The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

kissing farewells to him out of the window; as those three charming Miss

  Baliols with whom he had that glorious day in the Catacombs; as friend

  after friend quitted the great city with kind greetings, warm pressures

  of the hand, and hopes of meeting in a yet greater city on the banks of

  the Thames, young Clive felt a depression of spirit. Rome was Rome, but

  it was pleasanter to see it in company; our painters are smoking still at

  the Oafs Greco, but a society all smoke and all painters did not suit

  him. If Mr. Clive is not a Michael Angelo or a Beethoven, if his genius

  is not gloomy, solitary, gigantic, shining alone, like a lighthouse, a

  storm round about him, and breakers dashing at his feet, I cannot help

  myself: he is as Heaven made him, brave, honest, gay, and friendly, and

  persons of a gloomy turn must not look to him as a hero.

  So Clive and his companion worked away with all their hearts from

  November until far into April when Easter came, and the glorious gala

  with which the Roman Church celebrates that holy season. By this time

  Clive's books were full of sketches. Ruins, imperial and mediaeval;

  peasants and bagpipemen; Passionists with shaven polls; Capuchins and the

  equally hairy frequenters of the Cafe Greco; painters of all nations who

  resort there; Cardinals and their queer equipages and attendants; the

  Holy Father himself (it was Gregory sixteenth of the name); the dandified

  English on the Pincio and the wonderful Roman members of the hunt--were

  not all these designed by the young man and admired by his friends in

  after-days? J. J.'s sketches were few, but he had painted two beautiful

  little pictures, and sold them for so good a price that Prince Polonia's

  people were quite civil to him. He had orders for yet more pictures, and

  having worked very hard, thought himself authorised to accompany Mr.

  Clive upon a pleasure-trip to Naples, which the latter deemed necessary

  after his own tremendous labours. He for his part had painted no

  pictures, though he had commenced a dozen and turned them to the wall;

  but he had sketched, and dined, and smoked, and danced, as we have seen.

  So the little britzska was put behind horses again, and our two friends

  set out on their tour, having quite a crowd of brother-artists to cheer

  them, who had assembled and had a breakfast for the purpose at that

  comfortable osteria near the Lateran Gate. How the fellows flung their

  hats up, and shouted, "Lebe wohl," and "Adieu," and "God bless you, old

  boy," in many languages! Clive was the young swell of the artists of that

  year, and adored by the whole of the jolly company. His sketches were

  pronounced on all hands to be admirable: it was agreed that if he chose

  he might do anything.

  So with promises of a speedy return they left behind them the noble city,

  which all love who once have seen it, and of which we think afterwards

  ever with the kindness and the regard of home. They dashed across the

  Campagna and over the beautiful hills of Albano, and sped through the

  solemn Pontine Marshes, and stopped to roost at Terracing (which was not

  at all like Fra Diavolo's Terracing at Covent Garden, as J. J. was

  distressed to remark), and so, galloping onwards through a hundred

  ancient cities that crumble on the shores of the beautiful Mediterranean,

  behold, on the second day as they ascended a hill about noon. Vesuvius

  came in view, its great shape shimmering blue in the distant haze, its

  banner of smoke in the cloudless sky. And about five o'clock in the

  evening (as everybody will who starts from Terracing early and pays the

  postboy well), the travellers came to an ancient city walled and

  fortified, with drawbridges over the shining moats.

  "Here is CAPUA," says J. J., and Clive burst out laughing: thinking of

  his Capua which he had left--how many months--years it seemed ago! From

  Capua to Naples is a fine straight road, and our travellers were landed

  at the latter place at suppertime; where, if they had quarters at the

  Vittoria Hotel, they were as comfortable as any gentlemen painters need

  wish to be in this world.

