LECTURE VIII. CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.—MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT AND CURIOUS.
NOW, Mr. Caudle—Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know—Now, what I mean to say is this; there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but, at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; there's an end of the marriage-state, I think—an end of all confidence between man and wife—if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel; there's a good soul, tell me what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still—not that I care much about it—still, I should like to know. There's a dear: Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?
“Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now, don't you think you're going to sleep; because you 're not. Do you suppose I'd ever suffered you to go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know the secret, too? Not that it's anything to know, I dare say; and that s why I'm determined to know it.
“But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. The secret is, to ill-use poor women; to tyrannize over 'em; to make 'em your slaves; especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, or you wouldn't be ashamed to have it known. What's right and proper never need be done in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man to be a free-mason, and let his wife know nothing of it. But, poor soul! she's sure to know it somehow—for nice husbands they all make. Yes, yes; a part of the secret is to think better of all the world than their own wives and families. I'm sure men have quite enough to care for—that is, if they act properly—to care for them they have at home. They can't have much care to spare for the world besides.
“And I suppose they call you Brother Caudle? A pretty brother, indeed! Going and dressing yourself up in an apron, like a turnpike man—for that's what you look like. And I should like to know what the apron's for? There must be something in it not very respectable, I'm sure. Well, I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I'd put an end to free-masonry, and all such trumpery, I know.
“Now, come, Caudle, don't let's quarrel. Eh! You 're not in pain, dear? What's it all about? What are you lying laughing there at? But I'm a fool to trouble my head about you.
“And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say,—you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion—not that I care about the secret itself: no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about: it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason—when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of 'em to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason. When he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart—a secret place in his mind—that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage!
“Caudle, you shan't close your eyes for a week—no, you shan't—unless you tell me some, of it. Come, there's a good creature; there's a love. I'm sure, Caudle, I wouldn't refuse you anything—and you know it, or ought to know it by this time. I only wish I had a secret! To whom should I think of confiding it, but to my dear husband? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you know it. Now, Caudle!
“Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is—it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you 'll tell me—you 'll tell your own Margaret? You won't! You 're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.
“But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamed to let me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it. You, at your time of life—the father of a family. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle.
“And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every night, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they don't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one another brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough; you didn't want any more.
“But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink together, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women,—as if they were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the secret; and nothing else.
“Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you 're in pain. Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle! Caud—”
“I recollect nothing more,” says Caudle, “for here, thank Providence! I fell asleep.”
LECTURE IX. MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR.
EM!—So, Mr. Caudle: I hope you enjoyed yourself at Greenwich. How do I know you've been at Greenwich? I know it very well, sir: know all about it: know more than you think I know. I thought there was something in the wind. Yes; I was sure of it, when you went out of the house, to-day. I knew it by the looks of you, though I didn't say anything. Upon my word! And you call yourself a respectable man, and the father of a family! Going to a fair amongst all sorts of people,—at your time of life. Yes; and never think of taking your wife with you. Oh, no! you can go and enjoy yourself out, with, I don't know who: go out, and make yourself very pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell me; I hear what a nice companion Mr. Caudle is: what a good-tempered person. Ha! I only wish people could see you at home, that's all. But so it is with men. They can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors—their wives never see any of it. Oh, dear! I'm sure I don't know who'd be a poor woman!
“Now, Caudle, I'm not in an ill temper: not at all. I know I used to be a fool when we were first married: I used to worry and fret myself to death, when you went out; but I've got over that. I wouldn't put myself out of the way now for the best man that ever trod. For what thanks does a poor woman get? None at all. No: it's those who don't care for their families, who are the best thought of. I only wish I could bring myself not to care for mine.
“And why couldn't you say, like a man, you were going to Greenwich Fair, when you went out? It's no use your saying that, Mr. Caudle: don't tell me that you didn't think of going; you 'd made your mind up to it, and you know it. Pretty games you've had, no doubt! I should like to have been behind you, that's all. A man at your time of life!
“And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh, no! I may stay at home with the cat. You couldn't think of taking your wife and children, like any other decent man, to a fair. Oh, no; you never care to be seen with us. I'm sure, many people don't know you 're married: how can they? Your wife's never seen with you. Oh, no; anybody but those belonging to you!
