Chapter VIII: Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London.

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　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 thepen to write to my dearest friend! Oh, what a changebetween to-day and yesterday! Now I am friendless andalone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet companyof a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish!

　　I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passedthe fatal night in which I separated from you. You wenton Tuesday to joy and happiness, with your mother andyour devoted young soldier by your side; and I thoughtof you all night, dancing at the Perkins's, the prettiest,I am sure, of all the young ladies at the Ball. I wasbrought by the groom in the old carriage to Sir PittCrawley's town house, where, after John the groom hadbehaved most rudely and insolently to me (alas! 'twassafe to insult poverty and misfortune!), I was given overto Sir P.'s care, and made to pass the night in an oldgloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid gloomy oldcharwoman, who keeps the house. I did not sleep onesingle wink the whole night.

　　Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used toread Cecilia at Chiswick, imagined a baronet must havebeen. Anything, indeed, less like Lord Orville cannot beimagined. Fancy an old, stumpy, short, vulgar, and verydirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, whosmokes a horrid pipe, and cooks his own horrid supperin a saucepan. He speaks with a country accent, andswore a great deal at the old charwoman, at the hackneycoachman who drove us to the inn where the coach wentfrom, and on which I made the journey outside for thegreater part of the way.

　　I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, andhaving arrived at the inn, was at first placed inside thecoach. But, when we got to a place called Leakington,where the rain began to fall very heavily--will youbelieve it?--I was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is aproprietor of the coach, and as a passenger came atMudbury, who wanted an inside place, I was obliged togo outside in the rain, where, however, a younggentleman from Cambridge College sheltered me verykindly in one of his several great coats.

　　This gentleman and the guard seemed to know SirPitt very well, and laughed at him a great deal. Theyboth agreed in calling him an old screw; which means avery stingy, avaricious person. He never gives any moneyto anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); andthe young gentleman made me remark that we drovevery slow for the last two stages on the road, becauseSir Pitt was on the box, and because he is proprietorof the horses for this part of the journey. "But won't Iflog 'em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?"said the young Cantab. "And sarve 'em right, MasterJack," said the guard. When I comprehended themeaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intended todrive the rest of the way, and revenge himself on SirPitt's horses, of course I laughed too.

　　A carriage and four splendid horses, covered witharmorial bearings, however, awaited us at Mudbury,four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we made ourentrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fineavenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the womanat the lodge-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpentand a dove, the supporters of the Crawley arms), madeus a number of curtsies as she flung open the old ironcarved doors, which are something like those at odiousChiswick.

　　"There's an avenue," said Sir Pitt, "a mile long.There's six thousand pound of timber in them theretrees. Do you call that nothing?" He pronounced avenue--evenue, and nothing--nothink, so droll; and he hada Mr. Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriagewith him, and they talked about distraining, and sellingup, and draining and subsoiling, and a great deal abouttenants and farming--much more than I couldunderstand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and PeterBailey had gone to the workhouse at last. "Serve himright," said Sir Pitt; "him and his family has beencheating 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 aboutgrammar, as poor governesses must be.

　　As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spirerising above some old elms in the park; and before them,in the midst of a lawn, and some outhouses, an old redhouse with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and thewindows shining in the sun. "Is that your church, sir?"I said.

　　"Yes, hang it," (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, a muchwickeder word); "how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's mybrother Bute, my dear--my brother the parson. Buty andthe Beast I call him, ha, ha!"

　　Hodson laughed too, and then looking more graveand nodding his head, said, "I'm afraid he's better, SirPitt. He was out on his pony yesterday, looking at ourcorn."

　　"Looking after his tithes, hang'un (only he used thesame wicked word). Will brandy and water never killhim? He's as tough as old whatdyecallum--oldMethusalem."

　　Mr. Hodson laughed again. "The young men is homefrom college. They've whopped John Scroggins till he'swell 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 thelord he would. However, he said, "I've sold thepresentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breedshall get it, I war'nt"; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right:and I have no doubt from this that the two brothers areat variance--as brothers often are, and sisters too. Don'tyou remember the two Miss Scratchleys at Chiswick,how they used always to fight and quarrel--and MaryBox, how she was always thumping Louisa?

　　Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in thewood, Mr. Hodson jumped out of the carriage, at SirPitt's order, and rushed upon them with his whip. "Pitchinto 'em, Hodson," roared the baronet; "flog their littlesouls out, and bring 'em up to the house, the vagabonds;I'll commit 'em as sure as my name's Pitt." And presentlywe heard Mr. Hodson's whip cracking on theshoulders of the poor little blubbering wretches, andSir 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 adreadful thumping at my door: and who do you think itwas? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap and dressing-gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such avisitor, he came forward and seized my candle. "Nocandles after eleven o'clock, Miss Becky," said he. "Go tobed in the dark, you pretty little hussy" (that is whathe called me), "and unless you wish me to come for thecandle every night, mind and be in bed at eleven." Andwith this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went offlaughing. You may be sure I shall not encourage any moreof their visits. They let loose two immense bloodhoundsat night, which all last night were yelling and howlingat the moon. "I call the dog Gorer," said Sir Pitt; "he'skilled a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, andthe mother I used to call Flora; but now I calls herAroarer, for she's too old to bite. Haw, haw!"

