The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

mustachios present, those of Professor Schnurr, a very corpulent martyr,

  just escaped from Spandau, and of Maximilien Tranchard, French exile and

  apostle of liberty, were the only whiskers in the room capable of vying

  in interest with Colonel Newcome's. Polish chieftains were at this time

  so common in London, that nobody (except one noble Member for Marylebone,

  once a year, the Lord Mayor) took any interest in them. The general

  opinion was, that the stranger was the Wallachian Boyar, whose arrival at

  Mivart's the Morning Post had just announced. Mrs. Miles, whose delicious

  every other Wednesdays in Montague Square are supposed by some to be

  rival entertainments to Mrs. Newcome's alternate Thursdays in Bryanstone

  Square, pinched her daughter Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation

  with Herr Schnurr, nor Carabossi, the guitarist, and Monsieur Pivier, the

  celebrated French chess-player, to point out the Boyar. Mira Miles wished

  she knew a little Moldavian, not so much that she might speak it, but

  that she might be heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not had the

  educational advantages of her daughter, simpered up with "Madame Newcome

  pas ici--votre excellence nouvellement arrive--avez-vous fait ung bong

  voyage? Je recois chez moi Mercredi prochaing; lonnure de vous voir--

  Madamasel Miles ma fille;" and, Mira, now reinforcing her mamma, poured

  in a glib little oration in French, somewhat to the astonishment of the

  Colonel, who began to think, however, that perhaps French was the

  language of the polite world, into which he was now making his very first

  entree.

  Mrs. Newcome had left her place at the door of her drawing-room, to walk

  through her rooms with Rummun Loll, the celebrated Indian merchant,

  otherwise His Excellency Rummun Loll, otherwise his Highness Rummun Loll,

  the chief proprietor of the diamond-mines in Golconda, with a claim of

  three millions and a-half upon the East India Company--who smoked his

  hookah after dinner when the ladies were gone, and in whose honour (for

  his servants always brought a couple or more of hookahs with them) many

  English gentlemen made themselves sick, while trying to emulate the same

  practice. Mr. Newcome had been obliged to go to bed himself in

  consequence of the uncontrollable nausea produced by the chillum; and

  Doctor McGuffog, in hopes of converting His Highness, had puffed his till

  he was as black in the face as the interesting Indian--and now, having

  hung on his arm--always in the dirty gloves--flirting a fan whilst His

  Excellency consumed betel out of a silver box; and having promenaded him

  and his turban, and his shawls, and his kincab pelisse, and his lacquered

  moustache, and keen brown face; and opal eyeballs, through her rooms, the

  hostess came back to her station at the drawing-room door.

  As soon as His Excellency saw the Colonel, whom he perfectly well knew,

  His Highness's princely air was exchanged for one of the deepest

  humility. He bowed his head and put his two hands before his eyes, and

  came creeping towards him submissively, to the wonderment of Mrs. Miles;

  who was yet more astonished when the Moldavian magnate exclaimed in

  perfectly good English, "What, Rummun, you here?"

  The Rummun, still bending and holding his hands before him, uttered a

  number of rapid sentences in the Hindustani language, which Colonel

  Newcome received twirling his mustachios with much hauteur. He turned on

  his heel rather abruptly and began to speak to Mrs. Newcome, who smiled

  and thanked him for coming on his first night after his return.

  The Colonel said, "To whose house should he first come but to his

  brother's?" How Mrs. Newcome wished she could have had room for him at

  dinner! And there was room after all, for Mr. Shaloony was detained at

  the House. The most interesting conversation. The Indian Prince was so

  intelligent!

  "The Indian what?" asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentleman had gone

  off, and was seated by one of the handsomest young women in the room,

  whose fair face was turned towards him, whose blond ringlets touched his

  shoulder, and who was listening to him as eagerly as Desdemona listened

  to Othello.

  The Colonel's rage was excited as he saw the Indian's behaviour. He

  curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. "You don't mean that

  that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow who wouldn't sit down in

  an officer's presence is----"

  "How do you do, Mr. Honeyman?--Eh, bong soir, Monsieur--You are very

  late, Mr. Pressly.--What, Barnes! is it possible that you do me the

  honour to come all the way from Mayfair to Marylebone? I thought you

  young men of fashion never crossed Oxford Street. Colonel Newcome, this

  is your nephew."

