THE GRANDMAMMA





I spare my readers the account of my delight on coming home, my

happiness while there—enjoying a brief space of rest and liberty in

that dear, familiar place, among the loving and the loved—and my sorrow

on being obliged to bid them, once more, a long adieu.



I returned, however, with unabated vigour to my work—a more arduous

task than anyone can imagine, who has not felt something like the

misery of being charged with the care and direction of a set of

mischievous, turbulent rebels, whom his utmost exertions cannot bind to

their duty; while, at the same time, he is responsible for their

conduct to a higher power, who exacts from him what cannot be achieved

without the aid of the superior’s more potent authority; which, either

from indolence, or the fear of becoming unpopular with the said

rebellious gang, the latter refuses to give. I can conceive few

situations more harassing than that wherein, however you may long for

success, however you may labour to fulfil your duty, your efforts are

baffled and set at nought by those beneath you, and unjustly censured

and misjudged by those above.



I have not enumerated half the vexatious propensities of my pupils, or

half the troubles resulting from my heavy responsibilities, for fear of

trespassing too much upon the reader’s patience; as, perhaps, I have

already done; but my design in writing the few last pages was not to

amuse, but to benefit those whom it might concern; he that has no

interest in such matters will doubtless have skipped them over with a

cursory glance, and, perhaps, a malediction against the prolixity of

the writer; but if a parent has, therefrom, gathered any useful hint,

or an unfortunate governess received thereby the slightest benefit, I

am well rewarded for my pains.



To avoid trouble and confusion, I have taken my pupils one by one, and

discussed their various qualities; but this can give no adequate idea

of being worried by the whole three together; when, as was often the

case, all were determined to “be naughty, and to tease Miss Grey, and

put her in a passion.”



Sometimes, on such occasions, the thought has suddenly occurred to

me—“If they could see me now!” meaning, of course, my friends at home;

and the idea of how they would pity me has made me pity myself—so

greatly that I have had the utmost difficulty to restrain my tears: but

I have restrained them, till my little tormentors were gone to dessert,

or cleared off to bed (my only prospects of deliverance), and then, in

all the bliss of solitude, I have given myself up to the luxury of an

unrestricted burst of weeping. But this was a weakness I did not often

indulge: my employments were too numerous, my leisure moments too

precious, to admit of much time being given to fruitless lamentations.



I particularly remember one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my return

in January: the children had all come up from dinner, loudly declaring

that they meant “to be naughty;” and they had well kept their

resolution, though I had talked myself hoarse, and wearied every muscle

in my throat, in the vain attempt to reason them out of it. I had got

Tom pinned up in a corner, whence, I told him, he should not escape

till he had done his appointed task. Meantime, Fanny had possessed

herself of my work-bag, and was rifling its contents—and spitting into

it besides. I told her to let it alone, but to no purpose, of course.

“Burn it, Fanny!” cried Tom: and _this_ command she hastened to obey. I

sprang to snatch it from the fire, and Tom darted to the door. “Mary

Ann, throw her desk out of the window!” cried he: and my precious desk,

containing my letters and papers, my small amount of cash, and all my

valuables, was about to be precipitated from the three-storey window. I

flew to rescue it. Meanwhile Tom had left the room, and was rushing

down the stairs, followed by Fanny. Having secured my desk, I ran to

catch them, and Mary Ann came scampering after. All three escaped me,

and ran out of the house into the garden, where they plunged about in

the snow, shouting and screaming in exultant glee.



What must I do? If I followed them, I should probably be unable to

capture one, and only drive them farther away; if I did not, how was I

to get them in? And what would their parents think of me, if they saw

or heard the children rioting, hatless, bonnetless, gloveless, and

bootless, in the deep soft snow? While I stood in this perplexity, just

without the door, trying, by grim looks and angry words, to awe them

into subjection, I heard a voice behind me, in harshly piercing tones,

exclaiming,—



“Miss Grey! Is it possible? What, in the devil’s name, can you be

thinking about?”



“I can’t get them in, sir,” said I, turning round, and beholding Mr.

Bloomfield, with his hair on end, and his pale blue eyes bolting from

their sockets.



“But I INSIST upon their being got in!” cried he, approaching nearer,

and looking perfectly ferocious.



“Then, sir, you must call them yourself, if you please, for they won’t

listen to me,” I replied, stepping back.



“Come in with you, you filthy brats; or I’ll horsewhip you every one!”

roared he; and the children instantly obeyed. “There, you see!—they

come at the first word!”



“Yes, when _you_ speak.”



“And it’s very strange, that when you’ve the care of ’em you’ve no

better control over ’em than that!—Now, there they are—gone upstairs

with their nasty snowy feet! Do go after ’em and see them made decent,

for heaven’s sake!”



That gentleman’s mother was then staying in the house; and, as I

ascended the stairs and passed the drawing-room door, I had the

satisfaction of hearing the old lady declaiming aloud to her

daughter-in-law to this effect (for I could only distinguish the most

emphatic words)—



“Gracious heavens!—never in all my life—!—get their death as sure as—!

