The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

hungry and poor. If uncle Ringwood had money to leave, it would be very welcome

  to those three darlings, whose father had not a great income like Dr. Firmin.

  Philip was a dear, good, frank, amiable, wild fellow, and they all loved him.

  But he had his faults��that could not be concealed��and so poor Phil's faults

  were pretty constantly canvassed before uncle Ringwood, by dear relatives who

  knew them only too well. The dear relatives! How kind they are! I don't think

  Phil's aunt abused him to my lord. That quiet woman calmly and gently put

  forward the claims of her own darlings, and affectionately dilated on the young

  man's present prosperity, and magnificent future prospects. The interest of

  thirty thousand pounds now, and the inheritance of his father's great

  accumulations! What young man could want for more? Perhaps he had too much

  already. Perhaps he was too rich to work. The sly old peer acquiesced in his

  niece's statements, and perfectly understood the point towards which they

  tended. "A thousand a year! What's a thousand a year," growled the old lord.

  "Not enough to make a gentleman, more than enough to make a fellow idle."

  "Ah, indeed, it was but a small income," sighed Mrs. Twysden. "With a large

  house, a good establishment, and Mr. Twysden's salary from his office��it was

  but a pittance."

  "Pittance! Starvation," growls my lord, with his usual frankness. "Don't I know

  what housekeeping costs, and see how you screw? Butlers and footmen, carriages

  and job-horses, rent and dinners��though yours, Maria, are not famous."

  "Very bad��I know they are very bad," says the contrite lady, "I wish we could

  afford any better."

  "Afford any better? Of course you can't. You are the crockery pots, and you swim

  down-stream with the brass pots. I saw Twysden the other day walking down St.

  James's Street with Rhodes��that tall fellow." (Here my lord laughed, and showed

  many fangs, the exhibition of which gave a peculiarly fierce air to his lordship

  when in good-humour.) "If Twysden walks with a big fellow, he always tries to

  keep step with him. You know that." Poor Maria naturally knew her husband's

  peculiarities; but she did not say that she had no need to be reminded of them.

  "He was so blown he could hardly speak," continued uncle Ringwood; "but he would

  stretch his little legs, and try and keep up. He has a little body, le cher

  mari, but a good pluck. Those little fellows often have. I've seen him half dead

  out shooting, and plunging over the ploughed fields after fellows with twice his

  stride. Why don't men sink in the world, I want to know? Instead of a fine

  house, and a parcel of idle servants, why don't you have a maid and a leg of

  mutton, Maria? You go half crazy in trying to make both ends meet. You know you

  do. It keeps you awake of nights; I know that very well. You've got a house fit

  for people with four times your money. I lend you my cook and so forth; but I

  can't come and dine with you unless I send the wine in. Why don't you have a pot

  of porter, and a joint, or some tripe?��tripe's a famous good thing. The

  miseries which people entail on themselves in trying to live beyond their means

  are perfectly ridiculous, by George! Look at that fellow who opened the door to

  me; he's as tall as one of my own men. Go and live in a quiet little street in

  Belgravia somewhere, and have a neat little maid. Nobody will think a penny the

  worse of you��and you will be just as well off as if you lived here with an

  extra couple of thousand a year. The advice I am giving you is worth half that,

  every shilling of it."

  "It is very good advice; but I think, sir, I should prefer the thousand pounds,"

  said the lady.

  "Of course you would. That is the consequence of your false position. One of the

  good points about that doctor is, that he is as proud as Lucifer, and so is his

  boy. They are not always hungering after money. They keep their independence;

  though he'll have his own too, the fellow will. Why, when I first called him in,

  I thought, as he was a relation, he'd doctor me for nothing; but he wouldn't. He

  would have his fee, by George! and wouldn't come without it. Confounded

  independent fellow Firmin is. And so is the young one."

