Speaker 1: Christmas Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell. In the town
of no matter Where, there circulated two local newspapers, No
Matter When now. The Flying Post was long established and
respectable alias bigoted and Tory. The Examiner was spirited and
intelligent alias new fangled and democratic. Every week these newspapers
contained articles abusing each other, as cross and peppery as
articles could be, and evidently the production of irritated minds,
although they seemed to have one stereotyped commencement. Though the
article appearing in last week's Post or Examiner is below contempt,
yet we have been induced, et cetera, et cetera. And
every Saturday the radical sh shopkeepers shook hands together and
agreed that the Post was done for by the slashing,
clever Examiner, while the more dignified Torries begun by regretting
that Johnson should think that low paper only read by
a few, with the vulgar Worth wasting his wit upon. However,
the Examiner was at its last gasp. It was not,
though it lived and flourished, at least paid its way.
As one of the heroes of my story could tell,
he was chief compositor or whatever title may be, given
to the headman of the mechanical part of a newspaper,
he hardly confined himself to that department. Once or twice,
unknown to the editor. When the manuscript had fallen short,
he had filled up the vacant space by compositions of
his own announcements of a forthcoming drop, a green peas
in December, a gray thrush having been seen, or a
white hair, or such interesting phenomena invented for the occasion,
I must confess. But what of that his wife always
knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband's
literary talent by a peculiar cough which served as prelude,
And judging from this encouraging sign and the high pitched
and emphatic voice in which he read them, she was
inclined to think that an ode to an early rosebud
in the corner devoted to original poetry, and a letter
in the correspondence department sign pro bono publico were her
husband's writing, and to hold up her head accordingly. I
could never find out what it was that occasioned the
Hodgsons to lodge in the same house as the Jenkinses.
Jenkins held the same office in the Tory paper, as
Hodgson did in the Examiner, and as I said before
I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins
had a proper sense of his position, and a proper
reverence for all his authority, from the King down to
the editor and the sub editor. He would as soon
have thought of borrowing the King's crown for a nightcap,
or the King's skepta for a walking stick, as he
would have thought of filling up in his space corner
with any production of his own. And I think it
would have even added to his contempt of Hodgin's, if
that were possible, had he known of the productions of
his brain. As the latter finally alluded to the paragraphs
he inserted when speaking to his wife, Jenkins had his
wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness of
the quarrel which existed one memorable Christmas week some dozen
years ago between the two neighbors, the two compositors, and
with wives. It was a very pretty, a very complete
quarrel to make the opposing parties still more equal, still
more well matched. If the Hodgsons had a baby, such
a baby, a poor, puny little thing, missus Jenkins had
a cat, such a cat, a great nasty, mowling tom
cat that was always stealing the milk put by for
little angels supper. And now having matched Greek with Greek,
I must proceed to the target war. It was the
day before Christmas, such a cold east wind, such an
inky sky, such a blue black look in people's faces
as they were driven out more than usual to complete
their purchases for the next day's festival. Before leaving home
that morning, Jenkins had given some money to his wife
to buy the next day's dinner. My dear, I wish
for turkey and sausages. It may be a weakness, but
I own I am partial to sausages. My deceased mother was.
Such tastes are hereditary as to sweets, whether plum pudding
or mince pies. I leave such considerations to you. I
only beg you not to mind expense. Christmas comes. But
once a year and again he had called out from
the bottom of the first flight of stairs, just close
to the Hodgeson's door, such ostentatiousness, as Missus Hodgeson's observed,
you will not forget the sausages, My dear, I should
have liked to have had something above common, Mary said
Hodgson's as they two made their plans for the next day.
