The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER III.

  CONTAINS A NOVEL INCIDENT.

  Some account has been given in a former part of this story, how Mr.Pen, during his residence at home, after his defeat at Oxbridge, hadoccupied himself with various literary compositions, and among otherworks, had written the greater part of a novel. This book, writtenunder the influence of his youthful embarrassments, amatory andpecuniary, was of a very fierce, gloomy and passionate sort--theByronic despair, the Wertherian despondency, the mocking bitterness ofMephistopheles of Faust, were all reproduced and developed in thecharacter of the hero; for our youth had just been learning the Germanlanguage, and imitated, as almost all clever lads do, his favoritepoets and writers. Passages in the volumes once so loved, and now readso seldom, still bear the mark of the pencil with which he noted themin those days. Tears fell upon the leaf of the book, perhaps, orblistered the pages of his manuscript as the passionate young mandashed his thoughts down. If he took up the books afterward, he had noability or wish to sprinkle the leaves with that early dew of formertimes: his pencil was no longer eager to score its marks of approval:but as he looked over the pages of his manuscript, he remembered whathad been the overflowing feelings which had caused him to blot it, andthe pain which had inspired the line. If the secret history of bookscould be written, and the author's private thoughts and meanings noteddown alongside of his story, how many insipid volumes would becomeinteresting, and dull tales excite the reader! Many a bitter smilepassed over Pen's face as he read his novel, and recalled the time andfeelings which gave it birth. How pompous some of the grand passagesappeared; and how weak others were in which he thought he hadexpressed his full heart! This page was imitated from a then favoriteauthor, as he could now clearly see and confess, though he hadbelieved himself to be writing originally then. As he mused overcertain lines he recollected the place and hour where he wrote them:the ghost of the dead feeling came back as he mused, and he blushed toreview the faint image. And what meant those blots on the page? As youcome in the desert to a ground where camels' hoofs are marked in theclay, and traces of withered herbage are yet visible, you know thatwater was there once; so the place in Pen's mind was no longer green,and the fons lacrymarum was dried up.

  He used this simile one morning to Warrington, as the latter sate overhis pipe and book, and Pen, with much gesticulation, according to hiswont when excited, and with a bitter laugh, thumped his manuscriptdown on the table, making the tea-things rattle, and the blue milkdance in the jug. On the previous night he had taken the manuscriptout of a long neglected chest, containing old shooting jackets, oldOxbridge scribbling books, his old surplice, and battered cap andgown, and other memorials of youth, school, and home. He read in thevolume in bed until he fell asleep, for the commencement of the talewas somewhat dull, and he had come home tired from a Londonevening party.

  "By Jove!" said Pen, thumping down his papers, "when I think thatthese were written but very few years ago, I am ashamed of my memory.I wrote this when I believed myself to be eternally in love with thatlittle coquette, Miss Amory. I used to carry down verses to her, andput them into the hollow of a tree, and dedicate them 'Amori.'"

  "That was a sweet little play upon words," Warrington remarked, with apuff "Amory--Amori. It showed profound scholarship. Let us hear a bitof the rubbish." And he stretched over from his easy chair, and caughthold of Pen's manuscript with the fire-tongs, which he was just usingin order to put a coal into his pipe. Thus, in possession of thevolume, he began to read out from the "Leaves from the Life-book ofWalter Lorraine."

  "'False as thou art beautiful! heartless as thou art fair! mockery ofPassion!' Walter cried, addressing Leonora; 'what evil spirit hathsent thee to torture me so? O Leonora * * * '"

  "Cut that part," cried out Pen, making a dash at the book, which,however, his comrade would not release. "Well! don't read it out, atany rate. That's about my other flame, my first--Lady Mirabel that isnow. I saw her last night at Lady Whiston's. She asked me to a partyat her house, and said, that, as old friends, we ought to meetoftener. She has been seeing me any time these two years in town, andnever thought of inviting me before; but seeing Wenham talking to me,and Monsieur Dubois, the French literary man, who had a dozen orderson, and might have passed for a Marshal of France, she condescended toinvite me. The Claverings are to be there on the same evening. Won'tit be exciting to meet one's two flames at the same table?" "Twoflames!--two heaps of burnt-out cinders," Warrington said. "Are boththe beauties in this book?"

