Between the Marchioness and the natural and tender regard of mother for children, there was that cruel barrier placed of difference of faith. The very love which she might feel for her sons only served to render the timid and pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf which separated them was fatal and impassable. She could not stretch her weak arms across it, or draw her children over to that side away from which her belief told her there was no safety. During the youth of his sons, Lord Steyne, who was a good scholar and amateur casuist, had no better sport in the evening after dinner in the country than in setting the boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing) on her ladyship's director, Father Mole, over their wine, and in pitting Oxford against St. Acheul. He cried "Bravo, Latimer! Well said, Loyola!" alternately; he promised Mole a bishopric if he would come over, and vowed he would use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal's hat if he would secede. Neither divine allowed himself to be conquered, and though the fond mother hoped that her youngest and favourite son would be reconciled to her church--his mother church--a sad and awful disappointment awaited the devout lady--a disappointment which seemed to be a judgement upon her for the sin of her marriage.

Between the Marchioness and her children was the cruel barrier of difference of faith. The very love which she felt for her sons only made the pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf which separated them was impassable. During his sons' youth, Lord Steyne had no better sport after dinner than in setting the boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail, on her ladyship's priest, Father Mole. He cried "Bravo, Latimer! Well said, Loyola!" alternately; he promised Mole a bishopric if he would convert, and vowed he would use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal's hat if he would secede. Although the fond mother hoped that her youngest and favourite son would be reconciled to her church, a sad and awful disappointment awaited her.


My Lord Gaunt married, as every person who frequents the Peerage knows, the Lady Blanche Thistlewood, a daughter of the noble house of Bareacres, before mentioned in this veracious history. A wing of Gaunt House was assigned to this couple; for the head of the family chose to govern it, and while he reigned to reign supreme; his son and heir, however, living little at home, disagreeing with his wife, and borrowing upon post-obits such moneys as he required beyond the very moderate sums which his father was disposed to allow him. The Marquis knew every shilling of his son's debts. At his lamented demise, he was found himself to be possessor of many of his heir's bonds, purchased for their benefit, and devised by his Lordship to the children of his younger son.
As, to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his natural enemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children--the Lord George Gaunt was desired to return from Vienna, where he was engaged in waltzing and diplomacy, and to contract a matrimonial alliance with 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.

Her elder son Lord Gaunt married the Lady Blanche Thistlewood, a daughter of the noble house of Bareacres, previously mentioned in this history. A wing of Gaunt House was assigned to this couple; Lord Gaunt, however, was little at home, disagreeing with his wife, and borrowing money beyond the very moderate sums which his father allowed him. The Marquis knew every shilling of his son's debts.
To my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his enemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children. So his brother Lord George Gaunt was desired to return from Vienna to marry the Honourable Joan, only daughter of John Jones, First Baron Helvellyn, and head of Jones, Brown, and Robinson, Bankers. From this marriage sprang several sons and daughters.


The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My Lord George Gaunt could not only read, but write pretty correctly. He spoke French with considerable fluency; and was one of the finest waltzers in Europe. With these talents, and his interest at home, there was little doubt that his lordship would rise to the highest dignities in his profession. The lady, his wife, felt that courts were her sphere, and her wealth enabled her to receive splendidly in those continental towns whither her husband's diplomatic duties led him. There was talk of appointing him minister, and bets were laid at the Travellers' that he 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, he had started up and declared that a pate de foie gras was poisoned. He went to a ball at the hotel of the Bavarian envoy, the Count de Springbock-Hohenlaufen, with his head shaved and dressed as a Capuchin friar. It was not a masked ball, as some folks wanted to persuade you. It was something queer, people whispered.

The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My Lord George Gaunt could write well, spoke French fluently; was a fine waltzer, and seemed likely to become a highly-ranked diplomat. His wife's wealth let her hold splendid receptions in those continental towns where her husband's diplomatic duties led him.
Then sudden rumours arrived of his extraordinary behaviour. At a grand diplomatic dinner, he had started up and declared that a pate de foie gras was poisoned. He went to a ball with his head shaved and dressed as a Capuchin friar. It was not a fancy-dress ball. People whispered that something


His grandfather was so. It was in the family.
His wife and family returned to this country and took up their abode at Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European continent, and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better; he never returned from that Brazil expedition--never died there--never lived there--never was there at all. He was nowhere; he was gone out altogether. "Brazil," said one gossip to another, with a grin--"Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio de Janeiro is a cottage surrounded by four walls, and George Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has invested him with the order of the Strait-Waistcoat." These are the kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity Fair.

 strange ran in the family.
His wife and children returned to Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post, and was supposedly sent to Brazil. But people knew better; he never returned from that Brazil expedition - never died there - never lived there - never was there at all. "Brazil," said the gossips, "is a cottage at St. John's Wood, where George Gaunt has a keeper, who has invested him with the order of the Strait-Jacket." These are the kinds of epitaphs which men give one another in Vanity Fair.


Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor mother went for her sins and saw the poor invalid. Sometimes he laughed at her (and his laughter was more pitiful than to hear him cry); sometimes she found the brilliant dandy diplomatist of the Congress of Vienna dragging about a child's toy, or nursing the keeper's baby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole, her director and companion; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children, love, ambition, vanity. But he remembered his dinner-hour, and used to cry if his wine-and-water was not strong enough.
It was the mysterious taint of the blood; the poor mother had brought it from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice in the father's family, long before Lady Steyne's sins had begun, or her fasts and tears and penances had been offered in their expiation. The pride of the race was struck down as the first-born of Pharaoh. The dark mark of fate and doom was on the threshold--the tall old threshold surmounted by coronets and caned heraldry.

