A Story

by William Makepeace Thackeray

nine inches; and so notoriously timid, selfish, and stingy, that

  there was a kind of shame in receiving his addresses openly; and

  what encouragement Mrs. Catherine gave him could only be in secret.

  But no mortal is wise at all times: and the fact was, that Hayes,

  who cared for himself intensely, had set his heart upon winning

  Catherine; and loved her with a desperate greedy eagerness and

  desire of possession, which makes passions for women often so fierce

  and unreasonable among very cold and selfish men. His parents

  (whose frugality he had inherited) had tried in vain to wean him

  from this passion, and had made many fruitless attempts to engage

  him with women who possessed money and desired husbands; but Hayes

  was, for a wonder, quite proof against their attractions; and,

  though quite ready to acknowledge the absurdity of his love for a

  penniless alehouse servant-girl, nevertheless persisted in it

  doggedly. "I know I'm a fool," said he; "and what's more, the girl

  does not care for me; but marry her I must, or I think I shall just

  die: and marry her I will." For very much to the credit of Miss

  Catherine's modesty, she had declared that marriage was with her a

  sine qua non, and had dismissed, with the loudest scorn and

  indignation, all propositions of a less proper nature.

  Poor Thomas Bullock was another of her admirers, and had offered to

  marry her; but three shillings a week and a puddn was not to the

  girl's taste, and Thomas had been scornfully rejected. Hayes had

  also made her a direct proposal. Catherine did not say no: she was

  too prudent: but she was young and could wait; she did not care for

  Mr. Hayes yet enough to marry him--(it did not seem, indeed, in the

  young woman's nature to care for anybody)--and she gave her adorer

  flatteringly to understand that, if nobody better appeared in the

  course of a few years, she might be induced to become Mrs. Hayes.

  It was a dismal prospect for the poor fellow to live upon the hope

  of being one day Mrs. Catherine's pis-aller.

  In the meantime she considered herself free as the wind, and

  permitted herself all the innocent gaieties which that "chartered

  libertine," a coquette, can take. She flirted with all the

  bachelors, widowers, and married men, in a manner which did

  extraordinary credit to her years: and let not the reader fancy

  such pastimes unnatural at her early age. The ladies--Heaven bless

  them!--are, as a general rule, coquettes from babyhood upwards.

  Little SHE'S of three years old play little airs and graces upon

  small heroes of five; simpering misses of nine make attacks upon

  young gentlemen of twelve; and at sixteen, a well-grown girl, under

  encouraging circumstances--say, she is pretty, in a family of ugly

  elder sisters, or an only child and heiress, or a humble wench at a

  country inn, like our fair Catherine--is at the very pink and prime

  of her coquetry: they will jilt you at that age with an ease and

  arch infantine simplicity that never can be surpassed in maturer

  years.

  Miss Catherine, then, was a franche coquette, and Mr. John Hayes was

  miserable. His life was passed in a storm of mean passions and

  bitter jealousies, and desperate attacks upon the indifference-rock

  of Mrs. Catherine's heart, which not all his tempest of love could

  beat down. O cruel cruel pangs of love unrequited! Mean rogues

  feel them as well as great heroes. Lives there the man in Europe

  who has not felt them many times?--who has not knelt, and fawned,

  and supplicated, and wept, and cursed, and raved, all in vain; and

  passed long wakeful nights with ghosts of dead hopes for company;

  shadows of buried remembrances that glide out of their graves of

  nights, and whisper, "We are dead now, but we WERE once; and we made

  you happy, and we come now to mock you:--despair, O lover, despair,

  and die"?--O cruel pangs!--dismal nights!--Now a sly demon creeps

  under your nightcap, and drops into your ear those soft

  hope-breathing sweet words, uttered on the well-remembered evening:

