A Cathedral Courtship
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Kate Douglas Wiggin >> A Cathedral Courtship
This etext was prepared from the 1893 Gay and Bird edition
by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP
SHE
WINCHESTER, May 28, 1891
The Royal Garden Inn.
We are doing the English cathedral towns, aunt Celia and I. Aunt
Celia has an intense desire to improve my mind. Papa told her, when
we were leaving Cedarhurst, that he wouldn't for the world have it
too much improved, and aunt Celia remarked that, so far as she could
judge, there was no immediate danger; with which exchange of
hostilities they parted.
We are traveling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, warranted
neither to bend nor break. It was made out by a young High Church
curate in New York, and if it had been blessed by all the bishops
and popes it could not be more sacred to aunt Celia. She is awfully
High Church, and I believe she thinks this tour of the cathedrals
will give me a taste for ritual and bring me into the true fold. I
have been hearing dear old Dr. Kyle a great deal lately, and aunt
Celia says that he is the most dangerous Unitarian she knows,
because he has leanings towards Christianity.
Long ago, in her youth, she was engaged to a young architect. He,
with his triangles and T-squares and things, succeeded in making an
imaginary scale-drawing of her heart (up to that time a virgin
forest, an unmapped territory), which enabled him to enter in and
set up a pedestal there, on which he has remained ever since. He
has been only a memory for many years, to be sure, for he died at
the age of twenty-six, before he had had time to build anything but
a livery stable and a country hotel. This is fortunate, on the
whole, because aunt Celia thinks he was destined to establish
American architecture on a higher plane,--rid it of its base, time-
serving, imitative instincts, and waft it to a height where, in the
course of centuries, we should have been revered and followed by all
the nations of the earth. I went to see the livery stable, after
one of these Miriam-like flights of prophecy on the might-have-been.
It isn't fair to judge a man's promise by one performance, and that
one a livery stable, so I shall say nothing.
This sentiment about architecture and this fondness for the very
toppingest High Church ritual cause aunt Celia to look on the
English cathedrals with solemnity and reverential awe. She has
given me a fat notebook, with "Katharine Schuyler" stamped in gold
letters on the Russia leather cover, and a lock and key to protect
its feminine confidences. I am not at all the sort of girl who
makes notes, and I have told her so; but she says that I must at
least record my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial and
commonplace.
I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the Abbotts,
our ship friends, who left us yesterday. Roderick Abbott and I had
had a charming time on board ship (more charming than aunt Celia
knows, because she was very ill, and her natural powers of
chaperoning were severely impaired), and the prospect of seeing
London sights together was not unpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is
not in aunt Celia's itinerary, which reads: "Winchester, Salisbury,
Wells, Bath, Bristol, Gloucester, Oxford, London, Ely, Lincoln,
York, Durham."
Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and when
they are thrown in contact with those who are born to be commanded
all goes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not.
So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick
Abbotts in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn,
its pretty coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with
its borders of clove pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-
chestnuts, great towering masses of pink bloom!
Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an
estimable lady tourist whom she "picked up" en route from
Southampton. I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write
letters, because aunt Celia has the guide-books, so I sit by the
window in indolent content, watching the dear little school laddies,
with their short jackets and wide white collars; they all look so
jolly, and rosy, and clean, and kissable! I should like to kiss the
chambermaid, too! She has a pink print dress; no bangs, thank
goodness (it's curious our servants can't leave that deformity to
the upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure, soft
voice, and a most engaging way of saying, "Yes, miss? Anythink
more, miss?" I long to ask her to sit down comfortably and be
English, while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't.
Sometimes I wish I could retire from the world for a season and do
what I like, "surrounded by the general comfort of being thought
mad."
An elegant, irreproachable, high-minded model of dignity and reserve
has just knocked and inquired what we will have for dinner. It is
very embarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a judge
of the Supreme Court, but I said languidly, "What would you
suggest?"
"How would you like a clear soup, a good spring soup, to begin with,
miss?"
"Very much."
"And a bit of turbot next, miss?"
"Yes, turbot, by all means," I said, my mouth watering at the word.