Twice or thrice a week, in the early morning, his poor mother went to see him. Sometimes he laughed at her; sometimes she found him dragging about a child's toy. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children, love, ambition, and all but his dinner-hour.
The poor mother had brought this taint from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice in her father's family. The dark mark of doom was on the threshold.


The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled and grew on quite unconscious that the doom was over them too. First they talked of their father and devised plans against his return. Then the name of the living dead man was less frequently in their mouth--then not mentioned at all. But the stricken old grandmother trembled to think that these too were the inheritors of their father's shame as well as of his honours, and watched sickening for the day when the awful ancestral curse should come down on them.

The absent lord's children meanwhile grew on, quite unconscious that the doom was over them too. Their stricken grandmother trembled to think that these were the inheritors of their father's shame, and watched sickening for the day when the awful ancestral curse should come down on them.


This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. He tried to lay the horrid bedside ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollity, and lost sight of it sometimes in the crowd and rout of his pleasures. But it always came back to him when alone, and seemed to grow more threatening with years. "I have taken your son," it said, "why not you? I may shut you up in a prison some day like your son George. I may tap you on the head to-morrow, and away go pleasure and honours, feasts and beauty, friends, flatterers, French cooks, fine horses and houses--in exchange for a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress like George Gaunt's." And then my lord would defy the ghost which threatened him, for he knew of a remedy by which he could baulk his enemy.

This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. He tried to lay the ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollity, and lost sight of it sometimes in the crowd of his pleasures. But it always came back to him when alone, and grew more threatening with the years. "I have taken your son," it said, "why not you? I may tap you on the head tomorrow, and away go pleasure and honours, feasts and friends, fine horses and houses - in exchange for a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress." And then my lord would defy the ghost, for he knew of a remedy by which he could baulk his enemy.


So there was splendour and wealth, but no great happiness perchance, behind the tall caned portals of Gaunt House with its smoky coronets and ciphers. The feasts there were of the grandest in London, but there was not overmuch content therewith, except among the guests who sat at my lord's table. Had he not been so great a Prince very few possibly would have visited him; but in Vanity Fair the sins of very great personages are looked at indulgently. "Nous regardons a deux fois" (as the French lady said) before we condemn a person of my lord's undoubted quality. Some notorious carpers and squeamish moralists might be sulky with Lord Steyne, but they were glad enough to come when he asked them.

So there was splendour and wealth, but no great happiness behind the tall portals of Gaunt House. Had my Lord not been so great, perhaps few would have visited him; but in Vanity Fair the sins of very great personages are indulged. Some squeamish 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 my girls come to no harm." "His lordship is a man to whom I owe much, everything in life," said the Right Reverend Doctor Trail, thinking that the Archbishop was rather shaky, and Mrs. Trail and the young ladies would as soon have missed going to church as to one of his lordship's parties. "His morals are bad," said little Lord Southdown to his sister, who meekly expostulated, having heard terrific legends from her mamma with respect to the doings at Gaunt House; "but hang it, he's got the best dry Sillery in Europe!" And as for Sir Pitt Crawley, Bart.--Sir Pitt that pattern of decorum, Sir Pitt who had led off at missionary meetings--he never for one moment thought of not going too. "Where you see such persons as the Bishop of Ealing and the Countess of Slingstone, you may be pretty sure, Jane," the Baronet would say, "that we cannot be wrong. The great rank and station of Lord Steyne put him in a position to command people in our station in life. The Lord Lieutenant of a County, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides, George Gaunt and I were intimate in early life; he was my junior when we were attaches at Pumpernickel together."
In a word everybody went to wait upon this great man--everybody who was asked, as you the reader (do not say nay) or I the writer hereof would go if we had an invitation.

"Lord Steyne is really too bad," Lady Slingstone said, "but everybody goes, and of course I shall see that my girls come to no harm."
"His morals are bad," said little Lord Southdown to his sister, who had heard terrific stories from her mamma about the doings at Gaunt House; "but hang it, he's got the best Champagne in Europe!"
And as for Sir Pitt Crawley - that pattern of decorum - he never for one moment thought of not going.
"Where you see such persons as the Countess of Slingstone, you may be pretty sure, Jane," the Baronet would say, "that we cannot be wrong. The great rank of Lord Steyne means he can command people in our station. Besides, George Gaunt and I were diplomats together."


After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and select parties, the claims of that estimable woman as regards fashion were settled, and some of the very greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis were speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that the beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to enter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming silver forks with which they prong all those who have not the right of the entree. They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down the names of the great ones who are admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. He can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass away.

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's select parties, some of the very greatest doors in London were opened to her. Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august portals. I fancy them guarded by footmen with flaming silver forks, with which they prong all those who have not the right to enter. They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down the names of the great ones who are admitted dies after a little time. He can't survive the glare of fashion long: it scorches him up.


And some day or other (but it will be after our time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.
Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? What would not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that now decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous parle, I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead. As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their places round the darksome board. The pilot who weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a heeltap. Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not be behindhand when the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows, winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how his glass went up full to his mouth and came down empty; up to the ceiling which was above us only yesterday, and which the great of the past days have all looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there--not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.


It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little of it? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man who reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish as you like it--don't spare it. Another glass of wine, Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let us eat our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor. And let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures likewise--for these too, like all other mortal delights, were but transitory.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little of it? So let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures - for these, like all other mortal delights, were but short-lived.


