Ярмарка тщеславия / Vanity Fair - Уильям Теккерей

The sisters began to play the piano. “Stop that thing,” George howled out in a fury from the sofa. “It makes me mad. You play us something, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something.”

“I can sing ‘Fluvy du Tajy,’” Swartz said, in a meek voice, “if I had the words.”

“O, ‘Fleuve du Tage,[17]’” Miss Maria cried; “we have the song,” and went off to fetch the book in which it was.

Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a young friend of theirs, whose name was on the title, and Miss Swartz saw “Amelia Sedley” written in the corner.

“Lord!” cried Miss Swartz, “is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at Miss P.’s at Hammersmith? I know it is. It’s her. Tell me about her – where is she?”

“Don’t mention her,” Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. “Her family has disgraced itself. She is never to be mentioned HERE.”

“Are you a friend of Amelia’s?” George said, bouncing up. “God bless you for it, Miss Swartz. Don’t believe what the girls say. SHE’S not to blame at any rate. She’s the best – ”

“You know you’re not to speak about her, George,” cried Jane. “Papa forbids it.”

“Who’s to prevent me?” George cried out. “I will speak of her. I say she’s the best, the kindest, the gentlest, the sweetest girl in England; and that, bankrupt or no, my sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. If you like her, go and see her, Miss

Swartz; she wants friends now; and I say, God bless everybody who befriends her. I say,” George said fiercely, “I thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed – ” He stopped.

Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals.

“Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we’ve been engaged almost all our lives,” Osborne said to poor Miss Schwarz.

After dinner with a purple choking face, old Osborne then began. “How dare you, sir, mention that person’s name before Miss Swartz today, in my drawing-room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it?”

“I’m a gentleman though I AM your son, sir,” George answered haughtily.

“I ain’t going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense, sir,” the father cried out. “There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away eight thousand a year, you take your pack and walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, once for all, sir, or will you not?”

“Marry that woman? Never, Sir.”

Mr. Osborne pulled at the cord and almost black in the face, ordered to call a coach for Captain Osborne.

“I’ve done it,” said George, looking very pale.

“What, my boy?” says Dobbin.

George told what had passed between his father and himself. “I’ll marry her to-morrow,” he said with an oath. “I love her more every day, Dobbin.”

And so he did. There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and the small marriage party and their attendants. The rain came rattling down on the windows. In the intervals of the service you heard it, and the sobbing of old Mrs. Sedley. Osborne’s “I will” was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy’s response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.

When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came forward and kissed his sister, the bride, for the first time for many months – George’s look of gloom had gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant. “It’s your turn, William,” says he, putting his hand fondly upon Dobbin’s shoulder; and Dobbin went up and touched Amelia on the cheek.

11

Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton as the place where they would pass the first few days after their marriage. As they were coming into the hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon, on whom should they light but Rebecca and her husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough.

These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate to each other. The marriages of either were discussed; and their prospects in life canvassed with the greatest frankness and interest on both sides. George’s marriage was to be made known to his father by his friend Captain Dobbin; and young Osborne trembled rather for the result of that communication. Miss Crawley, on whom all Rawdon’s hopes depended, still held out. Unable to make an entry into her house in Park Lane, her affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to Brighton.

The two wedding parties met constantly in each other’s apartments. After two or three nights the gentlemen of an evening had a little piquet, as their wives sate and chatted apart. Jos Sedley arrived; so the three gentlemen walked down to have a stroll to the coach office.

“Hullo! there’s old Dobbin,” George cried, quite delighted to his old friend, whose promised visit to Brighton had been delayed until now. “How are you, old fellow? Glad you’re come down. Emmy’ll be delighted to see you,” Osborne said, shaking his comrade warmly by the hand and then he added, in a lower and agitated voice, “What’s the news? Have you been in Russell Square? What does the governor say? Tell me everything.”

Dobbin looked very pale and grave. “I’ve seen your father,” said he. “How’s Amelia – Mrs. George? I’ll tell you all the news presently: but I’ve brought the great news of all: and that is – ”

“Out with it, old fellow,” George said.

"We're ordered to Belgium. All the army goes – guards and all. We embark from Chatham next week." This news of war could not but come with a shock upon our lovers, and caused all these gentlemen to look very serious.

* * *

Dobbin was sent to the Osborne family to sound the news of the marriage. He came after some time but didn’t bring any good news. When George and Dobbin were alone, Dobbin took from his desk the letter which he had been charged by Mr. Osborne to deliver to his son. "It's not in my father's handwriting," said George, looking rather alarmed; nor was it: the letter was from Mr. Osborne's lawyer, and to the following effect:

“SIR,

I am commissioned by Mr. Osborne to inform you, and that in consequence of the marriage which you have been pleased to contract, he ceases to consider you as a member of his family. This determination is final.”

“Your obedient Servt[18]., “S. HIGGS.

“P. S. – Mr. Osborne desires me to say, once for all, that he declines to receive any messages, letters, or communications from you on this or any other subject.

“A pretty way you have managed the affair,” said George, looking savagely at William Dobbin. “Why couldn’t we have waited with the marriage? It was all your doing. You were never easy until you had got me married and ruined.”

“There’s no denying that the position is a hard one,” Dobbin replied, after reading over the letter with a blank countenance; “and as you say, it is partly of my making. There are some men who wouldn’t mind changing with you,” he added, with a bitter smile.

The news from the attorney and upcoming Belgium astonished Amelia. She was determined to accompany her husband. So was Becky. Rawdon and she were only held in Brighton by the news of Old Miss Crawley’s poor condition. After numerous attempts to have a talk which could provide their future life Becky and Rawdon left Brighton just like their friends. Rawdon and his wife did not go back to their lodgings at Brompton, but put up at an inn. All of their dear friends were all off to take shipping for Belgium with the regiment – kind old Mrs. Sedley very much depressed and tearful, solitary. Returning from this visit, Rebecca found her husband, who had been off to Gray’s Inn, and learnt his fate. He came back furious.

