THE FIRST TO BE MARRIED.
It will happen so--and here is our moral--the bonnets of Sophonisba and
Theodosia, bewitching as they were, and archly as these young ladies
wore them, paling every toilette of the Common, were not put aside for
bridal veils. Carrie, who was content with silver-grey, it was who
returned to Paris first, sitting at the side of the writer of the
following letters, sent, it is presumed, to his bachelor friend:--
"Paris, 'The Leafy Month of June.'
"MY DEAR MAC,--I will be true to my promise. I will give you
the best advice my experience may enable me to afford you. Friendship is
a sacred thing, and I will write as your friend. Only ten days ago
Caroline murmured those delicious sounds at the altar, which announce a
heaven upon earth to man. I see you smile, you rogue, as you read this,
but I repeat it--that announce a heaven upon earth to man.
"Some men take a wife carelessly, as they select a dinner at their club,
as though they were catering only to satisfy the whim of the hour.
Others adopt all the homely philosophy of Dr. Primrose, and reflect how
the wife will wear, and whether she have the qualities that will keep
the house in order. Others, again, are lured into matrimony by the
tinkling of the pianoforte, or the elaboration of a bunch of flowers
upon a Bristol board. Remember Calfsfoot. His wife actually fiddled him
into the church. Was there ever an uglier woman? Two of her front teeth
were gone, and she was bald. Fortunately for her, Beauty draws us with a
single hair, or she had not netted Calfsfoot. Now what a miserable time
he has of it. She is a vixen. You know what fiddle-strings are made of;
well, I'm told she supplies her own. But why should I dwell on
infelicitous unions of this kind? It was obvious to every rational
creature from the first--and to him most concerned--that Mrs. Calfsfoot
would fiddle poor C. into a lunatic asylum. And if he be not there yet,
depend upon it he's on the high road.
"Between Mrs. Calfsfoot and my Caroline (you should have seen her
hanging upon my shoulder, her auburn ringlets tickling my happy cheek,
begging me to call her Carrie!)--between Mrs. Calfsfoot and my Carrie,
then, what a contrast! As I sat last evening in one of the shady nooks
of the Bois de Boulogne, watching the boats, with their coloured lights,
floating about the lake, my Carrie's hand trembling like a caught bird
in mine, I thought, can this sweet, amiable, innocent creature have
anything in common with that assured, loud-voiced, pretentious Mrs.
Calfsfoot. Calfsfoot told me that he was very happy during the
honeymoon. But, then, people's notions of happiness vary, and I cannot
for the life of me conceive how a man of Calfsfoot's sense--for he has
sound common sense on most points--could have looked twice at the
creature he took to his bosom. I have heard of people who like to nurse
vipers; can friend C. be of this strange band? Now, I am
happy--supremely happy, I may say, because I honestly believe my Carrie
to be the most adorable creature on the face of God's earth. A man who
could not be happy with her would not deserve felicity. You should see
her at the breakfast-table, in a snow-white dress, with just a purple
band about her dainty waist, handling the cups and saucers! The first
time she asked me whether I would take two lumps of sugar (I could have
taken both of them from her pretty lips, and I'll not say whether I did
or did not), was one of those delicious moments that happen seldom,
alas, in the chequered life of man. And then, when she comes tripping
into the room after breakfast, in her little round hat, and, putting
her hand upon my shoulder, asks me in the most musical of voices whether
I have finished with my paper, and am ready for a walk, I feel ashamed
that I have allowed myself to distract my attention even for ten minutes
from her charming self, to read stupid leading articles and wretched
police cases. But men are utterly without sentiment. Reading the _Times_
in the honeymoon! I wonder how the delightful creatures can give us two
minutes' thought. Carrie, however, seems to live only for your unworthy
humble servant. Shall I ever be worthy of her? Shall I ever be worthy of
the glorious sky overhead, or of the flowers at my feet? My dear Mac, I
feel the veriest worm as I contemplate this perfect creature, who, with
that infinite generosity which belongs to goodness and beauty, has sworn
to love, honour, and obey me. That she loves me I know full well; that
she obeys my lightest wish, I allow, on my knees. But how shall she
honour me? To all this you will answer, puffing your filthy pipe the
while, 'Tut! he has been married only ten short days!"
