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to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, though
she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because
of her vow. And how she must always have thought of
him as she sat at home, far away, making the little
coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother;
and how happy she must have been as the time came
(and the years pass away very quick) when she should
see her boy and how good and wise he had grown. This
little sermon she spoke with a gentle solemn voice, and
dry eyes, until she came to the account of their
meeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender
heart overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she
rocked him in her arms and wept silently over him in
a sainted agony of tears.
Her mind being made up, the widow began to take
such measures as seemed right to her for advancing the
end which she proposed. One day, Miss Osborne, in
Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or number
of the house for ten years--her youth, her early story
came back to her as she wrote the superscription) one
day Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia which made
her blush very much and look towards her father, sitting
glooming in his place at the other end of the table.
In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which
had induced her to change her mind respecting her boy.
Her father had met with fresh misfortunes which had
entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that
it would barely enable her to support her parents and
would not suffice to give George the advantages which
were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting
with him she would, by God's help, endure them for the
boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he was going
would do all in their power to make him happy. She
described his disposition, such as she fancied it--quick
and impatient of control or harshness, easily to be moved
by love and kindness. In a postscript, she stipulated that
she should have a written agreement, that she should
see the child as often as she wished--she could not
part with him under any other terms.
"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old
Osborne said, when with a tremulous eager voice Miss
Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar starved out, hey?
Ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep his dignity
and to read his paper as usual--but he could not follow
it. He chuckled and swore to himself behind the sheet.
At last he flung it down and, scowling at his daughter,
as his wont was, went out of the room into his study
adjoining, from whence he presently returned with a
key. He flung it to Miss Osborne.
"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready,"
he said. "Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble.
It was George's room. It had not been opened for more
than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs,
whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear,
were still there. An Army list of 1814, with his name
written on the cover; a little dictionary he was wont to
use in writing; and the Bible his mother had given him,
were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs and a
dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah!
since that ink was wet, what days and people had passed
away! The writing-book, still on the table, was blotted
with his hand.
Miss Osborne was much affected when she first
entered this room with the servants under her. She sank
quite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, m'am
--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the good
old times is returning, m'am. The dear little feller, to be
sure, m'am; how happy he will be! But some folks in
May Fair, m'am, will owe him a grudge, m'am"; and
she clicked back the bolt which held the window-sash
and let the air into the chamber.
"You had better send that woman some money," Mr.
Osborne said, before he went out. "She shan't want for
nothing. Send her a hundred pound."
"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne
asked.
"That's your look out. She don't come in here, mind.
No, by --, not for all the money in London. But she
mustn't want now. So look out, and get things right." With
which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his
daughter and went on his accustomed way into the City.
"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said that
night, kissing the old man, her father, and putting a bill
for a hundred pounds into his hands. "And--and, Mamma,
don't be harsh with Georgy. He--he is not going to stop
with us long." She could say nothing more, and walked
away silently to her room. Let us close it upon her
prayers and her sorrow. I think we had best speak little
about so much love and grief.
Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the
promise contained in her note, and saw Amelia. The
meeting between them was friendly. A look and a few words
from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, with
regard to this woman at least, there need be no fear
lest she should take the first place in her son's affection.
She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother had
not been so well pleased, perhaps, had the rival been
better looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-
hearted. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old
times and memories and could not but be touched with
the poor mother's pitiful situation. She was conquered,
and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly
submitted. That day they arranged together the
preliminaries of the treaty of capitulation.
George was kept from school the next day, and saw
his aunt. Amelia left them alone together and went to
her room. She was trying the separation--as that poor
gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe that was
to come down and sever her slender life. Days were
passed in parleys, visits, preparations. The widow broke
the matter to Georgy with great caution; she looked to
see him very much affected by the intelligence. He was
rather elated than otherwise, and the poor woman
turned sadly away. He bragged about the news that day
to the boys at school; told them how he was going to
live with his grandpapa his father's father, not the one
who comes here sometimes; and that he would be very
rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much
finer school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader's
pencil-case and pay the tart-woman. The boy was the
image of his father, as his fond mother thought.
Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear
Amelia's sake, to go through the story of George's last
days at home.
At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little
humble packets containing tokens of love and remembrance
were ready and disposed in the hall long since
--George was in his new suit, for which the tailor had
come previously to measure him. He had sprung up with
the sun and put on the new clothes, his mother hearing
him from the room close by, in which she had been
lying, in speechless grief and watching. Days before she
had been making preparations for the end, purchasing
little stores for the boy's use, marking his books and
linen, talking with him and preparing him for the change
--fondly fancying that he needed preparation.
So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing
for it. By a thousand eager declarations as to what
he would do, when he went to live with his grandfather,
he had shown the poor widow how little the idea of
parting had cast him down. "He would come and see
his mamma often on the pony," he said. "He would
come and fetch her in the carriage; they would drive
in the park, and she should have everything she wanted."
The poor mother was fain to content herself with these
selfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to
convince herself how sincerely her son loved her. He must
love her. All children were so: a little anxious for novelty,
and--no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child must
have his enjoyments and ambition in the world. She
herself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for him
had denied him his just rights and pleasures hitherto.
