vagrant! there is the true cause of your superiority over me--you have no
friends! But can the marvellous assertion be true? Can this enviable man
really go home and touch up his speech for to-morrow, with the certainty
of not being interrupted? I am going home to finish an article, without
knowing whether I shall have a clear five minutes to myself, all the
time I am at work. Can he take his money back to his drawer, in broad
daylight, and meet nobody by the way who will say to him, 'Remember our
old friendship, and lend me a trifle'? I have money waiting for me at my
publisher's, and I dare not go and fetch it, except under cover of the
night. Is that spoilt child of fortune, from whom I have just separated
myself, really and truly never asked to parties and obliged to go to them?
He has a button on his coat--I am positively certain I saw it--and is
there no human finger and thumb to lay hold of it, and no human tongue to
worry him, the while? He does not live in the times of the pillory, and
he has his ears--the lucky wretch. Have those organs actually enjoyed the
indescribable blessedness of freedom from the intrusion of 'well-meant
advice'? Can he write--and has he got no letters to answer? Can he
read--and has he no dear friend's book to get through, whether he likes it
or not? No wonder that he looks prosperous and healthy, though he lives
in a dingy slum, and that I look peevish and pale, though I reside on
gravel, in an airy neighbourhood. Good Heavens! does he dare to speak of
his misfortunes, when he has no calls to make? Irrational Sybarite! what
does he want next, I wonder?"
* * * * *
These are crabbed sentiments. But, perhaps, as it is the fashion,
now-a-days, to take an inveterately genial view of society in general, my
present outbreak of misanthropy may be pardoned, in consideration of its
involving a certain accidental originality of expression in relation to
social subjects. It is a dreadful thing to say; but it is the sad truth
that I have never yet been able to appreciate the advantage of having a
large circle of acquaintances, and that I could positively dispense with
a great many of my dearest friends.
* * * * *
There is my Boisterous Friend, for instance--an excellent creature, who
has been intimate with me from childhood, and who loves me as his brother.
I always know when he calls, though my study is at the top of the house. I
hear him in the passage, the moment the door is opened--he is so hearty;
and, like other hearty people, he has such a loud voice. I have told my
servant to say that I am engaged, which means simply, that I am hard at
work. "Dear old boy!" I hear my Boisterous Friend exclaim, with a genial
roar, "writing away, just as usual--eh, Susan? Lord bless you! he knows
me--he knows I don't want to interrupt him. Up-stairs, of course? I know
my way. Just for a minute, Susan--just for a minute." The voice stops,
and heavily-shod feet (all boisterous men wear thick boots) ascend the
stairs, two at a time. My door is burst open, as if with a battering-ram
(no boisterous man ever knocks), and my friend rushes in like a mad bull.
"Ha, ha, ha! I've caught you," says the associate of my childhood. "Don't
stop for me, dear old boy; I'm not going to interrupt you (bless my soul,
what a lot of writing!)--and you're all right, eh? That's all I wanted to
know. By George, it's quite refreshing to see you here forming the public
mind! No! I won't sit down; I won't stop another instant. So glad to have
seen you, dear fellow--good-bye." By this time, his affectionate voice
has made the room ring again; he has squeezed my hand, in his brotherly
way, till my fingers are too sore to hold the pen; and he has put to
flight, for the rest of the day, every idea that I had when I sat down to
work. And yet (as he would tell me himself) he has not been in the room
more than a minute--though he might well have stopped for hours, without
doing any additional harm. Could I really dispense with him? I don't deny
that he has known me from the time when I was in short frocks, and that
he loves me like a brother. Nevertheless, I could dispense--yes, I could
dispense--oh, yes, I could dispense--with my Boisterous Friend.
Again, there is my Domestic Friend, whose time for calling on me is late
in the afternoon, when I have wrought through my day's task; and when a
quiet restorative half-hour by myself, over the fire, is precious to me
beyond all power of expression. There is my Domestic Friend, who comes
to me at such times, and who has no subject of conversation but the
maladies of his wife and children. No efforts that I can make to change
the subject, can get me out of the range of the family sick-room. If
I start the weather, I lead to a harrowing narrative of its effect on
Mrs. Ricketts, or the Master and Miss Rickettses. If I try politics or
literature, my friend apologises for knowing nothing about any recent
events in which ministers or writers are concerned, by telling me how
his time has been taken up by illness at home. If I attempt to protect
myself by asking him to meet a large party, where the conversation must
surely be on general topics, he brings his wife with him (though he
told me, when I invited her, that she was unable to stir from her bed),
and publicly asks her how she feels, at certain intervals; wafting that
affectionate question across the table, as easily as if he was handing
the salt-cellar, or passing the bottle. I have given up defending myself
against him of late, in sheer despair. I am resigned to my fate. Though
not a family man, I know (through the vast array of facts in connection
with the subject, with which my friend has favoured me) as much about the
maladies of young mothers and their children, as the doctor himself. Does
any other unmedical man know when half a pint of raw brandy may be poured
down the throat of a delicate and sensitive woman, without producing the
slightest effect on her, except of the restorative kind? I know when it
may be done--when it must be done--when, I give you my sacred word of
honour, the exhibition of alcohol in large quantities, may be the saving
of one precious life--ay, sir, and perhaps of two! Possibly it may yet
prove a useful addition to my stores of information, to know what I
know now on such interesting subjects as these. It may be so--but, good
Christian people, it is not the less true, that I could also dispense with
my Domestic Friend.
My Country Friends--I must not forget them--and least of all, my
hospitable hostess, Lady Jinkinson, who is in certain respects the type
and symbol of my whole circle of rural acquaintance.
Lady Jinkinson is the widow of a gallant general officer. She has a
charming place in the country. She has also sons who are splendid fellows,
and daughters who are charming girls. She has a cultivated taste for
literature--so have the charming girls--so have not the splendid fellows.
She thinks a little attention to literary men is very becoming in persons
of distinction; and she is good enough to ask me to come and stay at her
country-house, where a room shall be specially reserved for me, and where
I can write my "fine things" in perfect quiet, away from London noises
and London interruptions. I go to the country-house with my work in my
portmanteau--work which must be done by a certain time. I find a charming
little room made ready for me, opening into my bed-room, and looking out
on the lovely garden-terrace, and the noble trees in the park beyond. I
come down to breakfast in the morning; and after the second cup of tea.
I get up to return to my writing-room. A chorus of family remonstrances
rises instantly. Oh, surely I am not going to begin writing on the very
first day. Look at the sun, listen to the birds, feel the sweet air. A
drive in the country, after the London smoke, is absolutely necessary--a
drive to Shockley Bottom, and a picnic luncheon (so nice!), and back by
Grimshawe's Folly (such a view from the top!), and a call, on the way
home, at the Abbey, that lovely old house, where the dear Squire has
had my last book read aloud to him (only think of that! the very last
thing in the world that I could possibly have expected!) by darling Emily
and Matilda, who are both dying to know me. Possessed by a (printer's)
devil, I gruffly break through this string of temptations to be idle, and
resolutely make my escape.
"Lunch at half-past one," says Lady Jinkinson, as I retire.
"Pray, don't wait for me," I answer.
"Lunch at half-past one," persists Lady Jinkinson, as if she thought I
had not heard her.
"And cigars in the billiard-room," adds one of the splendid fellows.
"And in the green-house, too," continues one of the charming girls, "where
your horrid smoking is really of some use."
I shut the door desperately. The last words I hear are from Lady
Jinkinson. "Lunch at half-past one."
I get into my writing-room, and take the following inventory of the
contents:--
Table of rare inlaid woods, on which a drop of ink would be downright
ruin. Silver inkstand of enormous size, holding about a thimbleful of
ink. Clarified pens in scented papier-mâché box. Blotting-book lined with
crimson watered silk, full of violet and rose-coloured note-paper with the
Jinkinson crest stamped in silver at the top of each leaf. Pen-wiper, of
glossy new cloth, all ablaze with beads; tortoise-shell paper-knife; also
paper-weight, exhibiting a view of the Colosseum in rare Mosaic; also,
light green taper, in ebony candlestick; wax in scented box; matches in
scented box; pencil-tray made of fine gold, with a turquoise eruption
breaking out all over it. Upon the whole, about two hundred pounds' worth
of valuable property, as working materials for me to write with.
I remove every portable article carefully from the inlaid table--look
about me for the most worthless thing I can discover to throw over it, in
case of ink-splashes,--find nothing worthless in the room, except my own
summer paletôt,--take that, accordingly, and make a cloth of it,--pull
out my battered old writing-case, with my provision of cheap paper, and
my inky steel pen in my two-penny holder. With these materials before
me on my paletôt (price one guinea), I endeavour to persuade myself, by
carefully abstaining from looking about the room, that I am immersed in
my customary squalor, and upheld by my natural untidiness. After a little
while, I succeed in the effort, and begin to work.
Birds. The poets are all fond of birds. Can they write, I wonder, when
their favourites are singing in chorus close outside their window? I,
who only produce prose, find birds a nuisance. Cows also. Has that one
particular cow who bellows so very regularly, a bereavement to mourn?
