing to the tramp than +any swear-words, and passionately uphold the might and majesty of +Switzerland in a prolonged terrific _whrrrrr._ + + +_August 5th._ + +I want to talk. I must be better. + + +_August 6th._ + +Of course, the most battered, the most obstinately unhappy person +couldn't hold out for ever against the all-pervading benediction of this +place. I know there is just the same old wretchedness going on as usual +outside it,--cruelty, people wantonly making each other miserable, love +being thrown away or frightened into fits, the dreadful betrayal of +trust that is the blackest wretchedness of all,--I can almost imagine +that if I were to hang over my terrace-wall I would see these well-known +dreary horrors crawling about in the valley below, crawling and tumbling +about together in a ghastly tangle. But at least there isn't down there +now my own particular contribution to the general wretchedness. I +brought that up here; dragged it up with me, not because I wanted to, +but because it would come. Surely, though, I shall leave it here? Surely +there'll be a day when I'll be able to pack it away into a neat bundle +and take it up to the top of some, arid, never-again-to-be-visited rock, +and leave it there and say, 'Goodbye. I'm separate. I've cut the +umbilical cord. Goodbye old misery. Now for what comes next.' + +I can't believe this won't happen. I can't believe I won't go back down +the mountain different from what I was when I came. Lighter, anyhow, and +more wholesome inside. Oh, I do so _want_ to be wholesome inside again! +Nicely aired, sunshiny; instead of all dark, and stuffed up with black +memories. + + +_August 7th._ + +But I am getting on. Every morning now when I wake and see the patch of +bright sunshine on the wall at the foot of my bed that means another +perfect day, my heart goes out in an eager prayer that I may not +disgrace so great a blessing by private gloom. And I do think each of +these last days has been a little less disgraced than its yesterday. +Hardly a smudge, for instance, has touched any part of this afternoon. I +have felt as though indeed I were at last sitting up and taking notice. +And the first thing I want to do, the first use I want to make of having +turned the corner, is to talk. + +How feminine. But I love to talk. Again how feminine. Well, I also love +to listen. But chiefly I love to listen to a man; therefore once more, +how feminine. Well, I'm a woman, so naturally I'm feminine; and a man +does seem to have more to say that one wants to hear than a woman. I do +want to hear what a woman has to say too, but not for so long a time, +and not so often. Not nearly so often. What reason to give for this +reluctance I don't quite know, except that a woman when she talks seems +usually to have forgotten the salt. Also she is apt to go on talking; +sometimes for quite a little while after you have begun to wish she +would leave off. + +One of the last people who stayed here with me alone in 1914, just +before the arrival of the gay holiday group of the final days, was a +woman of many gifts--_le trop est l'ennemi du bien_--who started, +therefore, being full of these gifts and having eloquently to let them +out, talking at the station in the valley where I met her, and didn't, +to my growing amazement and chagrin, for I too wanted to say some +things, leave off (except when night wrapped her up in blessed silence) +till ten days afterwards, when by the mercy of providence she swallowed +a crumb wrong, and so had to stop. + +How eagerly, released for a moment, I rushed in with as much as I could +get out during the brief time I knew she would take to recover! But my +voice, hoarse with disuse, had hardly said three sentences--miserable +little short ones--when she did recover, and fixing impatient and +reproachful eyes on me said: + +'Do you _always_ talk so much?' + +Surely that was unjust? + + +_August 8th._ + +Now see what Henry James wrote to me--to _me_ if you please! I can't get +over it, such a feather in my cap. Why, I had almost forgotten I had a +cap to have a feather in, so profound has been my humbling since last I +was here. + +In the odd, fairy-tale like way I keep on finding bits of the past, of +years ago, as though they were still of the present, even of the last +half hour, I found the letter this morning in a room I wandered into +after breakfast. It is the only room downstairs besides the hall, and I +used to take refuge in it from the other gay inhabitants of the house so +as to open and answer letters somewhere not too distractingly full of +cheerful talk; and there on the table, spotlessly kept clean by Antoine +but else not touched, were all the papers and odds and ends of five +years back exactly as I must have left them. Even some chocolate I had +apparently been eating, and some pennies, and a handful of cigarettes, +and actually a box of matches,--it was all there, all beautifully +dusted, all as it must have been when last I sat there at the table. If +it hadn't been for the silence, the complete, sunny emptiness and +silence of the house, I would certainly have thought I had only been +asleep and having a bad dream, and that not five years but one uneasy +night had gone since I nibbled that chocolate and wrote with those pens. + +Fascinated and curious I sat down and began eating the chocolate again. +It was quite good; made of good, lasting stuff in that good, apparently +lasting age we used to live in. And while I ate it I turned over the +piles of papers, and there at the bottom of them was a letter from Henry +James. + +I expect I kept it near me on the table because I so much loved it and +wanted to re-read it, and wanted, I daresay, at intervals proudly to +show it to my friends and make them envious, for it was written at +Christmas, 1913; months before I left for England. + +Reading it now my feeling is just astonishment that I, _I_ should ever +have had such a letter. But then I am greatly humbled; I have been on +the rocks; and can't believe that such a collection of broken bits as I +am now could ever have been a trim bark with all its little sails puffed +out by the kindliness and affection of anybody as wonderful as Henry +James. + +Here it is; and it isn't any more vain of me now in my lamed and bruised +condition to copy it out and hang on its charming compliments than it is +vain for a woman who once was lovely and is now grown old to talk about +how pretty she used to be: + + 21 Carlyle Mansions, + + Cheyne Walk, S.W., + + December 29th, 1913. + + + +Dear-- + +Let me tell you that I simply delight in your beautiful and generous and +gracious little letter, and that there isn't a single honeyed word of it +that doesn't give me the most exquisite pleasure. You fill the +measure--and how can I tell you how I _like_ the measure to be filled? +None of your quarter-bushels or half-bushels for _my_ insatiable +appetite, but the overflowing heap, pressed down and shaken together +and spilling all over the place. So I pick up the golden grains and +nibble them one by one! Truly, dear lady, it is the charmingest rosy +flower of a letter--handed me straight out of your monstrous snowbank. +That you can grow such flowers in such conditions--besides growing with +such diligence and elegance all sorts of other lovely kinds, has for its +explanation of course only that you have such a regular teeming garden +of a mind. You must mainly inhabit it of course--with your other courts +of exercise so grand, if you will, but so grim. Well, you have caused me +to revel in pride and joy--for I assure you that I have let myself go; +all the more that the revelry of the season here itself has been so far +from engulfing me that till your witching words came I really felt +perched on a mountain of lonely bleakness socially and sensuously +speaking alike--very much like one of those that group themselves, as I +suppose, under your windows. But I have had my Xmastide _now_, and am +your all grateful and faithful and all unforgetting old Henry James. + + * * * * * + +Who wouldn't be proud of getting a letter like that? It was wonderful to +come across it again, wonderful how my chin went up in the air and how +straight I sat up for a bit after reading it. And I laughed, too; for +with what an unbuttoned exuberance must I have engulfed him! 'Spilling +all over the place.' I can quite believe it. I had, I suppose, been +reading or re-reading something of his, and had been swept off sobriety +of expression by delight, and in that condition of emotional +unsteadiness and molten appreciation must have rushed impetuously to the +nearest pen. + +How warmly, with what grateful love, one thinks of Henry James. How +difficult to imagine anyone riper in wisdom, in kindliness, in wit; +greater of affection; more generous of friendship. And his talk, his +wonderful talk,--even more wonderful than his books. If only he had had +a Boswell! I did ask him one day, in a courageous after-dinner mood, if +he wouldn't take me on as his Boswell; a Boswell so deeply devoted that +perhaps qualifications for the post would grow through sheer admiration. +I told him--my courageous levity was not greater on that occasion than +his patience--that I would disguise myself as a man; or better still, +not being quite big enough to make a plausible man and unlikely to grow +any more except, it might be hoped, in grace, I would be an elderly +boy; that I would rise up early and sit up late and learn shorthand and +do anything in the world, if only I might trot about after him taking +notes--the strange pair we should have made! And the judgment he passed +on that reckless suggestion, after considering its impudence with much +working about of his extraordinary mobile mouth, delivering his verdict +with a weight of pretended self-depreciation intended to crush me +speechless,--which it did for nearly a whole second--was: 'Dear lady, it +would be like the slow squeezing out of a big empty sponge.' + + +_August 9th._ + +This little wooden house, clinging on to the side of the mountain by its +eyelashes, or rather by its eyebrows, for it has enormous eaves to +protect it from being smothered in winter in snow that look exactly like +overhanging eyebrows,--is so much cramped up for room to stand on that +the garden along the edge of the rock isn't much bigger than a +handkerchief. + +It is a strip of grass, tended with devotion by Antoine, whose pride it +is that it should be green when all the other grass on the slopes round +us up the mountain and down the mountain are parched pale gold; which +leads him to spend most of his evening hours watering it. There is a low +wall along the edge to keep one from tumbling over, for if one did +tumble over it wouldn't be nice for the people walking about in the +valley five thousand feet below, and along this wall is the narrow +ribbon of the only flowers that will put up with us. + +They aren't many. There are the delphiniums, and some pansies and some +pinks, and a great many purple irises. The irises were just over when I +first got here, but judging from the crowds of flower-stalks they must +have been very beautiful. There is only one flower left; exquisite and +velvety and sun-warmed to kiss--which I do diligently, for one must kiss +something--and with that adorable honey-smell that is the very smell of +summer. + +That's all in the garden. It isn't much, written down, but you should +just see it. Oh yes--I forgot. Round the corner, scrambling up the wall +that protects the house in the early spring from avalanches, are crimson +ramblers, brilliant against the intense blue of the sky. Crimson +ramblers are, I know, ordinary things, but you should just see them. It +is the colour of the sky that makes them so astonishing here. Yes--and I +forgot the lilies that Antoine's _maman_ gave him. They are near the +front door, and next to them is a patch of lavender in full flower now, +and all day long on each of its spikes is poised miraculously something +that looks like a tiny radiant angel, but that flutters up into the sun +when I go near and is a white butterfly. Antoine must have put in the +lavender. It used not to be there. But I don't ask him because of what +he might tell me it is really for, and I couldn't bear to have that +patch of sheer loveliness, with the little shining things hovering over +it, explained as a _remede_ for something horrid. + +If I could paint I would sit all day and paint; as I can't I try to get +down on paper what I see. It gives me pleasure. It is somehow +companionable. I wouldn't, I think, do this if I were not alone. I would +probably exhaust myself and my friend pointing out the beauty. + +The garden, it will be seen, as gardens go, is pathetic in its smallness +and want of variety. Possessors of English gardens, with those immense +wonderful herbaceous borders and skilfully arranged processions of +flowers, might conceivably sniff at it. Let them. I love it. And, if it +were smaller still, if it were shrunk to a single plant with a single +flower on it, it would perhaps only enchant me the more, for then I +would concentrate on that one beauty and not be distracted by the +feeling that does distract me here, that while I am looking one way I am +missing what is going on in other directions. Those beasts in +Revelations--the ones full of eyes before and behind--I wish I had been +constructed on liberal principles like that. + +But one really hardly wants a garden here where God does so much. It is +like Italy in that way, and an old wooden box of pansies or a pot of +lilies stuck anywhere, in a window, on the end of a wall, is enough; +composing instantly with what is so beautifully there already, the +light, the colour, the shapes of the mountains. Really, where God does +it all for you just a yard or two arranged in your way is enough; enough +to assert your independence, and to show a proper determination to make +something of your own. + + +_August 10th._ + +I don't know when it is most beautiful up here,--in the morning, when +the heat lies along the valley in delicate mists, and the folded +mountains, one behind the other, grow dimmer and dimmer beyond sight, +swooning away through tender gradations of violets and greys, or at +night when I look over the edge of the terrace and see the lights in the +valley shimmering as though they were reflected in water. + +I seem to be seeing it now for the first time, with new eyes. I know I +used to see it when I was here before, used to feel it and rejoice in +it, but it was entangled in other things then, it was only part of the +many happinesses with which those days were full, claiming my attention +and my thoughts. They claimed them wonderfully and hopefully it is true, +but they took me much away from what I can only call for want of a +better word--(a better word: what a thing to say!)--God. Now those hopes +and wonders, those other joys and lookings-forward and happy trusts are +gone; and the wounds they left, the dreadful sore places, are slowly +going too. And how I see beauty now is with the new sensitiveness, the +new astonishment at it, of a person who for a long time has been having +awful dreams, and one morning wakes up and the delirium is gone, and he +lies in a state of the most exquisite glad thankfulness, the most +extraordinary minute appreciation of the dear, wonderful common things +of life,--just the sun shining on his counterpane, the scents from the +garden coming in through his window, the very smell of the coffee being +got ready for breakfast. Oh, delight, delight to think one didn't die +this time, that one isn't going to die this time after all, but is going +to get better, going to live, going presently to be quite well again and +able to go back to one's friends, to the people who still love one.... + + +_August 11th._ + +To-day is a saint's day. This is a Catholic part of Switzerland, and +they have a great many holidays because they have a great many saints. +There is hardly a week without some saint in it who has to be +commemorated, and often there are two in the same week, and sometimes +three. I know when we have reached another saint, for then the church +bells of the nearest village begin to jangle, and go on doing it every +two hours. When this happens the peasants leave off work, and the busy, +saint-unencumbered Protestants get ahead. + +Mrs. Antoine was a Catholic before she married, but the sagacious +Antoine, who wasn't one, foreseeing days in most of his weeks when she +might, if he hadn't been quite kind, to her, or rather if she fancied +he hadn't been quite kind to her--and the fancies of wives, he had +heard, were frequent and vivid--the sagacious Antoine, foreseeing these +numerous holy days ahead of him on any of which Mrs. Antoine might +explain as piety what was really pique and decline to cook his dinner, +caused her to turn Protestant before the wedding. Which she did; +conscious, as she told me, that she was getting a _bon mari qui valait +bien ca_; and thus at one stroke Antoine secured his daily dinners +throughout the year and rid himself of all his wife's relations. For +they, consisting I gather principally of aunts, her father and mother +being dead, were naturally displeased and won't know the Antoines; which +is, I am told by those who have managed it, the most refreshing thing in +the world: to get your relations not to know you. So that not only does +he live now in the blessed freedom and dignity that appears to be +reserved for those whose relations are angry, but he has no priests +about him either. Really Antoine is very intelligent. + +And he has done other intelligent things while I have been away. For +instance: + +When first I came here, two or three years before the war, I desired to +keep the place free from the smells of farmyards. 'There shall be no +cows,' I said. + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine. + +'Nor any chickens.' + +'_C'est bien_' said Antoine. + +'Neither shall there be any pigs.' + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine. + +'_Surtout_', I repeated, fancying I saw in his eye a kind of private +piggy regret, '_pas de porcs_.' + +'_C'est bien_,' said Antoine, the look fading. + +For most of my life up to then had been greatly infested by pigs; and +though they were superior pigs, beautifully kept, housed and fed far +better, shameful to relate, than the peasants of that place, on the days +when the wind blew from where they were to where we were, clean them and +air them as one might there did come blowing over us a great volume of +unmistakeable pig. Eclipsing the lilies. Smothering the roses. Also, on +still days we could hear their voices, and the calm of many a summer +evening was rent asunder by their squeals. There were an enormous number +of little pigs, for in that part of the country it was unfortunately not +the custom to eat sucking-pigs, which is such a convenient as well as +agreeable way of keeping them quiet, and they squealed atrociously; out +of sheer high spirits, I suppose, being pampered pigs and having no +earthly reason to squeal except for joy. + +Remembering all this, I determined that up here at any rate we should be +pure from pigs. And from cows too; and from chickens. For did I not also +remember things both cows and chickens had done to me? The hopes of a +whole year in the garden had often been destroyed by one absent-minded, +wandering cow; and though we did miracles with wire-netting and the +concealing of wire-netting by creepers, sooner or later a crowd of +lustful hens, led by some great bully of a cock, got in and tore up the +crocuses just at that early time of the year when, after an endless +winter, crocuses seem the most precious and important things in the +world. + +Therefore this place had been kept carefully empty of live-stock, and we +bought our eggs and our milk from the peasants, and didn't have any +sausages, and the iris bulbs were not scratched up, and the air had +nothing in it but smells of honey and hay in summer, and nothing in +winter but the ineffable pure cold smell of what, again for want of a +better word, I can only describe as God. But then the war came, and our +hurried return to England; and instead of being back as we had thought +for Christmas, we didn't come back at all. Year after year went, +Christmas after Christmas, and nobody came back. I suppose Antoine began +at last to feel as if nobody ever would come back. I can't guess at what +moment precisely in those years his thoughts began to put out feelers +towards pigs, but he did at last consider it proper to regard my pre-war +instructions as finally out of date, and gathered a suitable selection +of live-stock about him. I expect he got to this stage fairly early, for +having acquired a nice, round little wife he was determined, being a +wise man, to keep her so. And having also an absentee _patrone_--that is +the word that locally means me--absent, and therefore not able to be +disturbed by live-stock, he would keep her placid by keeping her +unconscious. + +How simple, and how intelligent. + +In none of his monthly letters did the word pig, cow, or chicken appear. +He wrote agreeably of the weather: _c'etait magnifique,_ or _c'etait +bien triste_, according to the season. He wrote of the French and +Belgian sick prisoners of war, interned in those places scattered about +the mountains which used to be the haunts of parties catered for by +Lunn. He wrote appreciatively of the usefulness and good conduct of the +watch-dog, a splendid creature, much bigger than I am, with the +lap-doggy name of Mou-Mou. He lengthily described unexciting objects +like the whiskers of the cat: _favoris superbes qui poussent toujours, +malgre ces jours maigres de guerre_; and though sometimes he expressed a +little disappointment at the behaviour of Mrs. Antoine's _estomac, qui +lui fait beaucoup d'ennuis et parait mal resister aux grands froids_, he +always ended up soothingly: _Pour la maison tout va bien. Madame peut +etre entierement tranquille._ + +Never a word, you see, about the live-stock. + +So there in England was Madame being _entierement tranquille_ about her +little house, and glad indeed that she could be; for whatever had +happened to it or to the Antoines she wouldn't have been able to do +anything. Tethered on the other side of the impassable barrier of war, +if the house had caught fire she could only, over there in England, have +wrung her hands; and if Mrs. Antoine's _estomac_ had given out so +completely that she and Antoine had had to abandon their post and take +to the plains and doctors, she could only have sat still and cried. The +soothing letters were her comfort for five years,--_madame peut-etre +entierement tranquille_; how sweetly the words fell, month by month, on +ears otherwise harassed and tormented! + +It wasn't till I had been here nearly a fortnight that I began to be +aware of my breakfast. Surely it was very nice? Such a lot of milk; and +every day a little jug of cream. And surprising butter,--surprising not +only because it was so very fresh but because it was there at all. I had +been told in England that there was no butter to be got here, not an +ounce to be bought from one end of Switzerland to the other. Well, there +it was; fresh every day, and in a singular abundance. + +Through the somnolence of my mind, of all the outward objects +surrounding me I think it was the butter that got in first; and my +awakening intelligence, after a period of slow feeling about and some +relapses, did at last one morning hit on the conviction that at the +other end of that butter was a cow. + +This, so far, was to be expected as the result of reasoning. But where I +began to be pleased with myself, and feel as if Paley's Evidences had +married Sherlock Holmes and I was the bright pledge of their loves, was +when I proceeded from this, without moving from my chair, to discover +by sheer thinking that the cow was very near the butter, because else +the butter couldn't possibly be made fresh every day,--so near that it +must be at that moment grazing on the bit of pasture belonging to me; +and, if that were so, the conclusion was irresistible that it must be my +cow. + +After that my thoughts leaped about the breakfast table with comparative +nimbleness. I remembered that each morning there had been an egg, and +that eggy puddings had appeared at the other meals. Before the war it +was almost impossible to get eggs up here; clearly, then, I had chickens +of my own. And the honey; I felt it would no longer surprise me to +discover that I also had bees, for this honey was the real thing,--not +your made-up stuff of the London shops. And strawberries; every morning +a great cabbage leaf of strawberries had been on the table, real garden +strawberries, over long ago down in the valley and never dreamed of as +things worth growing by the peasants in the mountains. Obviously I +counted these too among my possessions in some corner out of sight. The +one object I couldn't proceed to by inductive reasoning from what was on +the table was a pig. Antoine's courage had failed him over that. Too +definitely must my repeated warning have echoed in his ears: _Surtout +pas de porcs._ + +But how very intelligent he had been. It needs intelligence if one is +conscientious to disobey orders at the right moment. And me so unaware +all the time, and therefore so unworried! + +He passed along the terrace at that moment, a watering-pot in his hand. + +'Antoine,' I said. + +'Madame,' he said, stopping and taking off his cap. + +'This egg--' I said, pointing to the shell. I said it in French, but +prefer not to put my French on paper. + +'_Ah--madame a vu les poules_.' + +'This butter--' + +'_Ah--madame a visite la vache._' + +'The pig--?' I hesitated. 'Is there--is there also a pig?' + +'_Si madame veut descendre a la cave--_' + +'You never keep a pig in the cellar?' I exclaimed. + +'_Comme jambon,_' said Antoine--calm, perfect of manner, without a trace +of emotion. + +And there sure enough I was presently proudly shown by Mrs. Antoine, +whose feelings are less invisible than her husband's, hanging from the +cellar ceiling on hooks that which had once been pig. Several pigs; +though she talked as if there had never been more than one. It may be +so, of course, but if it is so it must have had a great many legs. + +_Un porc centipede_, I remarked thoughtfully, gazing upwards at the +forest of hams. + +Over the thin ice of this comment she slid, however, in a voluble +description of how, when the armistice was signed, she and Antoine had +instantly fallen upon and slain the pig--pig still in the +singular--expecting Madame's arrival after that felicitous event at any +minute, and comprehending that _un porc vivant pourrait deranger madame, +mais que mort il ne fait rien a personne que du plaisir._ And she too +gazed upwards, but with affection and pride. + +There remained then nothing to do but round off these various +transactions by a graceful and grateful paying for them. Which I did +to-day, Antoine presenting the bills, accompanied by complicated +calculations and deductions of the market price of the milk and butter +and eggs he and Mrs. Antoine would otherwise have consumed during the +past years. + +I didn't look too closely into what the pig had cost,--his price, as my +eye skimmed over it was obviously the price of something plural. But my +eye only skimmed. It didn't dwell. Always Antoine and I have behaved to +each other like gentlemen. + + +_August 12th._ + +I wonder why I write all this. Is it because it is so like talking to a +friend at the end of the day, and telling him, who is interested and +loves to hear, everything one has done? I suppose it is that; and that I +want, besides, to pin down these queer days as they pass,--days so +utterly unlike any I ever had before. I want to hold them a minute in my +hand and look at them, before letting them drop away for ever. Then, +perhaps, in lots of years, when I have half forgotten what brought me up +here, and don't mind a bit about anything except to laugh--to laugh with +the tenderness of a wise old thing at the misunderstandings, and +mistakes, and failures that brought me so near shipwreck, and yet +underneath were still somehow packed with love--I'll open this and read +it, and I daresay quote that Psalm about going through the vale of +misery and using it as a well, and be quite pleasantly entertained. + + +_August 13th._ + +If one sets one's face westwards and goes on and on along the side of +the mountain, refusing either to climb higher or go lower, and having +therefore to take things as they come and somehow get through--roaring +torrents, sudden ravines, huge trees blown down in a forgotten blizzard +and lying right across one's way; all the things that mountains have up +their sleeve waiting for one--one comes, after two hours of walk so +varied as to include scowling rocks and gloomy forests, bright stretches +of delicious grass full of flowers, bits of hayfield, clusters of +fruit-trees, wide sun-flooded spaces with nothing between one apparently +and the great snowy mountains, narrow paths where it is hardly light +enough to see, smells of resin and hot fir needles, smells of +traveller's joy, smells of just cut grass, smells of just sawn wood, +smells of water tumbling over stones, muddy smells where the peasants +have turned some of the torrent away through shallow channels into their +fields, honey smells, hot smells, cold smells,--after two hours of this +walking, which would be tiring because of the constant difficulty of the +ground if it weren't for the odd way the air has here of carrying you, +of making you feel as though you were being lifted along, one comes at +last to the edge of a steep slope where there is a little group of +larches. + +Then one sits down. + +These larches are at the very end of a long tongue into which the +mountain one started on has somehow separated, and it is under them that +one eats one's dinner of hard boiled egg and bread and butter, and sits +staring, while one does so, in much astonishment at the view. For it is +an incredibly beautiful view from here, of an entirely different range +of mountains from the one seen from my terrace; and the valley, with its +twisting, tiny silver thread that I know is a great rushing river, has +strange, abrupt, isolated hills scattered over it that appear each to +have a light and colour of its own, with no relation to the light and +colour of the mountains. + +When first I happened on this place the building of my house had already +been started, and it was too late to run to the architect and say: Here +and here only will I live. But I did for a wild moment, so great was the +beauty I had found, hope that perhaps Swiss houses might be like those +Norwegian ones one reads about that take to pieces and can be put up +again somewhere else when you've got bored, and I remember scrambling +back hastily in heat and excitement to ask him whether this were so. + +He said it wasn't; and seemed even a little ruffled, if so calm a man +were capable of ruffling, that I should suppose he would build anything +that could come undone. + +'This house,' he said, pointing at the hopeless-looking mass that +ultimately became so adorable, 'is built for posterity. It is on a rock, +and will partake of the same immovability.' + +And when I told him of the place I had found, the exquisite place, more +beautiful than a dream and a hundred times more beautiful than the place +we had started building on, he, being a native of the district, hardy on +his legs on Sundays and accordingly acquainted with every inch of ground +within twenty miles, told me that it was so remote from villages, so +inaccessible by any road, that it was suited as a habitation only to +goats. + +'Only goats,' he said with finality, waving his hand, 'could dwell +there, and for goats I do not build.' + +So that my excitement cooled down before the inevitable, and I have +lived to be very glad the house is where it is and not where, for a few +wild hours, I wanted it; for now I can go to the other when I am in a +beauty mood and see it every time with fresh wonder, while if I lived +there I would have got used to it long ago, and my ardour been, like +other ardours, turned by possession into complacency. Or, to put it a +little differently, the house here is like an amiable wife to whom it is +comfortable to come back for meals and sleeping purposes, and the other +is a secret love, to be visited only on the crest of an ecstasy. + +To-day I took a hard boiled egg and some bread and butter, and visited +my secret love. + +The hard boiled egg doesn't seem much like an ecstasy, but it is a very +good foundation for one. There is great virtue in a hard boiled egg. It +holds one down, yet not too heavily. It satisfies without inflaming. +Sometimes, after days of living on fruit and bread, a slice of underdone +meat put in a sandwich and eaten before I knew what I was doing, has +gone straight to my head in exactly the way wine would, and I have seen +the mountains double and treble themselves, besides not keeping still, +in a very surprising and distressing way, utterly ruinous to raptures. +So now I distrust sandwiches and will not take them; and all that goes +with me is the hard boiled egg. Oh, and apricots, when I can get them. +I forgot the apricots. I took a handful to-day,--big, beautiful +rosy-golden ones, grown in the hot villages of the valley, a very +apricotty place. And, that every part of me should have sustenance, I +also took Law's _Serious Call_. + +He went because he's the thinnest book I've got on my shelves that has +at the same time been praised by Dr. Johnson. I've got several others +that Dr. Johnson has praised, such as Ogden on _Prayer_, but their bulk, +even if their insides were attractive, makes them have to stay at home. +Johnson, I remembered, as I weighed Law thoughtfully in my hand and felt +how thin he was, said of the _Serious Call_ that he took it up expecting +it to be a dull book, and perhaps to laugh at it--'but I found Law quite +an overmatch for me.' He certainly would be an overmatch for me, I knew, +should I try to stand up to him, but that was not my intention. What I +wanted was a slender book that yet would have enough entertainment in it +to nourish me all day; and opening the _Serious Call_ I was caught at +once by the story of Octavius, a learned and ingenious man who, feeling +that he wasn't going to live much longer, told the friends hanging on +his lips attentive to the wisdom that would, they were sure, drop out, +that in the decay of nature in which he found himself he had left off +all taverns and was now going to be nice in what he drank, so that he +was resolved to furnish his cellar with a little of the very best +whatever it might cost. And hardly had he delivered himself of this +declaration than 'he fell ill, was committed to a nurse, and had his +eyes closed by her before his fresh parcel of wine came in.' + +The effect of this on some one called Eugenius was to send him home a +new man, full of resolutions to devote himself wholly to God; for 'I +never, says Eugenius, was so deeply affected with the wisdom and +importance of religion as when I saw how poorly and meanly the learned +Octavius was to leave the world through the want of it.' + +So Law went with me, and his vivacious pages,--the story of Octavius is +but one of many; there is Matilda and her unhappy daughters ('The eldest +daughter lived as long as she could under this discipline,' but found +she couldn't after her twentieth year and died, 'her entrails much hurt +by being crushed together with her stays';) Eusebia and her happy +daughters, who were so beautifully brought up that they had the +satisfaction of dying virgins; Lepidus, struck down as he was dressing +himself for a feast; the admirable Miranda, whose meals were carefully +kept down to exactly enough to give her proper strength to lift eyes and +hands to heaven, so that 'Miranda will never have her eyes swell with +fatness or pant under a heavy load of flesh until she has changed her +religion'; Mundamus, who if he saw a book of devotion passed it by; +Classicus, who openly and shamelessly preferred learning to +devotion--these vivacious pages greatly enlivened and adorned my day. +But I did feel, as I came home at the end of it, that Dr. Johnson, for +whom no one has more love and less respect than