"There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you
were this morning? There--you needn't begin to whistle: people
don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you. I can't speak,
that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the
best creature living; now you get quite a fiend.
"DO LET YOU REST?
"No: I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to
you, and you SHALL hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very
hard if I can't speak a word at night: besides, it isn't often I
open my mouth, goodness knows.
"Because ONCE in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button you must
almost swear the roof off the house!
"YOU DIDN'T SWEAR?
"Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion.
"YOU WERE NOT IN A PASSION?
"Weren't you? Well, then, I don't know what a passion is--and I
think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr.
Caudle, to know that.
"It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a button
off your shirt. If you'd SOME wives, you would, I know. I'm sure
I'm never without a needle and thread in my hand. What with you and
the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks?
Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt--what do you cry
'OH' at?--I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most.
I'm sure Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked
after than yours. I only wish I had kept the shirts you had when you
were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons
then?
"Yes, it IS worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put
me down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak you
won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to
yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in.
"A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think
of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of
marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through.
What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie
themselves up,--no, not to the best man in the world, I'm sure.
"WHAT WOULD THEY DO, MR. CAUDLE?
"Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.
"And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt;
it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something
to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for
anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off
the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's
buttons than I am. I only say, it's very odd.
"However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death
with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may
laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's
your love--that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day,
though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how
your second wife will look after your buttons. You'll find out the
difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I
hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.
"No, I'm not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle; nobody ever called me
that, but you. What do you say?
"NOBODY EVER KNEW SO MUCH OF ME?
"That's nothing at all to do with it. Ha! I wouldn't have your
aggravating temper, Caudle, for mines of gold. It's a good thing I'm
not as worrying as you are--or a nice house there'd be between us. I
only wish you'd had a wife that WOULD have talked to you! Then you'd
have known the difference. But you impose upon me, because, like a
poor fool, I say nothing. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle.
"And a pretty example you set as a father! You'll make your boys as
bad as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast time about your
buttons! And of a Sunday morning, too! And you call yourself a
Christian! I should like to know what your boys will say of you when
they grow up? And all about a paltry button off one of your
wristbands! A decent man wouldn't have mentioned it.
"WHY WON'T I HOLD MY TONGUE?
"Because I WON'T hold my tongue. I'm to have my peace of mind
destroyed--I'm to be worried into my grave for a miserable shirt
button, and I'm to hold my tongue! Oh! but that's just like you men!
"But I know what I'll do for the future. Every button you have may
drop off, and I won't so much as put a thread to 'em. And I should
like to know what you'll do then? Oh, you must get somebody else to
sew 'em, must you? That's a pretty threat for a husband to hold out
to a wife! And to such a wife as I've been, too: such a negro-slave
to your buttons, as I may say! Somebody else to sew 'em, eh? No,
Caudle, no: not while I'm alive! When I'm dead--and with what I
have to bear there's no knowing how soon that may be--when I'm dead,
I say--oh! what a brute you must be to snore so!
"YOU'RE NOT SNORING?
"Ha! that's what you always say; but that's nothing to do with it.
You must get somebody else to sew 'em, must you? Ha! I shouldn't
wonder. Oh no! I should be surprised at nothing, now! Nothing at
all! It's what people have always told me it would come to,--and now
the buttons have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know of
your cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I've been to you. Somebody
else, indeed, to sew your buttons! I'm no longer to be mistress in
my own house! Ha, Caudle! I wouldn't have upon my conscience what
you have, for the world! I wouldn't treat anybody as you treat--no,
I'm not mad! It's you, Mr. Caudle, who are mad, or bad--and that's
worse! I can't even so much as speak of a shirt button, but that I'm
threatened to be made nobody of in my own house! Caudle, you've a
heart like a hearth-stone, you have! To threaten me, and only
because a button--a button--"
"I was conscious of no more than this," says Caudle; "for here nature
relieved me with a sweet, deep sleep."
LECTURE XI--MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD "COME
AND LIVE WITH THEM."
"Is your cold better to-night, Caudle? Yes; I thought it was.
'Twill be quite well to-morrow, I dare say. There's a love! You
don't take care enough of yourself, Caudle, you don't. And you
ought, I'm sure, if only for my sake. For whatever I should do, if
anything was to happen to you--but I think of it; no, I can't bear to
think OF THAT. Still, you ought to take care of yourself; for you
know you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're not.
"Wasn't dear mother so happy with us to-night? Now, you needn't go
to sleep so suddenly. I say, wasn't she so happy?
"YOU DON'T KNOW?
"How can you say you don't know? You must have seen it. But she is
always happier here than anywhere else. Ha! what a temper that dear
soul has! I call it a temper of satin; it is so smooth, so easy, and
so soft. Nothing puts her out of the way. And then, if you only
knew how she takes your part, Caudle! I'm sure, if you had been her
own son ten times over, she couldn't be fonder of you. Don't you
think so, Caudle? Eh, love? Now, do answer.
"HOW CAN YOU TELL?
"Nonsense, Caudle; you must have seen it. I'm sure nothing delights
the dear soul so much as when she's thinking how to please you.
"Don't you remember Thursday night, the stewed oysters when you came
home? That was all dear mother's doings! 'Margaret,' says she to
me, 'it's a cold night; and don't you think dear Mr. Caudle would
like something nice before he goes to bed?' And that, Caudle, is how
the oysters came about. Now, don't sleep, Caudle: do listen to me
for five minutes; 'tisn't often I speak, goodness knows.
"And then, what a fuss she makes when you are out, if your slippers
aren't put to the fire for you.
"SHE'S VERY GOOD?
"Yes,--I know she is, Caudle. And hasn't she been six months--though
I promised her not to tell you--six months working a watch-pocket for
you! And with HER eyes, dear soul--and at HER time of life!
"And then what a cook she is! I'm sure the dishes she'll make out of
next to nothing! I try hard enough to follow her: but, I'm not
ashamed to own it, Caudle, she quite beats me. Ha! the many nice
little things she'd simmer up for you--and I can't do it; the
children, you know it, Caudle, take so much of my time. I can't do
it, love; and I often reproach myself that I can't. Now, you shan't
go to sleep, Caudle; at least not for five minutes. You must hear
me.
"I've been thinking, dearest--ha! that nasty cough, love!--I've been
thinking, darling, if we could only persuade dear mother to come and
live with us. Now, Caudle, you can't be asleep; it's impossible--you
were coughing only this minute--yes, to live with us. What a
treasure we should have in her! Then, Caudle, you never need go to
bed without something nice and hot. And you want it, Caudle.
"YOU DON'T WANT IT?
"Nonsense, you do; for you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're
not.
"I'm sure, the money she'd save us in housekeeping. Ha! what an eye
she has for a joint! The butcher doesn't walk that could deceive
dear mother. And then, again, for poultry! What a finger and thumb
she has for a chicken! I never could market like her: it's a gift--
quite a gift.
"And then you recollect her marrow-puddings?
"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT 'EM?
"Oh, fie! Caudle, how often have you flung her marrow puddings in my
face, wanting to know why I couldn't make 'em? And I wouldn't
pretend to do it after dear mother. I should think it presumption.
Now, love, if she was only living with us--come, you're not asleep,
Caudle--if she was only living with us, you could have marrow
puddings every day. Now, don't fling yourself about and begin to
swear at marrow puddings; you know you like 'em, dear.
"What a hand, too, dear mother has for a pie crust! But it's born
with some people. What do you say?
"WHY WASN'T IT BORN WITH ME?
"Now, Caudle, that's cruel--unfeeling of you; I wouldn't have uttered
such a reproach to you for the whole world. Consider, dear; people
can't be born as they like.
"How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could
learn anything about brewing. But, ha! what ale dear mother makes!
"YOU NEVER TASTED IT?
"No, I know that. But I recollect the ale we used to have at home:
and father would never drink wine after it. The best sherry was
nothing like it.
"YOU DARE SAY NOT?
"No; it wasn't indeed, Caudle. Then, if dear mother was only with
us, what money we should save in beer! And then you might always
have your own nice pure, good, wholesome ale, Caudle; and what good
it would do you! For you're not strong, Caudle.
"And then dear mother's jams and preserves, love! I own it, Caudle;
it has often gone to my heart that with cold meat you haven't always
had a pudding. Now if mother was with us, in the matter of fruit
puddings she'd make it summer all the year round. But I never could
preserve--now mother does it, and for next to no money whatever.
What nice dogs-in-a-blanket she'd make for the children!
"WHAT'S DOGS-IN-A-BLANKET?
"Oh, they're delicious--as dear mother makes 'em.
"Now, you HAVE tasted her Irish stew, Caudle? You remember that?
Come, you're not asleep--you remember that? And how fond you are of
it! And I know I never have it made to please you! Well, what a
relief to me it would be if dear mother was always at hand, that you
might have a stew when you liked. What a load it would be off my
mind.
"Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else's pickles. Her
red cabbage--why, it's as crisp as biscuit! And then her walnuts--
and her all-sorts! Eh, Caudle? You know how you love pickles; and
how we sometimes tiff about 'em? Now if dear mother was here, a word
would never pass between us. And I'm sure nothing would make me
happier, for--you're not asleep, Caudle?--for I can't bear to
quarrel, can I, love?
"The children, too, are so fond of her! And she'd be such a help to
me with 'em! I'm sure, with dear mother in the house, I shouldn't
care a fig for measles, or anything of the sort. As a nurse, she's
such a treasure!
"And at her time of life, what a needle-woman! And the darning and
mending for the children, it really gets quite beyond me now, Caudle.
Now with mother at my hand, there wouldn't be a stitch wanted in the
house.
"And then, when you're out late, Caudle--for I know you must be out
late sometimes: I can't expect you, of course, to be always at home-
-why then dear mother could sit up for you, and nothing would delight
the dear soul half so much.
"And so, Caudle, love, I think dear mother had better come, don't
you? Eh, Caudle? Now, you're not asleep, darling; don't you think
she'd better come? You say NO?
"You say NO again? YOU WON'T HAVE HER, you say?
"YOU WON'T, THAT'S FLAT?
