CHAPTER XXXV. Dinner in the Row
Upon the appointed day our two friends made their appearance at Mr.Bungay's door in Paternoster Row; not the public entrance through whichbooksellers' boys issued with their sacks full of Bungay's volumes,and around which timid aspirants lingered with their virgin manuscriptsready for sale to Sultan Bungay, but at the private door of the house,whence the splendid Mrs. Bungay would come forth to step into her chaiseand take her drive, settling herself on the cushions, and casting looksof defiance at Mrs. Bacon's opposite windows--at Mrs. Bacon, who was asyet a chaiseless woman.
On such occasions, when very much wroth at her sister-in-law's splendourMrs. Bacon would fling up the sash of her drawing-room window, and lookout with her four children at the chaise, as much as to say, "Lookat these four darlings. Flora Bungay! this is why I can't drive in mycarriage; you would give a coach-and-four to have the same reason." Andit was with these arrows out of her quiver that Emma Bacon shot FloraBungay as she sate in her chariot envious and childless.
As Pen and Warrington came to Bungay's door, a carriage and a cab droveup to Bacon's. Old Dr. Slocum descended heavily from the first; theDoctor's equipage was as ponderous as his style, but both had a finesonorous effect upon the publishers in the Row. A couple of dazzlingwhite waistcoats stepped out of the cab.
Warrington laughed. "You see Bacon has his dinner-party too. That isDr. Slocum, author of 'Memoirs of the Poisoners.' You would hardly haverecognised our friend Hoolan in that gallant white waistcoat. Doolan isone of Bungay's men, and faith, here he comes." Indeed, Messrs. Hoolanand Doolan had come from the Strand in the same cab, tossing up by theway which should pay the shilling; and Mr. D. stepped from the otherside of the way, arrayed in black, with a large pair of white gloveswhich were spread out on his hands, and which the owner could not helpregarding with pleasure.
The house porter in an evening coat, and gentlemen with gloves as largeas Doolan's, but of the famous Berlin web, were on the passage of Mr.Bungay's house to receive the guests' hats and coats, and bawl theirnames up the stair. Some of the latter had arrived when the three newvisitors made their appearance; but there was only Mrs. Bungay in redsatin and a turban to represent her own charming sex. She made curtsiesto each new-comer as he entered the drawing-room, but her mind wasevidently pre-occupied by extraneous thoughts. The fact is, Mrs. Bacon'sdinner-party was disturbing her, and as soon as she had received eachindividual of her own company, Flora Bungay flew back to the embrasureof the window, whence she could rake the carriages of Emma Bacon'sfriends as they came rattling up the Row. The sight of Dr. Slocum'slarge carriage, with the gaunt job-horses, crushed Flora: none but hackcabs had driven up to her own door on that day.
They were all literary gentlemen, though unknown as yet to Pen. Therewas Mr. Bole, the real editor of the magazine, of which Mr. Wagg was thenominal chief; Mr. Trotter, who, from having broken out on the world asa poet of a tragic and suicidial cast, had now subsided into one of Mr.Bungay's back shops as reader for that gentleman; and Captain Sumph,an ex-beau reader about town, and related in some indistinct manner toLiterature and the Peerage. He was said to have written a book once, tohave been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related to Lord Sumphington; infact, anecdotes of Byron formed his staple, and he seldom spoke but withthe name of that poet or some of his contemporaries in his mouth, asthus: "I remember poor Shelley, at school being sent up for good for acopy of verses, every line of which I wrote, by Jove;" or, "I recollect,when I was at Missolonghi with Byron, offering to bet gamba," andso forth. This gentleman, Pen remarked, was listened to with greatattention by Mrs. Bungay; his anecdotes of the aristocracy, of whichhe was a middle-aged member, delighted the publisher's lady; and he wasalmost a greater man than the great Mr. Wagg himself in her eyes. Hadhe but come in his own carriage, Mrs. Bungay would have made her Bungaypurchase any given volume from his pen.
