The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

artist's talents; and that he had to bring them to London, where a score

  of old friends would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the Colonel,

  too, could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner, I felt

  certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his leave of

  absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spacious old house in

  Queens Square, Westminster, where there was plenty of room for father and

  son. I knew that Laura would be delighted to welcome these guests--may

  the wife of every worthy gentleman who reads these pages be as ready to

  receive her husband's friends. It was the state of Rosa's health, and the

  Campaigner's authority and permission, about which I was in doubt, and

  whether this lady's two slaves would be allowed to go away.

  These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake, and he did not

  breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the coffee-room to

  myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended when the waiter announced

  a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her appearance. No

  signs of care or poverty were visible in the attire or countenance of the

  buxom widow. A handsome bonnet, decorated within with a profusion of

  poppies, bluebells; and ears of corn; a jewel on her forehead, not

  costly, but splendid in appearance, and glittering artfully over that

  central spot from which her wavy chestnut hair parted to cluster in

  ringlets round her ample cheeks; a handsome India shawl, smart gloves, a

  rich silk dress, a neat parasol of blue with pale yellow lining, a

  multiplicity of glittering rinks, and a very splendid gold watch and

  chain, which I remembered in former days as hanging round poor Rosey's

  white neck;--all these adornments set off the widow's person, so that you

  might have thought her a wealthy capitalist's lady, and never could have

  supposed that she was a poor, cheated, ruined, robbed, unfortunate

  Campaigner.

  Nothing could be more gracious than the accueil of this lady. She paid me

  many handsome compliments about my literary work--asked most

  affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children--and then,

  as I expected, coming to business, contrasted the happiness and genteel

  position of my wife and family with the misery and wrongs of her own

  blessed child and grandson. She never could call that child by the odious

  name which he received at his baptism. I knew what bitter reasons she had

  to dislike the name of Thomas Newcome.

  She again rapidly enumerated the wrongs she had received at the hands of

  that gentleman; mentioned the vast sums of money out of which she and her

  soul's darling had been tricked by that poor muddle-headed creature, to

  say no worse of him; and described finally their present pressing need.

  The doctors, the burial, Rosey's delicate condition, the cost of

  sweetbreads, calf's-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again passed in a

  rapid calculation before me; and she ended her speech by expressing her

  gratification that I had attended to her advice of the previous day, and

  not given Clive Newcome a direct loan; that the family wanted it, the

  Campaigner called upon Heaven to witness; that Clive and his absurd poor

  father would fling guineas out of the window was a fact equally certain;

  the rest of the argument was obvious, namely, that Mr. Pendennis should

  administer a donation to herself.

  I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book, though Mrs.

  Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, and having, thank Heaven, in spite of

  all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of all her tradesmen, hinted a

  perfect willingness on her part to accept an order upon her friends,

  Hobson Brothers of London.

  This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs.

  Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had just paid an

  electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times, but a very small

  income, might sometimes not be in a condition to draw satisfactorily upon

  Messrs. Hobson or any other bankers? Her countenance fell at this remark,

  nor was her cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of the two

  bank-notes which then happened to be in my possession. I said that I had

  a use for the remaining note, and that it would not be more than

  sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses of my party back to

  London.

  My party? I had here to divulge, with some little trepidation, the plan

  which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought that Clive's

  great talents were wasted at Boulogne, and could only find a proper

  market in London; how I was pretty certain, through my connection with

  booksellers, to find some advantageous employment for him, and would have

  done so months ago had I known the state of the case; but I had believed,

  until within a very few days since, that the Colonel, in spite of his

  bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment of considerable military pensions.

  This statement, of course, elicited from the widow a number of remarks

  not complimentary to my dear old Colonel. He might have kept his pensions

  had he not been a fool--he was a baby about money matters--misled himself

  and everybody--was a log in the house, etc. etc. etc.

  I suggested that his annuities might possibly be put into some more

  satisfactory shape--that I had trustworthy lawyers with whom I would put

  him in communication--that he had best come to London to see to these

  matters--and that my wife had a large house where she would most gladly

  entertain the two gentlemen.

  This I said with some reasonable dread--fearing, in the first place, her

  refusal; in the second, her acceptance of the invitation, with a

  proposal, as our house was large, to come herself and inhabit it for a

  while. Had I not seen that Campaigner arrive for a month at poor James

  Binnie's house in Fitzroy Square, and stay there for many years? Was I

  not aware that when she once set her foot in a gentleman's establishment,

  terrific battles must ensue before she could be dislodged? Had she not

  once been routed by Clive? and was she not now in command and possession?

