artist's talents; and that he had to bring them to London, where a score
of old friends would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the Colonel,
too, could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner, I felt
certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his leave of
absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spacious old house in
Queens Square, Westminster, where there was plenty of room for father and
son. I knew that Laura would be delighted to welcome these guests--may
the wife of every worthy gentleman who reads these pages be as ready to
receive her husband's friends. It was the state of Rosa's health, and the
Campaigner's authority and permission, about which I was in doubt, and
whether this lady's two slaves would be allowed to go away.
These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake, and he did not
breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the coffee-room to
myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended when the waiter announced
a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her appearance. No
signs of care or poverty were visible in the attire or countenance of the
buxom widow. A handsome bonnet, decorated within with a profusion of
poppies, bluebells; and ears of corn; a jewel on her forehead, not
costly, but splendid in appearance, and glittering artfully over that
central spot from which her wavy chestnut hair parted to cluster in
ringlets round her ample cheeks; a handsome India shawl, smart gloves, a
rich silk dress, a neat parasol of blue with pale yellow lining, a
multiplicity of glittering rinks, and a very splendid gold watch and
chain, which I remembered in former days as hanging round poor Rosey's
white neck;--all these adornments set off the widow's person, so that you
might have thought her a wealthy capitalist's lady, and never could have
supposed that she was a poor, cheated, ruined, robbed, unfortunate
Campaigner.
Nothing could be more gracious than the accueil of this lady. She paid me
many handsome compliments about my literary work--asked most
affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children--and then,
as I expected, coming to business, contrasted the happiness and genteel
position of my wife and family with the misery and wrongs of her own
blessed child and grandson. She never could call that child by the odious
name which he received at his baptism. I knew what bitter reasons she had
to dislike the name of Thomas Newcome.
She again rapidly enumerated the wrongs she had received at the hands of
that gentleman; mentioned the vast sums of money out of which she and her
soul's darling had been tricked by that poor muddle-headed creature, to
say no worse of him; and described finally their present pressing need.
The doctors, the burial, Rosey's delicate condition, the cost of
sweetbreads, calf's-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again passed in a
rapid calculation before me; and she ended her speech by expressing her
gratification that I had attended to her advice of the previous day, and
not given Clive Newcome a direct loan; that the family wanted it, the
Campaigner called upon Heaven to witness; that Clive and his absurd poor
father would fling guineas out of the window was a fact equally certain;
the rest of the argument was obvious, namely, that Mr. Pendennis should
administer a donation to herself.
I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book, though Mrs.
Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, and having, thank Heaven, in spite of
all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of all her tradesmen, hinted a
perfect willingness on her part to accept an order upon her friends,
Hobson Brothers of London.
This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs.
Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had just paid an
electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times, but a very small
income, might sometimes not be in a condition to draw satisfactorily upon
Messrs. Hobson or any other bankers? Her countenance fell at this remark,
nor was her cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of the two
bank-notes which then happened to be in my possession. I said that I had
a use for the remaining note, and that it would not be more than
sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses of my party back to
London.
My party? I had here to divulge, with some little trepidation, the plan
which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought that Clive's
great talents were wasted at Boulogne, and could only find a proper
market in London; how I was pretty certain, through my connection with
booksellers, to find some advantageous employment for him, and would have
done so months ago had I known the state of the case; but I had believed,
until within a very few days since, that the Colonel, in spite of his
bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment of considerable military pensions.
This statement, of course, elicited from the widow a number of remarks
not complimentary to my dear old Colonel. He might have kept his pensions
had he not been a fool--he was a baby about money matters--misled himself
and everybody--was a log in the house, etc. etc. etc.
I suggested that his annuities might possibly be put into some more
satisfactory shape--that I had trustworthy lawyers with whom I would put
him in communication--that he had best come to London to see to these
matters--and that my wife had a large house where she would most gladly
entertain the two gentlemen.
This I said with some reasonable dread--fearing, in the first place, her
refusal; in the second, her acceptance of the invitation, with a
proposal, as our house was large, to come herself and inhabit it for a
while. Had I not seen that Campaigner arrive for a month at poor James
Binnie's house in Fitzroy Square, and stay there for many years? Was I
not aware that when she once set her foot in a gentleman's establishment,
terrific battles must ensue before she could be dislodged? Had she not
once been routed by Clive? and was she not now in command and possession?
