The Diary of a Nobody
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Title: The Diary of a Nobody
Author: George Grossmith and Weedon Grossmith
Release Date: August, 1997 [EBook #1026]
[This file was first posted on June 27, 1997]
[Most recently updated: May 23, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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The Diary of a Nobody
INTRODUCTION BY MR. POOTER
Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen
reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to
see—because I do not happen to be a ‘Somebody’—why my diary should
not be interesting. My only regret is that I did not commence
it when I was a youth.
Charles Pooter
The Laurels,
Brickfield Terrace
Holloway.
CHAPTER I
We settle down in our new home, and I resolve to keep a
diary. Tradesmen trouble us a bit, so does the scraper.
The Curate calls and pays me a great compliment.
My clear wife Carrie and I have just been a week in our new
house, “The Laurels,” Brickfield Terrace, Holloway—a nice
six-roomed residence, not counting basement, with a front
breakfast-parlour. We have a little front garden; and there
is a flight of ten steps up to the front door, which, by-the-by, we
keep locked with the chain up. Cummings, Gowing, and our
other intimate friends always come to the little side entrance,
which saves the servant the trouble of going up to the front door,
thereby taking her from her work. We have a nice little back
garden which runs down to the railway. We were rather afraid
of the noise of the trains at first, but the landlord said we
should not notice them after a bit, and took £2 off the rent.
He was certainly right; and beyond the cracking of the garden wall
at the bottom, we have suffered no inconvenience.
After my work in the City, I like to be at home. What’s
the good of a home, if you are never in it? “Home, Sweet
Home,” that’s my motto. I am always in of an evening.
Our old friend Gowing may drop in without ceremony; so may
Cummings, who lives opposite. My dear wife Caroline and I are
pleased to see them, if they like to drop in on us. But
Carrie and I can manage to pass our evenings together without
friends. There is always something to be done: a tin-tack
here, a Venetian blind to put straight, a fan to nail up, or part
of a carpet to nail down—all of which I can do with my pipe in my
mouth; while Carrie is not above putting a button on a shirt,
mending a pillow-case, or practising the “Sylvia Gavotte” on our
new cottage piano (on the three years’ system), manufactured by W.
Bilkson (in small letters), from Collard and Collard (in very large
letters). It is also a great comfort to us to know that our
boy Willie is getting on so well in the Bank at Oldham. We
should like to see more of him. Now for my diary:-
April 3.—Tradesmen called for custom, and I promised Farmerson,
the ironmonger, to give him a turn if I wanted any nails or
tools. By-the-by, that reminds me there is no key to our
bedroom door, and the bells must be seen to. The parlour bell
is broken, and the front door rings up in the servant’s bedroom,
which is ridiculous. Dear friend Gowing dropped in, but
wouldn’t stay, saying there was an infernal smell of paint.
April 4. Tradesmen still calling; Carrie being out, I
arranged to deal with Horwin, who seemed a civil butcher with a
nice clean shop. Ordered a shoulder of mutton for to-morrow,
to give him a trial. Carrie arranged with Borset, the
butterman, and ordered a pound of fresh butter, and a pound and a
half of salt ditto for kitchen, and a shilling’s worth of
eggs. In the evening, Cummings unexpectedly dropped in to
show me a meerschaum pipe he had won in a raffle in the City, and
told me to handle it carefully, as it would spoil the colouring if
the hand was moist. He said he wouldn’t stay, as he didn’t
care much for the smell of the paint, and fell over the scraper as
he went out. Must get the scraper removed, or else I shall
get into a scrape. I don’t often make jokes.
April 5.—Two shoulders of mutton arrived, Carrie having arranged
with another butcher without consulting me. Gowing called,
and fell over scraper coming in. Must get that scraper
removed.
April 6.—Eggs for breakfast simply shocking; sent them back to
Borset with my compliments, and he needn’t call any more for
orders. Couldn’t find umbrella, and though it was pouring
with rain, had to go without it. Sarah said Mr. Gowing must
have took it by mistake last night, as there was a stick in the
‘all that didn’t belong to nobody. In the evening, hearing
someone talking in a loud voice to the servant in the downstairs
hall, I went out to see who it was, and was surprised to find it
was Borset, the butterman, who was both drunk and offensive.