Do you think, my dear, she’s a _proper person_? Take my word for it—”



I heard no more; but that sufficed.



The senior Mrs. Bloomfield had been very attentive and civil to me; and

till now I had thought her a nice, kind-hearted, chatty old body. She

would often come to me and talk in a confidential strain; nodding and

shaking her head, and gesticulating with hands and eyes, as a certain

class of old ladies are wont to do; though I never knew one that

carried the peculiarity to so great an extent. She would even

sympathise with me for the trouble I had with the children, and express

at times, by half sentences, interspersed with nods and knowing winks,

her sense of the injudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting

my power, and neglecting to support me with her authority. Such a mode

of testifying disapprobation was not much to my taste; and I generally

refused to take it in, or understand anything more than was openly

spoken; at least, I never went farther than an implied acknowledgment

that, if matters were otherwise ordered my task would be a less

difficult one, and I should be better able to guide and instruct my

charge; but now I must be doubly cautious. Hitherto, though I saw the

old lady had her defects (of which one was a proneness to proclaim her

perfections), I had always been wishful to excuse them, and to give her

credit for all the virtues she professed, and even imagine others yet

untold. Kindness, which had been the food of my life through so many

years, had lately been so entirely denied me, that I welcomed with

grateful joy the slightest semblance of it. No wonder, then, that my

heart warmed to the old lady, and always gladdened at her approach and

regretted her departure.



But now, the few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had wholly

revolutionized my ideas respecting her: now I looked upon her as

hypocritical and insincere, a flatterer, and a spy upon my words and

deeds. Doubtless it would have been my interest still to meet her with

the same cheerful smile and tone of respectful cordiality as before;

but I could not, if I would: my manner altered with my feelings, and

became so cold and shy that she could not fail to notice it. She soon

did notice it, and _her_ manner altered too: the familiar nod was

changed to a stiff bow, the gracious smile gave place to a glare of

Gorgon ferocity; her vivacious loquacity was entirely transferred from

me to “the darling boy and girls,” whom she flattered and indulged more

absurdly than ever their mother had done.



I confess I was somewhat troubled at this change: I feared the

consequences of her displeasure, and even made some efforts to recover

the ground I had lost—and with better apparent success than I could

have anticipated. At one time, I, merely in common civility, asked

after her cough; immediately her long visage relaxed into a smile, and

she favoured me with a particular history of that and her other

infirmities, followed by an account of her pious resignation, delivered

in the usual emphatic, declamatory style, which no writing can portray.



“But there’s one remedy for all, my dear, and that’s resignation” (a

toss of the head), “resignation to the will of heaven!” (an uplifting

of the hands and eyes). “It has always supported me through all my

trials, and always will do” (a succession of nods). “But then, it isn’t

everybody that can say that” (a shake of the head); “but I’m one of the

pious ones, Miss Grey!” (a very significant nod and toss). “And, thank

heaven, I always was” (another nod), “and I glory in it!” (an emphatic

clasping of the hands and shaking of the head). And with several texts

of Scripture, misquoted or misapplied, and religious exclamations so

redolent of the ludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of

bringing in, if not in the expressions themselves, that I decline

repeating them, she withdrew; tossing her large head in high

good-humour—with herself at least—and left me hoping that, after all,

she was rather weak than wicked.



At her next visit to Wellwood House, I went so far as to say I was glad

to see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical: the words,

intended as a mark of civility, were received as a flattering

compliment; her countenance brightened up, and from that moment she

became as gracious and benign as heart could wish—in outward semblance

at least. From what I now saw of her, and what I heard from the

children, I know that, in order to gain her cordial friendship, I had

but to utter a word of flattery at each convenient opportunity: but

this was against my principles; and for lack of this, the capricious

old dame soon deprived me of her favour again, and I believe did me

much secret injury.



She could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me,

because, between that lady and herself there was a mutual

dislike—chiefly shown by her in secret detractions and calumniations;

by the other, in an excess of frigid formality in her demeanour; and no

fawning flattery of the elder could thaw away the wall of ice which the

younger interposed between them. But with her son, the old lady had

better success: he would listen to all she had to say, provided she

could soothe his fretful temper, and refrain from irritating him by her

own asperities; and I have reason to believe that she considerably

strengthened his prejudice against me. She would tell him that I

shamefully neglected the children, and even his wife did not attend to

them as she ought; and that he must look after them himself, or they

would all go to ruin.



