CHAPTER VIII

Private and Confidential

Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London.

(Free.--Pitt Crawley.)

MY DEAREST, SWEETEST AMELIA,

With what mingled joy and sorrow do I take up the pen to write to my

dearest friend! Oh, what a change between to-day and yesterday! Now I

am friendless and alone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet company

of a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish!

I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal night

in which I separated from you. YOU went on Tuesday to joy and

happiness, with your mother and YOUR DEVOTED YOUNG SOLDIER by your

side; and I thought of you all night, dancing at the Perkins's, the

prettiest, I am sure, of all the young ladies at the Ball. I was

brought by the groom in the old carriage to Sir Pitt Crawley's town

house, where, after John the groom had behaved most rudely and

insolently to me (alas! 'twas safe to insult poverty and misfortune!),

I was given over to Sir P.'s care, and made to pass the night in an old

gloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid gloomy old charwoman, who keeps

the house. I did not sleep one single wink the whole night.

Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia at

Chiswick, imagined a baronet must have been. Anything, indeed, less

like Lord Orville cannot be imagined. Fancy an old, stumpy, short,

vulgar, and very dirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, who

smokes a horrid pipe, and cooks his own horrid supper in a saucepan.

He speaks with a country accent, and swore a great deal at the old

charwoman, at the hackney coachman who drove us to the inn where the

coach went from, and on which I made the journey OUTSIDE FOR THE

GREATER PART OF THE WAY.

I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at the

inn, was at first placed inside the coach. But, when we got to a place

called Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily--will you

believe it?--I was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is a proprietor

of the coach, and as a passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an inside

place, I was obliged to go outside in the rain, where, however, a young

gentleman from Cambridge College sheltered me very kindly in one of his

several great coats.

This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, and

laughed at him a great deal. They both agreed in calling him an old

screw; which means a very stingy, avaricious person. He never gives

any money to anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); and the

young gentleman made me remark that we drove very slow for the last two

stages on the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and because he is

proprietor of the horses for this part of the journey. "But won't I

flog 'em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?" said the young

Cantab. "And sarve 'em right, Master Jack," said the guard. When I

comprehended the meaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intended

to drive the rest of the way, and revenge himself on Sir Pitt's horses,

of course I laughed too.

A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings,

however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we

made our entrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fine

avenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the woman at the

lodge-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpent and a dove, the

supporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number of curtsies as she

flung open the old iron carved doors, which are something like those at

odious Chiswick.

"There's an avenue," said Sir Pitt, "a mile long. There's six thousand

pound of timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing?" He

pronounced avenue--EVENUE, and nothing--NOTHINK, so droll; and he had a

Mr. Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they

talked about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling,

and a great deal about tenants and farming--much more than I could

understand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey had

gone to the workhouse at last. "Serve him right," said Sir Pitt; "him

and his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred and

fifty years." Some old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent.

Sir Pitt might have said "he and his family," to be sure; but rich

baronets do not need to be careful about grammar, as poor governesses

must be.

As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some old

elms in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and some

outhouses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and

the windows shining in the sun. "Is that your church, sir?" I said.

"Yes, hang it," (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, A MUCH WICKEDER

WORD); "how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear--my brother

the parson. Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha!"

Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head,

said, "I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his pony

yesterday, looking at our corn."

"Looking after his tithes, hang'un (only he used the same wicked word).

Will brandy and water never kill him? He's as tough as old

whatdyecallum--old Methusalem."

Mr. Hodson laughed again. "The young men is home from college. They've

whopped John Scroggins till he's well nigh dead."

"Whop my second keeper!" roared out Sir Pitt.

"He was on the parson's ground, sir," replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt

in a fury swore that if he ever caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'd

transport 'em, by the lord he would. However, he said, "I've sold the

presentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get it, I

war'nt"; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right: and I have no doubt

from this that the two brothers are at variance--as brothers often are,

and sisters too. Don't you remember the two Miss Scratchleys at

Chiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel--and Mary Box, how

she was always thumping Louisa?

Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in the wood, Mr.

Hodson jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt's order, and rushed upon

them with his whip. "Pitch into 'em, Hodson," roared the baronet;

"flog their little souls out, and bring 'em up to the house, the

vagabonds; I'll commit 'em as sure as my name's Pitt." And presently we

heard Mr. Hodson's whip cracking on the shoulders of the poor little

blubbering wretches, and Sir Pitt, seeing that the malefactors were in

custody, drove on to the hall.

All the servants were ready to meet us, and . . .

Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping at

my door: and who do you think it was? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap

and dressing-gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such a visitor,

he came forward and seized my candle. "No candles after eleven

o'clock, Miss Becky," said he. "Go to bed in the dark, you pretty

little hussy" (that is what he called me), "and unless you wish me to

come for the candle every night, mind and be in bed at eleven." And

with this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went off laughing. You may

be sure I shall not encourage any more of their visits. They let loose

two immense bloodhounds at night, which all last night were yelling and

howling at the moon. "I call the dog Gorer," said Sir Pitt; "he's

killed a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, and the mother I

used to call Flora; but now I calls her Aroarer, for she's too old to

bite. Haw, haw!"

Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is an odious old-fashioned

red brick mansion, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of Queen

Bess, there is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and on

which the great hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, the great hall I am

sure is as big and as glum as the great hall in the dear castle of

Udolpho. It has a large fireplace, in which we might put half Miss

Pinkerton's school, and the grate is big enough to roast an ox at the

very least. Round the room hang I don't know how many generations of

Crawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some with huge wigs and toes

turned out, some dressed in long straight stays and gowns that look as

stiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my dear! scarcely

any stays at all. At one end of the hall is the great staircase all in

black oak, as dismal as may be, and on either side are tall doors with

stags' heads over them, leading to the billiard-room and the library,

and the great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms. I think there are

at least twenty bedrooms on the first floor; one of them has the bed in

which Queen Elizabeth slept; and I have been taken by my new pupils

through all these fine apartments this morning. They are not rendered

less gloomy, I promise you, by having the shutters always shut; and

there is scarce one of the apartments, but when the light was let into

it, I expected to see a ghost in the room. We have a schoolroom on the

second floor, with my bedroom leading into it on one side, and that of

the young ladies on the other. Then there are Mr. Pitt's

apartments--Mr. Crawley, he is called--the eldest son, and Mr. Rawdon

Crawley's rooms--he is an officer like SOMEBODY, and away with his

regiment. There is no want of room I assure you. You might lodge all

the people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space to

spare.

Half an hour after our arrival, the great dinner-bell was rung, and I

came down with my two pupils (they are very thin insignificant little

chits of ten and eight years old). I came down in your dear muslin

gown (about which that odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gave

it me); for I am to be treated as one of the family, except on company

days, when the young ladies and I are to dine upstairs.

Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the little

drawing-room where my Lady Crawley sits. She is the second Lady

Crawley, and mother of the young ladies. She was an ironmonger's

daughter, and her marriage was thought a great match. She looks as if

she had been handsome once, and her eyes are always weeping for the

loss of her beauty. She is pale and meagre and high-shouldered, and

has not a word to say for herself, evidently. Her stepson Mr. Crawley,

was likewise in the room. He was in full dress, as pompous as an

undertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he has thin legs, no

chest, hay-coloured whiskers, and straw-coloured hair. He is the very

picture of his sainted mother over the mantelpiece--Griselda of the

noble house of Binkie.

"This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley," said Lady Crawley, coming

forward and taking my hand. "Miss Sharp."

"O!" said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forward and began again

to read a great pamphlet with which he was busy.

"I hope you will be kind to my girls," said Lady Crawley, with her pink

eyes always full of tears.

"Law, Ma, of course she will," said the eldest: and I saw at a glance

that I need not be afraid of THAT woman. "My lady is served," says the

butler in black, in an immense white shirt-frill, that looked as if it

had been one of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs depicted in the hall; and

so, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to the dining-room,

whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand.

Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug. He had just been

to the cellar, and was in full dress too; that is, he had taken his

gaiters off, and showed his little dumpy legs in black worsted

stockings. The sideboard was covered with glistening old plate--old

cups, both gold and silver; old salvers and cruet-stands, like Rundell

and Bridge's shop. Everything on the table was in silver too, and two

footmen, with red hair and canary-coloured liveries, stood on either

side of the sideboard.

Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen, and the great

silver dish-covers were removed.

"What have we for dinner, Betsy?" said the Baronet.

"Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt," answered Lady Crawley.

"Mouton aux navets," added the butler gravely (pronounce, if you

please, moutongonavvy); "and the soup is potage de mouton a

l'Ecossaise. The side-dishes contain pommes de terre au naturel, and

choufleur a l'eau."

"Mutton's mutton," said the Baronet, "and a devilish good thing. What

SHIP was it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?" "One of the black-faced

Scotch, Sir Pitt: we killed on Thursday."

"Who took any?"

"Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs, Sir Pitt; but he says

the last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt."

"Will you take some potage, Miss ah--Miss Blunt? said Mr. Crawley.

"Capital Scotch broth, my dear," said Sir Pitt, "though they call it by

a French name."

"I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society," said Mr. Crawley,

haughtily, "to call the dish as I have called it"; and it was served to

us on silver soup plates by the footmen in the canary coats, with the

mouton aux navets. Then "ale and water" were brought, and served to us

young ladies in wine-glasses. I am not a judge of ale, but I can say

with a clear conscience I prefer water.

While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what

had become of the shoulders of the mutton.

"I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall," said my lady, humbly.

"They was, my lady," said Horrocks, "and precious little else we get

there neither."

Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation with

Mr. Horrocks. "That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breed

must be uncommon fat now."

"It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt," said the butler with the gravest

air, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began

to laugh violently.

"Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley," said Mr. Crawley, "your laughter

strikes me as being exceedingly out of place."

