Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 6

From the Pyrenees we went to Paris and then to Dinard. It is irritating to find that all I remember of Paris is my bedroom in the hotel, which had richly painted chocolate-coloured walls on which it was quite impossible to see mosquitoes.

There were myriads of mosquitoes. They pinged and whined all night, and our faces and arms were covered with bites. (Extremely humiliating to my sister Madge, who minded a good deal about her complexion at this period of her life.) We were only in Paris a week, and we seemed to spend all our time attempting to kill mosquitoes, anointing ourselves with various kinds of peculiar smelling oils, lighting incense cones by the bed, scratching bites, dropping hot candle grease on them. Finally, after vehement representations to the hotel management (who persisted in saying there were not really any any mosquitoes), the novelty of sleeping under a mosquito net remains an event of the first importance. It was August and boiling hot weather, and under a net it must have been hotter still. mosquitoes), the novelty of sleeping under a mosquito net remains an event of the first importance. It was August and boiling hot weather, and under a net it must have been hotter still.

I suppose I must have been shown some of the sights of Paris, but they have left no mark on my mind. I do remember that I was taken to the Tour Eiffel as a treat, but I imagine that, like my first view of mountains, it did not come up to expectation. In fact the only souvenir of our stay there seemed to be a new nickname for me. 'Moustique.' 'Moustique.' No doubt justified. No doubt justified.

No, I am wrong. It was on that visit to Paris that I first became acquainted with the forerunners of the great mechanical age. The streets of Paris were full of those new vehicles called 'Automobiles.' 'Automobiles.' They rushed madly along (by present-day standards probably quite slowly, but then they only had to compete with the horse), smelling, hooting, driven by men with caps and goggles and full of motoring equipment. They were bewildering. My father said they would be everywhere soon. We did not believe him. I surveyed them without interest, my own allegiance firmly given to all kinds of trains. They rushed madly along (by present-day standards probably quite slowly, but then they only had to compete with the horse), smelling, hooting, driven by men with caps and goggles and full of motoring equipment. They were bewildering. My father said they would be everywhere soon. We did not believe him. I surveyed them without interest, my own allegiance firmly given to all kinds of trains.

My mother exclaimed sadly, 'What a pity Monty is not here. He would love love them.' them.'

It seems odd to me looking back now at this stage of my life. My brother seems to disappear from it completely. He was there, presumably, coming home for the holidays from Harrow, but he does not exist as a figure any longer. The answer is, probably, that he took very little notice of me at this point. I learnt only later that my father was worried about him. He was superannuated from Harrow, being quite unable to pa.s.s his exams. I think he went first to a ship-building yard on the Dart, and afterwards up north, to Lincolnshire. Reports of his progress were disappointing. My father received blunt advice. 'He'll never get anywhere. You see, he can't do mathematics. You show him anything practical and it's all right; he's a good practical workman. But that's all he'll ever be in the engineering line.'

In every family there is usually one member who is a source of trouble and worry. My brother Monty was ours. Until the day of his death he was always causing someone a headache. I have often wondered, looking back, whether there is any niche in life where Monty would have fitted in. He would certainly have been all right if he had been born Ludwig II of Bavaria. I can see him sitting in his empty theatre, enjoying opera sung only for him. He was intensely musical, with a good ba.s.s voice, and played various instruments by ear, from penny whistles to piccolo and flute. He would never have had the application, though, to become a professional of any kind, nor, I think, did the idea ever enter his head. He had good manners, great charm, and throughout his life was surrounded by people anxious to save him worry or bother. There was always someone ready to lend him money and to do any ch.o.r.es for him. As a child of six, when he and my sister received their pocket money, the same thing invariably happened. Monty spent his on the first day. Later in the week he would suddenly push my sister into a shop, quickly order three pennyworth of a favourite sweet and then look at my sister, daring her not to pay. Madge, who had a great respect for public opinion, always did. Naturally she was furious about it and quarrelled with him violently afterwards. Monty would merely smile at her serenely and offer her one of the sweets.

This att.i.tude was one he adopted throughout his life. There seemed to be a natural conspiracy to slave for him. Again and again various women have said to me, 'You know you don't really understand understand your brother Monty. What he needs is sympathy.' The truth was that we understood him only too well. It was impossible, mind you, not to feel affection for him. He recognised his own faults with the utmost frankness, and was always sure that everything was going to be different in future. He was, I believe, the only boy at Harrow who was allowed to keep white mice. His housemaster, in explaining this, said to my father, 'You know he really seems to have such a deep love of natural history that I thought he should be allowed this privilege.' The family opinion was that Monty had no love of natural history at all. He just wished to keep white mice! your brother Monty. What he needs is sympathy.' The truth was that we understood him only too well. It was impossible, mind you, not to feel affection for him. He recognised his own faults with the utmost frankness, and was always sure that everything was going to be different in future. He was, I believe, the only boy at Harrow who was allowed to keep white mice. His housemaster, in explaining this, said to my father, 'You know he really seems to have such a deep love of natural history that I thought he should be allowed this privilege.' The family opinion was that Monty had no love of natural history at all. He just wished to keep white mice!

I think, on looking back, that Monty was a very interesting person. A slightly different arrangement of genes and he might have been a great man. He just lacked something. something. Proportion? Balance? Integration? I don't know. Proportion? Balance? Integration? I don't know.

The choice of a career for him settled itself. The Boer War broke out. Almost all the young men we knew volunteeredMonty, naturally, among them. (He had occasionally condescended to play with some toy soldiers I had, drawing them up in line of battle and christening their commanding officer Captain Dashwood. Later, to vary the routine, he cut off Captain Dashwood's head for treason while I wept.) In some ways my father must have felt reliefthe Army might provide a career for himespecially just at this moment when his engineering prospects were so doubtful.

The Boer War, I suppose, was the last of what one might describe as the 'old wars', the wars that did not really affect one's own country or life. They were heroic story-book affairs, fought by brave soldiers and gallant young men. They were killed, if killed, gloriously in battle. More often they came home suitably decorated with medals for gallant feats performed on the field. They were tied up with the outposts of Empire, the poems of Kipling, and with the bits of England that were pink on the map. It seems strange today to think that peoplegirls in particularwent around handing our white feathers to young men whom they considered were backward in doing their duty by dying for their country.