But I think roast beef must do for us. You see, Love,
we've a family, only one, jem. I don't want more
than roast beef, though I'm sure before I went to service,
mother and me would have thought roast beef a very
fine dinner. Well, let's settle it then, roast beef and
a plum pudding. And now goodbye, mind, and take care
of little Tom. I thought he was a bit hoarse
this morning, and off he went to his work. Now
it was a good while since Missus Jenkins and Missus
Hodgson had spoken to each other, although they were quite
as much in possession of the knowledge of events and
opinions as though they did. Mary knew that Missus Jenkins
despised her for not having a real lace cap, which
Missus Jenkins had, and for having been a servant, which
Missus Jenkins had not, And the little occasional pinchings which
the Hodgons were obliged to resort to to make both
ends meet would have been very patiently endured by Mary
if she had not winced under Missus Jenkins's knowledge of
such economy, But she had her revenge. She had a child,
and Missus Jenkins had none to have had a child,
even such a puny baby as a little tom, Missus
Jenkins would have worn commonest caps and clean grapes and
drudged her fingers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment
of her life soured her temper and turned her thoughts inward,
and made her morbid and selfish. Hang that cat, he's
been stealing again. He's gnawed the cold mutton in his
nasty mouth till it's not fit set before a Christian.
And I've nothing else for gem's dinner. But I'll give
it him now. I've caught him that I will so saying,
Missus Hodgesons caught up her husband's Sunday came, and despite
puts his cries and scratches, she gave him such a
heating as she hoped might cure him of his thievish propensities.
When lo and behold, Missus Jenkins stood at the door
with a face a bitter wrath. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, ma'am?
To abuse a poor dumb animal, ma'am as knows no
better than to take food when he sees it, ma'am.
He only follows the nature which God has given him, ma'am.
And it's a pity your nature, ma'am, which I've heard,
is of the stingy say. Species does not make you
shut your cupver door. A little close up. There is
such a thing as law for brute animals, I'll ask,
mister Jenkins. But I don't think them radicals has done
away with that law yet, for all their reform bill, ma'am,
My poor precious love of a tommy, is he hurt
and easy's leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps
as most people would have given way to a beggar
if he'd taken wound up missus Jenkins casting a contemptuous
look on the remnant of a scrap end of mutton,
Mary felt very angry and very guilty, for she really
pitied the poor limping animal as he crept up to
his mistress and there lay down to bemoan himself. She
wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it
certainly was her own careless way of never shutting the
cupboard door, that it tempts him to his fault. But
the sneer of her little bit of mutton turned her
penitence to fresh wrath, and she shut the door in
Missus Jenkins's face as she stood caressing her cat in
the lobby with such a bang that it wakened little Tom,
and he began to cry. Everything was to go wrong
with Mary to day. Now baby was awake, who was
to take her husband's dinner to the office. She took
the child in her arms and tried to hush him
off to sleep again, and as she sung, she cried.
She could hardly tell why, a sort of reaction from
her violent angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten
the poor cat. She wondered if his leg was really broken,
what would her mother say if she knew how cross
and cruel her little Mary was getting. If she could
live to beat her child in one of her angry fits,
it was of no use lullabying while she sobbed, So
it must be given up, and she must just carry
her baby in her arms and take him with her
to the office, for it was long past dinner time.
So she peered the mutton carefully, although by so doing
she reduced the meat to an infinite samaal quantity, and
taking the baked potatoes out of the oven, she popped
them piping hot into her basket with the et ceteras
of plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork. It was
indeed a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran,
and the flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice.
Baby cried all the way, though she cuddled him up
in her shawl. Then her husband had made his appetite
up for a potato pie, and little man as he was,
his body got so much the better of his mind
that he looked rather black at the cold mutton. Mary
had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived
at home again, so after she had tried to feed
the baby, and he had fretfully refused to take his
bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on
his quilt, surrounded by playthings, while she sided away and
chopped sewet for the next day's pudding. Early in the
afternoon a parcel came done up, first in brown paper,
then in such a white grass bleached, sweet smelling towel,
and a note from her dear dear mother, in which
quaint writing she endeavored to tell her daughter that she
was not forgotten a Christmas time, but that learning that
Farmer Burton was killing his pig, she had made interest
for some of his famous pork, out of which she
had manufactured some sausages and flavored them, just as Mary
used to like when she lived at home. Dear dear mother,
said Mary to herself. There never was any one like
her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used
to make. Home things have a smack with them. No
bought things can ever have set them up with their sausages.