"And what for a roast, miss? Would you enjoy a young duckling,
miss?"
"Just the thing; and for dessert"--I couldn't think what we ought to
have for dessert in England, but the high-minded model coughed
apologetically and said, "I was thinking you might like gooseberry
tart and cream for a sweet, miss."
Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a shriek of
delight as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only in
English novels!
"Ye-es," I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, "I
fancy we should like gooseberry tart (here a bright idea entered my
mind) and perhaps in case my aunt doesn't care for the gooseberry
tart, you might bring a lemon squash, please."
Now I had never met a lemon squash personally, but I had often heard
of it, and wished to show my familiarity with British culinary art.
"One lemon squash, miss?"
"Oh, as to that, it doesn't matter," I said haughtily; "bring a
sufficient number for two persons."
* * *
Aunt Celia came home in the highest feather. She had twice been
taken for an Englishwoman. She said she thought that lemon squash
was a drink; I thought it was a pie; but we shall find out at
dinner, for, as I said, I ordered a sufficient number for two
persons.
At four o'clock we attended even-song at the cathedral. I shall not
say what I felt when the white-surpliced boy choir entered, winding
down those vaulted aisles, or when I heard for the first time that
intoned service, with all its "witchcraft of harmonic sound." I sat
quite by myself in a high carved-oak seat, and the hour was passed
in a trance of serene delight. I do not have many opinions, it is
true, but papa says I am always strong on sentiments; nevertheless,
I shall not attempt to tell even what I feel in these new and
beautiful experiences, for it has been better told a thousand times.
There were a great many people at service, and a large number of
Americans among them, I should think, though we saw no familiar
faces. There was one particularly nice young man, who looked like a
Bostonian. He sat opposite me. He didn't stare,--he was too well
bred; but when I looked the other way, he looked at me. Of course I
could feel his eyes,--anybody can, at least any girl can; but I
attended to every word of the service, and was as good as an angel.
When the procession had filed out and the last strain of the great
organ had rumbled into silence, we went on a tour through the
cathedral, a heterogeneous band, headed by a conscientious old
verger who did his best to enlighten us, and succeeded in virtually
spoiling my pleasure.
After we had finished (think of "finishing" a cathedral in an hour
or two!), aunt Celia and I, with one or two others, wandered through
the beautiful close, looking at the exterior from every possible
point, and coming at last to a certain ruined arch which is very
famous. It did not strike me as being remarkable. I could make any
number of them with a pattern, without the least effort. But at any
rate, when told by the verger to gaze upon the beauties of this
wonderful relic and tremble, we were obliged to gaze also upon the
beauties of the aforesaid nice young man, who was sketching it. As
we turned to go away, aunt Celia dropped her bag. It is one of
those detestable, all-absorbing, all-devouring, thoroughly
respectable, but never proud Boston bags, made of black cloth with
leather trimmings, "C. Van T." embroidered on the side, and the top
drawn up with stout cords which pass over the Boston wrist or arm.
As for me, I loathe them, and would not for worlds be seen carrying
one, though I do slip a great many necessaries into aunt Celia's.
I hastened to pick up the horrid thing, for fear the nice young man
would feel obliged to do it for me; but, in my indecorous haste, I
caught hold of the wrong end and emptied the entire contents on the
stone flagging. Aunt Celia didn't notice; she had turned with the
verger, lest she should miss a single word of his inspired
testimony. So we scrambled up the articles together, the nice young
man and I; and oh, I hope I may never look upon his face again
There were prayer-books and guide-books, a bottle of soda mint
tablets, a spool of dental floss, a Bath bun, a bit of gray frizz
that aunt Celia pins into her steamer cap, a spectacle case, a
brandy flask, and a bonbon box, which broke and scattered cloves and
cardamom seeds. (I hope he guessed aunt Celia is a dyspeptic, and
not intemperate!) All this was hopelessly vulgar, but I wouldn't
have minded anything if there had not been a Duchess novel. Of
course he thought that it belonged to me. He couldn't have known
aunt Celia was carrying it for that accidental Mrs. Benedict, with
whom she went to St. Cross Hospital.
