Our Mutual Friend, Page 33

  Chapter 16

  AN ANNIVERSARY OCCASION

  The estimable Twemlow, dressing himself in his lodgings over thestable-yard in Duke Street, Saint James's, and hearing the horses attheir toilette below, finds himself on the whole in a disadvantageousposition as compared with the noble animals at livery. For whereas, onthe one hand, he has no attendant to slap him soundingly and require himin gruff accents to come up and come over, still, on the other hand,he has no attendant at all; and the mild gentleman's finger-joints andother joints working rustily in the morning, he could deem it agreeableeven to be tied up by the countenance at his chamber-door, so he werethere skilfully rubbed down and slushed and sluiced and polished andclothed, while himself taking merely a passive part in these tryingtransactions.

  How the fascinating Tippins gets on when arraying herself for thebewilderment of the senses of men, is known only to the Graces and hermaid; but perhaps even that engaging creature, though not reduced tothe self-dependence of Twemlow could dispense with a good deal of thetrouble attendant on the daily restoration of her charms, seeing thatas to her face and neck this adorable divinity is, as it were, a diurnalspecies of lobster--throwing off a shell every forenoon, and needing tokeep in a retired spot until the new crust hardens.

  Howbeit, Twemlow doth at length invest himself with collar and cravatand wristbands to his knuckles, and goeth forth to breakfast. And tobreakfast with whom but his near neighbours, the Lammles of SackvilleStreet, who have imparted to him that he will meet his distant kinsman,Mr Fledgely. The awful Snigsworth might taboo and prohibit Fledgely, butthe peaceable Twemlow reasons, If he IS my kinsman I didn't make him so,and to meet a man is not to know him.'

  It is the first anniversary of the happy marriage of Mr and Mrs Lammle,and the celebration is a breakfast, because a dinner on the desiredscale of sumptuosity cannot be achieved within less limits than thoseof the non-existent palatial residence of which so many people aremadly envious. So, Twemlow trips with not a little stiffness acrossPiccadilly, sensible of having once been more upright in figure and lessin danger of being knocked down by swift vehicles. To be sure that wasin the days when he hoped for leave from the dread Snigsworth to dosomething, or be something, in life, and before that magnificent Tartarissued the ukase, 'As he will never distinguish himself, he must be apoor gentleman-pensioner of mine, and let him hereby consider himselfpensioned.'

  Ah! my Twemlow! Say, little feeble grey personage, what thoughts are inthy breast to-day, of the Fancy--so still to call her who bruised thyheart when it was green and thy head brown--and whether it be better orworse, more painful or less, to believe in the Fancy to this hour, thanto know her for a greedy armour-plated crocodile, with no more capacityof imagining the delicate and sensitive and tender spot behind thywaistcoat, than of going straight at it with a knitting-needle. Saylikewise, my Twemlow, whether it be the happier lot to be a poorrelation of the great, or to stand in the wintry slush giving the hackhorses to drink out of the shallow tub at the coach-stand, into whichthou has so nearly set thy uncertain foot. Twemlow says nothing, andgoes on.

  As he approaches the Lammles' door, drives up a little one-horsecarriage, containing Tippins the divine. Tippins, letting down thewindow, playfully extols the vigilance of her cavalier in being inwaiting there to hand her out. Twemlow hands her out with as much politegravity as if she were anything real, and they proceed upstairs. Tippinsall abroad about the legs, and seeking to express that those unsteadyarticles are only skipping in their native buoyancy.

  And dear Mrs Lammle and dear Mr Lammle, how do you do, and when areyou going down to what's-its-name place--Guy, Earl of Warwick, youknow--what is it?--Dun Cow--to claim the flitch of bacon? And Mortimer,whose name is for ever blotted out from my list of lovers, by reasonfirst of fickleness and then of base desertion, how do YOU do, wretch?And Mr Wrayburn, YOU here! What can YOU come for, because we are allvery sure before-hand that you are not going to talk! And Veneering,M.P., how are things going on down at the house, and when will you turnout those terrible people for us? And Mrs Veneering, my dear, can itpositively be true that you go down to that stifling place night afternight, to hear those men prose? Talking of which, Veneering, why don'tyou prose, for you haven't opened your lips there yet, and we are dyingto hear what you have got to say to us! Miss Podsnap, charmed to seeyou. Pa, here? No! Ma, neither? Oh! Mr Boots! Delighted. Mr Brewer!This IS a gathering of the clans. Thus Tippins, and surveys Fledgeby andoutsiders through golden glass, murmuring as she turns about and about,in her innocent giddy way, Anybody else I know? No, I think not. Nobodythere. Nobody THERE. Nobody anywhere!

