Rustication

  When the maidservant opened the door we found that it was still raining. Mrs Paytress insisted that we accept the loan of a second umbrella.

  Remembering my promise to Mother, I tried to bring up the subject of Cambridge as we walked home. As soon I uttered the word, however, Effie stopped and turned to me, the umbrella flapping above her head: Mother won’t say this to you because she wouldn’t wish to hurt your feelings, but you should leave as soon as possible. Go back to Cambridge if you won’t visit Uncle Thomas. She wants to put things right in the house and your presence is obstructing that.

  We walked the rest of the way in silence.

  · · ·

  As we entered the hall, brushing off raindrops and shaking our umbrellas, Mother hurried out to find out why we were so late.

  Interrupting each other, we told the story of our great adventure: the friendliness of Mrs Paytress, the number of books, the beautiful pianoforte, etc.

  But you’ll be able to see it for yourself, I said. She has invited us all to tea on Wednesday.

  Mother frowned: What? Even myself whom she has not even met! That is strange. Did she reveal anything of her past life?

  She told us that she is a widow, Effie replied.

  Did she? I asked. I didn’t hear that.

  Not in so many words, Effie answered with a quick glance of disdain. But it was clear when she said: “I was left by circumstances to fend for myself.”

  Were those her words? Mother asked slowly.

  Mother, what can you be suggesting? Euphemia exclaimed.

  We cannot risk becoming involved with someone about whom there is any scandal.

  Euphemia said: If Mrs Paytress is good enough for the earl, she’s surely good enough for us.

  Mother looked alarmed: What do you mean: “Good enough for the earl”?

  Simply that she seems to be on friendly terms with Lord Thurchester.

  Mother pursed her lips and changed the subject.

  · · ·

  Betsy being adept at something. Now that is an interesting idea. She may not be beautiful but she is a girl and she’s young. Is she too young? She has little budding breasts. She must have begun to feel the sweet pain of unsatisfied desire. How I’d love to run my fingers round the back of her neck, burrow under the hem of her little blouse.

  · · ·

  What a pity Euphemia mentioned the earl and raised Mother’s suspicions! If we and Mrs Paytress become friends, life in this wasteland might be bearable.

  · · ·

  I was writing those words just now when there was a tap at the door and Betsy came in and said: I need the bath for the young mistress.

  As she bent to pick up the tin bath, I said: Betsy, do you wash her back? The young mistress? She looked down and said nothing. I wondered if I dared to ask her if she would wash mine. I must not frighten her. I must not scare her so that she says anything to Mother.

  · · ·

  It’s quite obvious that Effie has fallen out with Maud and probably the rest of her friends in town. In that case, why is she so keen to buy tickets to a ball at which they will all be present? Tickets that we can’t afford now.

  11 o’clock.

  As we seated ourselves for dinner, the rain was lashing at the windows and the wind was rattling the frames. I said to Betsy: You’ll have a hard time getting home in this weather.

  She stared at me as if I had spoken in Greek.

  Mother said: What are you talking about? She doesn’t go anywhere. She sleeps here.

  I looked at the girl in surprise. She said: Why, I’m in that little room on the top floor, sir. Didn’t you know that?

  Did she smile as she said that little room as if I should know it. Is she aware that I crept up there and saw it last night? I rather think she is. The saucy little monkey.

  Mother told Effie that I had some grave news and so I had to tell her about Cambridge.

  Do you mean that you have been back here for two whole days without having found the courage to confess to us? Effie expostulated.

  I said nothing and she went on: Uncle Thomas won’t go on paying now so you won’t be going back to Cambridge at the start of term, will you? You’ve been rusticated.

  Mother jumped at the word and stared at me in alarm.

  It just means that the College won’t let me go back for a while, I said. I told you that, Mother.

  I suppose you’ve got debts? Euphemia said.

  I didn’t answer.

  How much do you owe, Richard? Mother asked.

  Not more than twenty pounds.

