Produced by Donald Lainson
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
By William Makepeace Thackeray
CONTENTS
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS:--
Preface
Dorothea
Ottilia
FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS:--
First Profession
Second Profession
FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.*
PREFACE.
GEORGE FITZ-BOODLE, ESQUIRE, TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQUIRE.
OMNIUM CLUB, May 20, 1842.
DEAR SIR,--I have always been considered the third-best whist-player in
Europe, and (though never betting more than five pounds) have for many
years past added considerably to my yearly income by my skill in the
game, until the commencement of the present season, when a French
gentleman, Monsieur Lalouette, was admitted to the club where I usually
play. His skill and reputation were so great, that no men of the club
were inclined to play against us two of a side; and the consequence has
been, that we have been in a manner pitted against one another. By a
strange turn of luck (for I cannot admit the idea of his superiority),
Fortune, since the Frenchman's arrival, has been almost constantly
against me, and I have lost two-and-thirty nights in the course of a
couple of score of nights' play.
* The “Fitz-Boodle Papers” first appeared in Fraser's
Magazine for the year 1842.
Everybody knows that I am a poor man; and so much has Lalouette's luck
drained my finances, that only last week I was obliged to give him that
famous gray cob on which you have seen me riding in the Park (I can't
afford a thoroughbred, and hate a cocktail),--I was, I say, forced to
give him up my cob in exchange for four ponies which I owed him. Thus,
as I never walk, being a heavy man whom nobody cares to mount, my time
hangs heavily on my hands; and, as I hate home, or that apology for
it--a bachelor's lodgings--and as I have nothing earthly to do now until
I can afford to purchase another horse, I spend my time in sauntering
from one club to another, passing many rather listless hours in them
before the men come in.
You will say, Why not take to backgammon, or ecarte, or amuse yourself
with a book? Sir (putting out of the question the fact that I do not
play upon credit), I make a point never to play before candles are
lighted; and as for books, I must candidly confess to you I am not a
reading man.
'Twas but the other day that some one recommended me to your Magazine
after dinner, saying it contained an exceedingly witty article upon--I
forget what. I give you my honor, sir, that I took up the work at six,
meaning to amuse myself till seven, when Lord Trumpington's dinner was
to come off, and egad! in two minutes I fell asleep, and never woke till
midnight. Nobody ever thought of looking for me in the library, where
nobody ever goes; and so ravenously hungry was I, that I was obliged to
walk off to Crockford's for supper.
What is it that makes you literary persons so stupid? I have met various
individuals in society who I was told were writers of books, and that
sort of thing, and expecting rather to be amused by their conversation,
have invariably found them dull to a degree, and as for information,
without a particle of it. Sir, I actually asked one of these fellows,
“What was the nick to seven?” and he stared in my face and said he
didn't know. He was hugely over-dressed in satin, rings, chains and
so forth; and at the beginning of dinner was disposed to be rather
talkative and pert; but my little sally silenced HIM, I promise you,
and got up a good laugh at his expense too. “Leave George alone,”
said little Lord Cinqbars, “I warrant he'll be a match for any of
you literary fellows.” Cinqbars is no great wiseacre; but, indeed, it
requires no great wiseacre to know THAT.
What is the simple deduction to be drawn from this truth? Why,
this--that a man to be amusing and well-informed, has no need of
books at all, and had much better go to the world and to men for his
knowledge. There was Ulysses, now, the Greek fellow engaged in the
Trojan war, as I dare say you know; well, he was the cleverest man
possible, and how? From having seen men and cities, their manners noted
and their realms surveyed, to be sure. So have I. I have been in every
capital, and can order a dinner in every language in Europe.
My notion, then, is this. I have a great deal of spare time on my hands,
and as I am told you pay a handsome sum to persons writing for you, I
will furnish you occasionally with some of my views upon men and things;
occasional histories of my acquaintance, which I think may amuse you;
personal narratives of my own; essays, and what not. I am told that I do
not spell correctly. This of course I don't know; but you will remember
that Richelieu and Marlborough could not spell, and egad! I am an honest
man, and desire to be no better than they. I know that it is the matter,
and not the manner, which is of importance. Have the goodness, then, to
let one of your understrappers correct the spelling and the grammar
of my papers; and you can give him a few shillings in my name for his
trouble.
Begging you to accept the assurance of my high consideration, I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.
P.S.--By the way, I have said in my letter that I found ALL literary
persons vulgar and dull. Permit me to contradict this with regard to
yourself. I met you once at Blackwall, I think it was, and really did
not remark anything offensive in your accent or appearance.
Before commencing the series of moral disquisitions, &c. which I intend,
the reader may as well know who I am, and what my past course of life
has been. To say that I am a Fitz-Boodle is to say at once that I am a
gentleman. Our family has held the estate of Boodle ever since the
reign of Henry II.; and it is out of no ill will to my elder brother,
or unnatural desire for his death, but only because the estate is a
very good one, that I wish heartily it was mine: I would say as much of
Chatsworth or Eaton Hall.
