cut out for screens, frame and glaze, and hang up on the walls. When the
rooms were ready they gave a party, inviting the Colonel and Mr. Binnie
by note of hand, two gentlemen from Lamb Court, Temple, Mr. Honeyman, and
Fred Bayham. We must have Fred Bayham. Fred Bayham frankly asked, "Is Mr.
Sherrick, with whom you have become rather intimate lately--and mind you
I say nothing, but I recommend strangers in London to be cautious about
their friends--is Mr. Sherrick coming to you, young 'un? because if he
is, F. B. must respectfully decline."
Mr. Sherrick was not invited, and accordingly F. B. came. But Sherrick
was invited on other days, and a very queer society did our honest
Colonel gather together in that queer house, so dreary, so dingy, so
comfortless, so pleasant. He, who was one of the most hospitable men
alive, loved to have his friends around him; and it must be confessed
that the evening parties now occasionally given in Fitzroy Square were of
the oddest assemblage of people. The correct East India gentlemen from
Hanover Square: the artists, Clive's friends, gentlemen of all ages with
all sorts of beards, in every variety of costume. Now and again a stray
schoolfellow from Grey Friars, who stared, as well he might, at the
company in which he found himself. Sometimes a few ladies were brought to
these entertainments. The immense politeness of the good host compensated
some of them for the strangeness of his company. They had never seen such
odd-looking hairy men as those young artists, nor such wonderful women as
Colonel Newcome assembled together. He was good to all old maids and poor
widows. Retired captains with large families of daughters found in him
their best friend. He sent carriages to fetch them and bring them back
from the suburbs where they dwelt. Gandish, Mrs. Gandish, and the four
Miss Gandishes in scarlet robes, were constant attendants at the
Colonel's soirees.
"I delight, sir, in the 'ospitality of my distinguished military friend,"
Mr. Gandish would say. "The harmy has always been my passion.--I served
in the Soho Volunteers three years myself, till the conclusion of the
war, sir, till the conclusion of the war."
It was a great sight to see Mr. Frederick Bayham engaged in the waltz or
the quadrille with some of the elderly houris at the Colonel's parties.
F. B., like a good-natured F. B. as he was, always chose the plainest
women as partners, and entertained them with profound compliments and
sumptuous conversation. The Colonel likewise danced quadrilles with the
utmost gravity. Waltzing had been invented long since his time: but he
practised quadrilles when they first came in, about 1817, in Calcutta. To
see him leading up a little old maid, and bowing to her when the dance
was ended, and performing cavalier seul with stately simplicity, was a
sight indeed to remember. If Clive Newcome had not such a fine sense of
humour, he would have blushed for his father's simplicity.--As it was,
the elder's guileless goodness and childlike trustfulness endeared him
immensely to his son. "Look at the old boy, Pendennis," he would say,
"look at him leading up that old Miss Tidswell to the piano. Doesn't he
do it like an old duke? I lay a wager she thinks she is going to be my
mother-in-law; all the women are in love with him, young and old. 'Should
he upbraid?' There she goes. 'I'll own that he'll prevail, and sing as
sweetly as a nigh-tin-gale!' Oh, you old warbler! Look at father's old
head bobbing up and down! Wouldn't he do for Sir Roger de Coverley? How
do you do, Uncle Charles?--I say, M'Collop, how gets on the Duke of
What-d'ye-call-'em starving in the castle?--Gandish says it's very good."
The lad retires to a group of artists. Mr. Honeyman comes up with a faint
smile playing on his features, like moonlight on the facade of Lady
Whittlesea's Chapel.
"These parties are the most singular I have ever seen," whispers
Honeyman. "In entering one of these assemblies, one is struck with the
immensity of London: and with the sense of one's own insignificance.
Without, I trust, departing from my clerical character, nay, from my very
avocation as incumbent of a London chapel,--I have seen a good deal of
the world, and here is an assemblage no doubt of most respectable
persons, on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till this evening. Where
does my good brother find such characters?"
"That," says Mr. Honeyman's interlocutor, "is the celebrated, though
neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom nothing but jealousy has kept
out of the Royal Academy. Surely you have heard of the great Gandish?"
"Indeed I am ashamed to confess my ignorance, but a clergyman busy with
his duties knows little, perhaps too little, of the fine arts."
"Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our ungrateful
country ever trampled; he exhibited his first celebrated picture of
'Alfred in the Neatherd's Hut' (he says he is the first who ever touched
that subject) in 180-; but Lord Nelson's death, and victory of Trafalgar,
occupied the public attention at that time, and Gandish's work went
unnoticed. In the year 1816, he painted his great work of 'Boadicea.' You
see her before you. That lady in yellow, with a light front and a turban.
Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish in that year. So late as '27, he brought
before the world his 'Non Angli sed Angeli.' Two of the angels are yonder
in sea-green dresses--the Misses Gandish. The youth in Berlin gloves was
the little male angelus of that piece."
"How came you to know all this, you strange man?" says Mr. Honeyman.
