hungry and poor. If uncle Ringwood had money to leave, it would be very welcome
to those three darlings, whose father had not a great income like Dr. Firmin.
Philip was a dear, good, frank, amiable, wild fellow, and they all loved him.
But he had his faults��that could not be concealed��and so poor Phil's faults
were pretty constantly canvassed before uncle Ringwood, by dear relatives who
knew them only too well. The dear relatives! How kind they are! I don't think
Phil's aunt abused him to my lord. That quiet woman calmly and gently put
forward the claims of her own darlings, and affectionately dilated on the young
man's present prosperity, and magnificent future prospects. The interest of
thirty thousand pounds now, and the inheritance of his father's great
accumulations! What young man could want for more? Perhaps he had too much
already. Perhaps he was too rich to work. The sly old peer acquiesced in his
niece's statements, and perfectly understood the point towards which they
tended. "A thousand a year! What's a thousand a year," growled the old lord.
"Not enough to make a gentleman, more than enough to make a fellow idle."
"Ah, indeed, it was but a small income," sighed Mrs. Twysden. "With a large
house, a good establishment, and Mr. Twysden's salary from his office��it was
but a pittance."
"Pittance! Starvation," growls my lord, with his usual frankness. "Don't I know
what housekeeping costs, and see how you screw? Butlers and footmen, carriages
and job-horses, rent and dinners��though yours, Maria, are not famous."
"Very bad��I know they are very bad," says the contrite lady, "I wish we could
afford any better."
"Afford any better? Of course you can't. You are the crockery pots, and you swim
down-stream with the brass pots. I saw Twysden the other day walking down St.
James's Street with Rhodes��that tall fellow." (Here my lord laughed, and showed
many fangs, the exhibition of which gave a peculiarly fierce air to his lordship
when in good-humour.) "If Twysden walks with a big fellow, he always tries to
keep step with him. You know that." Poor Maria naturally knew her husband's
peculiarities; but she did not say that she had no need to be reminded of them.
"He was so blown he could hardly speak," continued uncle Ringwood; "but he would
stretch his little legs, and try and keep up. He has a little body, le cher
mari, but a good pluck. Those little fellows often have. I've seen him half dead
out shooting, and plunging over the ploughed fields after fellows with twice his
stride. Why don't men sink in the world, I want to know? Instead of a fine
house, and a parcel of idle servants, why don't you have a maid and a leg of
mutton, Maria? You go half crazy in trying to make both ends meet. You know you
do. It keeps you awake of nights; I know that very well. You've got a house fit
for people with four times your money. I lend you my cook and so forth; but I
can't come and dine with you unless I send the wine in. Why don't you have a pot
of porter, and a joint, or some tripe?��tripe's a famous good thing. The
miseries which people entail on themselves in trying to live beyond their means
are perfectly ridiculous, by George! Look at that fellow who opened the door to
me; he's as tall as one of my own men. Go and live in a quiet little street in
Belgravia somewhere, and have a neat little maid. Nobody will think a penny the
worse of you��and you will be just as well off as if you lived here with an
extra couple of thousand a year. The advice I am giving you is worth half that,
every shilling of it."
"It is very good advice; but I think, sir, I should prefer the thousand pounds,"
said the lady.
"Of course you would. That is the consequence of your false position. One of the
good points about that doctor is, that he is as proud as Lucifer, and so is his
boy. They are not always hungering after money. They keep their independence;
though he'll have his own too, the fellow will. Why, when I first called him in,
I thought, as he was a relation, he'd doctor me for nothing; but he wouldn't. He
would have his fee, by George! and wouldn't come without it. Confounded
independent fellow Firmin is. And so is the young one."
But when Twysden and his son (perhaps inspirited by Mrs. Twysden) tried once or
twice to be independent in the presence of this lion, he roared, and he rushed
at them, and he rent them, so that they fled from him howling. And this reminds
me of an old story I have heard��quite an old, old story, such as kind old
fellows at clubs love to remember��of my lord, when he was only Lord Cinqbars,
insulting a half-pay lieutenant, in his own country, who horsewhipped his
lordship in the most private and ferocious manner. It was said Lord Cinqbars had
had a rencontre with poachers; but it was my lord who was poaching and the
lieutenant who was defending his own dovecote. I do not say that this was a
model nobleman; but that, when his own passions or interests did not mislead
him, he was a nobleman of very considerable acuteness, humour, and good sense;
and could give quite good advice on occasion. If men would kneel down and kiss
his boots, well and good. There was the blacking, and you were welcome to
embrace toe and heel. But those who would not, were free to leave the operation
alone. The Pope himself does not demand the ceremony from Protestants; and if
they object to the slipper, no one thinks of forcing it into their mouths. Phil
and his father probably declined to tremble before the old man, not because they
knew he was a bully who might be put down, but because they were men of spirit,
who cared not whether a man was bully or no.