  “Not more than twenty pounds,” Euphemia repeated. You might as well have said “not more than twenty thousand pounds”. You can’t stay here. We can’t afford to feed you.

  Dear child, Mother protested.

  Well, it’s true, Mother. You and I have been scrimping and saving and counting every penny.

  And hiring a cook! I just said: Mother is paying for your keep just as much as mine.

  She glared at me and said: I pay my own way. It’s time you started to. So what are you going to do? Anything like the law or medicine is out of the question. You’ll have to find work as a private tutor or in a school.

  Those don’t offer decent prospects, I pointed out.

  And what do you think my prospects are? she demanded. A governess! Can you imagine the humiliations I’ll have to endure?

  Children, children, Mother said. This is getting us nowhere.

  You know what Richard’s like, Mother. Unless we prod him, he’ll simply sit around doing nothing. He should be looking for a way to earn a living.

  I’ll get my degree first, if that’s all right with you.

  Oh will you? Do you imagine Uncle Thomas will go on paying for you after this?

  I can’t bear this, Mother wailed. You’re squabbling like Irish tinkers in a garret.

  Betsy came in at that moment and Mother snapped: Go back to the kitchen and wait there until you’re wanted.

  The girl scurried away and Mother went on: I’ve struggled to preserve the decencies of civilised life. I’ve made sure we sit down to eat proper meals properly served wearing proper dress. And now you’re undermining all of that by shouting and abusing each other.

  She started weeping.

  This is your doing, Euphemia said to me. You’ve shown nothing but your usual selfishness since you came back.

  Don’t speak to your brother like that, Mother said through her tears. You’ve been as bad as he has. Worse, in fact, as you very well know.

  Euphemia swung round and fixed Mother with a look of fury and contempt. She seemed about to speak.

  I won’t discuss it any further, Mother said and almost ran from the room.

  Euphemia and I had stood up at the same moment and now stared at each other over the remains of the meal.

  You see what you’ve done, she said. If you had any self-respect you’d leave immediately.

  I’ve never seen Mother behave like that. She has always been able to deal with domestic crises.

  Euphemia left the room. I suddenly remembered poor Betsy who must be cowering in the kitchen. I went out to the back of the house and found her in the scullery cleaning a pan.

  So, Betsy, I said. Are you cosy in that little room?

  She made no response. I suddenly had a vision of her alone up there hour after hour.

  Betsy, I said. I want a bath tonight.

  I’ll take the tin up now, sir, and then come up with the hot water later.

  Come as late as you can, I said.

  At that moment Euphemia came in. She told me to go back into the parlour with her and once we were there she shut the door and said: You can fool Mama but you can’t fool me. What did you really get up to in Cambridge?

  I don’t have to justify myself to you.

  She sank into a chair and to my surprise said in a mild and even affectionate tone: Richard, I don’t think you understand what Mother has been through in the last few months. You weren’t here when it
all happened. She wanted to protect you.

  What was she shielding me from? I asked. Why didn’t she let me come to the funeral?

  She didn’t want you to hear the cruel things people were saying about Father.

  What were they saying?

  She shrugged impatiently. You know how the other clerics envied him. You can imagine what they said. That’s not the point. She lost everything within just a week or two: her husband, her household, her position in the town, and her so-called friends. I’m desperately worried about her. And I don’t want you to increase her anxieties.

  I was really affected by her words and even more by her manner. I said I’d try to do nothing to make the situation worse. And we parted on good terms.

  · · ·

  Rustication. How is it that Euphemia knows the word? (It should be called rusty-cation. I feel myself becoming unusable like an old lock.)

  · · ·

  Dear Uncle Thomas,

  I am addressing you now in order to lay before you in a manly and frank way . . .

  · · ·

  It’s after midnight. Betsy hasn’t come up yet though she did bring up the bath earlier. She should be here very soon.

