April 9.—Commenced the morning badly. The butcher, whom
we decided not to arrange with, called and blackguarded me in
the most uncalled-for manner. He began by abusing me, and saying
he did not want my custom. I simply said: “Then what are
you making all this fuss about it for?” And he shouted out
at the top of his voice, so that all the neighbours could hear: “Pah!
go along. Ugh! I could buy up ‘things’ like
you by the dozen!”
I shut the door, and was giving Carrie to understand that this disgraceful
scene was entirely her fault, when there was a violent kicking at the
door, enough to break the panels. It was the blackguard butcher
again, who said he had cut his foot over the scraper, and would immediately
bring an action against me. Called at Farmerson’s, the ironmonger,
on my way to town, and gave him the job of moving the scraper and repairing
the bells, thinking it scarcely worth while to trouble the landlord
with such a trifling matter.
Arrived home tired and worried. Mr. Putley, a painter and decorator,
who had sent in a card, said he could not match the colour on the stairs,
as it contained Indian carmine. He said he spent half-a-day calling
at warehouses to see if he could get it. He suggested he should
entirely repaint the stairs. It would cost very little more; if
he tried to match it, he could only make a bad job of it. It would
be more satisfactory to him and to us to have the work done properly.
I consented, but felt I had been talked over. Planted some mustard-and-cress
and radishes, and went to bed at nine.