I think we shall have veal for dinner to-day; I do think we shall have
nice veal and stuffing. But this is not the train of thought I ought to
be engaged in. Let me be deaf to these pastoral noises (including the
sharpening of the gardener's scythe on the lawn), and get on with my work.
Tum-dum-tiddy-hidy-dum--tom-tom-tiddy-hiddy-tom--ti-too-tidy-hidy-ti--
ti-ti-ti-tum. Yes, yes, that famous tenor bit in the Trovatore, played
with prodigious fire on the piano in the room below, by one of the
charming girls. I like the Trovatore (not being, fortunately for
myself, a musical critic). Let me lean back in my chair on this balmy
morning--writing being now clearly out of the question--and float away
placidly on the stream of melody. Brava! Brava! Bravissima! She is
going through the whole opera, now in one part of it, and now in
another. No, she stops, after only an hour's practice. A voice calls
to her; I hear her ringing laugh, in answer: no more piano--silence.
Work, work, you must be done! Oh, my ideas, my only stock in trade,
mercifully come back to me--or, like the famous Roman, I have lost a
day.
Let me see; where was I when the Trovatore began? At the following passage
apparently, for the sentence is left unfinished.
"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more light_"----
What had I got to say about light, when the Trovatore began? Was it,
"flows in upon us"? No; nothing so commonplace as that. I had surely a
good long metaphor, and a fine round close to the sentence. "The more
light"----shines? beams? bursts? dawns? floods? bathes? quivers? Oh, me!
what was the precious next word I had in my head, when the Trovatore took
possession of my poor crazy brains? It is useless to search for it. Strike
out "the more light," and try something else.
"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more prodigally
we find scattered before us the gems of truth which--so seldom ride over
to see us now._"
"So seldom ride over to see us now?" Mercy on me, what am I about?
Ending my unfortunate sentence by mechanically taking down a few polite
words, spoken by the melodious voice of one of the charming girls on the
garden-terrace under my window. What do I hear, in a man's voice? "Regret
being so long an absentee, but my schools and my poor"--Oh, a young
clerical visitor; I know him by his way of talking. All young clergymen
speak alike--who teaches them, I wonder? Let me peep out of window.
I am right. It is a young clergyman--no whiskers, apostolic hair, sickly
smile, long frock coat, a wisp of muslin round his neck, and a canonical
black waistcoat with no gap in it for the display of profane linen. The
charming girl is respectfully devouring him with her eyes. Are they going
to have their morning chat under my window? Evidently they are. This
is pleasant. Every word of their small, fluent, ceaseless, sentimental
gabble comes into my room. If I ask them to get out of hearing I am rude.
If I go to the window, and announce my presence by a cough, I confuse
the charming girl. No help for it, but to lay the pen down again, and
wait. This is a change for the worse, with a vengeance. The Trovatore was
something pleasant to listen to; but the reverend gentleman's opinions
on the terrace flowers which he has come to admire; on the last volume of
modern poetry which he has borrowed from the charming girl; on the merits
of the church system in the Ages of Faith, and on the difficulties he
has had to contend with in his Infant School, are, upon the whole, rather
wearisome to listen to. And this is the house that I entered in the full
belief that it would offer me the luxury of perfect quiet to work in! And
down stairs sits Lady Jinkinson, firmly believing that she has given me
such an opportunity of distinguishing myself with my pen, as I have never
before enjoyed in all my life! Patience, patience.
Half an hour; three quarters of an hour. Do I hear him taking his leave?
Yes, at last. Pen again; paper again. Where was I?
"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more prodigally
do we find scattered before us the gems of truth, which_"----
What was I going to say the gems of truth did, when the young clergyman
and the charming girl began their sentimental interview on the terrace?
Gone--utterly gone. Strike out the gems of truth, and try another way.
"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more its vast
capabilities_"----
A knock at the door.
"Yes."
"Her Ladyship wishes me to say, sir, that luncheon is ready."
"Very well."
* * * * *
"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more clearly
its vast capabilities display themselves to our view. The mind, indeed,
can hardly be pronounced competent_"----
A knock at the door.
"Yes."
"Her Ladyship wishes me to remind you, sir, that luncheon is ready."
"Pray beg Lady Jinkinson not to wait for me."
* * * * *
"_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the
extended field of observation_"----
A knock at the door.
"Yes."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but her Ladyship desires me to say that a friar's
omelette has just come up, which she very much wishes you to taste. And
she is afraid it will get cold, unless you will be so good as to come
down-stairs at once."
"Say, I will come directly."
* * * * *
"_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the
extended field of observation, which_"--which?--which?--Gone again! What
else could I expect? A nice chance literature has in this house against
luncheon.
I descend to the dining-room, and am politely told that I look as if I had
just achieved a wonderful morning's work. "I dare say you have not written
in such perfect quiet as this for months past?" says Lady Jinkinson,
helping me to the friar's omelette. I begin with that dainty: where I
end is more than my recollection enables me to say. Everybody feeds me,
under the impression that I am exhausted with writing. All the splendid
fellows will drink wine with me, "to set me going again." Nobody believes
my rueful assertion that I have done nothing, which they ascribe to
excessive modesty. When we rise from table (a process which is performed
with extreme difficulty, speaking for myself), I am told that the carriage
will be ready in an hour. Lady Jinkinson will not hear of any objections.
"No! no!" she says. "I have not asked you here to overwork yourself. I
really can't allow that."
I get back to my room, with an extraordinary tightness in my waistcoat,
and with slight symptoms of a determination of Sherry to the head. Under
these circumstances, returning to work immediately is not to be thought
of. Returning to bed is by far the wiser proceeding. I lie down to arrange
my ideas. Having none to arrange, I yield to Nature, and go to sleep.
When I wake, my head is clear again. I see my way now to the end of that
bit about "the extended field of observation;" and make for my table in
high spirits. Just as I sit down, comes another knock at the door. The
carriage is ready. The carriage! I had forgotten all about it. There
is no way of escape, however. Hours must give way to me, when I am at
home; I must give way to hours, when I am at Lady Jinkinson's. My papers
are soon shuffled together in my case; and I am once more united with
the hospitable party down-stairs. "More bright ideas?" cry the ladies
interrogatively, as I take my place in the carriage. "Not the dimmest
vestige of one," I answer. Lady Jinkinson shakes her parasol reproachfully
at me. "My dear friend, you were always absurdly modest when speaking of
yourself; and, do you know, I think it grows on you."
We get back in time to dress for dinner. After dinner, there is the
social evening, and more Trovatore. After that, cigars with the splendid
fellows in the billiard-room. I look over my day's work, with the calmness
of despair, when I get to bed at last. It amounts to four sentences
and a half; every line of which is perfectly worthless as a literary
composition.
The next morning, I rise before the rest of the family are up, leave a
note of apology on my table, and take the early train for London. This
is very ungrateful behaviour to people who have treated me with extreme
kindness. But here, again, I must confess the hard truth. The demands
of my business in life are imperative; and, sad to say, they absolutely
oblige me to dispense with Lady Jinkinson.
* * * * *
I have now been confessing my misanthropical sentiments at some length;
but I have not by any means done yet with the number of my dear friends
whom I could dispense with. To say nothing of my friend who borrows
money of me (an obvious nuisance), there is my self-satisfied friend, who
can talk of nothing but himself, and his successes in life; there is my
inattentive friend, who is perpetually asking me irrelevant questions,
and who has no power of listening to my answers; there is my accidental
friend, whom I always meet when I go out; there is my hospitable friend,
who is continually telling me that he wants so much to ask me to dinner,
and who never does really ask me by any chance. All these intimate
associates of mine are persons of fundamentally irreproachable characters,
and of well-defined positions in the world; and yet so unhappily is my
nature constituted, that I am not exaggerating when I acknowledge that I
could positively dispense with every one of them.
To proceed a little farther, now that I have begun to unburden my mind--
* * * * *
A double knock at the street door stops my pen suddenly. I make no
complaint, for I have been, to my own amazement, filling these pages for
the last three hours, in my parlour after dinner, without interruption.
A well-known voice in the passage smites my ear, inquiring for me, on
very particular business, and asking the servant to take in the name. The
servant appears at my door, and I make up my mind to send these leaves
to the printer, unfinished as they are. No necessity, Susan, to mention
the name; I have recognised the voice. This is my friend who does not at
all like the state of my health. He comes, I know beforehand, with the
address of a new doctor, or the recipe of a new remedy; and he will stay
for hours, persuading me that I am in a bad way. No escaping from him, as
I know by experience. Well, well, I have made my confession, and eased my
mind. Let my friend who doesn't like the state of my health, end the list,
for the present, of the dear friends whom I could dispense with. Show him
in, Susan--show him in.
CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--III.
THE CAULDRON OF OIL.
About one French league distant from the city of Toulouse, there is a
village called Croix-Daurade. In the military history of England, this
place is associated with a famous charge of the eighteenth hussars, which
united two separated columns of the British army, on the day before the
Duke of Wellington fought the battle of Toulouse. In the criminal history
of France, the village is memorable as the scene of a daring crime, which
was discovered and punished under circumstances sufficiently remarkable
to merit preservation in the form of a plain narrative.
