time? Of evenings Ridley and the captain, I say, would have a solemn game at
cribbage, and the Little Sister would make up a jug of something good for the
two oldsters. She liked Mr. Ridley to come, for he always treated her father so
respectful, and was quite the gentleman. And as for Mrs. Ridley, Mr.R.'s "good
lady,"��was she not also grateful to the Little Sister for having nursed her son
during his malady? Through their connection they were enabled to procure Mrs.
Brandon many valuable friends; and always were pleased to pass an evening with
the captain, and were as civil to him as they could have been had he been at the
very height of his prosperity and splendour. My private opinion of the old
captain, you see, is that he was a worthless old captain, but most fortunate in
his early ruin, after which he had lived very much admired and comfortable,
sufficient whisky being almost always provided for him.
Old Mr. Ridley's respect for her father afforded a most precious consolation to
the Little Sister. Ridley liked to have the paper read to him. He was never
quite easy with print, and to his last days, many words to be met with in
newspapers and elsewhere used to occasion the good butler much intellectual
trouble. The Little Sister made his lodger's bills out for him (Mr. R., as well
as the captain's daughter, strove to increase a small income by the letting of
furnished apartments), or the captain himself would take these documents in
charge; he wrote a noble mercantile hand, rendered now somewhat shaky by time,
but still very fine in flourishes and capitals, and very much at worthy Mr.
Ridley's service. Time was, when his son was a boy, that J. J. himself had
prepared these accounts, which neither his father nor his mother were very
competent to arrange. "We were not in our young time, Mr. Gann," Ridley remarked
to his friend, "brought up to much scholarship; and very little book learning
was given to persons in my rank of life. It was necessary and proper for you
gentlemen, of course, sir." "Of course, Mr. Ridley," winks the other veteran
over his pipe. "But I can't go and ask my son John James to keep his old
father's books now as he used to do��which to do so is, on the part of you and
Mrs. Brandon, the part of true friendship, and I value it, sir, and so do my son
John James reckonize and value it, sir." Mr. Ridley had served gentlemen of the
bonne �cole. No nobleman could be more courtly and grave than he was. In Mr.
Gann's manner there was more humorous playfulness, which in no way, however,
diminished the captain's high-breeding. As he continued to be intimate with Mr.
Ridley, he became loftier and more majestic. I think each of these elders acted
on the other, and for good; and I hope Ridley's opinion was correct, that Mr.
Gann was ever the gentleman. To see these two good fogies together was a
spectacle for edification. Their tumblers kissed each other on the table. Their
elderly friendship brought comfort to themselves, and their families. A little
matter of money once created a coolness between the two old gentlemen. But the
Little Sister paid the outstanding account between her father and Mr. Ridley;
there never was any further talk of pecuniary loans between them; and when they
went to the "Admiral Byng," each paid for himself.
Phil often heard of that nightly meeting at the "Admiral Byng," and longed to be
of the company. But even when he saw the old gentlemen in the Little Sister's
parlour, they felt dimly that he was making fun of them. The captain would not
have been able to brag so at ease had Phil been continually watching him. "I
have'ad the honour of waiting on your worthy father at my Lord Todmorden's
table. Our little club ain't no place for you, Mr. Philip, nor for my son,
though he's a good son, and proud me and his mother is of him, which he have
never gave us a moment's pain, except when he was ill, since he have came to
man's estate, most thankful am I, and with my hand on my heart, for to be able
to say so. But what is good for me and Mr. Gann, won't suit you young gentlemen.
You ain't a tradesman, sir, else I'm mistaken in the family, which I thought the
Ringwoods one of the best in England, and the Firmins, a good one likewise." Mr.
