MY DEAREST MOTHER,—
Thank you for sending me the wool. It is just what I wanted, so beautifully soft. I shall have enough to make six little vests, and I don’t think I shall need any more; they grow out of the first size so quickly. So if you have any time for knitting, would you concentrate on another shawl, as I find that one or two that I thought would do are so washed up they have gone all felty?
We go on very well here, the weather is beautiful; I only hope it will not break before Dick comes. No news of him, at least I get a letter every day with nothing in it. It is tiresome that he should be kept hanging about all this time in London.
I am very well. It is nice to have nothing to do. The bathing is very nice. The children seem to be very well, though I do not think it is a very bracing place. I would have liked a more bracing place for Dick. No other news. We have a great deal of music, which is nice, and will have more, I suppose, when Mr. Fletcher comes, as he is bringing his violin. Madame Koebel sings every evening. She is a strange person, but she certainly sings beautifully, and one cannot help admiring her. But I would have to know her much better before I could be quite sure if she is always sincere. It is so difficult to know what foreigners are really like.
I go over every day that I can to the mainland. It is a nice change from the island, where we seem to be rather cut off, somehow. I think this is because we never see anything of the country people as one does generally in the country. There is a nice woman in a cottage some way up on the north shore, a Mrs. Gallagher. She keeps bees and sells very good honey. I will send you a comb. She has seven children “at foot” and an eight months’ old baby. I see them running about the bogs, six little boys and a girl. The boys all wear frocks, even the ten-year-old, I think because their mother cannot make trousers. They wear one long homespun garment, rather like a cassock. The little girl, Nellie, wears quite a short frock with half a dozen petticoats under it, like the peasant women. She has red corkscrew curls and is very self-possessed. It would make you laugh to see them all come stringing over the bog, these great boys with their cassocks flapping round their legs and the very feminine Nellie clambering after them.
The post is going, so I must stop.
Your loving daughter,
ELLEN.
DEAR MRS. ANNESLEY,—
Louise has commissioned me to write and tell you that she has remembered about the spirit lamp and is writing to the stores. I transcribe this message verbatim and trust that you will understand it.
We are so glad to hear that Harrogate is doing you good, but we miss you sadly here, for this is certainly the most delightful holiday that we have ever spent. In fact, we have become so enamoured of the place that we plan to spend every Long Vacation here.
Louise will have written to you an account of our new acquaintance: I may say friend, for she is with us so much that we have come to regard her as practically one of our party. I expect the intimacy will surprise you a little. That she should “fit in” so well must be almost incomprehensible to anyone who knows her only by repute. Indeed, I could not have imagined it myself ten days ago.
But you will have gathered that she is a most remarkable woman. Her unconventionality, which is at first a trifle disconcerting, springs from a sincerity which rapidly wins respect. There is an element of greatness, of nobility, not only in her art but in her character; she moves, speaks and thinks with a direct simplicity which is only possible to genius, and in her company one has a glimpse of a freer and grander world. The most abiding impression which she gives is one of beauty, a beauty which neither begins nor ends with her art but which inspires all her approaches to life. It is difficult to imagine how this child of the gods can have survived all the insincerities and the petty vulgarities of the stage. One can only imagine that Apollo himself has protected her.
She has a mind which constantly outruns the narrow scope of her profession. It is not a trained mind, nor always a very well-informed mind, but it has the liveliest and the most delicate perceptions. One instance I will mention: I happened in the course of a conversation to quote a few lines of Vergil, in English of course (my own translation). She looked at me as though she had just received some specific revelation. The words, the whole meaning of the passage, so fixed her attention that she returned to it again and again. Who had written these lines? To whom did they refer? I must describe for her the whole narrative, the purpose and intention of the Æneid. She must read my translation. She must do more. She must read the original. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you that for three days she has been learning Latin in order that she may not, as she says, die before she has read Vergil.
She has infected Louise with her enthusiasm and a strange business we make of it, for they are both determined to read the Æneid at once and when they have conjugated a few verbs we sit, all three of us, upon the banks of the lake construing Dido’s lament. And then, in payment, she sings for me. I little thought that I should ever have two such pupils, and these golden hours are an idyll which I shall remember when I am old.
Louise had some message about a spirit lamp … but I see that I have given it. We all send our fondest love.
Yours very sincerely,
GORDON LINDSAY.