"Caudle--Cau-Cau-dle--Cau--dle--"
"Here Mrs. Caudle," says her husband, "suddenly went into tears; and
I went to sleep."
LECTURE XII--MR. CAUDLE HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES THAT
HENCEFORTH "HE WILL HAVE A KEY."
"'Pon my word, Mr. Caudle, I think it a waste of time to come to bed
at all now! The cocks will be crowing in a minute. Keeping people
up till past twelve. Oh yes! you're thought a man of very fine
feelings out of doors, I dare say! It's a pity you haven't a little
feeling for those belonging to you at home. A nice hour to keep
people out of their beds!
"WHY DID I SIT UP, THEN?
"Because I chose to sit up--but that's my thanks. No, it's no use
your talking, Caudle; I never WILL let the girl sit up for you, and
there's an end. What do you say?
"WHY DOES SHE SIT UP WITH ME, THEN?
"That's quite a different matter: you don't suppose I'm going to sit
up alone, do you? What do you say?
"WHAT'S THE USE OF TWO SITTING UP?
"That's my business. No, Caudle, it's no such thing. I DON'T sit up
because I may have the pleasure of talking about it; and you're an
ungrateful, unfeeling creature to say so. I sit up because I choose
it; and if you don't come home all the night long--and 'twill soon
come to that, I've no doubt--still, I'll never go to bed, so don't
think it.
"Oh, yes! the time runs away very pleasantly with you men at your
clubs--selfish creatures! You can laugh and sing, and tell stories,
and never think of the clock; never think there's such a person as a
wife belonging to you. It's nothing to you that a poor woman's
sitting up, and telling the minutes, and seeing all sorts of things
in the fire--and sometimes thinking something dreadful has happened
to you--more fool she to care a straw about you!--This is all
nothing. Oh no; when a woman's once married she's a slave--worse
than a slave--and must bear it all!
"And what you men can find to talk about I can't think! Instead of a
man sitting every night at home with his wife, and going to bed at a
Christian hour,--going to a club, to meet a set of people who don't
care a button for him--it's monstrous! What do you say?
"YOU ONLY GO ONCE A WEEK?
"That's nothing at all to do with it: you might as well go every
night; and I daresay you will soon. But if you do, you may get in as
you can: _I_ won't sit up for you, I can tell you.
"My health's being destroyed night after night, and--oh, don't say
it's only once a week; I tell you that's nothing to do with it--if
you had any eyes, you would see how ill I am; but you've no eyes for
anybody belonging to you: oh no! your eyes are for people out of
doors. It's very well for you to call me a foolish, aggravating
woman! I should like to see the woman who'd sit up for you as I do.
"YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO SIT UP?
"Yes, yes; that's your thanks--that's your gratitude: I'm to ruin my
health, and to be abused for it. Nice principles you've got at that
club, Mr. Caudle!
"But there's one comfort--one great comfort; it can't last long: I'm
sinking--I feel it, though I never say anything about it--but I know
my own feelings, and I say it can't last long. And then I should
like to know who will sit up for you! Then I should like to know how
your second wife--what do you say?
"YOU'LL NEVER BE TROUBLED WITH ANOTHER?
"Troubled, indeed! I never troubled you, Caudle. No; it's you
who've troubled me; and you know it; though like a foolish woman I've
borne it all, and never said a word about it. But it CAN'T last--
that's one blessing!
"Oh, if a woman could only know what she'd have to suffer before she
was married--Don't tell me you want to go to sleep! If you want to
go to sleep, you should come home at proper hours! It's time to get
up, for what I know, now. Shouldn't wonder if you hear the milk in
five minutes--there's the sparrows up already; yes, I say the
sparrows; and, Caudle, you ought to blush to hear 'em.
"YOU DON'T HEAR 'EM?
"Ha! you won't hear 'em, you mean: _I_ hear 'em. No, Mr. Caudle; it
ISN'T the wind whistling in the keyhole; I'm not quite foolish,
though you may think so. I hope I know wind from a sparrow!
"Ha! when I think what a man you were before we were married! But
you're now another person--quite an altered creature. But I suppose
you're all alike--I dare say, every poor woman's troubled and put
upon, though I should hope not so much as I am. Indeed, I should
hope not! Going and staying out, and -
"What!
"YOU'LL HAVE A KEY?
"Will you? Not while I'm alive, Mr Caudle. I'm not going to bed
with the door upon the latch for you or the best man breathing.
"YOU WON'T HAVE A LATCH--YOU'LL HAVE A CHUBB'S LOCK?
"Will you? I'll have no Chubb here, I can tell you. What do you
say?
"YOU'LL HAVE THE LOCK PUT ON TO-MORROW?
"Well, try it; that's all I say, Caudle; try it. I won't let you put
me in a passion; but all I say is,--try it.
"A respectable thing, that, for a married man to carry about with
him,--a street-door key! That tells a tale I think. A nice thing
for the father of a family! A key! What, to let yourself in and out
when you please! To come in, like a thief in the middle of the
night, instead of knocking at the door like a decent person! Oh,
don't tell me that you only want to prevent me sitting up--if I
choose to sit up what's that to you? Some wives, indeed, would make
a noise about sitting up, but YOU'VE no reason to complain--goodness
knows!
"Well, upon my word, I've lived to hear something. Carry the street-
door key about with you! I've heard of such things with young good-
for-nothing bachelors, with nobody to care what became of 'em; but
for a married man to leave his wife and children in a house with a
door upon the latch--don't talk to me about Chubb, it's all the same-
-a great deal you must care for us. Yes, it's very well for you to
say that you only want the key for peace and quietness--what's it to
you, if I like to sit up? You've no business to complain; it can't
distress you. Now, it's no use your talking; all I say is this,
Caudle: if you send a man to put on any lock here, I'll call in a
policeman; as I'm your married wife, I will.
"No, I think when a man comes to have the street-door key, the sooner
he turns bachelor altogether the better. I'm sure, Caudle, I don't
want to be any clog upon you. Now, it's no use your telling me to
hold my tongue, for I--What?
"I GIVE YOU THE HEADACHE, DO I?
"No, I don't, Caudle; it's your club that gives you the headache;
it's your smoke, and your--well! if ever I knew such a man in all my
life! there's no saying a word to you! You go out, and treat
yourself like an emperor--and come home at twelve at night, or any
hour for what I know, and then you threaten to have a key, and--and--
and--"
"I did get to sleep at last," says Caudle, "amidst the falling
sentences of 'take children into a lodging'--'separate maintenance'--
'won't be made a slave of'--and so forth."
LECTURE XIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER.--CAUDLE,
ON THE "JOYFUL OCCASION," HAS GIVEN A PARTY, AND ISSUED A CARD OF
INVITATION
"It IS hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that I can't leave home for a day
or two, but the house must be turned into a tavern: a tavern?--a
pothouse! Yes, I thought you were very anxious that I should go; I
thought you wanted to get rid of me for something, or you would not
have insisted on my staying at dear mother's all night. You were
afraid I should get cold coming home, were you? Oh yes, you can be
very tender, you can, Mr. Caudle, when it suits your own purpose.
Yes! and the world thinks what a good husband you are! I only wish
the world knew you as well as I do, that's all; but it shall, some
day, I'm determined.
"I'm sure the house will not be sweet for a month. All the curtains
are poisoned with smoke; and what's more, with the filthiest smoke I
ever knew.
"TAKE 'EM DOWN, THEN?
"Yes, it's all very well for you to say take 'em down; but they were
only cleaned and put up a month ago; but a careful wife's lost upon
you, Mr. Caudle. You ought to have married somebody who'd have let
your house go to wreck and ruin, as I will for the future. People
who don't care for their families are better thought of than those
who do; I've long found out THAT.
"And what a condition the carpet's in! They've taken five pounds out
of it, if a farthing, with their filthy boots, and I don't know what
besides. And then the smoke in the hearthrug, and a large cinder-
hole burnt in it! I never saw such a house in MY life! If you
wanted to have a few friends, why couldn't you invite 'em when your
wife's at home, like any other man? not have 'em sneaking in, like a
set of housebreakers, directly a woman turns her back. They must be
pretty gentlemen, they must; mean fellows, that are afraid to face a
woman! Ha! and you all call yourselves the lords of the creation! I
should only like to see what would become of the creation, if you
were left to yourselves! A pretty pickle creation would be in very
soon!
"You must all have been in a nice condition! What do you say?
"YOU TOOK NOTHING?
"Took nothing, didn't you? I'm sure there's such a regiment of empty
bottles, I haven't had the heart to count 'em. And punch, too! you
must have punch! There's a hundred half-lemons in the kitchen, if
there's one: for Susan, like a good girl, kept 'em to show 'em me.
No, sir; Susan SHAN'T LEAVE THE HOUSE! What do you say?
"SHE HAS NO RIGHT TO TELL TALES, AND YOU WILL BE MASTER IN YOUR OWN
HOUSE?
"Will you? If you don't alter, Mr. Caudle, you'll soon have no house
to be master of. A whole loaf of sugar did I leave in the cupboard,
and now there isn't as much as would fill a teacup. Do you suppose
I'm to find sugar for punch for fifty men? What do you say?
"THERE WASN'T FIFTY?
"That's no matter; the more shame for 'em, sir. I'm sure they drank
enough for fifty. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar for punch for all
the world out of my housekeeping money?"
"YOU DON'T ASK ME?
"Don't you ask me? You do; you know you do: for if I only want a
shilling extra, the house is in a blaze. And yet a whole loaf of
sugar can you throw away upon--No, I WON'T be still; and I WON'T let
you go to sleep. If you'd got to bed at a proper hour last night,
you wouldn't have been so sleepy now. You can sit up half the night
with a pack of people who don't care for you, and your poor wife
can't get in a word!
"And there's that china image that I had when I was married--I
wouldn't have taken any sum of money for it, and you know it--and how
do I find it? With its precious head knocked off! And what was more
mean, more contemptible than all besides, it was put on again, as if
nothing had happened.
"YOU KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IT?
