I should like to call back
a day of her life as it was at
this time, when her spirit was
as bright as ever and her hand
as eager, but she was no longer
able to do much work. It should
not be difficult, for she repeated
herself from day to day and yet
did it with a quaint unreasonableness
that was ever yielding fresh
delight. Our love for her was
such that we could easily tell
what she would do in given circumstances,
but she had always a new way
of doing it.
Well, with break of day she
wakes and sits up in bed and
is standing in the middle of
the room. So nimble was she in
the mornings (one of our troubles
with her) that these three actions
must be considered as one; she
is on the floor before you have
time to count them. She has strict
orders not to rise until her
fire is lit, and having broken
them there is a demure elation
on her face. The question is
what to do before she is caught
and hurried to bed again. Her
fingers are tingling to prepare
the breakfast; she would dearly
love to black-lead the grate,
but that might rouse her daughter
from whose side she has slipped
so cunningly. She catches sight
of the screen at the foot of
the bed, and immediately her
soft face becomes very determined.
To guard her from draughts the
screen had been brought here
from the lordly east room, where
it was of no use whatever. But
in her opinion it was too beautiful
for use; it belonged to the east
room, where she could take pleasant
peeps at it; she had objected
to its removal, even become low-spirited.
Now is her opportunity. The screen
is an unwieldy thing, but still
as a mouse she carries it, and
they are well under weigh when
it strikes against the gas-bracket
in the passage. Next moment a
reproachful hand arrests her.
She is challenged with being
out of bed, she denies it - standing
in the passage. Meekly or stubbornly
she returns to bed, and it is
no satisfaction to you that you
can say, 'Well, well, of all
the women!' and so on, or 'Surely
you knew that the screen was
brought here to protect you,'
for she will reply scornfully,
'Who was touching the screen?'
By this time I have wakened
(I am through the wall) and join
them anxiously: so often has
my mother been taken ill in the
night that the slightest sound
from her room rouses the house.
She is in bed again, looking
as if she had never been out
of it, but I know her and listen
sternly to the tale of her misdoings.
She is not contrite. Yes, maybe
she did promise not to venture
forth on the cold floors of daybreak,
but she had risen for a moment
only, and we just t'neaded her
with our talk about draughts
- there were no such things as
draughts in her young days -
and it is more than she can do
(here she again attempts to rise
but we hold her down) to lie
there and watch that beautiful
screen being spoilt. I reply
that the beauty of the screen
has ever been its miserable defect:
ho, there! for a knife with which
to spoil its beauty and make
the bedroom its fitting home.
As there is no knife handy, my
foot will do; I raise my foot,
and then - she sees that it is
bare, she cries to me excitedly
to go back to bed lest I catch
cold. For though, ever careless
of herself, she will wander the
house unshod, and tell us not
to talk havers when we chide
her, the sight of one of us similarly
negligent rouses her anxiety
at once. She is willing now to
sign any vow if only I will take
my bare feet back to bed, but
probably she is soon after me
in hers to make sure that I am
nicely covered up.
It is scarcely six o'clock,
and we have all promised to sleep
for another hour, but in ten
minutes she is sure that eight
has struck (house disgraced),
or that if it has not, something
is wrong with the clock. Next
moment she is captured on her
way downstairs to wind up the
clock. So evidently we must be
up and doing, and as we have
no servant, my sister disappears
into the kitchen, having first
asked me to see that 'that woman'
lies still, and 'that woman'
calls out that she always does
lie still, so what are we blethering
about?
She is up now, and dressed
in her thick maroon wrapper;
over her shoulders (lest she
should stray despite our watchfulness)
is a shawl, not placed there
by her own hands, and on her
head a delicious mutch. O that
I could sing the paean of the
white mutch (and the dirge of
the elaborate black cap) from
the day when she called witchcraft
to her aid and made it out of
snow-flakes, and the dear worn
hands that washed it tenderly
in a basin, and the starching
of it, and the finger-iron for
its exquisite frills that looked
like curls of sugar, and the
sweet bands with which it tied
beneath the chin! The honoured
snowy mutch, how I love to see
it smiling to me from the doors
and windows of the poor; it is
always smiling - sometimes maybe
a wavering wistful smile, as
if a tear- drop lay hidden among,
the frills. A hundred times I
have taken the characterless
cap from my mother's head and
put the mutch in its place and
tied the bands beneath her chin,
while she protested but was well
pleased. For in her heart she
knew what suited her best and
would admit it, beaming, when
I put a mirror into her hands
and told her to look; but nevertheless
the cap cost no less than so-and-so,
whereas - Was that a knock at
the door? She is gone, to put
on her cap!
