Vanity Fair
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.
Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.
During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured
personage addressed as Mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers
appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal
affection by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud acclamations of
laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while the
music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling)
the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause and bouquets
without end were showered upon the Nightingale of the evening. Lord
Steyne's voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale,
took the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to her heart
with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with
delight. His guests' enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where was
the beautiful black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade
had caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but the
brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All voices were for
her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis, people compared her to one
or the other, and agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she
been an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She had
reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling and bright over the
storm of applause, and soared as high and joyful as her triumph. There
was a ball after the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed
round Becky as the great point of attraction of the evening. The Royal
Personage declared with an oath that she was perfection, and engaged
her again and again in conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with
pride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion
before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, and
scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside, and paid her the most
marked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her Marquise
costume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur Le Duc
de la Jabotiere's attache; and the Duke, who had all the traditions of
the ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have
been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles. Only a
feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest sense of duty and
personal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from dancing with her
himself, and he declared in public that a lady who could talk and dance
like Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. He
was only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by
birth. "None but a compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have
performed that majestic dance in such a way."
Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince
of Peterwaradin's cousin and attache. The delighted Prince, having
less retenue than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking
a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with
her, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket
until his Highness was fairly out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself
would have liked to dance with her if that amusement had been the
custom of his country. The company made a circle round her and
applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni.
Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed
by Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt
and her astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all rival
charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her long hair and great
eyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of the
evening--where was she now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her
long hair and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person to
heed or to deplore the discomfiture.
The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was placed at the
grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness the exalted personage
before mentioned, and the rest of the great guests. She was served on
gold plate. She might have had pearls melted into her champagne if she
liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have
given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those
dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The
ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked Lord
Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous
infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could have
killed, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.
Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate
his wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought with a feeling
very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.
When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to
her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught
up by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt
House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hoping
his Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due
shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to the
covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off.
Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the Colonel
the refreshment of a cigar.
They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys
outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons
separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they
had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men came
up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your pardon,
Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This gentleman's
acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a
cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of Gaunt
House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of
Colonel Crawley.
That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the
hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man who
had first touched him.
"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.
"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his
interlocutor. "How much is it?"
"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery
Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundred
and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."
"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said--"I've
got seventy at home."
"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham--"Good
night, my dear fellow."
"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away--and Rawdon
Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.
CHAPTER LII
In Which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light
When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed, he did nothing by halves,
and his kindness towards the Crawley family did the greatest honour to
his benevolent discrimination. His lordship extended his good-will to
little Rawdon: he pointed out to the boy's parents the necessity of
sending him to a public school, that he was of an age now when
emulation, the first principles of the Latin language, pugilistic
exercises, and the society of his fellow-boys would be of the greatest
benefit to the boy. His father objected that he was not rich enough to
send the child to a good public school; his mother that Briggs was a
capital mistress for him, and had brought him on (as indeed was the
fact) famously in English, the Latin rudiments, and in general
learning: but all these objections disappeared before the generous
perseverance of the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship was one of the
governors of that famous old collegiate institution called the
Whitefriars. It had been a Cistercian Convent in old days, when the
Smithfield, which is contiguous to it, was a tournament ground.
Obstinate heretics used to be brought thither convenient for burning
hard by. Henry VIII, the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the
monastery and its possessions and hanged and tortured some of the monks
who could not accommodate themselves to the pace of his reform.
Finally, a great merchant bought the house and land adjoining, in
which, and with the help of other wealthy endowments of land and money,
he established a famous foundation hospital for old men and children.
An extern school grew round the old almost monastic foundation, which
subsists still with its middle-age costume and usages--and all
Cistercians pray that it may long flourish.
Of this famous house, some of the greatest noblemen, prelates, and
dignitaries in England are governors: and as the boys are very
comfortably lodged, fed, and educated, and subsequently inducted to
good scholarships at the University and livings in the Church, many
little gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical profession from
their tenderest years, and there is considerable emulation to procure
nominations for the foundation. It was originally intended for the
sons of poor and deserving clerics and laics, but many of the noble
governors of the Institution, with an enlarged and rather capricious
benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for their bounty. To get an
education for nothing, and a future livelihood and profession assured,
was so excellent a scheme that some of the richest people did not
disdain it; and not only great men's relations, but great men
themselves, sent their sons to profit by the chance--Right Rev.
prelates sent their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy, while, on
the other hand, some great noblemen did not disdain to patronize the
children of their confidential servants--so that a lad entering this
establishment had every variety of youthful society wherewith to mingle.
Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied was the Racing
Calendar, and though his chief recollections of polite learning were
connected with the floggings which he received at Eton in his early
youth, had that decent and honest reverence for classical learning
which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think that his son
was to have a provision for life, perhaps, and a certain opportunity of
becoming a scholar. And although his boy was his chief solace and
companion, and endeared to him by a thousand small ties, about which he
did not care to speak to his wife, who had all along shown the utmost
indifference to their son, yet Rawdon agreed at once to part with him
and to give up his own greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the
welfare of the little lad. He did not know how fond he was of the
child until it became necessary to let him go away. When he was gone,
he felt more sad and downcast than he cared to own--far sadder than the
boy himself, who was happy enough to enter a new career and find
companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing once or twice when
the Colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way, tried to express his
sentimental sorrows at the boy's departure. The poor fellow felt that
his dearest pleasure and closest friend was taken from him. He looked
often and wistfully at the little vacant bed in his dressing-room,