The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

kindest and most affectionate mother, and--(Here a vision of Sir Brian

  alone in his room, and nobody really caring for him so much as his valet,

  who loves him to the extent of fifty pounds a year and perquisites; or,

  perhaps, Miss Cann, who reads to him, and plays a good deal of evenings,

  much to Sir Brian's liking--here this vision, we say, comes, and stops

  Miss Ethel's sentence.)

  Madame de F. Your father, in his infirmity--and yet he is five years

  younger than Colonel Newcome--is happy to have such a wife and such

  children. They comfort his age; they cheer his sickness; they confide

  their griefs and pleasures to him--is it not so? His closing days are

  soothed by their affection.

  Ethel. Oh, no, no! And yet it is not his fault or ours that he is a

  stranger to us. He used to be all day at the bank, or at night in the

  House of Commons, or he and mamma went to parties, and we young ones

  remained with the governess. Mamma is very kind. I have never, almost,

  known her angry; never with us; about us, sometimes, with the servants.

  As children, we used to see papa and mamma at breakfast; and then when

  she was dressing to go out. Since he has been ill, she has given up all

  parties. I wanted to do so too. I feel ashamed in the world, sometimes,

  when I think of my poor father at home, alone. I wanted to stay, but my

  mother and my grandmother forbade me. Grandmamma has a fortune, which she

  says I am to have: since then they have insisted on my being with her.

  She is very clever you know: she is kind too in her way; but she cannot

  live out of society. And I, who pretend to revolt, I like it too; and I,

  who rail and scorn flatterers--oh, I like admiration! I am pleased when

  the women hate me, and the young men leave them for me. Though I despise

  many of these, yet I can't help drawing them towards me. One or two of

  them I have seen unhappy about me, and I like it; and if they are

  indifferent I am angry, and never tire till they come back. I love

  beautiful dresses; I love jewels; I love a great name and a fine house--

  oh, I despise myself, when I think of these things! When I lie in bed and

  say I have been heartless and a coquette, I cry with humiliation; and

  then rebel and say, Why not?--and to-night--yes, to-night--after leaving

  you, I shall be wicked, I know I shall.

  Madame de F. (sadly). One will pray for thee, my child.

  Ethel (sadly). I thought I might be good once. I used to say my own

  prayers then. Now I speak them but by rote, and feel ashamed--yes,

  ashamed to speak them. Is it not horrid to say them, and next morning to

  be no better than you were last night? Often I revolt at these as at

  other things, and am dumb. The Vicar comes to see us at Newcome, and eats

  so much dinner, and pays us such court, and "Sir Brians" papa, and

  "Your Ladyship's" mamma. With grandmamma I go to hear a fashionable

  preacher--Clive's uncle, whose sister lets lodgings at Brighton; such a

  queer, bustling, pompous, honest old lady. Do you know that Clive's aunt

  lets lodgings at Brighton?

  Madame de F. My father was an usher in a school. Monsieur de Florac gave

  lessons in the emigration. Do you know in what?

  Ethel. Oh, the old nobility! that is different, you know. That Mr.

  Honeyman is so affected that I have no patience with him!

  Madame de F. (with a sigh). I wish you could attend the services of a

  better church. And when was it you thought you might be good, Ethel?

  Ethel. When I was a girl. Before I came out. When I used to take long

  rides with my dear Uncle Newcome; and he used to talk to me in his sweet

  simple way; and he said I reminded him of some one he once knew.

  Madame de F. Who--who was that, Ethel?

  Ethel (looking up at Gerard's picture of the Countess de Florac). What

  odd dresses you wore in the time of the Empire, Madame de Florac! How

  could you ever have such high waists, and such wonderful fraises!

  (MADAME DE FLORAC kisses ETHEL. Tableau.)

  Enter SAINT JEAN, preceding a gentleman with a drawing-board under his

  arm.

  Saint Jean. Monsieur Claive! [Exit SAINT JEAN.

  Clive. How do you do, Madame la Comtesse? Mademoiselle, j'ai l'honneur

  de vous souhaiter le bon jour.

