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THACKERAY . HISTORY OF PENDENNIS
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THE HISTORY , fs\
PENDENNIS, '
HIS FORTUNES AND MISIOETUNES,
HIS FRIENDS AND HIS GREATEST ENEMY.
BY
W. M. THACKERAY.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
NEW YORK:
LEYPOLDT & HOLT.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
1866.
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TO DR. JOHN ELLIOTSON.
My dear Doctoe,
Thirteen months ago, when it seemed likely
that this story had come to a close, a kind friend
brought you to my bedside, whence, in all probability,
I never should have risen but for your constant watch-
fulness and skill. I like to recall your great goodness
and kindness (as well as many acts of others, showing
quite a surprising friendship and sympathy) at that
time, when kindness and friendship were most needed
and welcome.
And as you would take no other fee but thanks,
let me record them here in behalf of me and mine,
and suliscribe myself,
Yours most sincerely and gratefully,
W. M. THACKERAY,
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive
in 2010 witii funding from
Boston Library Consortium IVIember Libraries
littp://www.arcliive.Qrg/details/liistoryofpendenn03tliac
PREFACE.
How can that last word, the Preface, be any thing but
melancholy, and who can be glad when he says farewell?
If this kind of composition, of which the two years' product
is now laid before the public, fail in art, as it constantly
does and must, it at least has the advantage of a certain
truth and honesty, which a work more elaborate might
lose. In his constant communication with the reader, the
writer is forced into frankness of expression, and to speak
out his own mind and feelings as they urge him. Many
a slip of the pen and the printer, many a word spoken in
haste, he sees and would recall as he looks over his volume.
It is a sort of confidential talk between writer and reader,
which must often be dull, must often flag. In the course of his
volubility, the perpetual speaker must of necessity lay bare
his own weaknesses, vanities, peculiarities. And as we
judge of a man's character, after long frequenting his so-
ciety, not by one speech, or by one mood or opinion, or
by one day's talk, but by the tenor of his general bearing
and conversation; so of a writer, who delivers himself up
to you perforce unreservedly, you may say, Is he honest?
VIII
/
Does he tell the truth in the main? Does he seem actuated
by a desire to find out and speak it? Is he a quack, who
shams sentiment, or mouths for effect? Does he seek po-
pularity by claptraps or other arts? I can no more ignore
good fortune than any other chance which has befallen me. I
have found many , many thousands more readers than I ever
looked for. I have no right to say to these , You shall not
find fault with my art, or fall asleep over my pages; but
I ask you to believe that this person writing tells the truth.
If there is not that, there is nothing.
Perhaps the lovers of "excitement" may care to know,
that this book began with a very precise plan, which was
entirely put aside. Ladies and gentlemen, you were to
have been treated, and the writer's and the publisher's
pocket benefited, by the recital of the most active horrors.
What more exciting than a ruffian (with many admirable
virtues) in St. Giles's, visited constantly by a young lady
from Belgravia? What more stirring than the contrasts of
society? the mixture of slang and fashionable language?
the escapes, the battles, the murders? Nay, up to nine
o'clock this very morning, my poor friend. Colonel Altamont,
was doomed to execution, and I only relented when I ac-
tually had him at the window.
The "exciting" plan was laid aside (with a rueful but
most kind forbearance on the part of the publishers), be-
IX
cause, on attempting it, I found that I failed from want
of experience of my subject; and never having been intimate
with any convict in my life, and the manners of ruffians
and gaol-birds being quite unfamiliar to me, the idea of
entering into competition with M. Eugene Sue was abandoned.
To describe a real rascal, you must make him so horrible
that he would be too hideous to show; and unless the painter
paints him fairly, I hold he has no right to show him at all.
Even the gentlemen of our age ā this is an attempt to
describe one of them , no better nor worse than most educated
men ā even these we cannot show as they are , with the noto-
rious foibles and selfishness of their lives and their education.
Since the author of Tom Jones was buried, no writer of fiction
among us has been permitted to depict to his utmost power
A Man. We must drape him, and give him a certain con-
ventional simper. Society will not tolerate the Natural in
our Art. Many ladies have remonstrated and subscribers
left me, because, in the course of the story, I described
a young man resisting and affected by temptation. My
object was to say, that he had the passions to feel, and
manliness and generosity to overcome them. You will not
hear ā it is best to know it ā what moves in the real
world, what passes in society, in the clubs, colleges, news'-
rooms, ā what is the life and talk of your sons. A little
more frankness than is customary has been attempted in
this story: with no bad desire on the author's part, it is
hoped, and -with no ill consequence to any reader. If truth
is not always pleasant; at any rate truth is best, from what-
ever chair ā from those whence graver writers or thinkers
argue, as from that at which the story-teller sits as he
concludes his labour, and bids his kind reader farewell.
