The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

welfare. The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no more credit for

  his long self-denial, than many other children award to theirs. We take

  such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist avers

  that, in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves, and the

  other, qui se laisse aimer; it is only in later days, perhaps, when the

  treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold which ministered

  them, that we remember how tender it was; how soft to soothe; how eager

  to shield; how ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear,

  which would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope

  those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet not all too late; and though

  we bring our tribute of reverence and gratitude, it may be to a

  gravestone, there is an acceptance even there for the stricken heart's

  oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, and pious tears. I am

  thinking of the love of Clive Newcome's father for him (and, perhaps,

  young reader, that of yours and mine for ourselves); how the old man lay

  awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave his all for the love of his son;

  and the young man took, and spent, and slept, and made merry. Did we not

  say at our tale's commencement that all stories were old? Careless

  prodigals and anxious elders have been from the beginning:--and so may

  love, and repentance, and forgiveness endure even till the end.

  The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary November mornings,

  when the Regent's Park, where the Colonel took his early walk, was

  wrapped in yellow mist, must have been a melancholy exchange for the

  splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating gallop at dawn, to

  which, for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had accustomed

  himself. His obstinate habit of early waking accompanied him to England,

  and occasioned the despair of his London domestics, who, if master wasn't

  so awful early, would have found no fault with him; for a gentleman as

  gives less trouble to his servants; as scarcely ever rings the bell for

  his self; as will brush his own clothes; as will even boil his own

  shaving-water in the little hetna which he keeps up in his dressing-room;

  as pays so regular, and never looks twice at the accounts; such a man

  deserved to be loved by his household, and I dare say comparisons were

  made between him and his son, who do ring the bells, and scold if his

  boots ain't nice, and horder about like a young lord. But Clive, though

  imperious, was very liberal and good-humoured, and not the worse served

  because he insisted upon exerting his youthful authority. As for friend

  Binnie, he had a hundred pursuits of his own, which made his time pass

  very comfortably. He had all the Lectures at the British Institution; he

  had the Geographical Society, the Asiatic Society, and the Political

  Economy Club; and though he talked year after year of going to visit his

  relations in Scotland, the months and seasons passed away, and his feet

  still beat the London pavement.

  In spite of the cold reception his brothers gave him, duty was duty, and

  Colonel Newcome still proposed, or hoped to be well with the female

  members of the Newcome family; and having, as we have said, plenty of

  time on his hands, and living at no very great distance from either of

  his brothers' town houses, when their wives were in London, the elder

  Newcome was for paying them pretty constant visits. But after the good

  gentleman had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in-law in Bryanstone

  Square--bringing, as was his wont, a present for this little niece, or a

  book for that--Mrs. Newcome, with her usual virtue, gave him to

  understand that the occupation of an English matron, who, besides her

  multifarious family duties, had her own intellectual culture to mind,

  would not allow her to pass the mornings in idle gossips: and of course

  took great credit to herself for having so rebuked him. "I am not above

  instruction of any age," says she, thanking Heaven (or complimenting it,

  rather, for having created a being so virtuous and humble-minded). "When

  Professor Schroff comes, I sit with my children, and take lessons in

  German,--and I say my verbs with Maria and Tommy in the same class!" Yes,

  with curtsies and fine speeches she actually bowed her brother out of

  doors; and the honest gentleman meekly left her, though with

  bewilderment, as he thought of the different hospitality to which he had

  been accustomed in the East, where no friend's house was ever closed to

  him, where no neighbour was so busy but he had time to make Thomas

  Newcome welcome.

  When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, their kind uncle

  was for treating them to the sights of the town, but here Virtue again

  interposed and laid its interdict upon pleasure. "Thank you, very much,

  my dear Colonel," says Virtue, "there never was surely such a kind,

  affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so indulgent for

  children, but my boys and yours are brought up on a very different plan.

  Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable that they should

  even see too much of each other. Clive's company is not good for them."

  "Great heavens, Maria!" cries the Colonel, starting up, "do you mean that

  my boy's society is not good enough for any boy alive?"

  Maria turned very red: she had said not more than she meant, but more

  than she meant to say. "My dear Colonel, how hot we are! how angry you

  Indian gentlemen become with us poor women! Your boy is much older than

  mine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. Our

  children are bred on quite a diferent plan. Hobson will succeed his

  father in the bank, and dear Samuel I trust will go into the Church. I

  told you, before, the views I had regarding the boys: but it was most

  kind of you to think of them--most generous and kind."

  "That nabob of ours is a queer fish," Hobson Newcome remarked to his

  nephew Barnes. "He is as proud as Lucifer, he is always taking huff about

  one thing or the other. He went off in a fume the other night because

  your aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. She don't like

  their going to the play. My mother didn't either. Your aunt is a woman

  who is uncommon wideawake, I can tell you."

  "I always knew, sir, that my aunt was perfectly aware of the time of the

  day," says Barnes, with a bow.

