Read Ebook: Joking apart by Dowdall Mrs Dowdall Mrs Illustrator

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Ebook has 684 lines and 60550 words, and 14 pages

"Are the hens all dead?" you inquire.

"Oh, no, m'm, I don't think so."

"Very well then, squeeze them and go away."

And then when the same old scrambled eggs, too heavily salted, come up next morning for breakfast she will have the effrontery to say that you ordered them!

What does the perfect woman do in these circumstances? Does she put down her occupation and say, "Dear me, cook, what a pity, isn't it! What shall we do?" and does cook reply, "It is a pity, isn't it, m'm! I don't know what to suggest, I'm sure. Would you like a nice egg?" and then does the perfect woman say, "Well, you know we had eggs yesterday, cook, but I don't see what else we are to do. It's very awkward. But you can't have anything nicer than eggs, can you? Suppose you get some eggs, and if you tell me when they arrive I will come down and look at them." I believe it is this quality that makes women easier to rear than men. You can't kill them by ordinary methods.

My pen has fallen off the table in a fit and is panting on the mat, protesting that it cannot run another inch.

It must be funny to have the partner of one's life say, "You are quite beyond me, Henry dear, altogether." It must give one such a shock, although of course it is true. Henry is so far removed from Mrs. Henry that if they manage to keep within calling distance of one another all their lives they are said to be "quite an idyllic couple." We all know that if two people are knocking about idly in a field, one of them looking for golf balls or beetles or a lost trifle from the pocket, the other sewing or aimlessly preoccupied with thoughts about moth in the cupboards or the drawing in of the days, their conversation is not likely to be either profound or meaty; nor can it be even that interchange of feather-weight looks and intonations which are the pollen of mutual understanding. Mr. and Mrs. Henry's life is very like this sort of knocking about together in a field. Sometimes Henry wanders off and says something with a little more ginger to it, and then Mrs. Henry is exceedingly offended, and complains that he is quite beyond her altogether.

The Henrys have not drifted apart lately; they are as near together now as ever they were. In fact, they are far less likely to drift apart now than they were at first. They are kept together by the strong tie of habit, and, some say, by public opinion. Others maintain that although public opinion prevents Henry from ever thinking of bolting, if he did entertain the thought public opinion would have less hold upon him than would his deep-rooted habit of staying with his wife. Thirty years ago they were kept together by a different tie, which might easily have been broken had either of them thought to break it. The tie was a sort of chemical affinity fortified by conscience. Love in all its expressions is more like something chemical than anything else, and the chemical experiment of Mr. and Mrs. Henry's marriage was, at one time, a very touch-and-go business. Chemical affinity caught them as they meandered at a garden-party; it kept them together at several subsequent entertainments, just because neither of them were the sort of atoms that are so--I don't know the right expression; it may be volatile, I call it impulsive--as ever to unglue themselves from the atom they chance to unite with, unless under great provocation from some other very masterful atom.

Henry was not such a gluey, adhesive atom as Mrs. Henry, but he had a conscience, and a dash of imagination or poetry or something. He saw much that was invisible to Mrs. Henry, and he saw it better when there was a female figure in the foreground of what he saw, giving just the human touch to the picture. When he became attached to Mrs. Henry he kept his attention riveted on her without an idea of the dangers by which their union was beset. There were hundreds of brilliant and powerful atoms whirling past under his very nose, but their chemical attraction was neutralized for him by the fact that he never lifted his eyes from Mrs. Henry and his dreams. This instinct of keeping the eye of love fixed on the beloved object is implanted in the heart of man by the god of populations, who knows that marriages must be kept going--the Henry kind of marriages anyhow. It is impossible to stop and consider each case separately.

My metaphors are getting so mixed that it will soon be impossible to disentangle them. What I meant was that although it is said to be in the nature of atoms to stick together until one or other leaves for some more powerful attraction, in the case of the human atom a protective quality has been given which enables them to resist other attractions so long as they do not look about and consider. This saves a lot of time for the testy old gentleman in spectacles. In fact, the work would never get done otherwise; there would be a dozen changes of plan before any marriage came off.