I remember little of the outbreak of the South African War. It was not regarded as an important warit consisted of 'teaching Kruger a lesson'. With the usual English optimism it would be 'all over in a few weeks'. In 1914 we heard the same phrase. 'All over by Christmas.' In 1940, 'Not much point in storing the carpets with mothb.a.l.l.s.'this when the Admiralty took over my house'It won't last over the winter.'

So what I remember is a gay atmosphere, a song with a good tune'The Absent-Minded Beggar'and cheerful young men coming up from Plymouth for a few days' leave. I can remember a scene at home a few days before the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Welsh Regiment was to sail for South Africa. Monty had brought a friend up from Plymouth, where they were stationed at the moment. This friend, Ernest Mackintosh, always called by us for some reason Billy, was to remain a friend and far more of a brother than my real brother to me all my life. He was a young man of great gaiety and charm. Like most of the young men around, he was more or less in love with my sister. The two boys had just got their uniforms, and were intensely intrigued by puttees which they had never seen before. They wound the puttees round their necks, bandaged their heads with them and played all sorts of tricks. I have a photograph of them sitting in our conservatory with puttees round their necks. I transferred my girlish hero-worship to Billy Mackintosh. A photograph of him stood by my bed in a frame with forget-me-nots on it.

From Paris we went to Dinard in Brittany.

The princ.i.p.al thing that I remember about Dinard is that I learnt to swim there. I can rememer my incredulous pride and pleasure when I found myself striking out for six spluttering strokes on my own without submerging.

The other thing I remember is the blackberriesnever were there such blackberries, great big fat juicy ones. Marie and I used to go out and pick baskets of them, and eat ma.s.ses of them at the same time. The reason for this profusion was that the natives of the countryside believed them to be deadly poison. 'Ils ne mangent pas des mures.' 'Ils ne mangent pas des mures.' said Marie wonderingly. 'They say to me said Marie wonderingly. 'They say to me "vous allez vous empoisonner'.' "vous allez vous empoisonner'.' Marie and I had no such inhibitions, and we poisoned ourselves happily every afternoon. Marie and I had no such inhibitions, and we poisoned ourselves happily every afternoon.

It was in Dinard that I first took to theatrical life. Father and mother had a large double bedroom with an enormous bow window, practically an alcove, across which curtains were drawn. It was a natural for stage performances. Fired by a pantomime I had seen the previous Christmas, I pressed Marie into service and we gave nightly representations of various fairy stories. I chose the character I wished to be and Marie had to be everybody else.

Looking back, I am filled with grat.i.tude at the extraordinary kindness of my father and mother. I can imagine nothing more boring than to come up every evening after dinner and sit for half an hour watching and applauding whilst Marie and I strutted and postured in our home-improvised costumes. We went through the Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast and so forth. I was fondest of the part of princ.i.p.al boy, and borrowing my sister's stockings in an attempt to produce tights I marched around and declaimed. The performance was, of course, always in French, as Marie could not speak English. What a good-natured girl she was. Only once did she strike, and that for a reason I simply could not fathom. She was to be Cinderella, and I insisted on her taking her hair down. One really cannot imagine Cinderella with a chignon on top of her head! But Marie, who had enacted the part of the Beast without murmuring, who had been Red Riding Hood's grandmotherMarie, who had been good fairies, bad fairies, who had been wicked old women, who had enacted a street scene where she spat into the gutter in a most realistic fashion saying in argot 'Et bien crache!' 'Et bien crache!' which incidentally convulsed my father with mirthMarie suddenly refused with tears to enact the part of Cinderella. which incidentally convulsed my father with mirthMarie suddenly refused with tears to enact the part of Cinderella.

'Mais, pourquoi, pas, Marie?' I demanded. 'It is a very good part. It is the heroine. It is Cinderella the whole play is about.' Marie?' I demanded. 'It is a very good part. It is the heroine. It is Cinderella the whole play is about.'

Impossible, said Marie, impossible that she should enact such a role. To take her hair down, to appear with her hair loose on her shoulders before Monsieur! That was the crux. To appear with her hair down before Monsieur was to Marie unthinkable, shocking. I yielded, puzzled. We concocted a kind of hood that went over Cinderella's chignon, and all was well.

But how extraordinary taboos are. I remember one of my friends' childrena pleasant, amiable little girl of about four. A French nursery governess arrived to look after her. There was the usual hesitation as to whether the child would 'get on' with her or not, but everything appeared to be perfect happiness. She went out with her for a walk, chatted, showed Madeleine her toys. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. Only at bedtime did tears arise when Joan refused firmly to let Madeleine give her her bath. Her mother, puzzled, gave in on the first day, since she could understand that the child was perhaps not quite at home with the strangers yet. But this refusal continued for two or three days. All was peace, all was happiness, all was friendship, until bed and bath time. It was not till the fourth day that Joan, weeping bitterly and burying her head in her mother's neck, said, 'You don't understand, understand, Mummy. You don't seem to Mummy. You don't seem to understand. understand. How How can can I show my I show my body body to a foreigner?' to a foreigner?'

So it was with Marie. She could strut about in trousers, show quite a lot of leg in many roles, but she could not take her hair down in front of Monsieur.

I imagine, to begin with, our theatrical performances must have been extremely funny, and my father at least got a great deal of enjoyment out of them. But how boring they must have become! Yet my parents were far too kind to tell me frankly that they couldn't be bothered to come up every night. Occasionally they let themselves off by explaining that friends were dining and so they would not be able to come upstairs, but on the whole they stuck it n.o.blyand how I, at least, enjoyed performing before them.

During the month of September that we stayed in Dinard my father was happy to find some old friends thereMartin Pirie and his wife and two sons, who were finishing off their holidays. Martin Pirie and my father had been at school together at Vevey, and close friends ever since. Martin's wife, Lilian Pirie, I still think of as one of the most outstanding personalities I have ever known. The character that Sackville West drew so beautifully in All Pa.s.sion Spent All Pa.s.sion Spent has always struck me as a little like Mrs Pirie. There was something faintly awe-inspiring in her, slightly aloof. She had a beautiful, clear voice, delicate features and very blue eyes. The movements of her hands were always beautiful. I think Dinard was the first time I ever saw her, but from then on I saw her at frequent intervals, and I knew her up to the age of eighty odd when she died. All that time my admiration and respect for her increased. has always struck me as a little like Mrs Pirie. There was something faintly awe-inspiring in her, slightly aloof. She had a beautiful, clear voice, delicate features and very blue eyes. The movements of her hands were always beautiful. I think Dinard was the first time I ever saw her, but from then on I saw her at frequent intervals, and I knew her up to the age of eighty odd when she died. All that time my admiration and respect for her increased.