Borset, on seeing me, said he would be hanged if he would ever
serve City clerks any more—the game wasn’t worth the candle.
I restrained my feelings, and quietly remarked that I thought it
was possible for a city clerk to be a
gentleman. He replied he was very glad to hear it, and
wanted to know whether I had ever come across one, for he
hadn’t. He left the house, slamming the door after him, which
nearly broke the fanlight; and I heard him fall over the scraper,
which made me feel glad I hadn’t removed it. When he had
gone, I thought of a splendid answer I ought to have given
him. However, I will keep it for another occasion.
April 7.—Being Saturday, I looked forward to being home early,
and putting a few things straight; but two of our principals at the
office were absent through illness, and I did not get home till
seven. Found Borset waiting. He had been three times
during the day to apologise for his conduct last night. He
said he was unable to take his Bank Holiday last Monday, and took
it last night instead. He begged me to accept his apology,
and a pound of fresh butter. He seems, after all, a decent
sort of fellow; so I gave him an order for some fresh eggs, with a
request that on this occasion they should be fresh. I
am afraid we shall have to get some new stair-carpets after all;
our old ones are not quite wide enough to meet the paint on either
side. Carrie suggests that we might ourselves broaden the
paint. I will see if we can match the colour (dark chocolate)
on Monday.
April 8, Sunday.—After Church, the Curate came back with
us. I sent Carrie in to open front door, which we do not use
except on special occasions. She could not get it open, and
after all my display, I had to take the Curate (whose name,
by-the-by, I did not catch,) round the side entrance. He
caught his foot in the scraper, and tore the bottom of his
trousers. Most annoying, as Carrie could not well offer to
repair them on a Sunday. After dinner, went to sleep.
Took a walk round the garden, and discovered a beautiful spot for
sowing mustard-and-cress and radishes. Went to Church again
in the evening: walked back with the Curate. Carrie noticed
he had got on the same pair of trousers, only repaired. He
wants me to take round the plate, which I think a great
compliment.
CHAPTER II
Tradesmen and the scraper still troublesome. Gowing rather
tiresome with his complaints of the paint. I make one of the
best jokes of my life. Delights of Gardening. Mr.
Stillbrook, Gowing, Cummings, and I have a little
misunderstanding. Sarah makes me look a fool before
Cummings
April 9.—Commenced the morning badly. The butcher, whom we
decided not to arrange with, called and blackguarded me in
the most uncalled-for manner. He began by abusing me, and
saying he did not want my custom. I simply said: “Then what
are you making all this fuss about it for?” And he shouted
out at the top of his voice, so that all the neighbours could hear:
“Pah! go along. Ugh! I could buy up ‘things’ like you
by the dozen!”
I shut the door, and was giving Carrie to understand that this
disgraceful scene was entirely her fault, when there was a violent
kicking at the door, enough to break the panels. It was the
blackguard butcher again, who said he had cut his foot over the
scraper, and would immediately bring an action against me.
Called at Farmerson’s, the ironmonger, on my way to town, and gave
him the job of moving the scraper and repairing the bells, thinking
it scarcely worth while to trouble the landlord with such a
trifling matter.
Arrived home tired and worried. Mr. Putley, a painter and
decorator, who had sent in a card, said he could not match the
colour on the stairs, as it contained Indian carmine. He said
he spent half-a-day calling at warehouses to see if he could get
it. He suggested he should entirely repaint the stairs.
It would cost very little more; if he tried to match it, he could
only make a bad job of it. It would be more satisfactory to
him and to us to have the work done properly. I consented,
but felt I had been talked over. Planted some
mustard-and-cress and radishes, and went to bed at nine.
April 10.—Farmerson came round to attend to the scraper
himself. He seems a very civil fellow. He says he does
not usually conduct such small jobs personally, but for me he would
do so. I thanked him, and went to town. It is
disgraceful how late some of the young clerks are at
arriving. I told three of them that if Mr. Perkupp, the
principal, heard of it, they might be discharged.
