Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 12

'Oh dear, then the gorilla.'

In the end we got into a habit of labelling any physically hideous individual as 'an Agatha's husband': 'Oh! Look! That's a really really ugly mana real Agatha's husband.' ugly mana real Agatha's husband.'

My one important woman friend was Eileen Morris. She was a friend of our family. I had in a way known her all my life, but did not get to know her properly until I was about nineteen and had 'caught up' with her, since she was some years older than I was. She lived with five maiden aunts in a large house overlooking the sea, and her brother was a schoolmaster. She and he were very alike, and she had a mind with the clarity of a man's rather than a woman's. Her father was a nice, quiet, dull manhis wife had been, my mother told me, one of the gayest and most beautiful women she had ever seen. Eileen was rather plain, but she had a remarkable mind. It ranged over so many subjects. She was the first person I had come across with whom I could discuss ideas. ideas. She was one of the most impersonal people I have ever known; one never heard anything about her own feelings. I knew her for many years, yet I often wonder in what her private life consisted. We never confided anything personal in each other, but whenever we met we had something to discuss, and plenty to talk about. She was quite a good poet, and knowledgeable about music. I remember that I had a song which I liked, because I enjoyed the music of it so much, but unfortunately it had remarkably silly words. When I commented on this to Eileen, she said she would like to try to write some different words for it. This she did, improving the song enormously from my point of view. She was one of the most impersonal people I have ever known; one never heard anything about her own feelings. I knew her for many years, yet I often wonder in what her private life consisted. We never confided anything personal in each other, but whenever we met we had something to discuss, and plenty to talk about. She was quite a good poet, and knowledgeable about music. I remember that I had a song which I liked, because I enjoyed the music of it so much, but unfortunately it had remarkably silly words. When I commented on this to Eileen, she said she would like to try to write some different words for it. This she did, improving the song enormously from my point of view.

I, too, wrote poetryperhaps everyone did at my age. Some of my earlier examples are unbelievably awful. I remember one poem I wrote when I was eleven: I knew a little cowslip and a pretty flower too, Who wished she was a bluebell and had a robe of blue.

You can guess how it went on. She got a robe of blue, became a bluebell, and didn't like it. Could Could anything be more suggestive of a complete lack of literary talent? By the age of seventeen or eighteen, however, I was doing better. I wrote a series of poems on the Harlequin legend: Harlequin's song, Columbine's, Pierrot, Pierrette, etc. I sent one or two poems to anything be more suggestive of a complete lack of literary talent? By the age of seventeen or eighteen, however, I was doing better. I wrote a series of poems on the Harlequin legend: Harlequin's song, Columbine's, Pierrot, Pierrette, etc. I sent one or two poems to The Poetry Review. The Poetry Review. I was very pleased when I got a guinea prize. After that, I won several prizes and also had poems printed there. I felt very proud of myself when I was successful. I wrote quite a lot of poems from time to time. A sudden excitement would come over me and I would rush off to write down what I felt gurgling round in my mind. I had no lofty ambitions. An occasional prize in I was very pleased when I got a guinea prize. After that, I won several prizes and also had poems printed there. I felt very proud of myself when I was successful. I wrote quite a lot of poems from time to time. A sudden excitement would come over me and I would rush off to write down what I felt gurgling round in my mind. I had no lofty ambitions. An occasional prize in The Poetry Review The Poetry Review was all I asked. One poem of mine that I re-read lately I think is not bad; at least it has in it something of what I wanted to express. I reproduce it here for that reason: was all I asked. One poem of mine that I re-read lately I think is not bad; at least it has in it something of what I wanted to express. I reproduce it here for that reason: DOWN IN THE WOODBare brown branches against a blue sky(And Silence within the wood),Leaves that, listless, lie under your feet,Bold brown boles that are biding their time(And Silence within the wood).Spring has been fair in the fas.h.i.+on of youth,Summer with languorous largesse of love,Autumn with pa.s.sion that pa.s.ses to pain,Leaf, flower, and flamethey have fallen and failedAnd Beautybare Beauty is left in the wood!Bare brown branches against a mad moon(And Something that stirs in the wood),Leaves that rustle and rise from the dead,Branches that beckon and leer in the light(And Something that walks in the wood).Skirling and whirling, the leaves are alive!Driven by Death in a devilish dance!Shrieking and swaying of terrified trees!A wind that goes sobbing and s.h.i.+vering by...And Fearnaked Fear pa.s.ses out of the wood!

I occasionally tried to set one of my poems to music. My composition was not of a high ordera fairly simple ballad I could do not too badly. I also wrote a waltz with a trite tune, and a rather extraordinary t.i.tleI don't know where I got it from'One Hour With Thee.'

It was not until several of my partners had remarked that an hour was a pretty hefty time for a waltz to last that I realised the t.i.tle was somewhat ambiguous. I was proud because one of the princ.i.p.al bands, Joyce's Band, which played at most of the dances, included it occasionally in its repertoire. However, that waltz, I can see now, is exceedingly bad music. Considering my own feelings about waltzes, I cannot imagine why I tried to write one.

The Tango was another matter. A deputy of Mrs Wordsworth started a dancing evening for adults at Newton Abbot, and I and others used to go over for instruction. There I made what I called 'my Tango friend'a young man whose Christian name was Ronald and whose last name I cannot remember. We rarely spoke to each other or took the least interest in each otherour whole mind was engrossed with our feet. We had been partnered together fairly early, had found the same enthusiasm, and danced well together. We became the princ.i.p.al exponents of the art of the Tango. At all dances where we met we reserved the Tango for each other without question.

