Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures Part 25

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT A SYLLABLE OF IT?

"No, that's it; when you're in that dreadful state, you recollect nothing: but it's a good thing I do.

"But we won't talk of that, love--that's all over: I dare say you meant nothing. But I'm glad you agree with me, that the man who'd tie up his widow not to marry again, is a mean man. It makes me happy that you've the confidence in me to say that.

"YOU NEVER SAID IT?

"That's nothing to do with it--you've just as good as said it. No: when a man leaves all his property to his wife, without binding her hands from marrying again, he shows what a dependence he has upon her love. He proves to all the world what a wife she's been to him; and how, after his death, he knows she'll grieve for him. And then, of course, a second marriage never enters her head. But when she only keeps his money so long as she keeps a widow, why, she's aggravated to take another husband. I'm sure of it; many a poor woman has been driven into wedlock again, only because she was spited into it by her husband's will. It's only natural to suppose it. If I thought, Caudle, you could do such a thing, though it would break my heart to do it,--yet, though you were dead and gone, I'd show you I'd a spirit, and marry again directly. Not but what it's ridiculous my talking in such a way, as I shall go long before you; still, mark my words, and don't provoke me with any will of that sort, or I'd do it- -as I'm a living woman in this bed to-night, I'd do it."

"I did not contradict her," says Caudle, "but suffered her to slumber in such a.s.surance."

LECTURE x.x.xV--MRS. CAUDLE "HAS BEEN TOLD" THAT CAUDLE HAS "TAKEN TO PLAY" AT BILLIARDS

"Ah, you're very late to-night, dear.

"IT'S NOT LATE?

"Well, then, it isn't, that's all. Of course, a woman can never tell when it's late. You were late on Tuesday, too; a little late on the Friday before; on the Wednesday before that--now, you needn't twist about in that manner; I'm not going to say anything--no; for I see it's now no use. Once, I own, it used to fret me when you stayed out; but that's all over: you've now brought me to that state, Caudle--and it's your own fault entirely--that I don't care whether you ever come home or not. I never thought I could be brought to think so little of you; but you've done it: you've been treading on the worm for these twenty years, and it's turned at last.

"Now, I'm not going to quarrel; that's all over: I don't feel enough for you to quarrel with,--I don't, Caudle, as true as I'm in this bed. All I want of you is--any other man would speak to his wife, and not lie there like a log--all I want is this. Just tell me where you were on Tuesday? You were not at dear mother's, though you know she's not well, and you know she thinks of leaving the dear children her money; but you never had any feeling for anybody belonging to me.

And you were not at your Club: no, I know that. And you were not at any theatre.

"HOW DO I KNOW?

"Ha, Mr. Caudle! I only wish I didn't know. No; you were not at any of these places; but I know well enough where you were.

"THEN WHY DO I ASK IF I KNOW?

"That's it: just to prove what a hypocrite you are: just to show you that you can't deceive me.

"So, Mr. Caudle--you've turned billiard-player, sir.

"ONLY ONCE?

"That's quite enough: you might as well play a thousand times; for you're a lost man, Caudle. Only once, indeed! I wonder, if I was to say 'Only once,' what would you say to me? But, of course, a man can do no wrong in anything.

"And you're a lord of the creation, Mr. Caudle; and you can stay away from the comforts of your blessed fireside, and the society of your own wife and children--though, to be sure, you never thought anything of them--to push ivory b.a.l.l.s about with a long stick upon a green table-cloth. What pleasure any man can take in such stuff must astonish any sensible woman. I pity you, Caudle!

"And you can go and do nothing but make 'cannons'--for that's the gibberish they talk at billiards--when there's the manly and athletic game of cribbage, as my poor grandmother used to call it, at your own hearth. You can go into a billiard-room--you, a respectable tradesman, or as you set yourself up for one, for if the world knew all, there's very little respectability in you--you can go and play billiards with a set of creatures in mustachios, when you might take a nice quiet hand with me at home. But no! anything but cribbage with your own wife!

"Caudle, it's all over now; you've gone to destruction. I never knew a man enter a billiard-room that he wasn't lost for ever. There was my uncle Wardle; a better man never broke the bread of life: he took to billiards, and he didn't live with aunt a month afterwards.

"A LUCKY FELLOW?

"And that's what you call a man who leaves his wife--a 'lucky fellow'? But, to be sure, what can I expect? We shall not be together long, now: it's been some time coming, but, at last, we must separate: and the wife I've been to you!