  Madame de F. Do you come from the Louvre? Have you finished that

  beautiful copy, mon ami?

  Clive. I have brought it for you. It is not very good. There are always

  so many petites demoiselles copying that Sasso Ferrato; and they chatter

  about it so, and hop from one easel to another; and the young artists are

  always coming to give them advice--so that there is no getting a good

  look at the picture. But I have brought you the sketch; and am so pleased

  that you asked for it.

  Madame de F. (surveying the sketch). It is charming--charming! What

  shall we give to our painter for his chef-d'oeuvre?

  Clive (kisses her hand). There is my pay! And you will be glad to hear

  that two of my portraits have been received at the Exhibition. My uncle,

  the clergyman, and Mr. Butts, of the Life Guards.

  Ethel. Mr. Butts--quel nom! Je ne connois aucun M. Butts!

  Clive. He has a famous head to draw. They refused Crackthorpe and--and

  one or two other heads I sent in.

  Ethel (tossing up hers). Miss Mackenzie's, I suppose!

  Clive. Yes, Miss Mackenzie's. It is a sweet little face; too delicate

  for my hand, though.

  Ethel. So is a wax-doll's a pretty face. Pink cheeks; china-blue eyes;

  and hair the colour of old Madame Hempenfeld's--not her last hair--her

  last but one. (She goes to a window that looks into the court.)

  Clive (to the Countess). Miss Mackenzie speaks more respectfully of

  other people's eyes and hair. She thinks there is nobody in the world to

  compare to Miss Newcome.

  Madame de F. (aside). And you, mon ami? This is the last time,

  entendez-vous? You must never come here again. If M. le Comte knew it he

  never would pardon me. Encore? (He kisses her ladyship's hand again.)

  Clive. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome, does the view

  of the courtyard please you? The old trees and the garden are better.

  That dear old Faun without a nose! I must have a sketch of him: the

  creepers round the base are beautiful.

  Miss N. I was looking to see if the carriage had come for me. It is time

  that I return home.

  Clive. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere? I hire him by the

  hour: and I will carry you to the end of the world.

  Miss N. Where are you going, Madame de Floras?--to show that sketch to

  M. le Comte? Dear me! I don't fancy that M. de Florac can care for such

  things! I am sure I have seen many as pretty on the quays for twenty-five

  sous. I wonder the carriage is not come for me.

  Clive. You can take mine without my company, as that seems not to please

  you.

  Miss N. Your company is sometimes very pleasant--when you please.

  Sometimes, as last night, for instance, when you particularly lively.

  Clive. Last night, after moving heaven and earth to get an invitation to

  Madame de Brie--I say, heaven and earth, that is a
French phrase--I

  arrive there; I find Miss Newcome engaged for almost every dance,

  waltzing with M. de Klingenspohr, galloping with Count de Capri,

  galloping and waltzing with the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh. She

  will scarce speak to me during the evening; and when I wait till

  midnight, her grandmamma whisks her home, and I am left alone for my

  pains. Lady Kew is in one of her high moods, and the only words she

  condescends to say to me are, "Oh, I thought you had returned to London,"

  with which she turns her venerable back upon me.

  Miss N. A fortnight ago you said you were going to London. You said the

  copies you were about here would not take you another week, and that was

  three weeks since.

  Clive. It were best I had gone.

  Miss N. If you think so, I cannot but think so.

  Clive. Why do I stay and hover about you, and follow you know--I follow

  you? Can I live on a smile vouchsafed twice a week, and no brighter than

  you give to all the world? What I do I get, but to hear your beauty

  praised, and to see you, night after night, happy and smiling and

  triumphant, the partner of other men? Does it add zest to your triumph,

  to think that I behold it? I believe you would like a crowd of us to

  pursue you.

