The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

'em. They're going to be 'ung." And so the words are spoken, and the

  indissoluble knot is tied. Amen. For better, for worse, for good days or evil,

  love each other, cling to each other, dear friends, Fulfil your course, and

  accomplish your life's toil. In sorrow, soothe each other; in illness, watch and

  tend. Cheer, fond wife, the husband's struggle; lighten his gloomy hours with

  your tender smiles, and gladden his home with your love. Husband, father,

  whatsoever your lot, be your heart pure, your life honest. For the sake of those

  who bear your name, let no bad action sully it. As you look at those innocent

  faces which ever tenderly greet you, be yours, too, innocent, and your

  conscience without reproach. As the young people kneel before the altar-railing,

  some such thoughts as these pass through a friend's mind who witnesses the

  ceremony of their marriage. Is not all we hear in that place meant to apply to

  ourselves, and to be carried away for everyday cogitation?

  After the ceremony we sign the book, and walk back demurely to breakfast. And

  Mrs. Mugford does not conceal her disappointment at the small preparations made

  for the reception of the marriage party. "I call it shabby, Brandon; and I speak

  my mind. No favours. Only your cake. No speeches to speak of. No lobster-salad:

  and wine on the side-board. I thought your Queen Square friends knew how to do

  the thing better! When one of my gurls is married, I promise you we shan't let

  her go out of the back-door; and at least we shall have the best four greys that

  Newman's can furnish. It's my belief your young friend is getting too fond of

  money, Brandon, and so I have told Mugford." But these, you see, were only

  questions of taste. Good Mrs. Mugford's led her to a green satin dress and a

  pink turban, when other ladies were in gray or quiet colours. The intimacy

  between our two families dwindled immediately after Philip's marriage; Mrs. M.,

  I am sorry to say setting us down as shabby-genteel people, and she couldn't

  bear screwing��never could!

  Well: the speeches were spoken. The bride was kissed, and departed with her

  bridegroom: they had not even a valet and lady's-maid to bear them company. The

  route of the happy pair was to be Canterbury, Folkestone, Boulogne, Amiens,

  Paris, and Italy perhaps, if their little stock of pocket-money would serve them

  so far. But the very instant when half was spent, it was agreed that these young

  people should turn their faces homeward again; and meanwhile the printer and

  Mugford himself agreed that they would do Mr. Sub-editor's duty. How much had

  they in the little purse for their pleasure-journey? That is no business of

  ours, surely; but with youth, health, happiness, love, amongst their

  possessions, I don't think our young friends had need to be discontented. Away

  then they drive in their cab to the railway station. Farewell, and heaven bless

  you, Charlotte and Philip! I have said how I found my wife crying in her

  favourite's vacant bed-room. The marriage table did coldly furnish forth a

  funeral kind of dinner. The cold chicken choked us all, and the jelly was but a

  sickly compound to my taste, though it was the Little Sister's most artful

  manufacture. I own for one I was quite miserable. I found no comfort at clubs,

  nor could the last new novel fix my attention. I saw Philip's eyes, and heard

  the warble of Charlotte's sweet voice. I walked off from Bays's, and through Old

  Parr Street, where Philip had lived, and his parents entertained me as a boy;

  and then tramped to Thornhaugh Street, rather ashamed of myself. The maid said

  mistress was in Mr. Philip's rooms, the two pair,�� and what was that I heard on

  the piano as I entered the apartment? Mrs. Brandon sat there hemming some chintz

  window curtains, or bed curtains, or what not: by her side sate my own eldest

  girl stitching away very resolutely; and at the piano��the Piano which Philip

  had bought��there sat my own wife picking out that Dream of St. Jerome of

  Beethoven, which Charlotte used to play so delicately. We had tea out of

  Philip's tea-things, and a nice hot cake, which consoled some of us. But I have

  known few evenings more melancholy than that. It felt like the first night at

  school after the holidays, when we all used to try and appear cheerful, you

  know. But ah! how dismal the gaiety was; and how dreary that lying awake in the

  night, and thinking of the happy days just over!

  The way in which we looked forward for letters from our bride and bridegroom was

  quite a curiosity. At length a letter arrived from these personages: and as it

  contains no secret, I take the liberty to print it in extenso.

