The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

wristbands, and you carry your lantern dark. It is not right to 'put your oar

  in,' as you say in your jargon (and even your slang is a sort of cowardice, sir,

  for you are afraid to speak the feelings of your heart:��) it is not right to

  meddle and speak the truth, not right to rescue a poor soul who is drowning��of

  course not. What call have you fine gentlemen of the world to put your oar in?

  Let him perish! What did he in that galley? That is the language of the world,

  baby darling. And, my poor, poor child, when you are sinking, nobody is to

  stretch out a hand to save you!" As for that wife of mine, when she sets forth

  the maternal plea, and appeals to the exuberant school of philosophers, I know

  there is no reasoning with her. I retire to my books, and leave her to kiss out

  the rest of the argument over the children.

  Philip did not know the extent of the obligation which he owed to his little

  friend and guardian, Caroline; but he was aware that he had no better friend

  than herself in the world; and, I daresay, returned to her, as the wont is in

  such bargains between man and woman��woman and man, at least��a sixpence for

  that pure gold treasure, her sovereign affection. I suppose Caroline thought her

  sacrifice gave her a little authority to counsel Philip; for she it was who, I

  believe, first bid him to inquire whether that engagement which he had virtually

  contracted with his cousin was likely to lead to good, and was to be binding

  upon him but not on her? She brought Ridley to add his doubts to her

  remonstrances. She showed Philip that not only his uncle's conduct, but his

  cousin's, was interested, and set him to inquire into it further.

  That peculiar form of bronchitis under which poor dear Agnes was suffering was

  relieved by absence from London. The smoke, the crowded parties and assemblies,

  the late hours, and, perhaps, the gloom of the house in Beaunash Street,

  distressed the poor dear child; and her cough was very much soothed by that

  fine, cutting east wind, which blows so liberally along the Brighton cliffs, and

  which is so good for coughs, as we all know. But there was one fault in Brighton

  which could not be helped in her bad case; it is too near London. The air, that

  chartered libertine, can blow down from London quite easily; or people can come

  from London to Brighton, bringing, I dare say, the insidious London fog along

  with them. At any rate, Agnes, if she wished for quiet, poor thing, might have

  gone farther and fared better. Why, if you owe a tailor a bill, he can run down

  and present it in a few hours. Vulgar, inconvenient acquaintances thrust

  themselves upon you at every moment and corner. Was ever such a tohubohu of

  people as there assembles? You can't be tranquil, if you will. Organs pipe and

  scream without cease at your windows. Your name is put down in the papers when

  you arrive; and everybody meets everybody ever so many times a day.

  On finding that his uncle had set lawyers to work, with the charitable purpose

  of ascertaining whether Philip's property was legitimately his own, Philip was a

  good deal disturbed in mind. He could not appreciate that high sense of moral

  obligation by which Mr. Twysden was actuated. At least, he thought that these

  inquiries should not have been secretly set a-foot; and as he himself was

  perfectly open��a great deal too open, perhaps��in his words and his actions, he

  was hard with those who attempted to hoodwink or deceive him.

  It could not be; ah! no, it never could be, that Agnes the pure and gentle was

  privy to this conspiracy. But then, how very��very often of late she had been

  from home; how very, very cold aunt Twysden's shoulder had somehow become. Once,

  when he reached the door, a fishmonger's boy was leaving a fine salmon at the

  kitchen,��a salmon and a tub of ice. Once, twice, at five o'clock, when he

  called, a smell of cooking pervaded the hall,��that hall which culinary odours

  very seldom visited. Some of those noble Twysden dinners were on the tapis, and

  Philip was not asked. Not to be asked. was no great deprivation; but who were

  the guests? To be sure, these were trifles light as air; but Philip smelt

  mischief in the steam of those Twysden dinners. He chewed that salmon with a

  bitter sauce as he saw it sink down the area steps and disappear (with its

  attendant lobster) in the dark kitchen regions.

