All the hinges need oiling, and allthe doorframes are warped. Wherever I went I was followed by a squeaking of doors swinging on their hinges, a creaking of floorboards, and drafts that set curtains fluttering, though it is impossible to tell exactly where they come from.
I returned to the kitchen as soon as I could. Mrs. Dunne was preparing our evening meal, and I had no inclination to eat food cooked in pots as unpleasant as the ones I had seen, so I got stuck into a great pile of washing up (after giving the sink the most thorough scrubbing it had seen for adecade) and kept a close eye on her with the preparation. She does her best.
The girls would not come down toeat. I called once and no more. Mrs. Dunne was all for calling and persuading, but I told her that I have my methods, and she must be on myside.
The doctor came todine. As I had been led to expect, the head ofthe household did not appear.I had thought the doctor would be offended at this, but heseemed to find it entirely normal. So it was just the two of us, and Mrs. Dunne doing her best to wait at table, but needing much help from me.
The doctor is an intelligent, cultivated man. Hehas a sincere desire to see the twins improve and has been the prime mover in bringing me to Angelfield. He explained to me at great length the difflculties I am likely to face here, and I listened with as much politeness as I could muster. Any governess, after the few hours I have had in this house, would have a full and clearpicture of the task awaiting her, but he is a man, hence cannot see how tiresome it is to have explained at length what one has already fully understood. My fidgeting and the slight sharpness of one or two of my answersentirely escaped his notice, and I fear that his energy and his analytical skills are not matched by hispowers of observation. I do not criticise him unduly for expecting everyone he meets to be less able than himself. For he is a clever man, and more than that, he is a big fish in a smallpond. He has adopted an air of quiet modesty, but I see through that easily enough, for I have disguised myself in exactly the same manner. However, I shall need his support in the project I have taken on, and shall work at making him my allydespite his shortcomings.
I hear sounds of an upset from downstairs. Presumably thegirls have discovered the lock on the pantry door. They will be angry and frustrated, but how else can I train them toproper mealtimes? And without mealtimes, how can orderbe restored?
Tomorrow I will start by cleaning this bedroom. I have wiped the surfaces with a damp cloth this evening, and was tempted to clean the floor, but told myself no. It will only need doing again tomorrow when I scrub the walls and take down the curtains that are so thick with dirt. So tonight I sleep in dirt, but tomorrow I shall sleep in a bright clean room. It will be a good beginning. For I plan to restore order and discipline to this house, and to succeed in my aim must first of all make myself a clean room to think in. No one can think clearly and make progress if she is not surrounded by hygiene andorder.
The twins are crying in the hall. It is time for me to meet my charges.
I have been so busy organising the house that I have had little time for my diary lately, but I must make the time, for it is chiefly in writing that I record and develop my methods.
Emmeline I have made good progress with, and my experience withher fits the pattern of behavior I have seen in other difficult children. She is not, I think, as badly disturbed as was reported, and with my influence will come to be a nice child. She is affectionate and sturdy, has learned to appreciate the benefits of hygiene, eats with a good appetite and can be made to obey instructions by kind coaxing and the promise of small treats. She will soon come to understand that goodness rewards by bringing the esteem of others in its wake, and then I will be able to reduce the bribery. She will never be clever, but then I know the limits of my methods. Whatever my strengths, I can only develop what is there to start with.
I am content with my work on Emmeline.
Her sister is a more difficult case. Violence I have seen before, and I am less shocked thanAdeline thinks by her destructiveness. However, I am struck by one thing: In other children destructiveness is generally a side effect of rage and not its primary objective. The violent act, as I have observed it in other charges, is most frequently motivated by an excess of anger, and the outpouring of the anger is only incidentally damaging to people and property. Adeline's case does not fit this model. I have seen incidents myself, and been told of others, in which destruction seems to be Adeline's only motive, and rage something she has to tease out, stoke up in herself, in order to generate the energy to destroy. For she is a feeble little thing, skin and bone, and eats only crumbs. Mrs. Dunne has told me of one incident in the garden, when Adeline is known to have damaged a number of yews. If this is true, it is a great shame. The garden was clearly very beautiful. It could be put to rights, but John has lost heart over the matter, and it is not only the topiary but the garden in general that suffers from his lack of interest. I will find the time and a way to restore his pride. It will do much to improve the appearance and the atmosphere of the house if he can be made happy in his work and the garden made orderly again.
Talking of John and the garden reminds me-I must speak to him about the boy. Walking about the schoolroom this afternoon, I happened to come near the window. It was raining, and I wanted to close the window so as not to let any more damp in; the window ledge on the inside is already crumbling away. If I hadn't been so close to the window, nose almost pressed to the glass, infact, I doubt I'd have seen him. But there he was: a boy, crouching in the flower bed, weeding. He was wearing a pair of men's trousers, cut off at the ankle and held up with a pair of braces. A wide-brimmed hat cast his face in shadow, and I was unable to get a clear impression of his age, though he might have been eleven or twelve. I know it is common practice in rural areas for children to engage in horticultural work, though I thought it was more commonly farmwork they did, and I appreciate the advantages of their learning their trade early, but I do not like to see any child out of school during school hours. I will speak to John about it and make sure he understands the boy must spend school hours in school.
But to return to my subject: Where Adeline's viciousness to her sister is concerned, she might be surprised to know it, but I have seen it all before. Jealousy and anger between siblings is commonplace, and in twins rivalries are frequently heightened. With time I will be able to minimise the aggression, but in the meantime constant vigilance is required to prevent Adeline hurting her sister, and this slows down progress on other fronts, which is a pity. Why Emmeline lets herself be beaten (and have her hairpulled out, and be chased by Adeline wielding the fire tongs in which she carries hot coals) I have yet to understand. She is twice the si^e of her sister and could defend herself more vigorously than she does. Perhaps she flinches from inflicting hurt on her sister; she is an affectionate soul.
My first judgment of Adeline in the early days was of a child who might not ever come to live as independent and normal a life as her sister, but who could be brought to a point of balance, of stability, and whose rages could be contained by the imposition of a strict routine. I did not expect ever to bring her to understanding. The task I foresaw was greater than for her sister, but I expected far less thanks for it, for it would seem less in the eyes of the world.
But I have been startled into modifying that opinion by signs of a dark and clouded intelligence. This morning she came into the classroom dragging her feet, but without the worst displays of unwillingness, and once in her seat, rested her head on her armjust as I have seen before. I began the lesson. It was nothing more than the telling of a story, an adaptation I had made for the purpose of the opening chapters o/'Jane Eyre, a story loved by a great many girls. I was concentrating on Emmeline, encouraging her to follow the story by animating it as much aspossible. I gave one voice to the heroine, another to the aunt, yet another to the cousin, and I accompanied the storytelling with such gestures and expressions as seemed to illustrate the emotions of the characters. Emmeline did not take her eyes off me, and I was pleased with my effect.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement. Adeline had turned her head in my direction. Still her head rested on her arm, still her eyes appeared closed, yet I had the distinct impression she was listening to me. Even if the change of position was meaningless (and it was not; she has always turned awayfrom me before), there is the alteration in the way she held herself. Where she normally slumps over her desk when she sleeps, in a state of animal unconsciousness, today her whole body seemed alert: the set of the shoulders, a certain tension. As if she was straining toward the story, yet still trying to give the impression of inert slumber.
I did not want her to see that I had noticed anything. I continued to look as if I was reading only