"Now, how can you lie there, in your Christian bed, Caudle, and say
that? You know that that fellow, Prettyman, knocked off the head
with the poker! You know that he did. And you hadn't the feeling--
yes, I will say it--you hadn't the feeling to protect what you knew
was precious to me. Oh no, if the truth was known, you were glad to
see it broken for that very reason.
"Every way I've been insulted. I should like to know who it was who
corked whiskers on my dear aunt's picture? Oh! you're laughing, are
you?
"YOU'RE NOT LAUGHING?
"Don't tell me that. I should like to know what shakes the bed,
then, if you're not laughing? Yes, corked whiskers on her dear
face,--and she was a dear soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to be
ashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, you may laugh! It's
very easy to laugh! I only wish you'd a little feeling, like other
people, that's all.
"Then there's my china mug--the mug I had before I was married--when
I was a happy creature. I should like to know who knocked the spout
off that mug? Don't tell me it was cracked before--it's no such
thing, Caudle; there wasn't a flaw in it--and now, I could have cried
when I saw it. Don't tell me it wasn't worth twopence. How do you
know? You never buy mugs. But that's like men; they think nothing
in a house costs anything.
"There's four glasses broke, and nine cracked. At least, that's all
I've found out at present; but I daresay I shall discover a dozen to-
morrow.
"And I should like to know where the cotton umbrella's gone to--and I
should like to know who broke the bell-pull--and perhaps you don't
know there's a leg off a chair,--and perhaps--"
"I was resolved," said Caudle, "to know nothing, and so went to sleep
in my ignorance."
LECTURE XIV--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS IT "HIGH TIME" THAT THE CHILDREN
SHOULD HAVE SUMMER CLOTHING
"There, Caudle! If there's anything in the world I hate--and you
know it, Caudle--it is asking you for money. I am sure for myself,
I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I do--the more
shame of you to let me, but--there, now! there you fly out again!
"WHAT DO I WANT NOW?
"Why, you must know what's wanted, if you'd any eyes--or any pride
for your children, like any other father.
"WHAT'S THE MATTER--AND WHAT AM I DRIVING AT?
"Oh, nonsense, Caudle! As if you didn't know! I'm sure if I'd any
money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing; never; it's
painful to me, goodness knows! What do you say?
"IF IT'S PAINFUL, WHY SO OFTEN DO IT?
"Ha! I suppose you call that a joke--one of your club jokes? I wish
you'd think a little more of people's feelings, and less of your
jokes. As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is
anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket
for every farthing. It's dreadful!
"Now, Caudle, if ever you kept awake, you shall keep awake to-night--
yes, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak, and then you may
go to sleep as soon as you like. Pray do you know what month it is?
And did you see how the children looked at church to-day--like nobody
else's children?
"WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH THEM?
"Oh, Caudle! How can you ask? Poor things! weren't they all in
their thick merinos and beaver bonnets? What do you say? -
"WHAT OF IT?
"What! you'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs's girls, in
their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you didn't see
how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our dear girls, as
much as to say, 'Poor creatures! what figures for the month of May!'
"YOU DIDN'T SEE IT?
"The more shame for you--you would, if you'd had the feelings of a
parent--but I'm sorry to say, Caudle, you haven't. I'm sure those
Briggs's girls--the little minxes!--put me into such a pucker, I
could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. What do you say?
"I OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF MYSELF TO OWN IT?
"No, Mr. Caudle; the shame lies with you, that don't let your
children appear at church like other people's children, that make 'em
uncomfortable at their devotions, poor things! for how can it be
otherwise, when they see themselves dressed like nobody else?
"Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross the
threshold next Sunday, if they haven't things for the summer. Now
mind--they sha'n't; and there's an end of it. I won't have 'em
exposed to the Briggs's and the Browns again: no, they shall know
they have a mother, if they've no father to feel for 'em. What do
you say, Caudle?
"A GOOD DEAL I MUST THINK OF CHURCH, IF I THINK SO MUCH OF WHAT WE GO
IN?
"I only wish you thought as much as I do, you'd be a better man than
you are, Caudle, I can tell you; but that's nothing to do with it.
I'm talking about decent clothes for the children for the summer, and
you want to put me off with something about the church; but that's so
like you, Caudle!
"I'M ALWAYS WANTING MONEY FOR CLOTHES?
"How can you lie in your bed and say that? I'm sure there's no
children in the world that cost their father so little: but that's
it; the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. It's the
wives who don't care where the money comes from who're best thought
of. Oh, if my time was to come over again, would I mend and stitch,
and make the things go so far as I have done? No--that I wouldn't.
Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and laugh; it's easy to
laugh, Caudle--very easy, to people who don't feel.
"Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the
money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like
to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should.
Eh, Caudle, eh? Now you sha'n't go to sleep till you've told me.
"HOW MUCH MONEY DO I WANT?
"Why, let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susannah,
and Mary Anne, and--What do you say?
"I NEEDN'T COUNT 'EM; YOU KNOW HOW MANY THERE ARE?
"Ha! that's just as you take me up. Well, how much money will it
take? Let me see; and don't go to sleep. I'll tell you in a minute.
You always love to see the dear things like new pins, I know that,
Caudle; and though I say it--bless their little hearts!--they do
credit to you, Caudle. Any nobleman of the land might be proud of
'em. Now don't swear at noblemen of the land, and ask me what
they've to do with your children; you know what I meant. But you ARE
so hasty, Caudle.
"HOW MUCH?
"Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching--and
you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I
can--I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did
you say?
"TWENTY FIDDLESTICKS?
"What?
"YOU WON'T GIVE HALF THE MONEY?
"Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care: let the children go in rags;
let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals,
and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied.
"YOU GAVE ME TWENTY POUNDS FIVE MONTHS AGO?
"What's five months ago to do with now? Besides, what I HAVE had is
nothing to do with it.
"What do you say?
"TEN POUNDS ARE ENOUGH?
"Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but
you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves.
"THEY ONLY WANT BONNETS AND FROCKS?
"How do you know what they want? HOW should a man know anything at
all about it? And you won't give more than ten pounds? Very well.
Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what YOU'LL make
of it. I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you. No, sir,-
-no; you have no cause to say that.
"I DON'T WANT TO DRESS THE CHILDREN UP LIKE COUNTESSES?
"You often fling that in my teeth, you do: but you know it's false,
Caudle; you know it. I only want to give 'em proper notions of
themselves: and what, indeed, CAN the poor things think when they
see the Briggs's, and the Browns, and the Smiths--and their fathers
don't make the money you do, Caudle--when they see them as fine as
tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody; and to think
yourself nobody--depend upon it, Caudle,--isn't the way to make the
world think anything of you.
"What do you say?
"WHERE DID I PICK UP THAT?
"Where do you think? I know a great deal more than you suppose--yes;
though you don't give me credit for it. Husbands seldom do.
However, the twenty pounds I WILL have, if I've any--or not a
farthing. No, sir, no.
"I DON'T WANT TO DRESS UP THE CHILDREN LIKE PEACOCKS AND PARROTS!
"I only want to make 'em respectable and--what do you say?
"YOU'LL GIVE FIFTEEN POUNDS?
"No, Caudle, no--not a penny will I take under twenty; if I did, it
would seem as if I wanted to waste your money: and I'm sure, when I
come to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do. Still, if you'll
give me twenty--no, it's no use your offering fifteen, and wanting to
go to sleep. You sha'n't close an eye until you promise me twenty.
Come, Caudle, love!--twenty, and then you may go to sleep. Twenty--
twenty--twenty--"
"My impression is," writes Caudle, "that I fell asleep sticking
firmly to the fifteen; but in the morning Mrs. Caudle assured me, as
a woman of honour, that she wouldn't let me wink an eye before I
promised the twenty: and man is frail--and woman is strong--she had
the money."
LECTURE XV--MR. CAUDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS. CAUDLE, AT
FIRST INJURED AND VIOLENT, MELTS
"Perhaps, Mr. Caudle, you'll tell me where this is to end? Though,
goodness knows, I needn't ask THAT. The end is plain enough. Out--
out--out! Every night--every night! I'm sure, men who can't come
home at reasonable hours have no business with wives: they have no
right to destroy other people, if they choose to go to destruction
themselves. Ha, lord! Oh, dear! I only hope none of my girls will
ever marry--I hope they'll none of 'em ever be the slave their poor
mother is: they shan't, if I can help it. What do you say?
"NOTHING?
"Well, I don't wonder at that, Mr. Caudle? you ought to be ashamed to
speak; I don't wonder that you can't open your mouth. I'm only
astonished that at such hours you have the confidence to knock at
your own door. Though I'm your wife, I must say it, I do sometimes
wonder at your impudence. What do you say?
"NOTHING?
"Ha! you are an aggravating creature, Caudle; lying there like the
mummy of a man, and never as much as opening your lips to one. Just
as if your own wife wasn't worth answering! It isn't so when you're
out, I'm sure. Oh no! then you can talk fast enough; here, there's
no getting a word from you. But you treat your wife as no other man
does--and you know it.
"Out--out every night! What?
"YOU HAVEN'T BEEN OUT THIS WEEK BEFORE?
"That's nothing at all to do with it. You might just as well be out
all the week as once--just! And I should like to know what could
keep you out till these hours?
"BUSINESS?
"Oh, yes--I dare say! Pretty business a married man and the father
of a family must have out of doors at one in the morning. What?
"I SHALL DRIVE YOU MAD?
"Oh, no; you haven't feelings enough to go mad--you'd be a better
man, Caudle, if you had.
"WILL I LISTEN TO YOU?
"What's the use? Of course you've some story to put me off with--you
can all do that, and laugh at us afterwards.
"No, Caudle, don't say that. I'm not always trying to find fault--
not I. It's you. I never speak but when there's occasion; and what
in my time I've put up with there isn't anybody in the world that
knows.
"WILL I HEAR YOUR STORY?
"Oh, you may tell it if you please; go on: only mind, I sha'n't
believe a word of it. I'm not such a fool as other women are, I can
tell you.
"There, now--don't begin to swear--but go on--" -
"--And that's your story, is it? That's your excuse for the hours
you keep! That's your apology for undermining my health and ruining
your family! What do you think your children will say of you when
they grow up--going and throwing away your money upon good-for-
nothing pot-house acquaintance?