I, ought to have spent +some at least of his earlier years, when he was still accessible to +reason, with, say, Voltaire. + +Now I am going to bed, footsore but glad, for this picnic to-day was a +test. I wanted to see how far on I have got in facing memories. When I +set out I pretended to myself that I was going from sheer +considerateness for servants, because I wished Mrs. Antoine to have a +holiday from cooking my dinner, but I knew in my heart that I was +making, in trepidation and secret doubt, a test. For the way to this +place of larches bristles with happy memories. They would be sitting +waiting for me, I knew, at every bush and corner in radiant rows. If +only they wouldn't be radiant, I thought, I wouldn't mind. The way, I +thought, would have been easier if it had been punctuated with +remembered quarrels. Only then I wouldn't have gone to it at all, for my +spirit shudders away from places where there has been unkindness. It is +the happy record of this little house that never yet have its walls +heard an unkind word or a rude word, and not once has anybody cried in +it. All the houses I have lived in, except this, had their sorrows, and +one at least had worse things than sorrows; but this one, my little +house of peace hung up in the sunshine well on the way to heaven, is +completely free from stains, nothing has ever lived in it that wasn't +kind. And I shall not count the wretchedness I dragged up with me three +weeks ago as a break in this record, as a smudge on its serenity, but +only as a shadow passing across the sun. Because, however beaten down I +was and miserable, I brought no anger with me and no resentment. +Unkindness has still not come into the house. + +Now I am going very happy to bed, for I have passed the test. The whole +of the walk to the larches, and the whole of the way back, and all the +time I was sitting there, what I felt was simply gratitude, gratitude +for the beautiful past times I have had. I found I couldn't help it. It +was as natural as breathing. I wasn't lonely. Everybody I have loved and +shall never see again was with me. And all day, the whole of the +wonderful day of beauty, I was able in that bright companionship to +forget the immediate grief, the aching wretchedness, that brought me up +here to my mountains as a last hope. + + +_August 14th._ + +To-day it is my birthday, so I thought I would expiate it by doing some +useful work. + +It is the first birthday I've ever been alone, with nobody to say Bless +you. I like being blessed on my birthday, seen off into my new year with +encouragement and smiles. Perhaps, I thought, while I dressed, Antoine +would remember. After all, I used to have birthdays when I was here +before, and he must have noticed the ripple of excitement that lay along +the day, how it was wreathed in flowers from breakfast-time on and +dotted thick with presents. Perhaps he would remember, and wish me luck. +Perhaps if he remembered he would tell his wife, and she would wish me +luck too. I did very much long to-day to be wished luck. + +But Antoine, if he had ever known, had obviously forgotten. He was doing +something to the irises when I came down, and though I went out and +lingered round him before beginning breakfast he took no notice; he just +went on with the irises. So I daresay I looked a little wry, for I did +feel rather afraid I might be going to be lonely. + +This, then, I thought, giving myself a hitch of determination, was the +moment for manual labour. As I drank my coffee I decided to celebrate +the day by giving both the Antoines a holiday and doing the work myself. +Why shouldn't my birthday be celebrated by somebody else having a good +time? What did it after all matter who had the good time so long as +somebody did? The Antoines should have a holiday, and I would work. So +would I defend my thoughts from memories that might bite. So would I, by +the easy path of perspiration, find peace. + +Antoine, however, didn't seem to want a holiday. I had difficulty with +him. He wasn't of course surprised when I told him he had got one, +because he never is, but he said, with that level intonation that gives +his conversation so noticeable a calm, that it was the day for cutting +the lawn. + +I said I would cut the lawn; I knew about lawns; I had been brought up +entirely on lawns,--I believe I told him I had been born on one, in my +eagerness to forestall his objections and get him to go. + +He said that such work would be too hot for Madame in the sort of +weather we were having; and I said that no work on an object so +small as our lawn could be too hot. Besides, I liked being hot, I +explained--again with eagerness--I wanted to be hot, I was happy when I +was hot. '_J'aime beaucoup,_ I said, not stopping in my hurry to pick my +words, and anyhow imperfect in French, '_la sueur_.' + +I believe I ought to have said _la transpiration,_ the other word being +held in slight if any esteem as a word for ladies, but I still more +believe that I oughtn't to have said anything about it at all. I don't +know, of course, because of Antoine's immobility of expression; but in +spite of this not varying at what I had said by the least shadow of a +flicker I yet somehow felt, it was yet somehow conveyed to me, that +perhaps in French one doesn't perspire, or if one does one doesn't talk +about it. Not if one is a lady. Not if one is Madame. Not, to ascend +still further the scale of my self-respect enforcing attributes, if one +is that dignified object the _patrone_. + +I find it difficult to be dignified. When I try, I overdo it. Always my +dignity is either over or under done, but its chief condition is that of +being under done. Antoine, however, very kindly helps me up to the +position he has decided I ought to fill, by his own unalterable calm. I +have never seen him smile. I don't believe he could without cracking, of +so unruffled a glassiness is his countenance. + +Once, before the war--everything I have done that has been cheerful and +undesirable was before the war; I've been nothing but exemplary and +wretched since--I was undignified. We dressed up; and on the advice of +my friends--I now see that it was bad advice--I allowed myself to be +dressed as a devil; I, the _patrone_; I, Madame. It was true I was only +a little devil, quite one of the minor ones, what the Germans would call +a _Hausteufelchen_; but a devil I was. And going upstairs again +unexpectedly, to fetch my tail which had been forgotten, I saw at the +very end of the long passage, down which I had to go, Antoine collecting +the day's boots. + +He stood aside and waited. I couldn't go back, because that would have +looked as though I were doing something I knew I oughtn't to. Therefore +I proceeded. + +The passage was long and well lit. Down the whole of it I had to go, +while Antoine at the end stood and waited. I tried to advance with +dignity. I tried to hope he wouldn't recognise me. I tried to feel sure +he wouldn't. How could he? I was quite black, except for a wig that +looked like orange-coloured flames. But when I got to the doors at the +end it was the one to my bedroom that Antoine threw open, and past him I +had to march while he stood gravely aside. And strangely enough, what I +remember feeling most acutely was a quite particular humiliation and +shame that I hadn't got my tail on. + +'_C'est que j'ai oublie ma queue_....' I found myself stammering, with a +look of agonised deprecation and apology at him. + +And even then Antoine wasn't surprised. + +Well, where was I? Oh yes--at the _transpiration_. Antoine let it pass +over him, as I have said, without a ruffle, and drew my attention to the +chickens who would have to be fed and the cow who would have to be +milked. Perhaps the cow might be milked on his return, but the +chickens-- + +Antoine was softening. + +I said quickly that all he had to do would be to put the chickens' food +ready and I would administer it, and as for the cow, why not let her +have a rest for once, why not let her for once not he robbed of what was +after all her own? + +And to cut the conversation short, and determined that my birthday +should not pass without somebody getting a present, I ran upstairs and +fetched down a twenty-franc note and pressed it into Antoine's hand and +said breathlessly in a long and voluble sentence that began with +_Voila_, but didn't keep it up at that level, that the twenty francs +were for his expenses for himself and Mrs. Antoine down in the valley, +and that I hoped they would enjoy themselves, and would he remember me +very kindly to his _maman_, to whom he would no doubt pay a little visit +during the course of what I trusted would be a long, crowded, and +agreeable day. + +They went off ultimately, but with reluctance. Completely undignified, I +stood on the low wall of the terrace and waved to them as they turned +the corner at the bottom of the path. + +'_Mille felicitations_!' I cried, anxious that somebody should be wished +happiness on my birthday. + +'If I _am_ going to have a lonely birthday it shall be _thoroughly_ +lonely,' I said grimly to myself as, urged entirely by my volition, the +Antoines disappeared and left me to the solitary house. + +I decided to begin my day's work by making my bed, and went upstairs +full of resolution. + +Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that; no doubt while I was arguing with +Antoine. + +The next thing, then, I reflected, was to tidy away breakfast, so I came +downstairs again, full of more resolution. + +Mrs. Antoine, however, had done that too; no doubt while I was still +arguing with Antoine. + +Well then, oughtn't I to begin to do something with potatoes? With a +view to the dinner-hour? Put them on, or something? I was sure the +putting on of potatoes would make me perspire. I longed to start my +_transpiration_ in case by any chance, if I stayed too long inactive and +cool, I should notice how very silent and empty.... + +I hurried into the kitchen, a dear little place of white tiles and +copper saucepans, and found pots simmering gently on the stove: potatoes +in one, and in the other bits of something that well might be chicken. +Also, on a tray was the rest of everything needed for my dinner. All I +would have to do would be to eat it. + +Baulked, but still full of resolution, I set out in search of the +lawn-mower. It couldn't be far away, because nothing is able to be +anything but close on my narrow ledge of rock. + +Mou-Mou, sitting on his haunches in the shade at the back of the house, +watched me with interest as I tried to open the sorts of outside doors +that looked as if they shut in lawn-mowers. + +They were all locked. + +The magnificent Mou-Mou, who manages to imitate Antoine's trick of not +being surprised, though he hasn't yet quite caught his air of absence of +curiosity, got up after the first door and lounged after me as I tried +the others. He could do this because, though tied up, Antoine has +ingeniously provided for his exercise, and at the same time for the +circumvention of burglars, by fixing an iron bar the whole length of the +wall behind the house and fastening Mou-Mou's chain to it by a loose +ring. So that he can run along it whenever he feels inclined; and a +burglar, having noted the kennel at the east end of this wall and +Mou-Mou sitting chained up in front of it, would find, on preparing to +attack the house at its west and apparently dogless end, that the dog +was nevertheless there before him. A rattle and a slide, and there would +be Mou-Mou. Very _morale_-shaking. Very freezing in its unexpectedness +to the burglar's blood, and paralysing to his will to sin. Thus Antoine, +thinking of everything, had calculated. There hasn't ever been a +burglar, but, as he said of his possible suppurating wounds, '_Il ne +faut pas attendre qu'on les a pour se procurer le remede._' + +Mou-Mou accordingly came with me as I went up and down the back of the +house trying the range of outside doors. I think he thought at last it +was a game, for as each door wouldn't open and I paused a moment +thwarted, he gave a loud double bark, as one who should in the Psalms, +after each verse, say _Selah_. + +Antoine had locked up the lawn-mower. The mowing was to be put off till +to-morrow rather than that Madame in the heat should mow. I appreciated +the kindness of his intentions, but for all that was much vexed by being +baulked. On my birthday too. Baulked of the one thing I really wanted, +_la transpiration_. It didn't seem much to ask on my birthday, I who +used, without so much as lifting a finger, to acquire on such occasions +quite other beads. + +Undecided, I stood looking round the tidy yard for something I could be +active over, and Mou-Mou sat upright on his huge haunches watching me. +He is so big that in this position our heads are on a level. He took +advantage of this by presently raising his tongue--it was already out, +hanging in the heat--as I still didn't move or say anything, and giving +my face an enormous lick. So then I went away, for I didn't like that. +Besides, I had thought of something. + +In the flower-border along the terrace would be weeds. Flower-borders +always have weeds, and weeding is arduous. Also, all one wants for +weeding are one's own ten fingers, and Antoine couldn't prevent my using +those. So that was what I would do--bend down and tear up weeds, and in +this way forget the extraordinary sunlit, gaping, empty little house.... + +So great, however, had been the unflagging diligence of Antoine, and +also perhaps so poor and barren the soil, that after half an hour's +search I had only found three weeds, and even those I couldn't be sure +about, and didn't know for certain but what I might be pulling up some +precious bit of alpine flora put in on purpose and cherished by +Antoine. All I really knew was that what I tore up wasn't irises, and +wasn't delphiniums, and wasn't pansies; so that, I argued, it must be +weeds. Anyhow, I pulled three alien objects out, and laid them in a neat +row to show Antoine. Then I sat down and rested. + +The search for them had made me hot, but that of course wouldn't last. +It was ages before I need go and feed the chickens. I sat on the terrace +wall wondering what I could do next. It was a pity that the Antoines +were so admirable. One could overdo virtue. A little less zeal, the +least judicious neglect on their part, and I would have found something +useful to do. + +The place was quite extraordinarily silent. There wasn't a sound. Even +Mou-Mou round at the back, languid in the heat, didn't move. The immense +light beat on the varnished wooden face of the house and on the shut +shutters of all the unused rooms. Those rooms have been shut like that +for five years. The shutters are blistered with the fierce sun of five +summers, and the no less fierce sun of five winters. Their colour, once +a lively, swaggering blue, has faded to a dull grey: I sat staring up at +them. Suppose they were suddenly to be opened from inside, and faces +that used to live in them looked out? + +A faint shudder trickled along my spine. + +Well, but wouldn't I be glad really? Wouldn't they be the dearest +ghosts? That room at the end, for instance, so tightly shut up now, that +was where my brother used to sleep when he came out for his holidays. +Wouldn't I love to see him look out at me? How gaily he used to +arrive,--in such spirits because he had got rid of work for a bit, and +for a series of divine weeks was going to stretch himself in the sun! +The first thing he always did when he got up to his room was to hurry +out on to its little balcony to see if the heavenly view of the valley +towards the east with the chain of snow mountains across the end were +still as heavenly as he remembered it; and I could see him with his head +thrown back, breathing deep breaths of the lovely air, adoring it, +radiant with delight to have got back to it, calling down to me to come +quick and look, for it could never have been so beautiful as at that +moment and could never possibly be so beautiful again. + +I loved him very much. I don't believe anybody ever had so dear a +brother. He was so quick to appreciate and understand, so slow to +anger, so clear of brain and gentle of heart. Of course he was killed. +Such people always are, if there is any killing going on anywhere. He +volunteered at the very beginning of the war, and though his fragility +saved him for a long time he was at last swept in. That was in March +1918. He was killed the first week. I loved him very much, and he loved +me. He called me sweet names, and forgave me all my trespasses. + +And in the next room to that--oh well, I'm not going to dig out every +ghost. I can't really write about some of them, the pain hurts too much. +I've not been into any of the shut rooms since I came back. I couldn't +bear it. Here out of doors I can take a larger view, not mind going to +the places of memories; but I know those rooms will have been kept as +carefully unchanged by Antoine as I found mine. I daren't even think of +them. I had to get up off the wall and come away from staring up at +those shutters, for suddenly I found myself right on the very edge of +the dreadful pit I'm always so afraid of tumbling into--the great, +black, cold, empty pit of horror, of realisation.... + +That's why I've been writing all this, just so as not to think.... + + +_Bedtime._ + +I must put down what happened after that. I ought to be in bed, but I +must put down how my birthday ended. + +Well, there I was sitting, trying by writing to defend myself against +the creeping fear of the silence round me and the awareness of those +shut rooms up stairs, when Mou-Mou barked. He barked suddenly and +furiously; and the long screech of his chain showed that he was rushing +along the wall to the other side of the house. + +Instantly my thoughts became wholesome. I jumped up. Here was the +burglar at last. I flew round to greet him. Anything was better than +those shutters, and that hot, sunlit silence. + +Between my departure from the terrace and my arrival at the other side +of the house I had had time, so quickly did my restored mind work, to +settle that whoever it was, burglar or not, I was going to make friends. +If it really were a burglar I would adopt the line the bishop took +towards Jean Valjean, and save him from the sin of theft by making him a +present of everything he wished to take,--conduct which perhaps might +save me as well, supposing he was the kind of burglar who would want to +strangle opposition. Also, burglar or no burglar, I would ask him to +dinner; compel him, in fact, to come in and share my birthday chicken. + +What I saw when I got round, standing just out of reach of the leaping +Mou-Mou on the top of the avalanche wall, looking down at him with +patience rather than timidity, holding their black skirts back in case +an extra leap of his should reach them, were two women. Strangers, not +natives. Perhaps widows. But anyhow people who had been bereaved. + +I immediately begged them to come in. The relief and refreshment of +seeing them! Two human beings of obvious respectability, warm flesh and +blood persons, not burglars, not ghosts, not even of the sex one +associates with depredation,--just decent, alive women, complete in +every detail, even to each carrying an umbrella. They might have been +standing on the curb in Oxford Street waiting to hail an omnibus, so +complete were they, so prepared in their clothes to face the world. +Button boots, umbrella,--I hadn't seen an umbrella since I got here. +What you usually take for a walk on the mountains is a stout stick with +an iron point to it; but after all, why shouldn't you take an umbrella? +Then if it rains you can put it up, and if the sun is unbearable you +can put it up too, and it too has a metal tip to it which you can dig +into the ground if you begin to slide down precipices. + +'_Bon jour_,' I said eagerly, looking up at these black silhouettes +against the sky. '_Je vous prie de venir me voir._' + +They stared at me, still holding back their skirts from the leaping dog. + +Perhaps they were Italians. I am close to Italy, and Italian women +usually dress in black. + +I know some Italian words, and I know the one you say when you want +somebody to come in, so I tried that. + +'_Avanti_,' I said breathlessly. + +They didn't. They still just stood and stared. + +They couldn't be English I thought, because underneath their black +skirts I could see white cotton petticoats with embroidery on them, the +kind that England has shed these fifty years, and that is only now to be +found in remote and religious parts of abroad, like the more fervent +portions of Lutheran Germany. Could they be Germans? The thought +distracted me. How could I ask two Germans in? How could I sit at meat +with people whose male relations had so recently been killing mine? Or +been killed by them, perhaps, judging from their black clothes. Anyhow +there was blood between us. But how could I resist asking them in, when +if I didn't there would be hours and hours of intolerable silence and +solitude for me, till evening brought those Antoines back who never +ought to have been let go? On my birthday, too. + +I know some German words--it is wonderful what a lot of languages I seem +to know some words in--so I threw one up at them between two of +Mou-Mou's barks. + +'_Deutsch_?' I inquired. + +They ignored it. + +'That's all my languages,' I then said in despair. + +The only thing left that I might still try on them was to talk on my +fingers, which I can a little; but if they didn't happen, I reflected, +to be deaf and dumb perhaps they wouldn't like that. So I just looked up +at them despairingly, and spread out my hands and drew my shoulders to +my ears as Mrs. Antoine does when she is conveying to me that the butter +has come to an end. + +Whereupon the elder of the two--neither was young, but one was less +young--the elder of the two informed me in calm English that they had +lost their way, and she asked me to direct them and also to tell the +dog not to make quite so much noise, in order that they might clearly +understand what I said. 'He is a fine fellow,' she said, 'but we should +be glad if he would make less noise.' + +The younger one said nothing, but smiled at me. She was +pleasant-looking, this one, flushed and nicely moist from walking in the +heat. The other one was more rocky; considering the weather, and the +angle of the slope they had either come up or down, she seemed quite +unnaturally arid. + +I seized Mou-Mou by the collar, and ran him along to his kennel. + +'You stay there and be good,' I said to him, though I know he doesn't +understand a word of English. 'He won't hurt you,' I assured the +strangers, going back to them. + +'Ah,' said the elder of the two; and added, 'I used to say that to +people about _my_ dog.' + +They still stood motionless, holding their skirts, the younger one +smiling at me. + +'Won't you come down?' I said. 'Come in and rest a little? I can tell +you better about your road if you'll come in. Look--you go along that +path there, and it brings you round to the front door.' + +'Will the dog be at the front door?' asked the elder. + +'Oh no--besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly.' + +'Ah,' said the elder eyeing Mou-Mou sideways, who, from his kennel, eyed +her, 'I used to say that to people about _my_ dog.' + +The younger one stood smiling at me. They neither of them moved. + +'I'll come up and bring you down,' I said, hurrying round to the path +that leads from the terrace on to the slope. + +When they saw that this path did indeed take them away from Mou-Mou they +came with me. + +Directly they moved he made a rush along his bar, but arrived too late +and could only leap up and down barking. + +'That's just high spirits,' I said. 'He is really most goodnatured and +affectionate.' + +'Ah,' said the elder, 'I used to say that to people--' + +'Mind those loose stones,' I interrupted; and I helped each one down the +last crumbly bit on to the terrace. + +They both had black kid gloves on. More than ever, as I felt these warm +gloves press my hand, was I sure that what they really wanted was an +omnibus along Oxford Street. + +Once on the level and out of sight of Mou-Mou, they walked with an air +of self-respect. Especially the elder. The younger, though she had it +too, seemed rather to be following an example than originating an +attitude. Perhaps they were related to a Lord Mayor, I thought. Or a +rector. But a Lord Mayor would be more likely to be the cause of that +air of glowing private background to life. + +They had been up the mountain, the elder told me, trying to find +somewhere cool to stay in, for the valley this weather was unendurable. +They used to know this district years ago, and recollected a pension +right up in the highest village, and after great exertions and rising +early that morning they had reached it only to find that it had become a +resort for consumptives. With no provision for the needs of the passing +tourist; with no desire, in fact, in any way to minister to them. If it +hadn't been for me, she said, as they sat on the cool side of the house +drinking lemonade and eating biscuits, if it hadn't been for me and what +she described with obvious gratitude--she couldn't guess my joy at +seeing them both!--as my kindness, they would have had somehow to +clamber down foodless by wrong roads, seeing that they had lost the +right one, to the valley again, and in what state they would have +re-entered that scorching and terrible place she didn't like to think. +Tired as they were. Disappointed, and distressingly hot. How very +pleasant it was up here. What a truly delightful spot. Such air. Such a +view. And how agreeable and unexpected to come across one of one's own +country-women. + +To all this the younger in silence smiled agreement. + +They had been so long abroad, continued the elder, that they felt +greatly fatigued by foreigners, who were so very prevalent. In their +pension there were nothing but foreigners and flies. The house wasn't by +any chance--no, of course it couldn't be, but it wasn't by any +chance--her voice had a sudden note of hope in it--a pension? + +I shook my head and laughed at that, and said it wasn't. The younger one +smiled at me. + +Ah no--of course not, continued the elder, her voice fading again. And +she didn't suppose I could tell them of any pension anywhere about, +where they could get taken in while this great heat lasted? Really the +valley was most terribly airless. The best hotel, which had, she knew, +some cool rooms, was beyond their means, so they were staying in one of +the small ones, and the flies worried them. Apparently I had no flies +up here. And what wonderful air. At night, no doubt, it was quite cool. +The nights in the valley were most trying. It was difficult to sleep. + +I asked them to stay to lunch. They accepted gratefully. When I took +them to my room to wash their hands they sighed with pleasure at its +shadiness and quiet. They thought the inside of the house delightfully +roomy, and more spacious, said the elder, while the younger one smiled +agreement, than one would have expected from its outside. I left them, +sunk with sighs of satisfaction, on the sofa in the hall, their black +toques and gloves on a chair beside them, gazing at the view through the +open front door while I went to see how the potatoes were getting on. + +We lunched presently in the shade just outside the house, and the +strange ladies continued to be most grateful, the elder voicing their +gratitude, the younger smiling agreement. If it was possible to like one +more than the other, seeing with what enthusiasm I liked them both, I +liked the younger because she smiled. I love people who smile. It does +usually mean sweet pleasantness somewhere. + +After lunch, while I cleared away, having refused their polite offers +of help,--for they now realised I was alone in the house, on which, +however, though it must have surprised them they made no comment,--they +went indoors to the sofa again, whose soft cushions seemed particularly +attractive to them; and when I came back the last time for the +breadcrumbs and tablecloth, I found they had both fallen asleep, the +elder one with her handkerchief over her face. + +Poor things. How tired they were. How glad I was that they should be +resting and getting cool. A little sleep would do them both good. + +I crept past them on tiptoe with my final armful, and was careful to +move about in the kitchen very quietly. It hadn't been my intention, +with guests to lunch, to wash up and put away, but rather to sit with +them and talk. Not having talked for so long it seemed a godsend, a +particularly welcome birthday present, suddenly to have two English +people drop in on me from the skies. Up to this moment I had been busy, +first getting lemonade to slake their thirst and then lunch to appease +their hunger, and the spare time in between these activities had been +filled with the expression of their gratitude by the elder and her +expatiations on the house and what she called the grounds; but I had +looked forward to about an hour's real talk after lunch, before they +would begin to want to start on their long downward journey to their +pension,--talk in which, without being specially brilliant any of us, +for you only had to look at us to see we wouldn't be specially that, we +yet might at least tell each other amusing things about, say, Lord +Mayors. It is true I don't know any Lord Mayors, though I do know +somebody whose brother married the daughter of one; but if they could +produce a Lord Mayor out of up their sleeve, as I suspected, I could +counter him with a dean. Not quite so showy, perhaps, but more +permanent. And I did want to talk. I have been silent so long that I +felt I could talk about almost anything. + +Well, as they were having a little nap, poor things, I would tidy up the +kitchen meanwhile, and by the time that was done they would be refreshed +and ready for half an hour's agreeable interchange of gossip. + +Every now and then during this tidying I peeped into the hall in case +they were awake, but they seemed if anything to be sounder asleep each +time. The younger one, her flushed face half buried, in a cushion, her +fair hair a little ruffled, had a pathetic look of almost infantile +helplessness; the elder, discreetly veiled by her handkerchief, slept +more stiffly, with less abandonment and more determination. Poor things. +How glad I was they should in this way gather strength for the long, +difficult scramble down the mountain; but also presently I began to wish +they would wake up. + +I finished what I had to do in the kitchen, and came back into the hall. +They had been sleeping now nearly half an hour. I stood about +uncertainly. Poor things, they must be dreadfully tired to sleep like +that. I hardly liked to look at them, they were so defenceless, and I +picked up a book and tried to read; but I couldn't stop my eyes from +wandering over the top of it to the sofa every few minutes, and always I +saw the same picture of profound repose. + +Presently I put down the book, and wandered out on to the terrace and +gazed awhile at the view. That, too, seemed wrapped in afternoon +slumber. After a bit I wandered round the house to Mou-Mou. He, too, was +asleep. Then I came back to the front door and glanced in at my guests. +Still no change. Then I fetched some cigarettes, not moving this time +quite so carefully, and going out again sat on the low terrace-wall at a +point from which I could see straight on to the sofa and notice any +movement that might take place. + +I never smoke except when bored, and as I am never bored I never smoke. +But this afternoon it was just that unmanageable sort of moment come +upon me, that kind of situation I don't know how to deal with, which +does bore me. I sat on the wall and smoked three cigarettes, and the +peace on the sofa remained complete. What ought one to do? What did one +do, faced by obstinately sleeping guests? Impossible deliberately to +wake them up. Yet I was sure--they had now been asleep nearly an +hour--that when they did wake up, polite as they were, they would be +upset by discovering that they had slept. Besides, the afternoon was +getting on. They had a long way to go. If only Mou-Mou would wake up and +bark.... But there wasn't a sound. The hot afternoon brooded over the +mountains in breathless silence. + +Again I went round to the back of the house, and pausing behind the last +corner so as to make what I did next more alarming, suddenly jumped out +at Mou Mou. + +The horribly intelligent dog didn't bother to open more than an eye, +and that one he immediately shut again. + +Disgusted with him, I returned to my seat on the wall and smoked another +cigarette. The picture on the sofa was the same: perfect peace. Oh well, +poor things--but I did want to talk. And after all it was my birthday. + +When I had finished the cigarette I thought a moment, my face in my +hands. A person of tact--ah, but I have no tact; it has been my undoing +on the cardinal occasions of life that I have none. Well, but suppose I +_were_ a person of tact--what would I do? Instantly the answer flashed +into my brain: Knock, by accident, against a table. + +So I did. I got up quickly and crossed into the hall and knocked against +a table, at first with gentleness, and then as there was no result with +greater vigour. + +My elder guest behind the handkerchief continued to draw deep regular +breaths, but to my joy the younger one stirred and opened her eyes. + +'Oh, I do _hope_ I didn't wake you?' I exclaimed, taking an eager step +towards the sofa. + +She looked at me vaguely, and fell asleep again. + +I went back on to the terrace and lit another cigarette. That was five. +I haven't smoked so much before in one day in my life ever. I felt quite +fast. And on my birthday too. By the time I had finished it there was a +look about the shadows on the grass that suggested tea. Even if it were +a little early the noise of the teacups might help to wake up my guests, +and I felt that a call to tea would be a delicate and hospitable way of +doing it. + +I didn't go through the hall on tiptoe this time, but walked naturally; +and I opened the door into the kitchen rather noisily. Then I looked +round at the sofa to see the effect. There wasn't any. + +Presently tea was ready, out on the table where we had lunched. At least +six times I had been backwards and forwards through the hall, the last +twice carrying things that rattled and that I encouraged to rattle. But +on the sofa the strangers slept peacefully on. + +There was nothing for it now but to touch them. Short of that, I didn't +think that anything would wake them. But I don't like touching guests; I +mean, in between whiles. I have never done it. Especially not when they +weren't looking. And still more especially not when they were complete +strangers. + +Therefore I approached the sofa with reluctance, and stood uncertain in +front of it. Poor things, they really were most completely asleep. It +seemed a pity to interrupt. Well, but they had had a nice rest; they had +slept soundly now for two hours. And the tea would be cold if I didn't +wake them up, and besides, how were they going to get home if they +didn't start soon? Still, I don't like touching guests. Especially +strange guests.... + +Manifestly, however, there was nothing else to be done, so I bent over +the younger one--the other one was too awe-inspiring with her +handkerchief over her face--and gingerly put my hand on her shoulder. + +Nothing happened. + +I put it on again, with a slightly increased emphasis. + +She didn't open her eyes, but to my embarrassment laid her cheek on it +affectionately and murmured something that sounded astonishingly like +Siegfried. + +I know about Siegfried, because of going to the opera. He was a German. +He still is, in the form of Siegfried Wagner, and I daresay of others; +and once somebody told me that when Germans wished to indulge their +disrespect for the Kaiser freely--he was not at that time yet an +ex-Kaiser---without being run in for _lese majeste_, they loudly and +openly abused him under the name of Siegfried Meyer, whose initials, +S.M., also represent _Seine Majestaet_; by which simple methods everybody +was able to be pleased and nobody was able to be hurt. So that when my +sleeping guest murmured Siegfried, I couldn't but conclude she was +dreaming of a German; and when at the same time she laid her cheek on my +hand, I was forced to realise that she was dreaming of him +affectionately. Which astonished me. + +Imbued with patriotism--the accumulated patriotism of weeks spent out of +England--I felt that this English lady should instantly be roused from a +dream that did her no credit. She herself, I felt sure, would be the +first to deplore such a dream. So I drew my hand away from beneath her +cheek--even by mistake I didn't like it to be thought the hand of +somebody called Siegfried and, stooping down, said quite loud and +distinctly in her ear, 'Won't you come to tea?' + +This, at last, did wake her. She sat up with a start, and looked at me +for a moment in surprise. + +'Oh,' she said, confused, 'have I been asleep?' + +'I'm very glad you have,' I said, smiling at her, for she was already +again smiling at me. 