Read Complete Works of Wilkie Collins Online
Authors: Wilkie Collins
Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend, Lady Malkinshaw, was sitting with me, and was entering at great length into the interesting story of her second daughter’s unhappy marriage-engagement, and of the dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke it off. For a quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as Lady Malkinshaw, with the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe the effect of her daughter’s dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl’s mind and looks, I heard the door of the major’s house bang as usual; and, looking out of the window in despair, saw the major himself strut half-way down the walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel round so as to face the house, consider a little, pull his tablets out of his waistcoat-pocket, shake his head over them, and then look up at the front windows, preparatory to bawling as usual at the degraded female members of his household. Lady Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming, happened at the same moment to be proceeding with her pathetic story in these terms:
“I do assure you my poor dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism of a martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch’s behavior, breaking it to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little recovered, I said to her — ”
(“Matilda!”)
The major’s rasping voice sounded louder than ever as he bawled out that dreadful name, just at the wrong moment. Lady Malkinshaw started as if she had been shot. I put down the window in despair; but the glass was no protection to our ears — Major Namby can roar through a brick wall. I apologized — I declared solemnly that my next-door neighbour was mad — I entreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet woman immediately complied. I burn with indignation when I think of what followed. Every word from the Namby’s garden (which I distinguish below by parentheses) came, very slightly muffled by the window, straight into my room, and mixed itself up with her ladyship’s story in this inexpressibly ridiculous and impertinent manner:
“Well,” my kind and valued friend proceeded, “as I was telling you, when the first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her — ”
“Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw?” I murmured, encouragingly.
“I said to her — ”
(“By jingo, I’ve forgotten something! Matilda! when I made my memorandum of errands, how many had I to do?”)
“‘My dearest, darling child,’ I said — ”
(“Pamby! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?”)
“I said, ‘My dearest, darling child — ’ “
(“Nurse! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?”)
“‘My own love,’ I said — ”
(“Pooh! pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, and I’ve only got three of ‘em written down. Check me off, all of you — I’m going to read my errands.”)
“‘Your own proper pride, love,’ I said, ‘will suggest to you — ’ “
(“Gray powder for baby.”)
— “‘the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to — ’ “
(“Row the plumber for infamous condition of back-kitchen sink.”)
— “‘to return all the wretch’s letters, and — ’ “
(“Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack’s shirts.”)
— “‘all his letters and presents, darling. You need only make them up into a parcel, and write inside — ’ “
(“Matilda! is that all?”)
— “ ‘and write inside — ’ “
(“Pamby! is that all?”)
— “ ‘and write inside — ’ “
(“Nurse! is that all?”)
“ ‘I have my mother’s sanction for making one last request to you. It is this — ’ “
(“What have the children got for dinner today?”)
— “ ‘it is this: Return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will find inside — ’ “
(“A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner, too.”)
The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at the top of his voice. Hitherto Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with the patience of an angel; but she began — and who can wonder? — to lose it at last.
“It is really impossible, my dear,” she said, rising from her chair, “to continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in talking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on — I cannot, indeed,”
Just as I was apologising to my sweet friend for the second time, I observed, to my great relief (having my eye still on the window), that the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel round again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate. I waited until he had his hand on the lock to open it, and then, when I felt that we were quite safe, I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable neighbour had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open the window again to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige me by resuming her charming narrative.
“Where was I?” inquired my distinguished friend.
“You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write inside her inclosure,” I answered.
“Ah, yes — so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother’s partiality, I am sure; but I think I never saw her look so lovely — so mournfully lovely, I should say — as when she was writing those last lines to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes as I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; and I thought to myself — ”
(“Nurse, which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion sauce?”)
He had come back again — the monster had come back again, from the very threshold of the garden gate — to shout that unwarrantably atrocious question in at his nursery window!
Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible voice, and changed toward me instantly — as if it had been my fault-in the most alarming and unexpected manner. Her ladyship’s face became awfully red; her ladyship’s head trembled excessively; her ladyship’s eyes looked straight into mine with an indescribable fierceness.
“Why am I thus insulted?” inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow and dignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. “What do you mean by it?” continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of utterance that quite took my breath away.
Before I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her natural irritation on poor innocent me; before I could declare that I had seen the major actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking brute’s voice burst in on us again.
