The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

time? Of evenings Ridley and the captain, I say, would have a solemn game at

  cribbage, and the Little Sister would make up a jug of something good for the

  two oldsters. She liked Mr. Ridley to come, for he always treated her father so

  respectful, and was quite the gentleman. And as for Mrs. Ridley, Mr.R.'s "good

  lady,"��was she not also grateful to the Little Sister for having nursed her son

  during his malady? Through their connection they were enabled to procure Mrs.

  Brandon many valuable friends; and always were pleased to pass an evening with

  the captain, and were as civil to him as they could have been had he been at the

  very height of his prosperity and splendour. My private opinion of the old

  captain, you see, is that he was a worthless old captain, but most fortunate in

  his early ruin, after which he had lived very much admired and comfortable,

  sufficient whisky being almost always provided for him.

  Old Mr. Ridley's respect for her father afforded a most precious consolation to

  the Little Sister. Ridley liked to have the paper read to him. He was never

  quite easy with print, and to his last days, many words to be met with in

  newspapers and elsewhere used to occasion the good butler much intellectual

  trouble. The Little Sister made his lodger's bills out for him (Mr. R., as well

  as the captain's daughter, strove to increase a small income by the letting of

  furnished apartments), or the captain himself would take these documents in

  charge; he wrote a noble mercantile hand, rendered now somewhat shaky by time,

  but still very fine in flourishes and capitals, and very much at worthy Mr.

  Ridley's service. Time was, when his son was a boy, that J. J. himself had

  prepared these accounts, which neither his father nor his mother were very

  competent to arrange. "We were not in our young time, Mr. Gann," Ridley remarked

  to his friend, "brought up to much scholarship; and very little book learning

  was given to persons in my rank of life. It was necessary and proper for you

  gentlemen, of course, sir." "Of course, Mr. Ridley," winks the other veteran

  over his pipe. "But I can't go and ask my son John James to keep his old

  father's books now as he used to do��which to do so is, on the part of you and

  Mrs. Brandon, the part of true friendship, and I value it, sir, and so do my son

  John James reckonize and value it, sir." Mr. Ridley had served gentlemen of the

  bonne �cole. No nobleman could be more courtly and grave than he was. In Mr.

  Gann's manner there was more humorous playfulness, which in no way, however,

  diminished the captain's high-breeding. As he continued to be intimate with Mr.

  Ridley, he became loftier and more majestic. I think each of these elders acted

  on the other, and for good; and I hope Ridley's opinion was correct, that Mr.

  Gann was ever the gentleman. To see these two good fogies together was a

  spectacle for edification. Their tumblers kissed each other on the table. Their

  elderly friendship brought comfort to themselves, and their families. A little

  matter of money once created a coolness between the two old gentlemen. But the

  Little Sister paid the outstanding account between her father and Mr. Ridley;

  there never was any further talk of pecuniary loans between them; and when they

  went to the "Admiral Byng," each paid for himself.

  Phil often heard of that nightly meeting at the "Admiral Byng," and longed to be

  of the company. But even when he saw the old gentlemen in the Little Sister's

  parlour, they felt dimly that he was making fun of them. The captain would not

  have been able to brag so at ease had Phil been continually watching him. "I

  have'ad the honour of waiting on your worthy father at my Lord Todmorden's

  table. Our little club ain't no place for you, Mr. Philip, nor for my son,

  though he's a good son, and proud me and his mother is of him, which he have

  never gave us a moment's pain, except when he was ill, since he have came to

  man's estate, most thankful am I, and with my hand on my heart, for to be able

  to say so. But what is good for me and Mr. Gann, won't suit you young gentlemen.

  You ain't a tradesman, sir, else I'm mistaken in the family, which I thought the

  Ringwoods one of the best in England, and the Firmins, a good one likewise." Mr.

