Horence Marryat

121

PRAY EMPLOY MAJOR NAMBY.

BY WILKIE COLLINS.

I AM a single lady—single, you will please to understand, entirely because I have refused many excellent offers. Pray don't imagine from this that I am old. Some women's offers come at long intervals, and other women's offers come close together. Mine came remarkably close together—so, of course, I cannot possibly be old. Not that I presume to describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much depends on people's points of view. I have heard female children of the ages of eighteen or nineteen called young ladies. This seems to me to be ridiculous— and I have held that opinion, without once wavering from it, for more than ten years past. It is, after all, a question of feeling; and, shall I confess it? I feel so young!

I live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. The major lives in the suburbs, next door to me, and he has bought his house. I don't object to this of course. I merely mention it to make things straight.

Major Namby has been twice married. His first wife—dear, dear! how can I express it? Shall I say, with vulgar abruptness, that his first wife had a family? And must I descend into particulars, and add that they are four in number, and that two of them are twins? Well, the words are *written*; and if they will do over again for the same purpose, I beg

122

Pray Employ Major Namby.

to repeat them in reference to the second Mrs. Namby
(still alive), who has also had a family, and is—no,
I really cannot say, is likely to go on having one.
There are certain limits in a case of this kind, and I
think I have reached them. Permit me simply to
state that the second Mrs. Namby has three children,
at present. These, with the first Mrs. Namby's four,
make a total of seven. The seven are composed of
five girls and two boys. And the first Mrs. Namby's
family all have one particular kind of constitution, and
the second Mrs. Namby's family all have another
particular kind of constitution. Let me explain once
more that I merely mention these little matters, and
that I don't object to them.

My complaint against Major Namby is, in plain
terms, that he transacts the whole of his domestic
business in his front garden. Whether it arises from
natural weakness of memory, from total want of a
sense of propriety, or from a condition of mind which
is closely allied to madness of the eccentric sort, I
cannot say, but the major certainly does sometimes
partially, and sometimes entirely, forget his private
family matters, and the necessary directions con-
nected with them, while he is inside the house, and
does habitually remember them, and repair all
omissions, by bawling through his windows, at the
top of his voice, as soon as he gets outside the house.
It never seems to occur to him that he might advan-
tageously return in-doors, and there mention what he
has forgotten in a private and proper way. The in-
stant the lost idea strikes him—which it invariably
does, either in his front garden, or in the roadway

Pray Employ Major Namby.

123

outside his house—he roars for his wife, either from
the gravel walk, or over the low wall—and (if I may
use so strong an expression) empties his mind to her
in public, without appearing to care whose ears he
wearies, whose delicacy he shocks, or whose ridicule
he invites. If the man is not mad, his own small
family fusses have taken such complete possession of
all his senses, that he is quite incapable of noticing
anything else, and perfectly impenetrable to the
opinions of his neighbours. Let me show that the
grievance of which I complain is no slight one, by
giving a few examples of the general persecution that
I suffer, and the occasional shocks that are adminis-
tered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands of Major
Namby.

We will say it is a fine warm morning. I am
sitting in my front room, with the window open,
absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear
the door of the next house bang; I look up, and see
the major descending the steps into his front garden.

He walks—no, he marches—half way down the
front garden path, with his head high in the air, and
his chest stuck out, and his military cane fiercely
flourished in his right hand. Suddenly he stops,
stamps with one foot, knocks up the hinder part of
the brim of his extremely curly hat with his left hand,
and begins to scratch at that singularly disagreeable-
looking roll of fat red flesh in the back of his neck
(which scratching, I may observe, in parenthesis, is
always a sure sign, in the case of this horrid man,
that a lost domestic idea has suddenly come back to
him). He waits a moment in the ridiculous position

124 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

just described, then wheels round on his heel, looks
up at the first-floor window, and, instead of going
back into the house to mention what he has for-
gotten, bawls out fiercely from the middle of the
walk :—

“Matilda!”

I hear his wife's voice—a shockingly shrill one;
but what can you expect of a woman who has been
seen, over and over again, in a slatternly striped
wrapper, as late as two o'clock in the afternoon—I
hear his wife's voice answer from inside the house:

“Yes, dear.”

“I said it was a south wind.”

“Yes, dear.”

“It isn't a south wind.”

“Lor', dear.”

“It's sou'-east. I won't have Georgina taken out
to-day. (Georgina is one of the first Mrs. Namby's
family, and they are all weak in the chest.) “Where's
nurse?”

“Here, sir.”

“Nurse, I won't have Jack allowed to run. When-
ever that boy perspires he catches cold. Hang up
his hoop. If he cries, take him into my dressing-
room, and show him the birch rod. Matilda!”

“Yes, dear.”

“What the devil do they mean by daubing all that
grease over Mary's hair? It's beastly to see it—do
you hear ?—beastly! Where's Pamby?” (Pamby is
the unfortunate work-woman who makes and mends
the family linen.)

“Here, sir”

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125

“Pamby, what are you about now?”

No answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles
faintly. The major flourishes his cane in a fury.

“Why the devil don't you answer me? I give
you three seconds to answer me, or leave the house.
One—two—three. Pamby! what are you about
now?”

“If you please, sir, I'm doing something—”

“What?”

“Something particular for baby, sir.”

“Drop it directly, whatever it is. Nurse!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mind the crossings. Don't let the children sit
down if they're hot. Don't let them speak to other
children. Don't let them get playing with strange
dogs. Don't let them mess their things. And above
all, don't bring Master Jack back in a perspiration.
Is there anything more before I go out?”

“No, sir.”

“Matilda! Is there anything more?”

“No, dear.”

“Pamby! Is there anything more?”

“No, sir.”

Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time
being. Will any sensitive person—especially a person
of my own sex—please to imagine what I must suffer
as a delicate single lady, at having all these family
details obtruded on my attention, whether I like it or
not, in the major's rasping martial voice, and in the
shrill answering screams of the women inside? It is
bad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution
when one is alone; but it is far worse to be also ex-

126 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

posed to it—as I am constantly—in the presence of
visitors, whose conversation is necessarily interrupted,
whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very stay
in my house is necessarily shortened, by Major
Namby's unendurably public way of managing his
private concerns.

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 delight-
fully uninterrupted. At the end of that time, how-
ever, 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 win-
dows, 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 behaviour, breaking

127 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

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 apologised
—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, en-
couragingly.

“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—’”

128 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

("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—'"

("Grey 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 to-day?")

"—"'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

129 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

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 the charming conversation.

"Where was I?" inquired my distinguished friend.

"You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write inside her enclosure," 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

K

130 *Pray Employ Major Namby.*

—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 unwarrantable, atrocious question in at his nursery window!

Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible voice, and changed towards me instantly—as if it had been my fault!—in the most alarming and most 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 fierce-ness.

“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

*Pray Employ Major Namby.*

131

Mrs. Namby's step-children 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 fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation—“I consider this to be unwarrantable and unladylike. I beg to know—”

“Where's Bill?” burst in the major from below, before she could add another word. “Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where's Bill? I didn't bid Bill good-bye—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 unladylike, most—”

“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