Eliza

by Barry Pain

  * * * * *

  I was, perhaps, rather unfortunate in the evening when I brought thebook home. Something may have occurred to put Eliza out; she wasinclined to be quite sharp with me. I asked her, gaily, in the passagewhen I came in, "Can you tell me, dearest, the difference between acamel and a corkscrew? If not, here is a little volume which willinform you."

  "Oh, yes! One's used for drawing corks, and the other isn't. Youneedn't have wasted sixpence on a rubbishy book to tell me that."

  "But your answer is not the correct one," I replied. "The correctanswer contains a joke. Think again."

  "Well, I can't, then. I've got the wash to count."

  I said that the wash could wait, but she would not appear to hear me,and went off up-stairs.

  * * * * *

  At supper I took occasion to say:

  "You answered me very tartly when I asked you this afternoon for thedifference between a camel and a corkscrew. Perhaps you would not havedone so had you known that I bought that book with the intention ofsending it as a present to your mother."

  "Do you think ma would care about it?"

  "I think it would cheer her lonely hours. There are upwards of athousand conundrums in the book. I have only read twelve, but I foundthem all exceedingly amusing, and, at the same time, perfectlyrefined."

  "Well, I don't see the good of them."

  "They are an intellectual exercise, if you try to guess the rightanswer."

  "I don't believe anybody ever did or ever will guess the right answer."

  "If I had time," I said, "I believe I could generally think out a wittyanswer myself. I do not want to boast, but I believe so."

  "Very well, then," said Eliza, snatching up the book and opening it atrandom, "here's one for you. 'If a lady slipped down the steps of St.Paul's Cathedral, what would she say?' Give me the answer to that."

  "I will try to," I replied.

  Now, just at the moment when Eliza put the question I felt that I hadreally got the answer, and then it seemed to pass away from me. Laterin the evening I was certainly on the right track, when Eliza droppedher scissors, and the noise again put me off. I spent a very poornight; the answer kept sort of coming and going. Just as I was droppingoff to sleep, I seemed to have thought of the answer, and then I wouldwake up to be sure of it, and find it had slipped me again.

  As I was leaving the office, in the evening, after thinking till myhead ached without arriving at any result, I put the question to one ofour clerks. I thought he might possibly know.

  "No," he said, "I don't know what a lady would say if she slipped downthose steps. I could make a fair guess at what a man would say, ifthat's any good to you." Of course it was not.

  So, on my return home, I told Eliza that I had not had enough time tospare to think of the answer, and I should be glad to know where shehad put the book.

  "Oh, I sent that to mother!" she said. "I thought you wanted it sent."

  "You might have waited until you knew whether I had finished with it.But, however, what was the answer to that silly riddle?"

  "The one about St. Paul's Cathedral? That wasn't in the book at all. Imade up the question out of my own head for fun."

  "Then," I replied, "all I can say is, that your idea of fun is notmine. It seems to me to be acting a lie. It was not a conundrum atall."

  "It would have been if you could have thought of an answer."

  "Say no more," I replied, coldly. "I prefer to drop the subject."

  THE INK

  The ink-pot contained a shallow sediment, with short hairs, grit, and alittle moisture in it. It came out on the pen in chunks. When I hadspoiled the second postcard, Eliza said I was not to talk like that.

  "Very well, then," I said, "why don't you have the ink-pot refilled?I'm not made of postcards, and I hate waste."

  She replied that anybody would think I was made of something to hear metalk. I thought I had never heard a poorer retort, and told her so. Idid not stay to argue it further, as I had to be off to the city. On myreturn I found the ink-pot full. "This," I thought to myself, "is verynice of Eliza." I had a letter I wanted to write, and sat down to it.

  I wrote one word, and it came out a delicate pale gray. I called Elizaat once. I was never quieter in my manner, and it was absurd of her tosay that I needn't howl the house down.

  "We will not discuss that," I replied. "Just now I sat down to write aletter----"

  "What do you want to write letters for now? You might just as well havedone them at the office."

  I shrugged my shoulders in a Continental manner. "You are probably notaware that I was writing to your own mother. She has so few pleasures.If you do not feel rebuked now----"

  "I don't think mamma will lend you any more if you do write."

  "We will not enter into that. Why did you fill the ink-pot with water?"

  "I didn't."

  "Then who did?"

  "Nobody did. I didn't think of it until tea-time, and then--well, thetea was there."

  I once read a story where a man laughed a low, mirthless laugh. Thelaugh came to me quite naturally on this occasion. "Say no more," Isaid. "This is contemptible. Now I forbid you to get the ink--I willget it myself."

  * * * * *

  On the following night she asked me if I had bought that ink. Ireplied, "No, Eliza; it has been an exceptionally busy day, and I havenot had the time."

  "I thought you had forgotten it, perhaps."