"HE'S NOT A POT-HOUSE ACQUAINTANCE?
"Who is he, then? Come, you haven't told me that; but I know--it's
that Prettyman! Yes, to be sure it is! Upon my life! Well, if I've
hardly patience to lie in the bed! I've wanted a silver teapot these
five years, and you must go and throw away as much money as--what?
"YOU HAVEN'T THROWN IT AWAY?
"Haven't you? Then my name's not Margaret, that's all I know!
"A man gets arrested, and because he's taken from his wife and
family, and locked up, you must go and trouble your head with it!
And you must be mixing yourself up with nasty sheriff's officers--
pah! I'm sure you're not fit to enter a decent house--and go running
from lawyer to lawyer to get bail, and settle the business, as you
call it! A pretty settlement you'll make of it--mark my words! Yes-
-and to mend the matter, to finish it quite, you must be one of the
bail! That any man who isn't a born fool should do such a thing for
another! Do you think anybody would do as much for you?
"YES?
"You say yes? Well, I only wish--just to show that I'm right--I only
wish you were in a condition to try 'em. I should only like to see
you arrested. You'd find the difference--that you would.
"What's other people's affairs to you? If you were locked up, depend
upon it, there's not a soul would come near you. No; it's all very
fine now, when people think there isn't a chance of your being in
trouble--but I should only like to see what they'd say to you if YOU
were in a sponging-house. Yes--I should enjoy THAT, just to show you
that I'm always right. What do you say?
"YOU THINK BETTER OF THE WORLD?
"Ha! that would be all very well if you could afford it; but you're
not in means, I know, to think so well of people as all that. And of
course they only laugh at you. 'Caudle's an easy fool,' they cry--I
know it as well as if I heard 'em--'Caudle's an easy fool; anybody
may lead him.' Yes anybody but his own wife;--and she--of course--is
nobody.
"And now, everybody that's arrested will of course send to you. Yes,
Mr. Caudle, you'll have your hands full now, no doubt of it. You'll
soon know every sponging-house and every sheriff's officer in London.
Your business will have to take care of itself; you'll have enough to
do to run from lawyer to lawyer after the business of other people.
Now, it's no use calling me a dear soul--not a bit! No; and I shan't
put it off till to-morrow. It isn't often I speak, but I WILL speak
now.
"I wish that Prettyman had been at the bottom of the sea before--
what?
"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?
"Ah! it's very well for you to say so; but I know it is; it's just
like him. He looks like a man that's always in debt--that's always
in a sponging-house. Anybody might swear it. I knew it from the
very first time you brought him here--from the very night he put his
nasty dirty wet boots on my bright steel fender. Any woman could see
what the fellow was in a minute. Prettyman! a pretty gentleman,
truly, to be robbing your wife and family!
"Why couldn't you let him stop in the sponging--Now don't call upon
heaven in that way, and ask me to be quiet, for I won't. Why
couldn't you let him stop there? He got himself in; he might have
got himself out again. And you must keep me awake, ruin my sleep, my
health, and for what you care, my peace of mind. Ha! everybody but
you can see how I'm breaking. You can do all this while you're
talking with a set of low bailiffs! A great deal you must think of
your children to go into a lawyer's office.
"And then you must be bail--you must be bound--for Mr. Prettyman!
You may say, bound! Yes--you've your hands nicely tied, now. How he
laughs at you--and serve you right! Why, in another week he'll be in
the East Indies; of course he will! And you'll have to pay his
debts; yes, your children may go in rags, so that Mr. Prettyman--what
do you say?
"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?
"I know better. Well, if it isn't Prettyman that's kept you out,--if
it isn't Prettyman you're bail for--who is it, then? I ask, who is
it, then? What?
"MY BROTHER? BROTHER TOM?
"Oh, Caudle! dear Caudle--"
"It was too much for the poor soul," says Caudle; "she sobbed as if
her heart would break, and I--" and here the MS. is blotted, as
though Caudle himself had dropped tears as he wrote.
LECTURE XVI--BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THE
MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS
"Come, now, love, about baby's name? The dear thing's three months
old, and not a name to its back yet. There you go again! Talk of it
to-morrow! No; we'll talk of it to-night. There's no having a word
with you in the daytime--but here you can't leave me. Now don't say
you wish you could, Caudle; that's unkind, and not treating a wife--
especially the wife to you--as she deserves. It isn't often that I
speak but I DO believe you'd like never to hear the sound of my
voice. I might as well have been born dumb!
"I suppose the baby MUST have a godfather; and so, Caudle, who shall
we have? Who do you think will be able to do the most for it? No,
Caudle, no; I'm not a selfish woman--nothing of the sort--but I hope
I've the feelings of a mother; and what's the use of a godfather if
he gives nothing else to the child but a name? A child might almost
as well not be christened at all. And so who shall we have? What do
you say?
"ANYBODY?
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Caudle? Don't you think something
will happen to you, to talk in that way? I don't know where you pick
up such principles. I'm thinking who there is among our acquaintance
who can do the most for the blessed creature, and you say,--
'ANYBODY!' Caudle, you're quite a heathen.
"There's Wagstaff. No chance of his ever marrying, and he's very
fond of babies. He's plenty of money, Caudle; and I think he might
be got. Babies, I know it--babies are his weak side. Wouldn't it be
a blessed thing to find our dear child in his will? Why don't you
speak? I declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more for the child
than if it was a stranger's. People who can't love children more
than you do, ought never to have 'em.
"YOU DON'T LIKE WAGSTAFF?
"No more do I much; but what's that to do with it? People who've
their families to provide for, mustn't think of their feelings. I
don't like him; but then I'm a mother, and love my baby.
"YOU WON'T HAVE WAGSTAFF AND THAT'S FLAT?
"Ha, Caudle, you're like nobody else--not fit for this world, you're
not.
"What do you think of Pugsby? I can't bear his wife; but that's
nothing to do with it. I know my duty to my babe: I wish other
people did. What do you say?
"PUGSBY'S A WICKED FELLOW?
"Ha! that's like you--always giving people a bad name. We mustn't
always believe what the world says, Caudle; it doesn't become us as
Christians to do it. I only know that he hasn't chick or child; and,
besides that, he's very strong interest in the Blue-coats; and so, if
Pugsby--Now, don't fly out at the man in that manner. Caudle, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself! You can't speak well of anybody.
Where DO you think to go to?
"What do you say, then, to Sniggins? Now, don't bounce round in that
way, letting the cold air into the bed! What's the matter with
Sniggins?
"YOU WOULDN'T ASK HIM A FAVOUR FOR THE WORLD?
"Well, it's a good thing the baby has somebody to care for it: _I_
will. What do you say?
"I SHAN'T?
"I will, I can tell you. Sniggins, besides being a warm man, has
good interest in the Customs; and there's nice pickings there, if one
only goes the right way to get 'em. It's no use, Caudle, your
fidgetting about--not a bit. I'm not going to have baby lost--
sacrificed, I may say, like its brothers and sisters.
"WHAT DO I MEAN BY SACRIFICED?
"Oh, you know what I mean very well. What have any of 'em got by
their godfathers beyond a half-pint mug, a knife and fork, and spoon-
-and a shabby coat, that I know was bought second-hand, for I could
almost swear to the place? And then there was your fine friend
Hartley's wife--what did she give to Caroline? Why, a trumpery lace
cap it made me blush to look at. What?
"IT WAS THE BEST SHE COULD AFFORD?
"Then she'd no right to stand for the child. People who can't do
better than that have no business to take the responsibility of
godmother. They ought to know their duties better.
"Well, Caudle, you can't object to Goldman?
"YES, YOU DO?
"Was there ever such a man! What for?
"HE'S A USURER AND A HUNKS?
"Well, I'm sure, you've no business in this world, Caudle; you have
such high-flown notions. Why, isn't the man as rich as the bank?
And as for his being a usurer,--isn't it all the better for those who
come after him? I'm sure it's well there's some people in the world
who save money, seeing the stupid creatures who throw it away. But
you are the strangest man! I really believe you think money a sin,
instead of the greatest blessing; for I can't mention any of our
acquaintance that's rich--and I'm sure we don't know too many such
people--that you haven't something to say against 'em. It's only
beggars that you like--people with not a shilling to bless
themselves. Ha! though you're my husband, I must say it--you're a
man of low notions, Caudle. I only hope none of the dear boys will
take after their father!
"And I should like to know what's the objection to Goldman? The only
thing against him is his name; I must confess it, I don't like the
name of Lazarus: it's low, and doesn't sound genteel--not at all
respectable. But after he's gone and done what's proper for the
child, the boy could easily slip Lazarus into Laurence. I'm told the
thing's done often. No, Caudle, don't say that--I'm not a mean
woman--certainly not; quite the reverse. I've only a parent's love
for my children; and I must say it--I wish everybody felt as I did.
"I suppose, if the truth was known, you'd like your tobacco-pipe
friend, your pot-companion, Prettyman, to stand for the child?
"YOU'D HAVE NO OBJECTION?
"I thought not! Yes; I knew what it was coming to. He's a beggar,
he is; and a person who stays out half the night; yes, he does; and
it's no use your denying it--a beggar and a tippler, and that's the
man you'd make godfather to your own flesh and blood! Upon my word,
Caudle, it's enough to make a woman get up and dress herself to hear
you talk.
"Well, I can hardly tell you, if you won't have Wagstaff, or Pugsby,
or Sniggins, or Goldman, or somebody that's respectable, to do what's
proper, the child sha'n't be christened at all. As for Prettyman, or
any such raff--no, never! I'm sure there's a certain set of people
that poverty's catching from, and that Prettyman's one of 'em. Now,
Caudle, I won't have my dear child lost by any of your spittoon
acquaintance, I can tell you.
"No; unless I can have MY way, the child sha'n't be christened at
all. What do you say?
"IT MUST HAVE A NAME?
"There's no 'must' at all in the case--none. No, it shall have no
name; and then see what the world will say. I'll call it Number Six-
-yes, that will do as well as anything else, unless I've the
godfather I like. Number Six Caudle! ha! ha! I think that must make
you ashamed of yourself if anything can. Number Six Caudle--a much
better name than Mr. Prettyman could give; yes, Number Six. What do
you say?
