Dinner in the Row
Upon the appointed day our two friends made their appearance at Mr.
Bungay’s door in Paternoster Row; not the public entrance through which
booksellers’ boys issued with their sacks full of Bungay’s volumes, and
around which timid aspirants lingered with their virgin manuscripts
ready for sale to Sultan Bungay, but at the private door of the house,
whence the splendid Mrs. Bungay would come forth to step into her
chaise and take her drive, settling herself on the cushions, and
casting looks of defiance at Mrs. Bacon’s opposite windows—at Mrs.
Bacon, who was as yet a chaiseless woman.
On such occasions, when very much wroth at her sister-in-law’s
splendour Mrs. Bacon would fling up the sash of her drawing-room
window, and look out with her four children at the chaise, as much as
to say, “Look at these four darlings. Flora Bungay! this is why I can’t
drive in my carriage; you would give a coach-and-four to have the same
reason.” And it was with these arrows out of her quiver that Emma Bacon
shot Flora Bungay as she sate in her chariot envious and childless.
As Pen and Warrington came to Bungay’s door, a carriage and a cab drove
up to Bacon’s. Old Dr. Slocum descended heavily from the first; the
Doctor’s equipage was as ponderous as his style, but both had a fine
sonorous effect upon the publishers in the Row. A couple of dazzling
white waistcoats stepped out of the cab.
Warrington laughed. “You see Bacon has his dinner-party too. That is
Dr. Slocum, author of ‘Memoirs of the Poisoners.’ You would hardly have
recognised our friend Hoolan in that gallant white waistcoat. Doolan is
one of Bungay’s men, and faith, here he comes.” Indeed, Messrs. Hoolan
and Doolan had come from the Strand in the same cab, tossing up by the
way which should pay the shilling; and Mr. D. stepped from the other
side of the way, arrayed in black, with a large pair of white gloves
which were spread out on his hands, and which the owner could not help
regarding with pleasure.
The house porter in an evening coat, and gentlemen with gloves as large
as Doolan’s, but of the famous Berlin web, were on the passage of Mr.
Bungay’s house to receive the guests’ hats and coats, and bawl their
names up the stair. Some of the latter had arrived when the three new
visitors made their appearance; but there was only Mrs. Bungay in red
satin and a turban to represent her own charming sex. She made curtsies
to each new-comer as he entered the drawing-room, but her mind was
evidently pre-occupied by extraneous thoughts. The fact is, Mrs.
Bacon’s dinner-party was disturbing her, and as soon as she had
received each individual of her own company, Flora Bungay flew back to
the embrasure of the window, whence she could rake the carriages of
Emma Bacon’s friends as they came rattling up the Row. The sight of Dr.
Slocum’s large carriage, with the gaunt job-horses, crushed Flora: none
but hack cabs had driven up to her own door on that day.
They were all literary gentlemen, though unknown as yet to Pen. There
was Mr. Bole, the real editor of the magazine, of which Mr. Wagg was
the nominal chief; Mr. Trotter, who, from having broken out on the
world as a poet of a tragic and suicidial cast, had now subsided into
one of Mr. Bungay’s back shops as reader for that gentleman; and
Captain Sumph, an ex-beau reader about town, and related in some
indistinct manner to Literature and the Peerage. He was said to have
written a book once, to have been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related
to Lord Sumphington; in fact, anecdotes of Byron formed his staple, and
he seldom spoke but with the name of that poet or some of his
contemporaries in his mouth, as thus: “I remember poor Shelley, at
school being sent up for good for a copy of verses, every line of which
I wrote, by Jove;” or, “I recollect, when I was at Missolonghi with
Byron, offering to bet gamba,” and so forth. This gentleman, Pen
remarked, was listened to with great attention by Mrs. Bungay; his
anecdotes of the aristocracy, of which he was a middle-aged member,
delighted the publisher’s lady; and he was almost a greater man than
the great Mr. Wagg himself in her eyes. Had he but come in his own
carriage, Mrs. Bungay would have made her Bungay purchase any given
volume from his pen.