'Your climb this morning was enough to kill you.' + +'Oh, but,' she murmured, getting up quickly and straightening her hair, +'how dreadful to come to your house and go to sleep--' + +And she turned to the elder one, and again astonished me by, with one +swift movement, twitching the handkerchief off her face and saying +exactly as one says when playing the face-and-handkerchief game with +one's baby, 'Peep bo.' Then she turned back to me and smiled and said +nothing more, for I suppose she knew the elder one, roused thus +competently, would now do all the talking; as indeed she did, being as I +feared greatly upset and horrified when she found she had not only been +asleep but been it for two hours. + +We had tea; and all the while, while the elder one talked of the trouble +she was afraid she had given, and the shame she felt that they should +have slept, and their gratitude for what she called my prolonged and +patient hospitality, I was wondering about the other. Whenever she +caught my pensive and inquiring eye she smiled at me. She had very +sweet eyes, grey ones, gentle and intelligent, and when she smiled an +agreeable dimple appeared. Bringing my Paley's _Evidences_ and Sherlock +Holmes' side to bear on her, I reasoned that my younger guest was, or +had been, a mother,--this because of the practised way she had twitched +the handkerchief off and said Peep bo; that she was either a widow, or +hadn't seen her husband for some time,--this because of the real +affection with which, in her sleep she had laid her cheek on my hand; +and that she liked music and often went to the opera. + +After tea the elder got up stiffly--she had walked much too far already, +and was clearly unfit to go all that long way more--and said, if I would +direct them, they must now set out for the valley. + +The younger one put on her toque obediently at this, and helped the +elder one to pin hers on straight. It was now five o'clock, and if they +didn't once lose their way they would be at their hotel by half-past +seven; in time, said the elder, for the end of _table-d'hote,_ a meal +much interfered with by the very numerous flies. But if they did go +wrong at any point it would be much later, probably dark. + +I asked them to stay. + +To stay? The elder, engaged in buttoning her tight kid gloves, said it +was most kind of me, but they couldn't possibly stay any longer. It was +far too late already, owing to their so unfortunately having gone to +sleep-- + +'I mean stay the night,' I said; and explained that it would be doing me +a kindness, and because of that they must please overlook anything in +such an invitation that might appear unconventional, for certainly if +they did set out I should lie awake all night thinking of them lost +somewhere among the precipices, or perhaps fallen over one, and how much +better to go down comfortably in daylight, and I could lend them +everything they wanted, including a great many new toothbrushes I found +here,--in short, I not only invited, I pressed; growing more eager by +the sheer gathering momentum of my speech. + +All day, while the elder talked and I listened, I had secretly felt +uneasy. Here was I, one woman in a house arranged for family gatherings, +while they for want of rooms were forced to swelter in the valley. +Gradually, as I listened, my uneasiness increased. Presently I began to +feel guilty. And at last, as I watched them sleeping in such exhaustion +on the sofa, I felt at the bottom of my heart somehow responsible. But +I don't know, of course, that it is wise to invite strangers to stay +with one. + +They accepted gratefully. The moment the elder understood what it was +that my eager words were pressing on her, she drew the pins out of her +toque and laid it on the chair again; and so did the other one, smiling +at me. + +When the Antoines came home I went out to meet them. By that time my +guests were shut up in their bedrooms with new toothbrushes. They had +gone up very early, both of them so stiff that they could hardly walk. +Till they did go up, what moments I had been able to spare from my hasty +preparations for their comfort had been filled entirely, as earlier in +the day, by the elder one's gratitude; there had still been no chance of +real talk. + +'_J'ai des visites_,' I said to the Antoines, going out to meet them +when, through the silence of the evening, I heard their steps coming up +the path. + +Antoine wasn't surprised. He just said, '_Ca sera comme autrefois_,' and +began to shut the shutters. + +But I am. I can't go to bed, I'm so much surprised. I've been sitting +up here scribbling when I ought to have been in bed long ago. Who would +have thought that the day that began so emptily would end with two of my +rooms full,--each containing a widow? For they are widows, they told me: +widows who have lost their husbands by peaceful methods, nothing to do +with the war. Their names are Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks,--at least that +is what the younger one's sounded like; I don't know if I have spelt it +right. They come from Dulwich. I think the elder one had a slight +misgiving at the last, and seemed to remember what was due to the Lord +Mayor, when she found herself going to bed in a strange house belonging +to somebody of whom she knew nothing; for she remarked a little +doubtfully, and with rather a defensive eye fixed on me, that the war +had broken down many barriers, and that people did things now that they +wouldn't have dreamed of doing five years ago. + +The other one didn't say nothing, but actually kissed me. I hope she +wasn't again mistaking me for Siegfried. + + +_August 15th_ + +My guests have gone again, but only to fetch their things and pay their +hotel bill, and then they are coming back to stay with me till it is a +little cooler. They are coming back to-morrow, not to-day. They are +entangled in some arrangement with their pension that makes it difficult +for them to leave at once. + +Mrs. Barnes appeared at breakfast with any misgivings she may have had +last night gone, for when I suggested they should spend this hot weather +up here she immediately accepted. I hadn't slept for thinking of them. +How could I possibly not ask them to stay, seeing their discomfort and +my roominess? Towards morning it was finally clear to me that it wasn't +possible: I would ask them. Though, remembering the look in Mrs. +Barnes's eye the last thing last night, I couldn't be sure she would +accept. She might want to find out about me first, after the cautious +and hampering way of women,--oh, I wish women wouldn't always be so +cautious, but simply get on with their friendships! She might first want +assurances that there was some good reason for my being here all by +myself. Alas, there isn't a good reason; there is only a bad one. But, +fortunately, to be alone is generally regarded as respectable, in spite +of what Seneca says a philosopher said to a young man he saw walking by +himself: 'Have a care,' said he, 'of lewd company.' + +However, I don't suppose Mrs. Barnes knew about Seneca. Anyhow she +didn't hesitate. She accepted at once, and said that under these +circumstances it was certainly due to me to tell me a little about +themselves. + +At this I got my dean ready to meet the Lord Mayor, but after all I was +told nothing more than that my guests are sisters; for at this point, +very soon arrived at, the younger one, Mrs. Jewks, who had slipped away +on our getting up from breakfast, reappeared with the toques and gloves, +and said she thought they had better start before it got any hotter. + +So they went, and the long day here has been most beautiful--so +peaceful, so quiet, with the delicate mountains like opals against the +afternoon sky, and the shadows lengthening along the valley. + +I don't feel to-day as I did yesterday, that I want to talk. To-day I am +content with things exactly as they are: the sun, the silence, the +caresses of the funny little white kitten with the smudge of black round +its left eye that makes it look as though it must be somebody's wife, +and the pleasant knowledge that my new friends are coming back again. + +I think that knowledge makes to-day more precious. It is the last day +for some time, for at least a week judging from the look of the blazing +sky, of what I see now that they are ending have been wonderful days. Up +the ladder of these days I have climbed slowly away from the blackness +at the bottom. It has been like finding some steps under water just as +one was drowning, and crawling up them to air and light. But now that I +have got at least most of myself back to air and light, and feel hopeful +of not slipping down again, it is surely time to arise, shake myself, +and begin to do something active and fruitful. And behold, just as I +realise this, just as I realise that I am, so to speak, ripe for +fruit-bearing, there appear on the scene Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Jewks, as +it were the midwives of Providence. + +Well, that shall be to-morrow. Meanwhile there is still to-day, and each +one of its quiet hours seems very precious. I wonder what my new friends +like to read. Suppose--I was going to say suppose it is _The Rosary_; +but I won't suppose that, for when it comes to supposing, why not +suppose something that isn't _The Rosary_? Why not, for instance, +suppose they like _Eminent Victorians_, and that we three are going to +sit of an evening delicately tickling each other with quotations from +it, and gently squirming in our seats for pleasure? It is just as easy +to suppose that as to suppose anything else, and as I'm not yet +acquainted with these ladies' tastes one supposition is as likely to be +right as another. + +I don't know, though--I forgot their petticoats. I can't believe any +friends of Mr. Lytton Strachey wear that kind of petticoat, eminently +Victorian even though it be; and although he wouldn't, of course, have +direct ocular proof that they did unless he had stood with me yesterday +at the bottom of that wall while they on the top held up their skirts, +still what one has on underneath does somehow ooze through into one's +behaviour. I know once, when impelled by a heat wave in America to cast +aside the undergarments of a candid mind and buy and put on pink +chiffon, the pink chiffon instantly got through all my clothes into my +conduct, which became curiously dashing. Anybody can tell what a woman +has got on underneath by merely watching her behaviour. I have known +just the consciousness of silk stockings, worn by one accustomed only to +wool, produce dictatorialness where all before had been submission. + + +_August 19th_ + +I haven't written for three days because I have been so busy settling +down to my guests. + +They call each other Kitty and Dolly. They explained that these were +inevitably their names because they were born, one fifty, the other +forty years ago. I inquired why this was inevitable, and they drew my +attention to fashions in names, asserting that people's ages could +generally be guessed by their Christian names. If, they said, their +birth had taken place ten years earlier they would have been Ethel and +Maud; if ten years later they would have been Muriel and Gladys; and if +twenty years only ago they had no doubt but what they would have been +Elizabeth and Pamela. It is always Mrs. Barnes who talks; but the effect +is as though they together were telling me things, because of the way +Mrs. Jewks smiles,--I conclude in agreement. + +'Our dear parents, both long since dead,' said Mrs. Barnes, adjusting +her eyeglasses more comfortably on her nose, 'didn't seem to remember +that we would ever grow old, for we weren't even christened Katharine +and Dorothy, to which we might have reverted when we ceased being girls, +but we were Kitty and Dolly from the very beginning, and actually in +that condition came away from the font.' + +'I like being Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. + +Mrs. Barnes looked at her with what I thought was a slight uneasiness, +and rebuked her. 'You shouldn't,' she said. 'After thirty-nine no woman +should willingly be Dolly.' + +'I still feel exactly _like_ Dolly,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. + +'It's a misfortune,' said Mrs. Barnes, shaking her head. 'To be called +Dolly after a certain age is bad enough, but it is far worse to feel +like it. What I think of,' she said, turning to me, 'is when we are +really old,--in bath chairs, unable to walk, and no doubt being spoon +fed, and yet obliged to continue to be called by these names. It will +rob us of dignity.' + +'I don't think I'll mind,' murmured Mrs. Jewks. 'I shall still feel +exactly _like_ Dolly.' + +Mrs. Barnes looked at her, again I thought with uneasiness--with, +really, an air of rather anxious responsibility. + +And afterwards, when her sister had gone indoors for something, she +expounded a theory she said she held, the soundness of which had often +been proved to her by events, that names had much influence on +behaviour. + +'Not half as much,' I thought (but didn't say), 'as underclothes.' And +indeed I have for years been acquainted with somebody called Trixy, who +for steady gloom and heaviness of spirit would be hard to equal. Also I +know an Isolda; a most respectable married woman, of a sprightly humour +and much nimbleness in dodging big emotions. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'has never, I am sorry to say, shared my +opinion. If she had, many things in her life would have been different, +for then she would have been on her guard as I have been. I am glad to +say there is nothing I have ever done since I ceased to be a child that +has been even remotely compatible with being called Kitty.' + +I said I thought that was a great deal to be able to say. It suggested, +I said, quite an unusually blameless past. Through my brain ran for an +instant the vision of that devil who, seeking his tail, met Antoine in +the passage. I blushed. Fortunately Mrs. Barnes didn't notice. + +'What did Dol--what did Mrs. Jewks do,' I said, 'that you think was the +direct result of her Christian name? Don't tell me if my question is +indiscreet, which I daresay it is, because I know I often am, but your +theory interests me.' + +Mrs. Barnes hesitated a moment. She was, I think, turning over in her +mind whether she would give herself the relief of complete unreserve, or +continue for a few more days to skim round on the outskirts of +confidences. This was yesterday. After all, she had only been with me +two days. + +She considered awhile, then decided that two days wasn't long enough, so +only said: 'My sister is sometimes a little rash,--or perhaps I should +say has been. But the effects of rashness are felt for a long time; +usually for the rest of one's life.' + +'Yes,' I agreed; and thought ruefully of some of my own. + +This, however, only made me if anything more inquisitive as to the exact +nature and quality of Dolly's resemblance to her name. We all, I suppose +(except Mrs. Barnes, who I am sure hasn't), have been rash, and if we +could induce ourselves to be frank much innocent amusement might be got +by comparing the results of our rashnesses. But Mrs. Barnes was unable +at the moment to induce herself to be frank, and she returned to the +subject she has already treated very fully since her arrival, the +wonderful bracing air up here and her great and grateful appreciation of +it. + +To-day is Tuesday; and on Saturday evening,--the day they arrived back +again, complete with their luggage, which came up in a cart round by the +endless zigzags of the road while they with their peculiar dauntlessness +took the steep short cuts,--we had what might be called an exchange of +cards. Mrs. Barnes told me what she thought fit for me to know about her +late husband, and I responded by telling her and her sister what I +thought fit for them to know of my uncle the Dean. + +There is such a lot of him that is fit to know that it took some time. +He was a great convenience. How glad I am I've got him. A dean, after +all, is of an impressive respectability as a relation. His apron covers +a multitude of family shortcomings. You can hold him up to the light, +and turn him round, and view him from every angle, and there is nothing +about him that doesn't bear inspection. All my relations aren't like +that. One at least, though he denies it, wasn't even born in wedlock. +We're not sure about the others, but we're quite sure about this one, +that he wasn't born altogether as he ought to have been. Except for his +obstinacy in denial he is a very attractive person. My uncle can't be +got to see that he exists. This makes him not able to like my uncle. + +I didn't go beyond the Dean on Saturday night, for he had a most +satisfying effect on my new friends. Mrs. Barnes evidently thinks highly +of deans, and Mrs. Jewks, though she said nothing, smiled very +pleasantly while I held him up to view. No Lord Mayor was produced on +their side. I begin to think there isn't one. I begin to think their +self-respect is simply due to the consciousness that they are British. +Not that Mrs. Jewks says anything about it, but she smiles while Mrs. +Barnes talks on immensely patriotic lines. I gather they haven't been in +England for some time, so that naturally their affection for their +country has been fanned into a great glow. I know all about that sort of +glow. I have had it each time I've been out of England. + + +_August 20th._ + +Mrs. Barnes elaborated the story of him she speaks of always as Mr. +Barnes to-day. + +He was, she said, a business man, and went to the city every day, where +he did things with hides: dried skins, I understood, that he bought and +resold. And though Mr. Barnes drew his sustenance from these hides with +what seemed to Mrs. Barnes great ease and abundance while he was alive, +after his death it was found that, through no fault of his own but +rather, she suggested, to his credit, he had for some time past been +living on his capital. This capital came to an end almost simultaneously +with Mr. Barnes, and all that was left for Mrs. Barnes to live on was +the house at Dulwich, handsomely furnished, it was true, with everything +of the best; for Mr. Barnes had disliked what Mrs. Barnes called +fandangles, and was all for mahogany and keeping a good table. But you +can't live on mahogany, said Mrs. Barnes, nor keep a good table with +nothing to keep it on, so she wished to sell the house and retire into +obscurity on the proceeds. Her brother-in-law, however, suggested paying +guests; so would she be able to continue in her home, even if on a +slightly different basis. Many people at that period were beginning to +take in paying guests. She would not, he thought, lose caste. Especially +if she restricted herself to real gentlefolk, who wouldn't allow her to +feel her position. + +It was a little difficult at first, but she got used to it and was +doing very well when the war broke out. Then, of course, she had to +stand by Dolly. So she gave up her house and guests, and her means were +now very small; for somehow, remarked Mrs. Barnes, directly one wants to +sell nobody seems to want to buy, and she had had to let her beautiful +house go for very little-- + +'But why--' I interrupted; and pulled myself up. + +I was just going to ask why Dolly hadn't gone to Mrs. Barnes and helped +with the paying guests, instead of Mrs. Barnes giving them up and going +to Dolly; but I stopped because I thought perhaps such a question, +seeing that they quite remarkably refrain from asking me questions, +might have been a little indiscreet at our present stage of intimacy. +No, I can't call it intimacy,--friendship, then. No, I can't call it +friendship either, yet; the only word at present is acquaintanceship. + + +_August 21st._ + +The conduct of my guests is so extraordinarily discreet, their careful +avoidance of curiosity, of questions, is so remarkable, that I can but +try to imitate. They haven't asked me a single thing. I positively +thrust the Dean on them. They make no comment on anything either, +except the situation and the view. We seem to talk if not only certainly +chiefly about that. We haven't even got to books yet. I still don't know +about _The Rosary_. Once or twice when I have been alone with Mrs. +Barnes she has begun to talk of Dolly, who appears to fill most of her +thoughts, but each time she has broken off in the middle and resumed her +praises of the situation and the view. I haven't been alone at all yet +with Dolly; nor, though Mr. Barnes has been dwelt upon in detail, have I +been told anything about Mr. Jewks. + + +_August 22nd._ + +Impetuosity sometimes gets the better of me, and out begins to rush a +question; but up to now I have succeeded in catching it and strangling +it before it is complete. For perhaps my new friends have been very +unhappy, just as I have been very unhappy, and they may be struggling +out of it just as I am, still with places in their memories that hurt +too much for them to dare to touch. Perhaps it is only by silence and +reserve that they can manage to be brave. + +There are no signs, though, of anything of the sort on their composed +faces; but then neither, I think, would they see any signs of such +things on mine. The moment as it passes is, I find, somehow a gay thing. +Somebody says something amusing, and I laugh; somebody is kind, and I am +happy. Just the smell of a flower, the turn of a sentence, anything, the +littlest thing, is enough to make the passing moment gay to me. I am +sure my guests can't tell by looking at me that I have ever been +anything but cheerful; and so I, by looking at them, wouldn't be able to +say that they have ever been anything but composed,--Mrs. Barnes +composed and grave, Mrs. Jewks composed and smiling. + +But I refuse now to jump at conclusions in the nimble way I used to. +Even about Mrs. Barnes, who would seem to be an untouched monument of +tranquillity, a cave of calm memories, I can no longer be sure. And so +we sit together quietly on the terrace, and are as presentable as so +many tidy, white-curtained houses in a decent street. We don't know what +we've got inside us each of disorder, of discomfort, of anxieties. +Perhaps there is nothing; perhaps my friends are as tidy and quiet +inside as out. Anyhow up to now we have kept ourselves to ourselves, as +Mrs. Barnes would say, and we make a most creditable show. + +Only I don't believe in that keeping oneself to oneself attitude. Life +is too brief to waste any of it being slow in making friends. I have a +theory--Mrs. Barnes isn't the only one of us three who has +theories--that reticence is a stuffy, hampering thing. Except about +one's extremest bitter grief, which is, like one's extremest joy of +love, too deeply hidden away with God to be told of, one should be +without reserves. And if one makes mistakes, and if the other person +turns out to have been unworthy of being treated frankly and goes away +and distorts, it can't be helped,--one just takes the risk. For isn't +anything better than distrust, and the slowness and selfish fear of +caution? Isn't anything better than not doing one's fellow creatures the +honour of taking it for granted that they are, women and all, gentlemen? +Besides, how lonely.... + + +_August 23rd._ + +The sun goes on blazing, and we go on sitting in the shade in a row. + +Mrs. Barnes does a great deal of knitting. She knits socks for soldiers +all day. She got into this habit during the war, when she sent I don't +know how many pairs a year to the trenches, and now she can't stop. I +suppose these will go to charitable institutions, for although the war +has left off there are, as Mrs. Jewks justly said, still legs in the +world. + +This remark I think came under the heading Dolly in Mrs. Barnes's mind, +for she let her glance rest a moment on her sister in a kind of +affectionate concern. + +Mrs. Jewks hasn't said much yet, but each time she has said anything I +have liked it. Usually she murmurs, almost as if she didn't want Mrs. +Barnes to hear, yet couldn't help saying what she says. She too knits, +but only, I think, because her sister likes to see her sitting beside +her doing it, and never for long at a time. Her chief occupation, I have +discovered, is to read aloud to Mrs. Barnes. + +This wasn't done in my presence the first four days out of consideration +for me, for everybody doesn't like being read to, Mrs. Barnes explained +afterwards; but they went upstairs after lunch to their rooms,--to +sleep, as I supposed, knowing how well they do that, and it was only +gradually that I realised, from the monotonous gentle drone coming +through the window to where I lay below on the grass, that it wasn't +Mrs. Barnes giving long drawn-out counsel to Mrs. Jewks on the best way +to cope with the dangers of being Dolly, but that it was Mrs. Jewks +reading aloud. + +After that I suggested they should do this on the terrace, where it is +so much cooler than anywhere else in the afternoon; so now, reassured +that it in no way disturbs me--Mrs. Barnes's politeness and sense of +duty as a guest never flags for a moment--this is what happens, and it +happens in the mornings also. For, says Mrs. Barnes, how much better it +is to study what persons of note have said than waste the hours of life +saying things oneself. + +They read biographies and histories, but only those, I gather, that are +not recent; and sometimes, Mrs. Barnes said, they lighten what Mrs. +Jewks described in a murmur as these more solid forms of fiction by +reading a really good novel. + +I asked Mrs. Barnes with much interest about the novel. What were the +really good ones they had read? And I hung on the answer, for here was +something we could talk about that wasn't either the situation or the +view and yet was discreet. + +'Ah,' she said, shaking her head, 'there are very few really good +novels. We don't care, of course, except for the very best, and they +don't appear to be printed nowadays.' + +'I expect the very best are unprintable,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, her head +bent over her knitting, for it was one of the moments when she too was +engaged on socks. + +'There used to be very good novels,' continued Mrs. Barnes, who hadn't I +think heard her, 'but of recent years they have indeed been few. I begin +to fear we shall never again see a Thackeray or a Trollope. And yet I +have a theory--and surely these two writers prove it--that it is +possible to be both wholesome and clever.' + +'I don't want to see any more Thackerays and Trollopes,' murmured Mrs. +Jewks. 'I've seen them. Now I want to see something different.' + +This sentence was too long for Mrs. Barnes not to notice, and she looked +at me as one who should say, 'There. What did I tell you? Her name +unsettles her.' + +There was a silence. + +'Our father,' then said Mrs. Barnes, with so great a gravity of tone +that for a moment I thought she was unaccountably and at eleven o'clock +in the morning going to embark on the Lord's Prayer, 'knew Thackeray. He +mixed with him.' + +And as I wasn't quite sure whether this was a rebuke for Dolly or +information for me, I kept quiet. + +As, however, Mrs. Barnes didn't continue, I began to feel that perhaps I +was expected to say something. So I did. + +'That,' I said, 'must have been very--' + +I searched round for an enthusiastic word, but couldn't find one. It is +unfortunate how I can never think of any words more enthusiastic than +what I am feeling. They seem to disappear; and urged by politeness, or a +desire to please, I frantically hunt for them in a perfectly empty mind. +The nearest approach to one that I found this morning was Enjoyable. I +don't think much of Enjoyable. It is a watery word; but it was all I +found, so I said it. 'That must have been very enjoyable,' I said; and +even I could hear that my voice was without excitement. + +Mrs. Jewks looked at me and smiled. + +'It was more than enjoyable,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'it was elevating. Dolly +used to feel just as I do about it,' she added, her eye reproachfully on +her sister. 'It is not Thackeray's fault that she no longer does.' + +'It's only because I've finished with him,' said Mrs. Jewks +apologetically. 'Now I want something _different_.' + +'Dolly and I,' explained Mrs. Barnes to me, 'don't always see alike. I +have a theory that one doesn't finish with the Immortals.' + +'Would you put Thackeray--' I began diffidently. + +Mrs. Barnes stopped me at once. + +'Our father,' she said--again my hands instinctively wanted to +fold--'who was an excellent judge, indeed a specialist if I may say so, +placed him among the Immortals. Therefore I am content to leave him +there.' + +'But isn't that filial piety rather than--' I began again, still +diffident but also obstinate. + +'In any case,' interrupted Mrs. Barnes, raising her hand as though I +were the traffic, 'I shall never forget the influence he and the other +great writers of the period had upon the boys.' + +'The boys?' I couldn't help inquiring, in spite of this being an +interrogation. + +'Our father educated boys. On an unusual and original system. Being +devoid of the classics, which he said was all the better because then he +hadn't to spend any time remembering them, he was a devoted English +linguist. Accordingly he taught boys English,--foreign boys, because +English boys naturally know it already, and his method was to make them +minutely acquainted with the great novels,--the great wholesome novels +of that period. Not a French, or Dutch, or Italian boy but went home--' + +'Or German,' put in Mrs. Jewks. 'Most of them were Germans.' + +Mrs. Barnes turned red. 'Let us forget them,' she said, with a wave of +her hand. 'It is my earnest desire,' she continued, looking at me, 'to +forget Germans.' + +'Do let us,' I said politely. + +'Not one of the boys,' she then went on, 'but returned to his country +with a knowledge of the colloquial English of the best period, and of +the noble views of that period as expressed by the noblest men, +unobtainable by any other method. Our father called himself a +Non-Grammarian. The boys went home knowing no rules of grammar, yet +unable to talk incorrectly. Thackeray himself was the grammar, and his +characters the teachers. And so was Dickens, but not quite to the same +extent, because of people like Sam Weller who might have taught the boys +slang. Thackeray was immensely interested when our father wrote and told +him about the school, and once when he was in London he invited him to +lunch.' + +Not quite clear as to who was in London and which invited which, I said, +'Who?' + +'It was our father who went to London,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and was most +kindly entertained by Thackeray.' + +'He went because he wasn't there already,' explained Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly means,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'that he did not live in London. Our +father was an Oxford man. Not in the narrow, technical meaning that has +come to be attached to the term, but in the simple natural sense of +living there. It was there that we were born, and there that we grew up +in an atmosphere of education. We saw it all round us going on in the +different colleges, and we saw it in detail and at first hand in our own +home. For we too were brought up on Thackeray and Dickens, in whom our +father said we would find everything girls needed to know and nothing +that, they had better not.' + +'I used to have a perfect _itch_,' murmured Mrs. Jewks, 'to know the +things I had better not.' + +And Mrs. Barnes again looked at me as one who should say, 'There. What +did I tell you? Such a word, too. Itch.' + +There was a silence. I could think of nothing to say that wouldn't +appear either inquisitive or to be encouraging Dolly. + +Mrs. Barnes sits between us. This arrangement of our chairs on the grass +happened apparently quite naturally the first day, and now has become +one that I feel I mustn't disturb. For me to drop into the middle chair +would somehow now be impossible. It is Mrs. Barnes's place. Yet I do +want to sit next to Mrs. Jewks and talk to her. Or better still, go for +a walk with her. But Mrs. Barnes always goes for the walks, either with +or without me, but never without Mrs. Jewks. She hasn't yet left us once +alone together. If anything needs fetching it is Mrs. Jewks who fetches +it. They don't seem to want to write letters, but if they did I expect +they would both go in to write them at the same time. + +I do think, though, that we are growing a little more intimate. At least +to-day we have talked of something that wasn't the view. I shouldn't be +surprised if in another week, supposing the hot weather lasts so long, I +shall be asking Mrs. Barnes outright what it is Dolly did that has +apparently so permanently unnerved her sister. + +But suppose she retaliated by asking me,--oh, there are so many things +she could ask me that I couldn't answer! Except with the shameful, +exposing answer of beginning very helplessly to cry.... + + +_August 24th._ + +Last night I ran after Mrs. Jewks just as she was disappearing into her +room and said, 'I'm going to call you Dolly. I don't like Jewks. How do +you spell it?' + +'What--Dolly?' she asked, smiling. + +'No--Jewks.' + +But Mrs. Barnes came out of her bedroom and said, 'Did we forget to bid +you goodnight? How very remiss of us.' + +And we all smiled at each other, and went into our rooms, and shut the +doors. + + +_August 25th._ + +The behaviour of time is a surprising thing. I can't think how it +manages to make weeks sometimes seem like minutes and days sometimes +seem like years. Those weeks I was here alone seemed not longer than a +few minutes. These days since my guests came seem to have gone on for +months. + +I suppose it is because they have been so tightly packed. Nobody coming +up the path and seeing the three figures sitting quietly on the terrace, +the middle one knitting, the right-hand one reading aloud, the +left-hand one sunk apparently in stupor, would guess that these +creatures' days were packed. Many an honest slug stirred by creditable +desires has looked more animate than we. Yet the days _are_ packed. +Mine, at any rate, are. Packed tight with an immense monotony. + +Every day we do exactly the same things: breakfast, read aloud; lunch, +read aloud; tea, go for a walk; supper, read aloud; exhaustion; bed. How +quick and short it is to write down, and how endless to live. At meals +we talk, and on the walk we talk, or rather we say things. At meals the +things we say are about food, and on the walk they are about mountains. +The rest of the time we don't talk, because of the reading aloud. That +fills up every gap; that muzzles all conversation. + +I don't know whether Mrs. Barnes is afraid I'll ask questions, or +whether she is afraid Dolly will start answering questions that I +haven't asked; I only know that she seems to have decided that safety +lies in putting an extinguisher on talk. At the same time she is most +earnest in her endeavours to be an agreeable guest, and is all +politeness; but so am I, most earnest for my part in my desire to be an +agreeable hostess, and we are both so dreadfully polite and so horribly +considerate that things end by being exactly as I would prefer them not +to be. + +For instance, finding Merivale--it is Merivale's _History of the Romans +under the Empire_ that is being read--finding him too much like Gibbon +gone sick and filled with water, a Gibbon with all the kick taken out of +him, shorn of his virility and his foot-notes, yesterday I didn't go and +sit on the terrace after breakfast, but took a volume of the authentic +Gibbon and departed by the back door for a walk. + +It is usually, I know, a bad sign when a hostess begins to use the back +door, but it wasn't a sign of anything in this case except a great +desire to get away from Merivale. After lunch, when, strengthened by my +morning, I prepared to listen to some more of him, I found the chairs on +the terrace empty, and from the window of Mrs. Barnes's room floated +down the familiar muffled drone of the first four days. + +So then I went for another walk, and thought. And the result was polite +affectionate protests at tea-time, decorated with some amiable untruths +about domestic affairs having called me away--God forgive me, but I +believe I said it was the laundress--and such real distress on Mrs. +Barnes's part at the thought of having driven me off my own terrace, +that now so as to shield her from thinking anything so painful to her I +must needs hear Merivale to the end. + +'Dolly,' I said, meeting her by some strange chance alone on the stairs +going down to supper--invariably the sisters go down together--'do you +like reading aloud?' + +I said it very quickly and under my breath, for at the bottom of the +stairs would certainly be Mrs. Barnes. + +'No,' she said, also under her breath. + +'Then why do you do it?' + +'Do you like listening?' she whispered, smiling. + +'No,' I said. + +'Then why do you do it?' + +'Because--' I said. 