little Charlotte did not object to offer herself up in payment of her papa's
debt! And though I objected as a moral man and a prudent man, and a father of a
family, I could not be very seriously angry. I am secretly of the disposition of
the time-honoured p?re de famille in the comedies, the irascible old gentleman
in the crop wig and George-the-Second coat, who is always menacing "Tom the
young dog" with his cane. When the deed is done, and Miranda (the little
slyboots!) falls before my squaretoes and shoe-buckles, and Tom the young dog
kneels before me in his white ducks, and they cry out in a pretty chorus,
"Forgive us, grandpapa!" I say, "Well, you rogue, boys will be boys. Take her,
sirrah! Be happy with her; and, hark ye! in this pocket-book you will find ten
thousand," You all know the story: I cannot help liking it, however old it may
be. In love, somehow, one is pleased that young people should dare a little. Was
not Bessy Eldon famous as an economist, and Lord Eldon celebrated for wisdom and
caution? and did not John Scott marry Elizabeth Surtees when they had scarcely
twopence a year between them? "Of course, my dear," I say to the partner of my
existence, "now this madcap fellow is utterly ruined, now is the very time he
ought to marry. The accepted doctrine is that a man should spend his own
fortune, then his wife's fortune, and then he may begin to get on at the bar.
Philip has a hundred pounds, let us say; Charlotte has nothing; so that in about
six weeks we may look to hear of Philip being in successful practice??"
"Successful nonsense!" cries the lady. "Don't go on like a cold-blooded
calculating machine! You don't believe a word of what you say, and a more
imprudent person never lived than you yourself were as a young man." This was
departing from the question, which women will do. "Nonsense!" again says my
romantic being of a partner-of-existence. "Don't tell ME, sir. They WILL be
provided for! Are we to be for ever taking care of the morrow, and not trusting
that we shall be cared for? You may call your way of thinking prudence. I call
it sinful worldliness, sir." When my life-partner speaks in a certain strain, I
know that remonstrance is useless, and argument unavailing; and I generally
resort to cowardly subterfuges, and sneak out of the conversation by a pun, a
side joke, or some other flippancy. Besides, in this case, though I argue
against my wife, my sympathy is on her side. I know Mr. Philip is imprudent and
headstrong, but I should like him to succeed, and be happy. I own he is a
scapegrace, but I wish him well.
So, just as the diligence of Laffitte and Caillard is clearing out of Boulogne
town, the conductor causes the carriage to stop, and a young fellow has mounted
up on the roof in a twinkling; and the postilion says, "Hi!" to his horses, and
away those squealing greys go clattering. And a young lady, happening to look
out of one of the windows of the int?rieur, has perfectly recognized the young
gentleman who leaped up to the roof so nimbly; and the two boys who were in the
rotonde would have recognized the gentleman, but that they were already eating
the sandwiches which my wife had provided. And so the diligence goes on, until
it reaches that hill, where the girls used to come and offer to sell you apples;
and some of the passengers descend and walk, and the tall young man on the roof
jumps down, and approaches the party in the interior, and a young lady cries
out, "La!" and her mamma looks impenetrably grave, and not in the least
surprised; and her father gives a wink of one eye, and says, "It's him, is it,
by George!" and the two boys coming out of the rotonde, their mouths full of
sandwich, cry out, "Hullo! It's Mr. Firmin."
"How do you do, ladies?" he says, blushing as red as an apple, and his heart
thumping??but that may be from walking up hill. And he puts a hand towards the
carriage-window, and a little hand comes out and lights on his. And Mrs. General
Baynes, who is reading a religious work, looks up and says, "Oh! how do you do,
Mr. Firmin?" And this is the remarkable dialogue that takes place. It is not
very witty; but Philip's tones send a rapture into one young heart: and when he
is absent, and has climbed up to his place in the cabriolet, the kick of his
boots on the roof gives the said young heart inexpressible comfort and
consolation. Shine stars and moon! Shriek grey horses through the calm night!
