Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie (12 page)
June 3rd, 1888
.
A most extraordinary and agitating event occurred this afternoon. A person of the name of Hardysides came to see me and made a proposal for dear Eva’s hand. I very naturally said that I could not possibly consider this matter, and bid him good day; but the whole affair has upset me dreadfully. Supposing that Eva were in time to marry? Not Hardysides, of course, the idea is ridiculous, but supposing (which God be thanked is unlikely owing to our very retired position) that some young man of family and fortune were to make an offer for her? What could I say? For Eva’s presence here is very necessary to me. If she left me, who would copy out my poems ready for the publisher? Who would order the food, arrange the flowers, attend to the linen and perform the hundred and one little odd jobs which it is a daughter’s plain and joyous duty to do for her Mother? I
cannot
believe that dearest Eva would be so
base
and
selfish
as to leave me alone for the few years that remain before I join my beloved Josiah on High. Who are these Hardysides? A family with which I seem to be unacquainted. I very much hope that
no more
will be said on the subject, as these shocks are
most
injurious to my health.
June 4th, 1888
.
Dearest Eva herself broached the subject of Mr. Hardysides (whom she
most
improperly refers to by his christian name of Horace) during the time which I always devote to my correspondence. I kindly, but very firmly, explained my reasons for objecting to this marriage,
absurd, preposterous, unthinkable
, and indicated to the dear child that I should be much obliged if, in future, she would refrain from taking up my valuable time with such foolishness. I feel
quite tired
and done up, but I am thankful to think that this will not occur again. (It appears that Mr. Hardysides is an artist, an acquaintance of dearest Feodora’s, and has several times lately been to stay at Compton Bobbin. I must speak to darling Edward about this.)
June 8th, 1888
.
I feel so much agitated that I can hardly even hold my pen, to communicate my feelings to
this
Sacred Page. That any child of mine should behave with such ingratitude, such selfishness, such rank inconsideration for others, and such utter lack of modesty or self-restraint, is hard to record. This Little Book has been the recipient of
many
sorrows and
some
joys, but never before has it chronicled a Deed of this description. Let the facts then speak for themselves, for who am I to judge another sinner?
This morning, as I was pondering over the proofs of my ‘Peasant Children on Mount Snowdon’, Eva came into my morning-room, wearing as I noticed somewhat to my surprise, a new bonnet and shawl.
‘Are you going out, dearest child?’ I said, intending, if this should indeed prove to be the case, to give her one or two little commissions for me in the village.
‘Yes, dear mamma,’ she replied, a guilty flush o’er spreading (and, alas! with what reason) her usually somewhat pallid cheeks. ‘I have just come to acquaint you with the fact that
I am now going out to be married, by special licence, to Horace Hardysides.’
I flatter myself that I maintained, on hearing these insolent words, an admirable composure.
‘Then Go!’ I said, in very
awful
tones, which I fear may ring in poor Eva’s ears to the hour of her death. ‘Go! But do not seek to return! When your Hardysides has proved himself false and unfaithful,
this
roof shall never shelter you again!’
‘Mamma!’ she said, imploringly, the full sense of her guilt coming over her, no doubt, for the first time.
‘Go!’ I reiterated. ‘Pray go!’
Hesitatingly, she turned and went.
Without another word, without even so much as a glance, she left her lonely,
Widowed
Mother for the embraces of a stranger. May
he
never use
her
so! How sharper than the serpent’s tooth –
I have sent in haste for dear Edward and told him to summon dear Arthur, George, Albert, Frederick and William, Alice, Julia, Maud and Louise. (Darling Beatrice is shortly expecting a happy event, and I refused to have her informed, as I fear that the shock might have
disastrous consequences
and jeopardize a little Life.) No doubt they will all, as ever, be very kind, but ah! how I long on such occasions for the guidance and wisdom of my own Sainted Josiah – I can only hope that in a very little while we shall once more be united – Above! This Happy and Dreadful thought has made me wonder how Eva will be enabled to meet her Father’s eye when her day shall come – if, indeed one so selfish and untruthful be granted entrance to the Heavenly Spheres. Poor, poor misguided Child.
Later
.