Mr. Bungay went about to his guests as they arrived, and did the
honours of his house with much cordiality. “How are you, sir? Fine day,
sir. Glad to see you year, sir. Flora, my love, let me ave the honour
of introducing Mr. Warrington to you. Mr. Warrington, Mrs. Bungay; Mr.
Pendennis, Mrs. Bungay. Hope you’ve brought good appetites with you,
gentlemen. You, Doolan, I know ave, for you’ve always ad a deuce of a
twist.”
“Lor, Bungay!” said Mrs. Bungay.
“Faith, a man must be hard to please, Bungay, who can’t eat a good
dinner in this house,” Doolan said, and he winked and stroked his lean
chops with his large gloves; and made appeals of friendship to Mrs.
Bungay, which that honest woman refused with scorn from the timid man.
“She couldn’t abide that Doolan,” she said in confidence to her
friends. Indeed, all his flatteries failed to win her.
As they talked, Mrs. Bungay surveying mankind from her window, a
magnificent vision of an enormous grey cab-horse appeared, and neared
rapidly. A pair of white reins, held by small white gloves, were
visible behind it; a face pale, but richly decorated with a chin-tuft,
the head of an exiguous groom bobbing over the cab-head—these bright
things were revealed to the delighted Mrs. Bungay. “The Honourable
Percy Popjoy’s quite punctual, I declare,” she said, and sailed to the
door to be in waiting at the nobleman’s arrival.
“It’s Percy Popjoy,” said Pen, looking out of window, and seeing an
individual, in extremely lacquered boots, descend from the swinging
cab: and, in fact, it was that young nobleman Lord Falconet’s eldest
son, as we all very well know, who was come to dine with the
publisher—his publisher of the Row.
“He was my fag at Eton,” Warrington said. “I ought to have licked him a
little more.” He and Pen had had some bouts at the Oxbridge Union
debates, in which Pen had had very much the better of Percy: who
presently appeared, with his hat under his arm, and a look of
indescribable good-humour and fatuity in his round dimpled face, upon
which Nature had burst out with a chin-tuft, but, exhausted with the
effort, had left the rest of the countenance bare of hair.
The temporary groom of the chambers bawled out, “The Honourable Percy
Popjoy,” much to that gentleman’s discomposure at hearing his titles
announced.
“What did the man want to take away my hat for, Bungay?” he asked of
the publisher. “Can’t do without my hat—want it to make my bow to Mrs.
Bungay. How well you look. Mrs. Bungay, to-day. Haven’t seen your
carriage in the Park: why haven’t you been there? I missed you; indeed,
I did.”
“I’m afraid you’re a sad quiz,” said Mrs. Bungay.
“Quiz! Never made a joke in my—hullo! who’s here? How d’ye do,
Pendennis? How d’ye do, Warrington? These are old friends of mine, Mrs.
Bungay. I say, how the doose did you come here?” he asked of the two
young men, turning his lacquered heels upon Mrs. Bungay, who respected
her husband’s two young guests, now that she found they were intimate
with a lord’s son.
“What! do they know him?” she asked rapidly of Mr. B.
“High fellers, I tell you—the young one related to all the nobility,”
said the publisher; and both ran forward, smiling and bowing, to greet
almost as great personages as the young lord—no less characters,
indeed, than the great Mr. Wenham and the great Mr. Wagg, who were now
announced.
Mr. Wenham entered, wearing the usual demure look and stealthy smile
with which he commonly surveyed the tips of his neat little shining
boots, and which he but seldom brought to bear upon the person who
addressed him. Wagg’s white waistcoat spread out, on the contrary, with
profuse brilliancy; his burly, red face shone resplendent over it,
lighted up with the thoughts of good jokes and a good dinner. He liked
to make his entree into a drawing-room with a laugh, and, when he went
away at night, to leave a joke exploding behind him. No personal
calamities or distresses (of which that humourist had his share in
common with the unjocular part of mankind) could altogether keep his
humour down. Whatever his griefs might be, the thought of a dinner
rallied his great soul; and when he saw a lord, he saluted him with a
pun.