I am not, in the first place, what is called a ladies' man, having
contracted an irrepressible habit of smoking after dinner, which has
obliged me to give up a great deal of the dear creatures' society; nor
can I go much to country-houses for the same reason. Say what they will,
ladies do not like you to smoke in their bedrooms: their silly little
noses scent out the odor upon the chintz, weeks after you have left
them. Sir John has been caught coming to bed particularly merry and
redolent of cigar-smoke; young George, from Eton, was absolutely found
in the little green-house puffing an Havana; and when discovered they
both lay the blame upon Fitz-Boodle. “It was Mr. Fitz-Boodle, mamma,”
says George, “who offered me the cigar, and I did not like to refuse
him.” “That rascal Fitz seduced us, my dear,” says Sir John, “and kept
us laughing until past midnight.” Her ladyship instantly sets me down as
a person to be avoided. “George,” whispers she to her boy, “promise me
on your honor, when you go to town, not to know that man.” And when she
enters the breakfast-room for prayers, the first greeting is a peculiar
expression of countenance, and inhaling of breath, by which my lady
indicates the presence of some exceedingly disagreeable odor in the
room. She makes you the faintest of curtsies, and regards you, if not
with a “flashing eye,” as in the novels, at least with a “distended
nostril.” During the whole of the service, her heart is filled with the
blackest gall towards you; and she is thinking about the best means of
getting you out of the house.
What is this smoking that it should be considered a crime? I believe in
my heart that women are jealous of it, as of a rival. They speak of it
as of some secret, awful vice that seizes upon a man, and makes him a
pariah from genteel society. I would lay a guinea that many a lady who
has just been kind enough to rend the above lines lays down the book,
after this confession of mine that I am a smoker, and says, “Oh, the
vulgar wretch!” and passes on to something else.
The fact is, that the cigar IS a rival to the ladies, and their
conqueror too. In the chief pipe-smoking nations they are kept in
subjection. While the chief, Little White Belt, smokes, the women are
silent in his wigwam; while Mahomet Ben Jawbrahim causes volumes of
odorous incense of Latakia to play round his beard, the women of the
harem do not disturb his meditations, but only add to the delight of
them by tinkling on a dulcimer and dancing before him. When Professor
Strumpff of Gottingen takes down No. 13 from the wall, with a picture
of Beatrice Cenci upon it, and which holds a pound of canaster, the Frau
Professorin knows that for two hours Hermann is engaged, and takes up
her stockings and knits in quiet. The constitution of French society
has been quite changed within the last twelve years: an ancient and
respectable dynasty has been overthrown; an aristocracy which Napoleon
could never master has disappeared: and from what cause? I do not
hesitate to say,--FROM THE HABIT OF SMOKING. Ask any man whether, five
years before the revolution of July, if you wanted a cigar at Paris,
they did not bring you a roll of tobacco with a straw in it! Now, the
whole city smokes; society is changed; and be sure of this, ladies,
a similar combat is going on in this country at present between
cigar-smoking and you. Do you suppose you will conquer? Look over the
wide world, and see that your adversary has overcome it. Germany has
been puffing for threescore years; France smokes to a man. Do you think
you can keep the enemy out of England? Psha! look at his progress. Ask
the clubhouses, Have they smoking-rooms or not? Are they not obliged to
yield to the general want of the age, in spite of the resistance of the
old women on the committees? I, for my part, do not despair to see a
bishop lolling out of the “Athenaeum” with a cheroot in his mouth, or,
at any rate, a pipe stuck in his shovel-hat.
But as in all great causes and in promulgating new and illustrious
theories, their first propounders and exponents are generally the
victims of their enthusiasm, of course the first preachers of smoking
have been martyrs, too; and George Fitz-Boodle is one. The first gas-man
was ruined; the inventor of steam-engine printing became a pauper. I
began to smoke in days when the task was one of some danger, and paid
the penalty of my crime. I was flogged most fiercely for my first cigar;
for, being asked to dine one Sunday evening with a half-pay colonel of
dragoons (the gallant, simple, humorous Shortcut--heaven bless him!--I
have had many a guinea from him who had so few), he insisted upon my
smoking in his room at the “Salopian,” and the consequence was, that I
became so violently ill as to be reported intoxicated upon my return
to Slaughter-House School, where I was a boarder, and I was whipped the
next morning for my peccadillo. At Christ Church, one of our tutors was
the celebrated lamented Otto Rose, who would have been a bishop under
the present Government, had not an immoderate indulgence in water-gruel
cut short his elegant and useful career. He was a good man, a pretty
scholar and poet (the episode upon the discovery of eau-de-Cologne,
in his prize-poem on “The Rhine,” was considered a masterpiece of art,
though I am not much of a judge myself upon such matters), and he was as
remarkable for his fondness for a tuft as for his nervous antipathy to
tobacco. As ill-luck would have it, my rooms (in Tom Quad) were exactly
under his; and I was grown by this time to be a confirmed smoker. I was
a baronet's son (we are of James the First's creation), and I do believe
our tutor could have pardoned any crime in the world but this. He had
seen me in a tandem, and at that moment was seized with a violent fit
of sneezing--(sternutatory paroxysm he called it)--at the conclusion of
which I was a mile down the Woodstock Road. He had seen me in pink, as
we used to call it, swaggering in the open sunshine across a grass-plat
in the court; but spied out opportunely a servitor, one Todhunter by
name, who was going to morning chapel with his shoestring untied,
and forthwith sprung towards that unfortunate person, to set him an
imposition. Everything, in fact, but tobacco he could forgive. Why
did cursed fortune bring him into the rooms over mine? The odor of the
cigars made his gentle spirit quite furious; and one luckless morning,
when I was standing before my “oak,” and chanced to puff a great bouffee
of Varinas into his face, he forgot his respect for my family altogether
(I was the second son, and my brother a sickly creature THEN,--he is now
sixteen stone in weight, and has a half-score of children); gave me a
severe lecture, to which I replied rather hotly, as was my wont. And
then came demand for an apology; refusal on my part; appeal to the dean;
convocation; and rustication of George Savage Fitz-Boodle.
