Tales of the Wonder Club Volume II Part 40

"What! French again, you monkey, to my face! Would you add insult to injury?" said the incensed antiquary.

But calming down at length, said, "Well, well, lad, I acquit you this time, for I verily believe that those two gentlemen in the corner there (pointing to Messrs. Blackdeed and Crucible) are more to blame than yourself for startling me out of my self-possession by the tenor of their conversation.

"Mr. Blackdeed, and you too, Mr. Crucible, you are both perfectly aware that such conversation is not to be tolerated in the club. I am surprised and grieved to be obliged to remind two such old members of our society of their duty, and in order to put a check upon such lamentable want of discipline, I condemn you Mr. Blackdeed to recite one of your own tragedies at full length, and you Mr. Crucible to be ready with a story when next called upon."

Both of the gentlemen addressed looked abashed, and muttered something in the shape of an apology. Having conscientiously discharged his duty, Mr. Oldstone re-settled himself on his chair, and the operation proceeded.

Master Suds was the first to endeavour to restore equanimity.

"A fine day, sir," he said, "for this time of the year."

"Humph!" grunted the antiquary, who was soaped up to the eyes, and was forced to keep his mouth shut to avoid having the lather rubbed down his throat.

"Yes, sir," continued the barber, "as you say, sir, it _be_ fine weather sure_ly_, but it be still finer t'other side of the channel, _a Paris_; that is to say, where I have been staying for the last six months. Fine city Paris, sir, very. _Mon Dieu_, what streets! what shops! What a treat it be of a morning to rise early and take a promenade on the Bullyvards!"

"On the what?" inquired his customer.

"On the Bullyvards. Ah! I see, sir, you do not understand what that means. Well that is the name the French give to those streets as has trees a running alongside of 'em. Ah! sir, fine people the French, in their way--understand more of barber-craft than they do in this country.

Why, an English barber who has never been out of his own country is quite an ignoramus alongside a French barber. But I could teach a trick or two to some of my countrymen in the line that would astonish them, having been over there long enough to get into the manners and customs of the natives. But I say, sir, what a nation they be for quarrelling amongst themselves, to be sure! There's this here revolution still going on. What it will all end in goodness only knows. What do _you_ say, sir?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," replied Mr. Oldstone, irritably. "They may all go to----"

A fresh rub of the lather over his mouth prevented the antiquary from finishing his sentence. The pertinacious barber was not to be put down.

"Ah, sir," he continued, "I could tell you some mighty strange tales about that same revolution."

"Oh, indeed!" broke in Mr. Hardcase. "The members of this club are fond of hearing tales, but they don't relish much anything connected with politics. In fact the tales permitted within these walls are almost entirely of the supernatural order."

"The supernatural!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the barber. "Parbleu! is that still believed in this country? I promise you our French friends don't believe in that, or anything else, for aught I know."

"I know they don't, the infidel puppies," growled the antiquary; "but we do. Do we not, gentlemen?"

"Ay, indeed!" answered the members of the club with one accord.

"Do you indeed, gentlemen!" exclaimed the astonished barber. "Well, it ain't often that one finds gentlemen of your standing that will own so much, but as you gentlemen all declare you believe in such things, I don't mind telling you that I myself am also a believer."

"Ah!" said Mr. Oldstone, beginning to be interested.

"Yes, sir, I am indeed," replied the barber.

"Come, now," said Mr. Crucible, "if you could tell us of some experience of yours that bordered on the supernatural, I'd answer for Mr.

Oldstone's listening to you."

By this time the antiquary was released from the clutches of the barber, and Mr. Hardcase, wishing to profit by the occasion, took his place on the chair, and a second edition of the lathering began.

"Well," said Oldstone, feeling himself considerably more comfortable, and throwing himself back complacently in an easy-chair, "you say--ahem!--that you--you, at least I have been given to understand that you have, at some period of your life, had some experience--ahem!--of the supernatural."

"There, I knew he was burning to hear a story," cried all the members at once, quizzingly.

"Well, Mounseer Suds, out with it, let's hear."

Thus encouraged, the barber put on a grave and important look, and began his story in these words.

Well then, gentlemen, since you deign to encourage me, I must next trespa.s.s on your patience whilst I enter upon some particulars about my family. I was born in this village some five-and-twenty years back, and at a very early age the genius of the barber began to develop itself in me. My father was a barber before me, and so was my grandfather and great-grandfather, too, as I have heard my father say. In fact, from time immemorial the Suds have been barbers. Descended from a long line of this honourable profession, and literally reared in lather, having my youthful imagination fired by the tales of my father and grandfather of the great people they had shaved in their day, what wonder that, at a precocious age, I should yearn to wield the weapon of my ancestors, and even aspire to be more eminent in the line than any of my predecessors?

It was the height of my father's ambition--who was great in his way, and added to the ordinary routine of business the higher branches of the art, such as bleeding, tooth drawing, quack salving, and the like--that I, his only son, should step into his shoes, and hand down the name of "Suds" in all its unblemished purity.

