Read Ebook: Daisy's Aunt by Benson E F Edward Frederic

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Ebook has 1131 lines and 67186 words, and 23 pages

"It's much the most sensible plan," continued Daisy, perceiving, but completely ignoring, the tone. "It does no good to miss people, and, as I say, I seldom do it. But I always miss Aunt Jeannie. I should like to see her every day of my life. It would be dreadful to see most people every day, though I like them so much when I do see them. Oh, Gladys darling, don't look as if you were in church! You can't take things lightly, you know."

"And you can't take them in any other way," remarked Gladys.

"Oh, but I can; it is only that I don't usually choose to. It is a great blessing I don't take every one seriously. If I took Willie seriously, I should find him a great bore; as it is, I think he is quite charming, and I should certainly marry him if I were fifty."

"It was forty-three just now," said Gladys.

"Yes; but being with you has made me grow older very quickly," said Daisy.

Gladys laughed; with Daisy it was very true that "c'est le ton qui fait la musique," and the same words which in another tone could have wounded her, now merely amused. It had taken her a long time to get used, so to speak, to this brilliant, vivid friend, who turned such an engaging smile on the world in general, and shone with supreme impartiality on the wicked and the good, and to know her, as she knew her now, with greater thoroughness than she knew herself. Ethically, if Gladys had been put to the question on her oath, she would have had to give the most unsatisfactory account of her friend, and, to sum up all questions in one, it would have come to this--that she believed Daisy to be quite heartless. But, humanly, there was in Daisy much to take the place of that profound organ. She had the joy of life and the interest in life to a supreme degree, and though she resolutely turned her back on anything disagreeable or ugly, her peremptory dismissal of such things was more than made up for by her unbounded welcome of all that pleased her. You had only to please her , and she poured sunlight on you. And Gladys, who was naturally rather shy, rather slow to make friends, rather reticent, soon grasped this essential fact about Daisy, and having grasped it, held tightly to it. She felt she would not readily go to Daisy if she was in trouble, but there was no one to whom she would hurry with such certainty of welcome if she was happy. And though, no doubt, sympathy, to be complete, must feel for sorrow as keenly as it feels for joy, yet a nature that feels keenly for joy and turns its back on sorrow is perhaps quite as fine a one as that which, though it may be an excellent comforter, is rather of the nature of a wet blanket when a happy soul appeals to it for sympathy. And on joy, whether her own or that of another, Daisy never turned her back. She delighted in the happiness of others.

Daisy's father and mother had both died when she was quite young, and not yet half-way through the momentous teens. For seven years after that she had lived with her mother's sister, the inimitable Aunt Jeannie, whom she wished to see every day. But though she had passed seven years with her, she had barely seen her aunt's husband. It was his death, a year ago, that had sent her to the Nottinghams, for Aunt Jeannie in a crisis of nerves had been ordered abroad for a year, and was now on the point of return, and, having returned, was to stay with Lady Nottingham for the indefinite period which may be taken up by the finding of a suitable house.

Daisy knew there had been trouble at the back of all this. Uncle Francis, Aunt Jeannie's husband, had been called an invalid, and she gathered that his ill-health was something not to be openly alluded to. Morphia was connected with it, a "habit" was connected with it, and since this was somehow disagreeable, she had long ago so successfully banished it from her thoughts that her curiosity about it was a thing without existence. Certainly he made Aunt Jeannie very unhappy, but Aunt Jeannie, who was such a dear, and so young still--not more than thirty, for she was the youngest of a family of whom Daisy's mother was the eldest--had been always sedulous to hide disquietude from her niece. And it was entirely characteristic of Daisy to be grateful for having it all hid from her, and not even in thought to conjecture what it was all about. During this year of separation from Aunt Jeannie, in which, as she had said , she had missed her every day, she had always looked forward to her return, and, though she liked being with Lady Nottingham very much, knew that she would ultimately go back to the unrivalled other aunt again with the intensest satisfaction.