Snore sweetly, papa and mamma, in your corners, with your pocket-handkerchiefs
tied round your old fronts! I suppose, under all the stars of heaven, there is
nobody more happy than that child in that carriage??that wakeful girl, in sweet
maiden meditation ??who has given her heart to the keeping of the champion who
is so near her. Has he not been always their champion and preserver? Don't they
owe to his generosity everything in life? One of the little sisters wakes
wildly, and cries in the night, and Charlotte takes the child into her arms and
soothes her. "Hush, dear! He's there??he's there," she whispers, as she bends
over the child. Nothing wrong can happen with him there, she feels. If the
robbers were to spring out from yonder dark pines, why, he would jump down, and
they would all fly before him! The carriage rolls on through sleeping villages,
and as the old team retires all in a halo of smoke, and the fresh horses come
clattering up to their pole, Charlotte sees a well-known white face in the gleam
of the carriage lanterns. Through the long avenues, the great vehicle rolls on
its course. The dawn peers over the poplars: the stars quiver out of sight: the
sun is up in the sky, and the heaven is all in a flame. The night is over??the
night of nights. In all the round world, whether lighted by stars or sunshine,
there were not two people more happy than these had been.
A very short time afterwards, at the end of October, our own little sea-side
sojourn came to an end. That astounding bill for broken glass, chairs, crockery,
was paid. The London steamer takes us all on board on a beautiful, sunny autumn
evening, and lands us at the Custom-house Quay in the midst of a deep, dun fog,
through which our cabs have to work their way over greasy pavements, and bearing
two loads of silent and terrified children. Ah, that return, if but after a
fortnight's absence and holiday! Oh, that heap of letters lying in a ghastly
pile, and yet so clearly visible in the dim twilight of master's study! We
cheerfully breakfast by candlelight for the first two days after my arrival at
home, and I have the pleasure of cutting a part of my chin off because it is too
dark to shave at nine o'clock in the morning.
My wife can't be so unfeeling as to laugh and be merry because I have met with
an accident which temporarily disfigures me? If the dun fog makes her jocular,
she has a very queer sense of humour. She has a letter before her, over which
she is perfectly radiant. When she is especially pleased I can see by her face
and a particular animation and affectionateness towards the rest of the family.
On this present morning her face beams out of the fog-clouds. The room is
illumina
ted by it, and perhaps by the two candles which are placed one on either
side of the urn. The fire crackles, and flames, and spits most cheerfully; and
the sky without, which is of the hue of brown paper, seems to set off the
brightness of the little interior scene.
"A letter from Charlotte, papa," cries one little girl, with an air of
consequence. "And a letter from uncle Philip, papa!" cries another; "and they
like Paris so much," continues the little reporter.
"And there, sir, didn't I tell you?" cries the lady, handing me over a letter.
"Mamma always told you so," echoes the child, with an important nod of the head;
"and I shouldn't be surprised if he were to be very rich, should you, mamma?"
continues this arithmetician.
I would not put Miss Charlotte's letter into print if I could, for do you know
that little person's grammar was frequently incorrect; there were three or four
words spelt wrongly; and the letter was so scored and marked with dashes under
every other word, that it is clear to me her education had been neglected; and
as I am very fond of her, I do not wish to make fun of her. And I can't print
Mr. Philip's letter, for I haven't kept it. Of what use keeping letters? I say,
Burn, burn, burn. No heart-pangs. No reproaches. No yesterday. Was it happy, or
miserable? To think of it is always melancholy. Go to! I daresay it is the
thought of that fog, which is making this sentence so dismal. Meanwhile there is
Madam Laura's face smiling out of the darkness, as pleased as may be; and no
wonder, she is always happy when her friends are so.
Charlotte's letter contained a full account of the settlement of the Baynes
family at Madame Smolensk's boarding-house, where they appear to have been
really very comfortable, and to have lived at a very cheap rate. As for Mr.