　　Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is anodious old-fashioned red brick mansion, with tallchimneys and gables of the style of Queen Bess, there is aterrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and onwhich the great hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, thegreat hall I am sure is as big and as glum as the greathall in the dear castle of Udolpho. It has a largefireplace, in which we might put half Miss Pinkerton'sschool, and the grate is big enough to roast an ox at thevery least. Round the room hang I don't know howmany generations of Crawleys, some with beards andruffs, some with huge wigs and toes turned out, somedressed in long straight stays and gowns that look asstiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, mydear! scarcely any stays at all. At one end of the hall isthe great staircase all in black oak, as dismal as may be,and on either side are tall doors with stags' heads.overthem, leading to the billiard-room and the library, andthe great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms. I thinkthere are at least twenty bedrooms on the first floor; oneof them has the bed in which Queen Elizabeth slept;and I have been taken by my new pupils through allthese fine apartments this morning. They are notrendered less gloomy, I promise you, by having the shuttersalways shut; and there is scarce one of the apartments,but when the light was let into it, I expected tosee a ghost in the room. We have a schoolroom on thesecond floor, with my bedroom leading into it on oneside, and that of the young ladies on the other. Thenthere are Mr. Pitt's apartments--Mr. Crawley, he iscalled--the eldest son, and Mr. Rawdon Crawley's rooms--he is an officer like somebody, and away with hisregiment. There is no want of room I assure you. Youmight lodge all the people in Russell Square in thehouse, I think, and have space to spare.

　　Half an hour after our arrival, the great dinner-bellwas rung, and I came down with my two pupils (theyare very thin insignificant little chits of ten and eightyears 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 ofthe family, except on company days, when the youngladies and I are to dine upstairs.

　　Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembledin the little drawing-room where my Lady Crawleysits. She is the second Lady Crawley, and mother of theyoung ladies. She was an ironmonger's daughter, andher marriage was thought a great match. She looks asif she had been handsome once, and her eyes are alwaysweeping for the loss of her beauty. She is pale andmeagre and high-shouldered, and has not a word to sayfor herself, evidently. Her stepson Mr. Crawley, waslikewise in the room. He was in full dress, as pompousas an undertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he hasthin legs, no chest, hay-coloured whiskers, and straw-coloured hair. He is the very picture of his saintedmother over the mantelpiece--Griselda of the noblehouse of Binkie.

　　"This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley," said LadyCrawley, coming forward and taking my hand. "MissSharp."

　　"0!" said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head onceforward and began again to read a great pamphletwith which he was busy.

　　"I hope you will be kind to my girls," said LadyCrawley, with her pink eyes always full of tears.

　　"Law, Ma, of course she will," said the eldest: and Isaw at a glance that I need not be afraid of that woman."My lady is served," says the butler in black, in animmense white shirt-frill, that looked as if it had beenone of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs depicted in the hall;and so, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to thedining-room, whither I followed with my little pupils ineach hand.

　　Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug. Hehad just been to the cellar, and was in full dress too;that is, he had taken his gaiters off, and showed his littledumpy legs in black worsted stockings. The sideboardwas covered with glistening old plate--old cups, bothgold and silver; old salvers and cruet-stands, likeRundell and Bridge's shop. Everything on the table was insilver 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 LadyCrawley.

　　"Mouton aux navets," added the butler gravely(pronounce, if you please, moutongonavvy); "and thesoup is potage de mouton a l'Ecossaise. The side-dishescontain pommes de terre au naturel, and choufleur a l'eau."

　　"Mutton's mutton," said the Baronet, "and a devilishgood thing. What ship was it, Horrocks, and when didyou 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, SirPitt; but he says the last was too young and confoundedwoolly, Sir Pitt."

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

　　"Capital Scotch broth, my dear," said Sir Pitt, "thoughthey call it by a French name."

　　"I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society," saidMr. Crawley, haughtily, "to call the dish as I have calledit"; and it was served to us on silver soup plates by the

　　footmen in the canary coats, with the mouton auxnavets. Then "ale and water" were brought, and servedto us young ladies in wine-glasses. I am not a judge ofale, but I can say with a clear conscience I prefer water.

　　While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt tookoccasion to ask what had become of the shoulders ofthe mutton.

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

　　"They was, my lady," said Horrocks, "and preciouslittle else we get there neither."

　　Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued hisconversation with Mr. Horrocks. "That there little blackpig of the Kent sow's breed must be uncommon fatnow."

　　"It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt," said the butler withthe gravest air, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the youngladies, this time, began to laugh violently.

