IN WHICH MRS. DUCKIE DISCUSSES THE DUTIES OF LIFE, AND MR. BEMERTON
INTRODUCES ME TO CERTAIN VILLAGE PESSIMISTS
For old sake's sake I look in now and then on Mr. Bemerton and bring
away a book, and recently I exchanged a few words with Mrs. Duckie,
who is now very lonely by day, Be-trice having gone on to the
music-hall stage under the name of Lazie Glee, a serio-comic singer,
and Ern having thrown up a situation in a garage in order to join a
troupe in the same profession who are known as "The Four Uglies."
Mrs. Duckie naturally began by asking after my young lady. "The
pretty dear," she said, "I hope she's well, and that you're
comfortable where you are. Sorry we were to lose you. And are there
any little ones? Not yet--but there will be, I hope and trust. Such
a sweet lady and such a nice gentleman, it would be a sin not to have
any. So many people to-day aren't having any, and I call it a crying
shame. But you're not like that. There must be one little Master
Falconer at any rate, if not two, and a little Miss Falconer as well.
One of each is best. Single children get spoiled and too clever too:
no give-and-take and always hearing their parents talk; not good for
a child. No, a noisy nursery is best, with a good quarrel now and
then. That's the way to make men and women. The next time you call
I hope you'll be able to bring the good news," the honest creature
concluded.
She went on--without interruption--to talk of her own family. "Why
all my children should be so bitten by the music halls I can't
think," she remarked mournfully. "I never cared for the places
myself, and my husband is all for serious music when he gets the
chance; while their grandfather on their father's side was a local
preacher, and my father, God bless him, as quiet a man as you'd find
anywhere, and so little ear that he didn't know the 'Old Hundredth'
from 'Home, Sweet Home.' It just shows what a wonderful thing this
heredity is. I suppose there must have been someone in the family
somewhere who was more skittish. Of course one never knows all about
anyone. Perhaps Duckie's father sang a bit loose before he took to
religion."
"Your mother didn't sing?" I asked.
"No, bless her heart, she didn't. But I've heard her say, now I come
to think of it, that her mother was famous in 'Sir Roger.' Perhaps
that's where it all started. But it makes me very unhappy. There's
Be-trice now, these two houses a night just wear her out. And Ern
calling himself an 'Ugly,' it's dreadful. Such a pretty child as he
was too, with fair curls down to his shoulders. I don't know what
the world's coming to."
I asked after Mr. Duckie.
"He's very well," said Mrs. Duckie, "but tired. Always on his poor
feet, you know. He's got a great idea of finding someone with a
little money to join him in starting an eating-house of his own, and
though of course it's very risky I almost wish he could; for he's
getting on in years and it's a shame he should spend his whole life
in making money for someone else. I wonder if you know of anyone
with a little capital, sir?"
"I'll think about it," I said, at once remembering both the
unoccupied Mr. Wiles and Lacey's cold chop scheme.
Mr. Bemerton was somewhat depressed too. Old-book buying, he said,
was declining steadily. Reprints were hitting him very hard, but the
love of pleasure harder. People spent their money now on
entertainment and food, where they once used not only to dine at home
but sit at home all the evening reading. Now if they sat at home
they played bridge. He wouldn't be so pessimistic as to say that
England was going to the dogs, but he would like to see something
happen to make us pull ourselves together. His niece, Miss Waghorn,
had left him. Married a mild young man in a hosier's, ten years her
junior, and the pair of them reminded Mr. Bemerton of nothing so much
as a cruet: oil and vinegar. "But I dare say they'll mix," he said.
"They met in a lodging-house at Margate: nothing like such places to
settle one's hash. With no home comforts one gets desperate for
company, and then Cupid begins to shoot.
"I've got a little book for you," said Mr. Bemerton, "that I've been
keeping till you came in. A privately printed one. It would be too
much to say that they are the best books, but they often have a
quality that the others haven't. Sometimes of course they're merely
the result of vanity, but here and there, as in the present case,
they contain a very special kind of record, such as a modest observer
with a humorous sense of character might like to preserve for her
friends but not wish the world at large to see, lest perhaps some of
the simple folk described in the pages might get to know of it and be
hurt."