  "Both or something like them," Pen said. "Leonora, who marries theduke, is the Fotheringay. I drew the duke from Magnus Charters, withwhom I was at Oxbridge; it's a little like him; and Miss Amory isNeaera. By gad, Warrington, I did love that first woman! I thought ofher as I walked home from Lady Whiston's in the moonlight; and thewhole early scenes came back to me as if they had been yesterday. Andwhen I got home I pulled out the story which I wrote about her and theother three years ago: do you know, outrageous as it is, it has somegood stuff in it, and if Bungay won't publish it, I think Bacon will."

  "That's the way of poets," said Warrington. "They fall in love, jilt,or are jilted; they suffer, and they cry out that they suffer morethan any other mortals: and when they have experienced feelingsenough, they note them down in a book, and take the book to market.All poets are humbugs, all literary men are humbugs; directly a manbegins to sell his feelings for money he's a humbug. If a poet gets apain in his side from too good a dinner, he bellows Ai, Ai, louderthan Prometheus."

  "I suppose a poet has greater sensibility than another man," said Pen,with some spirit. "That is what makes him a poet. I suppose that hesees and feels more keenly: it is that which makes him speak of whathe feels and sees. You speak eagerly enough in your leading articleswhen you espy a false argument in an opponent, or detect a quack inthe House. Paley, who does not care for any thing else in the world,will talk for an hour about a question of law. Give another theprivilege which you take yourself, and the free use of his faculty,and let him be what nature has made him. Why should not a man sell hissentimental thoughts as well as you your political ideas, or Paley hislegal knowledge? Each alike is a matter of experience and practice. Itis not money which causes you to perceive a fallacy, or Paley to arguea point; but a natural or acquired aptitude for that kind of truth:and a poet sets down his thoughts and experiences upon paper as apainter does a landscape or a face upon canvas, to the best of hisability, and according to his particular gift. If ever I think I havethe stuff in me to write an epic, by Jove, I will try. If I only feelthat I am good enough to crack a joke or tell a story, I willdo that."

  "Not a bad speech, young one," Warrington said, "but that does notprevent all poets from being humbugs."

  "What--Homer, Aeschylus, Shakspeare, and all?"

  "Their names are not to be breathed in the same sentence with youpigmies," Mr. Warrington said; "there are men and men, sir."

  "Well, Shakspeare was a man who wrote for money, just as you and Ido," Pen answered, at which Warrington confounded his impudence, andresumed his pipe and his manuscript.

  There was not the slightest doubt then that this document contained agreat deal of Pen's personal experiences, and that "Leaves from theLife-book of Walter Lorraine" would never have been written but forArthur Pendennis's own private griefs, passions, and follies. As wehave become acquainted with these in the first volume of hisbiography, it will not be necessary to make large extracts from thenovel of "Walter Lorraine," in which the young gentleman had depictedsuch of them as he thought were likely to interest the reader, or weresuitable for the purposes of his story.

  Now, though he had kept it in his box for nearly half of the periodduring which, according to the Horatian maxim, a work of art ought tolie ripening (a maxim, the truth of which may, by the way, bequestioned altogether), Mr. Pen had not buried his novel for thistime, in order that the work might improve, but because he did notknow where else to bestow it, or had no particular desire to see it. Aman who thinks of putting away a com
position for ten years before heshall give it to the world, or exercise his own maturer judgment uponit, had best be very sure of the original strength and durability ofthe work; otherwise, on withdrawing it from its crypt, he may findthat, like small wine, it has lost what flavor it once had, and isonly tasteless when opened. There are works of all tastes and smacks,the small and the strong, those that improve by age, and those thatwon't bear keeping at all, but are pleasant at the first draught, whenthey refresh and sparkle.