My father had taken a second wife (of the noble house of Flintskinner),
and Lady Fitz-Boodle detested smoking, as a woman of her high principles
should. She had an entire mastery over the worthy old gentleman, and
thought I was a sort of demon of wickedness. The old man went to his
grave with some similar notion,--heaven help him! and left me but
the wretched twelve thousand pounds secured to me on my poor mother's
property.
In the army, my luck was much the same. I joined the --th Lancers,
Lieut.-Col. Lord Martingale, in the year 1817. I only did duty with the
regiment for three months. We were quartered at Cork, where I found the
Irish doodheen and tobacco the pleasantest smoking possible; and was
found by his lordship, one day upon stable duty, smoking the shortest,
dearest little dumpy clay-pipe in the world.
“Cornet Fitz-Boodle,” said my lord in a towering passion, “from what
blackguard did you get that pipe?”
I omit the oaths which garnished invariably his lordship's conversation.
“I got it, my lord,” said I, “from one Terence Mullins, a jingle-driver,
with a packet of his peculiar tobacco. You sometimes smoke Turkish, I
believe; do try this. Isn't it good?” And in the simplest way in the
world I puffed a volume into his face. “I see you like it,” said I, so
coolly, that the men--and I do believe the horses--burst out laughing.
He started back--choking almost, and recovered himself only to vent such
a storm of oaths and curses that I was compelled to request Capt.
Rawdon (the captain on duty) to take note of his lordship's words; and
unluckily could not help adding a question which settled my business.
“You were good enough,” I said, “to ask me, my lord, from what
blackguard I got my pipe; might I ask from what blackguard you learned
your language?”
This was quite enough. Had I said, “from what GENTLEMAN did your
lordship learn your language?” the point would have been quite as good,
and my Lord Martingale would have suffered in my place: as it was, I
was so strongly recommended to sell out by his Royal Highness the
Commander-in-Chief, that, being of a good-natured disposition, never
knowing how to refuse a friend, I at once threw up my hopes of military
distinction and retired into civil life.
My lord was kind enough to meet me afterwards in a field in the Glanmire
Road, where he put a ball into my leg. This I returned to him some years
later with about twenty-three others--black ones--when he came to be
balloted for at a club of which I have the honor to be a member.
Thus by the indulgence of a simple and harmless propensity,--of a
propensity which can inflict an injury upon no person or thing except
the coat and the person of him who indulges in it,--of a custom honored
and observed in almost all the nations of the world,--of a custom which,
far from leading a man into any wickedness or dissipation to which
youth is subject, on the contrary, begets only benevolent silence, and
thoughtful good-humored observation--I found at the age of twenty all
my prospects in life destroyed. I cared not for woman in those days:
the calm smoker has a sweet companion in his pipe. I did not drink
immoderately of wine; for though a friend to trifling potations, to
excessively strong drinks tobacco is abhorrent. I never thought of
gambling, for the lover of the pipe has no need of such excitement; but
I was considered a monster of dissipation in my family, and bade fair to
come to ruin.
“Look at George,” my mother-in-law said to the genteel and correct young
Flintskinners. “He entered the world with every prospect in life, and
see in what an abyss of degradation his fatal habits have plunged him!
At school he was flogged and disgraced, he was disgraced and rusticated
at the university, he was disgraced and expelled from the army! He
might have had the living of Boodle” (her ladyship gave it to one of
her nephews), “but he would not take his degree; his papa would have
purchased him a troop--nay, a lieutenant-colonelcy some day, but for his
fatal excesses. And now as long as my dear husband will listen to the
voice of a wife who adores him--never, never shall he spend a shilling
upon so worthless a young man. He has a small income from his mother
(I cannot but think that the first Lady Fitz-Boodle was a weak and
misguided person); let him live upon his mean pittance as he can, and I
heartily pray we may not hear of him in gaol!”
My brother, after he came to the estate, married the ninth daughter
of our neighbor, Sir John Spreadeagle; and Boodle Hall has seen a new
little Fitz-Boodle with every succeeding spring. The dowager retired to
Scotland with a large jointure and a wondrous heap of savings. Lady Fitz
is a good creature, but she thinks me something diabolical, trembles
when she sees me, and gathers all her children about her, rushes into
the nursery whenever I pay that little seminary a visit, and actually
slapped poor little Frank's ears one day when I was teaching him to ride
upon the back of a Newfoundland dog.
“George,” said my brother to me the last time I paid him a visit at the
old hall, “don't be angry, my dear fellow, but Maria is in a--hum--in
a delicate situation, expecting her--hum”--(the eleventh)--“and do
you know you frighten her? It was but yesterday you met her in the
rookery--you were smoking that enormous German pipe--and when she came
in she had an hysterical seizure, and Drench says that in her situation
it's dangerous. And I say, George, if you go to town you'll find a
couple of hundred at your banker's.” And with this the poor fellow shook
me by the hand, and called for a fresh bottle of claret.
Afterwards he told me, with many hesitations, that my room at Boodle
Hall had been made into a second nursery. I see my sister-in-law in
London twice or thrice in the season, and the little people, who have
almost forgotten to call me uncle George.