The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, when they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were invited immediately to one of the Prince's small parties at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness during the temporary absence from England of its noble proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comite. The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally superintending the progress of his pupil.
At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatest ministers that Europe has produced--the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the Most Christian King, and subsequently Minister to that monarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august names are transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant company my dear Becky is moving. She became a constant guest at the French Embassy, where no party was considered to be complete without the presence of the charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley. Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) and Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's wife, and both declared, according to the wont of their nation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out of England, that has not left half a dozen families miserable, and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?), both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with the charming Madame Ravdonn.

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Prince of Peterwaradin complimented Mrs. Crawley in Hyde Park with a salute of the hat. She and her husband were invited to one of the Prince's small parties at Levant House, where she sang after dinner. The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally watching over the progress of his pupil.
At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatest ministers that Europe has produced - the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the Most Christian King, and later Minister to that monarch. I declare I swell with pride as I write these names, and think in what brilliant company my dear Becky was moving. She became a constant guest at the French Embassy, where no party was considered complete without the charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley. Messieurs de Truffigny and Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's wife.


But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac was very fond of ecarte, and made many parties with the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was singing to Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it is a well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers', where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not had the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young gentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Becky would have selected either of these young men as a person on whom she would bestow her special regard. They ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers, went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a thousand ways. And they talked English with adorable simplicity, and to the constant amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic one or other to his face, and compliment him on his advance in the English language with a gravity which never failed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way of winning over Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a letter which the simple spinster handed over in public to the person to whom it was addressed, and the composition of which amused everybody who read it greatly. Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon, to whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed in the little house in May Fair.

However, I doubt if Becky would have selected either of these young men as a person on whom to bestow her special regard. They ran her messages, bought her gloves and flowers, went into debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a thousand ways. To the amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic one or other to his face, and compliment him on his advance in the English language with a gravity which never failed to tickle the sardonic old Marquis.
At her little house in May Fair


Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best" foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but some of the best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, or the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about whom there is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great Lady Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she was Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry), and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her Ladyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is agreed on all sides that she is of the "best people." Those who go to her are of the best: and from an old grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her ladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry, had once tried), this great and famous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley; made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly over which she presided; and not only encouraged her son, St. Kitts (his lordship got his place through Lord Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in the most public and condescending manner during dinner. The important fact was known all over London that night. People who had been crying fie about Mrs. Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising her: some who had hesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had warned Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman, now besought to be introduced to her. In a word, she was admitted to be among the "best" people.

, Becky received not only "the best" foreigners, but some of the best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or the cleverest, or the richest, or the best born, but "the best," - people about whom there is no question - such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, the great Lady Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, a faded person of fifty-seven years, neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is agreed on all sides that she is one of the "best people."
This great and famous leader of fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley; made her a marked curtsey at the assembly; and not only encouraged her son, St. Kitts, to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in the most condescending manner during dinner. This important fact was known all over London that night. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising Becky: some who had hesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her.
In a word, she was admitted to be among the "best" people.


Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive. It is currently reported that even in the very inmost circles, they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of fashion and saw the great George IV face to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.
We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career. As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself to portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his opinions to himself, whatever they are.

Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky prematurely - glory like this is fleeting. It is reported that even in the very inmost circles, they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of fashion and saw the great King George IV face to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.
We must be brief in recounting this part of her career. Just as I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his opinions to himself.


Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of her life, when she moved among the very greatest circles of the London fashion. Her success excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter a work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)--to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she was welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been dining, whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow--the young men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with the neatest glossy boots and white gloves--the elders portly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy--the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink--the mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as they do in the novels. They talked about each others' houses, and characters, and families--just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning in spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I would rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday school than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or, oh, how much gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a booth at a fair."
"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used to tell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way--they amused him.

Becky's success excited, elated, and then bored her. At first nothing was more pleasant than to procure (with considerable trouble and ingenuity, given her narrow means) the prettiest new dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, and fine assemblies, where she met the same great people as she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow - the young men faultlessly dressed, with glossy boots and white gloves - the elders portly, brass-buttoned, polite and prosy - the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink - the mothers sumptuous, solemn, and in diamonds. They talked about each others' houses, and characters, and families - just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. Becky was soon yawning in spirit.
"I wish I were out of it," she said to Lord Steyne. "I would rather be a parson's wife or a sergeant's lady than this; or, oh, how much gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a booth at a fair."
"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing.


"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of the Ceremonies--what do you call him--the man in the large boots and the uniform, who goes round the ring cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military figure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my father took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I was a child, and when we came home, I made myself a pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder of all the pupils."
"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

"Rawdon would make a good Ringmaster. He is large, and of a military figure. I remember," Becky continued pensively, "my father took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I was a child, and when we came home, I made myself a pair of stilts and danced in the studio."
"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.


"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "How Lady Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties--of following them into the corners where they sat in silence, and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner in which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case might be. "How cool that woman is," said one; "what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to sit still and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an honest and good-natured soul she is!" said another.

"I should like to do it now," said Becky. "How the ladies would stare! Hush! there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being polite to the professional ladies and gentlemen at these parties - of following them into the corners where they sat in silence, and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of everybody. She was an artist herself, as she said very truly, with a frankness and humility which provoked, or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case might be.
"How cool that woman is," said one; "what independent airs she assumes, when she ought to sit still and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!"
"What an honest and good-natured soul she is!" said another.


