punished (so Mr. Honeyman says, at least, in his pulpit), by a hundred
little mortifications, disappointments, and secret wounds, which stung
not the less severely though never mentioned by their victim.
Sometimes he would have a company of such gentlemen as Messrs.
Warrington, Honeyman, and Pendennis, when haply a literary conversation
would ensue after dinner; and the merits of our present poets and writers
would be discussed with the claret. Honeyman was well enough read in
profane literature, especially of the lighter sort; and, I dare say,
could have passed a satisfactory examination in Balzac, Dumas, and Paul
de Kock himself, of all whose works our good host was entirely ignorant,
--as indeed he was of graver books, and of earlier books, and of books in
general--except those few which we have said formed his travelling
library. He heard opinions that amazed and bewildered him. He heard that
Byron was no great poet, though a very clever man. He heard that there
had been a wicked persecution against Mr. Pope's memory and fame, and
that it was time to reinstate him that his favourite, Dr. Johnson, talked
admirably, but did not write English: that young Keats was a genius to be
estimated in future days with young Raphael: and that a young gentleman
of Cambridge who had lately published two volumes of verses, might take
rank with the greatest poets of all. Doctor Johnson not write English!
Lord Byron not one of the greatest poets of the world! Sir Walter a poet
of the second order! Mr. Pope attacked for inferiority and want of
imagination; Mr. Keats and this young Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge, the
chief of modern poetic literature! What were these new dicta, which Mr.
Warrington delivered with a puff of tobacco-smoke: to which Mr. Honeyman
blandly assented and Clive listened with pleasure? Such opinions were not
of the Colonel's time. He tried in vain to construe Oenone, and to make
sense of Lamia. Ulysses he could understand; but what were these
prodigious laudations bestowed on it? And that reverence for Mr.
Wordsworth, what did it mean? Had he not written Peter Bell, and been
turned into deserved ridicule by all the reviews? Was that dreary
Excursion to be compared to Goldsmith's Traveller, or Doctor Johnson's
Imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal? If the young men told the
truth, where had been the truth in his own young days, and in what
ignorance had our forefathers been brought up?--Mr. Addison was only an
elegant essayist, and shallow trifler! All these opinions were openly
uttered over the Colonel's claret, as he and Mr. Binnie sate wondering at
the speakers, who were knocking the gods of their youth about their ears.
To Binnie the shock was not so great; the hard-headed Scotchman had read
Hume in his college days, and sneered at some of the gods even at that
early time. But with Newcome the admiration for the literature of the
last century was an article of belief: and the incredulity of the young
men seemed rank blasphemy. "You will be sneering at Shakspeare next," he
said: and was silenced, though not better pleased, when his youthful
guests told him, that Doctor Goldsmith sneered at him too; that Dr.
Johnson did not understand him, and that Congreve, in his own day and
afterwards, was considered to be, in some points, Shakspeare's superior.
"What do you think a man's criticism is worth, sir," cries Mr.
Warrington, "who says those lines of Mr. Congreve, about a church--
'How reverend is the face of yon tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its vast and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable;
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight'--et caetera
what do you think of a critic who says those lines are finer than
anything Shakspeare ever wrote?" A dim consciousness of danger for Clive,
a terror that his son had got into the society of heretics and
unbelievers, came over the Colonel,--and then presently, as was the wont
with his modest soul, a gentle sense of humility. He was in the wrong,
perhaps, and these younger men were right. Who was he, to set up his
judgment against men of letters, educated at college? It was better that
Clive should follow them than him, who had had but a brief schooling, and
that neglected, and who had not the original genius of his son's
brilliant companions. We particularise these talks, and the little
incidental mortifications which one of the best of men endured, not
because the conversations are worth the remembering or recording, but
because they presently very materially influenced his own and his son's
future history.
In the midst of the artists and their talk the poor Colonel was equally
in the dark. They assaulted this Academician and that; laughed at Mr.
Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or the contrary; deified Mr. Turner
on one side of the table, and on the other scorned him as a madman--nor
could Newcome comprehend a word of their jargon. Some sense there must be
in their conversation: Clive joined eagerly in it and took one side or
another. But what was all this rapture about a snuffy brown picture
called Titian, this delight in three flabby nymphs by Rubens, and so
forth? As for the vaunted Antique, and the Elgin Marbles--it might be
that that battered torso was a miracle, and that broken-nosed bust a
perfect beauty. He tried and tried to see that they were. He went away
privily and worked at the National Gallery with a catalogue: and passed
hours in the Museum before the ancient statues, desperately praying to
comprehend them, and puzzled before them as he remembered he was puzzled
before the Greek rudiments as a child when he cried over o kai hae
alaethaes kai to alaethaes. Whereas when Clive came to look at these same
things his eyes would lighten up with pleasure, and his cheeks flush with
enthusiasm. He seemed to drink in colour as he would a feast of wine.
