The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

life? Cassidy was a newspaper reporter, and young Vanjohn a betting man who was

  always attending races. Dr. Firmin had a horror of newspaper men, and considered

  they belonged to the dangerous classes, and treated them with a distant

  affability.

  "Look at the governor, Pen," Philip would say to the present chronicler. "He

  always watches you with a secret suspicion, and has never got over his wonder at

  your being a gentleman. I like him when he does the Lord Chatham business, and

  condescends towards you, and gives you his hand to kiss. He considers he is your

  better, don't you see? Oh, he is a paragon of a p�re noble, the governor is! and

  I ought to be a young Sir Charles Grandison." And the young scapegrace would

  imitate his father's smile, and the doctor's manner of laying his hand to his

  breast and putting out his neat right leg, all of which movements or postures

  were, I own, rather pompous and affected.

  Whatever the paternal faults were, you will say that Philip was not the man to

  criticize them; nor in this matter shall I attempt to defend him. My wife has a

  little pensioner whom she found wandering in the street, and singing a little

  artless song. The child could not speak yet��only warble its little song; and

  had thus strayed away from home, and never once knew of her danger. We kept her

  for a while, until the police found her parents. Our servants bathed her, and

  dressed her, and sent her home in such neat clothes as the poor little wretch

  had never seen until fortune sent her in the way of those good-natured folks.

  She pays them frequent visits. When she goes away from us, she is always neat

  and clean; when she comes to us, she is in rags and dirty. A wicked little

  slattern! And, pray, whose duty is it to keep her clean? and has not the parent

  in this case forgotten to honour her daughter? Suppose there is some reason

  which prevents Philip from loving his father��that the doctor has neglected to

  cleanse the boy's heart, and by carelessness and indifference has sent him

  erring into the world. If so, woe be to that doctor! If I take my little son to

  the tavern to dinner, shall I not assuredly pay? If I suffer him in tender youth

  to go astray, and harm comes to him, whose is the fault?

  Perhaps the very outrages and irregularities of which Phil's father complained,

  were in some degree occasioned by the elder's own faults. He was so laboriously

  obsequious to great men, that the son in a rage defied and avoided them. He was

  so grave, so polite, so complimentary, so artificial, that Phil, in revolt at

  such hypocrisy, chose to be frank, cynical, and familiar. The grave old bigwigs

  whom the doctor loved to assemble, bland and solemn men of the ancient school,

  who dined solemnly with each other at their solemn old houses��such men as Lord

  Botley, Baron Bumpsher, Cricklade (who published Travels in Asia Minor, 4to,

  1804), the Bishop of St. Bees, and the like��wagged their old heads sadly when

  they collogued in clubs, and talked of poor Firmin's scapegrace of a son. He

  would come to no good; he was giving his good father much pain; he had been in

  all sorts of rows and disturbances at the university, and the Master of Boniface

  reported most unfavourably of him. And at the solemn dinners in Old Parr

  Street��the admirable, costly, silent dinners��he treated these old gentlemen

  with a familiarity which caused the old heads to shake with surprise and choking

  indignation. Lord Botley and Baron Bumpsher had proposed and seconded Firmin's

  boy at the Megatherium club. The pallid old boys toddled away in alarm when he

  made his appearance there. He brought a smell of tobacco-smoke with him. He was

  capable of smoking in the drawing-room itself. They trembled before Philip, who,

  for his part, used to relish their senile anger; and loved, as he called it, to

  tie all their pigtails together.

  In no place was Philip seen or heard to so little advantage as in his father's

  house. "I feel like a humbug myself amongst those old humbugs," he would say to

  me. "Their old jokes, and their old compliments, and their virtuous old

  conversation sicken me. Are all old men humbugs, I wonder?" It is not pleasant

  to hear misanthropy from young lips, and to find eyes that are scarce twenty

  years old already looking out with distrust on the world.

