Penelope\'s English Experiences
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Kate Douglas Wiggin >> Penelope\'s English Experiences
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7 This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.
Penelope's English Experiences
being extracts from the commonplace book of Penelope Hamilton
by Kate Douglas Wiggin.
To my Boston friend Salemina.
No Anglomaniac, but a true Briton.
Contents.
Part First--In Town.
I. The weekly bill.
II. The powdered footman smiles.
III. Eggs a la coque.
IV. The English sense of humour.
V. A Hyde Park Sunday.
VI. The English Park Lover.
VII. A ducal tea-party.
VIII. Tuppenny travels in London.
IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity.
X. Apropos of advertisements.
XI. The ball on the opposite side.
XII. Patricia makes her debut.
XIII. A Penelope secret.
XIV. Love and lavender.
Part Second--In the Country.
XV. Penelope dreams.
XVI. The decay of Romance.
XVII. Short stops and long bills.
XVIII. I meet Mrs. Bobby.
XIX. The heart of the artist.
XX. A canticle to Jane.
XXI. I remember, I remember.
XXII. Comfort Cottage.
XXIII. Tea served here.
XXIV. An unlicensed victualler.
XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit.
Part First--In Town.
Chapter I. The weekly bill.
Smith's Hotel,
10 Dovermarle Street.
Here we are in London again,--Francesca, Salemina, and I. Salemina
is a philanthropist of the Boston philanthropists limited. I am an
artist. Francesca is- It is very difficult to label Francesca.
She is, at her present stage of development, just a nice girl; that
is about all: the sense of humanity hasn't dawned upon her yet; she
is even unaware that personal responsibility for the universe has
come into vogue, and so she is happy.
Francesca is short of twenty years old, Salemina short of forty, I
short of thirty. Francesca is in love, Salemina never has been in
love, I never shall be in love. Francesca is rich, Salemina is
well-to-do, I am poor. There we are in a nutshell.
We are not only in London again, but we are again in Smith's private
hotel; one of those deliciously comfortable and ensnaring hostelries
in Mayfair which one enters as a solvent human being, and which one
leaves as a bankrupt, no matter what may be the number of ciphers on
one's letter of credit; since the greater one's apparent supply of
wealth, the greater the demand made upon it. I never stop long in
London without determining to give up my art for a private hotel.
There must be millions in it, but I fear I lack some of the
essential qualifications for success. I never could have the heart,
for example, to charge a struggling young genius eight shillings a
week for two candles, and then eight shillings the next week for the
same two candles, which the struggling young genius, by dint of
vigorous economy, had managed to preserve to a decent height. No, I
could never do it, not even if I were certain that she would
squander the sixteen shillings in Bond Street fripperies instead of
laying them up against the rainy day.
It is Salemina who always unsnarls the weekly bill. Francesca
spends an evening or two with it, first of all, because, since she
is so young, we think it good mental-training for her, and not that
she ever accomplishes any results worth mentioning. She begins by
making three columns headed respectively F., S., and P. These
initials stand for Francesca, Salemina, and Penelope, but they
resemble the signs for pounds, shillings, and pence so perilously
that they introduce an added distraction.
She then places in each column the items in which we are all equal,
such as rooms, attendance, fires, and lights. Then come the extras,
which are different for each person: more ale for one, more hot
baths for another; more carriages for one, more lemon squashes for
another. Francesca's column is principally filled with carriages
and lemon squashes. You would fancy her whole time was spent in
driving and drinking, if you judged her merely by this weekly
statement at the hotel.
When she has reached the point of dividing the whole bill into three
parts, so that each person may know what is her share, she adds the
three together, expecting, not unnaturally, to get the total amount
of the bill. Not at all. She never comes within thirty shillings
of the desired amount, and she is often three or four guineas to the
good or to the bad. One of her difficulties lies in her inability
to remember that in English money it makes a difference where you
place a figure, whether, in the pound, shilling, or pence column.
Having been educated on the theory that a six is a six the world
over, she charged me with sixty shillings' worth of Apollinaris in
one week. I pounced on the error, and found that she had jotted
down each pint in the shilling instead of in the pence column.
After Francesca had broken ground on the bill in this way, Salemina,
on the next leisure evening, draws a large armchair under the lamp
and puts on her eye-glasses. We perch on either arm, and, after
identifying our own extras, we summon the butler to identify his.