Before the statues he would wave his finger, following the line of grace,
and burst into ejaculations of delight and admiration. "Why can't I love
the things which he loves?" thought Newcome; "why am I blind to the
beauties which he admires so much--and am I unable to comprehend what he
evidently understands at his young age?"
So, as he thought what vain egotistical hopes he used to form about the
boy when he was away in India--how in his plans for the happy future,
Clive was to be always at his side; how they were to read, work, play,
think, be merry together--a sickening and humiliating sense of the
reality came over him: and he sadly contrasted it with the former fond
anticipations. Together they were, yet he was alone still. His thoughts
were not the boy's: and his affections rewarded but with a part of the
young man's heart. Very likely other lovers have suffered equally. Many a
man and woman has been incensed and worshipped, and has shown no more
feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St.
Peter's, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and
will sit eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed to
the father as if each day separated them more and more. He himself became
more melancholy and silent. His friend the civilian marked the ennui, and
commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes he announced to the club
that Tom Newcome was in love: then he thought it was not Tom's heart but
his liver that was affected, and recommended blue pill. O thou fond fool!
who art thou, to know any man's heart save thine alone? Wherefore were
wings made, and do feathers grow, but that birds should fly? The instinct
that bids you love your nest, leads the young ones to seek a tree and a
mate of their own. As if Thomas Newcome by poring over poems or pictures
ever so much could read them with Clive's eyes!--as if by sitting mum
over his wine, but watching till the lad came home with his latchkey
(when the Colonel crept back to his own room in his stockings), by
prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by any schemes or prayers, he
could hope to remain first in his son's heart!
One day going into Clive's study, where the lad was so deeply engaged
that he did not hear the father's steps advancing, Thomas Newcome found
his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which, blushing, he thrust
hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he saw his visitor. The father
was deeply smitten and mortified. "I--I am sorry you have any secrets
from me, Clive," he gasped out at length.
The boy's face lighted up with humour. "Here it is, father, if you would
like to see:"--and he pulled out a paper which contained neither more nor
less than a copy of very flowery verses, about a certain young lady, who
had succeeded (after I know not how many predecessors) to the place of
prima-donna assoluta in Clive's heart. And be pleased, madam, not to be
too eager with your censure, and fancy that Mr. Clive or his chronicler
would insinuate anything wrong. I dare say you felt a flame or two before
you were married yourself: and that the Captain or the Curate, and the
interesting young foreigner with whom you danced, caused your heart to
beat, before you bestowed that treasure on Mr. Candour. Clive was doing
old himself--if he is a lad of any spirit and a worthy son of so charming
a lady as yourself.
CHAPTER XXII
Describes a Visit to Paris; with Accidents and Incidents in London
Mr. Clive, as we have said, had now begun to make acquaintances of his
own; and the chimney-glass in his study was decorated with such a number
of cards of invitation, as made his ex-fellow-student of Gandish's, young
Moss, when admitted into that sanctum, stare with respectful
astonishment. "Lady Bary Rowe at obe," the young Hebrew read out; "Lady
Baughton at obe, dadsig! By eyes! what a tip-top swell you're a gettid to
be, Newcome! I guess this is a different sort of business to the hops at
old Levison's, where you first learned the polka; and where we had to pay
a shilling a glass for negus!"
"We had to pay! You never paid anything, Moss," cries Clive, laughing;
and indeed the negus imbibed by Mr. Moss did not cost that prudent young
fellow a penny.
"Well, well; I suppose at these swell parties you 'ave as bush champade
as ever you like," continues Moss. "Lady Kicklebury at obe--small early
party. Why, I declare you know the whole peerage! I say, if any of these
swells want a little tip-top lace, a real bargain, or diamonds, you know,
you might put in a word for us, and do us a good turn."
"Give me some of your cards," says Clive; "I can distribute them about at
the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than you serve
me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable, Moss; the groom in
the stable won't smoke them."
"What a regular swell that Newcome has become!" says Mr. Moss to an old
companion, another of Clive's fellow-students: "I saw him riding in the
Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of 'em--I
know 'em all--and he'd hardly nod to me. I'll have a horse next Sunday,
and then I'll see whether he'll cut me or not. Confound his airs! For all
he's such a count, I know he's got an aunt who lets lodgings at Brighton,
and an uncle who'll be preaching in the Bench if he don't keep a precious
good look-out."
"Newcome is not a bit of a count," answers Moss's companion, indignantly.
"He don't care a straw whether a fellow's poor or rich; and he comes up
to my room just as willingly as he would go to a duke's. He is always
trying to do a friend a good turn. He draws the figure capitally: he
looks proud, but he isn't, and is the best-natured fellow I ever saw."
"He ain't been in our place this eighteen months," says Mr. Moss: "I know
that."
"Because when he came you were always screwing him with some bargain or
other," cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr. Moss's companion for the moment.
