If we are to narrate1 the youthful history not only of the hero of this tale, but of the hero’s father, we shall never have done with nursery biography. A gentleman’s grandmother may delight in fond recapitulation of her darling’s boyish frolics and early genius; but shall we weary our kind readers by this infantile prattle2, and set down the revered3 British public for an old woman? Only to two or three persons in all the world are the reminiscences of a man’s early youth interesting: to the parent who nursed him; to the fond wife or child mayhap afterwards who loves him; to himself always and supremely5 — whatever may be his actual prosperity or ill-fortune, his present age, illness, difficulties, renown6, or disappointments, the dawn of his life still shines brightly for him, the early griefs and delights and attachments7 remain with him ever faithful and dear. I shall ask leave to say, regarding the juvenile8 biography of Mr. Clive Newcome, of whose history I am the chronicler, only so much as is sufficient to account for some peculiarities9 of his character, and for his subsequent career in the world.
Although we were schoolfellows, my acquaintance with young Newcome at the seat of learning where we first met was very brief and casual. He had the advantage of being six years the junior of his present biographer, and such a difference of age between lads at a public school puts intimacy10 out of the question — a junior ensign being no more familiar with the Commander-inChief at the Horse Guards, or a barrister on his first circuit with my Lord Chief Justice on the bench, than the newly breeched infant in the Petties with a senior boy in a tailed coat. As we “knew each other at home,” as our school phrase was, and our families being somewhat acquainted, Newcome’s maternal11 uncle, the Rev4. Charles Honeyman (the highly gifted preacher, and incumbent12 of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel13, Denmark Street, Mayfair), when he brought the child, after the Christmas vacation of 182-, to the Grey Friars’ school, recommended him in a neat complimentary14 speech to my superintendence and protection. My uncle, Major Pendennis, had for a while a seat in the chapel of this sweet and popular preacher, and professed15, as a great number of persons of fashion did, a great admiration16 for him — an admiration which I shared in my early youth, but which has been modified by maturer judgment17.
Mr. Honeyman told me, with an air of deep respect, that his young nephew’s father, Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., was a most gallant18 and distinguished19 officer in the Bengal establishment of the Honourable20 East India Company; — and that his uncles, the Colonel’s half-brothers, were the eminent21 bankers, heads of the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Bryanstone Square, and Marblehead, Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome and Park Lane, “whom to name,” says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence22 with which he decorated the commonest circumstances of life, “is to designate two of the merchant princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever known; and one, if not two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies round the throne of the most elegant and refined of European sovereigns.” I promised Mr. Honeyman to do what I could for the boy; and he proceeded to take leave of his little nephew in my presence in terms equally eloquent23, pulling out a long and very slender green purse, from which he extracted the sum of two-and-sixpence, which he presented to the child, who received the money with rather a queer twinkle in his blue eyes.
After that day’s school, I met my little protege in the neighbourhood of the pastrycook’s, regaling himself with raspberry-tarts24. “You must not spend all that money, sir, which your uncle gave you,” said I (having perhaps even at that early age a slightly satirical turn), “in tarts and ginger-beer.”
The urchin26 rubbed the raspberry-jam off his mouth, and said, “It don’t matter, sir, for I’ve got lots more.”
“How much?” says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogation used to be, when a new boy came to the school, “What’s your name? Who’s your father? and how much money have you got?”
The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket as might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang27 of envy. “Uncle Hobson,” says he, “gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one — no, Aunt Hobson gave me thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me ten shillings in a letter. And Ethel wanted to give me a pound, only I wouldn’t have it, you know; because Ethel’s younger than me, and I have plenty.”
“And who is Ethel?” asks the senior boy, smiling at the artless youth’s confessions28.
“Ethel is my cousin,” replies little Newcome; “Aunt Anne’s daughter. There’s Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Anne wanted the baby to be called Boadicea, only uncle wouldn’t; and there’s Barnes and Egbert and little Alfred; only he don’t count, he’s quite a baby you know. Egbert and me was at school at Timpany’s; he’s going to Eton next half. He’s older than me, but I can lick him.”
“And how old is Egbert?” asks the smiling senior.
“Egbert’s ten, and I’m nine, and Ethel’s seven,” replies the little chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets, and jingling29 all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over the others, on which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock was expended30. The school hours of the upper and under boys were different at that time; the little fellows coming out of their hall half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; and many a time I used to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a fine black one substituted in its place. He had been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom he had worsted in the combat. “Didn’t I pitch into him, that’s all?” says he in the elation32 of victory; and when I asked whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly33 informed me that “Wolf minor34, his opponent, had been bullying35 a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) wouldn’t stand it.”
So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and God bless you to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun.
Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers36 in the Temple, when our rencontre took place in the manner already described.
Poor Costigan’s outrageous37 behaviour had caused my meeting with my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly39 and unpleasantly, that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior40 who had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was scarcely over in my chambers the next morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, and my clerk introduced “Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome.”
Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors; for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the Times newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the Times? My friend and companion of those days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in.
Little Clive looked curiously41 about our queer premises42, while the Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday’s wrath43 were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed countenance44, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy45 curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted46 manuscripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles, cigar-boxes, and what not.
“I went off in a flame of fire last night,” says the Colonel, “and being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis and apologise for my abrupt38 behaviour. The conduct of that tipsy old Captain — what is his name? — was so abominable47, that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son’s old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis.” And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time.
“And this is the abode48 of the Muses49, is it, sir?” our guest went on. “I know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the Pall50 Mall Gazette every month.”
“We took it at Smiffle, regular,” says Clive. “Always patronise Grey Friars men.” “Smiffle,” it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is situated51, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place of education by the name of the neighbouring market.
“Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance of Walter Lorraine in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta.”
“Have Pen’s immortal52 productions made their appearance on board Bengalee budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?” asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.
“I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta,” says the Colonel simply. “I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell you it is not with every man’s writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased,” he added, with a knowing air.
“It’s capital,” broke in Clive. “I say, that part, you know, where Walter runs away with Neaera, and the General can’t pursue them, though he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O’Toole has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it’s capital! — All the funny part — I don’t like the sentimental53 stuff, and suicide, and that; and as for poetry, I hate poetry.”
“Pen’s is not first chop,” says Warrington. “I am obliged to take the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would grow so conceited54 there would be no bearing him.”
“I say,” says Clive.
“What were you about to remark?” asks Mr. Warrington, with an air of great interest.
“I say, Pendennis,” continued the artless youth, “I thought you were a great swell55. When we used to read about the grand parties in the Pall Mall Gazette, the fellows used to say you were at every one of them, and you see, I thought you must have chambers in the Albany, and lots of horses to ride, and a valet and a groom56, and a cab at the very least.”
“Sir,” says the Colonel, “I hope it is not your practice to measure and estimate gentlemen by such paltry57 standards as those. A man of letters follows the noblest calling which any man can pursue. I would rather be the author of a work of genius, than be Governor-General of India. I admire genius. I salute58 it wherever I meet it. I like my own profession better than any in the world, but then it is because I am suited to it. I couldn’t write four lines in verse, no, not to save me from being shot. A man cannot have all the advantages of life. Who would not be poor if he could be sure of possessing genius, and winning fame and immortality59, sir? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a genius he had, and where did he live? In apartments that, I daresay, were no better than these, which, I am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and pleasant,” says the Colonel, thinking he had offended us. “One of the great pleasures and delights which I had proposed to myself on coming home was to be allowed to have the honour of meeting with men of learning and genius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so fortunate; and of benefiting by their conversation. I left England too young to have that privilege. In my father’s house money was thought of, I fear, rather than intellect; neither he nor I had the opportunities which I wish you to have; and I am surprised you should think of reflecting upon Mr. Pendennis’s poverty, or of feeling any sentiment but respect and admiration when you enter the apartments of the poet and the literary man. I have never been in the rooms of a literary man before,” the Colonel said, turning away from his son to us: “excuse me, is that — that paper really a proof-sheet?” We handed over to him that curiosity, smiling at the enthusiasm of the honest gentleman who could admire what to us was as unpalatable as a tart25 to a pastrycook.
Being with men of letters, he thought proper to make his conversation entirely60 literary; and in the course of my subsequent more intimate acquaintance with him, though I knew he had distinguished himself in twenty actions, he never could be brought to talk of his military feats61 or experience, but passed them by, as if they were subjects utterly62 unworthy of notice.
I found he believed Dr. Johnson to be the greatest of men: the Doctor’s words were constantly in his mouth; and he never travelled without Boswell’s Life. Besides these, he read Caesar and Tacitus, “with translations, sir, with translations — I’m thankful that I kept some of my Latin from Grey Friars;” and he quoted sentences from the Latin Grammar, apropos63 of a hundred events of common life, and with perfect simplicity64 and satisfaction to himself. Besides the above-named books, the Spectator, Don Quixote, and Sir Charles Grandison formed a part of his travelling library. “I read these, sir,” he used to say, “because I like to be in the company of gentlemen; and Sir Roger de Coverley, and Sir Charles Grandison, and Don Quixote are the finest gentlemen in the world.” And when we asked him his opinion of Fielding —
“Tom Jones, sir; Joseph Andrews, sir!” he cried, twirling his mustachios. “I read them when I was a boy, when I kept other bad company, and did other low and disgraceful things, of which I’m ashamed now. Sir, in my father’s library I happened to fall in with those books; and I read them in secret, just as I used to go in private and drink beer, and fight cocks, and smoke pipes with Jack31 and Tom, the grooms65 in the stables. Mrs. Newcome found me, I recollect66, with one of those books; and thinking it might be by Mrs. Hannah More, or some of that sort, for it was a grave-looking volume: and though I wouldn’t lie about that or anything else — never did, sir; never, before heaven, have I told more than three lies in my life — I kept my own counsel; I say, she took it herself to read one evening; and read on gravely — for she had no more idea of a joke than I have of Hebrew — until she came to the part about Lady B—— and Joseph Andrews; and then she shut the book, sir; and you should have seen the look she gave me! I own I burst out a-laughing, for I was a wild young rebel, sir. But she was in the right, sir, and I was in the wrong. A book, sir, that tells the story of a parcel of servants, of a pack of footmen and ladies’-maids fuddling in alehouses! Do you suppose I want to know what my kitmutgars and cousomahs are doing? I am as little proud as any man in the world: but there must be distinction, sir; and as it is my lot and Clive’s lot to be a gentleman, I won’t sit in the kitchen and boose in the servants’-hall. As for that Tom Jones — that fellow that sells himself, sir — by heavens, my blood boils when I think of him! I wouldn’t sit down in the same room with such a fellow, sir. If he came in at that door, I would say, ‘How dare you, you hireling ruffian, to sully with your presence an apartment where my young friend and I are conversing67 together? where two gentlemen, I say, are taking their wine after dinner? How dare you, you degraded villain68?’ I don’t mean you, sir. I— I— I beg your pardon.”