It's hard, too, for I am a lonely man after all, and my heart yearns to
them. The other day I smuggled a couple of them into my chambers, and
had a little feast of cream and strawberries to welcome them. But it had
like to have cost the nursery-maid (a Swiss girl that Fitz-Boodle hired
somewhere in his travels) her place. My step-mamma, who happened to be
in town, came flying down in her chariot, pounced upon the poor thing
and the children in the midst of the entertainment; and when I asked
her, with rather a bad grace to be sure, to take a chair and a share of
the feast--“Mr. Fitz-Boodle,” said she, “I am not accustomed to sit
down in a place that smells of tobacco like an ale-house--an ale-house
inhabited by a SERPENT, sir! A SERPENT!--do you understand me?--who
carries his poison into his brother's own house, and purshues his
eenfamous designs before his brother's own children. Put on Miss Maria's
bonnet this instant. Mamsell, ontondy-voo? Metty le bonny a mamsell. And
I shall take care, Mamsell, that you return to Switzerland to-morrow.
I've no doubt you are a relation of Courvoisier--oui! oui! courvoisier,
vous comprenny--and you shall certainly be sent back to your friends.”
With this speech, and with the children and their maid sobbing before
her, my lady retired; but for once my sister-in-law was on my side, not
liking the meddlement of the elder lady.
I know, then, that from indulging in that simple habit of smoking, I
have gained among the ladies a dreadful reputation. I see that they look
coolly upon me, and darkly at their husbands when they arrive at home in
my company. Men, I observe, in consequence, ask me to dine much oftener
at the club, or the “Star and Garter” at Richmond, or at “Lovegrove's,”
than in their own houses; and with this sort of arrangement I am fain to
acquiesce; for, as I said before, I am of an easy temper, and can at any
rate take my cigar-case out after dinner at Blackwall, when my lady or
the duchess is not by. I know, of course, the best MEN in town; and
as for ladies' society, not having it (for I will have none of your
pseudo-ladies, such as sometimes honor bachelors' parties,--actresses,
couturieres, opera-dancers, and so forth)--as for ladies' society, I
say, I cry pish! 'tis not worth the trouble of the complimenting, and
the bother of pumps and black silk stockings.
Let any man remember what ladies' society was when he had an opportunity
of seeing them among themselves, as What-d'ye-call'im does in the
Thesmophoria--(I beg pardon, I was on the verge of a classical allusion,
which I abominate)--I mean at that period of his life when the intellect
is pretty acute, though the body is small--namely, when a young
gentleman is about eleven years of age, dining at his father's
table during the holidays, and is requested by his papa to quit the
dinner-table when the ladies retire from it.
Corbleu! I recollect their whole talk as well as if it had been
whispered but yesterday; and can see, after a long dinner, the yellow
summer sun throwing long shadows over the lawn before the dining-room
windows, and my poor mother and her company of ladies sailing away to
the music-room in old Boodle Hall. The Countess Dawdley was the great
lady in our county, a portly lady who used to love crimson satin in
those days, and birds-of-paradise. She was flaxen-haired, and the Regent
once said she resembled one of King Charles's beauties.
When Sir John Todcaster used to begin his famous story of the exciseman
(I shall not tell it here, for very good reasons), my poor mother
used to turn to Lady Dawdley, and give that mystic signal at which all
females rise from their chairs. Tufthunt, the curate, would spring
from his seat, and be sure to be the first to open the door for the
retreating ladies; and my brother Tom and I, though remaining stoutly in
our places, were speedily ejected from them by the governor's invariable
remark, “Tom and George, if you have had QUITE enough of wine, you had
better go and join your mamma.” Yonder she marches, heaven bless her!
through the old oak hall (how long the shadows of the antlers are on the
wainscot, and the armor of Rollo Fitz-Boodle looks in the sunset as if
it were emblazoned with rubies)--yonder she marches, stately and tall,
in her invariable pearl-colored tabbinet, followed by Lady Dawdley,
blazing like a flamingo; next comes Lady Emily Tufthunt (she was Lady
Emily Flintskinner), who will not for all the world take precedence of
rich, vulgar, kind, good-humored Mrs. COLONEL Grogwater, as she would be
called, with a yellow little husband from Madras, who first taught me
to drink sangaree. He was a new arrival in our county, but paid nobly to
the hounds, and occupied hospitably a house which was always famous
for its hospitality--Sievely Hall (poor Bob Cullender ran through seven
thousand a year before he was thirty years old). Once when I was a
lad, Colonel Grogwater gave me two gold mohurs out of his desk for
whist-markers, and I'm sorry to say I ran up from Eton and sold them
both for seventy-three shillings at a shop in Cornhill. But to return
to the ladies, who are all this while kept waiting in the hall, and to
their usual conversation after dinner.
Can any man forget how miserably flat it was? Five matrons sit on sofas,
and talk in a subdued voice:--First Lady (mysteriously).--“My dear Lady
Dawdley, do tell me about poor Susan Tuckett.”
Second Lady.--“All three children are perfectly well, and I assure you
as fine babies as I ever saw in my life. I made her give them Daffy's
Elixir the first day; and it was the greatest mercy that I had some of
Frederick's baby-clothes by me; for you know I had provided Susan with
sets for one only, and really--”
Third Lady.--“Of course one couldn't; and for my part I think your
ladyship is a great deal too kind to these people. A little gardener's
boy dressed in Lord Dawdley's frocks indeed! I recollect that one at his
christening had the sweetest lace in the world!”
