There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you 're in a little better temper than you
were this morning? There--you needn't begin to whistle: people don't
come to bed to whistle. But it's like you. I can't speak, that you
don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say, you were the best creature
living: now, you get quite a fiend. _Do_ let you rest? No: I won't let
you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you _shall_ hear
me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at
night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!
“Because _once_ in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must
almost swear the roof off the house! You _didn't_ swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle!
you don't know what you do when you 're in a passion. You were not in a
passion, wer'n't you? Well, then, I don't know what a passion is--and I
think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle,
to know that.
“It's a pity you havn't something worse to complain of than a button off
your shirt. If you'd _some_ wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never
without a needle-and-thread in my hand. What with you and the children,
I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why if once in your
life a button's off your shirt--what do you cry '_oh_' at? I say once,
Mr. Cau dle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no
man's buttons in the world are better looked after than your's. I only
wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should
like to know where were your buttons then?
“Yes, it _is_ worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me
down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak, you won't
hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves:
a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in.
“A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think
of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of
marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What
with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up
to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?
Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.
“And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt:
it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to
talk about. Oh, you 're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything!
All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt;
for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I
am. I only say, it's very odd.
“However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death
with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may
laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your
love--that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking, every day, though
I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second
wife will look after your buttons! You 'll find out the difference,
then. Yes, Caudle, you 'll think of me, then: for then, I hope, you 'll
never have a blessed button to your back.
“No, I'm not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle, nobody ever called me
that, but you. What do you say? Nobody ever knew so much of me? That's
nothing; at all to do with it. Ha! I wouldn't have your aggravating
temper, Caudle, for mines of gold. It's a good thing I'm not as worrying
as you are--or a nice house there'd be between us. I only wish you'd
had a wife that _would_ have talked to you! then you 'd have known the
difference. But you impose upon me, because, like a poor fool, I say
nothing. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle.
“And a pretty example you set as a father; You 'll make your boys as bad
as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast-time about your but tons!
And of a Sunday morning too! And you call yourself a Christian! I should
like to know what your boys will say of you when they grow up? And all
about a paltry button off one of your wristbands: a decent man wouldn't
have mentioned it. Why won't I hold my tongue? Because I _won't_ hold my
tongue. I'm to have my peace of mind destroyed--I'm to be worried into
my grave for a miserable shirt-button, and I'm to hold my tongue! Oh!
but that's just like you men!
“But I know what I 'll do for the future. Every button you have may drop
off, and I won't so much as put a thread to 'em. And I should like to
know what you 'll do then? Oh, you must get somebody else to sew 'em,
must you? That's a pretty threat for a husband to hold out to a wife!
And to such a wife as I've been, too: such a negro-slave to your
buttons, as I may say! Somebody else to sew 'em, eh? No, Caudle, no: not
while I'm alive! When I'm dead--and with what I have to bear there's no
knowing how soon that may be--when I'm dead, I say--oh! what a brute you
must be to snore so!
“You're not snoring? Ha! that's what you always say; but that's nothing
to do with it. You must get somebody else to sew 'em, must you? Ha! I
shouldn't wonder. Oh, no! I should be surprised at nothing, now! Nothing
at all! It's what people have always told me it would come to,--and now,
the buttons have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know of your
cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I 've been to you. Somebody else,
indeed, to sew your buttons! I'm no longer to be mistress in my own
house! Ha, Caudle! I wouldn't have upon my conscience what you have, for
the world! I wouldn't treat anybody as you treat--no, I'm not mad! It's
you, Mr. Caudle, who are mad, or bad--and that's worse! I can't even
so much as, speak of a shirt-button, but that I'm threatened to be made
nobody of in my own house! Caudle, you've a heart like a hearth-stone,
you have! To threaten me, and only because a button--a button----”
“I was conscious of no more than this,” says Caudle, in his MS., “for
here nature relieved me with a sweet, deep sleep.”
LECTURE XI. MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD “COME AND
LIVE WITH THEM.”
[Illustration: 047]
“Is your cold better tonight, Caudle? Yes, I thought it was. 'Twill be
quite well to-morrow, I dare say. There's a love! You don't take care
enough of yourself, Caudle, you don't. And you ought, I'm sure; if only
for my sake. For whatever I should do, if any thing was to happen to
you--but I won't think of it; no, I can't bear to think of _that_.