Pitt, a monkey of seventeen, who has only been with us six
weeks, told me “to keep my hair on!” I informed him I had had
the honour of being in the firm twenty years, to which he
insolently replied that I “looked it.” I gave him an
indignant look, and said: “I demand from you some respect,
sir.” He replied: “All right, go on demanding.” I would
not argue with him any further. You cannot argue with people
like that. In the evening Gowing called, and repeated his
complaint about the smell of paint. Gowing is sometimes very
tedious with his remarks, and not always cautious; and Carrie once
very properly reminded him that she was present.
April 11.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet.
To-day was a day of annoyances. I missed the quarter-to-nine
’bus to the City, through having words with the grocer’s boy, who
for the second time had the impertinence to bring his basket to the
hall-door, and had left the marks of his dirty boots on the
fresh-cleaned door-steps. He said he had knocked at the side
door with his knuckles for a quarter of an hour. I knew
Sarah, our servant, could not hear this, as she was upstairs doing
the bedrooms, so asked the boy why he did not ring the bell?
He replied that he did pull the bell, but the handle came off in
his hand.
I was half-an-hour late at the office, a thing that has never
happened to me before. There has recently been much
irregularity in the attendance of the clerks, and Mr. Perkupp, our
principal, unfortunately choose this very morning to pounce down
upon us early. Someone had given the tip to the others.
The result was that I was the only one late of the lot.
Buckling, one of the senior clerks, was a brick, and I was saved by
his intervention. As I passed by Pitt’s desk, I heard him
remark to his neighbour: “How disgracefully late some of the head
clerks arrive!” This was, of course, meant for me. I
treated the observation with silence, simply giving him a look,
which unfortunately had the effect of making both of the clerks
laugh. Thought afterwards it would have been more dignified
if I had pretended not to have heard him at all. Cummings
called in the evening, and we played dominoes.
April 12.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet.
Left Farmerson repairing the scraper, but when I came home found
three men working. I asked the meaning of it, and Farmerson
said that in making a fresh hole he had penetrated the
gas-pipe. He said it was a most ridiculous place to put the
gas-pipe, and the man who did it evidently knew nothing about his
business. I felt his excuse was no consolation for the
expense I shall be put to.
In the evening, after tea, Gowing dropped in, and we had a smoke
together in the breakfast-parlour. Carrie joined us later,
but did not stay long, saying the smoke was too much for her.
It was also rather too much for me, for Gowing had given me what he
called a green cigar, one that his friend Shoemach had just brought
over from America. The cigar didn’t look green, but I fancy I
must have done so; for when I had smoked a little more than half I
was obliged to retire on the pretext of telling Sarah to bring in
the glasses.
I took a walk round the garden three or four times, feeling the
need of fresh air. On returning Gowing noticed I was not
smoking: offered me another cigar, which I politely declined.
Gowing began his usual sniffing, so, anticipating him, I said:
“You’re not going to complain of the smell of paint again?”
He said: “No, not this time; but I’ll tell you what, I distinctly
smell dry rot.” I don’t often make jokes, but I replied:
“You’re talking a lot of dry rot yourself.” I could
not help roaring at this, and Carrie said her sides quite ached
with laughter. I never was so immensely tickled by anything I
have ever said before. I actually woke up twice during the
night, and laughed till the bed shook.
April 13.—An extraordinary coincidence: Carrie had called in a
woman to make some chintz covers for our drawing-room chairs and
sofa to prevent the sun fading the green rep of the
furniture. I saw the woman, and recognised her as a woman who
used to work years ago for my old aunt at Clapham. It only
shows how small the world is.
April 14.—Spent the whole of the afternoon in the garden, having
this morning picked up at a bookstall for fivepence a capital
little book, in good condition, on Gardening. I
procured and sowed some half-hardy annuals in what I fancy will be
a warm, sunny border. I thought of a joke, and called out
Carrie. Carrie came out rather testy, I thought. I
said: “I have just discovered we have got a lodging-house.”
