The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

have a Hansom and a cigar. It was a blunder, and I am sorry for it��there! And

  if I live to a hundred I can't say more."

  "If you are sorry, Philip," said the father, "it is enough." "You remember,

  Pendennis, when��when my son and I were not on this��on this footing," and he

  looked up for a moment at a picture which was hanging over Phil's head��a

  portrait of Phil's mother; the lady of whom my own mother spoke, on that evening

  when we had talked of the boy's illness. Both the ladies had passed from the

  world now, and their images were but painted shadows on the wall.

  The father had accepted an apology, though the son had made none. I looked at

  the elder Firmin's face, and the character written on it. I remembered such

  particulars of his early history as had been told to me; and I perfectly

  recalled that feeling of doubt and misliking which came over my mind when I

  first saw the doctor's handsome face some few years previously, when my uncle

  first took me to the doctor's in Old Parr Street; little Phil being then a

  flaxen-headed, pretty child, who had just assumed his first trousers, and I a

  fifth-form boy at school.

  My father and Dr. Firmin were members of the medical profession. They had been

  bred up as boys at the same school, whither families used to send their sons

  from generation to generation, and long before people had ever learned that the

  place was unwholesome. Grey Friars was smoky, certainly; I think in the time of

  the plague great numbers of people were buried there. But had the school been

  situated in the most picturesque swamp in England, the general health of the

  boys could not have been better. We boys used to hear of epidemics occurring in

  other schools, and were almost sorry that they did not come to ours, so that we

  might shut up, and get longer vacations. Even that illness which subsequently

  befel Phil Firmin himself attacked no one else��the boys all luckily going home

  for the holidays on the very day of poor Phil's seizure; but of this illness

  more anon. When it was determined that little Phil Firmin was to go to Grey

  Friars, Phil's father bethought him that Major Pendennis, whom he met in the

  world and society, had a nephew at the place, who might protect the little

  fellow, and the major took his nephew to see Dr. and Mrs. Firmin one Sunday

  after church, and we had lunch at Old Parr Street, and there little Phil was

  presented to me, whom I promised to take under my protection. He was a simple

  little man; an artless child, who had not the least idea of the dignity of a

  fifth-form boy. He was quite unabashed in talking to me and other persons, and

  has remained so ever since. He asked my uncle how he came to have such odd hair.

  He partook freely of the delicacies on the table. I remember he hit me with his

  little fist once or twice, which liberty at first struck me with a panic of

  astonishment, and then with a sense of the ridiculous so exquisitely keen, that

  I burst out into a fit of laughter. It was, you see, as if a stranger were to

  hit the Pope in the ribs, and call him "Old boy;" as if Jack were to tweak one

  of the giants by the nose; or Ensign Jones to ask the Duke of Wellington to take

  wine. I had a strong sense of humour, even in those early days, and enjoyed this

  joke accordingly.

  "Philip!" cries mamma, "you will hurt Mr. Pendennis."

  "I will knock him down!" shouts Phil. Fancy knocking me down,��ME, a fifth-form

  boy!

  "The child is a perfect Hercules," remarks the mother.

  "He strangled two snakes in his cradle," says the doctor, looking at me. (It was

  then, as I remember, I felt Dr. Fell towards him.)

  "La, Dr. Firmin!" cries mamma, "I can't bear snakes. I remember there was one at

  Rome, when we were walking one day; a great, large snake, and I hated it, and I

  cried out, and I nearly fainted; and my uncle Ringwood said I ought to like

  snakes, for one might be an agreeable rattle; and I have read of them being

  charming in India, and I dare say you have, Mr. Pendennis, for I am told you are

  very clever; and I am not in the least; I wish I were; but my husband is,

  very��and so Phil will be. Will you be a very clever boy, dear? He was named

  after my dear papa, who was killed at Busaco when I was quite, quite a little

  thing, and we wore mourning, and we went to live with my uncle Ringwood

  afterwards; but Maria and I had both our own fortunes; and I am sure I little

  thought I should marry a physician��la, one of uncle Ringwood's grooms, I should

  as soon have thought of marrying him!��but, you know, my husband is one of the

  cleverest men in the world. Don't tell me,��you are, dearest, and you know it;

  and when a man is clever I don't value his rank in life; no, not if he was that

  fender; and I always said to uncle Ringwood, 'Talent I will marry, for talent I

  adore;' and I did marry you, Dr. Firmin, you know I did, and this child is your

  image. And you will be kind to him at school," says the poor lady, turning to

  me, her eyes filling with tears, "for talent is always kind, except uncle

  Ringwood, and he was very��"

