A History of Pendennis, Volume 1

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER IX.

  IN WHICH THE MAJOR OPENS THE CAMPAIGN.

  Let those who have a real heartfelt relish for London society, andthe privilege of an entree into its most select circles, admit thatMajor Pendennis was a man of no ordinary generosity and affection,in the sacrifice which he now made. He gave up London in May--hisnewspapers and his mornings--his afternoons from club to club, his littleconfidential visits to my ladies, his rides in Rotten Row, his dinnersand his stall at the opera, his rapid escapades to Fulham or Richmond onSaturdays and Sundays, his bow from my Lord Duke or my Lord Marquis atthe great London entertainments, and his name in the Morning Post of thesucceeding day--his quieter little festivals, more select, secret, anddelightful--all these he resigned to lock himself into a lone littlecountry house, with a simple widow and a greenhorn of a son, a mawkishcurate, and a little girl of ten years of age.

  He made the sacrifice, and it was the greater that few knew the extentof it. His letters came down franked from town, and he showed theinvitations to Helen with a sigh. It was beautiful and tragical tosee him refuse one party after another--at least to those who couldunderstand, as Helen didn't, the melancholy grandeur of his self-denial.Helen did not, or only smiled at the awful pathos with which the majorspoke of the Court Guide in general: but young Pen looked with greatrespect at the great names upon the superscriptions of his uncle'sletters, and listened to the major's stories about the fashionableworld with constant interest and sympathy.

  The elder Pendennis's rich memory was stored with thousands of thesedelightful tales, and he poured them into Pen's willing ear withunfailing eloquence. He knew the name and pedigree of every body in thePeerage, and every body's relations. "My dear boy," he would say, with amournful earnestness and veracity, "you can not begin your genealogicalstudies too early; I wish to Heavens you would read in Debrett everyday. Not so much the historical part (for the pedigrees, betweenourselves, are many of them very fabulous, and there are few familiesthat can show such a clear descent as our own) as the account of familyalliances, and who is related to whom. I have known a man's career inlife blasted, by ignorance on this important, this all-importantsubject. Why, only last month, at dinner at my Lord Hobanob's, a youngman, who has lately been received among us, young Mr. Suckling (authorof a work, I believe), began to speak lightly of Admiral Bowser'sconduct for ratting to ministers, in what I must own is the mostaudacious manner. But who do you think sate next and opposite tothis Mr. Suckling? Why--why, next to him was Lady Grampound Bowser'sdaughter, and opposite to him was Lord Grampound Bowser's son-in-law.The infatuated young man went on cutting his jokes at the admiral'sexpense, fancying that all the world was laughing with him, and Ileave you to imagine Lady Hobanob's feelings--Hobanob's!--those ofevery well-bred man, as the wretched _intru_ was so exposing himself._He_ will never dine again in South-street. I promise you _that_."

  With such discourses the major entertained his nephew, as he paced theterrace in front of the house for his two hours' constitutional walk, oras they sate together after dinner over their wine. He grieved that SirFrancis Clavering had not come down to the park, to live in it since hismarriage, and to make a society for the neighborhood. He mourned thatLord Eyrie was not in the country, that he might take Pen and presenthim to his lordship. "He has daughters," the major said. "Who knows? youmight have married Lady Emily or Lady Barbara Trehawk: but all thosedreams are over; my poor fellow, you must lie on the bed which you havemade for yourself."

  These things to hear did young Pendennis seriously incline. They arenot so interesting in print as when delivered orally; but the major'sanecdotes of the great George, of the royal dukes, of the statesmen,beauties, and fashionable ladies of the day, filled young Pen's soulwith longing and wonder; and he found the conversations with hisguardian, which sadly bored and perplexed poor Mrs. Pendennis, forhis own part, never tedious.