  Miss N. To pursue me; and if they find me alone, by chance to compliment

  me with such speeches as you make? That would be pleasure indeed! Answer

  me here in return, Clive. Have I ever disguised from any of my friends

  the regard I have for you? Why should I? Have not I taken your part when

  you were maligned? In former days, when--when Lord Kew asked me, as he

  had a right to do then--I said it was as a brother I held you; and always

  would. If I have been wrong, it has been for two or three times in seeing

  you at all--or seeing you thus; in letting you speak to me as you do--

  injure me as you do. Do you think I have not hard enough words said to me

  about you, but that you must attack me too in turn? Last night only,

  because you were at the ball,--it was very, very wrong of me to tell you

  I was going there,--as we went home, Lady Kew--Go, sir. I never thought

  you would have seen in me this humiliation.

  Clive. Is it possible that I should have made Ethel Newcome shed tears?

  Oh, dry them, dry them. Forgive me, Ethel, forgive me! I have no right to

  jealousy, or to reproach you--I know that. If others admire you, surely I

  ought to know that they--they do but as I do: I should be proud, not

  angry, that they admire my Ethel--my sister, if you can be no more.

  Ethel. I will be that always, whatever harsh things you think or say of

  me. There, sir, I am not going to be so foolish as to cry again. Have you

  been studying very hard? Are your pictures good at the Exhibition? I like

  you with your mustachios best, and order you not to cut them off again.

  The young men here wear them. I hardly knew Charles Beardmore when he

  arrived from Berlin the other day, like a sapper and miner. His little

  sisters cried out, and were quite frightened by his apparition. Why are

  you not in diplomacy? That day, at Brighton, when Lord Farintosh asked

  whether you were in the army, I thought to myself, why is he not?

  Clive. A man in the army may pretend to anything, n'est-ce pas? He wears

  a lovely uniform. He may be a General, a K.C.B., a Viscount, an Earl. He

  may be valiant in arms, and wanting a leg, like the lover in the song. It

  is peace-time, you say? so much the worse career for a soldier. My father

  would not have me, he said, for ever dangling in barracks, or smoking in

  country billiard-rooms. I have no taste for law: and as for diplomacy, I

  have no relations in the Cabinet, and no uncles in the House of Peers.

  Could my uncle, who is in Parliament, help me much, do you think? or

  would he, if he could?--or Barnes, his noble son and heir, after him?

  Ethel (musing). Barnes would not, perhaps, but papa might even still,

  and you have friends who are fond of you.

  Clive. No--no one can help me: and my art, Ethel, is not only my choice

  and my love, but my honour too. I shall never distinguish myself in it: I

  may take smart likenesses, but that is all. I am not fit to grind my

  friend Ridley's colours for him. Nor would my father, who loves his own

  profession so, make a good general probably. He always says so. I thought

  better of myself when I began as a boy; and was a conceited youngster,

  expecting to carry it all before me. But as I walked the Vatican, and

  looked at Raphael, and at the great Michael--I knew I was but a poor

  little creature; and in contemplating his genius, shrunk up till I felt

  myself as small as a man looks under the dome of St. Peter's. Why should

  I wish to have a great genius?--Yes, there is one reason why I should

  like to have it.

  Ethel. And that is?

  Clive. To give it you, if it pleased you, Ethel. But I might wish for

  the roc's egg: there is no way of robbing the bird. I must take a humble

  place, and you want a brilliant one. A brilliant one! Oh, Ethel, what a

  standard we folks measure fame by! To have your name in the Morning Post,

  and to go to three balls every night. To have your dress described at the

  Drawing-Room; and your arrival, from a round of visits in the country, at

  your town-house; and the entertainment of the Marchioness of Farin----

  Ethel. Sir, if you please, no calling names.

  Clive. I wonder at it. For you are in the world, and you love the world,

  whatever you may say. And I wonder that one of your strength of mind

  should so care for it. I think my simple old father is much finer than

  all your grandees: his single-mindedness more lofty than all their

  bowing, and haughtiness, and scheeming. What are you thinking of, as you

  stand in that pretty attitude--like Mnemosyne--with your finger on your

  chin?

  Ethel. Mnemosyne! who was she? I think I like you best when you are

  quiet and gentle, and not when you are flaming out and sarcastic, sir.

  And so you think you will never be a famous painter? They are quite in

  society here. I was so pleased, because two of them dined at the

  Tuileries when grandmamma was there; and she mistook one, who was covered

  all over with crosses, for an ambassador, I believe, till the Queen call

  him Monsieur Delaroche. She says there is no knowing people in this

  country. And do you think you will never be able to paint as well as M.

