Chapter XVII: How Captain Dobbin Bought a Piano

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　If there is any exhibition in all Vanity Fair which Satireand Sentiment can visit arm in arm together; where youlight on the strangest contrasts laughable and tearful:where you may be gentle and pathetic, or savage andcynical with perfect propriety: it is at one of those publicassemblies, a crowd of which are advertised every day inthe last page of the Times newspaper, and over whichthe late Mr. George Robins used to preside with so muchdignity. There are very few London people, as I fancy,who have not attended at these meetings, and all with ataste for moralizing must have thought, with a sensationand interest not a little startling and queer, of the daywhen their turn shall come too, and Mr. Hammerdownwill sell by the orders of Diogenes' assignees, or will beinstructed by the executors, to offer to public competition,the library, furniture, plate, wardrobe, and choice cellarof wines of Epicurus deceased.

　　Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity Fairian,as he witnesses this sordid part of the obsequies of adeparted friend, can't but feel some sympathies and regret.My Lord Dives's remains are in the family vault: thestatuaries are cutting an inscription veraciouslycommemorating his virtues, and the sorrows of his heir,who is disposing of his goods. What guest at Dives's tablecan pass the familiar house without a sigh? .--the familiarhouse of which the lights used to shine so cheerfully atseven o'clock, of which the hall-doors opened so readily,of which the obsequious servants, as you passed up thecomfortable stair, sounded your name from landing tolanding, until it reached the apartment where jolly oldDives welcomed his friends! What a number of them hehad; and what a noble way of entertaining them. Howwitty people used to be here who were morose when theygot out of the door; and how courteous and friendly menwho slandered and hated each other everywhere else! Hewas pompous, but with such a cook what would one notswallow? he was rather dull, perhaps, but would notsuch wine make any conversation pleasant? We must getsome of his Burgundy at any price, the mourners cry athis club. "I got this box at old Dives's sale," Pincher says,handing it round, "one of Louis XV's mistresses--prettything, is it not?--sweet miniature," and they talk of theway in which young Dives is dissipating his fortune.

　　How changed the house is, though! The front is patchedover with bills, setting forth the particulars of the furniturein staring capitals. They have hung a shred of carpet outof an upstairs window--a half dozen of porters are loungingon the dirty steps--the hall swarms with dingy guestsof oriental countenance, who thrust printed cards intoyour hand, and offer to bid. Old women and amateurshave invaded the upper apartments, pinching the bed-curtains, poking into the feathers, shampooing themattresses, and clapping the wardrobe drawers to and fro.Enterprising young housekeepers are measuring thelooking-glasses and hangings to see if they will suit the newmenage (Snob will brag for years that he has purchasedthis or that at Dives's sale), and Mr. Hammerdown issitting on the great mahogany dining-tables, in the dining-room below, waving the ivory hammer, and employing allthe artifices of eloquence, enthusiasm, entreaty, reason,despair; shouting to his people; satirizing Mr. Davids forhis sluggishness; inspiriting Mr. Moss into action;imploring, commanding, bellowing, until down comes thehammer like fate, and we pass to the next lot. O Dives,who would ever have thought, as we sat round the broadtable sparkling with plate and spotless linen, to have seensuch a dish at the head of it as that roaring auctioneer?

　　It was rather late in the sale. The excellent drawing-room furniture by the best makers; the rare and famouswines selected, regardless of cost, and with the well-knowntaste of the purchaser; the rich and complete set of familyplate had been sold on the previous days. Certain of thebest wines (which all had a great character amongamateurs in the neighbourhood) had been purchased for hismaster, who knew them very well, by the butler of ourfriend John Osborne, Esquire, of Russell Square. A smallportion of the most useful articles of the plate had beenbought by some young stockbrokers from the City. Andnow the public being invited to the purchase of minorobjects, it happened that the orator on the table wasexpatiating on the merits of a picture, which he soughtto recommend to his audience: it was by no means soselect or numerous a company as had attended theprevious days of the auction.

　　"No. 369," roared Mr. Hammerdown. "Portrait of agentleman on an elephant. Who'll bid for the gentlemanon the elephant? Lift up the picture, Blowman, and letthe company examine this lot." A long, pale, military-looking gentleman, seated demurely at the mahoganytable, could not help grinning as this valuable lot wasshown by Mr. Blowman. "Turn the elephant to theCaptain, Blowman. What shall we say, sir, for the elephant?"but the Captain, blushing in a very hurried and discomfitedmanner, turned away his head.