“Greenwich Fair, indeed! Yes,—and of course you went up and down the hill, running and racing with nobody knows who. Don't tell me; I know what you are when you're out. You don't suppose, Mr. Caudle, I've forgotten that pink bonnet, do you? No: I won't hold my tongue, and I'm not a foolish woman. It's no matter, sir, if the pink bonnet was fifty years ago—it's all the same for that. No: and if I live for fifty years to come, I never will leave off talking of it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Caudle. Ha! few wives would have been what I've been to you. I only wish my time was to come over again, that's all; I wouldn't be the fool I have been.
“Going to a fair! and I suppose you had your fortune told by the gypsies? You needn't have wasted your money. I'm sure I can tell you your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the gaol will be your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no matter—none at all—if your wife and children didn't suffer with you.
“And then you must go riding upon donkeys—you didn't go riding upon donkeys? Yes; it's very well for you to say so; but I dare say you did. I tell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you 're out. I wouldn't trust any of you—you, especially, Caudle.
“Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girls scratching your coat with rattles! You couldn't help it, if they did scratch your coat? Don't tell me; people don't scratch coats unless they 're encouraged to do it. And you must go in a swing, too. You didn't go in a swing? And I'm a foolish woman to think so, am I? Well, if you didn't, it was no fault of yours: you wished to go, I've no doubt.
“And then you must go into the shows? There,—you don't deny that. You did go into a show. What of it, Mr. Caudle? A good deal of it, sir. Nice crowding and squeezing in those shows, I know. Pretty places! And you a married man and the father of a family. No: I won't hold my tongue. It's very well for you to threaten to get up. You're to go to Greenwich Fair, and race up and down the hill, and play at kiss in the ring. Pah! it's disgusting, Mr. Caudle. Oh, I dare say you did play at it; if you didn't, you'd have liked, and that's just as bad;—and you can go into swings, and shows, and roundabouts. If I was you, I should hide my head under the clothes, and be ashamed of myself.
“And what is most selfish—most mean of you, Caudle—you can go and enjoy yourself, and never so much as bring home for the poor children a gingerbread-nut. Don't tell me that your pocket was picked of a pound of nuts! Nice company you must have been in to have your pocket picked.
“But I dare say I shall hear all about it tomorrow. I've no doubt, sir, you were dancing at the Crown-and-Anchor. I should like to have seen you. No: I'm not making myself ridiculous. It's you that's making yourself ridiculous; and everybody that knows you says so. Everybody knows what I have to put up with from you.
“Going to a fair, indeed! At your time——”
“Here,” says Caudle, “I dozed off, hearing confusedly the words—hill—gypsies—rattles—roundabout—swings—pink bonnet—nuts.”
LECTURE X. ON MR. CAUDLE'S SHIRT-BUTTONS.
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; and 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, wer'n'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 havn'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. Cau dle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than your's. I only wish I'd 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 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 but tons! 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, in his MS., “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.”
Original Size
Is your cold better tonight, 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 any thing was to happen to you—but I won't 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, tonight? 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 always is 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'd 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 're out, if your slippers arn'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 piecrust? 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. People can't be born as they like.
“How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could learn any thing 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: father never would 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 hav'n'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 never can have it made to please you! Now 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 any thing of the sort. As a nurse, she's such a treasure!
“And at her time of life, what a needlewoman! 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—die—”
“Here Mrs. Caudle,” says Mr. C., in his MS., “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 DEAD-LATCH KEY.”
ON 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 't will 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 that 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 dare say 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 'll 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'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 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 key-hole; 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 dead-latch 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 dead-latch 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 dead-latch 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 the house with the 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 dead-latch key, the sooner he turns bachelor again the better. I'm sure, Caudle, I don't want to be any clog upon you. Now, its no use your telling me to hold my tongue, for I—What? I give you the head-ache, do I? No, I don't, Caudle: it's your club that gives you the head-ache: 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 THE ANNEXED CARD OF INVITATION.
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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 hearth-rug, 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 tea-cup. 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 very 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 good 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 dare say 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—”
“Here,” says Caudle, “Morpheus came to my aid, and I slept; nay, I think I snored.”