CHAPTER XX.
RAKE'S PROGRESS.
Some short time before Mr. Foker's departure from Oxbridge, therehad come up to Boniface, a gentleman who had once, as it turned out,belonged to the other University of Camford, which he had quitted onaccount of some differences with the tutors and authorities there.This gentleman, whose name was Horace Bloundell, was of the ancientSuffolk family of Bloundell-Bloundell, of Bloundell-Bloundell Hall,Bloundell-Bloundellshire, as the young wags used to call it; and nodoubt it was on account of his descent and because Dr. Donne, the masterof Boniface, was a Suffolk man, and related perhaps to the family, thatMr. Horace Bloundell was taken in at Boniface, after St. George's andone or two other colleges had refused to receive him. There was a livingin the family, which it was important for Mr. Bloundell to hold; and,being in a dragoon regiment at the time when his third brother, for whomthe living was originally intended, sickened and died, Mr. Bloundelldetermined upon quitting crimson pantaloons and sable shakos for theblack coat and white neckcloth of the English divine. The misfortuneswhich occurred at Camford occasioned some slight disturbance to Mr.Bloundell's plans; but although defeated upon one occasion, the resoluteex-dragoon was not dismayed, and set to work to win victory elsewhere.
In Pen's second year Major Pendennis paid a brief visit to his nephew,and was introduced to several of Pen's university friends--the gentleand polite Lord Plinlimmon, the gallant and open-hearted Magnus Charters,the sly and witty Harland; the intrepid Ringwood, who was called Rupertin the Union Debating Club, from his opinions and the bravery of hisblunders; Broadbent, styled Barebones Broadbent from the republicannature of his opinions (he was of a dissenting family from Bristol and aperfect Boanerges of debate); Mr. Bloundell-Bloundell, finally, who hadat once taken his place among the select of the University.
Major Pendennis, though he did not understand Harland's Greek quotations,or quite appreciate Broadbent's thick shoes and dingy hands, wasnevertheless delighted with the company assembled round his nephew, andhighly approved of all the young men with the exception of that one whogave himself the greatest airs in the society, and affected most to havethe manners of a man of the world.
As he and Pen sate at breakfast on the morning after the party in therooms of the latter, the major gave his opinions regarding the youngmen, with whom he was in the greatest good humor. He had regaled themwith some of his stories, which, though not quite so fresh in London(where people have a diseased appetite for novelty in the way ofanecdotes), were entirely new at Oxbridge, and the lads heard them withthat honest sympathy, that eager pleasure, that boisterous laughter, orthat profound respect, so rare in the metropolis, and which must be sodelightful to the professed _racconteur_. Only once or twice during thetelling of the anecdotes, Mr. Bloundell's face wore a look of scorn,or betrayed by its expression that he was acquainted with the talesnarrated. Once he had the audacity to question the accuracy of one ofthe particulars of a tale as given by Major Pendennis, and gave hisown version of the anecdote, about which he knew he was right, for heheard it openly talked of at the club by So and so and T'other who werepresent at the business. The youngsters present looked up with wonderat their associate, who dared to interrupt the major--few of themcould appreciate that melancholy grace and politeness with which MajorPendennis at once acceded to Mr. Bloundell's version of the story,and thanked him for correcting his own error. They stared on the nextoccasion of meeting, when Bloundell spoke in contemptuous terms of oldPen, said every body knew old Pen, regular old trencherman at GauntHouse, notorious old bore, regular old fogy.
Major Pendennis, on his side, liked Mr. Bloundell not a whit. Thesesympathies are pretty sure to be mutual among men and women, and if, formy part, some kind friend tells me that such and such a man has beenabusing me, I am almost sure, on my own side, that I have a misliking tosuch and such a man. We like or dislike each other, as folks like ordislike the odor of certain flowers, or the taste of certain dishes, orwines, or certain books. We can't tell why--but, as a general rule, allthe reasons in the world will not make us love Dr. Fell, and as sure aswe dislike him, we may be sure that he dislikes us.