Wenham went up, then, with a smug smile and whisper, to Mrs. Bungay,
and looked at her from under his eyes, and showed her the tips of his
shoes. Wagg said she looked charming, and pushed on straight at the
young nobleman, whom he called Pop, and to whom he instantly related a
funny story, seasoned with what the French call gros sel. He was
delighted to see Pen, too, and shook hands with him, and slapped him on
the back cordially; for he was full of spirits and good-humour. And he
talked in a loud voice about their last place and occasion of meeting
at Baymouth; and asked how their friends of Clavering Park were, and
whether Sir Francis was not coming to London for the season; and
whether Pen had been to see Lady Rockminster, who had arrived—fine old
lady, Lady Rockminster! These remarks Wagg made not for Pen’s ear so
much as for the edification of the company, whom he was glad to inform
that he paid visits to gentlemen’s country seats, and was on intimate
terms with the nobility.
Wenham also shook hands with our young friend—all of which scenes Mrs.
Bungay remarked with respectful pleasure, and communicated her ideas to
Bungay, afterwards, regarding the importance of Mr. Pendennis—ideas by
which Pen profited much more than he was aware.
Pen, who had read, and rather admired some of her works (and expected
to find in Miss Bunion a person somewhat resembling her own description
of herself in the ‘Passion-Flower,’ in which she stated that her youth
resembled—
“A violet, shrinking meanly
When blows the March wind keenly;
A timid fawn, on wild-wood lawn,
Where oak-boughs rustle greenly,—”
and that her maturer beauty was something very different, certainly, to
the artless loveliness of her prime, but still exceedingly captivating
and striking), beheld, rather to his surprise and amusement, a large
and bony woman in a crumpled satin dress, who came creaking into the
room with a step as heavy as a grenadier’s. Wagg instantly noted the
straw which she brought in at the rumpled skirt of her dress, and would
have stooped to pick it up: but Miss Bunion disarmed all criticism by
observing this ornament herself, and, putting her own large foot upon
it, so as to separate it from her robe, she stooped and picked up the
straw, saying to Mrs. Bungay, that she was very sorry to be a little
late, but that the omnibus was very slow, and what a comfort it was to
get a ride all the way from Brompton for sixpence. Nobody laughed at
the poetess’s speech, it was uttered so simply. Indeed, the worthy
woman had not the least notion of being ashamed of an action incidental
upon her poverty.
“Is that ‘Passion-Flowers?’” Pen said to Wenham, by whom he was
standing. “Why, her picture in the volume represents her as a very
well-looking young woman.”
“You know passion-flowers, like all others, will run to seed,” Wenham
said; “Miss Bunion’s portrait was probably painted some years ago.”
“Well, I like her for not being ashamed of her poverty.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Wenham, who would have starved rather than have
come to dinner in an omnibus, “but I don’t think that she need flourish
the straw about, do you, Mr. Pendennis? My dear Miss Bunion, how do you
do? I was in a great lady’s drawing-room this morning, and everybody
was charmed with your new volume. Those lines on the christening of
Lady Fanny Fantail brought tears into the Duchess’s eyes. I said that I
thought I should have the pleasure of meeting you to-day, and she
begged me to thank you, and say how greatly she was pleased.”
This history, told in a bland smiling manner, of a Duchess whom Wenham
had met that very morning, too, quite put poor Wagg’s dowager and
baronet out of court, and placed Wenham beyond Wagg as a man of
fashion. Wenham kept this inestimable advantage, and having the
conversation to himself, ran on with a number of anecdotes regarding
the aristocracy. He tried to bring Mr. Popjoy into the conversation by
making appeals to him, and saying, “I was telling your father this
morning,” or, “I think you were present at W. house the other night
when the Duke said so-and-so,” but Mr. Popjoy would not gratify him by
joining in the talk, preferring to fall back into the window recess
with Mrs. Bungay, and watch the cabs that drove up to the opposite
door. At least, if he would not talk, the hostess hoped that those
odious Bacons would see how she had secured the noble Percy Popjoy for
her party.