  In other houses than his own I am bound to say Philip was much more amiable, and

  he carried with him a splendour of gaiety and cheerfulness which brought

  sunshine and welcome into many a room which he frequented. I have said that many

  of his companions were artists and journalists, and their clubs and haunts were

  his own. Ridley the Academician had Mrs. Brandon's rooms in Thornhaugh Street,

  and Philip was often in J. J.'s studio, or in the widow's little room below. He

  had a very great tenderness and affection for her; her presence seemed to purify

  him; and in her company the boisterous, reckless young man was invariably gentle

  and respectful. Her eyes used to fill with tears when she spoke about him; and

  when he was present, followed and watched him with sweet motherly devotion. It

  was pleasant to see him at her homely little fireside, and hear his jokes and

  prattle, with a fatuous old father, who was one of Mrs. Brandon's lodgers.

  Philip would play cribbage for hours with this old man, frisk about him with a

  hundred harmless jokes, and walk out by his invalid chair, when the old captain

  went to sun himself in the New Road. He was an idle fellow, Philip, that's the

  truth. He had an agreeable perseverance in doing nothing, and would pass half a

  day in perfect contentment over his pipe, watching Ridley at his easel. J. J.

  painted that charming head of Philip, which hangs in Mrs. Brandon's little

  room��with the fair hair, the tawny beard and whiskers, and the bold blue eyes.

  Phil had a certain after-supper song of "Garryowen na Gloria," which it did you

  good to hear, and which, when sung at his full pitch, you might hear for a mile

  round. One night I had been to dine in Russell Square, and was brought home in

  his carriage by Dr. Firmin, who was of the party. As we came through Soho, the

  windows of a certain club-room called the "Haunt" were open, and we could hear

  Philip's song booming through the night, and especially a certain wild Irish

  war-whoop with which it concluded, amidst universal applause and enthusiastic

  battering of glasses.

  The poor father sank back in the carriage as though a blow had struck him. "Do

  you hear his voice?" he groaned out. "Those are his haunts. My son, who might go

  anywhere, prefers to be captain in a pothouse, and sing songs in a taproom!"

  I tried to make the best of the case. I knew there was no harm in the place;

  that clever men of considerable note frequented it. But the wounded father was

  not to be consoled by such commonplaces; and a deep and natural grief oppressed

  him, in consequence of the faults of his son.

  What ensued by no means surprised me. Among Dr. Firmin's patients was a maiden

  lady of suitable age and large fortune, who looked upon the accomplished doctor

  with favourable eyes. That he should take a companion to cheer him in his

  solitude
was natural enough, and all his friends concurred in thinking that he

  should marry. Every one had cognizance of the quiet little courtship, except the

  doctor's son, between whom and his father there were only too many secrets.

  Some man in a club asked Philip whether he should condole with him or

  congratulate him on his father's approaching marriage? His what? The younger

  Firmin exhibited the greatest surprise and agitation on hearing of this match.

  He ran home: he awaited his father's return. When Dr. Firmin came home and

  betook himself to his study, Philip confronted him there. "This must be a lie,

  sir, which I have heard to-day," the young man said, fiercely.

  "A lie! what lie, Philip" asked the father. They were both very resolute and

  courageous men.

  "That you are going to marry Miss Benson."

  "Do you make my house so happy, that I don't need any other companion?" asked

  the father.

  "That's not the question," said Philip, hotly. "You can't and mustn't marry that

  lady, sir."

  "And why not, sir?"

  "Because in the eyes of God and heaven you are married already, sir. And I swear

  I will tell Miss Benson the story to-morrow, if you persist in your plan."

  "So you know that story?" groaned the father.

  "Yes. God forgive you," said the son.

  "It was a fault of my youth that has been bitterly repented."

  "A fault!��a crime!" said Philip.

  "Enough, sir! Whatever my fault, it is not for you to charge me with it."

  "If you won't guard your own honour, I must. I shall go to Miss Benson now."

  "If you go out of this house, you don't pretend to return to it?"

  "Be it so. Let us settle our accounts, and part, sir."

  "Philip, Philip! you break my heart," cried the father.

  "You don't suppose mine is very light, sir?" said the son.

  Philip never had Miss Benson for a mother-in-law. But father and son loved each

  other no better after their dispute.

  CHAPTER VI. BRANDON'S.

