The Book of Snobs CHAPTER XXXV. SNOBS AND MARRIAGE
by William Makepeace Thackeray
Punctual to the hour--(by the way, I cannot omit to mark
down my hatred, scorn, and indignation towards those
miserable Snobs who come to dinner at nine when they are
asked at eight, in order to make a sensation in the
company. May the loathing of honest folks, the
backbiting of others, the curses of cooks, pursue these
wretches, and avenge the society on which they trample!)-
-Punctual, I say, to the hour of five, which Mr. and Mrs.
Raymond Gray had appointed, a youth of an elegant
appearance, in a neat evening-dress, whose trim whiskers
indicated neatness, whose light step denoted activity
(for in sooth he was hungry, and always is at the dinner
hour, whatsoever that hour may be), and whose rich golden
hair, curling down his shoulders, was set off by a
perfectly new four-and-ninepenny silk hat, was seen
wending his way down Bittlestone Street, Bittlestone
Square, Gray's Inn. The person in question, I need not
say, was Mr. Snob. HE was never late when invited to
dine. But to proceed my narrative:--
Mr. Snob may have flattered himself that he made a
sensation as he strutted down Bittlestone with his richly
gilt knobbed cane (and indeed I vow I saw heads looking
at me from Miss Squilsby's, the brass-plated milliner
opposite Raymond Gray's, who has three silver-paper
bonnets, and two fly-blown prints of fashion in the
window), yet what was the emotion produced by my arrival,
compared to that which the little street thrilled, when
at five minutes past five the floss-wigged coachman, the
yellow hammer-cloth and flunkeys, the black horses and
blazing silver harness of Mr. Goldmore whirled down the
street!
It is a very little street, of very little houses, most
of them with very large brass plates like Miss
Squilsby's. Coal-merchants, architects and surveyors,
two surgeons, a solicitor, a dancing-master, and of
course several house-agents, occupy the houses--little
two-storeyed edifices with little stucco porticoes.
Goldmore's carriage overtopped the roofs almost; the
first floors might shake hands with Croesus as he lolled
inside; all the windows of those first floors thronged
with children and women in a twinkling. There was Mrs.
Hammerly in curl-papers; Mrs. Saxby with her front awry;
Mr. Wriggles peering through the gauze curtains, holding
the while his hot glass of rum-and-water--in fine, a
tremendous commotion in Bittlestone Street, as the
Goldmore carriage drove up to Mr. Raymond Gray's door.
'How kind it is of him to come with BOTH the footmen!'
says little Mrs. Gray, peeping at the vehicle too. The
huge domestic, descending from his perch, gave a rap at
the door which almost drove in the building. All the
heads were out; the sun was shining; the very organ-boy
paused; the footman, the coach, and Goldmore's red face
and white waistcoat were blazing in splendour. The
herculean plushed one went back to open the carriage-
door.
Raymond Gray opened his--in his shirt-sleeves. He ran up
to the carriage. 'Come in, Goldmore,' says he; 'just in
time, my boy. Open the door, What-d'ye-call'um, and let
your master out,'--and What-d'ye-call'um obeyed
mechanically, with a face of wonder and horror, only to
be equalled by the look of stupefied astonishment which
ornamented the purple countenance of his master.
'Wawt taim will you please have the CAGE, sir?' says
What-d'ye-call'um, in that peculiar, unspellable,
inimitable, flunkefied pronunciation which forms one of
the chief charms of existence.
Best have it to the theatre at night,' Gray exclaims; 'it
is but a step from here to the Wells, and we can walk
there. I've got tickets for all. Be at Sadler's Wells
at eleven.'
'Yes, at eleven,' exclaims Goldmore, perturbedly, and
walks with a flurried step into the house, as if he were
going to execution (as indeed he was, with that wicked
Gray as a Jack Ketch over him). The carriage drove away,
followed by numberless eyes from doorsteps and balconies;
its appearance is still a wonder in Bittlestone Street.
'Go in there, and amuse yourself with Snob,' says Gray,
opening the little drawing-room door. 'I'll call out as
soon as the chops are ready. Fanny's below, seeing to
the pudding.'
'Gracious mercy!' says Goldmore to me, quite
confidentially, 'how could he ask us? I really had no
idea of this--this utter destitution.'
'Dinner, dinner!' roars out Gray, from the diningroom,
whence issued a great smoking and frying; and entering
that apartment we find Mrs. Gray ready to receive us, and
looking perfectly like a Princess who, by some accident,
had a bowl of potatoes in her hand, which vegetables she
placed on the table. Her husband 'was meanwhile cooking
mutton-chops on a gridiron over the fire.
Fanny has made the roly-poly pudding,' says he; the chops
are my part. Here's a fine one; try this, Goldmore.'
And he popped a fizzing cutlet on that gentleman's plate.
What words, what notes of exclamation can describe the
nabob's astonishment?
The tablecloth was a very old one, darned in a score
places. There was mustard in a teacup, a silver fork for
Goldmore--all ours were iron.