  there, in the drawer of your dressing-table (along with the razors,

  and Macassar oil), lies the dead flower that Lady Amelia Wilhelmina

  wore in her bosom on the night of a certain ball--the corpse of a

  glorious hope that seemed once as if it would live for ever, so

  strong was it, so full of joy and sunshine: there, in your

  writing-desk, among a crowd of unpaid bills, is the dirty scrap of

  paper, thimble-sealed, which came in company with a pair of

  muffetees of her knitting (she was a butcher's daughter, and did all

  she could, poor thing!), begging "you would ware them at collidge,

  and think of her who"--married a public-house three weeks

  afterwards, and cares for you no more now than she does for the

  pot-boy. But why multiply instances, or seek to depict the agony of

  poor mean-spirited John Hayes? No mistake can be greater than that

  of fancying such great emotions of love are only felt by virtuous or

  exalted men: depend upon it, Love, like Death, plays havoc among

  the pauperum tabernas, and sports with rich and poor, wicked and

  virtuous, alike. I have often fancied, for instance, on seeing the

  haggard pale young old-clothesman, who wakes the echoes of our

  street with his nasal cry of "Clo'!"--I have often, I said, fancied

  that, besides the load of exuvial coats and breeches under which he

  staggers, there is another weight on him--an atrior cura at his

  tail--and while his unshorn lips and nose together are performing

  that mocking, boisterous, Jack-indifferent cry of "Clo', clo'!" who

  knows what woeful utterances are crying from the heart within?

  There he is, chaffering with the footman at No. 7 about an old

  dressing-gown: you think his whole soul is bent only on the contest

  about the garment. Psha! there is, perhaps, some faithless girl in

  Holywell Street who fills up his heart; and that desultory Jew-boy

  is a peripatetic hell! Take another instance:--take the man in the

  beef-shop in Saint Martin's Court. There he is, to all appearances

  quite calm: before the same round of beef--from morning till

  sundown--for hundreds of years very likely. Perhaps when the

  shutters are closed, and all the world tired and silent, there is HE

  silent, but untired--cutting, cutting, cutting. You enter, you get

  your meat to your liking, you depart; and, quite unmoved, on, on he

  goes, reaping ceaselessly the Great Harvest of Beef. You would

  fancy that if Passion ever failed to conquer, it had in vain

  assailed the calm bosom of THAT MAN. I doubt it, and would give

  much to know his history.

  Who knows what furious Aetna-flames are raging underneath the

  surface of that calm flesh-mountain--who can tell me that that

  calmness itself is not DESPAIR?

  * * *

  The reader, if he does not now understand why it was that Mr. Hayes

  agreed to drink the Corporal's proffered beer, had better just read

  the foregoing remarks over again, and if he does not understand

  THEN, why, small praise to his brains
. Hayes could not bear that

  Mr. Bullock should have a chance of seeing, and perhaps making love

  to Mrs. Catherine in his absence; and though the young woman never

  diminished her coquetries, but, on the contrary, rather increased

  them in his presence, it was still a kind of dismal satisfaction to

  be miserable in her company.

  On this occasion, the disconsolate lover could be wretched to his

  heart's content; for Catherine had not a word or a look for him, but

  bestowed all her smiles upon the handsome stranger who owned the

  black horse. As for poor Tummas Bullock, his passion was never

  violent; and he was content in the present instance to sigh and

  drink beer. He sighed and drank, sighed and drank, and drank again,

  until he had swallowed so much of the Corporal's liquor, as to be

  induced to accept a guinea from his purse also; and found himself,

  on returning to reason and sobriety, a soldier of Queen Anne's.

  But oh! fancy the agonies of Mr. Hayes when, seated with the

  Corporal's friends at one end of the kitchen, he saw the Captain at

  the place of honour, and the smiles which the fair maid bestowed

  upon him; when, as she lightly whisked past him with the Captain's

  supper, she, pointing to the locket that once reposed on the breast

  of the Dutch lady at the Brill, looked archly on Hayes and said,

  "See, John, what his Lordship has given me;" and when John's face

  became green and purple with rage and jealousy, Mrs. Catherine

  laughed ten times louder, and cried "Coming, my Lord," in a voice of

  shrill triumph, that bored through the soul of Mr. John Hayes and

  left him gasping for breath.

  On Catherine's other lover, Mr. Thomas, this coquetry had no effect:

  he, and two comrades of his, had by this time quite fallen under the

  spell of the Corporal; and hope, glory, strong beer, Prince Eugene,

  pair of colours, more strong beer, her blessed Majesty, plenty more

  strong beer, and such subjects, martial and bacchic, whirled through

  their dizzy brains at a railroad pace.