Mr. Bungay went about to his guests as they arrived, and did the honoursof his house with much cordiality. "How are you, sir? Fine day, sir.Glad to see you year, sir. Flora, my love, let me ave the honour ofintroducing Mr. Warrington to you. Mr. Warrington, Mrs. Bungay; Mr.Pendennis, Mrs. Bungay. Hope you've brought good appetites with you,gentlemen. You, Doolan, I know ave, for you've always ad a deuce of atwist."
"Lor, Bungay!" said Mrs. Bungay.
"Faith, a man must be hard to please, Bungay, who can't eat a gooddinner in this house," Doolan said, and he winked and stroked his leanchops with his large gloves; and made appeals of friendship to Mrs.Bungay, which that honest woman refused with scorn from the timid man."She couldn't abide that Doolan," she said in confidence to her friends.Indeed, all his flatteries failed to win her.
As they talked, Mrs. Bungay surveying mankind from her window, amagnificent vision of an enormous grey cab-horse appeared, and nearedrapidly. A pair of white reins, held by small white gloves, were visiblebehind it; a face pale, but richly decorated with a chin-tuft, the headof an exiguous groom bobbing over the cab-head--these bright things wererevealed to the delighted Mrs. Bungay. "The Honourable Percy Popjoy'squite punctual, I declare," she said, and sailed to the door to be inwaiting at the nobleman's arrival.
"It's Percy Popjoy," said Pen, looking out of window, and seeing anindividual, in extremely lacquered boots, descend from the swinging cab:and, in fact, it was that young nobleman Lord Falconet's eldest son,as we all very well know, who was come to dine with the publisher--hispublisher of the Row.
"He was my fag at Eton," Warrington said. "I ought to have licked hima little more." He and Pen had had some bouts at the Oxbridge Uniondebates, in which Pen had had very much the better of Percy: whopresently appeared, with his hat under his arm, and a look ofindescribable good-humour and fatuity in his round dimpled face, uponwhich Nature had burst out with a chin-tuft, but, exhausted with theeffort, had left the rest of the countenance bare of hair.
The temporary groom of the chambers bawled out, "The Honourable PercyPopjoy," much to that gentleman's discomposure at hearing his titlesannounced.
"What did the man want to take away my hat for, Bungay?" he asked ofthe publisher. "Can't do without my hat--want it to make my bow toMrs. Bungay. How well you look. Mrs. Bungay, to-day. Haven't seen yourcarriage in the Park: why haven't you been there? I missed you; indeed,I did."
"I'm afraid you're a sad quiz," said Mrs. Bungay.
"Quiz! Never made a joke in my--hullo! who's here? How d'ye do,Pendennis? How d'ye do, Warrington? These are old friends of mine, Mrs.Bungay. I say, how the doose did you come here?" he asked of the twoyoung men, turnip his lacquered heels upon Mrs. Bungay, who respectedher husband's two young guests, now that she found they were intimatewith a lord's son.
"What! do they know him?" she asked rapidly of Mr. B.
"High fellers, I tell you--the young one related to all the nobility,"said the publisher; and both ran forward, smiling and bowing, to greetalmost as great personages as the young lord--no less characters,indeed, than the great Mr. Wenham and the great Mr. Wagg, who were nowannounced.
Mr. Wenham entered, wearing the usual demure look and stealthy smilewith which he commonly surveyed the tips of his neat little shiningboots, and which he but seldom brought to bear upon the person whoaddressed him. Wagg's white waistcoat spread out, on the contrary,with profuse brilliancy; his burly, red face shone resplendent over it,lighted up with the thoughts of good jokes and a good dinner. He likedto make his entree into a drawing-room with a laugh, and, when hewent away at night, to leave a joke exploding behind him. No personalcalamities or distresses (of which that humourist had his share incommon with the unjocular part of mankind) could altogether keep hishumour down. Whatever his griefs might be, the thought of a dinnerrallied his great soul; and when he saw a lord, he saluted him with apun.