Another excitement was Lily Elsie's famous dance in The Merry Widow The Merry Widow or or The Count of Luxembourg, The Count of Luxembourg, I can't remember which, when she and her partner waltzed up a staircase and down again. This I practised with the boy next door. Max Mellor was at Eton at the time, about three years younger than I was. His father was a very ill man with tuberculosis, who had to lie out in the garden in an open-air hut where he slept at night. Max was their only son. He fell deeply in love with me as an older girl, and grown up, and used to parade himself for my benefit, or so his mother told me, wearing a shooting jacket and shooting boots, shooting sparrows with an airgun. He also began to wash (quite a novelty on his part, since his mother had had to worry him for several years about the state of his hands, neck, etc.), bought several pale mauve and lavender ties, and in fact showed every sign of growing up. We got together on the subject of dancing, and I would repair to the Mellors' house to practise with him on their stairs, which were more suitable than ours, being shallower and wider. I don't know that we were a great success. We had a lot of extremely painful falls, but persevered. He had a nice tutor, a young man called, I think, Mr Shaw, about whom Marguerite Lucy commented, 'A nice little natureit's a pity his legs are so common.' I can't remember which, when she and her partner waltzed up a staircase and down again. This I practised with the boy next door. Max Mellor was at Eton at the time, about three years younger than I was. His father was a very ill man with tuberculosis, who had to lie out in the garden in an open-air hut where he slept at night. Max was their only son. He fell deeply in love with me as an older girl, and grown up, and used to parade himself for my benefit, or so his mother told me, wearing a shooting jacket and shooting boots, shooting sparrows with an airgun. He also began to wash (quite a novelty on his part, since his mother had had to worry him for several years about the state of his hands, neck, etc.), bought several pale mauve and lavender ties, and in fact showed every sign of growing up. We got together on the subject of dancing, and I would repair to the Mellors' house to practise with him on their stairs, which were more suitable than ours, being shallower and wider. I don't know that we were a great success. We had a lot of extremely painful falls, but persevered. He had a nice tutor, a young man called, I think, Mr Shaw, about whom Marguerite Lucy commented, 'A nice little natureit's a pity his legs are so common.'

I must say that ever since I have been unable to stop myself applying this criterion to any male stranger. Good-looking, perhapsbut are his legs common?

V

One unpleasant winter's day, I was lying in bed recovering from influenza. I was bored. I had read lots of books, had attempted to do The Demon thirteen times, brought out Miss Milligan successfully, and was now reduced to dealing myself bridge hands. My mother looked in.

'Why don't you write a story?' she suggested.

'Write a story?' I said, rather startled.

'Yes,' said mother. 'Like Madge.'

'Oh, I don't think I could.'

'Why not?' she asked.

There didn't seem any reason why not, except that....

'You don't know that you can't,' mother pointed out, 'because you've never tried.'

That was fair enough. She disappeared with her usual suddenness and reappeared five minutes later with an exercise book in her hand. 'There are only some laundry entries at one end,' she said. 'The rest of it is quite all right. You can begin your story now.'

When my mother suggested doing anything one practically always did it. I sat up in bed and began thinking about writing a story. At any rate it was better than doing Miss Milligan again.

I can't remember now how long it took menot long, I think, in fact, I believe it was finished by the evening of the following day. I began hesitantly on various different themes, then abandoned them, and finally found myself thoroughly interested and going along at a great rate. It was exhausting, and did not a.s.sist my convalescence, but it was exciting too.

'I'll rout out Madge's old typewriter,' said mother, 'then you can type it.

This first story of mine was called The House of Beauty. The House of Beauty. It is no masterpiece but I think on the whole that it is good; the first thing I ever wrote that showed any sign of promise. Amateurishly written, of course, and showing the influence of all that I had read the week before. This is something you can hardly avoid when you first begin to write. Just then I had obviously been reading D. H. Lawrence. I remember that It is no masterpiece but I think on the whole that it is good; the first thing I ever wrote that showed any sign of promise. Amateurishly written, of course, and showing the influence of all that I had read the week before. This is something you can hardly avoid when you first begin to write. Just then I had obviously been reading D. H. Lawrence. I remember that The Plumed Serpent, Sons and Lovers, The White Peac.o.c.k The Plumed Serpent, Sons and Lovers, The White Peac.o.c.k etc. were great favourites of mine about then. I had also read some books by someone called Mrs Everard Cotes, whose style I much admired. This first story was rather precious, and written so that it was difficult to know exactly what the author meant, but though the style was derivative the story itself shows at least imagination. etc. were great favourites of mine about then. I had also read some books by someone called Mrs Everard Cotes, whose style I much admired. This first story was rather precious, and written so that it was difficult to know exactly what the author meant, but though the style was derivative the story itself shows at least imagination.

After that I wrote other storiesThe Call of Wings (not bad), (not bad), The Lonely G.o.d The Lonely G.o.d (result of reading (result of reading The City of Beautiful Nonsense: The City of Beautiful Nonsense: regrettably sentimental), a short dialogue between a deaf lady and a nervous man at a party, and a grisly story about a seance (which I re-wrote many years later). I typed all these stories on Madge's machinean Empire typewriter, I rememberand hopefully sent them off to various magazines, choosing different pseudonyms from time to time as the fancy took me. regrettably sentimental), a short dialogue between a deaf lady and a nervous man at a party, and a grisly story about a seance (which I re-wrote many years later). I typed all these stories on Madge's machinean Empire typewriter, I rememberand hopefully sent them off to various magazines, choosing different pseudonyms from time to time as the fancy took me.

Madge had called herself Mostyn Miller; I called myself Mack Miller, then changed to Nathaniel Miller (my grandfather's name). I had not much hope of success, and I did not get it. The stories all returned promptly with the usual slip: 'The Editor regrets...' Then I would parcel them up again and send them off to some other magazine.

