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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Adventures of Harry Richmond," George Meredith crafts a richly textured narrative that blurs the lines between autobiography and fiction, offering readers a deeply introspective gaze into the life and aspirations of its protagonist. Set against the backdrop of Victorian society, Meredith employs an innovative style characterized by the fluidity of thought and naturalistic dialogue, reflecting the turbulence of human emotions and social dynamics. The novel follows Harry Richmond's quest for identity and artistic fulfillment, presenting an intricate web of relationships that examines the themes of love, ambition, and personal growth, all wrapped in Meredith's signature wit and philosophical musings. George Meredith, a prominent figure in the literary circles of the 19th century, was no stranger to the trials of life that he so adeptly depicted in his works. His experiences with love, loss, and societal expectations informed his writing, making "The Adventures of Harry Richmond" not only a narrative of one man's journey but also a philosophical inquiry into the human condition. Meredith's background as a poet and his deep engagement with contemporary thought are evident in the lyrical quality of his prose, making this novel a significant contribution to the bildungsroman genre. For readers seeking a profound exploration of self-discovery and the societal constraints of the 19th century, "The Adventures of Harry Richmond" is a compelling read. Meredith's masterful storytelling invites introspection and reflection, ensuring that this novel resonates with anyone on the journey to understanding their own identity and place in the world. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Adventures of Harry Richmond — Complete
Table of Contents
Introduction
A son, swept along by the dazzle and hazard of his father’s grand designs, discovers that identity is forged where devotion, ambition, and the social stage collide, testing how much of the self can be chosen and how much is inherited.
The Adventures of Harry Richmond — Complete by George Meredith is a Victorian novel that blends adventure with the coming-of-age tradition, unfolding across English landscapes and into continental settings. First published in the early 1870s, it belongs to a period preoccupied with mobility, aspiration, and the reshaping of class boundaries. Readers encounter a narrative attuned to both the public theatre of society and the private growth of character. The book’s scope is wide without losing the intimacy of personal recollection, and its period context enriches the social pressures and opportunities that drive the protagonist’s course.
Told in the first person, the story follows Harry from a childhood marked by conflicting influences into the restless journeys and social encounters that define his early manhood. The premise is simple yet fertile: a captivating, unpredictable father pulls the boy into a larger world, promising fortune and recognition, while other guardians and circumstances urge steadiness, conscience, and rootedness. Meredith shapes this movement with a voice that is spirited, reflective, and keenly observant. The mood alternates between buoyant comedy and sober reckoning, offering an experience that is at once eventful, psychologically alert, and alive to the hazards of self-invention.
Central themes include the making of identity, the costs and charms of charisma, and the tension between inheritance and self-determination. Ambition and social performance are not merely backdrops but active forces that test loyalty and judgment. Meredith probes the allure of romance and the necessity of realism, inviting readers to weigh promises against proofs. The father–son bond anchors these questions, raising issues of trust, responsibility, and the ethics of influence. Memory and storytelling further complicate matters, as Harry’s retrospective account examines how desire and hindsight shape the meaning of experience.
Meredith’s style favors swift turns of insight, ironic sparkle, and richly figurative phrasing, yet it never abandons the concrete scene. Conversations bite with wit; descriptions catch small, revealing gestures; and the social milieu is sketched with the acuity of a seasoned observer. The narrative moves nimbly between outward action and inward appraisal, balancing the exhilaration of enterprise with scrutiny of motive. Readers encounter a prose that rewards attentiveness, not with obscurity but with layers of implication. The result is an adventure grounded in character, where the pace is animated by choices as much as by circumstances.
Modern readers may find the novel resonant for its interrogation of self-fashioning under public scrutiny, its portrait of parental influence, and its skepticism toward shortcuts to prestige. The book explores how charm can clear paths or cloud judgment, and how social opportunity tests personal integrity. It also reflects on travel and cosmopolitan contact as occasions for both discovery and misreading. The questions it raises—about who we are, what we owe, and how we weigh promise against performance—remain timely. In its humane, incisive way, the narrative invites reflection on the risks and rewards of becoming someone in the world.
Approached as both an adventure and a study of formation, The Adventures of Harry Richmond — Complete offers variety without diffusion: rural quiet and urban bustle, private resolves and public spectacles, bright hopes and hard reckonings. Reading it is to follow a sensibility learning its limits and powers, and to watch how circumstance and will entwine. Meredith’s art lies in making the attractions of ambition palpable while letting consequences accrue with persuasive force. Enter with curiosity about character and with an ear for tonal shifts, and the novel yields a generous experience—spirited, searching, and alert to the delicate traffic between illusion and truth.