Wenham went up, then, with a smug smile and whisper, to Mrs. Bungay, andlooked at her from under his eyes, and showed her the tips of his shoes.Wagg said she looked charming, and pushed on straight at the youngnobleman, whom he called Pop, and to whom he i
nstantly related a funnystory, seasoned with what the French call gros sel. He was delightedto see Pen, too, and shook hands with him, and slapped him on the backcordially; for he was full of spirits and good-humour. And he talked ina loud voice about their last place and occasion of meeting at Baymouth;and asked how their friends of Clavering Park were, and whether SirFrancis was not coming to London for the season; and whether Pen hadbeen to see Lady Rockminster, who had arrived--fine old lady, LadyRockminster! These remarks Wagg made not for Pen's ear so much as forthe edification of the company, whom he was glad to inform that he paidvisits to gentlemen's country seats, and was on intimate terms with thenobility.
Wenham also shook hands with our young friend--all of which scenes Mrs.Bungay remarked with respectful pleasure, and communicated her ideas toBungay, afterwards, regarding the importance of Mr. Pendennis--ideas bywhich Pen profited much more than he was aware.
Pen, who had read, and rather admired some of her works (and expected tofind in Miss Bunion a person somewhat resembling her own descriptionof herself in the 'Passion-Flower,' in which she stated that her youthresembled--
"A violet, shrinking meanly When blows the March wind keenly; A timid fawn, on wild-wood lawn, Where oak-boughs rustle greenly,--"
and that her maturer beauty was something very different, certainly, tothe artless loveliness of her prime, but still exceedingly captivatingand striking), beheld, rather to his surprise and amusement, a large andbony woman in a crumpled satin dress, who came creaking into the roomwith a step as heavy as a grenadier's. Wagg instantly noted the strawwhich she brought in at the rumpled skirt of her dress, and wouldhave stooped to pick it up: but Miss Bunion disarmed all criticism byobserving this ornament herself, and, putting her own large foot uponit, so as to separate it from her robe, she stooped and picked up thestraw, saying to Mrs. Bungay, that she was very sorry to be a littlelate, but that the omnibus was very slow, and what a comfort it was toget a ride all the way from Brompton for sixpence. Nobody laughed at thepoetess's speech, it was uttered so simply. Indeed, the worthy woman hadnot the least notion of being ashamed of an action incidental upon herpoverty.
"Is that 'Passion-Flowers?'" Pen said to Wenham, by whom he wasstanding. "Why, her picture in the volume represents her as a verywell-looking young woman."
"You know passion-flowers, like all others, will run to seed," Wenhamsaid; "Miss Bunion's portrait was probably painted some years ago."
"Well, I like her for not being ashamed of her poverty."
"So do I," said Mr. Wenham, who would have starved rather than have cometo dinner in an omnibus, "but I don't think that she need flourish thestraw about, do you, Mr. Pendennis? My dear Miss Bunion, how do you do?I was in a great lady's drawing-room this morning, and everybody wascharmed with your new volume. Those lines on the christening of LadyFanny Fantail brought tears into the Duchess's eyes. I said that Ithought I should have the pleasure of meeting you to-day, and she beggedme to thank you, and say how greatly she was pleased."
This history, told in a bland smiling manner, of a Duchess whom Wenhamhad met that very morning, too, quite put poor Wagg's dowager andbaronet out of court, and placed Wenham beyond Wagg as a man of fashion.Wenham kept this inestimable advantage, and having the conversation tohimself, ran on with a number of anecdotes regarding the aristocracy.He tried to bring Mr. Popjoy into the conversation by making appeals tohim, and saying, "I was telling your father this morning," or, "Ithink you were present at W. house the other night when the Duke saidso-and-so," but Mr. Popjoy would not gratify him by joining in the talk,preferring to fall back into the window recess with Mrs. Bungay, andwatch the cabs that drove up to the opposite door. At least, if he wouldnot talk, the hostess hoped that those odious Bacons would see how shehad secured the noble Percy Popjoy for her party.