I. THE PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
In the year seventeen hundred, the resident priest of the village of
Croix-Daurade was Monsieur Pierre-Célestin Chaubard. He was a man of no
extraordinary energy or capacity, simple in his habits, and sociable
in his disposition. His character was irreproachable; he was strictly
conscientious in the performance of his duties; and he was universally
respected and beloved by all his parishioners.
Among the members of his flock, there was a family named Siadoux. The head
of the household, Saturnin Siadoux, had been long established in business
at Croix-Daurade as an oil-manufacturer. At the period of the events now
to be narrated, he had attained the age of sixty, and was a widower. His
family consisted of five children--three young men, who helped him in the
business, and two daughters. His nearest living relative was his sister,
the widow Mirailhe.
The widow resided principally at Toulouse. Her time in that city was
mainly occupied in winding up the business affairs of her deceased
husband, which had remained unsettled for a considerable period after
his death, through delays in realising certain sums of money owing to his
representative. The widow had been left very well provided for--she was
still a comely attractive woman--and more than one substantial citizen
of Toulouse had shown himself anxious to persuade her into marrying for
the second time. But the widow Mirailhe lived on terms of great intimacy
and affection with her brother Siadoux and his family; she was sincerely
attached to them, and sincerely unwilling, at her age, to deprive her
nephews and nieces, by a second marriage, of the inheritance, or even of
a portion of the inheritance, which would otherwise fall to them on her
death. Animated by these motives, she closed her doors resolutely on all
suitors who attempted to pay their court to her, with the one exception
of a master-butcher of Toulouse, whose name was Cantegrel.
This man was a neighbour of the widow's, and had made himself useful by
assisting her in the business complications which still hung about the
realisation of her late husband's estate. The preference which she showed
for the master-butcher was, thus far, of the purely negative kind. She
gave him no absolute encouragement; she would not for a moment admit
that there was the slightest prospect of her ever marrying him--but, at
the same time, she continued to receive his visits, and she showed no
disposition to restrict the neighbourly intercourse between them, for the
future, within purely formal bounds. Under these circumstances, Saturnin
Siadoux began to be alarmed, and to think it time to bestir himself.
He had no personal acquaintance with Cantegrel, who never visited the
village; and Monsieur Chaubard (to whom he might otherwise have applied
for advice) was not in a position to give an opinion: the priest and the
master-butcher did not even know each other by sight. In this difficulty,
Siadoux bethought himself of inquiring privately at Toulouse, in the hope
of discovering some scandalous passages in Cantegrel's early life, which
might fatally degrade him in the estimation of the widow Mirailhe. The
investigation, as usual in such cases, produced rumours and reports in
plenty, the greater part of which dated back to a period of the butcher's
life when he had resided in the ancient town of Narbonne. One of these
rumours, especially, was of so serious a nature, that Siadoux determined
to test the truth or falsehood of it, personally, by travelling to
Narbonne. He kept his intention a secret not only from his sister and his
daughters, but also from his sons; they were young men, not over-patient
in their tempers--and he doubted their discretion. Thus, nobody knew his
real purpose but himself, when he left home.
His safe arrival at Narbonne was notified in a letter to his family.
The letter entered into no particulars relating to his secret errand:
it merely informed his children of the day when they might expect him
back, and of certain social arrangements which he wished to be made to
welcome him on his return. He proposed, on his way home, to stay two days
at Castelnaudry, for the purpose of paying a visit to an old friend who
was settled there. According to this plan, his return to Croix-Daurade
would be deferred until Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of April, when his
family might expect to see him about sunset, in good time for supper.
He further desired that a little party of friends might be invited to
the meal, to celebrate the twenty-sixth of April (which was a feast-day
in the village), as well as to celebrate his return. The guests whom
he wished to be invited were, first, his sister; secondly, Monsieur
Chaubard, whose pleasant disposition made him a welcome guest at all the
village festivals; thirdly and fourthly, two neighbours, business-men like
himself, with whom he lived on terms of the friendliest intimacy. That
was the party; and the family of Siadoux took especial pains, as the time
approached, to provide a supper worthy of the guests, who had all shown
the heartiest readiness in accepting their invitations.
This was the domestic position, these were the family prospects, on
the morning of the twenty-sixth of April--a memorable day, for years
afterwards, in the village of Croix-Daurade.
II. THE EVENTS OF THE DAY.
Besides the curacy of the village church, good Monsieur Chaubard held some
small ecclesiastical preferment in the cathedral church of St. Stephen
at Toulouse. Early in the forenoon of the twenty-sixth, certain matters
connected with this preferment took him from his village curacy to the
city--a distance which has been already described as not greater than one
French league, or between two and three English miles.
After transacting his business, Monsieur Chaubard parted with his clerical
brethren, who left him by himself in the sacristy (or vestry) of the
church. Before he had quitted the room, in his turn, the beadle entered
it, and inquired for the Abbé de Mariotte, one of the officiating priests
attached to the cathedral.
"The Abbé has just gone out," replied Monsieur Chaubard. "Who wants him?"
"A respectable-looking man," said the beadle. "I thought he seemed to be
in some distress of mind, when he spoke to me."
"Did he mention his business with the Abbé?"
"Yes, sir; he expressed himself as anxious to make his confession
immediately."
"In that case," said Monsieur Chaubard, "I may be of use to him in the
Abbé's absence--for I have authority to act here as confessor. Let us
go into the church, and see if this person feels disposed to accept my
services."
When they went into the church, they found the man walking backwards and
forwards in a restless, disordered manner. His looks were so strikingly
suggestive of some serious mental perturbation, that Monsieur Chaubard
found it no easy matter to preserve his composure, when he first addressed
himself to the stranger.
"I am sorry," he began, "that the Abbé de Mariotte is not here to offer
you his services----"
"I want to make my confession," said the man, looking about him vacantly,
as if the priest's words had not attracted his attention.
"You can do so at once, if you please," said Monsieur Chaubard. "I am
attached to this church, and I possess the necessary authority to receive
confessions in it. Perhaps, however, you are personally acquainted with
the Abbé de Mariotte? Perhaps you would prefer waiting----"
"No!" said the man, roughly. "I would as soon, or sooner, confess to a
stranger."
"In that case," replied Monsieur Chaubard, "be so good as to follow me."
He led the way to the confessional. The beadle, whose curiosity was
excited, waited a little, and looked after them. In a few minutes, he
saw the curtains, which were sometimes used to conceal the face of the
officiating priest, suddenly drawn. The penitent knelt with his back
turned to the church. There was literally nothing to see--but the beadle
waited nevertheless, in expectation of the end.
After a long lapse of time, the curtain was withdrawn, and priest and
penitent left the confessional.
The change which the interval had worked in Monsieur Chaubard was so
extraordinary, that the beadle's attention was altogether withdrawn, in
the interest of observing it, from the man who had made the confession. He
did not remark by which door the stranger left the church--his eyes were
fixed on Monsieur Chaubard. The priest's naturally ruddy face was as white
as if he had just risen from a long sickness--he looked straight before
him, with a stare of terror--and he left the church as hurriedly as if he
had been a man escaping from prison; left it without a parting word, or
a farewell look, although he was noted for his courtesy to his inferiors
on all ordinary occasions.
"Good Monsieur Chaubard has heard more than he bargained for," said the
beadle, wandering back to the empty confessional, with an interest which
he had never felt in it till that moment.
* * * * *
The day wore on as quietly as usual in the village of Croix-Daurade. At
the appointed time, the supper-table was laid for the guests in the house
of Saturnin Siadoux. The widow Mirailhe, and the two neighbours, arrived a
little before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, who was usually punctual, did not
make his appearance with them; and when the daughters of Saturnin Siadoux
looked out from the upper windows, they saw no signs on the high road of
their father's return.
Sunset came--and still neither Siadoux nor the priest appeared. The little
party sat waiting round the table, and waited in vain. Before long, a
message was sent up from the kitchen, representing that the supper must
be eaten forthwith, or be spoilt; and the company began to debate the two
alternatives, of waiting, or not waiting, any longer.
"It is my belief," said the widow Mirailhe, "that my brother is not coming
home to-night. When Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better sit down to
supper."
"Can any accident have happened to my father?" asked one of the two
daughters, anxiously.
"God forbid!" said the widow.
"God forbid!" repeated the two neighbours, looking expectantly at the
empty supper-table.
"It has been a wretched day for travelling," said Louis, the eldest son.
"It rained in torrents, all yesterday," added Thomas, the second son.
"And your father's rheumatism makes him averse to travelling in wet
weather," suggested the widow, thoughtfully.
"Very true!" said the first of the two neighbours, shaking his head
piteously at his passive knife and fork.
Another message came up from the kitchen, and peremptorily forbade the
company to wait any longer.
"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?" said the widow. "Has he been taking a
journey too? Why is _he_ absent? Has anybody seen him to-day?"
"I have seen him to-day," said the youngest son, who had not spoken yet.
This young man's name was Jean; he was little given to talking, but he
had proved himself, on various domestic occasions, to be the quickest and
most observant member of the family.
"Where did you see him?" asked the widow.
"I met him, this morning, on his way into Toulouse."
"He has not fallen ill, I hope? Did he look out of sorts when you met him?"