But it was touch-and-go many a time with Henry had he but known. Atoms came near his path, which, had they drawn him to themselves, might have brought about a richer fact than that which is called the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Henry.

For although they have lived together so long, he is still altogether beyond her, and she is altogether beyond him. They hear each other saying things all day, but, in so far as speech is a meeting ground for thought, they have never spoken to one another. If Henry were a lop-eared rabbit he could not expect less from each day as it dawns. He expects breakfast , but then so does Bunny, and he expects other meals throughout the day. He expects his house to be made clean, and Mrs. Henry on the one hand and the gardener on the other very kindly see to that. He expects changes in the weather, in the seasons, in the dawn and fading of day; but he expects no other change. How surprised Henry or the rabbit would be at anything unusual in the behaviour of Mrs. Henry or the gardener. Suppose Mrs. Henry were to say with sincerity, "I think so-and-so," instead of "I always say so-and-so." Suppose that she showed by a sudden look of life behind her eyes that for one moment her thought had stood beside his thought and had seen what he saw. Nothing in the papers would, I believe, surprise poor Henry more than if this happened, for in these thirty years it has never occurred once.

At first in his humility he thought that it was because her thoughts were above the range of his coarse words; that when she said, "Yes, dear, quite so," it meant that she was reaching down to grasp his idea, and that when she had pulled it up beside hers he would see to a distance he had never seen before. But, instead, he found that he never reached her mind at all; he called to her and she answered as people answer on a golf-course, or in the street, or in the hall of an hotel, with lookers-on within hearing, careful of the prejudices of society. But just where she stood he never knew, of what she saw he had no idea. He sometimes thought that her dwelling must be under a green canvas umbrella behind a molehill. Then Henry became more and more exclusively male. The chemical tie between him and her had been strengthened by conscience and habit until there was very little fear of the busy old gentleman's plans being upset by any untoward volatility on the part of atom Henry. But perhaps if Henry had heard some of the things his wife said when she was driven to involuntary candour by the weight of many years' disgust with the male sex, he might have--oh no, hardly that! She must have a home and so on. And then the fuss! fancy inquiries and no real reason to give! Besides, she was a very good sort of woman. Women would not be such faithful mothers, perhaps, if they were not rather limited in their desires: no man could stand the strain of what they have to put up with. So Henry would surely reflect, and as he reflected he would put his hand in his pocket with the ease of habit, and pay the tax-collector, and the doctor, and the gardener, and the schoolmaster and all of them.

Let us now hear some more of what Mrs. Henry really, really thinks.

"You know," she says, "children are a great tie." I wish that some one would explain exactly what they mean by this remark. Suppose that children are a tie to bind Mrs. Henry down from those wild flights of adventure and the freedom of the buccaneer to which she is naturally prone, well, what a pity! However, we all admit that they are a great tie. Their childish thoughts are such a dull field in which to confine the brilliancy of mamma's reflections on Hall Caine or the ladies whom she knows, or our spiritual nature in general. Of course they are not nearly so great a tie to a man.

Now Henry has got so used to looking at things in one way that he would agree to this proposition, because he knows quite well that he never in his life sat up with baby, no matter what was wrong, while Mrs. Henry never left the children at all if they were ill; and she never got away for a whole morning like he did. Why, he could fritter away the whole day at the office and never be called off for anything! But then, if the chemical attraction that brought him and her together had contained a spark of anything like laughter, he would have made his own ribs ache and hers too when she said that children were no tie to a man. If they tie her to the house what else, in heaven's name, ties him to the office? Isn't he bound to his stool by cords woven of school bills, doctor's and dentist's bills, rent for larger, airier premises, the elaborate "summer out" in seaside lodgings instead of the cheap holidays in god-painted solitudes before the nursery days?

But then, as Mrs. Henry so justly says, a man never thinks of these things. Perhaps it is as well that he doesn't or we might none of us be here, either to write or read this captious book.

