The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  Clive. Now it is altered. Now I know the difference between a poor

  painter and a young lady of the world. Why haven't I a title and a great

  fortune? Why did I ever see you, Ethel; or, knowing the distance which it

  seems fate has placed between us, why have I seen you again?

  Ethel (innocently). Have I ever made any difference between us? Whenever

  I may see you, am I not too glad? Don't I see you sometimes when I should

  not--no--I do not say when I should not; but when others, whom I am bound

  to obey, forbid me? What harm is there in my remembering old days? Why

  should I be ashamed of our relationship?--no, not ashamed--shy should I

  forget it? Don't do that, sir; we have shaken hands twice already.

  Leonore! Xavier!

  Clive. At one moment you like me: and at the next you seem to repent it.

  One day you seem happy when I come; and another day you are ashamed of

  me. Last Tuesday, when you came with those fine ladies to the Louvre, you

  seemed to blush when you saw me copying at my picture; and that stupid

  young lord looked quite alarmed because you spoke to me. My lot in life

  is not very brilliant; but I would not change it against that young

  man's--no, not with all his chances.

  Ethel. What do you mean with all his chances?

  Clive. You know very well. I mean I would not be as selfish or as dull,

  or as ill educated--I won't say worse of him--not to be as handsome, or

  as wealthy, or as noble as he is. I swear I would not now change my place

  against his, or give up being Clive Newcome to be my Lord Marquis of

  Farintosh, with all his acres and titles of nobility.

  Ethel. Why are you for ever harping about Lord Farintosh and his titles?

  I thought it was only women who were jealous--you gentlemen say so.--

  (Hurriedly.) I am going to-night with grandmamma to the Minister of the

  Interior, and then to the Russian ball; and to-morrow to the Tuileries.

  We dine at the Embassy first; and on Sunday, I suppose, we shall go to

  the Rue d'Aguesseau. I can hardly come here before Mon---. Madam de

  Florac! Little Leonore is very like you--resembles you very much. My

  cousin says he longs to make a drawing of her.

  Madame de Florac. My husband always likes that I should be present at

  his dinner. Pardon me, young people, that I have been away from you for a

  moment.

  [Exeunt CLIVE, ETHEL, and Madame DE F. into the house.

  CONVERSATION II.-SCENE I

  Miss Newcome arrives in Lady Kew's carriage, which enters the court of

  the Hotel de Florac.

  Saint Jean. Mademoiselle--Madame la Comtesse is gone out but madame has

  charged me to say, that she will be at home to the dinner of M. le Comte,

  as to the ordinary.

  Miss Newcome. Madame de Preville is at home?

  Saint Jean. Pardon me, madame is gone out with M. le Baron, and M.

  Xavier, and Mademoiselle de Preville. They are gone, miss, I believe, to

  visit the parents of Monsieur le Baron; of whom it is probably to-day the

  fete: for Mademoiselle Leonore carried a bouquet--no doubt for her

  grandpapa. Will it please mademoiselle to enter? I think Monsieur the

  Count sounds me. (Bell rings.)

  Miss Newcome. Madame la Prince--Madame la Vicomtesse is at home,

  Monsieur St. Jean?

  Saint Jean. I go to call the people of Madame la Vicomtesse.

  [Exit Old SAINT JEAN to the carriage: a Lackey comes presently

  in a gorgeous livery, with buttons like little cheese plates.

  The Lackey. The Princess is at home, miss, and will be most appy to see

  you, miss. (Miss trips up the great stair: a gentleman out of livery has

  come forth to the landing, and introduces her to the apartments of Madame

  la Princesse.)

  The Lackey to the Servants on the box. Good morning, Thomas. How dy' do,

  old Backystopper?

  Backystopper. How de do, Jim? I say, you couldn't give a feller a drink

  of beer, could yer, Muncontour? It was precious wet last night, I can

  tell you. 'Ad to stop for three hours at the Napolitum Embassy, when we

  was a dancing. Me and some chaps went into Bob Parsom's and had a drain.

  Old Cat came out and couldn't find her carriage, not by no means, could

  she, Tommy? Blest if I didn't nearly drive her into a wegetable-cart. I

  was so uncommon scruey! Who's this a-hentering at your pot-coshare?

