The sisters seemed to have all commodities in common; it was only on the intellectual side that the difference between them was glaring. Yetta was remarkably clever at all practical affairs; anything that she organized was sure to be correct to the last button; she always knew exactly what to do, where to go, how to get there, what it would cost, and how long it would take; trains were looked up and rooms engaged ahead. But I never saw her reading anything with interest except a guide-book. M’Jane was at the other extreme, caring nothing for plans, falling in happily with any arrangement, and unobtrusively pursuing her hobbies. Among these was botany, of which she had an extensive knowledge in spite of the fact that her only garden consisted of a few square yards of ‘leads’, richly endowed with London soot. One of the chief attractions of Switzerland was the chance it gave her for finding plants that she had met with only in her reference books. These were two huge illustrated volumes, strongly bound to stand wear and tear, and heavy with many coloured plates. It was over these that I noticed the first rift between the two sisters. M’Jane gave way to Yetta in nearly everything, but there were one or two points about which she was obstinate (delightfully so, I thought). I saw her firmly placing these books at the bottom of one of the trunks, paying no attention at all to Yetta’s look of annoyance and protest of ‘Must those heavy things really be taken?’ To my amusement they became a permanent cause of unrest and acrimony throughout our trip whenever repacking had to be done.
As a final piece of advice they suggested that I should waterproof my walking skirt, since sudden showers must be expected. This sounded good, and I asked how it was done. ‘Quite easy; you take it out of the band, dip it in a gallon of water containing a solution of…Then followed queer things like gum arabic; but I had lost count after the first sentence, for the very idea of taking a skirt out of its band was enough for me, since I had no notion how to get it in again, and decided to get wet and be done with it. This reminded me of the flask of brandy I forgot to take to America, and I told them that I should be sure to take it in my trunk for Switzerland. They were so shocked that I dropped the subject, fully intending, however, to take it in lieu of waterproofing my skirt.
Yetta undertook to get the tickets and post them to me, and in a few days they arrived in a little green case, with instructions to be at the station on the following Monday morning a little before nine. I spent most of the interval in selecting the rigidly necessary for my small trunk, and then in tidying up my room and destroying old letters in case I died abroad. The really pleasant things to take I left till Arthur came to spend Sunday afternoon with me. We agreed that sketching things were necessary, and at least one book. Keats was the final choice, because I could learn a lot of him by heart. The only thing beside the trunk was a leather satchel that I had bought in Boston, useful for stowing little odd things wanted in train or boat, and for carrying sketching things when we were walking, for it could be slung over my shoulder.
When everything seemed complete Arthur said, ‘Now are you absolutely ready for tomorrow morning? Tickets, money, small change?’ ‘Yes. I’ve put three fivers in my ticket case, and my purse with small change in my satchel, with a handkerchief and extra scarf. See, here they are.’ But there they weren’t. All present and correct except the ticket case. I glanced round the room, expecting to see it on the mantelpiece, or some such natural perch. Nowhere. ‘I must have packed it by mistake,’ said I, and made a few dives into the trunk without result. ‘Let’s comb the room,’ said Arthur, and so we did, even to turning out every drawer. Then in some disgust I turned out all the things in my trunk that had been squeezed in so cunningly. When all were put back we began on the room again, in the unlikely places, behind the chest of drawers, under the rug. ‘You might have carried it into the kitchen,’ said Arthur, ‘let’s have a look.’ But the bald sink and gas-ring were incapable of harbouring a stowaway. Unfortunately I had no Miss Rogers to call upon for help; she could get anyone out of any hole; but she had left, and I was now sharing a flat with a stranger, who was out for the day; and no one had been in to see me and taken the case off by mistake. It looked like one of those murder stories where the corpse is found in a sealed room. But it was no laughing matter. My purse contained nothing more than silver enough for first expenses, and Arthur had only a few shillings in his pocket. Banks were shut, even if I could have afforded to take out any more money. Clearly I should have to give up the trip and send a telegram to Yetta.
We were wondering how best to word this when we heard the key in the door indicating the return of my neighbour. I was so full of spleen that I would have appealed anywhere for help, but expected no more than kind sympathy when I waylaid her in the passage and told her my trouble. ‘Let me have a look,’ said she cheerfully, ‘I have a flair for finding things.’ After going over the places we had already searched, she went into the kitchen, at which we couldn’t help laughing. ‘I noticed that your room was peculiarly tidy,’ said this female Sherlock Holmes, ‘free from one’s usual clutter of papers lying about. Have you been destroying old stuff? Letters and things?’ Yes I had, so she suggested the dustbin. We had one of those grey sanitary things, emptied officially daily, and my latest deposit into it had been the vegetable parings and other refuse from lunch. I was disgusted at the idea of unveiling these, but she urged me to leave no potato unturned, and soon I came upon a lot of discarded papers, and amongst them the precious green case. In another few hours it would have been carried away by the dustman. As soon as Arthur had gone I went to her room to thank her again, and express admiration of her acumen. ‘I didn’t like to tell you in front of Mr. Hughes, lest he should laugh at me,’ said she, ‘but I always carry on my watch-chain this little charm. It’s an eye of Horus, very valuable. You can see some just like it in the British Museum. It was given me by an Egyptologist, who told me that the little god in it would always find anything I lost.’