  It can't be said that Mr. Pen's new guide, philosopher and friend,discoursed him on the most elevated subjects, or treated the subjectswhich he chose in the most elevated manner. But his morality, such asit was, was consistent. It might not, perhaps, tend to a man's progressin another world, but it was pretty well calculated to advance hisinterests in this: and then it must be remembered, that the major neverfor one instant doubted that his views were the only views practicable,and that his conduct was perfectly virtuous and respectable. He wasa man of honor, in a word; and had his eyes, what he called, open. Hetook pity on this young greenhorn of a nephew, and wanted to open hiseyes too.

  No man, for instance, went more regularly to church, when in thecountry, than the old bachelor. "It don't matter so much in town, Pen,"he said, "for there the women go, and the men are not missed. But whena gentleman is _sur ses terres_, he must give an example to the countrypeople; and if I could turn a tune, I even think I should sing. The Dukeof Saint David's, whom I have the honor of knowing, always sings inthe country, and let me tell you, it has a doosed fine effect from thefamily pew. And you are somebody down here. As long as the Claveringsare away you are the first man in the parish; and as good as any. Youmight represent the town if you played your cards well. Your poor dearfather would have done so had he lived; so might you.--Not if you marrya lady, however amiable, whom the country people won't meet.--Well,well: it's a painful subject. Let us change it, my boy." But if MajorPendennis changed the subject once, he recurred to it a score of timesin the day; and the moral of his discourse always was, that Pen wasthrowing himself away. Now it does not require much coaxing or wheedlingto make a simple boy believe that he is a very fine fellow.

  Pen took his uncle's counsels to heart. He was glad enough, we havesaid, to listen to his elder's talk. The conversation of CaptainCostigan became by no means pleasant to him, and the idea of that tipsyold father-in-law haunted him with terror. He couldn't bring that man,unshaven and reeking of punch, to associate with his mother. Even aboutEmily--he faltered when the pitiless guardian began to question him."Was she accomplished?" He was obliged to own, no. "Was she clever?"Well, she had a very good average intellect: but he could not absolutelysay she was clever. "Come, let us see some of her letters." So Penconfessed that he had but those three of which we have made mention--andthat they were but trivial invitations or answers.

  "_She_ is cautious enough," the major said, drily. "She is older thanyou, my poor boy;" and then he apologized with, the utmost frankness andhumility, and flung himself upon Pen's good feelings, begging the lad toexcuse a fond old uncle, who had only his family's honor in view--forArthur was ready to flame up in indignation whenever Miss Costigan'shonesty was doubted, and swore that he would never have her namementioned lightly, and never, never would part from her.

  He repeated this to his uncle and his friends at home, and also, it mustbe confessed, to Miss Fotheringay and the amiable family at Chatteries,with whom he still continued to spend some portion of his time. MissEmily was alarmed when she heard of the arrival of Pen's guardian, andrightly conceived that the major came down with hostile intentions toherself. "I suppose ye intend to leave me, now your grand relation, hascome down from town. He'll carry ye off, and you'll forget your poorEmily, Mr. Arthur!"

  Forget her! In her presence, in that of Miss Rouncy, the Columbine andMilly's confidential friend, of the company, in the presence of thecaptain himself, Pen swore he never could think of any other woman buthis beloved Miss Fotheringay; and the captain, looking up at his foils,which were hung as a trophy on the wall of the room where Pen and heused to fence, grimly said, he would not advoise any man to meddlerashly with the affections of _his_ darling child; and would neverbelieve his gallant young Arthur, whom he treated as his son, whom hecalled his son, would ever be guilty of conduct so revolting to everyidaya of honor and humanity.

  He went up and embraced Pen after speaking. He cried, and wipedhis eye with one large dirty hand as he clasped Pen with the other.Arthur shuddered in that grasp, and thought of his uncle at home.His father-in-law looked unusually dirty and shabby; the odor ofwhisky-and-water was
even more decided than in common. How was he tobring that man and his mother together? He trembled when he thought thathe had absolutely written to Costigan (inclosing to him a sovereign,the loan of which the worthy gentleman had need), saying, that oneday he hoped to sign himself his affectionate son, Arthur Pendennis.He was glad to get away from Chatteries that day; from Miss Rouncy the_confidante_; from the old toping father-in-law; from the divine Emilyherself. "O Emily, Emily," he cried inwardly, as he tattled homeward onRebecca, "you little know what sacrifices I am making for you!--for youwho are always so cold, so cautious, so mistrustful;" and he thought ofa character in Pope to whom he had often involuntarily compared her.