"My dear Mac, life is not to be measured by the hour-glass. There are
minutes that are hours, there are hours that are years, there are years
that are centuries. Again, some men are observant, and some pay no
better compliment to the light of day than moles. You did me the honour
of saying one evening, when we were having a late cigar at the Trafalgar
(we should have been in bed hours before), that you never knew a more
quick-sighted man, nor a readier reader of the human heart than the
individual who now addresses you. It would ill become me to say that you
only did me justice; but permit me to remark, that having closely
watched myself and compared myself with others, for years, I have come
to the conclusion that I am blessed with a rapid discernment. Before
Mrs. Flowerdew (I have written the delightful name on every corner of my
blotting-paper) honoured me with her hand, I brought this power to bear
on her incessantly. Under all kinds of vexatious circumstances I have
been witness of her unassailable good temper. I have seen her wear a new
bonnet in a shower of rain. These clumsy hands of mine have spilled
lobster-salad upon her dress. That little wretch of a brother of hers
has pulled her back hair down. Her sister Sophonisba has abused her.
Still has she been mild as the dove!
"Then, her common sense is astonishing. She says any woman can manage
with three bonnets and half-a-dozen good dresses. I wanted to buy her a
bracelet the other day, price ten guineas. 'No,' she answered; 'here is
one at only six guineas, quite good enough for me in our station of
life;' and the dear creature was content with it.
"As for accomplishments, she may vie with any fine lady in the land.
Last night she played me a piece from Mendelssohn, and her little hands
danced like lightning about the keys. It was rather long, to be sure;
but I could not help stealing from behind her and kissing the dear
fingers when it was over.
"She has written some exquisite verses, much in the style of Byron--a
poet not easily imitated, you will remember. She has read every line of
Thackeray; and during one of our morning walks, she proved to me, who am
not easily moved from my point, that Carlyle has only one idea. Let me
recommend you to peruse this writer's 'French Revolution' again, and you
will be satisfied that my Carrie is right.
"I trouble you, my dear fellow, with all these details, that you may not
run away with the notion that Flowerdew is blindly in love. My faculties
were never more completely about me than they are at this moment. I am
at a loss to imagine why a man should throw his head away when he yields
his heart. I can look dispassionately at my wife, and if she had a
fault, I am confident that I should be the first to see it. But, _que
voulez-vous?_ she has not yet given me the opportunity.
"Marriage is a lottery. In a lottery, somebody must draw the prize; if I
have drawn it, am I to be ashamed of my luck? No; let me manfully
confess my good fortune, and thank my star.
"I have snatched the time to write you these hurried lines, while the
worshipped subject of them has been trying on some new--but I forgot; I
am writing to a bachelor. I have still a few minutes; let me make use of
them.
"My dear Mac, when I return to foggy London--(I hear you have had
terrible weather there)--you will see little or nothing of me. My Carrie
allows me to smoke (she permits me everything), but I should be a mean
brute if I took advantage of her boundless generosity. I smoke one cigar
_per diem_, and no more. And as for wine--the honey of the loved one's
lips is the true grape of the honeymoon. I must tell you that Carrie and
I have made a solemn compact. Her head was nestled against my waistcoat
as we made it. We are not going to live for the world, like foolish
people whom we know. For society my little wife needs me; and I, happy
man, shall be more than content for ever while the partner of my bosom
deigns to solace me with her gentle voice. She has friends without
number who will mourn her loss to society. Her dear friends the
Barcaroles will be inconsolable; her sister Theodosia will break her
heart. Life has its trials, however, which must be bravely borne; and
Carrie's friends must be consoled when they learn that she is happy with
the man of her choice. In the same way, be comforted, my dear Mac (for I
know how warmly you regard me), when I tell you that henceforth we shall
meet only at rare intervals. My life is bound up in that of the
celestial being who is knitting in the window, not an arm's length from
me.