I have told you I like Philip Firmin, though it must be confessed that the young
fellow had many faults, and that his career, especially his early career, was by
no means exemplary. Have I ever excused his conduct to his father, or said a
word in apology of his brief and inglorious university life? I acknowledge his
shortcomings with that candour which my friends exhibit in speaking of mine. Who
does not see a friend's weaknesses, and is so blind that he cannot perceive that
enormous beam in his neighbour's eye? Only a woman or two, from time to time.
And even they are undeceived some day. A man of the world, I write about my
friends as mundane fellow-creatures. Do you suppose there are many angels here?
I say again, perhaps a woman or two. But as for you and me, my good sir, are
there any signs of wings sprouting from our shoulder-blades? Be quiet. Don't
pursue your snarling, cynical remarks, but go on with your story.
As you go through life, stumbling, and slipping, and staggering to your feet
again, ruefully aware of your own wretched weakness, and praying, with a
contrite heart let us trust, that you may not be led into temptation, have you
not often looked at other fellow-sinners, and speculated with an awful interest
on their career? Some there are on whom, quite in their early lives, dark
Ahrimanes has seemed to lay his dread mark: children, yet corrupt, and wicked of
tongue; tender of age, yet cruel; who should be truth-telling and generous yet
(they were at their mothers' bosoms yesterday), but are false, and cold, and
greedy before their time. Infants almost, they practise the art and selfishness
of old men. Behind their candid faces are wiles and wickedness, and a hideous
precocity of artifice. I can recal such, and in the vista of far-off,
unforgotten boyhood, can see marching that sad little procession of enfans
perdus. May they be saved, pray heaven! Then there is the doubtful class, those
who are still on trial; those who fall and rise again; those who are often
worsted in life's battle; beaten down, wounded, imprisoned; but escape and
conquer sometimes. And then there is the happy class about whom there seems no
doubt at all: the spotless and white-robed ones, to whom virtue is easy; in
whose pure bosoms faith nestles, and cold doubt finds no entrance; who are
children, and yet good; young men, and good; husbands and fathers, and yet good.
Why could the captain of our school write his Greek Iambics without an effort,
and without an error? Others of us blistered the page with unavailing tears and
blots, and might toil ever so, and come in lag last at the bottom of the from.
Our friend Philip belongs to the middle class, in which you and I probably are,
my dear sir�� not yet, I hope, irredeemably consigned to that awful third class
whereof mention has been made.
But, being homo, and liable to err, there is no doubt Mr. Philip exercised his
privilege, and there was even no little fear at one time that he should overdraw
his account. He went from school to the university, and there distinguished
himself certainly, but in a way in which very few parents would choose that
their sons should excel. That he should hunt, that he should give parties, that
he should pull a good oar in one of the best boats on the river, that he should
speak at the Union�� all these were very well. But why should he speak such
awful radicalism and republicanism��he with noble blood in his veins, and the
son of a parent whose interest at least it was to keep well with people of high
"Why, Pendennis," said Dr. Firmin to me, with tears in his eyes, and much
genuine grief exhibited on his handsome pale face��"why should it be said that
Philip Firmin��both of whose grandfathers fought nobly for their king��should be
forgetting the principles of his family, and��and, I haven't words to tell you
how deeply he disappoints me. Why, I actually heard of him at that horrible
Union advocating the death of Charles the First! I was wild enough myself when I
was at the university, but I was a gentleman."
"Boys, sir, are boys," I urged. "They will advocate anything for an argument:
and Philip would have taken the other side quite as readily."
"Lord Axminster and Lord St. Dennis told me of it at the club. I can tell you it
has made a most painful impression," cried the father. "That my son should be a
radical and a republican, is a cruel thought for a father; and I, who had hoped
for Lord Ringwood's borough for him��who had hoped��who had hoped very much
better things for him and from him��He is not a comfort to me. You saw how he
treated me one night? A man might live on different terms, I think, with his
only son!" And with a breaking voice, a pallid cheek, and a real grief at his
heart, the unhappy physician moved away.
How had the doctor bred his son, that the young man should be thus unruly? Was
the revolt the boy's fault, or the father's? Dr. Firmin's horror seemed to be
because his noble friends were horrified by Phil's radical doctrine. At that
time of my life, being young and very green, I had a little mischievous pleasure
in infuriating Squaretoes, and causing him to pronounce that I was "a dangerous
man." Now, I am ready to say that Nero was a monarch with many elegant
accomplishments, and considerable natural amiability of disposition. I praise
and admire success wherever I meet it. I make allowance for faults and
shortcomings, especially in my superiors; and feel that, did we know all, we
should judge them very differently. People don't believe me, perhaps, quite so
much as formerly. But I don't offend: I trust I don't offend. Have I said
anything painful? Plague on my blunders! I recal the expression. I regret it. I
contradict it flat.
As I am ready to find excuses for everybody, let poor Philip come in for the
benefit of this mild amnesty; and if he vexed his father, as he certainly did,
let us trust ��let us be thankfully sure��he was not so black as the old
gentleman depicted him. Phil was unruly because he was bold, and wild, and
young. His father was hurt, naturally hurt, because of the boy's extravagances
and follies. They will come together again, as father and son should. These
little differences of temper will be smoothed and equalized anon. The boy has
led a wild life. He has been obliged to leave college. He has given his father
hours of anxiety and nights of painful watching. But stay, father, what of you?
