Let us be allowed to pass over a few months of the history of Mr. Arthur
Pendennis's lifetime, during the which, many events may have occurred
which were more interesting and exciting to himself, than they would be
likely to prove to the reader of his present memoirs. We left him, in his
last chapter, regularly entered upon his business as a professional
writer, or literary hack, as Mr. Warrington chooses to style himself and
his friend; and we know how the life of any hack, legal or literary, in a
curacy, or in a marching regiment, or at a merchant's desk, is dull of
routine, and tedious of description. One day's labour resembles another
much too closely. A literary man has often to work for his bread against
time, or against his will, or in spite of his health, or of his
indolence, or of his repugnance to the subject on which he is called to
exert himself, just like any other daily toiler. When you want to make
money by Pegasus (as he must, perhaps, who has no other saleable
property), farewell poetry and aerial flights: Pegasus only rises now
like Mr. Green's balloon, at periods advertised beforehand, and when the
spectator's money has been paid. Pegasus trots in harness, over the stony
pavement, and pulls a cart or a cab behind him. Often Pegasus does his
work with panting sides and trembling knees, and not seldom gets a cut of
the whip from his driver.
Do not let us, however, be too prodigal of our pity upon Pegasus. There
is no reason why this animal should be exempt from labour, or illness, or
decay, any more than any of the other creatures of God's world. If he
gets the whip, Pegasus often deserves it, and I for one am quite ready to
protest my friend, George Warrington, against the doctrine which poetical
sympathisers are inclined to put forward, viz., that of letters, and what
is called genius, are to be exempt from prose duties of this daily,
bread-wanting, tax-paying life, and not to be made to work and pay like
their neighbours.
Well, then, the Pall Mall Gazette being duly established and Arthur
Pendennis's merits recognised as a flippant, witty, and amusing critic,
he worked away hard every week, preparing reviews of such works as came
into his department, and writing his reviews with flippancy certainly,
but with honesty, and to the best of his power. It might be that a
historian of threescore, who had spent a quarter of a century in
composing a work of which our young gentleman disposed in the course of a
couple of days' reading at the British Museum, was not altogether fairly
treated by such a facile critic; or that a poet who had been elaborating
sublime sonnets and odes until he thought them fit for the public and for
fame, was annoyed by two or three dozen pert lines in Mr. Pen's review,
in which the poet's claims were settled by the critic, as if the latter
were my lord on the bench and the author a miserable little suitor
trembling before him. The actors at the theatres complained of him
wofully, too, and very likely he was too hard upon them. But there was
not much harm done after all. It is different now, as we know; but there
were so few great historians, or great poets, or great actors, in Pen's
time, that scarce any at all came up for judgment his critical desk.
Those who got a little whipping, got what in the main was good for them;
not that the judge was any better or wiser than the persons whom he
sentenced, or indeed ever fancied himself so. Pen had a strong sense of
humour and justice, and had not therefore an overweening respect for his
own works; besides, he had his friend Warrington at his elbow--a terrible
critic if the young man was disposed to be conceited, and more savage
over Pen than ever he was to those whom he tried at his literary assize.
