Our good Colonel’s house had received a coat of paint, which, like Madame Latour’s rouge1 in her latter days, only served to make her careworn2 face look more ghastly. The kitchens were gloomy. The stables were gloomy. Great black passages; cracked conservatory3; dilapidated bathroom, with melancholy4 waters moaning and fizzing from the cistern5; the great large blank stone staircase — were all so many melancholy features in the general countenance6 of the house; but the Colonel thought it perfectly7, cheerful and pleasant, and furnished it in his rough-and-ready way. One day a cartload of chairs; the next a waggonful of fenders, fire-irons, and glass and crockery — a quantity of supplies, in a word, he poured into the place. There were a yellow curtain in the back drawing-room, and green curtains in the front. The carpet was an immense bargain, bought dirt cheap, sir, at a sale in Euston Square. He was against the purchase of a carpet for the stairs. What was the good of it? What did men want with stair-carpets? His own apartment contained a wonderful assortment8 of lumber9. Shelves which he nailed himself, old Indian garments, camphor trunks. What did he want with gewgaws? anything was good enough for an old soldier. But the spare bedroom was endowed with all sorts of splendour: a bed as big as a general’s tent, a cheval glass — whereas the Colonel shaved in a little cracked mirror, which cost him no more than King Stephen’s breeches — and a handsome new carpet; while the boards of the Colonel’s bedchamber were as bare — as bare as old Miss Scragg’s shoulders, which would be so much more comfortable were they covered up. Mr. Binnie’s bedchamber was neat, snug10, and appropriate. And Clive had a study and bedroom at the top of the house, which he was allowed to furnish entirely11 according to his own taste. How he and Ridley revelled12 in Wardour Street! What delightful13 coloured prints of hunting, racing14, and beautiful ladies, did they not purchase, mount with their own hands, cut out for screens, frame and glaze15, and hang up on the walls. When the rooms were ready they gave a party, inviting16 the Colonel and Mr. Binnie by note of hand, two gentlemen from Lamb Court, Temple, Mr. Honeyman, and Fred Bayham. We must have Fred Bayham. Fred Bayham frankly17 asked, “Is Mr. Sherrick, with whom you have become rather intimate lately — and mind you I say nothing, but I recommend strangers in London to be cautious about their friends — is Mr. Sherrick coming to you, young ’un? because if he is, F. B. must respectfully decline.”
Mr. Sherrick was not invited, and accordingly F. B. came. But Sherrick was invited on other days, and a very queer society did our honest Colonel gather together in that queer house, so dreary19, so dingy20, so comfortless, so pleasant. He, who was one of the most hospitable21 men alive, loved to have his friends around him; and it must be confessed that the evening parties now occasionally given in Fitzroy Square were of the oddest assemblage of people. The correct East India gentlemen from Hanover Square: the artists, Clive’s friends, gentlemen of all ages with all sorts of beards, in every variety of costume. Now and again a stray schoolfellow from Grey Friars, who stared, as well he might, at the company in which he found himself. Sometimes a few ladies were brought to these entertainments. The immense politeness of the good host compensated22 some of them for the strangeness of his company. They had never seen such odd-looking hairy men as those young artists, nor such wonderful women as Colonel Newcome assembled together. He was good to all old maids and poor widows. Retired23 captains with large families of daughters found in him their best friend. He sent carriages to fetch them and bring them back from the suburbs where they dwelt. Gandish, Mrs. Gandish, and the four Miss Gandishes in scarlet24 robes, were constant attendants at the Colonel’s soirees.
“I delight, sir, in the ‘ospitality of my distinguished25 military friend,” Mr. Gandish would say. “The harmy has always been my passion. — I served in the Soho Volunteers three years myself, till the conclusion of the war, sir, till the conclusion of the war.”
