Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1640 page)

“We think it quite impossible to call a day — when the sun is not shining — a fine day,” says Miss Barbara.

“We think that when clouds are in the sky there is always a chance of rain; and, when there is a chance of rain, we think it is very extraordinary to say that it is a fine day,” adds Miss Charlotte.

My legal bachelor starts another topic, and finds his faculty for impromptu definition exercised by the three Misses Cruttwell, always in the same briskly disputatious manner. He goes away — as I hope and trust — thinking what an excellent lawyer’s wife any one of the three young ladies would make. If he could only be present in the spirit, after leaving the abode of the Misses Cruttwell in the body, his admiration of my three disputatious spinsters would, I think, be greatly increased. He would find that, though they could all agree to a miracle in differing with him while he was present, they would begin to vary in opinion the moment their visitor’s subjects of conversation were referred to in his absence. He would, probably, for example, hear them take up the topic of the weather again, the instant the house door had closed after him, in these terms:

“Do you know,” he might hear Miss Martha say, “I am not so sure after all, Charlotte, that you were right in saying that it could not be a fine day, because there were clouds in the sky?”

“You only say that,” Miss Charlotte would be sure to reply, “because the sun happens to be peeping out, just now, for a minute or two. If it rains in half an hour, which is more than likely, who would be right then?”

“On reflection,” Miss Barbara might remark next, “I don’t agree with either of you, and I also dispute the opinion of the gentleman who has just left us. It is neither a fine day nor a bad day.”

“But it must be one or the other.”

“No, it needn’t. It may be an indifferent day.”

“What do you mean by an indifferent day?”

So they go on, these clever girls of mine, these mistresses in the art of fencing applied to the tongue. I have not presented this sample from my collection, as one which is likely to suit any great number. But there are peculiarly constituted bachelors in this world; and I like to be able to show that my assortment of spinsters is various enough to warrant me in addressing even the most alarming eccentricities of taste. “Will nobody offer for this disputatious sample — not even for the dog-fancying Miss Charlotte, with the two fat puppies thrown in? No? Take away the Misses Cruttwell, and let us try what we can do, thirdly and lastly, with the Misses Ducksey produced in their place.

I confidently anticipate a brisk competition and a ready market for the spinsters now about to be submitted to inspection. You have already had a sentimental sample, gentlemen, and a disputatious sample. In now offering a domestic sample, I have but one regret, which is, that my spinsters on the present occasion are unhappily limited to two in number. I wish I had a dozen to produce of the same interesting texture and the same unimpeachable quality.

The whole world, gentlemen, at the present writing, means, in the estimation of the two Misses Ducksey, papa, mamma, and brother George. This loving sample can be warranted never yet to have looked beyond the sacred precincts of the family circle. All their innocent powers of admiration and appreciation have been hitherto limited within the boundaries of home. If Miss Violet Ducksey wants to see a lovely girl, she looks at Miss Rose Ducksey, and
vice versa;
if both want to behold manly dignity, matronly sweetness, and youthful beauty, both look immediately at papa, mamma, and brother George. I have been admitted into the unparalleled family circle of which I now speak. I have seen — to say nothing, for the present, of papa and mamma — I have seen brother George come in from business, and sit down by the fireside, and be welcomed by Miss Violet and Miss Rose, as if he had just returned, after having been reported dead, from the other end of the world. I have seen those two devoted sisters race across the room, in fond contention which should sit first on brother George’s knee. I have even seen both sit upon him together, each taking a knee, when he has been half an hour later than usual at the office. I have never beheld their lovely arms tired of clasping brother George’s neck, never heard their rosy lips cease kissing brother George’s cheeks, except when they were otherwise occupied for the moment in calling him “Dear!” On the word of honour of a harmless spinster-fancying old man, I declare that I have seen brother George fondled to such an extent by his sisters that, although a lusty and long-suffering youth, he has fallen asleep under it from sheer exhaustion. Even then, I have observed Miss Rose and Miss Violet contending (in each other’s arms) which should have the privilege of casting her handkerchief over his face. And that touching contest concluded, I have quitted the house at a late hour, leaving Violet on papa’s bosom, and Rose entwined, round mamma’s waist. Beautiful! beautiful!

Am I exaggerating? Go and judge for yourselves, my bachelor friends. Go, if you like, and meet my domestic sample at a ball.

My bachelor is introduced to Miss Violet, and takes his place with her in a quadrille. He begins a lively conversation, and finds her attention wandering. She has not heard a word that he has been saying, and she interrupts him in the middle of a sentence with a question which has not the slightest relation to anything that he has hitherto offered by way of a remark.

“Have you ever met my sister Rose before?”

“No, I have not had the honour — ”

“She is standing there, at the other end, in a blue dress. Now, do tell me, does she not look charming?”

My bachelor makes the necessary answer, and goes on to another subject. Miss Violet’s attention wanders again, and she asks another abrupt question:

“What did you think of mamma when you were introduced to her?”

My bachelor friend makes another necessary answer. Miss Violet, without appearing to be at all impressed by it, looks into the distance in search of her maternal parent, and then addresses her partner again:

“It is not a pleasant thing for young people to confess,” she says, with the most artless candor, “but I really do think that mamma is the handsomest woman in the room. There she is, taking an ice, next to the old lady with the diamonds. Is she not beautiful? Do you know, when we were dressing to-night, Rose and I begged and prayed her not to wear a cap. We said, ‘Don’t, mamma; please don’t. Put it off for another year.’ And mamma said, in her sweet way, ‘Nonsense, my loves! I am an old woman. You must accustom yourselves to that idea, and you must let me wear a cap; you must, darlings, indeed.’ And we said — what do you think we said?”