  Ridley loved the sound of his own voice. At the festive meetings of the club,

  seldom a night passed in which he did not compliment his brother Byngs and air

  his own oratory. Under this reproof Phil blushed, and hung his conscious head

  with shame. "Mr. Ridley," says he, "you shall find I won't come where I am not

  welcome; and if I come to annoy you at the 'Admiral Byng,' may I be taken out on

  the quarterdeck and shot." On which Mr. Ridley pronounced Philip to be a "most

  sing'lar, astrornary, and asentric young man. A good heart, sir. Most generous

  to relieve distress. Fine talent, sir; but I fear��I fear it won't come to much

  good, Mr. Gann ��saving your presence, Mrs. Brandon, m'm, which, of course, you

  always stand up for him."

  When Philip Firmin had had his pipe and his talk with the Little Sister in her

  parlour, he would ascend, and smoke his second, third, tenth pipe in J. J.

  Ridley's studio. He would pass hours before J. J.'s easel, pouring out talk

  about politics, about religion, about poetry, about women, about the dreadful

  slavishness and meanness of the world;��unwearied in talk and idleness, as

  placid J. J. was in listening and labour. The painter had been too busy in life

  over his easel to read many books. His ignorance of literature smote him with a

  frequent shame. He admired book-writers, and young men of the university who

  quoted their Greek and their Horace glibly. He listened with deference to their

  talk on such matters; no doubt got good hints from some of them; was always

  secretly pained and surprised when the university gentlemen were beaten in

  argument, or loud and coarse in conversation, as sometimes they would be. "J. J.

  is a very clever fellow of course," Mr. Jarman would say of him, "and the

  luckiest man in Europe. He loves painting, and he is at work all day. He loves

  toadying fine people, and he goes to a tea-party every night." You all knew

  Jarman of Charlotte Street, the miniature-painter? He was one of the kings of

  the Haunt. His tongue spared no one. He envied all success, and the sight of

  prosperity made him furious: but to the unsuccessful he was kind; to the poor

  eager with help and prodigal of compassion; and that old talk about nature's

  noblemen and the glory of Iabour was very fiercely and eloquently waged by him.

  His friends admired him: he was the soul of independence, and thought most men

  sneaks who wore clean linen and frequented gentlemen's society: but it must be

  owned his landlords had a bad opinion of him, and I have heard of one or two of

  his pecuniary transactions which certainly were not to Mr. Jarman's credit.

  Jarman was a man of remarkable humour. He was fond of the widow, and would speak

  of her goodness, usefulness, and honesty with tears in his eyes. She was poor

  and struggling yet. Had she been wealthy and prosperous, Mr. Jarman would not

  have been so alive to her merit.

  We ascended to the ro
om on the first-floor, where the centre window has been

  heightened, so as to afford an upper light, and under that stream of radiance we

  behold the head of an old friend, Mr. J. J. Ridley, the R. Academician. Time has

  somewhat thinned his own copious locks, and prematurely streaked the head with

  silver. His face is rather wan; the eager, sensitive hand which poises brush and

  palette, and quivers over the picture, is very thin: round his eyes are many

  lines of ill-health and, perhaps, care, but the eyes are as bright as ever, and

  when they look at the canvas, or the model which he transfers to it, clear, and

  keen, and happy. He has a very sweet singing voice, and warbles at his work, or

  whistles at it, smiling. He sets his hand little feats of skill to perform, and

  smiles with a boyish pleasure at his own matchless dexterity. I have seen him,

  with an old pewter mustard-pot for a model, fashion a splendid silver flagon in

  one of his pictures; paint the hair of an animal, the folds and flowers of a bit

  of brocade, and so forth, with a perfect delight in the work he was performing;

  a delight lasting from morning till sun-down, during which time he was too busy

  to touch the biscuit and glass of water which was prepared for his frugal

  luncheon. He is greedy of the last minute of light, and never can be got from

  his darling pictures without a regret. To be a painter, and to have your hand in

  perfect command, I hold to be one of life's summa bona. The happy mixture of

  hand and head work must render the occupation supremely pleasant. In the day's

  work must occur endless delightful difficulties and occasions for skill. Over

  the details of that armour, that drapery, or what not, the sparkle of that eye,

  the downy blush of that cheek, the jewel on that neck, there are battles to be

  fought and victories to be won. Each day there must occur critical moments of

  supreme struggle and triumph, when struggle and victory must be both

  invigorating and exquisitely pleasing��as a burst across country is to a fine

  rider perfectly mounted, who knows that his courage and his horse will never

  fail him. There is the excitement of the game, and the gallant delight in

  winning it. Of this sort of admirable reward for their labour, no men, I think,

  have a greater share than painters (perhaps a violin-player perfectly and

  triumphantly performing his own beautiful composition may be equally happy).

