MEN’S WIVES(妻室)

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MEN'S WIVES

By William Makepeace Thackeray

MEN'S WIVES

CHAPTER I.

WHICH IS ENTIRELY INTRODUCTORY - CONTAINS AN

ACCOUNT OF MISS CRUMP, HER SUITORS, AND HER FAMILY

CIRCLE.

In a certain quiet and sequestered nook of the retired village of London

- perhaps in the neighbourhood of Berkeley Square, or at any rate

somewhere near Burlington Gardens--there was once a house of

entertainment called the "Bootjack Hotel." Mr. Crump, the landlord, had,

in the outset of life, performed the duties of Boots in some inn even more

frequented than his own, and, far from being ashamed of his origin, as

many persons are in the days of their prosperity, had thus solemnly

recorded it over the hospitable gate of his hotel.

Crump married Miss Budge, so well known to the admirers of the

festive dance on the other side of the water as Miss Delancy; and they had

one daughter, named Morgiana, after that celebrated part in the "Forty

Thieves" which Miss Budge performed with unbounded applause both at

the "Surrey" and "The Wells." Mrs. Crump sat in a little bar, profusely

ornamented with pictures of the dancers of all ages, from Hillisberg, Rose,

Parisot, who plied the light fantastic toe in 1805, down to the Sylphides of

our day. There was in the collection a charming portrait of herself, done

by De Wilde; she was in the dress of Morgiana, and in the act of pouring,

to very slow music, a quantity of boiling oil into one of the forty jars. In

this sanctuary she sat, with black eyes, black hair, a purple face and a

turban, and morning, noon, or night, as you went into the parlour of the

hotel, there was Mrs. Crump taking tea (with a little something in it),

looking at the fashions, or reading Cumberland's "British Theatre." The

Sunday Times was her paper, for she voted the Dispatch, that journal

which is taken in by most ladies of her profession, to be vulgar and

Radical, and loved the theatrical gossip in which the other mentioned

journal abounds.

MEN'S WIVES

The fact is, that the "Royal Bootjack," though a humble, was a very

genteel house; and a very little persuasion would induce Mr. Crump, as he

looked at his own door in the sun, to tell you that he had himself once

drawn off with that very bootjack the top-boots of His Royal Highness the

Prince of Wales and the first gentleman in Europe. While, then, the

houses of entertainment in the neighbourhood were loud in their pretended

Liberal politics, the "Bootjack" stuck to the good old Conservative line,

and was only frequented by such persons as were of that way of thinking.

There were two parlours, much accustomed, one for the gentlemen of the

shoulder-knot, who came from the houses of their employers hard by;

another for some "gents who used the 'ouse," as Mrs. Crump would say

(Heaven bless her!) in her simple Cockniac dialect, and who formed a

little club there.

I forgot to say that while Mrs. C. was sipping her eternal tea or

washing up her endless blue china, you might often hear Miss Morgiana

employed at the little red-silk cottage piano, singing, "Come where the

haspens quiver," or "Bonny lad, march over hill and furrow," or "My art

and lute," or any other popular piece of the day. And the dear girl sang

with very considerable skill, too, for she had a fine loud voice, which, if

not always in tune, made up for that defect by its great energy and activity;

and Morgiana was not content with singing the mere tune, but gave every

one of the roulades, flourishes, and ornaments as she heard them at the

theatres by Mrs. Humby, Mrs. Waylett, or Madame Vestris. The girl had

a fine black eye like her mamma, a grand enthusiasm for the stage, as

every actor's child will have, and, if the truth must be known, had

appeared many and many a time at the theatre in Catherine Street, in

minor parts first, and then in Little Pickle, in Desdemona, in Rosina, and

in Miss Foote's part where she used to dance: I have not the name to my

hand, but think it is Davidson. Four times in the week, at least, her mother

and she used to sail off at night to some place of public amusement, for

Mrs. Crump had a mysterious acquaintance with all sorts of theatrical

personages; and the gates of her old haunt "The Wells," of the "Cobourg"

(by the kind permission of Mrs. Davidge), nay, of the "Lane" and the

MEN'S WIVES

"Market" themselves, flew open before her "Open sesame," as the robbers'

door did to her colleague, Ali Baba (Hornbuckle), in the operatic piece in

which she was so famous.

Beer was Mr. Crump's beverage, diversified by a little gin, in the

evenings; and little need be said of this gentleman, except that he

discharged his duties honourably, and filled the president's chair at the

club as completely as it could possibly be filled; for he could not even sit

in it in his greatcoat, so accurately was the seat adapted to him. His wife

and daughter, perhaps, thought somewhat slightingly of him, for he had no

literary tastes, and had never been at a theatre since he took his bride from

one. He was valet to Lord Slapper at the time, and certain it is that his

lordship set him up in the "Bootjack," and that stories HAD been told.