"What an artful little minx" said a third. They were all right very likely, but Becky went her own way, and so fascinated the professional personages that they would leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties and give her lessons for nothing.
Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of 102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen who accompanied the vehicles were too big to be contained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer. Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed and trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies of ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening to the professional singers, who were singing according to their wont, and as if they wished to blow the windows down. And the day after, there appeared among the fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a paragraph to the following effect:
"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their Excellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; Viscount Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin, Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.

"What an artful little minx," said a third. They were all very likely right, but Becky went her own way, and so fascinated the professional artists that they would willingly sing at her parties, and give her lessons for nothing.
Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 200, who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of 202, who could not sleep for envy. Scores of great dandies squeezed and trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies were seated in the little drawing-room, listening to the professional singers, who were singing as if they wished to blow the windows down. And the day after, there appeared in the Morning Post this paragraph:
"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their Excellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador, the Marquess of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness of Cheshire, Comte de Brie, Chevalier Tosti, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin," etc., etc.


And in her commerce with the great our dear friend showed the same frankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at the pair.
"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear.
"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."
Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was mollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted persons of all classes into the society of their superiors, but her ladyship owned that this one at least was well behaved and never forgot her place in life. She was a very good woman: good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious. It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for centuries; it is a thousand years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the family were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and councillors, when the great ancestor of the House became King of Scotland.

Our dear friend Rebecca showed the same frankness to the great as she did to the lowly. Once, when out at a very fine house, she was (perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in French with a celebrated French tenor, while Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked on scowling.
"How very well you speak French," said Lady Grizzel, who spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent remarkable to hear.
"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."
Lady Grizzel was won over by her humility, and mollified. She admitted that Becky was well behaved and never forgot her place. It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than you and me; the skirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for centuries.


Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky, and perhaps was not disinclined to her. The younger ladies of the house of Gaunt were also compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people at her, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passage of arms with her, but was routed with great slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. She said the wickedest things with the most simple unaffected air when in this mood, and would take care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so that all the world should know that she had made them.

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky. The younger ladies of her house were also compelled into submission. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passage of arms with her, but was routed by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure ingnue manner, under which she was most dangerous. She said the wickedest things with the most simple unaffected air, and would take care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so that all the world should know of them.


Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and trencher-man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering at his patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say, "Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner. The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never without arms, lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle with shame; then she returned to her soup with the most perfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great patron, who gave him dinners and lent him a little money sometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the table and burst into tears. He looked piteously at my lord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at the ladies, who disowned him. At last Becky herself took compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk. He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and Fiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a good deal of court, was instructed to tell him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs. Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes, Milor would put every one of his notes of hand into his lawyer's hands and sell him up without mercy. Wagg wept before Fiche and implored his dear friend to intercede for him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R. C., which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored her good-will at parties where he met her. He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club.

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and one evening, leering at his patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say, "Now look out for sport," began an assault upon Becky. She lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted with a thrust which made Wagg's face tingle with shame; then she returned to her soup with the most perfect calm. Lord Steyne, who gave Wagg dinners and lent him a little money sometimes, gave the luckless fellow such a savage glance as almost made him sink under the table and burst into tears. The ladies disowned him. At last Becky herself took compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk; but he was not asked to dinner again for six weeks.


He was allowed to come back to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good to him, always amused, never angry.
His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr. Wenham, was much more prudent in his behaviour and opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might be disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a staunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of the Marquis never showed any sort of hostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnesses and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow made Becky more uneasy than other people's overt hostilities.

Lord Steyne's chief confidential servant Mr Wenham (with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table) was much more prudent in his behaviour than Mr. Wagg. However much he might hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a staunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north of England), he never showed any hostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnesses and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow made Becky uneasy.


How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments with which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these little festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did, Becky's power over the Baronet must have been extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky's habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends: going to this one in tears with an account that there was an execution in the house; falling on her knees to that one and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many hundreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of the --th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers), and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the pecuniary way. People declared that she got money from various simply disposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidential appointments under Government. Who knows what stories were or were not told of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had had all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized and been honest for life, whereas,--but this is advancing matters.

How the Crawleys got the money for these entertainments was a mystery. Some said that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did, his character must have been greatly changed. Others hinted that Becky begged money from her husband's friends: going to them in tears, falling on her knees and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol unless such and such a bill could be paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many hundreds in this way. People declared that she took money from simple persons, under pretence of getting them Government appointments.
Who knows what stories were told of our innocent friend? Certainly, if she had had all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed, she might have been honest for life, whereas - but this comes too soon.


The truth is, that by economy and good management--by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcely anybody--people can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it is our belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and cannot pay--if we are to be peering into everybody's private life, speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any more.

The truth is, that by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcely anybody, people can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with very little means. Becky's much-talked-of parties cost her little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her disposal, and that nobleman's famous cooks presided over her little kitchen.
I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt - why, what a howling wilderness Vanity Fair would be! Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given.


All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendid high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights of life, I say,--would go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal unhanged--but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine with him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept; new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.
At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George was on the throne and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tortoise-shell shovels in their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which are actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the present day: and their amusements pretty similar. To us, from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the bewildering beauties as they pass into Court or ball, they may seem beings of unearthly splendour and in the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us unattainable. It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings that we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed, as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.

Tradesmen would be bankrupt. All the delights of life would go to the deuce. Whereas, by a little charity, things are made to go on pleasantly enough: we call a man the greatest rascal unhanged - but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine with him. Thus civilization advances; peace is kept; and new dresses are needed every week.