It was a great sight to see Mr. Frederick Bayham engaged in the waltz or the quadrille with some of the elderly houris at the Colonel’s parties. F. B., like a good-natured F. B. as he was, always chose the plainest women as partners, and entertained them with profound compliments and sumptuous26 conversation. The Colonel likewise danced quadrilles with the utmost gravity. Waltzing had been invented long since his time: but he practised quadrilles when they first came in, about 1817, in Calcutta. To see him leading up a little old maid, and bowing to her when the dance was ended, and performing cavalier seul with stately simplicity27, was a sight indeed to remember. If Clive Newcome had not such a fine sense of humour, he would have blushed for his father’s simplicity. — As it was, the elder’s guileless goodness and childlike trustfulness endeared him immensely to his son. “Look at the old boy, Pendennis,” he would say, “look at him leading up that old Miss Tidswell to the piano. Doesn’t he do it like an old duke? I lay a wager29 she thinks she is going to be my mother-inlaw; all the women are in love with him, young and old. ‘Should he upbraid30?’ There she goes. ‘I’ll own that he’ll prevail, and sing as sweetly as a nigh-tin-gale!’ Oh, you old warbler! Look at father’s old head bobbing up and down! Wouldn’t he do for Sir Roger de Coverley? How do you do, Uncle Charles? — I say, M’Collop, how gets on the Duke of What-d’ye-call-’em starving in the castle? — Gandish says it’s very good.” The lad retires to a group of artists. Mr. Honeyman comes up with a faint smile playing on his features, like moonlight on the facade31 of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel32.
“These parties are the most singular I have ever seen,” whispers Honeyman. “In entering one of these assemblies, one is struck with the immensity of London: and with the sense of one’s own insignificance33. Without, I trust, departing from my clerical character, nay34, from my very avocation35 as incumbent36 of a London chapel — I have seen a good deal of the world, and here is an assemblage no doubt of most respectable persons, on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till this evening. Where does my good brother find such characters?”
“That,” says Mr. Honeyman’s interlocutor, “is the celebrated37, though neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom nothing but jealousy38 has kept out of the Royal Academy. Surely you have heard of the great Gandish?”
“Indeed I am ashamed to confess my ignorance, but a clergyman busy with his duties knows little, perhaps too little, of the fine arts.”
“Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our ungrateful country ever trampled39; he exhibited his first celebrated picture of ‘Alfred in the Neatherd’s Hut’ (he says he is the first who ever touched that subject) in 180-; but Lord Nelson’s death, and victory of Trafalgar, occupied the public attention at that time, and Gandish’s work went unnoticed. In the year 1816, he painted his great work of ‘Boadicea.’ You see her before you. That lady in yellow, with a light front and a turban. Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish in that year. So late as ‘27, he brought before the world his ‘Non Angli sed Angeli.’ Two of the angels are yonder in sea-green dresses — the Misses Gandish. The youth in Berlin gloves was the little male angelus of that piece.”
“How came you to know all this, you strange man?” says Mr. Honeyman.
“Simply because Gandish has told me twenty times. He tells the story to everybody, every time he sees them. He told it today at dinner. Boadicea and the angels came afterwards.”
“Satire40! satire! Mr. Pendennis,” says the divine, holding up a reproving finger of lavender kid, “beware of a wicked wit! — But when a man has that tendency, I know how difficult it is to restrain. My dear Colonel, good evening! You have a great reception to-night. That gentleman’s bass41 voice is very fine; Mr. Pendennis and I were admiring it. ‘The Wolf’ is a song admirably adapted to show its capabilities42.”
Mr. Gandish’s autobiography43 had occupied the whole time of the retirement44 of the ladies from Colonel Newcome’s dinner-table. Mr. Hobson Newcome had been asleep during the performance; Sir Curry45 Baughton and one or two of the Colonel’s professional and military guests, silent and puzzled. Honest Mr. Binnie, with his shrewd good-humoured face, sipping46 his claret as usual, and delivering a sly joke now and again to the gentlemen at his end of the table. Mrs. Newcome had sat by him in sulky dignity; was it that Lady Baughton’s diamonds offended her? — her ladyship and her daughters being attired48 in great splendour for a Court ball, which they were to attend that evening. Was she hurt because she was not invited to that Royal Entertainment? As the festivities were to take place at an early hour, the ladies bidden were obliged to quit the Colonel’s house before the evening part commenced, from which Lady Anne declared she was quite vexed49 to be obliged to run away.
Lady Anne Newcome had been as gracious on this occasion as her sister-inlaw had been out of humour. Everything pleased her in the house. She had no idea that there were such fine houses in that quarter of the town. She thought the dinner so very nice — that Mr Binnie such a good-humoured-looking gentleman. That stout50 gentleman with his collars turned down like Lord Byron, so exceedingly clever and full of information. A celebrated artist was he? (courtly Mr. Smee had his own opinion upon that point, but did not utter it). All those artists are so eccentric and amusing and clever. Before dinner she insisted upon seeing Clive’s den28 with its pictures and casts and pipes. “You horrid51 young wicked creature, have you begun to smoke already?” she asks, as she admires his room. She admired everything. Nothing could exceed her satisfaction.
The sisters-inlaw kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so delightful to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity52. It was, “My dear Maria, what an age since I have seen you!” “My dear Anne, our occupations are so engrossing53, our circles are so different,” in a languid response from the other. “Sir Brian is not coming, I suppose? Now, Colonel,” she turns in a frisky54 manner towards him, and taps her fan, “did I not tell you Sir Brian would not come?”
“He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those dreadful committees. He was quite vexed at not being able to come.”
“I know, I know, dear Anne, there are always excuses to gentlemen in Parliament; I have received many such. Mr. Shaloo and Mr. M’Sheny, the leaders of our party, often and often disappoint me. I knew Brian would not come. My husband came down from Marble Head on purpose this morning. Nothing would have induced us to give up our brother’s party.”
“I believe you. I did come down from Marble Head this morning, and I was four hours in the hay-field before I came away, and in the City till five, and I’ve been to look at a horse afterwards at Tattersall’s, and I’m as hungry as a hunter, and as tired as a hodman,” says Mr. Newcome, with his hands in his pockets. “How do you do, Mr. Pendennis? Maria, you remember Mr. Pendennis — don’t you?”
“Perfectly,” replies the languid Maria. Mrs. Gandish, Colonel Topham, Major M’Cracken. are announced, and then, in diamonds, feathers, and splendour, Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who are going to the Queen’s ball, and Sir Curry Baughton, not quite in his deputy-lieutenant’s uniform as yet, looking very shy in a pair of blue trousers, with a glittering stripe of silver down the seams. Clive looks with wonder and delight at these ravishing ladies, rustling55 in fresh brocades, with feathers, diamonds, and every magnificence. Aunt Anne has not her Court dress on as yet; and Aunt Maria blushes as she beholds56 the new comers, having thought fit to attire47 herself in a high dress, with a Quaker-like simplicity, and a pair of gloves more than ordinarily dingy. The pretty little foot she has, it is true, and sticks it out from habit; but what is Mrs. Newcome’s foot compared with that sweet little chaussure which Miss Baughton exhibits and withdraws? The shiny white satin slipper57, the pink stocking which ever and anon peeps from the rustling folds of her robe, and timidly retires into its covert58 — that foot, light as it is, crushes Mrs. Newcome.
No wonder she winces59, and is angry; there are some mischievous60 persons who rather like to witness that discomfiture61. All Mr. Smee’s flatteries that day failed to soothe62 her. She was in the state in which his canvasses63 sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them.
What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies invited to the dinner had departed, and those convoked64 to the soiree began to arrive — what happened to her or to them I do not like to think. The Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We judged from the fact that young Mr. Gandish came blushing in to the dessert. Name after name was announced of persons of whom Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The young and the old, the pretty and homely65, they were all in their best dresses, and no doubt stared at Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately66 plain in her attire. When we came upstairs from dinner, we found her seated entirely by herself, tapping her fan at the fireplace. Timid groups of persons were round about, waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, until the pleasure should begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning, was heard to say to his wife, “Oh, dam, let’s cut!” And they went downstairs, and waited until their carriage had arrived, when they quitted Fitzroy Square.
Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart and lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the arm of a friend. “How do you do, Pendennis?” he says, with a peculiarly dandified air. “Did you dine here? You look as if you dined here” (and Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). “I was only asked to the cold soiree. Who did you have for dinner? You had my mamma and the Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I know, for they are down below in the library, waiting for the carriage: he is asleep, and she is as sulky as a bear.”
“Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up here?” asks Barnes’s companion. “On the contrary, there are lots of fellows I know. There’s Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. There’s old Gandish, who used to be my drawing-master; and my Brighton friends, your uncle and cousin, Barnes. What relations are they to me? must be some relations. Fine fellow your cousin.”