I also decided that I would try my hand at a novel. I embarked light-heartedly. It was to be set in Cairo. I thought of two separate plots, and at first could not choose between them. In the end, I hesitatingly made a decision and started on one. It had been suggested to my mind by three people we used to look at in the dining-room of the hotel in Cairo. There was an attractive girlhardly a girl in my eyes, because she must have been close on thirtyand every evening after the dance she would come and have supper there with two men. One was a heavy-set, broad man, with dark haira Captain in the Sixtieth Riflesthe other a tall, fair young man in the Coldstream Guards, possibly a year or two younger than she was. They sat one on either side of her; she kept them in play. We learnt their names but we never discovered much more about them, though somebody did make the remark once: 'She will have to make up her mind between them, some time.' That was enough for my imagination: If I had known any more about them I don't think I should have wanted to write about them. As it was, I was able to make up an excellent story, probably far different from their characters, their actions, or anything else. Having gone a certain distance with it I became dissatisfied, and turned to my other plot. This was more light-hearted, dealing with amusing characters. I made, however, the fatal mistake of enc.u.mbering myself with a deaf heroinereally I can't think why: why: anyone can deal in an interesting manner with a blind heroine, but a deaf heroine is not so easy, because, as I soon found out, once you have described what she is thinking, and what people are thinking and saying of her, she is left with no possibility of conversation, and the whole business comes to a stop. Poor Melancy became ever more insipid and boring. anyone can deal in an interesting manner with a blind heroine, but a deaf heroine is not so easy, because, as I soon found out, once you have described what she is thinking, and what people are thinking and saying of her, she is left with no possibility of conversation, and the whole business comes to a stop. Poor Melancy became ever more insipid and boring.

I went back to my first attemptand I realised that it was not going to be nearly long enough for a novel. Finally, I decided to incorporate the two. Since the setting was the same, why not have two plots in one? Proceeding on these lines I finally brought my novel to the requisite length. Heavily enc.u.mbered by too much plot, I dashed madly from one set of characters to the other, occasionally forcing them to mix with each other in a way which they did not seem to wish to do. I called itI can't think whySnow Upon the Desert.

My mother then suggested, rather hesitantly, that I might ask Eden Philpotts if he could give me help or advice. Eden Philpotts was then at the height of his fame. His novels of Dartmoor were celebrated. As it happened, he was a neighbour of ours, and a personal friend of the family. I was shy about it, but in the end agreed. Eden Philpotts was an odd-looking man, with a face more like a faun's than an ordinary human being's: an interesting face, with its long eyes turned up at the corners. He suffered terribly from gout, and often when we went to see him was sitting with his leg bound up with ma.s.ses of bandages on a stool. He hated social functions and hardly ever went out; in fact he disliked seeing people. His wife, on the other hand, was extremely sociablea handsome and charming woman, who had many friends. Eden Philpotts had been very fond of my father, and was also fond of my mother, who seldom bothered him with social invitations but used to admire his garden and his many rare plants and shrubs. He said that of course he would read Agatha's literary attempt.

I can hardly express the grat.i.tude I feel to him. He could so easily have uttered a few careless words of well-justified criticism, and possibly discouraged me for life. As it was, he set out to help. He realised perfectly how shy I was and how difficult it was for me to speak of things. The letter he wrote contained very good advice.

'Some of these things that you have written,' he said, 'are capital. You have a great feeling for dialogue. You should stick to gay natural dialogue. Try and cut all moralisations out of your novels; you are much too fond of them, and nothing is more boring to read. Try and leave your characters alone, alone, so that so that they they can speak for can speak for themselves, themselves, instead of always rus.h.i.+ng in to tell them what they ought to say, or to explain to the reader what they mean by what they are saying. That is for the reader to judge for himself. You have two plots here, rather than one, but that is a beginner's fault; you soon won't want to waste plots in such a spendfree way. I am sending you a letter to my own literary agent, Hughes Ma.s.sie. He will criticise this for you and tell you what chances it has of being accepted. I am afraid it is not easy to get a first novel accepted, so you mustn't be disappointed. I should like to recommend you a course of reading which I think you will find helpful. Read De Quincey's instead of always rus.h.i.+ng in to tell them what they ought to say, or to explain to the reader what they mean by what they are saying. That is for the reader to judge for himself. You have two plots here, rather than one, but that is a beginner's fault; you soon won't want to waste plots in such a spendfree way. I am sending you a letter to my own literary agent, Hughes Ma.s.sie. He will criticise this for you and tell you what chances it has of being accepted. I am afraid it is not easy to get a first novel accepted, so you mustn't be disappointed. I should like to recommend you a course of reading which I think you will find helpful. Read De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium Eater Confessions of an Opium Eaterthis will increase your vocabulary enormouslyhe used some very interesting words. Read The Story of my Life The Story of my Life by Jefferys, for descriptions and a feeling for nature.' by Jefferys, for descriptions and a feeling for nature.'

I forget now what the other books were: a collection of short stories, I remember, one of which was called The Pirrie Pride, The Pirrie Pride, and was written round a teapot. There was also a volume of Ruskin, to which I took a violent dislike, and one or two others. Whether they did me good or not, I don't know. I certainly enjoyed De Quincey and also the short stories. and was written round a teapot. There was also a volume of Ruskin, to which I took a violent dislike, and one or two others. Whether they did me good or not, I don't know. I certainly enjoyed De Quincey and also the short stories.

