And now it looks as if the Bush were much more of a place than we thought.
Every week or so I have an inspiration; and I had one yesterday, when the thought struck me suddenly that it would be a good idea to buy some postcards. You get them at the post office—six stout ones for ninepence. Oh no, that can't be right—nine stout ones for sixpence. I shouldn't think a postcard would ever get too stout—not unpleasantly so, I mean; you hardly ever see an obese postcard. I don't believe I have used one of any dimensions for ten years; yet they are such handy things when you want to say "Right O" or don't quite know whether you are "very truly" or "sincerely." The postcard touch is hereditary. Some families have it, ours hasn't. But now it is going to begin. Tomorrow I buy as many stout ones for sixpence as they will give me.
Talking of buying croquet mallets and things—I went into a little tobacconist's a little while ago (What for? Guess), and while I was there a man came in and ordered a pipe, two ounces of bird's-eye, and a box of matches. I wanted to tell him that you really required a rubber pouch as well, and a little silver thing for pressing down the tobacco. It must want some nerve to start straight off like that, especially at his age—forty or so. I am about to play golf seriously, and I shall certainly get my clubs at different shops—a driver at the Stores, a putter in Piccadilly, a niblick (what's a niblick? Anyhow, I shall have several of them, because of the name)—and several niblicks in Fleet Street. It would be too absurd to buy a dozen assorted clubs, one ball, a jersey and a little red flag all at the same place.
Yes, I should love to come down and play cricket for Castle Bumpbrook, and many thanks for asking me. I don't make runs nowadays, Charles, but if you feel that the mere presence of a gentleman from Lunnon would inspire and, as it were, give tone to the side, then I am at your service. You do say "Lunnon" in the country, don't you, when you mean London? And you say "bain't" too. How jolly! "I bain't a bowler, zur"—and you pronounce the "b-o-w" as if it were a curtsey and not a cravat. "Put Oi——" It's no good. I can't keep it up. Put me in last and I'll make 3 not out, and that will bring me top of the averages. (If you divide 3 by 0 you get an awful lot, you know.) You have an average bat, I suppose? I like them rather light—or I would take the money, whichever would be more convenient.
I have just written myself a letter, pleasantly standoffish, but not haughty. The reason is that I have my doubts about the post office, so I am giving them a test. My address, as you have discovered, is an awkward one. There are nine distinct ways of getting it wrong, and most people try two or three of them. But the letters do get here eventually, after (I expect) a good deal of sickness on the part of the postman. What I am beginning to wonder now is whether a letter with therightaddress would arrive; I fancy that the chief of the detective department would suspect a trap, and send it somewhere else; and, as I am certain that I have never received one or two letters which I ought to have had, I am writing to myself to see.
It is a great art, that of writing nicely to yourself; to say enough, yet not too much. When John was getting engaged, he wrote to himself every day. Before he started doing this he used to spend hours sitting and wondering whether the postman had been. The few letters he had had from her came by the eight-thirty post. At eight-fifteen he began to look out; nothing happened. An awful quarter of an hour followed. Eight-thirty—no postman's knock; never mind, perhaps he's late. Eight-thirty-five—well, itisrather a busy time; besides he may have fallen down. Eight-forty—one ray of light left; he did come once, you remember, at eight-forty-two. Eight-forty-five—despair. A half-an-hour's agony, you observe, Charles. Then he thought of writing to himself in time for that delivery. The result was that he remained quite calm, knowing that the postman was bound to come. "Ah, there he is. Will there be a letter from her? Yes—no." You see? Your heart in your mouth for five seconds only.
I never saw any of these letters. But I should say that at the beginning they were sympathetic—"Buck up, it's all right"—or hopeful—"Never mind, she'll write to-morrow"; later on they would become cynical—"Done in the eye again. What on earth do you expect?"; and, finally, I expect, insulting—"You silly ass; chuck it." ... Then, of course, she wrote.
Good-bye. Don't forget I am going to play for you. Would it be side to wear flannels? White boots would be a bit lofty, anyhow. Then I shall wear one brown pad on the right leg.
VII
DEAR CHARLES,—Many thanks for your letter. Don't side just because you get up at six o'clock, and feed the cow, or shave the goat, or whatever it is. Other people get up early too. For the last few weeks I have sprung out of bed at seven-thirty. (I always "spring" out—it is so much more classy.) But I doubt if I can keep it up.