Fourth Lady.--“What do you think of this, ma'am--Lady Emily, I mean? I
have just had it from Howell and James:--guipure, they call it. Isn't
it an odd name for lace! And they charge me, upon my conscience, four
guineas a yard!”
Third Lady.--“My mother, when she came to Flintskinner, had lace upon
her robe that cost sixty guineas a yard, ma'am! 'Twas sent from Malines
direct by our relation, the Count d'Araignay.”
Fourth Lady (aside).--“I thought she would not let the evening pass
without talking of her Malines lace and her Count d'Araignay. Odious
people! they don't spare their backs, but they pinch their--”
Here Tom upsets a coffee-cup over his white jean trousers, and another
young gentleman bursts into a laugh, saying, “By Jove, that's a good
'un!”
“George, my dear,” says mamma, “had not you and your young friend better
go into the garden? But mind, no fruit, or Dr. Glauber must be called in
again immediately!” And we all go, and in ten minutes I and my brother
are fighting in the stables.
If, instead of listening to the matrons and their discourse, we had
taken the opportunity of attending to the conversation of the Misses, we
should have heard matter not a whit more interesting.
First Miss.--“They were all three in blue crape; you never saw anything
so odious. And I know for a certainty that they wore those dresses at
Muddlebury, at the archery-ball, and I dare say they had them in town.”
Second Miss.--“Don't you think Jemima decidedly crooked? And those
fair complexions, they freckle so, that really Miss Blanche ought to be
called Miss Brown.”
Third Miss.--“He, he, he!”
Fourth Miss.--“Don't you think Blanche is a pretty name?”
First Miss.--“La! do you think so, dear? Why, it's my second name!”
Second Miss.--“Then I'm sure Captain Travers thinks it a BEAUTIFUL
name!”
Third Miss.--“He, he, he!”
Fourth Miss.--“What was he telling you at dinner that seemed to interest
you so?”
First Miss.--“O law, nothing!--that is, yes! Charles--that is,--Captain
Travers, is a sweet poet, and was reciting to me some lines that he had
composed upon a faded violet:--
“'The odor from the flower is gone,
That like thy--,
like thy something, I forget what it was; but his lines are sweet, and
so original too! I wish that horrid Sir John Todcaster had not begun his
story of the exciseman, for Lady Fitz-Boodle always quits the table when
he begins.”
Third Miss.--“Do you like those tufts that gentlemen wear sometimes on
their chins?”
Second Miss.--“Nonsense, Mary!”
Third Miss.--“Well, I only asked, Jane. Frank thinks, you know, that
he shall very soon have one, and puts bear's-grease on his chin every
night.”
Second Miss.--“Mary, nonsense!”
Third Miss.--“Well, only ask him. You know he came to our dressing-room
last night and took the pomatum away; and he says that when boys go to
Oxford they always--”
First Miss.--“O heavens! have you heard the news about the Lancers?
Charles--that is, Captain Travers, told it me!”
Second Miss.--“Law! they won't go away before the ball, I hope!”
First Miss.--“No, but on the 15th they are to shave their moustaches! He
says that Lord Tufto is in a perfect fury about it!”
Second Miss.--“And poor George Beardmore, too!” &c.
Here Tom upsets the coffee over his trousers, and the conversations end.
I can recollect a dozen such, and ask any man of sense whether such talk
amuses him?
Try again to speak to a young lady while you are dancing--what we call
in this country--a quadrille. What nonsense do you invariably give and
receive in return! No, I am a woman-scorner, and don't care to own it. I
hate young ladies! Have I not been in love with several, and has any one
of them ever treated me decently? I hate married women! Do they not hate
me? and, simply because I smoke, try to draw their husbands away from
my society? I hate dowagers! Have I not cause? Does not every dowager in
London point to George Fitz-Boodle as to a dissolute wretch whom young
and old should avoid?
And yet do not imagine that I have not loved. I have, and madly, many,
many times! I am but eight-and-thirty,* not past the age of passion, and
may very likely end by running off with an heiress--or a cook-maid
(for who knows what strange freaks Love may choose to play in his own
particular person? and I hold a man to be a mean creature who calculates
about checking any such sacred impulse as lawful love)--I say, though
despising the sex in general for their conduct to me, I know of
particular persons belonging to it who are worthy of all respect and
esteem, and as such I beg leave to point out the particular young lady
who is perusing these lines. Do not, dear madam, then imagine that if
I knew you I should be disposed to sneer at you. Ah, no! Fitz-Boodle's
bosom has tenderer sentiments than from his way of life you would fancy,
and stern by rule is only too soft by practice. Shall I whisper to you
the story of one or two of my attachments? All terminating fatally
(not in death, but in disappointment, which, as it occurred, I used
to imagine a thousand times more bitter than death, but from which one
recovers somehow more readily than from the other-named complaint)--all,
I say, terminating wretchedly to myself, as if some fatality pursued my
desire to become a domestic character.
* He is five-and-forty, if he is a day old.--O. Y.
