LECTURE VI. MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA.
MRS. CAUDLE LECTURES THEREON.
“Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to
do! Why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there
was nothing about _him_ that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't
look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides he'd have better taken
cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I
say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't Saint Swithin's
day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon
me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I
say? Oh you _do_ hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last
for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh!
Don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. _He_ return the
umbrella! Any body would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody
ever _did_ return an umbrella! There--do you hear it? Worse and worse!
Cats and dogs, and for six weeks--always six weeks. And no umbrella!
“I should like to know how the children are to get to school to-morrow.
They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No: they shall stop
at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner than go
and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they 'll have to thank
for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People who can't
feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.
“But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was
going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow,--you knew that; and you did
it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every
mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No,
sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I 'll go all the more. No: and
I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've
got nice high notions at that club of yours! A cab, indeed! Cost me
sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence!--two-and-eightpence, for there's
back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em?
_I_ can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure _you_ can't, if you go on as you
do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children--buying
umbrellas?
“Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say do you hear it? But I don't
care--I 'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I 'll
walk every step of the way,--and you know that will give me my death.
Don't call me a foolish woman--it's you that's the foolish man. You
know can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, that's sure to give me a
cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I
may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty
doctor's bill there 'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend
your umbrellas again I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and
that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course.
“Nice clothes, I shall get too, traipsing through weather like this. My
gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed,
Mr. Caudle, I _shall_ wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to
please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step
over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once,--better,
I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a
lady. Oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to break in the windows.
“Ugh! I do look forward with dread for tomorrow. How I am to go to
mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I 'll do it. No, sir;
I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. (_With great
emphasis._) Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I 'll throw
it in the street. I 'll have my own umbrella or none at all.
“Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella.
I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone
without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh
at you. Oh, it's all very well for you--you can go to sleep. You've no
thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. You think
of nothing but lending umbrellas!
“Men, indeed!--Call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords when
they can't take care of an umbrella!
“I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you
want--then you may go to your club, and do as you like--and then, nicely
my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, then you 'll be
happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent
the umbrella!
“You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you
can't go. No, indeed, you _don't_ go without the umbrella. You may
lose the debt for what I care--it won't be so much as spoiling
your clothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend
umbrellas.
“And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the
umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I _would_ go--that's nothing to
do with it; nothing at all. She 'll think I'm neglecting her, and the
little money we were to have, we shan't have at all--because we've no
umbrella.
“The children, too! Dear things! They 'll be sopping wet: for they
shan't stop at home----they shan't lose their learning; it's all their
father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they _shall_ go to school. Don't
tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd
spoil the temper of an angel. They _shall_ go to school; mark that. And
if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--_I_ didn't lend the
umbrella.”
“Here,” says Caudle in his MS, “I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky
was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the
whole world revolved under a tremendous umbrella!”
LECTURE VII. MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY'S
DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLD
SHOULDER
[Illustration: 031]
I wonder what it will be next! There's nothing proper, now--nothing at
all. Better get somebody else to keep the house I think. I can't do it
now, it seems; I'm only in the way here: I'd better take the children,
and go.
“What am I grumbling about now? It's very well for you to ask that! I'm
sure I'd better be out of the world than--there now, Mr. Caudle; there
you are again! I _shall_ speak, sir. It isn't often I open my mouth,
heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought
to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.
“You 're to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and I'm
not to say a word. Where do you think pudding's to come from every-day?
You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and
turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there's
no pudding! You go a nice way to make 'em extravagant--teach 'em nice
lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do
you think they fly in at the window?
“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I'm sure
you've the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn't choose to hash
the mutton. It's very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ know what
a joint loses in hashing: it's a day's dinner the less, if it's a bit.
Yes, I dare say; other people may have puddings with cold mutton. No
doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever you get into
the Gazette, it shan't be _my_ fault--no; I'll do my duty as a wife
to you, Mr. Caudle; you shall never have it to say that it was _my_
housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold
meat--ha! I hope you 'll never live to want such a piece of cold mutton
as we had to-day! And you may threaten to go to a tavern to dine; but
with our present means, not a crumb of pudding do you get from me.
You shall have nothing but the cold joint--nothing as I'm a Christian
sinner.
“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you
once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; and wern't you mean enough
to want to stop 'em out of my week's money? Oh, the selfishness--the
shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds
with a pack of people who laugh at 'em afterwards; but if it's anything
wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder
you don't blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn't be so little for
the world, Mr. Caudle!
“What are you going to do? Going to get up? Don't make yourself
ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can't say a word to you like any other wife,
but you must threaten to get up. _Do_ be ashamed of yourself.
“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I'm made of puddings? Didn't you have
some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the year
for puddings? It's all very well if I had money enough allowed me
like any other wife to keep the house with; then, indeed, I might
have preserves, like any other woman; now, it's impossible; and it's
cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it.
“Apples arn't so dear, arn't they? I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle,
without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more than
apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn't it? And
that's how it is. That's how one expense brings on another, and that's
how people go to ruin.
