Wilkie Collins (1824–1889) was distinguished chiefly for his tendency
to confront his readers with a startling and apparently inexplicable
situation, and then by a process of analysis, which, at times, was
worthy of Poe, effect a solution of the mystery in a manner that left
one amazed by the very simplicity of it all. Shortly after the death
of Mr. Collins, the London _Spectator_ thus described his method:
“He was a literary chess-player of the first force, with power of
carrying his plan right through the game and making every move tell.
His method was to introduce a certain number of characters, set before
them a well-defined object, such as the discovery of a secret, the
revindication of a fortune, the tracking of a crime, or the
establishment of a doubted marriage, and then bring in other
characters to resist or counterplot their efforts. Each side makes
moves, almost invariably well-considered and promising moves; the
countermoves are equally good; the interest goes on accumulating till
the looker-on—the reader is always placed in that attitude—is rapt out
of himself by strained attention; and then there is a sudden and
totally unexpected mate.”
But Collins had a lighter side. Nearly all his characters were
invested with some degree of humor—a humor which could not forbear
flashing into some of the novelist’s darker scenes. “The Stolen
Letter,” which appeared in the June number of THE SCRAP BOOK, affords
an example of the manner in which Collins was wont to blend humor and
mystery. In “Major Namby,” which is printed herewith, we have a clever
character-sketch in which humor is seen to be the dominant element.
I am a single lady—single, you will please to understand, entirely
because I have refused many excellent offers. Pray don’t imagine from
this that I am old. Some women’s offers come at long intervals, and
other women’s offers come close together. Mine came remarkably close
together—so, of course, I cannot possibly be old. Not that I presume to
describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much depends on people’s
points of view. I have heard female children of the ages of eighteen or
nineteen called young ladies. This seems to me to be ridiculous—and I
have held that opinion, without once wavering from it, for more than ten
years past. It is, after all, a question of feeling; and, shall I
confess it? I feel so young!
I live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. The major lives in
the suburbs, next door to me, and _he_ has bought his house. I don’t
object to this, of course. I merely mention it to make things straight.
Major Namby has been twice married. His first wife—dear, dear! how can I
express it? Shall I say, with vulgar abruptness, that his first wife had
a family? And must I descend into particulars, and add that they are
four in number, and that two of them are twins? Well, the words are
written; and if they will do over again for the same purpose, I beg to
repeat them in reference to the second Mrs. Namby (still alive), who has
also had a family, and is—no, I really cannot say is likely to go on
having one.
There are certain limits in a case of this kind, and I think I have
reached them. Permit me simply to state that the second Mrs. Namby has
three children at present. These, with the first Mrs. Namby’s four, make
a total of seven. The seven are composed of five girls and two boys. And
the first Mrs. Namby’s family all have one particular kind of
constitution, and the second Mrs. Namby’s family all have another
particular kind of constitution.
Let me explain once more that I merely mention these little matters, and
that I don’t object to them.
My complaint against Major Namby is, in plain terms, that he transacts
the whole of his domestic business in his front garden. Whether it
arises from natural weakness of memory, from total want of a sense of
propriety, or from a condition of mind which is closely allied to
madness of the eccentric sort, I cannot say; but the major certainly
does, sometimes partially and sometimes entirely, forget his private
family matters, and the necessary directions connected with them, while
he is inside the house, and does habitually remember them, and repair
all omissions by bawling through his windows at the top of his voice, as
soon as he gets outside the house.
It never seems to occur to him that he might advantageously return
indoors, and there mention what he has forgotten in a private and proper
way. The instant the lost idea strikes him—which it invariably does,
either in his front garden or in the roadway outside his house—he roars
for his wife, either from the gravel walk or over the low wall, and (if
I may use so strong an expression) empties his mind to her in public,
without appearing to care whose ears he wearies, whose delicacy he
shocks, or whose ridicule he invites.
If the man is not mad, his own small family fusses have taken such
complete possession of all his senses that he is quite incapable of
noticing anything else, and perfectly impenetrable to the opinions of
his neighbors. Let me show that the grievance of which I complain is no
slight one, by giving a few examples of the general persecution that I
suffer, and the occasional shocks that are administered to my delicacy,
at the coarse hands of Major Namby.
We will say it is a fine, warm morning. I am sitting in my front room,
with the window open, absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear
the door of the next house bang; I look up, and see the major descending
the steps into his front garden.