"My dear Mac, we have drank our last gin-sling together. Recal me
affectionately to the memory of Joe Parkes, and young Square, and all
friends of her Majesty's Pugilistic Department; and may they all
speedily be as happy as I am. How the wretches will laugh when you tell
them that Flowerdew has reformed his ways, and has blackened his last
Milo; but I think, my dear fellow, I have convinced you that I write
after cool reflection. We have taken a cottage four miles south of my
office. A sixpenny omnibus will take me back at four o'clock daily, to
my little haven. My Carrie is fond of a garden; and I shall find her, on
summer afternoons, waiting at the gate for me, in her garden hat, and
leaning upon the smartest little rake in the world. You, and Joe, and
the Pugilistic Department fellows may laugh; but this is the happy life
I have chalked out for myself. As I have told you, some men marry with
their eyes shut; but I live only to congratulate myself on my sagacity.
To think that I, of all men, should have won Caroline Cockayne!
"We shall remain here for another week, when we go to Fontainebleau, and
thence we return to London. I may write to you from our next stage; but
if not, expect to hear from me on my return, when, if I can persuade my
love to brave the presence of a stranger, for friendship's sake, you
shall have a peep at our felicity.
"Your old friend,
"HAPPY TOM FLOWERDEW."
Mr. Mac's observations on the foregoing were, no doubt, to this effect:
"He'll come to his senses by-and-by. I shouldn't like to be compelled to
buy all the cigars he'll smoke before he turns his toes up."
_Flowerdew, from Fontainebleau._
"Fontainebleau, July 1.
"MY DEAR MAC,--I am tempted to send you a few lines from this
wonderful place. You have heard of Fontainebleau grapes--you have tasted
them; but you have not seen Fontainebleau. My dear Mac, when you marry
(and, as your friend, I say, lose no time about it)--yes, when you
marry, take the _cara sposa_ to Fontainebleau. Let her see the weeping
rock, in that wonderful battle between granite and trees, they call the
forest. Let her feed the fat carp with _galette_ behind the Palace in
the company of those Normandy nurses (brown and flat as Normandy
pippins), and their squalling basked-capped charges. Give her some of
that delicious iced currant-water, which the dragoons who are quartered
here appear to drink with all the relish the children show for it. Never
fear that she will look twice at these soldiers, in their sky-blue coats
and broad red pantaloons, and their hair cut so close that their eyes
must have watered under the operation. Imagine dragoons drinking
currant-water; and playing dominoes for shapeless sous, which they
rattle incessantly in their preposterous trousers! I am meditating a
book on the French army, in which I shall lay great stress on the above,
I flatter myself, rather acute bit of observation. Carrie (she grows
prettier daily) rather inclines to the idea that the moderation of these
French dragoons is in their favour; and this is the first time I have
found her judgment at fault. But then it would be unreasonable indeed to
hope that on military subjects she could have that clear insight which
she displays with such charming grace, whether we are contemplating the
Marriage of Cana, in the Louvre, or thinking over the scenes some of
those orange-trees in the Tuileries gardens have shed leaves upon. For,
let me tell you, my dear Mac, there are trees there, the flowers of
which have trembled at the silver laugh of unhappy Antoinette. Sallow
Robespierre has rubbed against them. They were in their glory on that
July day when the mob of blouses tasted of the cellars of a King.
"But you can get in Murray all I can tell you of the wonderful place in
which it has been my fortune to find myself with my little wife. When,
on the morning after our arrival, I threw my bedroom window open, the
air was, I thought, the sweetest that had ever refreshed my nostrils.
The scene would have been perfect, had it not been for swarms of wasps
that dashed their great bodies, barred, as Carrie said, like grooms'
waistcoats (wasn't it clever of her?) into the room. If everything were
not flavoured with garlic (peaches included), I should say without
hesitation, that our _hôte_ is THE _cordon bleu_ of the
country. Omelettes, my dear Mac, as light as syllabub; wild strawberries
frosted with the finest white sugar I ever put to my lips; coffee that
would make a Turk dance with delight; only, in each and all of these
dainties, there is just a pinch of garlic. But love makes light of these
little drawbacks. Carrie has made a wry face once or twice, it is true,
but only in the best of humours, and when the garlic was very strong
indeed.
"We had a rainy day yesterday: but we enjoyed it. We sat all the morning
at our window, gossiping and flirting, and watching the peasants
sauntering home from market, apparently unconscious that they were being
drenched. I had bought Carrie a huge sugar stick (_sucre de pomme_, I
think they call it), and she looked bewitchingly as she nibbled it, and
then coaxingly held it to my lips. You remember my old antipathy to
sweets; well, strange to say, I thought I had never tasted anything more
delicious than this sugar stick; but remember, it came direct from
Carrie's lips. Then we speculated on what our friends were doing at that
very moment, peeped into Clapham, and we made bad guesses enough, I have
no doubt. It ended by our agreeing that none of you were half so happy
as we were.
