Chapter XVIII: Who Played on the Piano Captain Dobbin Bought

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　Our surprised story now finds itself for a momentamong very famous events and personages, andhanging on to the skirts of history. When the eaglesof Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, wereflying from Provence, where they had perched after a briefsojourn in Elba, and from steeple to steeple until theyreached the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder whether theImperial birds had any eye for a little corner of the parishof Bloomsbury, London, which you might have thought so quiet,that even the whirring and flapping of those mighty wingswould pass unobserved there?

　　"Napoleon has landed at Cannes." Such news mightcreate a panic at Vienna, and cause Russia to drop hiscards, and take Prussia into a corner, and Talleyrandand Metternich to wag their heads together, while PrinceHardenberg, and even the present Marquis of Londonderry,were puzzled; but how was this intelligence to affect a younglady in Russell Square, before whose door the watchmansang the hours when she was asleep: who, if shestrolled in the square, was guarded there by therailings and the beadle: who, if she walked ever so shorta distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, wasfollowed by Black Sambo with an enormous cane: whowas always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and watchedover by ever so many guardian angels, with and withoutwages? Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that the fatefulrush of the great Imperial struggle can't take place withoutaffecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, whois occupied in billing and cooing, or working muslincollars in Russell Square? You too, kindly, homely flower!--is the great roaring war tempest coming to sweep youdown, here, although cowering under the shelter ofHolborn? Yes; Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poorlittle Emmy Sedley's happiness forms, somehow, part of it.

　　In the first place, her father's fortune was swept downwith that fatal news. All his speculations had of late gonewrong with the luckless old gentleman. Ventures hadfailed; merchants had broken; funds had risen when hecalculated they would fall. What need to particularize?If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quickand easy ruin is. Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel.Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet,opulent house; the good-natured mistress pursuing, quiteunsuspiciously, her bustling idleness, and daily easyavocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tenderthought, and quite regardless of all the world besides,when that final crash came, under which the worthyfamily fell.

　　One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party;the Osbornes had given one, and she must not bebehindhand; John Sedley, who had come home very late fromthe City, sate silent at the chimney side, while his wifewas prattling to him; Emmy had gone up to her roomailing and low-spirited. "She's not happy," the motherwent on. "George Osborne neglects her. I've no patiencewith the airs of those people. The girls have not been inthe house these three weeks; and George has been twicein town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at theOpera. Edward would marry her I'm sure: and there'sCaptain Dobbin who, I think, would--only I hate allarmy men. Such a dandy as George has become. Withhis military airs, indeed! We must show some folks thatwe're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale anyencouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, Mr.S. Why don't you speak, John? Shall I say Tuesday fortnight?Why don't you answer? Good God, John, what has happened?"

　　John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet hiswife, who ran to him. He seized her in his arms, andsaid with a hasty voice, "We're ruined, Mary. We'vegot the world to begin over again, dear. It's best that youshould know all, and at once." As he spoke, he trembledin every limb, and almost fell. He thought the news wouldhave overpowered his wife--his wife, to whom he hadnever said a hard word. But it was he that was the mostmoved, sudden as the shock was to her. When he sankback into his seat, it was the wife that took the office ofconsoler. She took his trembling hand, and kissed it, andput it round her neck: she called him her John--her dearJohn--her old man--her kind old man; she poured out ahundred words of incoherent love and tenderness; herfaithful voice and simple caresses wrought this sad heartup to an inexpressible delight and anguish, and cheeredand solaced his over-burdened soul.

　　Only once in the course of the long night as they satetogether, and poor Sedley opened his pent-up soul, andtold the story of his losses and embarrassments--thetreason of some of his oldest friends, the manly kindnessof some, from whom he never could have expected it--ina general confession--only once did the faithful wife giveway to emotion.

　　"My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart," shesaid.