At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come among us from France, and was considerably in vogue in this country, enabling the many ladies amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit. My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps believed herself endowed with both the above qualifications, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which should include some of these little dramas--and we must take leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion, and, with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be among the very last of the fashionable entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conduct him.
A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt House, was arranged as the charade theatre. It had been so used when George III was king; and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hair in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it was called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's tragedy of that name, performed before their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince William Henry, then children like the actor. One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up anew for the present festivities.
Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller was somebody in those days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto and passed some months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of no small importance. In his volume there were several pictures of Sands in various oriental costumes; and he travelled about with a black attendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian de Bois Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were hailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come over from France, and was in vogue, enabling the many ladies who had beauty to display their charms, and the fewer who had cleverness to show their wit. My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps believed herself to have both beauty and wit, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which should include some charades.
A portion of the splendid picture gallery of Gaunt House was arranged as the theatre. It had been so used when George III was king; and some of the old theatre props were brought out of the garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up for the festivities.
Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller was somebody in those days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his book and passed some months in the desert, was an important personage. He travelled about with a black attendant, and was hailed at Gaunt House as a very valuable acquisition.


He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense plume of feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, and the tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress of the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was allowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms, bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt, tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.
A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies whisper to one another. The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.

He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense plume of feathers is seen couched on a divan, pretending to puff at a hookah. This Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms, bangles, and every Eastern ornament. He makes a salaam before my lord.
A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies whisper to one another, saying the black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen bottles of Maraschino. He has sewn up ever so many ladies of the harem in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.


"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth (she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres. The odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She falls down on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains where she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring the absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish lord with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with jewels; her dress is adorned with gold. The odious Turk is charmed by her beauty. She falls on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains where she was born, but he laughs.


Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, when--when the Kislar Aga appears.
The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan receives and places on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes him, while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastly joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs. Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.

Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, when the Kislar Aga (the negro in another costume) appears.
The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. A ghastly terror seizes Hassan. "Mercy!" he cries; while the Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out - a bow-string.
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First two syllables." Mrs. Rawdon Crawley compliments Mrs. Winkworth on the beauty of her costume.


The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in the scene. It is a musical one--and, to the surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and the Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last two syllables," roars the head.

The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, sits by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous Egyptian head, representing the ancient king Memnon, sings a comic song, composed by Mr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing. "Last two syllables," roars the head.


The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet and shield. There is no need for them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is slain. Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on the wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light.

The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and stalwart man reposes on a couch. Above him hang his helmet and shield. Troy is down. Iphigenia is slain; Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. This king of men (it is Colonel Crawley) is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts his shadow flickering on the wall.


The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the statue enters.
Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that ghastly face looking out balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises his dagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for the blow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair floats down her shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and her eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.
A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody said, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."

The band plays the awful music of Don Juan.
Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that ghastly face looking out at him from behind the screens? He raises his dagger, but he cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an apparition - her arms are bare and white - her tawny hair floats down her shoulders - her face is deadly pale - and her eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly that onlookers quake.
A tremor runs through the room. "Good God!" somebody says, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."


Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and advances to the bed. You see it shining over her head in the glimmer of the lamp, and--and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and advances to the bed. You see it shining over her head - and then the lamp goes out, and all is dark.


The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca performed her part so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were all dumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, when everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all the rest. "By--, she'd do it too," he said between his teeth. The performers were called by the whole house, which sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!" Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus and others of the performers of the little play. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra.

The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca performed with such ghastly truth that the spectators were all dumb, until the lamps blazed out again, when everybody began to shout applause.
"Brava!" old Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring. "By ___, she'd do it too," he said. The house echoed with cries of "Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon - the answer to the charade - would not come forward in his tunic, but stood in the background. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra.


A great personage insisted on being presented to the charming Clytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remark made by His Royal Highness.
"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.
Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, and the performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-tableau.
The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime, and the performance took place in the following wise:

A great personage insisted on being presented to Becky.
"Run him through. Marry somebody else, hay?" said His Royal Highness.
"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy-looking, and swept a pretty little curtsey.
Servants brought in salvers covered with dainties, and the performers disappeared to get ready for the second tableau.
The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime, in this way:


First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables, passed across the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently at the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much. To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood), which character the young gentleman performed to perfection, and divests them of their lower coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull down the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters of the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and chaining the door within.

First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, in a slouched hat and a great-coat, and carrying a lantern, passed across the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing cribbage, and yawning. The Honourable G. Ringwood enters, playing the Boots, and takes their footwear; and presently a Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks and a warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon with which she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull down the blinds. Boots closes the shutters of the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting the door.


All the lights go out. The music plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice from behind the curtain says, "First syllable."


Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden. The music plays the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage. It is the same scene. Between the first and second floors of the house represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the house. In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of paper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists, threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bring round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses. Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots" with such exquisite humour and naturalness that the whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown to him.

Second syllable. The lamps are suddenly lighted up. It is the same scene. On the wall, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms are painted. Bells are ringing. In the lower apartment you see a man give a long slip of paper to another, who shakes his fist and threatens.
"Ostler, bring round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks Chambermaid (Lord Southdown) under the chin.


Crack, crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as some distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."
"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards; there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.

Crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as some distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and a voice cries out "Second syllable."
"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards; there is a general laugh. He is not very far from the mark.