'Well, because--' + +She nodded and smiled. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'that's my reason too.' + + +_August 26th._ + +All day to-day I have emptied myself of any wishes of my own and tried +to be the perfect hostess. I have given myself up to Mrs. Barnes, and on +the walk I followed where she led, and I made no suggestions when paths +crossed though I have secret passionate preferences in paths, and I +rested on the exact spot she chose in spite of knowing there was a much +prettier one just round the corner, and I joined with her in admiring a +view I didn't really like. In fact I merged myself in Mrs. Barnes, +sitting by her on the mountain side in much the spirit of Wordsworth, +when he sat by his cottage fire without ambition, hope or aim. + + +_August 27th._ + +The weather blazes along in its hot beauty. Each morning, the first +thing I see when I open my eyes is the great patch of golden light on +the wall near my bed that means another perfect day. Nearly always the +sky is cloudless--a deep, incredible blue. Once or twice, when I have +gone quite early to my window towards the east, I have seen what looked +to my sleepy eyes like a flock of little angels floating slowly along +the tops of the mountains, or at any rate, if not the angels themselves, +delicate bright tufts of feathers pulled out of their wings. These +objects, on waking up more completely, I have perceived to be clouds; +and then I have thought that perhaps that day there would be rain. But +there never has been rain. + +The clouds have floated slowly away to Italy, and left us to another day +of intense, burning heat. + +I don't believe the weather will ever break up. Not, anyhow, for a long +time. Not, anyhow, before I have heard Merivale to the end. + + +_August 28th._ + +In the morning when I get up and go and look out of my window at the +splendid east I don't care about Merivale. I defy him. And I make up my +mind that though my body may be present at the reading of him so as to +avoid distressing Mrs. Barnes and driving her off the terrace--we are +minute in our care not to drive each other off the terrace--my ears +shall be deaf to him and my imagination shall wander. Who is Merivale, +that he shall burden my memory with even shreds of his unctuous +imitations? And I go down to breakfast with a fortified and shining +spirit, as one who has arisen refreshed and determined from prayer, and +out on the terrace I do shut my ears. But I think there must be chinks +in them, for I find my mind is much hung about, after all, with +Merivale. Bits of him. Bits like this. + +_Propertius is deficient in that light touch and exquisitely polished +taste which volatilize the sensuality and flattery of Horace. The +playfulness of the Sabine bard is that of the lapdog, while the Umbrian +reminds us of the pranks of a clumsier and less tolerated quadruped._ + +This is what you write if you want to write like Gibbon, and yet remain +at the same time a rector and chaplain to the Speaker of the House of +Commons; and this bit kept on repeating itself in my head like a tune +during luncheon to-day. It worried me that I couldn't decide what the +clumsier and less tolerated quadruped was. + +'A donkey,' said Mrs. Jewks, on my asking my guests what they thought. + +'Surely yes--an ass,' said Mrs. Barnes, whose words are always picked. + +'But why should a donkey be less tolerated than a lapdog?' I asked. 'I +would tolerate it more. If I might tolerate only one, it would certainly +be the donkey.' + +'Perhaps he means a flea,' suggested Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'But fleas do go in for pranks, and are less tolerated than lapdogs,' +said Mrs. Jewks. + +'Dolly,' said Mrs. Barnes again. + +'Except that,' I said, not heeding Mrs. Barnes for a moment in my +pleasure at having got away from the usual luncheon-table talk of food, +'haven't fleas got more than four legs?' + +'That's centipedes,' said Dolly. + +'Then it's two legs that they've got.' + +'That's birds,' said Dolly. + +We looked at each other and began to laugh. It was the first time we had +laughed, and once we had begun we laughed and laughed, in that foolish +way one does about completely idiotic things when one knows one oughtn't +to and hasn't for a long while. + +There sat Mrs. Barnes, straight and rocky, with worried eyes. She never +smiled; and indeed why should she? But the more she didn't smile the +more we laughed,--helplessly, ridiculously. It was dreadful to laugh, +dreadful to mention objects that distressed her as vulgar; and because +it was dreadful and we knew it was dreadful, we couldn't stop. So was I +once overcome with deplorable laughter in church, only because a cat +came in. So have I seen an ill-starred woman fall a prey to unseasonable +mirth at a wedding. We laughed positively to tears. We couldn't stop. I +did try to. I was really greatly ashamed. For I was doing what I now +feel in all my bones is the thing Mrs. Barnes dreads most,--I was +encouraging Dolly. + +Afterwards, when we had settled down to Merivale, and Dolly finding she +had left the book upstairs went in to fetch it, I begged Mrs. Barnes to +believe that I wasn't often quite so silly and didn't suppose I would be +like that again. + +She was very kind, and laid her hand for a moment on mine,--such a bony +hand, marked all over, I thought as I looked down at it, with the traces +of devotion and self-sacrifice. That hand had never had leisure to get +fat. It may have had it in the spacious days of Mr. Barnes, but the +years afterwards had certainly been lean ones; and since the war, since +the selling of her house and the beginning of the evidently wearing +occupation of what she had called standing by Dolly, the years, I +understand, have been so lean that they were practically bone. + +'I think,' she said, 'I have perhaps got into the way of being too +serious. It is because Dolly, I consider, is not serious enough. If she +were more so I would be less so, and that would be better for us both. +Oh, you musn't suppose,' she added, 'that I cannot enjoy a joke as +merrily as anybody.' And she smiled broadly and amazingly at me, the +rockiest, most determined smile. + +'There wasn't any joke, and we were just absurd,' I said penitently, in +my turn laying my hand on hers. 'Forgive me. I'm always sorry and +ashamed when I have behaved as though I were ten. I do try not to, but +sometimes it comes upon one unexpectedly--' + +'Dolly is a little old to behave as though she were ten,' said Mrs. +Barnes, in sorrow rather than in anger. + +'And I'm a little old too. It's very awkward when you aren't so old +inside as you are outside. For years I've been trying to be dignified, +and I'm always being tripped up by a kind of apparently incurable +natural effervescence.' + +Mrs. Barnes looked grave. + +'That is what is the matter with Dolly,' she said. 'Just that. How +strange that you should have met. For it isn't usual. I cannot believe +it is usual. All her troubles have been caused by it. I do not, however, +regard it as incurable. On the contrary--I have helped her to check it, +and she is much better than she was.' + +'But what are you afraid she will do _now_?' I asked; and Dolly, coming +out with, the book under her arm and that funny little air of jauntiness +that triumphs when she walks over her sobering black skirt and white +cotton petticoat, prevented my getting an answer. + +But I felt in great sympathy with Mrs. Barnes. And when, starting for +our walk after tea, something happened to Dolly's boot--I think the heel +came off--and she had to turn back, I gladly went on alone with her +sister, hoping that perhaps she would continue to talk on these more +intimate lines. + +And so she did. + +'Dolly,' she said almost immediately, almost before we had got round the +turn of the path, 'is the object of my tenderest solicitude and love.' + +'I know. I see that,' I said, sympathetically. + +'She was the object of my love from the moment when she was laid, a new +born baby, in the arms of the little ten year old girl I was then, and +she became, as she grew up and developed the characteristics I associate +with her name, the object of my solicitude. Indeed, of my concern.' + +'I wish,' I said, as she stopped and I began to be afraid this once more +was to be all and the shutters were going to be shut again, 'we might +be real friends.' + +'Are we not?' asked Mrs. Barnes, looking anxious, as though she feared +she had failed somewhere in her duties as a guest. + +'Oh yes--we are friends of course, but I meant by real friends people +who talk together about anything and everything. _Almost_ anything and +everything,' I amended. 'People who tell each other things,' I went on +hesitatingly. '_Most_ things,' I amended. + +'I have a great opinion of discretion,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'I am sure you have. But don't you think that sometimes the very essence +of real friendship consists in--' + +'Mr. Barnes always had his own dressing-room.' + +This was unexpected, and it silenced me. After a moment I said lamely, +'I'm sure he did. But you were saying about Dol--about Mrs. Jewks--' + +'Yes.' Mrs. Barnes sighed. 'Well, it cannot harm you or her,' she went +on after a pause, 'for me to tell you that the first thing Dolly did as +soon as she was grown up was to make an impetuous marriage.' + +'Isn't that rather what most of us begin with?' + +'Few are so impetuous. Mine, for instance, was not. Mine was the +considered union of affection with regard, entered into properly in the +eye of all men, and accompanied by the good wishes of relations and +friends. Dolly's--well, Dolly's was impetuous. I cannot say +ill-advised, because she asked no one's advice. She plunged--it is not +too strong a word, and unfortunately can be applied to some of her +subsequent movements--into a misalliance, and in order to contract it +she let herself down secretly at night from her bedroom window by means +of a sheet.' + +Mrs. Barnes paused. + +'How very--how very spirited,' I couldn't help murmuring. + +Indeed I believe I felt a little jealous. Nothing in my own past +approaches this in enterprise. And I not only doubted if I would ever +have had the courage to commit myself to a sheet, but I felt a momentary +vexation that no one had ever suggested that on his account I should. +Compared to Dolly, I am a poor thing. + +'So you can understand,' continued Mrs. Barnes, 'how earnestly I wish to +keep my sister to lines of normal conduct. She has been much punished +for her departures from them. I am very anxious that nothing should be +said to her that might seem--well, that might seem to be even slightly +in sympathy with actions or ways of looking at life that have in the +past brought her unhappiness, and can only in the future bring her yet +more.' + +'But why,' I asked, still thinking of the sheet, 'didn't she go out to +be married through the front door?' + +'Because our father would never have allowed his front door to be used +for such a marriage. You forget that it was a school, and she was +running away with somebody who up till a year or two previously had been +one of the pupils.' + +'Oh? Did she marry a foreigner?' + +Mrs. Barnes flushed a deep, painful red. She is brown and +weather-beaten, yet through the brownness spread unmistakeably this deep +red. Obviously she had forgotten what she told me the other day about +the boys all being foreigners. + +'Let us not speak evil of the dead,' she said with awful solemnity; and +for the rest of the walk would talk of nothing but the view. + +But in my room to-night I have been thinking. There are guests and +guests, and some guests haunt one. These guests are that kind. They +wouldn't haunt me so much if only we could be really friends; but we'll +never be really friends as long as I am kept from talking to Dolly and +between us is fixed the rugged and hitherto unscaleable barrier of Mrs. +Barnes. Perhaps to-morrow, if I have the courage, I shall make a great +attempt at friendship,--at what Mrs. Barnes would call being thoroughly +indiscreet. For isn't it senseless for us three women, up here alone +together, to spend the precious days when we might be making friends for +life hiding away from each other? Why can't I be told outright that +Dolly married a German? Evidently she did; and if she could bear it I am +sure I can. Twenty years ago it might have happened to us all. Twenty +years ago I might have done it myself, except that there wasn't the +German living who would have got me to go down a sheet for him. And +anyhow Dolly's German is dead; and doesn't even a German leave off being +one after he is dead? Wouldn't he naturally incline, by the sheer action +of time, to dissolve into neutrality? It doesn't seem humane to pursue +him into the recesses of eternity as an alien enemy. Besides, I thought +the war was over. + +For a long while to-night I have been leaning out of my window +thinking. When I look at the stars I don't mind about Germans. It seems +impossible to. I believe if Mrs. Barnes would look at them she wouldn't +be nearly so much worried. It is a very good practice, I think, to lean +out of one's window for a space before going to bed and let the cool +darkness wash over one. After being all day with people, how blessed a +thing it is not to be with them. The night to-night is immensely silent, +and I've been standing so quiet, so motionless that I would have heard +the smallest stirring of a leaf. But nothing is stirring. The air is +quite still. There isn't a sound. The mountains seem to be brooding over +a valley that has gone to sleep. + + +_August 29th._ + +Antoine said to me this morning that he thought if _ces dames_--so he +always speaks of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly--were going to stay any time, +perhaps an assistant for Mrs. Antoine had better be engaged; because +Mrs. Antoine might otherwise possibly presently begin to find the +combination of heat and visitors a little-- + +'Of course,' I said. 'Naturally she might. I regret, Antoine, that I did +not think of this. Why did you not point it out sooner? I will go +myself this very day and search for an assistant.' + +Antoine said that such exertions were not for Madame, and that it was he +who would search for the assistant. + +I said he couldn't possibly leave the chickens and the cow, and that it +was I who would search for the assistant. + +So that is what I have been doing all day--having a most heavenly time +wandering from village to village along the mountain side, my knapsack +over my arm and freedom in my heart. The knapsack had food in it and a +volume of Crabbe, because it was impossible to tell how long the search +might last, and I couldn't not be nourished. I explained to my guests +how easily I mightn't be back till the evening, I commended them to the +special attentiveness of the Antoines, and off I went, accompanied by +Mrs. Barnes's commiseration that I should have to be engaged on so hot a +day in what she with felicitous exactness called a domestic pursuit, and +trying very hard not to be too evidently pleased. + +I went to the villages that lie in the direction of my lovely place of +larches, and having after some search found the assistant I continued +on towards the west, walking fast, almost as if people would know I had +accomplished what I had come out for, and might catch me and take me +home again. + +As I walked it positively was quite difficult not to sing. Only +hostesses know this pure joy. To feel so deep and peculiar an +exhilaration you must have been having guests and still be having them. +Before my guests came I might and did roam about as I chose, but it was +never like to-day, never with that holiday feeling. Oh, I have had a +wonderful day! Everything was delicious. I don't remember having smelt +the woods so good, and there hasn't ever been anything like the deep +cool softness of the grass I lay on at lunch-time. And Crabbe the +delightful,--why don't people talk more about Crabbe? Why don't they +read him more? I have him in eight volumes; none of your little books of +selections, which somehow take away all his true flavour, but every bit +of him from beginning to end. Nobody ever made so many couplets that fit +in to so many occasions of one's life. I believe I could describe my +daily life with Mrs. Barnes and Dolly entirely in couplets from Crabbe. +It is the odd fate of his writings to have turned by the action of time +from serious to droll. He decomposes, as it were, hilariously. I lay +for hours this afternoon enjoying his neat couplets. He enchants me. I +forget time when I am with him. It was Crabbe who made me late for +supper. But he is the last person one takes out for a walk with one if +one isn't happy. Crabbe is a barometer of serenity. You have to be in a +cloudless mood to enjoy him. I was in that mood to-day. I had escaped. + +Well, I have had my outing, I have had my little break, and have come +back filled with renewed zeal to my guests. When I said good-night +to-night I was so much pleased with everything, and felt so happily and +comfortably affectionate, that I not only kissed Dolly but embarked +adventurously on an embrace of Mrs. Barnes. + +She received it with surprise but kindliness. + +I think she considered I was perhaps being a little impulsive. + +I think perhaps I was. + + +_August 30th._ + +In the old days before the war this house was nearly always full of +friends, guests, for they were invited, but they never were in or on my +mind as guests, and I don't remember ever feeling that I was a hostess. +The impression I now have of them is that they were all very young. But +of course they weren't; some were quite as old as Mrs. Barnes, and once +or twice came people even older. They all, however, had this in common, +that whatever their age was when they arrived, by the time they left +they were not more than twenty. + +I can't explain this. It couldn't only have been the air, invigorating +and inspiriting though it is, because my present guests are still +exactly the same age as the first day. That is, Mrs. Barnes is. Dolly is +of no age--she never was and never will be forty; but Mrs. Barnes is +just as firmly fifty as she was a fortnight ago, and it only used to +take those other guests a week to shed every one of their years except +the first twenty. + +Is it this static, rock-like quality in Mrs. Barnes that makes her +remain so unchangeably a guest, that makes her unable to develope into a +friend? Why must I, because she insists on remaining a guest, be kept so +firmly in my proper place as hostess? I want to be friends. I feel as +full of friendliness as a brimming cup. Why am I not let spill some of +it? I should love to be friends with Dolly, and I would like very much +to be friends with Mrs. Barnes. Not that I think she and I would ever be +intimate in the way I am sure Dolly and I would be after ten minutes +together alone, but we might develope a mutually indulgent affection. I +would respect her prejudices, and she would forgive me that I have so +few, and perhaps find it interesting to help me to increase them. + +But the anxious care with which Mrs. Barnes studies to be her idea of a +perfect guest forces me to a corresponding anxious care to be her idea +of a perfect hostess. I find it wearing. There is no easy friendliness +for us, no careless talk, no happy go-as-you-please and naturalness. And +ought a guest to be so constantly grateful? Her gratitude is almost a +reproach. It makes me ashamed of myself; as if I were a plutocrat, a +profiteer, a bloated possessor of more than my share, a bestower of +favours--of all odious things to be! Now I perceive that I never have +had guests before, but only friends. For the first time I am really +entertaining; or rather, owing to the something in Mrs. Barnes that +induces in me a strange submissiveness, a strange acceptance of her +ordering of our days, I am for the first time, not only in my own house, +but in any house that I can remember where I have stayed, being +entertained. + +What is it about Mrs. Barnes that makes Dolly and me sit so quiet and +good? I needn't ask: I know. It is because she is single-minded, +unselfish, genuinely and deeply anxious for everybody's happiness and +welfare, and it is impossible to hurt such goodness. Accordingly we are +bound hand and foot to her wishes, exactly as if she were a tyrant. + +Dolly of course must be bound by a thousand reasons for gratitude. +Hasn't Mrs. Barnes given up everything for her? Hasn't she given up +home, and livelihood, and country and friends to come and be with her? +It is she who magnanimously bears the chief burden of Dolly's marriage. +Without having had any of the joys of Siegfried--I can't think Dolly +would mutter a name in her sleep that wasn't her husband's--she has +spent these years of war cheerfully accepting the results of him, +devoting herself to the forlorn and stranded German widow, spending her +life, and what substance she has, in keeping her company in the dreary +pensions of a neutral country, unable either to take her home to England +or to leave her where she is by herself. + +Such love and self-sacrifice is a very binding thing. If these +conjectures of mine are right, Dolly is indeed bound to Mrs. Barnes, +and not to do everything she wished would be impossible. Naturally she +wears those petticoats, and those long, respectable black clothes: they +are Mrs. Barnes's idea of how a widow should be dressed. Naturally she +goes for excursions in the mountains with an umbrella: it is to Mrs. +Barnes both more prudent and more seemly than a stick. In the smallest +details of her life Dolly's gratitude must penetrate and be expressed. +Yes; I think I understand her situation. The good do bind one very +heavily in chains. + +To an infinitely less degree Mrs. Barnes's goodness has put chains on me +too. I have to walk very carefully and delicately among her feelings. I +could never forgive myself if I were to hurt anyone kind, and if the +kind person is cast in an entirely different mould from oneself, has +different ideas, different tastes, a different or no sense of fun, why +then God help one,--one is ruled by a rod of iron. + +Just the procession each morning after breakfast to the chairs and +Merivale is the measure of Dolly's and my subjection. First goes Dolly +with the book, then comes Mrs. Barnes with her knitting, and then comes +me, casting my eyes about for a plausible excuse for deliverance and +finding none that wouldn't hurt. If I lag, Mrs. Barnes looks uneasily at +me with her, 'Am I driving you off your own terrace?' look; and once +when I lingered indoors on the pretext of housekeeping she came after +me, anxiety on her face, and begged me to allow her to help me, for it +is she and Dolly, she explained, who of course cause the extra +housekeeping, and it distressed her to think that owing to my goodness +in permitting them to be here I should be deprived of the leisure I +would otherwise be enjoying. + +'In your lovely Swiss home,' she said, her face puckered with +earnestness. 'On your summer holiday. After travelling all this distance +for the purpose.' + +'Dear Mrs. Barnes--' I murmured, ashamed; and assured her it was only an +order I had to give, and that I was coming out immediately to the +reading aloud. + + +_August 31st._ + +This morning I made a great effort to be simple. + +Of course I will do everything in my power to make Mrs. Barnes +happy,--I'll sit, walk, be read to, keep away from Dolly, arrange life +for the little time she is here in the way that gives her mind most +peace; but why mayn't I at the same time be natural? It is so natural to +me to be natural. I feel so uncomfortable, I get such a choked sensation +of not enough air, if I can't say what I want to say. Abstinence from +naturalness is easily managed if it isn't to last long; every +gracefulness is possible for a little while. But shut up for weeks +together in the close companionship of two other people in an isolated +house on a mountain one must, sooner or later, be natural or one will, +sooner or later, die. + +So this morning I went down to breakfast determined to be it. More than +usually deep sleep had made me wake up with a feeling of more than usual +enterprise. I dressed quickly, strengthening my determination by many +good arguments, and then stood at the window waiting for the bell to +ring. + +At the first tinkle of the bell I hurry downstairs, because if I am a +minute late, as I have been once or twice, I find my egg wrapped up in +my table napkin, the coffee and hot milk swathed in a white woollen +shawl Mrs. Barnes carries about with her, a plate over the butter in +case there should be dust, a plate over the honey in case there should +be flies, and Mrs. Barnes and Dolly, carefully detached from the least +appearance of reproach or waiting, at the other end of the terrace being +tactfully interested in the view. + +This has made me be very punctual. The bell tinkles, and I appear. I +don't appear before it tinkles, because of the peculiar preciousness of +all the moments I can legitimately spend in my bedroom; but, if I were +to, I would find Mrs. Barnes and Dolly already there. + +I don't know when they go down, but they are always there; and always I +am greeted with the politest solicitude from Mrs. Barnes as to how I +slept. This of course draws forth a corresponding solicitude from me as +to how Mrs. Barnes slept; and the first part of breakfast is spent in +answers to these inquiries, and in the eulogies to which Mrs. Barnes +then proceeds of the bed, and the pure air, that make the +satisfactoriness of her answers possible. + +From this she goes on to tell me how grateful she and Dolly are for my +goodness. She tells me this every morning. It is like a kind of daily +morning prayer. At first I was overcome, and, not knowing how to ward +off such repeated blows of thankfulness, stumbled about awkwardly among +protests and assurances. Now I receive them in silence, copying the +example of the heavenly authorities; but, more visibly embarrassed than +they, I sheepishly smile. + +After the praises of my goodness come those of the goodness of the +coffee and the butter, though this isn't any real relief to me, because +their goodness is so much tangled up in mine. I am the Author of the +coffee and the butter; without me they wouldn't be there at all. + +Dolly, while this is going on, says nothing but just eats her breakfast. +I think she might help me out a little, seeing that it happens every +morning and that she must have noticed my store of deprecations is +exhausted. + +This morning, having made up my mind to be natural, I asked her straight +out why she didn't talk. + +She was in the middle of her egg, and Mrs. Barnes was in the middle of +praising the great goodness of the eggs, and therefore, inextricably, of +my great goodness, so that there was no real knowing where the eggs left +off and I began; and taking the opportunity offered by a pause of +coffee-drinking on Mrs. Barnes's part, I said to Dolly, 'Why do you not +talk at breakfast?' + +'Talk?' repeated Dolly, looking up at me with a smile. + +'Yes. Say things. How are we ever to be friends if we don't say things? +Don't you want to be friends, Dolly?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, smiling. + +Mrs. Barnes put her cup down hastily. 'But are we not--' she began, as I +knew she would. + +'_Real_ friends,' I interrupted. 'Why not,' I said, 'let us have a +holiday from Merivale to-day, and just sit together and talk. Say +things,' I went on, still determined to be natural, yet already a little +nervous. '_Real_ things.' + +'But has the reading--is there any other book you would pref--do you not +care about Merivale?' asked Mrs. Barnes, in deep concern. + +'Oh yes,' I assured her, leaving off being natural for a moment in order +to be polite, 'I like him very much indeed. I only thought--I do +think--it would be pleasant for once to have a change. Pleasant just to +sit and talk. Sit in the shade and--oh well, _say_ things.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly. 'I'd love to.' + +'We might tell each other stories, like the people in the _Earthly +Paradise_. But real stories. Out of our lives.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly again. 'Yes. I'd love to.' + +'We shall be very glad, I am sure,' said Mrs. Barnes politely, 'to +listen to any stories you may like to tell us.' + +'Ah, but you must tell some too--we must play fair.' + +'I'd love to,' said Dolly again, her dimple flickering. + +'Surely we--in any case Dolly and I--are too old to play at anything,' +said Mrs. Barnes with dignity. + +'Not really. You'll like it once you've begun. And anyhow I can't play +by myself, can I,' I said, still trying to be gay and simple. 'You +wouldn't want me to be lonely, would you.' + +But I was faltering. Mrs. Barnes's eye was on me. Impossible to go on +being gay and simple beneath that eye. + +I faltered more and more. 'Sometimes I think,' I said, almost timidly, +'that we're wasting time.' + +'Oh no, do you really?' exclaimed Mrs. Barnes anxiously. 'Do you not +consider Merivale--' (here if I had been a man I would have said damn +Merivale and felt better)--'very instructive? Surely to read a good +history can never be wasting time? And he is not heavy. Surely you do +not find him heavy? His information is always imparted picturesquely, +remarkably so. And though one may be too old for games one is +fortunately never too old for instruction.' + +'I don't _feel_ too old for games,' said Dolly. + +'Feeling has nothing to do with reality,' said Mrs. Barnes sternly, +turning on her. + +'I only thought,' I said, 'that to-day we might talk together instead of +reading. Just for once--just for a change. If you don't like the idea of +telling stories out of our lives let us just talk. Tell each other what +we think of things--of the big things like--well, like love and death +for instance. Things,' I reassured her, 'that don't really touch us at +this moment.' + +'I do not care to talk about love and death,' said Mrs. Barnes frostily. + +'But why?' + +'They are most unsettling.' + +'But why? We would only be speculating--' + +She held up her hand. 'I have a horror of the word. All speculation is +abhorrent to me. My brother-in-law said to me, Never speculate.' + +'But didn't he mean in the business sense?' + +'He meant it, I am certain, in every sense. Physically and morally.' + +'Well then, don't let us speculate. Let us talk about experiences. We've +all had them. I am sure it would be as instructive as Merivale, and we +might perhaps--perhaps we might even laugh a little. Don't you think it +would be pleasant to--to laugh a little?' + +'I'd love to,' said Dolly, her eyes shining. + +'Suppose, instead of being women, we were three men--' + +Mrs. Barnes, who had been stiffening for some minutes, drew herself up +at this. + +'I am afraid I cannot possibly suppose that,' she said. + +'Well, but suppose we _were_--' + +'I do not wish to suppose it,' said Mrs. Barnes. + +'Well, then, suppose it wasn't us at all, but three men here, spending +their summer holidays together can't you imagine how they would talk?' + +'I can only imagine it if they were nice men,' said Mrs. Barnes, 'and +even so but dimly.' + +'Yes. Of course. Well, let us talk together this morning as if we were +nice men,--about anything and everything. I can't _think_,' I finished +plaintively, 'why we shouldn't talk about anything and everything.' + +Dolly looked at me with dancing eyes. + +Mrs. Barnes sat very straight. She was engaged in twisting the +honey-spoon round and round so as to catch its last trickling neatly. +Her eyes were fixed on this, and if there was a rebuke in them it was +hidden from me. + +'You must forgive me,' she said, carefully winding up the last thread of +honey, 'but as I am not a nice man I fear I cannot join in. Nor, of +course, can Dolly, for the same reason. But I need not say,' she added +earnestly, 'that there is not the slightest reason why you, on your own +terrace, shouldn't, if you wish, imagine yourself to be a nice--' + +'Oh no,' I broke in, giving up. 'Oh no, no. I think perhaps you are +right. I do think perhaps it is best to go on with Merivale.' + +We finished breakfast with the usual courtesies. + +I didn't try to be natural any more. + + +_September 1st._ + +Dolly forgot herself this morning. + +On the first of the month I pay the bills. Antoine reminded me last +month that this used to be my practice before the war, and I remember +how languidly I roused myself from my meditations on the grass to go +indoors and add up figures. But to-day I liked it. I went in cheerfully. + +'This is my day for doing the accounts,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, as she +was about to form the procession to the chairs. 'They take me most of +the morning, so I expect we won't see each other again till luncheon.' + +'Dear me,' said Mrs. Barnes sympathetically, 'how very tiresome for you. +Those terrible settling up days. How well I know them, and how I used to +dread them.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly-- + + _Reines Glueck geniesst doch nie_ + _Wer zahlen soll und weiss nicht wie._ + +Poor Kitty. We know all about that, don't we.' And she put her arm round +her sister. + +Dolly had forgotten herself. + +I thought it best not to linger, but to go in quickly to my bills. + +Her accent was perfect. I know enough German to know that. + + +_September 2nd._ + +We've been a little strained all day in our relations because of +yesterday. Dolly drooped at lunch, and for the first time didn't smile. +Mrs. Barnes, I think, had been rebuking her with more than ordinary +thoroughness. Evidently Mrs. Barnes is desperately anxious I shouldn't +know about Siegfried. I wonder if there is any way of delicately +introducing Germans into the conversation, and conveying to her that I +have guessed about Dolly's husband and don't mind him a bit. Why should +I mind somebody else's husband? A really nice woman only minds her own. +But I know of no two subjects more difficult to talk about tactfully +than Germans and husbands; and when both are united, as in this case, my +courage rather fails. + +We went for a dreary walk this afternoon. Mrs. Barnes was watchful, and +Dolly was meek. I tried to be sprightly, but one can't be sprightly by +oneself. + + +_September 3rd._ + +In the night there was a thunderstorm, and for the first time since I +got here I woke up to rain and mist. The mist was pouring in in waves +through the open windows, and the room was quite cold. When I looked at +the thermometer hanging outside, I saw it had dropped twenty degrees. + +We have become so much used to fine weather arrangements that the sudden +change caused an upheaval. I heard much hurrying about downstairs, and +when I went down to breakfast found it was laid in the hall. It was like +breakfasting in a tomb, after the radiance of our meals out of doors. +The front door was shut; the rain pattered on the windows; and right up +against the panes, between us and the world like a great grey flannel +curtain, hung the mist. It might have been some particularly odious +December morning in England. + +'_C'est l'automne_,' said Antoine, bringing in three cane chairs and +putting them round the tea-table on which the breakfast was laid. + +'_C'est un avertissement_,' said Mrs. Antoine, bringing in the coffee. + +Antoine then said that he had conceived it possible that Madame and _ces +dames_ might like a small wood fire. To cheer. To enliven. + +'Pray not on our account,' instantly said Mrs. Barnes to me, very +earnestly. 