So the major said, "Pen, my boy, your dinner went off _a merveille_;you did the honors very nicely--you carved well--I am glad you learnedto carve--it is done on the side-board now in most good houses, butis still an important point, and may aid you in middle-life--youngLord Plinlimmon is a very amiable young man, quite the image of hisdear mother (whom I knew as Lady Aquila Brownbill); and Lord Magnus'srepublicanism will wear off--it sits prettily enough on a youngpatrician in early life, though nothing is so loathsome among persons ofour rank--Mr. Broadbent seems to have much eloquence and considerablereading; your friend Foker is always delightful: but your acquaintance,Mr. Bloundell, struck me as in all respects a most ineligible young man.
"Bless my soul, sir, Bloundell-Bloundell!" cried Pen, laughing; "Why,sir, he's the most popular man of the University. We elected himof the Barmecides the first week he came up--had a special meeting onpurpose--he's of an excellent family--Suffolk Bloundells, descended fromRichard's Blondel, bear a harp in chief--and motto O Mong Roy."
"A man may have a very good coat-of-arms, and be a tiger, my boy," themajor said, chipping his egg; "that man is a tiger, mark my word--a lowman. I will lay a wager that he left his regiment, which was a good one(for not a more respectable man than my friend Lord Martingale neversate in a saddle), in bad odor. There is the unmistakable look of slang,and bad habits about this Mr. Bloundell. He frequents low gamblinghouses and billiard hells, sir--he haunts third-rate clubs--I know hedoes. I know by his style. I never was mistaken in my man yet. Did youremark the quantity of rings and jewelry he wore? That person has Scampwritten on his countenance, if any man ever had. Mark my words, andavoid him. Let us turn the conversation. The dinner was a _leetle_ toofine, but I don't object to your making a few extra _frais_ when youreceive friends. Of course you don't do it often, and only those whom itis your interest to _feter_. The cutlets were excellent, and the_souffle_ uncommonly light and good. The third bottle of champagne wasnot necessary; but you have a good income, and as long as you keepwithin it, I shall not quarrel with you, my dear boy."
Poor Pen! the worthy uncle little knew how often those dinners tookplace, while the reckless young Amphitryon delighted to show hishospitality and skill in _gourmandise_. There is no art, than that(so long to learn, so difficult to acquire, so impossible and beyondthe means of many unhappy people!) about which boys are more anxious tohave an air of knowingness. A taste and knowledge of wines and cookeryappears to them to be the sign of an accomplished _roue_ and manlygentleman. I like to see them wink at a glass of claret, as if they hadan intimate acquaintance with it, and discuss a _salmi_--poor boys--itis only when they grow old they know that they know nothing of thescience, when perhaps their conscience whispers them that the scienceis in itself little worth, and that a leg of mutton and content isas good as the dinners of pontiffs. But little Pen, in his characterof admirable Crichton, thought it necessary to be a great judge andpractitioner of dinners; we have just said how the college-cookrespected him, and shall soon have to deplore that that worthy man soblindly trusted our Pen. In the third year of the lad's residence atOxbridge, his staircase was by no means encumbered with dish-coversand desserts, and waiters carrying in dishes, and skips opening icedchampagne; crowds of different sorts of attendants, with faces sulky orpiteous, hung about the outer oak, and assailed the unfortunate lad ashe issued out of his den.
Nor did his guardian's advice take any effect, or induce Mr. Pen toavoid the society of the disreputable Mr. Bloundell. What young men likein their companions is, what had got Pen a great part of his own reputeand popularity, a real or supposed knowledge of life. A man who has seenthe world, or can speak of it with a knowing air--a _roue_, or Lovelace,who has his adventures to relate, is sure of an admiring audience amongboys. It is hard to confess, but so it is. We respect that sort ofprowess. From our school-days we have been taught to admire it. Are
there five in the hundred, out of the hundreds and hundreds of Englishschool-boys, brought up at our great schools and colleges, that must notown at one time of their lives to having read and liked Don Juan? Awfulpropagation of evil!--The idea of it should make the man tremble whoholds the pen, lest untruth, or impurity, or unjust anger, or unjustpraise escape it.