  [This is the first of several passages written by Richard in English but using Greek letters—presumably on the assumption that if either his mother or sister found the Journal she would not be able to read the entries since women rarely studied the language at that period. I have simply transcribed them in Roman letters. Note by CP.]

  I wonder if she has ever seen a man’s thing. I wonder if I dare offer her sixpence to put her hand on it. I’d be in the bath and she’d pour the water in and it would rear up out of the water and she couldn’t help but notice it and I’d look at her and she’d blush and I’d say: Would you touch it? She says: Oh sir, I couldn’t do that. I say: I’ll give you sixpence, Betsy. Just to hold it for a while. She says: Sixpence, sir? Then she reaches down and her small rough hand closes around it and . . .

  Δ

  [The passage in Greek letters ends here. Note by CP.]

  ½ past 1 o’clock.

  By ½ past midnight I knew Betsy wasn’t coming.

  [A passage in Greek letters begins here. Note by CP.]

  I can’t stop thinking about her somewhere near me in that little room. She takes off her clothes and wriggles into a nightshift. I can see the shape of her little bubbies through it.

  Δ

  [The passage in Greek letters ends here. Note by CP.]

  Tuesday 15th of December, 3 o’clock.

  Thank heavens the rain has stopped today though it is still too muddy for the cart to bring my trunk.

  I went into the parlour for breakfast and found Mother and Effie finishing their meal.

  They had been talking about our visit to Mrs Paytress and Mother said: We are trying to think of an explanation for that letter of Mrs Paytress.

  What letter?

  While she was showing you her escritoire, Euphemia noticed a letter to an individual in Salisbury that was addressed to someone else. Why would she have such a letter?

  To whom was it addressed? I asked.

  To “Mrs Guilfoyle”, Euphemia said.

  Mother said softly: Lord Thurchester has a house in Salisbury.

  Mother, I protested, surely you’re not suggesting some sort of improper relationship?

  Well, why has she come to live here?

  Euphemia answered: She told us it was on account of her old associations.

  Mother pursed her lips. I could see what she was thinking.

  I said: If you have any doubts, you have the opportunity to raise them with Mrs Paytress yourself on Wednesday.

  If we go, Mother said.

  Why shouldn’t we? I must have said quite angrily for they both looked at me in surprise.

  Mrs Quance . . . Mother began.

  Oh well, if you’re going to take her opinion into account! I exclaimed.

  Don’t interrupt me, Richard. Mrs Quance has suspicions about Mrs Paytress and to ignore that would be to fly in the face of local opinion.

  It seems extraordinary to me. The only intelligent and amiable person in the neighbourhood has sought our friendship and we are discussing whether to accept or reject it!

  Euphemia said to Mother: You do know what Mrs Quance’s motive is for wanting Mrs Paytress to be ostracised?

  Mother nodded: She hopes that one of her girls will marry the earl’s nephew.

  Which one? I asked.

  I believe it’s Enid, Euphemia said off-handedly. The Quances are afraid that Mrs Paytress might interfere with that.

  I understand, Mother said. If she married the earl and bore him a son, the nephew would inherit neither the title nor the fortune.

  (I must say, that seems unlikely since he must be in his late fifties or even sixties.)

  Euphemia rose to her feet and announced that she was going to Lady Terrewest.

  I seized the opportunity of her absence to persuade Mother to defer my exile since I have to wait for my trunk to arrive and then take from it the clothes I will need while I’m away. Since the weather is turning colder the carrier might be able to bring it in the next day or two. Mother accepted that argument and gave me a reprieve until Friday.

  7 o’clock.

  As I approached the village the smoke from the chimneys hung low and there was the smell of coal-smuts mingled with fog, and even here my nostrils were filled with the odour of the marshes and the sea. The Christmas candles in the windows made me think of all the preparations and parties that must still be going on in Thurchester without us.

  On the other side of the village I passed a tall stranger who was striding along with a rapid slouching gait. When I nodded a greeting, he walked on without acknowledging it.