'Dolly and I do not feel the cold at all, I assure you. Pray +do not have one on our account.' + +'But wouldn't it be cosy--' I began, who am like a cat about warmth. + +'I would far rather you did not have one,' said Mrs. Barnes, her +features puckered. + +'Think of all the wood!' + +'But it would only be a few logs--' + +'What is there nowadays so precious as logs? And it is far, far too +early to begin fires. Why, only last week it was still August. Still the +dog-days.' + +'But if we're cold--' + +'We should indeed be poor creatures, Dolly and I, if the moment it left +off being warm we were cold. Please do not think we don't appreciate +your kindness in wishing to give us a fire, but Dolly and I would feel +it very much if our being here were to make you begin fires so early.' + +'But--' + +'Keep the logs for later on. Let me beg you.' + +So we didn't have a fire; and there we sat, Mrs. Barnes with the white +shawl at last put to its proper use, and all of us trying not to shiver. + +After breakfast, which was taken away bodily, table and all, snatched +from our midst by the Antoines, so that we were left sitting facing each +other round empty space with a curious sensation of sudden nakedness, I +supposed that Merivale would be produced, so I got up and pushed a +comfortable chair conveniently for Dolly, and turned on the light. + +To my surprise I found Mrs. Barnes actually preferred to relinquish the +reading aloud rather than use my electric light in the daytime. It would +be an unpardonable extravagance, she said. Dolly could work at her +knitting. Neither of them needed their eyes for knitting. + +I was greatly touched. From the first she has shown a touching, and at +the same time embarrassing, concern not to cause me avoidable expense, +but never yet such concern as this. I know what store she sets by the +reading. Why, if we just sat there in the gloom we might begin to say +things. I really was very much touched. + +But indeed Mrs. Barnes is touching. It is because she is so touching in +her desire not to give trouble, to make us happy, that one so +continually does exactly what she wishes. I would do almost anything +sooner than hurt Mrs. Barnes. Also I would do almost anything to calm +her. And as for her adhesiveness to an unselfish determination, it is +such that it is mere useless fatigue to try to separate her from it. + +I have learned this gradually. + +At first, most of my time at meals was spent in reassuring her that +things hadn't been got specially on her and Dolly's account, and as the +only other account they could have been got on was mine, my assurances +had the effect of making me seem very greedy. I thought I lived frugally +up here, but Mrs. Barnes must have lived so much more frugally that +almost everything is suspected by her to be a luxury provided by my +hospitality. + +She was, for instance, so deeply persuaded that the apricots were got, +as she says, specially, that at last to calm her I had to tell Mrs. +Antoine to buy no more. And we all liked apricots. And there was a +perfect riot of them down in the valley. After that we had red currants +because they, Mrs. Barnes knew, came out of the garden; but we didn't +eat them because we didn't like them. + +Then there was a jug of lemonade sent in every day for lunch that +worried her. During this period her talk was entirely of lemons and +sugar, of all the lemons and sugar that wouldn't be being used if she +and Dolly were again, in order to calm her, and rather than that she +should be made unhappy, I told Mrs. Antoine to send in only water. + +Cakes disappeared from tea a week ago. Eggs have survived at breakfast, +and so has honey, because Mrs. Barnes can hear the chickens and has seen +the bees and knows they are not things got specially. She will eat +potatoes and cabbages and anything else that the garden produces with +serenity, but grows restive over meat; and a leg of mutton made her +miserable yesterday, for nothing would make her believe that if I had +been here alone it wouldn't have been a cutlet. + +'Let there be no more legs of mutton,' I said to Mrs. Antoine +afterwards. 'Let there instead be three cutlets.' + +I'm afraid Mrs. Antoine is scandalised at the inhospitable rigours she +supposes me to be applying to my guests. My order to Antoine this +morning not to light the fire will have increased her growing suspicion +that I am developing into a cheese-paring Madame. She must have +expressed her fears to Antoine; for the other day, when I told her to +leave the sugar and lemons out of the lemonade and send in only the +water, she looked at him, and as I went away I heard her saying to him +in a low voice--he no doubt having told her I usedn't to be like this, +and she being unable to think of any other explanation--'_C'est la +guerre_.' + +About eleven, having done little good by my presence in the hall whose +cheerlessness wrung from me a thoughtless exclamation that I wished I +smoked a pipe, upon which Dolly instantly said, 'Wouldn't it be a +comfort,' and Mrs. Barnes said, 'Dolly,' I went away to the kitchen, +pretending I wanted to ask what there was for dinner but really so as to +be for a few moments where there was a fire. + +Mrs. Antoine watched me warming myself with respectful disapproval. + +'_Madame devrait faire faire un peu de feu dans la halle_,' she said. +'_Ces dames auront bien froid_.' + +'_Ces dames_ won't let me,' I tried to explain in the most passionate +French I could think of. '_Ces dames_ implore me not to have a fire. +_Ces dames_ reject a fire. _Ces dames_ defend themselves against a fire. +I perish because of the resolve of _ces dames_ not to have a fire.' + +But Mrs. Antoine plainly didn't believe me. She thought, I could see, +that I was practising a repulsive parsimony on defenceless guests. It +was the sorrows of the war, she concluded, that had changed Madame's +nature. This was the kindest, the only possible, explanation. + + +_Evening._ + +There was a knock at my door just then. I thought it must be Mrs. +Antoine come to ask me some domestic question, and said _Entrez,_ and +it was Mrs. Barnes. + +She has not before this penetrated into my bedroom. I hope I didn't look +too much surprised. I think there could hardly have been a gap of more +than a second between my surprise and my recovered hospitality. + +'Oh--_do_ come in,' I said. 'How nice of you.' + +Thus do the civilised clothe their real sensations in splendid robes of +courtesy. + +'Dolly and I haven't driven you away from the hall, I hope?' began Mrs. +Barnes in a worried voice. + +'I only came up here for a minute,' I explained, 'and was coming down +again directly.' + +'Oh, that relieves me. I was afraid perhaps--' + +'I wish you wouldn't so often be afraid you're driving me away,' I said +pleasantly. 'Do I look driven?' + +But Mrs. Barnes took no notice of my pleasantness. She had something on +her mind. She looked like somebody who is reluctant and yet impelled. + +'I think,' she said solemnly, 'that if you have a moment to spare it +might be a good opportunity for a little talk. I would like to talk +with you a little.' + +And she stood regarding me, her eyes full of reluctant but unconquerable +conscientiousness. + +'Do,' I said, with polite enthusiasm. 'Do.' + +This was the backwash, I thought, of Dolly's German outbreak the other +day, and Siegfried was going at last to be explained to me. + +'Won't you sit down in this chair?' I said, pushing a comfortable one +forward, and then sitting down myself on the edge of the sofa. + +'Thank you. What I wish to say is--' + +She hesitated. I supposed her to be finding it difficult to proceed with +Siegfried, and started off impulsively to her rescue. + +'You know, I don't mind a bit about--' I began. + +'What I wish to say is,' she went on again, before I had got out the +fatal word, 'what I wish to point out to you--is that the weather has +considerably cooled.' + +This was so remote from Siegfried that I looked at her a moment in +silence. Then I guessed what was coming, and tried to put it off. + +'Ah,' I said--for I dreaded, the grateful things she would be sure to +say about having been here so long--'you do want a fire in the hall +after all, then.' + +'No, no. We are quite warm enough, I assure you. A fire would distress +us. What I wish to say is--' Again she hesitated, then went on more +firmly, 'Well, I wish to say that the weather having broken and the +great heat having come to an end, the reasons which made you extend your +kind, your delightful hospitality to us, have come to an end also. I +need hardly tell you that we never, never shall be able to express to +you--' + +'Oh, but you're not going to give me notice?' I interrupted, trying to +be sprightly and to clamber over her rock-like persistence in gratitude +with the gaiety of a bright autumnal creeper. This was because I was +nervous. I grow terribly sprightly when I am nervous. + +But indeed I shrink from Mrs. Barnes's gratitude. It abases me to the +dust. It leaves me mourning in much the same way that Simon Lee's +gratitude left Wordsworth mourning. I can't bear it. What a world it is, +I want to cry out,--what a miserable, shameful, battering, crushing +world, when so dreadfully little makes people so dreadfully glad! + +Then it suddenly struck me that the expression giving notice might not +be taken by Mrs. Barnes, she being solemn, in the spirit in which it was +offered by me, I being sprightly; and, desperately afraid of having +possibly offended her, I seized on the first thing I could think of as +most likely to soothe her, which was an extension, glowing and almost +indefinite, of my invitation. 'Because, you know,' I said, swept along +by this wish to prevent a wound, 'I won't accept the notice. I'm not +going to let you go. That is, of course,' I added, 'if you and Dolly +don't mind the quiet up here and the monotony. Won't you stay on here +till I go away myself?' + +Mrs. Barnes opened her mouth to speak, but I got up quickly and crossed +over to her and kissed her. Instinct made me go and kiss her, so as to +gain a little time, so as to put off the moment of having to hear +whatever it was she was going to say; for whether she accepted the +invitation or refused it, I knew there would be an equally immense, +unbearable number of grateful speeches. + +But when I went over and kissed her Mrs. Barnes put her arm round my +neck and held me tight; and there was something in this sudden movement +on the part of one so chary of outward signs of affection that made my +heart give a little leap of response, and I found myself murmuring into +her ear--amazing that I should be murmuring into Mrs. Barnes's +ear--'Please don't go away and leave me--please don't--please stay--' + +And as she didn't say anything I kissed her again, and again murmured, +'Please--' + +And as she still didn't say anything I murmured, 'Won't you? Say you +will--' + +And then I discovered to my horror that why she didn't say anything was +because she was crying. + +I have been slow and unimaginative about Mrs. Barnes. Having guessed +that Dolly was a German widow I might so easily have guessed the rest: +the poverty arising out of such a situation, the vexations and +humiliations of the attitude of people in the pensions she has dragged +about in during and since the war,--places in which Dolly's name must +needs be registered and her nationality known; the fatigue and +loneliness of such a life, with no home anywhere at all, forced to +wander and wander, her little set at Dulwich probably repudiating her +because of Dolly; or scolding her, in rare letters, for the folly of +her sacrifice; with nothing to go back, to and nothing to look forward +to, and the memory stabbing her always of the lost glories of that +ordered life at home in her well-found house, with the church bells +ringing on Sundays, and everybody polite, and a respectful +crossing-sweeper at the end of the road. + +All her life Mrs. Barnes has been luminously respectable. Her +respectability has been, I gather from things she has said, her one +great treasure. To stand clear and plain before her friends, without a +corner in her actions that needed defending or even explaining, was what +the word happiness meant to her. And now here she is, wandering about in +a kind of hiding. With Dolly. With the beloved, the difficult, the +unexplainable Dolly. Unwelcomed, unwanted, and I daresay quite often +asked by the many pension proprietors who are angrily anti-German to go +somewhere else. + +I have been thick-skinned about Mrs. Barnes. I am ashamed. And whether I +have guessed right or wrong she shall keep her secrets. I shall not try +again, however good my silly intentions may seem to me, however much I +may think it would ease our daily intercourse, to blunder in among +things about which she wishes to be silent. When she cried like that +this morning, after a moment of looking at her bewildered and aghast, I +suddenly understood. I knew what I have just been writing as if she had +told me. And I stroked her hand, and tried to pretend I didn't notice +anything, because it was so dreadful to see how she, for her part, was +trying so very hard to pretend she wasn't crying. And I kept on +saying--for indeed I didn't know what to say--'Then you'll stay--how +glad I am--then that's settled--' + +And actually I heard myself expressing pleasure at the certainty of my +now hearing Merivale to a finish! + +How the interview ended was by my conceiving the brilliant idea of going +away on the pretext of giving an order, and leaving Mrs. Barnes alone in +my room till she should have recovered sufficiently to appear +downstairs. + +'I must go and tell Mrs. Antoine something,' I suddenly +said,--'something I've forgotten.' And I hurried away. + +For once I had been tactful. Wonderful. I couldn't help feeling pleased +at having been able to think of this solution to the situation. Mrs. +Barnes wouldn't want Dolly to see she had been crying. She would stay up +quietly in my room till her eyes had left off being red, and would then +come down as calm and as ready to set a good example as ever. + +Continuing to be tactful, I avoided going into the hall, because in it +was Dolly all by herself, offering me my very first opportunity for the +talk alone with her that I have so long been wanting; but of course I +wouldn't do anything now that might make Mrs. Barnes uneasy; I hope I +never may again. + +To avoid the hall, however, meant finding myself in the servants' +quarters. I couldn't take shelter in the kitchen and once more warm +myself, because it was their dinner hour. There remained the back door, +the last refuge of a hostess. It was open; and outside was the yard, the +rain, and Mou-Mou's kennel looming through the mist. + +I went and stood in the door, contemplating what I saw, waiting till I +thought Mrs. Barnes would have had time to be able to come out of my +bedroom. I knew she would stay there till her eyes were ready to face +the world again, so I knew I must have patience. Therefore I stood in +the door and contemplated what I saw from it, while I sought patience +and ensued it. But it is astonishing how cold and penetrating these wet +mountain mists are. They seem to get right through one's body into +one's very spirit, and make it cold too, and doubtful of the future. + + +_September 4th._ + +Dolly looked worried, I thought, yesterday when Mrs. Barnes, as rocky +and apparently arid as ever--but I knew better--told her at tea-time in +my presence that I had invited them to stay on as long as I did. + +There were fortunately few expressions of gratitude this time decorating +Mrs. Barnes's announcement. I think she still wasn't quite sure enough +of herself to be anything but brief. Dolly looked quickly at me, without +her usual smile. I said what a great pleasure it was to know they +weren't going away. 'You do like staying, don't you, Dolly?' I asked, +breaking off suddenly in my speech, for her serious eyes were not the +eyes of the particularly pleased. + +She said she did; of course she did; and added the proper politenesses. +But she went on looking thoughtful, and I believe she wants to tell me, +or have me told by Mrs. Barnes, about Siegfried. I think she thinks I +ought to know what sort of guest I've got before deciding whether I +really want her here any longer or not. + +I wish I could somehow convey to Dolly, without upsetting Mrs. Barnes, +that I do know and don't mind. I tried to smile reassuringly at her, but +the more I smiled the more serious she grew. + +As for Mrs. Barnes, there is now between her and me the shyness, the +affection, of a secret understanding. She may look as arid and stiff as +she likes, but we have kissed each other with real affection and I have +felt her arm tighten round my neck. How much more enlightening, how much +more efficacious than any words, than any explanations, is that very +simple thing, a kiss. I believe if we all talked less and kissed more we +should arrive far quicker at comprehension. I give this opinion with +diffidence. It is rather a conjecture than an opinion. I have not found +it shared in literature--in conversation I would omit it--except once, +and then by a German. He wrote a poem whose first line was: + + _O schwoere nicht und kuesse nur_ + +And I thought it sensible advice. + + +_September 5th._ + +The weather after all hasn't broken. We have had the thunderstorm and +the one bad day, and then it cleared up. It didn't clear up back to heat +again--this year there will be no more heat--but to a kind of cool, +pure gold. All day yesterday it was clearing up, and towards evening +there came a great wind and swept the sky clear during the night of +everything but stars; and when I woke this morning there was the +familiar golden patch on the wall again, and I knew the day was to be +beautiful. + +And so it has been, with the snow come much lower down the mountains, +and the still air very fresh. Things sparkle; and one feels like some +bright bubble of light oneself. Actually even Mrs. Barnes has almost +been like that,--has been, for her, astonishingly, awe-inspiringly gay. + +'Ah,' she said, standing on the terrace after breakfast, drawing in deep +draughts of air, 'now I understand the expression so frequently used in +descriptions of scenery. This air indeed is like champagne.' + +'It does make one feel very healthy,' I said. + +There were several things I wanted to say instead of this, things +suggested by her remark, but I refrained. I mean to be careful now to +let my communications with Mrs. Barnes be Yea, yea and Nay, nay--that +is, straightforward and brief, with nothing whatever in them that might +directly or indirectly lead to the encouragement of Dolly. Dolly has +been trying to catch me alone. She has tried twice since Mrs. Barnes +yesterday at tea told her I had asked them to stay on, but I have +avoided her. + +'Healthy?' repeated Mrs. Barnes. 'It makes one feel more than healthy. +It goes to one's head. I can imagine it turning me quite dizzy--quite +turning my head.' + +And then she actually asked me a riddle--Mrs. Barnes asked a riddle, at +ten o'clock in the morning, asked me, a person long since callous to +riddles and at no time since six years old particularly appreciative of +them. + +Of course I answered wrong. Disconcerted, I impetuously hazarded Brandy +as the answer, when it should have been Whisky; but really I think it +was wonderful to have got even so near the right answer as Brandy. I +won't record the riddle. It was old in Mrs. Barnes's youth, for she told +me she had it from her father, who, she said, could enjoy a joke as +heartily as she can herself. + +But what was so surprising was that the effect of the crisp, sunlit air +on Mrs. Barnes should be to engender riddles. It didn't do this to my +pre-war guests. They grew young, but not younger than twenty. Mrs. +Barnes to-day descended to the age of bibs. I never could have believed +it of her. I never could have believed she would come so near what I can +only call an awful friskiness. And it wasn't just this morning, in the +first intoxication of the splendid new air; it has gone on like it all +day. On the mountain slopes, slippery now and difficult to walk on +because of the heavy rain of the thunderstorm, might have been seen this +afternoon three figures, two black ones and a white one, proceeding for +a space in a rather wobbly single file, then pausing in an animated +group, then once more proceeding. When they paused it was because Mrs. +Barnes had thought of another riddle. Dolly was very quick at the +answers,--so quick that I suspected her of having been brought up on +these very ones, as she no doubt was, but I cut a lamentable figure. I +tried to make up for my natural incapacity by great goodwill. Mrs. +Barnes's spirits were too rare and precious, I felt, not to be welcomed; +and having failed in answers I desperately ransacked my memory in search +of questions, so that I could ask riddles too. + +But by a strange perversion of recollection I could remember several +answers and not their questions. In my brain, on inquiry, were fixed +quite firmly things like this,--obviously answers to what once had been +riddles. + + _Because his tail comes out of his head._ + _So did the other donkey._ + _He took a fly and went home._ + _Orleans._ + +Having nothing else to offer Mrs. Barnes I offered her these, and +suggested she should supply the questions. + +She thought this way of dealing with riddles subversive and difficult. +Dolly began to laugh. Mrs. Barnes, filled with the invigorating air, +actually laughed too. It was the first time I have heard her laugh. I +listened with awe. Evidently she laughs very rarely, for Dolly looked so +extraordinarily pleased; evidently her doing it made to-day memorable, +for Dolly's face, turned to her sister in a delighted surprise, had the +expression on it that a mother's has when her offspring suddenly behaves +in a way unhoped for and gratifying. + +So there we stood, gesticulating gaily on the slippery slope. + +This is a strange place. Its effects are incalculable. I suppose it is +because it is five thousand feet up, and has so great a proportion of +sunshine. + + +_September 6th._ + +There were letters this morning from England that wiped out all the +gaiety of yesterday; letters that _reminded_ me. It was as if the cold +mist had come back again, and blotted out the light after I had hoped it +had gone for good. It was as if a weight had dropped down again on my +heart, suffocating it, making it difficult to breathe, after I had hoped +it was lifted off for ever. I feel sick. Sick with the return of the +familiar pain, sick with fear that I am going to fall back hopelessly +into it. I wonder if I am. Oh, I had such _hope_ that I was better! +Shall I ever get quite well again? Won't it at best, after every effort, +every perseverance in struggle, be just a more or less skilful mending, +a more or less successful putting together of broken bits? I thought I +had been growing whole. I thought I wouldn't any longer wince. And now +these letters.... + +Ridiculous, hateful and ridiculous, to be so little master of one's own +body that one has to look on helplessly at one's hands shaking. + +I want to forget. I don't want to be reminded. It is my one chance of +safety, my one hope of escape. To forget--forget till I have got my soul +safe back again, really my own again, no longer a half destroyed thing. +I call it my soul. I don't know what it is. I am very miserable. + +It is details that I find so difficult to bear. As long as in my mind +everything is one great, unhappy blur, there is a chance of quietness, +of gradual creeping back to peace. But details remind me too acutely, +flash back old anguish too sharply focussed. I oughtn't to have opened +the letters till I was by myself. But it pleased me so much to get them. +I love getting letters. They were in the handwriting of friends. How +could I guess, when I saw them on the breakfast-table, that they would +innocently be so full of hurt? And when I had read them, and I picked up +my cup and tried to look as if nothing had happened and I were drinking +coffee like anybody else, my silly hand shook so much that Dolly noticed +it. + +Our eyes met. + +I couldn't get that wretched cup back on to its saucer again without +spilling the coffee. If that is how I still behave, what has been the +good of being here? What has the time been but wasted? What has the cure +been but a failure? + +I have come up to my room. I can't stay downstairs. It would be +unbearable this morning to sit and be read to. But I must try to think +of an excuse, quickly. Mrs. Barnes may be up any minute to ask--oh, I am +hunted! + +It is a comfort to write this. To write does make one in some strange +way less lonely. Yet--having to go and look at oneself in the glass for +companionship,--isn't that to have reached the very bottom level of +loneliness? + + +_Evening._ + +The direct result of those letters has been to bring Dolly and me at +last together. + +She came down to the kitchen-garden after me, where I went this morning +when I had succeeded in straightening myself out a little. On the way I +told Mrs. Barnes, with as tranquil a face as I could manage, that I had +arrangements to discuss with Antoine, and so, I was afraid, would for +once miss the reading. + +Antoine I knew was working in the kitchen-garden, a plot of ground +hidden from the house at the foot of a steep descent, and I went to him +and asked to be allowed to help. I said I would do anything,--dig, weed, +collect slugs, anything at all, but he must let me work. Work with my +hands out of doors was the only thing I felt I could bear to-day. It +wasn't the first time, I reflected, that peace has been found among +cabbages. + +Antoine demurred, of course, but did at last consent to let me pick red +currants. That was an easy task, and useful as well, for it would save +Lisette the assistant's time, who would otherwise presently have to pick +them. So I chose the bushes nearest to where he was digging, because I +wanted to be near some one who neither talked nor noticed, some one +alive, some one kind and good who wouldn't look at me, and I began to +pick these strange belated fruits, finished and forgotten two months ago +in the valley. + +Then I saw Dolly coming down the steps cut in the turf. She was holding +up her long black skirt. She had nothing on her head, and the sun shone +in her eyes and made her screw them up as she stood still for a moment +on the bottom step searching for me. I saw all this, though I was +stooping over the bushes. + +Then she came and stood beside me. + +'You oughtn't to be here,' I said, going on picking and not looking at +her. + +'I know,' said Dolly. + +'Then hadn't you better go back?' + +'Yes. But I'm not going to.' + +I picked in silence. + +'You've been crying,' was what she said next. + +'No,' I said. + +'Perhaps not with your eyes, but you have with your heart.' + +At this I felt very much like Mrs. Barnes; very much like what Mrs. +Barnes must have felt when I tried to get her to be frank. + +'Do you know what your sister said to me the other day?' I asked, busily +picking. 'She said she has a great opinion of discretion.' + +'Yes,' said Dolly. 'But I haven't.' + +'And I haven't either,' I was forced to admit. + +'Well then,' said Dolly. + +I straightened myself, and we looked at each other. Her eyes have a kind +of sweet radiance. Siegfried must have been pleased when he saw her +coming down the sheet into his arms. + +'You mustn't tell me anything you don't quite want to,' said Dolly, her +sweet eyes smiling, 'but I couldn't see you looking so unhappy and not +come and--well, stroke you.' + +'There isn't anything to tell,' I said, comforted by the mere idea of +being stroked. + +'Yes there is.' + +'Not really. It's only that once--oh well, what's the good? I don't +want to think of it--I want to forget.' + +Dolly nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Yes.' + +'You see I came here to get cured by forgetting, and I thought I was +cured. And this morning I found I wasn't, and it has--and it has +disappointed me.' + +'You musn't cry, you know,' said Dolly gently. 'Not in the middle of +picking red currants. There's the man--' + +She glanced at Antoine, digging. + +I snuffled away my tears without the betrayal of a pocket handkerchief, +and managed to smile at her. + +'What idiots we go on being,' I said ruefully. + +'Oh--idiots!' + +Dolly made a gesture as of including the whole world. + +'Does one ever grow up?' I asked. + +'I don't know. I haven't.' + +'But do you think one ever learns to bear pain without wanting to run +crying bitterly to one's mother?' + +'I think it's difficult. It seems to take more time,' she added smiling, +'than I've yet had, and I'm forty. You know I'm forty?' + +'Yes. That is, I've been told so, but it hasn't been proved.' + +'Oh, I never could _prove_ anything,' said Dolly. + +Then she put on an air of determination that would have alarmed Mrs. +Barnes, and said, 'There are several other things that I am that you +don't know, and as I'm here alone with you at last I may as well tell +you what they are. In fact I'm not going away from these currant bushes +till I _have_ told you.' + +'Then,' I said, 'hadn't you better help me with the currants while you +tell?' And I lifted the basket across and put it on the ground between +us. + +Already I felt better. Comforted, cheered by Dolly's mere presence and +the sweet understanding that seems to shine out from her. + +She turned up her sleeves and plunged her arms into the currant bushes. +Luckily currants don't have thorns, for if it had been a gooseberry bush +she would have plunged her bare arms in just the same. + +'You have asked us to stay on,' she began, 'and it isn't fair that you +shouldn't know exactly what you are in for.' + +'If you're going to tell, me how your name is spelt,' I said, 'I've +guessed that already. It is Juchs.' + +'Oh, you're clever!' exclaimed Dolly unexpectedly. + +'Well, if that's clever,' I said modestly, 'I don't know what you would +say to _some_ of the things I think of.' + +Dolly laughed. Then she looked serious again, and tugged at the currants +in a way that wasn't very good for the bush. + +'Yes. His name was Juchs,' she said. 'Kitty always did pronounce it +Jewks. It wasn't the war. It wasn't camouflage. She thought it was the +way. So did the other relations in England. That is when they pronounced +it at all, which I should think wasn't ever.' + +'You mean they called him Siegfried,' I said. + +Dolly stopped short in her picking to look at me in surprise. +'Siegfried?' she repeated, her arrested hands full of currants. + +'That's another of the things I've guessed,' I said proudly. 'By sheer +intelligently putting two and two together.' + +'He wasn't Siegfried,' said Dolly. + +'Not Siegfried?' + +It was my turn to stop picking and look surprised. + +'And in your sleep--? And so affectionately--?' I said. + +'Siegfried wasn't Juchs, he was Bretterstangel,' said Dolly. 'Did I say +his name that day in my sleep? Dear Siegfried.' And her eyes, even while +they rested on mine became softly reminiscent. + +'But Dolly--if Siegfried wasn't your husband, ought you to have--well, +do you think it was wise to be dreaming of him?' + +'But he was my husband.' + +I stared. + +'But you said your husband was Juchs,' I said. + +'So he was,' said Dolly. + +'He was? Then why--I'm fearfully slow, I know, but do tell me--if Juchs +was your husband why wasn't he called Siegfried?' + +'Because Siegfried's name was Bretterstangel. I _began_ with Siegfried.' + +There was a silence. We stood looking at each other, our hands full of +currants. + +Then I said, 'Oh.' And after a moment I said, 'I see.' And after another +moment I said, 'You _began_ with Siegfried.' + +I was greatly taken aback. The guesses which had been arranged so neatly +in my mind were swept into confusion. + +'What you've got to realise,' said Dolly, evidently with an effort, 'is +that I kept on marrying Germans. I ought to have left off at Siegfried. +I wish now I had. But one gets into a habit--' + +'But,' I interrupted, my mouth I think rather open, 'you kept on--?' + +'Yes,' said Dolly, holding herself very straight and defiantly, 'I did +keep on, and that's what I want you to be quite clear about before we +settle down to stay here indefinitely. Kitty can't stay if I won't. I do +put my foot down sometimes, and I would about this. Poor darling--she +feels desperately what I've done, and I try to help her to keep it quiet +with ordinary people as much as I can--oh, I'm always letting little +bits out! But I can't, I won't, not tell a friend who so wonderfully +invites us--' + +'_You're_ not going to begin being grateful?' I interrupted quickly. + +'You've no idea,' Dolly answered irrelevantly, her eyes wide with wonder +at her past self, 'how difficult it is not to marry Germans once you've +begun.' + +'But--how many?' I got out. + +'Oh, only two. It wasn't their number so much. It was their quality.' + +'What--Junkers?' + +'Junkers? Would you mind more if they had been? Do you mind very much +anyhow?' + +'I don't mind anything. I don't mind your being technically German a +scrap. All I think is that it was a little--well, perhaps a little +excessive to marry another German when you had done it once already. But +then I'm always rather on the side of frugality. I do definitely prefer +the few instead of the many and the little instead of the much.' + +'In husbands as well?' + +'Well yes--I think so.' + +Dolly sighed. + +'I wish I had been like that,' she said. 'It would have saved poor Kitty +so much.' + +She dropped the currants she held in her hands slowly bunch by bunch +into the basket. + +'But I don't see,' I said, 'what difference it could make to Kitty. I +mean, once you had started having German husbands at all, what did it +matter one more or less? And wasn't the second one d--I mean, hadn't he +left off being alive when the war began? So I don't see what difference +it could make to Kitty.' + +'But that's just what you've got to realise,' said Dolly, letting the +last bunch of currants drop out of her hand into the basket. + +She looked at me, and I became aware that she was slowly turning red. A +very delicate flush was slowly spreading over her face, so delicate +that for a moment I didn't see what it was that was making her look more +and more guilty, more and more like a child who has got to confess--but +an honourable, good child, determined that it _will_ confess. + +'You know,' she said, 'that I've lived in Germany for years and years.' + +'Yes,' I said. 'I've guessed that.' + +'And it's different from England.' + +'Yes,' I said. 'So I understand.' + +'The way they see things. Their laws.' + +'Yes,' I said. + +Dolly was finding it difficult to say what she had to say. I thought it +might help her if I didn't look at her, so I once more began to pick +currants. She mechanically followed my example. + +'Kitty,' she said, as we both stooped busily over the same bush, 'thinks +what I did too dreadful. So did all our English relations. It's because +you may think so too that I've got to tell you. Then you can decide +whether you really want me here or not.' + +'Dear Dolly,' I murmured, 'don't please make my blood run cold--' + +'Ah, but it's forbidden in the Prayer Book.' + +'What is?' + +'What I did.' + +'_What_ did you do, Dolly?' I asked, now thoroughly uneasy; had her +recklessness gone so far as to lead her to tamper with the Commandments? + +Dolly tore off currants and leaves in handfuls and flung them together +into the basket. 