The truth is that I have just made an unhappy discovery. I was under the impression that my man's name was Turley; I should say my third of a man, because I share with him two others, but anyhow I thought his whole name was Turley. So I used to write nice little notes, beginning, "If you're waking, call me, Turley," and leave them about for him. He invariably woke at seven and read them—and came and called me, mother dear. Of course I had to get up. Well, I have now heard that his name is really Holland, which makes all the difference. It would be absurd to write him any more notes of that kind. My one satisfaction is that I can claim to own a third of Holland, which is about 4000 square miles. Multiply that by 640 and you get it in acres. Altogether the landowner.
Moreover, Charles, my lad, you are not the one person who knows things about animals. You may be on terms of familiarity with the cow and the goat, but these are not the only beasts. What acquaintance, for example, have you with reptiles? The common newt—do you know anything abouthim? No. Well, then, now I'll tell you.
When I was seven and John was eight, we went to a naturalist's in Hampstead to inquire the price of newts. They were threepence each, not being quite in season. We bought sixpennyworth; the man put them into a paper bag for us, and we took them up on the Heath to give them a gallop. When we opened the bag we foundthreenewts inside. It seemed impossible that the thing could have happened naturally, so we went back to the shop to explain to the man that he had made a mistake. However, he hadn't; he had merely given us one newt discount. (Remember that when next you're buying them.) Well, we returned to the Heath, and they showed their paces. Now the newt is an amphibious animal (Greek); he is as much at ease in the bathroom as on the mat. So when we got them home we arranged to try them in our bath.
This is where you cry. For a time all went well. They dived, swam (back and front), trod water, returned to life when apparently drowned, and so forth. Then John pulled up the waste-pipe. He says now that he did it inadvertently, but I fancy that he wanted to see what would happen. What did happen was that they got into the whirlpool and disappeared. We turned on both the hot and cold taps to see if they would come back, but they didn't. Apparently you don't. We rushed into the garden to see if they would return by the drain-pipe with the rainwater, but not they. Only the paper bag was left to us ... and (to this day I cannot recall it without a tear) it was John who popped it.
Charles, we never saw those newts again. Crusoe, Cleaver and Robinson were their names. Robinson and Crusoe they were to have been; and when the third came, and seemed to take a fancy to Robinson, we called him Cleaver. Where are they now? In the mighty Thames somewhere, I suppose. So, Charles, if ever you are near the river, keep a friendly eye open for them, will you? They may be a little wild now, but they were good newts in their day.
We had aBuforiumtoo in our time, you must know. I have just made that word up, and it means a place where you keep toads. In our case it was the sink. The toad, as you may not have realised, has no vomerine or maxillary teeth, but hehasgot a distinct tympanum. However, what I really wanted to say was that the toad has a pyriform tongue of incredible length, by means of which he catches his prey—thus differing from the frog, which leaps at 'em. We used to station a toad opposite one of the walls of the sink—of theBuforium—and then run his breakfast down the side. Sometimes it would be a very long centipede, and then you could have one toad for each end; or a—— What brutes little boys are; I'm not going to tell you any more about toads. (Except to say that his omosternum is generally missing. That must be very annoying.)
Did I ever talk to you about hedgehogs? We kept no end of them, but Peter was the only one who stayed. He used to live in the scullery, so as to see that no black-beetles got about. One night the cook woke up suddenly and remembered that she had left the scullery tap running. So she jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, not even stopping to put on slippers....
She was a very heavy woman.... No, Peter wasn't hurt much; but she refused to have him in the kitchen again.
This is a very zoological letter, but I just wanted to show you that you weren't the only one. Time fails me to tell you of a mole which we put in the geranium-bed, of a certain kind of caterpillar from which we caught nettlerash, of a particularly handsome triton which we kept in a tank with a crab, giving them fresh and salt water on alternative days, so that there should be no quarrelling. It is enough if I have made it clear that one does not need to have Castle Bumpbrook on one's notepaper in order to commune with nature.
I want two wedding presents—I don't mean for myself. What do you suggest? I bar anything for the table. Newly married couples might do nothing but eat to judge from the things they get given them. At present I hesitate between the useful—as, for instance, twenty thousand cubic feet of gas—and the purely ornamental—say, an antimacassar. "Mr and Mrs Samuel Jones—a towel-horse": you never see that, do you? And yet you could pay anything for a pure-bred one, and they are very useful. The bride always wears "valuable old Honiton lace, the gift of her aunt." Otherwise it's not legal. Kitty never had an aunt, had she? Then you aren't properly married, Charles. I'm sorry.
VIII
DEAR CHARLES,—A thing has just happened to me, which really only happens to people in jokes. You would not believe it did I not lay my hand on my heart—(the heart isn't on the left side, as you thought, by the way. It's bang in the middle, only the left auricle does all the work. However)—on my heart, and swear that it is true.