  Yes; eyes were somehow averted that used to look into his very frankly; a glove

  somehow had grown over a little hand which once used to lie very comfortably in

  his broad palm. Was anybody else going to seize it, and was it going to paddle

  in that blackamoor's unblest fingers? Ah! fiends and tortures! a gentleman may

  cease to love, but does he like a woman to cease to love him? People carry on

  ever so long for fear of that declaration that all is over. No confession is

  more dismal to make. The sun of love has set. We sit in the dark��I mena you,

  dear madam, and Corydon, or I and Amaryllis��uncomfortabley, with nothing more

  to say to one another; with the night dew falling, and a risk of catching cold,

  drearily contemplating the fading west, with "the cold remains of lustre gone,

  of fire long past away." Sink, fire of love! Rise, gentle moon, and mists of

  chilly evening. And, my good Madam Amaryllis, let us go home to some tea and a

  fire.

  So Philip determined to go and seek his cousin. Arrived at his hotel (and if it

  were the�� I can't conceive Philip in much better quarters), he had the

  opportunity of inspecting those delightful newspaper arrivals, a perusal of

  which has so often edified us at Brighton. Mr. and Mrs. Penfold, he was

  informed, continued their residence, No. 96, Horizontal Place; and it was with

  those guardians he knew his Agnes was staying. He speeds to Horizontal Place.

  Miss Twysden is out. He heaves a sigh, and leaves a card. Has it ever happened

  to you to leave a card at that house��that house which was once THE

  house��almost your own; where you were ever welcome; where the kindest hand was

  ready to grasp yours, the brightest eye to greet you? And now your friendship

  has dwindled away to a little bit of pasteboard, shed once a year, and poor dear

  Mrs. Jones (it is with J. you have quarrelled) still calls on the ladies of your

  family and slips her husband's ticket upon the hall table. O life and time, that

  it should have come to this! O gracious powers! Do you recal the time when

  Arabella Briggs was Arabella Thompson? You call and talk fadaises to her (at

  first she is rather nervous, and has the children in); you talk rain and fine

  weather; the last novel; the next party. Thompson in the City? Yes, Mr. Thompson

  is in the City. He's pretty well, thank you. Ah! Daggers, ropes, and poisons,

  has it come to this? You are talking about the weather, and another man's

  health, and another man's children, of which she is mother, to her? Time was the

  weather, was all a burning sunshine, in which you and she basked; or if clouds

  gathered, and a storm fell, such a glorious rainbow haloed round you, such

  delicious tears fell and refreshed you, that the storm was more ravishing than

  the calm. And now another man's children are sitting on her
knee��their mother's

  knee; and once a year Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson request the honour of Mr.

  Brown's company at dinner; and once a year you read in The Times, "In Nursery

  Street, the wife of J. Thompson, Esq., of a Son." To come to the once-beloved

  one's door, and find the knocker tied up with a white kid glove, is

  humiliating��say what you will, it is humiliating.

  Philip leaves his card, and walks on to the Cliff, and of course, in three

  minutes, meets Clinker. Indeed, who ever went to Brighton for half an hour

  without meeting Clinker?

  "Father pretty well? His old patient, Lady Geminy, is down here with the

  children; what a number of them there are, to be sure! Come to make any stay?

  See your cousin, Miss Twysden, is here with the Penfolds. Little party at the

  Grigsons' last night; she looked uncommonly well; danced ever so many times with

  the Black Prince, Woolcomb of the Greens. Suppose I may congratulate you. Six

  thousand five hundred a year now, and thirteen thousand when his grandmother

  dies; but those negresses live for ever. I suppose the thing is settled. I saw

  them on the pier just now, and Mrs. Penfold was reading a book in the arbour.

  Book of sermons it was��pious woman, Mrs. Penfold. I dare say they are on the

  pier still." Striding with hurried steps Philip Firmin makes for the pier. The

  breathless Clinker cannot keep alongside of his face. I should like to have seen

  it when Clinker said that "the thing" was settled between Miss Twysden and the

  cavalry gentleman.

  There were a few nursery governesses, maids, and children, paddling about at the

  end of the pier; and there was a fat woman reading a book in one of the

  arbours��but no Agnes, no Woolcomb. Where can they be? Can they be weighing each

  other? or buying those mad pebbles, which people are known to purchase? or

  having their silhouettes done in black? Ha! ha! Woolcomb would hardly have his

  face done in black. The idea would provoke odious comparisons. I see Philip is

  in a dreadfully bad sarcastic humour.