Synopsis
The Adventures of Harry Richmond is a first-person narrative following the growth of an English boy into manhood amid shifting fortunes at home and abroad. Harry begins life under the watch of his stern grandfather at the country seat of Riversley, while his brilliant, improvident father, Roy Richmond, moves on the margins with grand claims and restless schemes. A nocturnal abduction by Roy sets the story in motion, throwing Harry into a world of inns, roads, and theatrical encounters that fascinate and unsettle him. The novel establishes its central tension between solid English respectability and the glittering promise of social ascent.
On the road with his father, Harry experiences a vagabond schooling in charm, risk, and performance. They cross fairs and encampments, pass among show people and gypsies, and taste the precarious livelihood Roy prefers to the fixed duties of land and lineage. The boy witnesses his father's persuasive brilliance, quick generosity, and tendency to gamble on impressions. A gypsy girl, Kiomi, hints at a different, untamed allegiance that tempts Harry even as it exposes the instability of the life Roy offers. While dazzled, he learns that admiration for flair must contend with the need for protection, truth, and steady guidance.
Harry is recovered to Riversley, where Squire Beltham imposes order, schooling, and a code of plain English conduct. The conflict between squire and son flares whenever Roy appears, bringing promises and debts in equal measure. Among neighboring families Harry meets companions who model moderation and fortitude, notably the practical Janet Ilchester, whose frankness contrasts with Roy's rhetoric. Between the squire's discipline and his father's glamour, Harry resolves to become a gentleman on his own terms. Yet his origin and prospects remain uncertain, and the gaps in his family story, kept half-veiled by adults, continue to draw him toward bold ventures.
As he passes into boyhood, Harry is sent to school, where friendship and competition harden his sense of self. With his stalwart comrade Temple, he undertakes an impulsive flight seaward, hoping to test courage and independence. The brief voyage becomes a string of hazards that strip away illusions and make endurance practical. Rescues, reprimands, and repentance follow, restoring him to his guardians but leaving him marked by a taste for enterprise. The episode broadens his horizon beyond county boundaries and shows that chance, while alluring, demands a pricea lesson that will return when he is drawn onto a larger stage.
Roy's ambitions pivot to the Continent, where he believes a brilliant career awaits his son among titled circles. Harry is introduced to a small German court, a setting of punctilious etiquette, musical salons, and delicate politics. There, English directness is alternately admired and tested. Roy maneuvers tirelessly for recognition and alliance, presenting Harry as a figure who can bridge nations and advance both family and principality. Under tutors and patrons, Harry acquires languages and bearings, learning the measured forms behind ceremony. He senses that his fate may depend as much on public impression as on private character and affection.
At the court, Harry encounters a princess whose intelligence and graciousness crystallize his ideal of chivalry. Their meetings, constrained by rank and discretion, kindle ambitions elevated by sentiment but shadowed by protocol. Friends and hostesses warm to him, while guardians and ministers weigh propriety against inclination. Letters and carefully arranged walks sustain hope, yet the demands of dynastic duty and national interest set barriers no boldness can readily remove. The young Englishman learns to read gestures and silences, to balance ardor with patience, and to question whether love and honor can be reconciled without cost to either side.
Summoned home at intervals, Harry confronts practical matters that the squire insists define a man: estates, debts, and the trust of dependents. Roy's speculative ventures raise expectations and alarms; a public incident threatens the fragile respectability both crave. Figures from earlier wanderings, including Kiomi, reappear to remind him of ungoverned passions and promises. Janet Ilchester's steady counsel offers a counterweight to courtly dreams, pressing him to weigh consequences rather than enchantments. Torn among loyalty to his father, duty to Riversley, and the perilous splendor of continental hopes, Harry recognizes that each allegiance sets demands the others cannot easily bear.
Pressures converge abroad and at home, bringing negotiations, confrontations, and revelations that test every bond. Court politics tighten around questions of precedent and prudence, while English kin demand straightforward commitments. Temple's friendship provides quiet ballast as Roy pursues one last sequence of daring moves intended to secure triumph. Success and disaster seem equally near, and Harry is forced to decide what kind of name he will carry, and at what price. Choices made in heated rooms and public terraces reshape his prospects, closing some avenues and opening others, and leave him to reckon with the weight of inherited and chosen obligations.
The closing movement emphasizes Harry's passage from dazzled follower to responsible actor, without reducing events to simple fortune or ruin. He emerges with a clearer sense of honor, affection, and place, measuring promise against performance and dream against duty. The book's message rests on the education of a gentleman in a modern world where lineage, money, and reputation interlock with personal feeling. Through alternating English solidity and continental pageantry, it traces how character is formed under conflicting authorities, and how love must negotiate institutions. The conclusion underscores maturation and balance while preserving the narrative's respect for complexity and restraint.
