Books: The Professional Aunt
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Mary C.E. Wemyss >> The Professional Aunt
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Well, Zerlina of course said I was mad. She didn't agree with me
that the screw could not possibly have been sent back in an
envelope with a few words of explanation. She said she would have
bought a nice toy for the child. What's the good of a toy to a
child when he has lost a screw which he found his very own self,
any more than a squeaking rabbit is to a child who has a "lubbly
blush"? That was a lesson I had lately learned.
I didn't say all that to Zerlina, because, you see, she is a
mother, and I couldn't understand these things. She was very much
surprised at being late for the party, so surprised. She was full
of apologies.
It was so good of me to help her! Had the darling children
enjoyed themselves?
I said, yes, they had, and the adorable mothers, and the delicious
Frauleins, and the heavenly mademoiselles. At this Zerlina looked
a little pained, and I was sorry I was cross, but I felt her want
of sympathy for Thomas. But then she had never passed that closed
door.
Chapter VII
As a professional aunt must live somewhere, if only to simplify
the delivery of telegrams, it is as well perhaps to explain where
I live and why. The answer to the where, is London, and to the
why, because it is the best place for all professionals to live
in. Many were the suggestions that I should live in the country.
Careful relatives and good housewives saw a chance of cheap and
fresh eggs, cheap and large chickens, and cheap and freshly
gathered vegetables, which showed, in the words of Dr. Johnson, a
triumph of hope over experience, for I have always found that
there are no eggs so dear as those laid by the hens of friends, no
chickens so thin as those kept by relatives, no vegetables so
expensive as those grown by acquaintances. But a professional
aunt would of course be expected to make special terms, although
her hens, like those of other people, would eat corn, and railways
would charge just the same for carrying her goods, whether they
were consigned to sisters-in-law or not, and the expense of the
carriage is the reason invariably given why things are so dear
when bought from friends. Friends, too, have a way of sending
chickens with their feathers on, whereas the chickens one knows by
sight, laid in rows in poulterers' shops, have no association with
feathers. Don't you dislike the country friend who asks you to
spend a night, and then tells you at breakfast that the pillow you
slept on was filled with the feathers of departed hens known and
loved by her?
Then there was Nannie, and my, living in London added a great
importance to her position. She became at once chaperon,
housekeeper, counselor, and friend. It was a great joy to her to
think that she shielded me from the dangers of London; and she
would willingly have fetched me from dinners and parties
generally, and saw nothing incongruous in the announcement, " Miss
Lisle's nurse is at the door."
"Not that I should be at the door," said Nannie; "I never go
anywhere but what I am asked inside and treated as such." Nannie
still thinks of us as children, and will continue to do so, no
doubt until she who has rocked so many babies to sleep shall
herself be enfolded in the arms of Mother Earth -- and tenderly
bidden to sleep.
Personally I had a leaning toward a flat, so many of my friends
told me of the joys of shutting it up when one goes away, which,
by the way, I find they never, or very rarely, do. But Nannie
didn't hold with flats. It is curious what things people don't
hold with. After reading of a terrible murder in a railway
carriage, I cautioned my little housemaid, who was going home one
Sunday, to be careful not to be thrown out of a window. She
replied, "I don't hold with girls who are thrown out of windows."
Well, Nannie didn't hold with flats. To please me and to show her
open-mindedness, she went with me to look at flats, but there was a
tactless integrity about her criticism. I discovered that she
judged of everything from a nursery point of view; and when I
ventured to suggest that, as there were no children, a nursery was
not of very great importance, she said, "You never can tell." In
this instance I felt I could most distinctly tell, and wondered
whether I might too tell Nannie of something I didn't hold with.
But I didn't. I remember once long ago one of us asking Nannie if
any one could have children without being married, and Nannie
answered in a very matter of fact voice, "They can, dear, but it's
better not." Anyhow, she didn't hold with flats. "There's the
porters for one thing," she said. That, of course, settled it,
and we looked at small houses.
"I suppose you will get married one of these days," she said, as
we stood on a doorstep waiting to be let in.
"Perhaps no one will have me," I said.
"Well, they might; people marry you least expect to. Look at
Maria Dewberry; you would never have --"
The door opened, or we will presume so, as my knowledge of Maria's
movements after her surprising marriage is nil.
