Vittoria Cottage (Dering Family #1)

by D.E. Stevenson

Discontented people are never popular with their neighbours and Mr. Arnold Dering was no exception to the rule.

He did not enjoy life, nor did he add to the enjoyment of life, so nobody in Ashbridge was particularly sorry when he died.

Now, once again, Caroline came alone. The girls had other things to do and Caroline had no use for reluctant assistants.

“Oh dear—of course I ought to like her, and honestly I do try. I remind myself of all the kind things she does but the fact is we seem to disagree on so many subjects that I find it difficult. It’s quite enough for Mrs. Meldrum to say one thing—I immediately find myself thinking the opposite,” declared Caroline with a sigh.

Here was the World. The World was full of people and all of them were important to themselves. Each had his or her problem (just as Caroline had) and each thought his or her problem the most important in the universe.

Houses slid past—hundreds of thousands of houses—and each one was a home, a secret place where people slept and ate and quarrelled and made it up again, where people were happy or miserable (or, even worse than miserable, were hopelessly resigned). Every house had its own peculiar atmosphere, its own peculiar smell, so that although there were dozens of houses, all alike to look at, they were all quite different.

He was neither very good at darts nor very bad, a circumstance that added greatly to his popularity.

It was not cruel, it was just child-like. Children are ruthless because they have not learned pity, they are inconsiderate because they have never experienced pain.

Nothing in this world is permanent—neither sorrow nor joy—and only a foolish person would ask for permanence. We don’t stand still, thought Robert. We are travellers upon the path of life. No traveller can bathe twice in the same stream. He bathes and goes on his way and, if the road is dusty and hot, he may look back longingly and think of the clear cool water with regret . . . but presently he may come upon another stream, different of course, but equally delightful to bathe in.

But, instead of listening properly, she began to wonder why it was that people like Mr. Meldrum could never see what frightful bores they were. I should know if I were boring someone to death, thought Caroline.

An audience is a strange thing; it’s a whole, you know. It isn’t just a conglomeration of individual people. The mere fact of sitting in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, seems to have a magical effect. An audience judges as one . . . and has a better judgment than the individuals who make it up.” “A mob is one unit,” said Robert Shepperton thoughtfully. “But a mob has less judgment than its individual members.”

Spiritual solitude in a crowd is more wretched than the solitude of Robinson Crusoe upon his desert island.

When he looks at you he really looks at you—with his eyes smiling—as if he really sees you. It sounds silly-like, but lots of people don’t. Lots of people look at you as if you were a chair or something—but he doesn’t. It’s almost as if he knew all about you,”

As is usual with parties, the dullest guests arrived first.

Robert stood and looked at the cottage and thought what a delightful place it was; he wondered who lived here and whether they were happy people. Happiness was an odd thing, Robert thought. It depended upon so many small factors.

and hatred is a terrible thing. Hatred hurts the hater far more than its object.

She simply could not understand why people should claim special privileges from Providence (so that disasters might befall others but ought not to befall them) and yet, at the same time, should be convinced that Providence had a down on them and had singled them out—as Job was singled out—to bear the blasts of misfortune.

What can justify tears and lamentations.’ That’s a Buddhist saying, and it’s true. The more you see of the world the more you realise how few things can justify tears and lamentations. I’m wasting none over this.”

“It isn’t what happens to you that matters, it’s how you take it,” replied Harriet with conviction.

“I’ve had some pretty severe knocks,” continued Harriet. “Pass the marmalade, James . . . but I’m too proud to lie down and whimper. I don’t let the world see my wounds. I bob up and laugh. Nobody can laugh at you if you laugh first; they laugh with you. That’s different. That doesn’t matter.