Chapter XLVII: Gaunt House

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　All the world knows that Lord Steyne's town palacestands in Gaunt Square, out of which Great Gaunt Streetleads, whither we first conducted Rebecca, in the timeof the departed Sir Pitt Crawley. Peering over the railingsand through the black trees into the garden of theSquare, you see a few miserable governesses withwan-faced pupils wandering round and round it, and roundthe dreary grass-plot in the centre of which rises thestatue of Lord Gaunt, who fought at Minden, in athree-tailed wig, and otherwise habited like a RomanEmperor. Gaunt House occupies nearly a side of the Square.The remaining three sides are composed of mansions thathave passed away into dowagerism--tall, dark houses,with window-frames of stone, or picked out of a lighterred. Little light seems to be behind those lean,comfortless casements now, and hospitality to have passedaway from those doors as much as the laced lacqueysand link-boys of old times, who used to put out theirtorches in the blank iron extinguishers that still flank thelamps over the steps. Brass plates have penetrated intothe square--Doctors, the Diddlesex Bank WesternBranch--the English and European Reunion, &c.--it hasa dreary look--nor is my Lord Steyne's palace lessdreary. All I have ever seen of it is the vast wall infront, with the rustic columns at the great gate, throughwhich an old porter peers sometimes with a fat andgloomy red face--and over the wall the garret andbedroom windows, and the chimneys, out of which thereseldom comes any smoke now. For the present LordSteyne lives at Naples, preferring the view of the Bayand Capri and Vesuvius to the dreary aspect of the wallin Gaunt Square.

　　A few score yards down New Gaunt Street, and leadinginto Gaunt Mews indeed, is a little modest backdoor, which you would not remark from that of any ofthe other stables. But many a little close carriage hasstopped at that door, as my informant (little Tom Eaves,who knows everything, and who showed me the place)told me. "The Prince and Perdita have been in and outof that door, sir," he had often told me; "MarianneClarke has entered it with the Duke of --. It conductsto the famous petits appartements of Lord Steyne--one,sir, fitted up all in ivory and white satin, another inebony and black velvet; there is a little banqueting-roomtaken from Sallust's house at Pompeii, and painted byCosway--a little private kitchen, in which every saucepanwas silver and all the spits were gold. It was therethat Egalite Orleans roasted partridges on the nightwhen he and the Marquis of Steyne won a hundredthousand from a great personage at ombre. Half of themoney went to the French Revolution, half to purchaseLord Gaunt's Marquisate and Garter--and theremainder--" but it forms no part of our scheme to tellwhat became of the remainder, for every shilling ofwhich, and a great deal more, little Tom Eaves, whoknows everybody's affairs, is ready to account.

　　Besides his town palace, the Marquis had castles andpalaces in various quarters of the three kingdoms,whereof the descriptions may be found in the road-books--Castle Strongbow, with its woods, on the Shannonshore; Gaunt Castle, in Carmarthenshire, where RichardII was taken prisoner--Gauntly Hall in Yorkshire, whereI have been informed there were two hundred silverteapots for the breakfasts of the guests of the house, witheverything to correspond in splendour; and Stillbrook inHampshire, which was my lord's farm, an humble placeof residence, of which we all remember the wonderfulfurniture which was sold at my lord's demise by a latecelebrated auctioneer.

　　The Marchioness of Steyne was of the renowned andancient family of the Caerlyons, Marquises of Camelot,who have preserved the old faith ever since theconversion of the venerable Druid, their first ancestor, andwhose pedigree goes far beyond the date of the arrival ofKing Brute in these islands. Pendragon is the title of theeldest son of the house. The sons have been calledArthurs, Uthers, and Caradocs, from immemorial time.Their heads have fallen in many a loyal conspiracy.Elizabeth chopped off the head of the Arthur of her day,who had been Chamberlain to Philip and Mary, andcarried letters between the Queen of Scots and her unclesthe Guises. A cadet of the house was an officer of thegreat Duke and distinguished in the famous SaintBartholomew conspiracy. During the whole of Mary'sconfinement, the house of Camelot conspired in her behalf.It was as much injured by its charges in fitting out anarmament against the Spaniards, during the time of theArmada, as by the fines and confiscations levied on itby Elizabeth for harbouring of priests, obstinaterecusancy, and popish misdoings. A recreant of James's timewas momentarily perverted from his religion by thearguments of that great theologian, and the fortunes of thefamily somewhat restored by his timely weakness. Butthe Earl of Camelot, of the reign of Charles, returned tothe old creed of his family, and they continued to fightfor it, and ruin themselves for it, as long as there was aStuart left to head or to instigate a rebellion.