"ANYTHING BUT NUMBER SEVEN?
"Oh, Caudle, if ever--"
"At this moment," writes Caudle, "little Number Six began to cry; and
taking advantage of the happy accident I somehow got to sleep."
LECTURE XVII--CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO
QUESTION THE ECONOMY OF "WASHING AT HOME."
"Pooh! A pretty temper you come to bed in, Mr. Caudle, I can see!
Oh, don't deny it--I think I ought to know by this time. But it's
always the way; whenever I get up a few things, the house can hardly
hold you! Nobody cries out more about clean linen than you do--and
nobody leads a poor woman so miserable a life when she tries to make
her husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. Caudle--comfortable! You needn't
keep chewing the word, as if you couldn't swallow it.
"WAS THERE EVER SUCH A WOMAN?
"No, Caudle; I hope not: I should hope no other wife was ever put
upon as I am! It's all very well for you. I can't have a little
wash at home like anybody else but you must go about the house
swearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was your
bitterest enemy. But I suppose you'd rather we didn't wash at all.
Yes; then you'd be happy! To be sure you would--you'd like to have
all the children in their dirt, like potatoes: anything, so that it
didn't disturb you. I wish you'd had a wife who never washed--SHE'D
have suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who'd have let your
children go that you might have scraped 'em. She'd have been much
better cared for than I am. I only wish I could let all of you go
without clean linen at all--yes, all of you. I wish I could! And if
I wasn't a slave to my family, unlike anybody else, I should.
"No, Mr. Caudle; the house isn't tossed about in water as if it was
Noah's Ark. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk of
Noah's Ark in that loose manner. I'm sure I don't know what I've
done to be married to a man of such principles. No: and the whole
house DOESN'T taste of soap-suds either; and if it did, any other man
but yourself would be above naming it. I suppose I don't like
washing-day any more than yourself. What do you say?
"YES, I DO?
"Ha! you're wrong there, Mr. Caudle. No; I don't like it because it
makes everybody else uncomfortable. No; and I ought not to have been
born a mermaid, that I might always have been in water. A mermaid,
indeed! What next will you call me? But no man, Mr. Caudle, says
such things to his wife as you. However, as I've said before, it
can't last long, that's one comfort. What do you say?
"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?
"You're a brute, Mr. Caudle! No, you DIDN'T mean washing: I know
what you mean. A pretty speech to a woman who's been the wife to you
I have! You'll repent it when it's too late: yes, I wouldn't have
your feelings when I'm gone, Caudle; no, not for the Bank of England.
"And when we only wash once a fortnight! Ha! I only wish you had
some wives, they'd wash once a week! Besides, if once a fortnight's
too much for you, why don't you give me money that we may have things
to go a month? Is it MY fault if we're short? What do you say?
"MY 'ONCE A FORTNIGHT' LASTS THREE DAYS?
"No, it doesn't; never; well, very seldom, and that's the same thing.
Can I help it, if the blacks will fly, and the things must be rinsed
again? Don't say that; I'm NOT made happy by the blacks, and they
DON'T prolong my enjoyment; and, more than that, you're an unfeeling
man to say so. You're enough to make a woman wish herself in her
grave--you are, Caudle.
"And a pretty example you set to your sons! Because we'd a little
wash to-day, and there wasn't a hot dinner--and who thinks of getting
anything hot for washer-women?--because you hadn't everything as you
always have it, you must swear at the cold mutton--and you don't know
what that mutton costs a pound, I dare say--you must swear at a
sweet, wholesome joint like a lord. What?
"YOU DIDN'T SWEAR?
"Yes; it's very well for you to say so; but I know when you're
swearing; and you swear when you little think it; and I say you must
go on swearing as you did, and seize your hat like a savage, and rush
out of the house, and go and take your dinner at a tavern! A pretty
wife people must think you have, when they find you dining at a
public-house. A nice home they must think you have, Mr. Caudle!
What?
"YOU'LL DO SO EVERY TIME I WASH?
"Very well, Mr. Caudle--very well. We'll soon see who's tired of
that, first; for I'll wash a stocking a day if that's all, sooner
than you should have everything as you like. Ha! that's so like you:
you'd trample everybody under foot, if you could--you know you would,
Caudle, so don't deny it.
"Now, if you begin to shout in that manner, I'll leave the bed. It's
very hard that I can't say a single word to you, but you must almost
raise the place.
"YOU DIDN'T SHOUT?
"I don't know what you call shouting, then! I'm sure the people must
hear you in the next house. No--it won't do to call me soft names,
now, Caudle: I'm not the fool that I was when I was first married--I
know better now. You're to treat me in the manner you have, all day;
and then at night, the only time and place when I can get a word in,
you want to go to sleep. How can you be so mean, Caudle?
"What?
"WHY CAN'T I PUT THE WASHING OUT?
"Now, you have asked that a thousand times, but it's no use, Caudle;
so don't ask it again. I won't put it out. What do you say?
"MRS. PRETTYMAN SAYS IT'S QUITE AS CHEAP?
"Pray, what's Mrs. Prettyman to me? I should think, Mr. Caudle, that
I know very well how to take care of my family without Mrs.
Prettyman's advice. Mrs. Prettyman, indeed! I only wish she'd come
here, that I might tell her so! Mrs. Prettyman! But, perhaps she'd
better come and take care of your house for you! Oh, yes! I've no
doubt she'd do it much better than I do--MUCH. No, Caudle! I WON'T
HOLD MY TONGUE. I think I ought to be mistress of my own washing by
this time--and after the wife I've been to you, it's cruel of you to
go on as you do.
"Don't tell me about putting the washing out. I say it isn't so
cheap--I don't care whether you wash by the dozen or not--it isn't so
cheap; I've reduced everything, and I save at least a shilling a
week. What do you say?
"A TRUMPERY SHILLING?
"Ha! I only hope to goodness you'll not come to want, talking of
shillings in the way you do. Now, don't begin about your comfort:
don't go on aggravating me, and asking me if your comfort's not worth
a shilling a week? That's nothing at all to do with it--nothing:
but that's your way--when I talk of one thing, you talk of another;
that's so like you men, and you know it. Allow me to tell you, Mr.
Caudle, that a shilling a week is two pound twelve a year; and take
two pound twelve a year for, let us say, thirty years, and--well, you
needn't groan, Mr. Caudle--I don't suppose it will be so long; oh,
no! you'll have somebody else to look after your washing long before
that--and if it wasn't for my dear children's sake I shouldn't care
how soon. You know my mind--and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle."
"Thankful for her silence," writes Caudle, "I was fast dropping to
sleep; when, jogging my elbow, my wife observed--'Mind, there's the
cold mutton to-morrow--nothing hot till that's gone. Remember, too,
as it was a short wash to-day, we wash again on Wednesday.'"
LECTURE XVIII--CAUDLE, WHILST WALKING WITH HIS WIFE, HAS BEEN BOWED
TO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE
"If I'm not to leave the house without being insulted, Mr. Caudle, I
had better stay indoors all my life.
"What! Don't tell me to let you have ONE night's rest! I wonder at
your impudence! It's mighty fine, I never can go out with you and--
goodness knows!--it's seldom enough without having my feelings torn
to pieces by people of all sorts. A set of bold minxes!
"WHAT AM I RAVING ABOUT?
"Oh, you know very well--very well, indeed, Mr. Caudle. A pretty
person she must be to nod to a man walking with his own wife! Don't
tell me that it's Miss Prettyman--what's Miss Prettyman to me? Oh!
"YOU'VE MET HER ONCE OR TWICE AT HER BROTHER'S HOUSE?
"Yes, I dare say you have--no doubt of it. I always thought there
was something very tempting about that house--and now I know it all.
Now, it's no use, Mr. Caudle, your beginning to talk loud, and twist
and toss your arms about as if you were as innocent as a born babe--
I'm not to be deceived by such tricks now. No; there was a time when
I was a fool and believed anything; but--I thank my stars!--I've got
over that.
"A bold minx! You suppose I didn't see her laugh, too, when she
nodded to you! Oh yes, I knew what she thought me--a poor miserable
creature, of course. I could see that. No--don't say so, Caudle. I
DON'T always see more than anybody else--but I can't and won't be
blind, however agreeable it might be to you; I must have the use of
my senses. I'm sure, if a woman wants attention and respect from a
man, she'd better be anything than his wife. I've always thought so;
and to-day's decided it.
"No; I'm not ashamed of myself to talk so--certainly not.
"A GOOD, AMIABLE YOUNG CREATURE INDEED!
"Yes; I dare say; very amiable, no doubt. Of course, you think her
so. You suppose I didn't see what sort of a bonnet she had on? Oh,
a very good creature! And you think I didn't see the smudges of
court plaster about her face?
"YOU DIDN'T SEE 'EM?
"Very likely; but I did. Very amiable, to be sure! What do you say?
"I MADE HER BLUSH AT MY ILL MANNERS?
"I should have liked to have seen her blush! 'Twould have been
rather difficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come through all that
paint. No--I'm not a censorious woman, Mr. Caudle; quite the
reverse. No; and you may threaten to get up, if you like--I will
speak. I know what colour is, and I say it WAS paint. I believe,
Mr. Caudle, _I_ once had a complexion--though of course you've quite
forgotten that: I think I once had a colour--before your conduct
destroyed it. Before I knew you, people used to call me the Lily and
Rose; but--what are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at. But
as I say, anybody before your own wife.
"And I can't walk out with you but you're bowed to by every woman you
meet!
"WHAT DO I MEAN BY EVERY WOMAN, WHEN IT'S ONLY MISS PRETTYMAN?
"That's nothing at all to do with it. How do I know who bows to you
when I'm not by? Everybody of course. And if they don't look at
you, why you look at them. Oh! I'm sure you do. You do it even
when I'm out with you, and of course you do it when I'm away. Now,
don't tell me, Caudle--don't deny it. The fact is, it's become such
a dreadful habit with you, that you don't know when you do it, and
when you don't. But I do.