'I married my uncle,' she said. + +'What?' I said, really astonished. + +'Karl--that was my second husband--was Siegfried's--that was my first +husband's--uncle. He was Siegfried's mother's brother--my first +mother-in-law's brother. My second mother-in-law was my first husband's +grandmother. In Germany you can. In Germany you do. But it's forbidden +in the English Prayer Book. It's put in the Table of Kindred and +Affinity that you mustn't. It's number nine of the right-hand +column--Husband's Mother's Brother. And Kitty well, you can guess what +Kitty has felt about it. If it had been my own uncle, my own mother's +brother, she couldn't have been more horrified and heartbroken. I didn't +realise. I didn't think of the effect it might have on them at home. I +just did it. They didn't know till I had done it. I always think it +saves bother to marry first and tell afterwards. I had been so many +years in Germany. It seemed quite natural. I simply stayed on in the +family. It was really habit.' + +She threw some currants into the basket, then faced me. 'There,' she +said, looking me straight in the eyes, 'I've told you, and if you think +me impossible I'll go.' + +'But--' I began. + +Her face was definitely flushed now, and her eyes very bright. + +'Oh, I'd be sorry, sorry,' she said impetuously, 'if this ended _us_!' + +'Us?' + +'You and me. But I couldn't stay here and not tell you, could I. Just +because you may hate it so I had to tell you. You've got a dean in your +family. The Prayer Book is in your blood. And if you do hate it I shall +understand perfectly, and I'll go away and take Kitty and you need never +see or hear of me again, so you musn't mind saying--' + +'Oh do wait a minute!' I cried. 'I don't hate it. I don't mind. I'd only +hate it and mind if it was I who had to marry a German uncle. I can't +imagine why anybody should ever want to marry uncles anyhow, but if they +do, and they're not blood-uncles, and it's the custom of the country, +why not? You'll stay here, Dolly. I won't let you go. I don't care if +you've married fifty German uncles. I've loved you from the moment I +saw you on the top of the wall in your funny petticoat. Why, you don't +suppose,' I finished, suddenly magnificently British, 'that I'm going to +let any mere _German_ come between you and me?' + +Whereupon we kissed each other,--not once, but several times; fell, +indeed, upon each other's necks. And Antoine, coming to fetch the red +currants for Lisette who had been making signs to him from the steps for +some time past, stood waiting quietly till we should have done. + +When he thought we had done he stepped forward and said, '_Pardon, +mesdames_'--and stooping down deftly extracted the basket from between +us. + +As he did so his eye rested an instant on the stripped and broken +branches of the currant bush. + +He wasn't surprised. + + +_September 7th._ + +I couldn't finish about yesterday last night. When I had got as far as +Antoine and the basket I looked at the little clock on my writing-table +and saw to my horror that it was nearly twelve. So I fled into bed; for +what would Mrs. Barnes have said if she had seen me burning the +electric light and doing what she calls trying my eyes at such an hour? +It doesn't matter that they are my eyes and my light: Mrs. Barnes has +become, by virtue of her troubles, the secret standard of my behaviour. +She is like the eye of God to me now,--in every place. And my desire to +please her and make her happy has increased a hundredfold since Dolly +and I have at last, in spite of her precautions, become real friends. + +We decided before we left the kitchen-garden yesterday that this was the +important thing: to keep Mrs. Barnes from any hurt that we can avoid. +She has had so many. She will have so many more. I understand now +Dolly's deep sense of all her poor Kitty has given up and endured for +her sake, and I understand the shackles these sacrifices have put on +Dolly. It is a terrible burden to be very much loved. If Dolly were of a +less naturally serene temperament she would go under beneath the weight, +she would be, after five years of it, a colourless, meek thing. + +We agreed that Mrs. Barnes musn't know that I know about Dolly's +marriages. Dolly said roundly that it would kill her. Mrs. Barnes +regards her misguided sister as having committed a crime. It is +forbidden in the Prayer Book. She brushes aside the possible Prayer +Books of other countries. Therefore the word German shall never I hope +again escape me while she is here, nor will I talk of husbands, and +perhaps it will be as well to avoid mentioning uncles. Dear me, how very +watchful I shall have to be. For the first time in his life the Dean has +become unmentionable. + +I am writing this before breakfast. I haven't seen Dolly alone again +since the kitchen-garden. I don't know how she contrived to appease Mrs. +Barnes and explain her long absence, but that she did contrive it was +evident from the harmonious picture I beheld when, half an hour later, I +too went back to the house. They were sitting together in the sun just +outside the front door knitting. Mrs. Barnes's face was quite contented. +Dolly looked specially radiant. I believe she is made up entirely of +love and laughter--dangerous, endearing ingredients! We just looked at +each other as I came out of the house. It is the most comforting, the +warmest thing, this unexpected finding of a completely understanding +friend. + + +_September 10th._ + +Once you have achieved complete understanding with anybody it isn't +necessary, I know, to talk much. I have been told this by the wise. +They have said mere knowledge that the understanding is there is enough. +They have said that perfect understanding needs no expression, that the +perfect intercourse is without words. That may be; but I want to talk. +Not excessively, but sometimes. Speech does add grace and satisfaction +to friendship. It may not be necessary, but it is very agreeable. + +As far as I can see I am never, except by the rarest chance, going to +get an opportunity of talking to Dolly alone. And there are so many +things I want to ask her. Were her experiences all pleasant? Or is it +her gay, indomitable spirit that has left her, after them, so entirely +unmarked? Anyhow the last five years can't possibly have been pleasant, +and yet they've not left the shadow of a stain on her serenity. I feel +that she would think very sanely about anything her bright mind touched. +There is something disinfecting about Dolly. I believe she would +disinfect me of the last dregs of morbidness I still may have lurking +inside me. + +She and Mrs. Barnes are utterly poor. When the war began Dolly was in +Germany, she told me that morning in the kitchen-garden, and had been a +widow nearly a year. Not Siegfried's widow: Juchs's. I find her +widowhoods confusing. + +'Didn't you ever have a child, Dolly?' I asked. + +'No,' she said. + +'Then how is it you twitched the handkerchief off your sister's sleeping +face that first day and said Peep bo to her so professionally?' + +'I used to do that to Siegfried. We were both quite young to begin with, +and played silly games.' + +'I see,' I said. 'Go on.' + +Juchs had left her some money; just enough to live on. Siegfried hadn't +ever had any, except what he earned as a clerk in a bank, but Juchs had +had some. She hadn't married Juchs for any reason, I gathered, except to +please him. It did please him very much, she said, and I can quite +imagine it. Siegfried too had been pleased in his day. 'I seem to have a +gift for pleasing Germans,' she remarked, smiling. 'They were both very +kind to me. I ended by being very fond of them both. I believe I'd be +fond of anyone who was kind. There's a good deal of the dog about me.' + +Directly the war began she packed up and came to Switzerland; she didn't +wish, under such circumstances, to risk pleasing any more Germans. +Since her marriage to Juchs all her English relations except Kitty had +cast her off, so that only a neutral country was open to her, and Kitty +instantly gave up everybody and everything to come and be with her. At +first her little income was sent to her by her German bank, but after +the first few months it sent no more, and she became entirely dependent +on Kitty. All that Kitty had was what she got from selling her house. +The Germans, Dolly said, would send no money out of the country. Though +the war was over she could get nothing out of them unless she went back. +She would never go back. It would kill Kitty; and she too, she thought, +would very likely die. Her career of pleasing Germans does seem to be +definitely over. + +'So you see,' she said smiling, 'how wonderful it is for us to have +found _you_.' + +'What I can't get over,' I said, 'is having found _you_.' + +But I wish, having found her, I might sometimes talk to her. + + +_September 12th._ + +We live here in an atmosphere of _combats de generosite_. It is +tremendous. Mrs. Barnes and I are always doing things we don't want to +do because we suppose it is what is going to make the other one happy. +The tyranny of unselfishness! I can hardly breathe. + + +_September 19th._ + +I think it isn't good for women to be shut up too long alone together +without a man. They seem to fester. Even the noblest. Taking our +intentions all round they really are quite noble. We do only want to +develope in ideal directions, and remove what we think are the obstacles +to this development in each other's paths; and yet we fester. Not Dolly. +Nothing ever smudges her equable, clear wholesomeness; but there are +moments when I feel as if Mrs. Barnes and I got much mixed up together +in a sort of sticky mass. Faint struggles from time to time, brief +efforts at extrication, show there is still a life in me that is not +flawlessly benevolent, but I repent of them as soon as made because of +the pain and surprise that instantly appear in Mrs. Barnes's tired, +pathetic eyes, and hastily I engulf myself once more in goodness. + +That's why I haven't written lately, not for a whole week. It is +glutinous, the prevailing goodness. I have stuck. I have felt as though +my mind were steeped in treacle. Then to-day I remembered my old age, +and the old lady waiting at the end of the years who will want to be +amused, so I've begun again. I have an idea that what will really most +amuse that old lady, that wrinkled philosophical old thing, will be all +the times when I was being uncomfortable. She will be so very +comfortable herself, so done with everything, so entirely an impartial +looker-on, that the rebellions and contortions and woes of the creature +who used to be herself will only make her laugh. She will be blithe in +her security. Besides, she will know the sequel, she will know what came +next, and will see, I daresay, how vain the expense of trouble and +emotions was. So that naturally she will laugh. 'You _silly_ little +thing!' I can imagine her exclaiming, 'If only you had known how it all +wasn't going to matter!' And she will laugh very heartily; for I am sure +she will be a gay old lady. + +But what we really want here now is an occasional breath of +brutality,--the passage, infrequent and not too much prolonged, of a +man. If he came to tea once in a way it would do. He would be a blast of +fresh air. He would be like opening a window. We have minced about among +solicitudes and delicacies so very long. I want to smell the rankness +of a pipe, and see the cushions thrown anyhow. I want to see somebody +who doesn't knit. I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted. +Especially do I want to hear Mrs. Barnes being contradicted ... oh, I'm +afraid I'm still not very good! + + +_September 20th._ + +The grapes are ripe down in the vineyards along the edge of the valley, +and this morning I proposed that we should start off early and spend the +day among them doing a grape-cure. + +Mrs. Barnes liked the idea very much, and sandwiches were ordered, for +we were not to come back till evening; then at the last moment she +thought it would be too hot in the valley, and that her head, which has +been aching lately, might get worse. The sandwiches were ready on the +hall table. Dolly and I were ready too, boots on and sticks in hand. To +our great surprise Mrs. Barnes, contemplating the sandwiches, said that +as they had been cut they mustn't be wasted, and therefore we had better +go without her. + +We were astonished. We were like children being given a holiday. She +kissed us affectionately when we said goodbye, as though, to mark her +trust in us,--in Dolly that she wouldn't tell me the dreadful truth +about herself, in me that I wouldn't encourage her in undesirable points +of view. How safe we were, how deserving of trust, Mrs. Barnes naturally +didn't know. Nothing that either of us could say could possibly upset +the other. + +'If Mrs. Barnes knew the worst, knew I knew everything, wouldn't she be +happier?' I asked Dolly as we went briskly down the mountain. 'Wouldn't +at least part of her daily anxiety be got rid of, her daily fear lest I +_should_ get to know?' + +'It would kill her,' said Dolly firmly. + +'But surely--' + +'You mustn't forget that she thinks what I did was a crime.' + +'You mean the uncle.' + +'Oh, she wouldn't very much mind your knowing about Siegfried. She would +do her utmost to prevent it, because of her horror of Germans and of the +horror she assumes you have of Germans. But once you did know she would +be resigned. The other--' Dolly shook her head. 'It would kill her,' she +said again. + +We came to a green slope starred thick with autumn crocuses, and sat +down to look at them. These delicate, lovely things have been appearing +lately on the mountain, at first one by one and then in flocks,--pale +cups of light, lilac on long white stalks that snap off at a touch. Like +the almond trees in the suburban gardens round London that flower when +the winds are cruellest, the autumn crocuses seem too frail to face the +cold nights we are having now; yet it is just when conditions are +growing unkind that they come out. There they are, all over the mountain +fields, flowering in greater profusion the further the month moves +towards winter. + +This particular field of them was so beautiful that with one accord +Dolly and I sat down to look. One doesn't pass such beauty by. I think +we sat quite half an hour drinking in those crocuses, and their sunny +plateau, and the way the tops of the pine trees on the slope below stood +out against the blue emptiness of the valley. We were most content. The +sun was so warm, the air of such an extraordinary fresh purity. Just to +breathe was happiness. I think that in my life I have been most blest in +this, that so often just to breathe has been happiness. + +Dolly and I, now that we could talk as much as we wanted to, didn't +after all talk much. Suddenly I felt incurious about her Germans. I +didn't want them among the crocuses. The past, both hers and mine, +seemed to matter very little, seemed a stuffy, indifferent thing, in +that clear present. I don't suppose if we hadn't brought an empty basket +with us on purpose to take back grapes to Mrs. Barnes that we would have +gone on down to the vineyards at all, but rather have spent the day just +where we were. The basket, however, had to be filled; it had to be +brought back filled. It was to be the proof that we had done what we +said we would. Kitty, said Dolly, would be fidgeted if we hadn't carried +out the original plan, and might be afraid that, if we weren't eating +grapes all day as arranged, we were probably using our idle mouths for +saying things she wished left unsaid. + +'Does poor Kitty _always_ fidget?' I asked. + +'Always,' said Dolly. + +'About every single thing that might happen?' + +'Every single thing,' said Dolly. 'She spends her life now entirely in +fear--and it's all because of me.' + +'But really, while she is with me she could have a holiday from fear if +we told her I knew about your uncle and had accepted it with calm.' + +'It would kill her,' said Dolly once more, firmly. + +We lunched in the vineyards, and our desert was grapes. We ate them for +a long while with enthusiasm, and went on eating them through every +degree of declining pleasure till we disliked them. For fifty centimes +each the owner gave us permission to eat grapes till we died if we +wished to. For another franc we were allowed to fill the basket for Mrs. +Barnes. Only conscientiousness made us fill it full, for we couldn't +believe anybody would really want to eat such things as grapes. Then we +began to crawl up the mountain again, greatly burdened both inside and +out. + +It took us over three hours to get home. We carried the basket in turns, +half an hour at a time; but what about those other, invisible, grapes, +that came with us as well? I think people who have been doing a +grape-cure should sit quiet for the rest of the day, or else walk only +on the level. To have to take one's cure up five thousand feet with one +is hard. Again we didn't talk; this time because we couldn't. All that +we could do was to pant and to perspire. + +It was a brilliant afternoon, and the way led up when the vineyards left +off through stunted fir trees that gave no shade, along narrow paths +strewn with dry fir needles,--the slipperiest things in the world to +walk on. Through these hot, shadeless trees the sun beat on our bent and +burdened figures. Whenever we stopped to rest and caught sight of each +other's flushed wet faces we laughed. + +'Kitty needn't have been afraid we'd _say_ much,' panted Dolly in one of +these pauses, her eyes screwed up with laughter at my melted state. + +I knew what I must be looking like by looking at her. + +It was five o'clock by the time we reached the field with the crocuses, +and we sank down on the grass where we had sat in the morning, +speechless, dripping, overwhelmed by grapes. For a long while we said +nothing. It was bliss to lie in the cool grass and not to have to carry +anything. The sun, low in the sky, slanted almost level along the field, +and shining right through the thin-petalled crocuses made of each a +little star. I don't know anything more happy than to be where it is +beautiful with some one who sees and loves it as much as you do +yourself. We lay stretched out on the grass, quite silent, watching the +splendour grow and grow till, having reached a supreme moment of +radiance, it suddenly went out. The sun dropped behind the mountains +along to the west, and out went the light; with a flick; in an instant. +And the crocuses, left standing in their drab field, looked like so many +blown-out candles. + +Dolly sat up. + +'There now,' she said. 'That's over. They look as blind and dim as a +woman whose lover has left her. Have you ever,' she asked, turning her +head to me still lying pillowed on Mrs. Barnes's grapes--the basket had +a lid--'seen a woman whose lover has left her?' + +'Of course I have. Everybody has been left by somebody.' + +'I mean _just_ left.' + +'Yes. I've seen that too.' + +'They look exactly like that,' said Dolly, nodding towards the crocuses. +'Smitten colourless. Light gone, life gone, beauty gone,--dead things in +a dead world. I don't,' she concluded, shaking her head slowly, 'hold +with love.' + +At this I sat up too, and began to tidy my hair and put my hat on again. +'It's cold,' I said, 'now that the sun is gone. Let us go home.' + +Dolly didn't move. + +'Do you?' she asked. + +'Do I what?' + +'Hold with love.' + +'Yes,' I said. + +'Whatever happens?' + +'Yes,' I said. + +'Whatever its end is?' + +'Yes,' I said. 'And I won't even say yes _and_ no, as the cautious +Charlotte Bronte did when she was asked if she liked London. I won't be +cautious in love. I won't look at all the reasons for saying no. It's a +glorious thing to have had. It's splendid to have believed all one did +believe.' + +'Even when there never was a shred of justification for the belief?' +asked Dolly, watching me. + +'Yes,' I said; and began passionately to pin my hat on, digging the pins +into my head in my vehemence. 'Yes. The thing is to believe. Not go +round first cautiously on tiptoe so as to be sure before believing and +trusting that your precious belief and trust are going to be safe. Safe! +There's no safety in love. You risk the whole of life. But the great +thing _is_ to risk--to believe, and to risk everything for your belief. +And if there wasn't anything there, if it was you all by yourself who +imagined the beautiful kind things in the other one, the wonderful, +generous, beautiful kind things, what does it matter? They weren't +there, but _you_ for once were capable of imagining them. You _were_ up +among the stars for a little, you _did_ touch heaven. And when you've +had the tumble down again and you're scrunched all to pieces and are +just a miserable heap of blood and brokenness, where's your grit that +you should complain? Haven't you seen wonders up there past all telling, +and had supreme joys? It's because you were up in heaven that your fall +is so tremendous and hurts so. What you've got to do is not to be +killed. You've got at all costs to stay alive, so that for the rest of +your days you may go gratefully, giving thanks to God that once ... you +see,' I finished suddenly, 'I'm a great believer in saying thank you.' + +'Oh,' said Dolly, laying her hand on my knee and looking at me very +kindly, 'I'm so glad!' + +'Now what are you glad about, Dolly?' I asked, turning on her and giving +my hat a pull straight. And I added, my chin in the air, 'Those dead +women of yours in their dead world, indeed! Ashamed of themselves--that's +what they ought to be.' + +'You're cured,' said Dolly. + +'Cured,' I echoed. + +I stared at her severely. 'Oh--I see,' I said. 'You've been drawing me +out.' + +'Of course I have. I couldn't bear to think of you going on being +unhappy--hankering--' + +'Hankering?' + +Dolly got up. 'Now let's go home,' she said. 'It's my turn to carry the +basket. Yes, it's a horrid word. Nobody should ever hanker. I couldn't +bear it if you did. I've been afraid that perhaps--' + +'Hankering!' + +I got up too and stood very straight. + +'Give me those grapes,' said Dolly. + +'Hankering!' I said again. + +And the rest of the way home, along the cool path where the dusk was +gathering among the bushes and the grass was damp now beneath our dusty +shoes, we walked with heads held high--hankering indeed!--two women +surely in perfect harmony with life and the calm evening, women of +wisdom and intelligence, of a proper pride and self-respect, kind women, +good women, pleasant, amiable women, contented women, pleased women; and +at the last corner, the last one between us and Mrs. Barnes's eye on the +terrace, Dolly stopped, put down the basket, and laying both her arms +about my shoulders kissed me. + +'Cured,' she said, kissing me on one side of my face. 'Safe,' she said, +kissing me on the other. + +And we laughed, both of us, confident and glad. And I went up to my room +confident and glad, for if I felt cured and Dolly was sure I was cured, +mustn't it be true? + +Hankering indeed. + + +_September 21st._ + +But I'm not cured. For when I was alone in my room last night and the +house was quiet with sleep, a great emptiness came upon me, and those +fine defiant words of mine in the afternoon seemed poor things, poor +dwindled things, like kaisers in their night-gowns. For hours I lay +awake with only one longing: to creep back,--back into my shattered +beliefs, even if it were the littlest corner of them. Surely there must +be some corner of them still, with squeezing, habitable? I'm so small. I +need hardly any room. I'd curl up. I'd fit myself in. And I wouldn't +look at the ruin of the great splendid spaces I once thought I lived in, +but be content with a few inches. Oh, it's cold, cold, cold, left +outside of faith like this.... + +For hours I lay awake; and being ashamed of myself did no good, because +love doesn't mind about being ashamed. + + +_Evening._ + +All day I've slunk about in silence, watching for a moment alone with +Dolly. I want to tell her that it was only one side of me yesterday, and +that there's another, and another--oh, so many others; that I meant +every word I said, but there are other things, quite different, almost +opposite things that I also mean; that it's true I'm cured, but only +cured in places, and over the rest of me, the rest that is still sick, +great salt waves of memories wash every now and then and bite and +bite.... + +But Dolly, who seems more like an unruffled pool of clear water to-day +than ever, hasn't left Mrs. Barnes's side; making up, I suppose, for +being away from her all yesterday. + +Towards tea-time I became aware that Mrs. Barnes was watching me with a +worried face, the well-known worried, anxious face, and I guessed she +was wondering if Dolly had been indiscreet on our picnic and told me +things that had shocked me into silence. So I cast about in my mind for +something to reassure her, and, as I thought fortunately, very soon +remembered the grapes. + +'I'm afraid I ate too many grapes yesterday,' I said, when next I caught +her worried, questioning eye. + +Her face cleared. I congratulated myself. But I didn't congratulate +myself long; for Mrs. Barnes, all motherly solicitude, inquired if by +any chance I had swallowed some of the stones; and desiring to reassure +her to the utmost as to the reason of my thoughtfulness, I said that +very likely I had; from the feel of things; from the kind of +heaviness.... And she, before I could stop her, had darted into the +kitchen--these lean women are terribly nimble--and before I could turn +round or decide what to do next, for by this time I was suspicious, she +was back again with Mrs. Antoine and all the dreadful paraphernalia of +castor oil. And I had to drink it. And it seemed hard that because I had +been so benevolently desirous to reassure Mrs. Barnes I should have to +drink castor oil and be grateful to her as well. + +'This is petty,' I thought, sombrely eyeing the bottle,--I alluded in my +mind to Fate. + +But as I had to drink the stuff I might as well do it gallantly. And so +I did; tossing it off with an air, after raising the glass and wishing +the onlookers health and happiness in what I tried to make a pleasant +speech. + +Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Antoine and Dolly stood watching me spellbound. A +shudder rippled over them as the last drops slid down. + +Then I came up here. + + +_September 22nd._ + +Let me draw your attention, O ancient woman sitting at the end of my +life, to the colour of the trees and bushes in this place you once lived +in, in autumns that for you are now so far away. Do you remember how it +was like flames, and the very air was golden? The hazel-bushes, do you +remember them? Along the path that led down from the terrace to the +village? How each separate one was like a heap of light? Do you remember +how you spent to-day, the 22nd of September, 1919, lying on a rug in the +sun close up under one of them, content to stare at the clear yellow +leaves against the amazing sky? You ve forgotten, I daresay. You re only +thinking of your next meal and being put to bed. But you did spend a day +to-day worth remembering. You were very content. You were exactly +balanced in the present, without a single oscillation towards either the +past, a period you hadn't then learned to regard with the levity for +which you are now so remarkable, or to the future, which you at that +time, however much the attitude may amuse you now, thought of with doubt +and often with fear. Mrs. Barnes let you go to-day, having an +appreciation of the privileges due to the dosed, and you took a cushion +and a rug--active, weren't you--and there you lay the whole blessed day, +the sun warm on your body, enfolded in freshness, thinking of nothing +but calm things. Rather like a baby you were; a baby on its back sucking +its thumb and placidly contemplating the nursery ceiling. But the +ceiling was the great sky, with, two eagles ever so far up curving in +its depths, and when they sloped their wings the sun caught them and +they flashed. + +It seems a pity to forget these things. They make up, after all, the +real preciousness of life. But I'm afraid my writing them down won't +make you _feel_ any joy in them again, you old thing. You'll be too +brittle and rheumaticky to be able to think of lying on the grass for a +whole day except with horror. I'm beginning to dislike the idea of being +forced into your old body; and, on reflection, your philosophical +detachment, your incapacity to do anything but laugh at the hopes and +griefs and exultations and disappointments and bitter pains of your +past, seems to me very like the fixed grimace of fleshless death. + + +_September 23rd._ + +Mrs. Barnes can't, however hard she tries, be with us absolutely +continuously. Gaps in her attendance do inevitably occur. There was one +of them to-day; and I seized it to say to Dolly across the momentarily +empty middle chair--we were on the terrace and the reading was going +on,--'I've not seen you alone since the grape day. I wanted to tell you +that I'm not cured. I had a relapse that very night. I meant all I said +to you, but I meant too, all I said to myself while I was having the +relapse. You'd better know the worst. I simply intolerably hankered.' + +Dolly let Merivale fall on her lap, and gazed pensively at the distant +mountains across the end of the valley. + +'It's only the last growlings,' she said after a moment. + +'Growlings?' I echoed. + +'It's only the last growlings and mutterings of a thunderstorm that's +going away. Whatever it was that happened to you--you've never told me, +you know, but I'm quite good at somehow knowing--was very like a +thunderstorm. A violent one. It was rather brief, it raged incredibly, +and then it rumbled off. Though you were flattened out while it was +going on, like some otherwise promising crop--' + +'Oh,' I protested; but I had to laugh. + +'--still when it took itself off you missed it. I wouldn't talk like +this,' she said, turning her sweet eyes to me, 'I wouldn't make fun if I +weren't sure you are on the road, anyhow, to being cured. Presently +you'll reach the stage when you begin to realise that falling out of +love is every bit as agreeable as falling in. It is, you know. It's a +wonderful feeling, that gradual restoration to freedom and one's +friends.' + +'You don't understand after all,' I said. + +Dolly said she did. + +'No. Because you talk of falling out of love. What has happened to me is +far worse than that. That? That's nothing. It's what everybody is doing +all the time. What has happened to me is that I've lost my faith. It has +been like losing God, after years of trust in Him. I believed with all +my heart. And I am desolate.' + +But Dolly only shook her head. 'You're not as desolate as you were,' +she said. 'Nobody who loves all this as you do--' and she turned up her +face to the warm sun, blinking her eyes,--'can go on being desolate +long. Besides--really, you know--look at that.' + +And she pointed to the shining mountains across the valley's eastern +end. + +Yes. That is eternal. Beauty is eternal. When I look at that, when I am +in the clear mood that, looking at the mountains, really _sees_ them, +all the rest, the bewilderment and crying out, the clinging and the +hankering, seem indeed unworthy. Imagine, with the vast landscape of the +splendid world spread out before you, not moving freely in it on and on +rejoicing and praising God, but sitting quite still lamenting in one +spot, stuck in sediment. + +'Did you say sentiment?' asked Dolly. + +'Did I say anything?' I asked in surprise, turning my head to her. 'I +thought I was thinking.' + +'You were doing it aloud, then,' said Dolly. 