The History of Pendennis

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XLII. 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 amongst otherworks, had written the greater part of a novel. This book, written underthe influence of his youthful embarrassments, amatory and pecuniary, wasof a very fierce, gloomy, and passionate sort,--the Byronic despair,the Wertherian despondency, the mocking bitterness of Mephistopheles ofFaust, were all reproduced and developed in the character of the hero;for our youth had just been learning the German language, and imitated,as almost all clever lads do, his favourite poets and writers. Passagesin the volumes once so loved, and now read so seldom, still bear themark of the pencil with which he noted them in those days. Tears fellupon the leaf of the book, perhaps, or blistered the pages of hismanuscript as the passionate young man dashed his thoughts down. If hetook up the books afterwards he had no ability or wish to sprinkle theleaves with that early dew of former times: his pencil was no longereager to score its marks of approval: but as he looked over the pages ofhis manuscript, he remembered what had been overflowing feelings whichhad caused him to blot it, and the pain which had inspired the line. Ifthe secret history of books could be written, and the author's privatethoughts and meanings noted down alongside of his story, how manyinsipid volumes would become interesting, and dull tales excite thereader! Many a bitter smile passed over Pen's face as he read his novel,and recalled the time and feelings which gave it birth. How pompous someof the grand passages appeared; and how weak were others in which hethought he had expressed his full heart! This page was imitated from athen favourite author, as he could now clearly see and confess, thoughhe had believed 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 manuscript downon the table, making the tea-things rattle, and, the blue milk dancein the jug. On the previous night he had taken the manuscript out ofa long-neglected chest, containing old shooting jackets, old Oxbridgescribbling-books, his old surplice, and battered cap and gown, and othermemorials of youth, school, and home. He read in the volume in bed untilhe fell asleep, for the commencement of the tale was somewhat dull, andhe had come home tired from a London evening party.

  "By Jove!" said Pen, thumping down his papers, "when I think that thesewere written but very few years ago, I am ashamed of my memory. Iwrote this when I believed myself be eternally in love with that littlecoquette, Miss Amory. I used to carry down verses to her, and put theminto 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 proof of scholarship. Let us hear a bit ofthe rubbish." And he stretched over from his easy-chair, and caughthold of Pen's manuscript with the fire-tongs, which he was just using inorder to put a coal into his pipe. Thus, in possession of the volume,he began to read out from the 'Leaves from the Life-book of WalterLorraine.'

  "'False as thou art beautiful! heartless as thou art fair! mockery ofPassion!' Walter cried, addressing Leonora; 'what evil spirit hath sentthee 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 at anyrate. That's about my other flame, my first--Lady Mirabel that is now.I saw her last night at Lady Whiston's. She asked me to a party at herhouse, and said that, as old friends, we ought to meet oftener. She hasbeen seeing me any time these two years in town, and never thoughtof inviting me before; but seeing Wenham talking to me, and MonsieurDubois, the French literary man, who had a dozen orders on, and mighthave passed for a Marshal of France, she condescended to invite me. TheClaverings are to be there on the same evening. Won't it be exciting tomeet one's two flames at the same table?"

  "Two flames!--two heaps of burnt-out cinders," Warrington said. "Areboth the 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 Oxford; it's a little like him; and Miss Amory is Neaera.By gad, that first woman! I thought of her as I walked home from LadyWhiston's in the moonlight; and the whole early scenes came back to meas if they had been yesterday. And when I got home, I pulled out thestory which I wrote about her and the other three years ago: do youknow, outrageous as it is, it has some good stuff in it, and if Bungaywon't publish it, I think Bacon will."

  "That's the way of poets," said Warrington. "They fall in love, jilt, orare jilted; they suffer and they cry out that they suffer more than anyother mortals: and when they have experienced feelings enough they notethem down in a book, and take the book to market. All poets are humbugs,all literary men are humbugs; directly a man begins to sell his feelingsfor money he's a humbug. If a poet gets a pain in his side from too gooda dinner, he bellows Ai Ai louder than Prometheus."

