The Puppet Show of Memory. Baring Maurice

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СКАЧАТЬ was a drawing-room full of chintz chairs, books, potpourri, a grand pianoforte, and two writing-tables; a dining-room looking south; a floor of guests’ rooms; a bachelors’ passage in the wing; a schoolroom on the ground floor looking north, with a little dark room full of rubbish next to it, which was called the Cabinet Noir, and where we were sent when we were naughty; and a nursery floor over the guests’ rooms.

      From the northern side of the house you could see the hills of Dartmoor. In the west there was a mass of tall trees, Scotch firs, stone-pines, and ashes.

      There was a large kitchen garden at some distance from the house on a hill and enclosed by walls.

      

      Our routine of life was much the same as it was in London, except that the children had breakfast in the schoolroom at nine, as the grown-ups did not have breakfast till later.

      Then came lessons, a walk, or play in the garden, further lessons, luncheon at two, a walk or an expedition, lessons from five till six, and then tea and games or reading aloud afterwards. One of the chief items of lessons was the Dictée, in which we all took part, and even Everard from Eton used to come and join in this sometimes.

      Elizabeth won a kind of inglorious glory one day by making thirteen mistakes in her dictée, which was the record—a record never beaten by any one of us before or since; and the words treize fautes used often to be hurled at her head in moments of stress.

      After tea Chérie used to read out books to the girls, and I was allowed to listen, although I was supposed to be too young to understand, and indeed I was. Nevertheless, I found the experience thrilling; and there are many book incidents which have remained for ever in my mind, absorbed during these readings, although I cannot always place them. I recollect a wonderful book called L’Homme de Neige, and many passages from Alexandre Dumas.

      Sometimes Chérie would read out to me, especially stories from the Cabinet des Fées, or better still, tell stories of her own invention. There was one story in which many animals took part, and one of the characters was a partridge who used to go out just before the shooting season with a telescope under his wing to see whether things were safe. Chérie always used to say this was the creation she was proudest of. Another story was called Le Prince Muguet et Princesse Myosotis, which my mother had printed. I wrote a different story on the same theme and inspired by Chérie’s story when I grew up. But I enjoyed Chérie’s recollections of her childhood as much as her stories, and I could listen for ever to the tales of her grand-mère sévere who made her pick thorny juniper to make gin, or the story of a lady who had only one gown, a yellow one, and who every day used to ask her maid what the weather was like, and if the maid said it was fine, she would say, “Eh bien, je mettrai ma robe jaune,” and if it was rainy she would likewise say, “Je mettrai ma robe jaune.” Poor Chérie used to be made to repeat this story and others like it in season and out of season.

      

      She would describe Paris until I felt I knew every street, and landscapes in Normandy and other parts of France. The dream of my life was to go to Paris and see the Boulevards and the Invalides and the Arc de Triomphe, and above all, the Champs Elysées.

      Chérie had also a repertory of French songs which she used to teach us. One was the melancholy story of a little cabin-boy:

      “Je ne suis qu’un petit mousse

      A bord d’un vaisseau royal,

      Je vais partout où le vent me pousse,

      Nord ou midi cela m’est égale.

      Car d’une mère et d’un père

      Je n’ai jamais connu l’amour.”

      Another one, less pathetic but more sentimental, was:

      “Pourquoi tous les jours, Madeleine,

      Vas-tu au bord du ruisseau?

      Ce n’est pas, car je l’espère,

      Pour te regarder dans l’eau,

      ‘Mais si,’ répond Madeleine,

      Baissant ses beaux yeux d’ébêne.

      Je n’y vais pour autre raison.”

      I forget the rest, but it said that she looked into the stream to see whether it was true, as people said, that she was beautiful—“pour voir si gent ne ment pas”—and came back satisfied that it was true.

      But best of all I liked the ballad:

      “En revenant des noces j’étais si fatiguée

      Au bord d’un ruisseau je me suis reposée,

      L’eau était si claire que je me suis baignée,

      Avec une feuille de chêne je me suis essuyée,

      Sur la plus haute branche un rossignol chantait,

      Chante, beau rossignol, si tu as le cœur gai,

      Pour un bouton de rose mon ami s’est fâché,

      Je voudrais que la rose fût encore au rosier,”

      or words to that effect.

      Besides these she taught us all the French singing games: “Savez-vous planter les choux?” “Sur le pont d’Avignon,” and “Qu’est qui passe ici si tard, Compagnons de la Marjolaine?” We used to sing and dance these up and down the passage outside the schoolroom after tea.

      Round about Membland were several nests of relations. Six miles off was my mother’s old home Flete, where the Mildmays lived. Uncle Bingham Mildmay married my mother’s sister, Aunt Georgie, and bought Flete; the house, which was old, was said to be falling to pieces, so it was rebuilt, more or less on the old lines, with some of the old structure left intact.

      At Pamflete, three miles off, lived my mother’s brother, Uncle Johnny Bulteel, with his wife, Aunt Effie, and thirteen children.

      And in the village of Yealmpton, three miles off, also lived my great-aunt Jane who had a sister called Aunt Sister, who, whenever she heard carriage wheels in the drive, used to get under the bed, such was her disinclination to receive guests. I cannot remember Aunt Sister, but I remember Aunt Jane and Uncle Willie Harris, who was either her brother or her husband. He had been present at the battle of Waterloo as a drummer-boy at the age of fifteen. But Aunt Sister’s characteristics had descended to other members of the family, and my mother used to say that when she and her sister were girls my Aunt Georgie had offered her a pound if she would receive some guests instead of herself.

      On Sundays we used to go to church at a little church in Noss Mayo until my father built a new church, which is there now.

      The service was long, beginning at eleven and lasting till almost one. There was morning prayer, the Litany, the Ante-Communion service, and a long sermon preached by the rector, a charming old man called Mr. Roe, who was not, I fear, a compelling preacher.

      When we went to church I was given a picture-book when I was small to read during the sermon, a book with sacred pictures in colours. I was terribly СКАЧАТЬ