And now the bell of Saint Paul's tolled half an hour later than thatfor which Mr. Bungay had invited his party, and it was complete with theexception of two guests, who at last made their appearance, and in whomPen was pleased to recognise Captain and Mrs. Shandon.
When these two had made their greetings to the master and mistress ofthe house, and exchanged nods of more or less recognition with most ofthe people present, Pen and Warrington went up, and shook hands verywarmly with Mrs. Shandon, who, perhaps, was affected to meet them, andthink where it was she had seen them but a few days before. Shandon wasbrushed up, and looked pretty smart, in a red velvet waistcoat, and afrill, into which his wife had stuck her best brooch. In spite of Mrs.Bungay's kindness, perhaps in consequence of it, Mrs. Shandon felt greatterror and timidity in approaching her: indeed, she was more awful thanever in her red satin and bird of paradise, and it was not until she hadasked in her great voice about the dear little gurl, that the latter wassomewhat encouraged, and ventured to speak.
"Nice-looking woman," Popjoy whispered to Warrington. "Do introduceme to Captain Shandon, Warrington. I'm told he's a tremendous cleverfellow; and, dammy, I adore intellect, by Jove I do!" This was thetruth: Heaven had not endowed young Mr. Popjoy with much intellect ofhis own, but had given him a generous faculty for admiring, if not forappreciating, the intellect of others. "And introduce me to Miss Bunion.I'm told she's very clever too. She's rum to look at, certainly, butthat don't matter. Dammy, I consider myself a literary man, and I wishto know all the clever fellows." So Mr. Popjoy and Mr. Shandon had thepleasure of becoming acquainted with one another; and now the doors ofthe adjoining dining-room being flung open, the party entered and tooktheir seats at table. Pen found himself next to Bunion on one side, andto Mr. Wagg--the truth is, Wagg fled alarmed from the vacant place bythe poetess, and Pen was compelled to take it.
The gifted being did not talk much during dinner, but Pen remarked thatshe ate with a vast appetite, and never refused any of the supplies ofwine which were offered to her by the butler. Indeed, Miss Bunion havingconsidered Mr. Pendennis for a minute, who gave himself rather grandairs, and who was attired in an extremely fashionable style, with hisvery best chains, shirt studs, and cambric fronts, he was set down, andnot without reason, as a prig by the poetess; who thought it was muchbetter to attend to her dinner than to take any notice of him. She toldhim as much in after days with her usual candour. "I took you for one ofthe little Mayfair dandies," she said to Pen. "You looked as solemn asa little undertaker; and as I disliked, beyond measure, the odiouscreature who was on the other side of me, I thought it was best to eatmy dinner and hold my tongue."
"And you did both very well, my dear Miss Bunion," Pen said with alaugh.
"Well, so I do, but I intend to talk to you the next time a great deal:for you are neither so solemn, nor so stupid, nor so pert as you look."
"Ah, Miss Bunion, how I pine for that 'next time' to come," Pen saidwith an air of comical gallantry:--But we must return to the day, andthe dinner at Paternoster Row.
The repast was of the richest description--"What I call of the floridGothic style," Wagg whispered to Penn, who sate beside the humourist,in his side-wing voice. The men in creaking shoes and Berlin gloves werenumerous and solemn, carrying on rapid conversations behind the guests,as they moved to and fro with the dishes. Doolan called out, "Waither,"to one of them, and blushed when he thought of his blunder. Mrs.Bungay's footboy was lost amidst those large and black-coatedattendants.
"Look at that very bow-windowed man," Wagg said. "He's an undertaker inAmen Corner, and attends funerals and dinners. Cold meat and hot, don'tyou perceive? He's the sham butler here, and I observe, my dear Mr.Pendennis, as you will through life, that wherever there is a shambutler at a London dinner there is sham wine--this sherry is filthy.Bungay, my boy, where did you get this delicious brown sherry?"
"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Wagg; glass with you," said the publisher."It's some I got from Alderman Benning's store, and gave a good figurefor it, I can tell you. Mr. Pendennis, will you join us? Your 'ealth,gentlemen."