KENSINGTON, 26f7j November.
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME III.
PAGE
CHAPTER I. Miss Amory's partners ....<ā¢ 1
CHAPTER II. MoDseigneur s'amuse 20
CHAPTER III. A visit of politeness . . . . . ā¢ 4o
CHAPTER IV. In Shepherd's Inn 48
CHAPTER V. In or near the Temple Garden .... 56
CHAPTER VI. The happy village again 69
CHAPTER VII. Which had very nearly been the last of the story 17
CHAPTER VIII. A critical chapter 93
CHAPTER IX. Convalescence .107
CHAPTER X. Fanny's occupation's gone 123
CHAPTER XI. In which Fanny engages a new medical man . 139
CHAPTER XII. Foreign ground 154
CHAPTER XIII. "Fairoaks to let" 171
CHAPTER XIV. Old friends ....... 185
CHAPTER XV. Explanation 203
XII
CHAPTER XVI. Conversations . Ā« 213
CHAPTER XVII. The way of the world 232
CHAPTER XVIII. Which accounts perhaps for Chapter xvii . 253
CHAPTER XIX. Phyllis and Corydon 272
CHAPTER XX. Temptation 219
CHAPTER XXI. In which Pen begins his canvass ... 294
CHAPTER XXII. In which Pen begins to doubt about his election 307
CHAPTER XXIII. In which the Major is bidden to stand and
deliver 321
CHAPTER XXIV. In which the Major neither yields his money
nor his life 339
CHAPTER XXV. In which Pendennis counts his eggs . 350
CHAPTER XXVI. Fiat Justitia 359
CHAPTER XXVII. In which the decks begin to clear . . . 3G9
CHAPTER XXVIII. Mr. and Mrs. Sam. Huxter .... 380
CHAPTER XXIX. Shows how Arthur had better have taken a
return-ticket 394
CHAPTER XXX. A chapter of match-makins .... 403
CHAPTER XXXI. Exeunt omnes ....... 4io
P E N D E N N I S.
CHAPTER I.
Miss Amory's partners.
Ihe noble Henry Foker, of -whom we have lost sight
for a few pages , has been in the meanwhile occupied , as we
might suppose a man of his constancy would be , in the pursuit
and indulgence of his all-absorbing passion of love.
I wish that a few of my youthful readers who are inclined to
that amusement would take the trouble to calculate the time
which is spent in the pursuit, when they would find it to be one
of the most costly occupations in which a man can possibly in-
dulge. What don't you sacrifice to it, indeed, young gentle-
men and young ladies of ill-regulated minds? Many hours of
your precious sleep in the first place, in which you lie tossing
and thinking about the adored object, whence you come down
late to breakfast, when noon is advancing and all the family is
long since away to Its dally occupations. Then when you at
length get to these occupations you pay no attention to them,
and engage in them with no ardour ā all your thoughts and
powers of mind being fixed elsewhere. Then the day's work
being slurred over, you neglect your friends and relatives,
your natural companions and usual associates In life , that you
may go and have a glance at the dear personage, or a look up
at her windows, or a peep at her carriage In the park. Then
at night the artless blandishments of home bore you ; mamma's
Pendennis. III. 1
conversation palls upon you; the dishes which that good soul
prepares for the dinner of her favourite are sent away un-
tasted, ā the whole meal of life, indeed, except one particular
plat, has no relish. Life, business, family ties, home, all
things useful and dear once become intolerable, and you are
never easy except when you are in pursuit of your flame.
Such I believe to be not unfrequently the state of mind
amongst ill-regulated young gentlemen, and such indeed was
Mr. H. Foker's condition, who, having been bred up to in-
dulge in every propensity towards which he was inclined, aban-
doned himself to this one with his usual selfish enthusiasm.