But what are such to you or me? Let bygones be bygones; Mrs. Crump

was quite as honest as her neighbours, and Miss had five hundred pounds

to be paid down on the day of her wedding.

Those who know the habits of the British tradesman are aware that he

has gregarious propensities like any lord in the land; that he loves a joke,

that he is not averse to a glass; that after the day's toil he is happy to

consort with men of his degree; and that as society is not so far advanced

among us as to allow him to enjoy the comforts of splendid club-houses,

which are open to many persons with not a tenth part of his pecuniary

means, he meets his friends in the cosy tavern parlour, where a neat

sanded floor, a large Windsor chair, and a glass of hot something and

water, make him as happy as any of the clubmen in their magnificent

saloons.

At the "Bootjack" was, as we have said, a very genteel and select

society, called the "Kidney Club," from the fact that on Saturday evenings

a little graceful supper of broiled kidneys was usually discussed by the

members of the club. Saturday was their grand night; not but that they

met on all other nights in the week when inclined for festivity: and

indeed some of them could not come on Saturdays in the summer having

elegant villas in the suburbs, where they passed the six-and-thirty hours of

recreation that are happily to be found at the end of every week.

MEN'S WIVES

There was Mr. Balls, the great grocer of South Audley Street, a warm

man, who, they say, had his twenty thousand pounds; Jack Snaffle, of the

mews hard by, a capital fellow for a song; Clinker, the ironmonger: all

married gentlemen, and in the best line of business; Tressle, the undertaker,

etc. No liveries were admitted into the room, as may be imagined, but

one or two select butlers and major-domos joined the circle; for the

persons composing it knew very well how important it was to be on good

terms with these gentlemen and many a time my lord's account would

never have been paid, and my lady's large order never have been given,

but for the conversation which took place at the "Bootjack," and the

friendly intercourse subsisting between all the members of the society.

The tiptop men of the society were two bachelors, and two as

fashionable tradesmen as any in the town: Mr. Woolsey, from Stultz's, of

the famous house of Linsey, Woolsey and Co. of Conduit Street, Tailors;

and Mr. Eglantine, the celebrated perruquier and perfumer of Bond Street,

whose soaps, razors, and patent ventilating scalps are know throughout

Europe. Linsey, the senior partner of the tailors' firm had his handsome

mansion in Regent's Park, drove his buggy, and did little more than lend

his name to the house. Woolsey lived in it, was the working man of the

firm, and it was said that his cut was as magnificent as that of any man in

the profession. Woolsey and Eglantine were rivals in many ways--rivals

in fashion, rivals in wit, and, above all, rivals for the hand of an amiable

young lady whom we have already mentioned, the dark-eyed songstress

Morgiana Crump. They were both desperately in love with her, that was

the truth; and each, in the absence of the other, abused his rival heartily.

Of the hairdresser Woolsey said, that as for Eglantine being his real name,

it was all his (Mr. Woolsey's) eye; that he was in the hands of the Jews,

and his stock and grand shop eaten up by usury. And with regard to

Woolsey, Eglantine remarked, that his pretence of being descended from

the Cardinal was all nonsense; that he was a partner, certainly, in the firm,

but had only a sixteenth share; and that the firm could never get their

moneys in, and had an immense number of bad debts in their books. As is

usual, there was a great deal of truth and a great deal of malice in these

MEN'S WIVES

tales; however, the gentlemen were, take them all in all, in a very

fashionable way of business, and had their claims to Miss Morgiana's hand

backed by the parents. Mr. Crump was a partisan of the tailor; while Mrs.

C. was a strong advocate for the claims of the enticing perfumer.

Now, it was a curious fact, that these two gentlemen were each in need

of the other's services--Woolsey being afflicted with premature baldness,

or some other necessity for a wig still more fatal--Eglantine being a very

fat man, who required much art to make his figure at all decent. He wore

a brown frock-coat and frogs, and attempted by all sorts of contrivances to

hide his obesity; but Woolsey's remark, that, dress as he would, he would

always look like a snob, and that there was only one man in England who

could make a gentleman of him, went to the perfumer's soul; and if there

was one thing on earth he longed for (not including the hand of Miss

Crump) it was to have a coat from Linsey's, in which costume he was sure

that Morgiana would not resist him.

If Eglantine was uneasy about the coat, on the other hand he attacked

Woolsey atrociously on the score of his wig; for though the latter went to

the best makers, he never could get a peruke to sit naturally upon him and

the unhappy epithet of Mr. Wiggins, applied to him on one occasion by the

barber, stuck to him ever after in the club, and made him writhe when it

was uttered. Each man would have quitted the "Kidneys" in disgust long

since, but for the other--for each had an attraction in the place, and dared

not leave the field in possession of his rival.