"But I know who it is; it's that fiend Prettyman. I WILL call him a fiend, and I'm by no means a foolish woman: you'd no more have thought of billiards than a goose, if it hadn't been for him. Now, it's no use, Caudle, your telling me that you have only been once, and that you can't hit a ball anyhow--you'll soon get over all that; and then you'll never be at home. You'll be a marked man, Caudle; yes, marked: there'll be something about you that'll be dreadful; for if I couldn't tell a billiard-player by his looks, I've no eyes, that's all. They all of 'em look as yellow as parchment, and wear mustachios--I suppose you'll let yours grow now; though they'll be a good deal troubled to come. I know that. Yes, they've all a yellow and sly look; just for all as if they were first cousins to people that picked pockets. And that will be your case, Caudle: in six months the dear children won't know their own father.

"Well, if I know myself at all, I could have borne anything but billiards. The companions you'll find! The Captains that will be always borrowing fifty pounds of you! I tell you, Caudle, a billiard-room's a place where ruin of all sorts is made easy, I may say, to the lowest understanding, so you can't miss it. It's a chapel-of-ease for the devil to preach in--don't tell me not to be eloquent: I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle, and I shall be just as eloquent as I like. But I never can open my lips--and it isn't often, goodness knows!--that I'm not insulted.

"No, I won't be quiet on this matter; I won't, Caudle: on any other, I wouldn't say a word--and you know it--if you didn't like it; but on this matter I WILL speak. I know you can't play at billiards; and never could learn. I dare say not; but that makes it all the worse, for look at the money you'll lose; see the ruin you'll be brought to.

It's no use your telling me you'll not play--now you can't help it.

And nicely you'll be eaten up. Don't talk to me; dear aunt told me all about it. The lots of fellows that go every day into billiard- rooms to get their dinners, just as a fox sneaks into a farm-yard to look about him for a fat goose--and they'll eat you up, Caudle; I know they will.

"Billiard-b.a.l.l.s, indeed! Well, in my time I've been over Woolwich a.r.s.enal--you were something like a man then, for it was just before we were married--and then I saw all sorts of b.a.l.l.s; mountains of 'em, to be shot away at churches, and into people's peaceable habitations, breaking the china, and n.o.body knows what--I say, I've seen all these b.a.l.l.s--well, I know I've said that before; but I choose to say it again--and there's not one of 'em, iron as they are, that could do half the mischief of a billiard-ball. That's a ball, Caudle, that's gone through many a wife's heart, to say nothing of her children.

And that's a ball, that night and day you'll be destroying your family with. Don't tell me you'll not play! When once a man's given to it--as my poor aunt used to say--the devil's always tempting him with a ball, as he tempted Eve with an apple.

"I shall never think of being happy any more. No; that's quite out of the question. You'll be there every night--I know you will, better than you, so don't deny it--every night over that wicked green cloth. Green, indeed! It's red, crimson red, Caudle, if you could only properly see it--crimson red, with the hearts those b.a.l.l.s have broken. Don't tell me not to be pathetic--I shall: as pathetic as it suits me. I suppose I may speak. However, I've done. It's all settled now. You're a billiard-player, and I'm a wretched woman."

"I did not deny either position," writes Caudle, "and for this reason--I wanted to sleep."

LECTURE THE LAST--MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THIN SHOES

"I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like-- but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't wish to upbraid you neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes,--oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind, that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed you think gruel will cure a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer; but, of course, n.o.body is ever ill but yourself.

Well, I--I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes; when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say,--'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin now.

"No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world,--but the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about it--but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day before yesterday.

"HOW CAN I RECOLLECT IT?

"Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poor souls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up for you,--there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only do let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the keyhole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think you meant to do it.

"Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense; and to lay your ill conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason for it. No: I don't mean to say that you've killed me: quite the reverse: still there's never been a day that I haven't felt that key-hole. What?

"WHY WON'T I HAVE A DOCTOR?

"What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to expense?

Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle: yes, after a very little time you won't miss me much--no man ever does.

"Peggy tells me, Miss Prettyman called to-day.

"WHAT OF IT?

"Nothing, of course. Yes; I know she heard I was ill, and that's why she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I shan't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy, now.

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul now? Well, I do believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in this bed, and think of that young woman--not, indeed, that she's near so young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle,--not the least. Still, I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if--well, I won't say anything more about her; but you know what I mean.

"I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes--certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first.