Still, you ought to take care of yourself; for you know you're not
strong, Caudle; you know you're not.
“Wasn't dear mother so happy with us, tonight? Now, you needn't go to
sleep, so suddenly. I say, wasn't she so happy! _You don't know?_ How
can you say you don't know? You must have seen it. But she always is
happier here than anywhere else. Ha! what a temper that dear soul has!
I call it a temper of satin; it is so smooth, so easy, and so soft.
Nothing puts her out of the way. And then, if you only knew how she
takes your part, Caudle! I'm sure, if you'd been her own son ten times
over, she couldn't be fonder of you. Don't you think so, Caudle? Eh,
love? Now, do answer. _How can you tell?_ Nonsense, Caudle; you must
have seen it. I'm sure, nothing delights the dear soul so much as when
she's thinking how to please you.
“Don't you remember Thursday night, the stewed oysters, when you came
home? That was all dear mother's doings! 'Margaret,' says she to me,
'it's a cold night; and don't you think dear Mr. Caudle would like
something nice before he goes to bed? And that, Caudle, is how the
oysters came about. Now, don't sleep, Caudle: do listen to me, for five
minutes; 'tisn't often I speak, goodness knows.
“And then, what a fuss she makes when you 're out, if your slippers
arn't put to the fire for you. _She's very good?_ Yes--I know she is,
Caudle. And hasn't she been six months--though I promised her not to
tell you--six months, working a watch-pocket for you! And with _her_
eyes, dear soul--and at _her_ time of life!
“And then what a cook she is? I'm sure, the dishes she'll make out of
next to nothing! I try hard enough to follow her: but I'm not ashamed
to own it, Caudle, she quite beats me. Ha! the many nice little things
she'd simmer up for you--and I can't do it; the children, you know
it, Caudle, take so much of my time. I can't do it, love: and I often
reproach myself that I can't. Now, you shan't go to sleep, Caudle; at
least; not for five minutes. You must hear me.
“I've been thinking, dearest--ha! that nasty cough, love!--I've been
thinking, darling, if we could only persuade dear mother to come and
live with us. Now, Caudle, you can't be asleep; it's impossible--you
were coughing only this minute--yes, to live with us. What a treasure
we should have in her! Then, Caudle, you never need go to bed without
something nice and hot. And you want it, Caudle. _You don't want it?_
Nonsense, you do; for you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're not.
“I'm sure, the money she'd save us in housekeeping. Ha! what an eye
she has for a joint! The butcher doesn't walk that could deceive dear
mother. And then, again, for poultry! What a finger and thumb she has
for a chicken! I never could market like her; it's a gift--quite a gift.
“And then you recollect her marrow-puddings? _You don't recollect 'em?_
Oh, fie! Caudle, how often have you flung her marrow-puddings in my
face, wanting to know why I couldn't make 'em? And I wouldn't pretend
to do it after dear mother. I should think it presumption. Now, love,
if she was only living with us--come, you 're not asleep, Caudle--if she
was only living with us, you could have marrow-puddings every day. Now,
don't fling yourself about and begin to swear at marrow-puddings; you
know you like 'em, dear.
“What a hand, too, dear mother has for a piecrust? But it's born with
some people. What do you say? _Why wasn't it born with me?_ Now, Caudle,
that's cruel--unfeeling of you; I wouldn't have uttered such a reproach
to you for the whole world. People can't be born as they like.
“How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could
learn any thing about brewing. But, ha! what ale dear mother makes! _You
never tasted it!_ No, I know that. But I recollect the ale we used to
have at home: father never would drink wine after it. The best sherry
was nothing like it. _You dare say not?_ No; it wasn't, indeed, Caudle.
Then, if dear mother was only with us, what money we should save
in beer! And then you might always have your own nice, pure, good,
wholesome ale, Caudle: and what good it would do you! For you're not
strong, Caudle.
“And then dear mother's jams and preserves, love! I own it, Caudle; it
has often gone to my heart that with cold meat you hav'n't always had
a pudding. Now, if mother was with us, in the matter of fruit-puddings,
she'd make it summer all the year round. But I never could preserve--now
mother does it, and for next to no money whatever. What
nice dogs-in-a-blanket she'd make for the children! _What's
dogs-in-a-blanket?_ Oh, they 're delicious--as dear mother makes 'em.
