I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle10 rum-shrub and cigars into the premises11; giving him appointments in the school precincts, where young Clive would come and stealthily receive the forbidden goods. The poor lad was known by the boys, and called Newcome’s Punch. He was all but hunchbacked; long and lean in the arm; sallow, with a great forehead, and waving black hair, and large melancholy12 eyes.
“What, is it you, J. J.?” cries Clive gaily13, when his humble14 friend appears at the door. “Father, this is my friend Ridley. This is the fellow what can draw.”
“I know who I will back against any young man of his size at that,” says the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He considered there was not such a genius in the world; and had already thought of having some of Clive’s drawings published by M’Lean of the Haymarket.
“This is my father just come from India — and Mr. Pendennis, an old Grey Friars’ man. Is my uncle at home?” Both these gentlemen bestow15 rather patronising nods of the head on the lad introduced to them as J. J. His exterior16 is but mean-looking. Colonel Newcome, one of the humblest-minded men alive, has yet his old-fashioned military notions; and speaks to a butler’s son as to a private soldier, kindly17, but not familiarly.
“Mr Honeyman is at home, gentlemen,” the young lad says, humbly18. “Shall I show you up to his room?” And we walk up the stairs after our guide. We find Mr. Honeyman deep in study on his sofa, with Pearson on the Creed19 before him. The novel has been whipped under the pillow. Clive found it there some short time afterwards, during his uncle’s temporary absence in his dressing20-room. He has agreed to suspend his theological studies, and go out with his brother-inlaw to dine.
As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman’s door, and just as we were entering to see the divine seated in state before his folio, Clive whispers, “J. J., come along, old fellow, and show us some drawings. What are you doing?”
“I was doing some Arabian Nights,” says J. J., “up in my room; and hearing a knock which I thought was yours, I came down.”
“Show us the pictures. Let’s go up into your room,” cries Clive. “What — will you?” says the other. “It is but a very small place.”
“Never mind, come along,” says Clive; and the two lads disappear together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse21 together, or rather two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates22 upon the beauty of the weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling, the honour Colonel Newcome does him by a visit, etc., with his usual eloquence23.
After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the upper regions. He is greatly excited. “Oh, sir,” he says to his father, “you talk about my drawings — you should see J. J.‘s! By Jove, that fellow is a genius. They are beautiful, sir. You seem actually to read the Arabian Nights, you know, only in pictures. There is Scheherazade telling the stories, and — what do you call her? — Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting in bed and listening. Such a grim old cove24! You see he has cut off ever so many of his wives’ heads. I can’t think where that chap gets his ideas from. I can beat him in drawing horses, I know, and dogs; but I can only draw what I see. Somehow he seems to see things we don’t, don’t you know? Oh, father, I’m determined25 I’d rather be a painter than anything.” And he falls to drawing horses and dogs at his uncle’s table, round which the elders are seated.
“I’ve settled it upstairs with J. J.,” says Clive, working away with his pen. “We shall take a studio together; perhaps we will go abroad together. Won’t that be fun, father?”
“My dear Clive,” remarks Mr. Honeyman, with bland26 dignity, “there are degrees in society which we must respect. You surely cannot think of being a professional artist. Such a profession is very well for your young protege; but for you ——”
“What for me?” cries Clive. “We are no such great folks that I know of; and if we were, I say a painter is as good as a lawyer, or a doctor, or even a soldier. In Dr. Johnston’s Life — which my father is always reading — I like to read about Sir Joshua Reynolds best: I think he is the best gentleman of all in the book. My! wouldn’t I like to paint a picture like Lord Heathfield in the National Gallery! Wouldn’t I just! I think I would sooner have done that, than have fought at Gibraltar. And those Three Graces — oh, aren’t they graceful27! And that Cardinal28 Beaufort at Dulwich! — it frightens me so, I daren’t look at it. Wasn’t Reynolds a clipper, that’s all! and wasn’t Rubens a brick! He was an ambassador, and Knight29 of the Bath; so was Vandyck. And Titian, and Raphael, and Velasquez? — I’ll just trouble you to show me better gentlemen than them, Uncle Charles.”
“Far be it from me to say that the pictorial30 calling is not honourable,” says Uncle Charles; “but as the world goes there are other professions in greater repute; and I should have thought Colonel Newcome’s son ——”
“He shall follow his own bent31,” said the Colonel; “as long as his calling is honest it becomes a gentleman; and if he were to take a fancy to play on the fiddle32 — actually on the fiddle — I shouldn’t object.”
