Chapter 8

‘It was dreadful.’

‘And how jealous you were! Oh, I _am_ so glad!’

‘I don’t think,’ said Frank, as he put his arms round her, ‘that I ever quite realised before—’

And just then Jemima came in with the tray.

CONCERNING MRS. BEETON

FRANK CROSSE had only been married some months when he first had occasion to suspect that his wife had some secret sorrow. There was a sadness and depression about her at times, for which he was unable to account. One Saturday afternoon he happened to come home earlier than he was expected, and entering her bedroom suddenly, he found her seated in the basket-chair in the window, with a large book upon her knees. Her face, as she looked up at him with a mixed expression of joy and of confusion, was stained by recent tears. She put the book hastily down upon the dressing-stand.

‘Maude, you’ve been crying.’

‘No, Frank, no!’

‘O Maude, you fibber! Remove those tears instantly.’ He knelt down beside her and helped. ‘Better now?’

‘Yes, dearest, I am quite happy.’

‘Tears all gone?’

‘Quite gone.’

‘Well, then, explain!’

‘I didn’t mean to tell you, Frank!’ She gave the prettiest, most provocative little wriggles as her secret was drawn from her. ‘I wanted to do it without your knowing. I thought it would be a surprise for you. But I begin to understand now that my ambition was much too high. I am not clever enough for it. But it is disappointing all the same.’

Frank took the bulky book off the table. It was Mrs. Beeton’s _Book of Household Management_. The open page was headed, ‘General Observations on the Common Hog,’ and underneath was a single large tear-drop. It had fallen upon a woodcut of the Common Hog, in spite of which Frank solemnly kissed it, and turned Maude’s trouble into laughter.

‘Now you are all right again. I do hate to see you crying, though you never look more pretty. But tell me, dear, what was your ambition?’

‘To know as much as any woman in England about housekeeping. To know as much as Mrs. Beeton. I wanted to master every page of it, from the first to the last.’

‘There are 1641 of them,’ said Frank, turning them over.

‘I know. I felt that I should be quite old before I had finished. But the last part, you see, is all about wills, and bequests, and homeopathy, and things of that kind. We could do it later. It is the early part that I want to learn now—but it _is_ so hard.’

‘But why do you wish to do it, Maude?’

‘Because I want you to be as happy as Mr. Beeton.’

‘I’ll bet I am.’

‘No, no, you can’t be, Frank. It says somewhere here that the happiness and comfort of the husband depend upon the housekeeping of the wife. Mrs. Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world. Therefore, Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most comfortable man. But why should Mr. Beeton be happier and more comfortable than my Frank? From the hour I read that I determined that he shouldn’t be—and he won’t be.’

‘And he isn’t.’

‘Oh, you think so. But then you know nothing about it. You think it right because I do it. But if you were visiting Mrs. Beeton, you would soon see the difference.’

‘What an awkward trick you have of always sitting in a window,’ said Frank, after an interval. ‘I’ll swear that the wise Mrs. Beeton never advocates that—with half a dozen other windows within point-blank range.’

‘Well, then, you shouldn’t do it.’

‘Well, then, you shouldn’t be so nice.’

‘You really still think that I am nice?’

‘Fishing!’

‘After all these months?’

‘Nicer and nicer every day.’

‘Not a bit tired?’

‘You blessing! When I am tired of you, I shall be tired of life.’

‘How wonderful it all seems!’

‘Does it not?’

‘To think of that first day at the tennis-party. “I hope you are not a very good player, Mr. Crosse!”—“No, Miss Selby, but I shall be happy to make one in a set.” That’s how we began. And now!’

‘Yes, it is wonderful.’

‘And at dinner afterwards. “Do you like Irving’s acting?”—“Yes, I think that he is a great genius.” How formal and precise we were! And now I sit curling your hair in a bedroom window.’

‘It _does_ seem funny. But I suppose, if you come to think of it, something of the same kind must have happened to one or two people before.’

‘But never quite like us.’

‘Oh no, never quite like us. But with a kind of family resemblance, you know. Married people do usually end by knowing each other a little better than on the first day they met.’

‘What _did_ you think of me, Frank?’

‘I’ve told you often.’

‘Well, tell me again.’

‘What’s the use when you know?’

‘But I like to hear.’

‘Well, it’s just spoiling you.’

‘I love to be spoiled.’