"He was in excellent health and spirits," said Jean. "I never saw him look
better----"
"And _I_ never saw him look worse," said the second of the neighbours,
striking into the conversation with the aggressive fretfulness of a hungry
man.
"What! this morning?" cried Jean, in astonishment.
"No; this afternoon," said the neighbour. "I saw him going into our church
here. He was as white as our plates will be--when they come up. And what
is almost as extraordinary, he passed without taking the slightest notice
of me."
Jean relapsed into his customary silence. It was getting dark; the clouds
had gathered while the company had been talking; and, at the first pause
in the conversation, the rain, falling again in torrents, made itself
drearily audible.
"Dear, dear me!" said the widow. "If it was not raining so hard, we might
send somebody to inquire after good Monsieur Chaubard."
"I'll go and inquire," said Thomas Siadoux. "It's not five minutes'
walk. Have up the supper; I'll take a cloak with me; and if our excellent
Monsieur Chaubard is out of his bed, I'll bring him back, to answer for
himself."
With those words he left the room. The supper was put on the table
forthwith. The hungry neighbour disputed with nobody from that moment,
and the melancholy neighbour recovered his spirits.
On reaching the priest's house, Thomas Siadoux found him sitting alone
in his study. He started to his feet, with every appearance of the most
violent alarm, when the young man entered the room.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Thomas; "I am afraid I have startled you."
"What do you want?" asked Monsieur Chaubard, in a singularly abrupt,
bewildered manner.
"Have you forgotten, sir, that this is the night of our supper?"
remonstrated Thomas. "My father has not come back; and we can only
suppose----"
At those words the priest dropped into his chair again, and trembled from
head to foot. Amazed to the last degree by this extraordinary reception
of his remonstrance, Thomas Siadoux remembered, at the same time, that he
had engaged to bring Monsieur Chaubard back with him; and, he determined
to finish his civil speech, as if nothing had happened.
"We are all of opinion," he resumed, "that the weather has kept my father
on the road. But that is no reason, sir, why the supper should be wasted,
or why you should not make one of us, as you promised. Here is a good warm
cloak----"
"I can't come," said the priest. "I'm ill; I'm in bad spirits; I'm not
fit to go out." He sighed bitterly, and hid his face in his hands.
"Don't say that, sir," persisted Thomas. "If you are out of spirits, let
us try to cheer you. And you, in your turn, will enliven us. They are all
waiting for you at home. Don't refuse, sir," pleaded the young man, "or
we shall think we have offended you, in some way. You have always been a
good friend to our family----"
Monsieur Chaubard again rose from his chair, with a second change
of manner, as extraordinary and as perplexing as the first. His eyes
moistened as if the tears were rising in them; he took the hand of Thomas
Siadoux, and pressed it long and warmly in his own. There was a curious
mixed expression of pity and fear in the look which he now fixed on the
young man.
"Of all the days in the year," he said, very earnestly, "don't doubt my
friendship to-day. Ill as I am, I will make one of the supper-party, for
your sake----"
"And for my father's sake?" added Thomas, persuasively.
"Let us go to the supper," said the priest.
Thomas Siadoux wrapped the cloak round him, and they left the house.
Every one at the table noticed the change in Monsieur Chaubard. He
accounted for it by declaring, confusedly, that he was suffering
from nervous illness; and then added that he would do his best,
notwithstanding, to promote the social enjoyment of the evening. His talk
was fragmentary, and his cheerfulness was sadly forced; but he contrived,
with these drawbacks, to take his part in the conversation--except in the
case when it happened to turn on the absent master of the house. Whenever
the name of Saturnin Siadoux was mentioned--either by the neighbours,
who politely regretted that he was not present; or by the family, who
naturally talked about the resting-place which he might have chosen
for the night--Monsieur Chaubard either relapsed into blank silence, or
abruptly changed the topic. Under these circumstances, the company, by
whom he was respected and beloved, made the necessary allowances for his
state of health; the only person among them, who showed no desire to cheer
the priest's spirits, and to humour him in his temporary fretfulness,
being the silent younger son of Saturnin Siadoux.
Both Louis and Thomas noticed that, from the moment when Monsieur
Chaubard's manner first betrayed his singular unwillingness to touch on
the subject of their father's absence, Jean fixed his eyes on the priest,
with an expression of suspicious attention; and never looked away from him
for the rest of the evening. The young man's absolute silence at table
did not surprise his brothers, for they were accustomed to his taciturn
habits. But the sullen distrust betrayed in his close observation of the
honoured guest and friend of the family, surprised and angered them. The
priest himself seemed once or twice to be aware of the scrutiny to which
he was subjected, and to feel uneasy and offended, as he naturally might.
He abstained, however, from openly noticing Jean's strange behaviour; and
Louis and Thomas were bound, therefore, in common politeness, to abstain
from noticing it also.
The inhabitants of Croix-Daurade kept early hours. Towards eleven o'clock,
the company rose and separated for the night. Except the two neighbours,
nobody had enjoyed the supper, and even the two neighbours, having eaten
their fill, were as glad to get home as the rest. In the little confusion
of parting, Monsieur Chaubard completed the astonishment of the guests at
the extraordinary change in him, by slipping away alone, without waiting
to bid anybody good night.
The widow Mirailhe and her nieces withdrew to their bed-rooms, and left
the three brothers by themselves in the parlour.
"Jean," said Thomas Siadoux, "I have a word to say to you. You stared
at our good Monsieur Chaubard in a very offensive manner all through the
evening. What did you mean by it?"
"Wait till to-morrow," said Jean; "and perhaps I may tell you."
He lit his candle, and left them. Both the brothers observed that his hand
trembled, and that his manner--never very winning--was, on that night,
more serious and more unsociable than usual.
III. THE YOUNGER BROTHER.
When post-time came on the morning of the twenty-seventh, no letter
arrived from Saturnin Siadoux. On consideration, the family interpreted
this circumstance in a favourable light. If the master of the house had
not written to them, it followed, surely, that he meant to make writing
unnecessary by returning on that day.
As the hours passed, the widow and her nieces looked out, from time to
time, for the absent man. Towards noon, they observed a little assembly
of people approaching the village. Ere long, on a nearer view, they
recognised at the head of the assembly, the chief magistrate of Toulouse,
in his official dress. He was accompanied by his Assessor (also in
official dress), by an escort of archers, and by certain subordinates
attached to the town-hall. These last appeared to be carrying some burden,
which was hidden from view by the escort of archers. The procession
stopped at the house of Saturnin Siadoux; and the two daughters, hastening
to the door, to discover what had happened, met the burden which the men
were carrying, and saw, stretched on a litter, the dead body of their
father.
The corpse had been found that morning on the banks of the river Lers.
It was stabbed in eleven places with knife or dagger wounds. None of the
valuables about the dead man's person had been touched; his watch and his
money were still in his pockets. Whoever had murdered him, had murdered
him for vengeance, not for gain.
Some time elapsed before even the male members of the family were
sufficiently composed to hear what the officers of justice had to say to
them. When this result had been at length achieved, and when the necessary
inquiries had been made, no information of any kind was obtained which
pointed to the murderer, in the eye of the law. After expressing his
sympathy, and promising that every available means should be tried to
effect the discovery of the criminal, the chief magistrate gave his orders
to his escort, and withdrew.
When night came, the sister and the daughters of the murdered man retired
to the upper part of the house, exhausted by the violence of their grief.
The three brothers were left once more alone in the parlour, to speak
together of the awful calamity which had befallen them. They were of hot
Southern blood, and they looked on one another with a Southern thirst for
vengeance in their tearless eyes.
The silent younger son was now the first to open his lips.
"You charged me yesterday," he said to his brother Thomas, "with looking
strangely at Monsieur Chaubard all the evening; and I answered that I
might tell you _why_ I looked at him when to-morrow came. To-morrow has
come, and I am ready to tell you."
He waited a little, and lowered his voice to a whisper when he spoke again.
"When Monsieur Chaubard was at our supper-table last night," he said, "I
had it in my mind that something had happened to our father, and that the
priest knew it."
The two elder brothers looked at him in speechless astonishment.
"Our father has been brought back to us a murdered man!" Jean went on,
still in a whisper. "I tell you, Louis--and you, Thomas--that the priest
knows who murdered him."
Louis and Thomas shrank from their younger brother, as if he had spoken
blasphemy.
"Listen," said Jean. "No clue has been found to the secret of the murder.
The magistrate has promised us to do his best--but I saw in his face that
he had little hope. We must make the discovery ourselves--or our father's
blood will have cried to us for vengeance, and cried in vain. Remember
that--and mark my next words. You heard me say yesterday evening, that
I had met Monsieur Chaubard on his way to Toulouse in excellent health
and spirits. You heard our old friend and neighbour contradict me at the
supper-table, and declare that he had seen the priest, some hours later,
go into our church here with the face of a panic-stricken man. You saw,
Thomas, how he behaved when you went to fetch him to our house. You saw,
Louis, what his looks were like when he came in. The change was noticed by
everybody--what was the cause of it? _I_ saw the cause in the priest's own
face, when our father's name turned up in the talk round the supper-table.