  "How do you do, sir?" says Barnes, surveying the Colonel's costume with

  inward wonder, but without the least outward manifestation of surprise.

  "I suppose you dined here to meet the black Prince. I came to ask him and

  my uncle to meet you at dinner on Wednesday. Where's my uncle, ma'am?"

  "Your uncle is gone to bed ill. He smoked one of those hookahs which the

  Prince brings, and it has made him very unwell indeed, Barnes. How is

  Lady Anne? Is Lord Kew in London? Is your sister better for Brighton air?

  I see your cousin is appointed Secretary of Legation. Have you good

  accounts of your aunt Lady Fanny?"

  "Lady Fanny is as well as can be expected, and the baby is going on

  perfectly well, thank you," Barnes said drily; and his aunt, obstinately

  gracious with him, turned away to some other new comet.

  "It's interesting, isn't it, sir," says Barnes, turning to the Colonel,

  "to see such union in families? Whenever I come here, my aunt trots out

  all my relations; and I send a man round in the mornin to ask how they

  all are. So Uncle Hobson is gone to bed sick with a hookah? I know there

  was a deuce of a row made when I smoked at Marblehead. You are promised

  to us for Wednesday, please. Is there anybody you would like to meet? Not

  our friend the Rummun? How the girls crowd round him! By Gad, a fellow

  who's rich in London may have the pick of any gal--not here--not in this

  sort of thing; I mean in society, you know," says Barnes confidentially,

  "I've seen the old dowagers crowdin round that fellow, and the girls

  snugglin up to his india-rubber face. He's known to have two wives

  already in India; but, by Gad, for a settlement, I believe some of 'em

  here would marry--I mean of the girls in society."

  "But isn't this society?" asked the Colonel.

  "Oh, of course. It's very good society and that sort of thing--but it's

  not, you know--you understand. I give you my honour there are not three

  people in the room one meets anywhere, except the Rummun. What is he at

  home, sir? I know he ain't a Prince, you know, any more than I am."

  "I believe he is a rich man now," said the Colonel. "He began from very

  low beginnings, and odd stories are told about the origin of his

  fortune."

  "That may be," says the young man; "of course, as businessmen, that's not

  our affair. But has he got the fortune? He keeps a large account with us;

  and,
I think, wants to have larger dealings with us still. As one of the

  family we may ask you to stand by us, and tell us anything you know. My

  father has asked him down to Newcome, and we've taken him up; wisely or

  not I can't say. I think otherwise; but I'm quite young in the house, and

  of course the elders have the chief superintendence." The young man of

  business had dropped his drawl or his languor, and was speaking quite

  unaffectedly; good-naturedly, and selfishly. Had you talked to him for a

  week, you could not have made him understand the scorn and loathing with

  which the Colonel regarded him. Here was a young fellow as keen as the

  oldest curmudgeon; a lad with scarce a beard to his chin, that would

  pursue his bond as rigidly as Shylock. "If he is like this at twenty,

  what will he be at fifty?" groaned the Colonel. "I'd rather Clive were

  dead than have him such a heartless woriding as this." And yet the young

  man was not ungenerous, not untruth-telling, not unserviceable. He

  thought his life was good enough. It was as good as that of other folks

  he lived with. You don't suppose he had any misgivings, provided he was

  in the City early enough in the morning; or slept badly, unless he

  indulged too freely over-night; or twinges of conscience that his life

  was misspent? He thought his life a most lucky and reputable one. He had

  a share in a good business, and felt that he could increase it. Some day

  he would marry a good match, with a good fortune; meanwhile he could take

  his pleasure decorously, and sow his wild oats as some of the young

  Londoners sow them, not broadcast after the fashion of careless

  scatter-brained youth, but trimly and neatly, in quiet places, where the

  crop can come up unobserved, and be taken in without bustle or scandal.

  Barnes Newcome never missed going to church, or dressing for dinner. He

  never kept a tradesman waiting for his money. He never drank too much,

  except when other fellows did, and in good company. He never was late for

  business, or huddled over his toilet, however brief had been his sleep,

  or severe his headache. In a word, he was as scrupulously whited as any

  sepulchre in the whole bills of mortality.

