Chapter XI (2)

Upon my word, I do really believe that if there was a pin to choose between Leicester-square and our back garden, certainly the Square had the best of it. For the fact of it was, that stupid, though respected, mother of mine would go making me believe when first we came to our house, that the air up in our neighbourhood was pure enough to grow anything, and that with the ground we had at the back of us, we might very easily get enough vegetables to keep the family all the year round, adding, then we should be sure to have them so sweet, and fresh, and good. Sweet, and fresh, and good, indeed!--upon my word! the whole of our first year’s crop consisted of only about four nasty, smutty, two-penny-halfpenny cabbages, that must have cost us a matter of ten shillings a piece if they did a farthing--and they were all eaten away, and their leaves were as yellow and full of holes as the seat of a cane-bottomed chair; so that I began to find out, after we had been gardening away fit to kill ourselves, for I can’t say how long, that really and truly we were doing nothing more than keeping a small preserve of slugs, snails, and caterpillars. Do what I would, and slave as I might, I could _not_ keep the filthy things away. Cupful after cupful have I taken off the plants of a morning, and yet the next day there they were again as thick as ever. I declare the better part of my day used to be occupied all through the summer, with looking after those plaguy greens, (which, water them as I would, I could not get to be anything equal in colour to the caterpillars that were always in them,) till, ’pon my word, my poor neck was as sunburnt as ginger.

As I couldn’t manage any cabbages I thought I’d try and raise a small crop of peas; but, bless you! then I was nearly driven out of my mind by those impudent vagabonds of birds, the London sparrows--and catch _them_ letting any peas come up (even if they would) within five miles of the General Post-office. As for frightening them away, I declare they were as bold as brass, for if they don’t care for those mischievous monkeys of boys in the street, was it likely that they were to be intimidated by a respectable married woman like myself? Positively, I put up an old bonnet of mine on the end of a stick, which I should have thought would have scared even a philosopher off the premises--but, bless your heart! they only came and perched right on the crown of it, and chirped away as if they were comfortably at home in their nests in Red Lion-square. And just when my lovely peas were beginning to break ground and poke their nice little green heads up out of the earth, I have often gone out into the garden and found a hundred of the young feathered ogres hard at my beautiful Prussian blues, picking away, and making noise enough for an infant school; and though I’d go down to them, sh--sh--sh--, sh--ing away, and shaking my apron as hard as I could, I declare, it wasn’t until I got within arm’s-length of them, that the brazen-faced little chits would condescend to take the least notice of me, and then they’d only just hop up on the top of the wall, where they would stand, with their heads cocked on one side, and looking out at the corners of their eyes at me, and chirping away just as if they were saying, “Peas, peas, peas”--drat ’em!

Though, to be sure, I had this consolation--I wasn’t the only sufferer, for not one of the neighbours could do a bit better than I did--no, not even poor Mr. S--mm--ns, and he tried hard enough, goodness gracious knows! I declare he used to be out in the broiling hot sun all day, digging away in his shirt sleeves, until his poor bald-head used to look like the top of a beef-steak pudding--and, what for, I should like to know? just to raise, in the course of the year, as many radishes, and cauliflowers, and greens, and rhubard, as he might buy any fine morning in Covent Garden market for a mere sixpence, or a shilling at most. Though he tried his hardest to force a cucumber or two, under a broken ground-glass lamp shade, and spent a little fortune in manure, still the only one that came, of course, was nipped in the gherkin; and, notwithstanding some of his beds were covered with old tumblers, just for all the world like a sideboard, yet I’m sure I never could see the good of them, for his crop of lettuces wouldn’t have made more than one good-sized salad after all; while the gooseberry and currant bushes, that he went to the expense of having put all round his garden, never bore more than a pie and a small pudding in the best of seasons--and that not till the middle of November. In fact, I’ve made up my opinion long ago, that gardening in the suburbs of London is a wicked and wilful waste of time and money. Really and truly the whole atmosphere of the place is so dreadfully smokey, that, without joking, one might just as well try to rear cauliflowers all round the top of a steam-boat funnel, as to think of getting one’s vegetables out of a metropolitan hop-skip-and-a-jump kitchen garden. Vegetables for the family, indeed! “chickweed and groundsel for fine singing birds,” more likely.