Did Monsieur Chaubard join in that talk? He was the only person present
who never joined in it once. Did he change it, on a sudden, whenever
it came his way? It came his way four times; and four times he changed
it--trembling, stammering, turning whiter and whiter, but still, as true
as the Heaven above us, shifting the talk off himself, every time! Are
you men? Have you brains in your heads? Don't you see, as I see, what
this leads to? On my salvation I swear it--the priest knows the hand that
killed our father!"
The faces of the two elder brothers darkened vindictively, as the
conviction of the truth fastened itself on their minds.
"_How_ could he know it?" they inquired, eagerly.
"He must tell us himself," said Jean.
"And if he hesitates--if he refuses to open his lips?"
"We must open them by main force."
They drew their chairs together after that last answer, and consulted,
for some time, in whispers.
When the consultation was over, the brothers rose and went into the room
where the dead body of their father was laid out. The three kissed him, in
turn, on the forehead--then took hands together, and looked, meaningly,
in each other's faces--then separated. Louis and Thomas put on their
hats, and went at once to the priest's residence; while Jean withdrew by
himself to the great room at the back of the house, which was used for
the purposes of the oil-factory.
Only one of the workmen was left in the place. He was watching an immense
cauldron of boiling linseed-oil.
"You can go home," said Jean, patting the man kindly on the shoulder.
"There is no hope of a night's rest for me, after the affliction that
has befallen us--I will take your place at the cauldron. Go home, my good
fellow--go home."
The man thanked him, and withdrew. Jean followed, and satisfied himself
that the workman had really left the house. He then returned, and sat down
by the boiling cauldron.
Meanwhile, Louis and Thomas presented themselves at the priest's house.
He had not yet retired to bed, and he received them kindly--but with
the same extraordinary agitation in his face and manner which had
surprised all who saw him on the previous day. The brothers were prepared
beforehand with an answer, when he inquired what they wanted of him. They
replied immediately that the shock of their father's horrible death had
so seriously affected their aunt and their eldest sister, that it was
feared the minds of both might give way, unless spiritual consolation and
assistance were afforded to them that night. The unhappy priest--always
faithful and self-sacrificing where the duties of his ministry were in
question--at once rose to accompany the young men back to the house. He
even put on his surplice, and took the crucifix with him, to impress his
words of comfort all the more solemnly on the afflicted women whom he was
called on to succour.
Thus innocent of all suspicion of the conspiracy to which he had fallen a
victim, he was taken into the room where Jean sat waiting by the cauldron
of oil; and the door was locked behind him.
Before he could speak, Thomas Siadoux openly avowed the truth.
"It is we three who want you," he said--"not our aunt, and not our sister.
If you answer our questions truly, you have nothing to fear. If you
refuse----" He stopped, and looked toward Jean and the boiling cauldron.
Never, at the best of times, a resolute man; deprived, since the day
before, of such resources of energy as he possessed, by the mental
suffering which he had undergone in secret--the unfortunate priest
trembled from head to foot, as the three brothers closed round him. Louis
took the crucifix from him, and held it; Thomas forced him to place his
right hand on it; Jean stood in front of him and put the questions.
"Our father has been brought home a murdered man," he said. "Do you know
who killed him?"
The priest hesitated; and the two elder brothers moved him nearer to the
cauldron.
"Answer us, on peril of your life," said Jean. "Say, with your hand on
the blessed crucifix, do you know the man who killed our father?"
"I do know him."
"When did you make the discovery?"
"Yesterday."
"Where?"
"At Toulouse."
"Name the murderer."
At those words, the priest closed his hand fast on the crucifix, and
rallied his sinking courage.
"Never!" he said firmly. "The knowledge I possess was obtained in the
confessional. The secrets of the confessional are sacred. If I betray
them, I commit sacrilege. I will die first!"
"Think!" said Jean. "If you keep silence, you screen the murderer. If you
keep silence, you are the murderer's accomplice. We have sworn over our
father's dead body to avenge him--if you refuse to speak, we will avenge
him on _you_. I charge you again, name the man who killed him."
"I will die first," the priest reiterated, as firmly as before.
"Die then!" said Jean. "Die in that cauldron of boiling oil."
"Give him time," cried Louis and Thomas, earnestly pleading together.
"We will give him time," said the younger brother. "There is the clock
yonder, against the wall. We will count five minutes by it. In those five
minutes, let him make his peace with God--or make up his mind to speak."
They waited, watching the clock. In that dreadful interval, the priest
dropped on his knees and hid his face. The time passed in dead silence.
"Speak! for your own sake, for our sakes, speak!" said Thomas Siadoux, as
the minute hand reached the point at which the five minutes expired.
The priest looked up--his voice died away on his lips--the mortal agony
broke out on his face in great drops of sweat--his head sank forward on
his breast.
"Lift him!" cried Jean, seizing the priest on one side. "Lift him, and
throw him in!"
The two elder brothers advanced a step--and hesitated.
"Lift him, on your oath over our father's body!"
The two brothers seized him on the other side. As they lifted him to a
level with the cauldron, the horror of the death that threatened him,
burst from the lips of the miserable man in a scream of terror. The
brothers held him firm at the cauldron's edge. "Name the man!" they said
for the last time.
The priest's teeth chattered--he was speechless. But he made a sign with
his head--a sign in the affirmative. They placed him in a chair, and
waited patiently until he was able to speak.
His first words were words of entreaty. He begged Thomas Siadoux to give
him back the crucifix. When it was placed in his possession, he kissed
it, and said faintly, "I ask pardon of God for the sin that I am about to
commit." He paused; and then looked up at the younger brother, who still
stood in front of him. "I am ready," he said. "Question me, and I will
answer."
Jean repeated the questions which he had put, when the priest was first
brought into the room.
"You know the murderer of our father?"
"I know him."
"Since when?"
"Since he made his confession to me yesterday, in the cathedral of
Toulouse."
"Name him."
"His name is Cantegrel."
"The man who wanted to marry our aunt?"
"The same."
"What brought him to the confessional?"
"His own remorse."
"What were the motives for his crime?"
"There were reports against his character; and he discovered that your
father had gone privately to Narbonne to make sure that they were true."
"Did our father make sure of their truth?"
"He did."
"Would those discoveries have separated our aunt from Cantegrel if our
father had lived to tell her of them?"
"They would. If your father had lived, he would have told your aunt that
Cantegrel was married already; that he had deserted his wife at Narbonne;
that she was living there with another man, under another name; and that
she had herself confessed it in your father's presence."
"Where was the murder committed?"
"Between Villefranche and this village. Cantegrel had followed your father
to Narbonne; and had followed him back again to Villefranche. As far as
that place, he travelled in company with others, both going and returning.
Beyond Villefranche, he was left alone at the ford over the river. There
Cantegrel drew the knife to kill him, before he reached home and told his
news to your aunt."
"How was the murder committed?"
"It was committed while your father was watering his pony by the bank of
the stream. Cantegrel stole on him from behind, and struck him as he was
stooping over the saddle-bow."
"This is the truth, on your oath?"
"On my oath, it is the truth."
"You may leave us."
* * * * *
The priest rose from his chair without assistance. From the time when
the terror of death had forced him to reveal the murderer's name, a great
change had passed over him. He had given his answers with the immoveable
calmness of a man on whose mind all human interests had lost their hold.
He now left the room, strangely absorbed in himself; moving with the
mechanical regularity of a sleep-walker; lost to all perception of things
and persons about him. At the door he stopped--woke, as it seemed, from
the trance that possessed him--and looked at the three brothers with a
steady changeless sorrow, which they had never seen in him before, which
they never afterwards forgot.
"I forgive you," he said, quietly and solemnly. "Pray for me, when my time
comes."
With those last words, he left them.
IV. THE END.
The night was far advanced; but the three brothers determined to set forth
instantly for Toulouse, and to place their information in the magistrate's
hands, before the morning dawned.
Thus far, no suspicion had occurred to them of the terrible consequences
which were to follow their night-interview with the priest. They were
absolutely ignorant of the punishment to which a man in holy orders
exposed himself, if he revealed the secrets of the confessional. No
infliction of that punishment had been known in their neighbourhood--for,
at that time, as at this, the rarest of all priestly offences was a
violation of the sacred trust confided to the confessor by the Roman
Church. Conscious that they had forced the priest into the commission of
a clerical offence, the brothers sincerely believed that the loss of his
curacy would be the heaviest penalty which the law could exact from him.
They entered Toulouse that night, discussing the atonement which they
might offer to Monsieur Chaubard, and the means which they might best
employ to make his future life easy to him.
The first disclosure of the consequences which would certainly follow
the outrage they had committed, was revealed to them when they made their
deposition before the officer of justice. The magistrate listened to their
narrative with horror vividly expressed in his face and manner.
"Better you had never been born," he said, "than have avenged your
father's death, as you three have avenged it. Your own act has doomed the
guilty and the innocent to suffer alike."
Those words proved prophetic of the truth. The end came quickly, as the
priest had foreseen it, when he spoke his parting words.