By these critical labours, and by occasional contributions to leading
articles of the journal, when, without wounding his paper, this eminent
publicist could conscientiously speak his mind, Mr. Arthur Pendennis
gained the sum of four pounds four shillings weekly, and with no small
pains and labour. Likewise be furnished Magazines and Reviews with
articles of his composition, and is believed to have been (though on this
score he never chooses to speak) London correspondent of the Chatteris
Champion, which at that time contained some very brilliant and eloquent
letters from the metropolis. By these labours the fortunate youth was
enabled to earn a sum very nearly equal to four hundred pounds a year;
and on the second Christmas after his arrival in London, he actually
brought a hundred pounds to his mother, as a dividend upon the debt which
he owed to Laura. That Mrs. Pendennis read every word of her son's works,
and considered him to be the profoundest thinker and most elegant writer
of the day; that she thought his retribution of the hundred pounds an act
of angelic virtue; that she feared he was ruining his health by his
labours, and was delighted when he told her of the society which he met,
and of the great men of letters and fashion whom he saw, will be imagined
by all readers who have seen son-worship amongst mothers, and that
charming simplicity of love with which women in the country watch the
career of their darlings in London. If John has held such and such a
brief; if Tom has been invited to such and such a ball; or George has met
this or that great and famous man at dinner; what a delight there is in
the hearts of mothers and sisters at home in Somersetshire! How young
Hopeful's letters are read and remembered! What a theme for village talk
they give, and friendly congratulation! In the second winter, Pen came
for a very brief space, and cheered the widow's heart, and lightened up
the lonely house at Fairoaks. Helen had her son all to herself; Laura was
away on a visit to old Lady Rockminster; the folks of Clavering Park were
absent; the very few old friends of the house, Doctor Portman at their
head, called upon Mr. Pen, and treated him with marked respect; between
mother and son, it was all fondness, confidence, and affection. It was
the happiest fortnight of the widow's whole life; perhaps in the lives of
both of them. The holiday was gone only too quickly; and Pen was back in
the busy world, and the gentle widow alone again. She sent Arthur's money
to Laura: I don't know why this young lady took the opportunity of
leaving home when Pen was coming thither, or whether he was the more
piqued or relieved by her absence.
He was by this time, by his own merits and his uncle's introductions,
pretty well introduced into London, and known both in literary and polite
circles. Amongst the former his fashionable reputation stood him in no
little stead; he was considered to be a gentleman of good present means
and better expectations, who wrote for his pleasure, than which there
cannot be a greater recommendation to a young literary aspirant. Bacon,
Bungay and Co. were proud to accept his articles; Mr. Wenham asked him to
dinner; Mr. Wagg looked upon him with a favourable eye; and they reported
how they met him at the houses of persons of fashion, amongst whom he was
pretty welcome, as they did not trouble themselves about his means,
present or future; as his appearance and address were good; and as he had
got a character for being a clever fellow. Finally, he was asked to one
house, because he was seen at another house: and thus no small varieties
of London life were presented to the young man: he was made familiar with
all sorts of people from Paternoster Row to Pimlico, and was as much at
home at Mayfair dining-tables as at those tavern boards where some of his
companions of the pen were accustomed to assemble.
Full of high spirits and curiosity, easily adapting himself to all whom
he met, the young fellow pleased himself in this strange variety and
jumble of men, and made himself welcome, or at ease at least, wherever he
went. He would breakfast, for instance, at Mr. Plover's of a morning, in
company with a Peer, a Bishop, a parliamentary orator, two blue ladies of
fashion, a popular preacher, the author of the last new novel, and the
very latest lion imported from Egypt or from America: and would quit this
distinguished society for the back room at the newspaper office, where
pens and ink and the wet proof-sheets were awaiting him. Here would be
Finucane, the sub-editor, with the last news from the Row: and Shandon
would come in presently, and giving a nod to Pen, would begin scribbling
his leading article at the other end of the table, flanked by the pint of
sherry, which, when the attendant boy beheld him, was always silently
brought for the Captain: or Mr. Bludyer's roaring voice would be heard in
the front room, where that truculent critic would impound the books on
the counter in spite of the timid remonstrances of Mr. Midge, the
publisher, and after looking through the volumes would sell them at his
accustomed bookstall, and having drunken and dined upon the produce of
the sale in a tavern box, would call for ink and paper, and proceed to
"smash" the author of his dinner and the novel. Towards evening Mr. Pen
would stroll in the direction of his club, and take up Warrington there
for a constitutional walk. This exercise freed the lungs, and gave an
appetite for dinner, after which Pen had the privilege to make his bow at
some very pleasant houses which were opened to him; or the town before
him for amusement. There was the Opera; or the Eagle Tavern; or a ball to
go to in Mayfair; or a quiet night with a cigar and a book and a long
talk with Warrington; or a wonderful new song at the Back Kitchen;--at
this time of his life Mr. Pen beheld all sorts of places and men; and
very likely did not know how much he enjoyed himself until long after,
when balls gave him no pleasure, neither did farces make him laugh; nor
did the tavern joke produce the least excitement in him; nor did the
loveliest dancer that ever showed her ankles cause him to stir from his
chair after dinner. At his present mature age all these pleasures are
over: and the times have passed away too. It is but a very very few years
since--but the time is gone, and most of the men. Bludyer will no more
bully authors or cheat landlords of their score. Shandon, the learned and
thriftless, the witty and unwise, sleeps his last sleep. They buried
honest Doolan the other day: never will he cringe or flatter, never pull
long-bow or empty whisky-noggin any more.