Philip, he made his way to a crib, to which his artist friends had recommended
him, on the Faubourg St. Germain side of the water??the H?tel Poussin, in the
street of that name, which lies, you know, between the Mazarin Library and the
Mus?e des Beaux Arts. In former days, my gentleman had lived in state and bounty
in the English hotels and quarter. Now he found himself very handsomely lodged
for thirty francs per month and with five or six pounds, he has repeatedly said
since, he could carry through the month very comfortably. I don't say, my young
traveller, that you can be so lucky now-a-days. Are we not telling a story of
twenty years ago? Aye marry. Ere steam-coaches had begun to scream on French
rails; and when Louis Philippe was king.
As soon as Mr. Philip Firmin is ruined he must needs fall in love. In order to
be near the beloved object, he must needs follow her to Paris, and give up his
promised studies for the bar at home; where, to do him justice, I believe the
fellow would never have done any good. And he has not been in Paris a fortnight
when that fantastic jade Fortune, who had seemed to fly away from him, gives him
a smiling look of recognition, as if to say, "Young gentleman, I have not quite
done with you."
The good fortune was not much. Do not suppose that Philip suddenly drew a
twenty-thousand pound prize in a lottery. But, being in much want of money, he
suddenly found himself enabled to earn some in a way pretty easy to himself.
In the first place, Philip found his friends Mr. and Mrs. Mugford in a
bewildered state in the midst of Paris, in which city Mugford would never
consent to have at laquais de place, being firmly convinced to the day of his
death that he knew the French language quite sufficiently for all purposes of
conversation. Philip, who had often visited Paris before, came to the aid of his
friends in a two-franc dining-house, which he frequented for economy's sake: and
they, because they thought the banquet there provided not only cheap, but most
magnificent and satisfactory. He interpreted for them, and rescued them from
their perplexity, whatever it was. He treated them handsomely to caffy on the
bullyvard, as Mugford said on returning home and in recounting the adventure to
me. "He can't forget that he had been a swell: and he does do things like a
gentleman, that Firmin does. He came back with us to our hotel?? Meurice's,"
said Mr. Mugford, "and who should drive into the yard and step out of his
carriage but Lord Ringwood??you know Lord Ringwood; everybody knows him. As he
gets out of his carriage??'What! is that you, Philip?' says his lordship, giving
the young fellow his hand. 'Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning.' And
away he goes most friendly."
How came it to pass that Lord Ringwood, whose instinct of self-preservation was
strong??who, I fear, was rather a selfish nobleman??and who, of late, as we have
heard, had given orders to refuse Mr. Philip entrance at his door??should all of
a sudden turn round and greet the young man with cordiality? In the first place,
Philip had never troubled his lordship's knocker at all; and second, as luck
would have it, on this very day of their meeting his lordship had been to dine
with that well-known Parisian resident and bon vivant, my Lord Viscount Trim,
who had been governor of the Sago Islands when Colonel Baynes was there with his
regiment, the gallant 100th. And the general and his old West India governor
meeting at church, my lord Trim straightway asked General Baynes to dinner,
where Lord Ringwood was present, along with other distinguished company, whom at
present we need not particularize. Now it has been said that Philip Ringwood, my
lord's brother, and Captain Baynes in early youth had been close friends, and
that the colonel had died in the captain's arms. Lord Ringwood, who had an
excellent memory when chose to use it, was pleased on this occasion to remember
General Baynes and his intimacy with his brother in old days. And of those old
times they talked; the general waxing more eloquent, I suppose, than his wont
over Lord Trim's excellent wine. And in the course of conversation Philip was
named, and the general, warm with drink, poured out a most enthusiastic eulogium
on his young friend, and mentioned how noble and self-denying Philip's conduct
had been in his own case. And perhaps Lord Ringwood was pleased at hearing these
praises of his brother's grandson; and perhaps he thought of old times, when he
had a heart, and he and his brother loved each other. And though he might think
Philip Firmin an absurd young blockhead for giving up any claims which he might
have on General Baynes, at any rate I have no doubt his lordship thought, "This
boy is not likely to come begging money from me!" Hence, when he drove back to
his hotel on the very night after this dinner, and in the court-yard saw that
Philip Firmin, his brother's grandson the heart of the old nobleman was smitten
with a kindly sentiment, and he bade Philip to come and see him.