While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place. A bell is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical medley - some maritime event is about to take place. The curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People are taking leave of each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds, and nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (Lord Southdown) sits down, and clings to some ropes. It is evidently a ship.


The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving a pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.
There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

The Captain, (Colonel Crawley), with a cocked hat and a telescope, comes in holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope, his hat flies off, to immense applause. The music rises; the mariners stagger across the stage, as if the ship was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. Lady Squeams puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.
Then there was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse to the pretty tunes. Little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired as an old woman hobbling about with a stick.


Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work. "Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.
More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in the world.
She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth--she makes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why, child, you are always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with--
THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY
The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.
The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.
Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage.
"Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.
More applause - it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, ravishing in powder and patches. She frisks about the stage with the innocence of theatrical youth. Mamma says, "Why, child, you are always laughing and singing;" at which she sings a sweet ditty called The Rose Upon My Balcony.


During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured personage addressed as Mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection by embracing the innocent creature who performed the daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while the music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause and bouquets without end were showered upon the Nightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to her heart with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade had caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All voices were for her.

During this, her Mamma, with large whiskers under her cap, seems very anxious to show her maternal affection by embracing the innocent daughter, to loud laughter from the audience.
At the end the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause and bouquets were showered upon the charade's solution: the Nightingale. Lord Steyne's voice was loudest of all. Becky took the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to her heart with a comical air. Lord Steyne was frantic with delight.
So were his guests. Where was the beautiful black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade had caused such pleasure? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but Becky's brilliancy had eclipsed her.


Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, and agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she been an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling and bright over the storm of applause, and soared as high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed round Becky as the great point of attraction of the evening. The Royal Personage declared with an oath that she was perfection, and engaged her again and again in conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside, and paid her the most marked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her Marquise costume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and the Duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles. Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from dancing with her himself, and he declared in public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but a compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have performed that majestic dance in such a way."

People agreed that if she had been an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling over the storm of applause, and soared as high and joyful as her triumph.
There was a ball afterwards, and everybody pressed round Becky. The Royal Personage declared with an oath that she was perfection. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride and delight; she saw fortune, fame, fashion before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, scarcely spoke to anyone else, and paid her the most marked compliments. Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attach pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have figured at Versailles. Only the gout prevented his Excellency from dancing with her, and he declared that Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe.


Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin and attache. The delighted Prince, having less retenue than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket until his Highness was fairly out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance with her if that amusement had been the custom of his country. The company made a circle round her and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni. Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and her astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of the evening--where was she now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hair and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

Then she danced a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin. The delighted Prince insisted upon taking a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with her until he was out of breath. The company made a circle round her and applauded wildly. Everybody was in ecstasy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, with her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect earlier - where was she now? Nowhere in the race.


The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was placed at the grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness the exalted personage before mentioned, and the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold plate. She might have had pearls melted into her champagne if she liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.
Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate his wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought with a feeling very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was placed at the grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness and the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold plate. The Prince of Peterwaradin would have given half the jewels off his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous infatuation.
Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate his wife from him more than ever. He thought with a feeling very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.


When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught up by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to the covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.
They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men came up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This gentleman's acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of Gaunt House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of Colonel Crawley.
That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man who had first touched him.

When it was time to go, a crowd of young men followed her outside. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to walk home with him, and offered the Colonel a cigar.
Lighting their cigars, they walked on together. Two persons separated from the crowd and followed them; and when they had walked a hundred yards down Gaunt Square, one of the men came up. Touching Rawdon on the shoulder, he said, "Beg your pardon, Colonel, I wish to speak to you most particular." A cab came clattering up, and the second man ran round and placed himself in front of Colonel Crawley.
That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the hands of the bailiffs.


"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.
"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his interlocutor. "How much is it?"
"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."
"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said--"I've got seventy at home."
"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow."
"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.

"There's three of us - it's no use bolting," the man behind said.
"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know him. "How much is it?"
"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex. "One hundred and sixty-six pounds, six and eight-pence, owed to Mr. Nathan."
"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said. "I've got seventy at home."
"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said Mr. Wenham. "Good night, my dear fellow."
"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away.


I suppose there is no man in this Vanity Fair of ours so little observant as not to think sometimes about the worldly affairs of his acquaintances, or so extremely charitable as not to wonder how his neighbour Jones, or his neighbour Smith, can make both ends meet at the end of the year. With the utmost regard for the family, for instance (for I dine with them twice or thrice in the season), I cannot but own that the appearance of the Jenkinses in the park, in the large barouche with the grenadier-footmen, will surprise and mystify me to my dying day: for though I know the equipage is only jobbed, and all the Jenkins people are on board wages, yet those three men and the carriage must represent an expense of six hundred a year at the very least--and then there are the splendid dinners, the two boys at Eton, the prize governess and masters for the girls, the trip abroad, or to Eastbourne or Worthing, in the autumn, the annual ball with a supper from Gunter's (who, by the way, supplies most of the first-rate dinners which J. gives, as I know very well, having been invited to one of them to fill a vacant place, when I saw at once that these repasts are very superior to the common run of entertainments for which the humbler sort of J.'s acquaintances get cards)--who, I say, with the most good-natured feelings in the world, can help wondering how the Jenkinses make out matters? What is Jenkins? We all know--Commissioner of the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, with 1200 pounds a year for a salary. Had his wife a private fortune? Pooh!--Miss Flint--one of eleven children of a small squire in Buckinghamshire. All she ever gets from her family is a turkey at Christmas, in exchange for which she has to board two or three of her sisters in the off season, and lodge and feed her brothers when they come to town. How does Jenkins balance his income? I say, as every friend of his must say, How is it that he has not been outlawed long since, and that he ever came back (as he did to the surprise of everybody) last year from Boulogne?