  But when Twysden and his son (perhaps inspirited by Mrs. Twysden) tried once or

  twice to be independent in the presence of this lion, he roared, and he rushed

  at them, and he rent them, so that they fled from him howling. And this reminds

  me of an old story I have heard��quite an old, old story, such as kind old

  fellows at clubs love to remember��of my lord, when he was only Lord Cinqbars,

  insulting a half-pay lieutenant, in his own country, who horsewhipped his

  lordship in the most private and ferocious manner. It was said Lord Cinqbars had

  had a rencontre with poachers; but it was my lord who was poaching and the

  lieutenant who was defending his own dovecote. I do not say that this was a

  model nobleman; but that, when his own passions or interests did not mislead

  him, he was a nobleman of very considerable acuteness, humour, and good sense;

  and could give quite good advice on occasion. If men would kneel down and kiss

  his boots, well and good. There was the blacking, and you were welcome to

  embrace toe and heel. But those who would not, were free to leave the operation

  alone. The Pope himself does not demand the ceremony from Protestants; and if

  they object to the slipper, no one thinks of forcing it into their mouths. Phil

  and his father probably declined to tremble before the old man, not because they

  knew he was a bully who might be put down, but because they were men of spirit,

  who cared not whether a man was bully or no.

  I have told you I like Philip Firmin, though it must be confessed that the young

  fellow had many faults, and that his career, especially his early career, was by

  no means exemplary. Have I ever excused his conduct to his father, or said a

  word in apology of his brief and inglorious university life? I acknowledge his

  shortcomings with that candour which my friends exhibit in speaking of mine. Who

  does not see a friend's weaknesses, and is so blind that he cannot perceive that

  enormous beam in his neighbour's eye? Only a woman or two, from time to time.

  And even they are undeceived some day. A man of the world, I write about my

  friends as mundane fellow-creatures. Do you suppose there are many angels here?

  I say again, perhaps a woman or two. But as for you and me, my good sir, are

  there any signs of wings sprouting from our shoulder-blades? Be quiet. Don't

  pursue your snarling, cynical remarks, but go on with your story.

  As you go through life, stumbling, and slipping, and staggering to your feet

  again, ruefully aware of your own wretched weakness, and praying, with a

  contrite heart let us trust, that you may not be led into temptation, have you

  not often looked at other fellow-sinners, and speculated with an awful interest

  on their career? Some there are on whom, quite in their early lives, dark

  Ahrimanes has seemed to lay his dread mark: children, yet corrupt, and wicked of

  tongue; tender of age, yet cruel; who should be truth-telling and generous yet r />
  (they were at their mothers' bosoms yesterday), but are false, and cold, and

  greedy before their time. Infants almost, they practise the art and selfishness

  of old men. Behind their candid faces are wiles and wickedness, and a hideous

  precocity of artifice. I can recal such, and in the vista of far-off,

  unforgotten boyhood, can see marching that sad little procession of enfans

  perdus. May they be saved, pray heaven! Then there is the doubtful class, those

  who are still on trial; those who fall and rise again; those who are often

  worsted in life's battle; beaten down, wounded, imprisoned; but escape and

  conquer sometimes. And then there is the happy class about whom there seems no

  doubt at all: the spotless and white-robed ones, to whom virtue is easy; in

  whose pure bosoms faith nestles, and cold doubt finds no entrance; who are

  children, and yet good; young men, and good; husbands and fathers, and yet good.

  Why could the captain of our school write his Greek Iambics without an effort,

  and without an error? Others of us blistered the page with unavailing tears and

  blots, and might toil ever so, and come in lag last at the bottom of the from.

  Our friend Philip belongs to the middle class, in which you and I probably are,

  my dear sir�� not yet, I hope, irredeemably consigned to that awful third class

  whereof mention has been made.

  But, being homo, and liable to err, there is no doubt Mr. Philip exercised his

  privilege, and there was even no little fear at one time that he should overdraw

  his account. He went from school to the university, and there distinguished

  himself certainly, but in a way in which very few parents would choose that

  their sons should excel. That he should hunt, that he should give parties, that

  he should pull a good oar in one of the best boats on the river, that he should

  speak at the Union�� all these were very well. But why should he speak such

  awful radicalism and republicanism��he with noble blood in his veins, and the

  son of a parent whose interest at least it was to keep well with people of high

  station?