The London season was now blooming in its full vigour, and the
fashionable newspapers abounded with information regarding the grand
banquets, routs, and balls which were enlivening the polite world. Our
gracious Sovereign was holding levees and drawing-rooms at St. James's:
the bow-windows of the clubs were crowded with the heads of respectable
red-faced newspaper-reading gentlemen: along the Serpentine trailed
thousands of carriages: squadrons of dandy horsemen trampled over Rotten
Row, everybody was in town, in a word; and of course Major Arthur
Pendennis, who was somebody, was not absent.
With his head tied up in a smart bandana handkerchief and his meagre
carcass enveloped in a brilliant Turkish dressing-gown, the worthy
gentleman sate on a certain morning by his fireside letting his feet
gently simmer in a bath, whilst he took his early cup of tea, and perused
his Morning Post. He could not have faced the day without his two hours'
toilet, without his early cup of tea, without his Morning Post. I suppose
nobody in the world except Morgan, not even Morgan's master himself, knew
how feeble and ancient the Major was growing, and what numberless little
comforts he required.
If men sneer, as our habit is, at the artifices of an old beauty, at her
paint, perfumes, ringlets; at those innumerable, and to us unknown,
stratagems with which she is said to remedy the ravages of time and
reconstruct the charms whereof years have bereft her; the ladies, it is
to be presumed, are not on their side altogether ignorant that men are
vain as well as they, and that the toilets of old bucks are to the full
as elaborate as their own. How is it that old Blushington keeps that
constant little rose-tint on his cheeks; and where does old Blondel get
the preparation which makes his silver hair pass for golden? Have you
ever seen Lord Hotspur get off his horse when he thinks nobody is
looking? Taken out of his stirrups, his shiny boots can hardly totter up
the steps of Hotspur House. He is a dashing young nobleman still as you
see the back of him in Rotten Row; when you behold him on foot, what an
old, old fellow! Did you ever form to yourself any idea of Dick Lacy
(Dick has been Dick these sixty years) in a natural state, and without
his stays? All these men are objects whom the observer of human life and
manners may contemplate with as much profit as the most elderly
Belgravian Venus, or inveterate Mayfair Jezebel. An old reprobate
daddy-longlegs, who has never said his prayers (except perhaps in public)
these fifty years: an old buck who still clings to as many of the habits
of youth as his feeble grasp of health can hold by: who has given up the
bottle, but sits with young fellows over it, and tells naughty stories
upon toast-and-water--who has given up beauty, but still talks about it
as wickedly as the youngest roue in company--such an old fellow, I say,
if any parson in Pimlico or St. James's were to order the beadles to
bring him into the middle aisle, and there set him in an armchair, and
make a text of him, and preach about him to the congregation, could be
turned to a wholesome use for once in his life, and might be surprised to
find that some good thoughts came out of him. But we are wandering from
our text, the honest Major, who sits all this while with his feet cooling
in the bath: Morgan takes them out of that place of purification, and
dries them daintily, and proceeds to set the old gentleman on his legs,
with waistband and wig, starched cravat, and spotless boots and gloves.
It was during these hours of the toilet that Morgan and his employer had
their confidential conversations, for they did not meet much at other
times of the day--the Major abhorring the society of his own chairs and
tables in his lodgings; and Morgan, his master's toilet over and letters
delivered, had his time very much on his own hands.