  Do I not, finally, know something of the world; and have I not a weak,

  easy temper? I protest it was with terror that I awaited the widow's

  possible answer to my proposal.

  To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of both my plans. I

  was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to interest myself about the two

  gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosa's sake, a fond mother thanked me. It

  was most advisable that he should earn some money by that horrid

  profession which he had chosen to adopt--a trade, she called it. She was

  clearly anxious get rid both of father and son, and agreed that the

  sooner they went the better.

  We walked back arm-in-arm to the Colonel's quarters in the Old Town, Mrs.

  Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing me the honour to introduce me

  by name to several dingy acquaintances, whom we met sauntering up the

  street, and imparting to me, as each moved away, the pecuniary cause of

  his temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of Rosey's delicate state of

  health, Mr
s. Mackenzie did not hesitate to break the news to her of the

  gentlemen's probable departure, abruptly and eagerly, as if the

  intelligence was likely to please her:--and it did, rather than

  otherwise. The young woman, being in the habit of letting mamma judge for

  her, continued it in this instance; and whether her husband stayed or

  went, seemed to be equally content or apathetic. "And is it not most kind

  and generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to propose to receive Mr.

  Newcome and the Colonel?" This opportunity for gratitude being pointed

  out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it straightway--it was very kind of me,

  Rosey was sure. "And don't you ask after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear

  children--you poor dear suffering darling child?" Rosey, who had

  neglected this inquiry, immediately hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children

  were well. The overpowering mother had taken utter possession of this

  poor little thing. Rosey's eyes followed the Campaigner about, and

  appealed to her at all moments. She sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird

  before a boa-constrictor, doomed--fluttering--fascinated--scared and

  fawning as a whipt spaniel before a keeper.

  The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart at this sunny

  hour. I repaired thither, and found the old gentleman seated by his

  grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little bonne's lap, one of his

  little purple hands closed round the grandfather's finger. "Hush!" says

  the good man, lifting up his other finger to his moustache, as I

  approached, "Boy's asleep. Il est bien joli quand il dort--le Boy,

  n'est-ce pas, Marie?" The maid believed monsieur well--the boy was a

  little angel. "This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable person,

  Pendennis," the Colonel said, with much gravity.

  The boa-constrictor had fascinated him, too--the lash of that woman at

  home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit. As I looked at the

  head so upright and manly, now so beautiful and resigned--the year of his

  past life seemed to pass before me somehow in a flash of thought. I could

  fancy the accursed tyranny--the dumb acquiescence--the brutal jeer--the

  helpless remorse--the sleepless nights of pain and recollection--the

  gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs--and the impotent hope. I own I

  burst into a sob at the sight, and thought of the noble suffering

  creature, and hid my face, and turned away.

  He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child's, and placing it, the

  kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. "What is it, Arthur--my dear boy?" he

  said, looking wistfully in my face. "No bad news from home, my dear?

  Laura and the children well?"

  The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under mine, and as we

  slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk of the old rampart, I told

  him how I had come with special commands from Laura to bring him for a

  while to stay with us, and to settle his business, which I was sure had

  been wofully mismanaged, and to see whether we could not find the means

  of getting some little out of the wreck of the property for the boy

  yonder.

  At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Boulogne, where Rosey

  would miss him--he was sure she would want him--but before the ladies of

  his family, to whom we presently returned, Thomas Newcome's resolution

  was quickly recalled. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in at this time

  was put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in it. On that

  very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two friends to the

  steamboat. Their little packets were made and ready. There was no

  pretence of grief at parting on the women's side, but Marie, the little

  maid, with Boy in her arms, cried sadly; and Clive heartily embraced the

  child; and the Colonel, going back to give it one more kiss, drew out of

  his neckcloth a little gold brooch which he wore, and which, trembling,

  he put into Marie's hand, bidding her take good care of Boy till his

  return.

  "She is a good girl--a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur, do you see,"

  the kind old gentleman said; "and I had no money to give her--no, not one

  single rupee."

  CHAPTER LXXIV

  In which Clive begins the World

  We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning the world.

  He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw his

  labours, his trials, and his disappointments, I could not but compare his

  calling with my own.

  The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession are taken into

  full account, as we well know, by literary men, and their friends. Our

  poverty, hardships, and disappointments are set forth with great

  emphasis, and often with too great truth by those who speak of us; but

  there are advantages belonging to our trade which are passed over, I

  think, by some of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which,

  in striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly thankful.