  Billy, my fine feller!

  Clive Newcome (by the most singular coincidence). Madame la Princesse?

  Lackey. We, munseer. (He rings a bell: the gentleman in black appears as

  before on the landing-place up the stair.)

  [Exit Clive.

  Backystopper. I say, Bill: is that young chap often a-coming about here?

  They'd run pretty in a curricle, wouldn't they? Miss N. and Master N.

  Quiet, old woman! Jest look to that mare's ead, will you, Billy? He's a

  fine young feller, that is. He gave me a covering the other night.

  Whenever I sor him in the Park, he was always riding an ansum hanimal.

  What is he? They said in our 'all he was a hartis. I can 'ardly think

  that. Why, there used to be a hartis come to our club, and painted two or

  three of my 'osses, and my old woman too.

  Lackey. There's hartises and hartises, Backystopper. Why, there's some

  on 'em comes here with more stars on their coats than Dukes has got. Have

  you never 'eard of Mossyer Verny, or Mossyer Gudang?

  Backystopper. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss N.; which, I

  guess, I wish he may git it.

  Tommy. He! he! he!

  Backystopper. Brayvo, Tommy. Tom ain't much of a man for conversation,

  but he's a precious one to drink. Do you think the young gent is sweet on

  her, Tommy? I sor him often prowling about our 'ouse in Queen Street,

  when we was in London.

  Tommy. I guess he wasn't let in in Queen Street. I guess hour little

  Buttons was very near turned away for saying we was at home to him--I

  guess a footman's place is to keep his mouth hopen--no, his heyes hopen--

  and his mouth shut. (He lapses into silence.)

  Lackey. I think Thomis is in love, Thomis is. Who was that young woman I

  saw you a-dancing of at the Showmier, Thomis? How the young Marquis was

  a-cuttin' of it about there! The pleace was obliged to come up and stop

  him dancing. His man told old Buzfuz upstairs, that the Marquis's goings

  on is hawful. Up till four or five every morning; blind hookey,

  shampaign, the dooce's own delight. That party have had I don't know how

  much in diamonds--and they quarrel and swear at each other, and fling

  plates: it's tremendous.

  Tommy. Why doesn't the Marquis man mind his own affairs? He's a

  supersellious beast: and will no more speak to a man, except he's

  out-a-livery, than he would to a chimbly-swip. He! Cuss him, I'd fight

  'im for 'alf-a-crown.

  Lackey. And we'd back you, Tommy. Buzfuz upstairs ain't supersellious;

  nor is the Prince's walet nether. That old Sangjang's a rum old guvnor.

  He was in England with the Count, fifty years ago--in the hemigration--in

  Queen Hann's time, you know. He used to support the old Count. He says he

  remembers a young Musseer Newcome then, that used
to take lessons from

  the Shevallier, the Countess' father--there's my bell.

  [Exit Lackey.

  Backystopper. Not a bad chap that. Sports his money very free--sings an

  uncommon good song.

  Thomas. Pretty voice, but no cultiwation.

  Lackey (who re-enters). Be here at two o'clock for Miss N. Take

  anything? Come round the corner.--There's a capital shop round the

  corner.

  [Exeunt Servants.

  SCENE II

  Ethel. I can't think where Madame de Moncontour has gone. How very odd

  it was that you should come here--that we should both come here to-day!

  How surprised I was to see you at the Minister's! Grandmamma was so

  angry! "That boy pursues us wherever we go," she said. I am sure I don't

  know why we shouldn't meet, Clive. It seems to be wrong even my seeing

  you by chance here. Do you know, sir, what a scolding I had about--about

  going to Brighton with you? My grandmother did not hear of it till we

  were in Scotland, when that foolish maid of mine talked of it to her

  maid; and, there was oh, such a tempest! If there were a Bastile here,

  she would like to lock you into it. She says that you are always upon our

  way--I don't know how, I am sure. She says, but for you I should have

  been--you know what I should have been: but I am thankful that I wasn't,

  and Kew has got a much nicer wife in Henrietta Pulleyn, than I could ever

  have been to him. She will be happier than Clara, Clive. Kew is one of

  the kindest creatures in the world--not very wise; not very strong: but

  he is just such a kind, easy, generous little man, as will make a girl

  like Henrietta quite happy.

