By the way, Longleat is the only house in which I ever slept with the words ‘Out of Bounds’ inscribed above my bedroom door. Practically the whole house had been given over to the hospital, leaving very few rooms for the family and their guests; and these private rooms, which were scattered about in different parts of the house, were all thus distinguished.
During the first year of the war, the resources of the country were organized under a hybrid system which was partly voluntary and partly compulsory. In the long run the compulsory method (which, with spiteful affection, was named D. O.R.A.) was destined to win, though nothing could have been more alien to the spirit of this country. By degrees our whole mode of life was changed. In the first three days after war was declared, the banks were closed all over the country, to give time for the hasty printing of £1 and 10s. notes. On August 8th, we saw in Salisbury for the first time that paper currency with which the present generation has grown up. Till then I had looked with some scorn upon the dirty little notes for small sums which were circulated in foreign countries; but when they were introduced here, we accepted them as one of the unpleasant things which, as patriots, we were bound to endure in our country’s time of stress. We did not then believe that sovereigns and half-sovereigns were gone for ever. Prices went up, though not startlingly; and at first the slight difference in the cost of things acted as a kind of automatic rationing. One was obliged to buy less, in order to keep the books near their previous level. Till then our tradesmen had always called for orders, which were given to them by the cook at the door; but now I decided to go myself to the market and shops to see what was obtainable every day and at what cost. I found that I saved about £4 a month by this system and I rather enjoyed it. It made keeping house far more amusing for the housekeeper, whatever the unhappy members of the household may have thought about it. The papers were full of economy hints, and we were taught to make marmalade from carrots, butter from potatoes, and cabbage from rhubarb leaves. This last proved to be a particularly deadly poison, and it was generally discontinued after a few deaths had been definitely traced to this charming little economy.
One economy which I personally enjoyed very much was bread-making. As soon as bread was rationed, we found that we were allowed the same weight per head of bread or of flour and could draw our ration in which ever we chose. I decided that I would make all the bread which should be eaten in our house. Before I began, I went to consult Mr. Bowle, the Salisbury miller, about the various kinds of flour. He told me such wonderful things about his trade that it seemed that anyone who could not be a poet should certainly be a miller. There must always be something magical in living in a mill house over the millrace with the mill-wheel turning day and night; but there is more romance than that to be found in a mill. The grain itself is full of character. It goes on living after it has been harvested, and it does not even die when it has been crushed between the millstones. It for ever continues to feel changes of climate and to show changes of temper. Mr. Bowie said that the flour would always vary with the course of the stars under which it was milled. Having learnt thus that flour is erratic enough to excuse any faults of the bread-maker, I started on my new career and baked three times a week, using a great variety of different recipes. My bread was quite delicious and I was not the only person who thought so. I soon found that the only secret of bread-making is sufficient kneading, and I pummelled away for nearly an hour each time, always learning a Sonnet of Shakespeare as I worked. By the end of the war I knew them all, but now I can’t remember one. I once asked Pamela Grey how she and Lord Grey succeeded in keeping in mind the great quantity of poetry which they could always say by heart. She said that they took much trouble about it, constantly reciting poetry to each other, when they were travelling by motor or in the train, or wherever they found a free half-hour.
When we were at Weymouth in August 1915, we steamed round the harbour and saw the hull of the old battleship, Hood, which had been partly sunk at the entrance to Portland Harbour to act as a defence against submarines. She was lying keel uppermost and was a most wonderful colour, burnished yellow and gold. The sailors at Weymouth were then discussing all possible reasons for the sinking of the Lusitania. She seemed to have been very far from her prescribed zigzag course, and if she had kept to it she would have been safe.
It was just at this time that a ‘National Register’ was instituted. This was a kind of voluntary conscription. Everyone between the ages of fifteen and sixty-five was asked to enrol in it and to say what their usual employment was and what they were willing to do. My father was then eighty-four, but he insisted on enrolling. He knew that there was no chance of his being accepted as a