She was one of the few people I have met whom I consider had a really interesting mind. Each of her houses was decorated in a startling and original manner. She did the most beautiful embroidered pictures, there was never a book or a play she had not read or seen, and she always had something telling to say about them. Nowadays I suppose she would have embarked upon some career, but I wonder, if she had done so, whether the impact of her personality would have been as great as it actually was.

Young people always flocked to her house and were happy to talk to her. To spend an afternoon with her, even when she was well over seventy, was a wonderful refreshment. I think she had, more perfectly than anyone I have ever known, the art of leisure. You found her sitting in a high-backed chair in her beautiful room, usually engaged with some needle-work of her own design, some interesting book or other by her side. She had the air of having time to talk with you all day, all night, for months on end. Her criticisms were caustic and clear. Although she would talk about any abstract subject under the sun she seldom indulged in personalities. But it was her beautiful speaking voice that attracted me most. It is such a rare thing to find. I have always been sensitive to voices. An ugly voice repels me where an ugly face would not.

My father was delighted to see his friend Martin again. My mother and Mrs Pirie had much in common, and immediately engaged, if I remember rightly, in a frenzied discussion about j.a.panese art. Their two boys were thereHarold, who was at Eton, and Wilfred, who I suppose must have been at Dartmouth, as he was going into the Navy. Wilfred was later to be one of my dearest friends, but all I remember about him from Dinard was that he was said to be the boy who always laughed out loud whenever he saw a banana. This made me look at him with close attention. Naturally, neither of the boys took the least notice of me. An Eton schoolboy and a naval cadet would hardly demean themselves by paying attention to a little girl of seven.

From Dinard we moved on to Guernsey, where we spent most of the winter. As a birthday present I was given a surprise of three birds of exotic plumage and colouring. These were named Kiki, Tou-tou and Bebe. Shortly after arrival in Guernsey, Kiki, who was always a delicate bird, died. He had not been long enough in my possession for his decease to occasion violent griefin any case, Bebe, who was an enchanting small bird, was my favouritebut I certainly enjoyed myself in a lavish way over the obsequies of Kiki. He was splendidly buried in a cardboard box with a lining of satin ribbon supplied by my mother. An expedition was then made out of the town of St. Peter Port to an upland region where a spot was chosen for the funeral ceremonies, and the box was duly buried with a large knot of flowers placed upon it.

All that of course was highly satisfactory, but it did not end there. 'Visiter la tombe de Kiki' 'Visiter la tombe de Kiki' became one of my favourite walks. became one of my favourite walks.

The great excitement in St. Peter Port was the flower market. There were lovely flowers of every kind and very cheap. According to Marie it was always the coldest and windiest day when, after inquiring, 'And where shall we go for a walk today, Mees?' Mees would reply with gusto, 'Nous allons visiter la tombe de Kiki.' 'Nous allons visiter la tombe de Kiki.' Terrible sighs from Marie. A two-mile walk and a great deal of cold wind! Nevertheless, I was adamant. I dragged her to the market, where we purchased exciting camellias or other flowers, and then we took the two-mile walk lashed by wind and frequently rain as well, and placed the floral bouquet with due ceremony upon Kiki's grave. It must run in one's blood to enjoy funerals and funeral observances. Where indeed would archaeology be if it had not been for this trait in human nature? If I was ever taken for a walk in my youth by anyone other than nursesone of the servants, for instancewe invariably went to the cemetery. Terrible sighs from Marie. A two-mile walk and a great deal of cold wind! Nevertheless, I was adamant. I dragged her to the market, where we purchased exciting camellias or other flowers, and then we took the two-mile walk lashed by wind and frequently rain as well, and placed the floral bouquet with due ceremony upon Kiki's grave. It must run in one's blood to enjoy funerals and funeral observances. Where indeed would archaeology be if it had not been for this trait in human nature? If I was ever taken for a walk in my youth by anyone other than nursesone of the servants, for instancewe invariably went to the cemetery.

How happy are those scenes in Paris at Pere Lachaise, with whole families attending family tombs and making them beautiful for All Souls Day. Honouring the dead is indeed a hallowed cult. Is there behind it some instinctive means of avoiding grief, of becoming so interested in the rites and ceremonies that one almost forgets the departed loved one? I do know this, that however poor a family may be the first thing they save for is their funeral. A sweet old dear who worked for me at one time said, 'Ah, hard times, dearie. Hard times indeed they've been. But one thing, however short I've gone and all the rest of us, I've got my money saved to bury me decent and I'll never touch that. No, not even if I go hungry for days!'

IV

I sometimes think that in my last incarnation, if the theory of reincarnation is right, I must have been a dog. I have a great many of the dog's habits. If anybody is undertaking anything or going anywhere I always want to be taken with them and do it too. In the same way, when returning home after this long absence I acted exactly like a dog. A dog always runs all round the house examining everything, sniffing here, sniffing there, finding out by its nose what has been going on, and visiting all its 'best spots'. I did exactly the same. I went all round the house, then went out in the garden and visited my pet spots there: the tub, the see-saw tree, my little secret post overlooking the road outside in a hiding place up by the wall. I found my hoop and tested its condition, and took about an hour to satisfy myself that all was exactly as it had been before.

The greatest change had taken place in my dog, Tony. Tony had been a small, neat Yorkshire terrier when we went away. He was now, owing to Froudie's loving care and endless meals, as fat as a balloon. She was completely Tony's slave, and when my mother and I went to fetch him home Froudie gave us a long dissertation on how he liked to sleep, what exactly he had to be covered with in his basket, his tastes in food, and what time he liked his walk. At intervals she broke off her conversation with us to speak to Tony. 'Mother's lovely,' she said. 'Mother's handsome.' Tony looked very appreciative at these remarks, but nevertheless seemed to take them as no more than his due. 'And he won't eat a morsel,' said Froudie proudly, 'unless you give it him by hand. Oh no, I have to feed him every single little piece myself.'

