Told by an Idiot

Told by an Idiot By Rose Macaulay Generationi Patrum. PART I VICTORIAN TOLD BY AN IDIOT A FAMILY AT HOME ONE evening, shortly before Christmas, in the days when our forefathers, being young, possessed the earth—in brief, in the year 1879—Mrs. Garden came briskly into the drawing-room from Mr. Garden’s study and said in her crisp, even voice to her six children, “Well, my dears, I have to tell you something. Poor papa has lost his faith again.” Poor papa had very often lost his faith during the fifty years of his life. Sometimes he became, from being an Anglican clergyman, a Unitarian minister, sometimes a Roman Catholic layman (he was, by nature, habit and heredity, a priest or minister of religion, but the Roman Catholic church makes trouble about wives and children), sometimes some strange kind of dissenter, sometimes a plain agnostic, who believed that there lived more faith in honest doubt than in half the creeds (and as to this he should know, for on quite half the creeds he was by now an expert). On his last return to Anglicanism, he had accepted a country living. Victoria, the eldest of the six children, named less for the then regnant queen than for papa’s temporary victory over unbelief in the year of her birth, 1856, spoke sharply. She was twenty-three, and very pretty, and saw no reason why papa should be allowed so many more faiths and losses of faith in his career than the papas of others. “Really, mamma ... it is too bad of papa. I knew it was coming; I said so, didn’t I, Maurice? His sermons have been so funny lately, and he’s been reading Comte all day in his study instead of going out visiting, and getting all kinds of horrid pamphlets from the Rationalist Press Association, and poring over an article in the Examiner about ‘A Clergyman’s Doubts.’ And I suppose St. Thomas’ day has brought it to a head.” (Victoria was High Church, so knew all about saints’ days.) “And now we shall have to leave the vicarage, just when we’ve made friends with all sorts of nice people, with tennis courts and ballrooms. Papa should be more careful, and it is too bad.” Maurice, the second child (named for Frederick Denison), who was at Cambridge, and a firm rationalist, having fought and lost the battle of belief while a freshman, enquired, cynically but not undutifully, and with more patience than his sister, “What is he going to be this time?” “An Ethicist,” said Mrs. Garden, in her clear, noncommittal voice. “We are joining the Ethical Society.” “Whatever’s that?” Vicky crossly asked. “It has no creeds but only conduct” ... ( “And I,” Vicky interpolated, “have no conduct but only creeds” ) ... “and a chapel in South Place, Finsbury Pavement, and a magazine which sometimes has a poem by Robert Browning. It published that one about a man who strangled a girl he was fond of with her own hair on a wet evening. I don’t know why he thought it specially suitable for the Ethical Society magazine.... They meet for worship on Sundays.” “Worship of what, mamma?” “Nobility of character, dear. They sing ethical hymns about it.” Vicky gave a little scream. Mrs. Garden looked at Stanley, her third daughter (named less for the explorer than for the Dean, whom Mr. Garden had always greatly admired), and found, as she had expected, Stanley’s solemn blue eyes burning on hers. Stanley was, in fancy, in the South Place Ethical Chapel already, singing the ethical hymns.... Fall, fall, ye ancient litanies and creeds! Not prayers nor curses deep The power can longer keep That once ye kept by filling human needs. Fall, fall, ye mighty temples to the ground! Not in their sculptured rise Is the real exercise Of human nature’s brightest power found. ’Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil, ’Tis in the gifted line, In each far thought divine, That brings down heaven to light our common soil. ’Tis in the great, the lovely and the true, ’Tis in the generous thought Of all that man has wrought Of all that yet remains for man to do.... Stanley had read this and other hymns in a little book her papa had. “Then I suppose,” said Rome, the second daughter, who knew of old that papa must always live near a place of worship dedicated to his creed of the moment, “then I suppose we are moving to Finsbury Pavement.” Rome had been named less for the city than for the church, of which papa had been a member at the time of her birth, twenty years ago; and, after all, if Florence, why not Rome? Rome looked clever. She had a white, thin face, and vivid blue-green eyes like the sea beneath rocks; and she thought it very original of papa to believe so much and so