The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

it; I embarked it in speculations in which it sank down with ten times the

  amount of my own private property. Half-year after halfyear, with straitened

  means and with the greatest difficulty to myself, my poor boy has had his

  dividend; and he at least has never known what was want or anxiety until now.

  Want? Anxiety? Pray heaven he never may suffer the sleepless anguish, the

  racking care which has pursued me! "Post equitem sedet atra cura," our favourite

  poet says. Ah! how truly, too, does he remark, "Patri� quis exul se quoque

  fugit?" Think you where I go grief and remorse will not follow me? They will

  never leave me until I shall return to this country ��for that I shall return,

  my heart tells me��until I can reimburse General Baynes, who stands indebted to

  Philip through his incautiousness and my overpowering necessity; and my

  heart��an erring but fond father's heart��tells me that my boy will not

  eventually lose a penny by my misfortune.

  I own, between ourselves, that this illness of the Grand Duke of Groningen was a

  pretext which I put forward. You will hear of me cre long from the place whither

  for some time past I have determined on bending my steps. I placed 2001. on

  Saturday, to Philip's credit, at his banker's I take little more than that sum

  with me; depressed, yet full of hope; having done wrong, yet determined to

  retrieve it, and vowing that ere I die my poor boy shall not have to blush at

  bearing the name of

  George Brand Firmin.

  Good-by, dear Philip! Your old friend will tell you of my misfortunes. When I

  write again, it will be to tell you where to address me; and wherever I am, or

  whatever misfortunes oppress me, think of me always as your fond.

  Father.

  I had scarce read this awful letter when Philip Firmin himself came into our

  breakfast-room, looking very much disturbed.

  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

  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

  thing, and she led me down to my cousin; and��Captain Woolcomb, I think, is your

  name, sir?"

  As Philip curls his moustache and smiles blandly, Captain Woolcomb pulls his and

  scowls fiercely. "Yes, sir," he mutters, "my name is Woolcomb." Another bow and

  a touch of the hat from Mr. Firmin. A touch? ��a gracious wave of the hat;

  acknowledged by no means so gracefully by Captain Woolcomb.

  To these remarks, Mrs. Penfold says, "Oh!" In fact, "Oh!" is about the best

  thing that could be said under the circumstances.

  "My cousin, Miss Twysden, looks so pale because she was out very late dancing

  last night. I hear it was a very pretty ball. But ought she to keep such late

  hours, Mrs. Penfold, with her delicate health? Indeed, you ought not, Agnes!

  Ought she to keep late hours, Brownie? There��don't, you little foolish thing! I

  gave my cousin the dog: and she's very fond of me�� the dog is��still. You were

  saying, Captain Woolcomb, when I came up, that you would give Miss Twysden a dog

  on whose nose you could hang your��I beg pardon?"

  Mr. Woolcomb, as Philip made this second allusion to the peculiar nasal

  formation of the pug, ground his little white teeth together, and let slip a

  most improper monosyllable. More acute bronchial suffering was manifested on the

  part of Miss Twysden. Mrs. Penfold said, "The day is clouding over. I think,

  Agnes, I will have my chair, and go home."

  "May I be allowed to walk with you as far as your house?" says Philip, twiddling

  a little locket which he wore at his watch-chain. It was a little gold locket,

  with a little pale hair inside. Whose hair could it have been that was so pale

  and fine? As for the pretty hieroglyphical A. T. at the back, those letters

  might indicate Alfred Tennyson, or Anthony Trollope, who might have given a lock

  of their golden hair to Philip, for I know he is an admirer of their works.

  Agnes looked guiltily at the little locket. Captain Woolcomb pulled his

  moustache so, that you would have thought he would have pulled it off; and his

  opal eyes glared with fearful confusion and wrath.

  "Will you please to fall back and let me speak to you, Agnes? Pardon me, Captain

  Woolcomb, I have a private message for my cousin; and I came from London

  expressly to deliver it."

  "If Miss Twysden desires me to withdraw, I fall back in one moment," says the

  captain, clenching the little lemon-coloured gloves.

  "My cousin and I have lived together all our lives, and I bring her a family

  message. Have you any particular claim to hear it, Captain Woolcomb?"

  "Not if Miss Twysden don't want me hear it. ... D��the little brute."

  "Don't kick poor little harmless Brownie! He shan't kick you, shall he,

  Brownie?"

  "If the brute comes between my shins, I'll kick her!" shrieks the captain. "Hang

  her, I'll throw her into the sea!"

  "Whatever you do to my dog, I swear I will do to you!" whispers Philip to the

  captain.

  "Where are you staying?" shrieks the captain. "Hang you, you shall hear from

  me."

  "Quiet��Bedford Hotel. Easy, or I shall think you want the ladies to overhear."

  "Your conduct is horrible, sir," says Agnes, rapidly, in the French language.

  "Mr. does not comprehend it."

  "��it! If you have any secrets to talk, I'll withdraw fast enough, Miss Agnes,"

  says Othello.

  "Oh, Grenville! can I have any secrets from you? Mr. Firmin is my first-cousin.

  We have lived together all our lives. Philip, I��I don't know whether mamma

  announced to you my��my engagement with Captain Grenville Woolcomb." The

  agitation has brought on another severe bronchial attack. Poor, poor little

  Agnes! What it is to have a delicate throat!

