delightedly on the shoulder. "Capital! capital! We'll have the picture
printed, by Jove, sir; show vice it's own image; and shame the viper in
his own nest, sir. That's what we will."
Mrs. Pendennis came away with rather a heavy heart from this party. She
chose to interest herself about the right or wrong of her friends; and
her mind was disturbed by the Colonel's vindictive spirit. On the
subsequent day we had occasion to visit our friend J. J. (who was
completing the sweetest little picture, No. 263 in the Exhibition,
"Portrait of a Lady and Child"), and we found that Clive had been with the
painter that morning likewise; and that J. J. was acquainted with his
scheme. That he did not approve of it we could read in the artist's grave
countenance. "Nor does Clive approve of it either!" cried Ridley, with
greater eagerness than he usually displayed, and more openness than he
was accustomed to exhibit in judging unfavourably of his friends.
"Among them they have taken him away from his art," Ridley said. "They
don't understand him when he talks about it; they despise him for
pursuing it. Why should I wonder at that? my parents despised it too, and
my father was not a grand gentleman like the Colonel, Mrs. Pendennis. Ah!
why did the Colonel ever grow rich? Why had not Clive to work for his
bread as have? He would have done something that was worthy of him then;
now his time must be spent in dancing attendance at balls land operas,
and yawning at City board-rooms. They call that business: they think he
is idling when he comes here, poor fellow! As if life was long enough for
our art; and the best labour we can give, good enough for it! He went
away groaning this morning, and quite saddened in spirits. The Colonel
wants to set up himself for Parliament, or to set Clive up; but he says
he won't. I hope he won't; do not you, Mrs. Pendennis?"
The painter turned as he spoke; and the bright northern light which fell
upon the sitter's head was intercepted, and lighted up his own as he
addressed us. Out of that bright light looked his pale thoughtful face,
and long locks and eager brown eyes. The palette on his arm was a great
shield painted of many colours: he carried his mall-stick and a sheaf of
brushes along with the weapons of his glorious but harmless war. With
these he achieves conquests, wherein none are wounded save the envious:
with that he shelters him against how much idleness, ambition,
temptations! Occupied over that consoling work, idle thoughts cannot gain
mastery over him: selfish wishes or desires are kept at bay. Art is
truth: and truth is religion: and its study and practice a daily work of
pious duty. What are the world's struggles, brawls, successes, to that
calm recluse pursuing his calling? See, twinkling in the darkness round
his chamber, numberless beautiful trophies of the graceful victories
which he has won:--sweet flowers of fancy reared by him:--kind shapes of
beauty which he has devised and moulded. The world enters into the
artist's studio, and scornfully bids him a price for his genius, or makes
dull pretence to admire it. What know you of his art? You cannot read the
alphabet of that sacred book, good old Thomas Newcome! What can you tell
of its glories, joys, secrets, consolations? Between his two best-beloved
mistresses, poor Clive's luckless father somehow interposes; and with
sorrowful, even angry protests. In place of Art the Colonel brings him a
ledger; and in lieu of first love, shows him Rosey.
No wonder that Clive hangs his head; rebels sometimes, desponds always:
he has positively determined to refuse to stand for Newcome, Ridley says.
Laura is glad of his refusal, and begins to think of him once more as of
the Clive of old days.
CHAPTER LXVI
In which the Colonel and the Newcome Athenaeum are both lectured
At breakfast with his family, on the morning after the little
entertainment to which we were bidden, in the last chapter, Colonel
Newcome was full of the projected invasion of Barnes's territories, and
delighted to think that there was an opportunity of at last humiliating
that rascal.
"Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa," cries Rosey, from
behind her tea-urn; "that is, you said you thought papa judged him too
harshly; you know you did, this morning!" And from her husband's angry
glances, she flies to his father's for protection. Those were even
fiercer than Clive's. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome's
grizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then the
Colonel's face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down towards his tea-cup,
which he lifted with a trembling hand. The father and son loved each
other so, that each was afraid of the other. A war between two such men
is dreadful; pretty little pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet little morning
cap and ribbons, her pretty little fingers twinkling with a score of
rings, sat simpering before her silver tea-urn, which reflected her
pretty little pink baby face. Little artless creature! what did she know
of the dreadful wounds which her little words inflicted in the one
generous breast and the other?
"My boy's heart is gone from me," thinks poor Thomas Newcome; "our family
is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by that traitor, and my son is not
even angry! he does not care for the success of our plans--for the honour
of our name even; I make him a position of which any young man in England
might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it."
"My wife appeals to my father," thinks poor Clive; "it is from him she
asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the ribbon in her cap, or any
other transaction in our lives, she takes her colour from his opinion,
and goes to him for advice, and I have to wait till it is given, and
conform myself to it. If I differ from the dear old father, I wound him;
if I yield up my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad grace, and I
wound him still. With the best intentions in the world, what a slave's
life it is that he has made for me!"
"How interested you are in your papers!" resumes the sprightly nosey.
"What can you find in those horrid politics?" Both gentlemen are looking
at their papers with all their might, and no doubt cannot see one single
word which those brilliant and witty leading articles contain.
