‘Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son

"Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son" is a short story by Charles Dickens that humorously explores the themes of family, societal expectations, and the quirks of human nature. The narrative follows the character of Mrs. Meek, who encounters a comical array of events surrounding the birth of her son. Dickens employs his signature wit and keen observational skills to depict the eccentricities of the domestic life in Victorian England, revealing the interplay of joy, anxiety, and tradition that accompanies the arrival of a new child. Through engaging characters and vivid storytelling, the piece highlights the human experience in the face of change and the often absurd realities of parenthood.

• Short story

								
MY name is Meek.  I am, in fact, Mr. Meek.  That son is mine and Mrs.
Meek’s.  When I saw the announcement in the Times, I dropped the paper.
I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble that it
overpowered me.

As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs.
Meek’s bedside.  ‘Maria Jane,’ said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), ‘you are
now a public character.’  We read the review of our child, several times,
with feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent the boy who cleans the
boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen copies.  No reduction was made
on taking that quantity.

It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected.
In fact, it had been expected, with comparative confidence, for some
months.  Mrs. Meek’s mother, who resides with us—of the name of Bigby—had
made every preparation for its admission to our circle.

I hope and believe I am a quiet man.  I will go farther.  I know I am a
quiet man.  My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and,
in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small.  I have the
greatest respect for Maria Jane’s Mama.  She is a most remarkable woman.
I honour Maria Jane’s Mama.  In my opinion she would storm a town,
single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry it.  I have never known her
to yield any point whatever, to mortal man.  She is calculated to terrify
the stoutest heart.

Still—but I will not anticipate.

The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, on the
part of Maria Jane’s Mama, was one afternoon, several months ago.  I came
home earlier than usual from the office, and, proceeding into the
dining-room, found an obstruction behind the door, which prevented it
from opening freely.  It was an obstruction of a soft nature.  On looking
in, I found it to be a female.

The female in question stood in the corner behind the door, consuming
Sherry Wine.  From the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the
apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second glassful.  She wore
a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure.  The
expression of her countenance was severe and discontented.  The words to
which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, ‘Oh, git along with
you, Sir, if you please; me and Mrs. Bigby don’t want no male parties
here!’

That female was Mrs. Prodgit.

I immediately withdrew, of course.  I was rather hurt, but I made no
remark.  Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner,
in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I cannot say.  But,
Maria Jane’s Mama said to me on her retiring for the night: in a low
distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that completely subdued me:
‘George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your wife’s nurse!’

I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit.  Is it likely that I, writing
this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate animosity
towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane?  I am
willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit;
but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female brought desolation and
devastation into my lowly dwelling.

We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes exceedingly
so.  But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and ‘Mrs. Prodgit!’
announced (and she was very often announced), misery ensued.  I could not
bear Mrs. Prodgit’s look.  I felt that I was far from wanted, and had no
business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit’s presence.  Between Maria Jane’s Mama,
and Mrs. Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret, understanding—a dark
mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned.  I
appeared to have done something that was evil.  Whenever Mrs. Prodgit
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room—where the temperature
is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year—and sat looking at my
frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my rack of boots; a
serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an
exhilarating object.  The length of the councils that were held with Mrs.
Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not attempt to describe.  I
will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Sherry Wine while
the deliberations were in progress; that they always ended in Maria
Jane’s being in wretched spirits on the sofa; and that Maria Jane’s Mama
always received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph
that too plainly said, ‘Now, George Meek!  You see my child, Maria Jane,
a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!’

I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when
Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the
ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home in a
cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a bandbox,
and a basket, between the driver’s legs.  I have no objection to Mrs.
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never can forget is the
parent of Maria Jane) taking entire possession of my unassuming
establishment.  In the recesses of my own breast, the thought may linger
that a man in possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman
Mrs. Prodgit; but, I ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do.
Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I can bear them without
complaint.  They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about, from
post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving
rise to words in the family.

The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus George,
my infant son.  It is for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive
household words.  I am not at all angry; I am mild—but miserable.

I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in our
circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger were a
criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on his arrival,
instead of a holy babe?  I wish to know why haste was made to stick those
pins all over his innocent form, in every direction?  I wish to be
informed why light and air are excluded from Augustus George, like
poisons?  Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a
basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, with miniature sheets and
blankets, that I can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down
under the pink hood of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse
even so much of his lineaments as his nose?

Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes of All
Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George?  Am I to be told that his
sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have rashes brought out
upon it, by the premature and incessant use of those formidable little
instruments?

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp
frills?  Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to
be crimped and small plaited?  Or is my child composed of Paper or of
Linen, that impressions of the finer getting-up art, practised by the

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