I then went and had an interview in London with Hughes Ma.s.sie. The original Hughes Ma.s.sie was alive at that time, and it was he whom I saw. He was a large, swarthy man, and he terrified me. 'Ah,' he said, looking at the cover of the ma.n.u.script, 'Snow Upon the Desert. Mm, a very suggestive t.i.tle, suggestive of banked fires.' Mm, a very suggestive t.i.tle, suggestive of banked fires.'

I looked even more nervous, feeling that was far from descriptive of what I had written. I don't know quite why I had chosen that t.i.tle, beyond the fact that I had presumably been reading Omar Khayyam. Omar Khayyam. I think I meant it to be that, like snow upon the desert's dusty face, all the events that happen in life are in themselves superficial and pa.s.s without leaving any memory. Actually I don't think the book was at all like that when finished, but that had been my idea of what it was going to be. I think I meant it to be that, like snow upon the desert's dusty face, all the events that happen in life are in themselves superficial and pa.s.s without leaving any memory. Actually I don't think the book was at all like that when finished, but that had been my idea of what it was going to be.

Hughes Ma.s.sie kept the ma.n.u.script to read, but returned it some months later, saying that he felt it unlikely that he could place it. The best thing for me to do, he said, was to stop thinking about it any more, and to start to write another book.

I have never been an ambitious person by nature, and I resigned myself to making no further struggle. I still wrote a few poems, and enjoyed them, and I think I wrote one or two more short stories. I sent them to magazines, but expected them to come back, and come back they usually did.

I was no longer studying music seriously. I practised the piano a few hours a day, and kept it up as well as I could to my former standard, but I took no more lessons. I still studied singing when we were in London for any length of time. Francis Korbay, the Hungarian composer, gave me singing lessons, and taught me some charming Hungarian songs of his own composition. He was a good teacher and an interesting man. I also studied English ballad singing with another teacher, a woman who lived near that part of the Regent Ca.n.a.l which they call Little Venice and which always fascinates me. I sang quite often at local concerts and, as was the fas.h.i.+on of the time, 'took my music' when I was asked out to dinner. There was, of course, no 'tinned' music in those days: no broadcasting, no tape-recorders, no stereophonic gramophones. For music you relied on the private performer, who might be good, moderately good, b.l.o.o.d.y awful. I was quite a good accompanist, and could read by sight, so I often had to play accompaniments for other singers.

I had one wonderful experience when there were performances of Wagner's Ring Ring in London with Richter conducting. My sister Madge had suddenly become very interested in Wagnerian music. She arranged for a party of four to go to in London with Richter conducting. My sister Madge had suddenly become very interested in Wagnerian music. She arranged for a party of four to go to The Ring, The Ring, and paid for me. I shall always be grateful to her and remember that experience. Van Rooy sang Wotan. Gertrude Kappel sang the princ.i.p.al Wagnerian soprano roles. She was a big, heavy woman with a turned-up noseno actress, but she had a powerful, golden voice. An American called Saltzman Stevens sang Sieglinde, Isolde, and Elizabeth. Saltzman Stevens I shall always find it hard to forget. She was a most beautiful actress in her motions and gestures, and had long graceful arms that came out of the shapeless white draperies Wagnerian heroines always wore. She made a glorious Isolde. I suppose her voice could not have been equal to that of Gertrude Kappel, but her acting was so superb that it carried one away. Her fury and despair in the first act of and paid for me. I shall always be grateful to her and remember that experience. Van Rooy sang Wotan. Gertrude Kappel sang the princ.i.p.al Wagnerian soprano roles. She was a big, heavy woman with a turned-up noseno actress, but she had a powerful, golden voice. An American called Saltzman Stevens sang Sieglinde, Isolde, and Elizabeth. Saltzman Stevens I shall always find it hard to forget. She was a most beautiful actress in her motions and gestures, and had long graceful arms that came out of the shapeless white draperies Wagnerian heroines always wore. She made a glorious Isolde. I suppose her voice could not have been equal to that of Gertrude Kappel, but her acting was so superb that it carried one away. Her fury and despair in the first act of Tristan, Tristan, the lyrical beauty of her voice in the second, and thenmost unforgettable, to my mindthat great moment in the third act: that long music of Kurwenal, the anguish and the waiting, with Tristan and Kurwenal together, the looking for the s.h.i.+p on the sea. Finally that great soprano cry that comes from off-stage: ' the lyrical beauty of her voice in the second, and thenmost unforgettable, to my mindthat great moment in the third act: that long music of Kurwenal, the anguish and the waiting, with Tristan and Kurwenal together, the looking for the s.h.i.+p on the sea. Finally that great soprano cry that comes from off-stage: 'Tristan!'

Saltzman Stevens was was Isolde. Rus.h.i.+ngyes, rus.h.i.+ng one could feelup the cliff and up on to the stage, running with those white arms outstretched to catch Tristan within their grasp. And then, a sad, almost bird-like stricken cry. Isolde. Rus.h.i.+ngyes, rus.h.i.+ng one could feelup the cliff and up on to the stage, running with those white arms outstretched to catch Tristan within their grasp. And then, a sad, almost bird-like stricken cry.

She sang the Liebestod entirely as a woman, not a G.o.ddess; sang it kneeling by Tristan's body, looking down at his face, seeing him with the force of her will and imagination come alive; and finally, bending, bending lower and lower, the last three words of the opera, 'with a kiss', came as she bent to touch his lips with hers, and then to fall suddenly across his body. came as she bent to touch his lips with hers, and then to fall suddenly across his body.