So, as I said before, I made up my mind, not to go making a stupid of myself any longer, playing at market-gardening, and turning myself into a manufacturing green-grocer and fruiterer, by trying to convert a trumpery band-box full of mould and gravel into a productive orchard. Accordingly I determined to root up the whole of those rat-tailed stalks of cabbages, and have the place nicely turfed in the centre, and a few pretty rose-bushes, and geranium trees, and other odd things, that at any rate would be pleasant to one’s eye and nose, put round the sides. Consequently I had up Mr. Dick Farden, and asked him whether he thought he could manage _that_ for me without spoiling it; but really the fellow was so conceited, and fancied himself so clever, that, of course, he was as confident he could do it for me as he was that he could move my piano--(and a pretty mess he made of that--as the reader knows!) He couldn’t, however, merely give a simple answer to a simple question, and have done with it, but must go on talking his head off, and speaking to me as familiarly as if I was one of his pot-companions, saying that it was very easy to lay the ground out, but he was afraid I should find it quite as hard to raise a nosegay as a salad “in the first city of the world.” For, in all in his experience, he had noticed that Cockney roses were not to be forced beyond the size of grog-blossoms, and he would defy even Mr. Paxton himself to get London tulips any bigger than thimbles. He said that the beautiful climate of Brompton itself, which all the house-agents and physicians cried up as the Devonshire district of London, would only produce hollyhocks in the flower line, and mustard and cress in the vegetable ditto,--and from all he had seen in his time, he had come to the conclusion, that trying to get roses and lilies, this side of Richmond, was really the pursuit of flowers under difficulties; for it appeared to be as if Providence had originally designed that the soil of London should bear nothing beyond bricks and mortar. Though it was not so much the fault of the ground as it was of the cats--and them he could not, for the life of him, help looking upon as the young gardener’s worst companion--for as fast you put in the seed, just as fast would they scratch it up again; and, of course, nothing would satisfy the creatures but they must go lying in your beds of a night. Indeed, the Toms of London seemed, like young Love always to prefer sleeping among the roses. Now, he remembered, he told me, about the time when Walworth went mad about dahlias, and offered a prize of a hundred guineas for the finest specimen that could be grown within two miles of the Elephant and Castle,--he was sure any one might have heard the amateur gardeners firing at the cats, and the guns going off there of a night, for all the world like a review in Hyde-park; but all to no good--for, after all, the prize was carried off by a clever young gentleman, who had no garden at all, and grew the choicest specimen there was at the show in an old black tea-pot, out of his two pair back.

However, I wasn’t going to sit there all day hearing him try to persuade me against what I had set my heart and soul upon, and railing against everything just like an old East Indian with half a liver, for I could easily see that all my fine gentleman wanted was, to save himself the trouble of doing up the garden, and wished, of course, to take our money without doing a single thing for it; but I wasn’t going to encourage him standing all day long with his hands in his pockets--not I indeed. So when he found that I wasn’t quite such a stupid as he seemed to take me for, and was determined upon having the thing done, willy-nilly, then, of course, he must needs try his best to advise me to go to the expense of a lot of box-borders for the place. But I wouldn’t listen to it for a minute, for, as I very plainly told him, I was sure that oyster-shells would be quite good enough for us, especially as dear Edward was so fond of having a dozen or two of Natives before he went to bed of a night, and I knew that I should get a very pretty border out of his suppers in less than a fortnight.

However, upon second thoughts, it struck me that, whilst I was about it, I might just as well have a few really good plants put in, particularly as Mr. Dick Farden said he knew a florist in the neighbourhood, who would do the whole thing for a mere nothing for me, and attend to it afterwards, either by the day, month, or year, on the most reasonable terms. So, as I couldn’t see any great harm in hearing from Mr. Dick Farden’s friend himself what he might consider “a mere nothing,” I arranged in my own mind that the best way would be to let Farden call upon him, and send him round to me on his way down to deliver the letter I intended to write to the director (for there’s nothing but directors now-a-days) of the Servants’ Institution. Accordingly, having scribbled a note to the institution--saying that, as I was in want of a nurse, I should feel obliged if they would send one of their young men round to me _as soon as possible_, from whom I could learn the terms and advantages of the establishment--I told Mr. Dick Farden to take it to Oxford-street, and, while he was out, to run round and tell his friend the florist to call on me _in the evening_, so that I might talk over with him about the flowers.

When that precious beauty of a Dick Farden came back, he told me he had brought with him the gentleman I had sent him for, who, he said, had written down a few of the names of such articles as he thought would suit me, and which he could recommend, as they had all been in the _nursery_ a long time. Of course, I imagined the stupid fellow was alluding to the maid I wanted for my little Kitty, and not to a pack of bothering flowers, as I afterwards found out, to my great horror; and there was I going on for upwards of twenty minutes asking all kinds of odd questions of the stranger, fully believing that he was the person from the Servants’ Institution, and not that trumpery friend of Mr. Dick Farden’s, who was in the gardening line.

When the man came in, I said to him, very naturally, “My man-servant tells me that you have brought with you a few of the names of such as you think will suit me. They have all been in the nursery a long time, I believe; and what kind of places have they been accustomed to?”

