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CHRISTMAS AT MEMBLAND

“Who says that happiness is far to seek?

Here have I passed a happy Christmas week.

Christmas at Membland—all was bright and gay,

Without one shadow till this final day,

When Mrs. Baring said, ‘Before you go

You must write something in the book, you know.’

I must write something—that’s all very well,

But what to write about I cannot tell.

Where shall I look for help?—it must be found,

If I survey this Christmas party round.

There’s Ned himself, our most delightful host,

Or Mrs. Baring, she could help me most,

The Uncles too, if I their time might rob.

Shall I ask Tom? or try my luck with Bob?

Madame Neruda, ah, would she begin,

We’d write the story of a violin,

And tell how first the inspiration came

Which took the world by storm and gave her fame.

There’s Harry Bourke, with him I can’t go wrong,

Could I but write the words he’d sing the song.

So sung, my verse would haply win a smile

From his bright beauty of the sister Isle,

Who comes prepared her country’s pride to save,

For every Saxon is at once her slave;

But no, I must not for assistance look,

So, Mrs. Baring, you must keep your book

For cleverer pens and I no more will trouble you,

But just remain your baffled bard.”

G. W. (1879).

Mr. Webb was a great feature in the children’s life of many families. With his beady, bird-like eye and his impassive face he made jokes so quietly that you overheard them rather than heard them. One day out shooting on a steep hill in Newton Wood, in which there were woodcock and dangerous shots, my father said to him, “You take the middle drive, Godfrey; it’s safer, medio tutissimus.” “Is there any chance of an Ibis?” Mr. Webb asked quietly. Another time, he went out duck-shooting. He was asked afterwards whether he had shot many. “Not even a Mallard imaginaire,” was his answer.

Another Christmas event was the French play we used to act under the stage management of Chérie.

When I was six I played the part of an old man with a bald forehead and white tufts of hair in a play called Le Maître d’Ecole, and I remember playing the part of Nicole in scenes from the Bourgeois Gentilhomme at Christmas in 1883, and an old witch called Mathurine in a play called Le Talisman in January 1884.

One of our most ambitious efforts was a play called La Grammaire, by Labiche: it proved too ambitious, and never got further than a dress rehearsal in the schoolroom. In this play, Elizabeth had the part of the heroine, and had to be elegantly dressed; she borrowed a grown-up gown, and had her hair done up, but she took such a long time preening herself that she missed her cue, which was: “L’ange la voici!” It was spoken by Margaret, who had a man’s part.

“L’ange la voici!” said Margaret in ringing tones, but no ange appeared. “L’ange la voici!” repeated Margaret, with still greater emphasis, but still no ange; finally, not without malice, Margaret almost shouted, “L’ange la voici!” and at last Elizabeth tripped blushing on to the stage with the final touches of her toilette still a little uncertain. In the same play, Susan played the part of a red-nosed horse-coper, dressed in a grey-tailed coat, called Machut.

Another source of joy in Membland life was the yacht, the Waterwitch, which in the summer months used to sail as soon as the Cowes Regatta was over, down to the Yealm River. The Waterwitch was a schooner of 150 tons; it had one large cabin where one had one’s meals, my mother’s cabin aft, a cabin for my father, and three spare cabins. The name of the first captain was Goomes, but he was afterwards replaced by Bletchington. Goomes was employed later by the German Emperor. He had a knack of always getting into rows during races, and even on other occasions.

One day there was a regatta going on on the Yealm River; the gig of the Waterwitch was to race the gig of another yacht. They had to go round a buoy. For some reason, I was in the Waterwitch’s gig when the race started, sitting in the stern next to Goomes, who was steering. All went well at first, but when the boats were going round the buoy they fouled, and Goomes and the skipper of the rival gig were soon engaged in a hand-to-hand combat, and beating each other hard with the steering-lines. My father and the rest of the family were watching the race on board the yacht. I think I was about six or seven. My father shouted at the top of his voice, “Come back, come back,” but to no avail, as Goomes and the other skipper were fighting like two dogs, and the boats were almost capsizing. I think Goomes won the fight and the race. I remember enjoying it all heartily, but not so my father on board the yacht.

Bletchington was a much milder person and, besides being a beautiful sailor, one of the gentlest and most beautiful-mannered mariners I have ever met. He was invariably optimistic, and always said there was a nice breeze. This sometimes tempted the girls, who were bad sailors, to go out sailing, but they always regretted it and used to come back saying, “How foolish we were to be taken in!” Hugo and I were good sailors and enjoyed the yacht more than anything. John was an expert in the handling of a yacht, but the “Imp” nearly died of sea-sickness if ever he ventured on board.

Captain Bletchington taught Hugo and myself a song in Fiji language. It ran like this:

“Tang a rang a chicky nee, picky-nicky wooa,

Tarra iddy ucky chucky chingo.”

Which meant:

“All up and down the river they did go;

The King and Queen of Otahiti.”

I think what we enjoyed most of all were games of Hide-and-seek on board. One day one of the sailors hid us by reefing us up in a sail in the sail-room, a hiding-place which baffled everyone. The Waterwitch was a fast vessel, and won the schooners’ race round the Isle of Wight one year and only narrowly missed winning the Queen’s Cup. The story of this race used to be told us over and over again by D., and used to be enacted by Hugo and me on our toy yachts or with pieces of cork in the sink. This is what happened. Another schooner, the Cetonia, had to allow the Waterwitch five minutes, but the Waterwitch had to allow the Sleuthhound, a cutter, twenty-five minutes. D. was watching from the shore, and my mother was watching from the R.Y.S. Club. The Cetonia came in first, but a minute or two later the Waterwitch sailed in before the five minutes’ allowance was up. Then twenty minutes of dreadful suspense rolled by, twenty-three minutes, and during the last two minutes, as D. dramatically said, “That ’orrid Sleuthhound sailed round the corner and won the race.” Hugo and I felt we could never forgive the owner of the Sleuthhound.

Besides the Waterwitch there was a little steam launch called the Wasp which used to take us in to Plymouth, and John had a sailing-boat of his own.