"Miss Prettyman, indeed! What do you say?
"YOU WON'T LIE STILL AND HEAR ME SCANDALISE THAT EXCELLENT YOUNG
WOMAN?
"Oh, of course you'll take her part! Though, to be sure, she may not
be so much to blame after all. For how is she to know you're
married? You're never seen out of doors with your own wife--never.
Wherever you go, you go alone. Of course people think you're a
bachelor. What do you say?
"YOU WELL KNOW YOU'RE NOT?
"That's nothing to do with it--I only ask, What must people think,
when I'm never seen with you? Other women go out with their
husbands: but, as I've often said, I'm not like any other woman.
What are you sneering at, Mr. Caudle?
"HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE SNEERING?
"Don't tell me: I know well enough, by the movement of the pillow.
"No; you never take me out--and you know it. No; and it's not my own
fault. How can you lie there and say that? Oh, all a poor excuse!
That's what you always say. You're tired of asking me, indeed,
because I always start some objection? Of course I can't go out a
figure. And when you ask me to go, you know very well that my bonnet
isn't as it should be--or that my gown hasn't come home--or that I
can't leave the children--or that something keeps me indoors. You
know all this well enough before you ask me. And that's your art.
And when I DO go out with you, I'm sure to suffer for it. Yes, you
needn't repeat my words. SUFFER FOR IT. But you suppose I have no
feelings: oh no, nobody has feelings but yourself. Yes; I'd forgot:
Miss Prettyman, perhaps--yes, she may have feelings, of course.
"And as I've said, I dare say a pretty dupe people think me. To be
sure; a poor forlorn creature I must look in everybody's eyes. But I
knew you couldn't be at Mr. Prettyman's house night after night till
eleven o'clock--and a great deal you thought of me sitting up for
you--I knew you couldn't be there without some cause. And now I've
found it out! Oh, I don't mind your swearing, Mr. Caudle! It's I,
if I wasn't a woman, who ought to swear. But it's like you men.
Lords of the creation, as you call yourselves! Lords, indeed! And
pretty slaves you make of the poor creatures who're tied to you. But
I'll be separated, Caudle; I will; and then I'll take care and let
all the world know how you've used me. What do you say?
"I MAY SAY MY WORST?
"Ha! don't you tempt any woman in that way--don't, Caudle; for I
wouldn't answer for what I said.
"Miss Prettyman, indeed, and--oh yes! now I see! Now the whole light
breaks in upon me! Now I know why you wished me to ask her with Mr.
and Mrs. Prettyman to tea! And I, like a poor blind fool, was nearly
doing it. But now, as I say, my eyes are open! And you'd have
brought her under my own roof--now it's no use your bouncing about in
that fashion--you'd have brought her into the very house, where--"
"Here," says Caudle, "I could endure it no longer. So I jumped out
of bed, and went and slept somehow with the children."
LECTURE XIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "IT WOULD LOOK WELL TO KEEP THEIR
WEDDING-DAY."
"Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is?
"NO! YOU DON'T?
"Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling?
Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute--just think.
"WHAT! AND YOU DON'T KNOW NOW?
"Ha! if I hadn't a better memory than you, I don't know how we should
ever get on. Well, then, pet,--shall I tell you what next Sunday is?
Why, then, it's our wedding-day--What are you groaning at, Mr.
Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan,
I'm sure it isn't you. No: I rather think it's I who ought to
groan!
"Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different man
then, Mr. Caudle. What do you say--?
"AND I WAS A VERY DIFFERENT WOMAN?
"Not at all--just the same. Oh, you needn't roll your head about on
the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm
altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure--certainly not.
Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at all then--I could talk just as
well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you
who've made me talk. What do you say?
"YOU'RE VERY SORRY FOR IT?
"Caudle, you do nothing but insult me.
"Ha! you were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years ago, and
would have done anything for me. Yes, yes, if a woman would be
always cared for, she should never marry. There's quite an end of
the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're
courting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No,
Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like to
hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk
nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about in
that way, it's not a bit of--what do you say?
"YOU'LL GET UP?
"No you won't, Mr. Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again; for
I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you
all the day-time--but here you can't leave me. You needn't groan
again, Mr. Caudle.
"Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love,
there's a good many folks who, I daresay, don't get on half so well
as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps; but you ARE
aggravating; you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't
talk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love.
We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a nice
day to have our friends. What do you say?
"THEY'D THINK IT HYPOCRISY?
"No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if ever
man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to
keep wedding-days; it isn't a deception on the world; and if it is,
how many people do it! I'm sure it's only a proper compliment that a
man owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles--don't they give a dinner
every year? Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in the
course of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keep
their wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do with
anything else.
"As I say, Caudle, it's only a proper compliment that a man owes to
his wife to keep his wedding-day. It's as much as to say to the
whole world--'There! if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's the
only woman I'd choose!' Well! I see nothing to groan at, Mr.
Caudle--no, nor to sigh at either; but I know what you mean: I'm
sure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you have
done--why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your
habits, Caudle; and--I don't like to say it, but you'd have been
little better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into, I
know, if you hadn't had me for a wife. The trouble I've had to keep
you respectable--and what's my thanks? Ha! I only wish you'd had
some women!
"But we won't quarrel, Caudle. No; you don't mean anything, I know.
We'll have this little dinner, eh? Just a few friends? Now don't
say you don't care--that isn't the way to speak to a wife; and
especially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the
dinner, eh? Now, don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'll
keep your wedding-day? What?
"IF I LET YOU GO TO SLEEP?
"Ha! that's unmanly, Caudle. Can't you say 'Yes,' without anything
else? I say--can't you say 'Yes'? There, bless you! I knew you
would.
"And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No--we won't talk
of it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off my
mind. I should like something particular--something out of the way--
just to show that we thought the day something. I should like--Mr.
Caudle, you're not asleep?
"WHAT DO I WANT?
"Why, you know I want to settle about the dinner.
"HAVE WHAT I LIKE?
"No: as it's your fancy to keep the day, it's only right that I
should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; so what do you
think of a haunch of venison? What do you say?
"MUTTON WILL DO?
"Ha! that shows what you think of your wife: I dare say if it was
with any of your club friends--any of your pot-house companions--
you'd have no objection to venison. I say if--what do you mutter?
"LET IT BE VENISON?
"Very well. And now about the fish? What do you think of a nice
turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do--it shall be turbot, or there
sha'n't be any fish at all. Oh, what a mean man you are, Caudle!
Shall it be turbot?
"IT SHALL?
"Very well. And now about the soup--now, Caudle, don't swear at the
soup in that manner; you know there must be soup. Well, once in a
way, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll have
some real turtle.
"NO, YOU WON'T, YOU'LL HAVE NOTHING BUT MOCK?
"Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtle
on a wedding-day! Was there ever such an insult? What do you say?
"LET IT BE REAL, THEN, FOR ONCE?
"Ha, Caudle! As I say, you were a very different person fourteen
years ago. And, Caudle, you'll look after the venison? There's a
place I know, somewhere in the City, where you get it beautiful!
You'll look to it?
"YOU WILL?
"Very well.
"And now who shall we invite?
"WHO I LIKE?
"Now, you know, Caudle, that's nonsense; because I only like whom you
like. I suppose the Prettymans must come? But understand, Caudle, I
don't have Miss Prettyman: I'm not going to have my peace of mind
destroyed under my own roof! if she comes, I don't appear at the
table. What do you say?
"VERY WELL?
"Very well be it, then.
"And now, Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the City, my
dear? You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know; a nice
haunch. And you'll not forget the venison--?"
"Three times did I fall off to sleep," says Caudle, "and three times
did my wife nudge me with her elbow, exclaiming--'You'll not forget
the venison?' At last I got into a sound slumber, and dreamt I was a
pot of currant jelly."
LECTURE XX--"BROTHER" CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO A MASONIC CHARITABLE DINNER.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS HIDDEN THE "BROTHER'S" CHEQUE-BOOK
"But all I say is this: I only wish I'd been born a man. What do
you say?
"YOU WISH I HAD?
"Mr. Caudle, I'll not lie quiet in my own bed to be insulted. Oh,
yes, you DID mean to insult me. I know what you mean. You mean, if
I HAD been born a man, you'd never have married me. That's a pretty
sentiment, I think; and after the wife I've been to you. And now I
suppose you'll be going to public dinners every day! It's no use
your telling me you've only been to one before; that's nothing to do
with it--nothing at all. Of course you'll be out every night now. I
knew what it would come to when you were made a mason: when you were
once made a 'brother,' as you call yourself, I knew where the husband
and father would be;--I'm sure, Caudle, and though I'm your own wife,
I grieve to say it--I'm sure you haven't so much heart that you have
any to spare for people out of doors. Indeed, I should like to see
the man who has! No, no, Caudle; I'm by no means a selfish woman--
quite the contrary; I love my fellow-creatures as a wife and mother
of a family, who has only to look to her own husband and children,
ought to love 'em.
"A 'brother,' indeed! What would you say, if I was to go and be made
a 'sister'? Why, I know very well the house wouldn't hold you.
"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?
"How should I know where your watch is? You ought to know. But to
be sure, people who go to public dinners never know where anything is
when they come home. You've lost it, no doubt; and 'twill serve you
quite right if you have. If it should be gone--and nothing more
likely--I wonder if any of your 'brothers' will give you another?
Catch 'em doing it.
"YOU MUST FIND YOUR WATCH? AND YOU'LL GET UP FOR IT?
"Nonsense!--don't be foolish--lie still. Your watch is on the
mantelpiece. Ha! isn't it a good thing for you, you've somebody to
take care of it?
"What do you say?
"I'M A DEAR CREATURE?
"Very dear, indeed, you think me, I dare say. But the fact is, you
don't know what you're talking about to-night. I'm a fool to open my
lips to you--but I can't help it.
"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?
"Haven't I told you--on the mantelpiece?
"ALL RIGHT, INDEED!
"Pretty conduct you men call all right. There now, hold your tongue,
Mr. Caudle, and go to sleep: I'm sure 'tis the best thing you can do
to-night. You'll be able to listen to reason to-morrow morning; now,
it's thrown away upon you.