This spare time the active and well-mannered gentleman bestowed among the
valets and butlers of the nobility, his acquaintance; and Morgan
Pendennis, as he was styled, for, by such compound names, gentlemen's
gentlemen are called in their private circles, was a frequent and welcome
guest at some of the very highest tables in this town. He was a member of
two influential clubs in Mayfair and Pimlico; and he was thus enabled to
know the whole gossip of the town, and entertain his master very
agreeably during the two hours' toilet conversation. He knew a hundred
tales and legends regarding persons of the very highest ton, whose
valets canvass their august secrets, just, my dear Madam, as our own
parlour-maids and dependants in the kitchen discuss our characters, our
stinginess and generosity, our pecuniary means or embarrassments, and our
little domestic or connubial tiffs and quarrels. If I leave this
manuscript open on my table, I have not the slightest doubt Betty will
read it, and they will talk it over in the lower regions to-night; and
to-morrow she will bring in my breakfast with a face of such entire
imperturbable innocence, that no mortal could suppose her guilty of
playing the spy. If you and the Captain have high words upon any subject,
which is just possible, the circumstances of the quarrel, and the
characters of both of you, will be discussed with impartial eloquence
over the kitchen tea-table; and if Mrs. Smith's maid should by chance be
taking a dish of tea with yours, her presence will not undoubtedly act as
a restraint upon the discussion in question; her opinion will be given
with candour; and the next day her mistress will probably know that
Captain and Mrs. Jones have been a quarrelling as usual. Nothing is
secret. Take it as a rule that John knows everything: and as in our
humble world so in the greatest: a duke is no more a hero to his
valet-de-chambre than you or I; and his Grace's Man at his club, in
company doubtless with other Men of equal social rank, talks over his
master's character and affairs with the ingenuous truthfulness which
befits gentlemen who are met together in confidence. Who is a niggard and
screws up his money-boxes: who is in the hands of the money-lenders, and
is putting his noble name on the back of bills of exchange: who is
intimate with whose wife: who wants whom to marry her daughter, and which
he won't, no not at any price:--all these facts gentlemen's confidential
gentlemen discuss confidentially, and are known and examined by every
person who has any claim to rank in genteel society. In a word, if old
Pendennis himself was said to know everything, and was at once admirably
scandalous and delightfully discreet; it is but justice to Morgan to say,
that a great deal of his master's information was supplied to that worthy
man by his valet, who went out and foraged knowledge for him. Indeed,
what more effectual plan is there to get a knowledge of London society,
than to begin at the foundation--that is, at the kitchen floor?
So Mr. Morgan and his employer conversed as the latter's toilet
proceeded. There had been a drawing-room on the previous day, and the
Major read among the presentations that of Lady Clavering by Lady
Rockminster, and of Miss Amory by her mother Lady Clavering,--and in a
further part of the paper their dresses were described, with a precision
and in a jargon which will puzzle and amuse the antiquary of future
generations. The sight of these names carried Pendennis back to the
country. "How long have the Claverings been in London?" he asked; "pray,
Morgan, have you seen any of their people?"
"Sir Francis have sent away his foring man, sir," Mr. Morgan replied;
"and have took a friend of mine as own man, sir. Indeed he applied on my
reckmendation. You may recklect Towler, sir,--tall red-aired man--but
dyes his air. Was groom of the chambers in Lord Levant's family till his
Lordship broke hup. It's a fall for Towler, sir; but pore men can't be
particklar," said the valet, with a pathetic voice.
"Devilish hard on Towler, by gad!" said the Major, amused, "and not
pleasant for Lord Levant--he, he!"
"Always knew it was coming, sir. I spoke to you of it Michaelmas was four
years: when her Ladyship put the diamonds in pawn. It was Towler, sir,
took 'em in two cabs to Dobree's--and a good deal of the plate went the
same way. Don't you remember seeing of it at Blackwall, with the Levant
arms and coronick, and Lord Levant settn oppsit to it at the Marquis of
Steyne's dinner? Beg your pardon; did I cut you, sir?"
Morgan was now operating upon the Major's chin--he continued the theme
while strapping the skilful razor. "They've took a house in Grosvenor
Place, and are coming out strong, sir. Her Ladyship's going to give three
parties, besides a dinner a week, sir. Her fortune won't stand it--can't
stand it."
"Gad, she had a devilish good cook when I was at Fairoaks," the Major
said, with very little compassion for the widow Amory's fortune.
"Marobblan was his name, sir; Marobblan's gone away, sir," Morgan said,--
and the Major, this time, with hearty sympathy, said, "he was devilish
sorry to lose him."