There are a good many that belong to him or to the landlady; of that
fact we are always convinced before he proves to the contrary. We
can never see (until he makes us see) why the breakfasts on the 8th
should be four shillings each because we had strawberries, if on the
8th we find strawberries charged in the luncheon column and also in
the column of desserts and ices. And then there are the peripatetic
lemon squashes. Dawson calls them 'still' lemon squashes because
they are made with water, not with soda or seltzer or vichy, but
they are particularly badly named. 'Still' forsooth! when one of
them will leap from place to place, appearing now in the column of
mineral waters and now in the spirits, now in the suppers, and again
in the sundries. We might as well drink Chablis or Pommery by the
time one of these still squashes has ceased wandering, and charging
itself at each station. The force of Dawson's intellect is such
that he makes all this moral turbidity as clear as crystal while he
remains in evidence. His bodily presence has a kind of illuminating
power, and all the errors that we fancy we have found he traces to
their original source, which is always in our suspicious and
inexperienced minds. As he leaves the room he points out some proof
of unexampled magnanimity on the part of the hotel; as, for
instance, the fact that the management has not charged a penny for
sending up Miss Monroe's breakfast trays. Francesca impulsively
presses two shillings into his honest hand and remembers afterwards
that only one breakfast was served in our bedrooms during that
particular week, and that it was mine, not hers.
The Paid Out column is another source of great anxiety. Francesca
is a person who is always buying things unexpectedly and sending
them home C.O.D.; always taking a cab and having it paid at the
house; always sending telegrams and messages by hansom, and notes by
the Boots.
I should think, were England on the brink of a war, that the Prime
Minister might expect in his office something of the same hubbub,
uproar, and excitement that Francesca manages to evolve in this
private hotel. Naturally she cannot remember her expenditures, or
extravagances, or complications of movement for a period of seven
days; and when she attacks the Paid Out column she exclaims in a
frenzy, 'Just look at this! On the 11th they say they paid out
three shillings in telegrams, and I was at Maidenhead!' Then
because we love her and cannot bear to see her charming forehead
wrinkled, we approach from our respective corners, and the
conversation is something like this:-
Salemina. "You were not at Maidenhead on the 11th, Francesca; it
was the 12th."
Francesca. "Oh! so it was; but I sent no telegrams on the 11th."
Penelope. "Wasn't that the day you wired Mr. Drayton that you
couldn't go to the Zoo?"
Francesca. "Oh yes, so I did: and to Mr. Godolphin that I could.
I remember now; but that's only two."
Salemina. "How about the hairdresser whom you stopped coming from
Kensington?"
Francesca. "Yes, she's the third, that's all right then; but what
in the world is this twelve shillings?"
Penelope. "The foolish amber beads you were persuaded into buying
in the Burlington Arcade?"
Francesca. "No, those were seven shillings, and they are splitting
already."
Salemina. "Those soaps and sachets you bought on the way home the
day that you left your purse in the cab?"
Francesca. "No; they were only five shillings. Oh, perhaps they
lumped the two things; if seven and five are twelve, then that is
just what they did. (Here she takes a pencil.) Yes, they are
twelve, so that's right; what a comfort! Now here's two and six on
the 13th. That was yesterday, and I can always remember yesterdays;
they are my strong point. I didn't spend a penny yesterday; oh yes!
I did pay half a crown for a potted plant, but it was not two and
six, and it was a half-crown because it was the first time I had
seen one and I took particular notice. I'll speak to Dawson about
it, but it will make no difference. Nobody but an expert English
accountant could find a flaw in one of these bills and prove his
case."
By this time we have agreed that the weekly bill as a whole is
substantially correct, and all that Salemina has to do is to
estimate our several shares in it; so Francesca and I say good night
and leave her toiling like Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum. By
midnight she has generally brought the account to a point where a
half-hour's fresh attention in the early morning will finish it.