But of late the prospect of going back, or living with any aunt at all, had receded into at least a middle distance. There was no doubt in her own mind that Lord Lindfield had been extremely attentive to her for the last month or so. He had committed dreadful social crimes, such as throwing over an engagement already made and nearly due, when he found that she would be at some house to which he was subsequently invited. And somehow , though he upset dinner-tables right and left, nobody really minded. Match-making London, which includes the larger part of that marriageable city, even when they were personally affronted and inconvenienced, smiled sympathetically when they heard what his movements on the night he ought to have dined with them had been. He did even worse than that; he had once, indeed, omitted to send the excuse of a subsequent engagement, and everybody had waited a quarter of an hour for him to put in a belated appearance. And when he did not his hostess had remarked that he must be "picking daisies," and the procession had gone dinner-wards with a widowed girl.

It turned out to be true, did this conjecture of the hostess. He had dined "quietly" that night at Lady Nottingham's, and had played "old maid" afterwards, as bridge was universally voted to be far too intellectual. And Daisy took huge pleasure in such facts as these, stealthily conveyed to her by one if not more of her innumerable girl friends. For though there was no doubt that many dutiful mothers would have liked their daughters to marry Lord Lindfield, yet when he declared himself by signs as unmistakable as this, they neither felt nor communicated any ill-humour.

Lady Nottingham purred approval over the girls on their punctual return, before any of her guests had arrived. She was rather stout and very comfortable. Behind her stoutness and her comfort there beat a heart of gold, and an extremely acute brain, which was not always allowed for, was alert and watchful. A heart of gold is considered as not incompatible with comfort and stoutness, but nobody who had not come to grips with her, or been her ally in some affair that called for diplomacy or tact, knew how excessively efficient her brain was. She had, too, the supreme gift of only sending into action as much of it as was required to do the work, and never made elaborate plans when something simple would do as well.

All this combined to make not only a character that was lovable, but a friend whose wisdom might be depended on, and Daisy was eminently right in valuing her aunt's counsel and advice. She sought it, indeed, this evening, in the quiet half-hour that intervened between the departure of the tea-party guests and the time when it was necessary to dress for dinner.

Lady Nottingham was resting in her room when Daisy went to her, ostensibly to get the list of those who were coming to dinner that night in order to arrange the table. But though she would have gone there in any case for that reason, another and far more essential one lay behind it. She wanted, indeed, to get her aunt's opinion on the point she had herself talked to Gladys about that afternoon, and sound her as to her opinion about Lord Lindfield.

The sorting of people to see who would take whom in to dinner, with abstracted frownings over the map of the table, seemed to Daisy an admirable accompaniment for disjointed questions, and one which would give her an adventitious advantage, since at any moment she could be absorbed in the task she was so kindly occupying herself with, and be silent over it, if a reply was in any way inconvenient.

This sort of diplomacy, though not exactly habitual with Daisy, seemed to her sufficiently acute and blinding, and she sat on the floor with a peerage, the list of the guests, a sheet of paper and a pencil, and began at once, while Lady Nottingham "rested" on the sofa against which Daisy leant her back.

"Oh, what nice people!" said Daisy. "Can't they all take me in? Willie Carton, Jimmie, Lord Lindfield, Mr. Braithwaite, and Lord Pately. Dear Willie! I suppose he ought to take me in. Do you mind whether you sit at the end of the table or in the middle of the middle, Aunt Alice? Middle of the middle always works out more easily. All right. Dear Willie!"

The diplomat, who is known to be a diplomat, is at once under a heavy handicap. Daisy was instantly detected, and Lady Nottingham, since there was no direct question to reply to, preserved silence. Then, after a sufficient pause, she asked,--

"Have you settled about Willie, dear?"

"Ye-es. It will be better if he takes Gladys in."

"Then he's settled for," said Lady Nottingham, turning over a page in her book.

This did not suit Daisy; she had meant to make Aunt Alice ask leading questions, instead of which she only gave the most prosaic answers. She sighed.

"Poor Willie!" she said.

Aunt Alice laughed quietly and comfortably.

"Dearest Daisy," she said, "as you want to tell me about Willie, why don't you do so? I suppose you want me to ask instead. Very well, it makes no difference. I imagine he has proposed again to you, and that you have refused him, and want to be quite sure I think you are wise about it. You see, you said, 'Dear Willie' first, and 'Poor Willie' afterwards. What other inference could a reasonable woman like me draw? If you hadn't wanted to talk about it, you would have said neither the one nor the other. Hadn't you better begin?"

Daisy laughed.

"I think you are a witch," she said. "Oh, one moment; the table is coming right. Yes, and me at the end."

"And Lord Lindfield on your left," said Lady Nottingham, without looking up.