And now the bell of Saint Paul’s tolled half an hour later than that
for which Mr. Bungay had invited his party, and it was complete with
the exception of two guests, who at last made their appearance, and in
whom Pen was pleased to recognise Captain and Mrs. Shandon.
When these two had made their greetings to the master and mistress of
the house, and exchanged nods of more or less recognition with most of
the people present, Pen and Warrington went up, and shook hands very
warmly with Mrs. Shandon, who, perhaps, was affected to meet them, and
think where it was she had seen them but a few days before. Shandon was
brushed up, and looked pretty smart, in a red velvet waistcoat, and a
frill, into which his wife had stuck her best brooch. In spite of Mrs.
Bungay’s kindness, perhaps in consequence of it, Mrs. Shandon felt
great terror and timidity in approaching her: indeed, she was more
awful than ever in her red satin and bird of paradise, and it was not
until she had asked in her great voice about the dear little gurl, that
the latter was somewhat encouraged, and ventured to speak.
“Nice-looking woman,” Popjoy whispered to Warrington. “Do introduce me
to Captain Shandon, Warrington. I’m told he’s a tremendous clever
fellow; and, dammy, I adore intellect, by Jove I do!” This was the
truth: Heaven had not endowed young Mr. Popjoy with much intellect of
his own, but had given him a generous faculty for admiring, if not for
appreciating, the intellect of others. “And introduce me to Miss
Bunion. I’m told she’s very clever too. She’s rum to look at,
certainly, but that don’t matter. Dammy, I consider myself a literary
man, and I wish to know all the clever fellows.” So Mr. Popjoy and Mr.
Shandon had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with one another; and
now the doors of the adjoining dining-room being flung open, the party
entered and took their seats at table. Pen found himself next to Bunion
on one side, and to Mr. Wagg—the truth is, Wagg fled alarmed from the
vacant place by the poetess, and Pen was compelled to take it.
The gifted being did not talk much during dinner, but Pen remarked that
she ate with a vast appetite, and never refused any of the supplies of
wine which were offered to her by the butler. Indeed, Miss Bunion
having considered Mr. Pendennis for a minute, who gave himself rather
grand airs, and who was attired in an extremely fashionable style, with
his very best chains, shirt studs, and cambric fronts, he was set down,
and not without reason, as a prig by the poetess; who thought it was
much better to attend to her dinner than to take any notice of him. She
told him as much in after days with her usual candour. “I took you for
one of the little Mayfair dandies,” she said to Pen. “You looked as
solemn as a little undertaker; and as I disliked, beyond measure, the
odious creature who was on the other side of me, I thought it was best
to eat my dinner and hold my tongue.”
“And you did both very well, my dear Miss Bunion,” Pen said with a
laugh.
“Well, so I do, but I intend to talk to you the next time a great deal:
for you are neither so solemn, nor so stupid, nor so pert as you look.”
“Ah, Miss Bunion, how I pine for that ‘next time’ to come,” Pen said
with an air of comical gallantry:—But we must return to the day, and
the dinner at Paternoster Row.
The repast was of the richest description—“What I call of the florid
Gothic style,” Wagg whispered to Penn, who sate beside the humourist,
in his side-wing voice. The men in creaking shoes and Berlin gloves
were numerous and solemn, carrying on rapid conversations behind the
guests, as they moved to and fro with the dishes. Doolan called out,
“Waither,” to one of them, and blushed when he thought of his blunder.
Mrs. Bungay’s footboy was lost amidst those large and black-coated
attendants.
“Look at that very bow-windowed man,” Wagg said. “He’s an undertaker in
Amen Corner, and attends funerals and dinners. Cold meat and hot, don’t
you perceive? He’s the sham butler here, and I observe, my dear Mr.
Pendennis, as you will through life, that wherever there is a sham
butler at a London dinner there is sham wine—this sherry is filthy.
Bungay, my boy, where did you get this delicious brown sherry?”
“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Wagg; glass with you,” said the publisher.
“It’s some I got from Alderman Benning’s store, and gave a good figure
for it, I can tell you. Mr. Pendennis, will you join us? Your ’ealth,
gentlemen.”
