Читать книгу The Greatest Plague of Life: or, the Adventures of a Lady in Search of a Good Servant - Henry Mayhew - Страница 8

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“He shook! ’twas but an instant,

For speedily the pride

Ran crimson to his heart,

Till all chances he defied:

It threw boldness on his forehead;

Gave firmness to his breath;

And he stood like some grim Warrior,

New risen up from death.”

Barry Cornwall, (The Admiral.)

What heartfelt joy it imparts to find a gentleman willing to lend a helping hand to the ideas of the good, and assist a virtuous female in distress. And how true and poetic it was of the Greeks to make Charity a woman; for does not charity begin at home, and does not the proud empire of lovely woman begin there also. And would not every respectable female be overflowing with goodness were it not for the harsh sway of the fell tyrant Man, who, with a heavy hand, alas! too often skims their milk of human kindness, and takes all the cream off the best feelings of their nature.

When I reached Mr. Cruikshank’s door, though it was the first time I had ever the pleasure of visiting that great person, still from the beautiful appearance that the threshold of his establishment presented, I at once knew my man. The door-step was so sweetly white and clean that one might have been tempted to eat one’s dinner off of it, while the brass plate was as beautiful a picture as I ever remember to have seen. In that door-plate I could see the workings of a rightly-constituted mind. And here let me remark to my courteous Reader, by what slight incidents we deduce——(but I will reserve my observations on door-plates in general for my moral reflections at the end of this chapter).

When the door was opened, I was delighted to find that everything within bore out the conclusion I had drawn of this great man’s character from his simple door-step. Though it could scarcely have been more than half-past twelve in the day, I was agreeably surprised to find that the maid who let me in had cleaned herself, and was dressed in a nice, neat cotton gown, of a small pattern, and anything but showy colour, ready to answer the door. I was truly charmed to see this; and indeed, from the young woman’s whole appearance and manner, which was very respectful, I saw at once that Mr. Cruikshank was rich in being possessed of a treasure. What would I not have given once for such a being——but, alas! I am digressing.

Although I looked everywhere, I could not find a speck of dust or dirt anywhere, not even in the corners. “Ah!” (I said to myself, as I was going up the stairs,) “how different is this from the common run of artists.” When I went to have my portrait painted by Mr. Gl—k, in N—wm—n St—t, I am sure you might have taken the dust up in spoonfuls, which convinced me that he was no Genius; for I must and will say, that the man who does not give his mind to the smaller affairs of life, will never succeed with the greater ones; for is it not proverbial that a master-hand is to be seen in everything? And to prove to the courteous Reader how correct my opinion was, Mr. Gl—k turned out to be but an indifferent artist, after all, for he made me look like a perfect fright.

After waiting a few minutes in a delightful ante-room, I was shown into the Study, and for the first time stood face to face with that highly-talented artist and charming man, George Cruikshank, Esquire, whom, as a painter, I don’t think I go too far in calling the Constable of the day.

Were I in this instance to adopt Dr. Watts’s beautiful standard by which to judge of the stature of intellectual men—that is, “that the mind is the measure of the man,” I should say that Mr. George Cruikshank is a perfect Giant, a mental Colossus of Rhodes, or Daniel Lambert; but viewing him in the flesh, he appeared to be of an ordinary height. Directly I saw him, he presented to me the appearance of a fine picture set in a muscular frame, his body being neither stout nor thin.

His features, which are strictly classical, and strike you as a piece of antiquity, and belonging to the Ancients, appear to have been finely chiselled, while Genius (to use an expressive figure of speech) is carved in large, unmistakeable characters on his lofty brow, (though, of course, I do not mean that this is literally the case.) Nature has evidently thrown Mr. Cruikshank’s whole soul in his face; there is (if I may be allowed the expression) a fire in his eye which is quite cheerful to look at; and when he speaks, from the cordial tone of his discourse, you feel as certain, as if his bosom was laid bare to you, that his heart is in its right place. Nor can I omit to mention the picturesque look of his whiskers, which are full and remarkably handsome, and at once tell you that they have been touched by the hand of a great painter.

In disposition, Mr. Cruikshank seems to be peculiarly amiable, (indeed, he was exceedingly kind and attentive to me,) for he appears to have a great partiality for animals of all kinds. In his room was a perfect little love of a spaniel, (very much like our Carlo before he was stolen from us,) and on his mantelpiece was a beautiful plaster model of a horse trotting, while at his window hung a charming singing canary, to all of which he seems to be very much attached.

Over the chimney-piece is a picture—the creation of his highly-talented fingers—of Sir Robert Bruce, in a dreadful pass in Scotland, being attacked by three men, and killing them, while mounted on his rearing charger. It is painted in oil colours, and is a work full of spirit and fire; though, for my own part, I must say that I do not think Mr. Cruikshank shines so much in Oil as he does in Water.

Having in a most polite way begged that I would take a chair, which I did with a graceful curtsey, he stated he had read Mr. B——e’s letter, and added, that he needn’t ask if my interesting little work was to be “moral;” on which I replied, with an agreeable smile, “Eminently so, Mr. Cruikshank,” and told him that it purposed merely to set forth all the plague, and worry, and trouble, which I had been put to by servants, which seemed to please him very much; and I briefly laid before him all I had undergone, adding, that it was a wonder to every one who knew me how I had ever managed to battle through with it, and that our medical adviser had declared that it was merely the very fine constitution I had of my own that had enabled me to do so; and that it was my proud ambition to become the pilot of future young wives in the stormy sea of domestic life. On which he was pleased to compliment me highly, and was kind enough to volunteer to do a sketch of me in that character, for a frontispiece to my interesting little work.

However, I told him that I should prefer appearing in a more becoming garb, and that I had merely used the pilot as an expressive figure of speech; but that as doubtlessly he would like to introduce me into the frontispiece of the book, I told him I thought the best subject would be an engraving of myself, wishing that I was out of the world on the day after our man-servant had run away with the plate; and I asked him if he would like to take a portrait of me then and there, as I could easily step into the next room, and arrange my hair in the glass. But in a most gentlemanly way he stated that he could not think of putting me to that trouble, especially as he had already got my whole form engraved in his mind’s eye, for there were some people, he said, whose figure, when once seen, was always remembered. And he was pleased to say a number of other things equally flattering to me, but which my natural modesty, and the inward dread I have of being thought egotistical, prevent my inserting here.

I told him, moreover, that, from the life-like descriptions of the different servants I had had in my time that he would find given in my interesting little book, a man of his genius, I was sure, would experience no difficulty in delineating their features. Upon which he was so good as to say that he had no doubt he should find the work all I had stated. And then, observing that I was about to depart, he opened the door for me; on which I begged of him not to trouble himself on my account; but he persisted, saying, in the most gentlemanly way, “that he would see me to the door with the greatest pleasure.”

My moral reflections upon the preceding chapter.—How necessary it is for the young house-wife to pay proper attention to all outward appearances; for is it not by them that the hollow world judges, since it is impossible for short-sighted Man to see the secret workings of our hearts within us. The first object that meets the stranger’s eye on coming to our house is the door-plate, and thus a mere bit of brass is made the index of our characters.—If it be highly polished, of course they conclude that we are highly polished also; if, however, it be dirty, shall we not be deprived of our fair name. What a moral duty, then, should it be with the mistress of every establishment to see that her brass is rubbed up regularly every morning, so that she may be able to go through the world without ever knowing shame.