To do Miss Morgiana justice, it must be said, that she did not

encourage one more than another; but as far as accepting eau-de-Cologne

and hair-combs from the perfumer--some opera tickets, a treat to

Greenwich, and a piece of real Genoa velvet for a bonnet (it had originally

been intended for a waistcoat), from the admiring tailor, she had been

equally kind to each, and in return had made each a present of a lock of

her beautiful glossy hair. It was all she had to give, poor girl! and what

could she do but gratify her admirers by this cheap and artless testimony

of her regard? A pretty scene and quarrel took place between the rivals

on the day when they discovered that each was in possession of one of

MEN'S WIVES

Morgiana's ringlets.

Such, then, were the owners and inmates of the little "Bootjack," from

whom and which, as this chapter is exceedingly discursive and descriptive,

we must separate the reader for a while, and carry him--it is only into

Bond Street, so no gentleman need be afraid-- carry him into Bond Street,

where some other personages are awaiting his consideration.

Not far from Mr. Eglantine's shop in Bond Street, stand, as is very well

known, the Windsor Chambers. The West Diddlesex Association

(Western Branch), the British and Foreign Soap Company, the celebrated

attorneys Kite and Levison, have their respective offices here; and as the

names of the other inhabitants of the chambers are not only painted on the

walls, but also registered in Mr. Boyle's "Court Guide," it is quite

unnecessary that they should be repeated here. Among them, on the

entresol (between the splendid saloons of the Soap Company on the first

floor, with their statue of Britannia presenting a packet of the soap to

Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and the West Diddlesex Western

Branch on the basement)- -lives a gentleman by the name of Mr. Howard

Walker. The brass plate on the door of that gentleman's chambers had the

word "Agency" inscribed beneath his name; and we are therefore at liberty

to imagine that he followed that mysterious occupation. In person Mr.

Walker was very genteel; he had large whiskers, dark eyes (with a slight

cast in them), a cane, and a velvet waistcoat. He was a member of a club;

had an admission to the opera, and knew every face behind the scenes; and

was in the habit of using a number of French phrases in his conversation,

having picked up a smattering of that language during a residence "on the

Continent;" in fact, he had found it very convenient at various times of his

life to dwell in the city of Boulogne, where he acquired a knowledge of

smoking, ecarte, and billiards, which was afterwards of great service to

him. He knew all the best tables in town, and the marker at Hunt's could

only give him ten. He had some fashionable acquaintances too, and you

might see him walking arm-in-arm with such gentlemen as my Lord

Vauxhall, the Marquess of Billingsgate, or Captain Buff; and at the same

time nodding to young Moses, the dandy bailiff; or Loder, the gambling-

MEN'S WIVES

house keeper; or Aminadab, the cigar-seller in the Quadrant. Sometimes

he wore a pair of moustaches, and was called Captain Walker; grounding

his claim to that title upon the fact of having once held a commission in

the service of Her Majesty the Queen of Portugal. It scarcely need be

said that he had been through the Insolvent Court many times. But to

those who did not know his history intimately there was some difficulty in

identifying him with the individual who had so taken the benefit of the law,

inasmuch as in his schedule his name appeared as Hooker Walker, wine-

merchant, commission-agent, music-seller, or what not. The fact is, that

though he preferred to call himself Howard, Hooker was his Christian

name, and it had been bestowed on him by his worthy old father, who was

a clergyman, and had intended his son for that profession. But as the old

gentleman died in York gaol, where he was a prisoner for debt, he was

never able to put his pious intentions with regard to his son into execution;

and the young fellow (as he was wont with many oaths to assert) was

thrown on his own resources, and became a man of the world at a very

early age.

What Mr. Howard Walker's age was at the time of the commencement

of this history, and, indeed, for an indefinite period before or afterwards, it

is impossible to determine. If he were eight-and-twenty, as he asserted

himself, Time had dealt hardly with him: his hair was thin, there were

many crows'-feet about his eyes, and other signs in his countenance of the

progress of decay. If, on the contrary, he were forty, as Sam Snaffle

declared, who himself had misfortunes in early life, and vowed he knew

Mr. Walker in Whitecross Street Prison in 1820, he was a very young-

looking person considering his age. His figure was active and slim, his

leg neat, and he had not in his whiskers a single white hair.