  Up there comes from one of those trap-doors which lead down from the pier-head

  to the green sea-waves ever restlessly jumping below��up there comes a little

  Skye-terrier dog with a red collar, who, as soon as she sees Philip, sings,

  squeaks, whines, runs, jumps, flumps up on him, if I may use the expression,

  kisses his hands, and with eyes, tongue, paws, and tail shows him a thousand

  marks of welcome and affection. What, Brownie, Brownie! Philip is glad to see

  the dog, an old friend who has many a time licked his hand and bounced upon his

  knee.

  The greeting over, Brownie, wagging her tail with prodigious activity, trots

  before Philip��trots down an opening, down the steps under which the waves

  shimmer greenly, and into quite a quiet remote corner just over the water,

  whence you may command a most beautiful view of the sea, the shore, the Marine

  Parade, and the Albion Hotel, and where, were I five-and-twenty say, with

  nothing else to do, I would gladly pass a quarter of an hour talking about

  Glaucus or the Wonders of the Deep with the object of my affections.

  Here, amongst the labyrinth of piles, Brownie goes flouncing along till she

  comes to a young couple who are looking at the view just described. In order to

  view it better, the young man has laid his hand, a pretty little hand most

  delicately gloved, on the lady's hand; and Brownie comes up and nuzzles against

  her, and whines and talks, as much as to say, "Here's somebody," and the lady

  says, "Down, Brownie, miss."

  "It's no good, Agnes, that dog," says the gentleman (he has very curly, not to

  say woolly hair, under his natty little hat). "I'll give you a pug with a nose

  you can hang your hat on. I do know of one now. My man Rummins knows of one. Do

  you like pugs?"

  "I adore them," says the lady.

  "I'll give you one, if I have to pay fifty pounds for it. And they fetch a good

  figure, the real pugs do, I can tell you. Once in London there was an exhibition

  of 'em, and��"

  "Brownie, Brownie, down!" cries Agnes. The dog was jumping at a gentleman, a

  tall gentleman with red mustachios and beard, who advances through the chequered

  shade, under the ponderous beams, over the translucent sea.

  "Pray don't mind, Brownie won't hurt me," says a perfectly well-known voice, the

  sound of which sends all the colours shuddering out of Miss Agnes' pink cheeks.

  "You see I gave my cousin this dog, Captain Woolcomb," says the gentleman; "and

  the little slut remembers me. Perhaps Miss Twysden likes the pug better."

  "Sir!"

  "If it has a nose you can hang your hat on, it must be a very pretty dog, and I

  suppose you intend to hang your hat on it a good deal."

  "Oh, Philip!" says the lady; but an attack of that dreadful coughing stops

  further utterance.

  CHAPTER XIV. CONTAINS TWO OF PHILIP'S MISHAPS.

  You know that, in some parts of India, infanticide is the common custom. It is

  part of the religion of the land, as, in other districts, widow-burning used to

  be. I can't imagine that ladies like to destroy either themselves or their

  children, though they submit with bravery, and even cheerfulness, to the decrees

  of that religion which orders them to make away with their own or their young

  ones' lives. Now, suppose you and I, as Europeans, happened to drive up where a

  young creature was just about to roast herself, under the advice of her family

  and the highest dignitaries of her church; what could we do? Rescue her? No such

  thing. We know better than to interfere with her, and the laws and usages of her

  country. We turn away with a sigh from the mournful scene; we pull out our

  pocket-handkerchiefs, tell coachman to drive on, and leave her to her sad fate.

  Now about poor Agnes Twysden: how, in the name of goodness, can we help her? You

  see she is a well brought up and religious young woman of the Brahminical sect.

  If she is to be sacrificed, that old Brahmin her father, that good and devout

  mother, that most special Brahmin her brother, and that admirable girl her

  strait-laced sister, all insist upon her undergoing the ceremony, and deck her

  with flowers ere they lead her to that dismal altar flame. Suppose, I say, she

  has made up her mind to throw over poor Philip, and take on with some one else?