  "I supposed you would say that," I said. "In you it does not surpriseme."

  * * * * *

  A week later Eliza said that she wanted to do her accounts. "I am gladof that," I said. "Now you will know the misery of living without inkin the house."

  "No, I sha'n't," she said, "because I always do my accounts in pencil."

  "About three months ago I asked you to fill that ink-pot with ink. Whyis it not done?"

  "Because you also definitely forbade me to get any ink to fill it with.And you said you'd get it yourself. And it wasn't three months ago."

  "I always knew you could not argue, Eliza," I replied. "But I am sorryto see that your memory is failing you as well."

  * * * * *

  On the next day I bought a penny bottle of ink and left it behind me inan omnibus. There was another bottle (this must have been a week later)which I bought, but dropped on the pavement, where it broke. I did notmention these things to Eliza, but I asked her how much longer she wasgoing to cast a shade over our married life by neglecting to fill theink-pot.

  "Why," she said, "that has been done days and days ago! How can you beso unjust?"

  * * * * *

  It was as she had said. I made up my mind at once to write to Eliza'smother--who, rightly or wrongly, considers that I have a talent forletter-writing. I felt happier now than I had done for some time, andmade up my mind to tell Eliza that I had forgiven her. I wrote a long,cheerful letter to her mother, and thought I would show it to Elizabefore I posted it. I called up-stairs to her, "Come down, darling, andsee what I've done."

  Then I sat down again, and knocked the ink-pot over. The ink coveredthe letter, the table, my clothes, and the carpet; a black stream of itwandered away looking for something else to spoil.

  Then Eliza came down and saw what I had done. To this day she cannotsee that it was partly her own fault. The bottle, of course, was toofull.

  THE PUBLIC SCANDAL

  I am not a landlord. It suits my purpose better, and is in every waymore convenient, to rent a small house on a yearly agreement. But if Iwere a landlord, I would not allow any tenant of mine to do anythingthat tended to undermine and honeycomb the gentility of the district. Ishould take a very short method with such a tenant. I should say to himor her: "Now, then, either this stops, or you go out this instant."That would settle
it. However, I am not a landlord.

  Even as a tenant I take a very natural interest in the district inwhich I live. I chose the district carefully, because it wasresidential, and not commercial. The houses are not very large, andthey might be more solidly built, but they are not shops. They haveelectric bells, and small strips of garden, and a generally genteelappearance. Two of the houses in Arthur Street are occupied bypiano-tuners, and bear brass plates. I do not object to that.Piano-tuning is a profession, and I suppose that, in a way, I should beconsidered a professional man myself. Nor do I object to the letting ofapartments, as long as it is done modestly, and without large, vulgarnotice-boards. But the general tone of the district is good, and I domost strongly object to anything which would tend to lower it.

  * * * * *

  It was, as far as I remember, on the Tuesday evening that Eliza ratherlost her temper about the hairpins, and said that if I kept on takingthem and taking them she did not see how she was to do her hair at all.

  This seemed to me rather unjust. I had not taken the hairpins for myown pleasure. The fact is that the waste-pipe from the kitchen sinkfrequently gets blocked, and a hairpin will often do it when nothingelse will. I replied coldly, but without temper, that in future I wouldhave hairpins of my own.

  She said: "What nonsense!"

  At this I rose, and went up-stairs to bed.

  I think that most people who know me know that I am a man of my word.On the following morning, before breakfast, I went into the High Streetto buy a pennyworth of hairpins. The short cut from our road into theHigh Street is down Bloodstone Terrace.

  It was in Bloodstone Terrace that I witnessed a sight which pained andsurprised me very much. It disgusted me. It was a disgrace to thedistrict, and amounted to a public scandal. St. Augustine's--which isthe third house in the terrace--had taken in washing, and not only hadtaken in washing, but were using their front garden as a drying-ground!An offensive thing of that kind makes my blood boil.

  * * * * *

  "Eliza," I said, as I brushed my hat preparatory to leaving for thecity, "I intend to write to Mr. Hamilton to-day."

  "Have you got the money, then?" Eliza asked, eagerly.

  "If you refer to last quarter's rent, I do not mean to forward itimmediately. A certain amount of credit is usual between landlord andtenant. An established firm of agents like Hamilton & Bland must knowthat."

  "Yesterday was the third time they've written for the money, anyhow,and you can say what you like. What are you writing for, then?"

  "I have a complaint to make."

  "Well, I wouldn't make any complaints until I'd paid last quarter, if Iwere you. They'll only turn you out."

  "I think not. I make the complaint in their interest. When a tenant inBloodstone Terrace is acting in a way calculated to bring the wholeneighbourhood into disrepute, and depreciate the value of houseproperty, the agents would probably be glad to hear of it."