  "I suppose a poet has a 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 what hefeels and sees. You speak eagerly enough in your leading articles whenyou espy a false argument in an opponent, or detect a quack in theHouse. Paley, who does not care for anything else in the world, willtalk for an hour about a question of law. Give another the privilegewhich you take yourself, and the free use of his faculty, and let himbe what nature has made him. Why should not a man sell his sentimentalthoughts as well as you your political ideas, or Paley his legalknowledge? Each alike is a matter of experience and practice. It is notmoney which causes you to perceive a fallacy, or Paley to argue a point;but a natural or acquired aptitude for that kind of truth: and a poetsets down his thoughts and experiences upon paper as a painter doesa landscape or a face upon canvas, to the best of his ability, andaccording to his particular gift. If ever I think I have the stuff inme to write an epic, by Jove I will try If I only feel that I am goodenough to crack a joke or tell a story, I will do 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 sense with you pigmies,"Mr. Warrington said: "there are men and men, sir."

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

  There was not the slightest doubt then that this document containeda great 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 we havebecome acquainted with these in the first volume of his biography, itwill not be necessary to make large extracts from the novel of 'WalterLorraine,' in which the young gentleman had depicted such of them ashe thought were likely to interest the reader, or were suitable for thepurpose 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, be questionedaltogether), Mr. Pen had not buried his novel for this time, in orderthat the work might improve, but because he did not know where else tobestow it, or had no particular desire to see it. A man who thinks ofputting away a composition for ten years before h
e shall give it to theworld, or exercise his own maturer judgment upon it, had best be verysure of the original strength and durability of the work; otherwise onwithdrawing it from its crypt he may find, that like small wine it haslost what flavour it once had, and is only tasteless when opened. Thereare works of all tastes and smacks, the small and the strong, thosethat improve by age, and those that won't bear keeping at all, but arepleasant at the first draught, when they refresh and sparkle.

  Now Pen had never any notion, even in the time of his youthfulinexperience and fervour 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 pretty modestregarding its merits. It was not very good, he thought; but it was asgood as most books of the kind that had the run of circulating librariesand the career of the season. He had critically examined more than onefashionable novel by the authors of the day then popular, and he thoughtthat his intellect was as good as theirs and that he could write theEnglish language as well as those ladies or gentlemen; and as he nowran over his early performance, he was pleased to find here and therepassages exhibiting both fancy and vigour, and traits, if not of genius,of genuine passion and feeling. This, too, was Warrington's verdict,when that severe critic, after half an hour's perusal of the manuscript,and the consumption of a couple of pipes of tobacco, laid Pen's bookdown, yawning portentously. "I can't read any more of that balderdashnow," 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 likesomehow. The bloom disappears off the face of poetry after you begin toshave. You can't get up that naturalness and artless rosy tint in afterdays. 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 spring-timewas 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 allusion tothose ornaments, which, to say the truth, the young man coaxed, andcurled, and oiled, and perfumed, and petted, in rather an absurdmanner). "Do you think we can do anything with 'Walter Lorraine'? Shallwe take him to the publishers, or make an auto-da-fe of him?"

  "I don't see what is the good of incremation," Warrington said, "thoughI have a great mind to put him into the fire, to punish your atrocioushumbug and hypocrisy. Shall I burn him indeed? You have much too great avalue for him to hurt a hair of his head."

  "Have I? Here goes," said Pen, and 'Walter Lorraine' went off the table,and was flung on to the coals. But the fire having done its duty ofboiling the young man's breakfast-kettle, had given up work for theday, and had gone out, as Pen knew very well; Warrington with a scornfulsmile, once more took up the manuscript with the tongs from out of theharmless cinders.