Being me, every night before I dropped off to sleep I used to turn over and over in my mind the dream that one day I might be singing Isolde on a real stage. It did no harm, I told myselfat any rate to go through it in fantasy. Could I, would it ever ever be possible for me to sing in opera? The answer of course was no. An American friend of May Sturges' who was over in London, and connected with the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, very kindly came to hear me sing one day. I sang various arias for her, and she took me through a series of scales, arpeggios and exercises. Then she said to me: 'The songs you sang told me nothing, but the exercises do. You will make a good concert singer, and should be able to do well and make your name at that. Your voice is be possible for me to sing in opera? The answer of course was no. An American friend of May Sturges' who was over in London, and connected with the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, very kindly came to hear me sing one day. I sang various arias for her, and she took me through a series of scales, arpeggios and exercises. Then she said to me: 'The songs you sang told me nothing, but the exercises do. You will make a good concert singer, and should be able to do well and make your name at that. Your voice is not not strong enough for opera, and never will be.' strong enough for opera, and never will be.'

So let us take it from there. My cherished secret fantasy to do something in music was ended. I had no ambition to be a concert singer, which was not an easy thing to do anyway. Musical careers for girls did not meet with encouragement. If there had been any chance of singing in opera I would have fought for it, but that was for the privileged few, who had the right vocal cords. I am sure there can be nothing more soul-destroying in life than to persist in trying to do a thing that you want desperately to do well, and to know you are at the best second-rate. So I put wishful thinking aside. I pointed out to mother that she could now save the expense of music lessons. I could sing as much as I liked, but there was no point in going on studying singing. I had never really believed that my dream could come truebut it is a good thing to have had had a dream and to have enjoyed it, so long as you do not clutch too hard. a dream and to have enjoyed it, so long as you do not clutch too hard.

It must have been about this time that I began reading the novels of May Sinclair, by which I was much impressedand, indeed, when I read them now I am still much impressed. I think she was one of our finest and most original novelists, and I cannot help feeling that there will be a revival of interest in her some day, and that her works will be republished. A Combined Maze, A Combined Maze, that cla.s.sic story of a little clerk and his girl, I still think one of the best novels ever written. I also liked that cla.s.sic story of a little clerk and his girl, I still think one of the best novels ever written. I also liked The Divine Fire; The Divine Fire; and and Tasker fevons Tasker fevons I think a masterpiece. A short story of hers, I think a masterpiece. A short story of hers, The Flaw in the Crystal, The Flaw in the Crystal, impressed me so much, probably because I was addicted to writing psychic stories at the time, that it inspired me to write a story of my own somewhat in the same vein. I called it impressed me so much, probably because I was addicted to writing psychic stories at the time, that it inspired me to write a story of my own somewhat in the same vein. I called it Vision Vision (It was published with some other stories of mine in a volume much later), and I still like it when I come across it again. (It was published with some other stories of mine in a volume much later), and I still like it when I come across it again.

I had formed a habit of writing stories by this time. It took the place, shall we say, of embroidering cus.h.i.+on-covers or pictures taken from Dresden china flower-painting. If anyone thinks this is putting creative writing too low in the scale, I cannot agree. The creative urge can come out in any form: in embroidery, in the cooking of interesting dishes, in painting, drawing and sculpture, in composing music, as well as in writing books and stories. The only difference is that you can be a great deal more grand about some of these things than others. I would agree that the embroidering of Victorian cus.h.i.+on-covers is not equal to partic.i.p.ating in the Bayeux tapestry, but the urge is the same in both cases. The ladies of the early Williams's court were producing a piece of original work requiring thought, inspiration and tireless application; some parts of it no doubt were dull to do, and some parts highly exciting. Though you may say that a square of brocade with two clematis and a b.u.t.terfly on it is a ridiculous comparison, the artist's inner satisfaction was probably much the same.

The waltz I composed was nothing to be proud of; one or two of my embroideries, however, were were good of their kind, and I was pleased with them. I don't think I went as far as being pleased with my storiesbut then there always has to be a lapse of time after the accomplishment of a piece of creative work before you can in any way evaluate it. good of their kind, and I was pleased with them. I don't think I went as far as being pleased with my storiesbut then there always has to be a lapse of time after the accomplishment of a piece of creative work before you can in any way evaluate it.

You start into it, inflamed by an idea, full of hope, full indeed of confidence (about the only times in my life when I have have been full of confidence). If you are properly modest, you will never write at all, so there had to be one delicious moment when you have thought of something, know just how you are going to write it, rush for a pencil, and start in an exercise book buoyed up with exaltation. You then get into difficulties, don't see your way out, and finally manage to accomplish more or less what you first meant to accomplish, though losing confidence all the time. Having finished it, you know that it is absolutely rotten. A couple of months later you wonder whether it may not be all right after all. been full of confidence). If you are properly modest, you will never write at all, so there had to be one delicious moment when you have thought of something, know just how you are going to write it, rush for a pencil, and start in an exercise book buoyed up with exaltation. You then get into difficulties, don't see your way out, and finally manage to accomplish more or less what you first meant to accomplish, though losing confidence all the time. Having finished it, you know that it is absolutely rotten. A couple of months later you wonder whether it may not be all right after all.

VI

About then I had two near escapes from getting married. I call them near escapes because, looking back now, I realise with certainty that either of them would have been a disaster.

The first one was what you might call 'a young girl's high romance'. I was staying with the Ralston Patricks. Constance and I drove to a cold and windy meet, and a man mounted on a nice chestnut rode up to speak to Constance and was introduced to me. Charles was, I suppose, about thirty-five, a major in the 17th Lancers, and he came every year to Warwicks.h.i.+re to hunt. I met him again that evening when there was a fancy dress dance, to which I went dressed as Elaine. A pretty costume: I still have it (and wonder how I could ever have got into it); it is in the chest in the hall which is full of 'dressing-up things'. It is quite a favouritewhite brocade and a pearl cap. I met Charles several times during my visit, and when I went back home we both expressed polite wishes that we should meet again some time. He mentioned that he might be down in Devons.h.i.+re later.