"The old rogue, where does he expect to go to? It came from thepublic-house," Wagg said. "It requires t
wo men to carry off that sherry,'tis so uncommonly strong. I wish I had a bottle of old Steyne's winehere, Pendennis: your uncle and I have had many a one. He sends it aboutto people where he is in the habit of dining. I remember at poor RawdonCrawley's, Sir Pitt Crawley's brother--he was Governor of CoventryIsland--Steyne's chef always came in the morning, and the butler arrivedwith the champagne from Gaunt House, in the ice-pails ready."
"How good this is!" said Popjoy, good-naturedly. "You must have a cordonbleu in your kitchen."
"O yes," Mrs. Bungay said, thinking he spoke of a jack-chain verylikely.
"I mean a French chef," said the polite guest.
"O yes, your lordship," again said the lady.
"Does your artist say he's a Frenchman, Mrs. B.?" called out Wagg.
"Well, I'm sure I don't know," answered the publisher's lady.
"Because, if he does, he's a quizzin yer," cried Mr. Wagg; but nobodysaw the pun, which disconcerted somewhat the bashful punster. "Thedinner is from Griggs, in St. Paul's Churchyard; so is Bacon's," hewhispered Pen. "Bungay writes to give half-a-crown a head more thanBacon, so does Bacon. They would poison each other's ices if theycould get near them; and as for the made-dishes--they are poison.This--hum--ha--this Brimborion a la Sevigne is delicious, Mrs. B.," hesaid, helping himself to a dish which the undertaker handed to him.
"Well, I'm glad you like it," Mrs. Bungay answered, blushing and notknowing whether the name of the dish was actually that which Wagggave to it, but dimly conscious that that individual was quizzingher. Accordingly she hated Mr. Wagg with female ardour; and would havedeposed him from his command over Mr. Bungay's periodical, but thathis name was great in the trade, and his reputation in the landconsiderable.
By the displacement of persons, Warrington had found himself on theright hand of Mrs. Shandon, who sate in plain black silk and fadedornaments by the side of the florid publisher. The sad smile of the ladymoved his rough heart to pity. Nobody seemed to interest himself abouther: she sate looking at her husband, who himself seemed rather abashedin the presence of some of the company. Wenham and Wagg both knewhim and his circumstances. He had worked with the latter, and wasimmeasurably his superior in wit, genius, and acquirement; but Wagg'sstar was brilliant in the world, and poor Shandon was unknown there. Hecould not speak before the noisy talk of the coarser and more successfulman; but drank his wine in silence, and as much of it as the peoplewould give him. He was under surveillance. Bungay had warned theundertaker not to fill the Captain's glass too often or too full. Itwas a melancholy precaution that, and the more melancholy that it wasnecessary. Mrs. Shandon, too, cast alarmed glances across the table tosee that her husband did not exceed.
Abashed by the failure of his first pun, for he was impudent and easilydisconcerted, Wagg kept his conversation pretty much to Pen during therest of dinner, and of course chiefly spoke about their neighbours."This is one of Bungay's grand field-days," he said. "We are allBungavians here.--Did you read Popjoy's novel? It was an old magazinestory written by poor Buzzard years ago, and forgotten here until Mr.Trotter (that is Trotter with the large shirt collar) fished it out andbethought him that it was applicable to the late elopement; so Bob wrotea few chapters a propos--Popjoy permitted the use of his name, andI dare say supplied a page here and there--and 'Desperation, or theFugitive Duchess' made its appearance. The great fun is to examinePopjoy about his own work, of which he doesn't know a word.--I say,Popjoy, what a capital passage that is in Volume Three,--where theCardinal in disguise, after being converted by the Bishop of London,proposes marriage to the Duchess's daughter."
"Glad you like it," Popjoy answered; "it's a favourite bit of my own."
"There's no such thing in the whole book," whispered Wagg to Pen."Invented it myself. Gad! it wouldn't be a bad plot for a high-churchnovel."