Mr. Bemerton, who had been turning a little volume over and over in
his hands all this time, while mine were stretched out and withdrawn
and again outstretched to take it, here opened it.
"It's the modestest little thing," he said. "Just a few pages of
talk among villagers in the Midlands; but it's a jewel of literature.
Among its very great admirers when it appeared was Mr. Gladstone.
Now, I've only one copy and I can't get another; but I'll lend it to
you. You must treat it as if it were a black pearl."
I have done so and allowed no one but Naomi to see it. It is a
strange little book and might well cease to be private, although one
likes to think of a few good things being withheld from the world at
large. Miss A., the author or recorder of these conversations, was
an invalid lady living in the country, to whom her humble neighbours
were a perpetual joy; she helped them, she sympathized with them, and
she laughed at their little foibles afterwards. In these pages she
has preserved certain of their odd speeches, the period being chiefly
early in the eighteen sixties. But the type is eternal.
Although we meet several characters in the book, most of them have a
family resemblance in that they have had a hard time, and expect
nothing better, and do not always make the best of it. No doubt Miss
A. had neighbours who were more optimistic or less sardonic; but to
her these did not appeal as those others did. All artists have
preferences in types, and the humorous grumbler was hers. But it is
not discontent that gives this little book its unity; it is marriage.
Almost every page touches upon that imperfect state, so that by the
end an impressionable reader would as soon think of entering the
bonds as of sitting voluntarily in the electrocuting chair; that is,
if marriage did not chance to be the one hazard in the world from
which no one person can withhold another.
Here are Miss A. and Mary Powell, a labourer's wife, together, in
Mary Powell's cottage, as reported by Miss A.:
_Miss A._ "How have you and John agreed together since I left
Bewley?"
_Mary._ "Well, ma'am, those words of yours when we parted have
hacted very well. 'Mary,' says you, 'when John's in a bad temper you
be in a good 'un; for it's both on you being in a bad temper together
as does the mischief.' So mony a time when he's contraried me I've
said to myself, 'Now I'll be on Miss A.'s plan;' and we've had
nothing but bits of houts since--never no fighting--and a very good
thing we've left it off. For, ye see, a man's hand falls very heavy
on a woman, and mony a time I've been black and blue; only he was a
deal more careful where he hit me at after he had that
seven-and-sixpence to pay for them leeches to my side. You remember
it, don't you, ma'am? I'd been saying summat again his mother--he
calls her all to pieces himself, only he wunna let me--so he knocked
me hoff the chair, and it caused himplamation; and fine and foolish
John looked when the doctor shook his head at him. But he niver said
he was sorry; he's too stupid for that."
_Miss A._ "Have you taken my advice on the other point--about going
to church?"
_Mary._ "Well, ma'am, I did go twice after my brother died; but I
can scarce ever find time, betwixt waiting on the cow, and the pig,
and John--and he taks as much as t'other two put together; he won't
so much as reach out his hand to reach hisself a cup or a saucer. I
gets up at four o'clock on Sundays to milk cow, and then there's
John's boots to be blacked, and a deal of mud scraped off 'em first,
and breakfast to get in time for him to go to chapel at nine (and he
scolds me finely if he's late), and then pig to be fed and our dinner
to get. I said to John one Sunday, when he'd been saying, 'Woman,
thou'lt go to Fire and Brimstone as sure as thou'rt born, for thou
niver goest to church nor chapel;' 'Very well,' says I, 'then thou
must feed pig thyself to-day.' 'I'll let him starve first,' says
John; and, sure enough, pig would have starved if I had na' crep out
at night to feed him. So when I come back I thought I'd have it out
wi' John, so I says, 'I'm not a bit likelier to go to Fire and
Brimstone than thou art, with all thy blaating and praying; and as
for them Methodies, I hates 'em, with all them collections, sixpence
here and sixpence there; and I have read in a book that John Wesley
did not improve of their axing folks for money.' So John says quite
scornful, 'I wonder where you got that much larning, woman.' 'When I
had the hopportunity,' I says quite scornful back again. You know,
Miss A., I'd read it in a book as was full of all manner of things
about railroads and such like. I suppose, ma'am, you've seen London
Bridge. Eh! dear, what a place it must be! They say the railway
carriages, and carriages and cabs with horses, are all running
together upon the rails, and it's nothing but them pints as keeps
them from all being smashed together."
