the grave epicures with whom he dined: he used to boast, like a worthy bon
vivant who knows the value of wine-conversation after dinner, of the quantities
which he possessed, and the rare bins which he had in store; but when the
executioners came to arrange his sale, there was found only a beggarly account
of empty bottles, and I fear some of the unprincipled creditors put in a great
quantity of bad liquor which they endeavoured to foist off on the public as the
genuine and carefully selected stock of a well-known connoisseur. News of this
dishonest proceeding reached Dr. Firmin presently in his retreat; and he showed
by his letter a generous and manly indignation at the manner in which his
creditors had tampered with his honest name and reputation as a bon vivant. He
have bad wine! For shame! He had the best from the best wine-merchant, and paid,
or rather owed, the best prices for it; for of late years the doctor had paid no
bills at all: and the wine-merchant appeared in quite a handsome group of
figures in his schedule. In like manner his books were pawned to a book
auctioneer; and Brice, the butler, had a bill of sale for the furniture. Firmin
retreated, we will say with the honours of war, but as little harmed as possible
by defeat. Did the enemy want the plunder of the city? He had smuggled almost
all his valuable goods over the wall. Did they desire his ships? He had sunk
them: and when at length the conquerors poured into his stronghold, he was far
beyond the reach of their shot. Don't we often hear still that Nana Sahib is
alive and exceedingly comfortable? We do not love him; but we can't help having
a kind of admiration for that slippery fugitive who has escaped from the
dreadful jaws of the lion. In a word, when Firmin's furniture came to be sold,
it was a marvel how little his creditors benefited by the sale. Contemptuous
brokers declared there never was such a shabby lot of goods. A friend of the
house and poor Philip bought in his mother's picture for a few guineas; and as
for the doctor's own state portrait, I am afraid it went for a few shillings
only, and in the midst of a roar of Hebrew laughter. I saw in Wardour Street,
not long after, the doctor's sideboard, and what dealers cheerfully call the
sarcophagus cellaret. Poor doctor! his wine was all drunken; his meat was eaten
up; but his own body had slipped out of the reach of the hookbeaked birds of
prey.
We had spoken rapidly in under tones, innocently believing that the young people
round about us were taking no heed of our talk. But in a lull of the
conversation, Mr. Pendennis junior, who had always been a friend to Philip,
broke out with??"Philip! if you are so very poor, you'll be hungry, you know,
and you may have my piece of bread and jam. And I don't want it, mamma," he
added; "and you know Philip has often and often given me things."
Philip stooped down and kissed this good little Samaritan. "I'm not hungry,
Arty, my boy," he said; "and I'm not so poor but I have got??look here??a fine
new shilling for Arty!"
"Oh, Philip, Philip!" cried mamma.
"Don't take the money, Arthur," cried papa.
And the boy, with a rueful face but a manly heart, prepared to give back the
coin. "It's quite a new one; and it's a very pretty one: but I won't have it,
Philip, thank you," he said, turning very red.
"If he won't, I vow I will give it to the cabman," said Philip.
"Keeping a cab all this while? Oh, Philip, Philip!" again cries mamma the
economist.
"Loss of time is loss of money, my dear lady," says Philip, very gravely. "I
have ever so many places to go to. When I am set in for being ruined, you shall
see what a screw I will become! I must go to Mrs. Brandon, who will be very
uneasy, poor dear, until she knows the worst."
"Oh, Philip, I should like so to go with you!" cries Laura. "Pray, give her our
very best regards and respects."
"Merci!" said the young man, and squeezed Mrs. Pendennis's hand in his own big
one. "I will take your message to her, Laura. J'aime qu'on I'aime, savezvous?"
"That means, I love those who love her," cries little Laura; "but, I don't
know," remarked this little person afterwards to her paternal confidant, "that I
like all people to love my mamma. That is, I don't like her to like them,
papa??only you may, papa, and Ethel may, and Arthur may, and I think, Philip
may, now he is poor and quite, quite alone??and we will take care of him, won't
we? And, I think, I'll buy him something with my money which aunt Ethel gave
me."