She begins the day by the fireside
with the New Testament in her
hands, an old volume with its
loose pages beautifully refixed,
and its covers sewn and resewn
by her, so that you would say
it can never fall to pieces.
It is mine now, and to me the
black threads with which she
stitched it are as part of the
contents. Other books she read
in the ordinary manner, but this
one differently, her lips moving
with each word as if she were
reading aloud, and her face very
solemn. The Testament lies open
on her lap long after she has
ceased to read, and the expression
of her face has not changed.
I have seen her reading other
books early in the day but never
without a guilty look on her
face, for she thought reading
was scarce respectable until
night had come. She spends the
forenoon in what she calls doing
nothing, which may consist in
stitching so hard that you would
swear she was an over-worked
seamstress at it for her life,
or you will find her on a table
with nails in her mouth, and
anon she has to be chased from
the garret (she has suddenly
decided to change her curtains),
or she is under the bed searching
for band-boxes and asking sternly
where we have put that bonnet.
On the whole she is behaving
in a most exemplary way to- day
(not once have we caught her
trying to go out into the washing-
house), and we compliment her
at dinner-time, partly because
she deserves it, and partly to
make her think herself so good
that she will eat something,
just to maintain her new character.
I question whether one hour of
all her life was given to thoughts
of food; in her great days to
eat seemed to her to be waste
of time, and afterwards she only
ate to boast of it, as something
she had done to please us. She
seldom remembered whether she
had dined, but always presumed
she had, and while she was telling
me in all good faith what the
meal consisted of, it might be
brought in. When in London I
had to hear daily what she was
eating, and perhaps she had refused
all dishes until they produced
the pen and ink. These were flourished
before her, and then she would
say with a sigh, 'Tell him I
am to eat an egg.' But they were
not so easily deceived; they
waited, pen in hand, until the
egg was eaten.
She never 'went for a walk'
in her life. Many long trudges
she had as a girl when she carried
her father's dinner in a flagon
to the country place where he
was at work, but to walk with
no end save the good of your
health seemed a very droll proceeding
to her. In her young days, she
was positive, no one had ever
gone for a walk, and she never
lost the belief that it was an
absurdity introduced by a new
generation with too much time
on their hands. That they enjoyed
it she could not believe; it
was merely a form of showing
off, and as they passed her window
she would remark to herself with
blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames,
are you off for your walk?' and
add fervently, 'Rather you than
me!' I was one of those who walked,
and though she smiled, and might
drop a sarcastic word when she
saw me putting on my boots, it
was she who had heated them in
preparation for my going. The
arrangement between us was that
she should lie down until my
return, and to ensure its being
carried out I saw her in bed
before I started, but with the
bang of the door she would be
at the window to watch me go:
there is one spot on the road
where a thousand times I have
turned to wave my stick to her,
while she nodded and smiled and
kissed her hand to me. That kissing
of the hand was the one English
custom she had learned.
In an hour or so I return,
and perhaps find her in bed,
according to promise, but still
I am suspicious. The way to her
detection is circuitous.
'I'll need to be rising now,'
she says, with a yawn that may
be genuine.
'How long have you been in
bed?'
'You saw me go.'
'And then I saw you at the
window. Did you go straight back
to bed?'
'Surely I had that much sense.'
'The truth!'
'I might have taken a look
at the clock first.'
'It is a terrible thing to
have a mother who prevaricates.
Have you been lying down ever
since I left?'
'Thereabout.'
'What does that mean exactly?'
'Off and on.'
'Have you been to the garret?'
'What should I do in the garret?'
'But have you?'
'I might just have looked up
the garret stair.'
'You have been redding up the
garret again!'
'Not what you could call a
redd up.'