  Clive. But not you, Ethel?

  Ethel. No, nor I him. My temper is difficult, Clive, and I fear few men

  would bear with me. I feel, somehow, always very lonely. How old am I?

  Twenty--I feel sometimes as if I was a hundred; and in the midst of all

  these admirations and fetes and flatteries, so tired, oh, so tired! And

  yet if I don't have them, I miss them. How I wish I was religious like

  Madame de Florac: there is no day that she does not go to church. She is

  for ever busy with charities, clergymen, conversions; I think the

  Princess will be brought over ere long--that dear old Madame de Florac!

  and yet she is no happier than the rest of us. Hortense is an empty

  little thing, who thinks of her prosy fat Camille with spectacles, and of

  her two children, and of nothing else in the world besides. Who is happy?

  Clive!

  Clive. You say Barnes's wife is not.

  Ethel. We are like brother and sister, so I may talk to you. Barnes is

  very cruel to her. At Newcome, last winter, poor Clara used to come into

  my room with tears in her eyes morning after morning. He calls her a

  fool; and seems to take a pride in humiliating her before company. My

  poor father has luckily taken a great liking to her: and before him, for

  he has grown very very hot-tempered since his illness, Barnes leaves poor

  Clara alone. We were in hopes that the baby might make matters better,

  but as it is a little girl, Barnes chooses to be very much disappointed.

  He wants papa to give up his seat in Parliament, but he clings to that

  more than anything. Oh, dear me! who is happy in the world? What a pity

  Lord Highgate's father had not died sooner! He and Barnes have been

  reconciled. I wonder my brother's spirit did not revolt against it. The

  old lord used to keep a great sum of money at the bank, I believe: and

  the present one does so still: he has paid all his debts off: and Barnes

  is actually friends with him. He is always abusing the Dorkings, who want

  to borrow money from the bank, he says. This eagerness for money is

  horrible. If I had been Barnes I would never have been reconciled with

  Mr. Belsize, never, never! And yet they say he was quite right: and

  grandmamma is even pleased that Lord Highgate should be asked to dine in

  Park Lane. Poor papa is there: come to attend his parliamentary duties as

  he thinks. He went to a division the other night; and was actually lifted

  out of his carriage and wheeled into the lobby in a chair. The ministers

  thanked him for coming. I believe he thinks he will have his peerage yet.

  Oh, what a life of vanity ours is!

  Enter Madame de Moncontour. What are you young folks a-talkin' about--

  balls and operas? When first I was took to the opera I did not like it--

  and fell asleep. But now, oh, it's 'eavenly to hear Grisi sing!

  The Clock. Ting, ting!

  Ethel. Two o'clock already! I must run back to grandmamma. Good-bye,

  Madame de Moncontour; I am so sorry I have not been able to see dear

  Madame de Florac. I will try and come to her on Thursday--please tell

  her. Shall we meet you at the American minister's to-night, or at Madame

  de Brie's to-morrow? Friday is your own night--I hope grandmamma will

  bring me. How charming your last music was! Good-bye, mon cousin! You

  shall not come downstairs with me, I insist upon it, sir: and had much

  best remain here, and finish your drawing of Madame de Moncontour.

  Princess. I've put on the velvet, you see, Clive--though it's very 'ot

  in May. Good-bye, my dear.

  [Exit ETHEL

  As far as we can judge from the above conversation, which we need not

  prolong--as the talk between Madame de Moncontour and Monsieur Clive,

  after a few complimentary remarks about Ethel, had nothing to do with the

  history of the Newcomes--as far as we can judge, the above little

  colloquy took place on Monday: and about Wednesday, Madame la Comtesse de

  Florac received a little note from Clive, in which he said, that one day

  when she came to the Louvre, where he was copying, she had admired a

  picture of a Virgin and Child, by Sasso Ferrato, since when he had been

  occupied in making a water-colour drawing after the picture, and hoped

  she would be pleased to accept the copy from her affectionate and

  grateful servant, Clive Newcome. The drawing would be done the next day,

  when he would call with it in his hand. Of course Madame de Florac

  received this announcement very kindly; and sent back by Clive's servant

  a note of thanks to that young gentleman.