* * * * *
The arrest of Cantegrel was accomplished without difficulty, the next
morning. In the absence of any other evidence on which to justify this
proceeding, the private disclosure to the authorities of the secret which
the priest had violated, became inevitable. The Parliament of Languedoc
was, under these circumstances, the tribunal appealed to; and the decision
of that assembly immediately ordered the priest and the three brothers
to be placed in confinement, as well as the murderer Cantegrel. Evidence
was then immediately sought for, which might convict this last criminal,
without any reference to the revelation that had been forced from the
priest--and evidence enough was found to satisfy judges whose minds
already possessed the foregone certainty of the prisoner's guilt. He was
put on his trial, was convicted of the murder, and was condemned to be
broken on the wheel. The sentence was rigidly executed, with as little
delay as the law would permit.
The cases of Monsieur Chaubard, and of the three sons of Siadoux, next
occupied the judges. The three brothers were found guilty of having forced
the secret of a confession from a man in holy orders, and were sentenced
to death by hanging. A far more terrible expiation of his offence awaited
the unfortunate priest. He was condemned to have his limbs broken on the
wheel, and to be afterwards, while still living, bound to the stake, and
destroyed by fire.
Barbarous as the punishments of that period were, accustomed as the
population was to hear of their infliction, and even to witness it, the
sentences pronounced in these two cases dismayed the public mind; and the
authorities were surprised by receiving petitions for mercy from Toulouse,
and from all the surrounding neighbourhood. But the priest's doom had been
sealed. All that could be obtained, by the intercession of persons of
the highest distinction, was, that the executioner should grant him the
mercy of death, before his body was committed to the flames. With this
one modification, the sentence was executed, as the sentence had been
pronounced, on the curate of Croix-Daurade.
The punishment of the three sons of Siadoux remained to be inflicted. But
the people, roused by the death of the ill-fated priest, rose against this
third execution, with a resolution before which the local government gave
way. The cause of the young men was taken up by the hot-blooded populace,
as the cause of all fathers and all sons; their filial piety was exalted
to the skies; their youth was pleaded in their behalf; their ignorance
of the terrible responsibility which they had confronted in forcing the
secret from the priest, was loudly alleged in their favour. More than
this, the authorities were actually warned that the appearance of the
prisoners on the scaffold would be the signal for an organised revolt and
rescue. Under this serious pressure, the execution was deferred, and the
prisoners were kept in confinement until the popular ferment had subsided.
The delay not only saved their lives, it gave them back their liberty
as well. The infection of the popular sympathy had penetrated through
the prison doors. All three brothers were handsome, well-grown young
men. The gentlest of the three in disposition--Thomas Siadoux--aroused
the interest and won the affection of the head-gaoler's daughter. Her
father was prevailed on at her intercession to relax a little in his
customary vigilance; and the rest was accomplished by the girl herself.
One morning, the population of Toulouse heard, with every testimony of
the most extravagant rejoicing, that the three brothers had escaped,
accompanied by the gaoler's daughter. As a necessary legal formality, they
were pursued, but no extraordinary efforts were used to overtake them:
and they succeeded, accordingly, in crossing the nearest frontier.
Twenty days later, orders were received from the capital, to execute
their sentence in effigy. They were then permitted to return to France,
on condition that they never again appeared in their native place, or in
any other part of the province of Languedoc. With this reservation they
were left free to live where they pleased, and to repent the fatal act
which had avenged them on the murderer of their father at the cost of the
priest's life.
Beyond this point the official documents do not enable us to follow their
career. All that is now known has been now told of the village-tragedy at
Croix-Daurade.
BOLD WORDS BY A BACHELOR.
The postman's knocks at my door have been latterly more frequent than
usual; and out of the increased number of letters left for me, it has
happened that an unusually large proportion have contained wedding cards.
Just as there seem to be certain days when all the beautiful women in
London take to going out together, certain days when all the people we
know appear to be conspiring to meet us at every turn in one afternoon's
walk--so there seem to be times and seasons when all our friends are
inexplicably bent on getting married together. Capricious in everything,
the law of chances is especially whimsical, according to my experience,
in its influence over the solemnisation of matrimony. Six months ago,
there was no need for me to leave a single complimentary card anywhere,
for weeks and weeks together. Just at the present time, I find myself
in danger of wearing out my card-case by incessant use. My friends are
marrying recklessly in all sorts of opposite directions, and are making
the bells a greater nuisance than usual in every parish of London.
These curious circumstances have set me thinking on the subject of
marriage, and have recalled to my mind certain reflections in connection
with that important change in life, which I first made when I was not
quite such an incurably-settled old bachelor as I am at the present
moment.
It occurred to me, at that past time, and it occurs to me still, that
while great stress is laid in ordinary books and ordinary talk on the
personal interest which a man has himself, and on the family interest
which his near relations have also, in his marrying an affectionate
and sensible woman, sufficient importance has not been attached to the
interest of another sort, which the tried and worthy friends of his
bachelor days ought to feel, and, for the most part, do feel, in his
getting a good wife. It really and truly depends upon her, in more cases
than I should like to enumerate, whether her husband's friendships are
to be continued, after his marriage, in all their integrity, or are
only to be maintained as a mere social form. It is hardly necessary for
me to repeat--but I will do so, in order to avoid the slightest chance
of misconstruction--that I am here speaking only of the worthiest, the
truest, the longest-tried friends of a man's bachelor days. Towards these
every sensible married woman feels, as I believe, that she owes a duty for
her husband's sake. But, unfortunately, there are such female phenomena
in the world as fond wives and devoted mothers, who are anything rather
than sensible women the moment they are required to step out of the sphere
of their conjugal and maternal instincts. Women of this sort have an
unreasonable jealousy of their husbands in small things; and on the misuse
of their influence to serve the interests of that jealousy, lies but too
often the responsibility of severing such friendships as no man can hope
to form for the second time in the course of his life. By the severing
of friendships, I do not mean the breaking off of all intercourse, but
the fatal changing of the terms on which a man lives with his friend--the
casting of the first slight shadow which alters the look of the whole
prospect. It is astonishing by what a multitude of slight threads the firm
continuity of brotherly regard is maintained. Many a woman has snapped
asunder all the finer ligaments which once connected her husband and his
friend; and has thought it enough if she left the two still attached by
the coarser ties which are at the common disposal of all the world. Many a
woman--delicate, affectionate, and kind within her own narrow limits--has
committed that heavy social offence, and has never felt afterwards a
single pang of pity or remorse.
These bold words will be unpopular enough, I am afraid, with certain
readers; but I am an old bachelor, and I must have licence to speak the
unwelcome truth. I respect and admire a good husband and father, but I
cannot shake off the equally sincere reverence that I feel for a good
friend; and I must be allowed to tell some married ladies--what Society
ought to tell them a little oftener--that there are other affections, in
this world, which are noble and honourable, besides those of conjugal and
parental origin. It may be an assertion of a very shocking and unexpected
kind, but I must nevertheless be excused for saying, that some of the
best wives and mothers in the land have given the heart-ache to some of
the best friends. While they have been behaving like patterns of conjugal
propriety, they have been estranging men who would once have gone to the
world's end to serve each other. I, as a single man, can say nothing of
the dreadful wrench--not the less dreadful because it is inevitable--when
a father and mother lose a daughter, in order that a lover may gain a
wife. But I can speak feelingly of the shock of losing a dear friend, in
order that a bride may gain a devoted husband. Nothing shall ever persuade
me (possibly because I am not married) that there is not a flaw of some
sort in the love for a wife which is made complete, in some people's eyes,
by forced contributions from the love which belongs to a friend. I know
that a man and woman who make a happy marriage have gained the summit of
earthly felicity; but do they never reach that enviable eminence without
having trampled underfoot something venerable, or something tender, by
the way?
Bear with me, indignant wives, if I recall the long-past time when one of
the handsomest women I ever saw, took my dearest friend away from me, and
destroyed, in one short day, the whole pleasant edifice that we two had
been building up together since we were boys at school.
I shall never be as fond of any human being again, as I was of that one
friend, and, until the beautiful woman came between us, I believe there
was nothing in this world that he would not have sacrificed and have
done for me. Even while he was courting, I kept my hold on him. Against
opposition on the part of his bride and her family, he stipulated that
I should be his best man on the wedding-day. The beautiful woman grudged
me my one small corner in his heart, even at that time; but he was true
to me--he persisted--and I was the first to shake hands with him when
he was a married man. I had no suspicion then that I was to lose him
from that moment. I only discovered the truth when I went to pay my
first visit to the bride and bridegroom at their abode in the country.
I found a beautiful house, exquisitely kept from top to bottom; I found
a hearty welcome; I found a good dinner and an airy bed-room; I found
a pattern husband and a pattern wife: the one thing I did not find was
my old friend. Something stood up in his clothes, shook hands with me,
pressed wine on me, called me by my Christian name, and inquired what I
was doing in my profession. It was certainly something that had a trick
of looking like my former comrade and brother; something that nobody in
my situation could have complained of with the smallest reason; something
with all the brightness of the old metal about it, but without the
sterling old ring; something, in short, which made me instinctively take
my chamber-candlestick early on the first night of my arrival, and say
good night while the beautiful woman and pattern wife was present to keep
her eye on me.