  And now, if there had been a couple of experienced reporters present

  at the "Bugle Inn," they might have taken down a conversation on

  love and war--the two themes discussed by the two parties occupying

  the kitchen--which, as the parts were sung together, duetwise,

  formed together some very curious harmonies. Thus, while the

  Captain was whispering the softest nothings, the Corporal was

  shouting the fiercest combats of the war; and, like the gentleman at

  Penelope's table, on it exiguo pinxit praelia tota bero. For

  example:

  CAPTAIN. What do you say to a silver trimming, pretty Catherine?

  Don't you think a scarlet riding-cloak, handsomely laced, would

  become you wonderfully well?--and a grey hat with a blue feather--

  and a pretty nag to ride on--and all the soldiers to present arms as

  you pass, and say, "There goes the Captain's lady"? What do you

  think of a side-box at Lincoln's Inn playhouse, or of standing up to

  a minuet with my Lord Marquis at--?

  CORPORAL. The ball, sir, ran right up his elbow, and was found the

  next day by Surgeon Splinter of ours,--where do you think, sir?--

  upon my honour as a gentleman it came out of the nape of his--

  CAPTAIN. Necklace--and a sweet pair of diamond earrings,

  mayhap--and a little shower of patches, which ornament a lady's face

  wondrously--and a leetle rouge--though, egad! such peach-cheeks as

  yours don't want it;--fie! Mrs. Catherine, I should think the birds

  must come and peck at them as if they were fruit--

  CORPORAL. Over the wall; and three-and-twenty of our fellows jumped

  after me. By the Pope of Rome, friend Tummas, that was a day!--Had

  you seen how the Mounseers looked when four-and-twenty rampaging

  he-devils, sword and pistol, cut and thrust, pell-mell came tumbling

  into the redoubt! Why, sir, we left in three minutes as many

  artillerymen's heads as there were cannon-balls. It was, "Ah

  sacre!" "D----- you, take that!" "O mon Dieu!" "Run him through!"

  "Ventrebleu!" and it WAS ventrebleu with him, I warrant you; for

  bleu, in the French language, means "through;" and ventre--why, you

  see, ventre means--

  CAPTAIN. Waists, which are worn now excessive long; and for the

  hoops, if you COULD but see them--stap my vitals, my dear, but there

  was a lady at Warwick's Assembly (she came in one of my Lord's

  coaches) who had a hoop as big as a tent: you might have dined

  under it comfortably;--ha! ha! 'pon my faith, now--

  CORPORAL. And there we found the Duke of Marlborough seated along

  with Marshal Tallard, who was endeavouring to drown his sorrow over

  a cup of Johannisberger wine; and a good drink too, my lads, only

  not to compare to Warwick beer. "Who was the man who has done

  this?" said our noble General. I stepped up. "How many heads was

  it," says he, "that you cut off?" "Nineteen," says I, "besides

  wounding several." When he heard it (Mr. Hayes, you don't drink) I'm

  blest if he didn't burst into tears! "Noble noble fellow," says he.

  "Marshal, you must excuse me if I am pleased to hear of the

  destruction of your countrymen. Noble noble fellow!--here's a

  hundred guineas for you." Which sum he placed in my hand. "Nay,"

  says the Marshal "the man has done his duty:" and, pulling out a

  magnificent gold diamond-hilted snuff-box, he gave me--

  MR. BULLOCK. What, a goold snuff-box? Wauns, but thee WAST in

  luck, Corporal!

  CORPORAL. No, not the snuff-box, but--A PINCH OF SNUFF,--ha!

  ha!--run me through the body if he didn't. Could you but have seen

  the smile on Jack Churchill's grave face at this piece of

  generosity! So, beckoning Colonel Cadogan up to him, he pinched his

  Ear and whispered--

  CAPTAIN. "May I have the honour to dance a minuet with your

  Ladyship?" The whole room was in titters at Jack's blunder; for, as

  you know very well, poor Lady Susan HAS A WOODEN LEG. Ha! ha! fancy

  a minuet and a wooden leg, hey, my dear?--

  MRS. CATHERINE. Giggle--giggle--giggle: he! he! he! Oh, Captain,

  you rogue, you--

  SECOND TABLE. Haw! haw! haw! Well you be a foony mon, Sergeant,

  zure enoff.

  * * *

  This little specimen of the conversation must be sufficient. It

  will show pretty clearly that EACH of the two military commanders

  was conducting his operations with perfect success. Three of the

  detachment of five attacked by the Corporal surrendered to him: Mr.