  Now on Thursday morning, about one o'clock, by one of those singular

  coincidences which, etc. etc., who should come to the Hotel de Florac but

  Miss Ethel Newcome? Madame la Comtesse was at home, waiting to receive

  Clive and his picture: but Miss Ethel's appearance frightened the good

  lady, so much so that she felt quite guilty at seeing the girl, whose

  parents might think--I don't know what they might not think--that Madame

  de Florac was trying to make a match between the young people. Hence

  arose the words uttered by the Countess, after a while, in--

  CONVERSATION III

  Madame de Florac (at work). And so you like to quit the world and to

  come to our triste old hotel. After to-day you will find it still more

  melancholy, my poor child.

  Ethel. And why?

  Madame de F. Some one who has been here to egager our little meetings
/>
  will come no more.

  Ethel. Is the Abbe de Florac going to quit Paris, madam?

  Madame de F. It is not of him that I speak, thou knowest it very well,

  my daughter. Thou hast seen my poor Clive twice here. He will come once

  again, and then no more. My conscience reproaches me that I have admitted

  him at all. But he is like a son to me, and was so confided to me by his

  father. Five years ago, when we met, after an absence--of how many

  years!--Colonel Newcome told me what hopes he had cherished for his boy.

  You know well, my daughter, with whom those hopes were connected. Then he

  wrote me that family arrangements rendered his plans impossible--that the

  hand of Miss Newcome was promised elsewhere. When I heard from my son

  Paul how these negotiations were broken, my heart rejoiced, Ethel, for my

  friend's sake. I am an old woman now, who have seen the world, and all

  sorts of men. Men more brilliant no doubt I have known, but such a heart

  as his, such a faith as his, such a generosity and simplicity as Thomas

  Newcome's--never!

  Ethel (smiling). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you.

  Madame de F. I understand thy smile, my daughter. I can say to thee,

  that when we were children almost, I knew thy good uncle. My poor father

  took the pride of his family into exile with him. Our poverty only made

  his pride the greater. Even before the emigration a contract had been

  passed between our family and the Count de Florac. I could not be wanting

  to the word given by my father. For how many long years have I kept it?

  But when I see a young girl who may be made the victim--the subject of a

  marriage of convenience, as I was--my heart pities her. And if I love

  her, as I love you, I tell her my thoughts. Better poverty, Ethel: better

  a cell in a convent: than a union without love. Is it written eternally

  that men are to make slaves of us? Here in France, above all, our fathers

  sell us every day. And what a society ours is! Thou wilt know this when

  thou art married. There are some laws so cruel that nature revolts

  against theme, and breaks them--or we die in keeping them. You smile. I

  have been nearly fifty years dying--n'est-ce pas?--and am here an old

  woman, complaining to a young girl. It is because our recollections of

  youth are always young: and because I have suffered so, that I would

  spare those I love a like grief. Do you know that the children of those

  who do not love in marriage seem to bear an hereditary coldness, and do

  not love their parents as other children do? They witness our differences

  and our indifferences, hear our recriminations, take one side or the

  other in our disputes, and are partisans for father or mother. We force

  ourselves to be hypocrites, and hide our wrongs from them; we speak of a

  bad father with false praises; we wear feint smiles over our tears, and

  deceive our children--deceive them, do we? Even from the exercise of that

  pious deceit there is no woman but suffers in the estimation of her sons.

  They may shield her as champions against their father's selfishness or

  cruelty. In this case, what a war! What a home, where the son sees a

  tyrant in the father, and in the mother but a trembling victim! I speak

  not for myself--whatever may have been the course of our long wedded

  life, I have not to complain of these ignoble storms. But when the family

  chief neglects his wife, or prefers another to her, the children too,

  courtiers as we are, will desert her. You look incredulous about domestic

  love. Tenez, my child, if I may so surmise, I think you cannot have seen

  it.

  Ethel (blushing, and thinking, perhaps, how she esteems her father, how

  her mother, and how much they esteem each other). My father and mother

  have been most kind to all their children, madame; and no one can say

  that their marriage has been otherwise than happy. My mother is the