  "Amiens, Friday. Paris, Saturday."

  "Dearest Friends,��(For the dearest friends you are to us, and will continue to

  be as long as we live)��We perform our promise of writing to you to say that we

  are well, and safe, and happy! Philip says I mustn't use dashes, but I can't

  help it. He says, he supposes I am dashing off a letter. You know his joking

  way. Oh, what a blessing it is to see him so happy! And if he is happy I am. I

  tremble to think how happy. He sits opposite me, smoking his cigar, looking so

  noble! I like it, and I went to our room and brought him this one. He says,

  'Char, if I were to say, bring me your head, you would order a waiter to cut it

  off.' Pray, did I not promise three days age to love, honour, and obey him, and

  am I going to break my promise already? I hope not. I pray not. All my life I

  hope I shall be trying to keep that promise of mine. We liked Canterbury almost

  as much as dear Westminster. We had an open carriage and took a glorious drive

  to Folkestone, and in the crossing Philip was ill, and I wasn't. And he looked

  very droll; and he was in a dreadful bad humour; and that was my first

  appearance as nurse. I think I should like him to be a little ill sometimes, so

  that I may sit up and take care of him. We went through the cords at the

  custom-house at Boulogne; and I remembered how, two years ago, I passed through

  those very cords with my poor papa, and he stood outside and saw us! We went to

  the H�tel des Bains. We walked about the town. We went to the Tintelleries,

  where we used to live, and to your house in the Haute Ville, where I remember

  everything as if it was yesterday. Don't you remember, as we were walking one

  day, you said, 'Charlotte, there is the steamer coming, there is the smoke of

  his funnel;' and I said, 'What steamer?' and you said, 'The Philip, to be sure.'

  And he came up, smoking his pipe! We passed over and over the old grounds where

  we used to walk. We went to the pier, and gave money to the poor little

  hunchback who plays the guitar, and he said, 'Merci, madame.' How droll it

  sounded! And that good kind Marie at the H�tel des Bains remembered us, and

  called us 'mes enfans.' And if you were not the most good-natured woman in the

  world, I think I should be ashamed to write such nonsense."

  "Think of Mrs. Brandon having knitted me a purse, which she gave me as we went

  away from dear, dear Queen Square; and when I opened it, there were five

  sovereigns in it! When we found what the purse contained, Philip used one of his


  great jurons (as he always does when he is most tender-hearted), and he said

  that woman was an angel, and that we would keep those five sovereigns, and never

  change them. Ah! I am thankful my husband has such friends! I will love all who

  love him��you most of all. For were not you the means of bringing this noble

  heart to me? I fancy I have known bigger people, since I have known you, and

  some of your friends. Their talk is simpler, their thoughts are greater

  than��those with whom I used to live. P. says, heaven has given Mrs. Brandon

  such a great heart, that she must have a good intellect. If loving my Philip be

  wisdom, I know some one who will be very wise!"

  "If I was not in a very great hurry to see mamma, Philip said we might stop a

  day at Amiens. And we went to the Cathedral, and to whom, do you think, it is

  dedicated? to my saint: to Saint Firmin! and oh! I prayed to heaven to give me

  strength to devote my life to my saint's service, to love him always, as a pure,

  true wife: in sickness to guard him, in sorrow to soothe him. I will try and

  learn and study, not to make my intellect equal to his��very few women can hope

  for that��but that I may better comprehend him, and give him a companion more

  worthy of him. I wonder whether there are many men in the world as clever as our

  husbands? though Philip is so modest, he says he is not clever at all. Yet I

  know he is, and grander somehow than other men. I said nothing, but I used to

  listen at Queen Square; and some who came who thought best of themselves, seemed

  to me pert, and worldly, and small; and some were like princes somehow. My

  Philip is one of the princes. Ah, dear friend! may I not give thanks where

  thanks are due, that I am chosen to be the wife of a true gentleman? Kind and

  brave, and loyal Philip! Honest and generous��above deceit or selfish scheme.

  Oh! I hope it is not wrong to be so happy!"

  "We wrote to mamma and dear Madame Smolensk to say we were coming. Mamma finds

  Madame de Valentionois' boarding-house even dearer than dear Madame Smolensk's.