Historical Context
George Meredith’s The Adventures of Harry Richmond is set principally in mid-Victorian Britain, with crucial episodes in small German courts along the Rhine and in Thuringia-like landscapes. The time-frame implied by the novel spans roughly from the 1830s through the 1860s, an era of accelerating industrialization, railway expansion, and bourgeois ascent. English country houses, London’s clubs and financial districts, and Romany encampments provide contrasting social terrains, while the fictive principality of Sarkeld evokes the micro-states of central Europe. The novel’s cosmopolitan routes—coach roads, steamers, and rail—mirror the period’s mobility, and its attention to dynastic protocol, guardianship, and money captures Britain’s negotiation between aristocratic habit and modern, commercial society.
The era’s political reconfiguration is anchored in the British Reform Acts. The Reform Act of 1832 (under Earl Grey) broadened the franchise and reduced rotten boroughs, shifting influence toward urban middling interests; the Second Reform Act of 1867 (under Derby and Disraeli) further enlarged the electorate, particularly in towns. These measures encouraged meritocratic rhetoric while leaving entrenched hierarchies largely intact, especially in counties and elite institutions. Harry’s oscillation between the rustic authority of a landed squire and the seductive promises of urban advancement reflects the partial democratization of power: a world where patronage and pedigree still matter, but talent, wealth, and spectacle increasingly buy social entry and political leverage.
Events in the German lands form a decisive backdrop. After 1815 the German Confederation loosely bound dozens of states; the Zollverein (1834) knitted many into a customs union led by Prussia. The 1848–49 revolutions, centered in Frankfurt’s Paulskirche, sought constitutional nationhood but failed. Prussia’s Minister-President Otto von Bismarck (from 1862) then engineered unification by war: Denmark (1864), Austria (1866), and France (1870–71), culminating in the German Empire’s proclamation at Versailles in January 1871. Meredith’s invented principality of Sarkeld echoes the etiquette and marriage politics of these courts, where dynastic calculation, morganatic barriers, and foreign suitors’ status were scrutinized. Harry’s entanglement with a German princess dramatizes how small-state protocols and the coming Prusso-German hegemony constrained romantic and social ambition.
Mid-century Britain experienced speculative booms and shocks that shaped ambitions like Roy Richmond’s. Railway Mania (c. 1843–47) authorized thousands of miles of track and over £200 million in projected capital; the 1847 contraction ravaged investors and exposed promotional frauds. The Limited Liability Act (1855) and Companies Act (1862) regularized joint-stock enterprise, but moral hazards persisted. The Overend, Gurney & Co. collapse on 10 May 1866, with liabilities of about £11 million, triggered a City panic and a temporary relaxation of the Bank Charter Act of 1844. The novel’s schemes, debts, and dazzling promises map onto this culture: Roy’s theatrics mirror the period’s alchemy of paper credit, personal reputation, and the precarious bridge between gentility and insolvency.
The novel’s early Romany episodes intersect with 19th-century Britain’s ambivalent treatment of Gypsies. The Vagrancy Act of 1824 criminalized itinerancy and fortune-telling; metropolitan police legislation in the 1830s–40s enabled removal of encampments from commons and roads. Simultaneously, writers such as George Borrow (The Zincali, 1841; Lavengro, 1851; The Romany Rye, 1857) fed a popular fascination with Romany language and lore. Enclosure and intensified rural policing narrowed traditional stopping-places, pushing communities to the margins. Harry’s childhood among Romany people, and his bond with figures like Kiomi, registers both the romantic allure and the legal-social hostility they met—exposing the gulf between sentimental curiosity and the punitive apparatus governing itinerant life.
Victorian schooling and elite formation also loom large. The Clarendon Commission (1861–64) scrutinized nine public schools, leading to the Public Schools Act (1868), which modernized governance at Eton, Harrow, Rugby, and others. Earlier, Thomas Arnold’s headmastership at Rugby (1828–42) had championed moral discipline and character-building that shaped the “gentleman” ideal. Concurrently, civil service reforms (Northcote–Trevelyan Report, 1854) and university changes expanded competitive examinations. Harry’s passage through rigorous boarding education—and the squire’s stake in it—tracks the consolidation of a national elite culture, where classical discipline, sport, and networks promised social mobility yet reproduced entrenched hierarchies of class and comportment.