"In the evening the weather cleared a little, and we went out for a
stroll. A stroll through the streets of Fontainebleau is not one of the
pleasantest exploits in the world. I thought every moment that my wife
(delightful word, that thrills me to the finger tips as I write it)
would sprain an ankle, for the paving is simply a heap of round stones
thrown out of a cart; but she stepped so nimbly and lightly, that no
harm came to her. I wish, my dear Mac, you could hear her conversation.
From morning till night she prattles away, hopping, skipping, and
jumping from one subject to another, and saying something sensible or
droll on each. You must know that Carrie has an immense fund of humour.
Her imitations of people make me almost die with laughter. You remember
Mrs. Calfsfoot's habit of twitching her nose and twirling her thumbs
when she is beginning an anecdote about somebody one never saw, and
never cared to see. Well, Carrie stopped in the middle of our rambles in
the forest, and imitated her squeaky voice and absurd gestures to the
life. The anecdote, concocted impromptu, was a wonderfully sustained bit
of pure invention. On my honour, when she had finished her little
performance, I could not help giving her a kiss for it.
"You will smile, my dear Mac, at this: remembering the horror we
mutually expressed one night at Ardbye's chambers, of female mimics. But
there is a difference, which we do not appear to have recognised on that
occasion, between good-natured and ill-natured mimicry. Now nothing can
be more harmless fun than my Carrie's imitations. She never has the bad
taste to mimic a deformity, or to burlesque a misfortune. She certainly
said of Mrs. Blomonge (who is known to be the stoutest person in the
parish of St. Bride's) that her head floated on her shoulders like a
waterlily on a pond; but then the joke was irresistible, and there was
not a touch of malice in the way the thing was said. How much there is
in manner!
"Carrie is beginning to yearn for the repose of Arcady Cottage. She
wants to see herself mistress of a house. She longs to have to order
dinner, inspect the dusting of the drawing-room, pour out tea from our
own tea-pot, and work antimacassars for our chairs. I can see already
that she will make the most perfect little housewife in the world.
"There are dolts and dullards who declare that women who are witty and
accomplished, generally make bad housewives. They are said to lie on
sofas all day through, reading hooks they cannot understand; playing all
kinds of tortuous music; and painting moss roses upon velvet. I am not
an old married man (twenty days old only), but I am ready to wager, from
what I have already seen of my Carrie, that there is not the slightest
ground for those charges against clever women; on the contrary, it seems
to me that your clever woman will see the duty, as well as the pleasure,
of ordering her husband's house in a becoming manner. Why should
empty-headed girls, who haven't a word to say for themselves, nor an
accomplishment to their back--why should they be the superlative
concocters of custards, and menders of shirts and stockings? Do you mean
to tell me that a woman must be a fool to have a light hand at pastry? I
believe these libels on clever women have been propagated by designing
mothers who had stupid daughters on their hands. Whenever you see a
heavy-eyed, lumpish girl, who hides herself in corners, and reddens to
the very roots of the hair when you say a civil thing to her, you are
sure to be told that she is the very best house-keeper in the world, and
will make a better wife than her pretty sister. In future I shall treat
all such excuses for ugliness and dulness as they deserve. For I say it
boldly beforehand, ere Carrie has tried her first undercrust, she will
be a pattern housewife--although she reads John Stuart Mill.
"'Tom, darling!' sounds from the next room, and the music goes to my
soul. Good-bye. The next from Aready Cottage. Thine,
"TOM FLOWERDEW.
"P.S.--We met yesterday a most charming travelling companion; and
although, as I think I hinted in my last, I and Carrie intend to suffice
for each other, he had so vast a fund of happy anecdote, we could not
find it in our hearts to snub him. Besides, he began by lending me the
day's _Galignani_."
"That travelling companion," remarked shrewd Mr. Mac, "marks the
beginning of the end of the honeymoon. I shall keep him dark when I dine
with Papa Cockayne on Sunday."