Ridley loved the sound of his own voice. At the festive meetings of the club,
seldom a night passed in which he did not compliment his brother Byngs and air
his own oratory. Under this reproof Phil blushed, and hung his conscious head
with shame. "Mr. Ridley," says he, "you shall find I won't come where I am not
welcome; and if I come to annoy you at the 'Admiral Byng,' may I be taken out on
the quarterdeck and shot." On which Mr. Ridley pronounced Philip to be a "most
sing'lar, astrornary, and asentric young man. A good heart, sir. Most generous
to relieve distress. Fine talent, sir; but I fear��I fear it won't come to much
good, Mr. Gann ��saving your presence, Mrs. Brandon, m'm, which, of course, you
always stand up for him."
When Philip Firmin had had his pipe and his talk with the Little Sister in her
parlour, he would ascend, and smoke his second, third, tenth pipe in J. J.
Ridley's studio. He would pass hours before J. J.'s easel, pouring out talk
about politics, about religion, about poetry, about women, about the dreadful
slavishness and meanness of the world;��unwearied in talk and idleness, as
placid J. J. was in listening and labour. The painter had been too busy in life
over his easel to read many books. His ignorance of literature smote him with a
frequent shame. He admired book-writers, and young men of the university who
quoted their Greek and their Horace glibly. He listened with deference to their
talk on such matters; no doubt got good hints from some of them; was always
secretly pained and surprised when the university gentlemen were beaten in
argument, or loud and coarse in conversation, as sometimes they would be. "J. J.
is a very clever fellow of course," Mr. Jarman would say of him, "and the
luckiest man in Europe. He loves painting, and he is at work all day. He loves
toadying fine people, and he goes to a tea-party every night." You all knew
Jarman of Charlotte Street, the miniature-painter? He was one of the kings of
the Haunt. His tongue spared no one. He envied all success, and the sight of
prosperity made him furious: but to the unsuccessful he was kind; to the poor
eager with help and prodigal of compassion; and that old talk about nature's
noblemen and the glory of Iabour was very fiercely and eloquently waged by him.
His friends admired him: he was the soul of independence, and thought most men
sneaks who wore clean linen and frequented gentlemen's society: but it must be
owned his landlords had a bad opinion of him, and I have heard of one or two of
his pecuniary transactions which certainly were not to Mr. Jarman's credit.
Jarman was a man of remarkable humour. He was fond of the widow, and would speak
of her goodness, usefulness, and honesty with tears in his eyes. She was poor
and struggling yet. Had she been wealthy and prosperous, Mr. Jarman would not
have been so alive to her merit.
We ascended to the ro
om on the first-floor, where the centre window has been
heightened, so as to afford an upper light, and under that stream of radiance we
behold the head of an old friend, Mr. J. J. Ridley, the R. Academician. Time has
somewhat thinned his own copious locks, and prematurely streaked the head with
silver. His face is rather wan; the eager, sensitive hand which poises brush and
palette, and quivers over the picture, is very thin: round his eyes are many
lines of ill-health and, perhaps, care, but the eyes are as bright as ever, and
when they look at the canvas, or the model which he transfers to it, clear, and
keen, and happy. He has a very sweet singing voice, and warbles at his work, or
whistles at it, smiling. He sets his hand little feats of skill to perform, and
smiles with a boyish pleasure at his own matchless dexterity. I have seen him,
with an old pewter mustard-pot for a model, fashion a splendid silver flagon in
one of his pictures; paint the hair of an animal, the folds and flowers of a bit
of brocade, and so forth, with a perfect delight in the work he was performing;
a delight lasting from morning till sun-down, during which time he was too busy
to touch the biscuit and glass of water which was prepared for his frugal
luncheon. He is greedy of the last minute of light, and never can be got from
his darling pictures without a regret. To be a painter, and to have your hand in
perfect command, I hold to be one of life's summa bona. The happy mixture of
hand and head work must render the occupation supremely pleasant. In the day's
work must occur endless delightful difficulties and occasions for skill. Over
the details of that armour, that drapery, or what not, the sparkle of that eye,
the downy blush of that cheek, the jewel on that neck, there are battles to be
fought and victories to be won. Each day there must occur critical moments of
supreme struggle and triumph, when struggle and victory must be both
invigorating and exquisitely pleasing��as a burst across country is to a fine
rider perfectly mounted, who knows that his courage and his horse will never
fail him. There is the excitement of the game, and the gallant delight in
winning it. Of this sort of admirable reward for their labour, no men, I think,
have a greater share than painters (perhaps a violin-player perfectly and
triumphantly performing his own beautiful composition may be equally happy).