Cross-Channel mobility and a Rhine tourism boom created the cultural circuits the novel exploits. Steam navigation on the Rhine expanded after the 1820s; Karl Baedeker’s guides (from the 1830s; English-language editions by the 1860s) codified routes and court etiquettes for British travelers. Railway links to Dover (completed in the 1840s) and regular packet services shortened journeys, knitting London to German spas and courts. Anglo-German dynastic ties—most famously Victoria’s 1840 marriage to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha—legitimized cultural exchange and elite matchmaking. Harry’s movements through salons and minor courts, and the scrutiny of his pedigree abroad, mirror a European stage where travel facilitated aspiration but also exposed foreigners to rigid protocols and rank-conscious surveillance.
The book functions as a social and political critique by anatomizing Victorian respectability, finance, and rank as interlocking illusions of power. It interrogates the moral economy of speculation—how charisma, paper credit, and legal innovation enable predation—and indicts courtly and landed codes that prize lineage over character. Its Romany chapters expose the criminalization of mobility and the hypocrisy of sentimental exoticism. The contested guardianship of a child dramatizes patriarchal property logics embedded in law and custom. Across England and the German courts, the narrative reveals a society enthralled by appearances, where the pursuit of status corrodes duty, and where institutional reforms lag behind the lived inequities of class and nationality.
The Adventures of Harry Richmond — Complete
CHAPTER I. I AM A SUBJECT OF CONTENTION
One midnight of a winter month the sleepers in Riversley Grange were awakened by a ringing of the outer bell and blows upon the great hall-doors. Squire Beltham[1] was master there: the other members of the household were, his daughter Dorothy Beltham; a married daughter Mrs. Richmond; Benjamin Sewis, an old half-caste butler; various domestic servants; and a little boy, christened Harry Lepel Richmond, the squire's grandson. Riversley Grange lay in a rich watered hollow of the Hampshire heath-country; a lonely circle of enclosed brook and pasture, within view of some of its dependent farms, but out of hail of them or any dwelling except the stables and the head-gardener's cottage. Traditions of audacious highwaymen, together with the gloomy surrounding fir-scenery, kept it alive to fears of solitude and the night; and there was that in the determined violence of the knocks and repeated bell-peals which assured all those who had ever listened in the servants' hall to prognostications of a possible night attack, that the robbers had come at last most awfully. A crowd of maids gathered along the upper corridor of the main body of the building: two or three footmen hung lower down, bold in attitude. Suddenly the noise ended, and soon after the voice of old Sewis commanded them to scatter away to their beds; whereupon the footmen took agile leaps to the post of danger, while the women, in whose bosoms intense curiosity now supplanted terror, proceeded to a vacant room overlooking the front entrance, and spied from the window.
Meanwhile Sewis stood by his master's bedside. The squire was a hunter, of the old sort: a hard rider, deep drinker, and heavy slumberer. Before venturing to shake his arm Sewis struck a light and flashed it over the squire's eyelids to make the task of rousing him easier. At the first touch the squire sprang up, swearing by his Lord Harry he had just dreamed of fire, and muttering of buckets.
'Sewis! you're the man, are you: where has it broken out?'
'No, sir; no fire,' said Sewis; 'you be cool, sir.'
'Cool, sir! confound it, Sewis, haven't I heard a whole town of steeples at work? I don't sleep so thick but I can hear, you dog! Fellow comes here, gives me a start, tells me to be cool; what the deuce! nobody hurt, then? all right!'
The squire had fallen back on his pillow and was relapsing to sleep.
Sewis spoke impressively: 'There's a gentleman downstairs; a gentleman downstairs, sir. He has come rather late.'
'Gentleman downstairs come rather late.' The squire recapitulated the intelligence to possess it thoroughly. 'Rather late, eh? Oh! Shove him into a bed, and give him hot brandy and water[3], and be hanged to him!'
Sewis had the office of tempering a severely distasteful announcement to the squire.
He resumed: 'The gentleman doesn't talk of staying. That is not his business. It 's rather late for him to arrive.'
'Rather late!' roared the squire. 'Why, what's it o'clock?'
Reaching a hand to the watch over his head, he caught sight of the unearthly hour. 'A quarter to two? Gentleman downstairs? Can't be that infernal apothecary[2] who broke 's engagement to dine with me last night? By George[4], if it is I'll souse him; I'll drench him from head to heel as though the rascal 'd been drawn through the duck-pond. Two o'clock in the morning? Why, the man's drunk. Tell him I'm a magistrate, and I'll commit him, deuce take him; give him fourteen days for a sot; another fourteen for impudence. I've given a month 'fore now. Comes to me, a Justice of the peace!—man 's mad! Tell him he's in peril of a lunatic asylum. And doesn't talk of staying? Lift him out o' the house on the top o' your boot, Sewis, and say it 's mine; you 've my leave.'