Not that she makes it come out right to a penny. She has been
treasurer of the Boston Band of Benevolence, of the Saturday Morning
Sloyd Circle, of the Club for the Reception of Russian Refugees, and
of the Society for the Brooding of Buddhism; but none of these
organisations carries on its existence by means of pounds,
shillings, and pence, or Salemina's resignation would have been
requested long ago. However, we are not disposed to be captious; we
are too glad to get rid of the bill. If our united thirds make four
or five shillings in excess, we divide them equally; if it comes the
other way about, we make it up in the same manner; always meeting
the sneers of masculine critics with Dr. Holmes's remark that a
faculty for numbers is a sort of detached-lever arrangement that can
be put into a mighty poor watch.
Chapter II. The powdered footman smiles.
Salemina is so English! I can't think how she manages. She had not
been an hour on British soil before she asked a servant to fetch in
some coals and mend the fire; she followed this Anglicism by a
request for a grilled chop, 'a grilled, chump chop, waiter, please,'
and so on from triumph to triumph. She now discourses of methylated
spirits as if she had never in her life heard of alcohol, and all
the English equivalents for Americanisms are ready for use on the
tip of her tongue. She says 'conserv't'ry' and 'observ't'ry'; she
calls the chambermaid 'Mairy,' which is infinitely softer, to be
sure, than the American 'Mary,' with its over-long a; she ejaculates
'Quite so!' in all the pauses of conversation, and talks of smoke-
rooms, and camisoles, and luggage-vans, and slip-bodies, and trams,
and mangling, and goffering. She also eats jam for breakfast as if
she had been reared on it, when every one knows that the average
American has to contract the jam habit by patient and continuous
practice.
This instantaneous assimilation of English customs does not seem to
be affectation on Salemina's part; nor will I wrong her by fancying
that she went through a course of training before she left Boston.
From the moment she landed you could see that her foot was on her
native heath. She inhaled the fog with a sense of intoxication that
the east winds of New England had never given her, and a great throb
of patriotism swelled in her breast when she first met the Princess
of Wales in Hyde Park.
As for me, I get on charmingly with the English nobility and
sufficiently well with the gentry, but the upper servants strike
terror to my soul. There is something awe-inspiring to me about an
English butler. If they would only put him in livery, or make him
wear a silver badge; anything, in short, to temper his pride and
prevent one from mistaking him for the master of the house or the
bishop within his gates. When I call upon Lady DeWolfe, I say to
myself impressively, as I go up the steps: 'You are as good as a
butler, as well born and well bred as a butler, even more
intelligent than a butler. Now, simply because he has an
unapproachable haughtiness of demeanour, which you can respectfully
admire, but can never hope to imitate, do not cower beneath the
polar light of his eye; assert yourself; be a woman; be an American
citizen!' All in vain. The moment the door opens I ask for Lady
DeWolfe in so timid a tone that I know Parker thinks me the parlour-
maid's sister who has rung the visitors' bell by mistake. If my
lady is within, I follow Parker to the drawing-room, my knees
shaking under me at the prospect of committing some solecism in his
sight. Lady DeWolfe's husband has been noble only four months, and
Parker of course knows it, and perhaps affects even greater hauteur
to divert the attention of the vulgar commoner from the newness of
the title.
Dawson, our butler at Smith's private hotel, wields the same
blighting influence on our spirits, accustomed to the soft
solicitations of the negro waiter or the comfortable indifference of
the free-born American. We never indulge in ordinary democratic or
frivolous conversation when Dawson is serving us at dinner. We
'talk up' to him so far as we are able, and before we utter any
remark we inquire mentally whether he is likely to think it good
form. Accordingly, I maintain throughout dinner a lofty height of
aristocratic elegance that impresses even the impassive Dawson,
towards whom it is solely directed. To the amazement and amusement
of Salemina (who always takes my cheerful inanities at their face
value), I give an hypothetical account of my afternoon engagements,
interlarding it so thickly with countesses and marchionesses and
lords and honourables that though Dawson has passed soup to
duchesses, and scarcely ever handed a plate to anything less than a
baroness, he dilutes the customary scorn of his glance, and makes it
two parts condescending approval as it rests on me, Penelope
Hamilton, of the great American working class (unlimited).
Apropos of the servants, it seems to me that the British footman has
relaxed a trifle since we were last here; or is it possible that he
reaches the height of his immobility at the height of the London
season, and as it declines does he decline and become flesh? At all
events, I have twice seen a footman change his weight from one leg
to the other, as he stood at a shop entrance with his lady's mantle
over his arm; twice have I seen one stroke his chin, and several
times have I observed others, during the month of July, conduct
themselves in many respects like animate objects with vital organs.