Such analytical thoughts do not amuse the Henrys, and quite rightly. He sometimes had freakish moments, and gay imaginings flew high through his head thirty years ago. There were all sorts of merry firework stuff ready to burst into Catherine-wheels and "God Bless our Home," if anyone had brought a little living spark of fire to set it off. But Mrs. Henry does not think in that way. There never seems to be anything to laugh at that she can see, although she enjoys a joke as much as anybody.

But what is so amusing about the whole thing is that under the canvas umbrella behind the molehill where Mrs. Henry lives, there is a strange life that is quite beyond Henry altogether. There are large qualities like unselfishness, innocence, courage. In case of fire or flood Mrs. Henry would save all the children, or even Henry himself, at the cost of her life, without a thought beyond annoyance at the incompetence of men who build houses that catch fire like flannelette.

Virtues like those would be brilliant objects if they were taken into the air and allowed to mix freely with vices, so that we could have a good look at both and decide which we prefer, honestly and without prejudice on either side. If, instead of stuffing all the vices into a box where they get mouldy and breed maggots, and instead of keeping all the virtues folded up with a string round them and a macintosh over the top, they were both taken out and used as occasion offered, Mr. and Mrs. Henry might find it necessary to approach one another enough to hand things backwards and forwards. And so they might eventually get talking, and neither be quite beyond the other any more.

Going into town one day I met two people on the road. One was a gloomy-looking elderly woman in a bonnet and the kind of things that go with bonnets; the other was a young, probably married, girl, who walked by her side, and on whom the burden of conversation seemed to lie. The burden was heavy, but, if it had not been, neither of the women could have handled it. I used to wonder why the commercial travellers who called at our door never had any needles smaller than a small sausage-skewer. Then one day a quite nice woman with whom I was sewing remarked, "It's no use giving me a needle like that, my dear, I should be dropping it all the time; I should never know I had it in me hand." The same thing happens in conversation. Many people do not know it is there unless you cut it a bit thick "so as they can get a hold of it." And not only must they be able to grasp it, but it must stay quietly where it is for some time. It must be a sort of parcel that you can carry in your arms and then hand to some one else. None of that juggling with balls, which some author speaks of as a desirable form of conversation.

"And your second sister's husband, Mrs.--er--, is he still alive?" said the younger woman to the elder as I passed them. It is funny, now you come to think of it, how we never can remember our friends' names "without we think," as they say in Millport. "Mrs.--er--" is the usual form of address, I find, and we repeat it constantly; perhaps in the hope that by and by the name will come back to us.

"And your second sister's husband, Mrs.--er--, is he still alive?" I nearly said it to the ticket man at the booking office. Instead I leaned over the little opening and said, "Third return Southfield, Mr.--er--, thank you--pleasant change after the rain, isn't it? It is indeed, thank you. You haven't got two halfpennies for a penny, have you? Oh, never mind, don't trouble; but it's handy to have about you; saves waiting for the change sometimes if you're in a hurry." Then I dropped a shilling on the ground and fell over the man behind me.

In the train I found myself in imagination again pursuing the second sister's husband. Was he still alive or not? He had married into the family of those strange, flat sisters, who looked like vegetables. He and the first sister's husband were, probably, very much alike; only one was called Tom and the other Willie, and one did well and the other didn't. Unfortunately the first sister's husband had been conversationally disposed of before I met the elder and the younger lady, so it was impossible to decide whether he were still alive or not. Perhaps he had been carted away in a hearse, followed by six or seven cabs full of black people, all minding their own business, but glad to get a nice drive and a bit of rest; pleased also to see Annie and her husband, who had come over from Manchester for it, and Willie's nephew, who had got a day off from the works. It was all very nice, but a pity about poor Willie--ah, dear me, yes, to be sure--a nice bit of country you pass through on the way to the cemetery--yes, indeed; and how they are building out in that direction too! I went all the way to Willie's funeral with that lugubrious lady in the bonnet, and thoroughly enjoyed the trip. But still the problem vexed me--her second sister's husband; was he still alive? Probably not so well in his health, anyhow, as he used to be, poor fellow! But the three sisters would most likely go on for some time. Sisters are easier to rear as babies and they last longer, for they don't trouble their heads so much. It is worry kills people, and a hen does not worry much. It squawks and flutters if anything comes on it, sudden-like, but it'll soon settle down again and pick its food and lay another egg if you give it time--eh, dearie me, yes, to be sure!