"WHERE'S YOUR CHEQUE-BOOK?
"Never mind your cheque-book. I took care of that.
"WHAT BUSINESS HAD I TO TAKE IT OUT OF YOUR POCKET?
"Every business. No, no. If you choose to go to public dinners,
why--as I'm only your wife--I can't help it. But I know what fools
men are made of there; and if I know it, you never take your cheque-
book again with you. What? Didn't I see your name down last year
for ten pounds? 'Job Caudle, Esq., 10 pounds.' It looked very well
in the newspapers, of course: and you thought yourself a somebody,
when they knocked the tavern tables; but I only wish I'd been there--
yes, I only wish I'd been in the gallery. If I wouldn't have told a
piece of my mind, I'm not alive. Ten pounds indeed! and the world
thinks you a very fine person for it. I only wish I could bring the
world here, and show 'em what's wanted at home. I think the world
would alter their mind then; yes--a little.
"What do you say?
"A WIFE HAS NO RIGHT TO PICK HER HUSBAND'S POCKET?
"A pretty husband you are, to talk in that way! Never mind: you
can't prosecute her for it--or I've no doubt you would; none at all.
Some men would do anything. What?
"YOU'VE A BIT OF A HEADACHE?
"I hope you have--and a good bit, too. You've been to the right
place for it. No--I won't hold my tongue. It's all very well for
you men to go to taverns--and talk--and toast--and hurrah--and--I
wonder you're not all ashamed of yourselves to drink the Queen's
health with all the honours, I believe, you call it--yes, pretty
honours you pay to the sex--I say, I wonder you're not ashamed to
drink that blessed creature's health, when you've only to think how
you use your own wives at home. But the hypocrites that the men are-
-oh!
"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?
"Haven't I told you? It's under your pillow--there, you needn't be
feeling for it. I tell you it's under your pillow.
"IT'S ALL RIGHT?
"Yes; a great deal you know of what's right just now! Ha! was there
ever any poor soul used as I am!
"I'M A DEAR CREATURE?
"Pah! Mr. Caudle! I've only to say, I'm tired of your conduct--
quite tired, and don't care how soon there's an end of it.
"WHY DID I TAKE YOUR CHEQUE-BOOK?
"I've told you--to save you from ruin, Mr. Caudle.
"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE RUINED?
"Ha! you don't know anything when you're out! I know what they do at
those public dinners--charities, they call 'em; pretty charities!
True Charity, I believe, always dines at home. I know what they do:
the whole system's a trick. No: I'M NOT A STONY-HEARTED CREATURE:
and you ought to be ashamed to say so of your wife and the mother of
your children,--but you'll not make me cry to-night, I can tell you--
I was going to say that--oh! you're such an aggravating man I don't
know what I was going to say!
"THANK HEAVEN?
"What for? I don't see that there's anything to thank Heaven about!
I was going to say, I know the trick of public dinners. They get a
lord, or a duke, if they can catch him--anything to make people say
they dined with nobility, that's it--yes, they get one of these
people, with a star perhaps in his coat, to take the chair--and to
talk all sorts of sugar-plum things about charity--and to make
foolish men, with wine in 'em, feel that they've no end of money; and
then--shutting their eyes to their wives and families at home--all
the while that their own faces are red and flushed like poppies, and
they think to-morrow will never come--then they get 'em to put their
hand to paper. Then they make 'em pull out their cheques. But I
took your book, Mr. Caudle--you couldn't do it a second time. What
are you laughing at?
"NOTHING?
"It's no matter: I shall see it in the paper to-morrow; for if you
gave anything, you were too proud to hide it. I know YOUR charity.
"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?
"Haven't I told you fifty times where it is? In the pocket--over
your head--of course. Can't you hear it tick? No: you can hear
nothing to-night.
"And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like to know whose hat you've brought
home? You went out with a beaver worth three-and-twenty shillings--
the second time you've worn it--and you bring home a thing that no
Jew in his senses would give me fivepence for. I couldn't even get a
pot of primroses--and you know I always turn your old hats into
roots--not a pot of primroses for it. I'm certain of it now--I've
often thought it--but now I'm sure that some people dine out only to
change their hats.
"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?
"Caudle, you're bringing me to an early grave!"
WE HOPE THAT CAUDLE WAS PENITENT FOR HIS CONDUCT; INDEED, THERE IS,
WE THINK, EVIDENCE THAT HE WAS SO: FOR TO THIS LECTURE HE HAS
APPENDED NO COMMENT. THE MAN HAD NOT THE FACE TO DO IT.
LECTURE XXI--MR. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED "LIKE A HUSBAND" AT THE WEDDING
DINNER
"Ah, me! It's no use wishing--none at all: but I do wish that
yesterday fourteen years could come back again. Little did I think,
Mr. Caudle, when you brought me home from church, your lawful wedded
wife--little, I say, did I think that I should keep my wedding dinner
in the manner I have done to-day. Fourteen years ago! Yes, I see
you now, in your blue coat with bright buttons, and your white
watered-satin waistcoat, and a moss-rose bud in your button-hole,
which you said was like me. What?
"YOU NEVER TALKED SUCH NONSENSE?
"Ha! Mr. Caudle, you don't know what you talked that day--but I do.
Yes; and you then sat at the table as if your face, as I may say, was
buttered with happiness, and--What? No, Mr. Caudle, don't say that;
_I_ have not wiped the butter off--not I. If you above all men are
not happy, you ought to be, gracious knows!
"Yes, I WILL talk of fourteen years ago. Ha! you sat beside me then,
and picked out all sorts of nice things for me. You'd have given me
pearls and diamonds to eat if I could have swallowed 'em. Yes, I
say, you sat beside me, and--What do you talk about?
"YOU COULDN'T SIT BESIDE ME TO-DAY?
"That's nothing at all to do with it. But it's so like you. I can't
speak but you fly off to something else. Ha! and when the health of
the young couple was drunk, what a speech you made then! It was
delicious! How you made everybody cry as if their hearts were
breaking; and I recollect it as if it was yesterday, how the tears
ran down dear father's nose, and how dear mother nearly went into a
fit! Dear souls! They little thought, with all your fine talk, how
you'd use me.
"HOW HAVE YOU USED ME?
"Oh, Mr. Caudle, how can you ask that question? It's well for you I
can't see you blush. HOW have you used me?
"Well, that the same tongue could make a speech like that, and then
talk as it did to-day!
"HOW DID YOU TALK?
"Why, shamefully! What did you say about your wedded happiness?
Why, nothing. What did you say about your wife? Worse than nothing:
just as if she were a bargain you were sorry for, but were obliged to
make the best of. What do you say?
"AND BAD'S THE BEST?
"If you say that again, Caudle, I'll rise from my bed.
"YOU DIDN'T SAY IT?
"What, then, did you say? Something very like it, I know. Yes, a
pretty speech of thanks for a husband! And everybody could see that
you didn't care a pin for me; and that's why you had 'em here:
that's why you invited 'em, to insult me to their faces. What?
"I MADE YOU INVITE 'EM?
"Oh, Caudle, what an aggravating man you are!
"I suppose you'll say next I made you invite Miss Prettyman? Oh yes;
don't tell me that her brother brought her without you knowing it.
What?
"DIDN'T I HEAR HIM SAY SO?
"Of course I did; but do you suppose I'm quite a fool? Do you think
I don't know that that was all settled between you? And she must be
a nice person to come unasked to a woman's house? But I know why she
came. Oh yes; she came to look about her.
"Oh, the meaning's plain enough.--She came to see how she should like
the rooms--how she should like my seat at the fireplace; how she--and
if it isn't enough to break a mother's heart to be treated so!--how
she should like my dear children.
"Now, it's no use your bouncing about at--but of course that's it; I
can't mention Miss Prettyman but you fling about as if you were in a
fit. Of course that shows there's something in it. Otherwise, why
should you disturb yourself? Do you think I didn't see her looking
at the ciphers on the spoons as if she already saw mine scratched out
and hers there? No, I sha'n't drive you mad, Mr. Caudle; and if I do
it's your own fault. No other man would treat the wife of his bosom
in--What do you say?
"YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE MARRIED A HEDGEHOG?
"Well, now it's come to something! But it's always the case!
Whenever you've seen that Miss Prettyman, I'm sure to be abused. A
hedgehog! A pretty thing for a woman to be called by her husband!
Now you don't think I'll lie quietly in bed, and be called a
hedgehog--do you, Mr. Caudle?
"Well, I only hope Miss Prettyman had a good dinner, that's all. I
had none! You know I had none--how was I to get any? You know that
the only part of the turkey I care for is the merry-thought. And
that, of course, went to Miss Prettyman. Oh, I saw you laugh when
you put it on her plate! And you don't suppose, after such an insult
as that, I'd taste another thing upon the table? No, I should hope I
have more spirit than that. Yes; and you took wine with her four
times. What do you say?
"ONLY TWICE?
"Oh, you were so lost--fascinated, Mr. Caudle; yes, fascinated--that
you didn't know what you did. However, I do think while I'm alive I
might be treated with respect at my own table. I say, while I'm
alive; for I know I sha'n't last long, and then Miss Prettyman may
come and take it all. I'm wasting daily, and no wonder. I never say
anything about it, but every week my gowns are taken in.
"I've lived to learn something, to be sure! Miss Prettyman turned up
her nose at my custards. It isn't sufficient that you are always
finding fault yourself, but you must bring women home to sneer at me
at my own table. What do you say?
"SHE DIDN'T TURN UP HER NOSE?
"I know she did; not but what it's needless--Providence has turned it
up quite enough for her already. And she must give herself airs over
my custards! Oh, I saw her mincing with the spoon as if she was
chewing sand. What do you say?
"SHE PRAISED MY PLUM-PUDDING?
"Who asked her to praise it? Like her impudence, I think!
"Yes, a pretty day I've passed. I shall not forget this wedding-day,
I think! And as I say, a pretty speech you made in the way of
thanks. No, Caudle, if I was to live a hundred years--you needn't
groan, Mr. Caudle, I shall not trouble you half that time--if I was
to live a hundred years, I should never forget it. Never! You
didn't even so much as bring one of your children into your speech.