"And I'll give him my money," cries a boy.
"And I'll div him my??my??" Psha! what matters what the little sweet lips
prattled in their artless kindness? But the soft words of love and pity smote
the mother's heart with an exquisite pang of gratitude and joy: and I know where
her thanks were paid for those tender words and thoughts of her little ones.
Mrs. Pendennis made Philip promise to come to dinner, and also to remember not
to take a cab??which promise Mr. Firmin had not much difficulty in executing,
for he had but a few hundred yards to walk across the Park from his club; and I
must say that my wife took a special care of our dinner that day, preparing for
Philip certain dishes which she knew he liked, and enjoining the butler of the
establishment (who also happened to be the owner of the house) to fetch from his
cellar the very choicest wine in his possession.
I have previously described our friend and his boisterous, impetuous, generous
nature. When Philip was moved, he called to all the world to witness his
emotion. When he was angry, his enemies were all the rogues and scoundrels in
the world. He vowed he would have no mercy on them, and desired all his
acquaintances to participate in his anger. How could such an open-mouthed son
have had such a close-spoken father? I daresay you have seen very well-bred
young people, the children of vulgar and ill-bred parents; the swaggering father
have a silent son; the loud mother a modest daughter. Our friend is not Amadis
or Sir Charles Grandison; and I don't set him up for a moment as a person to be
revered or imitated; but try to draw him faithfully, and as nature made him. As
nature made him, so he was. I don't think he tried to improve himself much.
Perhaps few people do. They suppose they do: and you read, in apologetic
memoirs, and fond biographies, how this man cured his bad temper, and t'other
worked and strove until he grew to be almost faultless. Very well and good, my
good people. You can learn a language; you can master a science; I have heard of
an old square-toes of sixty who learned, by study and intense application, very
satisfactorily to dance; but can you, by taking thought, add to your moral
stature? Ah me! the doctor who preaches is only taller than most of us by the
height of the pulpit: and when he steps down, I daresay he cringes to the
duchess, growls at his children, scolds his wife about the dinner. All is
vanity, look you: and so the preacher is vanity, too.
Well, then, I must again say that Philip roared his griefs: he shouted his
&
nbsp; laughter: he bellowed his applause: he was extravagant in his humility as in his
pride, in his admiration of his friends and contempt for his enemies: I daresay
not a just man, but I have met juster men not half so honest; and certainly not
a faultless man, though I know better men not near so good. So, I believe, my
wife thinks: else, why should she be so fond of him? Did we not know boys who
never went out of bounds, and never were late for school, and never made a false
concord or quantity, and never came under the ferule; and others who were always
playing truant, and blundering, and being whipped; and yet, somehow, was not
Master Naughtyboy better liked than Master Goodchild? When Master Naughtyboy
came to dine with us on the first day of his ruin, he bore a face of radiant
happiness ??he laughed, he bounced about, he caressed the children; now he took
a couple on his knees; now he tossed the baby to the ceiling; now he sprawled
over a sofa, and now he rode upon a chair; never was a penniless gentleman more
cheerful. As for his dinner, Phil's appetite was always fine, but on this day an
ogre could scarcely play a more terrible knife and fork. He asked for more and
more, until his entertainers wondered to behold him. "Dine for to-day and
to-morrow too; can't expect such fare as this every day, you know. This claret,
how good it is! May I pack some up in paper, and take it home with me?" The
children roared with laughter at this admirable idea of carrying home wine in a
sheet of paper. I don't know that it is always at the best jokes that children
laugh??children and wise men too.
When we three were by ourselves, and freed from the company of servants and
children, our friend told us the cause of his gaiety. "By George!" he swore, "it
is worth being ruined to find such good people in the world. My dear, kind
Laura"??here the gentleman brushes his eyes with his fist??"it was as much as I
could do this morning to prevent myself from hugging you in my arms, you were so
generous, and??and so kind, and so tender, and so good, by George. And after
leaving you, where do you think I went?"