　　"Shall we say twenty guineas for this work of art?--fifteen, five, name your own price. The gentlemanwithout the elephant is worth five pound."

　　"I wonder it ain't come down with him," said aprofessional wag, "he's anyhow a precious big one"; atwhich (for the elephant-rider was represented as of a verystout figure) there was a general giggle in the room.

　　"Don't be trying to deprecate the value of the lot, Mr.Moss," Mr. Hammerdown said; "let the companyexamine it as a work of art--the attitude of the gallantanimal quite according to natur'; the gentleman in anankeen jacket, his gun in his hand, is going to thechase; in the distance a banyhann tree and a pagody,most likely resemblances of some interesting spot in ourfamous Eastern possessions. How much for this lot?Come, gentlemen, don't keep me here all day."

　　Some one bid five shillings, at which the militarygentleman looked towards the quarter from which thissplendid offer had come, and there saw another officerwith a young lady on his arm, who both appeared to behighly amused with the scene, and to whom, finally, thislot was knocked down for half a guinea. He at thetable looked more surprised and discomposed than everwhen he spied this pair, and his head sank into hismilitary collar, and he turned his back upon them, so asto avoid them altogether.

　　Of all the other articles which Mr. Hammerdown hadthe honour to offer for public competition that day it isnot our purpose to make mention, save of one only, alittle square piano, which came down from the upperregions of the house (the state grand piano havingbeen disposed of previously); this the young lady triedwith a rapid and skilful hand (making the officer blushand start again), and for it, when its turn came, heragent began to bid.

　　But there was an opposition here. The Hebrew aide-de-camp in the service of the officer at the table bid againstthe Hebrew gentleman employed by the elephantpurchasers, and a brisk battle ensued over this little piano,the combatants being greatly encouraged by Mr.Hammerdown.

　　At last, when the competition had been prolonged forsome time, the elephant captain and lady desisted fromthe race; and the hammer coming down, the auctioneersaid:--"Mr. Lewis, twenty-five," and Mr. Lewis's chiefthus became the proprietor of the little square piano.Having effected the purchase, he sate up as if he wasgreatly relieved, and the unsuccessful competitorscatching a glimpse of him at this moment, the ladysaid to her friend,

　　"Why, Rawdon, it's Captain Dobbin."

　　I suppose Becky was discontented with the new pianoher husband had hired for her, or perhaps theproprietors of that instrument had fetched it away,declining farther credit, or perhaps she had a particularattachment for the one which she had just tried to purchase,recollecting it in old days, when she used to play uponit, in the little sitting-room of our dear Amelia Sedley.

　　The sale was at the old house in Russell Square, wherewe passed some evenings together at the beginning ofthis story. Good old John Sedley was a ruined man. Hisname had been proclaimed as a defaulter on the StockExchange, and his bankruptcy and commercial exterminationhad followed. Mr. Osborne's butler came to buy some of thefamous port wine to transfer to the cellars over the way.As for one dozen well-manufactured silver spoons andforks at per oz., and one dozen dessert ditto ditto,there were three young stockbrokers (Messrs. Dale,Spiggot, and Dale, of Threadneedle Street, indeed),who, having had dealings with the old man, andkindnesses from him in days when he was kind toeverybody with whom he dealt, sent this little spar outof the wreck with their love to good Mrs. Sedley; and withrespect to the piano, as it had been Amelia's, and as shemight miss it and want one now, and as Captain WilliamDobbin could no more play upon it than he could danceon the tight rope, it is probable that he did not purchasethe instrument for his own use.

　　In a word, it arrived that evening at a wonderful smallcottage in a street leading from the Fulham Road--oneof those streets which have the finest romantic names--(this was called St. Adelaide Villas, Anna-Maria RoadWest), where the houses look like baby-houses; wherethe people, looking out of the first-floor windows, mustinfallibly, as you think, sit with their feet in the parlours;where the shrubs in the little gardens in front bloom witha perennial display of little children's pinafores, little redsocks, caps, &c. (polyandria polygynia); whence youhear the sound of jingling spinets and women singing;where little porter pots hang on the railings sunningthemselves; whither of evenings you see City clerkspadding wearily: here it was that Mr. Clapp, the clerk ofMr. Sedley, had his domicile, and in this asylum the goodold gentleman hid his head with his wife and daughterwhen the crash came.

