A delicate business--What Ethelbertha might have said--What she did
say--What Mrs. Harris said--What we told George--We will start on
Wednesday--George suggests the possibility of improving our minds--Harris
and I are doubtful--Which man on a tandem does the most work?--The
opinion of the man in front--Views of the man behind--How Harris lost his
wife--The luggage question--The wisdom of my late Uncle Podger--Beginning
of story about a man who had a bag.
I opened the ball with Ethelbertha that same evening. I commenced by
being purposely a little irritable. My idea was that Ethelbertha would
remark upon this. I should admit it, and account for it by over brain
pressure. This would naturally lead to talk about my health in general,
and the evident necessity there was for my taking prompt and vigorous
measures. I thought that with a little tact I might even manage so that
the suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imagined her
saying: "No, dear, it is change you want; complete change. Now be
persuaded by me, and go away for a month. No, do not ask me to come with
you. I know you would rather that I did, but I will not. It is the
society of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to go
with you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demands
occasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forget
for a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, and
bicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there are
such things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs,
and butchers' bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, where
all is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will gather
peace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to miss you,
and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which, continually present
with me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through use, grows
indifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty of the moon. Go
away, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a brighter, better man--if
that be possible--than when you went away."
But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as we
would wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that I was
irritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said:
"You must forgive me, I'm not feeling quite myself to-night."
She said: "Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what's the matter
with you?"
"I can't tell you what it is," I said; "I've felt it coming on for
weeks."
"It's that whisky," said Ethelbertha. "You never touch it except when we
go to the Harris's. You know you can't stand it; you have not a strong
head."
"It isn't the whisky," I replied; "it's deeper than that. I fancy it's
more mental than bodily."
"You've been reading those criticisms again," said Ethelbertha, more
sympathetically; "why don't you take my advice and put them on the fire?"
"And it isn't the criticisms," I answered; "they've been quite flattering
of late--one or two of them."
"Well, what is it?" said Ethelbertha; "there must be something to account
for it."
"No, there isn't," I replied; "that's the remarkable thing about it; I
can only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to have
taken possession of me."
Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, I
thought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself.
"This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventful
felicity, they appall one."
"I should not grumble at them," said Ethelbertha; "we might get some of
the other sort, and like them still less."
"I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "In a life of continuous joy, I
can imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimes
whether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continual
serenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, uninterrupted by a
single contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose," I
continued, "I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself at
times. There are moments," I added, "when I hate myself."
Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths of
indescribable emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she appeared
strangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and its possible effect
upon me, she suggested my not worrying myself about that, remarking it
was always foolish to go half-way to meet trouble that might never come;
while as to my being a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, I
could not help, and if other people were willing to put up with me, there
was an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was a common
experience; there she could sympathise with me.
"You don't know how I long," said Ethelbertha, "to get away occasionally,
even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do not brood upon it."
I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished and
grieved me beyond measure.
"That's not a very kind remark to make," I said, "not a wifely remark."
"I know it isn't," she replied; "that is why I have never said it
before. You men never can understand," continued Ethelbertha, "that,
however fond a woman may be of a man, there are times when he palls
upon her. You don't know how I long to be able sometimes to put on my
bonnet and go out, with nobody to ask me where I am going, why I am
going, how long I am going to be, and when I shall be back. You don't
know how I sometimes long to order a dinner that I should like and
that the children would like, but at the sight of which you would put
on your hat and be off to the Club. You don't know how much I feel
inclined sometimes to invite some woman here that I like, and that I
know you don't; to go and see the people that _I_ want to see, to go to
bed when _I_ am tired, and to get up when _I_ feel I want to get up.
Two people living together are bound both to be continually sacrificing
their own desires to the other one. It is sometimes a good thing to
slacken the strain a bit."
On thinking over Ethelbertha's words afterwards, I have come to see
their wisdom; but at the time I admit I was hurt and indignant.
"If your desire," I said, "is to get rid of me--"
"Now, don't be an old goose," said Ethelbertha; "I only want to get rid
of you for a little while, just long enough to forget there are one or
two corners about you that are not perfect, just long enough to let me
remember what a dear fellow you are in other respects, and to look
forward to your return, as I used to look forward to your coming in the
old days when I did not see you so often as to become, perhaps, a little
indifferent to you, as one grows indifferent to the glory of the sun,
just because he is there every day."
I did not like the tone that Ethelbertha took. There seemed to be a
frivolity about her, unsuited to the theme into which we had drifted.
That a woman should contemplate cheerfully an absence of three or four
weeks from her husband appeared to me to be not altogether nice, not what
I call womanly; it was not like Ethelbertha at all. I was worried, I
felt I didn't want to go this trip at all. If it had not been for George
and Harris, I would have abandoned it. As it was, I could not see how to
change my mind with dignity.
