CHAPTER I. OUR SOCIETY

IN the first place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all thernholders of houses above a certain rent are women.  If a married couplerncome to settle in the town, somehow the gentleman disappears; he isrneither fairly frightened to death by being the only man in the Cranfordrnevening parties, or he is accounted for by being with his regiment, hisrnship, or closely engaged in business all the week in the greatrnneighbouring commercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on arnrailroad.  In short, whatever does become of the gentlemen, they arernnot at Cranford.  What could they do if they were there?  The surgeonrnhas his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but every manrncannot be a surgeon.  For keeping the trim gardens full of choicernflowers without a weed to speck them; for frightening away little boysrnwho look wistfully at the said flowers through the railings; for rushingrnout at the geese that occasionally venture in to the gardens if therngates are left open; for deciding all questions of literature andrnpolitics without troubling themselves with unnecessary reasons orrnarguments; for obtaining clear and correct knowledge of everybody’srnaffairs in the parish; for keeping their neat maid-servants in admirablernorder; for kindness (somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tenderrngood offices to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies ofrnCranford are quite sufficient.  “A man,” as one of them observed to mernonce, “is _so_ in the way in the house!”  Although the ladies ofrnCranford know all each other’s proceedings, they are exceedinglyrnindifferent to each other’s opinions. Indeed, as each has her ownrnindividuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly developed,rnnothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but, somehow, good-willrnreigns among them to a considerable degree.rnrnThe Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel, spirited outrnin a few peppery words and angry jerks of the head; just enough tornprevent the even tenor of their lives from becoming too flat.  Theirrndress is very independent of fashion; as they observe, “What does itrnsignify how we dress here at Cranford, where everybody knows us?”  Andrnif they go from home, their reason is equally cogent, “What does itrnsignify how we dress here, where nobody knows us?”  The materials ofrntheir clothes are, in general, good and plain, and most of them arernnearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler, of cleanly memory; but I willrnanswer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petticoat inrnwear in England, was seen in Cranford—and seen without a smile.rnrn            [Picture: A magnificent family red silk umbrella]rnrnI can testify to a magnificent family red silk umbrella, under which arngentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and sisters, used tornpatter to church on rainy days.  Have you any red silk umbrellas inrnLondon?  We had a tradition of the first that had ever been seen inrnCranford; and the little boys mobbed it, and called it “a stick inrnpetticoats.”  It might have been the very red silk one I have described,rnheld by a strong father over a troop of little ones; the poor littlernlady—the survivor of all—could scarcely carry it.rnrnThen there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls; and theyrnwere announced to any young people who might be staying in the town,rnwith all the solemnity with which the old Manx laws were read once arnyear on the Tinwald Mount.rnrn“Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your journeyrnto-night, my dear” (fifteen miles in a gentleman’s carriage); “they willrngive you some rest to-morrow, but the next day, I have no doubt, theyrnwill call; so be at liberty after twelve—from twelve to three are ourrncalling hours.”rnrnThen, after they had called—rnrn“It is the third day; I dare say your mamma has told you, my dear, neverrnto let more than three days elapse between receiving a call andrnreturning it; and also, that you are never to stay longer than a quarterrnof an hour.”rnrn“But am I to look at my watch?  How am I to find out when a quarter ofrnan hour has passed?”rnrn“You must keep thinking about the time, my dear, and not allow yourselfrnto forget it in conversation.”rnrnAs everybody had this rule in their minds, whether they received or paidrna call, of course no absorbing subject was ever spoken about.  