“Becky,” says he, “she’s only given me twenty pound!”

Though it told against themselves, the joke was too good, and Becky burst out laughing at Rawdon’s discomfiture.

12

The officers left Brighton with their regiment. Amelia made a firm decision to accompany her husband and traveled eagerly. They came to Brussels and found it exquisite. It was almost like Old England. Soon enough after the arrival they were all to go to the Opera. The house was filled with familiar British faces. At the end of the act, George was out of the box in a moment, and he was even going to pay his respects to Rebecca in her loge. He met Crawley in the lobby, however, where they exchanged a few sentences upon the occurrences of the last fortnight.

George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner on that particular day when the General was not to dine.

“I will go in and pay my respects to your wife,” said he; at which Rawdon said, “Hm, as you please,” looking very glum, and at which the two young officers exchanged knowing glances. George parted from them and strutted down the lobby to the General’s box, the number of which he had carefully counted.

“My dear Captain George!” cried little Rebecca in an ecstasy. “How good of you to come. How is dearest Amelia? But I needn’t ask: how pretty she looks!”

Amelia’s gentle eyes had been fixed anxiously on the pair, but when Rebecca entered her box, she flew to her friend with affection. Rebecca bustled, she chattered, she turned and twisted.

And when the time for the ballet came she skipped back to her own box, leaning on Captain Dobbin’s arm this time. No, she would not have George’s: he must stay and talk to his dearest, best, little Amelia.

“What a humbug that woman is![19]” honest old Dobbin mumbled to George, when he came back from Rebecca’s box, where he had conducted her in perfect silence. “She twists about like a snake.”

“Hang it, she’s the nicest little woman in England,” George replied, showing his white teeth.

Amelia’s manners were such when she and George visited Crawley and his wife at these quarters, that they had very nearly come to their first quarrel; that is, George scolded his wife violently for her evident unwillingness to go, and the high

and mighty manner in which she comported herself towards Mrs. Crawley, her old friend; and Amelia did not say one single word in reply; but with her husband’s eye upon her, and Rebecca scanning her as she felt, was, if possible, more awkward on the second visit which she paid to Mrs. Rawdon, than on her first call.

Rebecca was doubly affectionate, of course, and would not take notice, in the least, of her friend’s coolness. “I think Emmy has become prouder since her father’s name was in the – since Mr. Sedley’s MISFORTUNES,” Rebecca said, softening the phrase charitably for George’s ear.

Mr. Osborne, having a firm conviction in his own mind that he was a woman-killer and destined to conquer, did not run counter to his fate, but yielded himself up to it. And as Emmy did not say much, but merely became unhappy, he chose to fancy that she was not suspicious of what all his acquaintance were perfectly aware – namely, that he was carrying on a desperate flirtation with Mrs. Crawley. He rode with her whenever she was free. He pretended regimental business to Amelia and passed his evenings in the Crawleys’ company; losing money to the husband and flattering himself that the wife was dying of love for him.

George was so occupied with his new acquaintances that he and William Dobbin were by no means so much together as formerly. George avoided him in public and in the regiment. As Dobbin upon those days when he visited the Osborne house, seldom had the advantage of meeting his old friend, much painful and unavailing talk between them was spared. Our friend George was in the full career of the pleasures of Vanity Fair.

On the appointed night, George drove to the famous ball, where his wife did not know a single soul. After placing Amelia on a bench, he left her to her own thoughts there. Her thoughts were not of the pleasantest, and nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them. Whilst her appearance was an utter failure[20] (as her husband felt with a sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley’s debut was, on the contrary, very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her face was radiant; her dress perfection.

George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice – how many times Amelia scarcely knew. At last George came for Rebecca’s shawl and flowers. She was going away. She did not even come back and say good-bye to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband come and go without saying a word, and her head fell on her breast.

“William,” she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, “you’ve always been very kind to me – I’m – I’m not well. Take me home.” He went away with her quickly.

George led Becky to the coach and passed her a bouquet of flowers in which there lay a letter. In this letter Amelia’s faithful husband asked Becky to elope with him and search for a new life. Osborne, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and began to bet frantically.

“Come out, George,” said Dobbin, still gravely; “don’t drink.”

“Drink! there’s nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up your lantern jaws, old boy. Here’s to you.”

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which George walked away speedily on his friend’s arm. “The enemy has passed the Sambre,” William said, “and our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in three hours.”

George thought over his brief married life. How wild and reckless he had been! How unworthy he was of her. He sat down to write a letter to his father. George came in and looked at her again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with crime! God bless her! God bless her! He came to the bedside, and bent over the pillow noiselessly towards the gentle pale face.

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped down. “I am awake, George,” the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to what? At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken up through the town; and amidst the drums of the infantry, and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.

13

Thus all the superior officers being summoned on duty elsewhere, Jos Sedley was left in command of the little colony at Brussels.

The following days were the grave ones. Only Rebecca had the heart to proceed with her affairs of flirting with Jos and searching for new sources of income. Darkness came down on the field and city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.

The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief. The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief. The gloom-stricken old father was full of sorrow. Sometimes a shuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the author of the doom which he had called down on his son. There was a chance before of reconciliation. The boy’s wife might have died; or he might have come back and said, Father I have sinned. But there was no hope now. And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore the proud father’s heart most keenly – that his son should have gone out of the reach of his forgiveness, or that the apology which his own pride expected should have escaped him.