"Very well, Ethelbertha," I replied, "it shall be as you wish. If you
desire a holiday from my presence, you shall enjoy it; but if it be not
impertinent curiosity on the part of a husband, I should like to know
what you propose doing in my absence?"
"We will take that house at Folkestone," answered Ethelbertha, "and I'll
go down there with Kate. And if you want to do Clara Harris a good
turn," added Ethelbertha, "you'll persuade Harris to go with you, and
then Clara can join us. We three used to have some very jolly times
together before you men ever came along, and it would be just delightful
to renew them. Do you think," continued Ethelbertha, "that you could
persuade Mr. Harris to go with you?"
I said I would try.
"There's a dear boy," said Ethelbertha; "try hard. You might get George
to join you."
I replied there was not much advantage in George's coming, seeing he was
a bachelor, and that therefore nobody would be much benefited by his
absence. But a woman never understands satire. Ethelbertha merely
remarked it would look unkind leaving him behind. I promised to put it
to him.
I met Harris at the Club in the afternoon, and asked him how he had got
on.
He said, "Oh, that's all right; there's no difficulty about getting
away."
But there was that about his tone that suggested incomplete satisfaction,
so I pressed him for further details.
"She was as sweet as milk about it," he continued; "said it was an
excellent idea of George's, and that she thought it would do me good."
"That seems all right," I said; "what's wrong about that?"
"There's nothing wrong about that," he answered, "but that wasn't all.
She went on to talk of other things."
"I understand," I said.
"There's that bathroom fad of hers," he continued.
"I've heard of it," I said; "she has started Ethelbertha on the same
idea."
"Well, I've had to agree to that being put in hand at once; I couldn't
argue any more when she was so nice about the other thing. That will
cost me a hundred pounds, at the very least."
"As much as that?" I asked.
"Every penny of it," said Harris; "the estimate alone is sixty."
I was sorry to hear him say this.
"Then there's the kitchen stove," continued Harris; "everything that has
gone wrong in the house for the last two years has been the fault of that
kitchen stove."
"I know," I said. "We have been in seven houses since we were married,
and every kitchen stove has been worse than the last. Our present one is
not only incompetent; it is spiteful. It knows when we are giving a
party, and goes out of its way to do its worst."
"_We_ are going to have a new one," said Harris, but he did not say it
proudly. "Clara thought it would be such a saving of expense, having the
two things done at the same time. I believe," said Harris, "if a woman
wanted a diamond tiara, she would explain that it was to save the expense
of a bonnet."
"How much do you reckon the stove is going to cost you?" I asked. I felt
interested in the subject.
"I don't know," answered Harris; "another twenty, I suppose. Then we
talked about the piano. Could you ever notice," said Harris, "any
difference between one piano and another?"
"Some of them seem to be a bit louder than others," I answered; "but one
gets used to that."
"Ours is all wrong about the treble," said Harris. "By the way, what
_is_ the treble?"
"It's the shrill end of the thing," I explained; "the part that sounds as
if you'd trod on its tail. The brilliant selections always end up with a
flourish on it."
"They want more of it," said Harris; "our old one hasn't got enough of
it. I'll have to put it in the nursery, and get a new one for the
drawing-room."
"Anything else?" I asked.
"No," said Harris; "she didn't seem able to think of anything else."
"You'll find when you get home," I said, "she has thought of one other
thing."
"What's that?" said Harris.
"A house at Folkestone for the season."
"What should she want a house at Folkestone for?" said Harris.
"To live in," I suggested, "during the summer months."
"She's going to her people in Wales," said Harris, "for the holidays,
with the children; we've had an invitation."
"Possibly," I said, "she'll go to Wales before she goes to Folkestone, or
maybe she'll take Wales on her way home; but she'll want a house at
Folkestone for the season, notwithstanding. I may be mistaken--I hope
for your sake that I am--but I feel a presentiment that I'm not."
"This trip," said Harris, "is going to be expensive."
"It was an idiotic suggestion," I said, "from the beginning."
"It was foolish of us to listen to him," said Harris; "he'll get us into
real trouble one of these days."
"He always was a muddler," I agreed.
"So headstrong," added Harris.
We heard his voice at that moment in the hall, asking for letters.
"Better not say anything to him," I suggested; "it's too late to go back
now."
"There would be no advantage in doing so," replied Harris. "I should
have to get that bathroom and piano in any case now."
He came in looking very cheerful.
"Well," he said, "is it all right? Have you managed it?"
There was that about his tone I did not altogether like; I noticed Harris
resented it also.
"Managed what?" I said.
"Why, to get off," said George.
I felt the time was come to explain things to George.
"In married life," I said, "the man proposes, the woman submits. It is
her duty; all religion teaches it."