I noticed a look in my mother's face, and I could see that Tony was not going to receive quite that treatment at home. We took him home with us in the hired cab which we had got for the occasion, plus his bedding and the rest of his possessions. Tony, of course, was delighted to see us, and licked me all over. When his dinner was prepared and brought, Froudie's warning was proved true. Tony looked at it, looked up at my mother and at me, moved a few steps away and sat down, waiting like a grand seigneur grand seigneur to have each morsel fed to him. I gave him a piece and he accepted it graciously, but my mother stopped that. to have each morsel fed to him. I gave him a piece and he accepted it graciously, but my mother stopped that.

'It's no good,' she said. 'He will have to learn to eat his dinner properly, as he used to do. Leave his dinner down there. He'll go and eat it presently.'

But Tony did not go and eat it. He sat there. And never have I seen a dog more overcome with righteous indignation. His large, sorrowful, brown eyes went round the a.s.sembled family and back to his plate. He was clearly saying, 'I want want it. Don't you see? I want my it. Don't you see? I want my dinner. dinner. Give it to me.' However, my mother was firm. Give it to me.' However, my mother was firm.

'Even if he doesn't eat it today,' she said, 'he will tomorrow.' 'You don't think he'll starve?' I demanded.

My mother looked thoughtfully at Tony's immensely broad back. 'A little starvation,' she said, 'would do him a world of good.'

It was not till the following evening that Tony capitulated, and then he saved his pride by eating his dinner when n.o.body was in the room. After that there was no further trouble. Days of being treated like a Grand Duke were over, and Tony obviously accepted the fact. Still, he did not forget that for a whole year he had been the beloved darling of another house. Any word of reproof, any trouble he got into, and immediately he would sneak off and trot down to Froudie's house, where he obviously told her that he was not properly appreciated. The habit persisted for quite a long time.

Marie was now Tony's nurse-attendant, in addition to her other duties. It was amusing to see Marie arrive when we were playing downstairs in the evening, an ap.r.o.n tied round her waist, saying politely, 'Monsieur Toni pour le bain.' 'Monsieur Toni pour le bain.' Monsieur Tony would immediately try to get down on all fours and slide under the sofa, since he had a poor opinion of the weekly bath. Extracted, he was carried off, his tail drooping and his ears down. Marie would report proudly later on the amount of fleas that were floating on top of the Jeyes fluid. Monsieur Tony would immediately try to get down on all fours and slide under the sofa, since he had a poor opinion of the weekly bath. Extracted, he was carried off, his tail drooping and his ears down. Marie would report proudly later on the amount of fleas that were floating on top of the Jeyes fluid.

I must say that now dogs do not seem to have nearly as many fleas as they did in my young days. In spite of baths, brushing and combing, and large amounts of Jeyes fluid, all our dogs always seemed to be full of fleas. Perhaps they frequented stables and played with other flea-ridden dogs more than they do now. On the other hand they were less pampered, and they did not seem to live at the vets as much as dogs do today. I don't remember Tony ever being seriously ill, his coat seemed always in good condition, he ate his meals, which were the sc.r.a.ps from our own dinner, and little fuss was made about his health.

But much more fuss is made about children now than was then the case. Temperatures, unless they were high, were not taken much notice of. A temperature of 102, sustained for twenty-four hours, would probably involve a visit from the doctor, but anything under that was given little attention. Occasionally, after a surfeit of green apples one might have what was termed a bilious attack. Twenty-four hours in bed with starvation usually cured that quite easily. Food was good and varied. I suppose there was a tendency to keep young children on milk and starch far too long, but certainly I, from a young age, had tastes of the steak that was sent up for Nursie's supper, and under-done roast beef was one of my favourite meals. Devonshire cream, too, was eaten in quant.i.ties; so much nicer than cod liver oil, my mother used to say. Sometimes one ate it on bread and sometimes with a spoon. Alas! You never see real Devonshire cream in Devon nowadaysnot as it used to bescalded and taken off the milk in layers with its yellow top standing in a china bowl. There is no doubt about it, my favourite thing has been, is, and probably always will be, cream. cream.

Mother, who craved for variety in food as well as in everything else, used from time to time to have a new craze. One time it was 'there's more nourishment in an egg'. On this slogan we had eggs at practically every meal till father rebelled. There was also a fishy period, when we lived on sole and whiting and improved our brains. However, having made the round of the food diets, mother usually returned to the normal; just as, having dragged father through Theosophy, the Unitarian church, a near miss of becoming a Roman Catholic, and a flirtation with Buddhism, she returned at last to the Church of England.

It was satisfactory to come home and find everything just as usual. There was only one change, and that was for the better. I now had my devoted Marie.

I suppose that until I dipped a hand into my bag of remembrances I had never actually thought thought about Marieshe was just Marie, part of my life. To a child the world is simply what is happening to him or her: and that includes the people in itwhom they like, whom they hate, what makes them happy, what makes them unhappy. Marie, fresh, cheerful, smiling, always agreeable, was a much appreciated member of the household. about Marieshe was just Marie, part of my life. To a child the world is simply what is happening to him or her: and that includes the people in itwhom they like, whom they hate, what makes them happy, what makes them unhappy. Marie, fresh, cheerful, smiling, always agreeable, was a much appreciated member of the household.