Looking over houses is not without excitement, and certainly not
without surprises; but I was spared the experience some unknown
person had who came one day to see our house when we all lived in
London, but happened to be away. Having a house in the country,
we very often did let the London house, which accounts for the
agent's mistake.
One day, just as Archie was going out, he found on the doorstep a
charming lady with a very pretty daughter.
"May we see over the house?" she asked.
"Certainly," said Archie.
He showed them all over the house, from cellar to garret. He says
he initiated them into the mysteries of the dark cupboard, and he
says he showed them everything of historic interest in the family.
The daughter, he vows, was tremendously interested. When they had
seen everything and Archie had brought them back to the hall, the
charming mother said, "And when is the house to let?"
"Oh! it's not to let," said Archie.
He says he assured them it was no trouble at all, etc.!
In every small house we went, Nannie trudged laboriously up to the
top, and I heard her murmuring, "Night, day," as she went backward
and forward, from one room to the other. At last we found a small
house in Chelsea of which she thoroughly approved. She couldn't
exonerate the agent from all blame in saying that there were views
of the river from the window. "Not but what there might be if we,
leaned out far enough, but we can't because of the bars." It was
the very bars that had attracted her in the first instance, from
the outside. Bars meant a nursery. Iron bars may not make a
cage, but they undoubtedly make a nursery.
She stood at the top window and looked out on the green trees, and
a blackbird was obliging enough, at that very moment, to sing a
love-song. Perhaps it was about nurseries, and Nannie understood
it; at all events she decided there and then to take the house. "
Of course, she said, "I know there's no nursery wanted, but I
don't hold with houses that can't have nurseries in them, if they
want to." That gave me an idea! It came like a flash. Nannie
should have her nursery!
Of course this all happened some years ago, when the home at Hames
was broken up. With the help of Diana I managed it beautifully.
It was kept a dead secret. Diana collected, or rather allowed me
to collect, all the things Nannie had specially loved in the home
nursery, which I am sure cost Diana a pang, as she was very
anxious her children should abide by tradition and grow up among
the things their father had loved as a boy; but she sent them all,
even the rocking-horse, to me for my nursery.
The walls I had papered just as our nursery had been papered.
Even the old kettle was rescued from oblivion,, and stood on the
hob. It was so old that any jumble sale would have been pleased
to have it. The kettle-holder hung on the wall, with its
cat on a green ground, which had been lovely in the day of its
youth. One of us had worked it; Nannie of course knew which. The
tea-set was there with its green, speckled ground.
But while all this was being arranged, Nannie had a very bad time.
It was not for long, certainly, but she said it was pretty bad
while it lasted. To insure the complete secrecy of our nursery
plan, we arranged that she should go to Hames while we were doing
it all, never thinking of what she would feel on going into the
Hames nursery and finding all her treasures gone, and finding
another woman reigning in her place; for all through our grown-up
years the nursery had been left for Nannie as it had been when we
were children. The nurse in her place hurt most.
"'Mrs.' here and 'Mrs.' there, certificated and teaching. It's
all very well, but I'm not sure they don't go too far in this
teaching business. No amount of teaching will -- Well, it's
there, so what's the use? I expect Eve knew how to handle Cain
right enough."
"He wasn't very well brought up, though, Nannie," I said.
"Poor child! " said Nannie. " How do we know it wasn't Abel's
fault? He may have been an aggravating child; some are born so,
and I've seen a child, m any a time, go on at another till he's
almost worried him into a frenzy just saying, ' I see you,' over
and over again, does it sometimes. Children will do it, of
course; besides, there were no commandments then, and you can't
expect children to do right without rules and regulations. That's
all discipline is, rules and regulations, which is commandments,
so to speak."
"You think, then, Nannie," I said, "that Eve forgot to tell Cain
not to kill Abel?"
"Well," said Nannie, "Eve had a lot to do; we can't blame her.
She must have had a lot to do. Think what a worry Adam must have
been: he had no experience, no nothing; he couldn't be a help to a
woman., brought up as he was, always thinking of himself as first,
as of course he was! Now, there's Parker -- he is a good husband:
he rolls the beef on Sunday to save Mrs. Parker trouble, and
prepares the vegetables; he is a good husband, no trouble in the
house whatsoever. He never brings in dirt, Mrs. Parker says,
wipes his feet ever so before he comes, on the finest day just the
same."
