“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 - ?”