often. Her own mind was sceptical. Vicky’s brow smoothed. Moving to London. There was something in that. Though of course it mustn’t be Finsbury Pavement; she would see to that. Irving, the youngest but one (named less for the actor than to commemorate the brief period when papa had been an Irvingite, and had believed in twelve living apostles who must all die and then would come the Last Day), said, “Golly, what a lark!” Irving was sixteen, and was all for a move, all for change of residence if not of creed. He was an opportunist and a realist, and made the best of the vagaries of circumstance. He was destined to do well in life. He was not, like Maurice, sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, nor, like Vicky, caught in the mesh of each passing fashion, nor, like Stanley, an ardent hunter of the Idea, nor, like Rome, a critic. He was more like his younger sister (only he had more enterprise and initiative), Una, a very calm and jolly schoolgirl, named less for her who braved the dragon than for the One Person in whom papa had believed at the time of her birth (One Person not in the Trinitarian, but in the Unitarian sense). “Three hundred a year less,” remarked Rome, from the couch whereon she lay (for her back was often tired), and looked ironically at Vicky, to see how she liked the thought of that. Vicky’s smooth cheek flushed. She had forgotten about money. “Oh, really.... Oh, I do think papa is too bad. Papa had entered the room, and stood looking on mean? Can’t he wait till next?” Mamma’s faint (was it also ironic, or merely patient?) movement of the eyebrows meant that it was too late; papa’s faith was already lost. “By next winter he may have found it again,” Rome suggested. “Well, even if so,” said Vicky, “who’s going to go on giving him livings every time?... Oh, yes, mamma, I know all the bishops love him, but there is a limit to the patience of bishops.... Does the Ethical Society have clergymen or anything?” “I believe they have elders. Papa may become an elder.” “That’s no use. Elders aren’t paid. Don’t you remember when he was a Quaker elder, when we were all little? I’m sure it’s not a paid job. We shall be loathsomely poor again, and have to live without any fun or pretty things. And I daresay it’s low class, too, like dissent, as it’s got a chapel. Papa never bothers about that, of course. He’d follow General Booth into the Army, if he thought he had a call.” “I trust that I should, Vicky.” Papa had entered the room, and stood looking on them all, with his beautiful, distinguished, melancholy face (framed in small side whiskers), and his deep blue eyes like Stanley’s. Vicky’s ill-humour melted away, because papa was so gentle and so beautiful and so kind. And, after all, London was London, even with only six hundred a year. “Mamma has told you our news, I see,” said papa, in his sweet, mellow voice. He looked and spoke like a papa out of Charlotte M. Yonge, though his conduct with regard to the Anglican church was so different. “Yes, Aubrey, I’ve told them,” said mamma. “I hope you won’t mind, papa,” said Vicky, saucily, “if I go to church at St. Alban’s, Holborn. I’m a ritualist, not an Ethicist.” “Indeed, Vicky, I should be very sorry if you did not all follow your own lights, wherever they lead you.” Papa’s broad-mindedness amounted to a disease, Vicky sometimes thought. A queer kind of clergyman he was. What would Father Stanton and Father Mackonochie of St. Alban’s think of him? Father Mackonochie, who was habitually flung into gaol because he would face east when told to face north—as important as all that, he felt it. “Well, my darlings,” papa went on in his nice voice, “I must apologise to you all for this—this disturbance of your lives and mine. I would have spared it you if I could. But I have been over and over the ground, and I see no other way compatible with intellectual honesty. Honesty must come first.... Your mother and I are agreed.” Of course; they always were. From Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism, from Catholicism to Quakerism, from Quakerism to Unitarianism, Positivism, Baptistism (yes, they had once sunk, to Vicky’s shame, as low as that in the social scale, owing chiefly to the influence of Charles Spurgeon) and back to Anglicanism again—through everything mamma, silent, resigned and possibly ironic, had followed papa. And little Stanley had seen the idea behind all papa’s religions and tumbled headlong after him, and Maurice had, grimly, decided that it was safer to abjure all creeds, and Rome had critically looked on, with her faint, amused smile and her single eyeglass, and