Ermyntrude and Esmeralda

The era of the whalebone corset, plush and horsehair, pomp and circumstance and Rule, Britannia! got its most skeptical going-over in the work of Lytton Strachey, son of a distinguished British family and biographer to the age. In his two major works of personalized history, "Queen Victoria" and "Eminent Victorians," Strachey took the towering figures of the time and brought them down to the scale of fallible human beings. Few people outside his witty and fashionable Bloomsbury set, however, knew that this eminent Edwardian writer was also the author of the secret work "Ermyntrude and Esmeralda." Written in 1913, existing in manuscript only, shared by a few of Strachey's friends and whispered about in the salons of London, this story could never be published in Strachey's lifetime. It was reputed to be a wild and scandalous mockery of Victorian notions about sex, and it remained hidden for 55 years, until a mention of it in Michael Holroyd's excellent "Lytton Strachey" inspired the English (continued on page 184)Ermyntrude and Esmeralda(continued from page 179) publisher Anthony Blond to hunt it down. Holroyd says, " 'Ermyntrude and Esmeralda' was written as an exchange of letters between two fancifully naïve, nubile and inquisitive 17-year-old girls, one--Esmeralda--living in the country, the other in town. At school they had both pledged themselves to discover as much as possible about the untold and manifold mysteries of sex, and in their holiday correspondence they report to each other the dramatic results of their investigations."

My Dearest Ermyntrude,

At last I have a moment to spare and can sit down and begin to carry out my side of our promise. How delightful it is! To have you to write to, my dearest Ermyntrude--you who are so lovely, so charming, so beautiful and so clever! Not that there is anything to write to you about. You will ask why, if that is so, I have only just managed to get hold of a spare moment. The truth is that a great deal is always going on here--a great deal of fuss and absurdity--but nothing that is of the slightest importance or that I could possibly write to you about. As you know, however many people there may be in the house, and whatever they may be doing, nothing ever really can happen in the country. How should it--with no parties, no plays, no concerts, no shops, no dances? But that is an exaggeration; there are dances, about two in a year, and there's to be one next month, at the Swinfords', and--what do you think?--I am going to it! Yes! It has been settled so. Mama at first said I wasn't to--although I'd danced all through the one we had here last winter--and had my hair up, too; but she said that I wasn't out and that I must wait till next year. But then yesterday at breakfast, when it was mentioned again, Papa suddenly put his head up from the newspaper and asked why I shouldn't go, and whether I wasn't 17, and whether that wasn't old enough, and whether--oh, all sorts of things--whether I wasn't a pretty enough girl and silly jokes like that. And so it was arranged, and I'm to wear a white silk dress that Carrie's making for me, and my Neapolitan sash and the tortoise-shell comb that Aunt Louise gave me on my last birthday. Won't it be fun? I can't help being rather excited about it, and the boys are so ridiculous--especially Godfrey, who says I'm already beginning to look like Lady Clare Vere de Vere--and this morning I caught the tutor, Mr. Mapleton, smiling at one of their jokes, but what does that matter? He's only a young man from Oxford, so he can be safely disregarded, can't he? I don't believe Oxford's as good a place as Cambridge, and light blue is my favorite color. Which is yours? When I said that to Godfrey, he span round on one toe and wouldn't answer. He never will answer half the things I say. I suppose all boys are like that; but, as you have no brothers here, you won't know.

But I've been forgetting all this time to tell you the most interesting thing in the world. Who do you think is staying with us? The dean of Crowborough! And oh, my dear, he is the most charming, beautiful, clever man you can imagine. That sounds as if I meant to make out that he was like you--which would be very absurd, because, of course, he isn't in the least--for one thing, he's quite old--about 50, I should think--and for another, he's very polite. I don't mean that you're not polite, but he's so particularly so--so grave and courteous--almost severe at times, and yet you soon find that he's wonderfully kind and most attentive. He reminds me of those lines in Tennyson--

And in his dark-blue eye austere

A lighted welcome lurked and glowed--

except that his eyes are not dark blue but pale gray, but that doesn't matter. I simply adore him--almost as much as I adore you, my dearest Ermyntrude. Do you think it possible that--perhaps--I am in love with him? I sometimes think I must be. My heart beats when he comes into the room, and the other day, when he picked up my handkerchief, which I'd dropped without noticing, and said "Yours, I think, Miss Esmeralda?" in his lovely voice, I'm certain I blushed. Supposing I was in love with him, and supposing he asked me to marry him! Wouldn't that be enchanting? Which reminds me of that conversation of ours at the end of last term about love and marriage and how you have babies and all the rest of it, when we stayed up so long talking and made Miss Bushell so angry, and it was all so perfectly delightful. Well, have you found out any more about it? Do tell me, because I'm sure I don't know what to think, and you're so much cleverer than I am. Can you have babies without being in love, and can you be in love without--but oh, dear, the boys are calling me to come and play stump cricket this instant, and I can't put them off any longer; I must stop. Do write soon, my dearest Ermyntrude, about all your gay doings in London, to

Your ever most adoring Esmeralda

P. S. We are to have charades this evening, and tomorrow General Marchmont is coming, which will be a great bore, as he will probably do nothing but talk to the dean.