Again, two years later:
_Miss A._ "How have you and John been getting on since I saw you?"
_Mary._ "Pretty well; indeed, I darsna fly into them passions; the
doctor says it'll be present death if I do. Mine is the white
passions as drives the blood hinwards and causes bad palpulation at
the heart. Mr. Walker, the doctor, come in one day just as I'd
knocked John back'ards at the door for coming in with dirty shoes
just when I'd been two hours on my hands and knees cleaning the
floor; but, you know, Miss A., a hot temper is naterally grounded in
me. My mother had a hawful temper; I've seen her empty a shovel full
of hot ashes on my father's head. Now, I won't say but what I've
thrown a ash or two at John, but they've been could 'uns; and one day
my mother snatched up a gown as I had been buying for myself, and put
it on the fire, and her said, 'There now, and next time I'll put you
on the fire too, if you buy finery without my jurydiction.' Eh! how
I cried when I see'd them beautiful pink and yallow stripes kindling;
but her was a good mother at the root for all her was so strict; and
when I sees girls nowadays fithered and flounced up, and pomped out
so as when they comes swelling along one's obliged to get out o' the
road, I often thinks to myself, it's a pity there's not some mothers
in Bewley like mine. John often says to me, 'Thou'rt the very model
of thy mother, Mary, temper and all.' 'Yes, John,' says I, 'and
didn't her warn thee that I'd a foul temper; and didn't thee say,
like a big fool, "I wull have her, temper and all." Thou conceitedst
thou couldst master me, but thou hast larnt different.' 'I have
that,' said John. He often fetches texes out of Scripture about
women doing their juties, to clench me with, and he knows it taks me
a long time to pick out a tex to clench him with. There was no
natteral schools whin I was yong."
The next year:
_Mary._ "I hope you're better of the lombagger, Miss A. John had it
wunst, and he was cured with some stuff he got gracious from Doctor
Woods; it was uncommon strong, for he could feel it playing back'ards
and forrards about his heart afore it went down. John's mother is
dead at last, but she lay a long while; you know sick folks canna go
hoff unless they're kept nice and clean; I'll be bound her'd have
died a deal sooner if I'd had the tending of heir, because I should
always have been fettling and washing of her. For all her'd been so
wicked, her died like a good 'un, and said her was going to Glory;
but I'm partly of your opinyan, Miss A., that according as folks
live, so they'll die."
So much for Mary Powell. Now for Anne Williams:
_Miss A._ "I think you seem as cheerful as ever."
_Anne._ "Yes! as Mary James says, I'm always at the top o' the tree,
and so I ought to be, for the Lord has been very good to me. You
would not have conceited as He would listen to the prayers of a poor
hignorant woman like me, but I've pruven as He did; for many a time
as my husband has rampaged out of the house door like a lion, I've
felled on my knees, and he's come back like a lamb. I never used to
tell him what it was as had peacified him, because I knew that 'ud
cause him to break out worse till ever; and now when he's a bit for
wrangling, I only just say, 'Daniel, we wasn't paired to tear up one
another's minds, but to live comfortable.' I should like you to see
my youngest girl; she's not out o' the way handsome, for you know,
ma'am, I'm hard-featured, and Daniel is long-featured (though he
looks pretty well when he's tidied up a bit), but she has the
loveliest tongue for a child of two and a half as ever anybody heard.
Whatever we say, long or short, she has it in a minute, and specially
if there's a bad word said she's sure not to miss it; and then, if I
hoffer to beat her, her'll cry out, 'If mother beats Hemma, Hemma'il
tell daddy, and then daddy'll beat mother': really, I say such an
admyrable little creatur is more than nateral. I shall be taking her
with me to chapel by-and-bye; we attends the Primities."
_Miss A._ "Are those the Ranters?"