Irving and Una had been led, heedless and incurious, to each of papa’s places of worship in turn, but had understood none of them. They had not the religious temperament. Nor had Vicky, who attended her ritualistic churches from æsthetic fancy and a flair for being in the fashion, for seeing and hearing some new thing. She didn’t care which way priests faced, though she did enjoy incense. Vicky was a gay soul, and preferred dances and lawn tennis and young men to religion. Stanley too was gay—as merry as a grig, papa called her—but she had a burning ardour of mind and temper that made the world for her a place of exciting experiments. She now thought it worthy and honourable to be poor, for she had been reading William Morris and Ruskin and socialist literature, as intelligent young women did in those days, and was all for handicrafts and the one-man job. She was eighteen, and had had her first term at Somerville College, Oxford, which had just been founded and had twelve members. Irving, always practical, said, “When are we going to move? And where to?” “In February,” said mamma. “Probably we shall live in Bloomsbury. We have heard of a house there.” “Bloomsbury,” said Vicky. “That’s not so bad.” Sitting down at the piano, she began softly to play and sing. Papa sat by the fire, his thin hand on mamma’s, his thoughtful face pale and uplifted, as if he had made the Great Sacrifice once more, as indeed he had. Stanley sat on a cushion at his feet, and leant her dark head against his knee. She was a small, sturdy girl, and she wore a frock of blue, hand-embroidered cloth, plain and tight over the shoulders and breast, high-necked, with white ruching at the throat, and below the waist straighter than was the fashion, because Mr. Morris said that ripples and flounces wasted material and ruined line. Vicky, sinuous and green, rippled to the knees like running water. Irving sat on a Morris-chintz chair, reading “The Moonstone,” Maurice on a Liberty cretonne sofa, reading a leader in yesterday’s Observer. “It is, unfortunately, impossible to conceal from ourselves that the condition of Ireland, never perceptibly improved by the announcement of the projected remedy for her distress and discontents, has for some weeks gone steadily from bad to worse. The state of things which exists there is, for all practical purposes, indistinguishable from civil war. The insurrectionary forces arrayed against law and order are not, indeed, drilled and disciplined bodies; but what they lack in this respect they make up for in numbers and in recklessness.” Such was the sad state of Ireland in December, 1879, as sometimes before, as sometimes since. Or, anyhow, such was its state according to the Observer, a paper with which Maurice seldom, and Stanley never, agreed. Stanley put her faith in Mr. Gladstone, and Maurice in no politicians, though he appreciated Dizzy as a personality. Papa had always voted Liberal and Gladstone, but thought that the latter lacked religious tolerance. Maurice turned to another leader, which began “In these troubled times....” And certainly they were troubled, as times very nearly always, perhaps quite always, are. The Observer told news of the Basuto war, the Russian danger in Afghanistan, Land League troubles, danger of war with Spain, trouble in Egypt, trouble in Bulgaria, trouble in Midlothian (where Mr. Gladstone was speaking against the government), trouble of all sorts, everywhere. What a world! Stanley, an assiduous student of it, sometimes almost gave it up in despair; but never quite, for she always thought of something one ought to do, or join, or help, which might avert shipwreck. Just now it was handicrafts, and the restoration of beauty to rich and poor. 2 MAMMA AND HER CHILDREN Mamma, sitting with papa’s hand in hers, watched them all, with her quiet grey eyes looking through pince-nez, and her slight smile. Pretty Vicky, singing “My Queen,” with the lamplight shining on her mass of chestnut hair parted Rossetti-wise in the middle, her pink cheeks, her long white neck, her graceful, slim, flowing form, her æsthetic green dress (for Vicky was bitten with the æsthetic craze). Pretty Vicky. She loved gaiety and parties and comfort so much, it was a shame to cut down her dress allowance, as would be necessary. Perhaps Vicky would get engaged very soon, though, to one of her æsthetic or worldly young men. Vicky was not one of those sexless, intellectual girls, like Rome, with her indifference, or Stanley, with her funny talk of platonic friendships. To Vicky a young man was a young man, and no platonics about it. Sometimes mamma was afraid