Читать книгу Agatha Christie’s Marple - Anne Hart - Страница 8

‘I live very quietly in the country, you see.’

—Miss Marple, NEMESIS

Miss Marple was born at the age of sixty-five to seventy – which, as with Poirot, proved most unfortunate, because she was going to have to last a long time in my life,’ wrote Agatha Christie in her autobiography. Embryonically, Miss Marple may have had some early relationship to Caroline, the doctor’s sister in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, which was published four years before the first appearance of Miss Marple. Of Caroline, Dr Sheppard said:

‘The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr Kipling tells us, is: “Go and find out.” If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first part of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting placidly at home. I don’t know how she manages it, but there it is.’

Agatha Christie was fond of Caroline, and when, in an adaptation of Roger Ackroyd to the stage, she was replaced by a young, attractive girl, she resented her removal very much: ‘I liked the part she played in village life … I think at that moment, in St Mary Mead, though I did not yet know it, Miss Marple was born.’*

Agatha Christie’s grandmother and her friends provided further inspiration. Miss Marple was, in Agatha Christie’s words,

the sort of old lady who would have been rather like some of my grandmother’s Ealing cronies – old ladies whom I have met in so many villages where I have gone to stay as a girl. Miss Marple was not in any way a picture of my grandmother; she was far more fussy and spinsterish than my grandmother ever was. But one thing she did have in common with her – though a cheerful person, she always expected the worst of everyone and everything, and was, with almost frightening accuracy, usually proved right.

Despite Miss Marple’s first appearance as a detective at the age of sixty-five or thereabouts, it is possible to piece together something of her childhood and girlhood from clues she occasionally dropped in conversation during her extraordinarily long old age. Characteristically, she had from the beginning an excellent memory: ‘I’ve always remembered the mauve irises on my nursery walls and yet I believe it was re-papered when I was only three.’ On this wallpaper, over her bed, was pinned a prophetic text: Ask and you shall receive.

There was probably only one other child in the nursery, a sister, and the two little girls seem to have spent the sort of strict, sheltered, governess-run lives familiar to us from the first chapters of many Victorian autobiographies.

There are reports of long hours in the schoolroom. In old age Miss Marple knew very well how hard it was for youth to picture her ‘young and pigtailed and struggling with decimals and English literature,’ but adds, wryly, ‘I was, I think, well educated for the standard of my day. My sister and I had a German governess – a Fräulein. A very sentimental creature. She taught us the language of flowers.’ This mild disrespect for the kind of education girls of her time received was once confided to, of all people, her old enemy, Inspector Slack:

‘So difficult, you know, to explain oneself, don’t you think? … not having been educated in the modern style – just a governess, you know, who taught one the dates of the Kings of England and General Knowledge … Discursive, you know, but not teaching one to keep to the point.’

To her great ally, Inspector Craddock, when he spoke admiringly of the women of her generation, she replied:

‘I’m sure, my dear boy, you would find the young lady of the type you refer to as a very inadequate helpmeet nowadays. Young ladies were not encouraged to be intellectual and very few of them had university degrees or any kind of academic distinction.’

There were many dos and don’ts: ‘Miss Marple sat very upright because she had been taught to use a back-board as a girl’; ‘In my young days it was considered to be very bad manners to take medicines with one’s meals. It was on a par with blowing your nose at the dinner table’; ‘When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.’

But there were useful compensations: riddles and Mother Goose rhymes in early childhood, playing with disappearing ink, conjuring tricks (‘It was the trick of the Lady Sawn in Half that made me think of it,’ she was to say many years later to a bemused Inspector Curry), and visits to Madame Tussaud’s.

Who were her parents, and where did they live? We are never told exactly, but a distinctly clerical pattern, almost Mafia-like in its family connections, seems to emerge. Miss Marple was, we do know, a ‘pink and white English girl from a Cathedral Close’ and probably, therefore, the daughter of a canon or the dean of a cathedral. One of the few mentions of her father was of him bringing home bronzes purchased at the Paris Exhibition. We are also given a glimpse of Miss Marple’s mother and grandmother in Paris:

‘We went to have tea at the Elysée Hotel. And my grandmother looked round, and she said suddenly, “Clara, I do believe I am the only woman here in a bonnet!” And she was, too! When she got home she packed up all her bonnets, and her beaded mantles too – and sent them off.’

It is clear that these two, her mother and grandmother, undertook to initiate Miss Marple at an early age into the obligations and mysteries of being a lady. ‘To wit: that a true lady can neither be shocked nor surprised’; that ‘a gentlewoman should always be able to control herself in public, however much she may give way in private’; and, above all, that a lady must always do her duty: ‘Port wine jelly and calf’s head broth taken to the sick. My mother used to do it.’

In later years Miss Marple was to speak of ‘the old days, with all the big family reunions.’ At such gatherings there were no doubt assembled her aunts: her Great Aunt Fanny, for example, who told Miss Marple when she was sixteen that ‘young people think the old people are fools – but the old people know the young people are fools!’; her Aunt Helen who, perhaps because she had never been to Paris, would probably arrive wearing a bonnet and what she always called her ‘black poplin’ mantle; the survivor aunt, whose name we do not know, who had been shipwrecked on five different occasions; and the detective aunt, no doubt a significant early model, who could smell when people told lies, because ‘their noses twitched, she said, and then the smell came.’

Also arriving would be the uncles: Great Uncle Thomas, the retired admiral, who lived in a handsome terrace in Richmond; Uncle Henry, the bachelor, described on one occasion as ‘a man of unusual self-control,’ and on another as someone who was given to temper tantrums over food and a habit of keeping a great deal of money hidden in his library behind volumes of sermons. And then would come the canons: the uncle who was a canon of Chichester Cathedral, and Uncle Thomas, who was a canon of Ely.