She replied: “How do you mean?” I said: “Look at the
boarders.” Carrie said: “Is that all you wanted me
for?” I said: “Any other time you would have laughed at my
little pleasantry.” Carrie said: “Certainly—at any other
time, but not when I am busy in the house.” The stairs
looked very nice. Gowing called, and said the stairs looked
all right, but it made the banisters look all wrong,
and suggested a coat of paint on them also, which Carrie quite
agreed with. I walked round to Putley, and fortunately he was
out, so I had a good excuse to let the banisters slide.
By-the-by, that is rather funny.
April 15, Sunday.—At three o’clock Cummings and Gowing called
for a good long walk over Hampstead and Finchley, and brought with
them a friend named Stillbrook. We walked and chatted
together, except Stillbrook, who was always a few yards behind us
staring at the ground and cutting at the grass with his stick.
As it was getting on for five, we four held a consultation, and
Gowing suggested that we should make for “The Cow and Hedge” and
get some tea. Stillbrook said: “A brandy-and-soda was good
enough for him.” I reminded them that all public-houses were
closed till six o’clock. Stillbrook said, “That’s all
right—bona-fide travellers.”
We arrived; and as I was trying to pass, the man in charge of
the gate said: “Where from?” I replied: “Holloway.” He
immediately put up his arm, and declined to let me pass. I
turned back for a moment, when I saw Stillbrook, closely followed
by Cummings and Gowing, make for the entrance. I watched
them, and thought I would have a good laugh at their expense, I
heard the porter say: “Where from?” When, to my surprise, in
fact disgust, Stillbrook replied: “Blackheath,” and the three were
immediately admitted.
Gowing called to me across the gate, and said: “We shan’t be a
minute.” I waited for them the best part of an hour.
When they appeared they were all in most excellent spirits, and the
only one who made an effort to apologise was Mr. Stillbrook, who
said to me: “It was very rough on you to be kept waiting, but we
had another spin for S. and B.’s.” I walked home in silence;
I couldn’t speak to them. I felt very dull all the evening,
but deemed it advisable not to say anything to Carrie about
the matter.
April 16.—After business, set to work in the garden. When
it got dark I wrote to Cummings and Gowing (who neither called, for
a wonder; perhaps they were ashamed of themselves) about
yesterday’s adventure at “The Cow and Hedge.” Afterwards made
up my mind not to write yet.
April 17.—Thought I would write a kind little note to Gowing and
Cummings about last Sunday, and warning them against Mr.
Stillbrook. Afterwards, thinking the matter over, tore up the
letters and determined not to write at all, but to
speak quietly to them. Dumfounded at receiving a sharp
letter from Cummings, saying that both he and Gowing had been
waiting for an explanation of my (mind you, MY)
extraordinary conduct coming home on Sunday. At last I wrote:
“I thought I was the aggrieved party; but as I freely forgive you,
you—feeling yourself aggrieved—should bestow forgiveness on
me.” I have copied this verbatim in the diary, because
I think it is one of the most perfect and thoughtful sentences I
have ever written. I posted the letter, but in my own heart I
felt I was actually apologising for having been insulted.
April 18.—Am in for a cold. Spent the whole day at the
office sneezing. In the evening, the cold being intolerable,
sent Sarah out for a bottle of Kinahan. Fell asleep in the
arm-chair, and woke with the shivers. Was startled by a loud
knock at the front door. Carrie awfully flurried. Sarah
still out, so went up, opened the door, and found it was only
Cummings. Remembered the grocer’s boy had again broken the
side-bell. Cummings squeezed my hand, and said: “I’ve just
seen Gowing. All right. Say no more about it.”
There is no doubt they are both under the impression I have
apologised.
While playing dominoes with Cummings in the parlour, he said:
“By-the-by, do you want any wine or spirits? My cousin Merton
has just set up in the trade, and has a splendid whisky, four years
in bottle, at thirty-eight shillings. It is worth your while
laying down a few dozen of it.” I told him my cellars, which
were very small, were full up. To my horror, at that very
moment, Sarah entered the room, and putting a bottle of whisky,
wrapped in a dirty piece of newspaper, on the table in front of us,
said: “Please, sir, the grocer says he ain’t got no more Kinahan,
but you’ll find this very good at two-and-six, with twopence
returned on the bottle; and, please, did you want any more sherry?
as he has some at one-and-three, as dry as a nut!”