Here is occupation: here is excitement: here is struggle and victory: and here
is profit. Can man ask more from fortune? Dukes and Rothschilds may be envious
of such a man.
Though Ridley has had his trials and troubles, his art has mastered them all.
Black care may have sat in crupper on that Pegasus, but has never unhorsed the
rider. In certain minds, art is dominant and superior to all beside��stronger
than love, stronger than hate, or care, or penury. As soon as the fever leaves
the hand free, it is seizing and fondling the pencil. Love may frown and be
false, but the other mistress never will. She is always true: always new: always
the friend, companion, inestimable consoler. So John James Ridley sat at his
easel from breakfast till sun-down, and never left his work quite willingly. I
wonder are men of other trades so enamoured of theirs; whether lawyers cling to
the last to their darling reports; or writers prefer their desk and inkstands to
society, to friendship, to dear idleness? I have seen no men in life loving
their profession so much as painters, except, perhaps, actors, who, when not
engaged themselves, always go to the play.
Before this busy easel Phil would sit for hours, and pour out endless talk and
tobacco-smoke. His presence was a delight to Ridley's soul; his face a sunshine;
his voice a cordial. Weakly himself, and almost infirm of body, with
sensibilities tremulously keen, the painter most admired amongst men strength,
health, good spirits, good breeding. Of these, in his youth, Philip had a wealth
of endowment; and I hope these precious gifts of fortune have not left him in
his maturer age. I do not say that with all men Philip was so popular. There are
some who never can pardon good fortune, and in the company of gentlemen are on
the watch for offence; and, no doubt, in his course through life, poor downright
Phil trampled upon corns enough of those who met him in his way. "Do you know
why Ridley is so fond of Firmin?" asked Jarman. "Because Firmin's father hangs
on to the nobility by the pulse, whilst Ridley, you know, is connected with them
through the sideboard." So Jarman had the double horn for his adversary: he
could despise a man for not being a gentleman, and insult him for being one. I
have met with people in the world with whom the latter offence is an
unpardonable crime��a cause of ceaseless doubt, division, and suspicion. What
more common or natural, Bufo, than to hate another for being what you are not?
The story is as old as frogs, bulls, and men.
Then, to be sure, besides your enviers in life, there are your admirers. Beyond
wit, which he understood ��beyond genius which he had��Ridley admired good looks
and manners, and always kept some simple hero whom he loved secretly to cherish
and worship. He loved to be amongst beautiful women and aristocratical men.
Philip Firmin, with his republican notions, and downright bluntness of behaviour
to all men of rank superior to him, had a grand high manner of his own; and if
he had scarce twopence in his pocket, would have put his hands in them with as
much independence as the greatest dandy who ever sauntered on Pall Mall
pavement. What a coolness the fellow had! Some men may, not unreasonably, have
thought it impudence. It fascinated Ridley. To be such a man; to have such a
figure and manner; to be able to look society in the face, slap it on the
shoulder, if you were so minded, and hold it by the button��what would not
Ridley give for such powers and accomplishments? You will please to bear in
mind, I am not saying that J. J. was right, only that he was as he was. I hope
we shall have nobody in this story without his little faults and peculiarities.
Jarman was quite right when he said Ridley loved fine company. I believe his
pedigree gave him secret anguishes. He would rather have been gentleman than
genius ever so great; but let you and me, who have no weaknesses of our own, try
and look charitably on this confessed foible of my friend.