  Now Pen had never any notion, even in the time of his youthfulinexperience and fervor of imagination, that the story he was writingwas a masterpiece of composition, or that he was the equal of thegreat authors whom he admired; and when he now reviewed his littleperformance, he was keenly enough alive to its faults, and prettymodest regarding its merits. It was not very good, he thought; but itwas as good as most books of the kind that had the run of circulatinglibraries and the career of the season. He had critically examinedmore than one fashionable novel by the authors of the day thenpopular, and he thought that his intellect was as good as theirs, andthat he could write the English language as well as those ladies orgentlemen; and as he now ran over his early performance, he waspleased to find here and there passages exhibiting both fancy andvigor, and traits, if not of genius, of genuine passion and feeling.This, too, was Warrington's verdict, when that severe critic, afterhalf-an-hour's perusal of the manuscript, and the consumption of acouple of pipes of tobacco, laid Pen's book down, yawningportentously. "I can't read any more of that balderdash now," he said;"but it seems to me there is some good stuff in it, Pen, my boy.There's a certain greenness and freshness in it which I like, somehow.The bloom disappears off the face of poetry after you begin to shave.You can't get up that naturalness and artless rosy tint in after days.Your cheeks are pale, and have got faded by exposure to eveningparties, and you are obliged to take curling-irons, and macassar, andthe deuce knows what to your whiskers; they curl ambrosially, and youare very grand and genteel, and so forth; but, ah! Pen, the springtime was the best."

  "What the deuce have my whiskers to do with the subject in hand?" Pensaid (who, perhaps, may have been nettled by Warrington's allusionto those ornaments, which, to say the truth, the young man coaxed, andcurled, and oiled, and purfumed, and petted, in rather anabsurd manner).

  "Do you think we can do any thing with 'Walter Lorraine?' Shall wetake him to the publishers, or make an _auto-da-fe_ of him?"

  "I don't see what is the good of incremation," Warrington said,"though I have a great mind to put him into the fire, to punish youratrocious humbug and hypocrisy. Shall I burn him indeed? You have muchtoo great a value for him to hurt a hair of his head."

  "Have I? Here goes," said Pen, and "Walter Lorraine" went off thetable, and was flung on to the coals. But the fire having done itsduty of boiling the young man's breakfast-kettle, had given up workfor the day, and had gone out, as Pen knew very well; and Warrington,with a scornful smile, once more took up the manuscript with the tongsfrom out of the harmless cinders.

  "O, Pen, what a humbug you are!" Warrington said; "and, what is worstof all, sir, a clumsy humbug. I saw you look to see that the fire wasout before you sent 'Walter Lorraine' behind the bars. No, we won'tburn him: we will carry him to the Egyptians, and sell him. We willexchange him away for money, yea, for silver and gold, and for beefand for liquors, and for tobacco and for raiment. This youth willfetch some price in the market; for he is a comely lad, though notover strong; but we will fatten him up, and give him the bath, andcurl his hair, and we will sell him for a hundred piastres to Bacon orto Bungay. The rubbish is salable enough, sir; and my advice to you isthis: the next time you go home for a holiday, take 'Walter Lorraine'in your carpet-bag--give him a more modern air, prune away, thoughsparingly, some of the green passages, and add a little comedy, andcheerfulness, and satire, and that sort of thing, and then we'll takehim to market, and sell him. The book is not a wonder of wonders, butit will do very well."

  "Do you think so, Warrington?" said Pen, delighted; for this was greatpraise from his cynical friend.

  "You silly young fool! I think it's uncommonly clever," Warringtonsaid in a kind voice. "So do you, sir." And with the manuscript whichhe held in his hand he playfully struck Pen on the cheek. That part ofPen's countenance turned as red as it had ever done in the earliestdays of his blushes: he grasped the other's hand and said, "Thank you,Warrington," with all his might; and then he retired to his own roomwith his book, and passed the greater part of the day upon his bedre-reading it: and he did as Warrington had advised, and altered not alittle, and added a great deal, until at length he had fashioned"Walter Lorraine" pretty much into the shape in which, as therespected novel-reader knows, it subsequently appeared.