“Oh, a very nice place,” he replied; “about the same as yours might be, mum. They had a warmish bed, and have always been accustomed to be out in the open air.”

“Yes, I should want them to be out in the open air a great deal,” I answered, though at the time I couldn’t help fancying that it was very funny that the man should allude in particular to their _warm beds_. “Now I should like you to recommend me one,” I continued, “that’s healthy and strong, and likely to remain with me for some time, for it is so distressing to have to provide yourself with a new one every year.”

“So it is, mum,” he returned. “I think I know the very one you want, mum. It’s a remarkable fine colour, mum.”

“That certainly is a recommendation. I like them to look healthy,” I replied, thinking, of course, that the man was only talking about a nursery maid, and not of some trumpery rose he had got at home.

“It’s a very dark coloured one, mum; indeed, very nearly a black,” he answered; “and of a summer’s evening smells wonderful, I can assure you, mum.”

“Lord a mercy!” I cried out, believing the man wanted to recommend me a negress. “Oh la! all the blacks do, and I wouldn’t have one of them about my house for all I’m worth.”

“Then may be, mum,” he continued, “you’d like one a trifle gayer. Now, there’s a Madame Pompadour we’ve got that I think would just suit you. That’s a remarkable showy one, to be sure, and likes a good deal of raking.”

“Oh, I see,” I replied; “a French bit of goods. No, thank you; they are all of them a great deal too gay by half to please me.”

“Well, mum, if that wont suit you,” he replied, “what would you think of a nice Chinese? We’ve got a perfect beauty, I can assure you--just the very thing for you, mum--climb up anywhere--run all along the area-railings, mum--crawl right over your back-garden door--then up the house into your drawing-room balcony--almost like a wild one, mum.”

“Like a wild one!” I almost shrieked, horror-struck at the idea of intrusting my sweet, little, helpless angel of a Kate to the care of a creature with any such extraordinary propensities. “Too like a wild one for me. I don’t want any such things about my house.”

“But if you object to their running about so much, mum,” he went on, “it’s very easy to tie them up and give them a good trimming occasionally, and then you can keep them under as much as you please.”

“I don’t want one,” I replied, “that will require so much looking after, but one that you know could be trusted anywhere--especially as there will be a little baby to be taken care of.”

“A little baby! Oh! then, if that’s the case, mum,” he had the impudence to say, “I should think you had better have a monthly one while you are about it.”

“A monthly one!” I exclaimed, thinking he was referring to a second Mrs. Toosypegs, instead of a rose; “what can you be thinking of? I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you don’t know how hardy they are, mum,” he added, quite coolly. “I can give you my word, we’ve got one that’s out now, mum, that went through all the severe frosts of last winter with nothing more than a bit of matting as a covering at night-time. Though, for the matter of that, almost all our monthlies are the same, and don’t seem to care where they are put, for really and truly I do think that they would go on just as well, mum, even if their beds were chock full of gravel.”

“I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind,” I said, half offended at what (thanks to that blundering Mr. Dick Farden,) I thought very like the man’s impudence.

“I hope no offence, mum,” he replied; “but you see I must run over what we’ve got. Now, there’s polianthuses. I’m sure you couldn’t have anything much nicer or quieter than that, mum.”

“Polly who?” I inquired.

“Anthus, mum,” he replied.

“Well, what’s that one like?” I asked.

“Oh! the sort is common enough, mum,” he continued--“not very tall, and rather delicate, and will generally have five or six flowers in a cluster at the head--wants a glass, though, if the weather sets in very cold, mum--and----”

“There, that’s enough,” I interrupted, “I’m sick and tired of those common kind of things--they wouldn’t have a glass here, I can tell them.”

“Maybe, then, mum,” he went on, “as it don’t seem as we can suit you with any of those I’ve mentioned, perhaps you don’t want such a thing as an old man.”

“Old man!” I cried. “No, what on earth should I ever do with any old man here, I should like to know?” of course, little dreaming that he was alluding all the while to the plant of that name.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, mum,” he replied, “but I thought yours was just the place for a very fine, and remarkably handsome one that we’ve got, and it struck me that you might have a spare bed that you would like to fill, especially as it would be little or no extra expense for you.”

“No, no, no!” I answered; “I tell you once for all, I’ve no room for any old man here; and, besides, if I had, a nice thing it would be to have him dying directly the cold weather set in.”

“Oh, bless you, mum,” he replied, “a good healthy old man will never die, and look quite lively all the winter through. However, mum, perhaps you’d be kind enough to step round some day to our place, and then we could show you what we’ve got, and you could choose for yourself, mum.”

“Yes,” I answered; “perhaps that would be best, and then I can please myself.”