Can I ever forget the language of that eye on that occasion!--the volumes
it spoke in one glance of cruel triumph! "No more sacred secrets between
you two," it said, brightly. "When you trust him now, you must trust me.
You may sacrifice yourself for your love of him over and over again still,
but he shall make no sacrifices now for you, until he has first found out
how they affect my convenience and my pleasure. Your place in his heart
now, is where I choose it to be. I have stormed the citadel, and I will
bring children by-and-by to keep the ramparts; and you, the faithful old
soldier of former years--you have got your discharge, and may sit and sun
yourself as well as you can at the outer gates. You have been his truest
friend, but he has another now, and need trouble you no longer, except in
the capacity of witness of his happiness. This, you will observe, is in
the order of nature, and in the recognised fitness of things; and he hopes
you will see it--and so do I. And he trusts you will sleep well under his
(and my) new roof--and so do I. And he wishes you good night--and so do
I!"
Many, many years have passed since I first learned these hard truths;
but I can never forget the pang that it cost me to get them by heart at
a moment's notice. My old friend lives still--that is to say, I have an
intimate acquaintance, who asks me to all his dinners, and who made me
godfather to one of his children; but the brother of my love, who died
to me on the day when I paid him the marriage visit, has never come back
to life since that time. On the altar at which we two once sacrificed,
the ashes lie cold. A model husband and father has risen from them, and
that result is, I suppose, the only one that any third person has a right
to expect. It may be so; but, to this day, I cannot help thinking that
the beautiful woman would have done better if she could have made a fond
husband, without at the same time marring a good friend.
Readers will, I am afraid, not be wanting, who will be inclined to tell
me that the lady to whom I have been referring, only asserted the fair
privilege that was hers by right of marriage; and that my sense of injury
springs from the touchy selfishness of an old bachelor. Without attempting
to defend myself, I may at least be allowed to inquire into the lady's
motive for using her privilege--or, in plainer terms, for altering the
relations in which my friend and I had stood towards one another since
boyhood.
Her idea, I presume to have been, that, if I preserved my old footing
with her husband, I should be taking away some part of his affection that
belonged to her. According to my idea of it, she was taking away something
which had belonged to me, and which no effort on her part could afterwards
convert to her own use. It is hard to make some women understand that a
husband's heart--let him be ever so devoted and affectionate--has vacant
places in it which they can never hope to fill. It is a house in which
they and their children, naturally and properly, occupy all the largest
apartments and supply all the prettiest furniture; but there are spare
rooms which they cannot enter, which are reserved all through the lease
of life for inevitable guests of some sort from the world outside. It is
better to let in the old friend than some of the substituted visitors, who
are sure, sooner or later, to enter where there are rooms ready for them,
by means of pass-keys obtained without the permission of the permanent
tenants. Am I wrong in making such assertions as these? I should be
willing enough to think it probable--being only a bachelor--if my views
were based on mere theory. But my opinions, such as they are, have been
formed with the help of proofs and facts. I have met with bright examples
of wives who have strengthened their husbands' friendships as they never
could have been strengthened except under the influence of a woman's
care, employed in the truest, the tenderest, the most delicate way. I
have seen men rescued from the bad habits of half a lifetime by the luck
of keeping faithful friends who were the husbands of sensible wives. It
is a very trite and true remark that the deadliest enmities between men
have been occasioned by women. It is not less certain--though it is a
far less widely-accepted truth--that some (I wish I could say many) of
the strongest friendships have been knit most closely by women's helping
hands.
The real fact seems to be, that the general idea of the scope and purpose
of the Institution of Marriage is a miserably narrow one. The same
senseless prejudice which leads some people, when driven to extremes, to
the practical confession (though it may not be made in plain words) that
they would rather see murder committed under their own eyes, than approve
of any project for obtaining a law of divorce which shall be equal in its
operation on husbands and wives of all ranks who cannot live together,
is answerable also for the mischievous error in principle of narrowing
the practice of the social virtues, in married people, to themselves and
their children. A man loves his wife--which is, in other words, loving
himself--and loves his offspring, which is equivalent to saying that he
has the natural instincts of humanity; and, when he has gone thus far,
he has asserted himself as a model of all the virtues of life, in the
estimation of some people. In my estimation, he has only begun with the
best virtues, and has others yet to practise before he can approach to the
standard of a socially complete man. Can there be a lower idea of Marriage
than the idea which makes it, in fact, an institution for the development
of selfishness on a large and respectable scale? If I am not justified in
using the word selfishness, tell me what character a good husband presents
(viewed plainly as a man) when he goes out into the world, leaving all
his sympathies in his wife's boudoir, and all his affections up-stairs
in the nursery, and giving to his friends such shreds and patches of
formal recognition, in place of true love and regard, as consist in asking
them to an occasional dinner-party, and granting them the privilege of
presenting his children with silver mugs? He is a model of a husband, the
ladies will say. I dare not contradict them; but I should like to know
whether he is also a model of a friend?
No. Bachelor as I am, I have a higher idea of Marriage than this. The
social advantages which it is fitted to produce ought to extend beyond
one man and one woman, to the circle of society amid which they move.
The light of its beauty must not be shut up within the four walls which
enclose the parents and the family, but must flow out into the world, and
shine upon the childless and the solitary, because it has warmth enough
and to spare, and because it may make them, even in their way, happy too.
I began these few lines by asking sympathy and attention for the interest
which a man's true friends have, when he marries, in his choosing a wife
who will let them be friends still, who will even help them to mingling in
closer brotherhood, if help they need. I lay down the pen, suggesting to
some ladies--affectionately suggesting, if they will let me use the word,
after some of the bold things I have said--that it is in their power to
deprive the bachelor of the sole claim he has left to social recognition
and preeminence, by making married men what many of them are, and what
more might be--the best and truest friends that are to be found in the
world.
SOCIAL GRIEVANCES.--V.
MRS. BULLWINKLE.
Ladies and gentlemen. Give me five minutes' sympathy and attention. I have
something serious to say to you.
I am a married man, with an income which is too miserably limited to be
worth mentioning. About a month since, my wife advanced me one step nearer
to the Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors, by presenting me with
another child. On five previous occasions, her name had appeared in the
List of British Mothers which adorns the daily Supplement of the Times
newspaper. At each of these trying periods (I speak entirely of myself
when I use the word "trying") she was attended by the same Monthly Nurse.
On this last, and sixth, occasion, we were not so fortunate as to secure
the services of our regular functionary. She was already engaged; and a
new Nurse, with excellent recommendations, was, therefore, employed in
her stead. When I first heard of her, and was told that her name was Mrs.
Bullwinkle, I laughed. It was then the beginning of the month. It is now
the end of it, and I write down that once comical name with a settled
gravity which nothing can disturb.
We all know Mrs. Gamp. My late Monthly Nurse is the exact antipodes of
her. Mrs. Bullwinkle is tall and dignified; her complexion is fair; her
Grecian nose is innocent of all convivial colouring; her figure is not
more than agreeably plump; her manners are icily composed; her dress is
quiet and neat; her age cannot be more than five-and-thirty; her style
of conversation, when she talks, is flowing and grammatical--upon the
whole, she appears to be a woman who is much too ladylike for her station
in life. When I first met Mrs. Bullwinkle on the stairs, I felt inclined
to apologise for my wife's presumption in engaging her services. Though I
checked this absurd impulse, I could not resist answering the new nurse's
magnificent curtsy by expressing a polite hope that she would find her
situation everything that she could wish, under my roof.
"I am not accustomed to exact much, sir," said Mrs. Bullwinkle. "The cook
seems, I am rejoiced to say, to be an intelligent and attentive person.
I have been giving her some little hints on the subject of my meals. I
have ventured to tell her, that I eat little and often; and I think she
thoroughly understands me."
I am ashamed to say I was not so sharp as the cook. I did not thoroughly
understand Mrs. Bullwinkle, until it became my duty, through my wife's
inability to manage our domestic business, to settle the weekly bills. I
then became sensible of an alarming increase in our household expenditure.
If I had given two dinner-parties in the course of the week, the bills
could not have been more exorbitant: the butcher, the baker, and the
grocer could not have taken me at a heavier pecuniary disadvantage. My
heart sank as I thought of my miserable income. I looked up piteously from
the bills to the cook for an explanation.
The cook looked back at me compassionately, shook her head, and said:
"Mrs. Bullwinkle."
I reckoned up additional joints, additional chops, additional steaks,
fillets, kidneys, gravy beef. I told off a terrible supplement to the
usual family consumption of bread, flour, tea, sugar, and alcoholic
liquids. I appealed to the cook again; and again the cook shook her head,
and said, "Mrs. Bullwinkle."
My miserable income obliges me to look after sixpences, as other men look
after five-pound notes. Ruin sat immovable on the pile of weekly bills,
and stared me sternly in the face. I went up into my wife's room. The new
nurse was not there. The unhappy partner of my pecuniary embarrassments
was reading a novel. My innocent infant was smiling in his sleep. I had
taken the bills with me. Ruin followed them up-stairs, and sat spectral
on one side of the bed, while I sat on the other.
"Don't be alarmed, love," I said, "if you hear the police in the house.
