Part 2 (1/2)
After this I had a long succession of different situations. It is possible for a girl to learn the work of any branch of domestic service in a week, if she wishes to do it, with the exception of the work of a cook or a personal maid. But then, it is quite possible to take a situation as a cook, and to keep it, without knowing anything appreciable about the work. Thousands of women have done it, and are still doing it. I never went as personal maid--I dislike familiarity--but with that exception I played, so to speak, every instrument in the orchestra.
I acquired an excellent stock of testimonials, of which some were genuine. The others were due to the kindly heart and vivid imagination of my sister Casey, now Mrs. Morgenstein.
I rarely kept my places, and never kept my friends. The only thing I did keep was a diary. A diary is evidence. So if you see anything about anybody in these pages, you can believe it without hesitation.
Do, please. You see, if you hesitate, you may never believe it.
I well remember the first and only time that I met Gladstone. I was staying with Lady Bilberry at the time at her house in Half Moon Street. She was a woman with real charm and wit, but somewhat irritable.
Most of the people I've met were irritable or became so, and I can't think why. I may add that I only stayed out my month as too much was expected. Besides, I'd been told there was a boy for the rough work and there never was.
But to return to Gladstone. I wrote down every precious word of my conversation with him at the time, and the eager and excited reader may now peruse it in full.
GLADSTONE: Lady Bilberry at home?
MARGE: Yes, sir.
GLADSTONE: Thanks.
MARGE: What name, please?
He gave me his name quite simply, without any attempt at rudeness or facetiousness. I should say that this was typical of the whole character of the man. With a beautiful and punctilious courtesy he removed his hat--not a very good hat--on entering the house. I formed the impression from the ease with which he did this that the practice must have been habitual with him.
The only thing that mars this cherished memory is that it was not the Gladstone you mean, nor any relative of his, but a gentleman of the same name who had called to see if he could interest her ladys.h.i.+p in a scheme for the recovery of some buried treasure. He did not stay long, and Lady Bilberry said I ought to have known better.
About this time I received by post a set of verses which bear quite a resemblance to the senile vivacity of the verses which the real Gladstone addressed to my ill.u.s.trious example of autobiographical art.
The verses I received were anonymous, and as a matter of fact the postmark on the envelope was Beaconsfield. Still, you never know, do you?
MARGE.
When Pentonville's over and comes the release, With a year's supervision perhaps by the p'lice, Your longing to meet all your pals may be large, But make an exception, and do not ask Marge.
She's Aspasia, Pavlova, Tom Sayers, Tod Sloan, Spinoza, and Barnum, and Mrs. Chapone; For a bloke that has only just got his discharge, She's rather too dazzling a patchwork, is Marge.
Never mind, never mind, you have got to go slow, One section a year is the most you can know;
If you study a life-time, you'll jest on the barge Of Charon with madd'ningly manifold Marge.
By the way, whenever we change houses a special pantechnicon has to be engaged to take all the complimentary verses that have from time to time been addressed to me. Must be a sort of something about me somehow, don't you think?
I cannot pretend that I was on the same terms of intimate friends.h.i.+p with Mr. Lloyd George. I spoke to him only once.
It was when we were in Downing Street. There was quite a crowd of us there, and it had been an evening of exalted and roseate patriotism. I gazed up at the window of No. 10 and said, as loudly as I could:
”Lloyd George! Lloyd George!”
Most of the others in the crowd said the same thing with equal force.
Then an uneducated policeman came up to me and asked me to pa.s.s along, please, adding that Mr. Lloyd George was not in London. So, simply replying ”All right, face,” I pa.s.salongpleased.
However, in spite of all that bound me so closely to the great political world, I could not help feeling the claims of literature. I am sensitive to every claim. It is the claim of history, for example, that compels me to write my autobiography. I seem to see all around me a thousand human arts and activities crying for my help and interest. They seem to say ”Marge, Marge, more Marge!” in the words that Goethe himself might have used. And whenever I hear the call I have to give myself.