"There's been a tremenjuous row about that Mosseer Marobblan," Morgan
continued "At a ball at Baymouth, sir, bless his impadence, he challenged
Mr. Harthur to fight a jewel, sir, which Mr. Arthur was very near
knocking him down, and pitchin' him outawinder, and serve him right; but
Chevalier Strong, sir, came up and stopped the shindy--I beg pardon, the
holtercation, sir--them French cooks has as much pride and hinsolence as
if they was real gentlemen."
"I heard something of that quarrel," said the Major; "but Mirobolant was
not turned off for that?"
"No, sir--that affair, sir, which Mr. Harthur forgave it him and beayved
most handsome, was hushed hup: it was about Miss Hamory, sir, that he ad
is dismissial. Those French fellers, they fancy everybody is in love with
'em; and he climbed up the large grape vine to her winder, sir, and was a
trying to get in, when he was caught, sir; and Mr. Strong came out, and
they got the garden-engine and played on him, and there was no end of a
row, sir."
"Confound his impudence! You don't mean to say Miss Amory encouraged
him," cried the Major, amazed at a peculiar expression in Mr. Morgan's
countenance.
Morgan resumed his imperturbable demeanour. "Know nothing about it, sir.
Servants don't know them kind of things the least. Most probbly there was
nothing in it--so many lies is told about families--Marobblan went away,
bag and baggage, saucepans, and pianna, and all--the feller ad a pianna,
and wrote potry in French, and he took a lodging at Clavering, and he
hankered about the primises, and it was said that Madam Fribsy, the
milliner, brought letters to Miss Hamory, though I don't believe a word
about it; nor that he tried to pison hisself with charcoal, which it was
all a humbug betwigst him and Madam Fribsy; and he was nearly shot by the
keeper in the park."
In the course of that very day, it chanced that the Major had stationed
himself in the great window of Bays's Club in Saint James's Street, at
the hour in the afternoon when you see a half-score of respectable old
bucks similarly recreating themselves (Bays's is rather an old-fashioned
place of resort now, and many of its members more than middle-aged; but
in the time of the Prince Regent, these old fellows occupied the same
window, and were some of the very greatest dandies in this empire)--Major
Pendennis was looking from the great window, and spied his nephew Arthur
walking down the street in company with his friend Mr. Popjoy.
"Look!" said Popjoy to Pen, as they passed, "did you ever pass Bays's at
four o'clock, without seeing that collection of old fogies? It's a
regular museum. They ought to be cast in wax, and set up at Madame
Tussaud's--"
"--In a chamber of old horrors by themselves," Pen said, laughing.
"--In the chamber of horrors! Gad, doosid good!" Pop cried. They are old
rogues, most of 'em, and no mistake. There's old Blondel; there's my
Uncle Colchicum, the most confounded old sinner in Europe; there's--
hullo! there's somebody rapping the window and nodding at us."
"It's my uncle, the Major," said Pen. "Is he an old sinner too?"
"Notorious old rogue," Pop said, wagging his head. ("Notowious old
wogue," he pronounced the words, thereby rendering them much more
emphatic.)--"He's beckoning you in; he wants to speak to you."
"Come in too," Pen said.
"--Can't," replied the other. "Cut uncle Col. two years ago, about
Mademoiselle Frangipane--Ta, ta," and the young sinner took leave of Pen,
and the club of the elder criminals, and sauntered into Blacquiere's, an
adjacent establishment, frequented by reprobates of his own age.
Colchicum, Blondel, and the senior bucks had just been conversing about
the Clavering family, whose appearance in London had formed the subject
of Major Pendennis's morning conversation with his valet. Mr. Blondel's
house was next to that of Sir Francis Clavering, in Grosvenor Place:
giving very good dinners himself, he had remarked some activity in his
neighbour's kitchen. Sir Francis, indeed, had a new chef, who had come in
more than once and dressed Mr. Blondel's dinner for him; that gentleman
having only a remarkably expert female artist permanently engaged in his
establishment, and employing such chiefs of note as happened to be free
on the occasion of his grand banquets. "They go to a devilish expense and
see devilish bad company as yet, I hear," Mr. Blondel said, "they scour
the streets, by gad, to get people to dine with 'em. Champignon says it
breaks his heart to serve up a dinner to their society. What a shame it
is that those low people should have money at all," cried Mr. Blondel,
whose grandfather had been a reputable leather-breeches maker, and whose
father had lent money to the Princes.