What I wonder now is what it meant to her? her? She had been, I think, very happy during the autumn and winter that we spent travelling in France and the Channel Islands. She was seeing places, the life in the hotels was pleasant, and, strangely enough, she liked her young charge. I would, of course, like to think that she liked me because I was She had been, I think, very happy during the autumn and winter that we spent travelling in France and the Channel Islands. She was seeing places, the life in the hotels was pleasant, and, strangely enough, she liked her young charge. I would, of course, like to think that she liked me because I was me mebut Marie was genuinely fond of children, and would have liked any child that she was looking after, short of one or two of those infantile monsters that one does encounter. I was certainly not particularly obedient to her; I don't think the French have the capacity for enforcing obedience. In many ways I behaved disgracefully. In particular I hated going to bed, and invented a splendid game of leaping round all the furniture, climbing up on wardrobes, down from the tops of chests of drawers, completing the circuit of the room without ever once touching the floor. Marie, standing in the doorway, would moan: 'Oh, Mees; Mees! Madame votre mere ne serait pas contente!' Madame ma mere Mees; Mees! Madame votre mere ne serait pas contente!' Madame ma mere certainly did not know what was going on. If she had made an unexpected appearance, she would have raised her eyebrows, said, 'Agatha! Why are you not in bed?' and within three minutes I certainly did not know what was going on. If she had made an unexpected appearance, she would have raised her eyebrows, said, 'Agatha! Why are you not in bed?' and within three minutes I would would have been in bed, scurrying there, without any further word of admonition. However, Marie never denounced me to authority; she pleaded, she sighed, but she never reported me. On the other hand, if I did not give her obedience, I have been in bed, scurrying there, without any further word of admonition. However, Marie never denounced me to authority; she pleaded, she sighed, but she never reported me. On the other hand, if I did not give her obedience, I did did give her love. I loved her very much. give her love. I loved her very much.

On only one occasion do I really remember having upset her, and that was entirely inadvertent. It happened after we had come back to England, in the course of an argument on some subject or other which was proceeding quite amicably. Finally, in exasperation, and wishing to prove my point of view, I was saying: 'Mais, ma pauvre fille, vous ne savez done pas les chemins defer sont 'Mais, ma pauvre fille, vous ne savez done pas les chemins defer sont: At this point, to my utter amazement, Marie suddenly burst into tears. I stared at her. I had no idea what was the matter. Then words came amongst the sobs. Yesshe was indeed a 'pauvre fille 'pauvre fille'. Her parents were poor, not rich like those of Mees. They kept a cafe, where all the sons and daughters worked. But it was not gentille, gentille, it was not it was not bien elevee bien elevee of her dear Mees to reproach her with her poverty. of her dear Mees to reproach her with her poverty.

'But, Marie,' I expostulated, 'Marie, I didn't mean that at all'.' at all'.' It seemed impossible to explain that no idea of poverty had been in my mind, that It seemed impossible to explain that no idea of poverty had been in my mind, that 'ma pauvre fille' 'ma pauvre fille' was a mere expression of impatience. Poor Marie had been hurt in her feelings, and it took at least half an hour of protestations, caresses, and reiterated a.s.surances of affection before she was soothed. After that, all was healed between us. I was terribly careful in future was a mere expression of impatience. Poor Marie had been hurt in her feelings, and it took at least half an hour of protestations, caresses, and reiterated a.s.surances of affection before she was soothed. After that, all was healed between us. I was terribly careful in future never never to use that particular expression. to use that particular expression.

I think that Marie, established at our house in Torquay, felt lonely and homesick for the first time. No doubt in the hotels where we had stayed there had been other maids, nurses, governesses, and so oncosmopolitan onesand she had not felt the separation from her family. But here in England she came in contact with girls of her own age, or at any rate of not much more than her own age. We had at that time, I think, a youngish housemaid and a parlourmaid of perhaps thirty. But their point of view was so different from Marie's that it must have made her feel a complete alien. They criticised the plainness of her clothes, the fact that she never spent any money on finery, ribbons, gloves, all the rest of it.

Marie was receiving what were to her fantastically good wages. She asked Monsieur every month if he would be so kind as to remit practically the whole of her pay to her mother in Pau. She herself kept a tiny sum. This was to her natural and proper; she was saving up for her dot, dot, that precious sum of money that all French girls at that time (and perhaps now, I do not know) industriously put by as a dowrya necessity for the future, for lacking it they may easily not get married at all. It is the equivalent, I suppose, of what we call in England 'my bottom drawer', but far more serious. It was a good and sensible idea, and I think in vogue nowadays in England, because young people want to buy a house and therefore both the man and the girl save money towards it. But in the time I am speaking of, girls did not save up for marriagethat was the man's business. He must provide a home and the wherewithal to feed, clothe and look after his wife. Therefore the 'girls in good service' and the lower cla.s.s of shop-girls, considered the money they earned was their own to use for the frivolous things of life. They bought new hats, and coloured blouses, an occasional necklace or brooch. One might say, I suppose, that they used their wages as courting moneyto attract a suitable male of the species. But here was Marie, in her neat little black coat and skirt, and her little toque and her plain blouses, never adding to her wardrobe, never buying anything unnecessary. I don't think they meant to be unkind, but they laughed at her; they despised her. It made her very unhappy. that precious sum of money that all French girls at that time (and perhaps now, I do not know) industriously put by as a dowrya necessity for the future, for lacking it they may easily not get married at all. It is the equivalent, I suppose, of what we call in England 'my bottom drawer', but far more serious. It was a good and sensible idea, and I think in vogue nowadays in England, because young people want to buy a house and therefore both the man and the girl save money towards it. But in the time I am speaking of, girls did not save up for marriagethat was the man's business. He must provide a home and the wherewithal to feed, clothe and look after his wife. Therefore the 'girls in good service' and the lower cla.s.s of shop-girls, considered the money they earned was their own to use for the frivolous things of life. They bought new hats, and coloured blouses, an occasional necklace or brooch. One might say, I suppose, that they used their wages as courting moneyto attract a suitable male of the species. But here was Marie, in her neat little black coat and skirt, and her little toque and her plain blouses, never adding to her wardrobe, never buying anything unnecessary. I don't think they meant to be unkind, but they laughed at her; they despised her. It made her very unhappy.

It was really my mother's insight and kindness that helped her through the first four or five months. She was homesick, she wanted to go home. My mother, however, talked to Marie, consoled her, told her that she was a wise girl and doing the right thing, that English girls were not as far-seeing and prudent as French girls. She also, I think, had a word with the servants themselves and with Jane, saying that they were making this French girl unhappy. She was far away from home, and they must think what it would be like if they they were in a foreign country. So after a month or two Marie cheered up. were in a foreign country. So after a month or two Marie cheered up.

I feel that, at this point, anyone who has had the patience to read so far will exclaim: 'But didn't you have any lessons to do?'

The answer is, 'No, I did not.'

