Explanations
Almost a year, as the reader will perceive, has passed since an event
described a few pages back. Arthur’s black coat is about to be
exchanged for a blue one. His person has undergone other more pleasing
and remarkable changes. His wig has been laid aside, and his hair,
though somewhat thinner, has returned to public view. And he has had
the honour of appearing at Court in the uniform of a Cornet of the
Clavering troop of the ——shire Yeomanry Cavalry, being presented to the
Sovereign by the Marquis of Steyne.
This was a measure strongly and pathetically urged by Arthur’s uncle.
The Major would not hear of a year passing before this ceremony of
gentlemanhood was gone through. The old gentleman thought that his
nephew should belong to some rather more select Club than the
Megatherium; and has announced everywhere in the world his
disappointment that the young man’s property has turned out not by any
means as well as he could have hoped, and is under fifteen hundred a
year.
That is the amount at which Pendennis’s property is set down in the
world—where his publishers begin to respect him much more than
formerly, and where even mammas are by no means uncivil to him. For if
the pretty daughters are, naturally, to marry people of very different
expectations—at any rate, he will be eligible for the plain ones: and
if the brilliant and fascinating Myra is to hook an Earl, poor little
Beatrice, who has one shoulder higher than the other, must hang on to
some boor through life, and why should not Mr. Pendennis be her
support? In the very first winter after the accession to his mother’s
fortune, Mrs. Hawxby in a country-house caused her Beatrice to learn
billiards from Mr. Pendennis and would be driven by nobody but him in
the pony carriage, because he was literary and her Beatrice was
literary too, and declared that the young man, under the instigation of
his horrid old uncle, had behaved most infamously in trifling with
Beatrice’s feelings. The truth is the old gentleman, who knew Mrs.
Hawxby’s character, and how desperately that lady would practise upon
unwary young men, had come to the country-house in question and carried
Arthur out of the danger of her immediate claws, though not out of the
reach of her tongue. The elder Pendennis would have had his nephew pass
a part of the Christmas at Clavering, whither the family had returned;
but Arthur had not the heart for that. Clavering was too near poor old
Fairoaks; and that was too full of sad recollections for the young man.
We have lost sight of the Claverings, too, until their reappearance
upon the Epsom race-ground, and must give a brief account of them in
the interval. During the past year, the world has not treated any
member of the Clavering family very kindly; Lady Clavering, one of the
best-natured women that ever enjoyed a good dinner, or made a slip in
grammar, has had her appetite and good-nature sadly tried by constant
family grievances, and disputes such as make the efforts of the best
French cook unpalatable, and the most delicately-stuffed sofa-cushion
hard to lie on. “I’d rather have a turnip, Strong, for dessert, than
that pineapple, and all them Muscatel grapes, from Clavering,” says
poor Lady Clavering, looking at her dinner-table, and confiding her
grief to her faithful friend, “if I could but have a little quiet to
eat it with. Oh, how much happier I was when I was a widow and before
all this money fell in to me!”
The Clavering family had indeed made a false start in life, and had got
neither conduct, nor position, nor thanks for the hospitalities which
they administered, nor a return of kindness from the people whom they
entertained. The success of their first London season was doubtful; and
their failure afterwards notorious. “Human patience was not great
enough to put up with Sir Francis Clavering,” people said. “He was too
hopelessly low, dull, and disreputable. You could not say what, but
there was a taint about the house and its entourages. Who was the
Begum, with her money, and without her h’s, and where did she come
from? What an extraordinary little piece of conceit the daughter was,
with her Gallicised graces and daring affectations, not fit for
well-bred English girls to associate with! What strange people were
those they assembled round about them! Sir Francis Clavering was a
gambler, living notoriously in the society of blacklegs and
profligates. Hely Clinker, who was in his regiment, said that he not
only cheated at cards, but showed the white feather. What could Lady
Rockminster have meant by taking her up? After the first season,
indeed, Lady Rockminster, who had taken up Lady Clavering, put her
down; the great ladies would not take their daughters to her parties;
the young men who attended them behaved with the most odious freedom
and scornful familiarity; and poor Lady Clavering herself avowed that
she was obliged to take what she called ‘the canal’ into her parlour,
because the tip-tops wouldn’t come.”
She had not the slightest ill-will towards “the canal,” the poor dear
lady, or any pride about herself, or idea, that she was better than her
neighbour; but she had taken implicitly the orders which on her entry
into the world her social godmother had given her: she had been willing
to know whom they knew, and ask whom they asked. The “canal,” in fact,
was much pleasanter than what is called “society;” but, as we said
before, that to leave a mistress is easy, while, on the contrary, to be
left by her is cruel: so you may give up society without any great
pang, or anything but a sensation of relief at the parting; but severe
are the mortifications and pains you have if society gives up you.
One young man of fashion we have mentioned, who at least it might have
been expected would have been found faithful amongst the faithless, and
Harry Foker, Esq., was indeed that young man. But he had not managed
matters with prudence, and the unhappy passion at first confided to Pen
became notorious and ridiculous to the town, was carried to the ears of
his weak and fond mother; and finally brought under the cognisance of
the bald-headed and inflexible Foker senior.