  Here is occupation: here is excitement: here is struggle and victory: and here

  is profit. Can man ask more from fortune? Dukes and Rothschilds may be envious

  of such a man.

  Though Ridley has had his trials and troubles, his art has mastered them all.

  Black care may have sat in crupper on that Pegasus, but has never unhorsed the

  rider. In certain minds, art is dominant and superior to all beside��stronger

  than love, stronger than hate, or care, or penury. As soon as the fever leaves

  the hand free, it is seizing and fondling the pencil. Love may frown and be

  false, but the other mistress never will. She is always true: always new: always

  the friend, companion, inestimable consoler. So John James Ridley sat at his

  easel from breakfast till sun-down, and never left his work quite willingly. I

  wonder are men of other trades so enamoured of theirs; whether lawyers cling to

  the last to their darling reports; or writers prefer their desk and inkstands to

  society, to friendship, to dear idleness? I have seen no men in life loving

  their profession so much as painters, except, perhaps, actors, who, when not

  engaged themselves, always go to the play.

  Before this busy easel Phil would sit for hours, and pour out endless talk and

  tobacco-smoke. His presence was a delight to Ridley's soul; his face a sunshine;

  his voice a cordial. Weakly himself, and almost infirm of body, with

  sensibilities tremulously keen, the painter most admired amongst men strength,

  health, good spirits, good breeding. Of these, in his youth, Philip had a wealth

  of endowment; and I hope these precious gifts of fortune have not left him in

  his maturer age. I do not say that with all men Philip was so popular. There are

  some who never can pardon good fortune, and in the company of gentlemen are on

  the watch for offence; and, no doubt, in his course through life, poor downright

  Phil trampled upon corns enough of those who met him in his way. "Do you know

  why Ridley is so fond of Firmin?" asked Jarman. "Because Firmin's father hangs

  on to the nobility by the pulse, whilst Ridley, you know, is connected with them

  through the sideboard." So Jarman had the double horn for his adversary: he

  could despise a man for not being a gentleman, and insult him for being one. I

  have met with people in the world with whom the latter offence is an

  unpardonable crime��a cause of ceaseless doubt, division, and suspicion. What

  more common or natural, Bufo, than to hate another for being what you are not?

  The story is as old as frogs, bulls, and men.

  Then, to be sure, besides your enviers in life, there are your admirers. Beyond

  wit, which he understood ��beyond genius which he had��Ridley admired good looks

  and manners, and always kept some simple hero whom he loved secretly to cherish

  and worship. He loved to be amongst beautiful women and aristocratical men.

  Philip Firmin, with his republican notions, and downright bluntness of behaviour

  to all men of rank superior to him, had a grand high manner of his own; and if

  he had scarce twopence in his pocket, would have put his hands in them with as

  much independence as the greatest dandy who ever sauntered on Pall Mall

  pavement. What a coolness the fellow had! Some men may, not unreasonably, have

  thought it impudence. It fascinated Ridley. To be such a man; to have such a

  figure and manner; to be able to look society in the face, slap it on the

  shoulder, if you were so minded, and hold it by the button��what would not

  Ridley give for such powers and accomplishments? You will please to bear in

  mind, I am not saying that J. J. was right, only that he was as he was. I hope

  we shall have nobody in this story without his little faults and peculiarities.

  Jarman was quite right when he said Ridley loved fine company. I believe his

  pedigree gave him secret anguishes. He would rather have been gentleman than

  genius ever so great; but let you and me, who have no weaknesses of our own, try

  and look charitably on this confessed foible of my friend.