"I wish I had fallen in with the widow myself" sighed Lord Colchicum,
"and not been laid up with that confounded gout at Leghorn--I would have
married the woman myself.--I'm told she has six hundred thousand pounds
in the Threes."
"Not quite so much as that,--I knew her family in India,"--Major
Pendennis said, "I knew her family in India; her father was an enormously
rich old indigo-planter,--know all about her;--Clavering has the next
estate to ours in the country.--Ha! there's my nephew walking with"--
"With mine,--the infernal young scamp," said Lord Colchicum glowering at
Popjoy out of his heavy eyebrows; and he turned away from the window as
Major Pendennis tapped upon it.
The Major was in high good-humour. The sun was bright, the air brisk and
invigorating. He had determined upon a visit to Lady Clavering on that
day, and bethought him that Arthur would be a good companion for the walk
across the Green Park to her ladyship's door. Master Pen was not
displeased to accompany his illustrious relative, who pointed out a dozen
great men in that brief transit through St. James's Street, and got bows
from a Duke at a crossing, a Bishop (on a cob), and a Cabinet Minister
with an umbrella. The Duke gave the elder Pendennis a finger of a
pipe-clayed glove to shake, which the Major embraced with great
veneration; and all Pen's blood tingled as he found himself in actual
communication, as it were, with this famous man (for Pen had possession
of the Major's left arm, whilst the gentleman's other wing was engaged
with his Grace's right) and he wished all Grey Friars' School, all
Oxbridge University, all Paternoster Row and the Temple and Laura and his
mother at Fairoaks, could be standing on each side of the street, to see
the meeting between him and his uncle, and the most famous duke in
Christendom.
"How do, Pendennis?--fine day," were his Grace's remarkable words, and
with a nod of his august head he passed on--in a blue frock-coat and
spotless white duck trousers, in a white stock, with a shining buckle
behind.
Old Pendennis, whose likeness to his Grace has been remarked, began to
imitate him unconsciously, after they had parted, speaking with curt
sentences, after the manner of the great man. We have all of us, no
doubt, met with more than one military officer who has so imitated the
manner of a certain great Captain of the Age; and has, perhaps, changed
his own natural character and disposition, because Fate had endowed him
with an aquiline nose. In like manner have we not seen many another man
pride himself on having a tall forehead and a supposed likeness to Mr.
Canning? many another go through life swelling with self-gratification on
account of an imagined resemblance (we say "imagined," because that
anybody should be really like that most beautiful and perfect of men is
impossible) to the great and revered George IV.: many third parties, who
wore low necks to their dresses because they fancied that Lord Byron and
themselves were similar in appearance: and has not the grave closed but
lately upon poor Tom Bickerstaff, who having no more imagination than Mr.
Joseph Hume, looked in the glass and fancied himself like Shakspeare?
shaved his forehead so as farther to resemble the immortal bard, wrote
tragedies incessantly, and died perfectly crazy--actually perished of his
forehead? These or similar freaks of vanity most people who have
frequented the world must have seen in their experience. Pen laughed in
his roguish sleeve at the manner in which his uncle began to imitate the
great man from whom they had just parted but Mr. Pen was as vain in his
own way, perhaps, as the elder gentleman, and strutted, with a very
consequential air of his own, by the Major's side.
