my little boy is engaged to be married.
she is a big, large-limbed young woman, three years his senior, and no doubt belongs to the minor aristocracy. her name is gertie. by a misunderstanding, however, which is pardonable at his age and moreover quite explained by gertie's appearance, he calls her dirty—little dirty—and by this name she will be handed down to history.
he met her on the boulevard, where he was playing, in the fine spring weather, with other children. his reason for the engagement is good enough:
"i wanted a girl for myself," he says.
either i know very little of mankind or he has made a fortunate choice. no one is likely to take dirty from him.
like the gentleman that he is, he at once brings the girl home to us and introduces her. in consequence of the formality of the occasion, he does not go in by the kitchen way, as usual, but rings the front-door bell. i open the door myself. there he stands on the mat, hand in hand with dirty, his bride, and, with radiant eyes:
"father," he says, "this is little dirty. she is my sweetheart. we are going to be married."
"that is what people usually do with their sweethearts," i answer, philosophically. "pray, dirty, come in and be welcomed by the family."
"wipe your feet, dirty," says my little boy.
the mother of my little boy does not think much of the match. she has even spoken of forbidding dirty the house.
"we can't do that," i say. "i am not in ecstasies over it either, but it is not at all certain that it will last."
"yes, but . . ."
"do you remember what little use it was when your mother forbade me the house? we used to meet in the most incredible places and kiss each other terribly. i can quite understand that you have forgotten, but you ought to bear it in mind now that your son's beginning. and you ought to value the loyalty of his behaviour towards his aged parents."
"my dear! . . ."
"and then i must remind you that it is spring. the trees are budding. you can't see it, perhaps, from the kitchen-window or from your work-table, but i, who go about all day, have noticed it. you know what byron says:
march has its hares, and may must have its heroine."
and so dirty is accepted.
but, when she calls, she has first to undergo a short quarantine, while the mother of my little boy washes her and combs her hair thoroughly.
dirty does not like this, but the boy does. he looks on with extraordinary interest and at once complains if there is a place that has escaped the sponge. i can't make out what goes on within him on these occasions. there is a good deal of cruelty in love; and he himself hates to be washed. perhaps he is rapt in fancies and wants to see his sweetheart rise daily from the waves, like venus anadyomene. perhaps it is merely his sense of duty: last friday, in cold blood, he allowed dirty to wait outside, on the step, for half an hour, until his mother came home.
another of his joys is to see dirty eat.
i can quite understand that. here, as at her toilet, there is something worth looking at. the mother of my little boy and i would be glad too to watch her, if there were any chance of giving dirty her fill. but there is none. at least, not with my income.
when i see all that food disappear, without as much as a shade of satisfaction coming into her eyes, i tremble for the young couple's future. but he is cheerful and unconcerned.
of course, there are also clouds in their sky.
a few days ago, they were sitting quietly together in the dining-room and talking of their wedding. my little boy described what the house would be like and the garden and the horses. dirty made no remarks and she had no grounds for doing so, for everything was particularly nice. but, after that, things went wrong:
"we shall have fourteen children," said the boy.
"no," said dirty. "we shall only have two: a boy and a girl."
"i want to have fourteen."
"i won't have more than two."
"fourteen."
"two."
there was no coming to an agreement. my little boy was speechless at dirty's meanness. and dirty pinched her lips together and nodded her head defiantly. then he burst into tears.
i could have explained to him that dirty, who sits down every day as the seventh at the children's table at home, cannot look upon children with his eyes, as things forming an essential part of every well-regulated family, but must regard them rather as bandits who eat up other people's food. but i did not feel entitled to discuss the young lady's domestic circumstances unasked.
one good thing about dirty is that she is not dependent upon her family nor they upon her. it has not yet happened that any inquiries have been made after her, however long she remained with us. we know just where she lives and what her father's name is. nothing more.
however, we notice in another way that our daughter-in-law is not without relations.
whenever, for instance, we give her a pair of stockings or some other article of clothing, it is always gone the next day; and so on until all the six brothers and sisters have been supplied. not till then do we have the pleasure of seeing dirty look neat. she has been so long accustomed to going shares that she does so in every conceivable circumstance.
and i console the mother of my little boy by saying that, should he fall out with dirty, he can take one of the sisters and that, in this way, nothing would be lost.