  Thornhaugh Street is but a poor place now, and the houses look as if they had

  seen better days: but that house with the cut centre drawing-room window, with

  the name of Brandon on the door, was as neat as any house in the quarter, and

  the brass plate always shone like burnished gold. About Easter time many fine

  carriages stop at that door, and splendid people walk in, introduced by a tidy

  little maid, or else by an athletic Italian, with a glossy black beard and gold

  earrings, who conducts them to the drawing-room floor, where Mr. Ridley, the

  painter, lives, and where his pictures are privately exhibited before they go to

  the Royal Academy.

  As the carriages drive up, you will often see a red-faced man, in an olive-green

  wig, smiling blandly over the blinds of the parlour, on the ground-floor. That

  is Captain Gann, the father of the lady who keeps the house. I don't know how he

  came by the rank of captain, but he has borne it so long and gallantly that

  there is no use in any longer questioning the title. He does not claim it,

  neither does he deny it. But the wags who call upon Mrs. Brandon can always, as

  the phrase is, "draw" her father, by speaking of Prussia, France, Waterloo, or

  battles in general, until the Little Sister says, "Now, never mind about the

  battle of Waterloo, papa" (she says Pa��her h's are irregular��I can't help

  it)��"Never mind about Waterloo, papa; you've told them all about it. And don't

  go on, Mr. Beans, don't, please, go on in that way."

  Young Beans has already drawn "Captain Gann (assisted by Shaw, the

  Life-Guardsman) killing twenty-four French cuirassiers at Waterloo." "Captain

  Gann defending Hugoumont." "Captain Gann, called upon by Napoleon Buonaparte to

  lay down his arms, saying, 'A captain of militia dies, but never surrenders.'"

  "The Duke of Wellington pointing to the advancing Old Guard, and saying, 'Up,

  Gann, and at them.'" And these sketches are so droll, that even the Little

  Sister, Gann's own daughter, can't help laughing at them. To be sure, she loves

  fun, the Little Sister; laughs over droll books; laughs to herself, in her

  little quiet corner at work; laughs over pictures; and, at the right place,

  laughs and sympathizes too. Ridley says, he knows few better critics of pictures

  than Mrs. Brandon. She has a sweet temper, a merry sense of humour, that makes

  the cheeks dimple and the eyes shine; and a kind heart, that has been sorely

  tried and wounded, but is still soft and gentle. Fortunate are they whose

  hearts, so tried by suffering, yet recover their health. Some have illnesses

  from which there is no recovery, and drag through life afterwards, maimed and

  invalided.

  But this Little Sister, having been subjected in youth to a dreadful trial and

  sorrow, was saved out of them by a kind Providence, and is now so thoroughly

  restored as to own that she is happy, and to thank God that she can be grateful

  and useful. When poor Montfitchet died, she nursed him through his illness as

  tenderly as his good wife herself. In the days of her own chief grief and

  misfortune, her father, who was under the domination of his wife, a cruel and

  blundering woman, thrust out poor little Caroline from his door, when she

  returned to it the broken-hearted victim of a scoundrel's seduction; and when

  the old captain was himself in want and houseless, she had found him, sheltered

  and fed him. And it was from that day her wounds had begun to heal, and, from

  gratitude for this immense piece of good fortune vouchsafed to her, that her

  happiness and cheerfulness returned. Returned? There was an old servant of the

  family, who could not stay in the house because she was so abominably

  disrespectful to the captain, and this woman, said she had never known Miss

  Caroline so cheerful, nor so happy, nor so good-looking, as she was now.

  So Captain Gann came to live with his daughter, and patronized her with much

  dignity. He had a very few yearly pounds, which served to pay his club expenses,

  and a portion of his clothes. His club, I need not say, was at the "Admiral

  Byng," Tottenham Court Road, and here the captain met frequently a pleasant

  little society, and bragged unceasingly about his former prosperity.

  I have heard that the country-house in Kent, of which he boasted, was a shabby

  little lodging-house at Margate, of which the furniture was sold in execution;

  but if it had been a palace the captain would not have been out of place there,

  one or two people still rather fondly thought. His daughter, amongst others, had

  tried to fancy all sorts of good of her father, and especially that he was a man

  of remarkably good manners. But she had seen one or two gentlemen since she knew

  the poor old father��gentlemen with rough coats and good hearts, like Dr.