“The old rogue, where does he expect to go to? It came from the
public-house,” Wagg said. “It requires two men to carry off that
sherry, ’tis so uncommonly strong. I wish I had a bottle of old
Steyne’s wine here, Pendennis: your uncle and I have had many a one. He
sends it about to people where he is in the habit of dining. I remember
at poor Rawdon Crawley’s, Sir Pitt Crawley’s brother—he was Governor of
Coventry Island—Steyne’s chef always came in the morning, and the
butler arrived with the champagne from Gaunt House, in the ice-pails
ready.”
“How good this is!” said Popjoy, good-naturedly. “You must have a
cordon bleu in your kitchen.”
“O yes,” Mrs. Bungay said, thinking he spoke of a jack-chain very
likely.
“I mean a French chef,” said the polite guest.
“O yes, your lordship,” again said the lady.
“Does your artist say he’s a Frenchman, Mrs. B.?” called out Wagg.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” answered the publisher’s lady.
“Because, if he does, he’s a quizzin yer,” cried Mr. Wagg; but nobody
saw the pun, which disconcerted somewhat the bashful punster. “The
dinner is from Griggs, in St. Paul’s Churchyard; so is Bacon’s,” he
whispered Pen. “Bungay writes to give half-a-crown a head more than
Bacon, so does Bacon. They would poison each other’s ices if they could
get near them; and as for the made-dishes—they are poison.
This—hum—ha—this Brimborion a la Sevigne is delicious, Mrs. B.,” he
said, helping himself to a dish which the undertaker handed to him.
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Mrs. Bungay answered, blushing and not
knowing whether the name of the dish was actually that which Wagg gave
to it, but dimly conscious that that individual was quizzing her.
Accordingly she hated Mr. Wagg with female ardour; and would have
deposed him from his command over Mr. Bungay’s periodical, but that his
name was great in the trade, and his reputation in the land
considerable.
By the displacement of persons, Warrington had found himself on the
right hand of Mrs. Shandon, who sate in plain black silk and faded
ornaments by the side of the florid publisher. The sad smile of the
lady moved his rough heart to pity. Nobody seemed to interest himself
about her: she sate looking at her husband, who himself seemed rather
abashed in the presence of some of the company. Wenham and Wagg both
knew him and his circumstances. He had worked with the latter, and was
immeasurably his superior in wit, genius, and acquirement; but Wagg’s
star was brilliant in the world, and poor Shandon was unknown there. He
could not speak before the noisy talk of the coarser and more
successful man; but drank his wine in silence, and as much of it as the
people would give him. He was under surveillance. Bungay had warned the
undertaker not to fill the Captain’s glass too often or too full. It
was a melancholy precaution that, and the more melancholy that it was
necessary. Mrs. Shandon, too, cast alarmed glances across the table to
see that her husband did not exceed.
Abashed by the failure of his first pun, for he was impudent and easily
disconcerted, Wagg kept his conversation pretty much to Pen during the
rest of dinner, and of course chiefly spoke about their neighbours.
“This is one of Bungay’s grand field-days,” he said. “We are all
Bungavians here.—Did you read Popjoy’s novel? It was an old magazine
story written by poor Buzzard years ago, and forgotten here until Mr.
Trotter (that is Trotter with the large shirt collar) fished it out and
bethought him that it was applicable to the late elopement; so Bob
wrote a few chapters a propos—Popjoy permitted the use of his name, and
I dare say supplied a page here and there—and ‘Desperation, or the
Fugitive Duchess’ made its appearance. The great fun is to examine
Popjoy about his own work, of which he doesn’t know a word.—I say,
Popjoy, what a capital passage that is in Volume Three,—where the
Cardinal in disguise, after being converted by the Bishop of London,
proposes marriage to the Duchess’s daughter.”
“Glad you like it,” Popjoy answered; “it’s a favourite bit of my own.”
“There’s no such thing in the whole book,” whispered Wagg to Pen.
“Invented it myself. Gad! it wouldn’t be a bad plot for a high-church
novel.”