(Another necessary answer.)

“We said, ‘You are studying papa’s feelings, dear — you are afraid of being taken for our youngest sister if you go in your hair — and it is on papa’s account that you wear a cap. Sly mamma!’ — Have you been introduced to papa?”

Later in the evening my bachelor friend is presented to Miss Rose. He asks for the honour of dancing with her. She inquires if it is for the waltz, and hearing that it is, draws back and courtesies apologetically.

“Thank you, I must keep the waltz for my brother George. My sister and I always keep waltzes for our brother George.”

My bachelor draws back. The dance proceeds. He hears a soft voice behind him. It is Miss Violet who is speaking.

“You are a judge of waltzing?” she says, in tones of the gentlest insinuation. “Do pray look at George and Rose. No, thank you; I never dance when George and Rose are waltzing. It is a much greater treat to me to look on. I always look on. I do, indeed.” Perhaps my bachelor does not frequent balls. It is of no consequence. Let him be a diner-out; let him meet my domestic sample at the social board; and he will only witness fresh instances of that all-absorbing interest in each other which is the remarkable peculiarity of the whole Ducksey family, and of the young ladies in particular. He will find them admiring one another with the same touching and demonstrative affection over the dishes on the dinner-table as amid the mazes of the dance. He will hear from the venerable Mr. Ducksey that George never gave him a moment’s uneasiness from the hour of his birth. He will hear from Mrs. Ducksey that her one regret in this life is, that she can never be thankful enough for her daughters. And (to return to the young ladies, who are the main objects of these remarks) he will find, by some such fragments of dialogue as the following, that no general subjects of conversation whatever have the power of alluring the minds of the two Miss Duckseys from the contemplation of their own domestic interests, and the faithful remembrance of their own particular friends.

It is the interval, let us say, between the removal of the fish and the appearance of the meat. The most brilliant man in the company has been talking with great sprightliness and effect; has paused for a moment to collect his ideas before telling one of the good stories for which he is famous; and is just ready to begin — when Miss Rose stops him and silences all her neighbours by anxiously addressing her sister, who sits opposite to her at the table.

“Violet, dear?”

“Yes, dear.”

(Profound silence follows. The next course fails to make its appearance. Nobody wanting to take any wine. The brilliant guest sits back in his chair, dogged and speechless. The host and hostess look at each other nervously. Miss Rose goes on with the happy artlessness of a child, as if nobody but her sister was present.) “Do you know I have made up my mind what I shall give mamma’s Susan when she is married?”

“Not a silk dress? That’s my present.”

“What do you think, dear, of a locket with our hair in it?”

“Sweet.”

(The silence of the tomb falls on the dinner-table. The host and hostess begin to get angry. The guests look at each other. The second course persists in not coming in. The brilliant guest suffers from a dry cough. Miss Violet, in her turn, addresses Miss Rose across the table.)

“Rose, I met Ellen Davis to-day.”

“Has she heard from Clara?”

“Yes; Clara’s uncle and aunt won’t let her come.”

“Tiresome people! Did you go on to Brompton? Did you see Jane? Is Jane to be depended on?”

“If Jane’s cold gets better, she and that odious cousin of hers are sure to come. Uncle Frank, of course, makes his usual excuse.”

So the simple-hearted sisters prattle on in public; so do they carry their own innocent affections and interests about with them into the society they adorn; so do they cast the extinguishing sunshine of their young hearts over the temporary flashes of worldly merriment, and the short-lived blaze of dinner eloquence. Without another word of preliminary recommendation, I confidently submit the Misses Ducksey to brisk public competition. I can promise the two fortunate youths who may woo and win them plenty of difficulties in weaning their affections from the family hearth, with showers of tears and poignant bursts of anguish on the wedding-day. All properly-constituted bridegrooms feel, as I have been given to understand, inexpressibly comforted and encouraged by a display of violent grief on the part of the bride when she is starting on her wedding tour. And, besides, in the particular case of the Misses Ducksey, there would always be the special resource of taking brother George into the carriage, as a sure palliative, during the first few stages of the honey-moon trip.

CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE. — II.

PORTRAIT OF AN AUTHOR, PAINTED BY HIS PUBLISHER.

I.

THE Author was born a Frenchman, and died in the year 1850. Over the whole continent of Europe, wherever the literature of France has penetrated, his readers are numbered by tens of thousands. Women of all ranks and orders have singled him out, long since, as the marked man, among modern writers of fiction, who most profoundly knows and most subtly appreciates their sex in its strength and in its weakness. Men whose critical judgment is widely and worthily respected have declared that he is the deepest and truest observer of human nature whom France has produced since the time of Molière. Unquestionably he ranks as one of the few great geniuses who appear by ones and twos, in century after century of authorship, and who leave their mark ineffaceably on the literature of their age. And yet, in spite of this widely-extended continental fame, and this indisputable right and title to enjoy it, there is probably no civilized country in the Old World in which he is so little known as in England. Among all the readers — a large class in these islands — who are, from various causes, unaccustomed to study French literature in its native language, there are probably very many who have never even heard of the name of HONOURÉ DE BALZAC.