  While he was at work upon this performance, the good-naturedWarrington artfully inspired the two gentlemen who "read" for Messrs.Bacon and Bungay with the greatest curiosity regarding, "WalterLorraine," and pointed out the peculiar merits of its distinguishedauthor. It was at the period when the novel, called "The Fashionable,"was in vogue among us; and Warrington did not fail to point out, asbefore, how Pen was a man of the very first fashion himself, andreceived at the houses of some of the greatest personages in the land.The simple and kind-hearted Percy Popjoy was brought to bear uponMrs. Bungay, whom he informed that his friend Pendennis was occupiedupon a work of the most exciting nature; a work that the whole townwould run after, full of wit, genius, satire, pathos, and everyconceivable good quality. We have said before, that Bungay knew nomore about novels than he did about Hebrew or Algebra, and neitherread nor understood any of the books which he published and paid for;but he took his opinions from his professional advisers and from Mrs.B., and, evidently with a view to a commercial transaction, askedPendennis and Warrington to dinner again. Bacon, when he found thatBungay was about to treat, of course, began to be anxious and curious,and desired to out-bid his rival. Was any thing settled between Mr.Pendennis and the odious house "over the way" about the new book? Mr.Hack, the confidential reader, was told to make inquiries, and see ifany thing was to be done, and the result of the inquiries of thatdiplomatist, was, that one morning, Bacon himself toiled up thestaircase of Lamb-court, and to the door on which the names of Mr.Warrington, and Mr. Pendennis were painted.

  For a gentleman of fashion as poor Pen was represented to be, it mustbe confessed, that the apartments he and his friend occupied, were notvery suitable. The ragged carpet had grown only more ragged during thetwo years of joint occupancy: a constant odor of tobacco perfumed thesitting-room: Bacon tumbled over the laundress's buckets in thepassage through which he had to pass; Warrington's shooting jacket wasas shattered at the elbows as usual; and the chair which Bacon wasrequested to take on entering, broke down with the publisher.Warrington burst out laughing, said that Bacon had got the game chair,and bawled out to Pen to fetch a sound one from his bedroom. Andseeing the publisher looking round the dingy room with an air ofprofound pity and wonder, asked him whether he didn't think theapartments were elegant, and if he would like, for Mrs. Bacon'sdrawing-room, any of the articles of furniture? Mr. Warrington'scharacter as a humorist, was known to Mr. Bacon: "I never can makethat chap out," the publisher was heard to say, "or tell whether he isin earnest or only chaffing."

  It is very possible that Mr. Bacon would have set the two gentlemendown as impostors altogether, but that there chanced to be on thebreakfast-table certain cards of invitation which the post of themorning had brought in for Pen, and which happened to come from somevery exalted personages of the _beau-monde_, into which our young manhad his introduction. Looking down upon these, Bacon saw that theMarchioness of Steyne would be at home to Mr. Arthur Pendennis upon agiven day, and that another lady of distinction proposed to havedancing at her house upon a certain future evening. Warrington saw theadmiring publisher eying these documents. "Ah," said he, with an airof simplicity, "Pendennis is one of the most affable young men I everknew, Mr. Bacon. Here is a young fellow that dines with all the greatmen i
n London, and yet he'll take his mutton-chop with you and mequite contentedly. There's nothing like the affability of the oldEnglish gentleman."

  "O, no, nothing," said Mr. Bacon.

  "And you wonder why he should go on living up three pair of stairswith me, don't you, now? Well, it _is_ a queer taste. But we are fondof each other; and as I can't afford to live in a grand house, hecomes and stays in these rickety old chambers with me. He's a man thatcan afford to live any where."

  "I fancy it don't cost him much _here_," thought Mr. Bacon; and theobject of these praises presently entered the room from his adjacentsleeping apartment.

  Then Mr. Bacon began to speak upon the subject of his visit; said heheard that Mr. Pendennis had a manuscript novel; professed himselfanxious to have a sight of that work, and had no doubt that they couldcome to terms respecting it. What would be his price for it? would hegive Bacon the refusal of it? he would find our house a liberal house,and so forth. The delighted Pen assumed an air of indifference, andsaid that he was already in treaty with Bungay, and could give nodefinite answer. This piqued the other into such liberal, though vagueoffers, that Pen began to fancy Eldorado was opening to him, and thathis fortune was made from that day.

