You may solder it up, if you will,
But the place will always show;
It’s better to do, as she and I—
Far better to let it go.
A BAD EGG.
We men and women are, after all, little better than a set of puppets fastened together by a concatenation of unseen wires, so that when one puppet begins dancing at A, another pirouettes at B, which may be ten thousand miles away. The sentiment conveyed in the above apothegm is neither new nor profound, but it is forcibly suggested by the circumstances hereinafter narrated.
Know, then, that in a certain year—no matter when—a dreadful murrain desolated the poultry-yards of the province of Vologda, in Russia. I don’t know whether it was the pip, or the roup, or the gapes, or something quite different to any of these diseases; suffice to say that old Ivan, Count Cochinski’s head-labourer, grew quite stiff in the back from stooping to pick up the dead fowls, for no sooner did he go to one end of the yard to gather up the defunct, than he was summoned by half-a-dozen bodies in the opposite direction. Now, if there was one thing that Count Cochinski liked better than another, it was a new-laid egg. A simple natural taste, you will say, and one easily to be gratified by a wealthy Muscovite nobleman. I grant you, in ordinary times; but this was an extraordinary epoch, when the chickens were playing hazard for their very lives, and were a great deal too nervous and excitable to think of laying any eggs. So Monsieur Crêvecœur, the count’s French cook, was at his wit’s end, and, I suspect, by the event that followed, laid in a stock of those kind of eggs which we see in the cheesemonger’s shops labelled twenty-four a shilling and not warranted.
At all events, one morning as the Count was seated at breakfast (he was a widower) surrounded by his blooming family, and supported at the other end of the table by the English governess, a most estimable lady, of superior birth and irreproachable principles, who had conducted his half-dozen daughters through the whole of Carl Czerny’s hundred-and-one pianoforte exercises with brilliant success, not to speak of other accomplishments: as the Count was seated thus, he suddenly exclaimed in a voice of thunder, which made the glasses on the sideboard ring again, “Send Crêvecœur hither!”
In a few minutes, clad in the white robes of his sacred profession, the high priest of the kitchen appeared, bowing reverently.
“Crêvecœur!” said the Count, displaying an unmistakeable specimen of addledom, “how is this? A bad egg at Count Cochinski’s table!”
“Oh! your highness,” exclaimed the cook, with an insinuating grimace, and a bow so profound, that the Count was enabled to see the nape of the professor’s neck, “that egg was not intended for your highness, it was intended for Madame, the governess.”
The governess darted one withering look of scorn at the Frenchman, gathered up her voluminous skirts, and rushed from the table. There had for long been a smouldering feud between herself and Crêvecœur, but this crowning insult was a declaration of open battle. So she retired to her chamber and composed an eloquent letter, in French, addressed to the Count, the purport of which was that either she or the cook must go, and she hinted politely, in conclusion, that she did not much care which. The fact was that Madame was tired of being frozen up six months of the year, and having scraped together a nice little independence, was anxious to return to her ancestral Upper Holloway. The Count read the letter and pondered. There were many governesses in the world—there was but one Crêvecœur. Madame was somewhat exacting in temper, besides being well stricken in years. The girls were well grounded now in their Czerny, and he should like somebody a thought prettier and younger at the other end of his long table. So Madame departed, and Crêvecœur stayed. Well, the Count thought he also would take a trip to England for the sake of enjoying our delightfully mild winter, and picking up a fresh instructor of his children. The Czar was graciously pleased to grant him permission to travel, and he accordingly proceeded to London. Now you will see how the bad egg in Vologda affected the Reverend Reuben Fowler, curate of Chickenhampstead, Yolkshire.
Reuben was a tall, thin, shambling sort of fellow, whose long legs seemed perpetually apologising for their lengthiness by knocking against each other. He was a quiet youth of simple, contented habits, and was satisfied to do all the parochial work of Chickenhampstead on seventy pounds a-year; while the absentee rector lived in clover at Bath (where he drank the waters for an apoplectic affection), and discharged his conscience of any twinges it might feel by preaching a sermon, once a-year, when he came down for his tithes, and sending Reuben a turkey at Christmas.
Reuben was an orphan, without a near relation in the world, except one sister, and his cup of joy would have been filled to overflowing if that sister had come to live with him. In his collegiate dreams (he was educated at Saint Shells’, a remote provincial college,) he had always pictured Leonora sitting in the snug curacy cottage pouring out the tea, or smiling at him over her embroidery, while he put the finishing touches to his Sunday’s sermon.
But it was ordained otherwise. Leonora was a good-looking young lady, with a trim figure, bright complexion, and glossy black curls. Now natural attractions are set off by dress—Leonora was fond of dress—and as dress costs money, which was a scarce commodity under Reuben’s roof, Leonora preferred going as governess into the family of Sir John Rooster, where she could afford to dress well, and could also be seen when dressed. There she was made quite a pet of. The young ladies loved her like a sister; she talked politics with Sir John, after dinner, to perfection; she flirted with the heir of the house, who was in the Coldstream Guards, when he came down for the hunting season—in short, Lady Rooster, a most amiable woman, troubled with perennial tic-douloureux, became quite uncomfortable about it; and it must have been at her instigation—for I know the
