was placed in the drawing-room, the next in the dining-room, the next in the billiard-room, and after that they were always in the covered-in tennis court, which had been built in the meanwhile. The decoration of the tree was under the management of D. The excitement when the tree was brought into the house or the tennis court for the first time was terrific, and Mr. Ellis, the house-carpenter, who always wore carpet shoes, climbed up a ladder and affixed the silver fairy to the top of the tree. Then reels of wire were brought out, scissors, boxes of crackers, boxes of coloured candles, glass-balls, clips for candles, and a quantity of little toys.
Hugo and I were not allowed to do much. Nearly everything we did was said to be wrong. The presents were, of course, kept a secret and were done up in parcels, and not brought into the room until the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
The Christmas tree was lit on Christmas Eve after tea. The ritual was always the same. Hugo and I ran backwards and forwards with the servants’ presents. The maids were given theirs first—they consisted of stuff for a gown done up in a parcel—then Mrs. Tudgay, D., and the upper servants. One year Mrs. Tudgay had a work-basket.
Then the guests were given their presents, and we gave our presents and received our own. The presents we gave were things we had made ourselves: kettle-holders, leather slippers worked in silk for my father, and the girls sometimes made a woollen waistcoat or a comforter. Chérie always had a nice present for my mother, which we were allowed to see beforehand, and she always used to say: “N’y touchez pas, la fraîcheur en fait la beauté.”
Our presents were what we had put down beforehand in a list of “Christmas Wants”—a horse and cart, a painting-box, or a stylograph pen.
The house used to be full at Christmas. My father’s brothers, Uncle Tom and Uncle Bob, used to be there. Madame Neruda I remember as a Christmas visitor. Godfrey Webb wrote the following lines about Christmas at Membland:
CHRISTMAS AT MEMBLAND
“Who says that happiness is far to seek?
Here have I passed a happy Christmas week.
Christmas at Membland—all was bright and gay,
Without one shadow till this final day,
When Mrs. Baring said, ‘Before you go
You must write something in the book, you know.’
I must write something—that’s all very well,
But what to write about I cannot tell.
Where shall I look for help?—it must be found,
If I survey this Christmas party round.
There’s Ned himself, our most delightful host,
Or Mrs. Baring, she could help me most,
The Uncles too, if I their time might rob.
Shall I ask Tom? or try my luck with Bob?
Madame Neruda, ah, would she begin,
We’d write the story of a violin,
And tell how first the inspiration came
Which took the world by storm and gave her fame.
There’s Harry Bourke, with him I can’t go wrong,
Could I but write the words he’d sing the song.
So sung, my verse would haply win a smile
From his bright beauty of the sister Isle,
Who comes prepared her country’s pride to save,
For every Saxon is at once her slave;
But no, I must not for assistance look,
So, Mrs. Baring, you must keep your book
For cleverer pens and I no more will trouble you,
But just remain your baffled bard.”
G. W. (1879).
Mr. Webb was a great feature in the children’s life of many families. With his beady, bird-like eye and his impassive face he made jokes so quietly that you overheard them rather than heard them. One day out shooting on a steep hill in Newton Wood, in which there were woodcock and dangerous shots, my father said to him, “You take the middle drive, Godfrey; it’s safer, medio tutissimus.” “Is there any chance of an Ibis?” Mr. Webb asked quietly. Another time, he went out duck-shooting. He was asked afterwards whether he had shot many. “Not even a Mallard imaginaire,” was his answer.
Another Christmas event was the French play we used to act under the stage management of Chérie.
When I was six I played the part of an old man with a bald forehead and white tufts of hair in a play called Le Maître d’Ecole, and I remember playing the part of Nicole in scenes from the Bourgeois Gentilhomme at Christmas in 1883, and an old witch called Mathurine in a play called Le Talisman in January 1884.
One of our most ambitious efforts was a play called La Grammaire, by Labiche: it proved too ambitious, and never got further than a dress rehearsal in the schoolroom. In this play, Elizabeth had the part of the heroine, and had to be elegantly dressed; she borrowed a grown-up gown, and had her hair done up, but she took such a long time preening herself that she missed her cue, which was: “L’ange la voici!” It was spoken by Margaret, who had a man’s part.
“L’ange la voici!” said Margaret in ringing tones, but no ange appeared. “L’ange la voici!” repeated Margaret, with still greater emphasis, but still no ange; finally, not without malice, Margaret almost shouted, “L’ange la voici!” and at last Elizabeth tripped blushing on to the stage with the final touches of her toilette still a little uncertain. In the same play, Susan played the part of a red-nosed horse-coper, dressed in a grey-tailed coat, called Machut.
Another source of joy in Membland life was the yacht, the Waterwitch, which in the summer months used to sail as soon as the Cowes Regatta was over, down to the Yealm River. The Waterwitch was a schooner of 150 tons; it had one large cabin where one had one’s meals, my mother’s cabin aft, a cabin for my father, and three spare cabins. The name of the first captain was Goomes, but he was afterwards replaced by Bletchington. Goomes was employed later by the German Emperor. He had a knack of always getting into rows during races, and even on other occasions.
One day there was a regatta going on on the Yealm River; the gig of the Waterwitch was to race the gig of another yacht. They had to go round a buoy. For some reason, I was in the Waterwitch’s gig when the race started, sitting in the stern next to Goomes, who was steering. All went well at first, but when the boats were going round the buoy they fouled, and Goomes and the skipper of the rival gig were soon engaged in a hand-to-hand combat, and beating each other hard with the steering-lines. My father and the rest of the family were watching the race on board the yacht. I think I was about six or seven. My father shouted at the top of his voice, “Come back, come back,” but to no avail, as Goomes and the other skipper were fighting like two dogs, and the boats were almost capsizing.