• • •

My dearest Esmeralda,

I was very glad to get your letter. I think, although you live in the country, you have much more to write about than I have. Your idea of my "gay doings" is quite imaginary. I hardly ever see anyone, except, of course, the eternal Miss Simpson, with whom I spend (it seems to me) the whole of every day, sitting up here in this old dark schoolroom and only emerging for the family meals and the daily patrol in the park. My mother is always out and my father is always at the House of Commons; and as that makes up the household, you see there's not much opening for gaiety. It chills me to go down the staircase, with the dreadful dome at the top; and as for the drawing room, it's so big and so gloomy that I feel creepy whenever I go into it. You say that nothing ever happens with you; well, at least you have stump cricket and charades and deans and tutors to amuse you. I have racked my brains, and really the only thing I can think of that has happened here since I came back is--guess!--prepare your mind for something amazing--we have got a new footman. But please observe that the important point about this startling occurrence is--not that the footman is new, but that his name is. He is called Henry, and the last four were called George. Well! isn't that a change? I've also noticed that his fingernails are rather cleaner than those of the last two Georges. But those are details. To have to say Henry instead of George when one wants some more bread--that is the epoch. So you see you've no right to pretend that you live in a desert. And (I think) you've even less right to pretend that you're in love with the dean. How could anyone be in love with an old man of 50 with pale gray eyes, and I'm sure also with pale gray cheeks hanging in folds, and one of those horrid necks that have a flap of skin in the middle? The truth is I believe you're shamming a romance with the dean in order to conceal one with Mr. Mapleton. It's very suspicious. You say hardly anything about him. What is he like? Is he tall or short? Dark or fair? Is he good-looking? According as you answer these questions I shall judge. So take care. I have forgotten whether Godfrey is the brother who is a year younger than you, or another. Please tell me what he looks like, too. Has he got brown curly hair and large dark eyes in your style, I wonder?

I've tried to go on with our inquiries about love and babies, but I haven't got much further. The other day I began edging round the conversation in that direction with old Simpson, and naturally that didn't succeed. She shut me up when I was still miles off. Everyone always does--that is, everyone who knows. What can it mean? It is very odd. Why on earth should there be a secret about what happens when people have (continued on page 202) Ermyntrude and Esmeralda (continued from page 184) babies? I suppose it must be something appallingly shocking, but then, if it is, how can so many people bear to have them? Of course, I'm quite sure it's got something to do with those absurd little things that men have in statues hanging between their legs, and that we haven't. And I'm also sure that it's got something to do with the thing between our legs that I always call my pussy. I believe that may be its real name, because once when I was at Oxford looking at the races with my cousin Tom, I heard quite a common woman say to another, "There, Sarah, doesn't that make your pussy pout?" And then I saw that one of the rowing-men's trousers were all split and those things were showing between his legs; and it looked most extraordinary. I couldn't quite see enough, but the more I looked the more I felt--well, the more I felt my pussy pouting, as the woman had said. So now I call ours pussies and theirs bowwows, and my theory is that people have children when their bowwows and pussies pout at the same time. Do you think that's it? Of course, I can't imagine how it can possibly work, and I dare say I'm altogether wrong and it's really got something to do with w. c.s.

Lord Folliot is coming to dinner, so I must go and dress. I'm sure he's a much worse bore than General Marchmont. He always will chuck me under the chin as though I was 12. I hope you'll write again and tell me what you think about the pussies, the bowwows and Mr. Mapleton. I promise you I won't show your letter to anyone--even to Simpson--or Henry.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

P. S. What do you think castration means?

• • •

My dearest Ermyntrude,

There's such a fuss going on here with everyone getting ready for a picnic which we're all going to that it's almost impossible to write, and so you must forgive me if I only write nonsense. As I know all this evening will be taken up with a new kind of billiards the general has taught us and that's all the rage here at the present moment, I thought I'd better seize this opportunity just to tell you, my dearest darling Ermyntrude, how delightful it was to get your perfectly sweet letter, and how I only wish I could write one half as amusingly and cleverly and altogether exquisitely as you. What you say about babies I quite agree with, though I had never thought of it until you said it, but there is one thing that I still don't understand, and that is what being in love has to do with it all--I mean with having babies--because, from what they always say in novels, it seems to have a great deal. But with all this hullabaloo in the room, I can't explain properly, and shall put it off for another time, and only now tell you that I asked Godfrey about that difficult word in your P. S.--if he knew what it meant--after I'd made him swear the most solemn secrecy, of course. But first I must tell you that you are right, and he is the one who's a year younger than me, and you are also right about his being like me, though it's conceited of me to say so, because everyone says he's such a handsome boy. Well, about that word--and what do you think?--when I asked him, the wretch wouldn't do anything but burst out roaring with laughter and I couldn't get any answer out of him at all, except, "Oh, Esmie, you really are too funny," which he said about half a dozen times, and then ran out of the room. I expect he went straight off and told Mr. Mapleton, and if he did I think it's abominable, after the secrecy he swore. But I suppose it only means that that word stands for something tremendously improper, and I shouldn't be at all surprised if it meant some kind of divorce.

By the bye, you are quite wrong about Mr. Mapleton. I am not in love with him at all. He is just an ordinary young man--nothing in the least particular. But I'll tell you what I rather suspect. I believe he's a little in love with me! Why I think so is that he doesn't seem at all anxious to be where I am, but keeps going out--either by himself or with Godfrey--for long walks and fishing expeditions, as if he wants to avoid me. Don't you think that's rather a sign? He sees I'm not in love with him, and so, in his disappointment, he tries to be with me as little as possible. Well, we shall see. I should like to write pages and pages about the dean, and explain how completely wrong you are about him, too, but I shall have to stop to help to do up the things. No, no, no! He is most beautiful. You should have seen him last Sunday in church, reading the lessons! He looked quite like a saint, with the light from the stained-glass window coming onto his face, and his voice was perfect. How heavenly he must be in his cathedral, in a surplice, among all the little choirboys! Oh! I'm sure you'd adore him as much as I do, if you could only see him, and perhaps you really do, and you're just pretending not to, to tease me.