  Delaroche?

  Clive. No--never.

  Ethel. And--and--you will never give up painting?

  Clive. No--never. That would be like leaving your friend who was poor;

  or deserting your mistress because you were disappointed about her money.

  They do those things in the great world, Ethel.

  Ethel (with a sigh). Yes.

  Clive. If it is so false, and base, and hollow, this great world--if its

  aims are so mean, its successes so paltry, the sacrifices it asks of you

  so degrading, the pleasures it gives you so wearisome, shameful even, why

  does Ethel Newcome cling to it? Will you be fairer, dear, with any other

  name than your own? Will you be happier, after a month, at bearing a

  great title, with a ma
n whom you can't esteem, tied for ever to you, to

  be the father of Ethel's children, and the lord and master of her life

  and actions? The proudest woman in the world consents to bend herself to

  this ignominy, and own that a coronet is a bribe sufficient for her

  honour! What is the end of a Christian life, Ethel; a girl's pure

  nurture?--it can't be this! Last week, as we walked in the garden here,

  and heard the nuns singing in their chapel, you said how hard it was that

  poor women should be imprisoned so, and were thankful that in England we

  had abolished that slavery. Then you cast your eyes to the ground, and

  mused as you paced the walk; and thought, I know, that perhaps their lot

  was better than some others.

  Ethel. Yes, I did. I was thinking that almost all women are made slaves

  one way or other, and that these poor nuns perhaps were better off than

  we are.

  Clive. I never will quarrel with nun or matron for following her

  vocation. But for our women, who are free, why should they rebel against

  Nature, shut their hearts up, sell their lives for rank and money, and

  forgo the most precious right of their liberty? Look, Ethel, dear. I love

  you so, that if I thought another had your heart, an honest man, a loyal

  gentleman, like--like him of last year even, I think I could go back with

  a God bless you, and take to my pictures again, and work on in my own

  humble way. You seem like a queen to me, somehow; and I am but a poor,

  humble fellow, who might be happy, I think, if you were. In those balls,

  where I have seen you surrounded by those brilliant young men, noble and

  wealthy, admirers like me, I have often thought, "How could I aspire to

  such a creature, and ask her to forgo a palace to share the crust of a

  poor painter?"

  Ethel. You spoke quite scornfully of palaces just now, Clive. I won't

  say a word about the--the regard which you express for me. I think you

  have it. Indeed, I do. But it were best not said, Clive; best for me,

  perhaps, not to own that I know it. In your speeches, my poor boy--and

  you will please not to make any more, or I never can see you or speak to

  you again, never--you forgot one part of a girl's duty: obedience to her

  parents. They would never agree to my marrying any one below--any one

  whose union would not be advantageous in a worldly point of view. I never

  would give such pain to the poor father, or to the kind soul who never

  said a harsh word to me since I was born. My grandmamma is kind, too, in

  her way. I came to her of my own free will. When she said she would leave

  me her fortune, do you think it was for myself alone that I was glad? My

  father's passion was to make an estate, and all my brothers and sisters

  will be but slenderly portioned. Lady Kew said she would help them if I

  came to her--and--it is the welfare of those little people that depends

  upon me, Clive. Now, do you see, brother, why you must speak to me so no

  more? There is the carriage. God bless you, dear Clive.

  (Clive sees the carriage drive away after Miss Newcome has entered it

  without once looking up to the window where he stands. When it is gone he

  goes to the opposite windows of the salon, which are open, towards the

  garden. The chapel music begins to play from the Convent, next door. As

  he hears it he sinks down, his head in his hands.)

  Enter Madame de Florac (She goes to him with anxious looks.). What hast

  thou, my child? Hast thou spoken?

  Clive (very steadily). Yes.

  Madame de F. And she loves thee? I know she loves thee.

  Clive. You hear the organ of the convent?

  Madame de F. Qu'as tu?

  Clive. I might as well hope to marry one of the sisters of yonder

  convent, dear lady. (He sinks down again, and she kisses him.)