'O, woman, woman, I believe
you have not been in bed at all!'
'You see me in it.'
'My opinion is that you jumped
into bed when you heard me open
the door.'
'Havers.'
'Did you?'
'No.'
'Well, then, when you heard
me at the gate?'
'It might have been when I
heard you at the gate.'
As daylight goes she follows
it with her sewing to the window,
and gets another needleful out
of it, as one may run after a
departed visitor for a last word,
but now the gas is lit, and no
longer is it shameful to sit
down to literature. If the book
be a story by George Eliot or
Mrs. Oliphant, her favourites
(and mine) among women novelists,
or if it be a Carlyle, and we
move softly, she will read, entranced,
for hours. Her delight in Carlyle
was so well known that various
good people would send her books
that contained a page about him;
she could place her finger on
any passage wanted in the biography
as promptly as though she were
looking for some article in her
own drawer, and given a date
she was often able to tell you
what they were doing in Cheyne
Row that day. Carlyle, she decided,
was not so much an ill man to
live with as one who needed a
deal of managing, but when I
asked if she thought she could
have managed him she only replied
with a modest smile that meant
'Oh no!' but had the face of
'Sal, I would have liked to try.'
One lady lent her some scores
of Carlyle letters that have
never been published, and crabbed
was the writing, but though my
mother liked to have our letters
read aloud to her, she read every
one of these herself, and would
quote from them in her talk.
Side by side with the Carlyle
letters, which show him in his
most gracious light, were many
from his wife to a friend, and
in one of these a romantic adventure
is described - I quote from memory,
and it is a poor memory compared
to my mother's, which registered
everything by a method of her
own: 'What might be the age of
Bell Tibbits? Well, she was born
the week I bought the boiler,
so she'll be one-and- fifty (no
less!) come Martinmas.' Mrs.
Carlyle had got into the train
at a London station and was feeling
very lonely, for the journey
to Scotland lay before her and
no one had come to see her off.
Then, just as the train was starting,
a man jumped into the carriage,
to her regret until she saw his
face, when, behold, they were
old friends, and the last time
they met (I forget how many years
before) he had asked her to be
his wife. He was very nice, and
if I remember aright, saw her
to her journey's end, though
he had intended to alight at
some half-way place. I call this
an adventure, and I am sure it
seemed to my mother to be the
most touching and memorable adventure
that can come into a woman's
life. 'You see he hadna forgot,'
she would say proudly, as if
this was a compliment in which
all her sex could share, and
on her old tender face shone
some of the elation with which
Mrs. Carlyle wrote that letter.
But there were times, she held,
when Carlyle must have made his
wife a glorious woman. 'As when?'
I might inquire.
'When she keeked
in at his study door and said
to herself, "The
whole world is ringing with his
fame, and he is my man!"'
'And then,' I might point out,
'he would roar to her to shut
the door.'
'Pooh!' said my mother, 'a
man's roar is neither here nor
there.' But her verdict as a
whole was, 'I would rather have
been his mother than his wife.'
So we have got her into her
chair with the Carlyles, and
all is well. Furthermore, 'to
mak siccar,' my father has taken
the opposite side of the fireplace
and is deep in the latest five
columns of Gladstone, who is
his Carlyle. He is to see that
she does not slip away fired
by a conviction, which suddenly
overrides her pages, that the
kitchen is going to rack and
ruin for want of her, and she
is to recall him to himself should
he put his foot in the fire and
keep it there, forgetful of all
save his hero's eloquence. (We
were a family who needed a deal
of watching.) She is not interested
in what Mr. Gladstone has to
say; indeed she could never be
brought to look upon politics
as of serious concern for grown
folk (a class in which she scarcely
included man), and she gratefully
gave up reading 'leaders' the
day I ceased to write them. But
like want of reasonableness,
a love for having the last word,
want of humour and the like,
politics were in her opinion
a mannish attribute to be tolerated,
and Gladstone was the name of
the something which makes all
our sex such queer characters.
She had a profound faith in him
as an aid to conversation, and
if there were silent men in the
company would give him to them
to talk about, precisely as she
divided a cake among children.