"Never mind, my lord," said the Baronet, "we'll try the porker on

Saturday. Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks. Miss Sharp

adores pork, don't you, Miss Sharp?"

And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner.

When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before Sir

Pitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocks

served myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and a

bumper was poured out for my lady. When we retired, she took from her

work-drawer an enormous interminable piece of knitting; the young

ladies began to play at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards. We had

but one candle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silver

candlestick, and after a very few questions from my lady, I had my

choice of amusement between a volume of sermons, and a pamphlet on the

corn-laws, which Mr. Crawley had been reading before dinner.

So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.

"Put away the cards, girls," cried my lady, in a great tremor; "put

down Mr. Crawley's books, Miss Sharp"; and these orders had been

scarcely obeyed, when Mr. Crawley entered the room.

"We will resume yesterday's discourse, young ladies," said he, "and you

shall each read a page by turns; so that Miss a--Miss Short may have an

opportunity of hearing you"; and the poor girls began to spell a long

dismal sermon delivered at Bethesda Chapel, Liverpool, on behalf of the

mission for the Chickasaw Indians. Was it not a charming evening?

At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household to

prayers. Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and rather

unsteady in his gait; and after him the butler, the canaries, Mr.

Crawley's man, three other men, smelling very much of the stable, and

four women, one of whom, I remarked, was very much overdressed, and who

flung me a look of great scorn as she plumped down on her knees.

After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing and expounding, we received our

candles, and then we went to bed; and then I was disturbed in my

writing, as I have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.

Good night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!

Saturday.--This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking of the little

black pig. Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday; and to the

stables, and to the kennel, and to the gardener, who was picking fruit

to send to market, and from whom they begged hard a bunch of hot-house

grapes; but he said that Sir Pitt had numbered every "Man Jack" of

them, and it would be as much as his place was worth to give any away.

The darling girls caught a colt in a paddock, and asked me if I would

ride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom, coming with horrid

oaths, drove them away.

Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pitt is always tipsy,

every night; and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr.

Crawley always reads sermons in the evening, and in the morning is

locked up in his study, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business,

or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on Wednesdays and Fridays, to the

tenants there.

A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma. Is your

poor brother recovered of his rack-punch? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How men

should beware of wicked punch!

Ever and ever thine own REBECCA

Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our dear Amelia

Sedley, in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and she are parted. Rebecca

is a droll funny creature, to be sure; and those descriptions of the

poor lady weeping for the loss of her beauty, and the gentleman "with

hay-coloured whiskers and straw-coloured hair," are very smart,

doubtless, and show a great knowledge of the world. That she might,

when on her knees, have been thinking of something better than Miss

Horrocks's ribbons, has possibly struck both of us. But my kind reader

will please to remember that this history has "Vanity Fair" for a

title, and that Vanity Fair is a very vain, wicked, foolish place, full

of all sorts of humbugs and falsenesses and pretensions. And while the

moralist, who is holding forth on the cover ( an accurate portrait of

your humble servant), professes to wear neither gown nor bands, but

only the very same long-eared livery in which his congregation is

arrayed: yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as far as one

knows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovel hat; and a

deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an

undertaking.

I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, preaching

to a pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows by the sea-shore,

work himself up into such a rage and passion with some of the villains

whose wicked deeds he was describing and inventing, that the audience

could not resist it; and they and the poet together would burst out

into a roar of oaths and execrations against the fictitious monster of

the tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi tumbled into it,

in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy.

At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will not only hear

the people yelling out "Ah gredin! Ah monstre:" and cursing the tyrant

of the play from the boxes; but the actors themselves positively refuse

to play the wicked parts, such as those of infames Anglais, brutal

Cossacks, and what not, and prefer to appear at a smaller salary, in

their real characters as loyal Frenchmen. I set the two stories one

against the other, so that you may see that it is not from mere

mercenary motives that the present performer is desirous to show up and

trounce his villains; but because he has a sincere hatred of them,

which he cannot keep down, and which must find a vent in suitable abuse

and bad language.

I warn my "kyind friends," then, that I am going to tell a story of

harrowing villainy and complicated--but, as I trust, intensely

interesting--crime. My rascals are no milk-and-water rascals, I

promise you. When we come to the proper places we won't spare fine

language--No, no! But when we are going over the quiet country we must

perforce be calm. A tempest in a slop-basin is absurd. We will

reserve that sort of thing for the mighty ocean and the lonely

midnight. The present Chapter is very mild. Others--But we will not

anticipate THOSE.

And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man and

a brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step down

from the platform, and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, to

love them and shake them by the hand: if they are silly, to laugh at

them confidentially in the reader's sleeve: if they are wicked and

heartless, to abuse them in the strongest terms which politeness admits

of.

Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice of

devotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I who

laughed good-humouredly at the reeling old Silenus of a

baronet--whereas the laughter comes from one who has no reverence

except for prosperity, and no eye for anything beyond success. Such

people there are living and flourishing in the world--Faithless,

Hopeless, Charityless: let us have at them, dear friends, with might

and main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks and

fools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, that

Laughter was made.