I was in the silver department of Liberty's buying some spoons. Yes, I fell back on spoons after all. (Never fall back on a spoon, Charles, if you can help it.) It was a hot day and the business of selection was so exhausting that I took off my hat and gloves, and laid them on a chair beside me. When it was all over the man went off to make out the bill. I wandered round the place, looking at all the other things which I wished I had bought instead. Suddenly a voice at my side said:
"Can you tell me if this is where you get ladies' jerseys for golf?"
(I told you you had to get a jersey for golf.)
I said: "Oh, do you think that is a good thing? I rather thought of spoons myself.... I mean, for a wedding present one does want something which ... Oh, I beg your pardon.... Yes, I am Mr Liberty. No liberty at all, madam, I assure you.... This is the silver department, you know.... Yes, all that white shiny stuff.... Well, I daresay we could do you one, if you wouldn't mind having the lion worked on it.... No, we don't charge for the lion.... Or what about something quite simple in pewter.... Oh, I see.... The art muslin department would be the nearest thing we have ... a freer swing, certainly.... Good-morning."
Well, no, I didn't say that exactly. Having my hand on the left side of my heart it would be impossible to pretend that I did. With the best intentions in the world, how easy it is, Lucy, to slip from the rocky path of truth into the crevasse of make-believe. (Maxim from "The Fairchild Family.") But really and really, Charles, she did take me for the shopwalker in the silver department, and she did ask for ladies' golf jerseys. What I actually said was: "I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I'm only a customer." And she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." And then I put on my hat to show that I had one, and took it off again to show that I knew my manners, and she went off to the clock counter, and said she was sorry to trouble the man behind it, but could he tell her where she went for ladies' jerseys for golf, and he said he was very sorry, they didn't sell them, but would she like some clocks on her stockings instead. Altogether there was a good deal of sorrow going about.
But not on my part—never. In common tweeds, to be mistaken for one of those splendid frock-coated gentleman, and admitted into a lady's confidence on a question of jerseys, there was glory for you. I doubt now if I ought to have gone down to Castle Bumpbrook. Anyhow, I should have insisted on all the gate.
What was the gate? I distinctly saw three small boys hiding behind a cow. I suppose they paid all right? Charles, I did enjoy it awfully, as I think I have told you several times. It was good of you to send me in first with the postman, and as a post-man I am sure I should love him very much, but he is too fast for me on the cricket-field. There wasn't a run there, you know—a simple shot straight to cover. I expect he thought it was an express delivery or late fee stroke, with "Immediate" in the top left-hand corner; or perhaps the brown pad made him think I was a telegram. If I ever go in first with him again I shall register myself.
I gather that the vicarhasto bowl at one end all the time, hasn't he? In lieu of tithes or something. Otherwise you get the Ecclesiastical Commissioners down on you. He varies his pitch cleverly, I admit. His firstly would take any batsman by surprise; I can't think why it only bounces once—finger-spin, I suppose. Then, immediately afterwards, you get his secondly, a high full pitch which would almost be a wide in a layman. Yet all the time you feel that he is only leading up to his sixthly and lastly, my brethren, which is one of the subtlest half-volleys I have ever seen.
Charles, I love your garden. It was jolly to see the white flower of Mrs Sinkins' blameless life again. I knew Mrs Sinkins as a bulb—I mean as a boy, and have always regarded her with affection. I suppose I shall have to wait for Dorothy Perkins. She is hardly out yet. My love is like a—— Oh, but Dorothy is pink. Anyhow, she sweetly smiles in June, and it's just on June, so I'm blowed if I don't come down to see her next month, whether you ask me or not. Better send me an invitation for form's sake.
And teach me about flowers, will you? (And I will tell you about motor omnibuses.) Why do they all end in "kins"? It can't be a coincidence that the only two which I know to talk to should do this. Funnily enough, motor omnibuses all end in Putney, which shows that this is a very small world after all, and we needs must love the highest when we see it. So near and yet so far. Doesn't it annoy you when you meet a person in London whom you last saw in Uganda, and he fatuously observes that the world is a very small place? It would have been a much smaller place,prima facie, if you had last seen him at Leamington.
To return to Dorothy; we have flowers in London, too. What about the Temple Show? I saw a man there with a kodak; I suppose he wanted to snap the roses as they were growing. That's the sort of weather we are on the Embankment! Oh, but the fruit there! I wish I were a prize tomato; what a complexion!