　　The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying,awake and unhappy, overhead. In the midst of friends,home, and kind parents, she was alone. To how manypeople can any one tell all? Who will be open where thereis no sympathy, or has call to speak to those who nevercan understand? Our gentle Amelia was thus solitary. Shehad no confidante, so to speak, ever since she had anythingto confide. She could not tell the old mother herdoubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed every daymore strange to her. And she had misgivings and fearswhich she dared not acknowledge to herself, though shewas always secretly brooding over them.

　　Her heart tried to persist in asserting that GeorgeOsborne was worthy and faithful to her, though she knewotherwise. How many a thing had she said, and got noecho from him. How many suspicions of selfishness andindifference had she to encounter and obstinatelyovercome. To whom could the poor little martyr tell thesedaily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only halfunderstood her. She did not dare to own that the man sheloved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given herheart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashfulmaiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, tooweak, too much woman to recall it. We are Turks withthe affections of our women; and have made themsubscribe to our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroadliberally enough, with smiles and ringlets and pinkbonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yakmaks. Buttheir souls must be seen by only one man, and they obeynot unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as ourslaves--ministering to us and doing drudgery for us.

　　So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart,when in the month of March, Anno Domini 1815,Napoleon landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII fled, and allEurope was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old JohnSedley was ruined.

　　We are not going to follow the worthy old stockbrokerthrough those last pangs and agonies of ruin throughwhich he passed before his commercial demise befell.They declared him at the Stock Exchange; he wasabsent from his house of business: his bills were protested:his act of bankruptcy formal. The house and furniture ofRussell Square were seized and sold up, and he and hisfamily were thrust away, as we have seen, to hide theirheads where they might.

　　John Sedley had not the heart to review the domesticestablishment who have appeared now and anon in ourpages and of whom he was now forced by poverty totake leave. The wages of those worthy people weredischarged with that punctuality which men frequently showwho only owe in great sums--they were sorry to leavegood places--but they did not break their hearts at partingfrom their adored master and mistress. Amelia's maidwas profuse in condolences, but went off quite resignedto better herself in a genteeler quarter of the town. BlackSambo, with the infatuation of his profession, determinedon setting up a public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsopindeed, who had seen the birth of Jos and Amelia, andthe wooing of John Sedley and his wife, was for stayingby them without wages, having amassed a considerablesum in their service: and she accompanied the fallenpeople into their new and humble place of refuge, whereshe tended them and grumbled against them for a while.

　　Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditorswhich now ensued, and harassed the feelings of thehumiliated old gentleman so severely, that in six weeks heoldened more than he had done for fifteen years before--the most determined and obstinate seemed to be JohnOsborne, his old friend and neighbour--John Osborne,whom he had set up in life--who was under a hundredobligations to him--and whose son was to marry Sedley'sdaughter. Any one of these circumstances would accountfor the bitterness of Osborne's opposition.

　　When one man has been under very remarkableobligations to another, with whom he subsequently quarrels,a common sense of decency, as it were, makes of theformer a much severer enemy than a mere strangerwould be. To account for your own hard-heartedness andingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove theother party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal,and angry at the failure of a speculation--no, no--it isthat your partner has led you into it by the basest treacheryand with the most sinister motives. From a meresense of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show thatthe fallen man is a villain--otherwise he, the persecutor,is a wretch himself.

　　And as a general rule, which may make all creditorswho are inclined to be severe pretty comfortable in theirminds, no men embarrassed are altogether honest, verylikely. They conceal something; they exaggerate chancesof good luck; hide away the real state of affairs; say thatthings are flourishing when they are hopeless, keep asmiling face (a dreary smile it is) upon the verge ofbankruptcy--are ready to lay hold of any pretext fordelay or of any money, so as to stave off the inevitableruin a few days longer. "Down with such dishonesty,"says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sinkingenemy. "You fool, why do you catch at a straw?" calmgood sense says to the man that is drowning. "You villain,why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievableGazette?" says prosperity to the poor devil battling inthat black gulf. Who has not remarked the readiness withwhich the closest of friends and honestest of men suspectand accuse each other of cheating when they fall outon money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right,I suppose, and the world is a rogue.