  Mr Lammle, all a-glitter, produces his friend Fledgeby, as dying for thehonour of presentation to Lady Tippins. Fledgeby presented, has the airof going to say something, has the air of going to say nothing, has anair successively of meditation, of resignation, and of desolation,backs on Brewer, makes the tour of Boots, and fades into the extremebackground, feeling for his whisker, as if it might have turned up sincehe was there five minutes ago.

  But Lammle has him out again before he has so much as completelyascertained the bareness of the land. He would seem to be in a bad way,Fledgeby; for Lammle represents him as dying again. He is dying now, ofwant of presentation to Twemlow.

  Twemlow offers his hand. Glad to see him. 'Your mother, sir, was aconnexion of mine.'

  'I believe so,' says Fledgeby, 'but my mother and her family were two.'

  'Are you staying in town?' asks Twemlow.

  'I always am,' says Fledgeby.

  'You like town,' says Twemlow. But is felled flat by Fledgeby's takingit quite ill, and replying, No, he don't like town. Lammle tries tobreak the force of the fall, by remarking that some people do not liketown. Fledgeby retorting that he never heard of any such case but hisown, Twemlow goes down again heavily.

  'There is nothing new this morning, I suppose?' says Twemlow, returningto the mark with great spirit.

  Fledgeby has not heard of anything.

  'No, there's not a word of news,' says Lammle.

  'Not a particle,' adds Boots.

  'Not an atom,' chimes in Brewer.

  Somehow the execution of this little concerted piece appears to raisethe general spirits as with a sense of duty done, and sets the company agoing. Everybody seems more equal than before, to the calamity of beingin the society of everybody else. Even Eugene standing in a window,moodily swinging the tassel of a blind, gives it a smarter jerk now, asif he found himself in better case.

  Breakfast announced. Everything on table showy and gaudy, but witha self-assertingly temporary and nomadic air on the decorations, asboasting that they will be much more showy and gaudy in the palatialresidence. Mr Lammle's own particular servant behind his chair; theAnalytical behind Veneering's chair; instances in point thatsuch servants fall into two classes: one mistrusting the master'sacquaintances, and the other mistrusting the master. Mr Lammle'sservant, of the second class. Appearing to be lost in wonder and lowspirits because the police are so long in coming to take his master upon some charge of the first magnitude.

  Veneering, M.P., on the right of Mrs Lammle; Twemlow on her left; MrsVeneering, W.M.P. (wife of Member of Parliament), and Lady Tippins on MrLammle's right and left. But be sure that well within the fascination ofMr Lammle's eye and smile sits little Georgiana. And be sure thatclose to little Georgiana, also under inspection by the same gingerousgentleman, sits Fledgeby.

  Oftener than twice or thrice while breakfast is in progress, Mr Twemlowgives a little sudden turn towards Mrs Lammle, and then says to her, 'Ibeg your pardon!' This not being Twemlow's usual way, why is it hisway to-day? Why, the truth is, Twemlow repeatedly labours under theimpression that Mrs Lammle is going to speak to him, and turning findsthat it is not so, and mostly that she has her eyes upon Veneering.Strange that this impression so abides by Twemlow after being corrected,yet so it is.

  Lady Tippins partaking plentifully of the fruits of the earth (includinggrape-juice in the category) becomes livelier,
and applies herself toelicit sparks from Mortimer Lightwood. It is always understood among theinitiated, that that faithless lover must be planted at table oppositeto Lady Tippins, who will then strike conversational fire out of him.In a pause of mastication and deglutition, Lady Tippins, contemplatingMortimer, recalls that it was at our dear Veneerings, and in thepresence of a party who are surely all here, that he told them hisstory of the man from somewhere, which afterwards became so horriblyinteresting and vulgarly popular.