"I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth,' says
Gray, gravely. 'That fork is the only one we have.
Fanny has it generally.'
'Raymond!'- cries Mrs. Gray, with an imploring face.
'She was used to better things, you know: and I hope one
day to get her a dinner-service. I'm told the electro-
plate is uncommonly good. Where the deuce IS that boy
with the beer? And now,' said he, springing up, 'I'll be
a gentleman.' And so he put on his coat, and sat down
quite gravely, with four fresh mutton-chops which he had
by this time broiled.
'We don t have meat every day, Mr. Goldmore,' he
continued, 'and it's a treat to me to get a dinner like
this. You little know, you gentlemen of England, who
live at home at ease, what hardships briefless barristers
endure.'
'Gracious mercy!' says Mr. Goldmore.
'Where's the half-and-half? Fanny, go over to the 'Keys'
and get the beer. Here's sixpence.' And what was our
astonishment when Fanny got up as if to go!
'Gracious mercy! let ME,' cries Goldmore.
'Not for worlds, my dear sir. She's used to it. They
wouldn't serve you as well as they serve her. Leave her
alone. Law bless you!' Raymond said, with astounding
composure. And Mrs. Gray left the room, and actually
came back with a tray on which there was a pewter flagon
of beer. Little Polly (to whom, at her christening, I
had the honour of presenting a silver mug EX OFFICIO)
followed with a couple of tobacco-pipes, and the queerest
roguish look in her round little chubby face.
'Did you speak to Tapling about the gin, Fanny, my dear?'
Gray asked, after bidding Polly put the pipes on the
chimney-piece, which that little person had some
difficulty in reaching. 'The last was turpentine, and
even your brewing didn't make good punch of it.'
'You would hardly suspect, Goldmore, that my wife, a
Harley Baker, would ever make gin-punch? I think my
mother-in-law would commit suicide if she saw her.'
'Don't be always laughing at mamma, Raymond,' says Mrs.
Gray.
'Well, well, she wouldn't die, and I DON'T wish she
would. And you don't make gin-punch, and you don't like
it either and--Goldmore do you drink your beer out of the
glass, or out of the pewter?'
'Gracious mercy!' ejaculates Croesus once more, as little
Polly, taking the pot with both her little bunches of
hands, offers it, smiling, to that astonished Director.
And so, in a word, the dinner commenced, and was
presently ended in a similar fashion. Gray pursued his
unfortunate guest with the most queer and outrageous
description of his struggles, misery, and poverty. He
described how he cleaned the knives when they were first
married; and how he used to drag the children in a little
cart; how his wife could toss pancakes; and what parts of
his dress she made. He told Tibbits, his clerk (who was
in fact the functionary who had brought the beer from the
public-house, which Mrs. Fanny had fetched from the
neighbouring apartment)--to fetch 'the bottle of port-
wine,' when the dinner was over; and told Goldmore as
wonderful a history about the way in which that bottle of
wine had come into his hands as any of his former stories
had been. When the repast was all over, and it was near
time to move to the play, and Mrs. Gray had retired, and
we were sitting ruminating rather silently over the last
glasses of the port, Gray suddenly breaks the silence by
slapping Goldmore on the shoulder, and saying, 'Now,
Goldmore, tell me something.'
'What?' asks Croesus.
'Haven't you had a good dinner?'
Goldmore started, as if a sudden truth had just dawned
upon him. He HAD had a good dinner; and didn't know it
until then. The three mutton-chops consumed by him were
best of the mutton kind; the potatoes were perfect of
their order; as for the rolypoly, it was too good. The
porter was frothy and cool, and the port-wine was worthy
of the gills of a bishop. I speak with ulterior views;
for there is more in Gray's cellar.
'Well,' says Goldmore, after a pause, during which he
took time to consider the momentous question Gray put to
him--' 'Pon my word--now you say so--I--I have--I really
have had a monsous good dinnah-- monsous good, upon my
ward! Here's your health, Gray my boy, and your amiable
lady; and when Mrs. Goldmore comes back, I hope we shall
see you more in Portland Place.' And with this the time
came for the play, and we went to see Mr. Phelps at
Sadler's Wells. The best of this story (for the truth of
every word of which I pledge my honour) is, that after
this banquet, which Goldmore enjoyed so, the honest
fellow felt a prodigious compassion and regard for the
starving and miserable giver of the feast, and determined
to help him in his profession. And being a Director of
the newly-established Antibilious Life Assurance Company,
he has had Gray appointed Standing Counsel, with a pretty
annual fee; and only yesterday, in an appeal from Bombay
(Buckmuckjee Bobbachee v. Ramchowder-Bahawder) in the
Privy Council, Lord Brougham complimented Mr. Gray, who
was in the case, on his curious and exact knowledge of
the Sanscrit language.
Whether he knows Sanscrit or not, I can't say; but
Goldmore got him the business; and so I cannot help
having a lurking regard for that pompous old Bigwig.