Do I not, finally, know something of the world; and have I not a weak,
easy temper? I protest it was with terror that I awaited the widow's
possible answer to my proposal.
To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of both my plans. I
was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to interest myself about the two
gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosa's sake, a fond mother thanked me. It
was most advisable that he should earn some money by that horrid
profession which he had chosen to adopt--a trade, she called it. She was
clearly anxious get rid both of father and son, and agreed that the
sooner they went the better.
We walked back arm-in-arm to the Colonel's quarters in the Old Town, Mrs.
Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing me the honour to introduce me
by name to several dingy acquaintances, whom we met sauntering up the
street, and imparting to me, as each moved away, the pecuniary cause of
his temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of Rosey's delicate state of
health, Mr
s. Mackenzie did not hesitate to break the news to her of the
gentlemen's probable departure, abruptly and eagerly, as if the
intelligence was likely to please her:--and it did, rather than
otherwise. The young woman, being in the habit of letting mamma judge for
her, continued it in this instance; and whether her husband stayed or
went, seemed to be equally content or apathetic. "And is it not most kind
and generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to propose to receive Mr.
Newcome and the Colonel?" This opportunity for gratitude being pointed
out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it straightway--it was very kind of me,
Rosey was sure. "And don't you ask after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear
children--you poor dear suffering darling child?" Rosey, who had
neglected this inquiry, immediately hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children
were well. The overpowering mother had taken utter possession of this
poor little thing. Rosey's eyes followed the Campaigner about, and
appealed to her at all moments. She sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird
before a boa-constrictor, doomed--fluttering--fascinated--scared and
fawning as a whipt spaniel before a keeper.
The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart at this sunny
hour. I repaired thither, and found the old gentleman seated by his
grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little bonne's lap, one of his
little purple hands closed round the grandfather's finger. "Hush!" says
the good man, lifting up his other finger to his moustache, as I
approached, "Boy's asleep. Il est bien joli quand il dort--le Boy,
n'est-ce pas, Marie?" The maid believed monsieur well--the boy was a
little angel. "This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable person,
Pendennis," the Colonel said, with much gravity.
The boa-constrictor had fascinated him, too--the lash of that woman at
home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit. As I looked at the
head so upright and manly, now so beautiful and resigned--the year of his
past life seemed to pass before me somehow in a flash of thought. I could
helpless remorse--the sleepless nights of pain and recollection--the
gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs--and the impotent hope. I own I
burst into a sob at the sight, and thought of the noble suffering
creature, and hid my face, and turned away.
He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child's, and placing it, the
kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. "What is it, Arthur--my dear boy?" he
said, looking wistfully in my face. "No bad news from home, my dear?
Laura and the children well?"
The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under mine, and as we
slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk of the old rampart, I told
him how I had come with special commands from Laura to bring him for a
while to stay with us, and to settle his business, which I was sure had
been wofully mismanaged, and to see whether we could not find the means
of getting some little out of the wreck of the property for the boy
yonder.
At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Boulogne, where Rosey
would miss him--he was sure she would want him--but before the ladies of
his family, to whom we presently returned, Thomas Newcome's resolution
was quickly recalled. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in at this time
was put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in it. On that
very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two friends to the
steamboat. Their little packets were made and ready. There was no
pretence of grief at parting on the women's side, but Marie, the little
maid, with Boy in her arms, cried sadly; and Clive heartily embraced the
child; and the Colonel, going back to give it one more kiss, drew out of
his neckcloth a little gold brooch which he wore, and which, trembling,
he put into Marie's hand, bidding her take good care of Boy till his
return.
"She is a good girl--a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur, do you see,"
the kind old gentleman said; "and I had no money to give her--no, not one
single rupee."
CHAPTER LXXIV
In which Clive begins the World
We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning the world.
He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw his
labours, his trials, and his disappointments, I could not but compare his
calling with my own.
The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession are taken into
full account, as we well know, by literary men, and their friends. Our
poverty, hardships, and disappointments are set forth with great
emphasis, and often with too great truth by those who speak of us; but
there are advantages belonging to our trade which are passed over, I
think, by some of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which,
in striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly thankful.