  "Oh, Pen, what a humbug you are!" Warrington said; "and what is worst ofall, sir, a clumsy humbug. I saw you look to see that the fire was outbefore you sent 'Walter Lorraine' behind the bars. No, we won't burnhim: we will carry him to the Egyptians, and sell him. We will exchangehim away for money, yea, for silver and gold, and for beef and forliquors, and for tobacco and for raiment. This youth will fetch someprice in the market; for he is a comely lad, though not over strong; butwe will fatten him up and give him the bath, and curl his hair, and wewill sell him for a hundred piasters to Bacon or to Bungay. The rubbishis saleable enough, sir; and my advice to you is this: the next time yougo home for a holiday, take 'Walter Lorraine' in your carpet-bag--givehim a more modern air, prune away, though sparingly, some of the greenpassages, and add a little comedy, and cheerfulness, and satire, andthat sort of thing, and then we'll take him to market, and sell him. Thebook is not a wonder of wonders, but it 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," Warrington saidin a kind voice. "So do you, sir." And with the manuscript which he heldin his hand he playfully struck Pen on the cheek. That part of Pen'scountenance turned as red as it had ever done in the earliest daysof 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 the respectednovel-reader knows, it subsequently appeared.

  Whilst he was at work upon this performance, the good-natured Warringtonartfully inspired the two gentlemen who "read" for Messrs. Bacon andBungay with the greatest curiosity regarding 'Walter Lorraine,' andpointed out the peculiar merits of its distinguished author. It was atthe period when the novel, called 'The Fashionable,' was in vogue amongus; and Warrington did not fail to point out, as before, how Pen wasa man of the very first fashion himself, and received at the houses ofsome of the greatest personages in the land. The simple and kind-heartedPercy Popjoy was brought to bear upon Mrs. Bungay, whom he informedthat his friend Pendennis was occupied upon a work of the most excitingnature; a work that the whole town would run after, full of wit, genius,satire, pathos, and every conceivable good quality. We have said before,that Bungay knew no more about novels than he did about Hebrew orAlgebra, and neither read nor understood any of the books which hepublished and paid for; but he took his opinions from his professionaladvisers and from Mrs. B., and, evidently with a view to a commercialtransaction, asked Pendennis and Warrington to dinner again.

  Bacon, when he found that Bungay was about to treat, of course, beganto be anxious and curious, and desired to outbid his rival. Was anythingsettled between Mr. Pendennis and the odious house "over the way"about the new book? Mr. Hack, the confidential reader, was told to makeinquiries, and see if any thing was to be done, and the result of theinquiries of that diplomatist was, that one morning, Bacon himselftoiled up the staircase of Lamb Court and to the door on which the namesof Mr. Warrington, and Mr. Pendennis, were painted.

  For a gentleman of fashion as poor Pen was represented to be, it must beconfessed, that the apartments he and his friend occupied were not verysuitable. The ragged carpet had grown only more ragged during the twoyears of joint occupancy: a constant odour of tobacco perfumed thesitting-room: Bacon tumbled over the laundress's buckets in the passagethrough which he had to pass; Warrington's shooting-jacket was astattered at the elbows as usual; and the chair which Bacon was requestedto take on entering, broke down with the publisher. Warrington burst outlaughing, said that Bacon had got the game chair, and bawled out to Pento fetch a sound one from his bedroom. And seeing the publisher lookinground the dingy room with an air of profound pity and wonder, asked himwhether he didn't think the apartments were elegant, and if he wouldlike, for Mrs. Bacon's drawing-room, any of the articles of furniture?Mr. Warrington's character as a humourist was known to Mr. Bacon: "Inever can make that chap out," the publisher was heard to say, "or tellwhether he is in 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 personage 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 have dancingat her house upon a certain future evening. Warrington saw the admiringpublisher eyeing these documents. "Ah," said he, with an air ofsimplicity, "Pendennis is one of the most affable young men I ever knew,Mr. Bacon. Here is a young fellow that dines with all the men in London,and yet he'll take his mutton-chop wi
th you and me quite contentedly.There's nothing like the affability of the old English gentleman."