I was, I suppose, nine years old by now, and most children of my age had governessesthough these were engaged, I fancy, largely from the point of view of child care, to exercise and supervise. What they taught you in the way of 'lessons' depended entirely on the tastes of the individual governesses.

I remember dimly a governess or two in friends' houses. One held complete faith in Dr Brewer's Child's Guide to Knowledge Child's Guide to Knowledgea counterpart of our modern 'Quiz'. I retain sc.r.a.ps of knowledge thus acquired'What are the three diseases of wheat?' Rust, mildew, and soot.' Those have gone with me all through lifethough unfortunately they have never been of practical use to me. 'What is the princ.i.p.al manufacture in the town of Redditch?' 'Needles.' 'What is the date of the Battle of Hastings?' '1066.'

Another governess, I remember, instructed her pupils in natural history, but little else. A great deal of picking of leaves and berries and wild flowers went onand a suitable dissection of the same. It was incredibly boring. 'I do hate all this pulling things to pieces,' confided my small friend to me. I entirely agreed, and indeed the word Botany all through my life has made me shy like a nervous horse.

My mother had gone to school in her own youth, to an establishment in Cheshire. She sent my sister Madge to boarding school but was now entirely converted to the view that the best way to bring up girls was to let them run wild as much as possible; to give them good food, fresh air, and not to force their minds in any way. (None of this, of course, applied to boys: boys had to have a strictly conventional education.) As I have already mentioned, she had a theory that no child should be allowed to read until it was eight. This having been frustrated, I was allowed to read as much as I pleased, and I took every opportunity to do so. The schoolroom, as it was called, was a big room at the top of the house, almost completely lined with books. There were shelves of children's booksAlice in Wonderland and and Through the Looking Gla.s.s, Through the Looking Gla.s.s, the earlier, sentimental Victorian tales which I have already mentioned, such as the earlier, sentimental Victorian tales which I have already mentioned, such as Our White Violet, Our White Violet, Charlotte Yonge's books, including Charlotte Yonge's books, including The Daisy Chain, The Daisy Chain, a complete set, I should think, of Henty, and, besides that, any amount of school-books, novels, and others. I read indiscriminately, picking up anything that interested me, reading quite a lot of things which I did not understand but which nevertheless held my attention. a complete set, I should think, of Henty, and, besides that, any amount of school-books, novels, and others. I read indiscriminately, picking up anything that interested me, reading quite a lot of things which I did not understand but which nevertheless held my attention.

In the course of my reading I found a French play which father discovered me reading. 'How did you get hold of that?' that?' he asked, picking it up, horrified. It was one of a series of French novels and plays which he usually kept carefully locked up in the smoking-room for the perusal of adults only. he asked, picking it up, horrified. It was one of a series of French novels and plays which he usually kept carefully locked up in the smoking-room for the perusal of adults only.

'It was in the school-room,' I said.

'It shouldn't have been there,' said father. 'It should have been in my cupboard.'

I relinquished it cheerfully. Truth to tell, I had found it somewhat difficult to understand. I returned happily to reading Memoires d'un ane, Sans Famille, Memoires d'un ane, Sans Famille, and other innocuous French literature. and other innocuous French literature.

I suppose I must have had lessons of some some kind, but I did not have a governess. I continued to do arithmetic with my father, pa.s.sing proudly through fractions to decimals. I eventually arrived at the point where so many cows ate so much gra.s.s, and tanks filled with water in so many hoursI found it quite enthralling. kind, but I did not have a governess. I continued to do arithmetic with my father, pa.s.sing proudly through fractions to decimals. I eventually arrived at the point where so many cows ate so much gra.s.s, and tanks filled with water in so many hoursI found it quite enthralling.

My sister was now officially 'out', which entailed parties, dresses, visits to London, and so on. This kept my mother busy, and she had less time for me. Sometimes I became jealous, feeling that Madge had all the attention. My mother had had a dull girlhood herself. Though her aunt was a rich woman, and though Clara had travelled to and fro across the Atlantic with her, she had seen no reason to give her a social debut of any kind. I don't think my mother was socially minded, but she did yearn, as any young girl might, to have a great many prettier clothes and dresses than she had. Auntie-Grannie ordered herself very expensive and fashionable clothes at the best dressmakers in Paris, but she always considered Clara as a child, and more or less dressed her as such. The awful sewing women again! My mother was determined that her her daughters should have all the pretty-pretties and frivolities of life that she herself had missed. Hence her interest and delight in Madge's clothes, and later in mine. daughters should have all the pretty-pretties and frivolities of life that she herself had missed. Hence her interest and delight in Madge's clothes, and later in mine.

Mind you, clothes were clothes in those days! There was a great deal of them, lavish both in material and in workmanship. Frills, ruffles, flounces, lace, complicated seams and gores: not only did they sweep the ground and have to be held up in one hand elegantly as you walked along, but they had little capes or coats or feather boas.

There was also hairdressing: hairdressing, too, really was hairdressing in those timesno running a comb through it and that was that. It was curled, frizzed, waved, put in curlers overnight, waved with hot tongs; if a girl was going to a dance she started doing her hair at least two hours earlier and the hairdressing would take her about an hour and a half, leaving her about half an hour to put on her dress, stockings, slippers and so on.

This was not, of course, my world. It was the grown-ups' world, from which I remained aloof. Nevertheless, I was influenced by it. Marie and I discussed the toilettes toilettes of the Mademoiselles and our special favourites. of the Mademoiselles and our special favourites.

It so happened that in our particular road there were no next-door neighbours with children of my age. So, as I had done at a younger age, I once more arranged a set of friends and intimates of my ownin succession to Poodle, Squirrel and Tree, and the famous Kittens. This time I invented a school. This was not because I had any desire myself to go to school. No, I think that The School const.i.tuted the only background into which I could conveniently fit seven girls of varying ages and appearances, giving them different backgrounds instead of making them a family, which I did not want to do. The School had no nameit was just The School.

The first girls to arrive were Ethel Smith and Annie Gray. Ethel Smith was eleven and Annie was nine. Ethel was dark, with a great mane of hair. She was clever, good at games, had a deep voice, and must have been rather masculine in appearance. Annie Gray, her great friend, was a complete contrast. She had pale flaxen hair, blue eyes, and was shy and nervous and easily reduced to tears. She clung to Ethel, who protected her on every occasion. I liked them both, but my preference was for the bold and vigorous Ethel.