§ 2
We had not been travelling many hours before I realized the comfort of being with someone who could arrange things ahead. There was none of the adventurous freedom of my time in America, but a foreign country was so new to me that every object and incident was exciting. Getting through the customs at Calais—my first experience of French politesse—disappointing. Buying a brioche at Amiens refreshment room—my first experience of French cuisine—celestial. Our way from Geneva to Chamonix was by diligence, and I thought of the schoolboy’s howler about Caesar contending into Gaul on the top of a diligence. Never before had I known what dust and thirst could be. We pulled up half-way at some hostelry; other passengers were allaying their thirst, and I boldly ordered a lemonade, thereby shocking M’Jane and Yetta. They thought it was not the thing to be seen drinking outside a public house. More the thing, I argued, than to be seen doing it inside. But they were not amused, and I bore in mind that any reference to ‘drink’ was taboo.
In order to give me the best possible holiday Yetta had picked out all the places, however well-known to herself and her sister, that would interest me most, and be most representative of the scenery, including a few famous spots, and others less frequented and more ‘distinguished’. Our first objective was Mont Blanc, whose height I had learnt at school, but of which I knew no more than a fellow pupil who had spelt it Blanc Mange.
‘What war is on?’ I asked, as we rattled into Chamonix, for men in uniform were making menacing approaches to our diligence, and I hoped to have fallen in with one of those revolutions always going on in France.
‘Those aren’t soldiers,’ said Yetta, as she singled one out for notice, ‘they’re hotel attendants. Each one wants to capture a customer for his hotel. Lots of people don’t decide their hotel till they get to a place.’
My room was very small, and completely bare of everything but necessities. The wooden floor was pock-marked, the result, so I learnt, of continual wear from climbers’ boots. How glad I was of a wash and change from my dusty things, and how hungry I was. To my dismay I heard that instead of being seve
n o’clock, a natural time for dinner, it was only six o’clock, for we had come out of Switzerland into France, and the times varied. That hour seemed endless; the weather was cloudy, and the outlook from my window reminded me of Wales on a wet day.
Next morning I woke to find the sun streaming in, and jumped up at once to look out of the window. Honestly, I nearly fell down with surprise. There was Mont Blanc, cloudless, dazzling, right against me. The shout I gave brought Yetta to my door. ‘Ah, yes,’ said she, smiling with pleasure at my excitement, ‘I chose that room for you on purpose. My sister and I know the view quite well, and we have said nothing to you about snow mountains so that you might have this surprise. We were so glad that it was cloudy yesterday when we were all so tired. You have got the full beauty just at the right moment. Hope you weren’t disturbed by the early starters.’
‘I was too fast asleep to be disturbed, but who are they?’
‘The people in the hotel who are making for the top today. There’ll be a gun fired when they reach it. Their progress is watched through that big telescope you see below in the yard.’
‘Are we going to do any climbing?’ I asked, knowing that it was either ordained beforehand, or impossible.
‘No, rope-work is too much of a business; we will walk far up the slopes, though, and we can climb to Montenvers, and cross the glacier.’
I found this kind of expedition quite exciting enough, for Yetta had planned each outing cleverly so that some complete surprise should reward a tough walk, no matter from what centre we started. Once, I remember, we trudged upwards for several hours, to come suddenly upon a ridge with the whole Bernese Oberland stretched in front of us. And our leisurely pace had its advantages, giving M’Jane a chance to botanize and me to make a quick sketch. I was completely satisfied, except within. The mountain air and long walks gave me an outrageous appetite not shared by my companions. Our breakfast consisted of café complet. I made it as ‘complet’ as I could, but was ravenous by midday, when our lunch at some little mountain shanty consisted of café complet again. Once, on noticing several people having eggs, I proposed that we should have some too. Yetta thought it rather extravagant, but I shall never forget those glorious œufs sur le plat that they served us.
Afternoon tea we used to contrive in our hotel on our return from a long walk. M’Jane engineered it. During breakfast, no matter what the hotel, whether crowded or sparse, she managed to steal several rolls, concealing them in her lap, and taking great pride in the fact that neither Yetta nor I caught her in the act.