  "A little more wine, Mr. Pendennis?" said the doctor ��Doctor Fell still, though

  he was most kind to me. "I shall put my little man under your care, and I know

  you will keep him from harm. I hope you will do us the favour to come to Parr

  Street whenever you are free. In my father's time we used to come home of a

  Saturday from school, and enjoyed going to the play." And the doctor shook me

  cordially by the hand, and, I must say, continued his kindness to me as long as

  ever I knew him. When we went away, my uncle Pendennis told me many stories

  about the great earl and family of Ringwood, and how Dr. Firmin had made a

  match��a match of the affections��with this lady, daughter of Philip Ringwood,

  who was killed at Busaco; and how she had been a great beauty, and was a perfect

  grande dame always; and, if not the cleverest, certainly one of the kindest and

  most amiable women in the world.

  In those days I was accustomed to receive the opinions of my informant with such

  respect that I at once accepted this statement as authentic. Mrs. Firmin's

  portrait, indeed, was beautiful: it was painted by young Mr. Harlowe, that year

  he was at Rome, and when in eighteen days he completed a copy of the

  Transfiguration, to the admiration of all the Academy; but I, for my part, only

  remember a lady weak, and thin, and faded, who never came out of her

  dressing-room until a late hour in the afternoon, and whose superannuated smiles

  and grimaces used to provoke my juvenile sense of humour. She used to kiss

  Phil's brow; and, as she held the boy's hand in one of her lean ones, would say,

  "Who would suppose such a great boy as that could be my son?" "Be kind to him

  when I am gone," she sighed to me, one Sunday evening, when I was taking leave

  of her, as her eyes filled with tears, and she placed the thin hand in mine for

  the last time. The doctor, reading by the fire, turned round and scowled at her

  from under his tall shining forehead. "You are nervous, Louisa, and had better

  go to your room, I told you you had," he said, abruptly. "Young gentlemen, it is
/>   time for you to be off to Grey Friars. Is the cab at the door, Brice?" And he

  took out his watch��his great shining watch, by which he had felt the pulses of

  so many famous personages, whom his prodigious skill had rescued from disease.

  And at parting, Phil flung his arms round his poor mother, and kissed her under

  the glossy curls; the borrowed curls; and he looked his father resolutely in the

  face (whose own glance used to fall before that of the boy), and bade him a

  gruff goodnight, ere we set forth for Grey Friars.

  CHAPTER II. AT SCHOOL AND AT HOME.

  I dined yesterday with three gentlemen, whose time of life may be guessed by

  their conversation, a great part of which consisted of Eton reminiscences and

  lively imitations of Dr. Keate. Each one, as he described how he had been

  flogged, mimicked to the best of his power the manner and the mode of operating

  of the famous doctor. His little parenthetical remarks during the ceremony were

  recalled with great facetiousness: the very hwhish of the rods was parodied with

  thrilling fidelity, and after a good hour's conversation the subject was brought

  to a climax by a description of that awful night when the doctor called up squad

  after squad of boys from their beds in their respective boardinghouses, whipped

  through the whole night, and castigated I don't know how many hundred rebels.

  All these mature men laughed, prattled, rejoiced, and became young again, as

  they recounted their stories; and each of them heartily and eagerly bade the

  stranger to understand how Keate was a thorough gentleman. Having talked about

  their floggings, I say, for an hour at least, they apologized to me for dwelling

  upon a subject which after all was strictly local: but, indeed, their talk

  greatly amused and diverted me, and I hope, and am quite ready, to hear all

  their jolly stories over again.

