Better folks than Morgan, the valet, were not so well instructed as that gentleman, regarding the amount of Lady Clavering’s riches; and the legend in London, upon her Ladyship’s arrival in the polite metropolis1, was, that her fortune was enormous. Indigo2 factories, opium3 clippers, banks overflowing4 with rupees, diamonds and jewels of native princes, and vast sums of interest paid by them for loans contracted by themselves or their predecessors5 to Lady Clavering’s father, were mentioned as sources of her wealth. Her account at her London banker’s was positively6 known, and the sum embraced so many cyphers as to create as many O’s of admiration7 in the wondering hearer. It was a known fact that an envoy8 from an Indian Prince, a Colonel Altamont, the Nawaub of Lucknow’s prime favourite, an extraordinary man, who had, it was said, embraced Mahometanism, and undergone a thousand wild and perilous9 adventures was at present in this country, trying to negotiate with the Begum Clavering, the sale of the Nawaub’s celebrated11 nose-ring diamond, ‘the light of the Dewan.’
Under the title of the Begum, Lady Clavering’s fame began to spread in London before she herself descended12 upon the Capital, and as it has been the boast of Delolme, and Blackstone, and all panegyrists of the British Constitution, that we admit into our aristocracy merit of every kind, and that the lowliest-born man, if he but deserve it, may wear the robes of a peer, and sit alongside of a Cavendish or a Stanley: so it ought to be the boast of our good society, that haughty13 though it be, naturally jealous of its privileges, and careful who shall be admitted into its circle, yet, if an individual be but rich enough, all barriers are instantly removed, and he or she is welcomed, as from his wealth he merits to be. This fact shows our British independence and honest feeling — our higher orders are not such mere14 haughty aristocrats15 as the ignorant represent them: on the contrary, if a man have money they will hold out their hands to him, eat his dinners, dance at his balls, marry his daughters, or give their own lovely girls to his sons, as affably as your commonest roturier would do.
As he had superintended the arrangements of the country mansion16, our friend, the Chevalier Strong, gave the benefit of his taste and advice to the fashionable London upholsterers, who prepared the town house for the reception of the Clavering family. In the decoration of this elegant abode17, honest Strong’s soul rejoiced as much as if he had been himself its proprietor18. He hung and re-hung the pictures, he studied the positions of sofas, he had interviews with wine merchants and purveyors who were to supply the new establishment; and at the same time the Baronet’s factotum19 and confidential21 friend took the opportunity of furnishing his own chambers22, and stocking his snug23 little cellar: his friends complimented him upon the neatness of the former; and the select guests who came in to share Strong’s cutlet new found a bottle of excellent claret to accompany the meal. The Chevalier was now, as be said, “in clover:” he had a very comfortable set of rooms in Shepherd’s Inn. He was waited on by a former Spanish Legionary and comrade of his whom he had left at a breach24 of a Spanish fort, and found at a crossing in Tottenham-court Road, and whom he had elevated to the rank of body-servant to himself and to the chum who, at present, shared his lodgings25. This was no other than the favourite of the Nawaub of Lucknow, the valiant26 Colonel Altamont.
No man was less curious, or at any rate, more discreet27, than Ned Strong, and he did not care to inquire into the mysterious connexion which, very soon after their first meeting at Baymouth was established between Sir Francis Clavering and the envoy of the Nawaub. The latter knew some secret regarding the former, which put Clavering into his power, somehow; and Strong, who knew that his patron’s early life had been rather irregular, and that his career with his regiment28 in India had not been brilliant, supposed that the Colonel, who swore he knew Clavering well at Calcutta, had some hold upon Sir Francis, to which the latter was forced to yield. In truth, Strong had long understood Sir Francis Clavering’s character, as that of a man utterly29 weak in purpose, in principle, and intellect, a moral and physical trifler and poltroon30.
With poor Clavering, his Excellency had had one or two interviews after their Baymouth meeting, the nature of which conversations the Baronet did not confide20 to Strong: although he sent letters to Altamont by that gentleman, who was his ambassador in all sorts of affairs. On one of these occasions the Nawaub’s envoy must have been in an exceeding ill humour; for he crushed Clavering’s letter in his hand, and said with his own particular manner and emphasis:—
“A hundred, be hanged. I’ll have no more letters nor no more shilly-shally. Tell Clavering I’ll have a thousand, or by Jove I’ll split, and burst him all to atoms. Let him give me a thousand and I’ll go abroad, and I give you my honour as a gentleman, I’ll not ask him for no more for a year. Give him that message from me, Strong, my boy; and tell him if the money ain’t here next Friday at twelve o’clock, as sure as my name’s what it is, I’ll have a paragraph in the newspaper on Saturday, and next week I’ll blow up the whole concern.”
Strong carried back these words to his principal, on whom their effect was such that actually on the day and hour appointed, the Chevalier made his appearance once more at Altamont’s hotel at Baymouth, with the sum of money required. Altamont was a gentleman, he said, and behaved as such; he paid his bill at the Inn, and the Baymouth paper announced his departure on a foreign tour. Strong saw him embark31 at Dover. “It must be forgery32 at the very least,” he thought, “that has put Clavering into this fellow’s power, and the Colonel has got the bill.”
Before the year was out, however, this happy country saw the Colonel once more upon its shores. A confounded run on the red had finished him, he said, at Baden Baden: no gentleman could stand against a colour coming up fourteen times. He had been obliged to draw upon Sir Francis Clavering for means of returning home: and Clavering, though pressed for money (for he had election expenses, had set up his establishment in the country and was engaged in furnishing his London house), yet found means to accept Colonel Altamont’s bill, though evidently very much against his will; for in Strong’s hearing, Sir Francis wished to heaven, with many curses, that the Colonel could have been locked up in a debtor’s goal in Germany for life, so that he might never be troubled again.
These sums for the Colonel Sir Francis was obliged to raise without the knowledge of his wife; for though perfectly33 liberal, nay34, sumptuous35 in her expenditure36, the good lady had inherited a tolerable aptitude37 for business along with the large fortune of her father, Snell, and gave to her husband only such a handsome allowance as she thought befitted a gentleman of his rank. Now and again she would give him a present, or pay an outstanding gambling39 debt; but she always exacted a pretty accurate account of the moneys so required; and respecting the subsidies40 to the Colonel, Clavering fairly told Strong that he couldn’t speak to his wife.
Part of Mr. Strong’s business in life was to procure41 this money and other sums, for his patron. And in the Chevalier’s apartments, in Shepherd’s Inn, many negotiations42 took place between gentlemen of the moneyed world and Sir Francis Clavering, and many valuable bank-notes and pieces of stamped paper were passed between them. When a man has been in the habit of getting in debt from his early youth, and of exchanging his promises to pay at twelve months against present sums of money, it would seem as if no piece of good fortune ever permanently43 benefited him: a little while after the advent10 of prosperity, the money-lender is pretty certain to be in the house again, and the bills with the old signature in the market. Clavering found it more convenient to see these gentry44 at Strong’s lodgings than at his own; and such was the Chevalier’s friendship for the Baronet that although he did not possess a shilling of his own, his name might be seen as the drawer of almost all the bills of exchange which Sir Francis Clavering accepted. Having drawn45 Clavering’s bills, he got them discounted “in the City.” When they became due he parleyed with the bill-holders, and gave them instalments of their debt, or got time in exchange for fresh acceptances. Regularly or irregularly, gentlemen must live somehow: and as we read how, the other day, at Comorn, the troops forming that garrison46 were gay and lively, acted plays, danced at balls, and consumed their rations47; though menaced with an assault from the enemy without the walls, and with a gallows48 if the Austrians were successful,— so there are hundreds of gallant49 spirits in this town, walking about in good spirits, dining every day in tolerable gaiety and plenty, and going to sleep comfortably; with a bailiff always more or less near, and a rope of debt round their necks — the which trifling50 inconveniences, Ned Strong, the old soldier, bore very easily.
But we shall have another opportunity of making acquaintance with these and some other interesting inhabitants of Shepherd’s Inn, and in the meanwhile are keeping Lady Clavering and her friends too long waiting on the door-steps of Grosvenor Place.
First they went into the gorgeous dining-room, fitted up, Lady Clavering couldn’t for goodness gracious tell why, in the middle-aged51 style, “unless,” said her good-natured ladyship, laughing, “because me and Clavering are middle-aged people;"— and here they were offered the copious52 remains53 of the luncheon54 of which Lady Clavering and Blanche had just partaken. When nobody was near, our little Sylphide, who scarcely ate at dinner more than the six grains of rice of Amina, the friend of the Ghouls in the Arabian Nights, was most active with her knife and fork, and consumed a very substantial portion of mutton cutlets: in which piece of hypocrisy55 it is believed she resembled other young ladies of fashion. Pen and his uncle declined the refection, but they admired the dining-room with fitting compliments, and pronounced it “very chaste56,” that being the proper phrase. There were, indeed, high-backed Dutch chairs of the seventeenth century; there was a sculptured carved buffet57 of the sixteenth; there was a sideboard robbed out of the carved work of a church in the Low Countries, and a large brass58 cathedral lamp over the round oak table; there were old family portraits from Wardour Street and tapestry59 from France, bits of armour60, double-handed swords and battle-axes made of carton-pierre, looking-glasses, statuettes of saints, and Dresden china — nothing, in a word, could be chaster. Behind the dining-room was the library, fitted with busts61 and books all of a size, and wonderful easy-chairs, and solemn bronzes in the severe classic style. Here it was that, guarded by double doors, Sir Francis smoked cigars, and read Bell’s Life in London, and went to sleep after dinner, when he was not smoking over the billiard-table at his clubs, or punting at the gambling-houses in Saint James’s.
But what could equal the chaste splendour of the drawing-rooms?— the carpets were so magnificently fluffy62 that your foot made no more noise on them than your shadow: on their white ground bloomed roses and tulips as big as warming-pans: about the room were high chairs and low chairs, bandy-legged chairs, chairs so attenuated63 that it was a wonder any but a sylph could sit upon them, marquetterie-tables covered with marvellous gimcracks, china ornaments64 of all ages and countries, bronzes, gilt65 daggers66, Books of Beauty, yataghans, Turkish papooshes and boxes of Parisian bonbons67. Wherever you sate68 down there were Dresden shepherds and shepherdesses convenient at your elbow; there were, moreover, light blue poodles and ducks and cocks and hens in porcelain69; there were nymphs by Boucher, and shepherdesses by Greuze, very chaste indeed; there were muslin curtains and brocade curtains, gilt cages with parroquets and love-birds, two squealing70 cockatoos, each out-squealing and out-chattering the other; a clock singing tunes71 on a console-table, and another booming the hours like Great Tom, on the mantelpiece — there was, in a word, everything that comfort could desire, and the most elegant taste devise. A London drawing-room, fitted up without regard to expense, is surely one of the noblest and most curious sights of the present day. The Romans of the Lower Empire, the dear Marchionesses and Countesses of Louis XV., could scarcely have had a finer taste than our modern folks exhibit; and everybody who saw Lady Clavering’s reception rooms, was forced to confess that they were most elegant; and that the prettiest rooms in London — Lady Harley Quin’s, Lady Hanway Wardour’s, or Mrs. Hodge-Podgson’s own; the great Railroad Croesus’ wife, were not fitted up with a more consummate72 “chastity.”
Poor Lady Clavering, meanwhile, knew little regarding these things, and had a sad want of respect for the splendours around her. “I only know they cost a precious deal of money, Major,” she said to her guest, “and that I don’t advise you to try one of them gossamer73 gilt chairs: I came down on one the night we gave our second dinner-party. Why didn’t you come and see us before? We’d have asked you to it.”
“You would have liked to see Mamma break a chair, wouldn’t you, Mr. Pendennis?” dear Blanche said with a sneer74. She was angry because Pen was talking and laughing with Mamma, because Mamma had made a number of blunders in describing the house — for a hundred other good reasons.
“I should like to have been by to give Lady Clavering my arm if she had need of it,” Pen answered, with a bow and a blush.
“Quel preux Chevalier!” cried the Sylphide, tossing up her little head.
“I have a fellow-feeling with those who fall, remember,” Pen said. “I suffered myself very much from doing so once.”
“And you went home to Laura to console you,” said Miss Amory. Pen winced75. He did not like the remembrance of the consolation76 which Laura had given to him, nor was he very well pleased to find that his rebuff in that quarter was known to the world; so as he had nothing to say in reply, he began to be immensely interested in the furniture round about him, and to praise Lady Clavering’s taste with all his might.
“No, don’t praise me,” said honest Lady Clavering, “it’s all the upholsterer’s doings and Captain Strong’s, they did it all while we was at the Park — and — and — Lady Rockminster has been here and says the salongs are very well,” said Lady Clavering, with an air and tone of great deference77.
“My cousin Laura has been staying with her,” Pen said.
“It’s not the dowager: it is the Lady Rockminster.”
“Indeed!” cried Major Pendennis, when he heard this great name of fashion. “If you have her ladyship’s approval, Lady Clavering, you cannot be far wrong. No, no, you cannot be far wrong. Lady Rockminster, I should say, Arthur, is the very centre of the circle of fashion and taste. The rooms are beautiful indeed!” and the Major’s voice hushed as he spoke78 of this great lady, and he looked round and surveyed the apartments awfully79 and respectfully, as if he had been at church.
“Yes, Lady Rockminster has took us up,” said Lady Clavering.
“Taken us up, Mamma,” cried Blanche, in a shrill80 voice.
“Well, taken us up, then,” said my lady; “it’s very kind of her, and I dare say we shall like it when we git used to it, only at first one don’t fancy being took — well, taken up, at all. She is going to give our balls for us; and wants to invite all our dinners. But I won’t stand that. I will have my old friends and I won’t let her send all the cards out, and sit mum at the head of my own table. You must come to me, Arthur and Major — come, let me see, on the 14th.— It ain’t one of our grand dinners, Blanche,” she said, looking round at her daughter, who bit her lips and frowned very savagely81 for a sylphide.
The Major, with a smile and a bow, said he would much rather come to a quiet meeting than to a grand dinner. He had had enough of those large entertainments, and preferred the simplicity82 of the home circle.
“I always think a dinner’s the best the second day,” said Lady Clavering, thinking to mend her first speech. “On the 14th we’ll be quite a snug little party;” at which second blunder, Miss Blanche clasped her hands in despair, and said “O, mamma, vous etes incorrigible83.” Major Pendennis vowed84 that he liked snug dinners of all things in the world, and confounded her ladyship’s impudence85 for daring to ask such a man as him to a second day’s dinner. But he was a man of an economical turn of mind, and bethinking himself that he could throw over these people if anything better should offer, he accepted with the blandest86 air. As for Pen, he was not a diner-out of thirty years’ standing38 as yet, and the idea of a fine feast in a fine house was still perfectly welcome to him.
“What was that pretty little quarrel which engaged itself between your worship and Miss Amory?” the Major asked of Pen, as they walked away together. “I thought you used to au mieux in that quarter.”
“Used to be,” answered Pen, with a dandified air “is a vague phrase regarding a woman. Was and is are two very different terms, sir, as regards women’s hearts especially.
“Egad, they change as we do,” cried the elder. “When we took the Cape88 of Good Hope, I recollect89 there was a lady who talked poisoning herself for your humble90 servant; and, begad, in three months she ran away from her husband with somebody else. Don’t get yourself entangled91 with that Miss Amory, She is forward, affected92, and under-bred; and her character is somewhat — never mind what. But don’t think of her; ten thousand pound won’t do for you. What, my good fellow, is ten thousand pound? I would scarcely pay that girl’s milliner’s bill with the interest of the money.”
“You seem to be a connoisseur93 in millinery, Uncle” Pen said.
“I was, sir, I was,” replied the senior; “and the old war-horse, you know, never hears the sound of a trumpet94, but he begins to he, he!— you understand,”— and he gave a killing95 and somewhat superannuated96 leer and bow to a carriage that passed them and entered the Park.
“Lady Catherine Martingale’s carriage” he said “mons’ous fine girls the daughters, though, gad87, I remember their mother a thousand times handsomer. No, Arthur, my dear fellow, with your person and expectations, you ought to make a good coup97 in marriage some day or other; and though I wouldn’t have this repeated at Fairoaks, you rogue98, ha! ha! a reputation for a little wickedness, and for being an homme dangereux, don’t hurt a young fellow with the women. They like it, sir, they hate a milksop — young men must be young men, you know. But for marriage,” continued the veteran moralist, “that is a very different matter. Marry a woman with money. I’ve told you before it is as easy to get a rich wife as a poor one; and a doosed deal more comfortable to sit down to a well-cooked dinner, with your little entrees99 nicely served, than to have nothing but a damned cold leg of mutton between you and your wife. We shall have a good dinner on the 14th, when we dine with Sir Francis Clavering: stick to that, my boy, in your relations with the family. Cultivate ’em, but keep ’em for dining. No more of your youthful follies100 and nonsense about love in a cottage.”
“It must be a cottage with a double coach-house, a cottage of gentility, sir,” said Pen, quoting the hackneyed ballad101 of the Devil’s Walk: but his Uncle did not know that poem (though, perhaps, he might be leading Pen upon the very promenade102 in question), and went on with his philosophical103 remarks, very much pleased with the aptness of the pupil to whom he addressed them. Indeed Arthur Pendennis was a clever fellow, who took his colour very readily from his neighbour, and found the adaptation only too easy.
Warrington, the grumbler104, growled105 out that Pen was becoming such a puppy that soon there would be no bearing him. But the truth is, the young man’s success and dashing manners pleased his elder companion. He liked to see Pen gay and spirited, and brimful of health, and life, and hope; as a man who has long since left off being amused with clown and harlequin, still gets a pleasure in watching a child at a pantomime. Mr. Pen’s former sulkiness disappeared with his better fortune: and he bloomed as the sun began to shine upon him.
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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factotum
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confide
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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chambers
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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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breach
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lodgings
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valiant
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discreet
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regiment
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utterly
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poltroon
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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perfectly
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nay
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sumptuous
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expenditure
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aptitude
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standing
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gambling
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subsidies
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procure
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negotiations
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permanently
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gentry
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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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garrison
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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gallows
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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51
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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52
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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53
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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54
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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57
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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58
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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59
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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60
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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62
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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64
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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71
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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72
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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74
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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77
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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78
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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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80
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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81
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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82
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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83
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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84
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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85
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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87
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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88
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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89
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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90
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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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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94
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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95
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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96
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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97
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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98
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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99
entrees
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| n.入场权( entree的名词复数 )；主菜 | |
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100
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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101
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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102
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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103
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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104
grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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105
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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