that Vicky, for all her æstheticism, was a little fast; she would go out for long day expeditions alone with the young man of the moment, and laugh when her mother said, doubtfully, “Vicky, when I was young....” “When you were young, mamma, dear,” Vicky would say, caressing and mocking, “you were an early Victorian. Or even a Williamite. Papa, prunes, prisms! I’m a late Victorian, and we do what we like.” “A mid-Victorian, I hope, dear,” mamma would loyally interpolate, but Vicky would fling back, “Oh, mamma, H.M. has reigned forty-two years now! You don’t think she’s going to reign for eighty-four! Late Victorian, that’s what we are. Fin-de-siècle. Probably the world will end very soon, it’s gone on so long, so let’s have a good time while we can. We’re only young once. I feel, mamma, at the very end of the road, and as if nothing mattered but to live and dance and play while we can, because the time’s so short. Clergymen say it’s a sign of the world coming to an end, all these wars and disturbances everywhere, and unbelief, and women and trains being so fast in their habits and young men so effeminate.” Thus Vicky, mocking and gay and absurd. Her mother’s keen, near-sighted grey eyes strayed from her, round the pretty, lamplit room, which was partly Liberty and Morris, with its chintzes and wall-papers and cretonnes, and blue china plates over the door (that was the children), and partly mid-Victorian, with its chiffoniers and papier-maché and red plush chairs, and Dicksee’s “Harmony” hanging over the piano. On the table lay the magazines—the Nineteenth Century, the Cornhill, the Saturday Review, the Spectator, and the Examiner with the article by Samuel Butler on “A Clergyman’s Doubts.” They had made the vicarage so pretty; it would be hard to leave it for a dingy London house. It was a pity (though hardly surprising) that the Anglican church could find no place for Aubrey during the intervals when he could not say the creed. Aubrey was so modern. Mrs. Garden’s own father, also a clergyman, believed in the Established Church and the Bible, and agreed with the writer of the Book of Genesis and Bishop Ussher, its commentator, that the world had been created in six days in the year 4004 B.C., and that Adam and Eve had been created shortly afterwards, full of virtue, and had fallen; and so on, through all the Bible books.... After all, the scriptures were written (and even marginally annotated) for our learning.... But Mrs. Garden’s papa had begun being a clergyman when religion had been more settled, before Darwin and Huxley and Herbert Spencer had revolutionised science. You didn’t expect an able modern Oxford man like Aubrey to be an Early Victorian clergyman. Maurice on the Liberty sofa snorted suddenly over what he was reading, and mamma smiled at him. The dear, perverse, violent boy! He was always disagreeing with everyone. Mamma’s eyes rested gently on her son’s small, alert head, with its ruffled top locks of light, straight hair, like a cock canary’s crest, its sharp, long chin and straight thin lips. Maurice was as mamma’s brothers had been, in the fifties, only they had worn peg-top trousers and long fair whiskers that stood out like fans. Maurice wore glasses, and looked pale, as if he had read too much; not like young Irving, sprawling in an easy chair with “The Moonstone,” beautiful and dark and pleased. Nor like Stanley, who, though she read and thought and often talked cleverly like a book, had high spirits and was full of fun. Little Stanley, with her round, childish face above the white ruching, her big forehead and blunt little nose, and deep, ardent, grave blue eyes. What a child she was for enthusiasms and ideas and headlong plans! And her talk about platonic friendships and women’s rights and social revolution and bringing beauty into common life. The New Girl. If Vicky was one kind of New Girl (which may be doubted), Stanley was another, even newer.... There shot into mamma’s mind, not for the first time, a question—had girls always been new? She remembered in her own youth the older people talking about the New Girl, the New Woman. Were girls and women really always newer than boys and men, or was it only that people noticed it more, and said more about it? Elderly people wrote to the papers about it. “The Girl of the Period,” in the Saturday Review—fast, painted, scanty of dress (where are our fair, demure English girls gone?) with veils less concealing than provocative ... what, Mrs. Garden wondered, was a provocative veil? The New Young Woman. Bold, fast, blue-stockinged, self-indulgent, unchaperoned, advanced, undomesticated, reading