  Being what I am, it may readily be supposed that I have received many tributes to the qualities that I possess. I have already exposed many of these to the public gaze, still have some left, and it seems to me a pity that my readers should miss any of the evidence. The first testimonial is from my sister Casey, and a melancholy interest is attached to it. It was the last one she wrote for me before I took the momentous step which will be described in my last chapter: “Marge Askinforit has been in my service for eight years. I should not be parting with her but for the fact that I am compelled by reasons of health to leave England. Askinforit is clean, sober, honest, an early riser, an excellent plate-cleaner and valet, has perfect manners and high intelligence, takes a great pride in her work, and is most willing, obliging and industrious. She was with me as parlour-maid (first of two), and now seeks temporary employment in that capacity; but there is no branch of domestic service with which she is not thoroughly well acquainted, and when the occasion has arisen she has always been willing to undertake any duties, and has done so with unfailing success. She is tall, of “(Mrs.) C. Morgenstein.” I do not say that dear Casey’s estimate had the arid accuracy of the pedant, but she had a rich and helpful imagination. In rare moments of depression and unhappiness I have found that by reading one of her testimonials I can always recover my tone. And they were effective for their purpose. By this time I was accepting no situations except with titled people; and some of the language that I heard used suggested to me that the reclamation of baronets during their dinner-hour might after all be my life’s work. The next exhibit will be a letter from a famous author, a complete stranger to me, whose work I had long known and admired: “Dear Madam, For a long time past it has been my privilege to express in the daily newspapers my keen and heartfelt appreciation of a certain departmental store. I thought that I knew my work. I believe even that it gave satisfaction. I could begin an article with fragments of moral philosophy, easily intelligible and certain of general acceptance, modulate with consummate skill into the key of crÊpe de chine, and with a further natural and easy transition reach the grand theme of the glorious opportunities “But now the mists roll away and I see as it were remote peaks of delicate and implicating advertising the existence of which I had never suspected. It is to you I owe it. You have a theme that you probably find inexhaustible. Fired by your example I shall turn to my own subject (Government linen at the moment) with a happy consciousness that I shall do a far, far better thing than I have ever done before. “Your obedient servant, “Callisthenides.” Of this letter I will only say that few have the courage and candour to acknowledge an inferiority and an indebtedness, and fewer still could have done it in the vicious and even succulent style of the above. It is a letter that I read often and value highly. The only trouble about it is that I sometimes I cannot refrain from quoting also one of the many letters that I received from my dear old friend, Mr. J. A. Bunting: “And now I must turn to your request for a statement of my opinion of you, to be published in case an autobiography should set in. It was I who introduced you to a certain circle. That circle, though to me an open sessimy, was no doubt particular, and I confess that I felt some hesitation. Through no fault of your own, you were at that time in a position which was hardly up to our level. But I admired your spirit and thought your manners, of which I can claim to be a good judge, had the correct cashy, though with rather too much tendency to back-chat. At any rate, I took the step, and I have never regretted it. You soon made your way to the front, and it is my firm belief that if you had been dropped into a den of raging lions you would have done the same thing. You are much missed. You have my full permission to make what use you please of this testimonial, which is quite unsolicited, and actuated solely by an appreciation of the goods supplied. “Society in London is very so-so at present, and we leave for Scotland at the end of the week. His lordship’s had one fit of his tantrums, but I had a look in my eye that ipsum factum soon put an end to it. I wish Unfortunately, it is not everybody who will put into writing, with the simple manliness of Mr. Bunting, the very high opinion of me which they must inevitably have formed. Even George Leghorn has proved a disappointment. But in his case I am inclined to think there was a misunderstanding. I asked him to send his opinion of me as I thought of making a book. He replied on a postcard: “Don’t approve of women in the profession, and