Lest this incendiary statement be challenged, levelled as it is at
an institution whose stability and order are but feebly represented
by the eternal march of the stars in their courses, I hasten to
explain that in none of these cases cited was it a powdered footman
who (to use a Delsartean expression) withdrew will from his body and
devitalised it before the public eye. I have observed that the
powdered personage has much greater control over his muscles than
the ordinary footman with human hair, and is infinitely his superior
in rigidity. Dawson tells me confidentially that if a footman
smiles there is little chance of his rising in the world. He says a
sense of humour is absolutely fatal in that calling, and that he has
discharged many a good footman because of an intelligent and
expressive face.
I tremble to think of what the powdered footman may become when he
unbends in the bosom of the family. When, in the privacy of his own
apartments, the powder is washed off, the canary-seed pads removed
from his aristocratic calves, and his scarlet and buff magnificence
exchanged for a simple neglige, I should think he might be guilty of
almost any indiscretion or violence. I for one would never consent
to be the wife and children of a powdered footman, and receive him
in his moments of reaction.
Chapter III. Eggs a la coque.
Is it to my credit, or to my eternal dishonour that I once made a
powdered footman smile, and that, too, when he was handing a
buttered muffin to an earl's daughter?
It was while we were paying a visit at Marjorimallow Hall, Sir Owen
and Lady Marjorimallow's place in Surrey. This was to be our first
appearance in an English country house, and we made elaborate
preparations. Only our freshest toilettes were packed, and these
were arranged in our trunks with the sole view of impressing the
lady's-maid who should unpack them. We each purchased dressing-
cases and new fittings, Francesca's being of sterling silver,
Salemina's of triple plate, and mine of celluloid, as befitted our
several fortunes. Salemina read up on English politics; Francesca
practised a new way of dressing her hair; and I made up a portfolio
of sketches. We counted, therefore, on representing American
letters, beauty, and art to that portion of the great English public
staying at Marjorimallow Hall. (I must interject a parenthesis here
to the effect that matters did not move precisely as we expected;
for at table, where most of our time was passed, Francesca had for a
neighbour a scientist, who asked her plump whether the religion of
the American Indian was or was not a pure theism; Salemina's partner
objected to the word 'politics' in the mouth of a woman; while my
attendant squire adored a good bright-coloured chromo. But this is
anticipating.)
Three days before our departure, I remarked at the breakfast-table,
Dawson being absent: "My dear girls, you are aware that we have
ordered fried eggs, scrambled eggs, buttered eggs, and poached eggs
ever since we came to Dovermarle Street, simply because we do not
know how to eat boiled eggs prettily from the shell, English
fashion, and cannot break them into a cup or a glass, American
fashion, on account of the effect upon Dawson. Now there will
certainly be boiled eggs at Marjorimallow Hall, and we cannot refuse
them morning after morning; it will be cowardly (which is
unpleasant), and it will be remarked (which is worse). Eating them
minced in an egg-cup, in a baronial hall, with the remains of a
drawbridge in the grounds, is equally impossible; if we do that,
Lady Marjorimallow will be having our luggage examined, to see if we
carry wigwams and war-whoops about with us. No, it is clearly
necessary that we master the gentle art of eating eggs tidily and
daintily from the shell. I have seen English women--very dull ones,
too--do it without apparent effort; I have even seen an English
infant do it, and that without soiling her apron, or, as Salemina
would say, 'messing her pinafore.' I propose, therefore, that we
order soft-boiled eggs daily; that we send Dawson from the room
directly breakfast is served; and that then and there we have a
class for opening eggs, lowest grade, object method. Any person who
cuts the shell badly, or permits the egg to leak over the rim, or
allows yellow dabs on the plate, or upsets the cup, or stains her
fingers, shall be fined 'tuppence' and locked into her bedroom for
five minutes."
The first morning we were all in the bedroom together, and, there
being no blameless person to collect fines, the wildest civil
disorder prevailed.
On the second day Salemina and I improved slightly, but Francesca
had passed a sleepless night, and her hand trembled (the love-letter
mail had come in from America). We were obliged to tell her, as we
collected 'tuppence' twice on the same egg, that she must either
remain at home, or take an oilcloth pinafore to Marjorimallow Hall.