One such diseased creature as this is enough to infect a whole colony,and the tutors of Boniface began to find the moral tone of their collegelowered, and their young men growing unruly and almost ungentleman-like,soon after Mr. Bloundell's arrival at Oxbridge. The young magnates ofthe neighboring great College of St. George's, who regarded Pen, and inwhose society he lived, were not taken in by Bloundell's flashy graces,and rakish airs of fashion. Broadbent called him Captain Macheath, andsaid he would live to be hanged. Foker, during his brief stay at theUniversity with Macheath, with characteristic caution declined to sayany thing in the captain's disfavor, but hinted to Pen that he hadbetter have him for a partner at whist than play against him, and betterback him at _ecarte_ than bet on the other side. "You see, he playsbetter than you do, Pen," was the astute young gentleman's remark: "heplays uncommonly well, the captain does;--and Pen, I wouldn't take theodds too freely from him, if I was you. I don't think he's too flushof money, the captain ain't." But beyond these dark suggestions andgeneralities, the cautious Foker could not be got to speak.
Not that his advice would have had more weight with a headstrong youngman, than advice commonly has with a lad who is determined on pursuinghis own way. Pen's appetite for pleasure was insatiable, and he rushedat it wherever it presented itself with an eagerness which bespokehis fiery constitution and youthful health. He called taking pleasure"seeing life," and quoted well-known maxims from Terence, from Horace,from Shakspeare, to show that one should do all that might become a man.He bade fair to be utterly used up and a _roue_ in a few years, if hewere to continue at the pace at which he was going.
One night after a supper-party in college, at which Pen and Macheath hadbeen present, and at which a little quiet _vingt-et-un_ had been played,(an amusement much pleasanter to men in their second and third year thanthe boisterous custom of singing songs, which bring the proctors aboutthe rooms, and which have grown quite stale by this time, every manhaving expended his budget)--as the men had taken their caps and weregoing away, after no great losses or winnings on any side, Mr. Bloundellplayfully took up a green wine-glass from the supper-table, which hadbeen destined to contain iced champagne, but into which he insertedsomething still more pernicious, namely a pair of dice, which thegentleman took out of his waistcoat pocket, and put into the glass.Then giving the glass a graceful wave which showed that his hand wasquite experienced in the throwing of dice, he called, Seven's the main,and whisking the ivory cubes gently on the table, swept them up lightlyagain from the cloth, and repeated this process two or three times. Theother men looked on, Pen, of course, among the number, who had neverused the dice as yet, except to play a humdrum game of backgammon athome.
Mr. Bloundell, who had a good voice, began to troll out the chorus fromRobert the Devil, an opera then in great vogue, in which chorus many ofthe men joined, especially Pen, who was in very high spirits, having wona good number of shillings and half-crowns at the _vingt-et-un_--andpresently, instead of going home, most of the party were seated roundthe table playing at dice, the green glass going round from hand to handuntil Pen finally shivered it, after throwing six mains.
From that night Pen plunged into the delights of the game of hazard, aseagerly as it was his custom to pursue any new pleasure. Dice can beplayed of mornings as well as after dinner or supper. Bloundell wouldcome into Pen's rooms after breakfast, and it was astonishing how quickthe time passed as the bones were rattling. They had little quietparties with closed doors, and Bloundell devised a box lined with felt,so that the dice should make no noise, and their tell-tale rattle notbring the sharp-eared tutors up to the rooms. Bloundell, Ringwood,and Pen were once very nearly caught by Mr. Buck, who, passing in theQuadrangle, thought he heard the words "Two to one on the caster,"through Pen's open window; but when the tutor got into Arthur's roomshe found the lads with three Homers before them, and Pen said, he wastrying to coach the two other men, and asked Mr. Buck with great gravitywhat was the present condition of the River Scamander, and whether itwas navigable or no?
Mr. Arthur Pendennis did not win much money in these transactions withMr. Bloundell, or indeed gain good of any kind except a knowledge of theodds at hazard, which he might have learned out of books.