"Joe," he would say to me, "when I am gone to my long account, who will there be to support your poor mother unless you fix upon some honest trade for a livelihood?"

"And what trade should I fix upon, if not yours, father?" I would reply.

"Well, Joe, my boy," he would say, "if you would be a true barber, and uphold the honour of the family, recollect that no excellence is achieved without constant practice. The primary rules of barber-craft are simple. Keep your razors sharp and free from rust, your water boiling; spare not the lather, and rub it well in before you begin to shave; dip the razor in the boiling water, and work with a steady hand."

I promised him that I would abide by his instructions, and although up to a certain age I was not permitted to handle a razor, I was, nevertheless, always in my father's shop, and watched with admiring eyes the masterly way in which my progenitor finished off his customers. In the case of a tooth having to be drawn, or a vein opened, I was never missing, and great was my pride should my father call upon me now and then to render him some trifling a.s.sistance. I might have been about seven years old when I made my first essay.

It was about Christmas time, and my father had just killed a pig, which he had left hung up by the legs in the yard. Being left alone for a few minutes, a bright idea struck me. I would try my "'prentice han'" on the carcase of the porker. So, locking all the doors so as not to be interrupted, I mixed up a lather and, with one of my father's well-sharpened razors, I commenced operations. Whilst thus busily employed, I was attracted by the sound of smothered laughter, and looking up at the window of our next-door neighbour's house, which looked into our yard, I beheld some dozen of the neighbours, who had been called in to witness my performance. I thought they would have died with laughter. However, nothing daunted, I proceeded diligently with my task, until my father, rattling at the door, demanded instant admittance. I was forced to admit him, and when he saw what I had been about, he quickly s.n.a.t.c.hed the razor from my hand, and calling me "a dirty young dog," administered to me a slight kick behind, although I thought at the time, by the expression on his face, and likewise by that on my mother's, that my parents felt inwardly proud of their son.

An interval of two years now elapsed before I again put hand to razor. I remember that at this time I was nine years old, and it was when I was at this tender age that my poor father caught a fever and died.

As you may suppose, gentlemen, it was a terrible blow to my poor widowed mother, who, besides the grief she naturally felt for the loss of an affectionate husband, found herself now alone in the world with a growing lad to support as well as herself by the scanty proceeds of the business.

It was some little time before I could realise the fact that my father was actually dead. When my mother first brought me the startling news I heard it in a sort of stupor, resembling insensibility, out of which I did not awake until the undertaker arrived with the coffin, when the whole extent of our calamity seemed to dawn upon me for the first time, and I fairly howled for grief. Whilst thus indulging my sorrow, a few neighbours dropped in to see my father laid out in his coffin before he was nailed down. I heard my mother make something like an apology for showing her husband's body before it had been shaved. I stopped short in my sobbing and mused awhile. It was then the custom to shave a corpse before consigning it to its last home. Who was to perform this duty?

Here the instinct of the barber came over me. Not a moment was to be lost if I really intended to put my plan into practice. Yes, I myself would shave my father's corpse, and no other. Accordingly, as my mother was showing out the neighbours and listening to their well meant condolences on the threshold, I quickly locked myself into the room with the corpse, having previously procured the apparatus necessary for the operation. I bore in my mind my father's instructions, "Keep your razor sharp, and free from rust; let the water be boiling, and don't spare the lather, but rub it well in before you begin." I now proceeded to put my father's advice into practice; so, lathering well the face of the corpse, and rubbing the suds well in, I proceeded to wield the razor with a dexterity at first that surprised me with my own performance and encouraged me to attempt something of that "nonchalance" of style that I had observed my father adopt whilst shaving his customers, but which is not looked upon as quite safe until one has undergone considerable practice.

Now, this was only my second attempt; still, I was so elated at having gone through the shaving of both cheeks as well as the throat, without a single cut, that I already deemed myself a proficient in the art, and affected that air of ease and careless grace I have just alluded to whilst I attempted the sc.r.a.ping of the upper lip, when, oh, horror! the razor gave an untimely slip, and sliced my father's nose off! I dropped the razor in my fright, and I really wonder I did not go off in a fit on the spot, such was the thrill of terror that seized me as I gazed on the ghastly hideousness of my father's corpse as it lay noseless in its coffin. I staggered and almost fell to the ground, but mustering all my courage, I picked up the nose and clapped it on in its place. I remember that in my eagerness and hurry I stuck it on the wrong way, with the nostrils upwards, which gave an appearance at once fearful and ludicrous to its ghastly features. It rolled off, however, immediately, and I hastened to rectify my mistake, and after much care and adroitness, succeeded in poising the feature nicely in the centre of the face, in the hopes that it would adhere of its own accord to the spot, and proceeded with the operation; but, alas, no sooner had I begun to meddle with the upper lip, than off rolled the nose again, so I just let it be this time until I had completed the operation.