CHAPTER III
A conversation with Mr. Merton on Society. Mr. and Mrs.
James, of Sutton, come up. A miserable evening at the Tank
Theatre. Experiments with enamel paint. I make another
good joke; but Gowing and Cummings are unnecessarily
offended. I paint the bath red, with unexpected result.
April 19.—Cummings called, bringing with him his friend Merton,
who is in the wine trade. Gowing also called. Mr.
Merton made himself at home at once, and Carrie and I were both
struck with him immediately, and thoroughly approved of his
sentiments.
He leaned back in his chair and said: “You must take me as I
am;” and I replied: “Yes—and you must take us as we are.
We’re homely people, we are not swells.”
He answered: “No, I can see that,” and Gowing roared with
laughter; but Merton in a most gentlemanly manner said to Gowing:
“I don’t think you quite understand me. I intended to convey
that our charming host and hostess were superior to the follies of
fashion, and preferred leading a simple and wholesome life to
gadding about to twopenny-halfpenny tea-drinking afternoons, and
living above their incomes.”
I was immensely pleased with these sensible remarks of Merton’s,
and concluded that subject by saying: “No, candidly, Mr. Merton, we
don’t go into Society, because we do not care for it; and what with
the expense of cabs here and cabs there, and white gloves and white
ties, etc., it doesn’t seem worth the money.”
Merton said in reference to friends: “My motto is ‘Few
and True;’ and, by the way, I also apply that to wine, ‘Little and
Good.’” Gowing said: “Yes, and sometimes ‘cheap and tasty,’
eh, old man?” Merton, still continuing, said he should treat
me as a friend, and put me down for a dozen of his “Lockanbar”
whisky, and as I was an old friend of Gowing, I should have it for
36s., which was considerably under what he paid for it.
He booked his own order, and further said that at any time I
wanted any passes for the theatre I was to let him know, as his
name stood good for any theatre in London.
April 20.—Carrie reminded me that as her old school friend,
Annie Fullers (now Mrs. James), and her husband had come up from
Sutton for a few days, it would look kind to take them to the
theatre, and would I drop a line to Mr. Merton asking him for
passes for four, either for the Italian Opera, Haymarket, Savoy, or
Lyceum. I wrote Merton to that effect.
April 21.—Got a reply from Merton, saying he was very busy, and
just at present couldn’t manage passes for the Italian Opera,
Haymarket, Savoy, or Lyceum, but the best thing going on in London
was the Brown Bushes, at the Tank Theatre, Islington, and
enclosed seats for four; also bill for whisky.
April 23.—Mr. and Mrs. James (Miss Fullers that was) came to
meat tea, and we left directly after for the Tank Theatre. We
got a ’bus that took us to King’s Cross, and then changed into one
that took us to the “Angel.” Mr. James each time insisted on
paying for all, saying that I had paid for the tickets and that was
quite enough.
We arrived at theatre, where, curiously enough, all our
’bus-load except an old woman with a basket seemed to be going
in. I walked ahead and presented the tickets. The man
looked at them, and called out: “Mr. Willowly! do you know anything
about these?” holding up my tickets. The gentleman called to,
came up and examined my tickets, and said: “Who gave you
these?” I said, rather indignantly: “Mr. Merton, of
course.” He said: “Merton? Who’s he?” I answered,
rather sharply: “You ought to know, his name’s good at any theatre
in London.” He replied: “Oh! is it? Well, it ain’t no
good here. These tickets, which are not dated, were issued
under Mr. Swinstead’s management, which has since changed
hands.” While I was having some very unpleasant words with
the man, James, who had gone upstairs with the ladies, called out:
“Come on!” I went up after them, and a very civil attendant
said: “This way, please, box H.” I said to James: “Why, how
on earth did you manage it?” and to my horror he replied: “Why,
paid for it of course.”