  I shall not mention what was the sum of money which Mr. ArthurPendennis finally received for the first edition of his novel of"Walter Lorraine," lest other young literary aspirants should expectto be as lucky as he was, and unprofessional persons forsake their owncallings, whatever they may be, for the sake of supplying the worldwith novels, whereof there is already a sufficiency. Let no youngpeople be misled and rush fatally into romance-writing: for one bookwhich succeeds let them remember the many that fail, I do not saydeservedly or otherwise, and wholesomely abstain: or if they venture,at least let then do so at their own peril. As for those who havealready written novels, this warning is not addressed, of course, tothem. Let them take their wares to market; let them apply to Bacon andBungay, and all the publishers in the Row, or the metropolis, and maythey be happy in their ventures. This world is so wide, and the tastesof mankind happily so various, that there is always a chance for everyman, and he may win the prize by his genius or by his good fortune.But what is the chance of success or failure; of obtaining popularity,or of holding it, when achieved? One man goes over the ice, whichbears him, and a score who follow flounder in. In fine, Mr.Pendennis's was an exceptional case, and applies to himself only: andI assert solemnly, and will to the last maintain, that it is one thingto write a novel, and another to get money for it.

  By merit, then, or good fortune, or the skillful playing off of Bungayagainst Bacon which Warrington performed (and which an amateurnovelist is quite welcome to try upon any two publishers in thetrade), Pen's novel was actually sold for a certain sum of money toone of the two eminent patrons of letters whom we have introduced toour readers. The sum was so considerable that Pen thought of openingan account at a banker's, or of keeping a cab and horse, or ofdescending into the first floor of Lamb-court into newly furnishedapartments, or of migrating to the fashionable end of the town.

  Major Pendennis advised the latter move strongly; he opened his eyeswith wonder when he heard of the good luck that had befallen Pen; andwhich the latter, as soon as it occurred, hastened eagerly tocommunicate to his uncle. The major was almost angry that Pen shouldhave earned so much money. "Who the doose reads this kind of thing?"he thought to himself, when he heard of the bargain which Pen hadmade. "_I_ never read your novels and rubbish. Except Paul de Kock,who certainly makes me laugh, I don't think I've looked into a book ofthe sort these thirty years. 'Gad! Pen's a lucky fellow. I shouldthink he might write one of these in a month now--say a month--that'stwelve in a year. Dammy, he may go on spinning this nonsense for thenext four or five years, and make a fortune. In the mean time, Ishould wish him to live properly, take respectable apartments, andkeep a brougham." And on this simple calculation it was that the majorcounseled Pen.

  Arthur, laughing, told Warrington what his uncle's advice had been;but he luckily had a much more reasonable counselor than the oldgentleman, in the person of his friend, and in his own conscience,which said to him, "Be grateful for this piece of good fortune; don'tplunge into any extravagancies. Pay back Laura!" And he wrote a letterto her, in which he told her his thanks and his regard; and inclosedto her such an installment of his debt as nearly wiped it off. Thewidow and Laura herself might well be affected by the letter. It waswritten with genuine tenderness and modesty; and old Dr. Portman, whenhe read a passage in the letter, in which Pen, with an honest heartfull of gratitude, humbly thanked Heaven for his present prosperity,and for sending him such dear and kind friends to support him in hisill-fortune,--when Doctor Portman read this portion of the letter,his voice faltered, and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. Andwhen he had quite finished reading the same, and had taken his glassesoff his nose, and had folded up the paper and given it back to thewidow, I am constrained to say, that after holding Mrs. Pendennis'shand for a minute, the doctor drew that lady toward him and fairlykissed her: at which salute, of course, Helen burst out crying on thedoctor's shoulder, for her heart was too full to give any other reply:and the doctor, blushing a great deal after his feat, led the lady,with a bow, to the sofa, on which he seated himself by her; and hemumbled out, in a low voice, some words of a Great Poet whom he lovedvery much, and who describes how in the days of his prosperity he hadmade "the widow's heart to sing for joy."

  "The letter does the boy very great honor, very great honor, my dear,"he said, patting it as it lay on Helen's knee--"and I think we haveall reason to be thankful for it--very thankful. I need not tell youin what quarter, my dear, for you are a sainted woman: yes, Laura, mylove, your mother is a sainted woman. And Mrs. Pendennis, ma'am, Ishall order a copy of the book for myself, and another at theBook club."