　　Lady Mary Caerlyon was brought up at a Parisianconvent; the Dauphiness Marie Antoinette was hergodmother. In the pride of her beauty she had beenmarried--sold, it was said--to Lord Gaunt, then at Paris,who won vast sums from the lady's brother at some ofPhilip of Orleans's banquets. The Earl of Gaunt's famousduel with the Count de la Marche, of the GreyMusqueteers, was attributed by common report to thepretensions of that officer (who had been a page, andremained a favourite of the Queen) to the hand of thebeautiful Lady Mary Caerlyon. She was married to LordGaunt while the Count lay ill of his wound, and came todwell at Gaunt House, and to figure for a short time inthe splendid Court of the Prince of Wales. Fox hadtoasted her. Morris and Sheridan had written songs abouther. Malmesbury had made her his best bow; Walpolehad pronounced her charming; Devonshire had beenalmost jealous of her; but she was scared by the wildpleasures and gaieties of the society into which she wasflung, and after she had borne a couple of sons, shrankaway into a life of devout seclusion. No wonder thatmy Lord Steyne, who liked pleasure and cheerfulness,was not often seen after their marriage by the side ofthis trembling, silent, superstitious, unhappy lady.

　　The before-mentioned Tom Eaves (who has no partin this history, except that he knew all the great folks inLondon, and the stories and mysteries of each family)had further information regarding my Lady Steyne,which may or may not be true. "The humiliations," Tomused to say, "which that woman has been made toundergo, in her own house, have been frightful; LordSteyne has made her sit down to table with women withwhom I would rather die than allow Mrs. Eaves toassociate--with Lady Crackenbury, with Mrs. Chippenham,with Madame de la Cruchecassee, the French secretary'swife (from every one of which ladies Tom Eaves--who would have sacrificed his wife for knowing them--was too glad to get a bow or a dinner) with the reigningfavourite in a word. And do you suppose that thatwoman, of that family, who are as proud as the Bourbons,and to whom the Steynes are but lackeys, mushrooms ofyesterday (for after all, they are not of the Old Gaunts,but of a minor and doubtful branch of the house); doyou suppose, I say (the reader must bear in mind thatit is always Tom Eaves who speaks) that the Marchionessof Steyne, the haughtiest woman in England, wouldbend down to her husband so submissively if there werenot some cause? Pooh! I tell you there are secret reasons.I tell you that, in the emigration, the Abbe de laMarche who was here and was employed in theQuiberoon business with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was thesame Colonel of Mousquetaires Gris with whom Steynefought in the year '86--that he and the Marchioness metagain--that it was after the Reverend Colonel was shotin Brittany that Lady Steyne took to those extremepractices of devotion which she carries on now; for she iscloseted with her director every day--she is at serviceat Spanish Place, every morning, I've watched her there--that is, I've happened to be passing there--anddepend on it, there's a mystery in her case. People are notso unhappy unless they have something to repent of,"added Tom Eaves with a knowing wag of his head; "anddepend on it, that woman would not be so submissiveas she is if the Marquis had not some sword to holdover her."

　　So, if Mr. Eaves's information be correct, it is verylikely that this lady, in her high station, had to submitto many a private indignity and to hide many secretgriefs under a calm face. And let us, my brethren whohave not our names in the Red Book, console ourselvesby thinking comfortably how miserable our betters maybe, and that Damocles, who sits on satin cushions andis served on gold plate, has an awful sword hangingover his head in the shape of a bailiff, or an hereditarydisease, or a family secret, which peeps out every nowand then from the embroidered arras in a ghastlymanner, and will be sure to drop one day or the other in theright place.