“Now, you _have_ tasted her Irish stew, Caudle? You remember that? Come,
you 're not asleep--you remember that? And how fond you are of it! And
I never can have it made to please you! Now what a relief to me it would
be if dear mother was always at hand that you might have a stew when you
liked. What a load it would be off my mind!
“Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else's pickles. Her red
cabbage--why, it's as crisp as biscuit! And then her walnuts--and
her all-sorts? Eh, Caudle? You know how you love pickles; and how we
sometimes tiff about 'em? Now, if dear mother was here, a word would
never pass between us. And I'm sure nothing would make me happier,
for--you 're not asleep, Caudle!--for I can't bear to quarrel, can I,
love?
“The children, too, are so fond of her! And she'd be such a help to me
with 'em! I'm sure with dear mother in the house, I shouldn't care a
fig for measles, or any thing of the sort. As a nurse, she's such a
treasure!
“And at her time of life, what a needlewoman! And the darning and
mending for the children, it really gets quite beyond me now, Caudle.
Now with mother at my hand, there wouldn't be a stitch wanted in the
house.
“And then when you're out late, Caudle--for I know you must be out late,
sometimes; I can't expect you, of course, to be always at home--why then
dear mother could sit up for you, and nothing would delight the dear
soul half so much.
“And so, Caudle, love, I think dear mother had better come, don't you?
Eh, Caudle? Now, you 're not asleep, darling: don't you think she'd
better come? You say _No?_ You say _No_, again? _You won't have her_,
you say; _You won't, that's flat?_ Caudle--Cau-Cau-dle--Cau--die--”
“Here Mrs. Caudle,” says Mr. C., in his MS., “suddenly went into tears;
and I went to sleep.”
LECTURE XII. MR. CAUDLE, HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES THAT
HENCEFORTH “HE WILL HAVE A DEAD-LATCH KEY.”
On my word, Mr. Caudle, I think it a waste of time to come to bed at all
now! The cocks will be crowing in a minute. Keeping people up till past
twelve. Oh, yes! you 're thought a man of very fine feelings out of
doors, I dare say! It's a pity you haven't a little feeling for those
belonging to you at home. A nice hour to keep people out of their beds!
_Why did I sit up, then?_ Because I chose to sit up--but that's my
thanks. No, it's no use your talking, Caudle; I never _will_ let the
girl sit up for you, and there's an end. What do you say? _Why does
she sit up with me, then?_ That's quite a different matter: you don't
suppose I'm going to sit up alone, do you? What do you say? _What's the
use of two sitting up?_ That's my business. No, Caudle, it's no such
thing. I _don't_ sit up because I may have the pleasure of talking about
it; and you're an ungrateful, unfeeling creature, to say so. I sit up
because I choose it; and if you don't come home all the night long--and
't will soon come to that, I've no doubt--still, I'll never go to bed,
so don't think it.
“Oh, yes! the time runs away very pleasantly with you men at your
clubs--selfish creatures! You can laugh and sing, and tell stories, and
never think of the clock; never think there's such a person as a wife
belonging to you. It's nothing to you that a poor woman's sitting up,
and telling the minutes, and seeing all sorts of things in the fire--and
sometimes thinking that something dreadful has happened to you--more
fool she to care a straw about you!--This is all nothing. Oh, no! when a
woman's once married she's a slave--worse than a slave--and must bear it
all!
“And what you men can find to talk about, I can't think! Instead of a
man sitting every night at home with his wife, and going to bed at a
Christian hour,--going to a club, to meet a set of people who don't care
a button for him, it 's monstrous! What do you say? _You only go once a
week?_ That's nothing at all to do with it: you might as well go every
night; and I dare say you will soon. But if you do, you may get in as
you can: _I_ won't sit up for you, I can tell you.
“My health's being destroyed night after night-and--oh, don't say it's
only once a week; I tell you, that's nothing to do with it--if you had
any eyes, you would see how ill I am; but you've no eyes for anybody
belonging to you: oh, no! your eyes are for people out of doors. It's
very well for you to call me a foolish, aggravating woman! I should like
to see the woman who'd sit up for you as I do. _You didn't want me to
sit up?_ Yes, yes; that's your thanks--that's your gratitude: I'm to
ruin my health, and to be abused for it. Nice principles you've got at
that club, Mr. Caudle!