"Yes, my dear boy," said the old bachelor, as they sauntered through the
Green Park, where many poor children were disporting happily, and
errand-boys were playing at toss-halfpenny, and black sheep were grazing
in the sunshine, and an actor was learning his part on a bench, and
nursery-maids and their charges sauntered here and there, and several
couples were walking in a leisurely manner; "yes, depend on it, my boy;
for a poor man, there is nothing like having good acquaintances. Who were
those men, with whom you saw me in the bow-window at Bays's? Two were
Peers of the realm. Hobananob will be a Peer, as soon as his grand-uncle
dies, and he has had his third seizure; and of the other four, not one
has less than his seven thousand a year. Did you see that dark blue
brougham, with that tremendous stepping horse, waiting at the door of the
club? You'll know it again. It is Sir Hugh Trumpington's; he was never
known to walk in his life; never appears in the streets on foot--never:
and if he is going two doors off, to see his mother, the old dowager (to
whom I shall certainly introduce you, for she receives some of the best
company in London), gad, sir--he mounts his horse at No. 23, and
dismounts again at No. 25 A. He is now upstairs, at Bays's, playing
picquet with Count Punter: he is the second-best player in England--as
well he may be; for he plays every day of his life, except Sundays (for
Sir Hugh is an uncommonly religious man) from half-past three till
half-past seven, when he dresses for dinner.
"A very pious manner of spending his time," Pen said, laughing and
thinking that his uncle was falling into the twaddling state.
"Gad, sir, that is not the question. A man of his estate may employ his
time as he chooses. When you are a baronet, a county member, with ten
thousand acres of the best land in Cheshire, and such a place as
Trumpington (though he never goes there), you may do as you like."
"And so that was his brougham, sir, was it?" the nephew said with almost
a sneer.
"His brougham--O ay, yes!--and that brings me back to my point--revenons
a nos moutons. Yes, begad! revenons a nous moutons. Well, that brougham
is mine if I choose, between four and seven. Just as much mine as if I
jobbed it from Tilbury's, begad, for thirty pound a month. Sir Hugh is
the best natured fellow in the world; and if it hadn't been so fine an
afternoon as it is, you and I would have been in that brougham at this
very minute on our way to Grosvenor Place. That is the benefit of knowing
rich men;--I dine for nothing, sir;--I go into the country, and I'm
mounted for nothing. Other fellows keep hounds and gamekeepers for me.
Sic vos, non vobis, as we used to say at Grey Friars, hey? I'm of the
opinion of my old friend Leech, of the Forty-fourth; and a devilish good
shrewd fellow he was, as most Scotchmen are. Gad, sir, Leech used to say,
'He was so poor that he couldn't afford to know a poor man.'"
"You don't act up to your principles, uncle," Pen said good-naturedly.
"Up to my principles; how, sir?" the Major asked, rather testily.
"You would have cut me in Saint James's Street, sir," Pen said, "were
your practice not more benevolent than your theory; you who live with
dukes and magnates of the land, and would take no notice of a poor devil
like me." By which speech we may see that Mr. Pen was getting on in the
world, and could flatter as well as laugh in his sleeve.
Major Pendennis was appeased instantly, and very much pleased. He tapped
affectionately his nephew's arm on which he was leaning, and said,--"you,
sir, you are my flesh and blood! Hang it, sir, I've been very proud of
you and very fond of you, but for your confounded follies and
extravagances--and wild oats, sir, which I hope you've sown 'em. I hope
you've sown 'em; begad! My object, Arthur, is to make a man of you--to
see you well placed in the world, as becomes one of your name and my own,
sir. You have got yourself a little reputation by your literary talents,
which I am very far from undervaluing, though in my time, begad, poetry
and genius and that sort of thing were devilish disreputable. There was
poor Byron, for instance, who ruined himself, and contracted the worst
habits by living with poets and newspaper-writers, and people of that
kind: But the times are changed now--there's a run upon literature--
clever fellows get into the best houses in town, begad! Tempora mutantur,
sir; and by Jove, I suppose whatever is is right, as Shakspeare says."
Pen did not think fit to tell his uncle who was the author who had made
use of that remarkable phrase, and here descending from the Green Park,
the pair made their way into Grosvenor Place, and to the door of the
mansion occupied there by Sir Francis and Lady Clavering.
The dining-room shutters of this handsome mansion were freshly gilded;
the knockers shone gorgeous upon the newly painted door; the balcony
before the drawing-room bloomed with a portable garden of the most
beautiful plants, and with flowers, white, and pink, and scarlet; the
windows of the upper room (the sacred chamber and dressing-room of my
lady, doubtless), and even a pretty little casement of the third story,
which keen-sighted Mr. Pen presumed to belong to the virgin bedroom of
Miss Blanche Amory, were similarly adorned with floral ornaments, and the
whole exterior face of the house presented the most brilliant aspect
which fresh new paint, shining plate-glass, newly cleaned bricks, and
spotless mortar, could offer to the beholder.