“Ha! yes,” we heard him growl to himself, in a kind of shameless domestic soliloquy. “Yes, yes, yes — Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All Mrs. Namby’s stepchildren have weak chests and strong stomachs. All Mrs. Namby’s own children have weak stomachs and strong chests. I have a strong stomach and a strong chest. Pamby!”
“I consider this,” continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me, in the fullness of her indiscriminate exasperation — ”I consider this to be unwarrantable and unlady-like. I beg to know — ”
“Where’s Bill?” burst in the major, from below, before her ladyship could add another word. “Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where’s Bill? I didn’t bid Bill good-by — hold him up at the window, one of you!”
“My dear Lady Malkinshaw,” I remonstrated, “why blame me? What have I done?”
“Done!” repeated her ladyship. “Done!!! — all that is most unfriendly, most unwarrantable, most unlady-like — ”
“Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a!” roared the major, shouting her ladyship down, and stamping about the garden in fits of fond, paternal laughter. “Bill, my boy, how are you? There’s a young Turk for you! Pull up his frock — I want to see his jolly legs — ”
Lady Malkinshaw screamed, and rushed to the door. I sank into a chair, and clasped my hands in despair.
“Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a!”What calves the dog’s got! Pamby, look at his calves. Aha! bless his heart, his legs are the model of his father’s! The Namby build, Matilda — the Namby build, every inch of him. Kick again, Bill — kick out, like mad. I say, ma’am! I beg your pardon, ma’am — ”
Ma’am?
I ran to the window. Was the major, actually daring to address Lady Malkinshaw, as she passed, indignantly, on her way out, down my front garden? He was! The odious monster was pointing out his — his, what shall I say? — his
undraped
offspring to the notice of my outraged visitor.
“Look at him, ma’am. If you’re a judge of children, look at him. There’s a two-year-older for you! Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs, Bill — kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!”“
I can write no more: I have done great violence to myself in writing so much. Further specimens of the daily outrages inflicted on me by my next-door neighbour (though I could add them by dozens) could do but little more to illustrate the intolerable nature of the grievance of which I complain. Although Lady Malkinshaw’s naturally fine sense of justice suffered me to call and remonstrate the day after she left my house; although we are now faster friends than ever, how can I expect her ladyship to visit me again, after the reiterated insults to which she was exposed on the last occasion of her esteemed presence under my roof? How can I ask my niece — a young person who has been most carefully brought up — to come and stay with me, when I know that she will be taken into the major’s closest domestic confidence on the first morning of her arrival, whether she likes it or not? Of all the dreary prospects stretching before all the single ladies in the world, mine seems the most hopeless. My neighbours can’t help me, and I can’t help myself, The law of the land contains no provision against the habitual management of a wife and family in a front garden. Private remonstrance, addressed to a man so densely impenetrable to a sense of propriety as the major, would only expose me to ridicule and perhaps to insult. I can’t leave my house, for it exactly suits me, and I have bought it. The major can’t leave his house, for it exactly suits him, and he has bought it. There is actually no remedy possible but the forcible removal of my military neighbour from his home; and there is but one power in the country which is strong enough to accomplish that removal — the Horse Guards, infuriated by the horrors of war .
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY. — I.
THE name of Gustavus Adolphus, the faithful Protestant, the great general, and the good King of Sweden, has been long since rendered familiar to English readers of history. We all know how this renowned warrior and monarch was beloved by his soldiers and subjects, how successfully he fought through a long and terrible war, and how nobly he died on the field of battle. With his death, however, the interest of the English reader in Swedish affairs seems to terminate. Those who have followed the narrative of his life carefully to the end may remember that he left behind him an only child — a daughter named Christina. But of the character of this child, and of her extraordinary adventures after she grew to womanhood, the public in England is, for the most part, entirely ignorant. In the popular historical and romantic literature of France, Queen Christina is a notorious character. In the literature of this country, she has hitherto been allowed but little chance of making her way to the notice of the world at large.
And yet the life of Christina is in itself a romance. At six years old she was Queen of Sweden, with the famous Oxenstiern for guardian. This great and good man governed the kingdom in her name until she had lived through her minority. Four years after her coronation she, of her own accord, abdicated her rights in favor of her cousin, Charles Gustavus. Young and beautiful, the most learned and most accomplished woman of her time, she resolutely turned her back on the throne of her inheritance, and set forth to wander through civilized Europe in the character of an independent traveler, who was resolved to see all varieties of men and manners, to collect all the knowledge which the widest experience could give her, and to measure her mind boldly against the greatest minds of the age.