We keptrnourselves to short sentences of small talk, and were punctual to ourrntime.rnrnI imagine that a few of the gentlefolks of Cranford were poor, and hadrnsome difficulty in making both ends meet; but they were like thernSpartans, and concealed their smart under a smiling face.  We none of usrnspoke of money, because that subject savoured of commerce and trade, andrnthough some might be poor, we were all aristocratic.  The Cranfordiansrnhad that kindly _esprit de corps_ which made them overlook allrndeficiencies in success when some among them tried to conceal theirrnpoverty.  When Mrs Forrester, for instance, gave a party in herrnbaby-house of a dwelling, and the little maiden disturbed the ladies onrnthe sofa by a request that she might get the tea-tray out fromrnunderneath, everyone took this novel proceeding as the most naturalrnthing in the world, and talked on about household forms and ceremoniesrnas if we all believed that our hostess had a regular servants’ hall,rnsecond table, with housekeeper and steward, instead of the one littlerncharity-school maiden, whose short ruddy arms could never have beenrnstrong enough to carry the tray upstairs, if she had not been assistedrnin private by her mistress, who now sat in state, pretending not to knowrnwhat cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew thatrnwe knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy allrnthe morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes.rnrnThere were one or two consequences arising from this general butrnunacknowledged poverty, and this very much acknowledged gentility, whichrnwere not amiss, and which might be introduced into many circles ofrnsociety to their great improvement.  For instance, the inhabitants ofrnCranford kept early hours, and clattered home in their pattens, underrnthe guidance of a lantern-bearer, about nine o’clock at night; and thernwhole town was abed and asleep by half-past ten.  Moreover, it wasrnconsidered “vulgar” (a tremendous word in Cranford) to give anythingrnexpensive, in the way of eatable or drinkable, at the eveningrnentertainments.  Wafer bread-and-butter and sponge-biscuits were allrnthat the Honourable Mrs Jamieson gave; and she was sister-in-law to thernlate Earl of Glenmire, although she did practise such “elegant economy.”rnrn“Elegant economy!”  How naturally one falls back into the phraseology ofrnCranford!  There, economy was always “elegant,” and money-spendingrnalways “vulgar and ostentatious”; a sort of sour-grapeism which made usrnvery peaceful and satisfied.  I never shall forget the dismay felt whenrna certain Captain Brown came to live at Cranford, and openly spoke aboutrnhis being poor—not in a whisper to an intimate friend, the doors andrnwindows being previously closed, but in the public street! in a loudrnmilitary voice! alleging his poverty as a reason for not taking arnparticular house.  The ladies of Cranford were already rather moaningrnover the invasion of their territories by a man and a gentleman.  He wasrna half-pay captain, and had obtained some situation on a neighbouringrnrailroad, which had been vehemently petitioned against by the littlerntown; and if, in addition to his masculine gender, and his connectionrnwith the obnoxious railroad, he was so brazen as to talk of beingrnpoor—why, then, indeed, he must be sent to Coventry.  Death was as truernand as common as poverty; yet people never spoke about that, loud out inrnthe streets.  It was a word not to be mentioned to ears polite.  We hadrntacitly agreed to ignore that any with whom we associated on terms ofrnvisiting equality could ever be prevented by poverty from doing anythingrnthat they wished.  If we walked to or from a party, it was because thernnight was _so_ fine, or the air _so_ refreshing, not becausernsedan-chairs were expensive.  If we wore prints, instead of summerrnsilks, it was because we preferred a washing material; and so on, tillrnwe blinded ourselves to the vulgar fact that we were, all of us, peoplernof very moderate means.  Of course, then, we did not know what to makernof a man who could speak of poverty as if it was not a disgrace.  Yet,rnsomehow, Captain Brown made himself respected in Cranford, and wasrncalled upon, in spite of all resolutions to the contrary.  I wasrnsurprised to hear his opinions quoted as authority at a visit which Irnpaid to Cranford about a year after he had settled in the town.  My ownrnfriends had been among the bitterest opponents of any proposal to visitrnthe Captain and his daughters, only twelve months before; and now he wasrneven admitted in the tabooed hours before twelve.  