  "Well, you're missing your train. You run off, and don't write anyletters until to-night. Then you can talk about it, if you like."

  In the evening, at supper, Eliza said she had been down BloodstoneTerrace, and could not see what I was making all the fuss about.

  "It is simply this," I said. "St. Augustine's is converted into alaundry, and the front garden used as a drying-ground in a way that, tomy mind, is not decent."

  "Yes," said Eliza, "that's Mrs. Pedder. The poor woman has to dosomething for her living. She's just started, and only got one job atpresent. It would be cruel----"

  "Not at all. Let her wash, if she must wash, but let her wash somewhereelse. I cannot have these offensive rags flapping in my face when Iwalk down the street."

  "They're not offensive rags. I'm most particular about your things."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's your things that she washes. I thought I'd give her a start."

  I dashed off half a glass of beer, put the glass down with a bang, andflung myself back in the chair without a word.

  "Don't behave in that silly way," said Eliza. "She's a halfpennycheaper on the shirt than the last woman."

  "You need not mention that," I replied. "In any case I shall notcomplain now. I must bear the burden of any mistakes that you make. Iam well aware of it."

  "I'll tell her to hang them out at the back in future."

  "She can hang them where she pleases. I suppose I can bear it. It'sonly one more trial to bear. One thing goes after another."

  "On the contrary," said Eliza, "she's never lost as much as a collar.There's a smut on your nose."

  "It can stop there," I said, moodily, and went out into the garden.

  THE "CHRISTIAN MARTYR"

  The "Christian Martyr" was what is called an engraving, and a verytasteful thing, too, besides being the largest picture we had. Itrepresented a young woman, drowned, floating down a river by night,with her hands tied, and a very pleasing expression on her face. Withthe frame (maple, and a gilt border inside) it came to three-and-six. Ibought it in the Edgware Road on my own responsibility, and carried ithome. I thought Eliza would like it, and she did.

  "Poor thing!" she said. "You can see she must have been a lady, too.But frightfully dusty!"

  "You can't get everything for three-and-six. If you'd been under thecounter in a dirty little----"

  "Well, all right! I wasn't complaining; but I like things clean." Andshe took the "Christian Martyr" into the kitchen.

  * * * * *

  "Where did you mean to put it?" asked Eliza.

  "The only good place would be between 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'and 'The Stag at Bay.'"

  "What! In the dining-room?"

  "Certainly."

  "Well, I shouldn't," said Eliza. "It's a sacred subject, and we use thedrawing-room on Sundays. That's the place."

  "I think I can trust my own taste," I said. I got a brass-headed nailand a hammer, and began. Eliza said afterward that she had known thechair would break before ever I stood on it.

  "Then you might have mentioned it," I said, coldly. "However, you shalllearn that when I have made up my mind to do a thing, I do it." I rangthe bell, and told the girl to fetch the steps.

  I hung the "Christian Martyr," and was very pleased with the effect.The whole room looked brighter and more cheerful. I asked Eliza whatshe thought, and she answered, as I expected, that the picture ought tohave been in the drawing-room.

  "Eliza," I said, "there is one little fault which you should try tocorrect. It is pigheadedness."

  * * * * *

  At breakfast next morning the picture was all crooked. I put itstraight. Then the girl brought in the bacon, rubbed against thepicture, and put it crooked again. I put it straight again, and satdown. The girl, in passing out, put it crooked once more.

  "Really," I said to Eliza, "this is a little too much!"

  "Then put some of it back."

  "I was not referring to what I have on my plate, but to that girl'sconduct. I don't buy 'Christian Martyrs' for her to treat them in thatway, and I think you should speak about it."

  "She can't get past without rubbing against it. You've put it so low. Isaid it would be better in the drawing-room."

  As usual, I kept my temper.

  "Eliza," I said, "have you already forgotten what I told you lastnight? We all of us--even the best of us--have our faults, butsurely----"

  "While you're talking you're missing your train," she said.

  * * * * *

  On my return from the city I went into the dining-room and found thepicture gone. Eliza was sitting there as calmly as if nothing hadhappened.

  "Where is the 'Christian Martyr'?" I asked.

  "On the sofa in the drawing-room. You said yourself that it was only inthe way in here. I thought you might like to hang it there."

  "I am not angry," I said, "
but I am pained." Then I fetched the"Christian Martyr" and put it in its old place.

  "You are a funny man," said Eliza; "I never know what you want."

  * * * * *

  As we were going up to bed that night we heard a loud bang in thedining-room. The "Christian Martyr" was lying on the floor with theglass broken. It had also smashed a Japanese teapot.

  "I wish you'd never bought any 'Christian Martyr,'" said Eliza. "Ifwe'd had a mad bull in the place it couldn't have been worse. I'm sureI'm not going to buy a new glass for it."