  "Why, Pendennis," said Dr. Firmin to me, with tears in his eyes, and much

  genuine grief exhibited on his handsome pale face��"why should it be said that

  Philip Firmin��both of whose grandfathers fought nobly for their king��should be

  forgetting the principles of his family, and��and, I haven't words to tell you

  how deeply he disappoints me. Why, I actually heard of him at that horrible

  Union advocating the death of Charles the First! I was wild enough myself when I

  was at the university, but I was a gentleman."

  "Boys, sir, are boys," I urged. "They will advocate anything for an argument:

  and Philip would have taken the other side quite as readily."

  "Lord Axminster and Lord St. Dennis told me of it at the club. I can tell you it

  has made a most painful impression," cried the father. "That my son should be a

  radical and a republican, is a cruel thought for a father; and I, who had hoped

  for Lord Ringwood's borough for him��who had hoped��who had hoped very much

  better things for him and from him��He is not a comfort to me. You saw how he

  treated me one night? A man might live on different terms, I think, with his

  only son!" And with a breaking voice, a pallid cheek, and a real grief at his

  heart, the unhappy physician moved away.

  How had the doctor bred his son, that the young man should be thus unruly? Was

  the revolt the boy's fault, or the father's? Dr. Firmin's horror seemed to be

  because his noble friends were horrified by Phil's radical doctrine. At that

  time of my life, being young and very green, I had a little mischievous pleasure

  in infuriating Squaretoes, and causing him to pronounce that I was "a dangerous

  man." Now, I am ready to say that Nero was a monarch with many elegant

  accomplishments, and considerable natural amiability of disposition. I praise

  and admire success wherever I meet it. I make allowance for faults and

  shortcomings, especially in my superiors; and feel that, did we know all, we

  should judge them very differently. People don't believe me, perhaps, quite so

  much as formerly. But I don't offend: I trust I don't offend. Have I said

  anything painful? Plague on my blunders! I recal the expression. I regret it. I

  contradict it flat.

  As I am ready to find excuses for everybody, let poor Philip come in for the

  benefit of this mild amnesty; and if he vexed his father, as he certainly did,

  let us trust ��let us be thankfully sure��he was not so black as the old

  gentleman depicted him. Phil was unruly because he was bold, and wild, and

  young. His father was hurt, naturally hurt, because of the boy's extravagances

  and follies. They will come together again, as father and son should. These

  little differences of temper will be smoothed and equalized anon. The boy has

  led a wild life. He has been obliged to leave college. He has given his father

  hours of anxiety and nights of painful watching. But stay, father, what of you?

  Have you shown to the boy the practice of confidence, the example of love and

  honour? Did you accustom him to virtue, and teach truth to the child at your

  knee? "Honour your father and mother." Amen. May his days be long who fulfils

  the command: but implied, though unwritten on the table, is there not the order,

  "Honour your son and daughter?" Pray heaven that we, whose days are already not

  few in the land, may keep this ordinance too.

  What had made Philip wild, extravagant, and insubordinate? Cured of that illness

  in which we saw him, he rose up, and from school went his way to the university,

  and there entered on a life such as wild young men will lead. From that day of

  illness his manner towards his father changed, and regarding the change the

  elder Firmin seemed afraid to question his son. He used the house as if his own,

  came and absented himself at will, ruled the servants, and was spoilt by them;