  J. J. never thought of rebuking Philip for being idle. Phil was as the lilies of

  the field, in the painter's opinion. He was not called upon to toil or spin; but

  to take his ease, and grow and bask in sunshine, and be arrayed in glory. The

  little clique of painters knew what Firmin's means were. Thirty thousand pounds

  of his own. Thirty thousand pounds down, sir; and the inheritance of his

  father's immense fortune! A splendour emanated from this gifted young man. His

  opinions, his jokes, his laughter, his song, had the weight of thirty thousand

  down, sir; and What call had he to work? Would you set a young nobleman to be an

  apprentice? Philip was free to be as idle as any lord, if he liked. He ought to

  wear fine clothes, ride fine
horses, dine off plate, and drink champagne every

  day. J. J. would work quite cheerfully till sunset, and have an eightpenny plate

  of meat in Wardour Street and a glass of porter for his humble dinner. At the

  Haunt, and similar places of Bohemian resort, a snug place near the fire was

  always found for Firmin. Fierce republican as he was, Jarman had a smile for his

  lordship, and used to adopt particularly dandified airs when he had been invited

  to Old Parr Street to dinner. I daresay Philip liked flattery. I own that he was

  a little weak in this respect, and that you and I, my dear sir, are, of course,

  far his superiors. J. J., who loved him, would have had him follow his aunt's

  and cousin's advice, and live in better company; but I think the painter would

  not have liked his pet to soil his hands with too much work, and rather admired

  Mr. Phil for being idle.

  The Little Sister gave him advice, to be sure, both as to the company he should

  keep and the occupation which was wholesome for him. But when others of his

  acquaintance hinted that his idleness would do him harm, she would not hear of

  their censure. "Why should he work if he don't choose?" she asked. "He has no

  call to be scribbling and scrabbling. You wouldn't have him sitting all day

  painting little dolls' heads on canvas, and working like a slave. A pretty idea,

  indeed! His uncle will get him an appointment. That's the thing he should have.

  He should be secretary to an ambassador abroad, and he will be!" In fact, Phil,

  at this period, used to announce his wish to enter the diplomatic service, and

  his hope that Lord Ringwood would further his views in that respect. Meanwhile

  he was the king of Thornhaugh Street. He might be as idle as he chose, and Mrs.

  Brandon had always a smile for him. He might smoke a great deal too much, but

  she worked dainty little cigar cases for him. She hemmed his fine cambric

  pocket-handkerchiefs, and embroidered his crest at the corners. She worked him a

  waistcoat so splendid that he almost blushed to wear it, gorgeous as he was in

  apparel at this period, and sumptuous in chains, studs, and haberdashery. I fear

  Dr. Firmin, sighing out his disappointed hopes in respect of his son, has rather

  good cause for his dissatisfaction. But of these remonstrances the Little Sister

  would not hear. "Idle, why not? Why should he work? Boys will be boys. I daresay

  his grumbling old Pa was not better than Philip when he was young!" And this she

  spoke with a heightened colour in her little face, and a defiant toss of her

  head, of which I did not understand all the significance then; but attributed

  her eager partisanship to that admirable injustice which belongs to all good

  women, and for which let us be daily thankful. I know, dear ladies, you are

  angry at this statement. But, even at the risk of displeasing you, we must tell

  the truth. You would wish to represent yourselves as equitable, logical, and

  strictly just. So, I daresay, Dr. Johnson would have liked Mrs. Thrale to say to

  him, "Sir, your manners are graceful; your person elegant, cleanly, and

  eminently pleasing; your appetite small (especially for tea), and your dancing

  equal to the Violetta's;" which, you perceive, is merely ironical. Women

  equitable, logical, and strictly just! Mercy upon us! If they were, population

  would cease, the world would be a howling wilderness. Well, in a word, this

  Little Sister petted and coaxed Philip Firmin in such an absurd way, that every

  one remarked it��those who had no friends, no sweethearts, no mothers, no

  daughters, no wives, and those who were petted, and coaxed, and spoiled at home

  themselves; as I trust, dearly beloved, is your case.

  Now, again, let us admit that Philip's father had reason to be angry with the

  boy, and deplore his son's taste for low company; but excuse the young man, on