My first love--no, let us pass THAT over. Sweet one! thy name shall
profane no hireling page. Sweet, sweet memory! Ah, ladies, those
delicate hearts of yours have, too, felt the throb. And between the
last 'ob' in the word throb and the words now written, I have passed a
delicious period of perhaps an hour, perhaps a minute, I know not how
long, thinking of that holy first love and of her who inspired it. How
clearly every single incident of the passion is remembered by me!
and yet 'twas long, long since. I was but a child then--a child at
school--and, if the truth must be told, L--ra R-ggl-s (I would not write
her whole name to be made one of the Marquess of Hertford's executors)
was a woman full thirteen years older than myself; at the period of
which I write she must have been at least five-and-twenty. She and her
mother used to sell tarts, hard-bake, lollipops, and other such simple
comestibles, on Wednesdays and Saturdays (half-holidays), at a private
school where I received the first rudiments of a classical education.
I used to go and sit before her tray for hours, but I do not think the
poor girl ever supposed any motive led me so constantly to her little
stall beyond a vulgar longing for her tarts and her ginger-beer. Yes,
even at that early period my actions were misrepresented, and the
fatality which has oppressed my whole life began to show itself,--the
purest passion was misinterpreted by her and my school-fellows, and
they thought I was actuated by simple gluttony. They nicknamed me
Alicompayne.
Well, be it so. Laugh at early passion ye who will; a highborn boy madly
in love with a lowly ginger-beer girl! She married afterwards, took the
name of Latter, and now keeps with her old husband a turnpike, through
which I often ride; but I can recollect her bright and rosy of a sunny
summer afternoon, her red cheeks shaded by a battered straw bonnet, her
tarts and ginger-beer upon a neat white cloth before her, mending blue
worsted stockings until the young gentlemen should interrupt her by
coming to buy.
Many persons will call this description low; I do not envy them their
gentility, and have always observed through life (as, to be sure, every
other GENTLEMAN has observed as well as myself) that it is your parvenu
who stickles most for what he calls the genteel, and has the most
squeamish abhorrence for what is frank and natural. Let us pass at once,
however, as all the world must be pleased, to a recital of an affair
which occurred in the very best circles of society, as they are called,
viz, my next unfortunate attachment.
It did not occur for several years after that simple and platonic
passion just described: for though they may talk of youth as the season
of romance, it has always appeared to me that there are no beings in
the world so entirely unromantic and selfish as certain young English
gentlemen from the age of fifteen to twenty. The oldest Lovelace about
town is scarcely more hard-hearted and scornful than they; they ape all
sorts of selfishness and rouerie: they aim at excelling at cricket, at
billiards, at rowing, and drinking, and set more store by a red coat
and a neat pair of top-boots than by any other glory. A young fellow
staggers into college chapel of a morning, and communicates to all his
friends that he was “so CUT last night,” with the greatest possible
pride. He makes a joke of having sisters and a kind mother at home who
loves him; and if he speaks of his father, it is with a knowing sneer to
say that he has a tailor's and a horse-dealer's bill that will surprise
“the old governor.” He would be ashamed of being in love. I, in common
with my kind, had these affectations, and my perpetual custom of smoking
added not a little to my reputation as an accomplished roue. What came
of this custom in the army and at college, the reader has already heard.
Alas! in life it went no better with me, and many pretty chances I had
went off in that accursed smoke.
After quitting the army in the abrupt manner stated, I passed some
short time at home, and was tolerated by my mother-in-law, because I
had formed an attachment to a young lady of good connections and with a
considerable fortune, which was really very nearly becoming mine. Mary
M'Alister was the only daughter of Colonel M'Alister, late of the Blues,
and Lady Susan his wife. Her ladyship was no more; and, indeed, of no
family compared to ours (which has refused a peerage any time these two
hundred years); but being an earl's daughter and a Scotchwoman, Lady
Emily Fitz-Boodle did not fail to consider her highly. Lady Susan was
daughter of the late Admiral Earl of Marlingspike and Baron Plumduff.
The Colonel, Miss M'Alister's father, had a good estate, of which his
daughter was the heiress, and as I fished her out of the water upon
a pleasure-party, and swam with her to shore, we became naturally
intimate, and Colonel M'Alister forgot, on account of the service
rendered to him, the dreadful reputation for profligacy which I enjoyed
in the county.
Well, to cut a long story short, which is told here merely for the
moral at the end of it, I should have been Fitz-Boodle M'Alister at this
minute most probably, and master of four thousand a year, but for
the fatal cigar-box. I bear Mary no malice in saying that she was a
high-spirited little girl, loving, before all things, her own way; nay,
perhaps I do not, from long habit and indulgence in tobacco-smoking,
appreciate the delicacy of female organizations, which were oftentimes
most painfully affected by it. She was a keen-sighted little person,
and soon found that the world had belied poor George Fitz-Boodle; who,
instead of being the cunning monster people supposed him to be, was a
simple, reckless, good-humored, honest fellow, marvellously addicted to
smoking, idleness, and telling the truth. She called me Orson, and I
was happy enough on the 14th February, in the year 18-- (it's of no
consequence), to send her such a pretty little copy of verses about
Orson and Valentine, in which the rude habits of the savage man were
shown to be overcome by the polished graces of his kind and brilliant
conqueror, that she was fairly overcome, and said to me, “George
Fitz-Boodle, if you give up smoking for a year, I will marry you.”
