I was seventeen and, a few days after my return from Dresden, I
was writing behind the drawing room screen in London, when an
elderly Scotch lady came to see my mother; she was shown into the
room by the footman and after shaking hands said:
"What a handsome house this is. ..."
MY MOTHER (IRRELEVANTLY): "I always think your place is so nice.
Did your garden do well this year?"
ELDERLY LADY: "Oh, I'm not a gardener and we spend very little
time at Auchnagarroch; I took Alison to the Hydro at Crieff for a
change. She's just a growing girl, you know, and not at all clever
like yours."
MY MOTHER: "My girls never grow! I am sure I wish they would!"
ELDERLY LADY: "But they are so pretty! My Marion has a homely
face!"
MY MOTHER: "How old is she?"
ELDERLY LADY: "Sixteen."
MY MOTHER: "L'AGE INGRAT! I would not trouble myself, if I were
you, about her looks; with young people one never can tell;
Margot, for instance (with a resigned sigh), a few years ago
promised to be so pretty; and just look at her now!"
When some one suggested that we should be painted it was almost
more than my mother could bear. The poorness of the subject and
the richness of the price shocked her profoundly. Luckily my
father--who had begun to buy fine pictures--entirely agreed with
her, though not for the same reasons:
"I am sure I don't know where I could hang the girls, even if I
were fool enough to have them painted!" he would say.
I cannot ever remember kissing my mother without her tapping me on
the back and saying, "Hold yourself up!" or kissing my father
without his saying, "Don't frown!" And I shall never cease being
grateful for this, as a l'heure qu'il est I have not a line in my
forehead and my figure has not changed since my marriage.
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