I suppose there is no man in Vanity Fair who does not sometimes wonder how his neighbours make ends meet. With the utmost regard for the Jenkins family, for instance, I confess that the appearance of their large barouche with the grenadier-footmen mystifies me: for those men and the carriage must cost six hundred a year at the very least - and then there are the splendid dinners, the two boys at Eton, the prize governess for the girls, the trips abroad, and the annual ball. How do the Jenkinses manage? What is Jenkins? Commissioner of the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, with 1200 pounds a year. Had his wife a private fortune? Pooh! - she was one of eleven children of a small squire. All she ever gets from her family is a turkey at Christmas. How does Jenkins balance his income?


"I" is here introduced to personify the world in general--the Mrs. Grundy of each respected reader's private circle--every one of whom can point to some families of his acquaintance who live nobody knows how. Many a glass of wine have we all of us drunk, I have very little doubt, hob-and-nobbing with the hospitable giver and wondering how the deuce he paid for it.
Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when Rawdon Crawley and his wife were established in a very small comfortable house in Curzon Street, May Fair, there was scarcely one of the numerous friends whom they entertained at dinner that did not ask the above question regarding them. The novelist, it has been said before, knows everything, and as I am in a situation to be able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any income, may I entreat the public newspapers which are in the habit of extracting portions of the various periodical works now published not to reprint the following exact narrative and calculations--of which I ought, as the discoverer (and at some expense, too), to have the benefit? My son, I would say, were I blessed with a child--you may by deep inquiry and constant intercourse with him learn how a man lives comfortably on nothing a year. But it is best not to be intimate with gentlemen of this profession and to take the calculations at second hand, as you do logarithms, for to work them yourself, depend upon it, will cost you something considerable.
On nothing per annum then, and during a course of some two or three years, of which we can afford to give but a very brief history, Crawley and his wife lived very happily and comfortably at Paris. It was in this period that he quitted the Guards and sold out of the army. When we find him again, his mustachios and the title of Colonel on his card are the only relics of his military profession.

Every one of us can point to some families who live nobody knows how. Many a glass of wine have we all drunk, hob-nobbing with the giver and wondering how the deuce he paid for it.
Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when Rawdon Crawley and his wife were established in a very small comfortable house in Curzon Street, May Fair, all their friends asked this question. As I am able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any income, may I entreat the public newspapers not to reprint the following narrative - of which, as the discoverer (and at some expense, too) I ought to have the benefit? You may by deep inquiry learn how a man lives comfortably on nothing a year: but it is best not to be intimate with gentlemen of this profession, for it will cost you something considerable.
On nothing per annum then, Crawley and his wife lived very happily and comfortably at Paris. He had quitted the Guards and sold out of the army. When we find him again, his mustachios and the title of Colonel on his card are the only relics of his military profession.


It has been mentioned that Rebecca, soon after her arrival in Paris, took a very smart and leading position in the society of that capital, and was welcomed at some of the most distinguished houses of the restored French nobility. The English men of fashion in Paris courted her, too, to the disgust of the ladies their wives, who could not bear the parvenue. For some months the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain, in which her place was secured, and the splendours of the new Court, where she was received with much distinction, delighted and perhaps a little intoxicated Mrs. Crawley, who may have been disposed during this period of elation to slight the people--honest young military men mostly--who formed her husband's chief society.
But the Colonel yawned sadly among the Duchesses and great ladies of the Court. The old women who played ecarte made such a noise about a five-franc piece that it was not worth Colonel Crawley's while to sit down at a card-table. The wit of their conversation he could not appreciate, being ignorant of their language. And what good could his wife get, he urged, by making curtsies every night to a whole circle of Princesses? He left Rebecca presently to frequent these parties alone, resuming his own simple pursuits and amusements amongst the amiable friends of his own choice.

It has been mentioned that Rebecca, soon after her arrival in Paris, took a leading position in society, and was welcomed at noble houses. The English men of fashion courted her, to the disgust of their wives, who could not bear the upstart. For some months the fashionable salons, and the splendours of the Court, delighted and perhaps a little intoxicated Mrs. Crawley.
But the Colonel yawned sadly among the Duchesses and great ladies. He left Rebecca to attend these parties alone, resuming his own simple amusements amongst his friends.


The truth is, when we say of a gentleman that he lives elegantly on nothing a year, we use the word "nothing" to signify something unknown; meaning, simply, that we don't know how the gentleman in question defrays the expenses of his establishment. Now, our friend the Colonel had a great aptitude for all games of chance: and exercising himself, as he continually did, with the cards, the dice-box, or the cue, it is natural to suppose that he attained a much greater skill in the use of these articles than men can possess who only occasionally handle them. To use a cue at billiards well is like using a pencil, or a German flute, or a small-sword--you cannot master any one of these implements at first, and it is only by repeated study and perseverance, joined to a natural taste, that a man can excel in the handling of either. Now Crawley, from being only a brilliant amateur, had grown to be a consummate master of billiards. Like a great General, his genius used to rise with the danger, and when the luck had been unfavourable to him for a whole game, and the bets were consequently against him, he would, with consummate skill and boldness, make some prodigious hits which would restore the battle, and come in a victor at the end, to the astonishment of everybody--of everybody, that is, who was a stranger to his play. Those who were accustomed to see it were cautious how they staked their money against a man of such sudden resources and brilliant and overpowering skill.
At games of cards he was equally skilful; for though he would constantly lose money at the commencement of an evening, playing so carelessly and making such blunders, that newcomers were often inclined to think meanly of his talent; yet when roused to action and awakened to caution by repeated small losses, it was remarked that Crawley's play became quite different, and that he was pretty sure of beating his enemy thoroughly before the night was over. Indeed, very few men could say that they ever had the better of him. His successes were so repeated that no wonder the envious and the vanquished spoke sometimes with bitterness regarding them. And as the French say of the Duke of Wellington, who never suffered a defeat, that only an astonishing series of lucky accidents enabled him to be an invariable winner; yet even they allow that he cheated at Waterloo, and was enabled to win the last great trick: so it was hinted at headquarters in England that some foul play must have taken place in order to account for the continuous successes of Colonel Crawley.