We have no patron, so to speak--we sit in ante-chambers no more, waiting
the present of a few guineas from my lord, in return for a fulsome
dedication. We sell our wares to the book-purveyor, between whom and us
there is no greater obligation than between him and his paper-maker or
printer. In the great towns in our country immense stores of books are
provided for us, with librarians to class them, kind attendants to wait
upon us, and comfortable appliances for study. We require scarce any
capital wherewith to exercise our trade. What other so-called learned
profession is equally fortunate? A doctor, for example, after carefully
and expensively educating himself, must invest in house and furniture,
horses, carriage, and menservants, before the public patient will think
of calling him in. I am told that such gentlemen have to coax and wheedle
dowagers, to humour hypochondriacs, to practise a score of little
subsidiary arts in order to make that of healing profitable. How many
many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to sink upon his stock-in-trade
before his returns are available? There are the costly charges of
university education--the costly chambers in the Inn of Court--the clerk
and his maintenance--the inevitable travels on circuit--certain expenses
all to be defrayed before the possible client makes his appearance, and
the chance of fame or competency arrives. The prizes are great, to be
sure, in the law, but what a prodigious sum the lottery-ticket costs! If
a man of letters cannot win, neither does he risk so much. Let us speak
public compassion.
The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes as loudly as
some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I think the life of
many of them is harder; their chances even more precarious, and the
conditions of their profession less independent and agreeable than ours.
I have watched Smee, Esq., R.A., flattering and fawning, and at the same
time boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure a sitter. I
have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine arts before one
of J. J.'s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter, and laying down the
most absurd laws respecting the art. I have seen poor Tomkins bowing a
rich amateur through a private view, and noted the eager smiles on
Tomkins' face at the amateur's slightest joke, the sickly twinkle of hope
in his eyes as Amateur stopped before his own picture. I have been
ushered by Chipstone's black servant through hall after hall peopled with
plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone's own magnificent studio, where
he sat longing vainly for an order, and justly dreading his landlord's
call for the rent. And, seeing how severely these gentlemen were taxed in
their profession, I have been grateful for my own more fortunate one,
which necessitates cringing to no patron; which calls for no keeping up
of appearances; and which requires no stock-in-trade save the workman's
industry, his best ability, and a dozen sheets of paper.
Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome,
one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive at
almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his art,
and had acquired in his desultory way a very considerable skill. His
drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my friend
present, he of course would utterly contradict); his designs and sketches
were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends, presuming to
judge of this artist's qualifications, ventured to counsel him
accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner. We had
in the first place to bully and browbeat Clive most fiercely, before he
would take fitting lodgings for the execution of those designs which we
had in view for him. "Why should I take expensive lodgings?" says Clive,
slapping his fist on the table. "I am a pauper, and can scarcely afford
to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for drawing your portrait and
Laura's and the children? What the deuce does Warrington want with the
effigy of his old mug? You don't want them a bit--you only want to give
me money.--It would be much more honest of me to take the money at once
and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you what, Pen, the only money
which I feel I come honestly by, is that which is paid me by a little
printseller in Long Acre who buys my drawings, one with another, at
fourteen shillings apiece, and out of whom I can earn pretty nearly two
hundred a year. I am doing Coaches for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry;
the public like the Mail Coaches best--on a dark paper--the horses and
miles picked out white--yellow dust--cobalt distance, and the guard and
coachman of course in vermilion. That's what a gentleman can get his
bread by--portraits, pooh! it's disguised beggary, Crackthorpe, and a
half-dozen men of his regiment came, like good fellows as they are, and
sent me five pounds apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed
to take the money." Such used to be the tenor of Clive Newcome's
conversation as he strode up and down our room after dinner, pulling his
moustache, and dashing his long yellow hair off his gaunt face.
When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends
counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied
his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to
whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always
hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet
infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and
kissed him with tears in her eyes. "You know how long I have been wanting
to do it," this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot describe the
behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his gentle gratitude,
his sweet simplicity and kindness, his thoughtful courtesy. There was not
a servant in our little household but was eager to wait upon him. Laura's