I've a notion if missus Jenkins had ever tasted mothers,
she have no fancy for them. Town made things. Fanny
took in just now, And so she went on thinking
about home till the smiles and the dimples came out
again at the remembrance of that pretty cottage which would
look green even now in the depth of winter, with
its pyracanthus and its holly bushes, and the great porch
moral that was her mother's pride, and the back path
through the orchard to farmer Burtons, how well she remembered it.
The bushels of unripe apples she had picked up there
and distributed among his pigs till he had scolded her
for giving them so much green trash. She was interrupted
her baby. I'd call him a baby because his father
and mother did, and because he was so little of
his age, but I rather think he was eighteen months old.
Had fallen asleep some time before among his playthings, an uneasy,
restless sleep, but of which Mary had been thankful, as
his morning snap had been too short, and as she
was so busy. But now he began to make such
a strange crowing noise, just like a chair drawn heavily
and gw waitingly along a kitchen floor. His eyes were open,
but expressive of nothing but pain. Mother's darling, said Mary
in terror, lifting him up. Baby, try not to make
that noise. Hush, hush, darling, what hurts him? But the
noise came worse and worse. Fanny Fanny Mary called in
mortal fright, for her baby was almost black with his
grasping breath, and she had no one to ask for
aid or sympathy but her landlady's daughter, a little girl
of twelve or thirteen, who attended to the house in
her mother's absence as daily cook. In gentlemen families. Fanny
was more especially considered the attendant of the upstairs lodgers,
who paid for the use of the kitchen for Jenkins
could not abide the smell of meat cooking. But she
was fortunately sitting at her afternoon's work of darning stoppings,
and hearing missus Hodgeon's cry of terror, she ran to
her sitting room and understood the case at a glance.
He's got croupe, oh missus Hodgeon. He'll die as sure
as fate. Little brother had it, and he died in
no time. The doctor said he could do nothing for him.
It had gone too far. He said, if we'd put
him in a warm barth at first, it might have
saved him. But bless you, he was never half so
bad as your baby. Unconsciously there mingled in her statement
some of a child's love of producing an effect, but
the increasing danger was clear enough. Oh my baby, my baby,
Oh love, love, don't look so ill. I cannot bear it,
and my fire so low. There I was thinking of
home and picking currants, and never minding the fire. Oh Fanny,
what is the fire like in the kitchen speak? Mother
told me to screw it up and throw some slack
on it as soon as missus Jenkins had done with it,
and so I did. It's very low and black. But oh,
missus Hodgson, let me run for the doctor. I cannot
bear to hear him. It's so like little brother. Through
a streaming tears, Mary motioned her to go, and, trembling,
sinking sick at heart, she laid her boy in his
cradle and ran to fill her kettle. Missus Jenkins having
cooked her husband's snug little dinner to which he came home,
having told him her story of Pussy's beating, at which
he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all
of a pes with that abusive examiner. Having received the
sausages and turkey and mince pies which her husband had ordered,
and cleaned up the room and prepared everything for tea
and coaxed and Julie bemoaned her cat, who had pretty
nearly forgotten his feating but very much enjoyed the petting.
Having done all these and many other things, Missus Jenkins
sat down to get up the real lace cap. Every
thread was pulled out separately and carefully stretched. When what
was that outside in the street? A chorus of piping
children's voices, sung the old carol she had heard a
hundred times in the days of her youth. As Joseph
was a walking he heard an angel sing. This night
She'll be born, our heavenly King. He neither shall be
born in housen, nor in ho nor in the place
of paradise, but in an ox of stall. He neither
she'll be clothed in purple, nor in pool, but all
in fair linen, as were babies all He neither shall
be rocked in silver nor in gold, but in a
wooden cradle that rocks on the mold, et cetera. She
got up and went to the window. There below stood
the group of grave, black little figures, relieved against the
snow which now enveloped everything. For old sake's sake, as
she phrased it, she counted out half a penny apiece
for the singers out of the copper bag and threw
them down below. The room had become chilly while she
had been counting out and throwing down her money, so
she stirred her already glowing fire and sat down before it,
but not to stretch her lace. Like Mary Hodgson. She
began to think over long past days, on softening remembrances
of the dead and gone on words long forgotten, on
holy stories heard at her mother's knee. I cannot think
what come over me to night, said she half aloud,
recovering herself by the sound of her own voice from
her train of thought. My head goes wandering on them
old times. I'm sure more texts have come into my
head with thinking on my mother within this last half
hour than I've thought on for years and years. I
hope I'm not going to die. Folks say, thinking too
much on the bed betokens we're going to join them.