  What sentiment ought our virtuous bosoms to entertain towards her? Anger? I have

  just been holding a conversation with a young fellow in rags and without shoes,

  whose bed is commonly a dry arch, who has been repeatedly in prison, whose

  father and mother were thieves, and whose grandfathers were thieves;��are we to

  be angry with him for following the paternal profession? With one eye brimming

  with pity, the other steadily keeping watch over the family spoons, I listen to

  his artless tale. I have no anger against that child; nor towards thee, Agnes,

  daughter of Talbot the Brahmin.

  For though duty is duty, when it comes to the pinch, it is often hard to do.

  Though dear papa and mamma say that here is a gentleman with ever so many

  thousands a year, an undoubted part in So-and-So-shire, and whole islands in the <
br />
  western main, who is wildly in love with your fair skin and blue eyes, and is

  ready to fling all his treasures at your feet; yet, after all, when you consider

  that he is very ignorant though very cunning; very stingy though very rich; very

  ill-tempered, probably, if faces and eyes and mouths can tell truth: and as for

  Philip Firmin��though actually his legitimacy is dubious, as we have lately

  heard, in which case his maternal fortune is ours��and as for his paternal

  inheritance, we don't know whether the doctor is worth thirty thousand pounds or

  a shilling;��yet, after all��as for Philip��he is a man; he is a gentleman; he

  has brains in his head, and a great honest heart of which he has offered to give

  the best feelings to his cousin;��I say, when a poor girl has to be off with

  that old love, that honest and fair love, and be on with the new one, the dark

  one, I feel for her; and though the Brahmins are, as we know, the most genteel

  sect in Hindostan, I rather wish the poor child could have belonged to some

  lower and less rigid sect. Poor Agnes! to think that he has sat for hours, with

  mamma and Blanche or the governess, of course, in the room (for, you know, when

  she and Philip were quite wee wee things dear mamma had little amiable plans in

  view); has sat for hours by Miss Twysden's side pouring out his heart to her;

  has had, mayhap, little precious moments of confidential talk�� little hasty

  whispers in corridors, on stairs, behind window curtains, and��and so forth in

  fact. She must remember all this past; and can't, without some pang, listen on

  the same sofa, behind the same window-curtains, to her dark suitor pouring out

  his artless tales of barracks, boxing, horseflesh, and the tender passion. He is

  dull, he is mean, he is ill-tempered, he is ignorant, and the other was ...; but

  she will do her duty: oh, yes! she will do her duty! Poor Agnes! C'est � fendre

  le coeur. I declare I quite feel for her.

  When Philip's temper was roused, I have been compelled, as his biographer, to

  own how very rude and disagreeable he could be; and you must acknowledge that a

  young man has some reason to be displeased, when he finds the girl of his heart

  hand in hand with another young gentleman in an occult and shady recess of the

  woodwork of Brighton Pier. The green waves are softly murmuring: so is the

  officer of the Life Guards Green. The waves are kissing the beach. Ah, agonizing

  thought! I will not pursue the simile, which may be but a jealous man's mad

  fantasy. Of this I am sure, no pebble on that beach is cooler than polished

  Agnes. But, then, Philip drunk with jealousy is not a reasonable being like

  Philip sober. "He had a dreadful temper," Philip's dear aunt said of him

  afterwards,�� "I trembled for my dear, gentle child, united for ever to a man of

  that violence. Never, in my secret mind, could I think that their union could be

  a happy one. Besides, you know, the nearness of their relationship. My scruples

  on that score, dear Mrs. Candour, never, never could be quite got over." And

  these scruples came to weigh whole tons, when Mangrove Hall, the house in

  Berkeley Square, and Mr. Woolcomb's West India island were put into the scale

  along with them.

  Of course there was no good in remaining amongst those damp, reeking timbers,

  now that the pretty little t�te-�-t�te was over. Little Brownie hung fondling

  and whining round Philip's ankles, as the party ascended to the upper air. "My

  child, how pale you look!" cries Mrs. Penfold, putting down her volume. Out of

  the captain's opal eyeballs shot lurid flames, and hot blood burned behind his

  yellow cheeks. In a quarrel, Mr. Philip Firmin could be particularly cool and

  self-possessed. When Miss Agnes rather piteously introduced him to Mrs. Penfold,

  he made a bow as polite and gracious as any performed by his royal father. "My

  little dog knew me," he said, caressing the animal. "She is a faithful little