  Whilst young Barnes and his uncle were thus holding parley, a slim

  gentleman of bland aspect, with a roomy forehead, or what his female

  admirers called "a noble brow," and a neat white neckcloth tied with

  clerical skill, was surveying Colonel Newcome through his shining

  spectacles, and waiting for an opportunity to address him. The Colonel

  remarked the eagerness with which the gentleman in black regarded him,

  and asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre? Mr. Barnes turned his eyeglass

  towards the spectacles, and said "he didn't know any more than the dead;

  he didn't know two people in the room." The spectacles nevertheless made

  the eyeglass a bow, of which the latter took no sort of cognisance. The

  spectacles advanced; Mr. Newcome fell back with a peevish exclamation of

  "Confound the fellow, what is he coming to speak to me for?" He did not

  choose to be addressed by all sorts of persons in all houses.

  But he of the spectacles, with an expression of delight in his pale blue

  eyes, and smiles dimpling his countenance, pressed onwards with

  outstretched hands, and it was towards the Colonel he turned these smiles

  and friendly salutations. "Did I hear aright, sir, from Mrs. Miles," he

  said, "and have I the honour of speaking to Colonel Newcome?"

  "The same, sir," says the Colonel; at which the other, tearing off a

  glove of lavender-coloured kid, uttered the words, "Charles Honeyman,"

  and seized the hand of his brother-in-law. "My poor sister's husband," he

  continued; "my own benefactor; Clive's father. How strange are these

  meetings in the mighty world! How I rejoice to see you, and know you!"

  "You are Charles, are you?" cries the other. "I am very glad, indeed, to

  shake you by the hand, Honeyman. Clive and I should have beat up your

  quarters to-day, but we were busy until dinnertime. You put me in mind of

  poor Emma, Charles," he added, sadly. Emma had not been a good wife to

  him; a flighty silly little woman, who had caused him when alive many a

  night of pain and day of anxiety.

  "Poor, poor Emma!" exclaimed the ecclesiastic, casting his eyes towards

  the chandelier, and passing a white cambric pocket-handkerchief

  gracefully before them. No man in London understood the ring business or

  the pocket-handkerchief business better, or smothered his emotion more

  beautifully. "In the gayest moments, in the giddiest throng of fashion,

  the thoughts of the past will rise; the departed will be among us still.

  But this is not the strain wherewith to greet the friend newly arrived on

  our shores. How it rejoices me to behold you in old England! How you must

  have joyed to see Clive!"

  "D--- the humbug," muttered Barnes, who knew him perfectly well. "The

  fellow is always in the pulpit."

  The incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's chapel smiled and bowed to him. "You

  do not recognise me, sir; I have had the honour of seeing you in your

  public capacity in the City, when I have called at the bank, the bearer

  of my brother-in-law's generous----"

  "Never mind that, Honeyman!" cried the Colonel.

  "But I do mind, my dear Colonel," answers Mr. Honeyman. "I should be a

  very bad man, and a very ungrateful brother, if I ever forgot your

  kindness."

  "For God's sake leave my kindness alone."

  "He'll never leave it alone as long as he can use it," muttered Mr.

  Barnes in his teeth; and turning to his uncle, "May I take you home, sir?

  my cab is at the door, and I shall be glad to drive you." But the Colonel

  said he must talk to his brother-in-law for a while, and Mr. Barnes,

  bowing very respectfully to him, slipped under a dowager's arm in the

  doorway, and retreated silently downstairs.

  Newcome was now thrown entirely upon the clergyman, and the latter

  described the personages present to the stranger, who was curious to know

  how the party was composed. Mrs. Newcome herself would have been pleased

  had she heard Honeyman's discourse regarding her guests and herself.