  I don't mean a pun! She says she has found out that Madame de Valentinois' real

  name is Cornichon; that she was a person of the worst character, and that

  cheating at �cart� was practised at her house. She took up her own two francs

  and another two-franc piece from the card-table, saying that Colonel Boulotte

  was cheating, and by rights the money was hers. She is going to leave Madame de

  Valentinois at the end of her month, or as soon as our children, who have the

  measles, can move. She desired that on no account I would come to see her at

  Madame V.'s; and she brought Philip 12l. 10s. in five-franc pieces, which she

  laid down on the table before him, and said it was my first quarter's payment.

  It is not due yet, I know. 'But do you think I will be beholden,' says she, 'to

  a man like you!' And P. shrugged his shoulders, and put the rouleau of silver

  pieces into a drawer. He did not say a word, but, of course, I saw he was

  ill-pleased. 'What shall we do with your fortune, Char?' he said, when mamma

  went away. And a part we spent at the opera and at V�ry's restaurant, where we

  took our dear kind Madame Smolensk. Ah, how good that woman was to me! Ah, how I

  suffered in that house when mamma wanted to part me from Philip! We walked by

  and saw the windows of the room where that horrible, horrible tragedy was

  performed, and Philip shook his fist at the green jalousies. 'Good heavens!' he

  said: 'how, my darling, how I was made to suffer there! I bear no malice. I will

  do no injury. But I never can forgive: never!' I can forgive mamma, who made my

  husband so unhappy; but can I love her again? Indeed and indeed I have tried.

  Often and often in my dreams that horrid tragedy is acted over again; and they

  are taking him from me, and I feel as if I should die. When I was with you I

  used often to be afraid to go to sleep for fear of that dreadful dream; and I

  kept one of his letters under my pillow so that I might hold it in the night.

  And now! No one can part us!��oh, no one!��until the end comes!

  "He took me about to all his old bachelor haunts; to the H�tel Poussin, where he

  used to live, which is very dingy but comfortable. And he introduced me to the

  landlady, in a Madras handkerchief, and to the landlord (in earrings and with no

  coat on), and to the little boy who frottes the floors. And he said, 'Tiens' and

  'merci, madame!' as we gave him a five-franc piece out of my fortune. And then

  we went to the caf� opposite the Bourse, where Philip used to write his letters;

  and then we went to the Palais Royal, where Madame de Smolensk was in waiting

  for us. And then we went to the play. And then we went to Tortoni's to take

  ices. And then we walked a part of the way home with Madame Smolensk under a

  hundred million blazing stars; and then we walked down the Champs Elys�es'

  avenues, by which Philip used to come to me, and beside the plashing fountains

  shining under the silver moon. And, oh, Laura! I wonder under the silver moon

  was anybody so happy as your loving and grateful

  "C. F."

  "P.S." [In the handwriting of Philip Firmin, Esq.] ��"My dear Friends.��I'm so

  jolly that it seems like a dream. I have been watching Charlotte scribble,

  scribble for an hour past; and wondered and thought, Is it actually true? and

  gone and convinced myself of the truth by looking at the paper and the dashes

  which she will put under the words. My dear friends, what have I done in life

  that I am to be made a present of a little angel? Once there was so much wrong

  in me, and my heart was so black and revengeful, that I knew not what might

  happen to me. She came and rescued me. The love of this creature purifies

  me��and��and I think that is all. I think I only want to say that I am the

  happiest man in Europe. That Saint Firmin at Amiens! Didn't it seem like a good

  omen? By St. George! I never heard of St. F. until I lighted on him in the

  cathedral. When shall we write next? Where shall we tell you to direct? We don't

  know where we are going. We don't want letters. But we are not the less grateful

  to dear, kind friends; and our names are

  P. AND C. F."

  CHAPTER IV. DESCRIBES A SITUATION INTERESTING BUT NOT UNEXPECTED.

  Only very wilful and silly children cry after the moon. Sensible people who have

  shed their sweet tooth can't be expected to be very much interested about honey.

