O. Douglas - The House That is Our Own

Isobel studied the pictures of Mull, and Kitty asked, “What about the turquoise walls? Do you really like them or would you have preferred cream? Honestly now.”

Isobel took time to consider and said, “Honestly, I like them better than I expected, but I’ll reserve judgment until the room’s finished. While the men are hanging the pictures, shall we find places for some of the books? You’d rather do that yourself, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I must, or I wouldn’t know where to find anything. The nuisance is so many of them are numbered—the Pentland Stevenson, for instance, but there are long rows of Hardy and Meredith that can be put in in any order. (They’ve both slumped badly in value, poor dears!) There are first editions of all Conrad’s works, and that’s Barrie in green morocco—I can’t think why. I’m sure Jess wouldn’t know herself in such a grand dress. And Sir Walter so shabby in faded cloth! That pile of blood-red books are, appropriately enough, murder trials; terribly interesting if you have the nerve to read them.”

“Here are beautiful vellum-bound books.”

“Yes, Malory’s Morte d’Arthur , from the Medici Society. They go into the glass bookcase. But it’s not the imposing vellum that are the really valuable ones. Some of the grubbiest-looking little books are worth their weight in platinum. Mr. Johnson has in his safe one or two that Rob treasured above everything. But I like ordinary books best, in open shelves, close to my hand, that I can browse amongst. This bookcase between the fire and the window is to be my special one. Jane Austen will go in here, and The Mill on the Floss , and Middlemarch , and—and——”

Kitty grappled on the floor with books for a few minutes, then said, “I must lay the different authors in piles as I find them, before trying to put them into shelves. You’d think they’d been stirred round and round, fiction, poetry, history, fairy-tales!”

“As long as you know what you ought to have,” said Isobel. “I’ll cope with the complete editions, they’re easy.”

She finished several shelves, and turning round to ask if they were right, found that her companion, instead of getting on with the job in front of her, had succumbed to temptation, and was deep in The Golden Age .

She dropped the book on hearing Isobel’s ejaculation, and said apologetically:

“It’s so long since I saw it, I’d forgotten how good it was. There should be four Kenneth Grahame’s: Pagan Papers , The Golden Age , Dream Days , The Wind in the Willows . If you come across any, heave them over.”

“I will,” said Isobel obligingly, adding, as she fitted in tall volumes with care, “Everything Kenneth Grahame wrote was perfect of its kind. Many writers achieve perhaps one—or two—very good books, and then mysteriously decline and become quite different.”

“It’s because they try to be versatile,” said Kitty. “You don’t see any fat red Thackerays over there, do you? I’ve got Vanity Fair and Esmond ——” She began to turn over leaves.

“Here’s Pendennis ,” said Isobel, after a few minutes. But Kitty had found another treasure. “It’s Goody Two-shoes ,” she cried, “and here’s The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town , A Flat Iron for a Farthing , and Jackanapes —all my meek little books go together. The next shelf should be modern poetry, but the poets are buried at present. Isobel, did you ever, by any chance, hear of a writer called Margaret Veley? I think she must have written round about 1880. I don’t possess a word she wrote, but when I stayed as a young girl in the Scottish Borders, I found her books in an uncle’s library, a thin volume of verse, and a novel called For Percival . I’d give a lot to find them again, especially the book of poems. One— A Japanese Fan , it was called—I learned by heart, but that’s all I have of her.”

Isobel shook her head. “I don’t think I ever heard of those books. I wouldn’t be likely to, for in my aunt’s library poetry was conspicuous by its absence. It was her husband’s library, really, and mostly consisted of law books, lightened here and there by history and travel. The books I possess are my own choosing, books I liked and wanted to have.”

In a couple of hours the shelves were full, and the floor more or less cleared, and the two women stood back to admire the result of their efforts.

Kitty was delighted. “Nothing,” she cried, “furnishes a room like books. Already I feel at home here.”

“It is delightful,” Isobel said warmly. “I like your blue carpet, Kitty, and that big sofa. What a jolly winter room it’ll be, as well as a cool summer one. Let’s see if the men are ready to hang your wild geese.”

They found the drawing-room practically finished, the curtains up, the pictures hung, the furniture placed, even the rugs laid, and, after putting some touches here and there, Kitty asked:

“D’you like it, Isobel? Is it a room that strikes you as pleasant when you come in?”

Isobel looked round at the graceful furniture, the old china in the cabinets, the soft glow of the Bokhara rugs, and said:

“An exceedingly pleasant room, Kitty dear. Of course, it’s a drawing-room, a room for company, for one’s best clothes and prettiest manners, a formal room. For ordinary, I’d much prefer your book-room, it’s an any-time-of-the-day room; this is for tea drinking and after-dinner talk—a noisy sherry-party would be quite out of place.”

“There shan’t be any,” Kitty promised, her eyes wandering round her room. “I so much prefer a tea-party, all women, from choice, with everything of the finest, china, thin Georgian teaspoons, round complacent teapot, delicate sandwiches, wafers of bread and butter, small light cakes, with talk to match.”

Isobel straightened a Dresden china pot-pourri jar, and asked:

“What kind of talk?”

“Well,” said Kitty, “certainly nothing rude or ugly. The present state of the world would not be mentioned, nor gas-masks. I saw a wise man said the other day that what the world wanted was to get back to the time of the horse, for that was the proper rate of speed. He thought the combustion engine at the bottom of all the present misery and unrest—too rapid travelling, submarines, aeroplanes. I do so agree, don’t you? We’d talk of books, of course, and plays, and—oh, lots of things.”

“And where’ll you find guests for such a tea-party? Wouldn’t bridge-playing, cocktail-drinking females find it dull?”

“Not for a change. Jessica Irwin, I know, would love it. She and I had many a genteel tea-party in old Hampstead days, as well as many a cheerful mixed gathering with Rob and his friends. I expect I’ll get to know the other people in this place, the retired couple (unless they are also retiring), and the old lady downstairs.” She looked at her wrist-watch. “It’s almost time for Mrs. Auchinvole to pay her promised visit of inspection. Am I very untidy?”

“Considering everything, no,” said Isobel. “There’s a smudge on your nose. Let me——Here’s a comb.”

“What’ll I do if she turns me down after all?” Kitty asked nervously.

“Start on a round of registries. But she won’t. Your last was a very successful interview, and she seemed pleased to come.”

“Oh yes, and she had no uniform complex at all; said she’d never think of wearing anything but a dark dress in the afternoon, and seemed positively to like an apron—said it was a ‘freshener.’ Of course, she feels that she’s quite out of the ways of domestic service, but—there’s the bell.”

“I’ll open the door,” said Isobel, “and bring her in here. You will be discovered seated on a high chair.”