I have described some of Philip's oddities, and amongst these was a very
remarkable change in his appearance, which ensued very speedily after his ruin.
I know that the greater number of story readers are young, and those who are
ever so old remember that their own young days occurred
but a very, very short
while ago. Don't you remember, most potent, grave, and reverend senior, when you
were a junior, and actually rather pleased with new clothes? Does a new coat or
a waistcoat cause you any pleasure now? To a well-constituted middle-aged
gentleman, I rather trust a smart new suit causes a sensation of uneasiness??not
from the tightness of the fit, which may be a reason?? but from the gloss and
splendour. When my late kind friend, Mrs. ??, gave me the emerald tabinet
waistcoat, with the gold shamrocks, I wore it once to go to Richmond to dine
with her; but I buttoned myself so closely in an upper coat, that I am sure
nobody in the omnibus saw what a painted vest I had on. Gold sprigs and emerald
tabinet, what a gorgeous raiment! It has formed for ten years the chief ornament
of my wardrobe; and though I have never dared to wear it since, I always think
with a secret pleasure of possessing that treasure. Do women, when they are
sixty, like handsome and fashionable attire, and a youthful appearance? Look at
Lady Jezebel's blushing cheek, her raven hair, her splendid garments! But this
disquisition may be carried to too great a length. I want to note a fact which
has occurred not seldom in my experience??that men who have been great dandies
will often and suddenly give up their long-accustomed splendour of dress, and
walk about, most happy and contented, with the shabbiest of coats and hats. No.
The majority of men are not vain about their dress. For instance, within a very
few years, men used to have pretty feet. See in what a resolute way they have
kicked their pretty boots off almost to a man, and wear great, thick, formless,
comfortable walking boots, of shape scarcely more graceful than a tub!
When Philip Firmin first came on the town there were dandies still; there were
dazzling waistcoats of velvet and brocade, and tall stocks with cataracts of
satin; there were pins, studs, neck-chains, I know not what fantastic splendours
of youth. His varnished boots grew upon forests of trees. He had a most
resplendent silver-gilt dressing-case, presented to him by his father (for
which, it is true, the doctor neglected to pay, leaving that duty to his son).
"It is a mere ceremony," said the worthy doctor, "a cumbrous thing you may fancy
at first; but take it about with you. It looks well on a man's dressing-table at
a country house. It poses a man, you understand. I have known women come in and
peep at it. A trifle you may say, my boy; but what is the use of flinging any
chance in life away?" Now, when misfortune came, young Philip flung away all
these magnificent follies. He wrapped himself virtute su?; and I am bound to say
a more queer-looking fellow than friend Philip seldom walked the pavement of
London or Paris. He could not wear the nap off all his coats, or rub his elbows
into rags in six months; but, as he would say of himself with much simplicity,
"I do think I run to seed more quickly than any fellow I ever knew. All my socks
in holes, Mrs. Pendennis; all my shirt-buttons gone, I give you my word. I don't
know how the things hold together, and why they don't tumble to pieces. I
suspect I must have a bad laundress." Suspect! My children used to laugh and
crow as they sowed buttons on to him. As for the Little Sister, she broke into
his apartments in his absence, and said that it turned her hair grey to see the
state of his poor wardrobe. I believe that Mrs. Brandon put surreptitious linen
into his drawers. He did not know. He wore the shirts in a contented spirit. The
glossy boots began to crack and then to burst, and Philip wore them with perfect
equanimity. Where were the beautiful lavender and lemon gloves of last year? His
great naked hands (with which he gesticulates so grandly) were as brown as an
Indian's now. We had liked him heartily in his days of splendour; we loved him