　　In comparing, too, the poor man's situation with thatof the great, there is (always according to Mr. Eaves)another source of comfort for the former. You who havelittle or no patrimony to bequeath or to inherit, may beon good terms with your father or your son, whereas theheir of a great prince, such as my Lord Steyne, mustnaturally be angry at being kept out of his kingdom, andeye the occupant of it with no very agreeable glances."Take it as a rule," this sardonic old Laves would say,"the fathers and elder sons of all great families hate eachother. The Crown Prince is always in opposition to thecrown or hankering after it. Shakespeare knew the world,my good sir, and when he describes Prince Hal (fromwhose family the Gaunts pretend to be descended, thoughthey are no more related to John of Gaunt than you are)trying on his father's coronet, he gives you a naturaldescription of all heirs apparent. If you were heir to adukedom and a thousand pounds a day, do you mean tosay you would not wish for possession? Pooh! And itstands to reason that every great man, having experiencedthis feeling towards his father, must be aware that hisson entertains it towards himself; and so they can't butbe suspicious and hostile.

　　"Then again, as to the feeling of elder towards youngersons. My dear sir, you ought to know that every elderbrother looks upon the cadets of the house as his naturalenemies, who deprive him of so much ready money whichought to be his by right. I have often heard George MacTurk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say that if he had hiswill when he came to the title, he would do what thesultans do, and clear the estate by chopping off all hisyounger brothers' heads at once; and so the case is,more or less, with them all. I tell you they are all Turksin their hearts. Pooh! sir, they know the world." Andhere, haply, a great man coming up, Tom Eaves's hatwould drop off his head, and he would rush forward witha bow and a grin, which showed that he knew the worldtoo--in the Tomeavesian way, that is. And having laidout every shilling of his fortune on an annuity, Tomcould afford to bear no malice to his nephews and nieces,and to have no other feeling with regard to his bettersbut a constant and generous desire to dine with them.

　　Between the Marchioness and the natural and tenderregard of mother for children, there was that cruelbarrier placed of difference of faith. The very love which shemight feel for her sons only served to render the timidand pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf whichseparated them was fatal and impassable. She could notstretch her weak arms across it, or draw her childrenover to that side away from which her belief told herthere was no safety. During the youth of his sons, LordSteyne, who was a good scholar and amateur casuist,had no better sport in the evening after dinner in thecountry than in setting the boys' tutor, the ReverendMr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing) on herladyship's director, Father Mole, over their wine, and inpitting Oxford against St. Acheul. He cried "Bravo,Latimer! Well said, Loyola!" alternately; he promisedMole a bishopric if he would come over, and vowed hewould use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal's hatif he would secede. Neither divine allowed himself to beconquered, and though the fond mother hoped that heryoungest and favourite son would be reconciled to herchurch--his mother church--a sad and awful disappointmentawaited the devout lady--a disappointment whichseemed to be a judgement upon her for the sin of hermarriage.

　　My Lord Gaunt married, as every person who frequentsthe Peerage knows, the Lady Blanche Thistlewood,a daughter of the noble house of Bareacres, beforementioned in this veracious history. A wing ofGaunt House was assigned to this couple; for the headof the family chose to govern it, and while he reigned toreign supreme; his son and heir, however, living little athome, disagreeing with his wife, and borrowing uponpost-obits such moneys as he required beyond the verymoderate sums which his father was disposed to allowhim. The Marquis knew every shilling of his son's debts.At his lamented demise, he was found himself to bepossessor of many of his heir's bonds, purchased for theirbenefit, and devised by his Lordship to the children ofhis younger son.

　　As, to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chucklingdelight of his natural enemy and father, the Lady Gaunthad no children--the Lord George Gaunt was desired toreturn from Vienna, where he was engaged in waltzingand diplomacy, and to contract a matrimonial alliancewith the Honourable Joan, only daughter of John Johnes,First Baron Helvellyn, and head of the firm of Jones,Brown, and Robinson, of Threadneedle Street, Bankers;from which union sprang several sons and daughters,whose doings do not appertain to this story.

　　The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one.My Lord George Gaunt could not only read, but writepretty correctly. He spoke French with considerablefluency; and was one of the finest waltzers in Europe. Withthese talents, and his interest at home, there was littledoubt that his lordship would rise to the highest dignitiesin his profession. The lady, his wife, felt that courts wereher sphere, and her wealth enabled her to receivesplendidly in those continental towns whither her husband'sdiplomatic duties led him. There was talk of appointinghim minister, and bets were laid at the Travellers' thathe would be ambassador ere long, when of a sudden,rumours arrived of the secretary's extraordinary behaviour.At a grand diplomatic dinner given by his chief, hehad started up and declared that a pate de foie gras waspoisoned. He went to a ball at the hotel of the Bavarianenvoy, the Count de Springbock-Hohenlaufen, with hishead shaved and dressed as a Capuchin friar. It was nota masked ball, as some folks wanted to persuade you. Itwas something queer, people whispered. His grandfatherwas so. It was in the family.