I thought the comparison a little hard on Adam, but still I didn't
say so, and Nannie reverted to the modern nurse, after informing
me that men and horses were sacred beasts!
"Well, about nurses, ' Mrs.' before a nurse's name doesn't soothe
a fretful child, nor make her more patient or loving. It might
make her less patient, if she took to wishing the ' Mrs.' was real
instead of sham; some women are like that, all for marrying. I
dare say," said Nannie, when going over her experiences, "my face
did look blank when I missed all my treasures, but f said nothing,
although it was a blow when I thought of all the lovely times you
had had with that rocking-horse. You remember the hole in it?
Well, that was cut out solid because of all the things that were
inside that rocking-horse; almost all the things that had been
lost for years we found in that horse. My gold chain, for one
thing, to say nothing of other things. The tail came out, and
that is how the things got lost. The boys, always up to mischief,
just popped anything they came across down that hole and put in
the tail again, so no one knew anything about it. Well, then,
your father lost something very special, I forget what, and there
was a to-do! And Jane said she believed there was a power of
things down that rocking-horse, so we got Jane's sister's young
man, who was a carpenter, or by way of being, to come and cut out
a square block out of the underneath -- well, the stomach -- of
that horse -- and then we found things! Things we had lost for
years. Then we put the block back, and no one would have noticed
particularly, not unless they had looked. Well, that's what I
missed, the rocking-horse, but still I said nothing. Then we had
tea out of new cups, and still I said nothing, because tea-cups
will get broken, and you can't expect young girls to take care of
cups like we did. The kettle-holder was gone! Then Mrs. David
came in. Oh! she is lovely and like your mother in some ways, --
the ways of going round and speaking to every one, -- and she
laid her hand on Betty's head, just as I've seen your mother do a
hundred times on yours, and that was hard to bear. Anyhow, it's a
good thing it wasn't some one else who got Hames. There 's that
to be thankful for. It begins with ' Z,' you know."
"Nannie!" I said.
"Z for Zebra," said Nannie.
When the new nursery was all ready, Nannie was sent for. A dozen
times that day I ran up that narrow staircase, and in the morning
I laid the tea to see how it would look, and it looked so pretty
that I left it. At four o'clock the fire was lighted and the
kettle was put on to boil. Nannie drove up in a four wheeler. I
was in the hall to meet her. She lingered to look at everything.
She went round and round the dining-room, up to the drawing-room,
even into the spare room, but no word of nursery. "Which is my
room?" she said.
"It's upstairs," I said. "Won't you come and look at it?"
"There's no hurry, is there, miss?"
I could see it was the nursery floor she dreaded.
"Well, there is rather a hurry, Nannie," I said. "I am so anxious
to see if you like all the house."
At last I got her upstairs. I threw open the nursery door. It
was too sudden, no doubt. At the sight of the kettle, the
rocking-horse, the tea-set, she burst into tears.
"Dear, dear Nannie," I said. "it is your own nursery; it's all
from Hames."
She paused in her sobs. "The robin mug's wrong," she said, and
she moved it to the opposite side of the table; "he always sat
there." "He" applied to a little brother who had died, not to the
mug.
"It's a very small nursery, Nannie," I said apologetically.
"Well, there are no children to make it untidy," she answered.
So Nannie and I settled down in our nursery, and through the
darkening of that first evening she talked to me of my mother. It
seems to me very wonderful how one woman can so devotedly love the
children of another, but was it not greatly for the love of that
other woman that Nannie loved us so much? It is her figure, I
know, that Nannie sees when she shuts her eyes and re-peoples the
nursery in her dreams, -- that lovely mother, the center of that
nursery and home; that mother so quick to praise, so loath to
blame, so ready to find good in everything, so tender to
suffering, so pitiful to sin!
"Tell me about her when she was quite young, Nannie," I said.
And Nannie talked on, telling me the stories I knew by heart and
loved so dearly; and then, I remember, she started up.
"What is it, Nannie? " I asked.
"I thought she was calling," she replied; "I often seem to hear
her voice."
Dear Nannie! I believe she is ready to answer that call at any
moment, for all the love of her new nursery.
That is how I came to live in London.
Chapter VIII
Most people, I imagine, who live in London are asked by their
relatives and friends who live in the country to shop for them.