  Be not angry, patient reader of former volumes by the author of the present

  history, if I am garrulous about Grey Friars, and go back to that ancient place

  of education to find the heroes of our tale. We are but young once. When we

  remember that time of youth, we are still young. He over whose head eight or

  nine lustres have passed, if he wishes to write of boys, must recall the time

  when he himself was a boy. Their habits change; their waists are longer or

  shorter; their shirt-collars stick up more or less; but the boy is the boy in

  King George's time as in that of his royal niece ��once our maiden queen, now

  the anxious mother of many boys. And young fellows are honest, and merry, and

  idle, and mischievous, and timid, and brave, and studious, and selfish, and

  generous, and mean, and false, and truth-telling, and affectionate, and good,

  and bad, now as in former days. He with whom we have mainly to do is a gentleman

  of mature age now walking the street with boys of his own. He is not going to

  perish in the last chapter of these memoirs��to die of consumption with his love

  weeping by his bedside, or to blow his brains out in despair, because she has

  been married to his rival, or killed out of a gig, or otherwise done for in the

  last chapter but one. No, no; we will have no dismal endings. Philip Firmin is

  well and hearty at this minute, owes no man a shilling, and can enjoy his glass

  of port in perfect comfort. So, my dear miss, if you want a pulmonary romance,

  the present won't suit you. So, young gentleman, if you are for melancholy,

  despair, and sardonic satire, please to call at some other shop. That Philip

  shall have his trials, is a matter of course��may they be interesting, though

  they do not end dismally! That he shall fall and trip in his course sometimes,

  is pretty certain. Ah, who does not upon this life-journey of ours? Is not our

  want the occasion of our brother's charity, and thus does not good come out of

  that evil? When the traveller (of whom the Master spoke) fell among the thieves,

  his mishap was contrived to try many a heart beside his own��the Knave's who

  robbed him, the Levite's and Priest's who passed him by as he lay bleeding, the

  humble Samaritan's whose hand poured oil into his wound, and held out its

  pittance to relieve him.

  So little Philip Firmin was brought to school by his mamma in her carriage, who

  entreated the housekeeper to have a special charge of that angelic child; and as

  soon as the poor lady's back was turned, Mrs. Bunce emptied the contents of the

  little boy's trunk into one of sixty or seventy little cupboards, wherein

  reposed other boys' clothes and haberdashery: and then Mrs. Firmin requested to

  see the Rev. Mr. X., in whose house Philip was to board, and besought him, and

  explained many things to him, such as the exceeding delicacy of the child's

  constitution, and Mr. X., who was very good-natured, patted the boy kindly on

  the head, and sent for the other Philip, Philip Ringwood, Phil's cousin, who had

  arrived at Grey Friars an hour or two before; and Mr. X. told Ringwood to take

  care of the little fellow; and Mrs. Firmin, choking behind her

  pocket-handkerchief, gurgled out a blessing on the grinning youth, and at one

  time had an idea of giving Master Ringwood a sovereign, but paused, thinking he

  was too big a boy, and that she might not take such a liberty, and presently she

  was gone; and little Phil Firmin was introduced to the long-room and his

  schoolfellows of Mr. X.'s house; and having plenty of money, and naturally

  finding his way to the pastrycook's, the next day after school, he was met by

  his cousin Ringwood and robbed of half the tarts which he had purchased. A

  fortnight afterwards, the hospitable doctor and his wife asked their young

  kinsman to Old Parr Street, Burlington Gardens, and the two boys went; but Phil

  never mentioned anything to his parents regarding the robbery of tarts, being

  deterred, perhaps, from speaking by awful threats of punishment which his cousin

  promised to administer when they got back to school, in case of the little boy's

  confession. Subsequently, Master Ringwood was asked once in every term to Old

  Parr Street; but neither Mrs. Firmin, nor the doctor, nor Master Firmin liked

  the baronet's son, and Mrs. Firmin pronounced him a violent, rude boy.

  I, for my part, left school suddenly and early, and my little prot�g� behind me.