　　"Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley," said Mr. Crawley,"your laughter strikes me as being exceedingly outof place."

　　"Never mind, my lord," said the Baronet, "we'll trythe porker on Saturday. Kill un on Saturday morning,John Horrocks. Miss Sharp adores pork, don't you, MissSharp?"

　　And I think this is all the conversation that I rememberat dinner. When the repast was concluded a jug ofhot water was placed before Sir Pitt, with a case-bottlecontaining, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocks served myselfand my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and abumper was poured out for my lady. When we retired,she took from her work-drawer an enormous interminablepiece of knitting; the young ladies began to play atcribbage with a dirty pack of cards. We had but onecandle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silvercandlestick, and after a very few questions from my lady,I had my choice of amusement between a volume ofsermons, 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 greattremor; "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; sothat Miss a--Miss Short may have an opportunity ofhearing you"; and the poor girls began to spell a longdismal 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 thehousehold to prayers. Sir Pitt came in first, very muchflushed, and rather unsteady in his gait; and after himthe butler, the canaries, Mr. Crawley's man, three othermen, 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 plumpeddown on her knees.

　　After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing andexpounding, we received our candles, and then wewent to bed; and then I was disturbed in my writing, asI have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.

　　Good night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!

　　Saturday.--This morning, at five, I heard theshrieking of the little black pig. Rose and Violet introducedme to it yesterday; and to the stables, and to the kennel,and to the gardener, who was picking fruit to send tomarket, and from whom they begged hard a bunch ofhot-house grapes; but he said that Sir Pitt had numberedevery "Man Jack" of them, and it would be as much ashis place was worth to give any away. The darling girlscaught a colt in a paddock, and asked me if I wouldride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom,coming with horrid oaths, drove them away.

　　Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pittis always tipsy, every night; and, I believe, sits withHorrocks, the butler. Mr. Crawley always reads sermonsin the evening, and in the morning is locked up in hisstudy, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business,or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on Wednesdaysand Fridays, to the tenants there.

　　A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papaand mamma. Is your poor brother recovered of his rack-punch? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How men should beware ofwicked punch!

　　Ever and ever thine ownRebecca

　　Everything considered, I think it is quite as well forour dear Amelia Sedley, in Russell Square, that MissSharp and she are parted. Rebecca is a droll funnycreature, to be sure; and those descriptions of the poor ladyweeping 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 knowledgeof the world. That she might, when on her knees, havebeen thinking of something better than Miss Horrocks'sribbons, has possibly struck both of us. But my kindreader will please to remember that this history has"Vanity Fair" for a title, and that Vanity Fair is avery vain, wicked, foolish place, full of all sorts ofhumbugs and falsenesses and pretensions. And while themoralist, who is holding forth on the cover ( an accurateportrait of your humble servant), professes to wearneither 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 oneknows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovelhat; and a deal of disagreeable matter must come outin the course of such an undertaking.

　　I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, atNaples, preaching to a pack of good-for-nothing honestlazy fellows by the sea-shore, work himself up into such arage and passion with some of the villains whose wickeddeeds he was describing and inventing, that the audiencecould not resist it; and they and the poet together wouldburst out into a roar of oaths and execrations againstthe fictitious monster of the tale, so that the hat wentround, and the bajocchi tumbled into it, in the midst ofa perfect storm of sympathy.

　　At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you willnot only hear the people yelling out "Ah gredin! Ahmonstre:" and cursing the tyrant of the play from theboxes; but the actors themselves positively refuse to playthe wicked parts, such as those of infames Anglais,brutal Cossacks, and what not, and prefer to appearat a smaller salary, in their real characters as loyalFrenchmen. I set the two stories one against the other,so that you may see that it is not from mere mercenarymotives that the present performer is desirous to showup and trounce his villains; but because he has a sincerehatred of them, which he cannot keep down, and whichmust find a vent in suitable abuse and bad language.

　　I warn my "kyind friends," then, that I am going totell a story of harrowing villainy and complicated--but,as I trust, intensely interesting--crime. My rascals areno milk-and-water rascals, I promise you. When we cometo the proper places we won't spare fine language--No,no! But when we are going over the quiet country wemust perforce be calm. A tempest in a slop-basin isabsurd. We will reserve that sort of thing for the mightyocean and the lonely midnight. The present Chapter isvery mild. Others--But we will not anticipate those.

　　And, as we bring our characters forward, I will askleave, as a man and a brother, not only to introducethem, but occasionally to step down from the platform,and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, tolove 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 thestrongest terms which politeness admits of.

　　Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneeringat the practice of devotion, which Miss Sharp finds soridiculous; that it was I who laughed good-humouredlyat the reeling old Silenus of a baronet--whereas thelaughter comes from one who has no reverence exceptfor 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, andvery successful too, mere quacks and fools: and it wasto combat and expose such as those, no doubt, thatLaughter was made.