  Pen never rode over to Chatteries upon a certain errand, but the majorfound out on what errand the boy had been. Faithful to his plan, MajorPendennis gave his nephew no let or hindrance; but somehow the constantfeeling that the senior's eye was upon him, an uneasy shame attendantupon that inevitable confession which the evening's conversation wouldbe sure to elicit in the most natural, simple manner, made Pen go lessfrequently to sigh away his soul at the feet of his charmer than he hadbeen wont to do previous to his uncle's arrival. There was no use tryingto deceive _him_: there was no pretext of dining with Smirke, or readingGreek plays with Foker; Pen felt, when he returned from one of hisflying visits, that every body knew whence he came, and appeared quiteguilty before his mother and guardian, over their books or their gameat picquet.

  Once having walked out half a mile, to the Fairoaks Inn, beyond thelodge gates, to be in readiness for the Competitor coach, which changedhorses there, to take a run for Chatteries, a man on the roof touchedhis hat to the young gentleman: it was his uncle's man, Mr. Morgan,who was going on a message for his master, and had been took up at thelodge, as he said. And Mr. Morgan came back by the Rival, too; so thatPen had the pleasure of that domestic's company both ways. Nothing wassaid at home. The lad seemed to have every decent liberty; and yet hefelt himself dimly watched and guarded, and that there were eyes uponhim even in the presence of his Dulcinea.

  In fact, Pen's suspicions were not unfounded, and his guardian had sentforth to gather all possible information regarding the lad and hisinteresting young friend. The discreet and ingenious Mr. Morgan, aLondon confidential valet, whose fidelity could be trusted, had beento Chatteries more than once, and made every inquiry regarding thepast history and present habits of the captain and his daughter. Hedelicately cross-examined the waiters, the ostlers, and all the inmatesof the bar at the George, and got from them what little they knewrespecting the worthy captain. He was not held in very great regardthere, as it appeared. The waiters never saw the color of his money,and were warned not to furnish the poor gentleman with any liquor forwhich some other party was not responsible. He swaggered sadly about thecoffee-room there, consumed a tooth-pick, and looked over the paper, andif any friend asked him to dinner, he staid. Morgan heard at the Georgeof Pen's acquaintance with Mr. Foker, and he went over to Baymouth toenter into relations with that gentleman's man: but the young studentwas gone to a Coast Regatta, and his servant, of course, traveled incharge of the dressing-case.

  From the servants of the officers at the barracks Mr. Morgan foundthat the captain had so frequently and outrageously inebriated himselfthere, that Colonel Swallowtail had forbidden him the mess-room. Theindefatigable Morgan then put himself in communication with some of theinferior actors at the theater, and pumped them over their cigars andpunch, and all agreed that Costigan was poor, shabby, and given to debtand to drink. But there was not a breath upon the reputation of MissFotheringay; her father's courage was reported to have displayed itselfon more than one occasion toward persons disposed to treat his daughterwith freedom. She never came to the theater but with her father; in hismost inebriated moments, that gentleman kept a watch over her; finallyMr. Morgan, from his own experience, added that he had been to see herhact, and was uncommon delighted with the performance, besides thinkingher a most splendid woman.

  Mrs. Creed, the pew-opener, confirmed these statements to DoctorPortman, who examined her personally, and threatened her with theterrors of the Church, one day after afternoon service. Mrs. Creed hadnothing unfavorable to her lodger to divulge. She saw nobody; onlyone or two ladies of the theater. The captain did intoxicate himselfsometimes, and did not always pay his rent regularly, but he did whenhe had money, or rather Miss Fotheringay did. Since the young gentlemanfrom Clavering had been and took lessons in fencing, one or two morehad come from the barracks: Sir Derby Oaks, and his young friend, Mr.Foker, which was often together: and which was always driving over fromBaymouth in the tandem. But on the occasions of the lessons, Miss F.was very seldom present, and generally came down stairs to Mrs. Creed'sown room.