  Charles Honeyman so spoke of most persons that you might fancy they were

  listening over his shoulder. Such an assemblage of learning, genius, and

  virtue, might well delight and astonish a stranger. "That lady in the red

  turban, with the handsome daughters, is Lady Budge, wife of the eminent

  judge of that name--everybody was astonished that he was not made Chief

  Justice, and elevated to the Peerage--the only objection (as I have heard

  confidentially) was on the part of a late sovereign, who said he never

  could consent to have a peer of the name of Budge. Her ladyship was of

  humble, I have heard even menial, station originally, but becomes her

  present rank, dispenses the most elegant hospitality at her mansion in

  Connaught Terrace, and is a pattern as a wife and a mother. The young man

  talking to her daughter is a young barrister, already becoming celebrated

  as a contributor to some of our principal reviews."

  "Who is that cavalry officer in a white waistcoat talking to the Jew
with

  the beard?" asks the Colonel.

  "He, he! That cavalry officer is another literary man of celebrity, and

  by profession an attorney. But he has quitted the law for the Muses, and

  it would appear that the Nine are never wooed except by gentlemen with

  mustachios."

  "Never wrote a verse in my life," says the Colonel, laughing, and

  stroking his own.

  "For I remark so many literary gentlemen with that decoration. The Jew

  with the beard, as you call him, is Herr von Lungen, the eminent

  hautboy-player. The three next gentlemen are Mr. Smee, of the Royal

  Academy (who is shaved as you perceive), and Mr. Moyes and Mr. Cropper,

  who are both very hairy about the chin. At the piano, singing,

  accompanied by Mademoiselle Lebrun, is Signor Mezzocaldo, the great

  barytone from Rome. Professor Quartz and Baron Hammerstein, celebrated

  geologists from Germany, are talking with their illustrious confrere, Sir

  Robert Craxton, in the door. Do you see yonder that stout gentleman with

  stuff on his shirt? the eloquent Dr. McGuffog, of Edinburgh, talking to

  Dr. Ettore, who lately escaped from the Inquisition at Rome in the

  disguise of a washerwoman, after undergoing the question several times,

  the rack and the thumbscrew. They say that he was to have been burned in

  the Grand Square the next morning; but between ourselves, my dear

  Colonel, I mistrust these stories of converts and martyrs. Did you ever

  see a more jolly-looking man than Professor Schnurr, who was locked up in

  Spielberg, and got out up a chimney, and through a window? Had he waited

  a few months there are very few windows he could have passed through.

  That splendid man in the red fez is Kurbash Pasha--another renegade, I

  deeply lament to say--a hairdresser from Marseilles, by name Monsieur

  Ferehaud, who passed into Egypt, and laid aside the tongs for a turban.

  He is talking with Mr. Palmer, one of our most delightful young poets,

  and with Desmond O'Tara, son of the late revered Bishop of Ballinafad,

  who has lately quitted ours for the errors of the Church of Rome. Let me

  whisper to you that your kinswoman is rather a searcher after what we

  call here notabilities. I heard talk of one I knew in better days--of one

  who was the comrade of my youth, and the delight of Oxford--poor Pidge of

  Brasenose, who got the Newdigate in my third year, and who, under his

  present name of Father Bartolo, was to have been here in his capuchin

  dress, with a beard and bare feet; but I presume he could not get

  permission from his Superior. That is Mr. Huff, the political economist,

  talking with Mr. Macduff, the Member for Glenlivat. That is the coroner

  for Middlesex conversing with the great surgeon Sir Cutler Sharp, and

  that pretty laughing girl talking with them is no other than the

  celebrated Miss Pinnnifer, whose novel of Ralph the Resurrectionist

  created such a sensation after it was abused in the Trimestrial Review.

  It was a little bold certainly--I just looked at it at my club--after

  hours devoted to parish duty a clergyman is sometimes allowed, you know,

  desipere in loco--there are descriptions in it certainly startling--ideas

  about marriage not exactly orthodox; but the poor child wrote the book

  actually in the nursery, and all England was ringing with it before Dr.

  Pinnifer, her father, knew who was the author. That is the Doctor asleep

  in the corner by Miss Rudge, the American authoress, who I dare say is

  explaining to him the difference between the two Governments. My dear

  Mrs. Newcome, I am giving my brother-in-law a little sketch of some of

  the celebrities who are crowding your salon to-night. What a delightful

  evening you have given us!"

  "I try to do my best, Colonel Newcome," said the lady of the house. "I

  hope many a night we may see you here; and, as I said this morning,

  Clive, when he is of an age to appreciate this kind of entertainment.