Nor because he had given his friend Arthur Pendennis a great
deal of good advice on a former occasion, need men of the
world wonder that Mr. Foker became passion's slave in his
turn. Who among us has not given aplenty of the very best
advice to his friends ? Who has not preached , and who has
practised? To be sure, you. Madam, are perhaps a perfect
being, and never had a wrong thought in the whole course of
your frigid and irreproachable existence: or you. Sir, are a
great deal too strong-minded to allow any foolish passion to
interfere with your equanimity in chambers or your attendance
on 'Change; you are so strong that you don't want any sym-
pathy. We don't give you any, then; we keep ours for the
humble and weak, that struggle and stumble and get up again,
and so march with the rest of mortals. What need have you of
a hand who never fall? Your serene virtue is never shaded by
passion, or ruffled by temptation, or darkened by remorse;
compassion would be impertinence for such an angel: bat then
with such a one companionship becomes intolerable; you are,
from the very elevation of your virtue and high attributes, of
necessity lonely; we can't reach up and talk familiarly with
such potentates. Goodbye, then; our way lies with humble
folks , and not with serene highnesses like you ; and we give
notice that there are no perfect characters in this history, ex-
cept, perhaps, one little one, and that one is not perfect
either, for she never knows to this day that she is perfect, and
with a deplorable misapprehension and perverseness of humi-
lity , believes herself to be as great a sinner as need be.
This young person does not happen to be in London at the
present period of our story, and it is by no means for the like
of her that Mr. Henry Foker's mind is agitated. But what
matters a few failings? Need we be angels, male or female,
in order to be worshipped as such? Let us admire the diversity
of the tastes of mankind; and the oldest, the ugliest, the
stupidest and most pompous, the silliest and most vapid, the
greatest criminal, tyrant, booby, Bluebeard, Catherine
Hayes , George Barnwell, amongst us , we need never despair.
I have read of the passion of a transported pickpocket for a
female convict (each of them being advanced in age, repul-
sive in person, ignorant, quarrelsome, and given to drink),
that was as magnificent as the loves of Cleopatra and Antony,
or Lancelot and Guinever. The passion which Count Boru-
lawski, the Polish dwarf, inspired in the bosom of the most
beautiful Baroness at the Court of Dresden, is a matter with
which we are all of us acquainted: the flame which burned in
the heart of young Cornet Tozer but the other day, and
caused him to run off and espouse Mrs. Battersby, who was old
enough to be his mamma, ā all these instances are told in the
page of history or the newspaper column. Are we to be
ashamed or pleased to think that our hearts are formed so that
the biggest and highest-placed Ajax among us may some day
find himself prostrate before the pattens of his kitchen-maid;
as that there is no poverty or shame or crime, which will not
be supported, hugged even with delight, and cherished more
closely than virtue would be, by the perverse fidelity and ad-
mirable constant folly of a woman?
So then Henry Foker, Esquire, longed after his love, and
cursed the fate which separated him from her. When Lord
Gravesend's family retired to the country (his lordship leaving
his proxy with the venerable Lord Bagwig) , Harry still re-
mained lingering on in London, certainly not much to the
sorrow of Lady Ann, to whom he was affianced, and who did
not in the least miss him. Wherever Miss Clavering went,
this Infatuated young fellow continued to follow her; and
being aware that his engagement to his cousin was known in
the world, he was forced to make a mystery of his passion, and
confine it to his own breast, so that it was so pent in there and
pressed down, that it is a wonder he did not explode some
day with the stormy secret, and perish collapsed after the
outburst.
There had been a grand entertainment at Gaunt House on
one beautiful evening in June, and the next day's journals con-
tained almost two columns of the names of the most closely-
printed nobility and gentry who had been honoured with in-
vitations to the ball. Among the guests were Sir Francis and
Lady Clavering and Miss Amory , for whom the indefatigable
Major Pendennis had procured an invitation, and our two
young friends Arthur and Harry. Each exerted himself, and
danced a great deal with Miss Blanche. As for the worthy
Major, he assumed the charge of Lady Clavering, and took
care to introduce her to that department of the mansion where
her ladyship specially distinguished herself, namely, the
refreshment-room, where, amongst pictures of Titian and
Giorgione, and regal portraits of Vandyke and Reynolds, and
enormous salvers of gold and silver, and pyramids of large
flowers , and constellations of wax candles ā in a manner per-
fectly regardless of expense , in a word ā a supper was going
on all night. Of how many creams , jellies, salads, peaches,
white soups, grapes, pat^s, galantines, cups of tea, cham-
pagne, and so forth, Lady Clavering partook, it does not
become us to say. How much the Major suffered as he fol-
lowed the honest woman about, calling to the solemn male
attendants and lovely servant-maids, and administering to
Lady Clavering various wants with admirable patience,
nobody knows ; ā he never confessed. He never allowed his
agony to appear on his countenance in the least; but with a
constant kindness brought plate after plate to the Begum.