My post is often a matter of great anxiety to me, and I know
nothing more upsetting than on a very hot summer's morning, or a
wet winter's one, to find an envelope on my plate, or beside it,
addressed in Cousin Anastasia's large handwriting. "Dearest," the
letter inside it begins, "if" (heavily underlined) "you should be
passing Paternoster Row, will you choose me a nice little prayer-
book, without a cross on it, please; people tell me they are
cheaper there than elsewhere, prayer-books, I mean, for Jane, who
is going to be confirmed. She is such a nice clean girl. I do
hope she will be as clean after her confirmation, but one never
can tell. In any case I feel I ought to give her something, and a
prayer-book, under the circumstances, seems the most suitable
thing."
Jane, I remember, is a kitchen-maid. Of course I never pass
Paternoster Row, but that to a country cousin of Anastasia's
mental caliber is not worth consideration. She has no knowledge
of geography, London's or otherwise, and is doubtless one of those
people who think New Zealand is another name for Australia.
On another occasion she writes to say that Martha, the head
housemaid, "such an excellent servant," (all heavily under
lined), who has been with them seventeen years, is going to marry
a nice, clean widower with six children. She must give her a nice
present; "nice" is underlined several times. She has heard that
in the Edgeware Road there are to be had, complete in case, for
three-and-sixpence, excellent clocks. She doesn't know the name
of the shop, but she believes it begins with "P," and if I could
look in as I pass, she would be most grateful. As will be
guessed, Anastasia is a wealthy woman with no sense of humor. She
knows she has none, and she says she doesn't know what rich people
want it for. Of course for poor people it is an excellent thing,
because it enables them to look at the bright side of things; but
as Anastasia's things, life in particular, are bright on all
sides, she doesn't need that particular sense.
Then there is another country cousin she is so sweet and diffident
about asking me to do anything, that I feel I ought willingly to
look into every shop window in the Edgeware Road beginning with
"P" or any other letter, however wet or hot the day! And I am not
sure that I wouldn't! Her writing is as meek as Anastasia's is
aggressive, and she never descends to the transparency of an
underlined "if." She says, would I mind sending her a book,
called so-and-so, by such and such an author, price so much? It
is all plain sailing with Cousin Penelope. She knows just what
she wants and where to get it; so much so that I sometimes wonder
why she doesn't send straight to the shop. But country cousins
never do that; for wherein would lie the use of London cousins, if
they didn't shop for their country cousins? How would they occupy
their time? She would like me please to get it at Bumpus's,
because they are so very civil and they knew her dear father. I
might mention his name if I thought fit! Now, I know quite well
that it is impossible that any one at Bumpus's, be he ever so
venerable, can ever have known Cousin Penelope's father. The
name, being Smith, may no doubt be familiar. Of course Cousin
Penelope would repay any expense I incurred. In fact she must
insist on so doing.
"Insist" seems too strong a word to apply to any power that Cousin
Penelope could enforce. It would be something so gentle;
persistent, perhaps, but insistent? Never! "I beg, I implore, I
entreat," would all be suitable, but "I insist " does not suggest
Cousin Penelope.
Dear Cousin Penelope, we are told, had a love-story in her youth,
the sadness of which ruined her life. It must have been a very
beautiful thing, that sorrow., to have made her what she is. One
feels that it must be a very wonderful love that is laid away in
the wrappings of submission and tied with the ribbons of
resignation. There is assuredly no bitterness about it, and I
sometimes wonder if one's own sorrow which tears and tugs at one's
heart will some day leave such a record of holiness and patience
on one's face! I am afraid not. I look in the glass, but I see
nothing in the reflection which in the least resembles Cousin
Penelope, nor can I believe that time will do it, nor am I brave
enough to wish it. I cannot yet pray for a peace like hers.
People say time can do everything, but
"Time is
Too slow for those who wait,
Too swift for those who fear,
Too long for those who grieve,
Too short for those who rejoice,
But for those who love Time is
Eternity."
So it is written on a sun-dial I know, and when I have a sun-dial
of my own, those words shall be written thereon.
"I think time lies heavily sometimes on Hugh's hands. He said one
day, "The days pass by, Betty, and we don't grow up!"
To return to booksellers. There is "Truslove and Hanson" in my
more or less immediate neighborhood, who are civil to a degree,
but they did not know Cousin Penelope's father, therefore they are
not specially qualified to sell a book to his daughter! So to
Bumpus I must go, and I love it. A bookshop is a joy to me; the
feel of books, the smell of books, the look of books, I love! I
even enjoy cutting the pages of a book, which I believe every one
does not enjoy.