Thus urged, he would frequently give himself the trouble of watching

them from the windows during their play; at times, he would follow them

through the grounds, and too often came suddenly upon them while they

were dabbling in the forbidden well, talking to the coachman in the

stables, or revelling in the filth of the farm-yard—and I, meanwhile,

wearily standing by, having previously exhausted my energy in vain

attempts to get them away. Often, too, he would unexpectedly pop his

head into the schoolroom while the young people were at meals, and find

them spilling their milk over the table and themselves, plunging their

fingers into their own or each other’s mugs, or quarrelling over their

victuals like a set of tiger’s cubs. If I were quiet at the moment, I

was conniving at their disorderly conduct; if (as was frequently the

case) I happened to be exalting my voice to enforce order, I was using

undue violence, and setting the girls a bad example by such

ungentleness of tone and language.



I remember one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could

not go out; but, by some amazing good fortune, they had all finished

their lessons, and yet abstained from running down to tease their

parents—a trick that annoyed me greatly, but which, on rainy days, I

seldom could prevent their doing; because, below, they found novelty

and amusement—especially when visitors were in the house; and their

mother, though she bid me keep them in the schoolroom, would never

chide them for leaving it, or trouble herself to send them back. But

this day they appeared satisfied with their present abode, and what is

more wonderful still, seemed disposed to play together without

depending on me for amusement, and without quarrelling with each other.

Their occupation was a somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted

together on the floor by the window, over a heap of broken toys and a

quantity of birds’ eggs—or rather egg-shells, for the contents had

luckily been abstracted. These shells they had broken up and were

pounding into small fragments, to what end I could not imagine; but so

long as they were quiet and not in positive mischief, I did not care;

and, with a feeling of unusual repose, I sat by the fire, putting the

finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann’s doll; intending, when that

was done, to begin a letter to my mother. Suddenly the door opened, and

the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in.



“All very quiet here! What are you doing?” said he. “No harm _to-day_,

at least,” thought I. But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to

the window, and seeing the children’s occupations, he testily

exclaimed—“What in the world are you about?”



“We’re grinding egg-shells, papa!” cried Tom.



“How _dare_ you make such a mess, you little devils? Don’t you see what

confounded work you’re making of the carpet?” (the carpet was a plain

brown drugget). “Miss Grey, did you know what they were doing?”



“Yes, sir.”



“You knew it?”



“Yes.”



“You knew it! and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on

without a word of reproof!”



“I didn’t think they were doing any harm.”



“Any harm! Why, look there! Just look at that carpet, and see—was there

ever anything like it in a Christian house before? No wonder your room

is not fit for a pigsty—no wonder your pupils are worse than a litter

of pigs!—no wonder—oh! I declare, it puts me quite past my patience”

and he departed, shutting the door after him with a bang that made the

children laugh.



“It puts me quite past my patience too!” muttered I, getting up; and,

seizing the poker, I dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred

them up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation under pretence

of mending the fire.



After this, Mr. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the

schoolroom was in order; and, as the children were continually

littering the floor with fragments of toys, sticks, stones, stubble,

leaves, and other rubbish, which I could not prevent their bringing, or

oblige them to gather up, and which the servants refused to “clean

after them,” I had to spend a considerable portion of my valuable

leisure moments on my knees upon the floor, in painfully reducing

things to order. Once I told them that they should not taste their

supper till they had picked up everything from the carpet; Fanny might

have hers when she had taken up a certain quantity, Mary Ann when she

had gathered twice as many, and Tom was to clear away the rest.

Wonderful to state, the girls did their part; but Tom was in such a

fury that he flew upon the table, scattered the bread and milk about

the floor, struck his sisters, kicked the coals out of the coal-pan,

attempted to overthrow the table and chairs, and seemed inclined to

make a Douglas-larder of the whole contents of the room: but I seized

upon him, and, sending Mary Ann to call her mamma, held him, in spite

of kicks, blows, yells, and execrations, till Mrs. Bloomfield made her

appearance.



“What is the matter with my boy?” said she.



And when the matter was explained to her, all she did was to send for

the nursery-maid to put the room in order, and bring Master Bloomfield

his supper.



“There now,” cried Tom, triumphantly, looking up from his viands with

his mouth almost too full for speech. “There now, Miss Grey! you see

I’ve got my supper in spite of you: and I haven’t picked up a single

thing!”



The only person in the house who had any real sympathy for me was the

nurse; for she had suffered like afflictions, though in a smaller

degree; as she had not the task of teaching, nor was she so responsible

for the conduct of her charge.



“Oh, Miss Grey!” she would say, “you have some trouble with them

childer!”



“I have, indeed, Betty; and I daresay you know what it is.”



“Ay, I do so! But I don’t vex myself o’er ’em as you do. And then, you

see, I hit ’em a slap sometimes: and them little ’uns—I gives ’em a

good whipping now and then: there’s nothing else will do for ’em, as

what they say. Howsoever, I’ve lost my place for it.”



“Have you, Betty? I heard you were going to leave.”



“Eh, bless you, yes! Missis gave me warning a three wik sin”. She told

me afore Christmas how it mud be, if I hit ’em again; but I couldn’t

hold my hand off ’em at nothing. I know not how _you_ do, for Miss Mary

Ann’s worse by the half nor her sisters!”