I swore I would, of course, and went home and flung four pounds of
Hudson's cigars, two meerschaum pipes that had cost me ten guineas
at the establishment of Mr. Gattie at Oxford, a tobacco-bag that Lady
Fitz-Boodle had given me BEFORE her marriage with my father (it was the
only present that I ever had from her or any member of the Flintskinner
family), and some choice packets of Varinas and Syrian, into the lake
in Boodle Park. The weapon amongst them all which I most regretted
was--will it be believed?--the little black doodheen which had been the
cause of the quarrel between Lord Martingale and me. However, it went
along with the others. I would not allow my groom to have so much as a
cigar, lest I should be tempted hereafter; and the consequence was that
a few days after many fat carps and tenches in the lake (I must confess
'twas no bigger than a pond) nibbled at the tobacco, and came floating
on their backs on the top of the water quite intoxicated. My conversion
made some noise in the county, being emphasized as it were by this fact
of the fish. I can't tell you with what pangs I kept my resolution; but
keep it I did for some time.
With so much beauty and wealth, Mary M'Alister had of course many
suitors, and among them was the young Lord Dawdley, whose mamma has
previously been described in her gown of red satin. As I used to thrash
Dawdley at school, I thrashed him in after-life in love; he put up with
his disappointment pretty well, and came after a while and shook hands
with me, telling me of the bets that there were in the county, where the
whole story was known, for and against me. For the fact is, as I must
own, that Mary M'Alister, the queerest, frankest of women, made no
secret of the agreement, or the cause of it.
“I did not care a penny for Orson,” she said, “but he would go on
writing me such dear pretty verses that at last I couldn't help saying
yes. But if he breaks his promise to me, I declare, upon my honor, I'll
break mine, and nobody's heart will be broken either.”
This was the perfect fact, as I must confess, and I declare that it was
only because she amused me and delighted me, and provoked me, and made
me laugh very much, and because, no doubt, she was very rich, that I had
any attachment for her.
“For heaven's sake, George,” my father said to me, as I quitted home to
follow my beloved to London, “remember that you are a younger brother
and have a lovely girl and four thousand a year within a year's reach of
you. Smoke as much as you like, my boy, after marriage,” added the old
gentleman, knowingly (as if HE, honest soul, after his second marriage,
dared drink an extra pint of wine without my lady's permission!) “but
eschew the tobacco-shops till then.”
I went to London resolving to act upon the paternal advice, and oh! how
I longed for the day when I should be married, vowing in my secret soul
that I would light a cigar as I walked out of St. George's, Hanover
Square.
Well, I came to London, and so carefully avoided smoking that I would
not even go into Hudson's shop to pay his bill, and as smoking was not
the fashion then among young men as (thank heaven!) it is now, I had
not many temptations from my friends' examples in my clubs or elsewhere;
only little Dawdley began to smoke, as if to spite me. He had never done
so before, but confessed--the rascal!--that he enjoyed a cigar now,
if it were but to mortify me. But I took to other and more dangerous
excitements, and upon the nights when not in attendance upon Mary
M'Alister, might be found in very dangerous proximity to a polished
mahogany table, round which claret-bottles circulated a great deal
too often, or worse still, to a table covered with green cloth and
ornamented with a couple of wax-candles and a couple of packs of cards,
and four gentlemen playing the enticing game of whist. Likewise, I
came to carry a snuff-box, and to consume in secret huge quantities of
rappee.
For ladies' society I was even then disinclined, hating and despising
small-talk, and dancing, and hot routs, and vulgar scrambles for
suppers. I never could understand the pleasure of acting the part of
lackey to a dowager, and standing behind her chair, or bustling through
the crowd for her carriage. I always found an opera too long by
two acts, and have repeatedly fallen asleep in the presence of Mary
M'Alister herself, sitting at the back of the box shaded by the huge
beret of her old aunt, Lady Betty Plumduff; and many a time has Dawdley,
with Miss M'Alister on his arm, wakened me up at the close of the
entertainment in time to offer my hand to Lady Betty, and lead the
ladies to their carriage. If I attended her occasionally to any ball
or party of pleasure, I went, it must be confessed, with clumsy,
ill-disguised ill-humor. Good heavens! have I often and often thought in
the midst of a song, or the very thick of a ball-room, can people prefer
this to a book and a sofa, and a dear, dear cigar-box, from thy stores,
O charming Mariana Woodville! Deprived of my favorite plant, I grew sick
in mind and body, moody, sarcastic, and discontented.
Such a state of things could not long continue, nor could Miss M'Alister
continue to have much attachment for such a sullen, ill-conditioned
creature as I then was. She used to make me wild with her wit and her
sarcasm, nor have I ever possessed the readiness to parry or reply
to those fine points of woman's wit, and she treated me the more
mercilessly as she saw that I could not resist her.
Well, the polite reader must remember a great fete that was given at
B---- House, some years back, in honor of his Highness the Hereditary
Prince of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel, who was then in London on a visit to
his illustrious relatives. It was a fancy ball, and the poems of Scott
being at that time all the fashion, Mary was to appear in the character
of the “Lady of the Lake,” old M'Alister making a very tall and
severe-looking harper; Dawdley, a most insignificant Fitzjames; and your
humble servant a stalwart manly Roderick Dhu. We were to meet at B----
House at twelve o'clock, and as I had no fancy to drive through the town
in my cab dressed in a kilt and philibeg, I agreed to take a seat in
Dawdley's carriage, and to dress at his house in May Fair. At eleven
I left a very pleasant bachelors' party, growling to quit them and the
honest, jovial claret-bottle, in order to scrape and cut capers like a
harlequin from the theatre. When I arrived at Dawdley's, I mounted to a
dressing-room, and began to array myself in my cursed costume.