As for the general, he's not nearly as bad as I expected.

Your loving, Esmeralda

• • •

My dearest Esmeralda.

I went into the library this morning when my father was out, and got down the English dictionary, to find out about castration. The result wasn't very successful. First of all, I could only find something about "having turrets and battlements like a castle," but then I discovered that I'd got hold of the wrong word--castellation, which I shouldn't think was at all the same thing. When I did find the right one, it simply said, "Castrate; to emasculate, to geld," which didn't help much; and when I found emasculate, it only said "to castrate, to geld," and as I was just finding geld, I heard someone coming into the room and had to put the book back as quickly as possible, as I didn't want my father to begin asking questions. However, it turned out to be only Henry with some coals, so I might have gone on after all, only then Simpson began calling me, and off I had to march for the promenade.

So you see, the dictionary hasn't been any more use than that mischievous Godfrey. I don't consider that you describe him very well. It's difficult to imagine a boy like you, and you don't tell me any details. For instance, are his teeth good? And are his shoulders broad? And his ears; do they stick out?--but I don't suppose they do, or he wouldn't be called handsome. If they don't, please pinch one of them from me, as a punishment for his bad behavior.

Lord Folliot has given me a kitten; I don't like animals particularly, but I suppose I shall have to keep it, and Simpson promises to look after it for me. The horrid old man asked me what I was going to call it, and I said I thought that Pussy would do very well. I don't know what he thought of that--and I don't care, either. By the bye, my new theory is that being in love is merely a more polite way of saying that your pussy's pouting. What else can it mean? Won't you ask Mr. Mapleton if his bowwow pouts for you, and won't you tell me in your next letter if your pussy pouts for the dean?

For a wonder, I'm sitting in the drawing room, as Simpson has gone out to one of her Congregational meetings, and Mama is away, so I have the whole place to myself. In a minute Henry will come in to draw the curtains, and I shall give him this letter to post, so goodbye.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

P. S. It wasn't Henry after all, but Jessop, the butler, whom I hate.

• • •

My dearest Ermyntrude,

Such a very extraordinary thing has just happened, and I must write and tell you at once, as I'm dying to know what you will think about it. I can't understand it at all. It's about Mr. Mapleton--that is, partly. Do you remember that (continued on page 224) Ermyntrude and Esmeralda (continued from page 202) I said I thought he was in love with me because he avoided me so? Well, now I don't think that can be it, but I had better begin at the beginning and then you can judge. I was sitting on the veranda after tea this evening, trying to get through my canto of Dante--did I tell you that I was doing it with the dean? It was he who suggested it, and he's been so wonderfully kind about it, and, oh, my dearest Ermyntrude, what a beautiful poem it is--though I must say, I think I like Tennyson better. Well, there I was, quite alone, for a wonder, until it began to get cold and I thought I'd go indoors, so I was going in by the morning-room window, which was wide open, and I did just get inside, but then I was surprised by hearing somebody talking, which was quite surprising because hardly anyone ever uses the morning room--especially at that time in the day. I thought it was rather funny, and then I suddenly recognized that it was Mr. Mapleton's voice that was talking, but not at all his usual voice, and it was all quite dark--much darker than outside--and so altogether I was so surprised that I stood quite still and couldn't help listening. And what do you think I heard? You'll never guess--only I only half heard it, really, because it was so mumbling and indistinct and it seemed so funny and extraordinary. I'm sure he was making love. He kept on saying, "I love you more than anybody in the world" and things like that, and "Do you love me? Do you--love me as much as I love you?" a great many times, and "You're the most beautiful creature in the world, how can you be so beautiful?" and "My dearest dearest dearest angel," and things like that. Don't you think he must have been making love? Of course, I couldn't imagine who he was talking to, but I thought it might be the under housemaid, who's quite pretty but not the most beautiful person in the world--but then, people always do exaggerate when they're making love, don't they--and then I was just wondering whether perhaps it was Carrie, when somebody else said, "Darling--darling"--just like that, and, my dear, it was Godfrey! That gave me such a jump that I very nearly dropped all my books--the grammar and dictionary and everything--but I luckily didn't, and by that time, the room seemed rather lighter and I made out that Godfrey's voice must have come from behind a screen there is going across, so I stretched out as far as I could and just managed to see round the screen to the sofa. And Mr. Mapleton was there, too, with his arm round Godfrey's neck, and they were kissing and their hair was all tousled, but the most extraordinary thing of all was that their buttons were so much undone that their shirts were all coming out. Wasn't it too peculiar for words? But just then, someone began to come along the passage outside, and they jumped up very quickly, and Mr. Mapleton began walking toward the window, so I slipped out and ran round by the front door. I expect it was the maid coming to shut the window. I haven't said anything about it to either of them yet. I'm not sure whether I shall--even to Godfrey. They might think I'd been listening on purpose, which I wasn't at all. They seemed quite as usual at dinner, and now here I am, writing to you as fast as I can--I'm so excited and somehow rather frightened, too--I don't know why. At least I was frightened when I looked round the screen. Do you think--my dear, do you think it's possible for them to be in love? I'm almost sure they must be; but then, if they are, I can't understand at all, because how can they have babies? Do answer by return of post, I beg and implore you.