  Bullock, namely, who gave in at a very early stage of the evening,

  and ignominiously laid down his arms under the table, after standing

  not more than a dozen volleys of beer; Mr. Blacksmith's boy, and a

  labourer whose name we have not been able to learn. Mr. Butcher

  himself was on the point of yielding, when he was rescued by the

  furious charge of a detachment that marched to his relief: his wife

  namely, who, with two squalling children, rushed into the "Bugle,"

  boxed Butcher's ears, and kept up such a tremendous fire of oaths

  and screams upon the Corpo
ral, that he was obliged to retreat.

  Fixing then her claws into Mr. Butcher's hair, she proceeded to drag

  him out of the premises; and thus Mr. Brock was overcome. His

  attack upon John Hayes was a still greater failure; for that young

  man seemed to be invincible by drink, if not by love: and at the

  end of the drinking-bout was a great deal more cool than the

  Corporal himself; to whom he wished a very polite good-evening, as

  calmly he took his hat to depart. He turned to look at Catherine,

  to be sure, and then he was not quite so calm: but Catherine did

  not give any reply to his good-night. She was seated at the

  Captain's table playing at cribbage with him; and though Count

  Gustavus Maximilian lost every game, he won more than he lost,--sly

  fellow!--and Mrs. Catherine was no match for him.

  It is to be presumed that Hayes gave some information to Mrs. Score,

  the landlady: for, on leaving the kitchen, he was seen to linger

  for a moment in the bar; and very soon after Mrs. Catherine was

  called away from her attendance on the Count, who, when he asked for

  a sack and toast, was furnished with those articles by the landlady

  herself: and, during the half-hour in which he was employed in

  consuming this drink, Monsieur de Galgenstein looked very much

  disturbed and out of humour, and cast his eyes to the door

  perpetually; but no Catherine came. At last, very sulkily, he

  desired to be shown to bed, and walked as well as he could (for, to

  say truth, the noble Count was by this time somewhat unsteady on his

  legs) to his chamber. It was Mrs. Score who showed him to it, and

  closed the curtains, and pointed triumphantly to the whiteness of

  the sheets.

  "It's a very comfortable room," said she, "though not the best in

  the house; which belong of right to your Lordship's worship; but our

  best room has two beds, and Mr. Corporal is in that, locked and

  double-locked, with his three tipsy recruits. But your honour will

  find this here bed comfortable and well-aired; I've slept in it

  myself this eighteen years."

  "What, my good woman, you are going to sit up, eh? It's cruel hard

  on you, madam."

  "Sit up, my Lord? bless you, no! I shall have half of our Cat's

  bed; as I always do when there's company." And with this Mrs. Score

  curtseyed and retired.

  Very early the next morning the active landlady and her bustling

  attendant had prepared the ale and bacon for the Corporal and his

  three converts, and had set a nice white cloth for the Captain's

  breakfast. The young blacksmith did not eat with much satisfaction;

  but Mr. Bullock and his friend betrayed no sign of discontent,

  except such as may be consequent upon an evening's carouse. They

  walked very contentedly to be registered before Doctor Dobbs, who

  was also justice of the peace, and went in search of their slender

  bundles, and took leave of their few acquaintances without much

  regret: for the gentlemen had been bred in the workhouse, and had

  not, therefore, a large circle of friends.

  It wanted only an hour of noon, and the noble Count had not

  descended. The men were waiting for him, and spent much of the

  Queen's money (earned by the sale of their bodies overnight) while

  thus expecting him. Perhaps Mrs. Catherine expected him too, for

  she had offered many times to run up--with my Lord's boots--with the

  hot water--to show Mr. Brock the way; who sometimes condescended to

  officiate as barber. But on all these occasions Mrs. Score had

  prevented her; not scolding, but with much gentleness and smiling.

  At last, more gentle and smiling than ever, she came downstairs and

  said, "Catherine darling, his honour the Count is mighty hungry this

  morning, and vows he could pick the wing of a fowl. Run down,

  child, to Farmer Brigg's and get one: pluck it before you bring it,

  you know, and we will make his Lordship a pretty breakfast."

  Catherine took up her basket, and away she went by the back-yard,

  through the stables. There she heard the little horse-boy whistling