When Mr. Foker learned this disagreeable news, there took place between
him and his son a violent and painful scene, which ended in the poor
little gentleman’s banishment from England for a year, with a positive
order to return at the expiration of that time and complete his
marriage with his cousin, or to retire into private life and three
hundred a year altogether, and never see parent or brewery more. Mr.
Henry Foker went away then, carrying with him that grief and care which
passes free at the strictest Custom-houses, and which proverbially
accompanies the exile; and with this crape over his eyes, even the
Parisian Boulevard looked melancholy to him, and the sky of Italy
black.
To Sir Francis Clavering, that year was a most unfortunate one. The
events described in the last chapter came to complete the ruin of the
year. It was that year of grace in which, as our sporting readers may
remember, Lord Harrowhill’s horse (he was a classical young nobleman,
and named his stud out of the Iliad)—when Podasokus won the Derby, to
the dismay of the knowing ones, who pronounced the winning horse’s name
in various extraordinary ways, and who backed Borax, who was nowhere in
the race. Sir Francis Clavering, who was intimate with some of the most
rascally characters of the turf, and, of course, had “valuable
information,” had laid heavy odds against the winning horse, and backed
the favourite freely, and the result of his dealings was, as his son
correctly stated to poor Lady Clavering, a loss of seven thousand
pounds.
Indeed, it was a cruel blow upon the lady, who had discharged her
husband’s debts many times over; who had received as many times his
oaths and promises of amendment; who had paid his money-lenders and
horse-dealers; who had furnished his town and country houses, and who
was called upon now instantly to meet this enormous sum, the penalty of
her cowardly husband’s extravagance.
It has been described in former pages how the elder Pendennis had
become the adviser of the Clavering family, and, in his quality of
intimate friend of the house, had gone over every room of it, and even
seen that ugly closet which we all of us have, and in which, according
to the proverb, the family skeleton is locked up. About the Baronet’s
pecuniary matters, if the Major did not know, it was because Clavering
himself did not know them, and hid them from himself and others in such
a hopeless entanglement of lies that it was impossible for adviser or
attorney or principal to get an accurate knowledge of his affairs. But,
concerning Lady Clavering, the Major was much better informed; and when
the unlucky mishap of the Derby arose, he took upon himself to become
completely and thoroughly acquainted with all her means, whatsoever
they were; and was now accurately informed of the vast and repeated
sacrifices which the widow Amory had made in behalf of her present
husband.
He did not conceal—and he had won no small favour from Miss Blanche by
avowing it—his opinion, that Lady Clavering’s daughter had been hardly
treated at the expense of her son, by her second marriage: and in his
conversations with Lady Clavering had fairly hinted that he thought
Miss Blanche ought to have a better provision. We have said that he had
already given the widow to understand that he knew all the particulars
of her early and unfortunate history, having been in India at the time
when—when the painful circumstances occurred which had ended in her
parting from her first husband. He could tell her where to find the
Calcutta newspaper which contained the account of Amory’s trial, and he
showed, and the Begum was not a little grateful to him for his
forbearance, how, being aware all along of this mishap which had
befallen her, he had kept all knowledge of it to himself, and been
constantly the friend of her family.
“Interested motives, my dear Lady Clavering,” he said, “of course I may
have had. We all have interested motives, and mine, I don’t conceal
from you, was to make a marriage between my nephew and your daughter.”
To which Lady Clavering, perhaps with some surprise that the Major
should choose her family for a union with his own, said she was quite
willing to consent.
But frankly he said, “My dear lady, my boy has but five hundred a year,
and a wife with ten thousand pounds to her fortune would scarcely
better him. We could do better for him than that, permit me to say, and
he is a shrewd, cautious young fellow who has sown his wild oats
now—who has very good parts and plenty of ambition—and whose object in
marrying is to better himself. If you and Sir Francis chose—and Sir
Francis, take my word for it, will refuse you nothing—you could put
Arthur in a way to advance very considerably in the world, and show the
stuff which he has in him. Of what use is that seat in Parliament to
Clavering, who scarcely ever shows his face in the House, or speaks a
word there? I’m told by gentlemen who heard my boy at Oxbridge, that he
was famous as an orator, begad!—and once put his foot into the stirrup
and mount him, I’ve no doubt he won’t be the last of the field, ma’am.
I’ve tested the chap, and know him pretty well, I think. He is much too
lazy, and careless, and flighty a fellow, to make a jog-trot journey,
and arrive, as your lawyers do, at the end of their lives! but give him
a start and good friends, and an opportunity, and take my word for it,
he’ll make himself a name that his sons shall be proud of. I don’t see
any way for a fellow like him to parvenir, but by making a prudent
marriage—not with a beggarly heiress—to sit down for life upon a
miserable fifteen hundred a year—but with somebody whom he can help,
and who can help him forward in the world, and whom he can give a good
name and a station in the country, begad, in return for the advantages
which she brings him. It would be better for you to have a
distinguished son-in-law, than to keep your husband on in Parliament,
who’s of no good to himself or to anybody else there, and that’s, I
say, why I’ve been interested about you, and offer you what I think a
good bargain for both.”