Your loving, Esmeralda

• • •

Dearest Esmeralda,

What a lark! I'm in a hurry, as Mama, for a wonder, is taking me out to some dreadful tea party this afternoon, but I must write a few words now, as you ask me to. And so that's what you call nothing ever happening, is it? I only wish anything half as amusing would happen here. No such luck. But I don't think you've made the most of your opportunities. It was a great chance for finding out some interesting things. For instance, you don't say which buttons were undone. Was it too dark to see? I don't believe it was, but you were too flurried and didn't look properly. I'm sure I should have, if it had been me. I really think you ought to try and discover some more from Godfrey. Couldn't you lead the conversation round to bowwows--in quite a general way? I wish I could talk to him for a little. It might be easier for him to tell things to someone who wasn't his sister. I suppose, as you say, two bowwows can't have babies, but I can't see why on earth they shouldn't pout at one another. The great question is--how do they pout? I command you to ask him. You can ask him from me, if you like. Do you know, when I read your letter, I began to wish that I was Godfrey--I suppose because then I should know all about it. But I must stop and go and dress. I'll write again soon.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

P. S. No. I'm not sure. I think, on the whole, I'd rather have been Mr. Mapleton.

• • •

Dearest Ermyntrude,

There has been the most awful row, Papa went in by accident yesterday morning to get a shoehorn, and found Mr. Mapleton in Godfrey's bed. He was most fearfully angry, told Mr. Mapleton that he would have to go away out of England and live abroad forever and ever, or he would have him put in prison, and stormed at Godfrey like anything, and said he would flog him, only he was too old to be flogged, but he ought to be flogged, and that he had disgraced himself and his family, and that it could never be wiped out, never, and that he couldn't hold up his head again with such a son, and that as Godfrey wasn't to be flogged, he would have to be punished in some even worse way--but none of us knows what yet. It was too dreadful for words. Godfrey told me all about it. Mr. Mapleton went away that very morning, immediately after breakfast, but he didn't come down to it, so perhaps he didn't have any, and Mama has been almost in tears ever since, and Papa has hardly spoken to anyone. The dean has been looking very grave. I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for General Marchmont, who got up a croquet tournament yesterday, which put us into better spirits, as we had to make the arrangements about it; it is to be the American kind--everyone will play everyone else, and the one who wins the most games will get a prize from the general. Papa said that Godfrey wasn't to join, as he wasn't fit to associate with the others, which is a great pity. Poor Godfrey is in such dreadful disgrace, and I am very sorry for him. I suppose it was a frightfully wicked thing to do, but the curious thing is he doesn't seem at all wicked, and I really do believe I'm fonder of him than I've ever been before. I talked to him for quite a long time yesterday before dinner. I went into the morning room, and he was there, so I began to say how sorry I was. But before I'd said very much, he turned round and walked toward the window, and then I saw that he was crying. I hardly knew what to do, so I went on talking for a little, and at last I threw my arms round his neck and kissed him a great many times, which seemed to comfort him, although he began to cry harder than ever at first. But in the end, he told me all about Mr. Mapleton and how fond he was of him, and how unhappy he was to think he'd never see him again; and when I asked him whether he was in love with him, he said yes, he was, and why not?--that he loved him better than anyone in the world and always would as long as he lived, and then he began crying again. And he said he did not think he'd done anything wicked at all, and it seems the Greeks used to do it, too--at least the Athenians, who were the best of the Greeks--which is very funny, don't you think? And he said that Mr. Mapleton agreed with everything he'd said, and, in fact, he had told him most of it; and as for Papa, he said he was a silly old man and he expected he'd done just the same himself when he was a boy at school but that he'd forgotten all about it. Of course. I wouldn't let him say things against Papa, but really, it seems very extraordinary, if what Godfrey says is true, and I can't make it out at all, can you? I've made up my mind what to do, though, I'm going to ask the dean to explain it to me. Isn't that a good idea? He's so wise he must know everything, and he's so good and kind that I'm sure he wouldn't get angry, as I'm certain Papa would if I said anything about it to him. I'm waiting for a good opportunity to find the dean by himself, but at present it's rather difficult, because there always seems to be somebody who insists upon playing off their game of croquet with me. When I've got it out of him, I'll let you know. But dearest Ermyntrude, do write and tell me what you think, I believe you're almost as clever as the dean.

Your loving, Esmeralda

P. S. Godfrey has just told me that he is to be taken away from school and sent abroad, too, as well as Mr. Mapleton, but of course not to the same place and only for a year, but Godfrey says he hates the thought of it.

P. P. S. I forgot to say that when I was talking to Godfrey, I tried several times to ask him your question, but somehow or other I couldn't get it in. I find that there are some things it's very difficult, indeed, to talk about, just when one wants to most.

• • •

My dearest Esmeralda,

Your letters get more and more exciting and make me more and more envious. Here am I, as usual, in the drawing room, by the fire, all alone, except for the kitten curled up in its basket, and I feel as if I'd been here for the past 500 years. I've taken to sitting in this gaunt room lately, because it's a good way of escaping from Simpson, and as Mama's again away, there's no fear of visitors. It's true that Lord Folliot came yesterday, but I don't think he'll come again. I don't like him at all. He first chucked me under the chin, and then put his hand (which was more like a claw) on my chest, and asked me how Pussy was doing. He winked and grinned and was quite ridiculous--all wrinkled and horrid. I'm quite sure his bowwow was pouting as hard as it could all the time. I thought to myself, "Why should your bowwow be allowed to pout as it likes, you disgusting old man, and poor Godfrey, when his does, get into such hot water?" It really is a great shame. You must give Godfrey my love, though I think if he'd cried rather less, I should like him better. Of course, it would have been different if he had been really whipped. Would it have been with a birch rod? I was as nasty as I could be to Lord Folliot, and he went away looking sillier than ever. I expect it'll make you angry, but I can't help thinking he's rather like the dean. I wonder if you've had your conversation with him yet. It will be great fun when you do; but if I were you, I shouldn't believe a word he said. Clergymen always tell stories.