  "And then the Colonel flies out about his boy, and says that my wife

  insulted him! I used to like that boy. Before his father came he was a

  good lad enough--a jolly brave little fellow."

  "I confess I did not know Mr. Clive at that interesting period of his

  existence," remarks Barnes.

  "But since he has taken this madcap freak of turning painter," the uncle

  continues, "there is no understanding the chap. Did you ever see such a

  set of fellows as the Colonel had got together at his party the other

  night? Dirty chaps in velvet coats and beards? They looked like a set of

  mountebanks. And this young Clive is going to turn painter!"

  "Very advantageous thing for the family. He'll do our pictures for

  nothing. I always said
he was a darling boy," simpered Barnes.

  "Darling jackass!" growled out the senior. "Confound it, why doesn't my

  brother set him up in some respectable business? I ain't proud. I have

  not married an earl's daughter. No offence to you, Barnes."

  "Not at all, sir. I can't help it if my grandfather is a gentleman," says

  Barnes, with a fascinating smile.

  The uncle laughs. "I mean I don't care what a fellow is if he is a good

  fellow. But a painter! hang it--a painter's no trade at all--I don't

  fancy seeing one of our family sticking up pictures for sale. I don't

  like it, Barnes."

  "Hush! here comes his distinguished friend, Mr. Pendennis," whispers

  Barnes; and the uncle growling out, "Damn all literary fellows--all

  artists--the whole lot of them!" turns away. Barnes waves three languid

  fingers of recognition towards Pendennis: and when the uncle and nephew

  have moved out of the club newspaper room, little Tom Eaves comes up and

  tells the present reporter every word of their conversation.

  Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian brother found the

  society of Bryanstone Square very little to his taste, as indeed how

  should he? being a man of a good harmless disposition certainly, but of

  small intellectual culture. It could not be helped. She had done her

  utmost to make him welcome, and grieved that their pursuits were not more

  congenial. She heard that he was much more intimate in Park Lane.

  Possibly the superior rank of Lady Anne's family might present charms to

  Colonel Newcome, who fell asleep at her assemblies. His boy, she was

  afraid, was leading the most irregular life. He was growing a pair of

  mustachios, and going about with all sorts of wild associates. She found

  no fault; who was she, to find fault with any one? But she had been

  compelled to hint that her children must not be too intimate with him.

  And so, between one brother who meant no unkindness, and another who was

  all affection and goodwill, this undoubting woman created difference,

  distrust, dislike, which might one day possibly lead to open rupture. The

  wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and they fall, and they

  come by their deserts: but who can tell the mischief which the very

  virtuous do?

  To her sister-in-law, Lady Anne, the Colonel's society was more welcome.

  The affectionate gentleman never tired of doing kindnesses to his

  brother's many children; and as Mr. Clive's pursuits now separated him a

  good deal from his father, the Colonel, not perhaps without a sigh that

  fate should so separate him from the society which he loved best in the

  world, consoled himself as best he might with his nephews and nieces,

  especially with Ethel, for whom his belle passion conceived at first

  sight never diminished. If Uncle Newcome had a hundred children, Ethel

  said, who was rather jealous of disposition, he would spoil them all. He

  found a fine occupation in breaking a pretty little horse for her, of

  which he made her a present, and there was no horse in the Park that was

  so handsome, and surely no girl who looked more beautiful than Ethel

  Newcome with her broad hat and red ribbon, with her thick black locks

  waving round her bright face, galloping along the ride on Bhurtpore.

  Occasionally Clive was at their riding-parties, when the Colonel would

  fall back and fondly survey the young people cantering side by side over

  the grass: but by a tacit convention it was arranged that the cousins

  should be but seldom together; the Colonel might be his niece's companion

  and no one could receive him with a more joyous welcome, but when Mr.

  Clive made his appearance with his father at the Park Lane door, a

  certain gene was visible in Miss Ethel, who would never mount except with

  Colonel Newcome's assistance, and who, especially after Mr. Clive's

  famous mustachios made their appearance, rallied him, and remonstrated

  with him regarding those ornaments, and treated him with much distance

  and dignity. She asked him if he was going into the army? she could not

  understand how any but military men could wear mustachios; and then she

  looked fondly and archly at her uncle, and said she liked none that were

  not grey.

  Clive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young

  creature. If he had been in love with her, no doubt he would have

  sacrificed even those beloved new-born whiskers for the charmer. Had he

  not already bought on credit the necessary implements in a fine

  dressing-case, from young Moss? But he was not in love with her;

  otherwise he would have found a thousand opportunities of riding with

  her, walking with her, meeting her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit or

  expressed, all governesses, guardians, mamma's punctilios, and kind hints

  from friends. For a while, Mr. Clive thought himself in love with his

  cousin; than whom no more beautiful young girl could be seen in any park,

  ball, or drawing-room; and he drew a hundred pictures of her, and

  discoursed about her beauties to J. J., who fell in love with her on

  hearsay. But at this time Mademoiselle Saltarelli was dancing at Drury

  Lane Theatre, and it certainly may be said that Clive's first love was

  bestowed upon that beauty: whose picture of course he drew in most of her

  favourite characters; and for whom his passion lasted until the end of

  the season, when her night was announced, tickets to be had at the

  theatre, or of Mademoiselle Saltarelli, Buckingham Street, Strand. Then

  it was that with a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to engage

  places for the houri's benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme, Mademoiselle

  Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him in the French language in a

  dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! issuing from the adjoining

  dining-room (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter pots upon a

  darkling tablecloth), could that lean, scraggy, old, beetle-browed yellow

  face, who cried, "Ou es tu donc, maman?" with such a shrill nasal voice--

  could that elderly vixen be that blooming and divine Saltarelli? Clive

  drew her picture as she was, and a likeness of Madame Rogomme, her mamma;

  a Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and scented at once with tobacco and

  eau-de-cologne, occupied Clive's stall on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's

  night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gandish's to whom Newcome ceded his

  place, and who laughed (as he always did at Clive's jokes) when the

  latter told the story of his interview with the dancer. "Paid five pound

  to see that woman! I could have took you behind the scenes" (or "beide

  the seeds," Mr. Moss said) "and showed her to you for dothing." Did he

  take Clive behind the scenes? Over this part of the young gentleman's

  life, without implying the least harm to him--for have not others been

  behind the scenes; and can there be any more dreary object than those

  whitened and raddled old women who shudder at the slips?--over this stage

  of Clive Newcome's life we may surely drop the curtain.

  It is pleasanter to contemplate that kind old face of Clive's father,

  that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards at

  sunset. The grooms behind in qu
iet conversation about horses, as men

  never tire of talking about horses. Ethel wants to know about battles;

  about lovers' lamps, which she has read of in Lalla Rookh. "Have you ever

  seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night?" About Indian

  widows. "Did you actually see one burning, and hear her scream as you

  rode up?" She wonders whether he will tell her anything about Clive's

  mother: how she must have loved Uncle Newcome! Ethel can't bear, somehow,

  to think that her name was Mrs. Casey, perhaps he was very fond of her;

  though he scarcely ever mentions her name. She was nothing like that good

  old funny Miss Honeyman at Brighton. Who could the person be?--a person

  that her uncle knew ever so long ago--a French lady, whom her uncle says

  Ethel often resembles? That is why he speaks French so well. He can

  recite whole pages out of Racine. Perhaps it was the French lady who

  taught him. And he was not very happy at the Hermitage (though grandpapa

  was a very kind good man), and he upset papa in a little carriage, and

  was wild, and got into disgrace, and was sent to India? He could not have

  been very bad, Ethel thinks, looking at him with her honest eyes. Last

  week he went to the Drawing-room, and papa presented him. His uniform of

  grey and silver was quite old, yet he looked much grander than Sir Brian

  in his new deputy-lieutenant's dress. "Next year, when I am presented,

  you must come too, sir," says Ethel. "I insist upon it, you must come

  too!"

  "I will order a new uniform, Ethel," says her uncle.

  The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword, uncle, and

  asked you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the same

  question in my mind; and I thought when you went to the Drawing-room,

  perhaps the King will knight him. But instead he knighted mamma's

  apothecary, Sir Danby Jilks: that horrid little man, and I won't have you

  knighted any more."

  "I hope Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks how many people HE has killed,"

  says the Colonel, laughing; but thinking the joke too severe upon Sir

  Danby and the profession, he forthwith apologises by narrating many

  anecdotes he knows to the credit of surgeons. How, when the fever broke

  out on board the ship going to India, their surgeon devoted himself to

  the safety of the crew, and died himself, leaving directions for the

  treatment of the patients when he was gone! What heroism the doctors

  showed during the cholera in India; and what courage he had seen some of

  them exhibit in action: attending the wounded men under the hottest fire,

  and exposing themselves as readily as the bravest troops. Ethel declares

  that her uncle always will talk of other people's courage, and never say

  a word about his own; "and the only reason," she says, "which made me

  like that odious Sir Thomas de Boots, who laughs so, and looks so red,

  and pays such horrid compliments to all ladies, was, that he praised you,

  uncle, at Newcome, last year, when Barnes and he came to us at Christmas.

  Why did you not come? Mamma and I went to see your old nurse; and we

  found her such a nice old lady." So the pair talk kindly on, riding

  homewards through the pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone out to

  dinner; and there were cards for three parties afterwards. "Oh, how I

  wish it was next year!" says Miss Ethel.

  Many a splendid assembly, and many a brilliant next year, will the ardent

  and hopeful young creature enjoy; but in the midst of her splendour and

  triumphs, buzzing flatterers, conquered rivals, prostrate admirers, no

  doubt she will think sometimes of that quiet season before the world

  began for her, and that dear old friend, on whose arm she leaned while

  she was yet a young girl.

  The Colonel comes to Park Street early in the forenoon, when the mistress

  of the house, surrounded by her little ones, is administering dinner to