  "Oh no, nothing," said Mr. Bacon.

  "And you wonder why he should go on living up three pair of stairs withme, don't you now? Well, it is a queer taste. But we are fond of eachother; and as I can't afford to live in a great house, he comes andstays in these rickety old chambers with me. He's a man that can affordto live anywhere."

  "I fancy it don't cost him much here," thought Mr. Bacon, and the objectof these praises presently entered the room from his adjacent sleepingapartment.

  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, and saidthat he was already in treaty with Bungay, and could give no definiteanswer. This piqued the other into such liberal, though vague offers,that Pen began to fancy Eldorado was opening to him, and that hisfortune 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 'WalterLorraine,' lest other young literary aspirants should expect to be aslucky as he was, and unprofessional persons forsake their own callings,whatever they may be, for the sake of supplying the world with novels,whereof there is already a sufficiency. Let no young people be misledand rush fatally into romance-writing: for one book which succeeds letthem remember the many that fail, I do not say deservedly or otherwise,and wholesomely abstain or if they venture, at least let them do soat their own peril. As for those who have already written novels, thiswarning is not addressed, of course, to them. Let them take their waresto market; let them apply to Bacon and Bungay, and all the publishersin the Row, or the metropolis, and may they be happy in their ventures.This world is so wide, and the tastes of mankind happily so various,that there is always a chance for every man, and he may win the prize byhis genius or by his good fortune. But what is the chance of success orfailure; of obtaining popularity, or of holding it when achieved? Oneman goes over the ice, which bears him, and a score who follow flounderin. In fine, Mr. Pendennis's was an exceptional case, and applies tohimself only and I assert solemnly, and will to the last maintain, thatit is one thing to write a novel, and another to get money for it.

  By merit, then, or good fortune, or the skilful playing off of Bungayagainst Bacon which Warrington performed (and which an amateur novelistis quite welcome to try upon any two publishers in the trade), Pen'snovel was actually sold for a certain sum of money to one of the twoeminent patrons of letters whom we have introduced to our readers. Thesum was so considerable that Pen thought of opening an account at abanker's, or of keeping a cab and horse, or of descending into the firstfloor of Lamb Court into newly furnished apartments, or of migrating tothe 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;and which 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?" hethought to himself when he heard of the bargain which Pen had made. "Inever read your novels and rubbish. Except Paul de Kock, who certainlymakes me laugh, I don't think I've looked into a book of the sort thesethirty years. Gad! Pen's a lucky fellow. I should think he might writeone of these in a month now,--say a month,--that's twelve in a year.Dammy, he may go on spinning this nonsense for the next four to fiveyears, and make a fortune. In the meantime I should wish him to liveproperly, take respectable apartments, and keep a brougham." And on thissimple calculation it was that the Major counselled Pen.

  Arthur, laughing, told Warrington what his uncle's advice had been buthe luckily had a much more reasonable counsellor than the old gentlemanin the person of his friend, and in his own conscience, which said tohim, "Be grateful for this piece of good fortune; don't plunge into anyextravagancies. Pay back Laura!" And he wrote a letter to her, in whichhe told her his thanks and his regard; and enclosed to her such aninstalment of his debt as nearly wiped it off. The widow and Lauraherself might well be affected by the letter. It was written withgenuine tenderness and modesty; and old Dr. Portman when he read apassage in the letter, in which Pen, with an honest heart full ofgratitude, humbly thanked Heaven for his present prosperity, andfor sending him such dear and kind friends to support him in his illfortune,--when Doctor Portman read this portion of the letter, his voicefaltered, and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles, and when he hadquite finished reading the same, and had taken his glasses off hisnose, and had folded up the paper and given it back to the widow, Iam constrained to say, that after holding Mrs. Pendennis's hand for aminute, the Doctor drew that lady towards him and fairly kissed her:at which salute, of course, Helen burst out crying on the Doctor'sshoulder, for her heart was too full to give any other reply: and theDoctor blushing at great deal after his feat, led the lady, with a bow,to the sofa, on which he seated himself by her; and he mumbled out, ina low voice, some words of a Great Poet whom he loved very much, andwho describes how in the days of his prosperity he had made "the widow'sheart to sing for joy."