Mr. Wagg counted up all the dishes of which Lady Claver-
ing partook as long as he could count, (but as he partook very
freely himself of champagne during the evening, his powers of
calculation were not to be trusted at the close of the entertain-
ment), and he recommended Mr. Honeyman, Lady Steyne's
medical man, to look carefully after the Begum, and to call
and get news of her ladyship the next day.
Sir Francis Clavering made his appearance, and skulked for
a while about the magnificent rooms ; but the company and the
splendour which he met there were not to the Baronet's taste,
and after tossing off a tumbler of wine or two at the buffet, he
quitted Gaunt House for the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street,
where his friends Loder, Punter, little Moss Abrams, and
Captain Skewball were assembled at the familiar green table.
In the rattle of the box, and of their agreeable conversation.
Sir Francis's spirits rose to their accustomed point of feeble
hilarity.
Mr. Pynsent, who had asked Miss Amory to dance, came
up on one occasion to claim her hand , but scowls of recogni-
tion having already passed between him and Mr. Arthur Pen-
dennis in the dancing-room, Arthur suddenly rose up and
claimed Miss Amory as his partner for the present dance, on
which Mr. Pynsent, biting his lips and scowling yet more
savagely, withdrew with a profound bow, saying that he gave
up his claim. There are some men who are always falling in
6
one's way in life. Pynsent and Pen had this view of each
other; and regarded each other accordingly.
"What a confounded conceited provincial fool that is!'*
thought the one. "Because he has written a twopenny novel,
his absurd head is turned, and a kicking would take his con-
ceit out of him."
"What an impertinent idiot that man is!" remarked the
other to his partner. "His soul is in Downing Street; his
neckcloth is foolscap ; his hair is sand ; his legs are rulers ; his
vitals are tape and sealing-wax; he was a prig in his cradle;
and never laughed since he was born, except three times at
the same joke of his chief. I have the same liking for that man,
Miss Amory, that I have for cold boiled veal." Upon which
Blanche of course remarked , that Mr. Pendennis was wicked,
mechant, perfectly abominable, and wondered what he would
say when her back was turned.
" Say ! ā Say that you have the most beautiful figure , and
the slimmest waist in the world , Blanche ā Miss Amory I
mean. I beg your pardon. Another turn; this music would
make an alderman dance."
"And you have left off tumbling, when you waltz now?"
Blanche asked, archly looking up at her partner's face.
" One falls and one gets up again in life , Blanche ; you
know I used to call you so in old times, and it is the prettiest
name in the world ; besides , I have practised since then."
"And with a great number of partners, I 'm afraid,"
Blanche said, with a little sham sigh, and a shrug of the
shoulders. And so in truth Mr. Pen had practised a good deal
in this life; and had undoubtedly arrived at being able to
dance better.
If Pendennis was impertinent in his talk, Foker, on the
other hand, so bland and communicative on most occasions,
was entirely mum and melancholy when he danced with Miss
Amory. To clasp her slender waist was a rapture , to wliirl
round the room with her was a delirium; but to speak to her,
what could he say that was worthy of her? What pearl of
conversation could he bring that was fit for the acceptance of
such a Queen of love and wit as Blanche? It was she who made
the talk when she was in the company of this love-stricken
partner. It was she who asked him how that dear little pony
was, and looked at him and thanked him with such a tender
kindness and regret, and refused the dear little pony with
such a delicate sigh when he offered it. "I have nobody to
ride with in London," she said. "Mammals timid, and her
figure is not pretty on horseback. Sir Francis never goes out
with me. He loves me like ā like a step- daughter. Oh, how
delightful it must be to have a father ā a father, Mr. Foker ! "
"O, uncommon," said Mr. Harry, who enjoyed that
blessing very calmly, upon which, and forgetting the senti-
mental air which she had just before assumed, Blanche's grey
eyes gazed at Foker with such an arch twinkle, that both of
them burst out laughing, and Harry enraptured and at his
ease began to entertain her with a variety of innocent prattle
ā good kind simple Foker talk, flavoured with many ex-
pressions by no means to be discovered in dictionaries, and
relating to the personal history of himself or horses , or other
things dear and important to him, or to persons in the ball-
room then passing before them, and about whose appearance
or character Mr. Harry spoke with artless freedom, and a
considerable dash of humour.