　　His wife and family returned to this country and tookup their abode at Gaunt House. Lord George gave uphis post on the European continent, and was gazetted toBrazil. But people knew better; he never returned fromthat Brazil expedition--never died there--never livedthere--never was there at all. He was nowhere; he wasgone out altogether. "Brazil," said one gossip to another,with a grin--"Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio de Janeirois a cottage surrounded by four walls, and George Gauntis accredited to a keeper, who has invested him with theorder of the Strait-Waistcoat." These are the kinds ofepitaphs which men pass over one another in VanityFair.

　　Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, thepoor mother went for her sins and saw the poor invalid.Sometimes he laughed at her (and his laughter was morepitiful than to hear him cry); sometimes she found thebrilliant dandy diplomatist of the Congress of Viennadragging about a child's toy, or nursing the keeper'sbaby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole,her director and companion; oftener he forgot her, as hehad done wife, children, love, ambition, vanity. But heremembered his dinner-hour, and used to cry if hiswine-and-water was not strong enough.

　　It was the mysterious taint of the blood; the poormother had brought it from her own ancient race. Theevil had broken out once or twice in the father's family,long before Lady Steyne's sins had begun, or her fastsand tears and penances had been offered in theirexpiation. The pride of the race was struck down as thefirst-born of Pharaoh. The dark mark of fate and doom wason the threshold--the tall old threshold surmounted bycoronets and caned heraldry.

　　The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled andgrew on quite unconscious that the doom was over themtoo. First they talked of their father and devised plansagainst his return. Then the name of the living dead manwas less frequently in their mouth--then not mentionedat all. But the stricken old grandmother trembled to thinkthat these too were the inheritors of their father's shameas well as of his honours, and watched sickening for theday when the awful ancestral curse should come downon them.

　　This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. Hetried to lay the horrid bedside ghost in Red Seas of wineand jollity, and lost sight of it sometimes in the crowdand rout of his pleasures. But it always came back tohim when alone, and seemed to grow more threateningwith years. "I have taken your son," it said, "why notyou? I may shut you up in a prison some day like yourson George. I may tap you on the head to-morrow, andaway go pleasure and honours, feasts and beauty, friends,flatterers, French cooks, fine horses and houses--inexchange for a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress likeGeorge Gaunt's." And then my lord would defy the ghostwhich threatened him, for he knew of a remedy by whichhe could baulk his enemy.

　　So there was splendour and wealth, but no greathappiness perchance, behind the tall caned portals of GauntHouse with its smoky coronets and ciphers. The feaststhere were of the grandest in London, but there was notovermuch content therewith, except among the guestswho sat at my lord's table. Had he not been so great aPrince very few possibly would have visited him; but inVanity Fair the sins of very great personages are lookedat indulgently. "Nous regardons a deux fois" (as theFrench lady said) before we condemn a person of mylord's undoubted quality. Some notorious carpers andsqueamish moralists might be sulky with Lord Steyne,but they were glad enough to come when he asked them.

　　"Lord Steyne is really too bad," Lady Slingstone said,"but everybody goes, and of course I shall see that mygirls come to no harm." "His lordship is a man to whomI owe much, everything in life," said the Right ReverendDoctor Trail, thinking that the Archbishop was rathershaky, and Mrs. Trail and the young ladies would assoon have missed going to church as to one of hislordship's parties. "His morals are bad," said little LordSouthdown to his sister, who meekly expostulated,having heard terrific legends from her mamma with respectto the doings at Gaunt House; "but hang it, he's got thebest dry Sillery in Europe!" And as for Sir Pitt Crawley,Bart.--Sir Pitt that pattern of decorum, Sir Pitt whohad led off at missionary meetings--he never for onemoment thought of not going too. "Where you see suchpersons as the Bishop of Ealing and the Countess ofSlingstone, you may be pretty sure, Jane," the Baronetwould say, "that we cannot be wrong. The great rankand station of Lord Steyne put him in a position tocommand people in our station in life. The Lord Lieutenantof a County, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides,George Gaunt and I were intimate in early life; he wasmy junior when we were attaches at Pumpernickeltogether."

　　In a word everybody went to wait upon this great man--everybody who was asked, as you the reader (do notsay nay) or I the writer hereof would go if we had aninvitation.