Where Pen appears in Town and Country
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 before 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 he 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.