Boys and girls from Thackeray - Kate Dickinson Sweetser
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Then came the ending of Becky's studio days, and, an orphan, she was
transplanted to the Mall as her home.
The rigid formality of the place suffocated her; the prayers and meals,
the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with the regularity of a
convent, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back to
the freedom and the beggary of her father's old studio with bitter
regret. She had never mingled in the society of women: her father,
reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his conversation was a thousand
times more agreeable to her than the silly chat and scandal of the
schoolgirls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally
annoyed her. She had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl. The
prattle of the younger children, with whose care she was chiefly
entrusted, might have soothed and interested her; but she lived among
them two years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle,
tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could attach
herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?
The happiness, the superior advantages of the young women round about
her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. "What airs that girl
gives herself, because she is an Earl's granddaughter," she said of
one. "How they cringe and bow to the Creole, because of her hundred
thousand pounds. I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming
than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as the
Earl's granddaughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet everyone
passes me by here."
She determined to get free from the prison in which she found herself,
and now began to act for herself, and for the first time to make
connected plans for the future.
She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offered
her; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedily
went through the little course of study considered necessary for ladies
in those days. Her music she practised incessantly; and one day, when the
girls were out, and she remained at home, she was overheard to play a
piece so well that Miss Minerva thought, wisely, she could spare herself
the expense of a master for the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that
she was to instruct them in music for the future.
The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the astonishment of the
majestic mistress of the school. "I am here to speak French with the
children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to teach them music, and save
money for you. Give me money, and I will teach them."
Miss Minerva was obliged to yield, and of course disliked her from that
day. "For five-and-thirty years," she said, and with great justice, "I
never have seen the individual who has dared in my own house to question
my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom."
"A viper--a fiddlestick!" said Miss Sharp to the old lady, who was almost
fainting with astonishment. "You took me because I was useful. There is
no question of gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave
it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do."
It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she was
speaking to Miss Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in her face. "Give me a sum
of money," said the girl, "and get rid of me. Or, if you like better, get
me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family. You can do so if you
please." And in their further disputes she always returned to this point:
"Get me a situation--I am ready to go."
Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, and
was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this time an irresistible
princess, had no will or strength like that of her little apprentice, and
in vain did battle against her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting once
to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the plan of answering her in
French, which quite routed the old woman, who did not understand or speak
that language. In order to maintain authority in her school, it became
necessary to remove this rebel, this firebrand; and hearing about this
time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a governess, she
actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpent
as she was. "I cannot certainly," she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's
conduct, except to myself; and must allow that her talents and
accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at least,
she does credit to the educational system pursued at my establishment."
And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her
conscience, and the apprentice was free. And as Miss Sedley, being now in
her seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and had a friendship for
Miss Sharp ("'Tis the only point in Amelia's behaviour," said Miss
Minerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss Sharp
was invited by her friend to pass a week with her in London, before Becky
entered upon her duties as governess in a private family; which
thoughtfulness on the part of Amelia was only an additional proof of the
girl's affectionate nature. In fact, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady
who deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had
many charming qualities which that pompous old woman could not see, from
the differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself. She could
not only sing like a lark, and dance divinely, and embroider beautifully,
and spell as well as a "Dixonary" itself, but she had such a kindly,
smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own as won the love of
everybody who came near her, from Miss Minerva herself down to the poor
girl in the scullery and the one-eyed tart woman's daughter, who was
permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall.
She had twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young
ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her: high and mighty
Miss Saltire allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz,
the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitts, on the day Amelia went
away she was in such a passion of tears that they were obliged to send
for Dr. Floss, and half-tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton's
attachment was, as may be supposed, from the high position and eminent
virtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already
whimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and but for
fear of her sister would have gone off in downright hysterics, like the
heiress of St. Kitts.
As Amelia is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person;
indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, and
her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face
blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and
she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestest
good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a
great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary
bird; or over a mouse that the cat haply had seized upon; or over the
end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word
to her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so--why so much the
worse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere woman, ceased scolding
her after the first time, and, though she no more comprehended
sensibility than she did capital Algebra, gave all masters and teachers
particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness, as
harsh treatment was injurious to her.