  The aspect of the place was so charming and delightful to Clive:--the

  beautiful sea stretched before his eyes when waking, Capri a fairy island

  in the distance, in the amethyst rocks of which Sirens might be playing--

  that fair line of cities skirting the shore glittering white along the

  purple water--over the whole brilliant scene Vesuvius rising with

  cloudlets playing round its summit, and the country bursting out into

  that glorious vegetation with which sumptuous nature decorates every

  spring--this city and scene of Naples were so much to Clive's liking that

  I have a letter from him dated a couple of days after the young man's

  arrival, in which he announces his intention of staying there for ever,

  and gives me an invitation to some fine lodgings in a certain palazzo, on

  which he has cast his eye. He is so enraptured with the place, that he

  says to die and be buried there even would be quite a treat, so charming

  is the cemetery where the Neapolitan dead repose.

  The Fates did not, however, ordain that Clive Newcome should pass all his

  life at Naples. His Roman banker presently forwarded a few letters to his

  address; some which had arrived after his departure, others which had

  been lying at the Poste Restante, with his name written in perfectly

  legible characters, but which the authorities of the post, according to

  their custom, would not see when Clive sent for them.

  It was one of these letters which Clive clutched the most eagerly. It had

  been lying since October, actually, at the Roman post, though Clive had

  asked for letters there a hundred times. It was that little letter from

  Ethel, in reply to his own, whereof we have made mention in a previous

  chapter. There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of course,

  that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young writer's

  shoulder. It was affectionate, simple, rather melancholy; described in a

  few words Sir Brian's seizure and present condition; spoke of Lord Kew,

  who was mending rapidly, as if Clive, of course, was aware of his

  accident; of the children, of Clive's father, and ended with a hearty

  "God bless you," to Clive, from his sincere Ethel.

  "You boast of its being over. You see it is not over," says Clive's

  monitor and companion. "Else, why should you have dashed at that letter

  before all the others, Clive?" J. J. had been watching, not without

  interest, Clive's blank face as he read the young lady's note.

  "How do you know who wrote the letter?" asks Clive.

  "I can read the signature in your face," says the other; "and I could

  almost tell the contents of the note. Why have you such a tell-tale face,

  Clive?"

  "It is over; but when a man has once, you know, gone through an affair

  like that," says Clive, looking very grave, "he--he's anxious to hear of

  Alice Grey, and how she's getting on, you see, my good friend." And he

  began to shout out as of old--

  "Her heart it is another's, she--never--can--be--mine;"

  and to laugh at the end of the song. "Well, well," s
ays he; "it is a very

  kind note, a very proper little note; the expression elegant, J. J., the

  sentiment is most correct. All the little t's most properly crossed, and

  all the little i's have dots over their little heads. It's a sort of a

  prize note, don't you see; and one such, as in the old spelling-book

  story, the good boy received a plum-cake for writing. Perhaps you weren't

  educated on the old spelling-book, J. J.? My good old father taught me to

  read out of his--I say, I think it was a shame to keep the old boy

  waiting whilst I have been giving an audience to this young lady. Dear

  old father!" and he apostrophised the letter. "I beg your pardon, sir;

  Miss Newcome requested five minutes' conversation, and I was obliged,

  from politeness, you know, to receive. There's nothing between us;

  nothing but what's most correct, upon my honour and conscience." And he

  kissed his father's letter, and calling out again, "Dear old father!"

  proceeded to read as follows:--

  "'Your letters, my dearest Clive, have been the greatest comfort to me. I

  seem to hear you as I read them. I can't but think that this, the modern

  and natural style, is a great progress upon the old-fashioned manner of

  my day, when we used to begin to our fathers, 'Honoured Father,' or even

  'Honoured Sir' some precisians used to write still from Mr. Lord's

  Academy, at Tooting, where I went before Grey Friars--though I suspect

  parents were no more honoured in those days than nowadays. I know one who

  had rather be trusted than honoured; and you may call me what you please,

  so as you do that.