I know few things more affecting than that timorous
debasement and self-humiliation of a woman. How she
owns that it is she and not the man who is guilty; how
she takes all the faults on her side; how she courts in a
manner punishment for the wrongs which she has not
committed and persists in shielding the real culprit! It
is those who injure women who get the most kindness
from them--they are born timid and tyrants and
maltreat those who are humblest before them.
So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery
for her son's departure, and had passed many and many
a long solitary hour in making preparations for the end.
George stood by his mother, watching her arrangements
without the least concern. Tears had fallen into his boxes;
passages had been scored in his favourite books; old toys,
relics, treasures had been hoarded away for him, and
packed with strange neatness and care--and of all these
things the boy took no note. The child goes away smiling
as the mother breaks her heart. By heavens it is pitiful,
the bootless love of women for children in Vanity Fair.
A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's
life is consummated. No angel has intervened. The child
is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the widow is
quite alone.
The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides
on a pony with a coachman behind him, to the delight
of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walks proudly down
the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not her boy
any more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the little
school, too, and to show off before them his new wealth
and splendour. In two days he has adopted a slightly
imperious air and patronizing manner. He was born to
command, his mother thinks, as his father was before
him.
It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when
he does not come, she takes a long walk into London
--yes, as far as Russell Square, and rests on the stone
by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's house.
It is so pleasant and cool. She can look up and see the
drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine
o'clock, the chamber in the upper story where Georgy
sleeps. She knows--he has told her. She prays there
as the light goes out, prays with an humble heart,
and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired
when she comes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better
for that long weary walk, and she may dream about
Georgy.
One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell
Square, at some distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she
could see it from a distance though) when all the bells
of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his aunt came
out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity,
and the footman, who carried the books, tried to drive
him away; but Georgy stopped and gave him money. May
God's blessing be on the boy! Emmy ran round the square
and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite too.
All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed
them until she came to the Foundling Church, into which
she went. There she sat in a place whence she could
see the head of the boy under his father's tombstone.
Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and
sang hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's
soul thrilled with delight at the burst of glorious
psalmody. His mother could not see him for awhile,
through the mist that dimmed her eyes.
CHAPTER LI
In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May
Not Puzzle the Reader
After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private
and select parties, the claims of that estimable woman
as regards fashion were settled, and some of the very
greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis were
speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that the
beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to
enter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble before
those august portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms
of the chamber with flaming silver forks with which they
prong all those who have not the right of the entree.
They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the
hall and takes down the names of the great ones who
are admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. He
can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him
up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that
poor imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who
ruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere.
Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst the
Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps
Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer
if Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a
tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass
away. And some day or other (but it will be after our
time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no
better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts
of Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as
Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.
Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker
Street? What would not your grandmothers have given
to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that now
decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous parle,
I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead.
As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of
to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their
places round the darksome board. The pilot who
weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual
port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a
heeltap. Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly
manner, and would not be behindhand when the
noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows,
winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's
eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to
know how his glass went up full to his mouth and came
down empty; up to the ceiling which was above us only
yesterday, and which the great of the past days have all
looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging
now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and
lies asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there--
not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.
It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to
liking a little of it? I should like to know what well-
constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes
roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man who
reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life,
I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred
thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good hearty
appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish
as you like it--don't spare it. Another glass of wine,
Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let
us eat our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor.
And let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic
pleasures likewise--for these too, like all other mortal
delights, were but transitory.
The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His
Highness the Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion to
renew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, when
they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment
Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a
profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were
invited immediately to one of the Prince's small parties
at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness during
the temporary absence from England of its noble
proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comite.
The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally
superintending the progress of his pupil.
At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen
and greatest ministers that Europe has produced--
the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the Most
Christian King, and subsequently Minister to that
monarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august names
are transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant
company my dear Becky is moving. She became a
constant guest at the French Embassy, where no party was
considered to be complete without the presence of the
charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.
Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) and
Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were
straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's
wife, and both declared, according to the wont of their
nation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out of
England, that has not left half a dozen families miserable,
and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?),
both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with the
charming Madame Ravdonn.
But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac
was very fond of ecarte, and made many parties
with the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was singing to
Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it is
a well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers',
where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not
had the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young
gentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Becky
would have selected either of these young men as a
person on whom she would bestow her special regard. They
ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,
went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made
themselves amiable in a thousand ways. And they talked
English with adorable simplicity, and to the constant
amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic
one or other to his face, and compliment him on his
advance in the English language with a gravity which never
failed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron.
Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way of winning over
Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a
letter which the simple spinster handed over in public
to the person to whom it was addressed, and the
composition of which amused everybody who read it greatly.
Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon, to
whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed
in the little house in May Fair.
Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best"
foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble and admirable
society slang), but some of the best English people too.
I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the least
virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, or
the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about
whom there is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-
Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great Lady
Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she was
Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry),
and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her
Ladyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett and
Burke) takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no
question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-
Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the
contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and
neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is
agreed on all sides that she is of the "best people."
Those who go to her are of the best: and from an old
grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her
ladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter
of the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry,
had once tried), this great and famous leader of
the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley; made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly
over which she presided; and not only encouraged her
son, St. Kitts (his lordship got his place through Lord
Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but
asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in
the most public and condescending manner during
dinner. The important fact was known all over London that
night. People who had been crying fie about Mrs.
Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord
Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising
her: some who had hesitated, came forward at once
and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had warned
Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman,
now besought to be introduced to her. In a word, she
was admitted to be among the "best" people. Ah, my
beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky
prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive. It is
currently reported that even in the very inmost circles,
they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the
zone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of
fashion and saw the great George IV face to face, has
owned since that there too was Vanity.
We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her
career. As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry,
although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug,
so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself to
portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his
opinions to himself, whatever they are.
Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this
season of her life, when she moved among the very
greatest circles of the London fashion. Her success
excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation
was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter
a work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in
a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)
--to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and
ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she was
welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner
parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came
with whom she had been dining, whom she had met the
night before, and would see on the morrow--the young
men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with
the neatest glossy boots and white gloves--the elders
portly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy
--the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink--the
mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in
diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as
they do in the novels. They talked about each others'
houses, and characters, and families--just as the Joneses
do about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hated
and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning in
spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I
would rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday
school than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the
regimental waggon; or, oh, how much gayer it would be
to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a booth
at a fair."
"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing.
She used to tell the great man her ennuis and
perplexities in her artless way--they amused him.
"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of
the Ceremonies--what do you call him--the man in the
large boots and the uniform, who goes round the ring
cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military
figure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my
father took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I
was a child, and when we came home, I made myself a
pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder of
all the pupils."
"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.
"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "How
Lady Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel
Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pasta
beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being
conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and
gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties--of
following them into the corners where they sat in silence,
and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of
all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very
truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner
in which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked,
or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case might
be. "How cool that woman is," said one; "what airs of
independence she assumes, where she ought to sit still
and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an
honest and good-natured soul she is!" said another.
"What an artful little minx" said a third. They were all
right very likely, but Becky went her own way, and so
fascinated the professional personages that they would
leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties
and give her lessons for nothing.
Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon
Street. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps,
blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 100, who
could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of
102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen
who accompanied the vehicles were too big to be
contained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the
neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were
wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer.
Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed and
trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find
themselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies of
ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening to
the professional singers, who were singing according to
their wont, and as if they wished to blow the windows
down. And the day after, there appeared among the
fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a paragraph
to the following effect:
"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a
select party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their
Excellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin,
H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attended
by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess
of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady
Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley
had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess
(Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness
of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de
Brie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of
Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-General and
Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; Viscount
Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin,
Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill
at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.
And in her commerce with the great our dear friend
showed the same frankness which distinguished her
transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion,
when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps
rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the
French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that
nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her
shoulder scowling at the pair.
"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said,
who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent
most remarkable to hear.
"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting
down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother
was a Frenchwoman."
Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was
mollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatal
levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted persons
of all classes into the society of their superiors, but her
ladyship owned that this one at least was well behaved
and never forgot her place in life. She was a very good
woman: good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious.
It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself
better than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors'
garments have been kissed for centuries; it is a thousand
years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the
family were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and
councillors, when the great ancestor of the House
became King of Scotland.
Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before
Becky, and perhaps was not disinclined to her. The
younger ladies of the house of Gaunt were also
compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people at
her, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried
a passage of arms with her, but was routed with great
slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked
sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure
ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. She
said the wickedest things with the most simple unaffected
air when in this mood, and would take care artlessly to
apologize for her blunders, so that all the world should
know that she had made them.
Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and
trencher-man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by the
ladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering at his
patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say,
"Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault
upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner.
The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never
without arms, lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted
with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle with
shame; then she returned to her soup with the most
perfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great
patron, who gave him dinners and lent him a little money
sometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and other
jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage
glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the
table and burst into tears. He looked piteously at my
lord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at the
ladies, who disowned him. At last Becky herself took
compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk.
He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and
Fiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg
naturally paid a good deal of court, was instructed to tell
him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs.
Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes,
Milor would put every one of his notes of hand into his
lawyer's hands and sell him up without mercy. Wagg
wept before Fiche and implored his dear friend to intercede
for him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R. C.,
which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-
scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored her
good-will at parties where he met her. He cringed and
coaxed Rawdon at the club. He was allowed to come back
to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good to
him, always amused, never angry.
His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant
(with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr.
Wenham, was much more prudent in his behaviour and
opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might be
disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a
staunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-
merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of
the Marquis never showed any sort of hostility to the
new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnesses
and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow
made Becky more uneasy than other people's overt
hostilities.
How the Crawleys got the money which was spent
upon the entertainments with which they treated the
polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some
conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these
little festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley
gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did,
Becky's power over the Baronet must have been
extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his
advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky's
habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends:
going to this one in tears with an account that there was
an execution in the house; falling on her knees to that
one and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol
or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be
paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to
give many hundreds through these pathetic representations.
Young Feltham, of the --th Dragoons (and son of the firm of
Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers),
and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable
life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the
pecuniary way. People declared that she got money
from various simply disposed persons, under pretence of
getting them confidential appointments under Government.
Who knows what stories were or were not told of
our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had
had all the money which she was said to have begged or
borrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized and been
honest for life, whereas,--but this is advancing matters.
The truth is, that by economy and good management--
by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcely
anybody--people can manage, for a time at least, to
make a great show with very little means: and it is our
belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were
not, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very
little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls.
Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game
and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her
disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks
presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's
order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is
quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature,
as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the
public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.
If every person is to be banished from society who runs
into debt and cannot pay--if we are to be peering into
everybody's private life, speculating upon their income,
and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure
--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling
Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be
against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the
benefits of civilization would be done away with. We
should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our
houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down.
Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen
of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights,
comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,
Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and
splendid high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights
of life, I say,--would go to the deuce, if people did but
act upon their silly principles and avoid those whom they
dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual
forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly
enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and
call him the greatest rascal unhanged--but do we wish
to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we
meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine
with him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus
trade flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept;
new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week;
and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the
honest proprietor who reared it.
At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great
George was on the throne and ladies wore gigots and
large combs like tortoise-shell shovels in their hair,
instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which are
actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world
were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the
present day: and their amusements pretty similar. To us,
from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders
at the bewildering beauties as they pass into Court or
ball, they may seem beings of unearthly splendour and in
the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us unattainable.
It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings
that we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and
triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed,
as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.
At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades
had come among us from France, and was considerably
in vogue in this country, enabling the many ladies
amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and
the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit.
My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps
believed herself endowed with both the above qualifications,
to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which should
include some of these little dramas--and we must take
leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion,
and, with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be among
the very last of the fashionable entertainments to which
it will be our fortune to conduct him.
A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of
Gaunt House, was arranged as the charade theatre. It
had been so used when George III was king; and a
picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hair
in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it
was called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's
tragedy of that name, performed before their Royal
Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh,
and Prince William Henry, then children like the actor.
One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the
garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up
anew for the present festivities.
Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern
traveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller
was somebody in those days, and the adventurous
Bedwin, who had published his quarto and passed some
months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of
no small importance. In his volume there were several
pictures of Sands in various oriental costumes; and he
travelled about with a black attendant of most
unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian de Bois
Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were
hailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.
He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an
immense plume of feathers (the Janizaries were
supposed to be still in existence, and the tarboosh had not
as yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress of
the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however,
for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was
allowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and
expresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands
and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt,
tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the
Aga.
A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly.
The ladies whisper to one another. The black slave
was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha in
exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn up
ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into
the Nile.
"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish
voluptuary with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the
slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings a
veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of
applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth
(she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and
hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the black
braided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; her
dress is covered over with gold piastres. The odious
Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She
falls down on her knees and entreats him to restore her
to the mountains where she was born, and where her
Circassian lover is still deploring the absence of his Zuleikah.
No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. He
laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom.
Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down in
an attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems to
be no hope for her, when--when the Kislar Aga appears.
The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan
receives and places on his head the dread firman. A
ghastly terror seizes him, while on the Negro's face (it is
Mesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastly
joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the Kislar
Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful
weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First two
syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act in
the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her
costume.
The second part of the charade takes place. It is still
an Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an
attitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him.
The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is
sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries
at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels
are coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in the
scene. It is a musical one--and, to the surprise of the
oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr.
Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like
Papageno and the Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last
two syllables," roars the head.
The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A
tall and stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above
him hang his helmet and shield. There is no need for
them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is slain. Cassandra is
a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it is
Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack
of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron
is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the
broad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on the
wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light.
The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the
statue enters.
Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that
ghastly face looking out balefully after him from behind
the arras? He raises his dagger to strike the sleeper, who
turns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for the
blow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain.
Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair
floats down her shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and
her eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly that
people quake as they look at her.
A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody
said, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."
Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's
hand and advances to the bed. You see it shining over
her head in the glimmer of the lamp, and--and the lamp
goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.
The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca
performed her part so well, and with such ghastly
truth, that the spectators were all dumb, until, with a
burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, when
everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old
Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all the
rest. "By--, she'd do it too," he said between his teeth.
The performers were called by the whole house, which
sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical
tunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus and
others of the performers of the little play. Mr. Bedwin
Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. A great
personage insisted on being presented to the charming
Clytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body.
Marry somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remark
made by His Royal Highness.
"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,"
said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking,
and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.
Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool
dainties, and the performers disappeared to get ready
for the second charade-tableau.
The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted
in pantomime, and the performance took place in the
following wise:
First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a
slouched hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern
borrowed from the stables, passed across the stage bawling
out, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the
lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently
at the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much.
To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable
G. Ringwood), which character the young gentleman
performed to perfection, and divests them of their lower
coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a
warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and
warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon
wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen.
She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull down
the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters of
the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and
chaining the door within. All the lights go out. The music
plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice from
behind the curtain says, "First syllable."
Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a
sudden. The music plays the old air from John of Paris,
Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage. It is the same scene.
Between the first and second floors of the house
represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms
are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the house.
In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of
paper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists,
threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bring
round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks
Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown)
under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, as
Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses.
Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots"
with such exquisite humour and naturalness that the
whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown
to him. Crack, crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord,
chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as some
distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."
"I think it must be 'Hotel,' " says Captain Grigg of the
Life Guards; there is a general laugh at the Captain's
cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.