So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of
laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She was
glad to go home, and yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For three
days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about like a
little dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents, to
make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week.
"Send my letters under cover to my grandpa, the Earl of Dexter," said
Miss Saltire.
"Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the
impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate, Miss
Schwartz; and little Laura Martin took her friend's hand and said,
looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall
call you mamma."
All of these details, foolish and sentimental as they may seem, go to
show the extreme popularity and personal charm of Amelia.
Well then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and
bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the
carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cowskin trunk
with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered by
Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer,
the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was considerably
lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton addressed to her
pupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or that
it armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but it
was intolerably dull, and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly
before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give
way to any ablutions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine
were produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of the
visits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley
was at liberty to depart.
"You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who was
coming downstairs with her own bandbox.
"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of
Miss Jemima; and the latter, having knocked at the door, and receiving
permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner,
and said in French, and with a perfect accent, _"Mademoiselle, je viens
vous faire mes adieux."_
Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; she only directed
those who did; but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and
Roman-nosed head, she said: "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good-morning." As
she spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to give Miss
Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand, which was
left out for that purpose.
Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow,
and quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which Miss
Pinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, it
was a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the
latter was worsted. "Heaven bless you, my child," she exclaimed,
embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at
Miss Sharp.
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in
great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them forever.
Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All
the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young
ladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was such
a scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical
_yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlour boarder, from her room, as no pen
can depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over. The embracing
was over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss
Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody
cried for leaving _her_.
Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping
mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage.
"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.
"It's some sandwiches, my dear," she called to Amelia. "You may be
hungry, you know; ... and Becky--Becky Sharp--here's a book for you, that
my sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know; ... you mustn't
leave us without that! Good-bye! Drive on, coachman!--God bless you!"
And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put her
pale face out of the window, and flung the book back into the
garden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of astonished
Miss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming: "So much for the
'Dixonary'; and, thank God, I am out of Chiswick!"
The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.
"Well, I never--" she began. "What an audacious--" she gasped.
Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for
the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so,
farewell to Chiswick Mall.
CUFFS FIGHT WITH "FIGS"
[Illustration: CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS."]
Cuff's fight with Figs, and the unexpected issue of that contest, will
long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail's
famous school. The latter youth (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin,
Gee-ho Dobbin, Figs, and by many other names indicative of puerile
contempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, the dullest
of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His parent was a grocer in the
city: and it was bruited abroad that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtails
academy upon what are called "mutual principles"--that is to say, the
expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by his father in goods,
not money; and he stood there--almost at the bottom of the school--in his
scraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his great big
bones were bursting, as the representative of so many pounds of tea,
candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion was
supplied for the puddings of the establishment), and other commodities. A
dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of the
school, having run into the town upon a poaching excursion for hardbake
and polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen,
Thames Street, London, at the Doctor's door, discharging a cargo of the
wares in which the firm dealt.
Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful and
merciless against him.
"Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugar
is ris', my boy."
Another would set a sum--"If a pound of mutton-candles cost
sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow
from all the circle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightly
considered that the selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous
practice, meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen.
"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to the
little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latter
replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage;" and
Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote out-house in the playground,
where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe.
Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of the
Latin language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book, the Eton
Latin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Dr.
Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by little fellows
with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a
giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared
primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. They
sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-springs.
They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his shins over
them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when
opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was
no little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore
everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.
Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail
Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies used to
come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room
in which he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater, and
took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and knew the merits
of the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could
knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry.
What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They said even the Doctor
himself was afraid of him.
Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and
bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes, that
toasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him balls at cricket
during whole summer afternoons. Figs was the fellow whom he despised
most, and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneering at him, he
scarcely ever condescended to hold personal communication.
One day in private the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs,
alone in the school-room, was blundering over a home letter, when Cuff,
entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probably
the subject.
"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."