Three or four days after getting home I received a parcel. In it was a small silver-gilt box. Inside the lid was written: 'The Asps', a date, and 'To Elaine' below it. The Asps was where the meet had taken place, and the date was the date I had met him. I also got a letter from him saying that he hoped to come to see us the following week when he would be in Devon.

That was the beginning of a lightning courts.h.i.+p. Boxes of flowers arrived, occasional books, enormous boxes of exotic chocolates. Nothing was said that could not have been properly said to a young girl, but I was thrilled. He paid us two more visits, and on the third asked me to marry him. He had, he said, fallen in love with me the first moment he saw me. If one was arranging proposals in order of merit, this one would easily go to the top of my list. I was fascinated and partly carried off my feet by his technique. He was a man with a good deal of experience of women, and able to produce most of the reactions he wanted. I was ready for the first time to consider that here was my Fate, my Mr Right. And yetyes, there it wasand yet.... yet.... When Charles was there, telling me how wonderful I was, how he loved me, what a perfect Elaine, what an exquisite creature I was, how he would spend his whole life making me happy, and so on, his hands trembling and his voice shakingoh yes, I was charmed like a bird off a tree. And yetyet, when he was gone away, when I thought of him in absence, there was nothing there. I did not yearn to see him again. I just felt he wasvery nice. The alteration between the two moods puzzled me. How can you tell if you are in love with a person? If in absence they mean nothing to you, and in presence they sweep you off your feet, what is your When Charles was there, telling me how wonderful I was, how he loved me, what a perfect Elaine, what an exquisite creature I was, how he would spend his whole life making me happy, and so on, his hands trembling and his voice shakingoh yes, I was charmed like a bird off a tree. And yetyet, when he was gone away, when I thought of him in absence, there was nothing there. I did not yearn to see him again. I just felt he wasvery nice. The alteration between the two moods puzzled me. How can you tell if you are in love with a person? If in absence they mean nothing to you, and in presence they sweep you off your feet, what is your real real reaction? reaction?

My poor darling mother must have suffered a great deal at that time. She had, she told me later, prayed a great deal that shortly a husband would be provided for me; good, kind, and well-provided with this world's goods. Charles had appeared much like an answer to prayer, but somehow she wasn't satisfied. She always knew what people were thinking and feeling, and she must have known quite well that I didn't know myself what I did did feel. While she held her usual maternal view that no man in this world could be good enough for her Agatha, she had a feeling that, even allowing for that, this was not the right man. She wrote to the Ralston Patricks to find out as much as she could about him. She was handicapped by my father not being alive, and by my having no brother who could make what were in those days the usual inquiries as to a man's record with women, his exact financial position, his family, and so on and so onvery old-fas.h.i.+oned it seems nowadays, but I daresay it averted a good deal of misery. feel. While she held her usual maternal view that no man in this world could be good enough for her Agatha, she had a feeling that, even allowing for that, this was not the right man. She wrote to the Ralston Patricks to find out as much as she could about him. She was handicapped by my father not being alive, and by my having no brother who could make what were in those days the usual inquiries as to a man's record with women, his exact financial position, his family, and so on and so onvery old-fas.h.i.+oned it seems nowadays, but I daresay it averted a good deal of misery.

Charles came up to standard. He had had a good many affairs with women, but that my mother did not really mind: it was an accepted principle that men sowed their wild oats before marriage. He was about fifteen years older than I was, but her own husband had been ten years older than she was, and she believed in that kind of gap in years. She told Charles that Agatha was still very young and that she must not come to any rash decisions. She suggested that we should see each other occasionally during the next month or two, without my being pressed for a decision.

This did not work well because Charles and I had absolutely nothing to talk about except the fact that he was in love with me. Since he was holding himself back on that subject, there was a great deal of embarra.s.sed silence between us. Then he would go away, and I would sit and wonder. What did did I want to do? Did I want to marry him? Then I would get a letter from him. He wrote, there was no doubt about it, the most glorious love letters, the kind of love letters that any woman would long to get. I pored over them, re-read them, kept them, decided that this was love at last. Then Charles would come back, and I would be excited, carried off my feetand yet at the same time had a cold feeling at the back of my mind that it was all wrong. In the end my mother suggested that we should not see each other for six months, and that then I should decide definitely. That was adhered to, and during that period there were no letterswhich was probably just as well, because I should have fallen for those letters in the end. I want to do? Did I want to marry him? Then I would get a letter from him. He wrote, there was no doubt about it, the most glorious love letters, the kind of love letters that any woman would long to get. I pored over them, re-read them, kept them, decided that this was love at last. Then Charles would come back, and I would be excited, carried off my feetand yet at the same time had a cold feeling at the back of my mind that it was all wrong. In the end my mother suggested that we should not see each other for six months, and that then I should decide definitely. That was adhered to, and during that period there were no letterswhich was probably just as well, because I should have fallen for those letters in the end.

When the six months were up I received a telegram. 'Cannot stand this indecision any longer. Will you marry me, yes or no.' I was in bed with a slight feverish attack at the time. My mother brought me the telegram. I looked at it and at the reply-paid form. I took a pencil and wrote the word No. Immediately I felt an enormous relief: I had decided something. I should not have to go through any more of this uncomfortable up-and-down feeling.

'Are you sure?' asked mother.

'Yes,' I said. I turned over on my pillow and went immediately to sleep. So that was the end of that.