　　Jos Sedley had acted as a man of his dispositionwould, when the announcement of the family misfortunereached him. He did not come to London, but he wroteto his mother to draw upon his agents for whatevermoney was wanted, so that his kind broken-spirited oldparents had no present poverty to fear. This done, Joswent on at the boarding-house at Cheltenham prettymuch as before. He drove his curricle; he drank hisclaret; he played his rubber; he told his Indian stories,and the Irish widow consoled and flattered him as usual.His present of money, needful as it was, made littleimpression on his parents; and I have heard Amelia saythat the first day on which she saw her father lift up hishead after the failure was on the receipt of the packetof forks and spoons with the young stockbrokers' love,over which he burst out crying like a child, being greatlymore affected than even his wife, to whom the presentwas addressed. Edward Dale, the junior of the house,who purchased the spoons for the firm, was, in fact, verysweet upon Amelia, and offered for her in spite of all.He married Miss Louisa Cutts (daughter of Higham andCutts, the eminent cornfactors) with a handsome fortunein 1820; and is now living in splendour, and with anumerous family, at his elegant villa, Muswell Hill. Butwe must not let the recollections of this good fellowcause us to diverge from the principal history.

　　I hope the reader has much too good an opinion ofCaptain and Mrs. Crawley to suppose that they everwould have dreamed of paying a visit to so remote adistrict as Bloomsbury, if they thought the family whomthey proposed to honour with a visit were not merelyout of fashion, but out of money, and could beserviceable to them in no possible manner. Rebecca wasentirely surprised at the sight of the comfortable old housewhere she had met with no small kindness, ransacked bybrokers and bargainers, and its quiet family treasuresgiven up to public desecration and plunder. A monthafter her flight, she had bethought her of Amelia, andRawdon, with a horse-laugh, had expressed a perfectwillingness to see young George Osborne again. "He's avery agreeable acquaintance, Beck," the wag added. "I'dlike to sell him another horse, Beck. I'd like to play afew more games at billiards with him. He'd be what Icall useful just now, Mrs. C.--ha, ha!" by which sort ofspeech it is not to be supposed that Rawdon Crawley hada deliberate desire to cheat Mr. Osborne at play, but onlywished to take that fair advantage of him which almostevery sporting gentleman in Vanity Fair considers to behis due from his neighbour.

　　The old aunt was long in "coming-to." A month hadelapsed. Rawdon was denied the door by Mr. Bowls; hisservants could not get a lodgment in the house at ParkLane; his letters were sent back unopened. Miss Crawleynever stirred out--she was unwell--and Mrs. Buteremained still and never left her. Crawley and his wife bothof them augured evil from the continued presence ofMrs. Bute.

　　"Gad, I begin to perceive now why she was alwaysbringing us together at Queen's Crawley," Rawdon said.

　　"What an artful little woman!" ejaculated Rebecca.

　　"Well, I don't regret it, if you don't," the Captaincried, still in an amorous rapture with his wife, whorewarded him with a kiss by way of reply, and wasindeed not a little gratified by the generous confidenceof her husband.

　　"If he had but a little more brains," she thought toherself, "I might make something of him"; but she neverlet him perceive the opinion she had of him; listenedwith indefatigable complacency to his stories of thestable and the mess; laughed at all his jokes; felt thegreatest interest in Jack Spatterdash, whose cab-horsehad come down, and Bob Martingale, who had beentaken up in a gambling-house, and Tom Cinqbars, whowas going to ride the steeplechase. When he came homeshe was alert and happy: when he went out she pressedhim to go: when he stayed at home, she played andsang for him, made him good drinks, superintended hisdinner, warmed his slippers, and steeped his soul incomfort. The best of women (I have heard my grandmothersay) are hypocrites. We don't know how muchthey hide from us: how watchful they are when theyseem most artless and confidential: how often those franksmiles which they wear so easily, are traps to cajole orelude or disarm--I don't mean in your mere coquettes,but your domestic models, and paragons of female virtue.Who has not seen a woman hide the dulness of a stupidhusband, or coax the fury of a savage one? We acceptthis amiable slavishness, and praise a woman for it: wecall this pretty treachery truth. A good housewife is ofnecessity a humbug; and Cornelia's husband washoodwinked, as Potiphar was--only in a different way.