After scooping the cardamom seeds out of the cracks in the stone
flagging, he handed me the tattered, disreputable-looking copy of "A
Modern Circe" with a bow that wouldn't have disgraced a
Chesterfield, and then went back to his easel, while I fled after
aunt Celia and her verger.
Memoranda: The Winchester Cathedral has the longest nave. The
inside is more superb than the outside. Izaak Walton and Jane
Austen are buried there.
HE
WINCHESTER, May 28, 1891
The White Swan.
As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in the
world to-day,--an American, too, or I'm greatly mistaken. It was in
the cathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was
sitting in the end of a seat, at afternoon service, when two ladies
entered by the side door. The ancient maiden, evidently the head of
the family, settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by
herself to one of the old carved seats back of the choir. She was
worse than pretty! I took a sketch of her during service, as she
sat under the dark carved-oak canopy, with this Latin inscription
over her head:-
CARLTON CUM
DOLBY
LETANIA
IX SOLIDORUM
SUPER FLUMINA
CONFITEBOR TIBI
DUC PROBATI
There ought to be a law against a woman's making a picture of
herself, unless she is willing to sit and be sketched.
A black and white sketch doesn't give any definite idea of this
charmer's charms, but some time I'll fill it in,--hair, sweet little
hat, gown, and eyes, all in golden brown, a cape of tawny sable
slipping off her arm, a knot of yellow primroses in her girdle,
carved-oak background, and the afternoon sun coming through a
stained-glass window. Great Jove! She had a most curious effect on
me, that girl! I can't explain it,--very curious, altogether new,
and rather pleasant! When one of the choir boys sang, "Oh for the
wings of a dove!" a tear rolled out of one of her lovely eyes and
down her smooth brown cheek. I would have given a large portion of
my modest monthly income for the felicity of wiping away that
teardrop with one of my new handkerchiefs, marked with a tremendous
"C" by my pretty sister.
An hour or two later they appeared again,--the dragon, who answers
to the name of "aunt Celia," and the "nut-brown mayde," who comes
when you call her "Katharine." I was sketching a ruined arch. The
dragon dropped her unmistakably Boston bag. I expected to see
encyclopaedias and Russian tracts fall from it, but was
disappointed. The nut-brown mayde (who has been brought up rigidly)
hastened to pick up the bag, for fear that I should serve her by
doing it. She was punished by turning it inside out, and I was
rewarded by helping her pick up the articles, which were many and
ill assorted. My little romance received the first blow when I
found that she reads the Duchess novels. I think, however, she has
the grace to be ashamed of it, for she blushed scarlet when I handed
her "A Modern Circe." I could have told her that such a blush on
such a cheek would atone for reading Mrs. Southworth, but I
refrained. After she had gone I discovered a slip of paper which
had blown under some stones. It proved to be an itinerary. I
didn't return it. I thought they must know which way they were
going; and as this was precisely what I wanted to know, I kept it
for my own use. She is doing the cathedral towns. I am doing the
cathedral towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn't we do them
together,--we and aunt Celia?
I had only ten minutes--to catch my train for Salisbury, but I
concluded to run in and glance at the registers of the principal
hotels. Found my nut-brown mayde at once on the pages of the Royal
Garden Inn register: "Miss Celia Van Tyck, Beverly, Mass.; Miss
Katharine Schuyler, New York." I concluded to stay over another
train, ordered dinner, and took an altogether indefensible and
inconsistent pleasure in writing "John Quincy Copley, Cambridge,
Mass.," directly beneath the charmer's autograph.
SHE
SALISBURY, June 1
The White Hart Inn.
We left Winchester on the 1.06 train yesterday, and here we are
within sight of another superb and ancient pile of stone. I wanted
so much to stop at the Highflyer Inn in Lark Lane, but aunt Celia
said that if we were destitute of personal dignity, we at least owed
something to our ancestors. Aunt Celia has a temperamental distrust
of joy as something dangerous and ensnaring. She doesn't realize
what fun it would be to date one's letters from the Highflyer Inn,
Lark Lane, even if one were obliged to consort with poachers and
cockneys in order to do it.
