kissing farewells to him out of the window; as those three charming Miss
Baliols with whom he had that glorious day in the Catacombs; as friend
after friend quitted the great city with kind greetings, warm pressures
of the hand, and hopes of meeting in a yet greater city on the banks of
the Thames, young Clive felt a depression of spirit. Rome was Rome, but
it was pleasanter to see it in company; our painters are smoking still at
the Oafs Greco, but a society all smoke and all painters did not suit
him. If Mr. Clive is not a Michael Angelo or a Beethoven, if his genius
is not gloomy, solitary, gigantic, shining alone, like a lighthouse, a
storm round about him, and breakers dashing at his feet, I cannot help
myself: he is as Heaven made him, brave, honest, gay, and friendly, and
persons of a gloomy turn must not look to him as a hero.
So Clive and his companion worked away with all their hearts from
November until far into April when Easter came, and the glorious gala
with which the Roman Church celebrates that holy season. By this time
Clive's books were full of sketches. Ruins, imperial and mediaeval;
peasants and bagpipemen; Passionists with shaven polls; Capuchins and the
equally hairy frequenters of the Cafe Greco; painters of all nations who
resort there; Cardinals and their queer equipages and attendants; the
Holy Father himself (it was Gregory sixteenth of the name); the dandified
English on the Pincio and the wonderful Roman members of the hunt--were
not all these designed by the young man and admired by his friends in
after-days? J. J.'s sketches were few, but he had painted two beautiful
little pictures, and sold them for so good a price that Prince Polonia's
people were quite civil to him. He had orders for yet more pictures, and
having worked very hard, thought himself authorised to accompany Mr.
Clive upon a pleasure-trip to Naples, which the latter deemed necessary
after his own tremendous labours. He for his part had painted no
pictures, though he had commenced a dozen and turned them to the wall;
but he had sketched, and dined, and smoked, and danced, as we have seen.
So the little britzska was put behind horses again, and our two friends
set out on their tour, having quite a crowd of brother-artists to cheer
them, who had assembled and had a breakfast for the purpose at that
comfortable osteria near the Lateran Gate. How the fellows flung their
hats up, and shouted, "Lebe wohl," and "Adieu," and "God bless you, old
boy," in many languages! Clive was the young swell of the artists of that
year, and adored by the whole of the jolly company. His sketches were
pronounced on all hands to be admirable: it was agreed that if he chose
he might do anything.
So with promises of a speedy return they left behind them the noble city,
which all love who once have seen it, and of which we think afterwards
ever with the kindness and the regard of home. They dashed across the
Campagna and over the beautiful hills of Albano, and sped through the
solemn Pontine Marshes, and stopped to roost at Terracing (which was not
at all like Fra Diavolo's Terracing at Covent Garden, as J. J. was
distressed to remark), and so, galloping onwards through a hundred
ancient cities that crumble on the shores of the beautiful Mediterranean,
behold, on the second day as they ascended a hill about noon. Vesuvius
came in view, its great shape shimmering blue in the distant haze, its
banner of smoke in the cloudless sky. And about five o'clock in the
evening (as everybody will who starts from Terracing early and pays the
postboy well), the travellers came to an ancient city walled and
fortified, with drawbridges over the shining moats.
"Here is CAPUA," says J. J., and Clive burst out laughing: thinking of
his Capua which he had left--how many months--years it seemed ago! From
Capua to Naples is a fine straight road, and our travellers were landed
at the latter place at suppertime; where, if they had quarters at the
Vittoria Hotel, they were as comfortable as any gentlemen painters need
wish to be in this world.
The aspect of the place was so charming and delightful to Clive:--the
beautiful sea stretched before his eyes when waking, Capri a fairy island
in the distance, in the amethyst rocks of which Sirens might be playing--
that fair line of cities skirting the shore glittering white along the
purple water--over the whole brilliant scene Vesuvius rising with
cloudlets playing round its summit, and the country bursting out into
that glorious vegetation with which sumptuous nature decorates every
spring--this city and scene of Naples were so much to Clive's liking that
I have a letter from him dated a couple of days after the young man's
arrival, in which he announces his intention of staying there for ever,
and gives me an invitation to some fine lodgings in a certain palazzo, on
which he has cast his eye. He is so enraptured with the place, that he
says to die and be buried there even would be quite a treat, so charming
is the cemetery where the Neapolitan dead repose.
The Fates did not, however, ordain that Clive Newcome should pass all his
life at Naples. His Roman banker presently forwarded a few letters to his
address; some which had arrived after his departure, others which had
been lying at the Poste Restante, with his name written in perfectly
legible characters, but which the authorities of the post, according to
their custom, would not see when Clive sent for them.
It was one of these letters which Clive clutched the most eagerly. It had
been lying since October, actually, at the Roman post, though Clive had
asked for letters there a hundred times. It was that little letter from
Ethel, in reply to his own, whereof we have made mention in a previous
chapter. There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of course,
that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young writer's
shoulder. It was affectionate, simple, rather melancholy; described in a
few words Sir Brian's seizure and present condition; spoke of Lord Kew,
who was mending rapidly, as if Clive, of course, was aware of his
accident; of the children, of Clive's father, and ended with a hearty
"God bless you," to Clive, from his sincere Ethel.