Now, the Colonel had a great aptitude for all games of chance: and by continual exercise at the cards, dice and the billiard cue had attained much skill in their use. From being only a brilliant amateur, he had grown to be a consummate master of billiards. His genius used to rise with the danger; when luck had been unfavourable to him for a whole game, and the bets were against him, he would boldly make some prodigious shots and win, to everybody's astonishment.
At cards he was equally skilful. He would constantly lose money at the start of an evening, making such careless blunders that newcomers were inclined to think meanly of his talent. Yet when roused to action, his play became quite different, so that he was pretty sure of beating his enemy thoroughly before the night was over. The envious and the vanquished spoke sometimes with bitterness about his successes, hinting that they were due to foul play.


Though Frascati's and the Salon were open at that time in Paris, the mania for play was so widely spread that the public gambling-rooms did not suffice for the general ardour, and gambling went on in private houses as much as if there had been no public means for gratifying the passion. At Crawley's charming little reunions of an evening this fatal amusement commonly was practised--much to good-natured little Mrs. Crawley's annoyance. She spoke about her husband's passion for dice with the deepest grief; she bewailed it to everybody who came to her house. She besought the young fellows never, never to touch a box; and when young Green, of the Rifles, lost a very considerable sum of money, Rebecca passed a whole night in tears, as the servant told the unfortunate young gentleman, and actually went on her knees to her husband to beseech him to remit the debt, and burn the acknowledgement. How could he? He had lost just as much himself to Blackstone of the Hussars, and Count Punter of the Hanoverian Cavalry. Green might have any decent time; but pay?--of course he must pay; to talk of burning IOU's was child's play.

In Paris at that time, gambling went on not just in public gaming rooms but in private houses. At Crawley's charming little evening gatherings it was commonly practised - much to good-natured Mrs. Crawley's annoyance. She spoke with grief about her husband's passion for dice; she bewailed it to everybody who came to her house. She besought the young fellows never to touch the dice; and when young Green lost a considerable sum of money, Rebecca passed a whole night in tears (as her servant told the unfortunate young gentleman) and actually went on her knees to her husband to beseech him to remit the debt. Yet how could he? He had lost just as much himself. Green might have time; but of course he must pay.


Other officers, chiefly young--for the young fellows gathered round Mrs. Crawley--came from her parties with long faces, having dropped more or less money at her fatal card-tables. Her house began to have an unfortunate reputation. The old hands warned the less experienced of their danger. Colonel O'Dowd, of the --th regiment, one of those occupying in Paris, warned Lieutenant Spooney of that corps. A loud and violent fracas took place between the infantry Colonel and his lady, who were dining at the Cafe de Paris, and Colonel and Mrs. Crawley; who were also taking their meal there. The ladies engaged on both sides. Mrs. O'Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face and called her husband "no betther than a black-leg." Colonel Crawley challenged Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. The Commander-in-Chief hearing of the dispute sent for Colonel Crawley, who was getting ready the same pistols "which he shot Captain Marker," and had such a conversation with him that no duel took place. If Rebecca had not gone on her knees to General Tufto, Crawley would have been sent back to England; and he did not play, except with civilians, for some weeks after.

Her house began to have an unfortunate reputation. The old hands warned the less experienced of their danger; Colonel O'Dowd warned Lieutenant Spooney. A loud and violent fracas took place at the Caf de Paris between Colonel O'Dowd and his lady, and Colonel and Mrs. Crawley. Mrs. O'Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face and called her husband "no betther than a black-leg." Colonel Crawley challenged Colonel O'Dowd; but the Commander-in-Chief heard of it and ensured that no duel took place. If Rebecca had not gone on her knees to General Tufto, Crawley would have been sent back to England; and he did not play, except with civilians, for some weeks after.


But, in spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill and constant successes, it became evident to Rebecca, considering these things, that their position was but a precarious one, and that, even although they paid scarcely anybody, their little capital would end one day by dwindling into zero. "Gambling," she would say, "dear, is good to help your income, but not as an income itself. Some day people may be tired of play, and then where are we?" Rawdon acquiesced in the justice of her opinion; and in truth he had remarked that after a few nights of his little suppers, &c., gentlemen were tired of play with him, and, in spite of Rebecca's charms, did not present themselves very eagerly.

In spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill, it became clear to Rebecca that their position was precarious.
"Gambling," she would say, "is good to help your income, but is not an income itself. People may get tired of play, and then where are we?" Rawdon saw the truth of this; he had noticed that after a few nights of his little suppers, gentlemen did not present themselves very eagerly.