In spite of the tales and explanations that my father gave us about beautiful things of art, or curios, it must be owned these wearied me. But when the day for work came, some of them formed the nucleus and inspiration of the half-dozen articles the grown woman turned out every week for the Press.
The influence of that Harley-Street home was very strong. I left it when young for a house of my own, but its atmosphere went with me.
After all, it is the woman who makes the home. A man may be clever, brilliant, hard-working, a good son, a good father, and a good master, but without a wife the result is a poor thing. It is the woman who keeps the home together. It is the woman who is the pivot of life. Most men are like great big children, and have to be mothered to the end of time.
To my mother I really owe any success I may have had. Encouragement goes a long way, just as human sympathy is the very backbone of life. It was she who encouraged, cheered, and often censured, for she was a severe critic. It was she who helped my father during those awful years of blindness, who wrote his scientific books from dictation, before the days of secretaries and shorthand. It was she who learnt to work the microscope to save his eyes. Later, it was she who corrected my spelling and read my proofs. Never an originator herself, she was always an initiator. She ran her home perfectly and—whether as daughter, wife, or mother—never failed. Her personality dominated, and her personality made the home. Only two homes in life have been mine, and, roughly speaking, half has been spent in each; and yet few people have had so many addresses. I might have been running away from creditors, so many strange places have given me shelter in different lands.
I was a lazy young beggar in those Harley-Street days. Books and lessons had no particular fascination for me, and the only things I cared about were riding daily in the Row with my father, hunting occasionally, dancing, and painting. My education, after preparatory schooling, was more earnestly taken in hand at Queen’s College, Harley Street, but I was a very bad pupil, never did anything with distinction, and the only lectures I really cared for were literature and history, and the only occupations that appealed to me were drawing and map-making; but I did actually win a prize for mathematics.
Lady Tree, who was my mentor, can vouch for my mediocrity, judging by a letter just found, written by her shortly after a serious accident.
“Walpole House, The Mall,
“Chiswick,
“November 21st, 1906.
“Dearest Ethel,
“Thank you so much for your sweet letter. I am home and getting on wonderfully well, though I dare say some weeks will go by before I shall be fit to be seen. You are a wonder with all your work and energy. What fun your Observer article was on Sunday. You clever Ethel—and I used to think—how many years ago?—that you only cared about the set of your lovely ‘pinafores’ over your black silk dresses, with slim body and tiny waist. What were you?—14-16, I think, and the most lovely figure I ever saw. Most naughty and inattentive and vain (I feared), with very small feet in little tiny smart shoes below the kilt of the black silk dress.
“You will think my brain has gone the way of my jaw (indeed, it was cracked a little as a matter of fact); but I am only remembering. Tell me, if you have time, dear, to write to me again, all sorts of goodish novels to read. I mean that I find I can devour now what I called trash a month ago.