  "'It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last week I took yours

  from Baden Baden, No. 3, September 15, into Calcutta, and could not help

  showing it at Government House, where I dined. Your sketch of the old

  Russian Princess and her little boy, gambling, was capital. Colonel

  Buckmaster, Lord Bagwig's private secretary, knew her, and says it is to

  a T. And I read out to some of my young fellows what you said about play,

  and how you had given it over. I very much fear some of the young rogues

  are at dice and brandy-pawnee before tiffin. What you say of young

  Ridley, I take cum grano. His sketches I thought very agreeable; but to

  compare them to a certain gentleman's----Never mind, I shall not try to

  make him think too well of himself. I kissed dear Ethel's hand in your

  letter. I write her a long letter by this mail.

  "'If Paul de Florac in any way resembles his mother, between you and him

  there ought to be a very warm regard. I knew her when I was a boy, long

  before you were born or thought of; and in wandering forty years through

  the world since, I have seen no woman in my eyes so good or so beautiful.

  Your cousin Ethel reminded me of her; as handsome, but not so lovely.

  Yes, it was that pale lady you saw at Paris, with eyes full of care, and

  hair streaked with grey. So it will be the turn of you young folks, come

  eight more lustres, and your heads will be bald like mine, or grey like

  Madame de Florac's, and bending over the ground where we are lying in

  quiet. I understand from you that young Paul is not in very flourishing

  circumstances. If he still is in need, mind and be his banker, and I will

  be yours. Any child of hers must never want when I have a spare guinea. I

  do not mind telling you, sir, that I cared for her more than millions of

  guineas once; and half broke my heart about her when I went to India, as

  a young chap. So, if any such misfortunes happen to you, consider, my

  boy, you are not the only one.

  "'Binnie writes me word that he has been ailing. I hope you are a good

  correspondent with him. What made me turn to him just after speaking of

  unlucky love affairs? Could I be thinking about little Rosie Mackenzie?

  She is a sweet little lass, and James will leave her a pretty piece of

  money. Verbum sap. I should like you to marry; but God forbid you should

  marry for a million of gold mohurs.

  "'And gold mohurs bring me to another subject. Do you know I narrowly

  missed losing half a lakh of rupees which I had at an agent's here? And

  who do you think warned me about him? Our friend Rummun Loll, who has

  lately been in England, and with whom I made the voyage from Southampton.

  He is a man of wonderful tact and observation. I used to think meanly of

  the honesty of natives and treat them haughtily, as I recollect doing

  this very gentleman at your Uncle Newcome's in Bryanstone Square. He

  heaped coals of fire on my head by saving my money for me; and I have

  placed it with interest in his house. If I would but listen to him, my

  capital might be trebled in a year, he says, and the interest immensely

  increased. He enjoys the greatest esteem among the moneyed men here;

  keeps a splendid establishment and house here in Barrackpore; is princely

  in his benefactions. He talks to me about the establishment of a bank, of

  which the profits are so enormous and the scheme so (seemingly) clear,

  that I don't know whether I mayn't be tempted to take a few shares. Nous

  verrons. Several of my friends are longing to have a finger in it; but be

  sure this, I shall do nothing rashly and without the very best advice.

  "'I have not been frightened yet by your draughts upon me. Draw as many

  of these as you please. You know I don't half like the other kind of

  drawing, except as a delassement: but if you chose to be a weaver, like

  my grandfather, I should not say you nay. Don't stint yourself of money

  or of honest pleasure. Of what good is money, unless we can make those we

  love happy with it? There would be no need for me to save, if you were to

  save too. So, and as you know as well as I what our means are, in every

  honest way use them. I should like you not to pass the whole of next year

  in Italy, but to come home and pay a visit to honest James Binnie. I

  wonder how the old barrack in Fitzroy Square looks without me? Try and go

  round by Paris on your way home, and pay your visit, and carry your

  father's fond remembrances to Madame la Comtesse de Florac. I don't say

  remember me to my brother, as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu, mon

  fils! je t'embrasse!--and am always my Clive's affectionate father,

  T. N.'"

  "Isn't he a noble old trump?" That point had been settled by the young

  men any time these three years. And now Mr. J. J. remarked that when

  Clive had read his father's letter once, then he read Ethel's over again,

  and put it in his breast-pocket, and was very disturbed in mind that day,

  pishing and pshawing at the statue-gallery which they went to see at the

  Museo.