Captain Macheath had other accomplishments which he exercised for Pen'sbenefit. The captain's stories had a great and unfortunate charm forArthur, who was never tired of hearing Bloundell's histories of garrisonconquests, and of his feats in country-quarters. He had been at Paris,and had plenty of legends about the Palais Royal, and the Salon, andFrascati's. He had gone to the Salon one night, after a dinner at theCafe de Paris, "when we were all devilishly cut by Jove; and on wakingin the morning in my own rooms, I found myself with twelve thousandfrancs under my pillow, and a hundred and forty-nine Napoleons in oneof my boots. Wasn't that a _coup_, hay?" the captain said. Pen's eyesglistened with excitement as he heard this story. He respected the manwho could win such a sum of money. He sighed, and said it would sethim all right. Macheath laughed, and told him to drink another drop ofMaraschino. "I could tell you stories much more wonderful than that," headded; and so indeed the captain could have done, without any furthertrouble than that of invention, with which portion of the poetic facultynature had copiously endowed him.
He laughed to scorn Pen's love for Miss Fotheringay, when he came tohear of that amour from Arthur, as he pretty soon did, for, we havesaid, Pen was not averse to telling the story now to his confidentialfriends, and he and they were rather proud of the transaction. ButMacheath took away all Pen's conceit on this head, not by demonstratingthe folly of the lad's passion for an uneducated woman much his seniorin years, but by exposing his absurd desire of gratifying his passionin a legitimate way. "Marry _her_," said he, "you might as well marry----," and he named one of the most notorious actresses on the stage."She hadn't a shred of a character." He knew twenty men who were openlyadmirers of her, and named them and the sums each had spent upon her. Iknow no kind of calumny more frightful or frequent than this which takesaway the character of women, no men more reckless and mischievous thanthose who lightly use it, and no kind of cowards more despicable thanthe people who invent these slanders.
Is it, or not, a misfortune that a man, himself of a candid disposition,and disposed, like our friend Pen, to blurt out the truth on alloccasions, begins life by believing all that is said to him? Would it bebetter for a lad to be less trustful, and so less honest? It requires nosmall experience of the world to know that a man, who has no especialreason thereto, is telling you lies. I am not sure whether it is notbest to go on being duped for a certain time. At all events, our honestPen had a natural credulity, which enabled him to accept all statementswhich were made to him, and he took every one of Captain Macheath'sfigments as if they had been the most unquestioned facts of history.
So Bloundell's account about Miss Fotheringay pained and mortified Penexceedingly. If he had been ashamed of his passion before--what werehis feelings regarding it now, when the object of so much pure flameand adoration turned out to be only a worthless impostor, an impostordetected by all but him? It never occurred to Pen to doubt the fact, orto question whether the stories of a man who, like his new friend, neverspoke well of any woman, were likely to be true.
One Easter vacation, when Pen had announced to his mother and uncle hisintention not to go down, but stay at Oxbridge and read, Mr. Pen wasnevertheless induced to take a brief visit to London in company with hisfriend Mr. Bloundell. They put up at a hotel in Covent Garden, whereBloundell had a tick, as he called it, and took the pleasures of townvery freely, after the wont of young University men. Bloundell stillbelonged to a military club, whither he took Pen to dine onc
e or twice(the young men would drive thither in a cab, trembling lest theyshould meet Major Pendennis on his beat in Pall Mall), and here Penwas introduced to a number of gallant young fellows with spurs andmustaches, with whom he drank pale-ale of mornings, and beat the town ofa night. Here he saw a deal of life, indeed; nor in his career about thetheaters and singing-houses which these roaring young blades frequented,was he very likely to meet his guardian. One night, nevertheless, theywere very near to each other: a plank only separating Pen, who wasin the boxes of the Museum Theater, from the major, who was in LordSteyne's box, along with that venerated nobleman. The Fotheringay wasin the pride of her glory. She had made a hit; that is, she had drawnvery good houses for nearly a year, had starred the provinces with great_eclat_, had come back to shine in London with somewhat diminishedluster, and now was acting with "ever increasing attraction, &c.,""triumph of the good old British drama," as the play-bills avowed,to houses in which there was plenty of room for any body who wantedto see her.