DEAR MOTHER,—
The Koebel epoch is in full swing, though how long it will last I do not know, or what harm could really come of it. Louise, of course, is infatuated, and so is Gordon. Barny and I scarcely dare open our mouths. He entirely refuses to credit any of the stories about her; says it is all club gossip and so on. I had never realised before quite how unworldly the poor man is. He believes her to be all that is respectable, simply because she does not answer to his idea of a demi-mondaine.
But a word from herself may at any time shatter these delusions. I will say for her that she is a creature of no concealments. You couldn’t possibly call her a shady character. It is the sheerest accident that she has not yet told Gordon her life history. She will one day, and then we shall see wigs on the green, all sorts of wigs, because Louise is much further gone in Koebelismus than he is. She threw her shoes and stockings into the lake on the first day and heaven knows what she has not discarded since. She now holds a brief for all sorts of things which used to be very mal vues in the Woodstock Road, and I heard her this morning talking (a little nervously, I admit) about Sacred Impulses. Not that she makes any claim to such things, as yet, herself. It is the enviable Koebel who must, at all costs, be allowed to have them.
I thought at first that Barny was going to kick. He admires her tremendously, as an artist, but is very much shocked at Louise for bringing her here. But I imagine that Maude has talked him into a kind of surly acquiescence, though what Maude’s game is, I do not know. I think she likes to feel that it is upon her tact and forbearance that the peace of the household depends. She makes him play the Koebel’s accompaniments, with a bright firmness, which must be galling to Louise. He always begins very sulkily, but wakes up in spite of himself, to a real enthusiasm when the Koebel has sung for a little while.
Still no Dick. Ellen is looking a trifle haggard, and I think she is worried about him. She goes about looking as if she has lost something, and Maude says that he has not written to her for three days. But I may be quite wrong. It may be her condition.
Love,
KERRAN.
CARA NONNA,—
That is the Italian for grandmother and I am going to call you it because it sounds nice. Thank you for the Yellow Fairy Book. I love Fairy Stories best. Elissa believes in Fairies. She says she sees them. She says she has second sight, and she thinks I have it too. She says it is a great gift, but I will have to pay for it when I grow up because people who are not so sensitive, like Hope, are really happiest. I had a lovely birthday. Mother gave me a book to write my poetry in, and the children gave me a No. 1 Brownie. I have taken a snap of Elissa; she says it is the only photo that has ever been taken of her, and she just did it for me. Father gave me a purse and Hope gave me a pin-cushion she made herself, and Aunt Maude gave me The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas Akempis. Uncle Barny gave me 2s. 6d., but Uncle Kerran did not give me anything. I had fifteen presents.
Your loving little granddaughter,
ROSAMUND LINDSAY.
DEAR GRANDMOTHER,—
Do you like this writing paper? I got it at Xmas, but I save it up for special letters. It has different flowers, but I chose the forget-me-nots because you like blue. We had a very exciting journey; first we went in a train and then in a boat. The island is very exciting. I can swim 100 strokes. I have written some poetry! It is about Madam Kerble, because she would not let me take a snap of her. It is this:
Long have I been a maiden glad.
Long have I lived in this world so sad.
From time to time I have had a grief,
But youth always came to my relief.
But now, alas, my dear one,
Now, alas, my fair one
Has refused my only boon.
I little thought that I so soon
Should know despair!
I wish I had a silent tomb
In a lonely situation.
Where the rustic population
Would come with sighs and gloom
And lay the willow wreath above
And say This Maiden died of love,
She knew despair!
Will you honestly and truly tell me if you think this is as good as Rosamund’s poetry? I will now close as I have not got any more forget-me-not paper.
With kindest regards,
Yours affectionately,
HOPE.
DEAREST MAMMA,—
You will be glad to hear that Barny seems to be standing the climate here very well. But, oh! How I wish you were here to help me with him! He wants to go rock-climbing!!!
Of course I pretend to agree, and say how lovely! But I have persuaded him to wait till Dick comes, IF Dick ever does come. (He has stopped writing to Ellen! But we suppose he is still in London.) Don’t you agree with me that it would be VERY risky? Or am I merely being fussy? Do write and tell me what line I ought to take.
Of course I cannot blame him for getting a little bored here, for there are really no interests for him, except of course the music, which we get almost more of than even he wants. He said to me yesterday—only jokingly of course—that he never expected to entirely spend his summer holiday in a conservatoire!
