Vanity Fair (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  ‘I think it must be “Hotel”,‘ says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards; there is a general laugh at the captain‘s cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.

  While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical medley—‘All in the Downs,‘ ‘Cease, Rude Boreas,‘ ‘Rule, Britannia,‘ ‘In the Bay of Biscay 0‘—some maritime event is about to take place. A bell is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. ‘Now, gents, for the shore!‘ a voice exclaims. People take leave of each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship.

  The captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat-tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams—Lady Squeams giving a pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

  There was a little ballet, Le Rossignol, in which Montessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days; and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

  Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis-work. ‘Philomèle, Philomèle,‘py cries the old woman, and Philomèle comes out.

  More applause—it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the most ravissantepz little marquise in the world!

  She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth—she makes a curtsy. Mamma says, ‘Why, child, you are always laughing and singing,‘ and away she goes with—

  THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

  The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming,

  Was leafless all the winter-time and pining for the spring;

  You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming,

  It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

  The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,

  Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen;

  And if, mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing;

  It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

  Thus each performs his part, mamma, the birds have found their

  voices,

  The blowing rose a flush, mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;

  And there‘s sunshine in my heart, mamma, which wakens and rejoices,

  And so I sing and blush, mamma, and that‘s the reason why.

  During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured personage addressed as mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection by embracing the innocent creature who performed the daughter‘s part. Every caress was received with loud acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while the music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause and bouquets without end were showered upon the NIGHTINGALE of the evening. Lord Steyne‘s voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took the flowers which he threw to her, and pressed them to her heart with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests‘ enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful black-eyed houri whose appearance in the first charade had caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis,qa people compared her to one or the other; and agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she been an actress none on the stage would have surpassed her. She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling and bright over the storm of applause: and soared as high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed round Becky as the great point of attraction of the evening. The royal personage declared with an oath, that she was perfection, and engaged her again and again in conversation. Little Becky‘s soul swelled with pride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion before her. Lord Steyne was her slave; followed her everywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside; and paid her the most marked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her marquise costume, and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur le Duc de la Jabotière‘s attaché; and the duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have been a pupil of Vestris,qb or to have figured at Versailles. Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest sense of duty and personal sacrifice, prevented his excellency from dancing with her himself; and he declared in public, that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs. Rawdon, was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by birth. ‘None but a compatriot,‘ his excellency declared, ‘could have performed that majestic dance in such a way.‘

  Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin‘s cousin and attaché. The delighted prince, having less retenueqc than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with her, scattering the diamond out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket until his highness was fairly out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance with her if that amusement had been the custom of his country. The company made a circle round her, and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni.qd Everybody was in ecstasy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and her astonished and mortified sisterin-law—she écrasé‘dqe all rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of the evening; where was she now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hair and cry her great eyes out; but there was not a person to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

  COLONEL CRAWLEY IS WANTED

  The greatest triumph of all was at supper-time. She was placed at the grand exclusive table with his royal highness the exalted personage before mentioned, and the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold plate. She might have had pearls melted into her champagne if she liked—another Cleopatra; and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. Jabotière wrote home about her to his Government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver, and marked Lord Steyne‘s constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.

  Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate his wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought with a feeling very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

  When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught up by the link-menqf who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hoping
his lordship had enjoyed this noble party.

  Mrs. Rawdon Crawley‘s carriage, coming up to the gate after due shouting, rattled into the illuminated courtyard, and drove up to the covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the colonel the refreshment of a cigar.

  They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men came up, and touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, ‘Beg your pardon, colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular.‘ The gentleman‘s acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of Gaunt House—and the aide de camp ran round and placed himself in front of Colonel Crawley.

  That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man who had first touched him.

  ‘We‘re three on us—it‘s no use bolting,‘ the man behind said.

  ‘It‘s you, Moss, is it?‘ said the colonel, who appeared to know his interlocutor. ‘How much is it?‘

  ‘Only a small thing,‘ whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex—‘one hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan.‘

  ‘Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God‘s sake,‘ poor Rawdon said—‘I‘ve got seventy at home.‘

  ‘I‘ve not got ten pounds in the world,‘ said poor Mr. Wenham—‘Good night, my dear fellow.‘

  ‘Good night,‘ said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away—and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.

  CHAPTER LII

  In Which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light

  When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed, he did nothing by halves, and his kindness towards the Crawley family did the greatest honour to his benevolent discrimination. His lordship extended his goodwill to little Rawdon: he pointed out to the boy‘s parents the necessity of sending him to a public school; that he was of an age now when emulation, the first principles of the Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the society of his fellow boys would be of the greatest benefit to the boy. His father objected that he was not rich enough to send the child to a good public school; his mother, that Briggs was a capital mistress for him, and had brought him on (as indeed was the fact) famously in English, the Latin rudiments, and in general learning: but all these objections disappeared before the generous perseverance of the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship was one of the governors of that famous old collegiate institution called the Whitefriars.26 It had been a Cistercian convent in old days, when the Smithfield, which is contiguous to it, was a tournament ground. Obstinate heretics used to be brought thither convenient for burning hard by. Harry VIII, the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the monastery and its possessions, and hanged and tortured some of the monks who could not accommodate themselves to the pace of his reform. Finally, a great merchant bought the house and land adjoining, in which, and with the help of other wealthy endowments of land and money, he established a famous foundation hospital for old men and children. An extern school grew round the old almost monastic foundation, which subsists still with its middle-age costume and usages: and all Cistercians pray that it may long flourish.