It must, however, be owned that he used Mr. Eglantine's Regenerative

Unction (which will make your whiskers as black as your boot), and, in

fact, he was a pretty constant visitor at that gentleman's emporium; dealing

with him largely for soaps and articles of perfumery, which he had at an

exceedingly low rate. Indeed, he was never known to pay Mr. Eglantine

one single shilling for those objects of luxury, and, having them on such

MEN'S WIVES

moderate terms, was enabled to indulge in them pretty copiously. Thus

Mr. Walker was almost as great a nosegay as Mr. Eglantine himself: his

handkerchief was scented with verbena, his hair with jessamine, and his

coat had usually a fine perfume of cigars, which rendered his presence in a

small room almost instantaneously remarkable. I have described Mr.

Walker thus accurately, because, in truth, it is more with characters than

with astounding events that this little history deals, and Mr. Walker is one

of the principal of our dramatis personae.

And so, having introduced Mr. W., we will walk over with him to Mr.

Eglantine's emporium, where that gentleman is in waiting, too, to have his

likeness taken.

There is about an acre of plate glass under the Royal arms on Mr.

Eglantine's shop-window; and at night, when the gas is lighted, and the

washballs are illuminated, and the lambent flame plays fitfully over

numberless bottles of vari-coloured perfumes--now flashes on a case of

razors, and now lightens up a crystal vase, containing a hundred thousand

of his patent tooth-brushes--the effect of the sight may be imagined. You

don't suppose that he is a creature who has those odious, simpering wax

figures in his window, that are called by the vulgar dummies? He is

above such a wretched artifice; and it is my belief that he would as soon

have his own head chopped off, and placed as a trunkless decoration to his

shop-window, as allow a dummy to figure there. On one pane you read

in elegant gold letters "Eglantinia"--'tis his essence for the handkerchief;

on the other is written "Regenerative Unction"--'tis his invaluable

pomatum for the hair.

There is no doubt about it: Eglantine's knowledge of his profession

amounts to genius. He sells a cake of soap for seven shillings, for which

another man would not get a shilling, and his tooth-brushes go off like

wildfire at half-a-guinea apiece. If he has to administer rouge or pearl-

powder to ladies, he does it with a mystery and fascination which there is

no resisting, and the ladies believe there are no cosmetics like his. He

gives his wares unheard-of names, and obtains for them sums equally

prodigious. He CAN dress hair--that is a fact--as few men in this age can;

MEN'S WIVES

and has been known to take twenty pounds in a single night from as many

of the first ladies of England when ringlets were in fashion. The

introduction of bands, he says, made a difference of two thousand pounds

a year in his income; and if there is one thing in the world he hates and

despises, it is a Madonna. "I'm not," says he, "a tradesman--I'm a

HARTIST" (Mr. Eglantine was born in London)--"I'm a hartist; and show

me a fine 'ead of air, and I'll dress it for nothink." He vows that it was his

way of dressing Mademoiselle Sontag's hair, that caused the count her

husband to fall in love with her; and he has a lock of it in a brooch, and

says it was the finest head he ever saw, except one, and that was Morgiana

Crump's.

With his genius and his position in the profession, how comes it, then,

that Mr. Eglantine was not a man of fortune, as many a less clever has

been? If the truth must be told, he loved pleasure, and was in the hands

of the Jews. He had been in business twenty years: he had borrowed a

thousand pounds to purchase his stock and shop; and he calculated that he

had paid upwards of twenty thousand pounds for the use of the one

thousand, which was still as much due as on the first day when he entered

business. He could show that he had received a thousand dozen of

champagne from the disinterested money-dealers with whom he usually

negotiated his paper. He had pictures all over his "studios," which had

been purchased in the same bargains. If he sold his goods at an

enormous price, he paid for them at a rate almost equally exorbitant.

There was not an article in his shop but came to him through his Israelite

providers; and in the very front shop itself sat a gentleman who was the

nominee of one of them, and who was called Mr. Mossrose. He was

there to superintend the cash account, and to see that certain instalments

were paid to his principals, according to certain agreements entered into

between Mr. Eglantine and them.

Having that sort of opinion of Mr. Mossrose which Damocles may

have had of the sword which hung over his head, of course Mr. Eglantine

hated his foreman profoundly. "HE an artist," would the former

gentleman exclaim; "why, he's only a disguised bailiff! Mossrose indeed!

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MEN'SWIVES1MEN'SWIVESByWilliamMakepeaceThackerayMEN'SWIVES2CHAPTERI.WHICHISENTIRELYINTRODUCTORY-CONTAINSANACCOUNTOFMISSCRUMP,HERSUITORS,ANDHERFAMILYCIRCLE.InacertainquietandsequesterednookoftheretiredvillageofLondon-perhapsintheneighbourhoodofBerkeleySquare,oratanyratesomewherenearBurlingtonGardens-...

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