‘Well, then, I thought to myself—If I can only have that woman for my own, I believe I will do something in life yet. And I also thought—If I don’t get that woman for my own, I will never, never be the same man again.’

‘Really, Frank, the very first day you saw me?’

‘Yes, the very first day.’

‘And then?’

‘And then, day by day, and week by week, that feeling grew deeper and stronger, until at last you swallowed up all my other hopes, and ambitions, and interests. I hardly dare think, Maude, what would have happened to me if you had refused me.’

She laughed aloud with delight.

‘How sweet it is to hear you say so! And the wonderful thing is that you have never seemed disappointed. I always expected that some day after marriage—not immediately, perhaps, but at the end of a week or so—you would suddenly give a start, like those poor people who are hypnotised, and you would say, “Why, I used to think that she was pretty! I used to think that she was sweet! How could I be so infatuated over a little, insignificant, ignorant, selfish, uninteresting—” O Frank, the neighbours will see you?’

‘Well, then, you mustn’t provoke me.’

‘What _will_ Mrs. Potter think?’

‘You should pull down the blinds before you make speeches of that sort.’

‘Now do sit quiet and be a good boy.’

‘Well, then, tell me what you thought.’

‘I thought you were a very good tennis-player.’

‘Anything else?’

‘And you talked nicely.’

‘Did I? I never felt such a stick in my life. I was as nervous as a cat.’

‘That was so delightful. I do hate people who are very cool and assured. I saw that you were disturbed, and I even thought—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I thought that perhaps it was I who disturbed you.’

‘And you liked me?’

‘I was very interested in you.’

‘Well, that is the blessed miracle which I can never get over. You, with your beauty, and your grace, and your rich father, and every young man at your feet, and I, a fellow with neither good looks, nor learning, nor prospects, nor—’

‘Be quiet, sir! Yes, you shall! Now?’

‘By Jove, there _is_ old Mrs. Potter at the window! We’ve done it this time. Let us get back to serious conversation again.’

‘How did we leave it?’

‘It was that hog, I believe. And then Mr. Beeton. But where does the hog come in? Why should you weep over him? And what are the Lady’s Observations on the Common Hog?’

‘Read them for yourself.’

Frank read out aloud: ‘“The hog belongs to the order Mammalia, the genus _sus scrofa_, and the species _pachydermata_, or thick-skinned. Its generic characters are a long, flexible snout, forty-two teeth, cloven feet, furnished with four toes, and a tail, which is small, short, and twisted, while, in some varieties, this appendage is altogether wanting.”—But what on earth has all this to do with housekeeping?’

‘That’s what _I_ want to know. It is so disheartening to have to remember such things. What does it matter if the hog _has_ forty-two toes. And yet, if Mrs. Beeton knew it, one feels that one ought to know it also. If once I began to skip, there would be no end to it. But it really is such a splendid book in other ways. It doesn’t matter what you want, you will find it here. Take the index anywhere. Cream. If you want cream, it’s all there. Croup. If you want—I mean, if you don’t want croup, it will teach you how not to get it. Crumpets—all about them. Crullers—I’m sure you don’t know what a cruller is, Frank.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Neither do I. But I could look it up and learn. Here it is—paragraph 2847. It is a sort of pancake, you see. That’s how you learn things.’

Frank Crosse took the book and dropped it. It fell with a sulky thud upon the floor.

‘Nothing that it can teach you, dear, can ever make up to me if it makes you cry, and bothers you.—You bloated, pedantic thing!’ he cried, in sudden fury, aiming a kick at the squat volume. ‘It is to you I owe all those sad, tired looks which I have seen upon my wife’s face. I know my enemy now. You pompous, fussy old humbug, I’ll kick the red cover off you!’

But Maude snatched it up, and gathered it to her bosom. ‘No, no, Frank, I don’t know what I should do without it. You have no idea what a wise old book it is. Now, sit there on the footstool at my feet, and I will read to you.’

‘Do, dear; it’s delightful.’

‘Sit quiet, then, and be good. Now listen to this pearl of wisdom: “As with the commander of an army, so it is with the mistress of a house. Her spirit will be seen through the whole establishment, and, just in proportion as she performs her duties thoroughly, so will her domestics follow in her path.”’

‘From which it follows,’ said her husband, ‘that Jemima must be a perfect paragon.’