I should be loath to go just yet. Such a
fine turkey as we've got fis dinner to morrow too. Knock, knock,
knock at the door as fast as knuckles could go,
And then, as if the comer could not wait, the
door was opened, and Mary Hodgons stood there as white
as death. Missus Jenkins, Oh your kettle is boiling. Thank God,
Let me have the water for my baby. For the
love of God, he's got creep and he's dying. Missus
Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden, inflexible look
on her face that between ourselves her husband knew and
dreaded for all his pompous dignity. I'm sorry I can't
oblige you, ma'am. My kettle is wanted for my husband's tea.
Don't be afeared, Tommy. Missus Hodgins won't venture to intrude
herself where she's not desired. You'd better send for the doctor, ma'am,
instead of wasting your time in wringing your hands. Man,
My kettle is engaged. Mary clasped her hands together with
passionate force, but spoke no word of entreaty to that
wooden face, that sharp, determined voice. But as she turned away,
she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial, and
strength to forgive missus Jenkins. Missus Jenkins watched her go
away meekly as one who has no hope, and then
she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did
on any one else. What a brute I am, Lord,
forgive me? What's my husband's tea? To a baby's life?
In Croup too, where time is everything? You crabbed old
bikes anew. Anyone may know you never had a child.
She was downstairs, kettle in hand before she had finished
her elf upbraiding, and when in Missus Hodgeon's room, she
rejected all thanks. Mary had not the voice for many words,
saying stiffly, I'd do it for the poor baby's sake, ma'am,
hoping he may live to have mercy to poor dumb
beasts if he does forget to lock his cupboards. But
she did everything and more than Mary, with her young inexperience,
could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath and
tried it with her husband's own thermometer. Mister Jenkins was
as punctual as clockwork in noting down the temperature of
every day. She let his mother's place her baby in
the tub, still preserving the same rigid, affronted aspect, and
then she went upstairs without a word. Mary longed to
ask her to stay, but dared not, though when she
left the room the tears chased each other down her
cheeks faster than ever. Poor young mother, how she counted
the minutes till the doctor should come, But before he
came down again, stalked Missus Jenkins with something in her hand.
I've seen many of those croup fits, which I take
it you've not, ma'am. Mustard placed us is very sovereign.
Put on the throat. I've been up and made one, ma'am,
and by your leave, I'll put it on the poor
little fellow. Mary could not speak, but she sighed her
grateful assent. It began to smart while they still kept silence,
and he looked up to his mother, as if seeking
courage from her looks to bear the stinging pain. But
she was softly crying to see him supper, and her
want of courage reacted upon him, and he began to
sob aloud. Instantly, Missus Jenkins's apron was up, hiding her face. Peepe,
though Baby said she as merrily as she could. His
little face brightened, and his mother, having once got the cue,
the two women kept the little fellow amused until his
plaster had taken effect. He's better, oh, Missus Jenkins. Look
at his eyes, how different? And he breathed quite softly
as Mary spoke. Thus the doctor entered. He examined his patient.
Baby was really better. It has been a sharp attack,
but the remedies you have applied have been worth all
the paracopella. An hour later, I shall send a powder,
et cetera, et cetera, Missus Jenkins stave to hear this opinion,
and her heart wonderfully more easy was going to leave
the room. When Mary seized her hand and kissed it.
She could not speak her gratitude. Missus Jenkins looked affronted
and awkward, and as if she must go upstairs and
wash her hand directly. But in spite of these sour looks,
she came softly down an hour or so afterwards to
see how baby was. The little gentleman slept well after
the fright he had given his friends, And on Christmas morning,
when Mary awoke and looked at the sweet little pale
face lying on her arm, she could hardly realize the
danger he had been in. When she came down later
than usual, she found the household in a commotion. What
do you think had happened? Why Pussy had been a
traitor to his best friend and eaten up some of
Missus Jenkins's own especial sausages and gnawed and tumbled the
rest so that they were not fit to be eaten.