Talking of conversations, it's rather amusing; I had one the other day with--who do you think?--Henry! He nearly always comes after tea to take the things away, so I thought it would be rather amusing to talk to him. I think I told you about the butler, Jessop, and how I dislike him. He's got very thin lips, which he keeps pressed together very close, and he stands up very straight and looks most severe. I had a quarrel with him a long time ago, when I was quite small. I used to go down to the servants' hall, and they all used to pet me a great deal, and sometimes they kissed me; but one day, Jessop began kissing me more than I wanted, so I made him stop, and ever since, I believe he's hated me; and I'm sure I've hated him. So I thought I'd find out what Henry thought of him, and as he was clearing away the tea, I said, just to begin, "Is Jessop out today?" He said he was, so I said, "Does he go out often?" "Pretty often, miss." "Does he make you work very hard?" "Oh, yes, miss." "He's very strict, I suppose?" "Oh, he's that strict, miss!" "You don't like him much, then?" "No, miss, nothing particklar--not, as you might say, anything out of the common--not as I like some." Then he went on putting the cups onto the tray. I thought it was very nice of him to be so easy to talk to, so I began to laugh and said, "And who do you like? Do you like Mrs. Codrington?" (She's the cook.) "Yes, miss, I like Mrs. Codrington." I saw that he was smiling, and then, while he was making a clatter with the cups, he said something else that was really rather extraordinary, and in a very low voice--"And I like you, miss." I could hardly hear it, but I'm certain he did say it, though I pretended not to have noticed anything and took up a book. He went out very quickly after that, and neither of us has said anything about it since, though we have had a few more conversations. Here he is. I must stop, as I shall have to give him this letter to post. Please give me a full account of what you get out of the dean, and I insist upon your asking him every question that comes into your head.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

P. S. Something so curious has happened that I've opened this again to tell you about it. When I was giving this letter to Henry to post, I dropped it and we both put down our hands to pick it up. Somehow or other, he took hold of my fingers instead of the letter. I felt rather awkward, but just then the kitten took it into its head to jump out of its basket, so I ran after it and put it back. While I was doing that, he went and drew the curtains, and then he went out, without taking the letter, which was still on the floor. He didn't say anything at all, nor did I. Now I've rung the bell, and I shall put this into a new envelope and give it him again and try not to drop it this time. He'll be here in a moment. It's rather odd. His fingers seemed very strong.

• • •

My dearest Ermyntrude,

I've got something very surprising to tell you, and when it happened, it surprised me just as much. Have you noticed how funny it is, the way things always seem to turn out quite differently from what you expected? Why is it, do you think? I always try to imagine as hard as I can what's going to happen beforehand, don't you? But when it does happen, it's somehow or other always something else--only I expect you're so horribly clever you can always imagine right. But I wonder whether even you would have guessed about my conversation with the dean, and that it would have ended by--But I must tell you first that I found him alone in the study this morning, as I hoped I would, as Papa had gone out with the agent; and as it was such a good opportunity, I said to myself that I mustn't miss it, because it was just the time to ask him about Godfrey and Mr. Mapleton. So I did, but what a wicked teasing creature you are, to say that the dean is like Lord Folliot! Of course he isn't at all, but as I'm sure you're only laughing at me all the time, I won't pay any attention. Well, I thought I'd better begin in rather a roundabout way, so I asked him about Dante and Beatrice, and he said the most beautiful things about them that you can imagine, and then I said I supposed Dante was in love with Beatrice, and he seemed very pleased and even more polite than ever and said more and more beautiful things, and was far more poetical than I'm sure Lord Folliot could ever be. Then I asked whether it wasn't wrong to be in love, and he moved his chair nearer and said, "My dear Miss Esmeralda, surely you cannot think that!" and said that love was the purification and the sanctification of something that I can't remember now, but it was all very nice, and at last he took hold of my hand, so I thought the moment had come and said, "Then why was Papa so angry with Godfrey?" Directly I'd said it, I saw that it couldn't have been the right moment, because he got very startled, indeed, and dropped my hand and asked me in quite a stiff voice how I could ask such a question. But I was determined this time not to be afraid, and so I said that Godfrey was in love with Mr. Mapleton, and if it was not wrong to be in love, why shouldn't he be? He seemed terribly shocked, and threw up his hands, and said, "Love! Love for that perverse, misguided, unhappy young man! What a profanation, my dear young lady, what a profanation!" But I said Godfrey himself had told me so, and then he said that Godfrey was very wicked and that I shouldn't listen to what he said. So then I remembered some of the things that Godfrey had told me about the Greeks, so I asked if they had all been very wicked, and whether Socrates hadn't been a very good man, and whether he hadn't been in love with young men--and perhaps very like Mr. Mapleton? He said that I was touching upon a most painful subject, that it was one of the mysteries of Providence that the highest and the lowest sometimes met in the same person, and that the Greeks had not had the benefit of the teaching of Our Lord, which I suppose is quite true. Then I remembered something else that Godfrey had said, so I asked him whether he hadn't very likely felt just the same as Godfrey when he was at school himself, and when I said that, he got up and walked up and down the room and seemed quite agitated. So I thought I must be right, and then I had a sudden idea and said it almost without thinking, directly it came into my head--"Oh, Dr. Bartlett, I believe you were in love with Papa!" You see, I knew they had been at school together, and do you know, I really believe it was true, because he got very red and came up to me and said in a low voice, "No, no, Miss Esmeralda, let me beg you to put such distressing thoughts out of your mind. These subjects are not fit for a pure young girl to dwell upon. They come as a temptation--a terrible temptation. Turn away from them, I beseech you--fly from them as you would from the Evil One himself. Let me counsel you, let me help you, let me guide your thoughts toward"--but I can't remember what it was exactly he wanted to guide my thoughts toward, except that he went on talking for a very long time, and then suddenly I found to my great surprise what I'm sure you couldn't possibly have guessed--he was making love to me, and asking me to marry him, and had gone down on his knees beside my chair, so that I didn't at all know what to do, especially as I very nearly burst out laughing, because he did look so very extraordinary. But just then, I heard General Marchmont's voice out of the window, calling me, so I jumped up and said I must go and play a game of croquet. He seemed very distressed and asked me whether I wouldn't answer him. I said I would this evening, and that's all. It's a dreadful nuisance, but I suppose I shall have to. Of course, I'm very fond of him and admire him, I'm sure, more than almost everyone else in the world, but what surprised me most of all was that when he asked me to marry him, although I'd always thought it would be the most wonderful thing that could possibly happen to me, I didn't want to a bit. I don't understand it in the least, unless it is that perhaps I----But I shan't tell you any more just now--so there!