True, it was torndiscover the cause of a smoking chimney, before the fire was lighted;rnbut still Captain Brown walked upstairs, nothing daunted, spoke in arnvoice too large for the room, and joked quite in the way of a tame manrnabout the house.  He had been blind to all the small slights, andrnomissions of trivial ceremonies, with which he had been received.  Hernhad been friendly, though the Cranford ladies had been cool; he hadrnanswered small sarcastic compliments in good faith; and with his manlyrnfrankness had overpowered all the shrinking which met him as a man whornwas not ashamed to be poor. And, at last, his excellent masculine commonrnsense, and his facility in devising expedients to overcome domesticrndilemmas, had gained him an extraordinary place as authority among thernCranford ladies.  He himself went on in his course, as unaware of hisrnpopularity as he had been of the reverse; and I am sure he was startledrnone day when he found his advice so highly esteemed as to make somerncounsel which he had given in jest to be taken in sober, seriousrnearnest.rnrnIt was on this subject: An old lady had an Alderney cow, which shernlooked upon as a daughter.  You could not pay the short quarter of anrnhour call without being told of the wonderful milk or wonderfulrnintelligence of this animal.  The whole town knew and kindly regardedrnMiss Betsy Barker’s Alderney; therefore great was the sympathy andrnregret when, in an unguarded moment, the poor cow tumbled into arnlime-pit.  She moaned so loudly that she was soon heard and rescued; butrnmeanwhile the poor beast had lost most of her hair, and came out lookingrnnaked, cold, and miserable, in a bare skin.  Everybody pitied thernanimal, though a few could not restrain their smiles at her drollrnappearance.  Miss Betsy Barker absolutely cried with sorrow and dismay;rnand it was said she thought of trying a bath of oil.  This remedy,rnperhaps, was recommended by some one of the number whose advice shernasked; but the proposal, if ever it was made, was knocked on the head byrnCaptain Brown’s decided “Get her a flannel waistcoat and flannelrndrawers, ma’am, if you wish to keep her alive.  But my advice is, killrnthe poor creature at once.”rnrnMiss Betsy Barker dried her eyes, and thanked the Captain heartily; shernset to work, and by-and-by all the town turned out to see the Alderneyrnmeekly going to her pasture, clad in dark grey flannel.  I have watchedrnher myself many a time.  Do you ever see cows dressed in grey flannel inrnLondon?rnrn                  [Picture: Meekly going to her pasture]rnrnCaptain Brown had taken a small house on the outskirts of the town,rnwhere he lived with his two daughters.  He must have been upwards ofrnsixty at the time of the first visit I paid to Cranford after I had leftrnit as a residence.  But he had a wiry, well-trained, elastic figure, arnstiff military throw-back of his head, and a springing step, which madernhim appear much younger than he was.  His eldest daughter looked almostrnas old as himself, and betrayed the fact that his real was more than hisrnapparent age.  Miss Brown must have been forty; she had a sickly,rnpained, careworn expression on her face, and looked as if the gaiety ofrnyouth had long faded out of sight.  Even when young she must have beenrnplain and hard-featured.  Miss Jessie Brown was ten years younger thanrnher sister, and twenty shades prettier.  Her face was round and dimpled. Miss Jenkyns once said, in a passion against Captain Brown (the causernof which I will tell you presently), “that she thought it was time forrnMiss Jessie to leave off her dimples, and not always to be trying tornlook like a child.”  It was true there was something childlike in herrnface; and there will be, I think, till she dies, though she should livernto a hundred. Her eyes were large blue wondering eyes, looking straightrnat you; her nose was unformed and snub, and her lips were red and dewy;rnshe wore her hair, too, in little rows of curls, which heightened thisrnappearance.  I do not know whether she was pretty or not; but I likedrnher face, and so did everybody, and I do not think she could help herrndimples.  She had something of her father’s jauntiness of gait andrnmanner; and any female observer might detect a slight difference in thernattire of the two sisters—that of Miss Jessie being about two pounds perrnannum more expensive than Miss Brown’s.  