"Clive is like you, Rosey," says the Colonel, laying his paper down, "and
does not care for politics."
"He only cares for pictures, papa," says Mrs. Clive. "He would not drive
with me yesterday in the Park, but spent hours in his room, while you
were toiling in the City, poor papa!--spent hours painting a horrid
beggar-man dressed up as a monk. And this morning, he got up quite early,
quite early, and has been out ever so long, and only came in for
breakfast just now! just before the bell rung."
"I like a ride before breakfast," says Clive.
"A ride! I know where you have been, sir! He goes away morning after
morning, to that little Mr. Ridley's--his chums, papa, and he comes back
with his hands all over horrid paint. He did this morning;
you know you
did, Clive."
"I did not keep any one waiting, Rosa," says Clive. "I like to have two
or three hours at my painting when I can spare time." Indeed, the poor
fellow used so to run away of summer meetings for Ridley's instructions,
and gallop home again, so as to be in time for the family meal.
"Yes," cries Rosey, tossing up the cap and ribbons, "he gets up so early
in the morning, that at night he falls asleep after dinner; very pleasant
and polite, isn't he, papa?"
"I am up betimes too, my dear," says the Colonel (many and many a time he
must have heard Clive as he left the house); "I have a great many letters
to write, affairs of the greatest importance to examine and conduct. Mr.
Betts from the City is often with me for hours before I come down to your
breakfast-table. A man who has the affairs of such a great bank as ours
to look to, must be up with the lark. We are all early risers in India."
"You dear kind papa!" says little Rosey, with unfeigned admiration; and
she puts out one of the plump white little jewelled hands, and pats the
lean brown paw of the Colonel which is nearest to her.
"Is Ridley's picture getting on well, Clive?" asks the Colonel, trying to
interest himself about Ridley and his picture.
"Very well; it is beautiful; he has sold it for a great price; they must
make him an Academician next year," replies Clive.
"A most industrious and meritorious young man; he deserves every honour
that may happen to him," says the old soldier. "Rosa, my dear, it is time
that you should ask Mr. Ridley to dinner, and Mr. Smee, and some of those
gentlemen. We will drive this afternoon and see your portrait."
"Clive does not go to sleep after dinner when Mr. Ridley comes here,"
cries Rosa.
"No; I think it is my turn then," says the Colonel, with a glance of
kindness. The anger has disappeared from under his brows; at that moment
the menaced battle is postponed.
"And yet I know that it must come," says poor Clive, telling me the story
as he hangs on my arm, and we pace through the Park. "The Colonel and I
are walking on a mine, and that poor little wife of mine is perpetually
flinging little shells to fire it. I sometimes wish it were blown up, and
I were done for, Pen. I don't think my widow would break her heart about
me. No; I have no right to say that; it's a shame to say that; she tries
her very best to please me, poor little dear. It's the fault of my
temper, perhaps, that she can't. But they neither understand me, don't
you see? the Colonel can't help thinking I am a degraded being, because I
am fond of painting. Still, dear old boy, he patronises Ridley; a man of
genius, whom those sentries ought to salute, by Jove, sir, when he
passes. Ridley patronised by an old officer of Indian dragoons, a little
bit of a Rosey, and a fellow who is not fit to lay his palette for him! I
want sometimes to ask J. J.'s pardon, after the Colonel has been talking
to him in his confounded condescending way, uttering some awful bosh
about the fine arts. Rosey follows him, and trips round J. J.'s studio,
and pretends to admire, and says, 'How soft; how sweet!' recalling some
of mamma-in-law's dreadful expressions, which make me shudder when I hear
them. If my poor old father had a confidant into whose arm he could hook
his own, and whom he could pester with his family griefs as I do you, the
dear old boy would have his dreary story to tell too. I hate banks,
bankers, Bundelcund, indigo, cotton, and the whole business. I go to that
confounded board, and never hear one syllable that the fellows are
talking about. I sit there because he wishes me to sit there; don't you
think he sees that my heart is out of the business; that I would rather
be at home in my painting-room? We don't understand each other, but we
feel each other, as it were by instinct. Each thinks in his own way, but
knows what the other is thinking. We fight mute battles, don't you see,
and, our thoughts, though we don't express them, are perceptible to one
another, and come out from our eyes, or pass out from us somehow, and
meet, and fight, and strike, and wound."
Of course Clive's confidant saw how sore and unhappy the poor fellow was,
and commiserated his fatal but natural condition. The little ills of life
are the hardest to bear, as we all very well know. What would the
possession of a hundred thousand a year, or fame, and the applause of
one's countrymen, or the loveliest and best-beloved woman,--of any glory,
and happiness, or good-fortune avail to a gentleman, for instance, who
was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition of wearing a shoe with
a couple of nails or sharp pebbles inside it? All fame and happiness
would disappear, and plunge down that shoe. All life would rankle round
those little nails. I strove, by such philosophic sedatives as confidants
are wont to apply on these occasions, to soothe my poor friend's anger
and pain; and I dare say the little nails hurt the patient just as much
as before.