  We may be sure that the widow and Laura walked out to meet the mailwhich brought them their copy of Pen's precious novel, as soon as thatwork was printed and ready for delivery to the public; and that theyread it to each other: and that they also read it privately andseparately, for when the widow came out of her room in herdressing-gown at one o'clock in the morning with volume two, which shehad finished, she found Laura devouring volume three in bed. Laura did not say much about the book, but Helen pronounced that it was ahappy mixture of Shakspeare, and Byron, and Walter Scott, and wasquite certain that her son was the greatest genius, as he was the bestson, in the world.

  Did Laura not think about the book and the author, although she saidso little? At least she thought about Arthur Pendennis. Kind as histone was, it vexed her. She did not like his eagerness to repay thatmoney. She would rather that her brother had taken her gift as sheintended it; and was pained that there should be money calculationsbetween them. His letters from London, written with the good-naturedwish to amuse his mother, were full of descriptions of the famouspeople and the entertainments, and magnificence of the great city.Every body was flattering him and spoiling him, she was sure. Was henot looking to some great marriage, with that cunning uncle for aMentor (between whom and Laura there was always an antipathy), thatinveterate worldling, whose whole thoughts were bent upon pleasure,and rank, and fortune? He never alluded to--to old times, when hespoke of her. He had forgotten them and her, perhaps: had he notforgotten other things and people?

  These thoughts may have passed in Miss Laura's mind, though she didnot, she could not, confide them to Helen. She had one more secret,too, from that lady, which she could not divulge, perhaps, because sheknew how the widow would have rejoiced to know it. This regarded anevent which had occurred during that visit to Lady Rockminster, whichLaura had paid in the last Christmas holidays: when Pen was at homewith his mother, and when Mr. Pynsent, supposed to be so cold and soambitious, had formally offered his hand to Miss Bell. No one exceptherself and her admirer knew of this proposal: or that Pynsent hadbeen rejected by her, and probably the reasons she gave to themortified young man himself, were not those which actuated herrefusal, or those whi
ch she chose to acknowledge to herself. "Inever," she told Pynsent, "can accept such an offer as that which youmake me, which you own is unknown to your family, as I am sure itwould be unwelcome to them. The difference of rank between us is toogreat. You are very kind to me here--too good and kind, dear Mr.Pynsent--but I am little better than a dependent."

  "A dependent! who ever so thought of you? You are the equal of all theworld," Pynsent broke out.

  "I am a dependent at home, too," Laura said, sweetly, "and indeed Iwould not be otherwise. Left early a poor orphan, I have found thekindest and tenderest of mothers, and I have vowed never to leave her--never. Pray do not speak of this again--here, under your relative'sroof, or elsewhere. It is impossible."

  "If Lady Rockminster asks you herself, will you listen to her?"Pynsent cried, eagerly.

  "No," Laura said. "I beg you never to speak of this any more. I mustgo away if you do;" and with this she left him.

  Pynsent never asked for Lady Rockminster's intercession; he knew howvain it was to look for that: and he never spoke again on that subjectto Laura or to any person.

  When at length the famous novel appeared, it not only met withapplause from more impartial critics than Mrs. Pendennis, but, luckilyfor Pen, it suited the taste of the public, and obtained a quick andconsiderable popularity. Before two months were over, Pen had thesatisfaction and surprise of seeing the second edition of "WalterLorraine," advertised in the newspapers; and enjoyed the pleasure ofreading and sending home the critiques of various literary journalsand reviewers upon his book. Their censure did not much affect him;for the good-natured young man was disposed to accept withconsiderable humility the dispraise of others. Nor did their praiseelate him overmuch; for, like most honest persons, he had his ownopinion about his own performance, and when a critic praised him inthe wrong place, he was hurt rather than pleased by the compliment.But if a review of his work was very laudatory, it was a greatpleasure to him to send it home to his mother at Fairoaks, and tothink of the joy which it would give there. There are some natures,and perhaps, as we have said, Pendennis's was one, which are improvedand softened by prosperity and kindness, as there are men of otherdispositions, who become arrogant and graceless under good fortune.Happy he who can endure one or the other with modesty and good-humor!Lucky he who has been educated to bear his fate, whatsoever it may be,by an early example of uprightness, and a childish training in honor!