and talking about things of which their mothers had never, before marriage, heard—in brief, NEW. (To know all that the mid-Victorians said about modern girls, and, indeed, about modern youths of both sexes, you have only to read certain novelists of the nineteen-twenties, who are saying the same things to-day about what they call the Young Generation.) Had Adam and Eve, Mrs. Garden wondered, commented thus on their daughters—or, more likely, on their daughters-in-law? (According to Mrs. Garden’s papa, these had been the same young women, but in the late seventies one wasn’t, fortunately, obliged to believe the worst immoralities of the Old Testament.) “Youth,” it was said at this period, as at other periods before and since, “youth, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, has broken with tradition. It is no longer willing to accept forms and formulæ only on account of their age.” (At what stage in history youth ever did this, has never been explained.) “It has set out on a voyage of enquiry, and, finding some things which are doubtful and others which are insufficient, is searching for forms of experience more in harmony with the realities of life and knowledge.” Those are the actual words of a writer of the nineteen-twenties, but they were used, in effect, also in the eighteen-seventies, and many other decades. And had the young, both young men and young women, always believed that they alone could save the world, that the last generation, the elderly people, were no good, were, in fact, responsible for the unfortunate state in which the world had always up to now been, and that it was for the young to usher in the New Day? Well, no doubt they were right. The only hitch seemed to be that the young people always seemed to get elderly before they had had time to bring in the New Day, and then they were no good any more, and the next generation had to take on the job, and still the New Day coyly refused to be ushered in. Except that, of course, in a sense, each day was a new one. But not, alas, much of an improvement on the day before. “These troubled times....” Had there ever been, would there ever be, a day when the newspapers said “In these quiet and happy times” ? Stanley, inspired by Mr. William Morris, was sure of it. The millennium was just round the corner, struggling in the womb of time, only it needed workers, workers, and again workers, to deliver it safely. Some lecturer under whom Stanley had sat had put it like that, and she had repeated it to her mother. Well, of course in these days ... the New Girl, being so new and so free, could use such metaphors. In the fifties you couldn’t; unmarried girls couldn’t, anyhow. Stanley had, indeed, coloured a little when she had said it. Stanley was not only unmarried, but declared that she never would be married, there was too much to be done (which was a way some young women were talking just then). She was going, after Oxford, to work in a settlement, and teach people weaving, dyeing and beauty, after learning them herself at the Morris workshops. It was all very nice, but mamma would rather Stanley had a husband and babies. (Mammas, it may be observed in passing, differ from other women in being very seldom new.) Then mamma’s eyes rested on her chubby, beautiful baby, Una, lolling on the hearthrug, one light brown pigtail over each shoulder, reading, with calm and lovely blue eyes, some dreadful rubbish in the Boy’s Own Paper, her cheek bulged out with a lump of toffee. A nice, good, placid child of fifteen, who never thought, never read anything but tosh, talked in slang, and took life as it came, cheerful, unquestioning and serene. Una was the least clever and the best balanced of the Gardens. She was going, when she was older, to look rather like the Sistine Madonna. How unlike her happy, handsome solidity was to Rome! Rome lay back on her couch, her face like a clear white cameo against deep blue cushions, the lamplight shining on her fair, silky curls, cut short in one of the manners of the day. Rome’s thin lips twisted easily into pain and laughter; her jade-green eyes mocked and watched. “I’m afraid of your sister. She looks as if she was going to put us all into a book,” people would sometimes say of her to the others. But Rome never wrote about anything or anyone; it was not worth while. 