When the man had gone, I said to myself: “Well, my fine gentleman, I shall never trouble you again,” for I declare that of all the servants I ever heard of, his seemed to be the worst; for, of course, how was I ever to be able to tell that he was only talking of a set of trumpery plants that he had got for sale. I’m sure, if he had two grains of common sense, he ought to have seen that there was some mistake somewhere; though, for the matter of that, I don’t suppose I should ever have found it out myself, had it not been for the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution calling to see me, scarcely half-an-hour afterwards. And then, bless us and save us, if I didn’t go taking him for the nurseryman, though I certainly must do myself the justice to say that I couldn’t help thinking that he looked rather grand for a gardener, with his white cravat, and black coat buttoned up to his chin, and black kid gloves, with the fingers all out, and looking as crumpled and shrivelled as French plums.

No sooner had Mr. Dick Farden told me that the other gentleman that I had sent him for had come, than I had him into the parlour, and told him that if he would step with me into the garden, I would arrange with him what I wanted done to it, and he could let me have his opinion about it. The man opened his eyes, and looked at me as wise as an owl; as, indeed, he might; for what on earth could what my garden wanted doing to it, be to him? When we got there, I declare he must have thought me mad, for I took him right up to the middle of it, and told him, I had made up my mind to have a nice grass plot laid down in the centre, so that my dear little pet might play about on it, without coming to any harm. But he only stared the more, and said, “Very good;” though, of course, if he had spoken his real opinion, he would have said “very strange.” Then I told him I had settled upon having some nice flower-beds all round the sides, and said I thought it would look very pretty; on which he looked at me for a short time, with his mouth wide open, as much as to say, “Surely the woman must be out of her mind;” but he only answered, “Indeed.” After that, I asked him what plants he would advise me to have, and whether he thought the soil would be rich enough for dahlias? But, without looking at the ground, and keeping his eye fixed intently on me, he answered, “Certainly;” and then clutching the handle of his umbrella as tight as he could, he retreated several paces off, in a way that I couldn’t for the life of me understand at the time, but which--now that I come to think of it--clearly convinces me that the poor man must have fancied that I had broken loose from Bedlam, and that he expected every minute I should seize hold of the spade, which was within arm’s length of me, and race round the garden after him with it. When I told him that most likely he was not aware of how hard the ground was, and I stamped on it two or three times, and raised myself up on my toes, just to show him that I couldn’t make any impression upon it, the stupid ninny began jumping about and dancing away, and staring at me, till, I declare, his eyes looked for all the world like two farthings. Coupling this with the whole of the man’s previous strange behaviour, upon my word, I thought _he_ had gone stark raving mad, though it’s quite plain to me _now_ that he thought the same of _me_, and was only playing those antics just to humour me. I seized the spade and he opened his umbrella, and there we stood, face to face, thrusting away at one another as hard as ever we could, and all the time jumping and skipping about, like two _dancing_ bears. I gave a loud scream, and he, poor man, retreated as quick as he could do so backwards to the door, where he met with that scoundrel of a Dick Farden, who had been the cause of it all, and whom I no sooner saw than I told him, for Heaven’s sake, to seize that mad friend of his. Then, lawk a daisy! out it all came; and I learnt, to my great horror, that I had been confounding the two men. Of course I apologized to the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution as a lady ought to, telling him that I was extremely sorry that I had mistaken him for a gardener and a madman; but the man went as red in the face as a tomata, with passion, declaring that he had never been so insulted before in all his life, and vowing that he would make me pay for having dragged him all that way, through a broiling sun, upon a fool’s errand; and then out of the house he bounced, like a human cracker.

When the man had left, I declare I was so vexed at having been made such a stupid of, by that shameful vagabond of a Mr. Dick Farden--for, of course, if it hadn’t been for him, the mistake would never have occurred, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if he hadn’t brought it about intentionally, just so as to have a good laugh at me, out of sheer spite at my stopping his wages--I was so vexed with the fellow, I repeat, that I had him up then and there, and told him that he had better not let me see his face within my doors again, or, as sure as his name was Mr. Dick Farden, I would give him in custody. Then it was that I found out what kind of a person I had been harbouring in my house, for although, up to that time, he had been so civil-spoken and respectful, that one would have fancied that butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth, then, of course, because it no longer answered his purpose to behave himself, he turned round and abused me like a pickpocket, until I declare I was so mad that, if I hadn’t been a perfect lady, I should have dusted his jacket and combed his hair nicely for him, that I should--a nasty, good-for-nothing, double-faced, clumsy, cowardly, foul-mouthed monster! Augh! if I detest one thing more than another, it’s people that can’t keep a civil tongue in their heads.