  His poor mother, who had promised herself to come for him every Saturday, did

  not keep her promise. Smithfield is a long way from Piccadilly; and an angry cow

  once scratched the panels of her carriage, causing her footman to spring from

  his board into a pig-pen, and herself to feel such a shock, that no wonder she

  was afraid of visiting the City afterwards. The circumstances of this accident

  she often narrated to us. Her anecdotes were not numerous, but she told them

  repeatedly. In imagination, sometimes, I can hear her ceaseless, simple cackle;

  see her faint eyes, as she prattles on unconsciously, and watch the dark looks

  of her handsome, silent husband, scowling from under his eyebrows and smiling

  behind his teeth. I daresay he ground those teeth with suppressed rage

  sometimes. I daresay to bear with her endless volubility must have tasked his

  endurance. He may have treated her ill,
but she tried him. She, on her part, may

  have been a not very wise woman, but she was kind to me. Did not her housekeeper

  make me the best of tarts, and keep goodies from the company dinners for the

  young gentlemen when they came home? Did not her husband give me of his fees? I

  promise you, after I had seen Dr. Fell a few times, that first unpleasing

  impression produced by his darkling countenance and sinister good looks wore

  away. He was a gentleman. He had lived in the great world, of which he told

  anecdotes delightful to boys to hear; and he passed the bottle to me as if I was

  a man.

  I hope and think I remembered the injunction of poor Mrs. Firmin to be kind to

  her boy. As long as we stayed together at Grey Friars, I was Phil's champion,

  whenever he needed my protection, though of course I could not always be present

  to guard the little scapegrace from all the blows which were aimed at his young

  face by pugilists of his own size. There were seven or eight years' difference

  between us (he says ten, which is absurd, and which I deny); but I was always

  remarkable for my affability, and, in spite of our disparity of age, would often

  graciously accept the general invitation I had from his father for any Saturday

  and Sunday when I would like to accompany Philip home.

  Such an invitation is welcome to any schoolboy. To get away from Smithfield, and

  show our best clothes in Bond Street, was always a privilege. To strut in the

  Park on Sunday, and nod to the other fellows who were strutting there too, was

  better than remaining at school, "doing Diatessaron," as the phrase used to be,

  having that endless roast beef for dinner, and hearing two sermons in chapel.

  There may have been more lively streets in London than Old Parr Street; but it

  was pleasanter to be there than to look at Goswell Street over Grey Friars'

  wall; and so the present biographer and reader's very humble servant found Dr.

  Firmin's house an agreeable resort. Mamma was often ailing, or, if well, went

  out into the world with her husband; in either case, we boys had a good dinner

  provided for us, with the special dishes which Phil loved; and after dinner we

  adjourned to the play, not being by any means too proud to sit in the pit with

  Mr. Brice, the doctor's confidential man. On Sunday we went to church at Lady

  Whittlesea's, and back to school in the evening; when the doctor almost always

  gave us a fee. If he did not dine at home (and I own his absence did not much

  damp our pleasure), Brice would lay a small enclosure on the young gentlemen's

  coats, which we transferred to our pockets. I believe schoolboys disdain fees in

  the present disinterested times.

  Everything in Dr. Firmin's house was as handsome as might be, and yet somehow

  the place was not cheerful. One's steps fell noiselessly on the faded Turkey

  carpet; the room was large, and all save the dining-table in a dingy twilight.

  The picture of Mrs. Firmin looked at us from the wall, and followed us about

  with wild violet eyes. Philip Firmin had the same violet odd bright eyes, and

  the same coloured hair of an auburn tinge; in the picture it fell in long wild

  masses over the lady's back as she leaned with bare arms on a harp. Over the

  sideboard was the doctor, in a black velvet coat and a fur collar, his hand on a

  skull, like Hamlet. Skulls of oxen, horned, with wreaths, formed the cheerful

  ornaments of the cornice. On the side-table glittered a pair of cups, given by

  grateful patients, looking like receptacles rather for funereal ashes than for

  festive flowers or wine. Brice, the butler, wore the gravity and costume of an

  undertaker. The footman stealthily moved hither and thither, bearing the dinner

  to us; we always spoke under our breath whilst we were eating it. "The room

  don't look more cheerful of a morning when the patients are sitting here, I can