“Such a rum chap there was upstairs!” Clive resumes, looking up from his scribbling33. “He was walking up and down on the landing in a dressing-gown, with scarcely any other clothes on, holding a plate in one hand, and a pork-chop he was munching34 with the other. Like this” (and Clive draws a figure). “What do you think, sir? He was in the Cave of Harmony, he says, that night you flared35 up about Captain Costigan. He knew me at once; and he says, ‘Sir, your father acted like a gentleman, a Christian36, and a man of honour. Maxima debetur puero reverentia. Give him my compliments. I don’t know his highly respectable name.’ His highly respectable name,” says Clive, cracking with laughter —“those were his very words. ‘And inform him that I am an orphan37 myself — in needy38 circumstances’— he said he was in needy circumstances; ‘and I heartily39 wish he’d adopt me.’”
The lad puffed40 out his face, made his voice as loud and as deep as he could; and from his imitation and the picture he had drawn41, I knew at once that Fred Bayham was the man he mimicked42.
“And does the Red Rover live here,” cried Mr. Pendennis, “and have we earthed him at last?”
“He sometimes comes here,” Mr. Honeyman said with a careless manner. “My landlord and landlady43 were butler and housekeeper44 to his father, Bayham of Bayham, one of the oldest families in Europe. And Mr. Frederick Bayham, the exceedingly eccentric person of whom you speak, was a private pupil of my own dear father in our happy days at Borehambury.”
He had scarcely spoken when a knock was heard at the door, and before the occupant of the lodgings46 could say “Come in!” Mr. Frederick Bayham made his appearance, arrayed in that peculiar47 costume which he affected48. In those days we wore very tall stocks, only a very few poetic49 and eccentric persons venturing on the Byron collar; but Fred Bayham confined his neck by a simple ribbon, which allowed his great red whiskers to curl freely round his capacious jowl. He wore a black frock and a large broad-brimmed hat, and looked somewhat like a Dissenting50 preacher. At other periods you would see him in a green coat and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the driving of coaches was his occupation.
“I have heard from the young man of the house who you were, Colonel Newcome,” he said with the greatest gravity, “and happened to be present, sir, the other night; for I was aweary, having been toiling51 all the day in literary labour, and needed some refreshment52. I happened to be present, sir, at a scene which did you the greatest honour, and of which I spoke45, not knowing you, with something like levity53 to your son. He is an ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris — Pendennis, how are you? And I thought, sir, I would come down and tender an apology if I had said any words that might savour of offence to a gentleman who was in the right, as I told the room when you quitted it, as Mr. Pendennis, I am sure, will remember.”
Mr. Pendennis looked surprise and perhaps negation54.
“You forget, Pendennis? Those who quit that room, sir, often forget on the morrow what occurred during the revelry of the night. You did right in refusing to return to that scene. We public men are obliged often to seek our refreshment at hours when luckier individuals are lapt in slumber55.”
“And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham?” asks the Colonel, rather gloomily, for he had an idea that Bayham was adopting a strain of persiflage56 which the Indian gentleman by no means relished57. Never saying aught but a kind word to any one, he was on fire at the notion that any should take a liberty with him.
“A barrister, sir, but without business — a literary man, who can but seldom find an opportunity to sell the works of his brains — a gentleman, sir, who has met with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps undeserved, from his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that evening I had been lecturing on the genius of some of our comic writers, at the Parthenopoeon, Hackney. My audience was scanty58, perhaps equal to my deserts. I came home on foot to an egg and a glass of beer after midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so much honour. What is this? I fancy a ludicrous picture of myself”— he had taken up the sketch59 which Clive had been drawing —“I like fun, even at my own expense; and can afford to laugh at a joke which is meant in good-humour.” This speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. “I am sure the author of that, Mr. Bayham, means you or any man no harm. Why! the rascal60, sir, has drawn me, his own father; and I have sent the drawing to Major Hobbs, who is in command of my regiment61. Chinnery himself, sir, couldn’t hit off a likeness62 better; he has drawn me on horseback, and he has drawn me on foot, and he has drawn my friend, Mr. Binnie, who lives with me. We have scores of his drawings at my lodgings; and if you will favour us by dining with us today, and these gentlemen, you shall see that you are not the only person caricatured by Clive here.”
“I just took some little dinner upstairs, sir. I am a moderate man, and can live, if need be, like a Spartan63; but to join such good company I will gladly use the knife and fork again. You will excuse the traveller’s dress? I keep a room here, which I use only occasionally, and am at present lodging — in the country.”