And it. was Blanche who , when the conversation flagged,
and the youth's modesty came rushing back and overpowering
him, knew how to reanimate her companion: asked him
questions about Logwood, and whether it was a pretty place?
Whether he was a hunting-man, and whether he liked women
to hunt? (in which case she was prepared to say that she
8
adored hunting) ā but Mr, Foker expressing his opinion
against sporting females, and pointing out Lady Bullfinch,
who happened to pass by, as a horse-godmother, whom he
had seen at cover with a cigar in her face, Blanche too ex-
pressed her detestation of the sports of the field , and said it
would make her shudder to think of a dear sweet little fox
being killed, on which Foker laughed and waltzed with re-
newed vigour and grace.
And at the end of the waltz, ā the last waltz they had on
that night, ā Blanche asked him about Drummington, and
whether It was a fine house. His cousins, she had heard,
were very accomplished: LordErith she had met, and which
of his cousins was his favourite? Was It not Lady Ann? Yes,
she was sure It was she: sure by his looks and his blushes.
She was tired of dancing ; It was getting very late ; she must
go to Mamma; ā and, without another word, she sprang
away from Harry Foker's arm, and seized upon Pen's, who
was swaggering about the dancing-room, and again said,
*'Mamma, Mamma! ā take me to Mamma, dear Mr. Pen-
dennisl" transfixing Harry with a Parthian shot, as she fled
from him.
My Lord Steyne, with garter and ribbon, with a bald head
and shining eyes, and a collar of red whiskers round his face,
always looked grand upon an occasion of state; and made a
great efi'ect upon Lady Clavering, when he introduced him-
self to her at the request of the obsequious Major Pendennls.
With his own white and royal hand, he handed to her lady-
ship a glass of wine, said he had heard of her charming
daughter, and begged to be presented to her; and, at this
very juncture, Mr. Arthur Pendennls came up with the young
lady on his arm.
The peer made a profound bow, and Blanche the deepest
curtsey that ever was seen. His lordship gave Mr. Arthur
9
Pendennis his hand to shake; said he had read his book,
which was very wicked and clever; asked Miss Blanche if she
had read it, ā at which Pen blushed and winced. Why,
Blanche was one of the heroines of the novel. Blanche , in
black ringlets and a little altered, was the Nesera of Walter
Lorraine.
Blanche had read it: the language of the eyes expressed
her admiration and rapture at the performance. This little
play being achieved, the Marquis of Steyne made other two
profound bows to Lady Clavering and her daughter, and
passed on to some other of his guests at the splendid enter-
tainment.
Mamma and daughter were loud in their expressions of ad-
miration of the noble Marquis so soon as his broad back was
turned upon them. "He said they make a very nice couple,"
whispered Major Pendennis to Lady Clavering. Did he now,
really ? Mamma thought they would ; Mamma was so flustered
with the honour which had just been shown to her, and with
other intoxicating events of the evening, that her good hu-
mour knew no bounds. She laughed, she winked, and nodded
knowingly at Pen; she tapped him on the arm with her fan;
she tapped Blanche; she tapped the Major; ā her content-
ment was boundless, and her method of showing her joy
equally expansive.
As the party went down the great staircase of Gaunt
House, the morning had risen stark and clear over the black
trees of the square; the skies were tinged with pink; and
the cheeks of some of the people at the ball, ā ah, how
ghastly they looked! That admirable and devoted Major
above all, ā who had been for hours by Lady Clavering's
side, ministering to her and feeding her body with every-
thing that was nice, and her ear with everything that was
sweet and flattering, ā oh! what an object he was! The
10
rings round his eyes were of the colour of bistre ; those orbs
themselves were like the plovers' eggs whereof Lady Clavering
and Blanche had each tasted; the wrinkles in his old face
were furrowed in deep gashes; and a silver stubble, like an
elderly morning dew, was glittering on his chin, and along-
side the dyed whiskers , now limp and out of curl.
There he stood, with admirable patience, enduring, un-
complainingly, a silent agony; knowing that people could see
the state of his face (for could he not himself perceive the
condition of others, males and females, of his own age?) ā
longing to go to rest for hours past ; aware that suppers dis-
agreed with him, and yet having eaten a little so as to keep