　　Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of formerbenefits to goad and irritate him: these are always acause of hostility aggravated. Finally, he had to break offthe match between Sedley's daughter and his son; andas it had gone very far indeed, and as the poor girl'shappiness and perhaps character were compromised, it wasnecessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture,and for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a verybad character indeed.

　　At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himselfwith a savageness and scorn towards Sedley, whichalmost succeeded in breaking the heart of that ruinedbankrupt man. On George's intercourse with Amelia heput an instant veto--menacing the youth with maledictionsif he broke his commands, and vilipending thepoor innocent girl as the basest and most artful of vixens.One of the great conditions of anger and hatred is, thatyou must tell and believe lies against the hated object, inorder, as we said, to be consistent.

　　When the great crash came--the announcement ofruin, and the departure from Russell Square, and thedeclaration that all was over between her and George--allover between her and love, her and happiness, her andfaith in the world--a brutal letter from John Osbornetold her in a few curt lines that her father's conduct hadbeen of such a nature that all engagements between thefamilies were at an end--when the final award came, itdid not shock her so much as her parents, as her motherrather expected (for John Sedley himself was entirelyprostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shatteredhonour). Amelia took the news very palely and calmly.It was only the confirmation of the dark presages whichhad long gone before. It was the mere reading of thesentence--of the crime she had long ago been guilty--thecrime of loving wrongly, too violently, against reason.She told no more of her thoughts now than she hadbefore. She seemed scarcely more unhappy now whenconvinced all hope was over, than before when she felt butdared not confess that it was gone. So she changed fromthe large house to the small one without any mark ordifference; remained in her little room for the most part;pined silently; and died away day by day. I do not meanto say that all females are so. My dear Miss Bullock, Ido not think your heart would break in this way. You area strong-minded young woman with proper principles.I do not venture to say that mine would; it has suffered,and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are somesouls thus gently constituted, thus frail, and delicate, andtender.

　　Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affairbetween George and Amelia, or alluded to it, it was withbitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself hadshown. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless,wicked, and ungrateful. No power on earth, he swore,would induce him to marry his daughter to the son ofsuch a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish Georgefrom her mind, and to return all the presents and letterswhich she had ever had from him.

　　She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She putup the two or three trinkets: and, as for the letters, shedrew them out of the place.where she kept them; andread them over--as if she did not know them by heartalready: but she could not part with them. That effortwas too much for her; she placed them back in herbosom again--as you have seen a woman nurse a childthat is dead. Young Amelia felt that she would die or loseher senses outright, if torn away from this last consolation.How she used to blush and lighten up when thoseletters came! How she used to trip away with a beatingheart, so that she might read unseen! If they were cold,yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted theminto warmth. If they were short or selfish, what excusesshe found for the writer!

　　It was over these few worthless papers that she broodedand brooded. She lived in her past life--every letterseemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well sheremembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress,what he said and how--these relics and remembrancesof dead affection were all that were left her in the world.And the business of her life, was--to watch the corpseof Love.

　　To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then,she thought, I shall always be able to follow him. I am notpraising her conduct or setting her up as a model forMiss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulateher feelings better than this poor little creature. Miss B.would never have committed herself as that imprudentAmelia had done; pledged her love irretrievably;confessed her heart away, and got back nothing--only abrittle promise which was snapt and worthless in amoment. A long engagement is a partnership which oneparty is free to keep or to break, but which involves allthe capital of the other.

　　Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how youengage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or(a better way still), feel very little. See the consequencesof being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrustyourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as theydo in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids andconfidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings whichmay make you uncomfortable, or make any promiseswhich you cannot at any required moment command andwithdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected,and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.

　　If Amelia could have heard the comments regardingher which were made in the circle from which her father'sruin had just driven her, she would have seen what herown crimes were, and how entirely her character wasjeopardised. Such criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith neverknew of; such horrid familiarities Mrs. Brown hadalways condemned, and the end might be a warning to herdaughters. "Captain Osborne, of course, could not marrya bankrupt's daughter," the Misses Dobbin said. "It wasquite enough to have been swindled by the father. As forthat little Amelia, her folly had really passed all--"

　　"All what?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't theybeen engaged ever since they were children? Wasn't itas good as a marriage? Dare any soul on earth breathe aword against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, themost angelical of young women?"