It was not the first time Pen had seen her since that memorable day whenthe two had parted in Chatteries. In the previous year, when the townwas making much of her, and the press lauded her beauty, Pen had founda pretext for coming to London in term-time, and had rushed off to thetheater to see his old flame. He recollected it rather than renewed it.He remembered how ardently he used to be on the look-out at Chatteries,when the speech before Ophelia's or Mrs. Haller's entrance on the stagewas made by the proper actor. Now, as the actor spoke he had a sort offeeble thrill: as the house began to thunder with applause, and Opheliaentered with her old bow and sweeping courtesy, Pen felt a slight shock,and blushed very much as he looked at her, and could not help thinkingthat all the house was regarding him. He hardly heard her for the firstpart of the play; and he thought with such rage of the humiliation towhich she had subjected him, that he began to fancy he was jealous andin love with her still. But that illusion did not last very long. Heran round to the stage door of the theater to see her if possible,but he did not succeed. She passed indeed under his nose with a femalecompanion, but he did not know her--nor did she recognize him. The nextnight he came in late, and staid very quietly for the after-piece, and onthe third and last night of his stay in London--why, Taglioni was goingto dance at the opera--Taglioni! and there was to be Don Giovanni, whichhe admired of all things in the world; so Mr. Pen went to Don Giovanniand Taglioni.
This time the illusion about her was quite gone. She was not lesshandsome, but she was not the same, somehow. The light was gone out ofher eyes which used to flash there, or Pen's no longer were dazzled byit. The rich voice spoke as of old, yet it did not make Pen's bosomthrill as formerly. He thought he could recognize the brogue underneath;the accents seemed to him coarse and false. It annoyed him to hear thesame emphasis on the same words only uttered a little louder; worse thanthis, it annoyed him to think that he should ever have mistaken thatloud imitation for genius, or melted at those mechanical sobs and sighs.He felt that it was in another life almost, that it was another man whohad so madly loved her. He was ashamed and bitterly humiliated, and verylonely. Ah, poor Pen! the delusion is better than the truth sometimes,and fine dreams than dismal waking.
They went and had an uproarious supper that night, and Mr. Pen had afine headache the next morning, with which he went back to Oxbridge,having spent all his ready money.
As all this narrative is taken from Pen's own confessions, so that thereader may be assured of the truth of every word of it, and as Penhimself never had any accurate notion of the manner in which he spenthis money, and plunged himself in much deeper pecuniary difficulties,during his luckless residence at Oxbridge University, it is, of courseimpossible for me to give any accurate account of all his involvements,beyond that general notion of his way of life, which has been sketcheda few pages back. He does not speak too hardly of the roguery of theUniversity tradesmen, or of those in London whom he honored with hispatronage at the outset of his career. Even Finch, the money-lender,to whom Bloundell introduced him, and with whom he had varioustransactions, in which the young rascal's signature appeared uponstamped paper, treated him, according to Pen's own account, withforbearance, and never mulcted him of more than a hundred per cent. Theold college-cook, his fervent admirer, made him a private bill, offeredto send him in dinners up to the very last, and never would have pressedhis account to his dying day. There was that kindness and franknessabout Arthur Pendennis, which won most people who came in contact withhim, and which, if it rendered him an easy prey to rogues, got him,perhaps, more goodwill than he merited from many honest men. It wasimpossible to resist his good nature, or, in his worst moments, notto hope for his rescue from utter ruin.
At the time of his full career of University pleasure, he wouldleave the gayest party to go and sit with a sick friend. He neverknew the difference between small and great in the treatment of hisacquaintances, however much the unlucky lad's tastes, which were of thesumptuous order, led him to prefer good society; he was only too readyto share his guinea with a poor friend, and when he got money, had anirresistible propensity for paying, which he never could conquer throughlife.