We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and there were
beautiful stained-glass windows by Burne-Jones and Morris. The
verger (when wound up with a shilling) talked like an electric doll.
If that nice young man is making a cathedral tour, like ourselves,
he isn't taking our route, for he isn't here. If he has come over
for the purpose of sketching, he wouldn't stop at sketching one
cathedral. Perhaps he began at the other end and worked down to
Winchester. Yes, that must be it, for the Ems sailed yesterday from
Southampton.
* * *
June 2.
We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, so we
took a "growler" and went to the Earl of Pembroke's country place to
see the pictures. Had a delightful morning with the magnificent
antiques, curios, and portraits. The Van Dyck room is a joy
forever. There were other visitors; nobody who looked especially
interesting. Don't like Salisbury so well as Winchester. Don't
know why. We shall drive this afternoon, if it is fair, and go to
Wells to-morrow. Must read Baedeker on the bishop's palace. Oh
dear! if one could only have a good time and not try to know
anything!
Memoranda: This cathedral has the highest spire. Remember:
Winchester, longest nave; Salisbury, highest spire.
The Lancet style is those curved lines meeting in a rounding or a
sharp point like this
[drawing like two very circular n's next to each other]
and then joined together like this:
\/\/\/
the way they used to scallop flannel petticoats. Gothic looks like
triangles meeting together in various spots and joined with
beautiful sort of ornamented knobs. I think I know Gothic when I
see it. Then there is Norman, Early English, fully developed Early
English, Early and Late Perpendicular, and Transition. Aunt Celia
knows them all apart.
HE
SALISBURY, June 3
The Red Lion.
I went off on a long tramp this afternoon, and coming on a pretty
river flowing through green meadows, with a fringe of trees on
either side, I sat down to make a sketch. I heard feminine voices
in the vicinity, but, as these are generally a part of the landscape
in the tourist season, I paid no special notice. Suddenly a dainty
patent-leather shoe floated towards me on the surface of the stream.
It evidently had just dropped in, for it was right side up with
care, and was disporting itself right merrily. "Did ever Jove's
tree drop such fruit?" I quoted, as I fished it out on my stick; and
just then I heard a distressed voice saying, "Oh, aunt Celia, I've
lost my smart little London shoe. I was sitting in a tree, taking a
pebble out of the heel, when I saw a caterpillar, and I dropped it
into the river, the shoe, you know, not the caterpillar." Hereupon
she came in sight, and I witnessed the somewhat unusual spectacle of
my nut-brown mayde hopping on one foot, like a divine stork, and
ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as her off foot, clad in a
delicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rose
quickly, and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously, inside
and out, with my handkerchief, I offered it to her with
distinguished grace. She swayed on her one foot with as much
dignity as possible, and then recognizing me as the person who
picked up the contents of aunt Celia's bag, she said, dimpling in
the most distracting manner (that's another thing there ought to be
a law against), "Thank you again; you seem to be a sort of knight-
errant!"
"Shall I--assist you?" I asked. (I might have known that this was
going too far.)
"No, thank you," she said, with polar frigidity. "Good-afternoon."
And she hopped back to her aunt Celia without another word.
I don't know how to approach aunt Celia. She is formidable. By a
curious accident of feature, for which she is not in the least
responsible, she always wears an unfortunate expression as of one
perceiving some offensive odor in the immediate vicinity. This may
be a mere accident of high birth. It is the kind of nose often seen
in the "first families," and her name betrays the fact that she is
of good old Knickerbocker origin. We go to Wells to-morrow. At
least I think we do.
SHE
GLOUCESTER, June 9
The Spread Eagle.
I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always being
ridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really
sees him, and thus never recognizes him when he appears again,
always as the flower of chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress.