"You _can't?_" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which many
words were scratched out, many were misspelt, on which had been spent I
don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow
was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a
grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street). "You
_can't?"_ says Mr. Cuff. "I should like to know why, pray? Can't you
write to old Mother Figs tomorrow?"
"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench, very nervous.
"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.
"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth."
"Well, _now_ will you go?" says the other.
"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll _thmash_ you," roars out Dobbin,
springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked that Mr. Cuff
paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his
pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled personally
with the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice to
say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back.
Some time after this interview it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshiny
afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lying
under a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the
"Arabian Nights" which he had--apart from the rest of the school, who
were pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, and almost happy.
Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was away with
Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and
the Fairy Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her,
and whither we should all like to make a tour, when shrill cries, as of a
little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie, and, looking up, he
saw Cuff before him, belabouring a little boy.
It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart, but he
bore little malice, not at least towards the young and small. "How dare
you, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a
yellow cricket-stump over him.
The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at a
selected spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top, and
niches made convenient in the brick), to run a quarter of a mile, to
purchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit, to brave all the Doctor's
outlying spies, and to clamber back into the playground again; during the
performance of which feat his foot had slipped, and the bottle broken,
and the shrub had been spilt, and his pantaloons had been damaged, and he
appeared before his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling, though
harmless, wretch.
"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief.
You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold
out your hand, sir."
Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. A moan
followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost
cavern with Prince Ahmed; the Roc had whisked away Sindbad, the Sailor,
out of the Valley of Diamonds, out of sight, far into the clouds; and
there was every-day life before honest William; and a big boy beating a
little one without cause.
"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little school-fellow,
whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself
up in his narrow old clothes.
"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicket
again on the child's hand. Down came the wicket again, and Dobbin
started up.
I can't tell what his motive was. Perhaps his foolish soul revolted
against that exercise of tyranny, or perhaps he had a hankering
feeling of revenge in his mind, and longed to measure himself against
that splendid bully and tyrant, who had all the glory, pride, pomp,
circumstance, banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in the
place. Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang,
and screamed out, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more,
or I'll--"
"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. "Hold out
your hand, you little beast."
"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life," Dobbin
said, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and the little
lad, Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder and
incredulity at seeing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defend
him, while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late
monarch George III., when he heard of the revolt of the North American
colonies; fancy brazen Goliath when little David stepped forward and
claimed a meeting; and you have the feeling of Mr. Reginald Cuff when
this encounter was proposed to him.
"After school," says he, "of course," after a pause and a look, as much
as to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to your
friends between this time and that."
"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle-holder, Osborne."
"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kept a
carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion.
Yes, when the hour of battle came he was almost ashamed to say, "Go it,
Figs"; and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry for the
first two or three rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement of
which the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as
light and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his
adversary, and floored that unlucky champion three times running. At each
fall there was a cheer, and everybody was anxious to have the honour of
offering the conqueror a knee.
"What a licking I shall get when it's over," young Osborne thought,
picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to Dobbin; "it's only a
thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs
were in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little
bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.
As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimed at
himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three preceding occasions
without ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he
would commence the engagement by a charge on his own part; and,
accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm into action, and
hit out a couple of times with all his might--once at Mr. Cuff's left
eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.
Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Well hit,
by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping
his man on the back. "Give it to him with the left, Figs, my boy."
Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuff
went down every time. At the sixth round there were almost as many
fellows shouting out, "Go it, Figs," as there were youths exclaiming, "Go
it, Cuff." At the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, as
the saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power of attack or
defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm as a Quaker. His face being
quite pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his under lip
bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air,
which perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless, his
intrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth time.
If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should like to describe
this combat properly. It was the last charge of the Guard--(that is, it
_would_ have been, only Waterloo had not yet taken place); it was Ney's
column breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousand
bayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles; it was the shout of the
beef-eating British, as, leaping down the hill, they rushed to hug the
enemy in the savage arms of battle; in other words, Cuff, coming up full
of pluck, but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in his left
as usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time.