Mrs. Bullwinkle has a large family, and feeds them all out of our
provisions. A search shall be instituted, and slumbering Justice shall be
aroused. Look at these joints, these chops, these steaks, these fillets,
these kidneys, these gravy beefs!"
My wife shook her head, exactly as the cook had shaken hers; and answered,
precisely as the cook had answered, "Mrs. Bullwinkle."
"But where does she hide it all?" I exclaimed.
My wife shut her eyes, and shuddered.
"John!" she said, "I have privately consulted the doctor; and the doctor
says Mrs. Bullwinkle is a Cow."
"If the doctor had to pay these bills," I retorted savagely, "he would
not be quite so free with his jokes."
"He is in earnest, dear. He explained to me, what I never knew before,
that a Cow is an animal with many stomachs----"
"What!" I cried out, in amazement; "do you mean to tell me that all these
joints, these chops, these steaks, these fillets, these kidneys, these
gravy beefs--these loaves, these muffins, these mixed biscuits--these
teas, these sugars, these brandies, gins, sherries, and beers, have
disappeared in one week, down Mrs. Bullwinkle's throat?"
"All, John," said my wife, sinking back on the pillow with a groan.
It was impossible to look at the bills and believe it. I questioned
and cross-questioned my wife, and still elicited nothing but the one
bewildering answer, "All, John." Determined--for I am a man of a logical
and judicial mind--to have this extraordinary and alarming case properly
investigated, I took out my pocket-book and pencil, and asked my wife if
she felt strong enough to make a few private entries for my satisfaction.
Finding that she willingly accepted the responsibility, I directed her
to take down, from her own personal investigation, a statement of Mrs.
Bullwinkle's meals, and of the time at which she partook of each of them,
for twenty-four hours, beginning with one morning and ending with another.
After making this arrangement, I descended to the parlour, and took
the necessary business measures for using the cook as a check upon her
mistress. Having carefully instructed her to enter, on the kitchen slate,
everything that was sent up to Mrs. Bullwinkle, for twenty-four hours, I
felt that my machinery for investigating the truth was now complete. If
the statement of the mistress, in bed on the second floor, agreed with the
statement of the cook, in the distant sphere of the kitchen, there could
be no doubt that I had obtained reliable information on the mysterious
subject of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals.
In due time, the two reports were sent in, and I had an opportunity of
understanding at last, what "eating little and often" really meant, in the
case of my wife's monthly nurse. Except in one particular, to be hereafter
adverted to, both statements agreed exactly. Here is the List, accompanied
by a correct time-table, of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, beginning with the
morning of Monday and ending with the morning of Tuesday. I certify, on my
honour as a British husband and housekeeper, that the copy is correctly
taken from my wife's entries in my pocket-book, checked impartially by
the cook's slate:[E]
A.M.
7. Breakfast.--Tea, Toast, Half-quartern Loaf, Butter, Eggs, Bacon.
9.30. First Morning Snack.--A glass of pale Sherry, and a plate of
Mixed Biscuits.
11. Second Morning Snack.--A Basin of Beef Tea, and a tumbler of
Brandy and Water.
P.M.
12.45. Dinner.--A Roast Loin of Mutton and Mashed Potatoes. With
Dinner, Ale, spiced and warmed. After Dinner, a tumbler of Hot Gin and
Water.
P.M.
3. Afternoon Snack.--A glass of pale Sherry, and a plate of Mixed
Biscuits.
4.30. Tea and Muffins.
7. Evening Snack.--Stewed Cheese, Toast, and a tumbler of Brandy and
Water.
9. Supper.--Nice juicy Steak, and two glasses of Beer. Second
Course.--Stewed Cheese, and a tumbler of Gin and Water.
ADDITIONAL PARTICULARS. (Not vouched for by the cook's slate.)--During
the night of Monday Mrs. Bullwinkle partook, at intervals, of Caudle.
At 4.30 A.M., on the morning of Tuesday, my wife was awakened by
hearing the nurse walking up and down the room, and sighing bitterly.
The following conversation then took place between them:
_My Wife._--Are you ill?
_Mrs. Bullwinkle._--No. Hungry.
I can certify that the above List correctly, and even moderately,
represents Mrs. Bullwinkle's daily bill of fare, for one month. I can
assert, from my own observation, that every dish, at every hour of the
day, which went up to her full, invariably came down from her empty. Mrs.
Bullwinkle was not a wasteful eater. She could fully appreciate, in roast
meat, for example, the great value of "lean;" but she was not, on that
account, insensible to the humbler merits of fat, skin, and "outside."
All--emphatically, all--was fish that came to her net; and the net itself,
as I can personally testify, was never once over-weighted and never out of
order. I have watched, in the case of this perfectly unparalleled human
cormorant, for symptoms of apoplexy, or at least of visible repletion,
with a dreadful and absorbing interest; and have, on no occasion, been
rewarded by making the smallest discovery. Mrs. Bullwinkle was never,
while in my service, even so much as partially intoxicated. Her face was
never flushed; her articulation was never thickened; her brain was never
confused; her movements were never uncertain. After the breakfast, the two
morning snacks, and the dinner,--all occurring within the space of six
hours,--she could move about the room with unimpeded freedom of action;
could keep my wife and the baby in a state of the strictest discipline;
could curtsy magnificently, when the unoffending master, whom she was
eating out of house and home, entered the room, preserving her colour, her
equilibrium, and her staylaces, when she sank down and when she swelled up
again, without the vestige of an apparent effort. During the month of her
devastating residence under my roof, she had two hundred and forty-eight
meals, including the snacks; and she went out of the house no larger and
no redder than she came in. After the statement of one such fact as that,
further comment is superfluous.
I leave this case in the hands of the medical and the married public.
I present it, as a problem, to physiological science. I offer it, as a
warning, to British husbands with limited incomes. While I write these
lines, while I give my married countrymen this friendly caution, my wife
is weeping over the tradesmen's bills; my children are on half-allowance
of food; my cook is worked off her legs; my purse is empty. Young
husbands, and persons about to marry, commit to memory the description
here given of my late monthly nurse! Avoid a tall and dignified woman,
with a flowing style of conversation and impressively ladylike manners!
Beware, my struggling friends, my fellow-toilers along the heavily-taxed
highways of domestic happiness--beware of Mrs. Bullwinkle!
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The curious legend connected with the birth of this "Adopted
Son," and the facts relating to his extraordinary career in after
life, are derived from the "Records" of the French Police of the
period. In this instance, and in the instances of those other
papers in the present collection which deal with foreign incidents
and characters, while the facts of each narrative exist in print,
the form in which the narrative is cast is of my own devising. If
these facts had been readily accessible to readers in general, the
papers in question would not have been reprinted. But the scarce
and curious books from which my materials are derived, have been
long since out of print, and are, in all human probability, never
likely to be published again.
[B] The biographical facts mentioned in this little sketch, are
derived from Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's interesting narrative of his
father's Life and Labours. For the rest--that is to say, for the
opinions here expressed on Jerrold's works, and for the estimate
attempted of his personal character--I am responsible. This is the
only instance of a reprinted article in the present collection,
any part of which is founded on a modern and an accessible
book. The reader will perhaps excuse and understand my making an
exception here to my own rules, when I add that Douglas Jerrold
was one of the first and the dearest friends of my literary life.
[C] When this article was first published in Household Words,
a son of Mr. Elliston wrote to the conductor to protest against
the epithets which I had attached to his father's name. In the
present reprint I have removed the epithets; not because I think
them undeserved, but because they merely represented my own angry
sense of Mr. Elliston's treatment of Jerrold--a sense which I have
no wish needlessly to gratify at the expense of a son's regard
for his father's memory. But the facts of the case as they were
originally related, and as I heard them from Jerrold himself,
remain untouched--exactly as my own opinion of Mr. Elliston's
conduct remains to this day unaltered. If the "impartial" reader
wishes to have more facts to decide on than those given in the
text, he is referred to Raymond's Life of Elliston--in which work
he will find the clear profits put into the manager's pocket by
Black-Eyed Susan, estimated at one hundred and fifty pounds a
week.
[D] This paper, and the paper on Art entitled 'To Think, or Be
Thought For,' which immediately follows it, provoked, at the time
of their first appearance, some remonstrance both of the public
and the private sort. I was blamed--so far as I could understand
the objections--for letting out the truth about the Drama, and
for speaking my mind (instead of keeping it to myself, as other
people did) on the subject of the Old Masters. Finding, however,
that my positions remained practically unrefuted, and that my
views were largely shared by readers with no professional interest
in theatres, and no vested critical rights in old pictures--and
knowing, besides, that I had not written without some previous
inquiry and consideration--I held steadily to my own convictions;
and I hold to them still. These articles are now reprinted (as
they were originally produced) to serve two objects which I
persist in thinking of some importance:--Freedom of inquiry into
the debased condition of the English Theatre; and freedom of
thought on the subject of the Fine Arts.
[E] This time-table is no invention of mine. It is accurately
copied from an "original document" sent to me by the victim of a
monthly nurse.
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
AND CHARING CROSS.
End of Project Gutenberg's My Miscellanies, Vol. 2 (of 2), by Wilkie Collins