you’d better cut it out. It’s hard enough for a man bookmaker to scrape a living, with everybody expecting the absurd prices quoted in the press.” Many of the contemporary testimonials that I have received are so cautiously framed and so wanting in warmth that I decline to make any use of them. I have always hated cowardice. I have the courage of my opinions. Why cannot others have the same. However, I have through my sister Chlorine succeeded in securing the opinions of some of the greatest in another century. I can only say that they confirm my belief in her powers as a medium, and in her wonderful system of wireless telephony. The first person that I asked her to ring up was Napoleon. She had some difficulty in getting through. He spoke as follows: “Yes, I am Napoleon. Oh, that’s you, Chlorine, is it?... Quite well, thank you, but find the heat rather oppressive.... You want my opinion of your sister Marge? She is wonderful—wonderful! Tell her from me that if I had but married her when I was a young man, I am confident that Wellington would have met his Waterloo.” I think he would have liked to say more, but unfortunately the receiver fused. I think it showed such nice feeling in him that he spoke English. Poor Chlorine knows no French. After the apparatus had been repaired, Chlorine got into communication with Sir Joshua Reynolds. She said that his voice had a fruity ceremoniousness, and I wish I could have heard it. But I have not Chlorine’s gift of mediumship. Sir Joshua said: “The more I see of your sister Marge, the more I regret the time that I spent on Mrs. Siddons, who was also theatrical; my compliment that I should go down to posterity on the hem of her garment was not ill-turned, but she is more likely to go down to posterity as the subject of my art. Why, even Romney would have been good enough for her. Could I but have painted Marge, my fame had been indeed immortal. Who’s President?... Well, you surprise me.” To prevent any possibility of incredulity, I may add that I wrote those words down at the time, added the date and address, and But far more interesting is the important and exclusive communication which Chlorine next received. It was only after much persuasion that I got her to ring him up; she said it was contrary to etiquette. However, she at last put through a call to Sir Herbert Taylor, who kindly arranged the matter for us. He—not Sir Herbert—showed the greatest readiness to converse. Chlorine says that he spoke in a quick staccato. He was certainly voluble, and this is what he said: “What, what, what? Want my opinion of marriage, do you, Miss Forget-your-name? I had a long experience of it. Estimable woman, Charlotte, very estimable, and made a good mother, though she showed partiality. If I’d had my own way though—between ourselves, what, what?—I should have preferred Sarah. More lively, more entertaining. Holland would have been pleased. But it couldn’t be done. Monarchs are the servants of ministers now. Never admitted that doctrine myself. Kicked against it all my life. Ah, if North had been the strong man I was! But as to marriage.... “What, what? You said ‘Marge’—not ‘marriage’—your sister Marge? You should speak more clearly. Get nearer the receiver—age plays havoc with the hearing. Fine woman, Marge, and you can tell her I said so. Great spirit. Plenty of courage. Always admired courage. If I were a young man And then I am sorry to say he changed the subject abruptly. He went on: “What’s this about King Edward potatoes? Stuff and nonsense! I knew all about potatoes. Grew them at Windsor. Kew too. Wrote an article about them. Why can’t they name a potato after me? What?” Here Chlorine interposed: “Do you wish for another three minutes, sir, or have you finished?” I hoped he would say, “Don’t cut us off,” but, possibly from habits of economy, he did not. I have not given his name, for fear of being thought indiscreet, but possibly those who are deeply read in history may guess it. It is the greatest tribute but one that I have ever received, and I think brings me very nearly up to the level of my Great Example. If I could only feel that for once I had done that, I could fold my little hands and be content. But it is not quite the greatest tribute of all. The greatest is my own self-estimate of me myself. It demands and shall receive a chapter all to itself. Wipe your feet, take off your hat, assume a Sunday expression, and enter upon it reverently. After all, the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is not to be desired. In your case for certain it would cause you the most intense depression. Even in my own case I doubt if it would give me the same warm, By the way, ought one to say “self-estimate” or “self-esteem”? What a silly girl I am! I quite forgot. |
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