"Simply because Gandish has told me twenty times. He tells the story to
everybody, every time he sees them. He told it to-day at dinner. Boadicea
and the angels came afterwards."
"Satire! satire! Mr. Pendennis," says the divine, holding up a reproving
finger of lavender kid, "beware of a wicked wit!--But when a man has that
tendency, I know how difficult it is to restrain. My dear Colonel, good
evening! You have a great reception to-night. That gentleman's bass voice
is very fine; Mr. Pendennis and I were admiring it. 'The Wolf' is a song
admirably adapted to show its capabilities."
Mr. Gandish's autobiography had occupied the whole time of the retirement
of the ladies from Colonel Newcome's dinner-table. Mr. Hobson Newcome had
been asleep during the performance; Sir Curry Baughton and one or two of
the Colonel's professional and military guests, silent and puzzled.
Honest Mr. Binnie, with his shrewd good-humoured face, sipping his claret
as usual, and delivering a sly joke now and again to the gentlemen at his
end of the table. Mrs. Newcome had sat by him in sulky dignity; was it
that Lady Baughton's diamonds offended her?--her ladyship and her
daughters being attired in great splendour for a Court ball, which they
were to attend that evening. Was she hurt because she was not invited to
that Royal Entertainment? As the festivities were to take place at an
early hour, the ladies bidden were obliged to quit the Colonel's house
before the evening part commenced, from which Lady Anne declared
she was
quite vexed to be obliged to run away.
Lady Anne Newcome had been as gracious on this occasion as her
sister-in-law had been out of humour. Everything pleased her in the
house. She had no idea that there were such fine houses in that quarter
of the town. She thought the dinner so very nice,--that Mr Binnie such a
good-humoured-looking gentleman. That stout gentleman with his collars
turned down like Lord Byron, so exceedingly clever and full of
information. A celebrated artist was he? (courtly Mr. Smee had his own
opinion upon that point, but did not utter it). All those artists are so
eccentric and amusing and clever. Before dinner she insisted upon seeing
Clive's den with its pictures and casts and pipes. "You horrid young
wicked creature, have you begun to smoke already?" she asks, as she
admires his room. She admired everything. Nothing could exceed her
satisfaction.
The sisters-in-law kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so delightful
to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity. It was, "My dear
Maria, what an age since I have seen you!" "My dear Anne, our occupations
are so engrossing, our circles are so different," in a languid response
from the other. "Sir Brian is not coming, I suppose? Now, Colonel," she
turns in a frisky manner towards him, and taps her fan, "did I not tell
you Sir Brian would not come?"
"He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those dreadful committees.
He was quite vexed at not being able to come."
"I know, I know, dear Anne, there are always excuses to gentlemen in
Parliament; I have received many such. Mr. Shaloo and Mr. M'Sheny, the
leaders of our party, often and often disappoint me. I knew Brian would
not come. My husband came down from Marble Head on purpose this morning.
Nothing would have induced us to give up our brother's party."
"I believe you. I did come down from Marble Head this morning, and I was
four hours in the hay-field before I came away, and in the City till
five, and I've been to look at a horse afterwards at Tattersall's, and
I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as tired as a hodman," says Mr. Newcome,
with his hands in his pockets. "How do you do, Mr. Pendennis? Maria, you
remember Mr. Pendennis--don't you?"
"Perfectly," replies the languid Maria. Mrs. Gandish, Colonel Topham,
Major M'Cracken. are announced, and then, in diamonds, feathers, and
splendour, Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who are going to the Queen's
ball, and Sir Curry Baughton, not quite in his deputy-lieutenant's
uniform as yet, looking very shy in a pair of blue trousers, with a
glittering stripe of silver down the seams. Clive looks with wonder and
delight at these ravishing ladies, rustling in fresh brocades, with
feathers, diamonds, and every magnificence. Aunt Anne has not her Court
dress on as yet; and Aunt Maria blushes as she beholds the new comers,
having thought fit to attire herself in a high dress, with a Quaker-like
simplicity, and a pair of gloves more than ordinarily dingy. The pretty
little foot she has, it is true, and sticks it out from habit; but what
is Mrs. Newcome's foot compared with that sweet little chaussure which
Miss Baughton exhibits and withdraws? The shiny white satin slipper, the
pink stocking which ever and anon peeps from the rustling folds of her
robe, and timidly retires into its covert--that foot, light as it is,
crushes Mrs. Newcome.
No wonder she winces, and is angry; there are some mischievous persons
who rather like to witness that discomfiture. All Mr. Smee's flatteries
that day failed to soothe her. She was in the state in which his
canvasses sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them.
What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies invited
to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soiree began to
arrive,--what happened to her or to them I do not like to think. The
Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We judged from the fact
that young Mr. Gandish came blushing in to the dessert. Name after name
was announced of persons of whom Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The young and
the old, the pretty and homely, they were all in their best dresses, and
no doubt stared at Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain in her attire. When
we came upstairs from dinner, we found her seated entirely by herself,
tapping her fan at the fireplace. Timid groups of persons were round
about, waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, until the pleasure
should begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning, was heard to say to
his wife, "Oh, dam, let's cut!" And they went downstairs, and waited
until their carriage had arrived, when they quitted Fitzroy Square.
Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart and
lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the arm of
a friend. "How do you do, Pendennis?" he says, with a peculiarly
dandified air. "Did you dine here? You look as if you dined here" (and
Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). "I was only asked to
the cold soiree. Who did you have for dinner? You had my mamma and the
Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I know, for they are down below in the
library, waiting for the carriage: he is asleep, and she is as sulky as a
bear."
"Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up here?" asks
Barnes's companion. "On the contrary, there are lots of fellows I know.
There's Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. There's old Gandish, who
used to be my drawing-master; and my Brighton friends, your uncle and
cousin, Barnes. What relations are they to me? must be some relations.
Fine fellow your cousin."
"Hm," growls Barnes. "Very fine boy,--not spirited at all,--not fond of
flattery,--not surrounded by toadies,--not fond of drink,--delightful
boy! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with his most
intimate friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do you know who
he is? he is the son of old Todmoreton's butler. Upon my life it's true."
"And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!" cries Lord Kew. "Who can
be more respectable than a butler? A man must be somebody's son. When I
am a middle-aged man, I hope humbly I shall look like a butler myself.
Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter's men into the House of Lords, do
you mean to say that they would not look as well as any average ten peers
in the house? Look at Lord Westcot; he is exactly like a butler that's
why the country has such confidence in him. I never dine with him but I
fancy he ought to be at the sideboard. Here comes that insufferable
little old Smee. How do you do, Mr. Smee?"
Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond shirt-studs,
and red velvet waistcoat, there are few more elaborate middle-aged bucks
than Alfred Smee. "How do you do, my dear lord?" cries the bland one.
"Who would ever have thought of seeing your lordship here?"
"Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee?" asks Lord Kew, abruptly. "Is it wrong to
come here? I have been in the house only five minutes, and three people
have said the same thing
to me--Mrs. Newcome, who is sitting downstairs
in a rage waiting for her carriage, the condescending Barnes, and
yourself. Why do you come here, Since? How are you, Mr. Gandish? How do
the fine arts go?"
"Your lordship's kindness in asking for them will cheer them if anything
will," says Mr. Gandish. "Your noble family has always patronised them. I
am proud to be reckonised by your lordship in this house, where the
distinguished father of one of my pupils entertains us this evening. A
most promising young man is young Mr. Clive--talents for a hamateur
really most remarkable."
"Excellent, upon my word--excellent," cries Mr. Smee. "I'm not an animal
painter myself, and perhaps don't think much of that branch of the
profession; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses with the
most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very well, and that she was
satisfied with her son's portrait. Stockholm, I think, your brother is
appointed to? I wish I might be allowed to paint the elder as well as the
younger brother, my lord."
"I am an historical painter; but whenever Lord Kew is painted I hope his
lordship will think of the old servant of his lordship's family, Charles
Gandish," cries the Professor.
"I am like Susannah between the two Elders," says Lord Kew. "Let my
innocence alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don't persecute my modesty with your
addresses. I won't be painted. I am not a fit subject for a historical
painter, Mr. Gandish."
"Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Phridjas," remarks
Gandish.
"The cases are not quite similar," says Lord Kew, languidly. "You are no
doubt fully equal to Praxiteles; but I don't see my resemblance to the
other party. I should not look well as a hero, and Smee could not paint
me handsome enough."
"I would try, my dear lord," cries Mr. Smee.
"I know you would, my dear fellow," Lord Kew answered, looking at the
painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. "Where is Colonel Newcome, Mr.
Gandish?" Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant host was dancing a
quadrille in the next room; and the young gentleman walked on towards
that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of the evening's
entertainment.
Newcome's behaviour to the young peer was ceremonious, but not in the
least servile. He saluted the other's superior rank, not his person, as
he turned the guard out for a general officer. He never could be brought
to be otherwise than cold and grave in his behaviour to John James; nor
was it without difficulty, when young Ridley and his son became pupils at
Gandish's, he could be induced to invite the former to his parties. "An
artist is any man's equal," he said. "I have no prejudice of that sort;
and think that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Doctor Johnson were fit company
for any person, of whatever rank. But a young man whose father may have
had to wait behind me at dinner, should not be brought into my company."
Clive compromises the dispute with a laugh. "First," says he, "I will
wait till I am asked; and then I promise I will not go to dine with Lord
Todmoreton."
CHAPTER XX
Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his Brethren
Clive's amusements, studies, or occupations, such as they were, filled
his day pretty completely, and caused the young gentleman's time to pass
rapidly and pleasantly, his father, it must be owned, had no such
resources, and the good Colonel's idleness hung heavily upon him. He
submitted very kindly to this infliction, however, as he would have done
to any other for Clive's sake; and though he may have wished himself back
with his regiment again, and engaged in the pursuits in which his life
had been spent, he chose to consider these desires as very selfish and
blameable on his part, and sacrificed them resolutely for his son's