He walks—no, he marches—half way down the front garden path, with his
head high in the air and his chest stuck out, and his military cane
fiercely flourished in his right hand. Suddenly he stops, stamps with
one foot, knocks up the hinder part of the brim of his extremely curly
hat with his left hand, and begins to scratch at that singularly
disagreeable-looking roll of fat, red flesh in the back of his neck
(which scratching, I may observe, in parentheses, is always a sure sign,
in the case of this horrid man, that a lost domestic idea has suddenly
come back to him).
He waits a moment in the ridiculous position just described, then wheels
round on his heel, looks up at the first-floor window, and, instead of
going back into the house to mention what he has forgotten, bawls out
fiercely from the middle of the walk:
“Matilda!”
I hear his wife’s voice—a shockingly shrill one; but what can you expect
of a woman who has been seen, over and over again, in a slatternly
striped wrapper, as late as two o’clock in the afternoon?—I hear his
wife’s voice answer from inside the house:
“Yes, dear.”
“I said it was a south wind.”
“Yes, dear.”
“It isn’t a south wind.”
“Lor’, dear.”
“It’s a sou’east. I won’t have Georgina taken out to-day. (Georgina is
one of the first Mrs. Namby’s family, and they are all weak in the
chest.) Where’s nurse?”
“Here, sir.”
“Nurse, I won’t have Jack allowed to run. Whenever that boy perspires he
catches cold. Hang up his hoop. If he cries, take him into my
dressing-room and show him the birch-rod. Matilda?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What the devil do they mean by daubing all that grease over Mary’s
hair? It’s beastly to see it—do you hear?—beastly! Where’s Pamby?”
(Pamby is the unfortunate workwoman who makes and mends the family
linen.)
“Here, sir.”
“Pamby, what are you about now?”
No answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles faintly. The major
flourishes his cane in a fury.
“Why the devil don’t you answer me? I give you three seconds to answer
me, or leave the house. One—two—three. Pamby! what are you about now?”
“If you please, sir, I’m doing something——”
“What?”
“Something particular for baby, sir.”
“Drop it directly, whatever it is. Nurse!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mind the crossings. Don’t let the children sit down if they’re hot.
Don’t let them speak to other children. Don’t let them get playing with
strange dogs. Don’t let them mess their things. And above all, don’t
bring Master Jack back in a perspiration. Is there anything more before
I go out?”
“No, sir.”
“Matilda! Is there anything more?”
“No, dear.”
“Pamby! Is there anything more?”
“No, sir.”
Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time being. Will any sensitive
person—especially a person of my own sex—please to imagine what I must
suffer as a delicate single lady, at having all these family details
obtruded on my attention, whether I like it or not, in the major’s
rasping martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of the women
inside? It is bad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution
when one is alone; but it is far worse to be also exposed to it—as I am
constantly—in the presence of visitors, whose conversation is
necessarily interrupted, whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very
stay in my house is necessarily shortened by Major Namby’s unendurably
public way of managing his private concerns.
Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend, Lady
Malkinshaw, was sitting with me, entering at length into the interesting
story of her second daughter’s unhappy marriage engagement, and of the
dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke it off.
For a quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be
delightfully uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as
Lady Malkinshaw, with the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe
the effect of her daughter’s dreadful disappointment on the poor, dear
girl’s mind and looks, I heard the door of the major’s house bang as
usual, and, looking out of the window in despair, saw the major himself
strut half way down the walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red
flesh, wheel round so as to face the house, consider a little, pull his
tablets out of his waistcoat pocket, shake his head over them, and then
look up at the front windows, preparatory to bawling as usual at the
degraded female members of his household.
Lady Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming, happened, at the
same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic story, in these terms:
“I do assure you, my poor, dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism
of a martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch’s behavior, breaking
it to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little
recovered I said to her——”
(“Matilda!”)
The major’s rasping voice sounded louder than ever, as he bawled out
that dreadful name just at the wrong moment. Lady Malkinshaw started as
if she had been shot. I put down the window in despair; but the glass
was no protection to our ears—Major Namby can roar through a brick wall.
I apologized—I declared solemnly that my next door neighbor was mad—I
entreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet
woman immediately complied.
I burn with indignation when I think of what followed. Every word from
the Nambys’ garden (which I distinguish below by parentheses) came, very
slightly muffled by the window, straight into my room, and mixed itself
up with her ladyship’s story in this inexpressibly ridiculous and
impertinent manner:
“Well,” my kind and valued friend proceeded, “as I was telling you, when
the first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her——”
“Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw,” I murmured encouragingly.
“I said to her——”
(“By jingo, I’ve forgotten something! Matilda, when I made my memorandum
of errands, how many had I to do?”)