Having, with the exception of this trifling accident, shaved the corpse of my father to a nicety, I wiped off the lather, replaced the nose, and quitted the room, carrying back my shaving tackle to the shop.

Shortly afterwards my mother entered the room, and was surprised at finding the corpse already shaved. She had intended shaving it herself.

I was silent on the subject, and she inquired no further into the matter, being too absorbed with her grief.

Presently the undertaker returned to nail up the coffin, and my mother hastened to give my father one last parting kiss before he was nailed up for ever. Suddenly I heard a shriek, and rushing into the room, found my mother in hysterics. The cause was obvious. In approaching her lips to those of her defunct spouse, the nose had unexpectedly rolled off, causing a shock similar to that I experienced myself when I so unskilfully amputated my father's nasal protuberance. When my mother came to, I made a clean breast of my awkwardness, for which I received a severe scolding, accompanied by sundry boxes on the ear. At length the coffin was nailed up, and I followed it with my mother to the grave, but for nights afterwards, my noseless father haunted me in my dreams, carrying a basin of suds in one hand, and holding his nose between finger and thumb with the other, as if to reproach me with my awkwardness.

When I related these dreams to my mother, she became uneasy in her mind, and declared that all through my awkwardness my father was unable to find rest in the tomb. She was a great believer in dreams, visions, omens, prophecies, and the like, and said that the dream boded no good.

Being a mere child then, I became infected with her fears, though as I grew up I began to reason with myself that a dream of that sort might very well be accounted for by the excited state of my brain at the time and tendency of my waking thoughts, without jumping at once at the conclusion that there was anything supernatural in it.

For some time after my father's death I used to pester my mother with many of those questions that children are so fond of asking, and mothers find so difficult to answer--viz., concerning Heaven, and a future state after death. She used to tell me that Heaven was a place for all good people, far, far away, high up above the stars, where good folks lived on for ever, and never grew old, and never to die any more; that they were very happy, and knew no more pain or sorrow, but became as the angels, and had wings and sang praises to G.o.d all day long on a cloud. Moreover, that it was very light and bright there, that all was endless sunshine, and the angels were dressed in shining garments, etc.

Still, I was anxious to know more about Heaven; how long it took to get there--being so far off; whether father wouldn't get tired flying all that distance, and if so, where he would stop to rest on the road; what sort of amus.e.m.e.nts there were in Heaven, and finally whether there was any shaving there. This last question was a puzzler. I was not to be put off by mother telling me that angels didn't require shaving, for then I argued that if father had gone to Heaven, he would be out of employment, and consequently miserable and not happy, for I knew what pleasure my father took in his business. Now if my father could not be happy without employment, the only employment he cared about being shaving, and if in Heaven that employment were not permitted or encouraged, it followed that my father could not be in Heaven, for who ever heard of a soul in Heaven and not happy?

My next question was whether there were any shaving in the other place.

This was equally difficult to answer, for if my mother should admit that there was, then I should have argued that my father must be there, which would not have been a consoling idea, and if not, where should he be, since he could not be in either of these places? My mother was fain to confess that she did not know much about it, but said she would ask the minister. Whether she did or not, I never ascertained. I began to reflect for myself. The apostles were good men, as I had been given to understand, and good men always went to Heaven. Yet from their effigies upon the old stained-gla.s.s windows of the village church, they were all represented with long beards. Therefore barber-craft could not be encouraged in Heaven. Nothing could be more conclusive than this. My doubts were at rest for ever, but I felt less happy than before I began to argue on these matters.

Ever since my father's death the whole weight of the business fell upon my mother. Even in my father's lifetime she had so profited by his lessons as to be able to lend a helping hand occasionally when the customers were numerous and was thought to possess no inconsiderable skill in the art, but now that my father was no more, she had to put her shoulder to the wheel for her very bread. As for myself, it was long before our villagers could be induced to place any confidence in my shaving, the report of my father's unlucky amputation having spread like wildfire through the neighbourhood.

At length a strange gentleman pa.s.sed through the village, and calling at our shop, demanded to be shaved. My mother not being in at the time, I offered my services, which were accepted, and acquitted myself to the entire satisfaction of my customer. The gentleman chancing to mention to someone that he had been shaved by a mere boy, and better than he had ever been shaved in his life, my fame began to spread in the village, and from that day we were in no want of customers.

Business went on swimmingly until I was twelve years old, when I had the misfortune to lose my poor mother. I was now quite alone in the world, so in order to instruct myself more fully in the higher branches of the art, such as wig making, hair-cutting, etc., I offered myself as apprentice under the late Mr. Hackchin, under whose tuition in the wig line I vastly improved, although even from the beginning my shaving was universally preferred to his. Lor, sirs! his razors were never sharp, his water always lukewarm, and his hand shook as with the palsy. The fact was, he was getting old, was my poor employer, and ought, in my opinion, to have given up business long before he did, when he might have retired from the field with all due honours, and handed down his name unstained to posterity.