‘On the contrary, it explains all Jemima’s shortcomings. Listen to this: “Early rising is one of the most essential qualities. When a mistress is an early riser, it is almost certain that her house will be orderly and well managed.”’

‘Well, you are down at nine—what more do you want?’

‘At nine! I am sure that Mrs. Beeton was always up at six.’

‘I have my doubts about Mrs. B. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I should not be very much surprised to learn that she had breakfast in bed every morning.’

‘O Frank! You have no reverence for anything.’

‘Let us have some more wisdom.’

‘“Frugality and Economy are home virtues without which no household can prosper. Dr. Johnson says, ‘Frugality may be termed—’”

‘Oh, bother Dr. Johnson! Who cares for a man’s opinion. Now, if it had been Mrs. Johnson—!’

‘Johnson kept house for himself for years—and a queer job he made of it.’

‘So I should think.’ Maude tossed her pretty curls. ‘Mrs. Beeton is all right, but I will not be lectured by Dr. Johnson. Where was I? Oh yes—“‘We must always remember that to manage a little well, is a great merit in housekeeping.”’

‘Hurrah! Down with the second vegetable! No pudding on fish days. _Vive la bière de Pilsen_!’

‘What a noisy boy you are!’

‘This book excites me. Anything more?’

“Friendships should not be hastily formed, nor the heart given at once to every newcomer—”’

‘Well, I should hope not! Don’t let me catch you at it! You don’t mind my cigarette? Has Mrs. Beeton a paragraph about smoking in bedrooms?’

‘Such an enormity never occurred to her as a remote possibility. If she had known you, dear, she would have had to write an appendix to her book to meet all the new problems which you would suggest. Shall I go on?’

‘Please do!’

‘She next treats conversation. “In conversation, trifling occurrences such as small disappointments, petty annoyances, and other everyday incidents, should never be mentioned to friends. If the mistress be a wife, never let a word in connection with her husband’s failings pass her lips—”’

‘By Jove, this book has more wisdom to the square inch than any work of man,’ cried Frank, in enthusiasm.

‘I thought that would please you. “Good temper should be cultivated by every mistress, as upon it the welfare of the household may be said to turn.”’

‘Excellent!’

‘“In starting a household, it is always best in the long-run to get the very best articles of their kind.”’

‘That is why I got you, Maude.’

‘Thank you, sir. We have a dissertation then upon dress and fashion, another upon engaging domestics, another about daily duties, another about visiting, another about fresh air and exercise—’

‘The most essential of any,’ cried Frank, jumping up, and pulling his wife by the arms out of her low wicker-chair. ‘There is just time for nine holes at golf before it is dark, if you wilt come exactly as you are. But listen to this, young lady. If ever again I see you fretting or troubling yourself about your household affairs—’

‘No, no, Frank, I won’t!’

‘Well, if you do, Mrs. Beeton goes into the kitchen-fire. Now remember?’

‘You are sure you don’t envy Mr. Beeton?’

‘I don’t envy a man upon earth.’

‘Then why should I try to be Mrs. Beeton?’

‘Why indeed?’

‘O Frank, what a load off my mind! Those sixteen hundred pages have just lain upon it for months. Dear old boy! come on!’

And they clattered downstairs for their golf-clubs.

MR. SAMUEL PEPYS

THERE were few things which Maude liked so much as a long winter evening when Frank and she dined together, and then sat beside the fire and made good cheer. It would be an exaggeration to say that she preferred it to a dance, but next to that supreme joy, and higher even than the theatre in her scale of pleasures, were those serene and intimate evenings when they talked at their will, and were silent at their will, within their home brightened by those little jokes and endearments and allusions which make up that inner domestic masonry which is close-tiled for ever to the outsider. Five or six evenings a week, she with her sewing and Frank with his book, settled down to such enjoyment as men go to the ends of the earth to seek, while it awaits them, if they will but atune their souls to sympathy, beside their own hearthstones. Now and again their sweet calm would be broken by a ring at the bell, when some friend of Frank’s would come round to pay them an evening visit. At the sound Maude would say ‘bother,’ and Frank something shorter and stronger, but, as the intruder appeared, they would both break into, ‘Well, really now it _was_ good of you to drop in upon us in this homely way.’ Without such hypocrisy, the world would be a hard place to live in.