3 SISTERS IN THE GARDEN Maurice threw down the second serial part of “Theophrastus Such,” which had just come out. “The woman’s going all to pieces,” he said, in his crisp, quick, disgusted voice. “Sermonising and tosh.... The fact is,” said Maurice, “the fact is, the novel, anyhow in this country, has had its day. Except for the unpretending thrillers. We should give it a rest. The poets still have things to say and are saying them (though not so well as they used to; their palmy days are over, too), but not the novelists”. ... Vicky, to drown his discourse, began to sing loud and clear— “When I was a young maid, a young maid, a young maid....” “Of course she’s old,” went on Maurice, referring to Mary Ann Evans. “And she’s been spoilt. She’s not a teacher, she’s a novelist. Or she was. Now she’s dropped being a novelist and become merely a preacher. That’s the end of her. I wish to God people would know their job and stick to it. She was a jolly good novelist.... Sorry, pater” —Mr. Garden had frowned at the expletive— “but I didn’t think you’d mind—now. I suppose you and I are both agreed, aren’t we, as to the non-existence of a Deity.” “All the same, my dear boy....” All the same (this was Rome’s thought), papa had so recently believed in a Deity, and would, no doubt, so soon again believe in a Deity, that it seemed bad taste to fill the brief interim with vain oaths. Maurice had no reverence at all, and no taste. You would think, as Vicky turned from the piano to say, that, whatever he did or didn’t believe himself, he might remember that some people were not only Christians but Church, and High Church at that. But Maurice only grinned at her. She tweaked his fair crest in passing and arranged her own glossy chestnut coiffure at the painted looking-glass over the chimney-piece. This Rossetti shape suited her, she thought, better than the high coils of last year. The parlourmaid announced the curate, a good-looking, intelligent, cheerful young man whom they all liked. He had hardly shaken hands when Mr. Garden said to him, “I want a talk with you, Carter,” and took him off to the study, to break it to him about the Ethical Society. “Papa might just as well have told him here,” Vicky petulantly said. “It would only have needed a sentence, and then we could have had a jolly evening.” “Of course papa feels he must go into it thoroughly with Mr. Carter,” said mamma. “Poor Mr. Carter will be dreadfully hurt by it, I’m afraid. He has always been so fond of papa, and he has never himself seen any reason for doubt.” “There is no reason for doubt,” muttered Vicky, beneath her breath. Then, louder, impatience conquering respect, “What does papa think the Church is for, except to tell us what we can’t know for ourselves about what to believe?” Mamma replied, taking up her embroidery, “Papa doesn’t know what the Church is for. That is his great difficulty. And, Vicky, it is not for us, who have studied so much less, to protest....” “Well,” said Vicky, “I shall go into the garden. It’s a night for men and angels. Come on, Stan.” Stanley came, and the sisters paced together, wrapped in shawls, down the gravel path beneath a deep blue sky full of frosty, twinkling stars and the pale glow which precedes winter moonrise. It was one of those frosty Christmases which our parents (they say) used to have in their youths. Hot summers and frosty winters—that is what they say they used to have: one is not obliged to believe them, but it is a picturesque thought. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Stannie. I shall get married.” “Who to, Vicky?” “Ah!” Vicky’s long eyes were mysterious in the starlight. “Perhaps I’ve not made up my mind yet; perhaps I have. All I do know is that I’m not going to live round about South Place, Finsbury Pavement, on £400 a year just because papa must needs go to an ethical chapel. I—shall—get—married. And well married, too. Why not? I can, you know, if I want to.” “Captain Penrose,” said Stanley. “He’s not the only one, my child. There are others. No, I shan’t tell you a word more now. You wait and see. And when I’m married you shall come and stay with me and meet lots and lots of men.” Lots and lots of men. The kind of men who’d be friends with Vicky and Captain Penrose (or whoever else Mr. Vicky might prove to be). “I shall be busy, you know,” said Stanley, doubtful and conceited. “I shall have very little spare time if I take up weaving and dyeing.” “Don’t take up weaving and dyeing. It’s shockingly cranky anyway, all this Morris craze of yours.” “All the best things are thought cranky at first.” “Don’t you believe it. The new princess dress isn’t.... Now mind, I’m saying this for your good, my dear; men won’t look at you if you go about with dyed hands and talk about manual labour and the one-man job and the return of beauty to the home.” “Vicky, you’re vulgar. And as I don’t mean to marry what does it