“I remember poor Byron, Hobhouse, Trelawney, and myself, dining with
Cardinal Mezzocaldo at Rome,” Captain Sumph began, “and we had some
Orvieto wine for dinner, which Byron liked very much. And I remember
how the Cardinal regretted that he was a single man. We went to Civita
Vecchia two days afterwards, where Byron’s yacht was—and, by Jove, the
Cardinal died within three weeks; and Byron was very sorry, for he
rather liked him.”
“A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed,” Wagg said.
“You should publish some of those stories, Captain Sumph, you really
should. Such a volume would make our friend Bungay’s fortune,” Shandon
said.
“Why don’t you ask Sumph to publish ’em in your new paper—the
what-d’ye-call-’em—hay, Shandon?” bawled out Wagg.
“Why don’t you ask him to publish ’em in your old magazine, the
Thingumbob?” Shandon replied.
“Is there going to be a new paper?” asked Wenham, who knew perfectly
well, but was ashamed of his connection with the press.
“Bungay going to bring out a paper?” cried Popjoy, who, on the
contrary, was proud of his literary reputation and acquaintances. “You
must employ me. Mrs. Bungay, use your influence with him, and make him
employ me. Prose or verse—what shall it be? Novels, poems, travels, or
leading articles, begad. Anything or everything—only let Bungay pay me,
and I’m ready—I am now my dear Mrs. Bungay, begad now.”
“It’s to be called the Small Beer Chronicle,” growled Wagg, “and little
Popjoy is to be engaged for the infantine department.”
“It is to be called the Pall Mall Gazette, sir, and we shall be very
happy to have you with us,” Shandon said.
“Pall Mall Gazette—why Pall Mall Gazette?” asked Wagg.
“Because the editor was born at Dublin, the sub-editor at Cork, because
the proprietor lives in Paternoster Row;—and the paper is published in
Catherine Street, Strand. Won’t that reason suffice you, Wagg?” Shandon
said; he was getting rather angry. “Everything must have a name. My dog
Ponto has got a namee. You’ve got a name, and a name which you deserve,
more or less, indeed. Why d’ye grudge the name to our paper?”
“By any other name it would smell as sweet,” said Wagg.
“I’ll have ye remember its name’s not what-d’ye-call-’em, Mr. Wagg,”
said Shandon. “You know its name well enough, and—and you know mine.”
“And I know your address too,” said Wagg; but this was spoken in an
undertone, and the good-natured Irishman was appeased almost in an
instant after his ebullition of spleen, and asked Wagg to drink wine
with him in a friendly voice.
When the ladies retired from the table, the talk grew louder still; and
presently Wenham, in a courtly speech, proposed that everybody should
drink to the health of the new Journal, eulogising highly the talents,
wit, and learning of its editor, Captain Shandon. It was his maxim
never to lose the support of a newspaper man, and in the course of that
evening he went round and saluted every literary gentleman present with
a privy compliment specially addressed to him; informing this one how
great an impression had been made in Downing Street by his last
article, and telling that one how profoundly his good friend, the Duke
of So-and-So, had been struck by the ability of the late numbers.
The evening came to a close, and in spite of all the precautions to the
contrary, poor Shandon reeled in his walk, and went home to his new
lodgings, with his faithful wife by his side, and the cabman on his box
jeering at him. Wenham had a chariot of his own, which he put at
Popjoy’s seat; and the timid Miss Bunion seeing Mr. Wagg, who was her
neighbour, about to depart, insisted upon a seat in his carriage, much
to that gentleman’s discomfiture.
Pen and Warrington walked home together in the moonlight. “And now,”
Warrington said, “that you have seen the men of letters, tell me, was I
far wrong in saying that there are thousands of people in this town,
who don’t write books, who are, to the full, as clever and intellectual
as people who do?”
Pen was forced to confess that the literary personages with whom he had
become acquainted had not said much, in the course of the night’s
conversation, that was worthy to be remembered or quoted. In fact not
one word about literature had been said during the whole course of the
night:—and it may be whispered to those uninitiated people who are
anxious to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters,
that there are no race of people who talk about books, or, perhaps, who
read books, so little as literary men.