Have you shown to the boy the practice of confidence, the example of love and
honour? Did you accustom him to virtue, and teach truth to the child at your
knee? "Honour your father and mother." Amen. May his days be long who fulfils
the command: but implied, though unwritten on the table, is there not the order,
"Honour your son and daughter?" Pray heaven that we, whose days are already not
few in the land, may keep this ordinance too.
What had made Philip wild, extravagant, and insubordinate? Cured of that illness
in which we saw him, he rose up, and from school went his way to the university,
and there entered on a life such as wild young men will lead. From that day of
illness his manner towards his father changed, and regarding the change the
elder Firmin seemed afraid to question his son. He used the house as if his own,
came and absented himself at will, ruled the servants, and was spoilt by them;
spent the income which was settled on his mother and her children, and gave of
it liberally to poor acquaintances. To the remonstrances of old friends he
replied that he had a right to do as he chose with his own; that other men who
were poor might work, but that he had enough to live on, without grinding over
classics and mathematics. He was implicated in more rows than one; his tutors
saw him not, but he and the proctors became a great deal too well acquainted. If
I were to give a history of Mr. Philip Firmin at the university, it would be the
story of an Idle Apprentice, of whom his pastors and masters were justified in
prophesying evil. He was seen on lawless London excursions, when his father and
jolly companions, with whom his father grieved that he should be intimate. He
cut the astonished uncle Twysden in London street, and blandly told him that he
must be mistaken�� he one Frenchman, he no speak English. He stared the master
of his own college out of countenance, dashed back to college with a Turpin-like
celerity, and was in rooms with a ready proved alibi when inquiries were made. I
am afraid there is no doubt that Phil screwe
d up his tutor's door; Mr. Okes
discovered him in the fact. He had to go down, the young prodigal. I wish I
could say he was repentant. But he appeared before his father with the utmost
nonchalance; said that he was doing no good at the university, and should be
much better away, and then went abroad on a dashing tour to France and Italy,
whither it is by no means our business to follow him. Something had poisoned the
generous blood. The once kindly, honest lad was wild and reckless. He had money
in sufficiency, his own horses and equipage, and free quarters in his father's
house. But father and son scarce met, and seldom took a meal together. "I know
his haunts, but I don't know his friends, Pendennis," the elder man said. "I
don't think they are vicious, so much as low. I do not charge him with vice,
mind you; but with idleness, and a fatal love of low company, and a frantic,
suicidal determination to fling his chances in life away. Ah, think where he
might be, and where he is!"
Where he was? Do not be alarmed. Philip was only idling. Philip might have been
much more industriously, more profitably, and a great deal more wickedly
employed. What is now called Bohemia had no name in Philip's young days, though
many of us knew the country very well. A pleasant land, not fenced with drab
stucco, like Tyburnia or Belgravia; not guarded by a huge standing army of
footmen; not echoing with noble chariots; not replete with polite chintz
drawing-rooms and neat tea-tables; a land over which hangs an endless fog,
occasioned by much tobacco; a land of chambers, billiard-rooms, supper-rooms,
oysters; a land of song; a land where soda-water flows freely in the morning; a
land of tin dish-covers from taverns, and frothing porter; a land of
lotos-eating (with lots of cayenne pepper), of pulls on the river, of delicious
reading of novels, magazines, and saunterings in many studios; a land where men
call each other by their Christian names; where most are poor, where almost all
are young, and where if a few oldsters do enter, it is because they have
preserved more tenderly and carefully than other folks their youthful spirits,
and the delightful capacity to be idle. I have lost my way to Bohemia now, but
it is certain that Prague is the most picturesque city in the world.
Having long lived there, and indeed only lately quitted the Bohemian land at the
time whereof I am writing, I could not quite participate in Dr. Firmin's
indignation at his son persisting in his bad courses and wild associates. When
Firmin had been wild himself, he had fought, intrigued, and gambled in good
company. Phil chose his friends amongst a banditti never heard of in fashionable
quarters. Perhaps he liked to play the prince in the midst of these associates,
and was not averse to the flattery which a full purse brought him among men most
of whose pockets had a meagre lining. He had not emigrated to Bohemia, and
settled there altogether. At school and in his brief university career he had
made some friends who lived in the world, and with whom he was still familiar.
"These come and knock at my front door, my father's door," he would say, with
one of his old laughs; "the Bandits, who have the signal, enter only by the
dissecting-room. I know which are the most honest, and that it is not always the
poor Freebooters who best deserve to be hanged."
Like many a young gentleman who has no intention of pursuing legal studies
seriously, Philip entered at an inn of court, and kept his terms duly, though he
vowed that his conscience would not allow him to practise (I am not defending
the opinions of this squeamish moralist ��only stating them). His acquaintance
here lay amongst the Temple Bohemians. He had part of a set of chambers in
Parchment Buildings, to be sure, and you might read on a door, "Mr. Cassidy, Mr.
P. Firmin, Mr. Vanjohn;" but were these gentlemen likely to advance Philip in