"I think I can guess, Philip," says Laura.
"Well," says Philip, winking his eyes again, and tossing off a great bumper of
wine, "I went to her, of course. I think she is the best friend I have in the
world. The old man was out, and I told her about everything that had happened.
And what do you think she has done? She says she has been expecting me?? she
has; and she has gone and fitted up a room with a nice little bed at the top of
the house, with everything as neat and trim as possible; and she begged and
prayed I would go and stay with her??and I said I would, to please her. And then
she takes me down to her room; and she jumps up to a cupboard, which she
unlocks; and she opens and takes three-and-twenty pounds out of a ??out of a
tea??out of a tea-caddy??confound me!?? and she says, 'Here, Philip,' she says,
and??Boo! what a fool I am!" and here the orator fairly broke down in his
speech.
CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH PHILIP SHOWS HIS METTLE.
When the poor Little Sister proffered her mite, her all, to Philip, I daresay
some sentimental passages occurred between them which are much too trivial to be
narrated. No doubt her pleasure would have been at that moment to give him not
only that gold which she had been saving up against rent-day, but the spoons,
the furniture, and all the valuables of the house, including, perhaps, J. J.'s
bricabrac, cabinets, china, and so forth. To perform a kindness, an act of
self-sacrifice;??are not these the most delicious privileges of female
tenderness? Philip checked his little friend's enthusiasm. He showed her a purse
full of money, at which sight the poor little soul was rather disappointed. He
magnified the value of his horses, which, according to Philip's calculation,
were to bring him at least two hundred pounds more than the stock which he had
already in hand; and the master of such a sum as this, she was forced to
confess, had no need to despair. Indeed, she had never in her life possessed the
half of it. Her kind dear little offer of a home in her house he would accept
sometimes, and with gratitude. Well, there was a little consolation in that. In
a moment that active little housekeeper saw the room ready; flowers on the
mantel-piece; his looking-glass which her father could do quite well with the
little one, as he was always shaved by the barber now; the quilted counterpane,
which she had herself made?? I know not what more improvements she devised; and
I fear that at the idea of having Philip with her, this little thing was as
extravagantly and unreasonably happy as we have just now seen Philip to be. What
was that last dish which P?tus and Arria shared in common? I have lost my
Lempriere's dictionary (that treasure of my youth), and forget whether it was a
cold dagger au naturel, or a dish of hot coals ? la Romaine, of which they
partook; but, whatever it was, she smiled, and delightedly received it, happy to
share the beloved one's fortune.
Yes: Philip would come home to his Little Sister sometimes: sometimes of a
Saturday, and they would go to church on Sunday, as he used to do when he was a
boy at school. "But then, you know," says Phil, "law is law; study is study. I
must devote my whole energies to my work??get up very early."
"Don't tire your eyes, my dear," interposes Mr. Philip's soft, judicious friend.
"There must be no trifling with work," says Philip, with awful gravity. "There's
Benton the Judge: Benton, and Burbage, you know."
"Oh, Benton and Burbage!" whispers the Little Sister, not a little bewildered.
"How do you suppose he became a judge before forty?"
"Before forty who? law, bless me!"
"Before he was forty, Mrs. Carry. When he came to work, he had his own way to
make: just like me. He had a small allowance from his father: that's not like
me. He took chambers in the Temple. He went to a pleader's office. He read
fourteen, fifteen, hours every day. He dined on a cup of tea and a muttonchop."
"La, bless me, child! I wouldn't have you do that, not to be Lord
Chamberlain??Chancellor what's his name? Destroy your youth with reading, and
your eyes, and go without your dinner? You're not used to that sort of thing,
dear; and it would kill you!"