  spent the income which was settled on his mother and her children, and gave of

  it liberally to poor acquaintances. To the remonstrances of old friends he

  replied that he had a right to do as he chose with his own; that other men who

  were poor might work, but that he had enough to live on, without grinding over

  classics and mathematics. He was implicated in more rows than one; his tutors

  saw him not, but he and the proctors became a great deal too well acquainted. If

  I were to give a history of Mr. Philip Firmin at the university, it would be the

  story of an Idle Apprentice, of whom his pastors and masters were justified in

  prophesying evil. He was seen on lawless London excursions, when his father and

  tutor supposed him unwell in his rooms in college. He made acquaintance with

  jolly companions, with whom his father grieved that he should be intimate. He

  cut the astonished uncle Twysden in London street, and blandly told him that he

  must be mistaken�� he one Frenchman, he no speak English. He stared the master

  of his own college out of countenance, dashed back to college with a Turpin-like

  celerity, and was in rooms with a ready proved alibi when inquiries were made. I

  am afraid there is no doubt that Phil screwe
d up his tutor's door; Mr. Okes

  discovered him in the fact. He had to go down, the young prodigal. I wish I

  could say he was repentant. But he appeared before his father with the utmost

  nonchalance; said that he was doing no good at the university, and should be

  much better away, and then went abroad on a dashing tour to France and Italy,

  whither it is by no means our business to follow him. Something had poisoned the

  generous blood. The once kindly, honest lad was wild and reckless. He had money

  in sufficiency, his own horses and equipage, and free quarters in his father's

  house. But father and son scarce met, and seldom took a meal together. "I know

  his haunts, but I don't know his friends, Pendennis," the elder man said. "I

  don't think they are vicious, so much as low. I do not charge him with vice,

  mind you; but with idleness, and a fatal love of low company, and a frantic,

  suicidal determination to fling his chances in life away. Ah, think where he

  might be, and where he is!"

  Where he was? Do not be alarmed. Philip was only idling. Philip might have been

  much more industriously, more profitably, and a great deal more wickedly

  employed. What is now called Bohemia had no name in Philip's young days, though

  many of us knew the country very well. A pleasant land, not fenced with drab

  stucco, like Tyburnia or Belgravia; not guarded by a huge standing army of

  footmen; not echoing with noble chariots; not replete with polite chintz

  drawing-rooms and neat tea-tables; a land over which hangs an endless fog,

  occasioned by much tobacco; a land of chambers, billiard-rooms, supper-rooms,

  oysters; a land of song; a land where soda-water flows freely in the morning; a

  land of tin dish-covers from taverns, and frothing porter; a land of

  lotos-eating (with lots of cayenne pepper), of pulls on the river, of delicious

  reading of novels, magazines, and saunterings in many studios; a land where men

  call each other by their Christian names; where most are poor, where almost all

  are young, and where if a few oldsters do enter, it is because they have

  preserved more tenderly and carefully than other folks their youthful spirits,

  and the delightful capacity to be idle. I have lost my way to Bohemia now, but

  it is certain that Prague is the most picturesque city in the world.

  Having long lived there, and indeed only lately quitted the Bohemian land at the

  time whereof I am writing, I could not quite participate in Dr. Firmin's

  indignation at his son persisting in his bad courses and wild associates. When

  Firmin had been wild himself, he had fought, intrigued, and gambled in good

  company. Phil chose his friends amongst a banditti never heard of in fashionable

  quarters. Perhaps he liked to play the prince in the midst of these associates,

  and was not averse to the flattery which a full purse brought him among men most

  of whose pockets had a meagre lining. He had not emigrated to Bohemia, and

  settled there altogether. At school and in his brief university career he had

  made some friends who lived in the world, and with whom he was still familiar.

  "These come and knock at my front door, my father's door," he would say, with

  one of his old laughs; "the Bandits, who have the signal, enter only by the

  dissecting-room. I know which are the most honest, and that it is not always the

  poor Freebooters who best deserve to be hanged."

  Like many a young gentleman who has no intention of pursuing legal studies

  seriously, Philip entered at an inn of court, and kept his terms duly, though he

  vowed that his conscience would not allow him to practise (I am not defending

  the opinions of this squeamish moralist ��only stating them). His acquaintance

  here lay amongst the Temple Bohemians. He had part of a set of chambers in

  Parchment Buildings, to be sure, and you might read on a door, "Mr. Cassidy, Mr.

  P. Firmin, Mr. Vanjohn;" but were these gentlemen likely to advance Philip in