“You know I look upon Arthur as one of the family almost now,” said the
good-natured Begum; “he comes and goes when he likes; and the more I
think of his dear mother, the more I see there’s few people so
good—none so good to me. And I’m sure I cried when I heard of her
death, and would have gone into mourning for her myself, only black
don’t become me. And I know who his mother wanted him to marry—Laura, I
mean—whom old Lady Rockminster has taken such a fancy to, and, no
wonder. She’s a better girl than my girl. I know both. And my
Betsy—Blanche, I mean—ain’t been a comfort to me, Major. It’s Laura Pen
ought to marry.
“Marry on five hundred a year! My dear good soul, you are mad!” Major
Pendennis said. “Think over what I have said to you. Do nothing in your
affairs with that unhappy husband of yours without consulting me; and
remember that old Pendennis is always your friend.”
For some time previous, Pen’s uncle had held similar language to Miss
Amory. He had pointed out to her the convenience of the match which he
had at heart, and was bound to say, that mutual convenience was of all
things the very best in the world to marry upon—the only thing. “Look
at your love-marriages, my dear young creature. The love-match people
are the most notorious of all for quarrelling afterwards; and a girl
who runs away with Jack to Gretna Green, constantly runs away with Tom
to Switzerland afterwards. The great point in marriage is for people to
agree to be useful to one another. The lady brings the means, and the
gentleman avails himself of them. My boy’s wife brings the horse, and
begad Pen goes in and wins the plate. That’s what I call a sensible
union. A couple like that have something to talk to each other about
when they come together. If you had Cupid himself to talk to—if Blanche
and Pen were Cupid and Psyche, begad—they’d begin to yawn after a few
evenings, if they had nothing but sentiment to speak on.”
As for Miss Amory, she was contented enough with Pen as long as there
was nobody better. And how many other young ladies are like her?—and
how many love-marriages carry on well to the last?—and how sentimental
firms do not finish in bankruptcy?—and how many heroic passions don’t
dwindle down into despicable indifference, or end in shameful defeat?
These views of life and philosophy the Major was constantly, according
to his custom, inculcating to Pen, whose mind was such that he could
see the right on both sides of many questions, and, comprehending the
sentimental life which was quite out of the reach of the honest Major’s
intelligence, could understand the practical life too, and accommodate
himself, or think he could accommodate himself, to it. So it came to
pass that during the spring succeeding his mother’s death he became a
good deal under the influence of his uncle’s advice, and domesticated
in Lady Clavering’s house; and in a measure was accepted by Miss Amory
without being a suitor, and was received without being engaged. The
young people were extremely familiar, without being particularly
sentimental, and met and parted with each other in perfect good-humour.
“And I,” thought Pendennis, “am the fellow who eight years ago had a
Grand passion, and last year was raging in a fever about Briseis!”
Yes, it was the same Pendennis, and time had brought to him, as to the
rest of us, its ordinary consequences, consolations, developments. We
alter very little. When we talk of this man or that woman being no
longer the same person whom we remember in youth, and remark (of course
to deplore) changes in our friends, we don’t, perhaps, calculate that
circumstance only brings out the latent defect or quality, and does not
create it. The selfish languor and indifference of to-day’s possession
is the consequence of the selfish ardour of yesterday’s pursuit: the
scorn and weariness which cries vanitas vanitatum is but the lassitude
of the sick appetite palled with pleasure: the insolence of the
successful parvenu is only the necessary continuance of the career of
the needy struggler: our mental changes are like our grey hairs or our
wrinkles—but the fulfilment of the plan of mortal growth and decay:
that which is snow-white now was glossy black once; that which is
sluggish obesity to-day was boisterous rosy health a few years back;
that calm weariness, benevolent, resigned, and disappointed, was
ambition, fierce and violent, but a few years since, and has only
settled into submissive repose after many a battle and defeat. Lucky he
who can bear his failure so generously, and give up his broken sword to
Fate the Conqueror with a manly and humble heart! Are you not
awestricken, you, friendly reader, who, taking the page up for a
moment’s light reading, lay it down, perchance, for a graver
reflection,—to think how you, who have consummated your success or your
disaster, may be holding marked station, or a hopeless and nameless
place, in the crowd—who have passed through how many struggles of
defeat, success, crime, remorse, to yourself only known!—who may have
loved and grown cold, wept and laughed again, how often!—to think how
you are the same, You, whom in childhood you remember, before the
voyage of life began? It has been prosperous, and you are riding into
port, the people huzzaing and the guns saluting,—and the lucky captain
bows from the ship’s side, and there is a care under the star on his
breast which nobody knows of: or you are wrecked, and lashed, hopeless,
to a solitary spar out at sea:—the sinking man and the successful one
are thinking each about home, very likely, and remembering the time
when they were children; alone on the hopeless spar, drowning out of
sight; alone in the midst of the crowd applauding you.