Philip smoothed his fair hair off his ample forehead, and nodded his head,
smiling sweetly. I think his inward monitor hinted to him that there was not
much danger of his killing himself by over-work. "To succeed at the law, as in
all other professions," he continued, with much gravity, "requires the greatest
perseverance, and industry, and talent; and then, perhaps, you don't succeed.
Many have failed who have had all these qualities."
"But they haven't talents like my Philip, I know they haven't. And I had to
stand up in a court once, and was cross-examined by a vulgar man before a horrid
deaf old judge; and I'm sure if your lawyers are like them I don't wish you to
succeed at all. And now, look! there's a nice loin of pork coming up. Pa loves
roast pork; and you must
come and have some with us; and every day and all days,
my dear, I should like to see you seated there." And the Little Sister frisked
about here, and bustled there, and brought a cunning bottle of wine from some
corner, and made the boy welcome. So that, you see, far from starving, he
actually had two dinners on that first day of his ruin.
Caroline consented to a compromise regarding the money, on Philip's solemn vow
and promise that she should be his banker whenever necessity called. She rather
desired his poverty for the sake of its precious reward. She hid away a little
bag of gold for her darling's use whenever he should need it. I daresay she
pinched and had shabby dinners at home, so as to save yet more, and so caused
the captain to grumble. Why, for that boy's sake, I believe she would have been
capable of shaving her lodgers' legs of mutton, and levying a tax on their
tea-caddies and baker's stuff. If you don't like unprincipled attachments of
this sort, and only desire that your womankind should love you for yourself, and
according to your deserts, I am your very humble servant. Hereditary bondswomen!
you know, that were you free, and did you strike the blow, my dears, you were
unhappy for your pain, and eagerly would claim your bonds again. What poet has
uttered that sentiment? It is perfectly true, and I know will receive the
cordial approbation of the dear ladies.
Philip has decreed in his own mind that he will go and live in those chambers in
the Temple where we have met him. Vanjohn, the sporting gentleman, had
determined for special reasons to withdraw from law and sport in this country,
and Mr. Firmin took possession of his vacant sleeping chamber. To furnish a
bachelor's bed-room need not be a matter of much cost; but Mr. Philip was too
good-natured a fellow to haggle about the valuation of Vanjohn's bedsteads and
chests of drawers, and generously took them at twice their value. He and Mr.
Cassidy now divided the rooms in equal reign. Ah, happy rooms! bright rooms,
rooms near the sky, to remember you is to be young again! for I would have you
to know, that when Philip went to take possession of his share of the fourth
floor in the Temple, his biographer was still comparatively juvenile, and in one
or two very old-fashioned families was called "young Pendennis."
So Philip Firmin dwelt in a garret; and the fourth part of a laundress and the
half of a boy now formed the domestic establishment of him who had been attended
by housekeepers, butlers, and obsequious liveried menials. To be freed from that
ceremonial and etiquette of plush and worsted lace was an immense relief to
Firmin. His pipe need not lurk in crypts or back closets now: its fragrance
breathed over the whole chambers, and rose up to the sky, their near neighbour.
The first month or two after being ruined. Philip vowed, was an uncommonly
pleasant time. He had still plenty of money in his pocket; and the sense that,
perhaps, it was imprudent to take a cab or drink a bottle of wine, added a zest
to those enjoyments which they by no means possessed when they were easy and of
daily occurrence. I am not certain that a dinner of beef and porter did not
amuse our young man almost as well as banquets much more costly to which he had
been accustomed. He laughed at the pretensions of his boyish days, when he and
other solemn young epicures used to sit down to elaborate tavern banquets, and
pretend to criticize vintages, and sauces, and turtle. As yet there was not only
content with his dinner, but plenty therewith; and I do not wish to alarm you by
supposing that Philip will ever have to encounter any dreadful extremities of
poverty or hunger in the course of his history. The wine in the jug was very low
at times, but it never was quite empty. This lamb was shorn, but the wind was
tempered to him.
So Philip took possession of his rooms in the Temple, and began actually to