After Ethel and Annie, I added two more: Isabella Sullivan, who was rich, golden-haired, brown-eyed, and beautiful. She was eleven years of age. Isabella I did not likein fact I disliked her a good deal. She was 'worldly'. (Worldly' was a great word in the story-books of the time: pages of The Daisy Chain The Daisy Chain are devoted to the worries in the May family because of Flora's worldliness.) Isabel was certainly the quintessence of worldliness. She gave herself airs, boasted about being rich, and had clothes that were far too expensive for her and too grand for a girl of her age. Elsie Green was her cousin. Elsie was rather Irish; she had dark hair, blue eyes, curls, and was gay and laughed a good deal. She got on quite well with Isabel, but sometimes ticked her off. Elsie was poor; she wore Isabel's cast-off clothes, which sometimes rankled, but not much, because Elsie was easy-going. are devoted to the worries in the May family because of Flora's worldliness.) Isabel was certainly the quintessence of worldliness. She gave herself airs, boasted about being rich, and had clothes that were far too expensive for her and too grand for a girl of her age. Elsie Green was her cousin. Elsie was rather Irish; she had dark hair, blue eyes, curls, and was gay and laughed a good deal. She got on quite well with Isabel, but sometimes ticked her off. Elsie was poor; she wore Isabel's cast-off clothes, which sometimes rankled, but not much, because Elsie was easy-going.

With these four I got on well for some time. They travelled on the tubular railway, they rode horses, they did gardening, they also played a great deal of croquet. I used to arrange tournaments and special matches. My great hope was that Isabel would not not win. I did everything short of cheating to see that she did not winthat is, I held her mallet for her carelessly, played quickly, hardly aimed at allyet somehow the more carelessly I played, the more fortunate Isabel seemed to be. She got through impossible hoops, hit b.a.l.l.s from right across the lawn, and nearly always finished as winner or runner-up. It was most annoying. win. I did everything short of cheating to see that she did not winthat is, I held her mallet for her carelessly, played quickly, hardly aimed at allyet somehow the more carelessly I played, the more fortunate Isabel seemed to be. She got through impossible hoops, hit b.a.l.l.s from right across the lawn, and nearly always finished as winner or runner-up. It was most annoying.

After a while I thought it would be nice to have some younger girls at the school. I added two six-year-olds, Ella White and Sue de Verte. Ella was conscientious, industrious and dull. She had bushy hair, and was good at lessons. She did well in Dr Brewer's Guide to Knowledge, Guide to Knowledge, and played quite a fair game of croquet. Sue de Verte was curiously colourless, not only in appearanceshe was fair, with pale blue eyesbut also in character. Somehow I couldn't and played quite a fair game of croquet. Sue de Verte was curiously colourless, not only in appearanceshe was fair, with pale blue eyesbut also in character. Somehow I couldn't see see or or feel feel Sue. She and Ella were great friends, but though I knew Ella like the back of my hand Sue remained fluid. I think this is probably because Sue was really Sue. She and Ella were great friends, but though I knew Ella like the back of my hand Sue remained fluid. I think this is probably because Sue was really myself myself When I conversed with the others, I was always Sue conversing with them, not Agatha; and therefore Sue and Agatha became two facets of the same person, and Sue was an observer, not really one of the dramatis personae. The seventh girl to be added to the collection was Sue's step-sister, Vera de Verte. Vera was an immense ageshe was thirteen. She was not at the moment beautiful, but she was going to be a raving beauty in the future. There was also a mystery about her parentage. I had half-planned various futures for Vera of a highly romantic nature. She had straw-coloured hair and forget-me-not blue eyes. When I conversed with the others, I was always Sue conversing with them, not Agatha; and therefore Sue and Agatha became two facets of the same person, and Sue was an observer, not really one of the dramatis personae. The seventh girl to be added to the collection was Sue's step-sister, Vera de Verte. Vera was an immense ageshe was thirteen. She was not at the moment beautiful, but she was going to be a raving beauty in the future. There was also a mystery about her parentage. I had half-planned various futures for Vera of a highly romantic nature. She had straw-coloured hair and forget-me-not blue eyes.

An additional help to 'the girls' were bound copies of Royal Academy pictures which my grandmother had in the house in Ealing. She promised that they should belong to me me one day, and I used to spend hours looking at them in wet weather, not so much for artistic satisfaction as for finding suitable pictures of 'the girls'. A book that had been given me as a Christmas present, ill.u.s.trated by Walter Crane one day, and I used to spend hours looking at them in wet weather, not so much for artistic satisfaction as for finding suitable pictures of 'the girls'. A book that had been given me as a Christmas present, ill.u.s.trated by Walter CraneThe Feast of Florarepresented flower pictures in human form. There was a particularly lovely one in it of forget-me-nots wreathed round a figure who was definitely Vera de Verte. Chaucer's Daisy was Ella, and the handsome Crown Imperial striding along was Ethel.

'The girls', I may say, stayed with me for many years, naturally changing their characters as I myself matured. They partic.i.p.ated in music, acted in opera, were given parts in plays and musical comedies. Even when I was grown up I spared them a thought now and then, and allocated them the various dresses in my wardrobe. I also designed model gowns for them in my mind. Ethel, I remember, looked very very handsome in a dress of dark blue tulle with white arum lilies on one shoulder. Poor Annie was never given much to wear. I was fair to Isabel, though, and gave her some extremely handsome gownsembroidered brocades, and satins usually. Even now, sometimes, as I put away a dress in a cupboard, I say to myself: 'Yes, that would do well for Elsie, green was always her colour.' Ella would look very nice indeed in that three-piece jersey suit.' It makes me laugh when I do it, but there 'the girls' handsome in a dress of dark blue tulle with white arum lilies on one shoulder. Poor Annie was never given much to wear. I was fair to Isabel, though, and gave her some extremely handsome gownsembroidered brocades, and satins usually. Even now, sometimes, as I put away a dress in a cupboard, I say to myself: 'Yes, that would do well for Elsie, green was always her colour.' Ella would look very nice indeed in that three-piece jersey suit.' It makes me laugh when I do it, but there 'the girls' are are still, though, unlike me, they have not grown old. Twenty-three is the oldest I have ever imagined them. still, though, unlike me, they have not grown old. Twenty-three is the oldest I have ever imagined them.

