“I don’t know,” he replied, interested in some fixture he was fastening to a toy bath tub.
“Isn’t that a fine little bath tub you have,” I ventured, eager to continue the conversation because of its novelty.
“It’s a nice little bawth,” he went on, “but I wouldn’t call it a tub.”
I really did not know how to reply to this last, it took me so by surprise;—a child of five, in little breeches scarcely larger than my two hands, making this fine distinction. “We surely live and learn,” I thought, and went on my way smiling.
This house interested me from so many other points of view, being particularly English and new, that I was never weary of investigating it. I had a conversation with the gardener one morning concerning his duties and found that he had an exact schedule of procedure which covered every day in the year. First, I believe, he got hold of the boots, delivered to him by the maid, and did those; and then he brought up his coal and wood and built the fires; and then he had some steps and paths to look after; and then some errands to do, I forget what. There was the riding pony to curry and saddle, the stable to clean—oh, quite a long list of things which he did over and over, day after day. He talked with such an air of responsibility, as so many English servants do, that I was led to reflect upon the reliability of English servants in general; and he dropped his h’s where they occurred, of course, and added them where they shouldn’t have been. He told me how much he received, how much he had received, how he managed to live on it, how shiftless and irresponsible some people were.
“They don’t know ’ow to get along, sir,” he informed me with the same solemn air of responsibility. “They just doesn’t know ’ow to manige, sir, I tyke it; some people doesn’t, sir. They gets sixteen or highteen shillin’s, the same as me, sir, but hawfter they goes and buys five or six g’uns (I thought he said guns—he actually said gallons) o’ beer in the week, there hain’t much left fer other things, is there, sir? Now that’s no wy, sir, is it, sir? I hawsk you.”
I had to smile at the rural accent. He was so simple minded—so innocent, apparently. Every one called him Wilkins—not Mr. Wilkins (as his colleagues might in America) or John or Jack or some sobriquet, but just Wilkins. He was Wilkins to every one—the master, the maid, the children. The maid was Dora to every one, and the nurse, Nana. It was all interesting to me because it was so utterly new.
And then this landscape round about; the feel of the country was refreshing. I knew absolutely nothing about it, and yet I could see and feel that we were in a region of comfortable suburban life. I could hear the popping of guns all day long, here—and thereabouts—this being the open season for shooting, not hunting, as my host informed me; there was no such thing as hunting hereabouts. I could see men strolling here and there together, guns under their arms, plaid caps on their heads, in knee breeches, and leather leggings. I could see, from my writing desk in the drawing-room window, clever-riding English girls bounding by on light-moving horses, and in my limited walks I saw plenty of comfortable-looking country places—suburban homes. I was told by a friend of mine that this was rather a pleasant country section, but that I might see considerable of the same thing anywhere about London at this distance.
“Dora” the maid interested me very much. She was so quiet, so silent and so pretty. The door would open, any time during the day when I was writing, and in she would come to look after the fire, to open or close the windows, to draw the curtains, light the candles and serve the tea, or to call me to luncheon or dinner. Usually I ate my luncheon and drank my four-o’clock tea alone. I ate my evening meal all alone once. It made no difference—my eating alone. The service was quite the same; the same candles were lighted—several brackets on different parts of the table; the fire built in the dining-room. There were four or five courses and wine. Dora stood behind me watching me eat in silence, and I confess I felt very queer. It was all so solemn, so stately. I felt like some old gray baron or bachelor shut away from the world and given to contemplating the follies of his youth. When through with nuts and wine—the final glass of port—it was the custom of the house to retire to the drawing-room and drink the small cup of black coffee which was served there. And on this night, although I was quite alone, it was the same. The coffee was served just as promptly and dignifiedly as though there were eight or ten present. It interested me greatly, all of it, and pleased me more than I can say.
Personally I shall always be glad that I saw some rural aspects of England first, for they are the most characterful and, to me, significant. London is an amazing city and thoroughly English, but the rural districts are more suggestive. In what respects do the people of one country differ from those of another, since they eat, sleep, rise, dress, go to work, return, love, hate, and aspire alike? In little—dynamically, mechanically speaking. But temperamentally, emotionally, spiritually and even materially they differ in almost every way. England is a mood, I take it, a combination of dull colors and atmosphere. It expresses heaven only knows what feeling for order, stability, uniformity, homeliness, simplicity. It is highly individual—more so almost than Italy, France or Germany. It is vital—and yet vital in an intellectual way only. You would say off-hand, sensing the feel of the air, that England is all mind with convictions, prejudices, notions, poetic longings terribly emphasized. The most egotistic nation in the world because, perhaps, the most forcefully intellectual.