  We may hope Mr. and Mrs. Philip Firmin enjoyed a pleasant wedding tour and that

  sort of thing: but as for chronicling its delights or adventures, Miss Sowerby

  and I vote that the task is altogether needless and immoral. Young people are

  already much too sentimental, and inclined to idle, maudlin reading. Life is

  earnest, Miss Sowerby remarks (with a strong inclination to spell "earnest" with

  a large E). Life is labour. Life is duty. Life is rent. Life is taxes. Life

  brings its ills, bills, doctor's pills. Life is not a mere calendar of honey and

  moonshine. Very good. But without love, Miss Sowerby, life is just death, and I

  know, my dear, you would no more care to go on with it, than with a new chapter

  of��of our dear friend Boreham
's new story.

  Between ourselves, Philip's humour is not much more lightsome than that of the

  ingenious contemporary above named; but if it served to amuse Philip himself,

  why balk him of a little sport? Well, then: he wrote us a a great ream of

  lumbering pleasantries, dated, Paris, Thursday. Geneva, Saturday. Summit of Mont

  Blanc, Monday. Timbuctoo, Wednesday. Pekin, Friday��with facetious descriptions

  of those spots and cities. He said that in the last-named place, Charlotte's

  shoes being worn out, those which she purchased were rather tight for her, and

  the high heels annoyed her. He stated that the beef at Timbuctoo was not cooked

  enough for Charlotte's taste, and that the Emperor's attentions were becoming

  rather marked, and so forth; whereas poor little Char's simple postscripts

  mentioned no travelling at all; but averred that they were staying at Saint

  Germain, and as happy as the day was long. As happy as the day was long? As it

  was short, alas! Their little purse was very slenderly furnished; and in a very,

  very brief holiday, poor Philip's few napoleons had almost all rolled away.

  Luckily, it was pay-day when the young people came back to London. They were

  almost reduced to the Little Sister's wedding present: and surely they would

  rather work than purchase a few hours' more ease with that poor widow's mite.

  Who talked and was afraid of poverty? Philip, with his two newspapers, averred

  that he had enough; more than enough; could save; could put by. It was at this

  time that Ridley, the Academician, painted that sweet picture, No. 1,976��of

  course you remember it�� 'Portrait of a Lady.' He became romantically attached

  to the second-floor lodger; would have no noisy parties in his rooms, or

  smoking, lest it should annoy her. Would Mrs. Firmin desire to give

  entertainments or her own? His studio and sitting-room were at her orders. He

  fetched and carried. He brought presents, and theatre-boxes. He was her slave of

  slaves. And she gave him back in return for all this romantic adoration a

  condescending shake of a soft little hand, and a kind look from a pair of soft

  eyes, with which the painter was fain to be content. Low of stature, and of

  misshapen form, J. J. thought himself naturally outcast from marriage and love,

  and looked in with longing eyes at the paradise which he was forbidden to enter.

  And Mr. Philip sat within this Palace of Delight; and lolled at his ease, and

  took his pleasure, and Charlotte ministered to him. And once in a way, my lord

  sent out a crumb of kindness, or a little cup of comfort, to the outcast at the

  gate, who blessed his benefactress, and my lord his benefactor, and was

  thankful. Charlotte had not twopence: but she had a little court. It was the

  fashion for Philip's friends to come and bow before her. Very fine gentlemen who

  had known him at college, and forgot him, or sooth to say, thought him rough and

  overbearing, now suddenly remembered him, and his young wife had quite

  fashionable assemblies at her five o'clock tea-table. All men liked her, and

  Miss Sowerby of course says Mrs. Firmin was a goodnatured, quite harmless little

  woman, rather pretty, and ��you know, my dear��such as men like. Look you, if I

  like cold veal, dear Sowerby, it is that my tastes are simple. A fine tough old

  dry camel, no doubt, is a much nobler and more sagacious animal��and perhaps you

  think a double hump is quite a delicacy.

  Yes: Mrs. Philip was a success. She had scarce any female friends as yet, being

  too poor to go into the world: but she had Mrs. Pendennis, and dear little Mrs.

  Brandon, and Mrs. Mugford, whose celebrated trap repeatedly brought delicacies

  for the bride from Hampstead, whose chaise was once or twice a week at Philip's

  door, and who was very much exercised and impressed by the fine company whom she