  It was getting dark so I quickened my step. I made one final circuit of the Battlefield and that was when I saw Effie. She was several hundred yards away and walking in the direction of Stratton Herriard. What was she doing there? If she had gone to Lady Terrewest she would be there by that time and it was too soon for her to be returning. And anyway, we were now more than a mile from the road.

  Taking care not to let her see me, I followed her at a distance of a hundred yards or so. I dared not get too near in case she turned round but in the gathering twilight, I was able to come closer and closer to her without risking being spotted. I watched her enter the house and then I walked up and down the path for ten or fifteen minutes in order not to make it obvious that I had followed her home.

  ½ past 8 o’clock.

  Ate very little at dinner. My appetite goes when I’m like this. Missing it badly. Craving it and nothing else. Mother was worried and Effie looked at me knowingly. As long as Mother doesn’t suspect.

  After dinner I found Effie alone and asked her what she had been doing on the Battlefield. She was very indignant. When at last she deigned to give me an answer, she insisted that I must have been mistaken because she had been home at that time. I persisted and she said: Are you saying you followed me?

  No, of course not, I said.

  If you doubt me, ask Mother. Don’t you spy on me and I won’t ask any questions about what you got up to in Cambridge.

  I said I had no idea what she meant.

  Just at that moment Mother came back into the room and Effie said: Mother, Richard has the absurd idea that he saw me out on the Battlefield at about 6 o’clock but you can confirm that I arrived home before 5, can’t you?

  Mother looked from one to the other of us and then said: You shouldn’t accuse your sister of things, Richard.

  I said: I wasn’t accusing her of anything. I merely said that I had seen her there. But if you tell me she was at home at that time, then I can say no more.

  Mother nodded without looking at me and sat down and pulled her work-basket towards her.

  I cannot understand why Mother lied—and over such a trivial matter. I couldn’t let it go. After a few minutes I said: Mother, are you suggesting that
I was wrong to be concerned?

  Her hands scrabbled nervously at her work. You have no right to spy on your sister.

  Euphemia smiled at me in triumph. She said: Richard is bored and he’s just trying to amuse himself by provoking me. She turned to me: You appear to be restless without the contents of your trunk. What is it that you are so habituated to?

  Mother said: That’s an odd word to use.

  I said: I am very attached to my books, if that’s what you mean. I walked out.

  How does she know so much?

  · · ·

  All evening that bitterly cold wind from the north-east buffeted the old house so that it shook as if it were being shelled. It has at least blown away the mist and Mother said it will bring frost and snow. Yes, and my lovely trunk!

  ½ past 9 o’clock.

  Just before I came up I ran into the girl in the passage to the stairs. Are you cold? I asked and put my hand on her waist. She did not flinch. I ran my hand gently around her waist lower down over the top of her thigh and then over her belly. I said: You don’t feel cold. She stared at me boldly with a half-smile. I said: Your arms. They’re warm, too. Her arms were bare to above the elbow and I touched them. I leant forward to kiss her but she ducked her head with a laugh and scurried out of the room.

  When I got up here I found that she had already filled the bath and the water was tepid by now. I got into it anyway and the air was so cold it seemed to burn my skin.

  · · ·

  How thin she was and poorly-clad. I could feel her ribs.

  · · ·

  I can see how Mother lives through Euphemia. All her pleasures are experienced vicariously. She looks at her as a miser gazes at his gold.

  · · ·

  So far I’ve avoided a direct lie to Mother about Cambridge—though I’ve certainly allowed her to draw the wrong conclusions. Effie is harder to put off—but I feel less compunction about deceiving her.

  ½ past 5 o’clock.

  No sound but the scratching of my pen.

  Earlier this evening: Sitting all three of us in the parlour reading, knitting, and fretting restlessly through some sheet-music (respectively) when some demon of tactlessness prompted me to muse aloud: Just think, I said, how different things were six months ago. We’d be in the drawing-room at Prebendary Street waiting for Father to come home.