matter if they look at me or not?” “Oh, tell that to the marines.... I’m getting frozen. Come along in and we’ll turn the curate’s head, unless papa’s still breaking his heart.... You’re a little prig, Stan, that’s your trouble, my child.” It was quite true. Stanley was a little prig. She not only read Ruskin and Morris and Karl Marx but quoted them. There came a day, later on, when she saw through Ruskin, but it is no use pretending that that day was yet. She was a prig and believed that it was up to such as she to reform the world. She saw herself (at the moment, for her vision of herself varied) as the modern woman, clever, emancipated, high-minded, too intellectually fastidious to take the vulgar view. She took herself seriously, in spite of the childish giggle at the comedy of life which broke like gurgling water through her earnestness. “The first Nowell the angels did sing,” sang Vicky, in her clear, fluting voice, and danced in at the drawing-room window. 4 MAMMA AND ROME Mamma sat by Rome’s side and embroidered, while papa interviewed his curate in the study. You could see, now these two sat together, that they were alike, not so much in feature or colour as in some underlying, elusive essence of personality. But Rome’s mocking, amused, critical self looked ironically out of her blue-green eyes and mamma’s dwelt very still and deep within her. “Well, mamma.” Rome put down her book, which was by Anatole France. “Well, Rome.” “You don’t much mind this.” Rome was commenting, not enquiring. “Oh, no.” Mamma was placid. “Not,” she added, “that I want to live in London particularly. Dirty place. No gardens.” Rome said, definitely, “I prefer London,” and mamma nodded. Rome was urbane. Negligent, foppish and cool, she liked to watch life at its games, be flicked by the edges of its flying skirts. And the game of life was more varied and entertaining in London than in the country and equally absurd. So Rome preferred London. It was like having a better seat at the play. Lack of bodily energy threw her back largely in the country on to the entertainment of her own rather cynical mind. She was often bored, sometimes ill-humoured, sharp and morose. The years might bring her a greater patience, but at twenty she was not patient. The very sharp clarity of her mind, that chafed against muddled thinking, stupidity, humbug and sentimentality, made intercourse difficult for her in the country, where Heaven has ordained that even fewer persons shall reside who are free from these things than is the case in large towns. “How long,” enquired Rome, negligently, slipping round an old silver ring on her thin white finger, “do you give the Ethical Church, mamma?” Mamma was feather-stitching, rapidly and correctly. The movement of her head indicated that she declined to prophesy. “No point in looking ahead,” she said practically. “One always sees a change a little while before it comes, in time to be prepared; and that’s all we need. Papa is never sudden.” The whimsical smile that twitched at one corner of Rome’s thin mouth was unreturned by mamma, whose face was gravely bent over her work. Mamma was a good wife and never joked with her children about papa’s vagaries. No one had ever got behind mamma’s guard in the matter of papa—if it was a guard. Who could see into mamma’s mind, idly speculated Rome. Mamma had, by forty-five years of age, achieved a kind of delicate impenetrability. Papa, at fifty, was as limpid as the clear water of a running stream, where you may watch the fishes swimming to and fro, round and round. Papa came back, alone and looking hurt. At the same moment Vicky came in at the long window, pink-cheeked, smelling of frost. “Where’s Mr. Carter, papa?” “Gone away, Vicky. He—he couldn’t stop.” “I suppose he was shocked to death. Oh, well....” But, of them all, only mamma knew how shocked the orthodox people of the seventies were about matters of unbelief. The children had been brought up in the wrong atmosphere really to know it. Mamma knew that to Mr. Carter papa’s action would seem dreadful, blasphemous, very nearly wicked. “After all,” said Vicky, impatiently, “we’re living in the year 1879. We’re moderns after all.” Dashingly modern Vicky looked in her sinuous art-green dress, with her massed Rossetti hair and jade earrings. Daringly, brilliantly modern, and all agog for life. A dashing girl, as they called them in 1879—if a girl bitten with æstheticism can still dash, and it may be taken for granted that dashing girls will always dash, whatever bites them. Catching up slim young Irving from his chair, Vicky twirled him round the room in a waltz.