And then, with a motherly smile,
she would leave them to gorge
on him. But in the idolising
of Gladstone she recognised,
nevertheless, a certain inevitability,
and would no more have tried
to contend with it than to sweep
a shadow off the floor. Gladstone
was, and there was an end of
it in her practical philosophy.
Nor did she accept him coldly;
like a true woman she sympathised
with those who suffered severely,
and they knew it and took counsel
of her in the hour of need. I
remember one ardent Gladstonian
who, as a general election drew
near, was in sore straits indeed,
for he disbelieved in Home Rule,
and yet how could he vote against
'Gladstone's man'? His distress
was so real that it gave him
a hang-dog appearance. He put
his case gloomily before her,
and until the day of the election
she riddled him with sarcasm;
I think he only went to her because
he found a mournful enjoyment
in seeing a false Gladstonian
tortured.
It was all such plain-sailing
for him, she pointed out; he
did not like this Home Rule,
and therefore he must vote against
it.
She put it pitiful clear, he
replied with a groan.
But she was like another woman
to him when he appeared before
her on his way to the polling-booth.
'This is a watery Sabbath to
you, I'm thinking,' she said
sympathetically, but without
dropping her wires - for Home
Rule or no Home Rule that stocking-foot
must be turned before twelve
o'clock.
A watery Sabbath means a doleful
day, and 'A watery Sabbath it
is,' he replied with feeling.
A silence followed, broken only
by the click of the wires. Now
and again he would mutter, 'Ay,
well, I'll be going to vote -
little did I think the day would
come,' and so on, but if he rose
it was only to sit down again,
and at last she crossed over
to him and said softly, (no sarcasm
in her voice now), 'Away with
you, and vote for Gladstone's
man!' He jumped up and made off
without a word, but from the
east window we watched him strutting
down the brae. I laughed, but
she said, 'I'm no sure that it's
a laughing matter,' and afterwards,
'I would have liked fine to be
that Gladstone's mother.'
It is nine o'clock now, a quarter-past
nine, half-past nine - all the
same moment to me, for I am at
a sentence that will not write.
I know, though I can't hear,
what my sister has gone upstairs
to say to my mother:-
'I was in at
him at nine, and he said, "In five minutes," so
I put the steak on the brander,
but I've been in thrice since
then, and every time he says, "In
five minutes," and when I try
to take the table-cover off,
he presses his elbows hard on
it, and growls. His supper will
be completely spoilt.'
'Oh, that weary writing!'
'I can do no more, mother,
so you must come down and stop
him.'
'I have no power over him,'
my mother says, but she rises
smiling, and presently she is
opening my door.
'In five minutes!' I cry, but
when I see that it is she I rise
and put my arm round her. 'What
a full basket!' she says, looking
at the waste-paper basket, which
contains most of my work of the
night and with a dear gesture
she lifts up a torn page and
kisses it. 'Poor thing,' she
says to it, 'and you would have
liked so fine to be printed!'
and she puts her hand over my
desk to prevent my writing more.
'In the last five minutes,'
I begin, 'one can often do more
than in the first hour.'
'Many a time I've said it in
my young days,' she says slowly.
'And proved it, too!' cries
a voice from the door, the voice
of one who was prouder of her
even than I; it is true, and
yet almost unbelievable, that
any one could have been prouder
of her than I.
'But those days are gone,'
my mother says solemnly, 'gone
to come back no more. You'll
put by your work now, man, and
have your supper, and then you'll
come up and sit beside your mother
for a whiley, for soon you'll
be putting her away in the kirk-yard.'
I hear such a little cry from
near the door.
So my mother and I go up the
stair together. 'We have changed
places,' she says; 'that was
just how I used to help you up,
but I'm the bairn now.'
She brings out the Testament
again; it was always lying within
reach; it is the lock of hair
she left me when she died. And
when she has read for a long
time she 'gives me a look,' as
we say in the north, and I go
out, to leave her alone with
God. She had been but a child
when her mother died, and so
she fell early into the way of
saying her prayers with no earthly
listener. Often and often I have
found her on her knees, but I
always went softly away, closing
the door. I never heard her pray,
but I know very well how she
prayed, and that, when that door
was shut, there was not a day
in God's sight between the worn
woman and the little child.
|