Vanity Fair (88 page)

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.