Life was rather gloomy during the next four or five months. For the first time everything I did bored me, and I began to feel that I had made a great mistake. Then Wilfred Pirie came back into my life.

I have mentioned Martin and Lilian Pirie, my father's great friends, whom we met again abroad, in Dinard. We had continued to meet, though I had not again seen the boys. Harold had been at Eton and Wilfred had been a mids.h.i.+pman in the Navy. Now Wilfred was a fully-fledged sub-lieutenant R.N. He was in a submarine, I think, at that time, and often came in with that portion of the Fleet which visited Torquay. He became an immense friend at once, one of the people in my life I have been fondest of. Within a couple of months we were unofficially engaged.

Wilfred was such a relief after Charles. With him there was no excitement, no doubt, no misery. Here was just a dear friend, somebody I knew well. We read books, discussed them, we had always something to talk about. I was completely at home with him. The fact that I was treating him and considering him exactly like a brother, did not occur to me. My mother was delighted, and Mrs Pirie too. Martin Pirie had died some years ago. It seemed a perfect marriage from everyone's point of view. Wilfred had a good career ahead of him in the Navy; our fathers had been the closest friends, and our mothers liked each other; mother liked Wilfred, Mrs Pirie liked me. I still feel I was a monster of ingrat.i.tude not to have married him.

My life was now settled for me. In a year or two, when it was suitable (young subalterns and young sub-lieutenants were not encouraged to marry too soon) we would be married. I liked the idea of marrying a sailor. I should live in lodgings at Southsea, Plymouth, or somewhere like that, and when Wilfred was away on foreign stations I could come home to Ashfield and spend my time with mother. Really, nothing in the world could have been so right.

I suppose there is a horrible kink in one's disposition that tends always to kick against anything that is too right or too perfect. I wouldn't admit it for a long time, but the prospect of marrying Wilfred induced in me a depressing feeling of boredom. I liked him, I would have been happy living in the same house with him, but somehow there wasn't any excitement about it; no excitement at all!

One of the first things that happens when you are attracted to a man and he is to you is that extraordinary illusion that you think exactly alike about everything, that you each say the things the other had been thinking. How wonderful it is that you like the same books, and the same music. The fact that one of you hardly ever goes to a concert or listens to music doesn't at that moment matter. He always really really liked music, but he didn't know he did! In the same way, the books he likes you have never actually wished to read, but now you feel that really you do want to read them. There it is; one of Nature's great illusions. We both like dogs and hate cats. How wonderful! We both like cats and hate dogs, also wonderful. liked music, but he didn't know he did! In the same way, the books he likes you have never actually wished to read, but now you feel that really you do want to read them. There it is; one of Nature's great illusions. We both like dogs and hate cats. How wonderful! We both like cats and hate dogs, also wonderful.

So life went placidly on. Every two or three weeks Wilfred came for the weekend. He had a car and used to drive me around. He had a dog, and we both loved the dog. He became interested in spiritualism, therefore I became interested in spiritualism. So far all was well. But now Wilfred began to produce books that he was eager for me to read and p.r.o.nounce on. They were very large bookstheosophical mostly. The illusion that you enjoyed whatever your man enjoyed didn't work; naturally it didn't workI wasn't really in love with him. I found the books on theosophy tedious; not only tedious, I thought they were completely false; worse still, I thought a great many of them were nonsense! I also got rather tired of Wilfred's descriptions of the mediums he knew. There were two girls in Portsmouth, and the things those girls saw you wouldn't believe. They could hardly ever go into a house without gasping, stretching, clutching their hearts and being upset because there was a terrible spirit standing behind one of the company. 'The other day,' said Wilfred, 'Maryshe's the elder of the twoshe went into a house and up to the bathroom to wash her hands, and do you know she couldn't walk over the threshold? No, she absolutely couldn't. There were two figures thereone was holding a razor to the throat of the other. Would you believe it?'

I nearly said, 'No, I wouldn't,' but controlled myself in time. 'That's very interesting,' I said. 'Had anyone ever held a razor to the throat of somebody there?' anyone ever held a razor to the throat of somebody there?'

'They must have,' said Wilfred. 'The house had been let to several people before, so an incident of that kind must have occurred. Don't you think so? Well, you can see it for yourself, can't you?'

But I didn't see it for myself. I was always of an agreeable nature however, and so I said cheerfully, of course, it certainly must have been so.

Then one day Wilfred rang up from Portsmouth and said a wonderful chance had come his way. There was a party being a.s.sembled to look for treasure trove in South America. Some leave was due to him and he would be able to go off on this expedition. Would I think it terrible of him if he went? It was the sort of exciting chance that might never happen again. The mediums, I gathered, had expressed approval. They had said that undoubtedly he would come back having discovered a city that had not been known since the time of the Incas. Of course, one couldn't take that as proof or anything, but it was very extraordinary, wasn't it? Did I think it awful of him, when he could have spent a good part of his leave with me?

I found myself having not the slightest hesitation. I behaved with splendid unselfishness. I said to him I thought it a wonderful opportunity, that of course he must go, and that I hoped with all my heart that he would find the Incas' treasures. Wilfred said I was wonderful; absolutely wonderful; not a girl in a thousand would behave like that. He rang off, sent me a loving letter, and departed.

But I was not a girl in a thousand; I was just a girl who had found out the truth about herself and was rather ashamed about it. I woke up the day after he had actually sailed with the feeling that an enormous load had slipped off my mind. I was delighted for Wilfred to go treasure-hunting, because I loved him like a brother and I wanted him to do what he wanted to do. I thought the treasure-hunting idea was rather silly, and almost certain to be bogus. That again was because I was not in love with him. If I had been, I would have been able to see it through his eyes. Thirdly, oh joy, oh joy! I would not have to read any more theosophy.