But 'ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil,' and it is only a
question of time and desire with Americans, we are so clever. Other
nations have to be trained from birth; but as we need only an ounce
of training where they need a pound, we can afford to procrastinate.
Sometimes we procrastinate too long, but that is a trifle. On the
third morning success crowned our efforts. Salemina smiled, and I
told an anecdote, during the operation, although my egg was cracked
in the boiling, and I question if the Queen's favourite maid-of-
honour could have managed it prettily. Accordingly, when eggs were
brought to the breakfast-table at Marjorimallow Hall, we were only
slightly nervous. Francesca was at the far end of the long table,
and I do not know how she fared, but from various Anglicisms that
Salemina dropped, as she chatted with the Queen's Counsel on her
left, I could see that her nerve was steady and circulation free.
We exchanged glances (there was the mistake!), and with an
embarrassed laugh she struck her egg a hasty blow.
Her egg-cup slipped and lurched; a top fraction of the egg flew in
the direction of the Q.C., and the remaining portion oozed, in
yellow confusion, rapidly into her plate. Alas for that past
mistress of elegant dignity, Salemina! If I had been at Her
Majesty's table, I should have smiled, even if I had gone to the
Tower the next moment; but as it was, I became hysterical. My
neighbour, a portly member of Parliament, looked amazed, Salemina
grew scarlet, the situation was charged with danger; and, rapidly
viewing the various exits, I chose the humorous one, and told as
picturesquely as possible the whole story of our school of egg-
opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduous and encouraging
rehearsals conducted there, and the stupendous failure incident to
our first public appearance. Sir Owen led the good-natured laughter
and applause; lords and ladies, Q.C.'s and M.P.'s joined in with a
will; poor Salemina raised her drooping head, opened and ate a
second egg with the repose of a Vere de Vere--and the footman
smiled!
Chapter IV. The English sense of humour.
I do not see why we hear that the Englishman is deficient in a sense
of humour. His jokes may not be a matter of daily food to him, as
they are to the American; he may not love whimsicality with the same
passion, nor inhale the aroma of a witticism with as keen a relish;
but he likes fun whenever he sees it, and he sees it as often as
most people. It may be that we find the Englishman more receptive
to our bits of feminine nonsense just now, simply because this is
the day of the American woman in London, and, having been assured
that she is an entertaining personage, young John Bull is willing to
take it for granted so long as she does not try to marry him, and
even this pleasure he will allow her on occasion,--if well paid for
it.
The longer I live, the more I feel it an absurdity to label nations
with national traits, and then endeavour to make individuals conform
to the required standard. It is possible, I suppose, to draw
certain broad distinctions, though even these are subject to change;
but the habit of generalising from one particular, that mainstay of
the cheap and obvious essayist, has rooted many fictions in the
public mind. Nothing, for instance, can blot from my memory the
profound, searching, and exhaustive analysis of a great nation which
I learned in my small geography when I was a child, namely, 'The
French are a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light
wines.'
One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side of
over-appreciation. He laughs before, during, and after every remark
I make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is an
acquaintance of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby,
who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to Dorking,--dear, delightful,
adorable Dorking, of hen celebrity.
Salemina insisted on my taking the box seat, in the hope that the
Honourable Arthur would amuse me. She little knew him! He sapped
me of all my ideas, and gave me none in exchange. Anything so
unspeakably heavy I never encountered. It is very difficult for a
woman who doesn't know a nigh horse from an off one, nor the
wheelers from the headers (or is it the fronters?), to find subjects
of conversation with a gentleman who spends three-fourths of his
existence on a coach. It was the more difficult for me because I
could not decide whether Willie Beresford was cross because I was
devoting myself to the whip, or because Francesca had remained at
home with a headache. This state of affairs continued for about
fifteen miles, when it suddenly dawned upon the Honourable Arthur
that, however mistaken my speech and manner, I was trying to be
agreeable. This conception acted on the honest and amiable soul
like magic. I gradually became comprehensible, and finally he gave
himself up to the theory that, though eccentric, I was harmless and
amusing, so we got on famously,--so famously that Willie Beresford
grew ridiculously gloomy, and I decided that it could not be
Francesca's headache.
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