Your loving, Esmeralda

P. S. Have you had any more conversations with Henry?

• • •

Dearest Esmeralda,

I ought to have answered your last letter some days ago. I can't write much now, as I am rather hurried. I was very glad that you didn't say that you would marry the horrid old dean. It would have been very nasty. I think I can guess why it was that you didn't, because I'm sure that if your pussy had pouted, it would have been quite different. I agree with you about it being very difficult to know what's going to happen, but I think, as I don't imagine what it's going to be so much as you do, I'm less surprised. The funny thing is that you learn a lot anyhow--whether you're surprised or not. But I must stop now.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

P. S. Yes. I have had some more conversations with Henry.

• • •

My dearest Ermyntrude,

It's abominable of me not to have written before, but really, I've had hardly any time to spare, there have been so many things going on, and it's all been such fun, but not the sort of things you can write about. And even now, I've only got one minute, just to send you my love, my dearest Ermyntrude, and to say that I'm feeling very excited because it is the Swinfords' dance tonight, and I'm going, and so is Tony and Amabel and Mama, and in fact everybody, including General Marchmont. Won't it be delightful? Do you think anything very specially amusing and charming will happen? I wonder and wonder, but I can never make up my mind, because there are so many other things to think about. I've been in a great fright about my dress not being done in time, but it has been, so that's one blessing, and I've promised two dances to General March-mont. I don't think I ever told you that the dean has gone away--he went the very next morning after I'd told him that I didn't want to marry him. So he won't be at the dance, but perhaps he wouldn't have been anyway, as I don't believe clergymen usually go to dances. I can't write any more, Carrie is calling me. If anything special does happen at the dance, I'll let you know all about it as soon as I can.