Two pounds was a large sum inrnCaptain Brown’s annual disbursements.rnrnSuch was the impression made upon me by the Brown family when I firstrnsaw them all together in Cranford Church.  The Captain I had metrnbefore—on the occasion of the smoky chimney, which he had cured by somernsimple alteration in the flue.  In church, he held his double eye-glassrnto his eyes during the Morning Hymn, and then lifted up his head erectrnand sang out loud and joyfully.  He made the responses louder than thernclerk—an old man with a piping feeble voice, who, I think, feltrnaggrieved at the Captain’s sonorous bass, and quivered higher and higherrnin consequence.rnrnOn coming out of church, the brisk Captain paid the most gallantrnattention to his two daughters.  He nodded and smiled to hisrnacquaintances; but he shook hands with none until he had helped MissrnBrown to unfurl her umbrella, had relieved her of her prayer-book, andrnhad waited patiently till she, with trembling nervous hands, had takenrnup her gown to walk through the wet roads.rnrnI wonder what the Cranford ladies did with Captain Brown at theirrnparties.  We had often rejoiced, in former days, that there was norngentleman to be attended to, and to find conversation for, at therncard-parties.  We had congratulated ourselves upon the snugness of thernevenings; and, in our love for gentility, and distaste of mankind, wernhad almost persuaded ourselves that to be a man was to be “vulgar”; sornthat when I found my friend and hostess, Miss Jenkyns, was going to haverna party in my honour, and that Captain and the Miss Browns were invited,rnI wondered much what would be the course of the evening.  Card-tables,rnwith green baize tops, were set out by daylight, just as usual; it wasrnthe third week in November, so the evenings closed in about four.rnCandles, and clean packs of cards, were arranged on each table.  Thernfire was made up; the neat maid-servant had received her lastrndirections; and there we stood, dressed in our best, each with arncandle-lighter in our hands, ready to dart at the candles as soon as thernfirst knock came.  Parties in Cranford were solemn festivities, makingrnthe ladies feel gravely elated as they sat together in their bestrndresses.  As soon as three had arrived, we sat down to “Preference,” Irnbeing the unlucky fourth.  The next four comers were put downrnimmediately to another table; and presently the tea-trays, which I hadrnseen set out in the store-room as I passed in the morning, were placedrneach on the middle of a card-table. The china was delicate egg-shell;rnthe old-fashioned silver glittered with polishing; but the eatables werernof the slightest description.  While the trays were yet on the tables,rnCaptain and the Miss Browns came in; and I could see that, somehow orrnother, the Captain was a favourite with all the ladies present.  Ruffledrnbrows were smoothed, sharp voices lowered at his approach.  Miss Brownrnlooked ill, and depressed almost to gloom. Miss Jessie smiled as usual,rnand seemed nearly as popular as her father. He immediately and quietlyrnassumed the man’s place in the room; attended to every one’s wants,rnlessened the pretty maid-servant’s labour by waiting on empty cups andrnbread-and-butterless ladies; and yet did it all in so easy and dignifiedrna manner, and so much as if it were a matter of course for the strong tornattend to the weak, that he was a true man throughout.  He played forrnthreepenny points with as grave an interest as if they had been pounds;rnand yet, in all his attention to strangers, he had an eye on hisrnsuffering daughter—for suffering I was sure she was, though to many eyesrnshe might only appear to be irritable.  Miss Jessie could not playrncards: but she talked to the sitters-out, who, before her coming, hadrnbeen rather inclined to be cross.  She sang, too, to an old crackedrnpiano, which I think had been a spinet in its youth.  Miss Jessie sang,“Jock of Hazeldean” a little out of tune; but we were none of usrnmusical, though Miss Jenkyns beat time, out of time, by way of appearingrnto be so.rnrnIt was very good of Miss Jenkyns to do this; for I had seen that, arnlittle before, she had been a good deal annoyed by Miss Jessie Brown’srnunguarded admission (_à propos_ of Shetland wool) that she had an uncle,rnher mother’s brother, who was a shopkeeper in Edinburgh.  Miss Jenkynsrntried to drown this confession by a terrible cough—for the HonourablernMrs Jamieson was sitting at a card-table nearest Miss Jessie, and whatrnwould she say or think if she found out she was in the same room with arnshop-keeper’s niece!  