Then there is another country cousin, Pauline. When her letter
comes, I open it with mixed feelings, in which the feeling of
fondness predominates. One can't help loving her. She never asks
one to shop for her, but with her, which is perhaps an even
greater test of friendship. On a particularly hot day, I
remember, a letter came from Pauline which announced her immediate
arrival. I was, waiting in the hall for her, ready to start,
which is a stipulation she always makes, as she says it is such a
pity to waste time. She greeted me in the same rather tempestuous
manner that I am accustomed to at the hands of Betty and Hugh, and
then she ran down the steps again to tell the cabman that he had a
very nice horse, which she patted, and said, "Whoa, mare!" She
always does that. She then asked the cabman how long he had been
driving, whether it was difficult to drive at night, and whether
it was true he could only see his horse's ears; and I think she
asked if he had any children, but of that I am not quite sure. If
she didn't, it was a lapse of memory on her part. Even the cab-
runner interested her. Hadn't I noticed what a sad face he had?
I said I hadn't noticed anything except that he was rather dirty.
Pauline said, "Of course he is dirty; what would you be, if you
ran after cabs all day?" I wondered.
Talking of cab-runners, I told her of the children's party I went
to with Cousin Penelope, who, very much afraid that she was late,
said in her sweetest manner to a man who opened the cab-door for
us, "Are we late?" And the man answered, "I really cannot say,
madam; I have only just this moment arrived myself."
He was in rags, which I did not tell her; the sponge cake would
have stuck in her throat at tea if I had. But I gave him
something for his ready wit, and wished for weeks afterwards that
I had plunged into the darkness after him. "What a charming man!"
said Cousin Penelope. But to return to Pauline.
"What a glorious day we are going to have!" she said. "It is good
of you to say I may stay the night, and if I go to a ball, you
won't mind? I have brought a small box, -- as you see."
I did see, and to my mind its size bordered on indecency. I like
a box to look sufficiently large to take all I think a woman ought
to need for a night's stay. Pauline often assures me it does hold
everything, squashed tight, of course. I say it must be squashed
very tight, and she says it is. "That's the beauty of the
present-day fashion of fluffy things: everything is so easily
squashed, and yet you can't squash them; an accordion-pleated
thing, for instance."
To a man whose admiration for a woman is gauged by the amount of
luggage she can travel without, Pauline would prove irresistible.
I know one who prides himself on his packing, and who has a horror
of much luggage. He was all packed ready to go to Scotland, when
his wife asked him if he could lend her a collar-stud for her
flannel shirts, and he said, "Yes, but you must carry it yourself,
I'm full up!"
To that man Pauline, I am sure, would be very attractive.
When Pauline and I started off on our shopping expedition, she
demurred at taking a hansom, although she loves driving in them;
but she said 'buses were so much more amusing. People in 'buses
say such funny things," she said, and so they do. The old lady in
particular who, when the horse got his leg over the trace without
hurting himself or any one else, got up and announced to the 'bus
in general: "There, I always did say I hated horses and dogs," and
sat down again. I loved her for that and for other things too,
among them her apple-cheeks and poke bonnet.
Another reason why I insisted upon a hansom is that Pauline is not
to be trusted in a 'bus; her interest in her fellow-creatures is
embarrassing. I have, moreover, sat opposite babies in 'buses
with Pauline, and where a baby is concerned, she has no self-
control. So I was firm, and we started off in a hansom. I was
continually besought to look at some delicious baby, first this
side, then that.
Pauline calmly avers that she would go mad if she lived in London.
She couldn't stand seeing so many beautiful children, or babies,
beautiful or otherwise. It is curious how babies in perambulators
hold out their hands to Pauline as she passes, and laugh and
gurgle at her.
Once in Piccadilly, beautiful babies became less plentiful, and
Pauline turned her thoughts and sympathies to horses and bearing-
reins. She was instantly plunged into the depths of despair.
Couldn't I do something, she asked, to remedy such a crying evil?
She said it was the duty of every woman in London -- Something in
the catalogue she was carrying arrested her attention, and what it
was the duty of every woman to do I am not sure. I did not ask,
but was grateful for the peace which ensued.
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