  Of this famous house, some of the greatest noblemen prelates, and dignitaries in England are governors: and as the boys are very comfortably lodged, fed, and educated, and subsequently inducted to good scholarships at the University and livings in the Church, many little gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical profession from their tenderest years, and there is considerable emulation to procure nominations for the foundations. It was originally intended for the sons of poor and deserving clerics and laics; but many of the noble governors of the Institution, with an enlarged and rather capricious benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for their bounty. To get an education for nothing, and a future livelihood and profession assured, was so excellent a scheme, that some of the richest people did not disdain it; and not only great men‘s relations, but great men themselves, sent their sons to profit by the chance—right reverend prelates sent their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy, while, on the other hand, some great noblemen did not disdain to patronize the children of their confidential servants,—so that a lad entering this establishment had every variety of youthful society wherewith to mingle.

  Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied was the Racing Calendar, and though his chief recollections of polite learning were connected with the floggings which he received at Eton in his early youth, had that decent and honest reverence for classical learning which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think that his son was to have a provision for life, perhaps, and a certain opportunity of becoming a scholar. And although his boy was his chief solace and companion, and endeared to him by a thousand small ties, about which he did not care to speak to his wife, who had all along shown the utmost indifference to their son, yet Rawdon agreed at once to part with him, and to give up his own greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the welfare of the little lad. He did not know how fond he was of the child until it became necessary to let him go away, When he was gone, he felt more sad and downcast than he cared to own—far sadder than the boy himself, who was happy enough to enter a new career, and find companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing once or twice, when the colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way, tried to express his sentimental sorrows at the boy‘s departure. The poor fellow felt that his dearest pleasure and closest friend was taken from him. He looked often and wistfully at the little vacant bed in his dressing-room, where the child used to sleep. He missed him sadly of mornings, and tried in vain to walk in the Park without him. He did not know how solitary he was until little Rawdon was gone. He liked the people who were fond of him; and would go and sit for long hours with his good-natured sister, Lady Jane, and talk to her about the virtues, and good looks, and hundred good qualities of the child.

  Young Rawdon‘s aunt, we have said, was very fond of him, as was her little girl, who wept copiously when the time for her cousin‘s departure came. The elder Rawdon was thankful for the fondness of mother and daughter. The very best and honestest feelings of the man came out in these artless outpourings of paternal feeling in which he indulged in their presence, and encouraged by their sympathy. He secured not only Lady Jane‘s kindness, but her sincere regard, by the feelings which he manifested, and which he could not show to his own wife. The two kinswomen met as seldom as possible. Becky laughed bitterly at Jane‘s feelings and softness; the other‘s kindly and gentle nature could not but revolt at her sister‘s callous behaviour.

  It estranged Rawdon from his wife more than he knew or acknowledged to himself. She did not care for the estrangement. Indeed, she did not miss him or anybody. She looked upon him as her errand-man and humble slave. He might be ever so depressed or sulky, and she did not mark his demeanour, or only treated it with a sneer. She was busy thinking about her position or her pleasures or her advancement in society; she ought to have held a great place in it, that is certain.

  It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage when he went away—Molly kind and faithful in spite of a long arrear of unpaid wages. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have the carriage to take the boy to school. Take the horses into the City!—such a thing was never heard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he went: nor did the child propose to embrace her: but gave a kiss to old Briggs (whom, in general, he was very shy of caressing), and consoled her by pointing out that he was to come home on Saturdays, when she would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled towards the City, Becky‘s carriage rattled o
ff to the Park. She was chattering and laughing with a score of young dandies by the Serpentine, as the father and son entered at the old gates of the school—where Rawdon left the child, and came away with a sadder, purer feeling in his heart than perhaps that poor battered fellow had ever known since he himself came out of the nursery.

  He walked all the way home very dismally, and dined alone with Briggs. He was very kind to her, and grateful for her love and watchfulness over the boy. His conscience smote him that he had borrowed Briggs‘s money and aided in deceiving her. They talked about little Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came home to dress and go out to dinner—And then he went off uneasily to drink tea with Lady Jane, and tell her of what had happened, and how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he was to wear a gown and little knee-breeches, and how young Blackball, Jack Blackball‘s son, of the old regiment, had taken him in charge and promised to be kind to him.

  In the course of a week, young Blackball had constituted little Rawdon his fag,qg shoeblack, and breakfast toaster; initiated him into the mysteries of the Latin grammar, and thrashed him three or four times; but not severely. The little chap‘s good-natured honest face won his way for him. He only got that degree of beating which was, no doubt, good for him; and as for blacking shoes, toasting bread, and fagging in general, were these offices not deemed to be necessary parts of every young English gentleman‘s education?