  The pier tosses up to the skies, as though it had left its moorings��the houses

  on the cliff dance and reel, as though an earthquake was driving them��the sea

  walks up into the lodging-houses��and Philip's legs are failing from under him:

  it is only for a moment. When you have a large, tough double tooth out, doesn't

  the chair go up to the ceiling, and your head come off too? But, in the next

  instant, there is a grave gentleman before you, making you a bow, and concealing

  something in his right sleeve. The crash is over. You are a man again. Philip

  clutches hold of the chain pier for a minute: it does not sink under him. The

  houses, after reeling for a second or two, reassume the perpendicular, and bulge

  their bow windows towards the main. He can see the people looking from the

  windows, the carriages passing, Professor Spurrier riding on the cliff with

  eighteen young ladies, his pupils. In long after days he remembers those absurd

  little incidents with a curious tenacity.

  "This news, "Philip says, "was not��not altogether unexpected. I congratulate my

  cousin, I am sure. Captain Woolcomb, had I known this for certain, I am sure I

  should not have interrupted you. You were going, perhaps, to ask me to your

  hospitable house, Mrs. Penfold?"

  "Was she though?" cries the captain.

  "I have asked a friend to dine with me at the Bedford, and shall go to town, I

  hope, in the morning. Can I take anything for you, Agnes? Good-by:" and he

  kisses his hand in quite a d�gag� manner, as Mrs. Penfold's chair turns eastward

  and he goes to the west. Silently the tall Agnes sweeps along, a fair hand laid

  upon her friend's chair.

  It's over! it's over! She has done it. He was bound, and kept his honour, but

  she did not: it was she who forsook him. And I fear very much Mr. Philip's heart

  leaps with pleasure and an immense sensation of relief at thinking he is free.

  He meets half a dozen acquaintances on the cliff. He laughs, jokes, shakes

  hands, invites two or three to dinner in the gayest manner. He sits down on that

  green, not very far from his inn, and is laughing to himself, when he suddenly

  feels something nestling at his knee,��rubbing, and nestling, and whining

  plaintively. "What, is that you?" It is little Brownie, who has followed him.

  Poor little rogue!

  Then Philip bent down his head over the dog, and as it jumped on him, with

  little bleats, and whines, and innocent caresses, he broke out into a sob, and a

  great refreshing rai
n of tears fell from his eyes. Such a little illness! Such a

  mild fever! Such a speedy cure! Some people have the complaint so mildly that

  they are scarcely ever kept to their beds. Some bear its scars for ever.

  Philip sat resolutely at the hotel all night, having given special orders to the

  porter to say that he was at home, in case any gentleman should call. He had a

  faint hope, he afterwards owned, that some friend of Captain Woolcomb might wait

  on him on that officer's part. He had a faint hope that a letter might come

  explaining that treason,��as people will have a sick, gnawing, yearning, foolish

  desire for letters��letters which contain nothing, which never did contain

  anything ��letters which, nevertheless, you�� You know, in fact, about those

  letters, and there is no earthly use in asking to read Philip's. Have we not all

  read those love-letters which, after love-quarrels, come into court sometimes?

  We have all read them; and how many have written them? Nine o'clock. Ten

  o'clock. Eleven o'clock. No challenge from the captain; no explanation from

  Agnes. Philip declares he slept perfectly well. But poor little Brownie the dog

  made a piteous howling all night in the stables. She was not a well-bred dog.

  You could not have hung the least hat on her nose.

  We compared anon our dear Agnes to a Brahmin lady, meekly offering herself up to

  sacrifice according to the practice used in her highly respectable caste. Did we

  speak in anger or in sorrow?��surely in terms of respectful grief and sympathy.

  And if we pity her, ought we not likewise to pity her highly respectable

  parents? When the notorious Brutus ordered his sons to execution, you can't

  suppose he was such a brute as to be pleased? All three parties suffered by the

  transaction: the sons, probably, even more than their austere father; but it

  stands to reason that the whole trio were very melancholy. At least, were I a

  poet or musical composer depicting that business, I certainly should make them

  so:��the sons, piping in a very minor key indeed; the father's manly basso,

  accompanied by deep wind instruments, and interrupted by appropriate sobs.

  Though pretty fair Agnes is being led to execution, I don't suppose she likes

  it, or that her parents are happy, who are compelled to order the tragedy.

  That the rich young proprietor of Mangrove Hall should be fond of her, was

  merely a coincidence, Mrs. Twysden afterwards always averred. Not for mere

  wealth��ah, no! not for mines of gold��would they sacrifice their darling child.

  But when that sad Firmin affair happened, you see it also happened that Captain

  Woolcomb was much struck by dear Agnes, whom he met everywhere. Her scapegrace

  of a cousin would go nowhere. He preferred his bachelor associates, and horrible

  smoking and drinking habits, to the amusements and pleasures of more refined

  society. He neglected Agnes. There is not the slightest doubt he neglected and

  mortified her, and his wilful and frequent absence showed how little he cared

  for her. Would you blame the dear girl for coldness to a man who himself showed

  such indifference to her? "No, my good Mrs. Candour. Had Mr. Firmin been ten

  times as rich as Mr. Woolcomb, I should have counselled my child to refuse him.

  I take the responsibility of the measure entirely on myself��I, and her father,

  and her brother." So Mrs. Twysden afterwards spoke, in circles where an absurd

  and odious rumour ran, that the Twysdens had forced their daughter to jilt young

  Mr. Firmin in order to marry a young quadroon. People will talk, you know, de

  me, de te. If Woolcomb's dinners had not gone off so after his marriage, I have

  little doubt the scandal would have died away, and he and his wife might have

  been pretty generally respected and visited.

  Nor must you suppose, as we have said, that dear Agnes gave up her first love

  without a pang. That bronchitis showed how acutely the poor thing felt her