My darling Edward has just been round to see me. He is very much perturbed, not only upon my account, though, naturally, I am his chief preoccupation in the matter,
but also because of the disgrace which poor Eva’s dreadful action will have brought upon the whole Family. Dearest Feodora is immeasurably distressed (he says) and well she may be, at her share in this matter. It appears that she met this Mr. Hardysides in London and asked him down to Compton Bobbin to paint a group of herself and the five eldest children. The picture was never finished, as darling Edward, when in Town, was taken to see some of the artist’s works; and finding that they were most dreadfully secular and unedifying, besides being devoid of the smallest genius, whether of composition, style or design, and finding also that Mr. Hardysides had a most
unsavoury
and
immoral
reputation, he gave him his immediate
congé
. Since then it would appear that the wretch has been staying in the neighbourhood in order to complete his seduction – already half begun – of poor Eva. I am saddened and amazed, and can write no more for today.
Lord Lewes, who arrived that evening, was the true type of Foreign Office ‘young’ man. (Men remain, for some reason, ‘young men’ longer in the Foreign Office than in any other profession.) He was tall, very correctly dressed in a style indicating the presence of money rather than of imagination, and had a mournful, thin, eighteenth-century face. His correct and slightly pompous manner combined with the absence in his speech of such expressions as ‘O.K. loo’, ‘I
couldn’t
be more amused’, ‘We’ll call it a day’, ‘lousy’, ‘It was a riot’, ‘My sweetie-boo’ and ‘What a poodle-pie’ to indicate the barrier of half a generation between himself, Paul and Bobby; a barrier which more than any other often precludes understanding, if not friendship, between young and youngish people.
He appeared, in a totally undistinguished way, however, to be a person of some culture, and since being
en poste
at Cairo, had interested himself mainly in Egyptology. He told Paul that he had recently spent much time and money on excavations, and had been rewarded, just before he had left, by finding the tomb of some early and unknown (he did not use the word ‘bogus’) Shepherd King, the unearthing of which had caused a certain stir amongst Egyptologists.
‘Isn’t it supposed to be unlucky to dig up tombs?’ asked Philadelphia, who had languidly been listening to Michael’s conversation.
‘Who was it said that “only shallow men believe in luck”?’ he replied, smiling sadly. ‘Emerson, I think. In any case, it is certain
that if luck exists I have had a very small share of it in my life, either before digging up poor old Papuachnas or since. Besides, I haven’t kept any of the things I found for myself, not a single scarab, and I think that might make a difference, don’t you?’
Paul, who had a practical side to his nature, thought that he himself would easily be able to endure the kind of lucklessness that brought with it a marquisate, a superb Adam house and fifteen thousand pounds a year. He felt sure that Michael Lewes still believed that he was in love with Mrs. Fortescue; he evidently considered himself to be an unhappy person, hardly used by Fate.
‘It is curious,’ went on Lord Lewes, ‘to consider the hold that Egyptology takes on people. Nearly everyone seems to be more or less interested in it, more so, I believe, than in any other ancient history, not excepting even that of Greece herself. The most unlikely people used to ask if they could come to see my little collection in Cairo; débutantes from London, for instance, and their mothers, people you would think had no feeling for such things.’
‘It is the human interest,’ said Paul. ‘(And I don’t mean only in the case of the débutantes.) I believe that most people have felt it at one time or another. Of course, it is very romantic to think of those tombs, found exactly as they were left at the beginning of the world, full of art treasures and jewels, the pill of historical research is gilded with the primitive and universal excitement of a treasure hunt. Personally, I have always thought that as a rule it is people of more imagination than intellect who feel drawn towards Egypt. Whereas the Philhelene, for instance, is less concerned with how the Greek lived than with how he
thought
, the average Egyptologist always seems to be rather too much fascinated by the little objects of everyday life which he has found, and rather too busy reconstructing the exact uses to which they were put, to look below the surface for spiritual manifestations of the age in which they were made.’
‘Perhaps on the whole you may be right,’ said Lord Lewes. ‘One does not, however, have to look very far for such manifestations; they are all around one in that country. The Egyptian was a superb artist.’
‘Ah! But for such a short time when measured by the length of his civilization. While the art was strictly formalized, I admit that it was good, almost great. Under Aknahton – correct me if I am wrong – the representational school came into being. After that, to my way of thinking, there was no more art in Egypt.’