"You boast of its being over. You see it is not over," says Clive's
monitor and companion. "Else, why should you have dashed at that letter
before all the others, Clive?" J. J. had been watching, not without
interest, Clive's blank face as he read the young lady's note.
"How do you know who wrote the letter?" asks Clive.
"I can read the signature in your face," says the other; "and I could
almost tell the contents of the note. Why have you such a tell-tale face,
Clive?"
"It is over; but when a man has once, you know, gone through an affair
like that," says Clive, looking very grave, "he--he's anxious to hear of
Alice Grey, and how she's getting on, you see, my good friend." And he
began to shout out as of old--
"Her heart it is another's, she--never--can--be--mine;"
and to laugh at the end of the song. "Well, well," s
ays he; "it is a very
kind note, a very proper little note; the expression elegant, J. J., the
sentiment is most correct. All the little t's most properly crossed, and
all the little i's have dots over their little heads. It's a sort of a
prize note, don't you see; and one such, as in the old spelling-book
story, the good boy received a plum-cake for writing. Perhaps you weren't
educated on the old spelling-book, J. J.? My good old father taught me to
read out of his--I say, I think it was a shame to keep the old boy
waiting whilst I have been giving an audience to this young lady. Dear
old father!" and he apostrophised the letter. "I beg your pardon, sir;
Miss Newcome requested five minutes' conversation, and I was obliged,
from politeness, you know, to receive. There's nothing between us;
nothing but what's most correct, upon my honour and conscience." And he
kissed his father's letter, and calling out again, "Dear old father!"
proceeded to read as follows:--
"'Your letters, my dearest Clive, have been the greatest comfort to me. I
seem to hear you as I read them. I can't but think that this, the modern
and natural style, is a great progress upon the old-fashioned manner of
my day, when we used to begin to our fathers, 'Honoured Father,' or even
'Honoured Sir' some precisians used to write still from Mr. Lord's
Academy, at Tooting, where I went before Grey Friars--though I suspect
parents were no more honoured in those days than nowadays. I know one who
had rather be trusted than honoured; and you may call me what you please,
so as you do that.
"'It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last week I took yours
from Baden Baden, No. 3, September 15, into Calcutta, and could not help
showing it at Government House, where I dined. Your sketch of the old
Russian Princess and her little boy, gambling, was capital. Colonel
Buckmaster, Lord Bagwig's private secretary, knew her, and says it is to
a T. And I read out to some of my young fellows what you said about play,
and how you had given it over. I very much fear some of the young rogues
are at dice and brandy-pawnee before tiffin. What you say of young
Ridley, I take cum grano. His sketches I thought very agreeable; but to
compare them to a certain gentleman's----Never mind, I shall not try to
make him think too well of himself. I kissed dear Ethel's hand in your
letter. I write her a long letter by this mail.
"'If Paul de Florac in any way resembles his mother, between you and him
there ought to be a very warm regard. I knew her when I was a boy, long
before you were born or thought of; and in wandering forty years through
the world since, I have seen no woman in my eyes so good or so beautiful.
Your cousin Ethel reminded me of her; as handsome, but not so lovely.
Yes, it was that pale lady you saw at Paris, with eyes full of care, and
hair streaked with grey. So it will be the turn of you young folks, come
eight more lustres, and your heads will be bald like mine, or grey like
Madame de Florac's, and bending over the ground where we are lying in
quiet. I understand from you that young Paul is not in very flourishing
circumstances. If he still is in need, mind and be his banker, and I will
be yours. Any child of hers must never want when I have a spare guinea. I
do not mind telling you, sir, that I cared for her more than millions of
guineas once; and half broke my heart about her when I went to India, as
a young chap. So, if any such misfortunes happen to you, consider, my
boy, you are not the only one.
"'Binnie writes me word that he has been ailing. I hope you are a good
correspondent with him. What made me turn to him just after speaking of
unlucky love affairs? Could I be thinking about little Rosie Mackenzie?
She is a sweet little lass, and James will leave her a pretty piece of
money. Verbum sap. I should like you to marry; but God forbid you should
marry for a million of gold mohurs.
"'And gold mohurs bring me to another subject. Do you know I narrowly
missed losing half a lakh of rupees which I had at an agent's here? And
who do you think warned me about him? Our friend Rummun Loll, who has
lately been in England, and with whom I made the voyage from Southampton.
He is a man of wonderful tact and observation. I used to think meanly of
the honesty of natives and treat them haughtily, as I recollect doing
this very gentleman at your Uncle Newcome's in Bryanstone Square. He
heaped coals of fire on my head by saving my money for me; and I have
placed it with interest in his house. If I would but listen to him, my
capital might be trebled in a year, he says, and the interest immensely
increased. He enjoys the greatest esteem among the moneyed men here;
keeps a splendid establishment and house here in Barrackpore; is princely
in his benefactions. He talks to me about the establishment of a bank, of
which the profits are so enormous and the scheme so (seemingly) clear,
that I don't know whether I mayn't be tempted to take a few shares. Nous
verrons. Several of my friends are longing to have a finger in it; but be
sure this, I shall do nothing rashly and without the very best advice.