That was the end of Daisy's diplomacy.

"You would have been burnt at the stake two hundred years ago, darling Aunt Alice," she said. "I should have helped to pile the faggots."

"What a good thing I wasn't born earlier," said she. Then for a moment she thought intently; what she wanted to say next required consideration. "Daisy dear," she said, "I wanted to talk to you also, and if you had not been so very diplomatic I should have begun."

"Oh, I wish I had waited," said Daisy.

"Yes. But it makes no difference. What you want is my advice to you as to whether you should accept Lord Lindfield. I quite agree with you that he is going to propose to you. Otherwise he has been flirting with you disgracefully, and I have never known him flirt with a girl before."

Lady Nottingham put her book quite completely down. She wanted to convey certain things quite clearly but without grossness.

"Now, Daisy, you are very young," she said, "but in some ways you are extremely grown-up. I mean, I think you know your own mind very well. I wish very much that your Aunt Jeannie had come back sooner, because she is about nine times as wise as I, and could have advised you instead of me. As it is, since I think you may have to settle a very important question any day, I have got to give you the best advice I can. I think he will propose to you, as I said, any day; indeed, I feel quite certain of it, else it would be abominable in me to talkovided. They could expand and use some of their energies.

But the field was a narrow one. Men are not born to sow and reap and trade alone. They have other emotions which seek for outlet, other energies which require a vent. Man is gregarious, and he is so made that he cannot fully develop himself except in larger and again larger communities. To reach his full stature in any way he must develop in all ways. He must feel himself part of ever greater organisms, the village first, the district and the nation--finally of humanity.

But in India all this is impossible. Except the village there is no community that exists even in name, and we have injured, almost destroyed, even that. Thus an Indian has no means of growth. He cannot be a citizen of anything at all. Half his sympathies and abilities lie entirely fallow, therefore he cannot fully develop the other half. A man is a complete organism, and if you keep half in inaction you affect the other half too. A man is not a worse but a better merchant, or lawyer, or landowner, or soldier, because he is interested in his locality, his community, his nation. It gives him wider views, makes him more tolerant, more humane, more wise. Man as a unit is a poor thing, physically, morally, and intellectually. Ability is the product of communities, of men formed into organisms, not of individuals. Each man in himself has no duty but to himself; to own a duty to a community he must be part of the community; to a government he must have a place in the government; to a nation he must be part of the nation. But in India there is no nation, no community at all, save very weakened village communities. As far as the Indian is concerned no larger community exists. And I have already pointed out that India has no place in the organism of government.

It is the slowly growing consciousness of an energy that has no outlet, of a desire for advance in every direction, that causes the unrest. In some ways the educated classes feel it most. Elsewhere they see men of their class cultivating their patriotism, increasing that sense of being and working for others, of being valuable to the world at large, showing capacity for leading, ruling, thinking, advancing in a thousand ways, while none of it is for them. They want to express the genius of their races in wider forms than mere individuality, but they are not able to do so. They want a national science and literature and law; they cannot have it. No individual as an individual can achieve anything. Not till he feels he is a cell in a greater and more enduring life can he develop. But this is not for India.

It is a piece of advice often addressed to India when she expresses her desire for some share in her government that she should first reform herself socially and intellectually. The status of women in zenanas and harems, infant marriage, the sad condition of widows, the degradation of caste, polygamy, the fanaticism of religions, are, she is told, to be mended before she can show herself fit for self-government in any form. Only to a free people can self-government be safely entrusted, and she is so wrapped up in prejudice and ignorance that she is unfit for any freedom. "Mend your divisions first; reform yourself, and we will see what we can do."

Such advice comes from ignorance alone. It is but another instance of that Phariseeism that has become so common with us. It is impossible for individuals to reform themselves, however much they may wish to do so. For an individual to reform, his whole environment must be reformed as well. For example, take widow remarriage. How can widows remarry in comfort till the whole structure of Hindu convention is changed? Not one individual nor a million individuals can break a convention. There is a strong feeling, as we know, amongst Hindus against this and many other conventions that stifle them, but every effort to break these chains has failed. Why? Because to break fetters bound upon society by religion or convention takes the combined effort of society, and even then it is difficult. The inertia of peoples is a deadly difficulty to overcome.

But we have not allowed the collective instinct any opportunity of developing. There are no nuclei; there is nothing to draw the people together.