This was humiliating enough, and I could scarcely follow the
play, but I was doomed to still further humiliation. I was
leaning out of the box, when my tie—a little black bow which
fastened on to the stud by means of a new patent—fell into the pit
below. A clumsy man not noticing it, had his foot on it for
ever so long before he discovered it. He then picked it up
and eventually flung it under the next seat in disgust. What
with the box incident and the tie, I felt quite miserable.
Mr. James, of Sutton, was very good. He said: “Don’t worry—no
one will notice it with your beard. That is the only
advantage of growing one that I can see.” There was no
occasion for that remark, for Carrie is very proud of my beard.
To hide the absence of the tie I had to keep my chin down the
rest of the evening, which caused a pain at the back of my
neck.
April 24.—Could scarcely sleep a wink through thinking of having
brought up Mr. and Mrs. James from the country to go to the theatre
last night, and his having paid for a private box because our order
was not honoured, and such a poor play too. I wrote a very
satirical letter to Merton, the wine merchant, who gave us the
pass, and said, “Considering we had to pay for our seats, we did
our best to appreciate the performance.” I thought this line
rather cutting, and I asked Carrie how many p’s there were in
appreciate, and she said, “One.” After I sent off the letter
I looked at the dictionary and found there were two. Awfully
vexed at this.
Decided not to worry myself any more about the James’s; for, as
Carrie wisely said, “We’ll make it all right with them by asking
them up from Sutton one evening next week to play at Bézique.”
April 25.—In consequence of Brickwell telling me his wife was
working wonders with the new Pinkford’s enamel paint, I determined
to try it. I bought two tins of red on my way home. I
hastened through tea, went into the garden and painted some
flower-pots. I called out Carrie, who said: “You’ve always
got some newfangled craze;” but she was obliged to admit that the
flower-pots looked remarkably well. Went upstairs into the
servant’s bedroom and painted her washstand, towel-horse, and chest
of drawers. To my mind it was an extraordinary improvement,
but as an example of the ignorance of the lower classes in the
matter of taste, our servant, Sarah, on seeing them, evinced no
sign of pleasure, but merely said “she thought they looked very
well as they was before.”
April 26.—Got some more red enamel paint (red, to my mind, being
the best colour), and painted the coal-scuttle, and the backs of
our Shakspeare, the binding of which had almost worn
out.
April 27.—Painted the bath red, and was delighted with the
result. Sorry to say Carrie was not, in fact we had a few
words about it. She said I ought to have consulted her, and
she had never heard of such a thing as a bath being painted
red. I replied: “It’s merely a matter of taste.”
Fortunately, further argument on the subject was stopped by a
voice saying, “May I come in?” It was only Cummings, who
said, “Your maid opened the door, and asked me to excuse her
showing me in, as she was wringing out some socks.” I was
delighted to see him, and suggested we should have a game of whist
with a dummy, and by way of merriment said: “You can be the
dummy.” Cummings (I thought rather ill-naturedly) replied:
“Funny as usual.” He said he couldn’t stop, he only called to
leave me the Bicycle News, as he had done with it.
Another ring at the bell; it was Gowing, who said he “must
apologise for coming so often, and that one of these days we must
come round to him.” I said: “A very extraordinary
thing has struck me.” “Something funny, as usual,” said
Cummings. “Yes,” I replied; “I think even you will say so
this time. It’s concerning you both; for doesn’t it seem odd
that Gowing’s always coming and Cummings’ always going?”
Carrie, who had evidently quite forgotten about the bath, went into
fits of laughter, and as for myself, I fairly doubled up in my
chair, till it cracked beneath me. I think this was one of
the best jokes I have ever made.
Then imagine my astonishment on perceiving both Cummings and
Gowing perfectly silent, and without a smile on their faces.
After rather an unpleasant pause, Cummings, who had opened a
cigar-case, closed it up again and said: “Yes—I think, after that,
I shall be going, and I am sorry I fail to see the fun of
your jokes.” Gowing said he didn’t mind a joke when it wasn’t
rude, but a pun on a name, to his thinking, was certainly a little
wanting in good taste. Cummings followed it up by saying, if
it had been said by anyone else but myself, he shouldn’t have
entered the house again. This rather unpleasantly terminated
what might have been a cheerful evening. However, it was as
well they went, for the charwoman had finished up the remains of
the cold pork.