J. J. never thought of rebuking Philip for being idle. Phil was as the lilies of
the field, in the painter's opinion. He was not called upon to toil or spin; but
to take his ease, and grow and bask in sunshine, and be arrayed in glory. The
little clique of painters knew what Firmin's means were. Thirty thousand pounds
of his own. Thirty thousand pounds down, sir; and the inheritance of his
father's immense fortune! A splendour emanated from this gifted young man. His
opinions, his jokes, his laughter, his song, had the weight of thirty thousand
down, sir; and What call had he to work? Would you set a young nobleman to be an
apprentice? Philip was free to be as idle as any lord, if he liked. He ought to
wear fine clothes, ride fine
horses, dine off plate, and drink champagne every
day. J. J. would work quite cheerfully till sunset, and have an eightpenny plate
of meat in Wardour Street and a glass of porter for his humble dinner. At the
Haunt, and similar places of Bohemian resort, a snug place near the fire was
always found for Firmin. Fierce republican as he was, Jarman had a smile for his
lordship, and used to adopt particularly dandified airs when he had been invited
to Old Parr Street to dinner. I daresay Philip liked flattery. I own that he was
a little weak in this respect, and that you and I, my dear sir, are, of course,
far his superiors. J. J., who loved him, would have had him follow his aunt's
and cousin's advice, and live in better company; but I think the painter would
not have liked his pet to soil his hands with too much work, and rather admired
Mr. Phil for being idle.
The Little Sister gave him advice, to be sure, both as to the company he should
keep and the occupation which was wholesome for him. But when others of his
acquaintance hinted that his idleness would do him harm, she would not hear of
their censure. "Why should he work if he don't choose?" she asked. "He has no
call to be scribbling and scrabbling. You wouldn't have him sitting all day
painting little dolls' heads on canvas, and working like a slave. A pretty idea,
indeed! His uncle will get him an appointment. That's the thing he should have.
He should be secretary to an ambassador abroad, and he will be!" In fact, Phil,
at this period, used to announce his wish to enter the diplomatic service, and
his hope that Lord Ringwood would further his views in that respect. Meanwhile
he was the king of Thornhaugh Street. He might be as idle as he chose, and Mrs.
Brandon had always a smile for him. He might smoke a great deal too much, but
she worked dainty little cigar cases for him. She hemmed his fine cambric
pocket-handkerchiefs, and embroidered his crest at the corners. She worked him a
waistcoat so splendid that he almost blushed to wear it, gorgeous as he was in
apparel at this period, and sumptuous in chains, studs, and haberdashery. I fear
Dr. Firmin, sighing out his disappointed hopes in respect of his son, has rather
good cause for his dissatisfaction. But of these remonstrances the Little Sister
would not hear. "Idle, why not? Why should he work? Boys will be boys. I daresay
his grumbling old Pa was not better than Philip when he was young!" And this she
spoke with a heightened colour in her little face, and a defiant toss of her
head, of which I did not understand all the significance then; but attributed
her eager partisanship to that admirable injustice which belongs to all good
women, and for which let us be daily thankful. I know, dear ladies, you are
angry at this statement. But, even at the risk of displeasing you, we must tell
the truth. You would wish to represent yourselves as equitable, logical, and
strictly just. So, I daresay, Dr. Johnson would have liked Mrs. Thrale to say to
him, "Sir, your manners are graceful; your person elegant, cleanly, and
eminently pleasing; your appetite small (especially for tea), and your dancing
equal to the Violetta's;" which, you perceive, is merely ironical. Women
equitable, logical, and strictly just! Mercy upon us! If they were, population
would cease, the world would be a howling wilderness. Well, in a word, this
Little Sister petted and coaxed Philip Firmin in such an absurd way, that every
one remarked it��those who had no friends, no sweethearts, no mothers, no
daughters, no wives, and those who were petted, and coaxed, and spoiled at home
themselves; as I trust, dearly beloved, is your case.
Now, again, let us admit that Philip's father had reason to be angry with the
boy, and deplore his son's taste for low company; but excuse the young man, on
The Adventures of Philip Page 9