“But there's one comfort--one great comfort; it can't last long: I'm
sinking--I feel it, though I never say anything about it--but I know my
own feelings, and I say it can't last long. And then I should like to
know who 'll sit up for you! Then I should like to know how your
second wife--what do you say? _You'll never be troubled with another?_
Troubled, indeed! I never troubled you, Caudle. No; it's you've troubled
me; and you know it; though like a foolish woman I've borne it all, and
never said a word about it. But it _can't_ last--that's one blessing!
“Oh, if a woman could only know what she'd have to suffer, before she
was married--Don't tell me you want to go to sleep! if you want to go to
sleep, you should come at proper hours! It's time to get up, for what
I know, now. Shouldn't wonder if you hear the milk in five
minutes--there's the sparrows up already; yes, I say the sparrows; and,
Caudle, you ought to blush to hear 'em. _You don't hear 'em?_ Ha! you
won't hear 'em, you mean, _I_ hear 'em. No, Mr. Caudle; it _isn't_ the
wind whistling in the key-hole; I'm not quite foolish, though you may
think so. I hope I know wind from a sparrow!
“Ha! when I think what a man you were before we were married! But you
're now another person--quite an-altered creature. But I suppose you 're
all alike--I dare say, every poor woman's troubled and put upon, though
I should hope not so much as I am. Indeed, I should hope not! Going and
staying out, and--What! _You 'll have a dead-latch key?_ Will you? Not
while I'm alive, Mr. Caudle. I'm not going to bed with the door upon the
latch for you or the best man breathing. _You won't have a latch--you'll
have a Chubb's lock?_ Will you? I'll have no Chubb here, I can tell you.
What do you say? _You'll have the lock put on to-morrow?_ Well, try it;
that's all I say, Caudle, try it. I won't let you put me in a passion;
but all I say is,--try it.
“A respectable thing, that, for a married man to carry about with
him,--a dead-latch key! That tells a tale, I think. A nice thing for
the father of a family! A key! What, to let yourself in and out when you
please! To come in, like a thief in the middle of the night, instead of
knocking at the door like a decent person! Oh, don't tell me that you
only want to prevent me sitting up,--if I choose to sit up, what's that
to you? Some wives, indeed, would make a noise about sitting up, but
_you've_ no reason to complain, goodness knows!
“Well, upon my word, I've lived to hear something. Carry the
dead-latch key about with you! I've heard of such things with young
good-for-nothing bachelors, with nobody to care what became of 'em; but
for a married man to leave his wife and children in the house with the
door upon the latch--don't talk to me about Chubb, it's all the same--a
great deal you must care for us. Yes, it's very well for you to say,
that you only want the key for peace and quietness--what's it to you, if
I like to sit up? You've no business to complain; it can't distress you.
Now, it's no use your talking; all I say is this, Caudle: if you send
a man to put on any lock here, I'll call in a policeman; as I'm your
married wife, I will!
“No, I think when a man comes to have the dead-latch key, the sooner he
turns bachelor again the better. I'm sure, Caudle, I don't want to be
any clog upon you. Now, its no use your telling me to hold my tongue,
for I--What? I give you the head-ache, do I? No, I don't, Caudle: it's
your club that gives you the head-ache: it's your smoke, and your--well!
if ever I knew such a man in all my life! there's no saying a word to
you! You go out, and treat yourself like an emperor--and come home at
twelve at night, or any hour, for what I know,--and then you threaten to
have a key, and--and--and----”
“I _did_ get to sleep at last,” says Caudle, “amidst the
falling sentences of 'take children into a lodging'--'separate
maintenance'--'won't be made a slave of'--and so forth.”
LECTURE XIII. MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER. CAUDLE, ON
THE “JOYFUL OCCASION,” HAS GIVEN A PARTY, AND ISSUED THE ANNEXED CARD OF
INVITATION.
[Illustration: 057]
“It _is_ hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that I can't leave home for a day or
two, but the house must be turned into a tavern: a tavern?--a pothouse!
Yes, I thought you were very anxious that I should go; I thought you
wanted to get rid of me for something, or you would not have insisted on
my staying at dear mother's all night. You were afraid I should get
cold coming home, were you? Oh yes, you can be very tender, you can, Mr.
Caudle, when it suits your own purpose. Yes! and the world thinks what
a good husband you are! I only wish the world knew you as well as I do,
that's all; but it shall, some day, I'm determined.