"He said he couldn't afford to know you: you never let him out of your
house without a pin, or a box of eau-de-cologne, or a bundle of cigars.
And when you cut the arts for the shop, how were you and Newcome to go on
together, I should like to know?"
"I know a relative of his who comes to our 'ouse every three months, to
renew a little bill," says Mr. Moss, with a grin: "and I know this, if I
go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable Captain Belsize,
Knightsbridge Barracks, they let me in soon enough. I'm told his father
ain't got much money."
"How the deuce should I know? or what do I care?" cries the young artist,
stamping the heel of his blucher on the pavement. "When I was sick in
that confounded Clipstone Street, I know the Colonel came to see me, and
Newcome too, day after day, and night after night. And when I was getting
well, they sent me wine and jelly, and all sorts of jolly things. I
should like to know how often you came to see me, Moss, and what you did
for a fellow?"
"Well, I kep away because I thought you wouldn't like to be reminded of
that two pound three you owe me, Hicks: that's why I kep away," says Mr.
Moss, who, I dare say, was good-natured too. And when young Moss appeared
at the billiard-room that night, it was evident that Hicks had told the
story; for the Wardour Street youth was saluted with a roar of queries,
"How about that two pound three that Hicks owes you?"
The artless conversation of the two youths will enable us to understand
how our hero's life was speeding. Connected in one way or another with
profession which he had chosen. People in the great world did not in the
least trouble themselves regarding him, or care to know whether Mr. Clive
Newcome followed painting or any other pursuit: and though Clive saw many
of his schoolfellows in the world, these entering into the army, others
talking with delight of college, and its pleasures or studies; yet,
having made up his mind that art was his calling, he refused to quit her
for any other mistress, and plied hi
s easel very stoutly. He passed
through the course of study prescribed by Mr. Gandish, and drew every
cast and statue in that gentleman's studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting
a curacy, Clive did not replace him; but he took a course of modern
languages, which he learned with considerable aptitude and rapidity. And
now, being strong enough to paint without a master, it was found that
there was no good light in the house in Fitzroy Square; and Mr. Clive
must needs have an atelier hard by, where he could pursue his own devices
independently.
If his kind father felt any pang even at this temporary parting, he was
greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention on the young
man's part, of which his present biographer happened to be a witness; for
having walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the new studio, with its
tall centre window, and its curtains, and carved wardrobes, china jars,
pieces of armour, and other artistical properties, the lad, with a very
sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting up his honest face, took
one of two Bramah's house-keys with which he was provided, and gave it to
his father: "That's your key, sir," he said to the Colonel; "and you must
be my first sitter, please, father; for though I'm a historical painter,
I shall condescend to do a few portraits, you know." The Colonel took his
son's hand, and grasped it; as Clive fondly put the other hand on his
father's shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome walked away into the next room
for a minute or two, and came back wiping his moustache with his
handkerchief, and still holding the key in the other hand. He spoke about
some trivial subject when he returned; but his voice quite trembled; and
I thought his face seemed to glow with love and pleasure. Clive has never
painted anything better than that head, which he executed in a couple of
sittings; and wisely left without subjecting it to the chances of further
labour.
It is certain the young man worked much better after he had been inducted
into this apartment of his own. And the meals at home were gayer; and the
rides with his father more frequent and agreeable. The Colonel used his
key once or twice, and found Clive and his friend Ridley engaged in
depicting a life-guardsman,--or a muscular negro,--or a Malay from a
neighbouring crossing, who would appear as Othello, conversing with a
Clipstone Street nymph, who was ready to represent Desdemona, Diana,
Queen Ellinor (sucking poison from the arm of the Plantagenet of the
Blues), or any other model of virgin or maiden excellence.
Of course our young man commenced as a historical painter, deeming that
the highest branch of art; and declining (except for preparatory studies)
to operate on any but the largest canvasses. He painted a prodigious
battle-piece of Assaye, with General Wellesley at the head of the 19th
Dragoons charging the Mahratta Artillery, and sabring them at their guns.
A piece of ordnance was dragged into the back-yard, and the Colonel's
stud put into requisition to supply studies for this enormous picture.
Fred Bayham (a stunning likeness) appeared as the principal figure in the
foreground, terrifically wounded, but still of undaunted courage,
slashing about amidst a group of writhing Malays, and bestriding the body
of a dead cab-horse, which Clive painted, until the landlady and rest of
the lodgers cried out, and for sanitary reasons the knackers removed the
slaughtered charger. So large was this picture that it could only be got
out of the great window by means of artifice and coaxing; and its
transport caused a shout of triumph among the little boys in Charlotte
Street. Will it be believed that the Royal Academicians rejected the
"Battle of Assaye"? The masterpiece was so big that Fitzroy Square could
not hold it; and the Colonel had thoughts of presenting it to the
Oriental Club; but Clive (who had taken a trip to Paris with his father,