Take again the differences created by races, religions, castes. It is the interest of the priests to maintain these differences and exaggerate them. Religions never reform themselves. What influence is there to soften them? None that I ever heard of.

But self-governing institutions do tend to remove them. In the village communal life they are to a considerable extent ignored. The organism of the village, when healthy and free, forces men to disregard artificial barriers of this sort and meet on common ground for common business. Solidarity comes from the sense of the necessity for solidarity in order to get on. Its possibility is soon manifest.

I hope that what I say will not be misunderstood. I do not for a moment mean that political organisms should or could be used for social reform. That is quite impossible. Any such attempt would wreck the organism, which, as an organism, must pursue only its legitimate ends.

But I say, and all history is at one with me, that suitable free institutions do cultivate and bring out the faculty for freedom, and demonstrate that in all matters it is necessary.

Again, consider this: the laws concerning marriage, divorce, adoption, and inheritance, whether of Mohammedan, Hindu, or Buddhist, are petrified. With changing circumstances, changes in these laws become of the first necessity; yet as things are now no change is possible. Take the ten million Buddhists in Burma. Their laws of marriage are contained in the Dhammathats, which are derived from the laws of Menu, and are I don't know how old. Now there is this that is good about them: they were codified when India was free, before the night of religious bigotry descended upon it. They are, therefore, based not upon religious ideas, but upon custom which was based on experience. The spirit therefore is excellent, it is common-sense; it is not the pretension of an ideal long before the ideal is universally possible, but a common-sense recognition of human nature as it is, and the necessity of doing your best with it. They are the only marriage laws in the world framed by common sense and not religion. Men and women are free and equal. But although their base is excellent they were framed for a very different environment from what obtains now. And again, there are two or more codes, and they differ in details. There is nothing the people want more than a rectification and consolidation of their laws, with registration of marriage, the power to make wills, and other matters. They are always expressing this necessity because the present laws of inheritance handicap them against other races. They cannot make wills, and the law of inheritance is so vague that when a rich man dies litigation almost always ensues. The estate is dissipated in law-costs and the heirs ruined.

But who is going to draft the new laws? Not Government. Once bit twice shy, and the Government of Madras had a try at that in Malabar. There was urgent necessity there for some system of marriage registration, so Government appointed a Commission which recorded quantities of evidence, and framed a Report, on which an Act was passed. It was supposed to be absolutely according to the wishes of the people. I have not been in Malabar since the Act was passed, but one friend has told me that three marriages were registered under it. Another friend told me that this is a wild exaggeration, and that only one marriage was registered under it, just that the people might say they had not rejected the Act without trying it. However this may be, the Act is a dead letter. It was bound to fail. The people find the laws of Government already too stringent, interfering too much, and too inhuman, even where they deal with matters outside the home. They will never allow an alien Government a footing inside the house. They know Government has destroyed the village; they fear it will destroy the family. Therefore Government holds its hand. It cannot do otherwise. For even if it could frame an Act in accordance with the wishes of the people, that Act could not be enforced. And it cannot discover the wishes of the people, because the people themselves don't know. The opinion of no matter how many individuals is no true guide. Because, to justify a new Act of inheritance, not individual opinion but joint opinion must be known. They are not the same. Ten men as individuals will tell you one thing; these ten men as a community would tell you a different thing. This is a fact in psychology I shall have to refer to again later. It is undoubted.

Now the joint opinion of Burmese society as to the proposed change cannot be gauged, because it does not exist. There are no Burmese communities to evolve any common idea. Therefore the archaic laws must remain as they are.

Thus throughout India all progress of all sorts is barred; can you wonder that there is unrest from this one cause alone?

And this feeling goes down to the very lowest ranks as an unnameable, unanalysable fever and unhappiness; you see it everywhere.

Then there is more than this. A system of government and law that was bearable when we were weak is unbearable when stronger. What gives you help when young becomes a fetter as you grow. It bites into the flesh like cords too tightly drawn, and in India instead of being loosed they have been drawn more tightly year by year.

It is not only that the people have grown bigger, but the bonds of government have grown narrower. It has grown more of a machine, less human than it was, less human year by year, until sometimes now it is almost inhuman in its rigid formalism. The bonds cut into her flesh; India wants to grow, to rise--but cannot. How could it be but that she should show unrest?

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