While the third syllable is in preparation, the band
begins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude
Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"--
some maritime event is about to take place. A ben is
heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents,
for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of
each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds,
which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod
their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable
Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and
she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because
of her vow. And how she must always have thought of
him as she sat at home, far away, making the little
coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother;
and how happy she must have been as the time came
(and the years pass away very quick) when she should
see her boy and how good and wise he had grown. This
little sermon she spoke with a gentle solemn voice, and
dry eyes, until she came to the account of their
meeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender
heart overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she
rocked him in her arms and wept silently over him in
a sainted agony of tears.
Her mind being made up, the widow began to take
such measures as seemed right to her for advancing the
end which she proposed. One day, Miss Osborne, in
Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or number
of the house for ten years--her youth, her early story
came back to her as she wrote the superscription) one
day Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia which made
her blush very much and look towards her father, sitting
glooming in his place at the other end of the table.
In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which
had induced her to change her mind respecting her boy.
Her father had met with fresh misfortunes which had
entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that
it would barely enable her to support her parents and
would not suffice to give George the advantages which
were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting
with him she would, by God's help, endure them for the
boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he was going
would do all in their power to make him happy. She
described his disposition, such as she fancied it--quick
and impatient of control or harshness, easily to be moved
by love and kindness. In a postscript, she stipulated that
she should have a written agreement, that she should
see the child as often as she wished--she could not
part with him under any other terms.
"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old
Osborne said, when with a tremulous eager voice Miss
Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar starved out, hey?
Ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep his dignity
and to read his paper as usual--but he could not follow
it. He chuckled and swore to himself behind the sheet.
At last he flung it down and, scowling at his daughter,
as his wont was, went out of the room into his study
adjoining, from whence he presently returned with a
key. He flung it to Miss Osborne.
"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready,"
he said. "Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble.
It was George's room. It had not been opened for more
than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs,
whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear,
were still there. An Army list of 1814, with his name
written on the cover; a little dictionary he was wont to
use in writing; and the Bible his mother had given him,
were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs and a
dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah!
since that ink was wet, what days and people had passed
away! The writing-book, still on the table, was blotted
with his hand.
Miss Osborne was much affected when she first
entered this room with the servants under her. She sank
quite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, m'am
--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the good
old times is returning, m'am. The dear little feller, to be
sure, m'am; how happy he will be! But some folks in
May Fair, m'am, will owe him a grudge, m'am"; and
she clicked back the bolt which held the window-sash
and let the air into the chamber.
"You had better send that woman some money," Mr.
Osborne said, before he went out. "She shan't want for
nothing. Send her a hundred pound."
"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne
asked.
"That's your look out. She don't come in here, mind.
No, by --, not for all the money in London. But she
mustn't want now. So look out, and get things right." With
which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his
daughter and went on his accustomed way into the City.
"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said that
night, kissing the old man, her father, and putting a bill
for a hundred pounds into his hands. "And--and, Mamma,
don't be harsh with Georgy. He--he is not going to stop
with us long." She could say nothing more, and walked
away silently to her room. Let us close it upon her
prayers and her sorrow. I think we had best speak little
about so much love and grief.
Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the
promise contained in her note, and saw Amelia. The
meeting between them was friendly. A look and a few words
from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, with
regard to this woman at least, there need be no fear
lest she should take the first place in her son's affection.
She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother had
not been so well pleased, perhaps, had the rival been
better looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-
hearted. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old
times and memories and could not but be touched with
the poor mother's pitiful situation. She was conquered,
and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly
submitted. That day they arranged together the
preliminaries of the treaty of capitulation.
George was kept from school the next day, and saw
his aunt. Amelia left them alone together and went to
her room. She was trying the separation--as that poor
gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe that was
to come down and sever her slender life. Days were
passed in parleys, visits, preparations. The widow broke
the matter to Georgy with great caution; she looked to
see him very much affected by the intelligence. He was
rather elated than otherwise, and the poor woman
turned sadly away. He bragged about the news that day
to the boys at school; told them how he was going to
live with his grandpapa his father's father, not the one
who comes here sometimes; and that he would be very
rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much
finer school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader's
pencil-case and pay the tart-woman. The boy was the
image of his father, as his fond mother thought.
Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear
Amelia's sake, to go through the story of George's last
days at home.
At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little
humble packets containing tokens of love and remembrance
were ready and disposed in the hall long since
--George was in his new suit, for which the tailor had
come previously to measure him. He had sprung up with
the sun and put on the new clothes, his mother hearing
him from the room close by, in which she had been
lying, in speechless grief and watching. Days before she
had been making preparations for the end, purchasing
little stores for the boy's use, marking his books and
linen, talking with him and preparing him for the change
--fondly fancying that he needed preparation.
So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing
for it. By a thousand eager declarations as to what
he would do, when he went to live with his grandfather,
he had shown the poor widow how little the idea of
parting had cast him down. "He would come and see
his mamma often on the pony," he said. "He would
come and fetch her in the carriage; they would drive
in the park, and she should have everything she wanted."
The poor mother was fain to content herself with these
selfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to
convince herself how sincerely her son loved her. He must
love her. All children were so: a little anxious for novelty,
and--no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child must
have his enjoyments and ambition in the world. She
herself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for him
had denied him his just rights and pleasures hitherto.