Her cousins, Anthony and Gordon, would probably be there as well. ‘Whatever Anthony did always went right for him, and with poor Gordon it was just the other way about; race horses went lame, and stocks went down.’ Cousin Fanny Godfrey, who stuttered, would no doubt be present, and perhaps Cousin Ethel, Lady Merridew, who lived in style in Lowndes Square. Many years later Miss Marple was to gaze upon a painful scene – a vast skyscraper of modern design built upon the site where Lady Merridew’s house once stood. ‘There must be progress I suppose,’ mused Miss Marple. ‘If Cousin Ethel knew, she’d turn in her grave, I’m sure.’

At fourteen Miss Marple was given a great treat – a visit to London with her Aunt Helen and Uncle Thomas, the Canon of Ely, to stay At Bertram’s Hotel. Forever after, Bertram’s, ‘dignified, unostentatious and quietly expensive,’ was to remain in Miss Marple’s mind as the ultimate holiday. It was probably during a visit such as this that a pilgrimage was made across Battersea Bridge to visit a retired governess, Miss Ledbury, who lived at Princes Terrace Mansions, and it was almost certainly the occasion for one of her Aunt Helen’s memorable expeditions, niece in tow, to the grocery department of the Army & Navy Stores, there to seek out ‘our special man’ from whom to order, in an ensuing leisurely hour,

every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement … Having had a thoroughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times ‘And how would a little girl feel about some luncheon.’ Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice.

To round off her education, Miss Marple was sent, at about the age of sixteen, to school in Florence. There she met two American girls, Ruth and Carrie Louise Martin, ‘exciting to the English girl because of their quaint ways of speech and their forthright manner and vitality.’ They were to become her lifelong friends. ‘In spite of all my aches and pains,’ Carrie Louise was to say to Miss Marple nearly fifty years later, ‘it seems only a few months ago that we were at Florence. Do you remember Fräulein Schweich and her boots?’

‘Of course it was the fashion when we were young to have ideals,’ Carrie’s sister, Ruth, once said to Miss Marple.

‘We all had them, it was the proper thing for young girls. You were going to nurse lepers, Jane, and I was going to be a nun. One gets over all that nonsense. Marriage, I suppose one might say, knocks it out of one. Still, taking it by and large, I haven’t done badly out of marriage.’

Neither did Carrie Louise. Between them the two sisters were to acquire six husbands and a great deal of wealth. It can hardly be said that Miss Marple followed their examples.

Though she herself did not marry and was destined, in fact, to become the archetypal village spinster, Miss Marple had her own salad days and a number of beaux. In old age she was to recall them with indulgence:

Jane Marple, that pink and white eager young girl … Such a silly girl in many ways … now who was that very unsuitable young man whose name – oh dear, she couldn’t even remember it now! How wise her mother had been to nip that friendship so firmly in the bud. She had come across him years later – and really he was quite dreadful! At the time she had cried herself to sleep for at least a week!

And there was:

A young man she had met at a croquet party. He had seemed so nice – rather gay, almost Bohemian in his views. And then he had been unexpectedly warmly welcomed by her father. He had been suitable, eligible; he had been asked freely to the house more than once, and Miss Marple had found that, after all, he was dull. Very dull.

And she had enjoyed dancing. In old age, holidaying in the Caribbean, she would have preferred ‘the muted strains of the “Blue Danube”,’ though she had to confess that watching the local dancing had its merits as well: ‘She liked the shuffling feet and the rhythmic sway of the bodies.’ Rather more comfortable, perhaps, than

‘dancing with a man dressed as a brigand chief when I was a young girl. He had five kinds of knives and daggers, and I can’t tell you how awkward and uncomfortable it was for his partner.’

In later years, when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties, Miss Marple occasionally made such references to her girlhood, but on no recorded occasion did she ever refer directly to all the other years between. We know nothing of her life as a young woman, her middle age, or how she came to her appointed place as the resident sleuth of St Mary Mead. One would like to speculate, to imagine something vaguely heroic, perhaps, but it is all explained as much as it will ever be, I suspect, by scattered references to home nursing. ‘I am used to sick people,’ she once said. ‘I have had a great deal to do with them in my time.’ On another occasion we are told: ‘Long experience of nursing made Miss Marple almost automatically straighten the sheet and tuck it under the mattress on her side of the bed.’

‘Long experience of nursing …’ From this single phrase emerges a picture of the unmarried daughter, the once pink-and-white eager girl, who stayed at home in some provincial town to gradually become, as the years passed, the companion and nurse of her parents in their old age. She also became, as we shall see, the real or honorary favourite aunt – sometimes doting, sometimes vinegary – of a number of people.

Few would regard all this as an exciting life, but nowhere is there any hint that Miss Marple considered herself a martyr. She did, however, once confide to a lonely person:

‘I know what you mean … One is alone when the last one who remembers is gone. I have nephews and nieces and kind friends – but there’s no one who belongs to the old days. I’ve been alone for quite a long time now.’

Behold her, then: Miss Jane Marple, her parents dead, her sister dead, her jolly aunts and uncles long gone to their proper rest. She is living alone in genteel and thrifty old age in the quiet village of St Mary Mead, the possessor of a small but pretty Victorian house no doubt purchased from a modest inheritance left her some years before by her dear parents.

It is the 1930s – or is it the 1920s? – and she is about to embark on an amazing career.

* It is interesting to recall that Caroline Sheppard, Miss Marple’s progenitor, had, for a short and interesting time, Hercule Poirot as a neighbour, a person whom Miss Marple herself apparently never met.