  Goodenough; gentlemen with superfine coats and superfine double-milled manners,

  like Dr. Firmin, and hearts��well, never mind about that point; gentlemen of no

  h's, like the good, dear, faithful benefactor who had rescued her at the brink

  of despair; men of genius, like Ridley; great, hearty, generous, honest

  gentlemen, like Philip;��and this illusion about Pa, I suppose, had vanished

  alo
ng with some other fancies of her poor little maiden youth. The truth is, she

  had an understanding with the "Admiral Byng:" the landlady was instructed as to

  the supplies to be furnished to the captain; and as for his stories, poor

  Caroline knew them a great deal too well to believe in them any more.

  I would not be understood to accuse the captain of habitual inebriety. He was a

  generous officer, and his delight was, when in cash, to order "glasses round"

  for the company at the club, to whom he narrated the history of his brilliant

  early days, when he lived in some of the tiptop society of this city, sir��a

  society in which, we need not say, the custom always is for gentlemen to treat

  other gentlemen to rum-and-water. Never mind ��I wish we were all as happy as

  the captain. I see his jolly face now before me as it blooms through the window

  in Thornhaugh Street, and the wave of the somewhat dingy hand which sweeps me a

  gracious recognition.

  The clergyman of the neighbouring chapel was a very good friend of the Little

  Sister, and has taken tea in her parlour; to which circumstance the captain

  frequently alluded, pointing out the very chair on which the divine sate. Mr.

  Gann attended his ministrations regularly every Sunday, and brought a rich,

  though somewhat worn, bass voice to bear upon the anthems and hymns at the

  chapel. His style was more florid than is general now among church singers, and,

  indeed, had been acquired in a former age and in the performance of rich

  Bacchanalian chants, such as delighted the contemporaries of our Incledons and

  Brahams. With a very little entreaty, the captain could be induced to sing at

  the club; and I must own that Phil Firmin would draw the captain out, and

  extract from him a song of ancient days; but this must be in the absence of his

  daughter, whose little face wore an air of such extreme terror and disturbance

  when her father sang, that he presently ceased from exercising his musical

  talents in her hearing. He hung up his lyre, whereof it must be owned that time

  had broken many of the once resounding chords.

  With a sketch or two contributed by her lodgers�� with a few gimcracks from the

  neighbouring Wardour Street presented by others of her friends��with the chairs,

  tables, and bureaux as bright as bees'-wax and rubbing could make them��the

  Little Sister's room was a cheery little place, and received not a little

  company. She allowed Pa's pipe. "It's company to him," she said. "A man can't be

  doing much harm when he is smoking his pipe." And she allowed Phil's cigar.

  Anything was allowed to Phil, the other lodgers declared, who professed to be

  quite jealous of Philip Firmin. She had a very few books. "When I was a girl I

  used to be always reading novels," she said; "but, la, they're mostly nonsense.

  There's Mr. Pendennis, who comes to see Mr. Ridley. I wonder how a married man

  can go on writing about love, and all that stuff!" And, indeed, it is rather

  absurd for elderly fingers to be still twanging Dan Cupid's toy bow and arrows.

  Yesterday is gone��yes, but very well remembered; and we think of it the more

  now we know that To-morrow is not going to bring us much.

  Into Mrs. Brandon's parlour Mr. Ridley's old father would sometimes enter of

  evenings, and share the bit of bread and cheese, or the modest supper of Mrs.

  Brandon and the captain. The homely little meal has almost vanished out of our

  life now, but in former days it assembled many a family round its kindly board.

  A little modest supper-tray��a little quiet prattle��a little kindly glass that

  cheered and never inebriated. I can see friendly faces smiling round such a

  meal, at a period not far gone, but how distant! I wonder whether there are any

  old folks now in old quarters of old country towns, who come to each other's

  houses in sedan-chairs, at six o'clock, and play at quadrille until supper-tray