'Was the word sentiment?' + +'No. Sediment.' + +'They're the same thing. I hate them both.' + + +_September 24th._ + +What will happen to Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when I go back to England? The +weather was a little fidgety to-day and yesterday, a little troubled, +like a creature that stirs fretfully in its sleep, and it set me +thinking. For once the change really begins at this time of the year it +doesn't stop any more. It goes on through an increasing unpleasantness +winds, rain, snow, blizzards--till, after Christmas, the real winter +begins, without a cloud, without a stir of the air, its short days +flooded with sunshine, its dawns and twilights miracles of colour. + +All that fuss and noise of snow-flurries and howling winds is only the +preparation for the great final calm. The last blizzard, tearing away +over the mountains, is like an ugly curtain rolling up; and behold a new +world. One night while you are asleep the howls and rattlings suddenly +leave off, and in the morning you look out of the window and for the +first time for weeks you see the mountains at the end of the valley +clear against the eastern sky, clothed in all new snow from head to +foot, and behind them the lovely green where the sunrise is getting +ready. I know, because I was obliged to be here through the October and +November and December of the year the house was built and was being +furnished. They were three most horrid months; and the end of them was +heaven. + +But what will become of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly when the weather does +finally break up? + +I can't face the picture of them spending a gloomy, half-warmed winter +down in some cheap pension; an endless winter of doing without things, +of watching every franc. They've been living like that for five years +now. Where does Dolly get her sweet serenity from? I wish I could take +them to England with me. But Dolly can't go to England. She is German. +She is doomed. And Mrs. Barnes is doomed too, inextricably tied up in +Dolly's fate. Of course I am going to beg them to stay on here, but it +seems a poor thing to offer them, to live up here in blizzards that I +run away from myself. It does seem a very doubtful offer of hospitality. +I ought, to make it real, to stay on with them. And I simply couldn't. I +do believe I would die if I had three months shut up with Mrs. Barnes in +blizzards. Let her have everything--the house, the Antoines, all, all +that I possess; but only let me go. + +My spirit faints at the task before me, at the thought of the +persuasions and the protests that will have to be gone through. And +Dolly; how can I leave Dolly? I shall be haunted in London by visions of +these two up here, the wind raging round the house, the snow piled up to +the bedroom windows, sometimes cut off for a whole week from the +village, because only in a pause in the blizzard can the little black +figures that are peasants come sprawling over the snow with their +shovels to dig one out. I know because I have been through it that first +winter. But it was all new to us then, and we were a care-free, cheerful +group inside the house, five people who loved each other and talked +about anything they wanted to, besides being backed reassuringly by a +sack of lentils and several sacks of potatoes that Antoine, even then +prudent and my right hand, had laid in for just this eventuality. We +made great fires, and brewed strange drinks. We sat round till far into +the nights telling ghost stories. We laughed a good deal, and said just +what we felt like saying. But Mrs. Barnes and Dolly? Alone up here, and +undug out? It will haunt me. + + +_September 25th._ + +She hasn't noticed the weather yet. At least, she has drawn no +deductions from it. Evidently she thinks its fitfulness, its gleams of +sunshine and its uneasy cloudings over, are just a passing thing and +that it soon will settle down again to what it was before. After all, +she no doubt says to herself, it is still September. But Antoine knows +better, and so do I, and it is merely hours now before the break-up will +be plain even to Mrs. Barnes. Then the _combats de generosite_ will +begin. I can't, I can't stop here so that Mrs. Barnes may be justified +to herself in stopping too on the ground of cheering my solitude. I +drank the castor oil solely that her mind might be at rest, but I can't +develope any further along lines of such awful magnanimity. I would die. + + +_September 26th._ + +To-day I smoked twelve cigarettes, only that the house should smell +virile. They're not as good as a pipe for that, but they're better than +the eternal characterless clean smell of unselfish women. + +After each cigarette Mrs. Barnes got up unobtrusively and aired the +room. Then I lit another. + +Also I threw the cushions on the floor before flinging myself on the +sofa in the hall; and presently Mrs. Barnes came and tidied them. + +Then I threw them down again. + +Towards evening she asked me if I was feeling quite well. I wasn't, +because of the cigarettes, but I didn't tell her that. I said I felt +very well indeed. Naturally I couldn't explain to her that I had only +been trying to pretend there was a man about. + +'You're sure those grape-stones--?' she began anxiously. + +'Oh, certain!' I cried; and hastily became meek. + + +_September 27th._ + +Oaths, now. I shrink from so much as suggesting it, but there _is_ +something to be said for them. They're so brief. They get the mood over. +They clear the air. Women explain and protest and tiptoe tactfully about +among what they think are your feelings, and there's no end to it. And +then, if they're good women, good, affectionate, unselfish women, they +have a way of forgiving you. They keep on forgiving you. Freely. With a +horrible magnanimousness. Mrs. Barnes insisted on forgiving me +yesterday for the cigarettes, for the untidiness. It isn't a happy +thing, I think, to be shut up in a small lonely house being forgiven. + + +_September 28th._ + +In the night the wind shook the windows and the rain pelted against +them, and I knew that when I went down to breakfast the struggle with +Mrs. Barnes would begin. + +It did. It began directly after breakfast in the hall, where Antoine, +remarking firmly '_C'est l'hiver_,' had lit a roaring fire, determined +this time to stand no parsimonious nonsense, and it has gone on all day, +with the necessary intervals for recuperation. + +Nothing has been settled. I still don't in the least know what to do. +Mrs. Barnes's attitude is obstinately unselfish. She and Dolly, she +reiterates, won't dream of staying on here unless they feel that by +doing so they could be of service to me by keeping me company. If I'm +not here I can't be kept company with; that, she says, I must admit. + +I do. Every time she says it--it has been a day of reiterations--I admit +it. Therefore, if I go they go, she finishes with a kind of sombre +triumph at her determination not to give trouble or be an expense; but +words fail her, she adds, (this is a delusion,) to express her gratitude +for my offer, etc., and never, for the rest of their lives, will she and +Dolly forget the delightful etc., etc. + +What am I to do? I don't know. How lightly one embarks on marriage and +on guests, and in what unexpected directions do both develope! Also, +what a terrible thing is unselfishness. Once it has become a habit, how +tough, how difficult to uproot. A single obstinately unselfish person +can wreck the happiness of a whole household. Is it possible that I +shall have to stay here? And I have so many things waiting for me in +England that have to be done. + +There's a fire in my bedroom, and I've been sitting on the floor staring +into it for the past hour, seeking a solution. Because all the while +Mrs. Barnes is firmly refusing to listen for a moment to my entreaties +to use the house while I'm away, her thin face is hungry with longing to +accept, and the mere talking, however bravely, of taking up the old +homeless wandering again fills her tired eyes with tears. + +Once I got so desperate that I begged her to stay as a kindness to me, +in order to keep an eye on those patently efficient and trustworthy +Antoines. This indeed was the straw-clutching of the drowning, and even +Mrs. Barnes, that rare smiler, smiled. + +No. I don't know what to do. How the wind screams. I'll go to bed. + + +_September 29th._ + +And there's nothing to be done with Dolly either. + +'You told me you put your foot down sometimes,' I said, appealing to her +this morning in one of Mrs. Barnes's brief absences, 'Why don't you put +it down now?' + +'Because I don't want to,' said Dolly. + +'But _why_ not?' I asked, exasperated. 'It's so reasonable what I +suggest, so easy--' + +'I don't want to stay here without you,' said Dolly. 'This place _is_ +you. You've made it. It is soaked in you. I should feel haunted here +without you. Why, I should feel lost.' + +'As though you would! When we hardly speak to each other as it is--' + +'But I watch you,' said Dolly, smiling, 'and I know what you're +thinking. You've no idea how what you're thinking comes out on your +face.' + +'But if it makes your unhappy sister's mind more comfortable? If she +feels free from anxiety here? If she feels you are safe here?' I +passionately reasoned. + +'I don't want to be safe.' + +'Oh Dolly--you're not going to break out again?' I asked, as anxiously +every bit as poor Mrs. Barnes would have asked. + +Dolly laughed. 'I'll never do anything again that makes Kitty unhappy,' +she said. 'But I do like the feeling--' she made a movement with her +arms as though they were wings--'oh, I _like_ the feeling of having +room!' + + +_September 30th._ + +The weather is better again, and there has been a pause in our +strivings. Mrs. Barnes and I have drifted, tired both of us, I resting +in that refuge of the weak, the putting off of making up my mind, back +into talking only of the situation and the view. If Mrs. Barnes were +either less good or more intelligent! But the combination of +non-intelligence with goodness is unassailable. You can't get through. +Nothing gets through. You give in. You are flattened out. You become a +slave. And your case is indeed hopeless if the non-intelligent and +good, are at the same time the victims, nobly enduring, of undeserved +misfortune. + + +_Evening._ + +A really remarkable thing happened to-day: I've had a prayer answered. I +shall never dare pray again. I prayed for a man, any man, to come and +leaven us, and I've got him. + +Let me set it down in order. + +This afternoon on our walk, soon after we had left the house and were +struggling along against gusts of wind and whirling leaves in the +direction, as it happened, of the carriage road up from the valley, +Dolly said, 'Who is that funny little man coming towards us?' + +And I looked, and said after a moment in which my heart stood still--for +what had _he_ come for?--'That funny little man is my uncle.' + +There he was, the authentic uncle: gaiters, apron, shovel hat. He was +holding on his hat, and the rude wind, thwarted in its desire to frolic +with it, frisked instead about his apron, twitching it up, bellying it +out; so that his remaining hand had all it could do to smooth the apron +down again decorously, and he was obliged to carry his umbrella pressed +tightly against his side under his arm. + +'Not your uncle the Dean?' asked Mrs. Barnes in a voice of awe, hastily +arranging her toque; for a whiff of the Church, any whiff, even one so +faint as a curate, is as the breath of life to her. + +'Yes,' I said, amazed and helpless. 'My Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Why, he might be a German,' said Dolly, 'with a name like that.' + +'Oh, but don't say so to him!' I cried. 'He has a perfect _horror_ of +Germans--' + +And it was out before I remembered, before I could stop it. Good +heavens, I thought; good heavens. + +I looked sideways at Mrs. Barnes. She was, I am afraid, very red. So I +plunged in again, eager to reassure her. 'That is to say,' I said, 'he +used to have during the war. But of course now that the war is over it +would be mere silliness--nobody minds now--nobody _ought_ to mind now--' + +My voice, however, trailed out into silence, for I knew, and Mrs. Barnes +knew, that people do mind. + +By this time we were within hail of my uncle, and with that joy one +instinctively assumes on such occasions I waved my stick in exultant +circles at him and called out, 'How very delightful of you, Uncle +Rudolph!' And I advanced to greet him, the others tactfully dropping +behind, alone. + +There on the mountain side, with the rude wind whisking his clothes +irreverently about, we kissed; and in my uncle's kiss I instantly +perceived something of the quality of Mrs. Barnes's speeches the day I +smoked the twelve cigarettes,--he was forgiving me. + +'I have come to escort you home to England,' he said, his face spread +over with the spirit of allowing byegones to be byegones; and in that +spirit he let go of his apron in order reassuringly to pat my shoulder. + +Immediately the apron bellied. His hand had abruptly to leave my +shoulder so as to clutch it down again. 'You are with ladies?' he said a +little distractedly, holding on to this turbulent portion of his +clothing. + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I replied modestly. 'I hope you didn't expect to +find me with gentlemen?' + +'I expected to find you, dear child, as I have always found you,--ready +to admit and retrace. Generously ready to admit and retrace.' + +'Sweet of you,' I murmured. 'But you should have let me know you were +coming. I'd have had things killed for you. Fatted things.' + +'It is not I,' he said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, the +wind being what it was, 'who am the returning prodigal. Indeed I wish +for your sake that I were. My shoulders could bear the burden better +than those little ones of yours.' + +This talk was ominous, so I said, 'I must introduce you to Mrs. Barnes +and her sister Mrs. Jewks. Let me present,' I said ceremoniously, +turning to them who were now fortunately near enough, 'my Uncle Rudolph +to you, of whom you have often heard me speak.' + +'Indeed we have,' said Mrs. Barnes, with as extreme a cordiality as awe +permitted. + +My uncle, obviously relieved to find his niece not eccentrically alone +but flanked by figures so respectable, securely, as it were, embedded in +widows, was very gracious. Mrs. Barnes received his pleasant speeches +with delighted reverence; and as we went back to the house, for the +first thing to do with arrivals from England is to give them a bath, he +and she fell naturally into each other's company along the narrow track, +and Dolly and I followed behind. + +We looked at each other, simultaneously perceiving the advantages of +four rather than of three. Behind Mrs. Barnes's absorbed and obsequious +back we looked at each other with visions in our eyes of unsupervised +talks opening before us. + +'They have their uses, you see,' I said in a low voice,--not that I need +have lowered it in that wind. + +'Deans have,' agreed Dolly, nodding. + +And my desire to laugh,--discreetly, under my breath, ready to pull my +face sober and be gazing at the clouds the minute our relations should +turn round, was strangled by the chill conviction that my uncle's coming +means painful things for me. + +He is going to talk to me; talk about what I am trying so hard not to +think of, what I really am succeeding in not thinking of; and he is +going to approach the desolating subject in, as he will say and perhaps +even persuade himself to believe, a Christian spirit, but in what really +is a spirit of sheer worldliness. He has well-founded hopes of soon +going to be a bishop. I am his niece. The womenkind of bishops should be +inconspicuous, should see to it that comment cannot touch them. +Therefore he is going to try to get me to deliver myself up to a life +of impossible wretchedness again, only that the outside of it may look +in order. The outside of the house,--of the house of a bishop's +niece,--at all costs keep it neat, keep it looking like all the others +in the street; so shall nobody know what is going on inside, and the +neighbours won't talk about one's uncle. + +If I were no relation but just a mere ordinary stranger-soul in +difficulties, he, this very same man, would be full of understanding, +would find himself unable, indeed, the facts being what they are, to be +anything but most earnestly concerned to help me keep clear of all +temptations to do what he calls retrace. And at the same time he would +be concerned also to strengthen me in that mood which is I am sure the +right one, and does very often recur, of being entirely without +resentment and so glad to have the remembrance at least of the beautiful +things I believed in. But I am his niece. He is about to become a +bishop. Naturally he has to be careful not to be too much like Christ. + +Accordingly I followed uneasily in his footsteps towards the house, +dreading what was going to happen next. And nothing has happened next. +Not yet, anyhow. I expect to-morrow.... + +We spent a most bland evening. I'm as sleepy and as much satiated by +ecclesiastical good things as though I had been the whole day in church. +My uncle, washed, shaven, and restored by tea, laid himself out to +entertain. He was the decorous life of the party. He let himself go to +that tempered exuberance with which good men of his calling like to +prove that they really are not so very much different from other people +after all. Round the hall fire we sat after tea, and again after supper, +Dolly and I facing each other at the corners, my uncle and Mrs. Barnes +in the middle, and the room gently echoed with seemly and strictly +wholesome mirth. 'How enjoyable,' my uncle seemed to say, looking at us +at the end of each of his good stories, gathering in the harvest of our +appreciation, 'how enjoyable is the indulgence of legitimate fun. Why +need one ever indulge in illegitimacy?' + +And indeed his stories were so very good that every one of them, before +they reached the point of bringing forth their joke, must have been to +church and got married. + +Dolly sat knitting, the light shining on her infantile fair hair, her +eyes downcast in a dove-like meekness. Punctually her dimple flickered +out at the right moment in each anecdote. She appeared to know by +instinct where to smile; and several times I was only aware that the +moment had come by happening to notice her dimple. + +As for Mrs. Barnes, for the first time since I have known her, her face +was cloudless. My uncle, embarked on anecdote, did not mention the war. +We did not once get on to Germans. Mrs. Barnes could give herself up to +real enjoyment. She beamed. She was suffused with reverential delight. +And her whole body, the very way she sat in her chair, showed an +absorption, an eagerness not to miss a crumb of my uncle's talk, that +would have been very gratifying to him if he were not used to just this. +It is strange how widows cling to clergymen. Ever since I can remember, +like the afflicted Margaret's apprehensions in Wordsworth's poem, they +have come to Uncle Rudolph in crowds. My aunt used to raise her eyebrows +and ask me if I could at all tell her what they saw in him. + +When we bade each other goodnight there was something in Mrs. Barnes's +manner to me that showed me the presence of a man was already doing its +work. She was aerated. Fresh, air had got into her and was circulating +freely. At my bedroom door she embraced me with warm and simple +heartiness, without the usual painful search of my face to see if by any +chance there was anything she had left undone in her duty of being +unselfish. My uncle's arrival has got her thoughts off me for a bit. I +knew that what we wanted was a man. Not that a dean is quite my idea of +a man, but then on the other hand neither is he quite my idea of a +woman, and his arrival does put an end for the moment to Mrs. Barnes's +and my dreadful _combats de generosite_. He infuses fresh blood into our +anaemic little circle. Different blood, perhaps I should rather say; the +blood of deans not being, I think, ever very fresh. + +'Good night, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, getting up at ten o'clock and +holding up my face to him. 'We have to thank you for a delightful +evening.' + +'Most delightful,' echoed Mrs. Barnes enthusiastically, getting up too +and rolling up her knitting. + +My uncle was gratified. He felt he had been at his best, and that his +best had been appreciated. + +'Good night, dear child,' he said, kissing my offered cheek. 'May the +blessed angels watch about your bed.' + +'Thank you, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, bowing my head beneath this +benediction. + +Mrs. Barnes looked on at the little domestic scene with reverential +sympathy. Then her turn came. + +'_Good_ night, Mrs. Barnes,' said my uncle most graciously, shaking +hands and doing what my dancing mistress used to call bending from the +waist. + +And to Dolly, '_Good_ night, Miss--' + +Then he hesitated, groping for the name. 'Mrs.,' said Dolly, sweetly +correcting him, her hand in his. + +'Ah, I beg your pardon. Married. These introductions--especially in that +noisy wind.' + +'No--not exactly married,' said Dolly, still sweetly correcting him, her +hand still in his. + +'Not exactly--?' + +'My sister has lost her--my sister is a widow,' said Mrs. Barnes hastily +and nervously; alas, these complications of Dolly's! + +'Indeed. Indeed. Sad, sad,' said my uncle sympathetically, continuing to +hold her hand. 'And so young. Ah. Yes. Well, good night then, Mrs--' + +But again he had to pause and grope. + +'Jewks,' said Dolly sweetly. + +'Forgive me. You may depend I shall not again be so stupid. Good night. +And may the blessed angels--' + +A third time he stopped; pulled up, I suppose, by the thought that it +was perhaps not quite seemly to draw the attention of even the angels to +an unrelated lady's bed. So he merely very warmly shook her hand, while +she smiled a really heavenly smile at him. + +We left him standing with his back to the fire watching us go up the +stairs, holding almost tenderly, for one must expend one's sympathy on +something, a glass of hot water. + +My uncle is very sympathetic. In matters that do not touch his own +advancement he is all sympathy. That is why widows like him, I expect. +My aunt would have known the reason if she hadn't been his wife. + + +_October 1st._ + +While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open +against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one's eyes can't be +everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don't get quite +satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but +there are other things. This morning the book was the Bible, and in it +I read, _A prudent man_--how much more prudently, then, a +woman--_foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on +and are punished._ + +This made me late for breakfast. I sat looking out of the window, my +hands in my lap, the sensible words of Solomon ringing in my ears, and +considered if there was any way of escaping the fate of the simple. + +There was no way. It seemed hard that without being exactly of the +simple I yet should be doomed to their fate. And outside it was one of +those cold windy mornings when male relations insist on taking one for +what they call a run--as if one were a dog--in order to go through the +bleak process they describe as getting one's cobwebs blown off. I can't +bear being parted from my cobwebs. I never want them blown off. Uncle +Rudolph is small and active, besides having since my aunt's death +considerably dwindled beneath his apron, and I felt sure he intended to +run me up the mountain after breakfast, and, having got me breathless +and speechless on to some cold rock, sit with me there and say all the +things I am dreading having to hear. + +It was quite difficult to get myself to go downstairs. I seemed rooted. +I knew that, seeing that I am that unfortunately situated person the +hostess, my duty lay in morning smiles behind the coffee pot; but the +conviction of what was going to happen to me after the coffee pot kept +me rooted, even when the bell had rung twice. + +When, however, after the second ringing quick footsteps pattered along +the passage to my door I did get up,--jumped up, afraid of what might be +coming-in. Bedrooms are no real protection from uncles. Those quick +footsteps might easily be Uncle Rudolph's. I hurried across to the door +and pulled it open, so that at least by coming out I might stop his +coming in; and there was Mrs. Antoine, her hand lifted up to knock. + +'_Ces dames et Monsieur l'Eveque attendent,_' she said, with an air of +reproachful surprise. + +'_Il n'est pas un eveque_,' I replied a little irritably, for I knew I +was in the wrong staying upstairs like that, and naturally resented not +being allowed to be in the wrong in peace. '_Il est seulement presque +un_.' + +Mrs. Antoine said nothing to that, but stepping aside to let me pass +informed me rather severely that the coffee had been on the table a +whole quarter of an hour. + +'_Comment appelle-t-on chez vous_,' I said, lingering in the doorway to +gain time, '_ce qui vient devant un eveque?_' + +'_Ce qui vient devant un eveque?_' repeated Mrs. Antoine doubtfully. + +'_Oui. L'espece de monsieur qui n'est pas tout a fait eveque mais +presque?_' + +Mrs. Antoine knit her brows. '_Ma foi--_' she began. + +'_Oh, j'ai oublie_,' I said. '_Vous n'etes plus catholique. Il n'y a +rien comme des eveques et comme les messieurs qui sont presque eveques +dans votre eglise protestante, n'est-ce pas?_' + +'_Mais rien, rien, rien_,' asseverated Mrs. Antoine vehemently, her +hands spread out, her shoulders up to her ears, passionately protesting +the empty purity of her adopted church,--'_mais rien du tout, du tout. +Madame peut venir un dimanche voir...._' + +Then, having cleared off these imputations, she switched back to the +coffee. '_Le cafe--Madame desire que j'en fasse encore? Ces dames et +Monsieur l'Eveque--_' + +'_Il n'est pas un ev--_' + +'Ah--here you are!' exclaimed my uncle, his head appearing at the top of +the stairs. 'I was just coming to see if there was anything the matter. +Here she is--coming, coming!' he called out genially to the others; and +on my hurrying to join him, for I am not one to struggle against the +inevitable, he put his arm through mine and we went down together. + +Having got me to the bottom he placed both hands on my shoulders and +twisted me round to the light. 'Dear child,' he said, scrutinizing my +face while he held me firmly in this position, 'we were getting quite +anxious about you. Mrs. Barnes feared you might be ill, and was already +contemplating remedies--' I shuddered--'however--' he twisted me round +to Mrs. Barnes--'nothing ill about this little lady, Mrs. Barnes, eh?' + +Then he took my chin between his finger and thumb and kissed me lightly, +gaily even, on each cheek, and then, letting me go, he rubbed his hands +and briskly approached the table, all the warm things on which were +swathed as usual when I am late either in napkins or in portions of Mrs. +Barnes's clothing. + +'Come along--come along, now,--breakfast, breakfast,' cried my uncle. +'_For these and all Thy mercies Lord_--' he continued with hardly a +break, his eyes shut, his hands outspread over Mrs. Barnes's white +woollen shawl in benediction. + +We were overwhelmed. The male had arrived and taken us in hand. But we +were happily overwhelmed, judging from Mrs. Barnes's face. For the first +time since she has been with me the blessing of heaven had been implored +and presumably obtained for her egg, and I realised from her expression +as she ate it how much she had felt the daily enforced consumption, +owing to my graceless habits, of eggs unsanctified. And Dolly too looked +pleased, as she always does when her poor Kitty is happy. I alone +wasn't. Behind the coffee pot I sat pensive. I knew too well what was +before me. I distrusted my uncle's gaiety. He had thought it all out in +the night, and had decided that the best line of approach to the painful +subject he had come to discuss would be one of cheerful affection. +Certainly I had never seen him in such spirits; but then I haven't seen +him since my aunt's death. + +'Dear child,' he said, when the table had been picked up and carried off +bodily by the Antoines from our midst, leaving us sitting round nothing +with the surprised feeling of sudden nakedness that, as I have already +explained, this way of clearing away produces--my uncle was actually +surprised for a moment into silence,--'dear child, I would like to take +you for a little run before lunch.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?' + +'That we may get rid of our cobwebs.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'I know you are a quick-limbed little lady--' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph?' + +'So you shall take the edge off my appetite for exercise.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Then perhaps this afternoon one or other of these ladies--' I noted his +caution in not suggesting both. + +'Oh, delightful,' Mrs. Barnes hastened to assure him. 'We shall be only +too pleased to accompany you. We are great walkers. We think a very +great deal of the benefits to be derived from regular exercise. Our +father brought us up to a keen appreciation of its necessity. If it were +not that we so strongly feel that the greater part of each day should be +employed in some useful pursuit, we would spend it, I believe, almost +altogether in outdoor exercise.' + +'Why not go with my uncle this morning, then?' I asked, catching at a +straw. 'I've got to order dinner--' + +'Oh no, no--not on _any_ account. The Dean's wishes--' + +But who should pass through the hall at that moment, making for the +small room where I settle my household affairs, his arms full of the +monthly books, but Antoine. It is the first of October. Pay day. I had +forgotten. And for this one morning, at least, I knew that I was saved. + +'Look,' I said to Mrs. Barnes, nodding in the direction of Antoine and +his burden. + +I felt certain she would have all the appreciation of the solemnity, the +undeferability, of settling up that is characteristic of the virtuous +poor; she would understand that even the wishes of deans must come +second to this holy household rite. + +'Oh, how unfortunate!' she exclaimed. 'Just this day of all days--your +uncle's first day.' + +But there was nothing to be done. She saw that. And besides, never was a +woman so obstinately determined as I was to do my duty. + +'Dear Uncle Rudolph,' I said very amiably--I did suddenly feel very +amiable--'I'm so sorry. This is the one day in the month when I am +tethered. _Any_ other day--' + +And I withdrew with every appearance of reluctant but indomitable virtue +into my little room and stayed there shut in safe till I heard them go +out. + +From the window I could see them presently starting off up the mountain, +actively led by my uncle who hadn't succeeded in taking only one, Mrs. +Barnes following with the devoutness--she who in our walks goes always +first and chooses the way--of an obedient hen, and some way behind, as +though she disliked having to shed her cobwebs as much as I do, +straggled Dolly. Then, when they had dwindled into just black specks +away up the slope, I turned with lively pleasure to paying the books. + +Those blessed books! If only I could have gone on paying them over and +over again, paying them all day! But when I had done them, and conversed +about the hens and bees and cow with Antoine, and it was getting near +lunch-time, and at any moment through the window I might see the three +specks that had dwindled appearing as three specks that were swelling, I +thought I noticed I had a headache. + +Addings-up often give me a headache, especially when they won't, which +they curiously often won't, add up the same twice running, so that it +was quite likely that I _had_ got a headache. I sat waiting to be quite +sure, and presently, just as the three tiny specks appeared on the sky +line, I was quite sure; and I came up here and put myself to bed. For, I +argued, it isn't grape-stones this time, it's sums, and Mrs. Barnes +can't dose me for what is only arithmetic; also, even if Uncle Rudolph +insists on coming to my bedside he can't be so inhumane as to torment +somebody who isn't very well. + +So here I have been ever since snugly in bed, and I must say my guests +have been most considerate. They have left me almost altogether alone. +Mrs. Barnes did look in once, and when I said, closing my eyes, 'It's +those tradesmens' books--' she understood immediately, and simply nodded +her head and disappeared. + +Dolly came and sat with me for a little, but we hadn't said much before +Mrs. Antoine brought a message from my uncle asking her to go down to +tea. + +'What are you all doing?' I asked. + +'Oh, just sitting round the fire not talking,' she said, smiling. + +'_Not_ talking?' I said, surprised. + +But she was gone. + +Perhaps, I thought, they're not talking for fear of disturbing me. This +really was most considerate. + +As for Uncle Rudolph, he hasn't even tried to come and see me. The only +sign of life he has made was to send me the current number of the +_Nineteenth Century_ he brought out with him, in which he has an +article,--a very good one. Else he too has been quite quiet; and I have +read, and I have pondered, and I have written this, and now it really is +bedtime and I'm going to sleep. + +Well, a whole day has been gained anyhow, and I have had hours and hours +of complete peace. Rather a surprising lot of peace, really. It _is_ +rather surprising, I think. I mean, that they haven't wanted to come and +see me more. Nobody has even been to say goodnight to me. I think I like +being said goodnight to. Especially if nobody does say it. + + +_October 2nd._ + +Twenty-four hours sometimes produce remarkable changes. These have. + +Again it is night, and again I'm in my room on my way to going to sleep; +but before I get any sleepier I'll write what I can about to-day, +because it has been an extremely interesting day. I knew that what we +wanted was a man. + +At breakfast, to which I proceeded punctually, refreshed by my retreat +yesterday, armed from head to foot in all the considerations I had +collected during those quiet hours most likely to make me immune from +Uncle Rudolph's inevitable attacks, having said my prayers and emptied +my mind of weakening memories, I found my three guests silent. Uncle +Rudolph's talkativeness, so conspicuous at yesterday's breakfast, was +confined at to-day's to saying grace. Except for that, he didn't talk at +all. And neither, once having said her Amen, did Mrs. Barnes. Neither +did Dolly, but then she never does. + +'I've not got a headache,' I gently said at last, looking round at them. + +Perhaps they were still going on being considerate, I thought. At least, +perhaps Mrs. Barnes was. My uncle's silence was merely ominous of what I +was in for, of how strongly, after another night's thinking it out, he +felt about my affairs and his own lamentable connection with them owing +to God's having given me to him for a niece. But Mrs. Barnes--why didn't +_she_ talk? She couldn't surely intend, because once I had a headache, +to go on tiptoe for the rest of our days together? + +Nobody having taken any notice of my first announcement I presently +said, 'I'm very well indeed, thank you, this morning.' + +At this Dolly laughed, and her eyes sent little morning kisses across to +me. She, at least, was in her normal state. + +'Aren't you--' I looked at the other two unresponsive breakfasting +heads--'aren't you glad?' + +'Very,' said Mrs. Barnes. 'Very.' But she didn't raise her eyes from her +egg, and my uncle again took no notice. + +So then I thought I might as well not take any notice either, and I ate +my breakfast in dignity and retirement, occasionally fortifying myself +against what awaited me after it by looking at Dolly's restful and +refreshing face. + +Such an unclouded face; so sweet, so clean, so sunny with morning +graciousness. Really an ideal breakfast-table face. Fortunate Juchs and +Siegfried, I thought, to have had it to look forward to every morning. +That they were undeserving of their good fortune I patriotically felt +sure, as I sat considering the gentle sweep of her eyelashes while she +buttered her toast. Yet they did, both of them, make her happy; or +perhaps it was that she made them happy, and caught her own happiness +back again, as it were on the rebound. With any ordinarily kind and +decent husband this must be possible. That she _had_ been happy was +evident, for unhappiness leaves traces, and I've never seen an object +quite so unmarked, quite so candid as Dolly's intelligent and charming +brow. + +We finished our breakfast in silence; and no sooner had the table been +plucked out from our midst by the swift, disconcerting Antoines, than my +uncle got up and went to the window. + +There he stood with his back to us. + +'Do you feel equal to a walk?' he asked, not turning round. + +Profound silence. + +We three, still sitting round the blank the vanished table had left, +looked at each other, our eyes inquiring mutely, 'Is it I?' + +But I knew it was me. + +'Do you mean me, Uncle Rudolph?' I therefore asked; for after all it had +best be got over quickly. + +'Yes, dear child.' + +'Now?' + +'If you will.' + +'There's no esc--you don't think the weather too horrid?' + +'Bracing.' + +I sighed, and went away to put on my nailed boots. + +Relations ... what right had he ... as though I hadn't suffered +horribly ... and on such an unpleasant morning ... if at least it had +been fine and warm ... but to be taken up a mountain in a bitter wind so +as to be made miserable on the top.... + +And two hours later, when I was perched exactly as I had feared on a +cold rock, reached after breathless toil in a searching wind, perched +draughtily and shorn of every cob-web I could ever in my life have +possessed, helplessly exposed to the dreaded talking-to, Uncle Rudolph, +settling himself at my feet, after a long and terrifying silence during +which I tremblingly went over my defences in the vain effort to assure +myself that perhaps I wasn't going to be _much_ hurt, said: + +'How does she spell it?' + +Really one is very fatuous. Absorbed in myself, I hadn't thought of +Dolly. + + +_October 3rd._ + +It was so late last night when I got to that, that I went to bed. Now it +is before breakfast, and I'll finish about yesterday. + +Uncle Rudolph had taken me up the mountain only to talk of Dolly. +Incredible as it may seem, he has fallen in love. At first sight. At +sixty. I am sure a woman can't do that, so that this by itself convinces +me he is a man. Three days ago I wrote in this very book that a dean +isn't quite my idea of a man. I retract. He is. + +Well, while I was shrinking and shivering on my own account, waiting for +him to begin digging about among my raw places, he said instead, 'How +does she spell it?' and threw my thoughts into complete confusion. + +Blankly I gazed at him while I struggled to rearrange them on this new +basis. It was such an entirely unexpected question. I did not at this +stage dream of what had happened to him. It never would have occurred to +me that Dolly would have so immediate an effect, simply by sitting +there, simply by producing her dimple at the right moment. Attractive as +she is, it is her ways rather than her looks that are so adorable; and +what could Uncle Rudolph have seen of her ways in so brief a time? He +has simply fallen in love with a smile. And he sixty. And he one's +uncle. Amazing Dolly; irresistible apparently, to uncles. + +'Do you mean Mrs. Jewks's name?' I asked, when I was able to speak. + +'Yes,' said my uncle. + +'I haven't seen it written,' I said, restored so far by my relief--for +Dolly had saved me--that I had the presence of mind to hedge. I was +obliged to hedge. In my mind's eye I saw Mrs. Barnes's face imploring +me. + +'No doubt,' said my uncle after another silence, 'it is spelt on the +same principle as Molyneux.' + +'Very likely,' I agreed. + +'It sounds as though her late husband's family might originally have +been French.' + +'It does rather.' + +'Possibly Huguenot.' + +'Yes.' + +'I was much astonished that she should be a widow.' + +'_Yet not one widow but two widows...._' ran at this like a refrain in +my mind, perhaps because I was sitting so close to a dean. Aloud I said, +for by now I had completely recovered, 'Why, Uncle Rudolph? Widows do +abound.' + +'Alas, yes. But there is something peculiarly virginal about Mrs. +Jewks.' + +I admitted that this was so. Part of Dolly's attractiveness is the odd +impression she gives of untouchedness, of gay aloofness. + +My uncle broke off a stalk of the withered last summer's grass and began +nibbling it. He was lying on his side a little below me, resting on his +elbow. His black, neat legs looked quaint stuck through the long yellow +grass. He had taken off his hat, hardy creature, and the wind blew his +grey hair this way and that, and sometimes flattened it down in a fringe +over his eyes. When this happened he didn't look a bit like anybody +good, but he pushed it back each time, smoothing it down again with an +abstracted carefulness, his eyes fixed on the valley far below. He +wasn't seeing the valley. + +'How long has the poor young thing--' he began. + +'You will be surprised to hear,' I interrupted him, 'that Mrs. Jewks is +forty.' + +'Really,' said my uncle, staring round at me. 