In the afternoons, while she was manœuvring her ‘tin kitchen’ with equal stealthiness, I was dispatched downstairs to procure some milk. The first time I was sent on this errand I thought up a polite way of asking for it in French, using a word for a jug that I had learnt in a ‘vocabulary’. The waiter was hopelessly puzzled, and then said, ‘If Mademoiselle would speak English!’ I did, and received the milk at once. A bit humiliating, considering the large proportion of my life that I had spent in ‘learning French’. However, on one occasion I came out strong. An old lady in an hotel wanted a footstool, and none of us could remember the French word for it. ‘Leave it to me,’ said I, and approaching the proprietor I said, ‘Un petit table pour les pieds, s’il vous plaît.’ He nodded and brought one. In fact I could generally manage to scrape together some words that would do to ask the way, the price, the time, or some dire necessity we had forgotten. My trouble began when the natives replied. Here it was Yetta who came in. She couldn’t speak French but she had the far rarer gift of being able to understand it; so together we managed quite well, I asking the question, and she standing by to listen for the answer. In remote regions, among the Swiss peasantry, I was helpless. Once we were far away from the hotel up a mountain-side, all set and eager for tea, which we had brought with us, stolen rolls, milk, tin kitchen and all. No, not all. M’Jane had packed the basket and forgotten the matches. Yetta let fly and scolded heartlessly. I couldn’t bear it, and offered to explore among the few chalets we had passed en route. ‘They must have matches,’ said I as I started off. No doubt they had, but the word allumettes made no impression, nor did any gesture, and I have wondered what one could do to express matches. I had to go all the way back to the hotel, and was foolish enough to try a short cut through a lane so deep that it had not enjoyed fresh air for centuries. A cup of tea can be too expensive. If M’Jane herself had struggled in the chalets she would very likely have succeeded, for it was one of the intellectual surprises that she sprung on me that she could carry on animated conversations in patois with our carriage-drivers and other country folk whose talk was Greek to Yetta and me. How had she picked it up? Probably from deep sympathy with their lives, and getting to talk with them ‘on the quiet’, as she did everything.
The only substantial meal of the day was the dinner in the evening, and even that was not always substantial enough for me; very lengthy and interesting, but I often felt that I could have gone through it all again. The social side was pleasant, for we made friends with our fellow guests, especially when we were in one of those high-up and distinguished hotels where only English people penetrated as a rule. We came across Edmund Gosse complaining of the inferior company at our hotel in Saas-Fee; we met Septimus Buss (a clerical brother of Miss Buss) climbing up the pilgrim path from Saas im Grund; we found Joshua Fitch sitting disconsolate in St.-Luc, as though educational methods had taken all joy from his life. In the high Weisshorn hotel we made friends with a certain Sidney Flemming. ‘Do you happen to know a friend of mine called Percy Flemming, the eye-specialist?’ said I. ‘Not very well,’ was the reply, ‘he’s only my brother.’
There were about a dozen of us at that hotel, all English, and one day the proprietor made a gesture by arranging an all-English dinner. It was a hotter day than usual, quite the last on which to welcome an English dinner. The only course I can now recall was a Christmas pudding, always hateful to me even in my childish days and in the wintry season. The poor man understood that it should be served in flames of brandy, but having no brandy he used methylated spirit, and brought the dish in himself all aglow with pride. Among our company was a well-known artist named Stone, and that heroic man actually ate his portion, saying that he couldn’t bear to hurt the feelings of old Mosoni.
In one of our specially English hotels two strangers came in one day, and behaved queerly enough to alarm me. They talked and gesticulated across the table in a violent temper, and I expected that they would come to blows. Yetta laughed at my concern, ‘They are only Italians, probably discussing the weather or some travelling difficulty; they never talk quietly.’
That dreaded period of hotel life—the after-dinner stretch of boredom—was not so bad in Switzerland, for we all had plenty to do, and very seldom fell back on halma or patience. Yetta would have maps and guide-books spread about her and be planning our itinerary for the morrow, filling in gaps with knitting. She even taught me to knit. But what I much preferred was to make pencil sketches of the people in the room. Nobody minded this; indeed they all took great interest in being done, and wanted to see the results. M’Jane spent her time mostly in making up the accounts. As the day went on she paid for everything, and then made apparently scrupulous calculations as to how much Yetta and I had to pay her. I thought of how my brothers used to say that on this system it was the man who paid who came off worst. I’m sure that M’Jane forgot much of her outlay. Her next business was to enter in her diary everything that had happened during the day, even vagaries of weather. These duties performed, she then revelled in her hobby, looking up in her botanical books any specimens she had found, and setting aside any worthy ones for her hortus siccus at home. Failing any such acquisitions, she would go over her Dutch bulb catalogues, to mark what she would order for the autumn. This I used to call ‘M’Jane bulbing’. Meanwhile we chatted freely with our fellow guests, and it was owing to some point being raised by one of them—some doubt as to which of the Queen’s children had married w
hom—that I discovered another of M’Jane’s odd accomplishments: she had a complete and reliable knowledge of the Royal Family, and all its relationships, to the remotest cousin. The oddity of this lay in the fact that the sisters, although conservative to the core, were quite militant liberals, following every turn of Gladstone’s mind with religious enthusiasm. At least that was true of Yetta. Of M’Jane I had my doubts, guessing that she had secret leanings towards more colourful politics and even towards the Church.
A London Home in the Nineties Page 12