  The doctor and the major consulting together as they often did, groanedin spirit over that information. Major Pendennis openly expressed hisdisappointment; and, I believe the divine himself was ill-pleased atnot being able to pick a hole in poor Miss Fotheringay's reputation.

  Even about Pen himself, Mrs. Creed's reports were desperately favorable."Whenever he come," Mrs. Creed said, "she always have me or one of thechildren with her. And Mrs. Creed, marm, says she, if you please marm,you'll on no account leave the room when that young gentleman's here.And many's the time I've seen him a lookin' as if he wished I was away,poor young man: and he took to coming in service-time, when I wasn't athome, of course: but she always had one of the boys up if her pa wasn'tat home, or old Mr. Bowser with her a teaching of her her lesson, or oneof the young ladies of the theayter."

  It was all true: whatever encouragements might have been given himbefore he avowed his passion, the prudence of Miss Emily was prodigiousafter Pen had declared himself: and the poor fellow chafed against herhopeless reserve, which maintained his ardor as it excited his anger.

  The major surveyed the state of things with a sigh. "If it were but atemporary liaison," the excellent man said, "one could bear it. A youngfellow must sow his wild oats and that sort of thing. But a virtuousattachment is the deuce. It comes from the d--d romantic notions boysget from being brought up by women."

  "Allow me to say, major, that you speak a little too like a man ofthe world," replied the doctor. "Nothing can be more desirable for Penthan a virtuous attachment for a young lady of his own rank and witha corresponding fortune--this present infatuation, of course, I mustdeplore as sincerely as you do. If I were his guardian I should commandhim to give it up."

  "The very means, I tell you, to make him marry to-morrow. We have gottime from him, that is all, and we must do our best with that."

  "I say, major," said the doctor, at the end of the conversation in whichthe above subject was discussed--"I am not, of course, a play-goingman--but suppose, I say, we go and see her."

  The major laughed--he had been a fortnight at Fairoaks, and strange tosay, had not thought of that. "Well," he said, "why not? After all, itis not my niece, but Miss Fotheringay the actress, and we have as gooda right as any other of the public to see her if we pay our money." Soupon a day when it was arranged that Pen was to dine at home, and passthe evening with his mother, the two elderly gentlemen drove over toChatteries in the doctor's chaise, and there, like a couple of jollybachelors, dined at the George Inn, before proceeding to the play.

  Only two other guests were in the room--an officer of the regimentquartered at Chatteries, and a young gentleman whom the doctor thoughthe had somewhere seen. They left them at their meal, however, andhastened to the theater. It was Hamlet over again. Shakspeare wasArticle XL. of stout old Dr. Portman's creed, to which he always madea point of testifying publicly at least once in a year.

  We have described the play before, and how those who saw MissFotheringay perform in Ophelia saw precisely the same thing on onenight as on another. Both the elderly gentlemen looked at her withextraordinary interest, thinking how very much young Pen was charmedwith her.

  "Gad," said the major, between his teeth, as he surveyed her, when shewas called forward as usual, and swept her
courtesies to the scantyaudience, "the young rascal has not made a bad choice."

  The doctor applauded her loudly and loyally. "Upon my word," said he,"she is a very clever actress; and I must say, major, she is endowedwith very considerable personal attractions."

  "So that young officer thinks in the stage-box," Major Pendennisanswered, and he pointed out to Doctor Portman's attention the youngdragoon of the George Coffee-room, who sat in the box in question, andapplauded with immense enthusiasm. She looked extremely sweet upon himtoo, thought the major: but that's their way--and he shut up his nattyopera-glass and pocketed it, as if he wished to see no more that night.Nor did the doctor, of course, propose to stay for the after-piece, sothey rose and left the theater; the doctor returning to Mrs. Portman,who was on a visit at the Deanery, and the major walking home full ofthought toward the George, where he had bespoken a bed.