And--dear creatures!--what have THEY done to offend you? No; I shall
not drive you mad. It's you, Mr. Caudle, who'll drive me mad.
Everybody says so.
"And you suppose I didn't see how it was managed that you and THAT
Miss Prettyman were always partners at whist?
"HOW WAS IT MANAGED?
"Why, plain enough. Of course you packed the cards, and could cut
what you liked. You'd settled that between you. Yes; and when she
took a trick, instead of leading off a trump--she play whist,
indeed!--what did you say to her, when she found it was wrong? Oh--
it was impossible that HER heart should mistake! And this, Mr.
Caudle, before people--with your own wife in the room!
"And Miss Prettyman--I won't hold my tongue. I WILL talk of Miss
Prettyman: who's she, indeed, that I shouldn't talk of her? I
suppose she thinks she sings? What do you say?
"SHE SINGS LIKE A MERMAID?
"Yes, very--very like a mermaid; for she never sings but she exposes
herself. She might, I think, have chosen another song. 'I LOVE
SOMEBODY,' indeed; as if I didn't know who was meant by that
'somebody'; and all the room knew it, of course; and that was what it
was done for, nothing else.
"However, Mr. Caudle, as my mind's made up, I shall say no more about
the matter to-night, but try to go to sleep."
"And to my astonishment and gratitude," writes Caudle, "she kept her
word."
LECTURE XXII--CAUDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS MRS. CAUDLE HAS
"JUST STEPPED OUT, SHOPPING." ON HER RETURN, AT TEN, CAUDLE
REMONSTRATES
"Mr. Caudle, you ought to have had a slave--yes, a black slave, and
not a wife. I'm sure, I'd better been born a negro at once--much
better.
"WHAT'S THE MATTER NOW?
"Well, I like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, that's very cool. I
can't leave the house just to buy a yard of riband, but you storm
enough to carry the roof off.
"YOU DIDN'T STORM? YOU ONLY SPOKE?
"Spoke, indeed! No, sir: I've not such superfine feelings; and I
don't cry out before I'm hurt. But you ought to have married a woman
of stone, for you feel for nobody: that is, for nobody in your own
house. I only wish you'd show some of your humanity at home, if ever
so little--that's all.
"What do you say?
"WHERE'S MY FEELINGS, TO GO SHOPPING AT NIGHT?
"When would you have me go? In the broiling sun, making my face like
a gipsy's? I don't see anything to laugh at, Mr. Caudle; but you
think of anybody's face before your wife's. Oh, that's plain enough;
and all the world can see it. I dare say, now, if it was Miss
Prettyman's face--now, now, Mr. Caudle! What are you throwing
yourself about for? I suppose Miss Prettyman isn't so wonderful a
person that she isn't to be named? I suppose she's flesh and blood.
What?
"YOU DON'T KNOW?
"Ha! I don't know that.
"What, Mr. Caudle?
"YOU'LL HAVE A SEPARATE ROOM--YOU'LL NOT BE TORMENTED IN THIS MANNER?
"No, you won't, sir--not while I'm alive. A separate room! And you
call yourself a religious man, Mr. Caudle. I'd advise you to take
down the Prayer Book, and read over the Marriage Service. A separate
room, indeed! Caudle, you're getting quite a heathen. A separate
room! Well, the servants would talk then! But no: no man--not the
best that ever trod, Caudle--should ever make me look so
contemptible.
"I SHA'N'T go to sleep; and you ought to know me better than to ask
me to hold my tongue. Because you come home when I've just stepped
out to do a little shopping, you're worse than a fury. I should like
to know how many hours I sit up for you? What do you say?
"NOBODY WANTS ME TO SIT UP?
"Ha! that's like the gratitude of men--just like 'em! But a poor
woman can't leave the house, that--what?
"WHY CAN'T I GO AT REASONABLE HOURS?
"Reasonable! What do you call eight o'clock? If I went out at
eleven and twelve, as you come home, then you might talk; but seven
or eight o'clock--why, it's the cool of the evening; the nicest time
to enjoy a walk; and, as I say, do a little bit of shopping. Oh yes,
Mr. Caudle, I do think of the people that are kept in the shops just
as much as you; but that's nothing at all to do with it. I know what
you'd have. You'd have all those young men let away early from the
counter to improve what you please to call their minds. Pretty
notions you pick up among a set of free-thinkers, and I don't know
what! When I was a girl, people never talked of minds--intellect, I
believe you call it. Nonsense! a new-fangled thing, just come up;
and the sooner it goes out, the better.
"Don't tell me! What are shops for, if they're not to be open late
and early too? And what are shopmen, if they're not always to attend
upon their customers? People pay for what they have, I suppose, and
aren't to be told when they shall come and lay their money out, and
when they sha'n't? Thank goodness! if one shop shuts, another keeps
open; and I always think it a duty I owe to myself to go to the shop
that's open last: it's the only way to punish the shopkeepers that
are idle, and give themselves airs about early hours.
"Besides, there's some things I like to buy best at candle-light.
Oh, don't talk to me about humanity! Humanity, indeed, for a pack of
tall, strapping young fellows--some of 'em big enough to be shown for
giants! And what have they to do? Why nothing, but to stand behind
a counter, and talk civility. Yes, I know your notions; you say that
everybody works too much: I know that. You'd have all the world do
nothing half its time but twiddle its thumbs, or walk in the parks,
or go to picture-galleries, and museums, and such nonsense. Very
fine, indeed; but, thank goodness! the world isn't come to that pass
yet.
"What do you say I am, Mr. Caudle?
"A FOOLISH WOMAN, THAT CAN'T LOOK BEYOND MY OWN FIRESIDE?
"Oh yes, I can; quite as far as you, and a great deal farther. But I
can't go out shopping a little with my dear friend Mrs. Wittles--what
do you laugh at? Oh, don't they? Don't women know what friendship
is? Upon my life, you've a nice opinion of us! Oh yes, we can--we
can look outside of our own fenders, Mr. Caudle. And if we can't,
it's all the better for our families. A blessed thing it would be
for their wives and children if men couldn't either. You wouldn't
have lent that five pounds--and I dare say a good many other five
pounds that I know nothing of--if you--a lord of the creation!--had
half the sense women have. You seldom catch us, I believe, lending
five pounds. I should think not.
"No: we won't talk of it to-morrow morning. You're not going to
wound my feelings when I come home, and think I'm to say nothing
about it. You have called me an inhuman person; you have said I have
no thought, no feeling for the health and comfort of my fellow-
creatures; I don't know what you haven't called me; and only for
buying a--but I sha'n't tell you what; no, I won't satisfy you there-
-but you've abused me in this manner, and only for shopping up to ten
o'clock. You've a great deal of fine compassion, you have! I'm sure
the young man that served me could have knocked down an ox; yes,
strong enough to lift a house: but you can pity him--oh yes, you can
be all kindness for him, and for the world, as you call it. Oh,
Caudle, what a hypocrite you are! I only wish the world knew how you
treated your poor wife!
"What do you say?
"FOR THE LOVE OF MERCY LET YOU SLEEP?
"Mercy, indeed! I wish you could show a little of it to other
people. Oh yes, I DO know what mercy means; but that's no reason I
should go shopping a bit earlier than I do--and I won't. No; you've
preached this over to me again and again; you've made me go to
meetings to hear about it: but that's no reason women shouldn't shop
just as late as they choose. It's all very fine, as I say, for you
men to talk to us at meetings, where, of course, we smile and all
that--and sometimes shake our white pocket-handkerchiefs--and where
you say we have the power of early hours in our own hands. To be
sure we have; and we mean to keep it. That is, I do. You'll never
catch me shopping till the very last thing; and--as a matter of
principle--I'll always go to the shop that keeps open latest. It
does the young men good to keep 'em close to business. Improve their
minds indeed! Let 'em out at seven, and they'd improve nothing but
their billiards. Besides, if they want to improve themselves, can't
they get up, this fine weather, at three? Where there's a will,
there's a way, Mr. Caudle."
"I thought," writes Caudle, "that she had gone to sleep. In this
hope, I was dozing off when she jogged me, and thus declared herself:
'Caudle, you want nightcaps; but see if I budge to buy 'em till nine
at night!"
LECTURE XXIII--MRS. CAUDLE "WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THE
SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER--THAT'S ALL"
"Hot? Yes, it IS hot. I'm sure one might as well be in an oven as
in town this weather. You seem to forget it's July, Mr. Caudle.
I've been waiting quietly--have never spoken; yet, not a word have
you said of the seaside yet. Not that I care for it myself--oh, no;
my health isn't of the slightest consequence. And, indeed, I was
going to say--but I won't--that the sooner, perhaps, I'm out of this
world, the better. Oh, yes; I dare say you think so--of course you
do, else you wouldn't lie there saying nothing. You're enough to
aggravate a saint, Caudle; but you shan't vex me. No; I've made up
my mind, and never intend to let you vex me again. Why should I
worry myself?
"But all I want to ask you is this: do you intend to go to the sea-
side this summer?
"YES? YOU'LL GO TO GRAVESEND?
"Then you'll go alone, that's all I know. Gravesend! You might as
well empty a salt-cellar in the New River, and call that the sea-
side. What?
"IT'S HANDY FOR BUSINESS?
"There you are again! I can never speak of taking a little
enjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I'm sure you never
let business stand in the way of your own pleasure, Mr. Caudle--not
you. It would be all the better for your family if you did.
"You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or ought to
know it, by the looks of the child; and yet--I know you, Caudle--
you'd have let the summer pass over, and never said a word about the
matter. What do you say?
"MARGATE'S SO EXPENSIVE?
"Not at all. I'm sure it will be cheaper for us in the end; for if
we don't go, we shall all be ill--every one of us--in the winter.
Not that my health is of any consequence: I know that well enough.
It never was yet. You know Margate's the only place I can eat a
breakfast at, and yet you talk of Gravesend! But what's my eating to
you? You wouldn't care if I never ate at all. You never watch my
appetite like any other husband, otherwise you'd have seen what it's
come to.
"What do you say?