  We have no patron, so to speak--we sit in ante-chambers no more, waiting

  the present of a few guineas from my lord, in return for a fulsome

  dedication. We sell our wares to the book-purveyor, between whom and us

  there is no greater obligation than between him and his paper-maker or

  printer. In the great towns in our country immense stores of books are

  provided for us, with librarians to class them, kind attendants to wait

  upon us, and comfortable appliances for study. We require scarce any

  capital wherewith to exercise our trade. What other so-called learned

  profession is equally fortunate? A doctor, for example, after carefully

  and expensively educating himself, must invest in house and furniture,

  horses, carriage, and menservants, before the public patient will think

  of calling him in. I am told that such gentlemen have to coax and wheedle

  dowagers, to humour hypochondriacs, to practise a score of little

  subsidiary arts in order to make that of healing profitable. How many

  many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to sink upon his stock-in-trade

  before his returns are available? There are the costly charges of

  university education--the costly chambers in the Inn of Court--the clerk

  and his maintenance--the inevitable travels on circuit--certain expenses

  all to be defrayed before the possible client makes his appearance, and

  the chance of fame or competency arrives. The prizes are great, to be

  sure, in the law, but what a prodigious sum the lottery-ticket costs! If

  a man of letters cannot win, neither does he risk so much. Let us speak

  of our trade as we find it, and not be too eager in calling out for

  public compassion.

  The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes as loudly as

  some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I think the life of

  many of them is harder; their chances even more precarious, and the

  conditions of their profession less independent and agreeable than ours.

  I have watched Smee, Esq., R.A., flattering and fawning, and at the same

  time boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure a sitter. I

  have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine arts before one
<
br />   of J. J.'s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter, and laying down the

  most absurd laws respecting the art. I have seen poor Tomkins bowing a

  rich amateur through a private view, and noted the eager smiles on

  Tomkins' face at the amateur's slightest joke, the sickly twinkle of hope

  in his eyes as Amateur stopped before his own picture. I have been

  ushered by Chipstone's black servant through hall after hall peopled with

  plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone's own magnificent studio, where

  he sat longing vainly for an order, and justly dreading his landlord's

  call for the rent. And, seeing how severely these gentlemen were taxed in

  their profession, I have been grateful for my own more fortunate one,

  which necessitates cringing to no patron; which calls for no keeping up

  of appearances; and which requires no stock-in-trade save the workman's

  industry, his best ability, and a dozen sheets of paper.

  Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome,

  one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive at

  almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his art,

  and had acquired in his desultory way a very considerable skill. His

  drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my friend

  present, he of course would utterly contradict); his designs and sketches

  were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends, presuming to

  judge of this artist's qualifications, ventured to counsel him

  accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner. We had

  in the first place to bully and browbeat Clive most fiercely, before he

  would take fitting lodgings for the execution of those designs which we

  had in view for him. "Why should I take expensive lodgings?" says Clive,

  slapping his fist on the table. "I am a pauper, and can scarcely afford

  to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for drawing your portrait and

  Laura's and the children? What the deuce does Warrington want with the

  effigy of his old mug? You don't want them a bit--you only want to give

  me money.--It would be much more honest of me to take the money at once

  and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you what, Pen, the only money

  which I feel I come honestly by, is that which is paid me by a little

  printseller in Long Acre who buys my drawings, one with another, at

  fourteen shillings apiece, and out of whom I can earn pretty nearly two

  hundred a year. I am doing Coaches for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry;

  the public like the Mail Coaches best--on a dark paper--the horses and

  miles picked out white--yellow dust--cobalt distance, and the guard and

  coachman of course in vermilion. That's what a gentleman can get his

  bread by--portraits, pooh! it's disguised beggary, Crackthorpe, and a

  half-dozen men of his regiment came, like good fellows as they are, and

  sent me five pounds apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed

  to take the money." Such used to be the tenor of Clive Newcome's

  conversation as he strode up and down our room after dinner, pulling his

  moustache, and dashing his long yellow hair off his gaunt face.

  When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends

  counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied

  his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to

  whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always

  hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet

  infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and

  kissed him with tears in her eyes. "You know how long I have been wanting

  to do it," this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot describe the

  behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his gentle gratitude,

  his sweet simplicity and kindness, his thoughtful courtesy. There was not

  a servant in our little household but was eager to wait upon him. Laura's