  'Yes, Lady Tippins,' assents Mortimer; 'as they say on the stage, "Evenso!"

  'Then we expect you,' retorts the charmer, 'to sustain your reputation,and tell us something else.'

  'Lady Tippins, I exhausted myself for life that day, and there isnothing more to be got out of me.'

  Mortimer parries thus, with a sense upon him that elsewhere it is Eugeneand not he who is the jester, and that in these circles where Eugenepersists in being speechless, he, Mortimer, is but the double of thefriend on whom he has founded himself.

  'But,' quoth the fascinating Tippins, 'I am resolved on gettingsomething more out of you. Traitor! what is this I hear about anotherdisappearance?'

  'As it is you who have heard it,' returns Lightwood, 'perhaps you'lltell us.'

  'Monster, away!' retorts Lady Tippins. 'Your own Golden Dustman referredme to you.'

  Mr Lammle, striking in here, proclaims aloud that there is a sequelto the story of the man from somewhere. Silence ensues upon theproclamation.

  'I assure you,' says Lightwood, glancing round the table, 'I havenothing to tell.' But Eugene adding in a low voice, 'There, tellit, tell it!' he corrects himself with the addition, 'Nothing worthmentioning.'

  Boots and Brewer immediately perceive that it is immensely worthmentioning, and become politely clamorous. Veneering is also visited bya perception to the same effect. But it is understood that his attentionis now rather used up, and difficult to hold, that being the tone of theHouse of Commons.

  'Pray don't be at the trouble of composing yourselves to listen,' saysMortimer Lightwood, 'because I shall have finished long before you havefallen into comfortable attitudes. It's like--'

  'It's like,' impatiently interrupts Eugene, 'the children's narrative:

  "I'll tell you a story Of Jack a Manory, And now my story's begun; I'll tell you another Of Jack and his brother, And now my story is done."

  --Get on, and get it over!'

  Eugene says this with a sound of vexation in his voice, leaning back inhis chair and looking balefully at Lady Tippins, who nods to him asher dear Bear, and playfully insinuates that she (a self-evidentproposition) is Beauty, and he Beast.

  'The reference,' proceeds Mortimer, 'which I suppose to be made by myhonourable and fair enslaver opposite, is to the following circumstance.Very lately, the young woman, Lizzie Hexam, daughter of the late JesseHexam, otherwise Gaffer, who will be remembered to have found the bodyof the man from somewhere, mysteriously received, she knew not fromwhom, an explicit retraction of the charges made against her father, byanother water-side character of the name of Riderhood. Nobody believedthem, because little Rogue Riderhood--I am tempted into the paraphraseby remembering the charming wolf who would have rendered society a greatservice if he had devoured Mr Riderhood's father and mother in theirinfancy--had previously played fast and loose with the said charges,and, in fact, abandoned them. However, the retraction I have mentionedfound its way into Lizzie Hexam's hands, with a general flavour on itof having been favoured by some anonymous messenger in a dark cloak andslouched hat, and was by her forwarded, in her father's vindication, toMr Boffin, my client. You will excuse the phraseology of the shop, butas I never had another client, and in all likelihood never shall have, Iam rather proud of him as a natural curiosity probably unique.'

  Although as easy as usual on the surface, Lightwood is not quite as easyas usual below it. With an air of not minding Eugene at all, he feelsthat the subject is not altogether a safe one in that connexion.

  'The natural curiosity which forms the sole ornament of my professionalmuseum,' he resumes, 'hereupon desires his Secretary--an individualof the hermit-crab or oyster species, and whose name, I think, isChokesmith--but it doesn't in the least matter--say Artichoke--to puthimself in communication with Lizzie Hexam. Artichoke professes hisreadiness so to do, endeavours to do so, but fails.'

  'Why fails?' asks Boots.

  'How fails?' asks Brewer.