I may have mentioned somewhere that Frank had a catholic taste in literature. Upon a shelf in their bedroom—a relic of his bachelor days—there stood a small line of his intimate books, the books which filled all the chinks of his life when no new books were forthcoming. They were all volumes which he had read in his youth, and many times since, until they had become the very tie-beams of his mind. His tastes were healthy and obvious without being fine. Macaulay’s _Essays_, Holmes’ _Autocrat_, Gibbons’ _History_, Jefferies’ _Story of my Heart_, Carlyle’s Life, Pepys’ _Diary_, and Borrow’s _Lavengro_ were among his inner circle of literary friends. The sturdy East Anglian, half prize-fighter, half missionary, was a particular favourite of his, and so was the garrulous Secretary of the Navy. One day it struck him that it would be a pleasant thing to induce his wife to share his enthusiasms, and he suggested that the evenings should be spent in reading selections from these old friends of his. Maude was delighted. If he had proposed to read the rig-vedas in the original Sanskrit, Maude would have listened with a smiling face. It is in such trifles that a woman’s love is more than a man’s.

That night Frank came downstairs with a thick well-thumbed volume in his hand.

‘This is Mr. Pepys,’ said he solemnly.

‘What a funny name!’ cried Maude. ‘It makes me think of indigestion. Why? Oh yes, pepsine, of course.’

‘We shall take a dose of him every night after dinner to complete the resemblance. But seriously, dear, I think that now that we have taken up a course of reading, we should try to approach it in a grave spirit, and endeavour to realise—Oh, I say, don’t!’

‘I _am_ so sorry, dear! I do hope I didn’t hurt, you!’

‘You did—considerably.’

‘It all came from my having the needle in my hand at the time—and you looked so solemn—and—well, I couldn’t help it.’

‘Little wretch—!’

‘No, dear; Jemima may come in any moment with the coffee. Now, do sit down and read about Mr. Pepys to me. And first of all, would you mind explaining all about the gentleman, from the beginning, and taking nothing for granted, just as if I had never heard of him before.’

‘I don’t believe—’

‘Never mind, sir! Be a good boy and do exactly what you are told. Now begin!’

‘Well, Maude, Mr. Pepys was born—’

‘What was his first name?’

‘Samuel.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sure I should not have liked him.’

‘Well, it’s too late to change that. He was born—I could see by looking, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? He was born somewhere in sixteen hundred and something or other, and I forget what his father was.’

‘I must try to remember what you tell me.’

‘Well, it all amounts to this, that he got on very well in the world, that he became at last a high official of the navy in the time of Charles the Second, and that he died in fairly good circumstances, and left his library, which was a fine one, to one of the universities, I can’t remember which.’

‘There is an accuracy about your information, Frank—’

‘I know, dear, but it really does not matter. All this has nothing to do with the main question.’

‘Go on, then!’

‘Well, this library was left as a kind of dust-catcher, as such libraries are, until one day, more than a hundred years after the old boy’s death, some enterprising person seems to have examined his books, and he found a number of volumes of writing which were all in cipher, so that no one could make head or tail of them.’

‘Dear me, how very interesting!’

‘Yes, it naturally excited curiosity. Why should a man write volumes of cipher? Imagine the labour of it! So some one set to work to solve the cipher. This was about the year 1820. After three years they succeeded.’

‘How in the world did they do it?’

‘Well, they say that human ingenuity never yet invented a cipher which human ingenuity could not also solve. Anyhow, they did succeed. And when they had done so, and copied it all out clean, they found they had got hold of such a book as was never heard of before in the whole history of literature.’

Maude laid her sewing on her lap, and looked across with her lips parted and her eyebrows raised.

‘They found that it was an inner Diary of the life of this man, with all his impressions, and all his doings, and all his thoughts—not his ought-to-be thoughts, but his real, real thoughts, just as he thought then at the back of his soul. You see this man, and you know him very much better than his own wife knew him. It is not only that he tells of his daily doings, and gives us such an intimate picture of life in those days, as could by no other means have been conveyed, but it is as a piece of psychology that the thing is so valuable. Remember the dignity of the man, a high government official, an orator, a writer, a patron of learning, and here you have the other side, the little thoughts, the mean ideas which may lurk under a bewigged head, and behind a solemn countenance. Not that he is worse than any of us. Not a bit. But he is frank. And that is why the book is really a consoling one, for every sinner who reads it can say to himself, “Well, if this man who did so well, and was so esteemed, felt like this, it is no very great wonder that I do.”’

