“‘Indeed, they’re great imps,’ she said.
“I, clearly, am that woman whom you have so often and so consistently abused, to whom Stewardesses talk—(all night, by the light of a sickeningly swinging colza-oil lamp).”
A friend of mine once said to this admirable woman that she proposed to bring her dog to England, and quoted the precedent of my dogs as to cabin privileges.
“Is it Miss Somerville?” said the Stewardess, in a voice weary with the satiety of a foregone conclusion. “Sure, she has nests of them!”
CHAPTER XX
“THE REAL CHARLOTTE.”
“The Real Charlotte” can claim resemblance with Homer in one peculiarity at least, that of a plurality of birthplaces. She was first born at Ross, in November, 1889, and achieved as much life as there may be in a skeleton scenario. She then expired, untimely. Her next avatar was at Drishane, when, in April, 1890, we wrote with enthusiasm the first chapter, and having done so, straightway put her on a shelf, and she died again. In the following November we did five more chapters, and established in our own minds the identity of the characters. Thenceforward those unattractive beings, Charlotte Mullen, Roddy Lambert, The Turkey-Hen, entered like the plague of frogs into our kneading-troughs, our wash-tubs, our bedchambers. With them came Hawkins, Christopher, and others, but with a less persistence. But of them all, and, I think, of all the company of more or less tangible shadows who have been fated to declare themselves by our pens, it is Francie Fitzpatrick who was our most constant companion, and she was the one of them all who “had the sway.” We knew her best; we were fondest of her. Martin began by knowing her better than I did, but, even during the period when she sat on the shelf with her fellows, while Martin and I boiled the pot with short stories and the like (that are now réchauffé in “All on the Irish Shore”), or wrote up tours, or frankly idled, Francie was taking a hand in what we did, and her point of view was in our minds.
Very often have we been accused of wresting to our vile purposes the friends and acquaintances among whom we have lived and moved and had our being. If I am to be believed in anything, I may be believed in this that I now say. Of all the people of whom we have written, three only have had any direct prototype in life. One was “Slipper,” another was “Maria,” both of whom are in “Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.,” and the other was the Real Charlotte. Slipper’s identity is negligible. So is Maria’s. She who inspired Charlotte had left this world before we began to write books, and had left, unhappy woman, so few friends, if any, that in trying to embody some of her aspects in Charlotte Mullen, Martin and I felt we were breaking no law of courtesy or of honour.
One very strange fact in connection with Charlotte I may here record. Some time after the book had been published, an old lady who had known her in the flesh met us, and said—(please try to realise the godliest and most esoteric of County Cork accents)—
“And tell me, how in the worr’ld did you know about Charlotte’s” (I may call her Charlotte) “love-affair?”