"'I have not been frightened yet by your draughts upon me. Draw as many
of these as you please. You know I don't half like the other kind of
drawing, except as a delassement: but if you chose to be a weaver, like
my grandfather, I should not say you nay. Don't stint yourself of money
or of honest pleasure. Of what good is money, unless we can make those we
love happy with it? There would be no need for me to save, if you were to
save too. So, and as you know as well as I what our means are, in every
honest way use them. I should like you not to pass the whole of next year
in Italy, but to come home and pay a visit to honest James Binnie. I
wonder how the old barrack in Fitzroy Square looks without me? Try and go
round by Paris on your way home, and pay your visit, and carry your
father's fond remembrances to Madame la Comtesse de Florac. I don't say
remember me to my brother, as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu, mon
fils! je t'embrasse!--and am always my Clive's affectionate father,
T. N.'"
"Isn't he a noble old trump?" That point had been settled by the young
men any time these three years. And now Mr. J. J. remarked that when
Clive had read his father's letter once, then he read Ethel's over again,
and put it in his breast-pocket, and was very disturbed in mind that day,
pishing and pshawing at the statue-gallery which they went to see at the
Museo.
"After all," says Clive, "what rubbish these second-rate statues are!
what a great hulking abortion is this brute of a Farnese Hercules!
There's only one bit in the whole gallery that is worth a
twopenny-piece."
It was the beautiful fragment called Psyche. J. J. smiled as his comrade
spoke in admiration of this statue--in the slim shape, in the delicate
formation of the neck, in the haughty virginal expression, the Psyche is
not unlike the Diana of the Louvre--and the D
iana of the Louvre we have
said was like a certain young lady.
"After all," continues Clive, looking up at the great knotted legs of
that clumsy caricatured porter which Glykon the Athenian sculptured in
bad times of art surely,--"she could not write otherwise than she did--
don't you see? Her letter is quite kind and affectionate. You see she
says she shall always hear of me with pleasure: hopes I'll come back
soon, and bring some good pictures with me, since pictures I will do. She
thinks small beer of painters, J. J.--well, we don't think small beer of
ourselves, my noble friend. I--I suppose it must be over by this time,
and I may write to her as the Countess of Kew." The custode of the
apartment had seen admiration and wonder expressed by hundreds of
visitors to his marble Giant: but he had never known Hercules occasion
emotion before, as in the case of the young stranger; who, after staring
a while at the statue, dashed his hand across his forehead with a groan,
and walked away from before the graven image of the huge Strongman, who
had himself been made such a fool by women.
"My father wants me to go and see James and Madame de Florac," says
Clive, as they stride down the street to the Toledo.
J. J. puts his arm through his companion's, which is deep the pocket of
his velvet paletot. "You must not go home till you hear it is over,
Clive," whispers J. J.
"Of course not, old boy," says the other, blowing tobacco out of his
shaking head.
Not very long after their arrival, we may be sure they went to Pompeii,
of which place, as this is not an Italian tour, but a history of Clive
Newcome, Esquire, and his most respectable family, we shall offer to give
no description. The young man had read Sir Bulwer Lytton's delightful
story, which has become the history of Pompeii, before they came thither,
and Pliny's description, apud the Guide-Book. Admiring the wonderful
ingenuity with which the English writer had illustrated the place by his
text, as if the houses were so many pictures to which he had appended a
story, Clive, the wag, who was always indulging his vein for caricature,
was proposing that that they should take the same place, names, people,
and make a burlesque story: "What would be a better figure," says he,
"than Pliny's mother, whom the historian describes as exceedingly
corpulent, and walking away from the catastrophe with slaves holding
cushions behind her, to shield her plump person from the cinders! Yes,
old Mrs Pliny shall be my heroine!" says Clive. A picture of her on a
dark grey paper and touched up with red at the extremities, exists in
Clive's album to the present day.
As they were laughing, rattling, wondering, mimicking, the cicerone
attending them with his nasal twaddle, anon pausing and silent, yielding
to the melancholy pity and wonder which the aspect of that strange and
smiling place inspires,--behold they come upon another party of English,
two young men accompanying a lady.
"What, Clive!" cries one.
"My dear, dear Lord Kew!" shouts the other; and as the young man rushes
up and grasps the two hands of the other, they begin to blush----
Lord Kew and his family resided in a neighbouring hotel on the Chiafa at
Naples; and that very evening on returning from the Pompeian excursion,
the two painters were invited to take tea by those friendly persons. J.
J. excused himself, and sate at home drawing all night. Clive went, and
passed a pleasant evening; in which all sorts of future tours and
pleasure-parties were projected by the young men. They were to visit
Paestum, Capri, Sicily; why not Malta and the East? asked Lord Kew.
Lady Walham was alarmed. Had not Kew been in the East already? Clive was
surprised and agitated too. Could Kew think of going to the East, and
making long journeys when he had--he had other engagements that would