　　"La, William, don't be so highty-tighty with us. We'renot men. We can't fight you," Miss Jane said. "We've saidnothing against Miss Sedley: but that her conductthroughout was most imprudent, not to call it by anyworse name; and that her parents are people whocertainly merit their misfortunes."

　　"Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free,propose for her yourself, William?" Miss Ann askedsarcastically. "It would be a most eligible familyconnection. He! he!"

　　"I marry her!" Dobbin said, blushing very much, andtalking quick. "If you are so ready, young ladies, to chopand change, do you suppose that she is? Laugh and sneerat that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable andunfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go onjoking, Ann. You're the wit of the family, and the otherslike to hear it."

　　"I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William,"Miss Ann remarked.

　　"In a barrack, by Jove--I wish anybody in a barrackwould say what you do," cried out this uproused Britishlion. "I should like to hear a man breathe a word againsther, by Jupiter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann: it'sonly women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, andcackle. There, get away--don't begin to cry. I only saidyou were a couple of geese," Will Dobbin said, perceivingMiss Ann's pink eyes were beginning to moisten asusual. "Well, you're not geese, you're swans--anythingyou like, only do, do leave Miss Sedley alone."

　　Anything like William's infatuation about that silly littleflirting, ogling thing was never known, the mammaand sisters agreed together in thinking: and they trembledlest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she shouldtake up immediately her other admirer and Captain.In which forebodings these worthy young women nodoubt judged according to the best of their experience; orrather (for as yet they had had no opportunities ofmarrying or of jilting) according to their own notions ofright and wrong.

　　"It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is orderedabroad," the girls said. "This danger, at any rate, isspared our brother."

　　Such, indeed, was the fact; and so it is that the FrenchEmperor comes in to perform a part in this domesticcomedy of Vanity Fair which we are now playing, andwhich would never have been enacted without theintervention of this august mute personage. It was hethat ruined the Bourbons and Mr. John Sedley. It washe whose arrival in his capital called up all France inarms to defend him there; and all Europe to oust him.While the French nation and army were swearing fidelityround the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mightyEuropean hosts were getting in motion for the greatchasse a l'aigle; and one of these was a British army, ofwhich two heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and CaptainOsborne, formed a portion.

　　The news of Napoleon's escape and landing wasreceived by the gallant --th with a fiery delight andenthusiasm, which everybody can understand who knowsthat famous corps. From the colonel to the smallestdrummer in the regiment, all were filled with hope andambition and patriotic fury; and thanked the French Emperoras for a personal kindness in coming to disturb the peaceof Europe. Now was the time the --th had so longpanted for, to show their comrades in arms that theycould fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and thatall the pluck and valour of the --th had not been killedby the West Indies and the yellow fever. Stubble andSpooney looked to get their companies without purchase.Before the end of the campaign (which she resolvedto share), Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to writeherself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends(Dobbin and Osborne) were quite as much excited as therest: and each in his way--Mr. Dobbin very quietly, Mr.Osborne very loudly and energetically--was bent upondoing his duty, and gaining his share of honour anddistinction.

　　The agitation thrilling through the country and armyin consequence of this news was so great, that privatematters were little heeded: and hence probably GeorgeOsborne, just gazetted to his company, busy with preparationsfor the march, which must come inevitably, andpanting for further promotion--was not so much affectedby other incidents which would have interested him at amore quiet period. He was not, it must be confessed,very much cast down by good old Mr. Sedley's catastrophe.He tried his new uniform, which became himvery handsomely, on the day when the first meeting ofthe creditors of the unfortunate gentleman took place.His father told him of the wicked, rascally, shamefulconduct of the bankrupt, reminded him of what he hadsaid about Amelia, and that their connection was brokenoff for ever; and gave him that evening a good sum ofmoney to pay for the new clothes and epaulets in whichhe looked so well. Money was always useful to this free-handed young fellow, and he took it without many words.The bills were up in the Sedley house, where he hadpassed so many, many happy hours. He could seethem as he walked from home that night (to the OldSlaughters', where he put up when in town) shining whitein the moon. That comfortable home was shut, then, uponAmelia and her parents: where had they taken refuge?The thought of their ruin affected him not a little. Hewas very melancholy that night in the coffee-room atthe Slaughters'; and drank a good deal, as his comradesremarked there.