  "After all," says Clive, "what rubbish these second-rate statues are!

  what a great hulking abortion is this brute of a Farnese Hercules!

  There's only one bit in the whole gallery that is worth a

  twopenny-piece."

  It was the beautiful fragment called Psyche. J. J. smiled as his comrade

  spoke in admiration of this statue--in the slim shape, in the delicate

  formation of the neck, in the haughty virginal expression, the Psyche is

  not unlike the Diana of the Louvre--and the D
iana of the Louvre we have

  said was like a certain young lady.

  "After all," continues Clive, looking up at the great knotted legs of

  that clumsy caricatured porter which Glykon the Athenian sculptured in

  bad times of art surely,--"she could not write otherwise than she did--

  don't you see? Her letter is quite kind and affectionate. You see she

  says she shall always hear of me with pleasure: hopes I'll come back

  soon, and bring some good pictures with me, since pictures I will do. She

  thinks small beer of painters, J. J.--well, we don't think small beer of

  ourselves, my noble friend. I--I suppose it must be over by this time,

  and I may write to her as the Countess of Kew." The custode of the

  apartment had seen admiration and wonder expressed by hundreds of

  visitors to his marble Giant: but he had never known Hercules occasion

  emotion before, as in the case of the young stranger; who, after staring

  a while at the statue, dashed his hand across his forehead with a groan,

  and walked away from before the graven image of the huge Strongman, who

  had himself been made such a fool by women.

  "My father wants me to go and see James and Madame de Florac," says

  Clive, as they stride down the street to the Toledo.

  J. J. puts his arm through his companion's, which is deep the pocket of

  his velvet paletot. "You must not go home till you hear it is over,

  Clive," whispers J. J.

  "Of course not, old boy," says the other, blowing tobacco out of his

  shaking head.

  Not very long after their arrival, we may be sure they went to Pompeii,

  of which place, as this is not an Italian tour, but a history of Clive

  Newcome, Esquire, and his most respectable family, we shall offer to give

  no description. The young man had read Sir Bulwer Lytton's delightful

  story, which has become the history of Pompeii, before they came thither,

  and Pliny's description, apud the Guide-Book. Admiring the wonderful

  ingenuity with which the English writer had illustrated the place by his

  text, as if the houses were so many pictures to which he had appended a

  story, Clive, the wag, who was always indulging his vein for caricature,

  was proposing that that they should take the same place, names, people,

  and make a burlesque story: "What would be a better figure," says he,

  "than Pliny's mother, whom the historian describes as exceedingly

  corpulent, and walking away from the catastrophe with slaves holding

  cushions behind her, to shield her plump person from the cinders! Yes,

  old Mrs Pliny shall be my heroine!" says Clive. A picture of her on a

  dark grey paper and touched up with red at the extremities, exists in

  Clive's album to the present day.

  As they were laughing, rattling, wondering, mimicking, the cicerone

  attending them with his nasal twaddle, anon pausing and silent, yielding

  to the melancholy pity and wonder which the aspect of that strange and

  smiling place inspires,--behold they come upon another party of English,

  two young men accompanying a lady.

  "What, Clive!" cries one.

  "My dear, dear Lord Kew!" shouts the other; and as the young man rushes

  up and grasps the two hands of the other, they begin to blush----

  Lord Kew and his family resided in a neighbouring hotel on the Chiafa at

  Naples; and that very evening on returning from the Pompeian excursion,

  the two painters were invited to take tea by those friendly persons. J.

  J. excused himself, and sate at home drawing all night. Clive went, and

  passed a pleasant evening; in which all sorts of future tours and

  pleasure-parties were projected by the young men. They were to visit

  Paestum, Capri, Sicily; why not Malta and the East? asked Lord Kew.

  Lady Walham was alarmed. Had not Kew been in the East already? Clive was

  surprised and agitated too. Could Kew think of going to the East, and

  making long journeys when he had--he had other engagements that would