'What are you looking so cheerful about?' mother asked suspiciously. 'Listen, mother,' I said. 'I know it's awful, but I am really cheerful because Wilfred has gone away.'

The poor darling. Her face fell. I have never felt so mean, so ungrateful as I did then. She had been so happy about Wilfred and me coming together. For one misguided moment I almost felt that I must go through with it, just for the sake of making her happy. Fortunately, I was not quite so sunk in sentimentality as that.

I didn't write and tell Wilfred what I had decided, because I thought it might have a bad effect on him in the middle of hunting for Inca treasure in steamy jungles. He might have a fever, or some unpleasant animal might leap on him while his mind was distractedand anyway it would spoil his enjoyment. But I had a letter waiting for him when he came back. I told him how sorry I was, how fond of him I was, but I didn't think that there was really the proper kind of feeling between us to engage each other for life. He didn't agree with me, of course, but he took the decision seriously. He said he didn't think he could bear to see me often, but that we would always remain friendly towards each other. I wonder now if he was relieved as well. I don't think so, but on the other hand I do not think it cut him to the heart. I I think he was lucky. He would have made me a good husband, and would always have been fond of me, and I think I should have made him quite happy in a quiet way, but he could do better for himselfand about three months later he did. He fell violently in love with another girl, and she fell as violently in love with him. They were married in due course, and had six children. Nothing could have been more satisfactory. think he was lucky. He would have made me a good husband, and would always have been fond of me, and I think I should have made him quite happy in a quiet way, but he could do better for himselfand about three months later he did. He fell violently in love with another girl, and she fell as violently in love with him. They were married in due course, and had six children. Nothing could have been more satisfactory.

As for Charles, about three years later he married a beautiful girl of eighteen.

Really, what a benefactress I was to those two men.

The next thing that happened was that Reggie Lucy came back on leave from Hongkong. Though I had known the Lucys for so many years, I had never met their eldest brother, Reggie. He was a major in the Gunners, and had done his service mostly abroad. He was a shy and retiring person who seldom went out. He liked playing golf, but he had never cared for dances or parties. He was not fair-haired and blue-eyed like the others; he had dark hair and brown eyes. They were a closely-knit family, and enjoyed each other's society. We went out to Dartmoor together in the usual Lucy-ish fas.h.i.+onmissing trams, looking-up trains which didn't exist, missing them anyway, changing at Newton Abbot and missing the connection, deciding we'd go to a different part of the Moor, and so on.

Then Reggie offered to improve my golf. My golf at this stage might be said to have been practically non-existent. Various young men had done their best for me, but much to my own regret, I was not good at games. The irritating thing was that I was always a promising beginner. At archery, at billiards, at golf, at tennis, and at croquet I promised very well; but the promise was never fulfilled: another source of humiliation. The truth is, I suppose, that if you haven't got a good eye for b.a.l.l.s you haven't. I played in croquet tournaments with Madge where I had the advantage of the utmost number of bisques that was allowed.

'With all your bisques,' said Madge, who played well, 'we ought to win easily.' easily.'

My bisques helped, but we didn't win. I was good at the theory of the game, but I invariably missed ridiculously easy shots. At tennis I developed a good forehand drive which sometimes impressed my partners, but my backhand was hopeless. You cannot play tennis with a forehand drive alone. At golf I had wild drives, terrible iron shots, beautiful approach shots, and completely unreliable putts.

Reggie, however, was extremely patient, and he was the kind of teacher who did not mind in the least whether you improved or not. We meandered gently round the links; we stopped whenever we felt like it. The serious golfers went by train to Churston golf course. The Torquay course was also the race-course three times a year, and was not much patronised or well kept-up. Reggie and I would amble round it, then we would go back to tea with the Lucys and have a sing-song, having made fresh toast because the old toast was now cold. And so on. It was a happy lazy life. n.o.body ever hurried, and time didn't matter. Never any worry, never any fuss. I may be entirely wrong, but I feel certain that none of the Lucys ever had duodenal ulcers, coronary thromboses, or high blood pressure.

One day Reggie and I had played four holes of golf, and then, since the day was extremely hot, he suggested that really it would be much more agreeable to sit down under the hedge He got out his pipe, smoked companionably, and we talked in our usual way, which was never continuously, but a word or two on a subject or a person, then restful pauses. It is the way I most like holding a conversation. I never felt slow or stupid, or at a loss for things to say, when I was with Reggie.

Presently, after various puffs at his pipe, he said thoughtfully: 'You've got a lot of scalps, Agatha, haven't you? Well, you can put mine with them any time you like.'

I looked at him rather doubtfully, not quite sure of his meaning.

'I don't know whether you know I want to marry you,' he said, 'you probably do. But I may as well say it. Mind you, I'm not pus.h.i.+ng myself forward in any way; I mean there's no hurry'the famous Lucy phrase came easily from Reggie's lips'You are very young still, and it would be all wrong on my part to tie you down now.'

I said sharply that I was not so very young.

'Oh yes you are, Aggie, compared with me.' Though Reggie had been urged not to call me Aggie, he frequently forgot, because it was so natural for the Lucys to call each other names like Margie, Noonie, Eddie, and Aggie. 'Well, you think about it,' went on Reggie. 'Just bear me in mind, and if n.o.body else turns upthere I am, you know.'

I said immediately that I didn't need to think about it; I would like to marry him.

'I don't think you can have thought properly, Aggie.'

'Of course I've thought properly. I can think in a moment about a thing like that.'

'Yes, but it's no good rus.h.i.+ng into it, is it? You see, a girl like youwell, she could marry anybody.'