In his third year at College, the duns began to gather awfully roundabout him, and there was a levee at his oak which scandalized thetutors, and would have scared many a stouter heart. With some ofthese he used to battle, some he would bully (under Mr. Bloundell'sdirections, who was a master in this art, though he took a degree in noother), and some deprecate. And it is reported of him that little MaryFrodsham, the daughter of a certain poor gilder and frame-maker, whomMr. Pen had thought fit to employ, and who had made a number ofbeautiful frames for his fine prints, coming to Pendennis with a piteoustale that her father was ill with the ague, and that there was anexecution in their house, Pen in an anguish of remorse rushed away,pawned his grand watch and every single article of jewelry except twoold gold sleeve-buttons, which had belonged to his father, and rushedwith the proceeds to Frodsham's shop, where, with tears in his eyes,and the deepest repentance and humility, he asked the poor tradesman'spardon.
This, young gentlemen, is not told as an instance of Pen's virtue, butrather of his weakness. It would have been much more virtuous to havehad no prints at all. He still owed for the baubles which he sold inorder to pay Frodsham's bill, and his mother had cruelly to pinchherself in order to discharge the jeweler's account, so that she was inthe end the sufferer by the lad's impertinent fancies and follies. Weare not presenting Pen to you as a hero or a model, only as a lad, who,in the midst of a thousand vanities and weaknesses, has as yet somegenerous impulses, and is not altogether dishonest.
We have said it was to the scandal of Mr. Buck the tutor that Pen'sextravagances became known: from the manner in which he entered college,the associates he kept, and the introductions of Doctor Portman and themajor, Buck for a long time thought that his pupil was a man of largeproperty, and wondered rather that he only wore a plain gown. Once ongoing up to London to the levee with an address from his Majesty's LoyalUniversity of Oxbridge, Buck had seen Major Pendennis at Saint James'sin conversation with two knights of the garter, in the carriage of oneof whom the dazzled tutor saw the major whisked away after the levee. Heasked Pen to wine the instant he came back, let him off from chapels andlectures more than ever, and felt perfectly sure that he was a younggentleman of large estate.
Thus, he was thunderstruck when he heard the truth, and received adismal confession from Pen. His University debts were large, and thetutor had nothing to do, and of course Pen did not acquaint him, withhis London debts. What man ever does tell all when pressed by hisfriends about his liabilities? The tutor learned enough to know that Penwas poor, that he had spent a handsome, almost a magnificent allowance,and had raised around him such a fine crop of debts, as it would be veryhard work for any man to mow down; for there is no plant that grows sorapidly when once it has taken root.
Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that Pen was terrifiedlest his mother should know of his sins. "I can
't bear to break it toher," he said to the tutor in an agony of grief, "O! sir, I've been avillain to her"--and he repented, and he wished he had the time to comeover again, and he asked himself, "Why, why did his uncle insist uponthe necessity of living with great people, and in how much did all hisgrand acquaintance profit him?"
They were not shy, but Pen thought they were, and slunk from themduring his last terms at college. He was as gloomy as a death's-head atparties, which he avoided of his own part, or to which his young friendssoon ceased to invite him. Every body knew that Pendennis was "hard up."That man Bloundell, who could pay nobody, and who was obliged to go downafter three terms, was his ruin, the men said. His melancholy figuremight be seen shirking about the lonely quadrangles in his battered oldcap and torn gown, and he who had been the pride of the University but ayear before, the man whom all the young ones loved to look at, was nowthe object of conversation at freshmen's wine parties, and they spokeof him with wonder and awe.
At last came the Degree examinations. Many a young man of his yearwhose hob-nailed shoes Pen had derided, and whose face or coat hehad caricatured--many a man whom he had treated with scorn in thelecture-room or crushed with his eloquence in the debating-club--manyof his own set who had not half his brains, but a little regularity andconstancy of occupation, took high places in the honors or passed withdecent credit. And where on the list was Pen the superb, Pen the wit anddandy, Pen the poet and orator? Ah, where was Pen the widow's darlingand sole pride? Let us hide our heads, and shut up the page. The listscame out; and a dreadful rumor rushed through the University, thatPendennis of Boniface was plucked.
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