“I 'm sure the house will not be sweet for a month. All the curtains are
poisoned with smoke; and, what's more, with the filthiest smoke I ever
knew. _Take 'em down, then?_ Yes, it's all very well for you to say,
take 'em down; but they were only cleaned and put up a month ago; but
a careful wife's lost upon you, Mr. Caudle. You ought to have married
somebody who'd have let your house go to wreck and ruin, as I will for
the future. People who don't care for their families are better thought
of than those who do; I've long found out _that_.
“And what a condition the carpet's in! They've taken five pounds out
of it, if a farthing, with their filthy boots, and I don't know what
besides. And then the smoke in the hearth-rug, and a large cinder-hole
burnt in it! I never saw such a house in _my_ life! If you wanted to
have a few friends, why couldn't you invite 'em when your wife's at
home, like any other man? not have 'em sneaking in, like a set of
housebreakers, directly a woman turns her back. They must be pretty
gentlemen, they must; mean fellows, that are afraid to face a woman!
Ha! and you all call yourselves the lords of the creation! I should
only like to see what would become of the creation, if you were left to
yourselves! A pretty pickle creation would be in very soon!
“You must all have been in a nice condition! What do you say? _You took
nothing?_ Took nothing, didn't you? I'm sure there's such a regiment of
empty bottles, I haven't had the heart to count 'em. And punch, too!
you must have punch! There's a hundred half-lemons in the kitchen, if
there's one: for Susan, like a good girl, kept 'em to show 'em me. No,
sir; Susan _shan't leave the house!_ What do you say? _She has no right
to tell tales, and you will be master in your own house?_ Will you? If
you don't alter, Mr. Caudle, you 'll soon have no house to be master of.
A whole loaf of sugar did I leave in the cupboard, and now there isn't
as much as would fill a tea-cup. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar for
punch for fifty men? What do you say? _There wasn't fifty?_ That's no
matter; the more shame for 'em, sir. I'm sure they drank enough for
fifty. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar for punch for all the world out
of my housekeeping money? _You don't ask me?_ Don't you ask me? You do;
you know you do: for if I only want a shilling extra, the house is in a
blaze. And yet a whole loaf of sugar can you throw away upon---- No, I
_won't_ be still; and I _won't_ let you go to sleep. If you'd got to bed
at a proper hour last night, you wouldn't have been so sleepy now. You
can sit up half the night with a pack of people who don't care for you,
and your poor wife can't get in a word!
“And there's that China image that I had when I was married--I wouldn't
have taken any sum of money for it, and you know it--and how do I find
it? With its precious head knocked off! And what was more mean, more
contemptible than all besides, it was put on again, as if nothing had
happened. _You knew nothing about it?_ Now, how can you lie there, in
your Christian bed, Caudle, and say that? You know that that fellow,
Prettyman, knocked off the head with the poker! You know that he did.
And you hadn't the feeling?--yes, I will say it,--you hadn't the feeling
to protect what you knew was precious to me. Oh no, if the truth was
known, you were very glad to see it broken for that very reason.
“Every way, I've been insulted. I should like to know who it was who
corked whiskers on my dear aunt's picture! Oh! you're laughing, are you?
_You 're not laughing?_ Don't tell me that. I should like to know what
shakes the bed, then, if you 're not laughing? Yes, corked whiskers on
her dear face,--and she was a good soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to
be ashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, you may laugh! It's very
easy to laugh! I only wish you'd a little feeling, like other people,
that's all.
“Then there's my china mug--the mug I had before I was married--when I
was a happy creature. I should like to know who knocked the spout off
that mug? Don't tell me it was cracked before--it's no such thing,
Caudle; there wasn't a flaw in it--and now, I could have cried when I
saw it. Don't tell me it wasn't worth twopence. How do you know? You
never buy mugs. But that's like men; they think nothing in a house costs
anything.
“There's four glasses broke, and nine cracked. At least, that's all I've
found out at present; but I dare say I shall discover a dozen to-morrow.
“And I should like to know where the cotton umbrella's gone to--and I
should like to know who broke the bell-pull--and perhaps you don't know
there's a leg off a chair,--and perhaps--”
“Here,” says Caudle, “Morpheus came to my aid, and I slept; nay, I think
I snored.”