Chit-chat, or Short Tales in Short Words

by Maria Elizabeth Budden

Paul, nothing daunted, replied:—"We have too good a table,—too good a chamber—and one meal too much."—"Speak for yourself, Paul—not one of these excesses do I feel."—"Well, then, I will speak for myself: I will seek a humbler dwelling, a humbler board and do without our last meal."—"Without tea! Oh! you Goth! 'tis the pleasantest of our repasts. The bubbling urn, the blazing fire, the buttered toast, bright glances and sunny smiles. Oh! Paul! I cannot give up our cheerful tea parties."—"Pleasant, I grant you; but not necessary: and just now, you know, we are cutting close."—"Close, with a vengeance, when you cut out our tea and toast! And how many pence does your honour calculate, these shavings,—I should say, savings, will save?"—"Pounds, I should think."—"Try, my good fellow,—by all means, try! For my part, I shall keep well here; follow the Italian motto—Sto bene, sto qui."—"You are making a sad blunder about that oft repeated epitaph."—"So I am: upon consideration, it is more likely to suit you; for, now I remember, it may be versioned thus:—"I was well—I desired to be better—and I am here," alias, in the church-yard—just where you will be, Paul, if you follow up this starving labouring system."—"I shall speak to my landlady, this very day."—"I do not envy you the scene—she will be terribly angry, and you will look horridly sheepish."—"Angry she may be; but is her anger to prevent me doing what I ought to do?"—"Certainly not valiant Signor! But, as I am a lover of peace and quietness, I beg to be excused seconding the motion."

The landlady was terribly angry. Paul was regular in his payments—orderly in his habits—gentlemanly in his manners. His merits drew upon him the good woman's ire; and, certainly, he had no pleasant scene with her. But steady and resolved, her warmth "passed by him as the idle wind." He gave her all the dues of justice and courtesy—proper warning and civil demeanour; and then, though she continued to look offended, he paid her, and departed.

Clement, more governed by her violence than he cared to own, remained in her house; and thus, for the first time in their lives, the brothers dwelt apart.

Paul's new abode was sufficiently homely. A chamber so small, that, by ingenious contrivance alone, could he store into it his few books, his desk, his clothes. Furniture, of the simplest description;—a bed, a table, a chair. A window looking upon roofs and chimneys; and a dark narrow staircase, creaking beneath his feet. What were the recommendations? Not cheapness only. No: Paul was not penny wise and pound foolish. He knew, a respectable abode, and respectable hosts, were necessary to his reputation. He principally chose his lodging, because the worthy couple keeping it, had long been known to his family.

Their better rooms were permanently occupied; and the small apartment he now engaged he had before deemed unfit. But his views were changed: he knew his good hostess would conscientiously help him to economize; and this being his great object, just then, he yielded up all personal indulgence for its attainment.

It was attained:—Paul was surprised at the difference of his expenditure. Excepting the tea, which he rigorously interdicted, he lived as well as ever he had done, and for two-thirds the expense. He laid his first month's charges before Clement. Clement only laughed at the petty reduction. "Oh yes! I see you save a few pounds."—"Few! more than twenty, Clement, in the year!"—"Well! and what is that? A mere trifle towards two hundred."—"Yet something towards it."—"Yes; but nothing to what my ticket may bring me."—"May bring. Of my money I am assured."—"Well, well, my good fellow! follow your own plan; I shall follow mine. We both aim at the same point, and we shall see who attains it."—"But, my dear Clement—"—"Now, Paul, don't begin preaching. I am as old and as fit as you to govern myself. I did not come here for a lecture: I merely called to ask, if you would go to the play to-night."—"To the play! You have silver tickets?"—"Yes, my boy! silver tickets; for my shillings will purchase them."—"And how can you be so extravagant?"—"I go very seldom—just into the pit—the expense is nothing—and Drury Lane is my delight."

Paul looked grave—Clement laughed, or rather tried to laugh; for his conscience was not quite at peace: it was therefore he had called, in hopes his brother, by accompanying him, would have sanctioned, and thereby pacified his secret remorse. He went to the play: thought of his mother, and did not enjoy it: joined some gay associates, to drive away thought: adjourned with them to an oyster shop: spent more money than he cared to reckon, and returned home, tired, cross, and minus seven shillings.

This did not happen often; but it happened often enough to draw from Clement's purse some pounds in the course of the year. And then his dress:—the coat in which Paul could appear at the office, would not at all suit Clement in Drury Lane; so, one coat, at least, swelled his taylor's bill for his theatrical beauism. We will say nothing of gloves dirted, hats crushed, and umbrellas lost.

Paul sought in vain for extra employment. His evenings were so wholly and uninterruptedly his own, that he could have effected much business. He intimated his wish to all who were likely to assist him.—No profitable occupation could be obtained. Clement, though sorry for his brother's disappointment, could not, or more properly speaking, would not resist taunting him with his false expectations. "Almost as bad as my prizes, hey! Paul."—"Not quite," answered Paul.—"Your time, however, has been equally wasted in delusive anticipation."—"Your pardon, Clement. My leisure has not been entirely unprofitable. I have studied book-keeping, and made myself master of the French language."—"And what good can this do you?"—"They can do me no harm. Knowledge of any kind can scarcely do harm; at least, my time has been spent innocently in their acquirement." Clement blushed, and was silent. Play tickets—concert tickets—oyster shops—rose before his fancy; and he could not call his evenings innocently spent.

Three months elapsed, and Paul continued unsuccessful. But it is hardly possible, even in this disappointing life, for patient perseverance in well-doing, to pass utterly unregarded. Paul's regular and earnest attention to his duties—his meritorious desire for farther avocation—the motive for that desire; for he kept it no secret,—why should he?—all these circumstances worked together eventually for his good. A gentleman in his office—a government office—talked of wanting an amanuensis, and Paul was recommended to him. When the accommodation lay before him, it appeared (no rare occurrence) that the gentleman found out he could do without an amanuensis. It was said the tiny word salary had effected, this magical change; and, certainly, of all the causes that work miracles in this miraculous world, not one is perhaps more pregnant of consequences than the meanest of them all—pounds, shillings, and pence.