Maude looked at the fat brown book with curiosity. ‘Is it really all there?’ she asked.

‘No, dear, it will never all be published. A good deal of it is, I believe, quite impossible. And when he came to the impossible places, he doubled and trebled his cipher, so as to make sure that it should never be made out. But all that is usually published is here.’ Frank turned over the leaves, which were marked here and there with pencilings.

‘Why are you smiling, Frank?’

‘Only at his way of referring to his wife.’

‘Oh, he was married?’

‘Yes, to a very charming girl. She must have been a sweet creature. He married her at fifteen on account of her beauty. He had a keen eye for beauty had old Pepys.’

‘Were they happy?’

‘Oh yes, fairly so. She was only twenty-nine when she died!’

‘Poor girl!’

‘She was happy in her life—though he _did_ blacken her eye once.’

‘Not really?’

‘Yes, he did. And kicked the housemaid.’

‘Oh, the brute!’

‘But on the whole he was a good husband. He had a few very good points about him.’

‘But how does he allude to his wife?’

‘He has a trick of saying, “my wife, poor wretch!”’

‘Impertinent! Frank, you said to-night that other men think what this odious Mr. Pepys says. Yes, you did! Don’t deny it! Does that mean that you always think of me as “poor wretch”?’

‘We have come along a little since then. But how these passages take you back to the homely life of those days!’

‘Do read some.’

‘Well, listen to this, “And then to bed without prayers, to-morrow being washing-day.” Fancy such a detail coming down to us through two centuries.’

‘Why no prayers?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose they had to get up early on washing-days, and so they wanted to go to sleep soon.’

‘I’m afraid, dear, you do the same without as good an excuse. Read another!’

‘He goes to dine with some one—his uncle, I think. He says, “An excellent dinner, but the venison pasty was palpable beef, which was not handsome.”’

‘How beautiful! Mrs. Hunt Mortimer’s sole last week was palpable plaice. Mr. Pepys is right. It was not handsome.’

‘Here’s another grand entry: “Talked with my wife of the poorness and meanness of all that the people about us do, compared with what we do.” I dare say he was right, for they did things very well. When he dined out, he says that his host gave him “the meanest dinner of beef, shoulder and umbles of venison, and a few pigeons, and all in the meanest manner that ever I did see, to the basest degree.”

‘What are umbles, dear?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, whatever they are, it sounds to me a very good dinner. People must have lived very well in those days.’

‘They habitually over-ate and over-drank themselves. But Pepys gives us the menu of one of his own entertainments. I’ve marked it somewhere. Yes, here it is. “Fricassee of rabbits and chickens, a leg of mutton boiled, three carps in a dish, a great dish of a side of lamb, a dish of roasted pigeons, a dish of four lobsters, three tarts, a lamprey pie (a most rare pie!), a dish of anchovies, good wine of several sorts, and all things mighty noble and to my great content.”’

‘Good gracious! I told you that I associated him with indigestion.’

‘He did them pretty well that time.’

‘Who cooked all this?’

‘The wife helped in those days.’

‘No wonder she died at twenty-nine. Poor dear! What a splendid kitchen-range they must have had! I never understood before why they had such enormous grates in the old days. Naturally, if you have six pigeons, and a lamprey, and a lobster, and a side of lamb, and a leg of mutton, and all these other things cooking at the same time, you would need a huge fire.’

‘The wonderful thing about Pepys,’ said Frank, looking thoughtfully over the pages, ‘is that he is capable of noting down the mean little impulses of human nature, which most men would be so ashamed of, that they would hasten to put them out of their mind. His occasional shabbiness in money matters, his jealousies, his envies, all his petty faults, which are despicable on account of their pettiness. Fancy any man writing this. He is describing how he visited a friend and was reading a book from his library. “A very good book,” says he, “especially one letter of advice to a courtier, most true and good, which made me once resolve to tear out the two leaves that it was writ in, but I forbore it.” Imagine recording such a vile thought.’

‘But what you have never explained to me yet, dear, or if you did, I didn’t understand—you don’t mind my being a little stupid, do you?—is, what object Mr. Pepys had in putting down all this in such a form that no one could read it.’