_Anne._ "Oh! no, ma'am, the Ranters jump, and the Primities only
shouts. I don't hold with jumping myself, though to be sure wasn't
it St. Paul--oh no, it was King David--as danced before the ark? The
shouting is a realality, depend upon it, Miss A., for you know when
the facts of the Lord works into one's inside one cannot help but
shout."
The next cottage is a stonemason's. The stonemason is ill and his
wife receives the visitor:
"My husband is very bad indeed, ladies; indeed, I thought it was a
done job with him last week, and him unconvarted yet. He was very
near getting his convarsion last winter; he came in from the public
one Saturday night near ten o'clock, and he says to me, 'Anne, it's
plain enough thy prayers isn't strong enough for me, and I'm
determined to try what they can do for me at Cresbrook Chapel, and
we'll set out this very night, to be ready for the meeting in the
morning.' So we set out, and as we passed the Nag's Head I could
hear him saying, 'Be off with ye,'--that was to the Devil, you know,
ladies. It was twelve o'clock when we got to Cresbrook to my
mother's; and as soon as morning came my husband said, 'I'll go to
cousin Jane, as has axed me so often to go to chapel, and if her axes
me again, I'll go.' So he went, but her never axed him, so I took it
that the Lord had not appinted this time for Ned, so we come home
again, and he soon took to drink worse than ever; but he's better to
me than he used to be, for when I knelt down to say my prayers he'd
often pull me up again by the roots of my hair. He's coming
downstairs now, ladies. Ned, thou must tell these ladies what ails
thee, though they'll scarce understand such broad talk as thine, but
thou must speak thy best and they'll excuse it."
_Ned._ "The doctor says the muscles of my liver is set fast, and he
ordered me a hot slivver bath to loosen 'em; so I borrowed one, and
while I was in it two or three of the neighbours looked in, and they
kept saying, 'Stop in a bit longer, lad, it'll fatch the grease out
of thy boones;' so I stopped and stopped till I was well-nigh jead,
and I have been going worse ever since."
_Miss A._ "Have you been subject to these attacks before?"
_Ned._ "Yes, ma'am, since I was a lad. I was 'prentice to my uncle,
a stonmason, and one day when I was at the top of a ladder, thirty
feet high, me and the big ston I was carrying come down together; and
when I laid on the ground half-stunned, the first words my uncle said
was, 'The ston's not brocken;' he never axed me if I was hurt, and as
soon as I could move, he said, 'Up with it again, lad;' so I went,
but afore I was half-way up I fainted right away, and fell to the
ground with the ston atop of me that time, and I was in bed eleven
weeks. My uncle was a bit of a rogue, but he grew to be quite a big
sort of a man afterwards, and used to ax me to dinner, and very
handsome victuals he set before me, but I niver felt right in the
stomach till I'd said summat about the big ston. However, I niver
said much, for I kept thinking to myself, 'The words as one has not
yet spooken, one has got yet for to say.'"
And, lastly, here is an old Welsh widower:
_Miss A._ "I hear that you lost your wife ten years ago. You must
have led a sad, lonely life since her death."
_David._ "Quite the other way, ma'am. I'd never no peace at all
till she went. I prayed to the Lord night and day for thirty years
that He would please to part us; but I left it to Him which way it
should be. I was quite ready to go myself; but He took her at last,
and right thankful I was indeed."
_Miss A._ "I suppose you were always quarrelling?"
_David._ "I had a hot temper enough before I was married; but when I
see what an awful woman she was, I says to myself, 'Now, two fires
cannot burn together;' and I grew as quiet as could be, and never
contraried her no ways. But she was a most awful woman; indeed, she
did throw a coffee-pot just off the fire at my head one day."
_Miss A._ "I hope she repented before she died."
_David._ "Indeed, I don't know. I did often say to her when she lay
a-dying, 'My dear, I hope the Lord will forgive your sins; but I do
not know as He will, for you have been a most awful woman indeed, my
dear."
They ring very true, these grumbles, do they not? And they all add
to the wish which so many reflective persons must have entertained at
one time or other, that the Perfect Man had not narrowed His earthly
experiences and diminished the variety of His example by remaining
single.