There were no bounds to that cat's appetite. He would
have eaten his own father if he had been tender enough.
And now Missus Jenkins stormed and cried, hanged the cat
Christmas Day too, and all the shop shut. What was
turkey without sausages, gruffly asked mister Jenkins. Oh Jem, whispered Mary. Hearken,
what a piece of work he's making about sausages. I
should like to take missus Jenkins up some of mother's.
They're twice as good as bought sausages. I see no objection,
my dear. Sausages do not involve intimacies. Else his politics
are what I can no ways respect. But oh, Jem,
if you had seen her last night about baby, I'm
sure she may scold me forever, and I'll not answer.
I'd even make her cat welcome to the sausages. The
tears gathered to Mary's eyes as she kissed her boy.
Better take em upstairs, my dear, and give them to
the cat's mistress. And Jem chuckled at his saying. Mary
put them on a plate, But still she loitered. What
must I say, Jem? I never know? Say I hope
you'll accept of these sausages as my mother. No, that's
not grammar. Say what comes uppermost, Mary, It will be
sure to be right. So Mary carried them upstairs and
knocked at the door, and when told to come in,
she looked very red, but went up to Missus Jenkins saying,
please take these mother, ate them, and was away before
an answer could be given. Just as Hotchin was ready
to go to church, Missus Jenkins came downstairs and called Fanny.
In a minute, the latter entered the Hotchin's room and
delivered mister and Missus Jenkins's compliments. And they would be
particular glad if mister and Missus Hotchin would eat their
dinner with them and carry baby upstairs in a shawl,
be sure, added Missus Jenkins's voice in the passage close
to the door whither she had followed her messenger. There
was no discussing the matter, with the certainty of every
word being overheard. Mary looked anxiously at her husband. She
he saying he did not approve of mister Jenkins's politics.
Do you think it would do the baby? Asked he? Oh, yes,
answered she eagerly. I would wrap him up so warm,
and I've got our room up to sixty five already
for all it's so frosty, added the voice outside. Now,
how do you think they settled the matter? The very
best way in the world. Mister and Missus Jenkins came
down into Hodgin's room and dine there Turkey at the top,
roast beef at the bottom, sausages at one side, potatoes
at the other. Second course plum pudding at the top,
and mince pies at the bottom. And after dinner, Missus
Jenkins would have baby on her knee, and he seemed
quite to take to her. She declared he was admiring
the real lace on her cap. But Mary thought, though
she did not say so, that he was pleased by
her kind looks and coaxing words. Then he was wrapped
up and carried carefully upstairs to tea in Missus Jenkins's room.
And after tea, Missus Jenkins and Mary and her husband
found out each other's mutual liking for music, and sat
singing old Glees and catches till I don't know what o'clock,
without one word of politics or newspapers. Before they parted,
Mary had coaxed pussy on to her knee for Missus
Jenkins would not part with baby who was sleeping on
her lap. When you're busy, bring him to me. Do now,
It will be a real favor I know you must
have a deal to do with another. Coming. Let him
come up to me. I'll take the greatest cares of him,
pretty darling, how sweet he looks when he's asleep. When
the couples were once more alone, the husbands unburdened their
mind to their wives, mister Jenkins said to his do
you know Burgess tried to make me believe Hodgen was
such a film as to put paragraphs into the Examiner
now and then? But I see he knows his place
and has got too much sense to do any such thing. Hodgen, said,
Mary Love. I almost fancy from Jenkins's way of speaking,
so much civili than I expected, he guessed. I wrote
that pro bono and the Rosebud. At any rate, I've
no objection to your naming it. If the subject should
come uppermost, I should like him to know I'm a
literary man. Well, I've ended my tale. I hope you
don't think it too long. But before I go, just
let me say one thing. If any of you have
any quarrels or misunderstandings, or coolness or cold shoulders or shynesses,
or TIFFs or myths or huffs with any one else,
just make friends before Christmas. You will be so much
merrier if you do. I ask it of you for
the sake of that old angelic song heard so many
years ago by the shepherds keeping watch by night on
Bethlehem Heights. End of Christmas, Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell.