Having had occasion to mention a noble earl once or twice, I am sure no polite reader will consent that his lordship should push through this history along with the crowd of commoner characters, and without a special word regarding himself. If you are in the least familiar with Burke or Debrett, you know that the ancient family of Ringwood has long been famous for its great possessions, and its loyalty1 to the British crown.
In the troubles which unhappily agitated2 this kingdom after the deposition3 of the late reigning4 house, the Ringwoods were implicated5 with many other families, but on the accession of his Majesty6 George III. these differences happily ended, nor had the monarch7 any subject more loyal and devoted8 than Sir John Ringwood, Baronet, of Wingate and Whipham Market. Sir John’s influence sent three members to Parliament; and during the dangerous and vexatious period of the American war, this influence was exerted so cordially and consistently in the cause of order and the crown, that his Majesty thought fit to advance Sir John to the dignity of Baron9 Ringwood. Sir John’s brother, Sir Francis Ringwood, of Appleshaw, who followed the profession of the law, was promoted to be a Baron of his Majesty’s Court of Exchequer10. The first baron, dying A.D. 1786, was succeeded by the eldest11 of his two sons — John, second Baron and first Earl of Ringwood. His lordship’s brother, the Honourable12 Colonel Philip Ringwood, died gloriously, at the head of his regiment13 and in the defence of his country, in the battle of Busaco, 1810, leaving two daughters, Louisa and Maria.
The Earl of Ringwood had but one son, Charles Viscount Cinqbars, who, unhappily, died of a decline, in his twenty-second year. And thus the descendants of Sir Francis Ringwood became heirs to the earl’s great estates of Wingate and Whipham Market, though not of the peerages which had been conferred on the earl and his father.
Lord Ringwood had, living with him, two nieces, daughters of his late brother Colonel Philip Ringwood, who fell in the Peninsular War. Of these ladies, the youngest, Louisa, was his lordship’s favourite; and though both the ladies had considerable fortunes of their own, it was supposed their uncle would further provide for them, especially as he was on no very good terms with his cousin, Sir John of the Shaw, who took the Whig side in politics, whilst his lordship was a chief of the Tory party.
Of these two nieces, the eldest, Maria, never any great favourite with her uncle, married, 1824, Talbot Twysden, Esq., a Commissioner15 of Powder and Pomatum Tax; but the youngest, Louisa, incurred16 my lord’s most serious anger by eloping with George Brand Firmin, Esq., M.D., a young gentleman of Cambridge University, who had been with Lord Cinqbars when he died at Naples, and had brought home his body to Wingate Castle.
The quarrel with the youngest niece, and the indifference17 with which he generally regarded the elder (whom his lordship was in the habit of calling an old schemer), occasioned at first a little rapprochement between Lord Ringwood and his heir, Sir John of Appleshaw; but both gentlemen were very firm, not to say obstinate18, in their natures. They had a quarrel with respect to the cutting off of a small entailed20 property, of which the earl wished to dispose; and they parted with much rancour and bad language on his lordship’s part, who was an especially free-spoken nobleman, and apt to call a spade a spade, as the saying is.
After this difference, and to spite his heir, it was supposed that the Earl of Ringwood would marry. He was little more than seventy years of age, and had once been of a very robust22 constitution. And though his temper was violent and his person not at all agreeable (for even in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s picture his countenance23 is very ill-favoured), there is little doubt he could have found a wife for the asking among the young beauties of his own county, or the fairest of May Fair.
But he was a cynical24 nobleman, and perhaps morbidly25 conscious of his own ungainly appearance. “Of course, I can buy a wife” (his lordship would say). “Do you suppose people won’t sell their daughters to a man of my rank and means? Now look at me, my good sir, and say whether any woman alive could fall in love with me? I have been married, and once was enough. I hate ugly women, and your virtuous26 women, who tremble and cry in private, and preach at a man, bore me. Sir John Ringwood of Appleshaw is an ass27, and I hate him; but I don’t hate him enough to make myself miserable28 for the rest of my days, in order to spite him. When I drop, I drop. Do you suppose I care what comes after me?” And with much sardonical humour this old lord used to play off one good dowager after another who would bring her girl in his way. He would send pearls to Emily, diamonds to Fanny, opera-boxes to lively Kate, books of devotion to pious29 Selinda, and, at the season’s end, drive back to his lonely great castle in the west. They were all the same, such was his lordship’s opinion. I fear, a wicked and corrupt30 old gentleman, my dears. But ah, would not a woman submit to some sacrifices to reclaim31 that unhappy man; to lead that gifted but lost being into the ways of right; to convert to a belief in woman’s purity that erring32 soul? They tried him with high-church altar-cloths for his chapel33 at Wingate; they tried him with low-church tracts34; they danced before him; they jumped fences on horseback; they wore bandeaux, or ringlets, according as his taste dictated35; they were always at home when he called, and poor you and I were gruffly told they were engaged; they gushed36 in gratitude37 over his bouquets38; they sang for him, and their mothers, concealing39 their sobs40, murmured, “What an angel that Cecilia of mine is!” Every variety of delicious chaff41 they flung to that old bird. But he was uncaught at the end of the season: he winged his way back to his western hills. And if you dared to say that Mrs. Netley had tried to take him, or Lady Trapboys had set a snare42 for him, you know you were a wicked, gross calumniator43, and notorious everywhere for your dull and vulgar abuse of women.
In the year 1830, this great nobleman was seized with a fit of the gout, which had very nearly consigned44 his estates to his kinsman45 the Baronet of Appleshaw. A revolution took place in a neighbouring State. An illustrious reigning family was expelled from its country, and projects of reform (which would pretty certainly end in revolution) were rife46 in ours. The events in France, and those pending47 at home, so agitated Lord Ringwood’s mind, that he was attacked by one of the severest fits of gout under which he ever suffered. His shrieks48, as he was brought out of his yacht at Ryde to a house taken for him in the town, were dreadful; his language to all persons about him was frightfully expressive50, as Lady Quamley and her daughter, who had sailed with him several times, can vouch51. An ill return that rude old man made for all their kindness and attention to him. They had danced on board his yacht; they had dined on board his yacht; they had been out sailing with him, and cheerfully braved the inconveniences of the deep in his company. And when they ran to the side of his chair — as what would they not do to soothe53 an old gentleman in illness and distress54? — when they ran up to his chair as it was wheeled along the pier55, he called mother and daughter by the most
vulgar and opprobrious56 names, and roared out to them to go to a place which I certainly shall not more particularly mention.
Now it happened, at this period, that Dr. and Mrs. Firmin were at Ryde with their little boy, then some three years of age. The doctor was already taking his place as one of the most fashionable physicians then in London, and had begun to be celebrated57 for the treatment of this especial malady58. (Firmin on Gout and Rheumatism59 was, you remember, dedicated60 to his Majesty George IV.) Lord Ringwood’s valet bethought him of calling the doctor in, and mentioned how he was present in the town. Now Lord Ringwood was a nobleman who never would allow his angry feelings to stand in the way of his present comforts or ease. He instantly desired Mr. Firmin’s attendance, and submitted to his treatment; a part of which was a hauteur61 to the full as great as that which the sick man exhibited. Firmin’s appearance was so tall and grand, that he looked vastly more noble than a great many noblemen. Six feet, a high manner, a polished forehead, a flashing eye, a snowy shirt-frill, a rolling velvet62 collar, a beautiful hand appearing under a velvet cuff63 — all these advantages he possessed64 and used. He did not make the slightest allusion65 to bygones, but treated his patient with a perfect courtesy and an impenetrable self-possession.
This defiant66 and darkling politeness did not always displease67 the old man. He was so accustomed to slavish compliance69 and eager obedience70 from all people round about him, that he sometimes wearied of their servility, and relished71 a little independence. Was it from calculation, or because he was a man of high spirit, that Firmin determined73 to maintain an independent course with his lordship? From the first day of their meeting he never departed from it, and had the satisfaction of meeting with only civil behaviour from his noble relative and patient, who was notorious for his rudeness and brutality74 to almost every person who came in his way.
From hints which his lordship gave in conversation, he showed the doctor that he was acquainted with some particulars of the latter’s early career. It had been wild and stormy. Firmin had incurred debts; had quarrelled with his father; had left the university and gone abroad; had lived in a wild society, which used dice75 and cards every night, and pistols sometimes in the morning; and had shown a fearful dexterity76 in the use of the latter instrument, which he employed against the person of a famous Italian adventurer, who fell under his hand at Naples. When this century was five-and-twenty years younger, the crack of the pistol-shot might still occasionally be heard in the suburbs of London in the very early morning; and the dice-box went round in many a haunt of pleasure. The knights77 of the Four Kings travelled from capital to capital, and engaged each other, or made prey78 of the unwary. Now, the times are changed. The cards are coffined79 in their boxes. Only sous-officiers, brawling80 in their provincial81 cafés over ther dominos, fight duels82. “Ah, dear me,” I heard a veteran punter sigh the other day, at Bays’s , “isn’t it a melancholy83 thing to think, that if I wanted to amuse myself with a fifty-pound note, I don’t know the place in London where I could go and lose it?” And he fondly recounted the names of twenty places where he could have cheerfully staked and lost his money in his young time.
After a somewhat prolonged absence abroad, Mr. Firmin came back to this country, was permitted to return to the university, and left it with the degree of Bachelor of Medicine. We have told how he ran away with Lord Ringwood’s niece, and incurred the anger of that nobleman. Beyond abuse and anger his lordship was powerless. The young lady was free to marry whom she liked, and her uncle to disown or receive him; and accordingly she was, as we have seen, disowned by his lordship, until he found it convenient to forgive her. What were Lord Ringwood’s intentions regarding his property, what were his accumulations, and who his heirs would be, no one knew. Meanwhile, of course, there were those who felt a very great interest on the point. Mrs. Twysden and her husband and children were hungry and poor. If uncle Ringwood had money to leave, it would be very welcome to those three darlings, whose father had not a great income like Dr. Firmin. Philip was a dear, good, frank, amiable84, wild fellow, and they all loved him. But he had his faults — that could not be concealed85 — and so poor Phil’s faults were pretty constantly canvassed86 before uncle Ringwood, by dear relatives who knew them only too well. The dear relatives! How kind they are! I don’t think Phil’s aunt abused him to my lord. That quiet woman calmly and gently put forward the claims of her own darlings, and affectionately dilated87 on the young man’s present prosperity, and magnificent future prospects88. The interest of thirty thousand pounds now, and the inheritance of his father’s great accumulations! What young man could want for more? Perhaps he had too much already. Perhaps he was too rich to work. The sly old peer acquiesced89 in his niece’s statements, and perfectly90 understood the point towards which they tended. “A thousand a year! What’s a thousand a year,” growled91 the old lord. “Not enough to make a gentleman, more than enough to make a fellow idle.”
“Ah, indeed, it was but a small income,” sighed Mrs. Twysden. “With a large house, a good establishment, and Mr. Twysden’s salary from his office — it was but a pittance92.”
“Pittance! Starvation,” growls93 my lord, with his usual frankness. “Don’t I know what housekeeping costs, and see how you screw? Butlers and footmen, carriages and job-horses, rent and dinners — though yours, Maria, are not famous.”
“Very bad — I know they are very bad,” says the contrite94 lady, “I wish we could afford any better.”
“Afford any better? Of course you can’t. You are the crockery pots, and you swim down-stream with the brass95 pots. I saw Twysden the other day walking down St. James’s Street with Rhodes — that tall fellow.” (Here my lord laughed, and showed many fangs96, the exhibition of which gave a peculiarly fierce air to his lordship when in good-humour.) “If Twysden walks with a big fellow, he always tries to keep step with him. You know that.” Poor Maria naturally knew her husband’s peculiarities97; but she did not say that she had no need to be reminded of them.
“He was so blown he could hardly speak,” continued uncle Ringwood; “but he would stretch his little legs, and try and keep up. He has a little body, le cher mari, but a good pluck. Those little fellows often have. I’ve seen him half dead out shooting, and plunging98 over the ploughed fields after fellows with twice his stride. Why don’t men sink in the world, I want to know? Instead of a fine house, and a parcel of idle servants, why don’t you have a maid and a leg of mutton, Maria? You go half crazy in trying to make both ends meet. You know you do. It keeps you awake of nights; I know that very well. You’ve got a house fit for people with four times your money. I lend you my cook and so forth99; but I can’t come and dine with you unless I send the wine in. Why don’t you have a pot of porter, and a joint100, or some tripe101? — tripe’s a famous good thing. The miseries102 which people entail19 on themselves in trying to live beyond their means are perfectly ridiculous, by George! Look at that fellow who opened the door to me; he’s as tall as one of my own men. Go and live in a quiet little street in Belgravia somewhere, and have a neat little maid. Nobody will think a penny the worse of you — and you will be just as well off as if you lived here with an extra couple of thousand a year. The advice I am giving you is worth half that, every shilling of it.”
“It is very good advice; but I think, sir, I should prefer the thousand pounds,” said the lady.
“Of course you would. That is the consequence of your false position. One of the good points about that doctor is, that he is as proud as Lucifer, and so is his boy. They are not always hungering after money. They keep their independence; though he’ll have his own too, the fellow will. Why, when I first called him in, I thought, as he was a relation, he’d doctor me for nothing; but he wouldn’t. He would have his fee, by George! and wouldn’t come without it. Confounded independent fellow Firmin is. And so is the young one.”
But when Twysden and his son (perhaps inspirited by Mrs. Twysden) tried once or twice to be independent in the presence of this lion, he roared, and he rushed at them, and he rent them, so that they fled from him howling. And this reminds me of an old story I have heard — quite an old, old story, such as kind old fellows at clubs love to remember — of my lord, when he was only Lord Cinqbars, insulting a half-pay lieutenant104, in his own country, who horsewhipped his lordship in the most private and ferocious105 manner. It was said Lord Cinqbars had had a rencontre with poachers; but it was my lord who was poaching and the lieutenant who was defending his own dovecote. I do not say that this was a model nobleman; but that, when his own passions or interests did not mislead him, he was a nobleman of very considerable acuteness, humour, and good sense; and could give quite good advice on occasion. If men would kneel down and kiss his boots, well and good. There was the blacking, and you were welcome to embrace toe and heel. But those who would not, were free to leave the operation alone. The Pope himself does not demand the ceremony from Protestants; and if they object to the slipper106, no one thinks of forcing it into their mouths. Phil and his father probably declined to tremble before the old man, not because they knew he was a bully107 who might be put down, but because they were men of spirit, who cared not whether a man was bully or no.
I have told you I like Philip Firmin, though it must be confessed that the young fellow had many faults, and that his career, especially his early career, was by no means exemplary. Have I ever excused his conduct to his father, or said a word in apology of his brief and inglorious university life? I acknowledge his shortcomings with that candour which my friends exhibit in speaking of mine. Who does not see a friend’s weaknesses, and is so blind that he cannot perceive that enormous beam in his neighbour’s eye? Only a woman or two, from time to time. And even they are undeceived some day. A man of the world, I write about my friends as mundane108 fellow-creatures. Do you suppose there are many angels here? I say again, perhaps a woman or two. But as for you and me, my good sir, are there any signs of wings sprouting109 from our shoulder-blades? Be quiet. Don’t pursue your snarling110, cynical remarks, but go on with your story.
As you go through life, stumbling, and slipping, and staggering to your feet again, ruefully aware of your own wretched weakness, and praying, with a contrite heart let us trust, that you may not be led into temptation, have you not often looked at other fellow-sinners, and speculated with an awful interest on their career? Some there are on whom, quite in their early lives, dark Ahrimanes has seemed to lay his dread49 mark: children, yet corrupt, and wicked of tongue; tender of age, yet cruel; who should be truth-telling and generous yet (they were at their mothers’ bosoms112 yesterday), but are false, and cold, and greedy before their time. Infants almost, they practise the art and selfishness of old men. Behind their candid113 faces are wiles114 and wickedness, and a hideous115 precocity116 of artifice117. I can recal such, and in the vista118 of far-off, unforgotten boyhood, can see marching that sad little procession of enfans perdus. May they be saved, pray heaven! Then there is the doubtful class, those who are still on trial; those who fall and rise again; those who are often worsted in life’s battle; beaten down, wounded, imprisoned119; but escape and conquer sometimes. And then there is the happy class about whom there seems no doubt at all: the spotless and white-robed ones, to whom virtue120 is easy; in whose pure bosoms faith nestles, and cold doubt finds no entrance; who are children, and yet good; young men, and good; husbands and fathers, and yet good. Why could the captain of our school write his Greek Iambics without an effort, and without an error? Others of us blistered121 the page with unavailing tears and blots122, and might toil123 ever so, and come in lag last at the bottom of the from. Our friend Philip belongs to the middle class, in which you and I probably are, my dear sir — not yet, I hope, irredeemably consigned to that awful third class whereof mention has been made.
But, being homo, and liable to err14, there is no doubt Mr. Philip exercised his privilege, and there was even no little fear at one time that he should overdraw124 his account. He went from school to the university, and there distinguished125 himself certainly, but in a way in which very few parents would choose that their sons should excel. That he should hunt, that he should give parties, that he should pull a good oar52 in one of the best boats on the river, that he should speak at the Union — all these were very well. But why should he speak such awful radicalism127 and republicanism — he with noble blood in his veins128, and the son of a parent whose interest at least it was to keep well with people of high station?
“Why, Pendennis,” said Dr. Firmin to me, with tears in his eyes, and much genuine grief exhibited on his handsome pale face — “why should it be said that Philip Firmin — both of whose grandfathers fought nobly for their king — should be forgetting the principles of his family, and — and, I haven’t words to tell you how deeply he disappoints me. Why, I actually heard of him at that horrible Union advocating the death of Charles the First! I was wild enough myself when I was at the university, but I was a gentleman.”
“Boys, sir, are boys,” I urged. “They will advocate anything for an argument: and Philip would have taken the other side quite as readily.”
“Lord Axminster and Lord St. Dennis told me of it at the club. I can tell you it has made a most painful impression,” cried the father. “That my son should be a radical126 and a republican, is a cruel thought for a father; and I, who had hoped for Lord Ringwood’s borough129 for him — who had hoped — who had hoped very much better things for him and from him — He is not a comfort to me. You saw how he treated me one night? A man might live on different terms, I think, with his only son!” And with a breaking voice, a pallid130 cheek, and a real grief at his heart, the unhappy physician moved away.
How had the doctor bred his son, that the young man should be thus unruly? Was the revolt the boy’s fault, or the father’s ? Dr. Firmin’s horror seemed to be because his noble friends were horrified131 by Phil’s radical doctrine132. At that time of my life, being young and very green, I had a little mischievous133 pleasure in infuriating Squaretoes, and causing him to pronounce that I was “a dangerous man.” Now, I am ready to say that Nero was a monarch with many elegant accomplishments134, and considerable natural amiability135 of disposition136. I praise and admire success wherever I meet it. I make allowance for faults and shortcomings, especially in my superiors; and feel that, did we know all, we should judge them very differently. People don’t believe me, perhaps, quite so much as formerly137. But I don’t offend: I trust I don’t offend. Have I said anything painful? Plague on my blunders! I recal the expression. I regret it. I contradict it flat.
As I am ready to find excuses for everybody, let poor Philip come in for the benefit of this mild amnesty; and if he vexed138 his father, as he certainly did, let us trust — let us be thankfully sure — he was not so black as the old gentleman depicted139 him. Phil was unruly because he was bold, and wild, and young. His father was hurt, naturally hurt, because of the boy’s extravagances and follies140. They will come together again, as father and son should. These little differences of temper will be smoothed and equalized anon. The boy has led a wild life. He has been obliged to leave college. He has given his father hours of anxiety and nights of painful watching. But stay, father, what of you? Have you shown to the boy the practice of confidence, the example of love and honour? Did you accustom68 him to virtue, and teach truth to the child at your knee? “Honour your father and mother.” Amen. May his days be long who fulfils the command: but implied, though unwritten on the table, is there not the order, “Honour your son and daughter?” Pray heaven that we, whose days are already not few in the land, may keep this ordinance141 too.
What had made Philip wild, extravagant142, and insubordinate? Cured of that illness in which we saw him, he rose up, and from school went his way to the university, and there entered on a life such as wild young men will lead. From that day of illness his manner towards his father changed, and regarding the change the elder Firmin seemed afraid to question his son. He used the house as if his own, came and absented himself at will, ruled the servants, and was spoilt by them; spent the income which was settled on his mother and her children, and gave of it liberally to poor acquaintances. To the remonstrances143 of old friends he replied that he had a right to do as he chose with his own; that other men who were poor might work, but that he had enough to live on, without grinding over classics and mathematics. He was implicated in more rows than one; his tutors saw him not, but he and the proctors became a great deal too well acquainted. If I were to give a history of Mr. Philip Firmin at the university, it would be the story of an Idle Apprentice144, of whom his pastors145 and masters were justified146 in prophesying147 evil. He was seen on lawless London excursions, when his father and tutor supposed him unwell in his rooms in college. He made acquaintance with jolly companions, with whom his father grieved that he should be intimate. He cut the astonished uncle Twysden in London street, and blandly149 told him that he must be mistaken — he one Frenchman, he no speak English. He stared the master of his own college out of countenance, dashed back to college with a Turpin-like celerity, and was in rooms with a ready proved alibi150 when inquiries151 were made. I am afraid there is no doubt that Phil screwed up his tutor’s door; Mr. Okes discovered him in the fact. He had to go down, the young prodigal152. I wish I could say he was repentant153. But he appeared before his father with the utmost nonchalance154; said that he was doing no good at the university, and should be much better away, and then went abroad on a dashing tour to France and Italy, whither it is by no means our business to follow him. Something had poisoned the generous blood. The once kindly155, honest lad was wild and reckless. He had money in sufficiency, his own horses and equipage, and free quarters in his father’s house. But father and son scarce met, and seldom took a meal together. “I know his haunts, but I don’t know his friends, Pendennis,” the elder man said. “I don’t think they are vicious, so much as low. I do not charge him with vice103, mind you; but with idleness, and a fatal love of low company, and a frantic156, suicidal determination to fling his chances in life away. Ah, think where he might be, and where he is!”
Where he was? Do not be alarmed. Philip was only idling. Philip might have been much more industriously157, more profitably, and a great deal more wickedly employed. What is now called Bohemia had no name in Philip’s young days, though many of us knew the country very well. A pleasant land, not fenced with drab stucco, like Tyburnia or Belgravia; not guarded by a huge standing158 army of footmen; not echoing with noble chariots; not replete159 with polite chintz drawing-rooms and neat tea-tables; a land over which hangs an endless fog, occasioned by much tobacco; a land of chambers160, billiard-rooms, supper-rooms, oysters161; a land of song; a land where soda-water flows freely in the morning; a land of tin dish-covers from taverns162, and frothing porter; a land of lotos-eating (with lots of cayenne pepper), of pulls on the river, of delicious reading of novels, magazines, and saunterings in many studios; a land where men call each other by their Christian164 names; where most are poor, where almost all are young, and where if a few oldsters do enter, it is because they have preserved more tenderly and carefully than other folks their youthful spirits, and the delightful165 capacity to be idle. I have lost my way to Bohemia now, but it is certain that Prague is the most picturesque166 city in the world.
Having long lived there, and indeed only lately quitted the Bohemian land at the time whereof I am writing, I could not quite participate in Dr. Firmin’s indignation at his son persisting in his bad courses and wild associates. When Firmin had been wild himself, he had fought, intrigued167, and gambled in good company. Phil chose his friends amongst a banditti never heard of in fashionable quarters. Perhaps he liked to play the prince in the midst of these associates, and was not averse168 to the flattery which a full purse brought him among men most of whose pockets had a meagre lining169. He had not emigrated to Bohemia, and settled there altogether. At school and in his brief university career he had made some friends who lived in the world, and with whom he was still familiar. “These come and knock at my front door, my father’s door,” he would say, with one of his old laughs; “the Bandits, who have the signal, enter only by the dissecting-room. I know which are the most honest, and that it is not always the poor Freebooters who best deserve to be hanged.”
Like many a young gentleman who has no intention of pursuing legal studies seriously, Philip entered at an inn of court, and kept his terms duly, though he vowed170 that his conscience would not allow him to practise (I am not defending the opinions of this squeamish moralist — only stating them). His acquaintance here lay amongst the Temple Bohemians. He had part of a set of chambers in Parchment Buildings, to be sure, and you might read on a door, “Mr. Cassidy, Mr. P. Firmin, Mr. Vanjohn;” but were these gentlemen likely to advance Philip in life? Cassidy was a newspaper reporter, and young Vanjohn a betting man who was always attending races. Dr. Firmin had a horror of newspaper men, and considered they belonged to the dangerous classes, and treated them with a distant affability.
“Look at the governor, Pen,” Philip would say to the present chronicler. “He always watches you with a secret suspicion, and has never got over his wonder at your being a gentleman. I like him when he does the Lord Chatham business, and condescends171 towards you, and gives you his hand to kiss. He considers he is your better, don’t you see? Oh, he is a paragon172 of a père noble, the governor is! and I ought to be a young Sir Charles Grandison.” And the young scapegrace would imitate his father’s smile, and the doctor’s manner of laying his hand to his breast and putting out his neat right leg, all of which movements or postures173 were, I own, rather pompous174 and affected175.
Whatever the paternal176 faults were, you will say that Philip was not the man to criticize them; nor in this matter shall I attempt to defend him. My wife has a little pensioner177 whom she found wandering in the street, and singing a little artless song. The child could not speak yet — only warble its little song; and had thus strayed away from home, and never once knew of her danger. We kept her for a while, until the police found her parents. Our servants bathed her, and dressed her, and sent her home in such neat clothes as the poor little wretch111 had never seen until fortune sent her in the way of those good-natured folks. She pays them frequent visits. When she goes away from us, she is always neat and clean; when she comes to us, she is in rags and dirty. A wicked little slattern! And, pray, whose duty is it to keep her clean? and has not the parent in this case forgotten to honour her daughter? Suppose there is some reason which prevents Philip from loving his father — that the doctor has neglected to cleanse178 the boy’s heart, and by carelessness and indifference has sent him erring into the world. If so, woe179 be to that doctor! If I take my little son to the tavern163 to dinner, shall I not assuredly pay? If I suffer him in tender youth to go astray, and harm comes to him, whose is the fault?
Perhaps the very outrages180 and irregularities of which Phil’s father complained, were in some degree occasioned by the elder’s own faults. He was so laboriously181 obsequious182 to great men, that the son in a rage defied and avoided them. He was so grave, so polite, so complimentary183, so artificial, that Phil, in revolt at such hypocrisy184, chose to be frank, cynical, and familiar. The grave old bigwigs whom the doctor loved to assemble, bland148 and solemn men of the ancient school, who dined solemnly with each other at their solemn old houses — such men as Lord Botley, Baron Bumpsher, Cricklade (who published Travels in Asia Minor185, 4to, 1804), the Bishop186 of St. Bees, and the like — wagged their old heads sadly when they collogued in clubs, and talked of poor Firmin’s scapegrace of a son. He would come to no good; he was giving his good father much pain; he had been in all sorts of rows and disturbances187 at the university, and the Master of Boniface reported most unfavourably of him. And at the solemn dinners in Old Parr Street — the admirable, costly188, silent dinners — he treated these old gentlemen with a familiarity which caused the old heads to shake with surprise and choking indignation. Lord Botley and Baron Bumpsher had proposed and seconded Firmin’s boy at the Megatherium club. The pallid old boys toddled189 away in alarm when he made his appearance there. He brought a smell of tobacco-smoke with him. He was capable of smoking in the drawing-room itself. They trembled before Philip, who, for his part, used to relish72 their senile anger; and loved, as he called it, to tie all their pigtails together.
In no place was Philip seen or heard to so little advantage as in his father’s house. “I feel like a humbug190 myself amongst those old humbugs191,” he would say to me. “Their old jokes, and their old compliments, and their virtuous old conversation sicken me. Are all old men humbugs, I wonder?” It is not pleasant to hear misanthropy from young lips, and to find eyes that are scarce twenty years old already looking out with distrust on the world.
In other houses than his own I am bound to say Philip was much more amiable, and he carried with him a splendour of gaiety and cheerfulness which brought sunshine and welcome into many a room which he frequented. I have said that many of his companions were artists and journalists, and their clubs and haunts were his own. Ridley the Academician had Mrs. Brandon’s rooms in Thornhaugh Street, and Philip was often in J. J.‘s studio, or in the widow’s little room below. He had a very great tenderness and affection for her; her presence seemed to purify him; and in her company the boisterous192, reckless young man was invariably gentle and respectful. Her eyes used to fill with tears when she spoke21 about him; and when he was present, followed and watched him with sweet motherly devotion. It was pleasant to see him at her homely193 little fireside, and hear his jokes and prattle194, with a fatuous195 old father, who was one of Mrs. Brandon’s lodgers196. Philip would play cribbage for hours with this old man, frisk about him with a hundred harmless jokes, and walk out by his invalid197 chair, when the old captain went to sun himself in the New Road. He was an idle fellow, Philip, that’s the truth. He had an agreeable perseverance198 in doing nothing, and would pass half a day in perfect contentment over his pipe, watching Ridley at his easel. J. J. painted that charming head of Philip, which hangs in Mrs. Brandon’s little room — with the fair hair, the tawny199 beard and whiskers, and the bold blue eyes.
Phil had a certain after-supper song of “Garryowen na Gloria,” which it did you good to hear, and which, when sung at his full pitch, you might hear for a mile round. One night I had been to dine in Russell Square, and was brought home in his carriage by Dr. Firmin, who was of the party. As we came through Soho, the windows of a certain club-room called the “Haunt” were open, and we could hear Philip’s song booming through the night, and especially a certain wild Irish war-whoop with which it concluded, amidst universal applause and enthusiastic battering200 of glasses.
The poor father sank back in the carriage as though a blow had struck him. “Do you hear his voice?” he groaned201 out. “Those are his haunts. My son, who might go anywhere, prefers to be captain in a pothouse, and sing songs in a taproom!”
I tried to make the best of the case. I knew there was no harm in the place; that clever men of considerable note frequented it. But the wounded father was not to be consoled by such commonplaces; and a deep and natural grief oppressed him, in consequence of the faults of his son.
What ensued by no means surprised me. Among Dr. Firmin’s patients was a maiden202 lady of suitable age and large fortune, who looked upon the accomplished203 doctor with favourable204 eyes. That he should take a companion to cheer him in his solitude205 was natural enough, and all his friends concurred206 in thinking that he should marry. Every one had cognizance of the quiet little courtship, except the doctor’s son, between whom and his father there were only too many secrets.
Some man in a club asked Philip whether he should condole207 with him or congratulate him on his father’s approaching marriage? His what? The younger Firmin exhibited the greatest surprise and agitation208 on hearing of this match. He ran home: he awaited his father’s return. When Dr. Firmin came home and betook himself to his study, Philip confronted him there. “This must be a lie, sir, which I have heard to-day,” the young man said, fiercely.
“A lie! what lie, Philip” asked the father. They were both very resolute209 and courageous210 men.
“That you are going to marry Miss Benson.”
“Do you make my house so happy, that I don’t need any other companion?” asked the father.
“That’s not the question,” said Philip, hotly. “You can’t and mustn’t marry that lady, sir.”
“And why not, sir?”
“Because in the eyes of God and heaven you are married already, sir. And I swear I will tell Miss Benson the story to-morrow, if you persist in your plan.”
“So you know that story?” groaned the father.
“Yes. God forgive you,” said the son.
“It was a fault of my youth that has been bitterly repented211.”
“A fault! — a crime!” said Philip.
“Enough, sir! Whatever my fault, it is not for you to charge me with it.”
“If you won’t guard your own honour, I must. I shall go to Miss Benson now.”
“If you go out of this house, you don’t pretend to return to it?”
“Be it so. Let us settle our accounts, and part, sir.”
“Philip, Philip! you break my heart,” cried the father.
“You don’t suppose mine is very light, sir?” said the son.
Philip never had Miss Benson for a mother-in-law. But father and son loved each other no better after their dispute.
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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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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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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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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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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31
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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43
calumniator
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| n.中伤者，诽谤者 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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51
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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52
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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71
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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75
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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77
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；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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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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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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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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96
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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97
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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98
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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101
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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102
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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103
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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104
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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105
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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106
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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107
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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108
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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109
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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110
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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111
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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112
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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113
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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114
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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115
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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116
precocity
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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117
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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118
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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119
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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122
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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123
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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124
overdraw
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| n.透支，超支 | |
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125
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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126
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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127
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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128
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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129
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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130
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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131
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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132
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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133
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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134
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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135
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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136
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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137
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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138
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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139
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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140
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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141
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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142
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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143
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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144
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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145
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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146
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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147
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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148
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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149
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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150
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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151
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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152
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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153
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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154
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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155
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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156
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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157
industriously
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158
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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159
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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160
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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161
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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162
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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163
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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164
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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165
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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166
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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167
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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168
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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169
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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170
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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171
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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172
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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173
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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174
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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175
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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176
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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177
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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178
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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179
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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180
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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181
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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182
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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183
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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184
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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185
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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186
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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187
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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188
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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189
toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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190
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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191
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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192
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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193
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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194
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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195
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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196
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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197
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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198
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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199
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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200
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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201
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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202
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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203
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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204
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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205
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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206
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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207
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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208
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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209
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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210
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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211
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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