  'Pardon me,' returns Lightwood, 'I must postpone the reply for onemoment, or we shall have an anti-climax. Artichoke failing signally, myclient refers the task to me: his purpose being to advance the interestsof the object of his search. I proceed to put myself in communicationwith her; I even happen to possess some special means,' with a glanceat Eugene, 'of putting myself in communication with her; but I fail too,because she has vanished.'

  'Vanished!' is the general echo.

  'Disappeared,' says Mortimer. 'Nobody knows how, nobody knows when,nobody knows where. And so ends the story to which my honourable andfair enslaver opposite referred.'

  Tippins, with a bewitching little scream, opines that we shall every oneof us be murdered in our beds. Eugene eyes her as if some of us wouldbe enough for him. Mrs Veneering, W.M.P., remarks that these socialmysteries make one afraid of leaving Baby. Veneering, M.P., wishes tobe informed (with something of a second-hand air of seeing the RightHonourable Gentleman at the head of the Home Department in his place)whether it is intended to be conveyed that the vanished person has beenspirited away or otherwise harmed? Instead of Lightwood's answering,Eugene answers, and answers hastily and vexedly: 'No, no, no; he doesn'tmean that; he means voluntarily vanished--but utterly--completely.'

  However, the great subject of the happiness of Mr and Mrs Lammle mustnot be allowed to vanish with the other vanishments--with the vanishingof the murderer, the vanishing of Julius Handford, the vanishing ofLizzie Hexam,--and therefore Veneering must recall the present sheepto the pen from which they have strayed. Who so fit to discourse ofthe happiness of Mr and Mrs Lammle, they being the dearest and oldestfriends he has in the world; or what audience so fit for him to takeinto his confidence as that audience, a noun of multitude or signifyingmany, who are all the oldest and dearest friends he has in the world?So Veneering, without the formality of rising, launches into a familiaroration, gradually toning into the Parliamentary sing-song, in which hesees at that board his dear friend Twemlow who on that day twelvemonthbestowed on his dear friend Lammle the fair hand of his dear friendSophronia, and in which he also sees at that board his dear friendsBoots and Brewer whose rallying round him at a period when his dearfriend Lady Tippins likewise rallied round him--ay, and in the foremostrank--he can never forget while memory holds her seat. But he is freeto confess that he misses from that board his dear old friend Podsnap,though he is well represented by his dear young friend Georgiana. And hefurther sees at that board (this he announces with pomp, as if exultingin the powers of an extraordinary telescope) his friend Mr Fledgeby, ifhe will permit him to call him so. For all of these reasons, and manymore which he right well knows will have occurred to persons of yourexceptional acuteness, he is here to submit to you that the time hasarrived when, with our hearts in our glasses, with tears in our eyes,with blessings on our lips, and in a general way with a profusion ofgammon and spinach in our emotional larders, we should one and all drinkto our dear friends the Lammles, wishing them many years as happy asthe last, and many many friends as congenially united as themselves. Andthis he will add; that Anastatia Veneering (who is instantly heard toweep) is formed on the same model as her old and chosen friend SophroniaLammle, in respect that she is devoted to the man who wooed and won her,and nobly discharges the duties of a wife.

  Seeing no better way out of it, Veneering here pulls up his oratoricalPegasus extremely short, and plumps down, clean over his head, with:'Lammle, God bless you!'