Clive pursued his lugubrious talk through the Park, and continued it as
far as the modest-furnished house which we then occupied in the Pimlico
region. It so happened that the Colonel and Mrs. Clive also called upon
us that day, and found this culprit in Laura's drawing-room, when they
entered it, descending out of that splendid barouche in which we have
already shown Mrs. Clive to the public.
"He has not been here for months before; nor have you Rosa; nor have you,
Colonel; though we have smothered our indignation, and been to dine with
you, and to call, ever so many times!" cries Laura.
The Colonel pleaded his business engagements; Rosa, that little woman of
the world, had a thousand calls to make, and who knows how much to do?
since she came out. She had been to fetch papa, at Bays's, and the porter
had told the Colonel that Mr. Clive and Mr. Pendennis had just left the
club together.
"Clive scarcely ever drives with me," says Rosa; "papa almost always
does."
"Rosey's is such a swell carriage, that I feel ashamed," says Clive.
"I don't understand you young men. I don't see why you need be ashamed to
go on the Course with your wife in her carriage, Clive," remarks the
Colonel.
"The Course! the Course is at Calcutta, papa!" cries Rosey. We drive in
the Park."
"We have a park at Barrackpore too, my dear," says papa.
"And he calls his grooms saices! He said he was going to send away a
saice for being tipsy, and I did not know in the least what he could
mean, Laura!"
"Mr. Newcome! you must go and drive on the Course with Rosa now; and the
Colonel must sit and talk with me, whom he has not been to see for such a
long time." Clive presently went off in state by Rosey's side, and then
Laura showed Colonel Newcome his beautiful white Cashmere shawl round a
successor of that little person who had first been wrapped in that web,
now a stout young gentleman whose noise could be clearly heard in the
upper regions.
"I wish you could come down with us
, Arthur, upon our electioneering
visit."
"That of which you were talking last night? Are you bent upon it?"
"Yes, I am determined on it."
Laura heard a child's cry at this moment, and left the room with a
parting glance at her husband, who in fact had talked over the matter
with Mrs. Pendennis, and agreed with her in opinion.
As the Colonel had opened the question, I ventured to make a respectful
remonstrance against the scheme. Vindictiveness on the part of a man so
simple and generous, so fair and noble in all his dealings as Thomas
Newcome, appeared in my mind unworthy of him. Surely his kinsman had
sorrow and humiliation enough already at home. Barnes's further
punishment, we thought, might be left to time, to remorse, to the Judge
of right and wrong; Who better understands than we can do, our causes and
temptations towards evil actions, Who reserves the sentence for His own
tribunal. But when angered, the best of us mistake our own motives, as we
do those of the enemy who inflames us. What may be private revenge, we
take to be indignant virtue and just revolt against wrong. The Colonel
would not hear of counsels of moderation, such as I bore him from a sweet
Christian pleader. "Remorse!" he cried out with a laugh, "that villain
will never feel it until he is tied up and whipped at the cart's tail!
Time change that rogue! Unless he is wholesomely punished, he will grow a
greater scoundrel every year. I am inclined to think, sir," says he, his
honest brows darkling as he looked towards me, "that you too are spoiled
by this wicked world, and these heartless, fashionable, fine people. You
wish to live well with the enemy, and with us too, Pendennis. It can't
be. He who is not with us is against us. I very much fear, sir, that the
women, the women, you understand, have been talking you over. Do not let
us speak any more about this subject, for I don't wish that my son, and
my son's old friend, should have a quarrel." His face became red, his
voice quivered with agitation, and he looked with glances which I was
pained to behold in those kind old eyes: not because his wrath and
suspicion visited myself, but because an impartial witness, nay, a friend
to Thomas Newcome in that family quarrel, I grieved to think that a
generous heart was led astray, and to see a good man do wrong. So with no
more thanks for his interference than a man usually gets who meddles in
domestic strifes, the present luckless advocate ceased pleading.
To be sure, the Colonel and Clive had other advisers, who did not take
the peaceful side. George Warrington was one of these; he was for war a
l'outrance with Barnes Newcome; for keeping no terms with such a villain.
He found a pleasure in hunting him, and whipping him. "Barnes ought to be
punished," George said, "for his poor wife's misfortune; it was Barnes's
infernal cruelty, wickedness, selfishness, which had driven her into
misery and wrong." Mr. Warrington went down to Newcome, and was present
at that lecture whereof mention has been made in a previous chapter. I am
afraid his behaviour was very indecorous; he laughed at the pathetic
allusions of the respected Member for Newcome; he sneered at the sublime
passages; he wrote an awful critique in the Newcome Independent two days
after, whereof the irony was so subtle, that half the readers of the
paper mistook his grave scorn for respect, and his gibes for praise.
Clive, his father, and Frederick Bayham, their faithful aide-de-camp,
were at Newcome likewise when Sir Barnes's oration was delivered. At
first it was given out at Newcome that the Colonel visited the place for
the purpose of seeing his dear old friend and pensioner, Mrs. Mason, who
was now not long to enjoy his bounty, and so old, as scarcely to know her