“Hm,” growls67 Barnes. “Very fine boy — not spirited at all — not fond of flattery — not surrounded by toadies68 — not fond of drink — delightful boy! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with his most intimate friend, a little crooked69 fellow, with long hair. Do you know who he is? he is the son of old Todmoreton’s butler. Upon my life it’s true.”
“And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!” cries Lord Kew. “Who can be more respectable than a butler? A man must be somebody’s son. When I am a middle-aged70 man, I hope humbly71 I shall look like a butler myself. Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter’s men into the House of Lords, do you mean to say that they would not look as well as any average ten peers in the house? Look at Lord Westcot; he is exactly like a butler that’s why the country has such confidence in him. I never dine with him but I fancy he ought to be at the sideboard. Here comes that insufferable little old Smee. How do you do, Mr. Smee?”
Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond shirt-studs, and red velvet72 waistcoat, there are few more elaborate middle-aged bucks73 than Alfred Smee. “How do you do, my dear lord?” cries the bland74 one. “Who would ever have thought of seeing your lordship here?”
“Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee?” asks Lord Kew, abruptly75. “Is it wrong to come here? I have been in the house only five minutes, and three people have said the same thing to me — Mrs. Newcome, who is sitting downstairs in a rage waiting for her carriage, the condescending76 Barnes, and yourself. Why do you come here, Since? How are you, Mr. Gandish? How do the fine arts go?”
“Your lordship’s kindness in asking for them will cheer them if anything will,” says Mr. Gandish. “Your noble family has always patronised them. I am proud to be reckonised by your lordship in this house, where the distinguished father of one of my pupils entertains us this evening. A most promising77 young man is young Mr. Clive — talents for a hamateur really most remarkable78.”
“Excellent, upon my word — excellent,” cries Mr. Smee. “I’m not an animal painter myself, and perhaps don’t think much of that branch of the profession; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses with the most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very well, and that she was satisfied with her son’s portrait. Stockholm, I think, your brother is appointed to? I wish I might be allowed to paint the elder as well as the younger brother, my lord.”
“I am an historical painter; but whenever Lord Kew is painted I hope his lordship will think of the old servant of his lordship’s family, Charles Gandish,” cries the Professor.
“I am like Susannah between the two Elders,” says Lord Kew. “Let my innocence79 alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don’t persecute80 my modesty81 with your addresses. I won’t be painted. I am not a fit subject for a historical painter, Mr. Gandish.”
“Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Phridjas,” remarks Gandish.
“The cases are not quite similar,” says Lord Kew, languidly. “You are no doubt fully18 equal to Praxiteles; but I don’t see my resemblance to the other party. I should not look well as a hero, and Smee could not paint me handsome enough.”
“I would try, my dear lord,” cries Mr. Smee.
“I know you would, my dear fellow,” Lord Kew answered, looking at the painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. “Where is Colonel Newcome, Mr. Gandish?” Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant82 host was dancing a quadrille in the next room; and the young gentleman walked on towards that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of the evening’s entertainment.
Newcome’s behaviour to the young peer was ceremonious, but not in the least servile. He saluted83 the other’s superior rank, not his person, as he turned the guard out for a general officer. He never could be brought to be otherwise than cold and grave in his behaviour to John James; nor was it without difficulty, when young Ridley and his son became pupils at Gandish’s, he could be induced to invite the former to his parties. “An artist is any man’s equal,” he said. “I have no prejudice of that sort; and think that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Doctor Johnson were fit company for any person, of whatever rank. But a young man whose father may have had to wait behind me at dinner, should not be brought into my company.” Clive compromises the dispute with a laugh. “First,” says he, “I will wait till I am asked; and then I promise I will not go to dine with Lord Todmoreton.”
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1
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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3
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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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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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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9
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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10
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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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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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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40
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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45
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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46
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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47
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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48
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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51
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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52
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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55
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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57
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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59
winces
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| 避开，畏缩( wince的名词复数 ) | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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canvasses
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| n.检票员，游说者，推销员( canvass的名词复数 )v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的第三人称单数 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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convoked
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| v.召集，召开（会议）( convoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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67
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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68
toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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72
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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73
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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81
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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82
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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