George folded his hands and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
"We may chaff and joke a little about these things," I continued; "but
when it comes to practice, that is what always happens. We have
mentioned to our wives that we are going. Naturally, they are grieved;
they would prefer to come with us; failing that, they would have us
remain with them. But we have explained to them our wishes on the
subject, and--there's an end of the matter."
George said, "Forgive me; I did not understand. I am only a bachelor.
People tell me this, that, and the other, and I listen."
I said, "That is where you do wrong. When you want information come to
Harris or myself; we will tell you the truth about these questions."
George thanked us, and we proceeded with the business in hand.
"When shall we start?" said George.
"So far as I am concerned," replied Harris, "the sooner the better."
His idea, I fancy, was to get away before Mrs. H. thought of other
things. We fixed the following Wednesday.
"What about route?" said Harris.
"I have an idea," said George. "I take it you fellows are naturally
anxious to improve your minds?"
I said, "We don't want to become monstrosities. To a reasonable degree,
yes, if it can be done without much expense and with little personal
trouble."
"It can," said George. "We know Holland and the Rhine. Very well, my
suggestion is that we take the boat to Hamburg, see Berlin and Dresden,
and work our way to the Schwarzwald, through Nuremberg and Stuttgart."
"There are some pretty bits in Mesopotamia, so I've been told," murmured
Harris.
George said Mesopotamia was too much out of our way, but that the Berlin-
Dresden route was quite practicable. For good or evil, he persuaded us
into it.
"The machines, I suppose," said George, "as before. Harris and I on the
tandem, J.--"
"I think not," interrupted Harris, firmly. "You and J. on the tandem, I
on the single."
"All the same to me," agreed George. "J. and I on the tandem, Harris--"
"I do not mind taking my turn," I interrupted, "but I am not going to
carry George _all_ the way; the burden should be divided."
"Very well," agreed Harris, "we'll divide it. But it must be on the
distinct understanding that he works."
"That he what?" said George.
"That he works," repeated Harris, firmly; "at all events, uphill."
"Great Scott!" said George; "don't you want _any_ exercise?"
There is always unpleasantness about this tandem. It is the theory of
the man in front that the man behind does nothing; it is equally the
theory of the man behind that he alone is the motive power, the man in
front merely doing the puffing. The mystery will never be solved. It is
annoying when Prudence is whispering to you on the one side not to overdo
your strength and bring on heart disease; while Justice into the other
ear is remarking, "Why should you do it all? This isn't a cab. He's not
your passenger": to hear him grunt out:
"What's the matter--lost your pedals?"
Harris, in his early married days, made much trouble for himself on one
occasion, owing to this impossibility of knowing what the person behind
is doing. He was riding with his wife through Holland. The roads were
stony, and the machine jumped a good deal.
"Sit tight," said Harris, without turning his head.
What Mrs. Harris thought he said was, "Jump off." Why she should have
thought he said "Jump off," when he said "Sit tight," neither of them can
explain.
Mrs. Harris puts it in this way, "If you had said, 'Sit tight,' why
should I have jumped off?"
Harris puts it, "If I had wanted you to jump off, why should I have said
'Sit tight!'?"
The bitterness is past, but they argue about the matter to this day.
Be the explanation what it may, however, nothing alters the fact that
Mrs. Harris did jump off, while Harris pedalled away hard, under the
impression she was still behind him. It appears that at first she
thought he was riding up the hill merely to show off. They were both
young in those days, and he used to do that sort of thing. She expected
him to spring to earth on reaching the summit, and lean in a careless and
graceful attitude against the machine, waiting for her. When, on the
contrary, she saw him pass the summit and proceed rapidly down a long and
steep incline, she was seized, first with surprise, secondly with
indignation, and lastly with alarm. She ran to the top of the hill and
shouted, but he never turned his head. She watched him disappear into a
wood a mile and a half distant, and then sat down and cried. They had
had a slight difference that morning, and she wondered if he had taken it
seriously and intended desertion. She had no money; she knew no Dutch.
People passed, and seemed sorry for her; she tried to make them
understand what had happened. They gathered that she had lost something,
but could not grasp what. They took her to the nearest village, and
found a policeman for her. He concluded from her pantomime that some man
had stolen her bicycle. They put the telegraph into operation, and
discovered in a village four miles off an unfortunate boy riding a lady's
machine of an obsolete pattern. They brought him to her in a cart, but
as she did not appear to want either him or his bicycle they let him go
again, and resigned themselves to bewilderment.
Meanwhile, Harris continued his ride with much enjoyment. It seemed to
him that he had suddenly become a stronger, and in every way a more
capable cyclist. Said he to what he thought was Mrs. Harris:
"I haven't felt this machine so light for months. It's this air, I
think; it's doing me good."