The Colonel was striding about the room in his loose garments, puffing69 his cigar fiercely anon, and then waving his yellow bandana; and it was by the arrival of Larkins, my clerk, that his apostrophe to Tom Jones was interrupted; he, Larkins, taking care not to show his amazement70, having been schooled not to show or feel surprise at anything he might see or hear in our chambers.
“What is it, Larkins?” said I. Larkins’ other master had taken his leave some time before, having business which called him away, and leaving me with the honest Colonel, quite happy with his talk and cigar.
“It’s Brett’s man,” says Larkins.
I confounded Brett’s man, and told the boy to bid him call again. Young Larkins came grinning back in a moment, and said:
“Please, sir, he says his orders is not to go away without the money.”
“Confound him again,” I cried. “Tell him I have no money in the house. He must come tomorrow.”
As I spoke71, Clive was looking in wonder, and the Colonel’s countenance assumed an appearance of the most dolorous72 sympathy. Nevertheless, as with a great effort, he fell to talking about Tom Jones again, and continued:
“No, sir, I have no words to express my indignation against such a fellow as Tom Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The great and good Dr. Johnson has settled that question. You remember what he said to Mr. Boswell about Fielding?”
“And yet Gibbon praises him, Colonel,” said the Colonel’s interlocutor, “and that is no small praise. He says that Mr. Fielding was of the family that drew its origin from the Counts of Hapsburg; but ——”
“Gibbon! Gibbon was an infidel, and I would not give the end of this cigar for such a man’s opinion. If Mr. Fielding was a gentleman by birth, he ought to have known better; and so much the worse for him that he did not. But what am I talking of, wasting your valuable time? No more smoke, thank you. I must away into the City, but would not pass the Temple without calling on you, and thanking my boy’s old protector. You will have the kindness to come and dine with us — tomorrow, the next day, your own day? Your friend is going out of town? I hope, on his return, to have the pleasure of making his further acquaintance. Come, Clive.”
Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth’s engravings during the above discussion, or rather oration73 of his father’s, started up and took leave, beseeching74 me, at the same time, to come soon and see his pony75; and so, with renewed greetings, we parted.
I was scarcely returned to my newspaper again, when the knocker of our door was again agitated76, and the Colonel ran back, looking very much agitated and confused.
“I beg pardon,” says he; “I think I left my — my ——” Larkins had quitted the room by this time, and then he began more unreservedly. “My dear young friend,” says he, “a thousand pardons for what I am going to say, but, as Clive’s friend, I know I may take that liberty. I have left the boy in the court. I know the fate of men of letters and genius: when we were here just now, there came a single knock — a demand — that, that you did not seem to be momentarily able to meet. Now do, do pardon the liberty, and let me be your banker. You said you were engaged in a new work: it will be a masterpiece, I am sure, if it’s like the last. Put me down for twenty copies, and allow me to settle with you in advance. I may be off, you know. I’m a bird of passage — a restless old soldier.”
“My dear Colonel,” said I, quite touched and pleased by this extreme kindness, “my dun was but the washerwoman’s boy, and Mrs. Brett is in my debt, if I am not mistaken. Besides, I already have a banker in your family.”
“In my family, my dear Sir?”
“Messrs. Newcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good enough to keep my money for me when I have any, and I am happy to say they have some of mine in hand now. I am almost sorry that I am not in want, in order that I might have the pleasure of receiving a kindness from you.” And we shook hands for the fourth time that morning, and the kind gentleman left me to rejoin his son.
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1
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rev
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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intimacy
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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admiration
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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tart
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urchin
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pang
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confessions
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jingling
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expended
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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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elation
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stoutly
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minor
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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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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outrageous
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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premises
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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abode
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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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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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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