“‘My dearest, darling child,’ I said——”
(“Pamby, how many errands did your mistress give me to do?”)
“I said, ‘My dearest, darling child——’”
(“Nurse, how many errands did your mistress give me to do?”)
“‘My own love,’ I said——”
(“Pooh! pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, and I’ve only got
three of ’em written down. Check me off, all of you—I’m going to read my
errands.”)
“‘Your own proper pride, love,’ I said, ‘will suggest to you——’”
(“Gray powder for baby.”)
—“‘the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to——’”
(“Row the plumber for infamous condition of back kitchen sink.”)
“‘to return all the wretch’s letters, and——’”
(“Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack’s shirts.”)
“‘all his letters and presents, darling. You need only make them up into
a parcel, and write inside——’”
(“Matilda! is that all?”)
—“‘and write inside——’”
(“Pamby! is that all?”)
—“‘and write inside——’”
(“Nurse! is that all?”)
“‘I have my mother’s sanction for making one last request of you. It is
this——’”
(“What have the children got for dinner to-day?”)
—“it is this: return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will
find inside——”
(“A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner,
too.”)
The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at
the top of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper
with the patience of an angel; but she began—and who can wonder?—to lose
it at last.
“It is really impossible, my dear,” she said, rising from her chair, “to
continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in
talking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on—I
cannot, indeed.”
Just as I was apologizing to my sweet friend for the second time, I
observed, to my great relief (having my eyes still on the window), that
the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business
for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his
presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel
round again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate.
I waited until he had his hand on the lock to open it; and then, when I
felt that we were quite safe, I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my
detestable neighbor had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open
the window again to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige
me by resuming the charming conversation.
“Where was I?” inquired my distinguished friend.
“You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write
inside your inclosure,” I answered.
“Ah, yes—so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable
effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother’s
partiality, I am sure—but I think I never saw her look so lovely, so
mournfully lovely, I should say, as when she was writing those last
lines to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into
my eyes as I looked at her sweet, pale cheeks; and I thought to
myself——”
(“Nurse! which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion
sauce?”)
He had come back again!—the monster had come back again, from the very
threshold of the garden gate, to shout that unwarrantable, atrocious
question in at his nursery window!
Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible
voice, and changed toward me instantly—as if it had been my fault—in the
most alarming and most unexpected manner. Her ladyship’s face became
awfully red; her ladyship’s head trembled excessively; her ladyship’s
eyes looked straight into mine with an indescribable fierceness.
“Why am I thus insulted?” inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow and
dignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. “What do you mean
by it?” continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of utterance that
quite took my breath away.
Before I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her natural
irritation on poor, innocent me, before I could declare that I had seen
the major actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking
brute’s voice burst in on us again.
“Ha, yes?” we heard him growl to himself in a kind of shameless domestic
soliloquy. “Yes, yes, yes—Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All Mrs.
Namby’s stepchildren have weak chests and strong stomachs. All Mrs.
Namby’s own children have weak stomachs and strong chests. _I_ have a
strong stomach _and_ a strong chest. Pamby!”
“I consider this,” continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me in
the fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation—“I consider this to be
unwarrantable and unladylike. I beg to know——”
“Where’s Bill?” burst in the major from below, before she could add
another word. “Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where’s Bill? I didn’t bid Bill
good-by—hold him up at the window, one of you.”
“My dear Lady Malkinshaw,” I remonstrated, “why blame _me_? What have I
done?”
“Done?” repeated her ladyship. “Done? All that is most unfriendly, most
unwarrantable, most unladylike, most——”
“Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a!” roared the major, shouting her ladyship down, and
stamping about the garden in fits of fond paternal laughter. “Bill, my
boy, how are you? There’s a young Turk for you! Pull up his frock—I want
to see his jolly legs——”
Lady Malkinshaw screamed and rushed to the door. I sank into a chair,
and clasped my hands in despair.
“Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! What calves the dog’s got! Pamby! look at his calves.
Aha! bless his heart, his legs are the model of his father’s! The Namby
build, Matilda; the Namby build, every inch of him! Kick again,
Bill—kick out, like mad. I say, ma’am! I beg your pardon, ma’am——”
_Ma’am?_ I ran to the window. Was the major actually daring to address
Lady Malkinshaw, as she passed indignantly, on her way out, down my
front garden? He was! The odious monster was pointing out his—his, what
shall I say?—his _undraped_ offspring to the notice of my outraged
visitor.
“Look at him, ma’am. If you’re a judge of children, look at him. There’s
a two-year-older for you! Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs,
Bill—kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!”