April 28.—At the office, the new and very young clerk Pitt, who
was very impudent to me a week or so ago, was late again. I
told him it would be my duty to inform Mr. Perkupp, the
principal. To my surprise, Pitt apologised most humbly and in
a most gentlemanly fashion. I was unfeignedly pleased to
notice this improvement in his manner towards me, and told him I
would look over his unpunctuality. Passing down the room an
hour later. I received a smart smack in the face from a
rolled-up ball of hard foolscap. I turned round sharply, but
all the clerks were apparently riveted to their work. I am
not a rich man, but I would give half-a-sovereign to know whether
that was thrown by accident or design. Went home early and
bought some more enamel paint—black this time—and spent the evening
touching up the fender, picture-frames, and an old pair of boots,
making them look as good as new. Also painted Gowing’s
walking-stick, which he left behind, and made it look like
ebony.
April 29, Sunday.—Woke up with a fearful headache and strong
symptoms of a cold. Carrie, with a perversity which is just
like her, said it was “painter’s colic,” and was the result of my
having spent the last few days with my nose over a paint-pot.
I told her firmly that I knew a great deal better what was the
matter with me than she did. I had got a chill, and decided
to have a bath as hot as I could bear it. Bath ready—could
scarcely bear it so hot. I persevered, and got in; very hot,
but very acceptable. I lay still for some time.
On moving my hand above the surface of the water, I experienced
the greatest fright I ever received in the whole course of my life;
for imagine my horror on discovering my hand, as I thought, full of
blood. My first thought was that I had ruptured an artery,
and was bleeding to death, and should be discovered, later on,
looking like a second Marat, as I remember seeing him in Madame
Tussaud’s. My second thought was to ring the bell, but
remembered there was no bell to ring. My third was, that
there was nothing but the enamel paint, which had dissolved with
boiling water. I stepped out of the bath, perfectly red all
over, resembling the Red Indians I have seen depicted at an
East-End theatre. I determined not to say a word to Carrie,
but to tell Farmerson to come on Monday and paint the bath
white.
CHAPTER IV
The ball at the Mansion House.
April 30.—Perfectly astounded at receiving an invitation for
Carrie and myself from the Lord and Lady Mayoress to the Mansion
House, to “meet the Representatives of Trades and Commerce.”
My heart beat like that of a schoolboy’s. Carrie and I read
the invitation over two or three times. I could scarcely eat
my breakfast. I said—and I felt it from the bottom of my
heart,—“Carrie darling, I was a proud man when I led you down the
aisle of the church on our wedding-day; that pride will be
equalled, if not surpassed, when I lead my dear, pretty wife up to
the Lord and Lady Mayoress at the Mansion House.” I saw the
tears in Carrie’s eyes, and she said: “Charlie dear, it is I
who have to be proud of you. And I am very, very proud of
you. You have called me pretty; and as long as I am pretty in
your eyes, I am happy. You, dear old Charlie, are not
handsome, but you are good, which is far more noble.”
I gave her a kiss, and she said: “I wonder if there will be any
dancing? I have not danced with you for years.”
I cannot tell what induced me to do it, but I seized her round
the waist, and we were silly enough to be executing a wild kind of
polka when Sarah entered, grinning, and said: “There is a man, mum,
at the door who wants to know if you want any good coals.”
Most annoyed at this. Spent the evening in answering, and
tearing up again, the reply to the Mansion House, having left word
with Sarah if Gowing or Cummings called we were not at home.
Must consult Mr. Perkupp how to answer the Lord Mayor’s
invitation.
May 1.—Carrie said: “I should like to send mother the invitation
to look at.” I consented, as soon as I had answered it.
I told Mr. Perkupp, at the office, with a feeling of pride, that we
had received an invitation to the Mansion House; and he said, to my
astonishment, that he himself gave in my name to the Lord Mayor’s
secretary. I felt this rather discounted the value of the
invitation, but I thanked him; and in reply to me, he described how
I was to answer it. I felt the reply was too simple; but of
course Mr.
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