　　By these attentions, that veteran rake, Rawdon Crawley,found himself converted into a very happy and submissivemarried man. His former haunts knew him not.They asked about him once or twice at his clubs, but didnot miss him much: in those booths of Vanity Fair peopleseldom do miss each other. His secluded wife ever smilingand cheerful, his little comfortable lodgings, snugmeals, and homely evenings, had all the charms of noveltyand secrecy. The marriage was not yet declared to theworld, or published in the Morning Post. All his creditorswould have come rushing on him in a body, had theyknown that he was united to a woman without fortune."My relations won't cry fie upon me," Becky said, withrather a bitter laugh; and she was quite contented to waituntil the old aunt should be reconciled, before she claimedher place in society. So she lived at Brompton, andmeanwhile saw no one, or only those few of her husband'smale companions who were admitted into her littledining-room. These were all charmed with her. The littledinners, the laughing and chatting, the music afterwards,delighted all who participated in these enjoyments. MajorMartingale never thought about asking tosee the marriage licence, Captain Cinqbars was perfectlyenchanted with her skill in making punch. And youngLieutenant Spatterdash (who was fond of piquet, andwhom Crawley would often invite) was evidently andquickly smitten by Mrs. Crawley; but her owncircumspection and modesty never forsook her for amoment, and Crawley's reputation as a fire-eating andjealous warrior was a further and complete defence tohis little wife.

　　There are gentlemen of very good blood and fashionin this city, who never have entered a lady's drawing-room; so that though Rawdon Crawley's marriage mightbe talked about in his county, where, of course, Mrs.Bute had spread the news, in London it was doubted, ornot heeded, or not talked about at all. He lived comfortablyon credit. He had a large capital of debts, whichlaid out judiciously, will carry a man along for manyyears, and on which certain men about town contriveto live a hundred times better than even men with readymoney can do. Indeed who is there that walks Londonstreets, but can point out a half-dozen of men ridingby him splendidly, while he is on foot, courted by fashion,bowed into their carriages by tradesmen, denyingthemselves nothing, and living on who knows what? Wesee Jack Thriftless prancing in the park, or darting in hisbrougham down Pall Mall: we eat his dinners served onhis miraculous plate. "How did this begin," we say, "orwhere will it end?" "My dear fellow," I heard Jack oncesay, "I owe money in every capital in Europe." The endmust come some day, but in the meantime Jack thrivesas much as ever; people are glad enough to shake him bythe hand, ignore the little dark stories that are whisperedevery now and then against him, and pronounce him agood-natured, jovial, reckless fellow.

　　Truth obliges us to confess that Rebecca had married agentleman of this order. Everything was plentiful in hishouse but ready money, of which their menage prettyearly felt the want; and reading the Gazette one day,and coming upon the announcement of "Lieutenant G.Osborne to be Captain by purchase, vice Smith, whoexchanges," Rawdon uttered that sentiment regardingAmelia's lover, which ended in the visit to Russell Square.

　　When Rawdon and his wife wished to communicatewith Captain Dobbin at the sale, and to know particularsof the catastrophe which had befallen Rebecca'sold acquaintances, the Captain had vanished; and suchinformation as they got was from a stray porter or brokerat the auction.

　　"Look at them with their hooked beaks," Becky said,getting into the buggy, her picture under her arm, ingreat glee. "They're like vultures after a battle."

　　"Don't know. Never was in action, my dear. AskMartingale; he was in Spain, aide-de-camp to GeneralBlazes."

　　"He was a very kind old man, Mr. Sedley," Rebeccasaid; "I'm really sorry he's gone wrong."

　　"O stockbrokers--bankrupts--used to it, you know,"Rawdon replied, cutting a fly off the horse's ear.

　　"I wish we could have afforded some of the plate,Rawdon," the wife continued sentimentally. "Five-and-twenty guineas was monstrously dear for that little piano.We chose it at Broadwood's for Amelia, when she camefrom school. It only cost five-and-thirty then."

　　"What-d'-ye-call'em--'Osborne,' will cry off now, Isuppose, since the family is smashed. How cut up yourpretty little friend will be; hey, Becky?"

　　"I daresay she'll recover it," Becky said with a smile--and they drove on and talked about something else.