I will never again travel abroad without a man, even if I have to
hire one from a Feeble-Minded Asylum. We work like galley slaves,
aunt Celia and I, finding out about trains and things. Neither of
us can understand Bradshaw, and I can't even grapple with the lesser
intricacies of the A B C railway guide. The trains, so far as I can
see, always arrive before they go out, and I can never tell whether
to read up the page or down. It is certainly very queer that the
stupidest man that breathes, one that barely escapes idiocy, can
disentangle a railway guide, when the brightest woman fails. Even
the Boots at the inn in Wells took my book, and, rubbing his
frightfully dirty finger down the row of puzzling figures, found the
place in a minute, and said, "There ye are, miss." It is very
humiliating. All the time I have left from the study of routes and
hotels I spend on guide-books. Now I'm sure that if any one of the
men I know were here, he could tell me all that is necessary as we
walk along the streets. I don't say it in a frivolous or
sentimental spirit in the least, but I do affirm that there is
hardly any juncture in life where one isn't better off for having a
man about. I should never dare divulge this to aunt Celia, for she
doesn't think men very nice. She excludes them from conversation as
if they were indelicate subjects.
But, to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Olde Bell and
Horns, at Bath, waiting for the fly which we had ordered to take us
to the station, when who should drive up in a four-wheeler but the
flower of chivalry. Aunt Celia was saying very audibly, "We shall
certainly miss the train if the man doesn't come at once."
"Pray take this fly," said the flower of chivalry. "I am not
leaving till the next train."
Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after her. I don't
think she looked at him, though she did vouchsafe the remark that he
seemed to be a civil sort of person.
At Bristol, I was walking about by myself, and I espied a sign,
"Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualer." It was a nice, tidy little
shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowers in the window, and, as
it was raining smartly, I thought no one would catch me if I stepped
inside to chat with Martha. I fancied it would be so delightful and
Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualer by the name of
Martha Huggins.
Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone,
for I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he
merely lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale.
He certainly has the loveliest manners!
And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his
politeness and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and
talked with like a forward boarding-school miss, but I must say I
don't think much of his ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the
virtues, but, if I were he, I would part with my distinguished air,
my charming ease, in fact almost anything, if I could have in
exchange a few grains of common sense, just enough to guide me in
the practical affairs of life.
I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem
quite like an artist; or a dilettante, but he doesn't seem in the
least like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that
is the most probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only "going to be"
one of these things, for he can't be more than twenty-five or
twenty-six. Still he looks as if he were something already; that
is, he has a kind of self-reliance in his mien,--not self-assertion,
nor self-esteem, but belief in self, as if he were able, and knew
that he was able, to conquer circumstances.
HE
GLOUCESTER, June 10
The Bell.
Nothing accomplished yet. Her aunt is a Van Tyck, and a stiff one,
too. I am a Copley, and that delays matters. Much depends upon the
manner of approach. A false move would be fatal. We have six more
towns (as per itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't
slaked when these are finished we have the entire continent to do.
If I could only succeed in making an impression on the retina of
aunt Celia's eye! Though I have been under her feet for ten days,
she never yet has observed me. This absent-mindedness of hers
serves me ill now, but it may prove a blessing later on.
SHE
OXFORD, June 12
The Mitre.
It was here in Oxford that a grain of common sense entered the brain
of the flower of chivalry. You might call it the dawn of reason.
We had spent part of the morning in High Street, "the noblest old
street in England," as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth
had written a sonnet about it, aunt Celia was armed for the fray,--a
volume of Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other.
(I wish Baedeker didn't give such full information about what one
ought to read before one can approach these places in a proper
spirit.) When we had done High Street, we went to Magdalen College,
and sat down on a bench in Addison's Walk, where aunt Celia
proceeded to store my mind with the principal facts of Addison's
career, and his influence on the literature of the something or
other century. The cramming process over, we wandered along, and
came upon "him" sketching a shady corner of the walk.
Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, she
could not restrain her admiration of his work. I was surprised
myself: I didn't suppose so good looking a youth could do such good
work. I retired to a safe distance, and they chatted together. He
offered her the sketch; she refused to take advantage of his
kindness. He said he would "dash off" another that evening, and
bring it to our hotel,--"so glad to do anything for a fellow-
countryman," etc. I peeped from behind a tree and saw him give her
his card. It was an awful moment; I trembled, but she read it with
unmistakable approval, and gave him her own with an expression that
meant, "Yours is good, but beat that if you can!"