'Really. That is indeed +surprising.' And after a pause he added, 'Surprising and gratifying.' + +'Why gratifying, Uncle Rudolph?' I inquired. + +'When did she lose her husband?' he asked, taking no notice of my +inquiry. + +The preliminary to an accurate answer to this question was, of course, +Which? But again a vision of Mrs. Barnes's imploring face rose before +me, and accordingly, restricting myself to Juchs, I said she had lost +him shortly before the war. + +'Ah. So he was prevented, poor fellow, from having the honour of dying +for England.' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph.' + +'Poor fellow. Poor fellow.' + +'Yes.' + +'Poor fellow. Well, he was spared knowing what he had missed. At least +he was spared that. And she--his poor wife--how did she take it?' + +'Well, I think.' + +'Yes. I can believe it. She wouldn't--I am very sure she +wouldn't--intrude her sorrows selfishly on others.' + +It was at this point that I became aware my uncle had fallen in love. Up +to this, oddly enough, it hadn't dawned on me. Now it did more than +dawned, it blazed. + +I looked at him with a new and startled interest. 'Uncle Rudolph,' I +said impetuously, no longer a distrustful niece talking to an uncle she +suspects, but an equal with an equal, a human being with another human +being, 'haven't you ever thought of marrying again? It's quite a long +time now since Aunt Winifred--' + +'Thought?' said my uncle, his voice sounding for the first time simply, +ordinarily human, without a trace in it of the fatal pulpit flavour, +'Thought? I'm always thinking of it.' + +And except for his apron and gaiters he might have been any ordinary +solitary little man eating out his heart for a mate. + +'But then why don't you? Surely a deanery of all places wants a wife in +it?' + +'Of course it does Those strings or rooms--empty, echoing. It shouts +for a wife. Shouts, I tell you. At least mine does. But I've never +found--I hadn't seen--' + +He broke off, biting at the stalk of grass. + +'But I remember you,' I went on eagerly, 'always surrounded by flocks of +devoted women. Weren't any of them--?' + +'No,' said my uncle shortly. And after a second of silence he said +again, and so loud that I jumped, 'No!' And then he went on even more +violently, 'They didn't give me a chance. They never let me alone a +minute. After Winifred's death they were like flies. Stuck to me--made +me sick--great flies crawling--' And he shuddered, and shook himself as +though he were shaking off the lot of them. + +I looked at him in amazement. 'Why,' I cried, 'you're talking exactly +like a man!' + +But he, staring at the view without seeing an inch of it, took no heed +of me, and I heard him say under his breath as though I hadn't been +there at all, 'My God, I'm so lonely at night!' + +That finished it. In that moment I began to love my uncle. At this +authentic cry of forlornness I had great difficulty in not bending over +and putting my arms round him,--just to comfort him, just to keep him +warm. It must be a dreadful thing to be sixty and all alone. You look so +grown up. You look as though you must have so many resources, so few +needs; and you are accepted as provided for, what with your career +accomplished, and your houses and servants and friends and books and all +the rest of it--all the empty, meaningless rest of it; for really you +are the most miserable of motherless cold babies, conscious that you are +motherless, conscious that nobody soft and kind and adoring is ever +again coming to croon over you and kiss you good-night and be there next +morning to smile when you wake up. + +'Uncle Rudolph--' I began. + +Then I stopped, and bending over took the stalk of grass he kept on +biting out of his hand. + +'I can't let you eat any more of that,' I said. 'It's not good for you.' + +And having got hold of his hand I kept it. + +There now, I said, holding it tight. + +He looked up at me vaguely, absorbed in his thoughts; then, realising +how tight his hand was being held, he smiled. + +'You dear child,' he said, scanning my face as though he had never seen +it before. + +'Yes?' I said, smiling in my turn and not letting go of his hand. 'I +like that. I didn't like any of the other dear children I was.' + +'Which other dear children?' + +'Uncle Rudolph,' I said, 'let's go home. This is a bleak place. Why do +we sit here shivering forlornly when there's all that waiting for us +down there?' + +And loosing his hand I got on to my feet, and when I was on them I held +out both my hands to him and pulled him up, and he standing lower than +where I was our eyes were then on a level. + +'All what?' he asked, his eyes searching mine. + +'Oh, Uncle Rudolph! Warmth and Dolly, of course.' + + +_October 4th._ + +But it hasn't been quite so simple. Nothing last night was different. My +uncle remained tongue-tied. Dolly sat waiting to smile at anecdotes that +he never told. Mrs. Barnes knitted uneasily, already fearing, perhaps, +because of his strange silence, that he somehow may have scented +Siegfried, else how inexplicable his silence after that one bright, +wonderful first evening and morning. + +It was I last night who did the talking, it was I who took up the line, +abandoned by my uncle, of wholesome entertainment. I too told anecdotes; +and when I had told all the ones I knew and still nobody said anything, +I began to tell all the ones I didn't know. Anything rather than that +continued uncomfortable silence. But how very difficult it was. I grew +quite damp with effort. And nobody except Dolly so much as smiled; and +even Dolly, though she smiled, especially when I embarked on my second +series of anecdotes, looked at me with a mild inquiry, as if she were +wondering what was the matter with me. + +Wretched, indeed, is the hostess upon whose guests has fallen, from +whatever cause, a blight. + + +_October 5th._ + +Crabbe's son, in the life he wrote of his father, asks: '_Will it seem +wonderful when we consider how he was situated at this time, that with a +most affectionate heart, a peculiar attachment to female society, and +with unwasted passions, Mr. Crabbe, though in his sixty-second year +should have again thought of marriage? I feel satisfied that no one will +be seriously shocked with such an evidence of the freshness of his +feelings._' + +A little shocked; Crabbe's son was prepared to allow this much; but not +_seriously_. + +Well, it is a good thing my uncle didn't live at that period, for it +would have gone hard with him. His feelings are more than fresh, they +are violent. + + +_October 6th._ + +While Dolly is in the room Uncle Rudolph never moves, but sits +tongue-tied staring at her. If she goes away he at once gets up and +takes me by the arm and walks me off on to the terrace, where in a +biting wind we pace up and down. + +Our positions are completely reversed. It is I now who am the wise old +relative, counselling, encouraging, listening to outpours. Up and down +we pace, up and down, very fast because of the freshness of Uncle's +Rudolph's feelings and also of the wind, arm in arm, I trying to keep +step, he not bothering about such things as step, absorbed in his +condition, his hopes, his fears--especially his fears. For he is +terrified lest, having at last found the perfect woman, she won't have +him. 'Why should she?' he asks almost angrily, 'Why should she? Tell me +why she should.' + +'I can't tell you,' I say, for Uncle Rudolph and I are now the frankest +friends. 'But I can't tell you either why she shouldn't. Think how nice +you are, Uncle Rudolph. And Dolly is naturally very affectionate.' + +'She is perfect, perfect,' vehemently declares my uncle. + +And Mrs. Barnes, who from the window watches us while we walk, looks +with anxious questioning eyes at my face when we come in. What can my +uncle have to talk about so eagerly to me when he is out on the terrace, +and why does he stare in such stony silence at Dolly when he comes in? +Poor Mrs. Barnes. + + +_October 7th._ + +The difficulty about Dolly for courting purposes is that she is never to +be got alone, not even into a corner out of earshot of Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. +Barnes doesn't go away for a moment, except together with Dolly. +Wonderful how clever she is at it. She is obsessed by terror lest the +horrid marriage to the German uncle should somehow be discovered. If she +was afraid of my knowing it she is a hundred times more afraid of Uncle +Rudolph's knowing it. So persistent is her humility, so great and remote +a dignitary does he seem to her, that the real situation hasn't even +glimmered on her. All she craves is to keep this holy and distinguished +man's good opinion, to protect her Dolly, her darling erring one, from +his just but unbearable contempt. Therefore she doesn't budge. Dolly is +never to be got alone. + +'A man,' said my uncle violently to me this morning, 'can't propose to a +woman before her sister.' + +'You've quite decided you're going to?' I asked, keeping up with him as +best I could, trotting beside him up and down the terrace. + +'The minute I can catch her alone. I can't stand any more of this. I +must know. If she won't have me--my God, if she won't have me--!' + +I laid hold affectionately of his arm. 'Oh, but she will,' I said +reassuringly. 'Dolly is rather a creature of habit, you know.' + +'You mean she has got used to marriage--' + +'Well, I do think she is rather used to it. Uncle Rudolph,' I went on, +hesitating as I have hesitated a dozen times these last few days as to +whether I oughtn't to tell him about Juchs--Siegfried would be a shock, +but Juchs would be crushing unless very carefully explained--'you don't +feel you don't think you'd like to know something more about Dolly +first? I mean before you propose?' + +'No!' shouted my uncle. + +Afterwards he said more quietly that he could see through a brick wall +as well as most men, and that Dolly wasn't a brick wall but the perfect +woman. What could be told him that he didn't see for himself? Nothing, +said my uncle. + +What can be done with a man in love? Nothing, say I. + + +_October 8th._ + +Sometimes I feel very angry with Dolly that she should have got herself +so tiresomely mixed up with Germans. How simple everything would be now +if only she hadn't! But when I am calm again I realise that she couldn't +help it. It is as natural to her to get mixed up as to breathe. Very +sweet, affectionate natures are always getting mixed up. I suppose if it +weren't for Mrs. Barnes's constant watchfulness and her own earnest +desire never again to distress poor Kitty, she would at an early stage +of their war wanderings have become some ardent Swiss hotelkeeper's +wife. Just to please him; just because else he would be miserable. Dolly +ought to be married. It is the only certain way of saving her from +marriage. + + +_October 9th._ + +It is snowing. The wind howls, and the snow whirls, and we can't go out +and so get away from each other. Uncle Rudolph is obliged, when Dolly +isn't there, to continue sitting with Mrs. Barnes. He can't to-day hurry +me out on to the terrace. There's only the hall in this house to sit in, +for that place I pay the household books in is no more than a cupboard. + +Uncle Rudolph could just bear Mrs. Barnes when he could get away from +her; to-day he can't bear her at all. Everything that should be +characteristic of a dean--patience, courtesy, kindliness, has been +stripped off him by his eagerness to propose and the impossibility of +doing it. There's nothing at all left now of what he was but that empty +symbol, his apron. + + +_October 10th._ + +My uncle is fermenting with checked, prevented courting. And he ought to +be back in England. He ought to have gone back almost at once, he says. +He only came out for three or four days-- + +'Yes; just time to settle _me_ in,' I said. + +'Yes,' he said, smiling, 'and then take you home with me by the ear.' + +He has some very important meetings he is to preside at coming off soon, +and here he is, hung up. It is Mrs. Barnes who is the cause of it, and +naturally he isn't very nice to her. In vain does she try to please him; +the one thing he wants her to do, to go away and leave him with Dolly, +she of course doesn't. She sits there, saying meek things about the +weather, expressing a modest optimism, ready to relinquish even that if +my uncle differs, becoming, when he takes up a book, respectfully quiet, +ready the moment he puts it down to rejoice with him if he wishes to +rejoice or weep with him if he prefers weeping; and the more she is +concerned to give satisfaction the less well-disposed is he towards her. +He can't forgive her inexplicable fixedness. Her persistent, +unintermittent gregariousness is incomprehensible to him. All he wants, +being reduced to simplicity by love, is to be left alone with Dolly. He +can't understand, being a man, why if he wants this he shouldn't get +it. + +'You're not kind to Mrs. Barnes,' I said to him this afternoon. 'You've +made her quite unnatural. She is cowed.' + +'I am unable to like her,' said my uncle shortly. + +'You are quite wrong not to. She has had bitter troubles, and is all +goodness. I don't think I ever met anybody so completely unselfish.' + +'I wish she would go and be unselfish in her own room, then,' said my +uncle. + +'I don't know you,' I said, shrugging my shoulders. 'You arrived here +dripping unction and charitableness, and now--' + +'Why doesn't she give me a chance?' he cried. 'She never budges. These +women who stick, who can't bear to be by themselves--good heavens, +hasn't she prayers she ought to be saying, and underclothes she ought to +mend?' + +'I don't believe you care so very much for Dolly after all,' I said, 'or +you would be kind to the sister she is so deeply devoted to.' + +This sobered him. 'I'll try,' said my uncle; and it was quite hard not +to laugh at the change in our positions--I the grey-beard now, the wise +rebuker, he the hot-headed yet well-intentioned young relative. + + +_October 11th._ + +I think guests ought to like each other; love each other if they prefer +it, but at least like. They too have their duties, and one of them is to +resist nourishing aversions; or, if owing to their implacable +dispositions they can't help nourishing them, oughtn't they to try very +hard not to show it? They should consider the helpless position of the +hostess, she who, at any rate theoretically, is bound to be equally +attached to them all. + +Before my uncle came it is true we had begun to fester, but we festered +nicely. Mrs. Barnes and I did it with every mark of consideration and +politeness. We were ladies. Uncle Rudolph is no lady; and this little +house, which I daresay looks a picture of peace from outside with the +snow falling on its roof and the firelight shining in its windows, +seethes with elemental passions. Fear, love, anger--they all dwell in it +now, all brought into it by him, all coming out of the mixture, so +innocuous one would think, so likely, one would think, to produce only +the fruits of the spirit,--the mixture of two widows and one clergyman. +Wonderful how much can be accomplished with small means. Also, most +wonderful the centuries that seem to separate me from those July days +when I lay innocently on the grass watching the clouds pass over the +blue of the delphinium tops, before ever I had set eyes on Mrs. Barnes +and Dolly, and while Uncle Rudolph, far away at home and not even +beginning to think of a passport, was being normal in his Deanery. + +He has, I am sure, done what he promised and tried to be kinder to Mrs. +Barnes, and I can only conclude he was not able to manage it, for I see +no difference. He glowers and glowers, and she immovably knits. And in +spite of the silence that reigns except when, for a desperate moment, I +make an effort to be amusing, there is a curious feeling that we are +really living in a state of muffled uproar, in a constant condition of +barely suppressed brawl. I feel as though the least thing, the least +touch, even somebody coughing, and the house will blow up. I catch +myself walking carefully across the hall so as not to shake it, not to +knock against the furniture. How secure, how peaceful, of what a great +and splendid simplicity do those July days, those pre-guest days, seem +now! + + +_October 12th._ + +I went into Dolly's bedroom last night, crept in on tiptoe because there +is a door leading from it into Mrs. Barnes's room, caught hold firmly +of her wrist, and led her, without saying a word and taking infinite +care to move quietly, into my bedroom. Then, having shut her in, I said, +'What are you going to do about it?' + +She didn't pretend not to understand. The candour of Dolly's brow is an +exact reflection of the candour of her mind. + +'About your uncle,' she said, nodding. 'I like him very much.' + +'Enough to marry him?' + +'Oh quite. I always like people enough to marry them.' And she added, as +though in explanation of this perhaps rather excessively amiable +tendency, 'Husbands are so kind.' + +'You ought to know,' I conceded. + +'I do,' said Dolly, with the sweetest reminiscent smile. + +'Uncle Rudolph is only waiting to get you alone to propose,' I said. + +Dolly nodded. There was nothing I could tell her that she wasn't already +aware of. + +'As you appear to have noticed everything,' I said, 'I suppose you have +also noticed that he is very much in love with you.' + +'Oh yes,' said Dolly placidly. + +'So much in love that he doesn't seem even to remember that he's a +dignitary of the Church, and when he's alone with me he behaves in a way +I'm sure the Church wouldn't like at all. Why, he almost swears.' + +'_Isn't_ it a good thing?' said Dolly, approvingly. + +'Yes. But now what is to be done about Siegfried--' + +'Dear Siegfried,' murmured Dolly. + +'And Juchs--' + +'Poor darling,' murmured Dolly. + +'Yes, yes. But oughtn't Uncle Rudolph to be told?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, her eyes a little surprised that I should want +to know anything so obvious. + +'You told me it would kill Kitty if I knew about Juchs. It will kill her +twice as much if Uncle Rudolph knows.' + +'Kitty won't know anything about it. At least, not till it's all over. +My dear, when it comes to marrying I can't be stuck all about with +secrets.' + +'Do you mean to tell my uncle yourself?' + +'Of course,' said Dolly, again with surprise in her eyes. + +'When?' + +'When he asks me to marry him. Till he does I don't quite see what it +has to do with him.' + +'And you're not afraid--you don't think your second marriage will be a +great shock to him? He being a dean, and nourished on Tables of +Affinity?' + +'I can't help it if it is. He has got to know. If he loves me enough it +won't matter to him, and if he doesn't love me enough it won't matter to +him either.' + +'Because then his objections to Juchs would be greater than his wish to +marry you?' + +'Yes,' said Dolly, smiling. 'It would mean,' she went on, 'that he +wasn't fond of me _enough_.' + +'And you wouldn't mind?' + +Her eyes widened a little. 'Why should I mind?' + +'No. I suppose you wouldn't, as you're not in love.' + +I then remarked that, though I could understand her not being in love +with a man my uncle's age, it was my belief that she had never in her +life been in love. Not even with Siegfried. Not with anybody. + +Dolly said she hadn't, and that she liked people much too much to want +to grab at them. + +'Grab at them!' + +'That's what your being in love does,' said Dolly. 'It grabs.' + +'But you've been grabbed yourself, and you liked it. Uncle Rudolph is +certainly bent on grabbing you.' + +'Yes. But the man gets over it quicker. He grabs and has done with it, +and then settles down to the real things,--affection and kindness. A +woman hasn't ever done with it. She can't let go. And the poor thing, +because she what you call loves, is so dreadfully vulnerable, and gets +so hurt, so hurt--' + +Dolly began kissing me and stroking my hair. + +'I think though,' I said, while she was doing this, 'I'd rather have +loved thoroughly--you can call it grabbing if you like, I don't care +what ugly words you use--and been vulnerable and got hurt, than never +once have felt--than just be a sort of amiable amoeba--' + +'Has it occurred to you,' interrupted Dolly, continuing to kiss me--her +cheek was against mine, and she was stroking my hair very +tenderly--'that if I marry that dear little uncle of yours I shall be +your aunt?' + + +_October 13th._ + +Well, then, if Dolly is ready to marry my uncle and my uncle is dying to +marry Dolly, all that remains to be done is to remove Mrs. Barnes for an +hour from the hall. An hour would be long enough, I think, to include +everything,--five minutes for the proposal, fifteen for presenting +Siegfried, thirty-five for explaining Juchs, and five for the final +happy mutual acceptances. + +This very morning I must somehow manage to get Mrs. Barnes away. How it +is to be done I can't think; especially for so long as an hour. Yet +Juchs and Siegfried couldn't be rendered intelligible, I feel, in less +than fifty minutes between them. Yes; it will have to be an hour. + +I have tried over and over again the last few days to lure Mrs. Barnes +out of the hall, but it has been useless. Is it possible that I shall +have to do something unpleasant to myself, hurt myself, hurt something +that takes time to bandage? The idea is repugnant to me; still, things +can't go on like this. + +I asked Dolly last night if I hadn't better draw Mrs. Barnes's attention +to my uncle's lovelorn condition, for obviously the marriage would be a +solution of all her difficulties and could give her nothing but +extraordinary relief and joy; but Dolly wouldn't let me. She said that +it would only agonise poor Kitty to become aware that my uncle was in +love, for she would be quite certain that the moment he heard about +Juchs horror would take the place of love. How could a dean of the +Church of England, Kitty would say, bring himself to take as wife one +who had previously been married to an item in the forbidden list of the +Tables of Affinity? And Juchs being German would only, she would feel, +make it so much more awful. Besides, said Dolly, smiling and shaking her +head, my uncle mightn't propose at all. He might change again. I myself +had been astonished, she reminded me, at the sudden violent change he +had already undergone from unction to very nearly swearing; he might +easily under-go another back again, and then what a pity to have +disturbed the small amount of peace of mind poor Kitty had. + +'She hasn't any, ever,' I said; impatiently, I'm afraid. + +'Not very much,' admitted Dolly with wistful penitence. 'And it has all +been my fault.' + +But what I was thinking was that Kitty never has any peace of mind +because she hasn't any mind to have peace in. + +I didn't say this, however. + +I practised tact. + + +_Later._ + +Well, it has come off. Mrs. Barnes is out of the hall, and at this very +moment Uncle Rudolph and Dolly are alone together in it, proposing and +being proposed to. He is telling her that he worships her, and in reply +she is gently drawing his attention to Siegfried and Juchs. How much +will he mind them? Will he mind them at all? Will his love triumphantly +consume them, or, having swallowed Siegfried, will he find himself +unable to manage Juchs? + +Oh, I love people to be happy! I love them to love each other! I do hope +it will be all right! Dolly may say what she likes, but love is the only +thing in the world that works miracles. Look at Uncle Rudolph. I'm more +doubtful, though, of the result than I would have been yesterday, +because what brought about Mrs. Barnes's absence from the hall has made +me nervous as to how he will face the disclosing of Juchs. + +While I'm waiting I may as well write it down,--by my clock I count up +that Dolly must be a third of the way through Siegfried now, so that +I've still got three quarters of an hour. + +This is what happened: + +The morning started badly, indeed terribly. Dolly, bored by being stared +at in silence, said something about more wool and went upstairs quite +soon after breakfast. My uncle, casting a despairing glance at the +window past which the snow was driving, scowled for a moment or two at +Mrs. Barnes, then picked up a stale _Times_ and hid himself behind it. + +To make up for his really dreadful scowl at Mrs. Barnes I began a +pleasant conversation with her, but at once she checked me, saying, +'Sh--sh--,' and deferentially indicating, with her knitting needle, my +reading uncle. + +Incensed by such slavishness, I was about to rebel and insist on talking +when he, stirred apparently by something of a bloodthirsty nature that +he saw in the _Times_, exclaimed in a very loud voice, 'Search as I +may--and I have searched most diligently--I can't find a single good +word to say for Germans.' + +It fell like a bomb. He hasn't mentioned Germans once. I had come to +feel quite safe. The shock of it left me dumb. Mrs. Barnes's knitting +needles stopped as if struck. I didn't dare look at her. Dead silence. + +My uncle lowered the paper and glanced round at us, expecting agreement, +impatient of our not instantly saying we thought as he did. + +'Can _you_?' he asked me, as I said nothing, being petrified. + +I was just able to shake my head. + +'Can _you_?' he asked, turning to Mrs. Barnes. + +Her surprising answer--surprising, naturally, to my uncle--was to get up +quickly, drop all her wool on the floor, and hurry upstairs. + +He watched her departure with amazement. Still with amazement, when she +had disappeared, his eyes sought mine. + +Why, he said, staring at me aghast, 'why--the woman's a pro-German!' + +In my turn I stared aghast. + +'Mrs. _Barnes_?' I exclaimed, stung to quite a loud exclamation by the +grossness of this injustice. + +'Yes,' said my uncle, horrified. 'Yes. Didn't you notice her expression? +Good heavens--and I who've taken care not to speak to a pro-German for +five years, and had hoped, God willing, never to speak to one again, +much less--' he banged his fists on the arms of the chair, and the +_Times_ slid on to the floor--'much less be under the same roof with +one.' + +'Well then, you see, God wasn't willing,' I said, greatly shocked. + +Here was the ecclesiastic coming up again with a vengeance in all the +characteristic anti-Christian qualities; and I was so much stirred by +his readiness to believe what he thinks is the very worst of poor, +distracted Mrs. Barnes, that I flung caution to the winds and went +indignantly on: 'It isn't Mrs. Barnes who is pro-German in this +house--it's Dolly.' + +'What?' cried my uncle. + +'Yes,' I repeated, nodding my head at him defiantly, for having said it +I was scared, 'it's Dolly.' + +'Dolly?' echoed my uncle, grasping the arms of his chair. + +'Perhaps pro-German doesn't quite describe it,' I hurried on nervously, +'and yet I don't know--I think it would. Perhaps it's better to say that +she is--she is of an unprejudiced international spirit--' + +Then I suddenly realised that Mrs. Barnes was gone. Driven away. Not +likely to appear again for ages. + +I got up quickly. 'Look here, Uncle Rudolph,' I said, making hastily, +even as Mrs. Barnes had made, for the stairs, 'you ask Dolly about it +yourself. I'll go and tell her to come down. You ask her about being +pro-German. She'll tell you. Only--' I ran back to him and lowered my +voice--'propose first. She won't tell you unless you've proposed first.' + +Then, as he sat clutching the arms of his chair and staring at me, I +bent down and whispered, 'Now's your chance, Uncle Rudolph. You've +settled poor Mrs. Barnes for a bit. She won't interrupt. I'll send +Dolly--goodbye--good luck!' + +And hurriedly kissing him I hastened upstairs to Dolly's room. + +Because of the door leading out of it into Mrs. Barnes's room I had to +be as cautious as I was last night. I did exactly the same things: went +in on tiptoe, took hold of her firmly by the wrist, and led her out +without a word. Then all I had to do was to point to the stairs, and at +the same time make a face--but a kind face, I hope--at her sister's shut +door, and the intelligent Dolly did the rest. + +She proceeded with a sober dignity pleasant to watch, along the passage +in order to be proposed to. Practice in being proposed to has made her +perfect. At the top of the stairs she turned and smiled at me,--her +dimple was adorable. I waved my hand; she disappeared; and here I am. + +Forty minutes of the hour are gone. She must be in the very middle now +of Juchs. + + +_Night._ + +I knew this little house was made for kindness and love. I've always, +since first it was built, had the feeling that it was blest. Sure indeed +was the instinct that brought me away from England, doggedly dragging +myself up the mountain to tumble my burdens down in this place. It +invariably conquers. Nobody can resist it. Nobody can go away from here +quite as they arrived, unless to start with they were of those blessed +ones who wherever they go carry peace with them in their hearts. From +the first I have felt that the worried had only got to come here to be +smoothed out, and the lonely to be exhilarated, and the unhappy to be +comforted, and the old to be made young. Now to this list must be added: +and the widowed to be wedded; because all is well with Uncle Rudolph and +Dolly, and the house once more is in its normal state of having no one +in it who isn't happy. + +For I grew happy--completely so for the moment, and I shouldn't be +surprised if I had really done now with the other thing--the minute I +caught sight of Uncle Rudolph's face when I went downstairs. + +Dolly was sitting by the file looking pleased. My uncle was standing on +the rug; and when he saw me he came across to me holding out both his +hands, and I stopped on the bottom stair, my hands in his, and we looked +at each other and laughed,--sheer happiness we laughed for. + +Then we kissed each other, I still on the bottom stair and therefore +level with him, and then he said, his face full of that sweet affection +for the whole world that radiates from persons in his situation, 'And to +think that I came here only to scold you!' + +'Yes, Uncle Rudolph,' I said. 'To think of it!' + +'Well, if I came to scold I've stayed to love,' he said. + +'Which,' said I, while we beamed at each other, 'as the Bible says, is +far better.' + +Then Dolly went upstairs to tell Mrs. Barnes--lovely to be going to +strike off somebody's troubles with a single sentence!--and my uncle +confessed to me that for the first time a doubt of Dolly had shadowed +his idea of her when I left him sitting there while I fetched her-- + +'Conceive it--conceive it!' he cried, smiting his hands together. +'Conceive letting Germans--_Germans_, if you please--get even for half +an instant between her and me!'--but that the minute he saw her coming +down the stairs to him such love of her flooded him that he got up and +proposed to her before she had so much as reached the bottom. And it was +from the stairs, as from a pulpit, that Dolly, supporting herself on the +balustrade, expounded Siegfried and Juchs. + +She wouldn't come down till she had finished with them. She was, I +gathered, ample over Siegfried, but when it came to Juchs she was +profuse. Every single aspect of them both that was most likely to make a +dean think it impossible to marry her was pointed out and enlarged upon. +She wouldn't, she announced, come down a stair further till my uncle was +in full possession of all the facts, while at the same time carefully +bearing in mind the Table of Affinity. + +'And were you terribly surprised and shocked, Uncle Rudolph?' I asked, +standing beside him with our backs to the fire in our now familiar +attitude of arm in arm. + +My uncle is an ugly little man, yet at that moment I could have sworn +that he had the face of an angel. He looked at me and smiled. It was the +wonderfullest smile. + +'I don't know what I was,' he said. 'When she had done I just said, "My +Beloved"--and then she came down.' + + +_October 15th._ + +This is my last night here, and this is the last time I shall write in +my old-age book. To-morrow we all go away together, to Bern, where my +uncle and Dolly will be married, and then he takes her to England, and +Mrs. Barnes and I will also proceed there, discreetly, by another route. + +So are the wanderings of Mrs. Barnes and Dolly ended, and Mrs. Barnes +will enter into her idea of perfect bliss, which is to live in the very +bosom of the Church with a cathedral almost in her back garden. For my +uncle, prepared at this moment to love anybody, also loves Mrs. Barnes, +and has invited her to make her home with him. At this moment indeed he +would invite everybody to make their homes with him, for not only has he +invited me but I heard him most cordially pressing those peculiarly +immovable Antoines to use his house as their headquarters whenever they +happen to be in England. + +I think a tendency to invite runs in the family, for I too have been +busy inviting. I have invited Mrs. Barnes to stay with me in London till +she goes to the Deanery, and she has accepted. Together we shall travel +thither, and together we shall dwell there, I am sure, in that unity +which is praised by the Psalmist as a good and pleasant thing. + +She will stay with me for the weeks during which my uncle wishes to have +Dolly all to himself. I think there will be a great many of those weeks, +from what I know of Dolly; but being with a happy Mrs. Barnes will be +different from being with her as she was here. She is so happy that she +consists entirely of unclouded affection. The puckers from her face, and +the fears and concealments from her heart, have all gone together. She +is as simple and as transparent as a child. She always was transparent, +but without knowing it; now she herself has pulled off her veils, and +cordially requests one to look her through and through and see for +oneself how there is nothing there but contentment. A little +happiness,--what wonders it works! Was there ever anything like it? + +This is a place of blessing. When I came up my mountain three months +ago, alone and so miserable, no vision was vouchsafed me that I would go +down it again one of four people, each of whom would leave the little +house full of renewed life, of restored hope, of wholesome +looking-forward, clarified, set on their feet, made useful once more to +themselves and the world. After all, we're none of us going to be +wasted. Whatever there is of good in any of us isn't after all going to +be destroyed by circumstances and thrown aside as useless. When I am so +foolish--_if_ I am so foolish I should say, for I feel completely cured! +as to begin thinking backwards again with anything but a benevolent +calm, I shall instantly come out here and invite the most wretched of my +friends to join me, and watch them and myself being made whole. + +The house, I think, ought to be rechristened. + +It ought to be called _Chalet du Fleuve Jordan_. + +But perhaps my guests mightn't like that. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MOUNTAINS*** + + +******* This file should be named 35072.txt or 35072.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/5/0/7/35072 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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