“Pancakes! What's the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes?
Don't you always have 'em once a-year--every Shrove Tuesday? And what
would any moderate, decent man want more?
“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle,--no, it's no use your saying fine
words to me to let you go to sleep; I shan't!--pray do you know the
price of eggs just now? There's not an egg you can trust to under seven
and eight a shilling; well, you've only just to reckon up how many
eggs--don't lie swearing there at the eggs, in that manner, Mr. Caudle;
unless you expect the bed to open under you. You call yourself a
respectable tradesman, I suppose! Ha! I only wish people knew you as
well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I'm tired of this usage, Mr.
Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don't care how soon it's ended!
“I'm sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the
most of everything; and this is how I'm rewarded. I should like to see
anybody whose joints go further than mine. But if I was to throw away
your money into the street, or lay it out in fine feathers on myself, I
should be better thought of. The woman who studies her husband and her
family is always made a drudge of. It's your fine fal-lal wives who've
the best time of it.
“What's the use of your lying groaning there in that manner? That won't
make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. You think to have it all your
own way--but you won't, Mr. Caudle! You can insult my dinner; look
like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome piece of cold mutton--ha! the
thousands of far better creatures than you are who'd been thankful for
that mutton!--and I'm never to speak! But you 're mistaken--I will! Your
usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous--unworthy of a man. I only wish
people knew you for what you are; but they shall, some day.
“Puddings! And now I suppose I shall hear of nothing but puddings!
Yes, and I know what it would end in. First, you'd have a pudding every
day;--oh, I know your extravagance--then you'd go for fish--then I
shouldn't wonder if you'd have soup; turtle, no doubt: then you'd go for
a dessert; and--oh! I see it all as plain as the quilt before me--but
no! not while I live! What your second wife may do, I don't know;
perhaps she'll be a fine lady; but you shan't be ruined by me, Mr.
Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, indeed! Pu-dding-s! Pudd--”
“Exhausted nature,” says Caudle, “could hold no longer. Here my wife
went to sleep.”
LECTURE VIII. CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.--MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT AND
CURIOUS.
“Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I
know--Now, what I mean to say is this; there's no use, none at all, in
our having any disturbance about the matter; but, at last my mind's made
up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing
to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; there's an end
of the marriage-state, I think--an end of all confidence between man and
wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty
secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any
decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't
let us quarrel; there's a good soul, tell me what's it all about? A pack
of nonsense, I dare say; still--not that I care much about it--still,
I _should_ like to know. There's a dear: Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's
nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's
a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm
sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?
“Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now, don't you think you're going
to sleep; because you 're not. Do you suppose I'd ever suffered you to
go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know the secret,
too? Not that it's anything to know, I dare say; and that s why I'm
determined to know it.
“But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. The secret is,
to ill-use poor women; to tyrannize over 'em; to make 'em your slaves;
especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, or you wouldn't
be ashamed to have it known. What's right and proper never need be done
in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man to be a free-mason, and
let his wife know nothing of it. But, poor soul! she's sure to know it
somehow--for nice husbands they all make. Yes, yes; a part of the secret
is to think better of all the world than their own wives and families.
I'm sure men have quite enough to care for--that is, if they act
properly--to care for them they have at home. They can't have much care
to spare for the world besides.
“And I suppose they call you _Brother_ Caudle? A pretty brother, indeed!
Going and dressing yourself up in an apron, like a turnpike man--for
that's what you look like. And I should like to know what the apron's
for? There must be something in it not very respectable, I'm sure.
Well, I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I'd put an end to
free-masonry, and all such trumpery, I know.
“Now, come, Caudle, don't let's quarrel. Eh! You 're not in pain, dear?
What's it all about? What are you lying laughing there at? But I'm a
fool to trouble my head about you.
“And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to
say,--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in
a passion--not that I care about the secret itself: no, I wouldn't
give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't
the secret I care about: it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied
insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the
world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and
wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a
mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha, you
men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of 'em
to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when
a man becomes a mason. When he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his
heart--a secret place in his mind--that his poor wife isn't allowed to
rummage!
“Caudle, you shan't close your eyes for a week--no, you shan't--unless
you tell me some, of it. Come, there's a good creature; there's a love.
I'm sure, Caudle, I wouldn't refuse you anything--and you know it,
or ought to know it by this time. I only wish I had a secret! To whom
should I think of confiding it, but to my dear husband? I should be
miserable to keep it to myself, and you know it. Now, Caudle!
“Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an
unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm
sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare
say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is--it's only your making a
secret of it that vexes me. But you 'll tell me--you 'll tell your own
Margaret? You won't! You 're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.
“But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamed to let
me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it. You, at your
time of life--the father of a family. I should be ashamed of myself,
Caudle.
“And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every night,
now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they don't admit
women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one another brethren.
Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough; you didn't want any more.
“But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to
get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink
together, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women,--as if they
were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the secret; and
nothing else.
“Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you 're in pain. Still,
Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle! Caud--”
“I recollect nothing more,” says Caudle, “for here, thank Providence! I
fell asleep.”