Your most loving, Esmeralda

• • •

My dearest Esmeralda,

As I've got some spare time to write to you in, I'd better begin at once. I expect this will be rather a long letter, but though I thought I wouldn't at first, I've made up my mind to tell you everything that's happened, so that can't be helped. There's just been a fearful rumpus here. I'd better tell you that it all began about a fortnight ago, that time I told you about, when I dropped the letter. It was then that my pussy began to pout. I dare say that you will think it very shocking that it should pout for a footman. But Henry was not like an ordinary footman. He was much better looking and taller and stronger. He had very black hair that was rather curly, and black eyebrows and dark-blue eyes and a straight nose that turned up at the end, which made him look impudent, and a small mouth with perfectly white teeth, and a very nice neck, indeed. I'm sure if you could have seen him in his dark-green livery and silver buttons, your pussy would have pouted, too--especially if you could have felt what his fingers were like. I didn't tell you, but that time I wanted to hug him, and I really think I might have, if the kitten hadn't jumped out of its basket just at that instant. Wasn't it an absurd joke that the two pussies should have begun playing pranks at the same time? Then when I rang the bell, it was Jessop who came up. Henry told me afterward he was too frightened to and pretended to be ill. The next day, Simpson would insist upon my playing duets with her the whole evening, so there was no opportunity for saying anything to Henry when he took away the tea. But the day after that, Simpson went out, so I went down to the drawing room as usual, and then it was most tiresome, because Jessop came and did everything, and I thought Henry must have gone out for the evening. But at half past six, he came in when I wasn't at all expecting him. He said that a window was broken in the back stairs and that Jessop was out and that my father was out, and would I give the order to have it mended, as last time my father had been very angry at orders being given without his leave. So I said yes, and then he said, "It's near the top of the back stairs, miss," and didn't go away. So I said, "Is it a large pane?" And he said, "Not very, miss, would you like to see it?" So I said, "You'd better show it me." I was rather frightened when I said that, but he answered very quickly, "Yes, miss, I think that would be the best way." And then he said we'd better have a candle, because it was "that dark on them stairs," so he lighted one and off we went--upstairs, and then round along the little landing under the dome, and then through the door to the back stairs, and down them until we came to the window with the broken pane. Henry held up the candle to show it me and said, "You see, miss, it ain't a very big hole." I leaned over to look at it better, and put my head too near the candle and my hair gave a frizzle, which gave Henry a fright, and he said, "Oh, take care, miss! Your hair!" I said, "Would you mind if I burned my hair, Henry?" And he said, "Mind, miss? Why, they might take both my ears off me, that they might, miss, before I left any manner of harm come to your hair." So I laughed, and said, "That would be a pity, Henry; you've got such nice ears." "Not as nice as your hair, miss." "Why do you like my hair so much, Henry?" "It's got a color on it the same as the butter down in our country, miss--Dorsetshire, that is." "Do you think, it feels as nice as it looks, Henry?" "That I do, miss!" So I laughed again, just a little, and said, "Then, why don't you stroke it?" And then he didn't say anything, but put out his hand, and looked at my eyes, and I looked at his eyes, and then--well, it didn't seem to be me any longer, but it was like something else that made me do things, and I put my arms round his neck all of a sudden, and he hugged me so hard that I could only just breathe, and it felt as if he was hugging me with the whole of his body. And then the candle fell over and went out, and it was pitch dark, and after that, I hardly know what happened, because it was so very exciting, but somehow I began to half lie down on the stairs, which are quite steep and nothing but wood, and Henry was on the top of me, hugging me just as much as ever, so you can imagine that it wasn't particularly comfortable. I forgot to say that directly he hugged me, I felt my pussy pouting so enormously that I didn't know what to do--except hug him back, which seemed only to make it pout more. But when we were lying down, it did it even more still. Then Henry began pulling up my skirt and even my petticoat, and I began helping him, and it was very funny--we were both in such a hurry, and his body twisted about so much and he breathed so hard that I half began to feel frightened. But he held me too tightly for me to have possibly got away, even if I'd wanted to, and then suddenly, all of a sudden, my pussy began to hurt most horribly, and I very nearly screamed. It was as if something was going right through me, but though it hurt my pussy so, it made it stop pouting at the same time and begin to purr instead, as if it liked it, and I think it did like it better than anything else in the world. I can't understand why pussies should like so much being hurt. And the curious thing was that I suppose I liked it, too, because I went on kissing Henry more and more; and although I was so uncomfortable and hot and all squashed up and disarranged and I believe nearly crying, I didn't at all want it to stop, and I was very sorry when Henry said he would have to go and lay the dinner or Jessop would ask him where he'd been.

I must tell you that Henry told me afterward that what he'd said about Papa and the orders for the window was a story, and he'd said it to try to make me go there with him, and if I hadn't, he told me that he'd settled to give warning and go away that very night. He said that his bowwow had begun to pout so much, especially when he was handing me the vegetables, that he couldn't have stood it any longer. But that night, when he handed me the vegetables, it was a great lark, because my pussy was pouting, too. After dinner, when I'd gone up to bed, it was still more of a lark. I'd arranged it with Henry. When all the lights were out, I opened my door a very little, and then he came in, and after we'd kissed each other a great deal, we took off our clothes. I was very excited to see what his bowwow was like, but I was astonished to see that he hadn't got one, but a very funny big pink thing standing straight up instead. I was rather frightened, because I thought he might be deformed, which wouldn't have been at all nice, so I asked him what it was. Then he laughed so much that I thought everyone would hear, and at last I discovered that it was his bowwow after all, and it turns out that that is what they get like when they pout! I was very pleased, indeed, and so was my pussy when his bowwow went into it; and after that, we went to bed. Ever since then, he's come every night, and I've enjoyed myself very much. It's a pity I didn't know about it before, because we might have begun doing it directly he came here, and I might have done it before that with the last George but one, who looked quite pretty, but of course not nearly so handsome as Henry.