In the course of time I added four more characters: Adelaide, who was the oldest of all, tall, fair and rather superior; Beatrice, who was a merry, dancing, little fairy, the youngest of them all; and two sisters, Rose and Iris Reed. I became rather romantic about those two. Iris had a young man who wrote poetry to her and called her 'Iris of the Marshes', and Rose was very mischievous, played tricks on everybody, and flirted madly with all the young men. They were, of course, in due time married off, or remained unmarried. Ethel never married but lived in a small cottage with the gentle Annievery appropriate, I think now: it's exactly what they would have done in real life.

Soon after our return from abroad the delights of the world of music were opened to me by Fraulein Uder. Fraulein Uder was a short, wiry, formidable, little German woman. I don't know why she was teaching music in Torquay, I never heard anything of her private life. My mother appeared one day in the Schoolroom with Fraulein Uder in tow, explaining she wanted Agatha to start learning the piano.

'Ach!' said Fraulein Uder with a rich German sound, though she spoke English perfectly. 'Then we will at once to the piano go.' To the piano we wentthe schoolroom piano, of course, not the grand piano in the drawing-room.

'Stand there,' commanded Fraulein Uder. I stood as placed to the left of the piano. 'That,' she said, thumping the note so hard that I really thought something might happen to it, 'is C Major. You understand? That is the note C. This is the scale of C Major.' She played it. 'Now we go back and play the chord of C, like that Now againthe scale. The notes are C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C. You understand?'

I said yes. As a matter of fact I knew that much already.

'Now,' said Fraulein Uder, 'you will stand there where you cannot see the notes and I play first C, then another note, and you shall tell me what the second is.'

She hit C, and then hit another note with equal force.

'What is that? Answer me.'

'E,' I said.

'Quite right. Good. Now we will try again.'

Once more she thumped C, and then another note. 'And that?' 'A,' I hazarded.

'Ach, that it first cla.s.s. Good. This child is musical. You have the ear, yes. Ach, we shall get on famously.'

I certainly got off to a good start. I don't think, to be honest, I had the least idea what the other notes were she was playing. I think it must have been an inspired guess. But anyway, having started on those lines we went ahead with plenty of good will on either side. Before long the houses resounded with scales, arpeggios, and in due course the strains of The Merry Peasant. The Merry Peasant. I enjoyed my music lessons enormously. Both father and mother played the piano. Mother played Mendelssohn's I enjoyed my music lessons enormously. Both father and mother played the piano. Mother played Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words Songs Without Words and various other 'pieces' that she had learned in her youth. She played well, but was not, I think, a pa.s.sionate music lover. My father was naturally musical. He could play anything by ear, and he played delightful American songs and negro spirituals and other things. To and various other 'pieces' that she had learned in her youth. She played well, but was not, I think, a pa.s.sionate music lover. My father was naturally musical. He could play anything by ear, and he played delightful American songs and negro spirituals and other things. To The Merry Peasant The Merry Peasant Fraulein Uder and I added Fraulein Uder and I added Trdumerei, Trdumerei, and other of Schumann's delicate little tunes. I practised with zeal for an hour or two a day. From Schumann I proceeded to Greig, which I loved pa.s.sionately and other of Schumann's delicate little tunes. I practised with zeal for an hour or two a day. From Schumann I proceeded to Greig, which I loved pa.s.sionatelyErotique and the and the First Rustle of Spring First Rustle of Spring were my favourites. When I finally progressed to being able to play the Peer Gynt were my favourites. When I finally progressed to being able to play the Peer Gynt Morgen Morgen I was transported with delight. Fraulein Uder, like most Germans, was an excellent teacher. It was not all playing of pleasant tunes; there were ma.s.ses of Czerny's Exercises, about which I was not quite so zealous, but Fraulein Uder was having no nonsense. 'You must the good grounding have,' she said. 'These exercises, they are the reality, the necessity. The tunes, yes, they are pretty little embroideries, they are like flowers, they bloom and drop off, but you must have the roots, the strong roots and the leaves.' So I had a good deal of the strong roots and the leaves and an occasional flower or two, and I was probably much more pleased with the result than the others in the house, who found so much practising somewhat oppressive. I was transported with delight. Fraulein Uder, like most Germans, was an excellent teacher. It was not all playing of pleasant tunes; there were ma.s.ses of Czerny's Exercises, about which I was not quite so zealous, but Fraulein Uder was having no nonsense. 'You must the good grounding have,' she said. 'These exercises, they are the reality, the necessity. The tunes, yes, they are pretty little embroideries, they are like flowers, they bloom and drop off, but you must have the roots, the strong roots and the leaves.' So I had a good deal of the strong roots and the leaves and an occasional flower or two, and I was probably much more pleased with the result than the others in the house, who found so much practising somewhat oppressive.

Then there was also dancing-cla.s.s, which took place once a week, at something grandiosely called the Athenaeum Rooms, situated over a confectioner's shop. I must have started going to dancing-cla.s.s quite earlyfive or six, I thinkbecause I remember that Nursie was still there and took me once a week. The young ones were started off with the polka. Their approach to it was to stamp three times: right, left, rightleft, right, leftthump, thump, thumpthump, thump, thump. Very unpleasant it must have been for those having tea at the confectioner's underneath. When I got home I was slightly upset by Madge, who said that that was not how the polka was danced. 'You slide one foot, bring the next up to it, and then the first,' she said, 'like this.' I was rather puzzled, but apparently it was Miss Hickey's, the dancing-mistress's idea of getting the rhythm of the polka before you did the steps.

Miss Hickey, I remember, was a wonderful if alarming personality. She was tall, stately, had a pompadour of grey hair beautifully arranged, long flowing skirts, and to waltz with herwhich happened, of course, much laterwas a terrifying experience. She had one pupil teacher of about eighteen or nineteen, and one of about thirteen called Aileen. Aileen was a sweet girl, who worked hard, and whom we all liked very much. The older one, Helen, was slightly terrifying, and only took notice of the really good dancers.