Then he told her not to be afraid, and he would show her how fast he
_could_ go. He bent down over the handles, and put his heart into his
work. The bicycle bounded over the road like a thing of life; farmhouses
and churches, dogs and chickens came to him and passed. Old folks stood
and gazed at him, the children cheered him.
In this way he sped merrily onward for about five miles. Then, as he
explains it, the feeling began to grow upon him that something was wrong.
He was not surprised at the silence; the wind was blowing strongly, and
the machine was rattling a good deal. It was a sense of void that came
upon him. He stretched out his hand behind him, and felt; there was
nothing there but space. He jumped, or rather fell off, and looked back
up the road; it stretched white and straight through the dark wood, and
not a living soul could be seen upon it. He remounted, and rode back up
the hill. In ten minutes he came to where the road broke into four;
there he dismounted and tried to remember which fork he had come down.
While he was deliberating a man passed, sitting sideways on a horse.
Harris stopped him, and explained to him that he had lost his wife. The
man appeared to be neither surprised nor sorry for him. While they were
talking another farmer came along, to whom the first man explained the
matter, not as an accident, but as a good story. What appeared to
surprise the second man most was that Harris should be making a fuss
about the thing. He could get no sense out of either of them, and
cursing them he mounted his machine again, and took the middle road on
chance. Half-way up, he came upon a party of two young women with one
young man between them. They appeared to be making the most of him. He
asked them if they had seen his wife. They asked him what she was like.
He did not know enough Dutch to describe her properly; all he could tell
them was she was a very beautiful woman, of medium size. Evidently this
did not satisfy them, the description was too general; any man could say
that, and by this means perhaps get possession of a wife that did not
belong to him. They asked him how she was dressed; for the life of him
he could not recollect.
I doubt if any man could tell how any woman was dressed ten minutes after
he had left her. He recollected a blue skirt, and then there was
something that carried the dress on, as it were, up to the neck.
Possibly, this may have been a blouse; he retained a dim vision of a
belt; but what sort of a blouse? Was it green, or yellow, or blue? Had
it a collar, or was it fastened with a bow? Were there feathers in her
hat, or flowers? Or was it a hat at all? He dared not say, for fear of
making a mistake and being sent miles after the wrong party. The two
young women giggled, which in his then state of mind irritated Harris.
The young man, who appeared anxious to get rid of him, suggested the
police station at the next town. Harris made his way there. The police
gave him a piece of paper, and told him to write down a full description
of his wife, together with details of when and where he had lost her. He
did not know where he had lost her; all he could tell them was the name
of the village where he had lunched. He knew he had her with him then,
and that they had started from there together.
The police looked suspicious; they were doubtful about three matters:
Firstly, was she really his wife? Secondly, had he really lost her?
Thirdly, why had he lost her? With the aid of a hotel-keeper, however,
who spoke a little English, he overcame their scruples. They promised to
act, and in the evening they brought her to him in a covered wagon,
together with a bill for expenses. The meeting was not a tender one.
Mrs. Harris is not a good actress, and always has great difficulty in
disguising her feelings. On this occasion, she frankly admits, she made
no attempt to disguise them.
The wheel business settled, there arose the ever-lasting luggage
question.
"The usual list, I suppose," said George, preparing to write.
That was wisdom I had taught them; I had learned it myself years ago from
my Uncle Podger.
"Always before beginning to pack," my Uncle would say, "make a list."
He was a methodical man.
"Take a piece of paper"--he always began at the beginning--"put down on
it everything you can possibly require, then go over it and see that it
contains nothing you can possibly do without. Imagine yourself in bed;
what have you got on? Very well, put it down--together with a change.
You get up; what do you do? Wash yourself. What do you wash yourself
with? Soap; put down soap. Go on till you have finished. Then take
your clothes. Begin at your feet; what do you wear on your feet? Boots,
shoes, socks; put them down. Work up till you get to your head. What
else do you want besides clothes? A little brandy; put it down. A
corkscrew, put it down. Put down everything, then you don't forget
anything."
That is the plan he always pursued himself. The list made, he would go
over it carefully, as he always advised, to see that he had forgotten
nothing. Then he would go over it again, and strike out everything it
was possible to dispense with.
Then he would lose the list.
Said George: "Just sufficient for a day or two we will take with us on
our bikes. The bulk of our luggage we must send on from town to town."
"We must be careful," I said; "I knew a man once--"
Harris looked at his watch.
"We'll hear about him on the boat," said Harris; "I have got to meet
Clara at Waterloo Station in half an hour."
"It won't take half an hour," I said; "it's a true story, and--"
"Don't waste it," said George: "I am told there are rainy evenings in the
Black Forest; we may be glad of it. What we have to do now is to finish
this list."
Now I come to think of it, I never did get off that story; something
always interrupted it. And it really was true.