Louise of course is quite taken up with her new friend. You know what I think, Mamma, and I have not changed my mind about the good lady. I do think somebody ought to say something. Barny agrees with me absolutely, and, as he says, we pay part of the rent and we ought to have some say in who comes here. I find it very difficult to get him to be polite to her even, but I do want to keep the peace if I can. Luckily he does not have to see much of her. I take him off for whole day expeditions. He thinks that Dick will make a fuss about it, but I am not so sure.
Kerran and Ellen just laugh at me. They say the whole thing is platonic because they spend all their time learning Vurgil. But a woman like that simply couldn’t be platonic. You have only to look at her. Barny says she has eyes like a basilisk, or an odelisk, I forget which, and I am sure that all the servants are talking. What I mean is there are times when the very best of men act very strangely. They cannot help it. Don’t you agree with me, Mamma? Even a man like Gordon is a man, I suppose, like everybody else. I wonder if Louise will find that out to her cost one of these days. Could you drop her a little hint, perhaps? Anything you say she would listen to. If you said something, sort of joking, that might make her think. It would be such a dreadful thing, with all the children in the house, it is too horrible to think of! But when one has had some experience of the seamy side of life, one knows what can happen. It would ruin his position, a divorce, I mean. And even if they shared custody of the children, it would never be the same thing.
I can see you smiling at me, ever so wisely, and telling me not to cry “wolf! wolf!” Am I an alarmist? Of course I am! But I do WISH you were here to tell me so! Do send me just one line about what I ought to do. At a word from me Barny would put his foot down. But I do not want to wilfully make trouble if I can help it.
Ellen seems to be keeping very well, but I think Dick ought to write to her. But I suppose that is sentimental. You do not say how your rheumatism is. A bulletin in your next letter, please!
Your very loving
MAUDE.
P.S.—I have tried to stir up Barny to write, but you know what he is! I shall not say anything against the climbing idea till Dick comes, as if Dick doesn’t come, then it will all fall through. Do you think that is wise?
M. A.
… I have discovered that letter writing is a futile occupation. A letter reflects the mood of the moment and moods change. I feel exquisitely happy to-day, but on Friday, when you read what I have written, I may be feeling wretched and all that I have said will be false.
But I must write, for I feel that some of the others are against me, and I do not know what they are telling you. I want you to understand how inspiring and how beautiful a thing is this influence which has come into my life.
You know I have never been a very happy woman. I live in a prison—a prison where everyone is very kind to me but where I never have room to stretch my wings. I have been cut off from the friendship of people who would have been really sympathetic to me. All that I am asking is that I may take a little holiday from my prison, and from the conventions and insincerities that are stifling me. Here, in this beautiful place, I am able to do so, and to live naturally: not to say this and do that because I ought, but because I wish: to enjoy the freedom of an intercourse which expresses the “genial current of the soul.” Is this too much to ask?
In Elissa Koebel I have found much more than a friend. She is all that I was meant to be, and that I can never be. If I had been brought up in different surroundings, and if I had not been married so young! I do not blame you, Mother. You wanted to see me a happy woman. And I daresay that I am happier than I would have been if I had followed my stars. Some people are destined for tragedy, and if they deny their destiny they must remain, in doing so, unfulfilled.
What has Maude been saying about Elissa? I can well imagine how that narrow, provincial mind must see her. But, Mother, I want you to understand this. Elissa never denies that her life has been unconventional. She has told me a great deal of her experiences and I must say that I find in them much beauty and much tragedy, but nothing which I can dare to blame. Her friendship with Gordon gives me no uneasiness. It is purely intellectual, so much so that we have laughed about it, Elissa and I. And even if there were, as Maude would say, “something in it,” what harm would that do? A thing is only wrong if it makes people sad or angry. I do not know that it would make me either sad or angry to know that Gordon was enjoying some beautiful emotional experience. His life has been too parched and academic.
But I know who will fall in love with her, and that is Guy Fletcher. They are made for one another, those two, and it will be wonderful to bring them together. I have talked about him a great deal and she is already anxious to see him. She said to me to-day: “I feel that happiness is coming near to me.” And I feel so, too. There is a wonderful sense of anticipation in these beautiful days which we all enjoy so much. I am glad that he did not come before, when we were not properly settled into the rhythm of life here. Ellen is perturbed because she has had no letter from him. But I can understand that. He may not be in the mood to write. Dick, I mean.
Your
LOUISE.
DEAREST MOTHER,—
Just a note to tell you that it is all right about Dick. We have had a wire to say that he comes this evening, and I am just off down in the boat to Killross to meet him. I am so relieved.
Your loving
ELLEN.