But Miss Jessie Brown (who had no tact, as we allrnagreed the next morning) _would_ repeat the information, and assure MissrnPole she could easily get her the identical Shetland wool required,“through my uncle, who has the best assortment of Shetland goods of anyrnone in Edinbro’.”  It was to take the taste of this out of our mouths,rnand the sound of this out of our ears, that Miss Jenkyns proposed music;rnso I say again, it was very good of her to beat time to the song.rnrnWhen the trays re-appeared with biscuits and wine, punctually at arnquarter to nine, there was conversation, comparing of cards, and talkingrnover tricks; but by-and-by Captain Brown sported a bit of literature.rnrn“Have you seen any numbers of ‘The Pickwick Papers’?” said he.  (Theyrnwere then publishing in parts.)  “Capital thing!”rnrnNow Miss Jenkyns was daughter of a deceased rector of Cranford; and, onrnthe strength of a number of manuscript sermons, and a pretty goodrnlibrary of divinity, considered herself literary, and looked upon anyrnconversation about books as a challenge to her.  So she answered andrnsaid, “Yes, she had seen them; indeed, she might say she had read them.”rnrn“And what do you think of them?” exclaimed Captain Brown.  “Aren’t theyrnfamously good?”rnrnSo urged Miss Jenkyns could not but speak.rnrn“I must say, I don’t think they are by any means equal to Dr Johnson.rnStill, perhaps, the author is young.  Let him persevere, and who knowsrnwhat he may become if he will take the great Doctor for his model?”rnThis was evidently too much for Captain Brown to take placidly; and Irnsaw the words on the tip of his tongue before Miss Jenkyns had finishedrnher sentence.rnrn“It is quite a different sort of thing, my dear madam,” he began.rnrn“I am quite aware of that,” returned she.  “And I make allowances,rnCaptain Brown.”rnrn“Just allow me to read you a scene out of this month’s number,” pleadedrnhe.  “I had it only this morning, and I don’t think the company can havernread it yet.”rnrn“As you please,” said she, settling herself with an air of resignation.rnHe read the account of the “swarry” which Sam Weller gave at Bath.  Somernof us laughed heartily.  _I_ did not dare, because I was staying in thernhouse.  Miss Jenkyns sat in patient gravity.  When it was ended, shernturned to me, and said with mild dignity—rnrn“Fetch me ‘Rasselas,’ my dear, out of the book-room.”rnrnWhen I had brought it to her, she turned to Captain Brown—rnrn“Now allow _me_ to read you a scene, and then the present company canrnjudge between your favourite, Mr Boz, and Dr Johnson.”rnrnShe read one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac, in arnhigh-pitched, majestic voice: and when she had ended, she said, “Irnimagine I am now justified in my preference of Dr Johnson as a writer ofrnfiction.”  The Captain screwed his lips up, and drummed on the table,rnbut he did not speak.  She thought she would give him a finishing blowrnor two.rnrn         [Picture: Endeavouring to beguile her into conversation]rnrn“I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature, to publishrnin numbers.”rnrn“How was the _Rambler_ published, ma’am?” asked Captain Brown in a lowrnvoice, which I think Miss Jenkyns could not have heard.rnrn“Dr Johnson’s style is a model for young beginners.  My fatherrnrecommended it to me when I began to write letters—I have formed my ownrnstyle upon it; I recommend it to your favourite.”rnrn“I should be very sorry for him to exchange his style for any suchrnpompous writing,” said Captain Brown.rnrnMiss Jenkyns felt this as a personal affront, in a way of which thernCaptain had not dreamed.  Epistolary writing she and her friendsrnconsidered as her _forte_.  Many a copy of many a letter have I seenrnwritten and corrected on the slate, before she “seized the half-hourrnjust previous to post-time to assure” her friends of this or of that;rnand Dr Johnson was, as she said, her model in these compositions.  Sherndrew herself up with dignity, and only replied to Captain Brown’s lastrnremark by saying, with marked emphasis on every syllable, “I prefer DrrnJohnson to Mr Boz.”rnrnIt is said—I won’t vouch for the fact—that Captain Brown was heard tornsay, _sotto voce_, “D—n Dr Johnson!”  If he did, he was penitentrnafterwards, as he showed by going to stand near Miss Jenkyns’ arm-chair,rnand endeavouring to beguile her into conversation on some more pleasingrnsubject.  But she was inexorable.  The next day she made the remark Irnhave mentioned about Miss Jessie’s dimples.rnrn