The art of costuming was by no means so well understood in those days
as it has been since, and mine was out of all correctness. I was made
to sport an enormous plume of black ostrich-feathers, such as never was
worn by any Highland chief, and had a huge tiger-skin sporran to dangle
like an apron before innumerable yards of plaid petticoat. The tartan
cloak was outrageously hot and voluminous; it was the dog-days, and
all these things I was condemned to wear in the midst of a crowd of a
thousand people!
Dawdley sent up word, as I was dressing, that his dress had not arrived,
and he took my cab and drove off in a rage to his tailor.
There was no hurry, I thought, to make a fool of myself; so having put
on a pair of plaid trews, and very neat pumps with shoe-buckles, my
courage failed me as to the rest of the dress, and taking down one of
his dressing-gowns, I went down stairs to the study, to wait until he
should arrive.
The windows of the pretty room were open, and a snug sofa, with
innumerable cushions, drawn towards one of them. A great tranquil moon
was staring into the chamber, in which stood, amidst books and all
sorts of bachelor's lumber, a silver tray with a couple of tall Venice
glasses, and a bottle of Maraschino bound with straw. I can see now the
twinkle of the liquor in the moonshine, as I poured it into the glass;
and I swallowed two or three little cups of it, for my spirits were
downcast. Close to the tray of Maraschino stood--must I say it?--a box,
a mere box of cedar, bound rudely together with pink paper, branded with
the name of “Hudson” on the side, and bearing on the cover the arms of
Spain. I thought I would just take up the box and look in it.
Ah heaven! there they were--a hundred and fifty of them, in calm,
comfortable rows: lovingly side by side they lay, with the great moon
shining down upon them--thin at the tip, full in the waist,
elegantly round and full, a little spot here and there shining upon
them--beauty-spots upon the cheek of Sylvia. The house was quite quiet.
Dawdley always smoked in his room--I had not smoked for four months and
eleven days.
*****
When Lord Dawdley came into the study, he did not make any remarks; and
oh, how easy my heart felt! He was dressed in his green and boots, after
Westall's picture, correctly.
“It's time to be off, George,” said he; “they told me you were dressed
long ago. Come up, my man, and get ready.”
I rushed up into the dressing-room, and madly dashed my head and arms
into a pool of eau-de-Cologne. I drank, I believe, a tumberful of it. I
called for my clothes, and, strange to say, they were gone. My servant
brought them, however, saying that he had put them away--making some
stupid excuse. I put them on, not heeding them much, for I was half
tipsy with the excitement of the ci-- of the smo-- of what had taken
place in Dawdley's study, and with the Maraschino and the eau-de-Cologue
I had drunk.
“What a fine odor of lavender-water!” said Dawdley, as we rode in the
carriage.
I put my head out of the window and shrieked out a laugh; but made no
other reply.
“What's the joke, George?” said Dawdley. “Did I say anything witty?”
“No,” cried I, yelling still more wildly; “nothing more witty than
usual.”
“Don't be severe, George,” said he, with a mortified air; and we drove
on to B---- House.
*****
There must have been something strange and wild in my appearance, and
those awful black plumes, as I passed through the crowd; for I observed
people looking and making a strange nasal noise (it is called sniffing,
and I have no other more delicate term for it), and making way as
I pushed on. But I moved forward very fiercely, for the wine, the
Maraschino, the eau-de-Cologne, and the--the excitement had rendered me
almost wild; and at length I arrived at the place where my lovely Lady
of the Lake and her Harper stood. How beautiful she looked,--all eyes
were upon her as she stood blushing. When she saw me, however; her
countenance assumed an appearance of alarm. “Good heavens, George!” she
said, stretching her hand to me, “what makes you look so wild and pale?”
I advanced, and was going to take her hand, when she dropped it with a
scream.
“Ah--ah--ah!” she said. “Mr. Fitz-Boodle, you've been smoking!”
There was an immense laugh from four hundred people round about us, and
the scoundrelly Dawdley joined in the yell. I rushed furiously out,
and, as I passed, hurtled over the fat Hereditary Prince of
Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel.
“Es riecht hier ungeheuer stark von Tabak!” I heard his Highness say, as
I madly flung myself through the aides-de-camp.
The next day Mary M'Alister, in a note full of the most odious good
sense and sarcasm, reminded me of our agreement; said that she was quite
convinced that we were not by any means fitted for one another, and
begged me to consider myself henceforth quite free. The little wretch
had the impertinence to send me a dozen boxes of cigars, which, she
said, would console me for my lost love; as she was perfectly certain
that I was not mercenary, and that I loved tobacco better than any woman
in the world.
I believe she was right, though I have never to this day been able to
pardon the scoundrelly stratagem by which Dawdley robbed me of a wife
and won one himself. As I was lying on his sofa, looking at the moon and
lost in a thousand happy contemplations, Lord Dawdley, returning
from the tailor's, saw me smoking at my leisure. On entering his
dressing-room, a horrible treacherous thought struck him. “I must not
betray my friend,” said he; “but in love all is fair, and he shall
betray himself.” There were my tartans, my cursed feathers, my
tiger-skin sporran, upon the sofa.
He called up my groom; he made the rascal put on all my clothes, and,
giving him a guinea and four cigars, bade him lock himself into the
little pantry and smoke them WITHOUT TAKING THE CLOTHES OFF. John did
so, and was very ill in consequence, and so when I came to B---- House,
my clothes were redolent of tobacco, and I lost lovely Mary M'Alister.