　　Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about thedrink, which he only took, he said, because he wasdeuced low; but when his friend began to put to himclumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significantmanner, Osborne declined entering into conversation withhim, avowing, however, that he was devilish disturbedand unhappy.

　　Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in hisroom at the barracks--his head on the table, a numberof papers about, the young Captain evidently in a stateof great despondency. "She--she's sent me back somethings I gave her--some damned trinkets. Look here!"There was a little packet directed in the well-known handto Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about--a ring, a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for herat a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with hair in it. "It'sall over," said he, with a groan of sickening remorse."Look, Will, you may read it if you like."

　　There was a little letter of a few lines, to which hepointed, which said:

　　My papa has ordered me to return to you thesepresents, which you made in happier days to me; and Iam to write to you for the last time. I think, I know youfeel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us.It is I that absolve you from an engagement which isimpossible in our present misery. I am sure you had noshare in it, or in the cruel suspicions of Mr. Osborne,which are the hardest of all our griefs to bear. Farewell.Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this andother calamities, and to bless you always. A.

　　I shall often play upon the piano--your piano. It waslike you to send it.

　　Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of womenand children in pain always used to melt him. The ideaof Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into anemotion, which anybody who likes may consider unmanly.He swore that Amelia was an angel, to which Osbornesaid aye with all his heart. He, too, had been reviewingthe history of their lives--and had seen her from herchildhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent,so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.

　　What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it andnot prized it! A thousand homely scenes and recollectionscrowded on him--in which he always saw her goodand beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorseand shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishnessand indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. Fora while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and thepair of friends talked about her only.

　　"Where are they?" Osborne asked, after a long talk,and a long pause--and, in truth, with no little shame atthinking that he had taken no steps to follow her. "Whereare they? There's no address to the note."

　　Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; buthad written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permissionto come and see her--and he had seen her, and Ameliatoo, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and,what is more, he had brought that farewell letter andpacket which had so moved them.

　　The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley onlytoo willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by thearrival of the piano, which, as she conjectured, must havecome from George, and was a signal of amity on hispart. Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of theworthy lady, but listened to all her story of complaintsand misfortunes with great sympathy--condoled withher losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending thecruel conduct of Mr. Osborne towards his first benefactor.When she had eased her overflowing bosom somewhat,and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had thecourage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above inher room as usual, and whom her mother led tremblingdownstairs.

　　Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despairso pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightenedas he beheld it; and read the most fatal forebodings inthat pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minuteor two, she put the packet into his hand, and said,"Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and--and Ihope he's quite well--and it was very kind of you tocome and see us--and we like our new house very much.And I--I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not verystrong." And with this, and a curtsey and a smile, thepoor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up,cast back looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The goodfellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her himself toofondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terrorpursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminalafter seeing her.

　　When Osborne heard that his friend had found her,he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poorchild. How was she? How did she look? What did shesay? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in theface.

　　"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said--and couldspeak no more.

　　There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performedall the duties of the little house where the Sedley familyhad found refuge: and this girl had in vain, on manyprevious days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation.Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be awareof the attempts the other was making in her favour.

　　Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where shesate as usual, brooding silently over her letters--herlittle treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch andhappy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy'sattention, who, however, took no heed of her.

　　"Miss Emmy," said the girl.

　　"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.

　　"There's a message," the maid went on. "There'ssomething--somebody--sure, here's a new letter for you--don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gaveher a letter, which Emmy took, and read.

　　"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy--dearest love--dearest wife, come to me."

　　George and her mother were outside, waiting until shehad read the letter.