I finished up the afternoon at a tea-party, and sat next to a lady whom I had met before but did not really know. I think that I must have fallen asleep for a moment, because I suddenly found myself looking at her with a glassy eye and asking, "And your second sister's husband, Mrs.--er--, is he still alive?"

No--nothing happened. It was at a time of year when the days are closing in--we had all just remarked on the fact--and my lucky star was twinkling through a gap in the curtains.

"He's very well, thank you, Mrs.--er--," replied my neighbour with a pleased smile. "He's doing very well now. You knew he'd been ill, of course--so good of you to ask--but they think he's quite turned the corner now."

I wonder if she saw my blushes. Perhaps she put them down to the tea; and there was a good fire going too. Some of us, I remember, preferred to sit a little away from it, thank you; there's always a risk in going out afterwards. I had been so successful that I ventured again and asked, "Has your sister many children?" "Oh, just the three she's always had," was the alarming reply I got. "Did something prick you, Mrs.--er--?" she asked kindly. "Oh, that's all right. I thought you seemed to give a jump. No, just the same three. The eldest, you know, are at school, and there's the baby. He's just two now; such a nice age!"

"Oh, I think so, don't you?" said the poor thing, a little surprised. "They're just beginning to pick up everything, aren't they?"

"Yes," I answered bitterly, "measles and pins, and all sorts of things. It's wonderful how they do it, isn't it?"

Some one began to sing just then so we had to be quiet. Everybody hushed, except two old ladies who looked up in surprise at the sudden silence, and I caught the concluding sentence of one of them, "Windermere, did you say? Oh, very nice indeed, for those that like foliage."

The second sister's husband must be a plucky man the way he clings to life; but, after all, he's not much in the house. When I married I was told by an authority on provincial etiquette that it was not looked upon with favour if any female guest were found in the house after the man's hour for coming home. Being fresh from the schoolroom, and not having noticed during my excursions downstairs any arbitrary distinction of sex in the matter of visitors, I found this rule a little difficult to understand. But in a year or two it became not only an excusable breach of hospitality, but an obvious necessity if the breadwinner's life was to be prolonged. My own second sister's husband, who is extraordinarily patient and fairly inattentive, would, I am sure, have jibbed if he had ever been asked whether he did not find his work a great strain, his children a great relaxation, his hobby a great expense and his politics a great mistake. Besides, he loathes standing in a draught with his hat off, and not one of the kind of women who call on me would sit on his chair and twiddle his whiskers, which my sister Maud says is what he really likes. So, when anyone asks me whether my second sister's husband is still alive, I shall tell them that he is, and why. Perhaps it will be a warning to them to take more care of poor Tom and Willie.

If you say you can't go to bed, the doctor says "Boo! Let somebody else do the work. What are your servants for?" You try to explain that you can't leave a baby with a cook. He replies that it won't hurt your husband to have a cold dinner for once. You explain with infinite patience, slowly and as grammatically as possible, that it is not a question of dinner, but that cook doesn't understand what baby wants. Then the doctor crams on his hat and says that inexperienced people make the best nurses, and will you be in bed, please, in half an hour from now, and don't get up until he sees you again the day after to-morrow.

At first it is rather nice, having a fire lit in your bedroom, ordering tea to be brought up, beginning a new novel, drawing the blinds, and lighting a little silver lamp. Cook says that she can manage Master Tommy splendidly until nurse comes back. It is a pity Maggie has to count the laundry to-day, but it can't be helped.

The bed is soft and warm; the hot-bottle is almost as good as a visit to the Riviera; you turn the pages of your novel.