  Then Lammle. Too much of him every way; pervadingly too much nose of acoarse wrong shape, and his nos
e in his mind and his manners; too muchsmile to be real; too much frown to be false; too many large teeth to bevisible at once without suggesting a bite. He thanks you, dear friends,for your kindly greeting, and hopes to receive you--it may be on thenext of these delightful occasions--in a residence better suited toyour claims on the rites of hospitality. He will never forget that atVeneering's he first saw Sophronia. Sophronia will never forget that atVeneering's she first saw him. 'They spoke of it soon after theywere married, and agreed that they would never forget it. In fact, toVeneering they owe their union. They hope to show their sense of thissome day ('No, no, from Veneering)--oh yes, yes, and let him relyupon it, they will if they can! His marriage with Sophronia was not amarriage of interest on either side: she had her little fortune, he hadhis little fortune: they joined their little fortunes: it was a marriageof pure inclination and suitability. Thank you! Sophronia and he arefond of the society of young people; but he is not sure that their housewould be a good house for young people proposing to remain single, sincethe contemplation of its domestic bliss might induce them to changetheir minds. He will not apply this to any one present; certainly notto their darling little Georgiana. Again thank you! Neither, by-the-by,will he apply it to his friend Fledgeby. He thanks Veneering for thefeeling manner in which he referred to their common friend Fledgeby, forhe holds that gentleman in the highest estimation. Thank you. In fact(returning unexpectedly to Fledgeby), the better you know him, the moreyou find in him that you desire to know. Again thank you! In his dearSophronia's name and in his own, thank you!

  Mrs Lammle has sat quite still, with her eyes cast down upon thetable-cloth. As Mr Lammle's address ends, Twemlow once more turns to herinvoluntarily, not cured yet of that often recurring impression that sheis going to speak to him. This time she really is going to speak to him.Veneering is talking with his other next neighbour, and she speaks in alow voice.

  'Mr Twemlow.'

  He answers, 'I beg your pardon? Yes?' Still a little doubtful, becauseof her not looking at him.

  'You have the soul of a gentleman, and I know I may trust you. Will yougive me the opportunity of saying a few words to you when you come upstairs?'

  'Assuredly. I shall be honoured.'

  'Don't seem to do so, if you please, and don't think it inconsistent ifmy manner should be more careless than my words. I may be watched.'

  Intensely astonished, Twemlow puts his hand to his forehead, and sinksback in his chair meditating. Mrs Lammle rises. All rise. The ladies goup stairs. The gentlemen soon saunter after them. Fledgeby has devotedthe interval to taking an observation of Boots's whiskers, Brewer'swhiskers, and Lammle's whiskers, and considering which pattern ofwhisker he would prefer to produce out of himself by friction, if theGenie of the cheek would only answer to his rubbing.

  In the drawing-room, groups form as usual. Lightwood, Boots, and Brewer,flutter like moths around that yellow wax candle--guttering down,and with some hint of a winding-sheet in it--Lady Tippins. Outsiderscultivate Veneering, M P., and Mrs Veneering, W.M.P. Lammle stands withfolded arms, Mephistophelean in a corner, with Georgiana and Fledgeby.Mrs Lammle, on a sofa by a table, invites Mr Twemlow's attention to abook of portraits in her hand.

  Mr Twemlow takes his station on a settee before her, and Mrs Lammleshows him a portrait.

  'You have reason to be surprised,' she says softly, 'but I wish youwouldn't look so.'

  Disturbed Twemlow, making an effort not to look so, looks much more so.

  'I think, Mr Twemlow, you never saw that distant connexion of yoursbefore to-day?'

  'No, never.'

  'Now that you do see him, you see what he is. You are not proud of him?'

  'To say the truth, Mrs Lammle, no.'

  'If you knew more of him, you would be less inclined to acknowledge him.Here is another portrait. What do you think of it?'

  Twemlow has just presence of mind enough to say aloud: 'Very like!Uncommonly like!'

  'You have noticed, perhaps, whom he favours with his attentions? Younotice where he is now, and how engaged?'

  'Yes. But Mr Lammle--'

  She darts a look at him which he cannot comprehend, and shows himanother portrait.

  'Very good; is it not?'

  'Charming!' says Twemlow.

  'So like as to be almost a caricature?--Mr Twemlow, it is impossibleto tell you what the struggle in my mind has been, before I could bringmyself to speak to you as I do now. It is only in the conviction that Imay trust you never to betray me, that I can proceed. Sincerely promiseme that you never will betray my confidence--that you will respect it,even though you may no longer respect me,--and I shall be as satisfiedas if you had sworn it.'

  'Madam, on the honour of a poor gentleman--'

  'Thank you. I can desire no more. Mr Twemlow, I implore you to save thatchild!'

  'That child?'