We had great fun in the daytime, too. At first we were pretty frightened of being caught, but we got less and less frightened, and I suppose we were rather foolish, because--well, we were found out, but in rather an extraordinary way, so I'll tell you how it all happened. I was sitting in the schoolroom yesterday by myself, as Simpson was out as usual, and someone came in. I thought it would be Henry, but it was Jessop, and he said he wanted to speak to me. I said he might, and then he looked very severe and said, "I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself, Miss Ermie." I asked him why, and he said, "Oh, you know well enough, Miss Ermie--carrying on something awful with Henry." Of course, I said I didn't know what he was talking about, but he only got more severe, and pressed his horrid thin lips closer together, and said, "It's not a bit of use your playing the innocent. I'm bound to go straight to Sir William this moment and tell him what I know." I did get very frightened then, because of course I knew there'd be frightful ructions if my father heard of it, and I didn't know what to do. So I thought the best plan was to be as nice as possible to Jessop and try to persuade him not to tell. But at first it didn't seem any good, because he went on being very cross--"Now, none of your wheedling with me, Miss Ernie; you know quite well it's my duty to go to Sir William"--and so on. But I went on begging him more and more, and then all of a sudden he changed altogether and said, in quite a soft voice, "You're nice enough to me now, when you want to get something out of me. As soon as you get it, it'll be a different tune." I said I should always be very grateful, indeed, but he said, "No, miss, you wouldn't. You don't like me, that's what it is. You don't care for me two pins." Then I thought I'd better tell a great fib, so I said I liked him very much. And he said, "Like me? Like me, do you? Do you like me as much as Henry? That's what I'm wondering." I said I liked him in a different way, and then he came much closer to me, and turned all white, and said, very low, indeed, "But I want the same way. Do you understand that, Miss Ermie? That's the way you've got to like me. You like Henry and you like me. Well, then, you've got to like both or neither. That's what it is. And now shall I go to Sir William?" Then I understood what he was up to, and I felt cold all over, but I didn't see any way out of it, so in the end I agreed. I said he might come that night instead of Henry to my bedroom, and he was going away, when he turned round and said, "No, Miss Ermie, I don't trust you. You'll get out of it. Now, now!" And then he ran at me and kissed me very violently, indeed, and seemed much more excited even than Henry. And though at first I didn't like it at all, afterward I didn't mind it so much. But in the middle of it, I heard a scream, and I couldn't think what had happened, and Jessop went out of the room very quickly, and there was Simpson in a faint on the floor. She'd seen Jessop with his bowwow in my pussy, and that was why she'd fainted. When she came to, she hardly said anything, and I was surprised that she didn't rush off and tell everybody all about it. Instead of that, she said she was too ill to come down to dinner. Jessop didn't dare come to my bedroom afterward, but Henry did. Just as we were beginning to enjoy ourselves, there was a knock at the door. Henry hid himself under the bed, and then the old Simpson came in in her dressing gown. She began embracing me and talking a great deal in a whining tone of voice. She said I was her dearest child, and that I had fallen and how terrible it was and what would Mama say, and all sorts of rubbish, and all the time she was kissing me, and calling me her dearest darling Ermie, and saying how much she loved me, till I got very bored, and couldn't think what it was all coming to. But what do you think it was? She was the same as Jessop. She wanted to get into bed with me, and she said that if I'd let her do that, she'd never, never tell. It was really very absurd. I don't know why, but I'd never thought before that one pussy might pout for another; but, of course, if bowwows pout for one another, there's no reason why pussies shouldn't, too. So there was Simpson's pussy pouting for mine; but I wouldn't have it. I think you must draw the line somewhere, especially if Henry's under the bed, and I drew it at Simpson's pussy. I told her to go away, and that she might tell everybody anything she liked, and that I never wanted to see her again. And as she was going. I said something else, that I'd heard Henry say about Jessop --"And God rot you, Simpson, into the bargain," which shocked her a good deal, because she turned round in the doorway and said, "Oh, Ermie, Ermie! As well as all the rest--bad language!" And then she went, and Henry came out from under the bed.

All this happened last night, when you were at your dance, having a gay time, I suppose, with General Marchmont. But we had an even gayer time here this morning, when the old woman went and had hysterics in the library, and told my father about me and Jessop. Jessop was sent for, and denied it, and said it was Henry, and Henry was sent for and said it was Jessop, and I was sent for and wouldn't say anything at all. It would be no use describing the rest of the row, which was very silly, and just like other rows, only worse, but they were all three dismissed, including Simpson, for not looking after me enough, and going too often to the Congregational meetings. I'd always suspected that she used to go there for the sake of some bouncing bowwow, but now I think it must have been for a mewing pussy, but anyhow, that's the end of her. As for me, I'm to be sent off to Germany with a German governess Mama has discovered, almost at once. She's the daughter of a pastor in some dismal town in Saxony--Schmettau or something--and there I'm to stay. It doesn't sound exciting, and I'm afraid I shall miss Henry a good deal. I found a little note from him on a crumpled-up piece of paper on my dressing table this evening. I suppose he'd got one of the maids to put it there. It said, "Goodbye, miss. They won't let me stay here no longer. They want me to go to Canada, but I'd run away first. Oh, miss, when shall I see you again? Yours respectfully, Henry." I forgot to say that he always went on calling me miss, even when he was hugging me most, which I liked very much. And really, on the whole, I'm not sorry that any of it's happened, because, although the row has been a nuisance, I know a great many things now that I didn't know before.

When I've got the address in Germany, I'll send it you, and I hope you'll write to me there. Perhaps I'll have a letter from you tomorrow morning describing the dance. Now goodbye, I am rather tired.

Your loving, Ermyntrude

• • •

My dearest darling beloved Ermyntrude,

It has all happened as I most wished, and I am going to marry General Marchmont! He asked me to last night at the dance, and I said yes, and then--oh, my dear!--he kissed me! He is the kindest dearest bravest most wonderful man in the world, and though he is 50, I'm quite sure I could never love anybody one millionth as much as I love him. He's been in two wars, and I don't know how many battles, and has got a whole row of medals, and his regiment was the Rifle Brigade, which is one of the very best there is. He said that I should be his own beloved wife and the mother of his children, and that he would teach me in the sphere of home and womanhood to grow up a perfect queen! Wasn't it too lovely? I wouldn't tell you before how fond of him I was, because I thought you might laugh at me and think that I only cared for him as much as I cared for the clean. But now it's all come right and I'm perfectly happy, only I want to have some babies as quickly as I can. I never thought all the time we were wondering about being in love and having babies that I should know all about it so soon. But I must stop and go and find Edward--that is his name! Isn't it exquisite? I shall write to you again directly I know when we are to be married.

Your own very most loving, Esmeralda

P. S. I forgot to say that I had a letter from Godfrey the other day. He is in a Saxon town in Germany, called Schmettau. He lives with the schoolmaster and he says it's not very exciting, but as the parson lives next door, it ought to be good for him. Oh, my dear! Edward has just come in and we are to be married in September! Isn't it too exciting for words? And he wants me to say that he hopes you will be my bridesmaid.