"How Strong must have rejoiced in organising all this splendour," thought
Pen. He recognised the Chevalier's genius in the magnificence before him.
"Lady Clavering is going out for her drive," the Major said. "We shall
only have to leave our pasteboards, Arthur." He used the word
'pasteboards,' having heard it from some of the ingenuous youth of the
nobility about town, and as a modern phrase suited to Pen's tender years.
Indeed, as the two gentlemen reached the door, a landau drove up, a
magnificent yellow carriage, lined with brocade or satin of a faint cream
colour, drawn by wonderful grey horses, with flaming ribbons, and harness
blazing all over with crests: no less than three of these heraldic
emblems surmounted the coats-of-arms on the panels, and these shields
contained a prodigious number of quarterings, betokening the antiquity
and splendour of the house of Clavering and Snell. A coachman in a tight
silver wig surmounted the magnificent hammer-cloth (whereon the same arms
were worked in bullion), and controlled the prancing greys--a young man
still, but of a solemn countenance, with a laced waistcoat and buckles in
his shoes--little buckles, unlike those which John and Jeames, the
footmen, wear, and which we know are large, and spread elegantly over the
foot.
One of the leaves of the hall door was opened, and John--one of the
largest of his race--was leaning against the door-pillar with his
ambrosial hair powdered, his legs crossed; beautiful, silk-stockinged; in
his hand his cane, gold-headed, dolichoskion. Jeames was invisible, but
near at hand, waiting in the hall, with the gentleman who does not wear
livery, and ready to fling down the roll of hair-cloth over which her
ladyship was to step to her carriage. These things and men, the which to
tell of demands time, are seen in the glance of a practised eye: and, in
fact, the Major and Pen had scarcely crossed the street, when the second
battant of the door flew open; the horse-hair carpet tumbled down the
door-steps to those of the carriage; John was opening it on one side of
the emblazoned door, and Jeames on the other, the two ladies, attired in
the highest style of fashion, and accompanied by a third, who carried a
Blenheim spaniel, yelping in a light blue ribbon, came forth to ascend
the carriage.
Miss Amory was the first to enter, which she did with aerial lightness,
and took the place which she liked best. Lady Clavering next followed,
but her ladyship was more mature of age and heavy of foot, and one of
those feet, attired in a green satin boot, with some part of a stocking,
which was very fine, whatever the ankle might be which it encircled,
might be seen swaying on the carriage-step, as her ladyship leaned for
support on the arm of the unbending Jeames, by the enraptured observer of
female beauty who happened to be passing at the time of this imposing
ceremonial.
The Pendennises senior and junior beheld those charms as they came up to
the door--the Major looking grave and courtly, and Pen somewhat abashed
at the carriage and its owners; for he thought of sundry little passages
at Clavering, which made his heart beat rather quick.
At that moment Lady Clavering, looking round the pair,--she was on the
first carriage-step, and would have been in the vehicle in another
second, but she gave a start backwards (which caused some of the powder
to fly from the hair of ambrosial Jeames), and crying out, "Lor, if it
isn't Arthur Pendennis and the old Major!" jumped back to terra firma
directly, and holding out two fat hands, encased in tight orange-coloured
gloves, the good-natured woman warmly greeted the Major and his nephew.
"Come in both of you.--Why haven't you been before?--Get out, Blanche,
and come and see your old friends.--O, I'm so glad to see you. We've been
waitin and waitin for you ever so long. Come in, luncheon ain't gone
down," cried out this hospitable lady, squeezing Pen's hand in both hers
(she had dropped the Major's after a brief wrench of recognition), and
Blanche, casting up her eyes towards the chimneys, descended from the
carriage presently, with a timid, blushing, appealing look, and gave a
little hand to Major Pendennis.
The companion with the spaniel looked about irresolute, and doubting
whether she should not take Fido his airing; but she too turned right
about face and entered the house, after Lady Clavering, her daughter, and
the two gentlemen. And the carriage, with the prancing greys, was left
unoccupied, save by the coachman in the silver wig.