Struggling between politeness and gratitude, fear of offending the cook , and the murderous instinct of the parent whose young has been annoyed, you take your offspring on your knee and offer him your humble apologies, while cook runs off "just a moment to see to the kettle."

Ten minutes elapse. You are getting very cold in your little cambric nightgown. The baby is inclined to be exacting, like one who brings a petition for heavy damages for a small injury. He is rather jumpy in the nerves, and inclined to be suspicious and contradictory.

Cook comes rushing up. "Sorry to have kept you, m'm," she says, "but I had to chop a few sticks for the kettle; the fire had gone that low. Now, master, come to me and we'll ride-a-cock-horse."

There is nothing for it. Tommy's interest is on one side, a long life of seclusion in the asylum on the other. Tommy must go to the wall.

Pop-op-op-op-bang!

That is how Maggie always announces her presence. She staggers into the cold twilight, bearing an immense tray with tea sufficient for a school feast, and all the other items on her long menu are stale and tasteless. The butter is so shivering with cold that it is only able to clutch a few crumbs out of the bread, and these lie petrified on its chilly flakes. The sandwiches are too small, dry besides, and the jam inside them is an old enemy. The cake is last week's: one of Jane's failures, which, as she says, "seems to hang on a long time." Maggie sweeps your book, your lamp, and everything you are likely to want off the table, and plants her horrid collection of uneatables in their place, lights a flaring gas immediately in front of your eyes and prepares to depart. "Maggie," you say , "would you please draw the blinds, and make up the fire, and put out that gas, and bring me back my lamp and books."

Oh, why did you ever let her go near the grate? It would have been chilly work making up the fire yourself, but next time--a thousand times Yes.

Down come the blinds with a sickening rattle, and you are left to take what comfort you can from the cold, strong tea , the shivering butter, and the stern, unpopular cake. These sit on like unwelcome guests, hour after hour. There is no room for anything else on the table, and there they remain; that horrible cake staring into the fire, just like the kind of person who sits on and on after tea, and breaks your marked silence by asking, "Have you heard anything from Annie lately?" and futilities of that sort. The butter, perhaps, is prepared to leave, and says, "Well, we ought to be getting home, I suppose; we've paid you quite a visitation." But the cake takes no notice whatever, and the sandwiches stand about on the tray, fingering things and asking, "That's new, isn't it? Who gave it you?" and so on. If Maggie had had the intuition of a louse she would have announced their cab--I mean she would have carried them away--ages and ages ago.

It is impossible to read with the cake looking like that. You doze--a feverish, thirsty doze. Dinner will have to be very tactfully presented. You wonder whether Jane will have thought of sweetbread or what. The bed is very crumby. Can that odious cake having been leaning over us to see whether we were asleep, whispering, perhaps, "Well, good-bye then, I won't disturb you?" Probably the sandwiches giggled and said, "Don't get up, we can let ourselves out." The sandwiches' names are Catherine and Agnes, and one is thirty-seven and the other thirty-one; both are unmarried and very fond of us.

Hang the cake! Why couldn't it go when it saw we were asleep, without spilling those wretched crumbs. One is just in the small of our back and another is under our left leg. How hot the bed is!

Pop-op-op-bang! Crash!

The door-handle all but went through the looking-glass that time. Maggie pushes the door gently after her with her leg as she comes in.

"Shall I put it on the bed, m'm?"

You start up in a fright. The cake has not gone after all; it is still there, looking very hard and seedy and disapproving. And there are those silly sandwiches looking with disdain on the new tray with the new batch of arrivals. But their disdain is nothing to your disgust. Sweetbread, did you say? "It's stewed steak, m'm," says Maggie, "won't you have any?"

Stewed steak! Grey, heavy, steaming, thick, nutritious, and garnished with two potatoes, very blue about the lips, and an ample supply of cabbage! "Take it away at once, please," you say in trembling tones, "and that horrible tea too. I don't want anything," you add, deeply injured.

"There's roly-poly pudding, m'm, and macaroni cheese," says Maggie; "will you have both?"

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