  'Georgiana. She will be sacrificed. She will be inveigled and marriedto that connexion of yours. It is a partnership affair, amoney-speculation. She has no strength of will or character to helpherself and she is on the brink of being sold into wretchedness forlife.'

  'Amazing! But what can I do to prevent it?' demands Twemlow, shocked andbewildered to the last degree.

  'Here is another portrait. And not good, is it?'

  Aghast at the light manner of her throwing her head back to look at itcritically, Twemlow still dimly perceives the expediency of throwing hisown head back, and does so. Though he no more sees the portrait than ifit were in China.

  'Decidedly not good,' says Mrs Lammle. 'Stiff and exaggerated!'

  'And ex--' But Twemlow, in his demolished state, cannot command theword, and trails off into '--actly so.'

  'Mr Twemlow, your word will have weight with her pompous, self-blindedfather. You know how much he makes of your family. Lose no time. Warnhim.'

  'But warn him against whom?'

  'Against me.'

  By great good fortune Twemlow receives a stimulant at this criticalinstant. The stimulant is Lammle's voice.

  'Sophronia, my dear, what portraits are you showing Twemlow?'

  'Public characters, Alfred.'

  'Show him the last of me.'

  'Yes, Alfred.'

  She puts the book down, takes another book up, turns the leaves, andpresents the portrait to Twemlow.

  'That is the last of Mr Lammle. Do you think it good?--Warn her fatheragainst me. I deserve it, for I have been in the scheme from the first.It is my husband's scheme, your connexion's, and mine. I tell you this,only to show you the necessity of the poor little foolish affectionatecreature's being befriended and rescued. You will not repeat this to herfather. You will spare me so far, and spare my husband. For, though thiscelebration of to-day is all a mockery, he is my husband, and we mustlive.--Do you think it like?'

  Twemlow, in a stunned condition, feigns to compare the portrait in hishand with the original looking towards him from his Mephistopheleancorner.

  'Very well indeed!' are at length the words which Twemlow with greatdifficulty extracts from himself.

  'I am glad you think so. On the whole, I myself consider it the best.The others are so dark. Now here, for instance, is another of MrLammle--'

  'But I don't understand; I don't see my way,' Twemlow stammers, as hefalters over the book with his glass at his eye. 'How warn her father,and not tell him? Tell him how much? Tell him how little? I--I--amgetting lost.'

  'Tell him I am a match-maker; tell him I am an artful and designingwoman; tell him you are sure his daughter is best out of my house and mycompany. Tell him any such things of me; they will all be true. You knowwhat a puffed-up man he is, and how easily you can cause his vanity totake the alarm. Tell him as much as will give him the alarm and makehim careful of her, and spare me the rest. Mr Twemlow, I feel my suddendegradation in your eyes; familiar as I am with my degradation in my owneyes, I keenly feel the change that must have come upon me in yours,in these last few moments. But I trust to your good faith with me asimplicitly as when I began
. If you knew how often I have tried to speakto you to-day, you would almost pity me. I want no new promise from youon my own account, for I am satisfied, and I always shall be satisfied,with the promise you have given me. I can venture to say no more, forI see that I am watched. If you would set my mind at rest with theassurance that you will interpose with the father and save this harmlessgirl, close that book before you return it to me, and I shall know whatyou mean, and deeply thank you in my heart.--Alfred, Mr Twemlow thinksthe last one the best, and quite agrees with you and me.'

  Alfred advances. The groups break up. Lady Tippins rises to go, and MrsVeneering follows her leader. For the moment, Mrs Lammle does not turnto them, but remains looking at Twemlow looking at Alfred's portraitthrough his eyeglass. The moment past, Twemlow drops his eyeglass at itsribbon's length, rises, and closes the book with an emphasis which makesthat fragile nursling of the fairies, Tippins, start.

  Then good-bye and good-bye, and charming occasion worthy of the GoldenAge, and more about the flitch of bacon, and the like of that; andTwemlow goes staggering across Piccadilly with his hand to his forehead,and is nearly run down by a flushed lettercart, and at last dropssafe in his easy-chair, innocent good gentleman, with his hand to hisforehead still, and his head in a whirl.