I know few things more affecting than that timorous
debasement and self-humiliation of a woman. How she
owns that it is she and not the man who is guilty; how
she takes all the faults on her side; how she courts in a
manner punishment for the wrongs which she has not
committed and persists in shielding the real culprit! It
is those who injure women who get the most kindness
from them--they are born timid and tyrants and
maltreat those who are humblest before them.
So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery
for her son's departure, and had passed many and many
a long solitary hour in making preparations for the end.
George stood by his mother, watching her arrangements
without the least concern. Tears had fallen into his boxes;
passages had been scored in his favourite books; old toys,
relics, treasures had been hoarded away for him, and
packed with strange neatness and care--and of all these
things the boy took no note. The child goes away smiling
as the mother breaks her heart. By heavens it is pitiful,
the bootless love of women for children in Vanity Fair.
A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's
life is consummated. No angel has intervened. The child
is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the widow is
quite alone.
The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides
on a pony with a coachman behind him, to the delight
of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walks proudly down
the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not her boy
any more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the little
school, too, and to show off before them his new wealth
and splendour. In two days he has adopted a slightly
imperious air and patronizing manner. He was born to
command, his mother thinks, as his father was before
him.
It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when
he does not come, she takes a long walk into London
--yes, as far as Russell Square, and rests on the stone
by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's house.
It is so pleasant and cool. She can look up and see the
drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine
o'clock, the chamber in the upper story where Georgy
sleeps. She knows--he has told her. She prays there
as the light goes out, prays with an humble heart,
and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired
when she comes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better
for that long weary walk, and she may dream about
Georgy.
One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell
Square, at some distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she
could see it from a distance though) when all the bells
of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his aunt came
out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity,
and the footman, who carried the books, tried to drive
him away; but Georgy stopped and gave him money. May
God's blessing be on the boy! Emmy ran round the square
and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite too.
All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed
them until she came to the Foundling Church, into which
she went. There she sat in a place whence she could
see the head of the boy under his father's tombstone.
Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and
sang hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's
soul thrilled with delight at the burst of glorious
psalmody. His mother could not see him for awhile,
through the mist that dimmed her eyes.
CHAPTER LI
In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May
Not Puzzle the Reader
After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private
and select parties, the claims of that estimable woman
as regards fashion were settled, and some of the very
greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis were
speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that the
beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to
enter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble before
those august portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms
of the chamber with flaming silver forks with which they
prong all those who have not the right of the entree.
They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the
hall and takes down the names of the great ones who
are admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. He
can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him
up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that
poor imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who
ruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere.
Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst the
Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps
Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer
if Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a
tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass
away. And some day or other (but it will be after our
time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no
better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts
of Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as
Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.
Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker
Street? What would not your grandmothers have given
to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that now
decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous parle,
I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead.
As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of
to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their
places round the darksome board. The pilot who
weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual
port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a
heeltap. Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly
manner, and would not be behindhand when the
noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows,
winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's
eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to
know how his glass went up full to his mouth and came
down empty; up to the ceiling which was above us only
yesterday, and which the great of the past days have all
looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging
now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and
lies asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there--
not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.
It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to
liking a little of it? I should like to know what well-
constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes
roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man who
reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life,
I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred
thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good hearty
appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish
as you like it--don't spare it. Another glass of wine,
Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let
us eat our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor.
And let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic
pleasures likewise--for these too, like all other mortal
delights, were but transitory.
The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His
Highness the Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion to
renew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, when
they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment
Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a
profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were
invited immediately to one of the Prince's small parties
at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness during
the temporary absence from England of its noble
proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comite.
The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally
superintending the progress of his pupil.
At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen
and greatest ministers that Europe has produced--
the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the Most
Christian King, and subsequently Minister to that
monarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august names
are transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant
company my dear Becky is moving. She became a
constant guest at the French Embassy, where no party was
considered to be complete without the presence of the
charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.
Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) and
Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were
straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's
wife, and both declared, according to the wont of their
nation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out of
England, that has not left half a dozen families miserable,
and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?),
both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with the
charming Madame Ravdonn.
But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac
was very fond of ecarte, and made many parties
with the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was singing to
Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it is
a well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers',
where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not
had the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young
gentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Becky
would have selected either of these young men as a
person on whom she would bestow her special regard. They
ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,
went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made
themselves amiable in a thousand ways. And they talked
English with adorable simplicity, and to the constant
amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic
one or other to his face, and compliment him on his
advance in the English language with a gravity which never
failed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron.
Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way of winning over
Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a
letter which the simple spinster handed over in public
to the person to whom it was addressed, and the
composition of which amused everybody who read it greatly.
Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon, to
whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed
in the little house in May Fair.
Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best"
foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble and admirable
society slang), but some of the best English people too.
I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the least
virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, or
the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about
whom there is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-
Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great Lady
Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she was
Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry),
and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her
Ladyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett and
Burke) takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no
question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-
Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the
contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and
neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is
agreed on all sides that she is of the "best people."
Those who go to her are of the best: and from an old
grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her
ladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter
of the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry,
had once tried), this great and famous leader of
the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley; made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly
over which she presided; and not only encouraged her
son, St. Kitts (his lordship got his place through Lord
Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but
asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in
the most public and condescending manner during
dinner. The important fact was known all over London that
night. People who had been crying fie about Mrs.
Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord
Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising
her: some who had hesitated, came forward at once
and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had warned
Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman,
now besought to be introduced to her. In a word, she
was admitted to be among the "best" people. Ah, my
beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky
prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive. It is
currently reported that even in the very inmost circles,
they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the
zone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of
fashion and saw the great George IV face to face, has
owned since that there too was Vanity.
We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her
career. As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry,
although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug,
so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself to
portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his
opinions to himself, whatever they are.
Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this
season of her life, when she moved among the very
greatest circles of the London fashion. Her success
excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation
was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter
a work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in
a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)
--to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and
ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she was
welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner
parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came
with whom she had been dining, whom she had met the
night before, and would see on the morrow--the young
men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with
the neatest glossy boots and white gloves--the elders
portly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy
--the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink--the
mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in
diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as
they do in the novels. They talked about each others'
houses, and characters, and families--just as the Joneses
do about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hated
and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning in
spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I
would rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday
school than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the
regimental waggon; or, oh, how much gayer it would be
to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a booth
at a fair."
"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing.
She used to tell the great man her ennuis and
perplexities in her artless way--they amused him.
"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of
the Ceremonies--what do you call him--the man in the
large boots and the uniform, who goes round the ring
cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military
figure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my
father took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I
was a child, and when we came home, I made myself a
pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder of
all the pupils."
"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.
"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "How
Lady Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel
Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pasta
beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being
conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and
gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties--of
following them into the corners where they sat in silence,
and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of
all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very
truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner
in which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked,
or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case might
be. "How cool that woman is," said one; "what airs of
independence she assumes, where she ought to sit still
and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an
honest and good-natured soul she is!" said another.
"What an artful little minx" said a third. They were all
right very likely, but Becky went her own way, and so
fascinated the professional personages that they would
leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties
and give her lessons for nothing.
Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon
Street. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps,
blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 100, who
could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of
102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen
who accompanied the vehicles were too big to be
contained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the
neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were
wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer.
Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed and
trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find
themselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies of
ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening to
the professional singers, who were singing according to
their wont, and as if they wished to blow the windows
down. And the day after, there appeared among the
fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a paragraph
to the following effect:
"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a
select party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their
Excellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin,
H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attended
by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess
of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady
Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley
had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess
(Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness
of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de
Brie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of
Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-General and
Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; Viscount
Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin,
Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill
at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.
And in her commerce with the great our dear friend
showed the same frankness which distinguished her
transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion,
when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps
rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the
French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that
nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her
shoulder scowling at the pair.
"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said,
who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent
most remarkable to hear.
"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting
down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother
was a Frenchwoman."
Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was
mollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatal
levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted persons
of all classes into the society of their superiors, but her
ladyship owned that this one at least was well behaved
and never forgot her place in life. She was a very good
woman: good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious.
It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself
better than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors'
garments have been kissed for centuries; it is a thousand
years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the
family were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and
councillors, when the great ancestor of the House
became King of Scotland.
Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before
Becky, and perhaps was not disinclined to her. The
younger ladies of the house of Gaunt were also
compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people at
her, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried
a passage of arms with her, but was routed with great
slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked
sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure
ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. She
said the wickedest things with the most simple unaffected
air when in this mood, and would take care artlessly to
apologize for her blunders, so that all the world should
know that she had made them.
Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and
trencher-man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by the
ladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering at his
patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say,
"Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault
upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner.
The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never
without arms, lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted
with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle with
shame; then she returned to her soup with the most
perfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great
patron, who gave him dinners and lent him a little money
sometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and other
jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage
glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the
table and burst into tears. He looked piteously at my
lord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at the
ladies, who disowned him. At last Becky herself took
compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk.
He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and
Fiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg
naturally paid a good deal of court, was instructed to tell
him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs.
Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes,
Milor would put every one of his notes of hand into his
lawyer's hands and sell him up without mercy. Wagg
wept before Fiche and implored his dear friend to intercede
for him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R. C.,
which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-
scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored her
good-will at parties where he met her. He cringed and
coaxed Rawdon at the club. He was allowed to come back
to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good to
him, always amused, never angry.
His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant
(with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr.
Wenham, was much more prudent in his behaviour and
opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might be
disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a
staunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-
merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of
the Marquis never showed any sort of hostility to the
new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnesses
and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow
made Becky more uneasy than other people's overt
hostilities.
How the Crawleys got the money which was spent
upon the entertainments with which they treated the
polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some
conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these
little festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley
gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did,
Becky's power over the Baronet must have been
extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his
advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky's
habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends:
going to this one in tears with an account that there was
an execution in the house; falling on her knees to that
one and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol
or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be
paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to
give many hundreds through these pathetic representations.
Young Feltham, of the --th Dragoons (and son of the firm of
Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers),
and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable
life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the
pecuniary way. People declared that she got money
from various simply disposed persons, under pretence of
getting them confidential appointments under Government.
Who knows what stories were or were not told of
our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had
had all the money which she was said to have begged or
borrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized and been
honest for life, whereas,--but this is advancing matters.
The truth is, that by economy and good management--
by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcely
anybody--people can manage, for a time at least, to
make a great show with very little means: and it is our
belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were
not, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very
little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls.
Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game
and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her
disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks
presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's
order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is
quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature,
as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the
public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.
If every person is to be banished from society who runs
into debt and cannot pay--if we are to be peering into
everybody's private life, speculating upon their income,
and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure
--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling
Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be
against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the
benefits of civilization would be done away with. We
should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our
houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down.
Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen
of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights,
comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,
Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and
splendid high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights
of life, I say,--would go to the deuce, if people did but
act upon their silly principles and avoid those whom they
dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual
forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly
enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and
call him the greatest rascal unhanged--but do we wish
to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we
meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine
with him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus
trade flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept;
new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week;
and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the
honest proprietor who reared it.
At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great
George was on the throne and ladies wore gigots and
large combs like tortoise-shell shovels in their hair,
instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which are
actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world
were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the
present day: and their amusements pretty similar. To us,
from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders
at the bewildering beauties as they pass into Court or
ball, they may seem beings of unearthly splendour and in
the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us unattainable.
It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings
that we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and
triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed,
as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.
At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades
had come among us from France, and was considerably
in vogue in this country, enabling the many ladies
amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and
the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit.
My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps
believed herself endowed with both the above qualifications,
to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which should
include some of these little dramas--and we must take
leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion,
and, with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be among
the very last of the fashionable entertainments to which
it will be our fortune to conduct him.
A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of
Gaunt House, was arranged as the charade theatre. It
had been so used when George III was king; and a
picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hair
in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it
was called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's
tragedy of that name, performed before their Royal
Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh,
and Prince William Henry, then children like the actor.
One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the
garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up
anew for the present festivities.
Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern
traveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller
was somebody in those days, and the adventurous
Bedwin, who had published his quarto and passed some
months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of
no small importance. In his volume there were several
pictures of Sands in various oriental costumes; and he
travelled about with a black attendant of most
unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian de Bois
Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were
hailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.
He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an
immense plume of feathers (the Janizaries were
supposed to be still in existence, and the tarboosh had not
as yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress of
the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however,
for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was
allowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and
expresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands
and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt,
tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the
Aga.
A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly.
The ladies whisper to one another. The black slave
was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha in
exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn up
ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into
the Nile.
"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish
voluptuary with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the
slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings a
veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of
applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth
(she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and
hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the black
braided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; her
dress is covered over with gold piastres. The odious
Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She
falls down on her knees and entreats him to restore her
to the mountains where she was born, and where her
Circassian lover is still deploring the absence of his Zuleikah.
No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. He
laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom.
Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down in
an attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems to
be no hope for her, when--when the Kislar Aga appears.
The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan
receives and places on his head the dread firman. A
ghastly terror seizes him, while on the Negro's face (it is
Mesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastly
joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the Kislar
Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful
weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First two
syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act in
the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her
costume.
The second part of the charade takes place. It is still
an Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an
attitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him.
The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is
sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries
at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels
are coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in the
scene. It is a musical one--and, to the surprise of the
oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr.
Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like
Papageno and the Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last
two syllables," roars the head.
The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A
tall and stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above
him hang his helmet and shield. There is no need for
them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is slain. Cassandra is
a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it is
Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack
of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron
is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the
broad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on the
wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light.
The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the
statue enters.
Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that
ghastly face looking out balefully after him from behind
the arras? He raises his dagger to strike the sleeper, who
turns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for the
blow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain.
Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair
floats down her shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and
her eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly that
people quake as they look at her.
A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody
said, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."
Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's
hand and advances to the bed. You see it shining over
her head in the glimmer of the lamp, and--and the lamp
goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.
The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca
performed her part so well, and with such ghastly
truth, that the spectators were all dumb, until, with a
burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, when
everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old
Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all the
rest. "By--, she'd do it too," he said between his teeth.
The performers were called by the whole house, which
sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical
tunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus and
others of the performers of the little play. Mr. Bedwin
Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. A great
personage insisted on being presented to the charming
Clytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body.
Marry somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remark
made by His Royal Highness.
"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,"
said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking,
and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.
Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool
dainties, and the performers disappeared to get ready
for the second charade-tableau.
The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted
in pantomime, and the performance took place in the
following wise:
First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a
slouched hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern
borrowed from the stables, passed across the stage bawling
out, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the
lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently
at the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much.
To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable
G. Ringwood), which character the young gentleman
performed to perfection, and divests them of their lower
coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a
warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and
warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon
wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen.
She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull down
the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters of
the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and
chaining the door within. All the lights go out. The music
plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice from
behind the curtain says, "First syllable."
Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a
sudden. The music plays the old air from John of Paris,
Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage. It is the same scene.
Between the first and second floors of the house
represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms
are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the house.
In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of
paper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists,
threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bring
round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks
Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown)
under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, as
Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses.
Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots"
with such exquisite humour and naturalness that the
whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown
to him. Crack, crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord,
chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as some
distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."
"I think it must be 'Hotel,' " says Captain Grigg of the
Life Guards; there is a general laugh at the Captain's
cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.
While the third syllable is in preparation, the band
begins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude
Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"--
some maritime event is about to take place. A ben is
heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents,
for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of
each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds,
which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod
their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable
Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and