"I remember poor Byron, Hobhouse, Trelawney, and myself, dining withCardinal Mezzocaldo at Rome," Captain Sumph began, "and we had someOrvieto wine for dinner, which Byron liked very much. And I rememberhow the Cardinal regretted that he was a single man. We went to CivitaVecchia two days afterwards, where Byron's yacht was--and, by Jove,the Cardinal died within three weeks; and Byron was very sorry, for herather liked him."
"A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed," Wagg said.
"You should publish some of those stories, Captain Sumph, you reallyshould. Such a volume would make our friend Bungay's fortune," Shandonsaid.
"Why don't you ask Sumph to publish 'em in your new paper--thewhat-d'ye-call-'em--hay, Shandon?" bawled out Wagg.
"Why don't you ask him to publish 'em in your old magazine, theThingumbob?" Shandon replied.
"Is there going to be a new paper?" asked Wenham, who knew perfectlywell, but was ashamed of his connection with the press.
"Bungay going to bring out a paper?" cried Popjoy, who, on the contrary,was proud of his literary reputation and acquaintances. "You must employme. Mrs. Bungay, use your influence with him, and make him employ me.Prose or verse--what shall it be? Novels, poems, travels, or leadingarticles, begad. Anything or everything--only let Bungay pay me, and I'mready--I am now my dear Mrs. Bungay, begad now."
"It's to be called the Small Beer Chronicle," growled Wagg, "and littlePopjoy is to be engaged for the infantine department."
"It is to be called the Pall Mall Gazette, sir, and we shall be veryhappy to have you with us," Shandon said.
"Pall Mall Gazette--why Pall Mall Gazette?" asked Wagg.
"Because the editor was born at Dublin, the sub-editor at Cork, becausethe proprietor lives in Paternoster Row;--and the paper is published inCatherine Street, Strand. Won't that reason suffice you, Wagg?" Shandonsaid; he was getting rather angry. "Everything must have a name. My dogPonto has got a namee. You've got a name, and a name which you deserve,more or less, indeed. Why d'ye grudge the name to our paper?"
"By any other name it would smell as sweet," said Wagg.
"I'll have ye remember its name's not what-d'ye-call-'em, Mr. Wagg,"said Shandon. "You know its name well enough, and--and you know mine."
"And I know your address too," said Wagg; but this was spoken in anundertone, and the good-natured Irishman was appeased almost in aninstant after his ebullition of spleen, and asked Wagg to drink winewith him in a friendly voice.
When the ladies retired from the table, the talk grew louder still; andpresently Wenham, in a courtly speech, proposed that everybody shoulddrink to the health of the new Journal, eulogising highly the talents,wit, and learning of its editor, Captain Shandon. It was his maximnever to lose the support of a newspaper man, and in the course of thatevening he went round and saluted every literary gentleman present witha privy compliment specially addressed to him; informing this one howgreat an impression had been made in Downing Street by his last article,and telling that one how profoundly his good friend, the Duke ofSo-and-So, had been struck by the ability of the late numbers.
The evening came to a close, and in spite of all the precautions tothe contrary, poor Shandon reeled in his walk, and went home to his newlodgings, with his faithful wife by his side, and the cabman on hisbox jeering at him. Wenham had a chariot of his own, which he put atPopjoy's seat; and the timid Miss Bunion seeing Mr. Wagg, who was herneighbour, about to depart, insisted upon a seat in his carriage, muchto that gentleman's discomfiture.
Pen and Warrington walked home together in the moonlight. "And now,"Warrington said, "that you have seen the men of letters, tell me, was Ifar wrong in saying that there are thousands of people in this town, whodon't write books, who are, to the full, as clever and intellectual aspeople who do?"
Pen was forced to confess that the literary personages with whom hehad become acquainted had not said much, in the course of the night'sconversation, that was worthy to be remembered or quoted. In fact notone word about literature had been said during the whole course of thenight:--and it may be whispered to those uninitiated people who areanxious to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters,that there are no race of people
who talk about books, or, perhaps, whoread books, so little as literary men.
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