  "The letter does the boy very great honour, very great honour, my dear,"he said, patting it as it lay on Helen's knee--"and I think we have allreason to be thankful for it--very thankful. I need not tell you in whatquarter, my dear, for you are a sainted woman: yes, Laura, my love, yourmother is a sainted woman. And Mrs. Pendennis, ma'am, I shall order acopy of the book for myself, and another at the Book 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 they readit to each other: and that they also read it privately and separately,for when the widow came out of her room in her dressing-gown at oneo'clock in the morning with volume two, which she had finished, shefound Laura devouring volume three in bed. Laura did not say muchabout the book, but Helen pronounced that it was a happy mixture ofShakspeare, and Byron, and Walter Scott, and was quite certain that herson was the greatest genius, as he was the best son, in the world.

  Did Laura not think about the book and the author, although she said solittle? At least she thought about Arthur Pendennis. Kind as his tonewas, it vexed her. She did not like his eagerness to repay that money.She would rather that her brother had taken her gift as she intended it:and was pained that there should be money calculations between them.His letters from London, written with the good-natured wish to amusehis mother, were full of descriptions of the famous people and theentertainments and magnificence of the great city. Everybody wasflattering him and spoiling him, she was sure. Was he not looking tosome great marriage, with that cunning uncle for a Mentor (between whomand Laura there was always an antipathy), that inveterate worldling,whose whole thoughts were bent upon pleasure and rank and fortune? Henever alluded to--to old times, when he spoke of her. He had forgottenthem and her, perhaps had he not forgotten other things and people?

  These thoughts may have passed in Miss Laura's mind, though she did not,she could not, confide them to Helen. She had one more secret, too, fromthat lady, which she could not divulge, perhaps because she knew how thewidow would have rejoiced to know it. This regarded an event which hadoccurred during that visit to Lady Rockminster, which Laura had paid inthe last Christmas holidays: when Pen was at home with his mother, andwhen Mr. Pynsent, supposed to be so cold and so ambitious, had formallyoffered his hand to Miss Bell. No one except herself and her admirerknew of this proposal: or that Pynsent had been rejected by her, andprobably the reasons she gave to the mortified young man himself werenot those which actuated her refusal, or those which she chose toacknowledge to herself. "I never," she told Pyn
sent, "can accept such anoffer as that which you make me, which you own is unknown to your familyas I am sure it would be unwelcome to them. The difference of rankbetween us is too great. You are very kind to me here--too good andkind, dear Mr. Pynsent--but I am little better than a dependant."

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

  "I am a dependant at home, too," Laura said, sweetly, "and indeed I wouldnot be otherwise. Left early a poor orphan, I have found the kindest andtenderest of mothers, and I have vowed never to leave her--never.Pray do not speak of this again--here, under your relative's roof, orelsewhere. It is impossible."

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

  "No," Laura said. "I beg you never to speak of this any more. I must goaway 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 with applausefrom more impartial critics than Mrs. Pendennis, but, luckily for Penit suited the taste of the public, and obtained a quick and considerablepopularity before two months were over, Pen had the satisfaction andsurprise of seeing the second edition of 'Walter Lorraine' advertised inthe newspapers; and enjoyed the pleasure of reading and sending homethe critiques of various literary journals and reviewers upon his book.Their censure did not much affect him; for the good-natured young manwas disposed to accept with considerable humility the dispraises ofothers. Nor did their praise elate him over much; for, like most honestpersons he had his own opinion about his own performance, and when acritic praised him in the wrong place he was rather hurt than pleased bythe compliment. But if a review of his work was very laudatory, it was agreat pleasure 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, andperhaps, 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-humour!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 honour!