When Honeyman was ready, the Colonel, who had the greatest respect for the Church, would not hear of going out of the room before the clergyman, and took his arm to walk. Bayham then fell to Mr. Pendennis’s lot, and they went together. Through Hill Street and Berkeley Square their course was straight enough; but at Hay Hill, Mr. Bayham made an abrupt64 tack65 larboard, engaging in a labyrinth66 of stables, and walking a long way round from Clifford Street, whither we were bound. He hinted at a cab, but Pendennis refused to ride, being, in truth, anxious to see which way his eccentric companion would steer67. “There are reasons,” growled68 Bayham, “which need not be explained to one of your experience, why Bond Street must be avoided by some men peculiarly situated69. The smell of Truefitt’s pomatum makes me ill. Tell me, Pendennis, is this Indian warrior70 a rajah of large wealth? Could he, do you think, recommend me to a situation in the East India Company? I would gladly take any honest post in which fidelity71 might be useful, genius might be appreciated, and courage rewarded. Here we are. The hotel seems comfortable. I never was in it before.”
When we entered the Colonel’s sitting-room72 at Nerot’s, we found the waiter engaged in extending the table. “We are a larger party than I expected,” our host said. “I met my brother Brian on horseback leaving cards at that great house in ——— Street.”
“The Russian Embassy,” says Mr. Honeyman, who knew the town quite well.
“And he said he was disengaged, and would dine with us,” continues the Colonel.
“Am I to understand, Colonel Newcome,” says Mr. Frederick Bayham, “that you are related to the eminent73 banker, Sir Brian Newcome, who gives such uncommonly74 swell75 parties in Park Lane?”
“What is a swell party?” asks the Colonel, laughing. “I dined with my brother last Wednesday; and it was a very grand dinner certainly. The Governor-General himself could not give a more splendid entertainment. But, do you know, I scarcely had enough to eat? I don’t eat side dishes; and as for the roast beef of Old England, why, the meat was put on the table and whisked away like Sancho’s inauguration76 feast at Barataria. We did not dine till nine o’clock. I like a few glasses of claret and a cosy77 talk after dinner; but — well, well”—(no doubt the worthy78 gentleman was accusing himself of telling tales out of school and had come to a timely repentance). “Our dinner, I hope, will be different. Jack79 Binnie will take care of that. That fellow is full of anecdote80 and fun. You will meet one or two more of our service; Sir Thomas de Boots, who is not a bad chap over a glass of wine; Mr. Pendennis’s chum, Mr. Warrington, and my nephew, Barnes Newcome — a dry fellow at first, but I dare say he has good about him when you know him; almost every man has,” said the good-natured philosopher. “Clive, you rogue81, mind and be moderate with the champagne82, sir!”
“Champagne’s for women,” says Clive. “I stick to claret.”
“I say, Pendennis,” here Bayham remarked, “it is my deliberate opinion that F. B. has got into a good thing.”
Mr. Pendennis seeing there was a great party was for going home to his chambers83 to dress. “Hm!” says Mr. Bayham, “don’t see the necessity. What right-minded man looks at the exterior of his neighbour? He looks here, sir, and examines there,” and Bayham tapped his forehead, which was expansive, and then his heart, which he considered to be in the right place.
“What is this I hear about dressing?” asks our host. “Dine in your frock, my good friend, and welcome, if your dress-coat is in the country.”
“It is at present at an uncle’s,” Mr. Bayham said, with great gravity, “and I take your hospitality as you offer it, Colonel Newcome, cordially and frankly84.”
Honest Mr. Binnie made his appearance a short time before the appointed hour for receiving the guests, arrayed in a tight little pair of trousers, and white silk stockings and pumps, his bald head shining like a billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy85 with good-humour. He was bent on pleasure. “Hey, lads!” says he; “but we’ll make a night of it. We haven’t had a night since the farewell dinner off Plymouth.”
“And a jolly night it was, James,” ejaculates the Colonel.
“Egad, what a song that Tom Norris sings!”
“And your ‘Jock o’ Hazeldean’ is as good as a play, Jack.”
“And I think you beat iny one I iver hard in ‘Tom Bowling,’ yourself, Tom!” cries the Colonel’s delighted chum. Mr. Pendennis opened the eyes of astonishment86 at the idea of the possibility of renewing these festivities, but he kept the lips of prudence87 closed. And now the carriages began to drive up, and the guests of Colonel Newcome to arrive.
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1
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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expatiates
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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51
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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52
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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53
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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57
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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59
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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65
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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68
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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69
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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70
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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71
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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72
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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73
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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74
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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75
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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76
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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77
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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78
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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79
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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80
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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81
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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82
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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83
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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84
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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85
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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86
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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87
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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