‘There, I am afraid, I cannot possibly agree with you,’ said Lord Lewes with his charming smile. ‘I must regard Aknahton and his artists as very wonderful reformers, and their art as some of the greatest that can be found anywhere in the world.’
‘Yes, you see we have a different point of view. I cannot possibly admire purely representational art,’ said Paul, thinking how few people there were so tolerant and easy to get on with. For the first time since his arrival at Compton Bobbin he found himself wishing that he had been there under slightly more creditable circumstances. It occurred to him that if Michael Lewes knew the truth he might easily regard him as quite an ordinary thief, since he was evidently a person rather lacking in humour. Lord Lewes broke in upon this train of thought by saying, after considering the matter for some moments, ‘I think, you know, that the Egyptians themselves were more human than the Greeks, who always appear to have been so coldly perfect, like their own statuary, that it is difficult to credit them with the flesh and blood of ordinary human beings. “Fair Greece, sad relic of departed worth,” ’ he added mournfully, ‘ “Immortal though no more, though fallen, great.” ’
Paul looked at him in some amazement. He had never, since his Oxford days, met anybody so fond of quoting.
‘And presumably,’ said Lord Lewes, ‘that is how the Byzantinist must feel, otherwise I see no way to account for him. Attracted beyond words to the Archipelago itself, and repelled, I suppose, by the sheer perfection of the art which he finds there, he is obliged to search the islands for something which he thinks he can honestly admire. He ends, of course, by valuing the Byzantine quite absurdly high, far higher than its actual merit deserves.’
Paul, who was himself an ardent Byzantinist, and, like all such, extremely sensitive on the subject, was disgusted by this speech, which revealed in his opinion an intellectual dishonesty too dreadful to contemplate. He was just about to inform Lord Lewes that he was the author of a small and privately printed monograph entitled
The Byzantine Breakaway
when he remembered for the second time that evening that his position in the household was not of the most genuine, and that his name was now no longer Fotheringay but Fisher. Too angry to continue the discussion he walked quickly out of the room, saying over his shoulder to Philadelphia, ‘I’l fetch that book I said I would lend you; I particularly want to know what you think about it.’
‘Nice, isn’t he?’ said Michael as soon as he was out of the room.
‘Awfully sweet,’ said Bobby.
‘He’s an angel, I think,’ said Philadelphia dreamily.
Later Lord Lewes said to his Aunt Gloria, ‘What a really charming, cultured young man, that Mr. Fisher, it is a real pleasure to have made his acquaintance. I think you were so clever to find him. He is just the very person for Bobby, too; full of brains and yet most human.’
‘Yes, he seems all right,’ said Lady Bobbin. ‘He was very much recommended to me. I only hope he will get the boy out of doors and make himself useful with Brenda Chadlington’s brats. She announced today that she is bringing them again; most thoughtless and inconsiderate of her to my mind, but still –!’
Paul looked forward with no feelings of delight to his first ride to Compton Bobbin. He was, in fact, extremely terrified at the idea of it. Bobby, noticing his aversion to that form of exercise, tried to reassure him by pointing out that the distance to Mulberrie Farm was well under three miles, that it would be unnecessary for them to proceed at any pace more desperate than a walk, and that Boadicea, the mare which had been allotted to him to ride, was as quiet as any old cow; but in vain. Paul, most unfortunately for his own peace of mind, had happened to see the said mare out at exercise the day before, and had noticed in her a very different aspect from that of the ancient hireling on whose back he had spent so many painful hours jogging up and down the Rotten Row. To compare her to an old cow was simply silly. It was, in fact, only too apparent that here was a beast of pride and pedigree, who would almost certainly consider it a point of honour to cast the trembling tyro from her back. Paul knew, alas! how fatally easy, in his case, this would be; the smallest jerk, nay, even the transition between trot and canter, often proved sufficient to unseat him. He visualized with a shudder that horrid moment when everything would fly from his grip, the universe become black and roll several times round him, while the earth would suddenly rise up and bang him in the kidneys. It had happened in the soft and friendly Row and had been extraordinarily painful; what of the tarmac road, hard, black and shining like ebonite, which lay between Compton Bobbin and Mulberrie Farm? Poor Paul spent a wakeful night pondering these things, and by the morning had quite made up his mind that he would return to London sooner than court an end so sudden and unpleasing.