Sewis withdrew a step from the bedside. At a safe distance he fronted his master steadily; almost admonishingly. 'It 's Mr. Richmond, sir,' he said.
'Mr....' The squire checked his breath. That was a name never uttered at the Grange. 'The scoundrel?' he inquired harshly, half in a tone of one assuring himself, and his rigid dropped jaw shut.
The fact had to be denied or affirmed instantly, and Sewis was silent.
Grasping his bedclothes in a lump, the squire cried:
'Downstairs? downstairs, Sewis? You've admitted him into my house?'
'No, sir.'
'You have!'
'He is not in the house, sir.'
'You have! How did you speak to him, then?'
'Out of my window, sir.'
'What place here is the scoundrel soiling now?'
'He is on the doorstep outside the house.'
'Outside, is he? and the door's locked?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Let him rot there!'
By this time the midnight visitor's patience had become exhausted. A renewal of his clamour for immediate attention fell on the squire's ear, amazing him to stupefaction at such challengeing insolence.
'Hand me my breeches,' he called to Sewis; 'I can't think brisk out of my breeches.'
Sewis held the garment ready. The squire jumped from the bed, fuming speechlessly, chafing at gaiters and braces, cravat and coat, and allowed his buttons to be fitted neatly on his calves; the hammering at the hall-door and plucking at the bell going on without intermission. He wore the aspect of one who assumes a forced composure under the infliction of outrages on his character in a Court of Law, where he must of necessity listen and lock his boiling replies within his indignant bosom.
'Now, Sewis, now my horsewhip,' he remarked, as if it had been a simple adjunct of his equipment.
'Your hat, sir?'
'My horsewhip, I said.'
'Your hat is in the hall,' Sewis observed gravely.
'I asked you for my horsewhip.'
'That is not to be found anywhere,' said Sewis.
The squire was diverted from his objurgations against this piece of servitorial defiance by his daughter Dorothy's timid appeal for permission to come in. Sewis left the room. Presently the squire descended, fully clad, and breathing sharply from his nostrils. Servants were warned off out of hearing; none but Sewis stood by.
The squire himself unbolted the door, and threw it open to the limit of the chain.
'Who's there?' he demanded.
A response followed promptly from outside: 'I take you to be Mr. Harry Lepel Beltham. Correct me if I err. Accept my apologies for disturbing you at a late hour of the night, I pray.'
'Your name?'
'Is plain Augustus Fitz-George Roy Richmond at this moment, Mr. Beltham. You will recognize me better by opening your door entirely: voices are deceptive. You were born a gentleman, Mr. Beltham, and will not reduce me to request you to behave like one. I am now in the position, as it were, of addressing a badger in his den. It is on both sides unsatisfactory. It reflects egregious discredit upon you, the householder.'
The squire hastily bade Sewis see that the passages to the sleeping apartments were barred, and flung the great chain loose. He was acting under strong control of his temper.
It was a quiet grey night, and as the doors flew open, a largely-built man, dressed in a high-collared great-coat and fashionable hat of the time, stood clearly defined to view. He carried a light cane, with the point of the silver handle against his under lip. There was nothing formidable in his appearance, and his manner was affectedly affable. He lifted his hat as soon as he found himself face to face with the squire, disclosing a partially bald head, though his whiskering was luxuriant, and a robust condition of manhood was indicated by his erect attitude and the immense swell of his furred great-coat at the chest. His features were exceedingly frank and cheerful. From his superior height, he was enabled to look down quite royally on the man whose repose he had disturbed.
The following conversation passed between them.
'You now behold who it is, Mr. Beltham, that acknowledges to the misfortune of arousing you at an unseemly hour—unbetimes, as our gossips in mother Saxon might say—and with profound regret, sir, though my habit is to take it lightly.'
'Have you any accomplices lurking about here?'
'I am alone.'
'What 's your business?'
'I have no business.'
'You have no business to be here, no. I ask you what 's the object of your visit?'
'Permit me first to speak of the cause of my protracted arrival, sir. The ridicule of casting it on the post-boys will strike you, Mr. Beltham, as it does me. Nevertheless, I must do it; I have no resource. Owing to a rascal of the genus, incontinent in liquor, I have this night walked seven miles from Ewling. My complaint against him is not on my own account.'
'What brought you here at all?'
'Can you ask me?'
'I ask you what brought you to my house at all?'
'True, I might have slept at Ewling.'
'Why didn't you?'
'For the reason, Mr. Beltham, which brought me here originally. I could not wait-not a single minute. So far advanced to the neighbourhood, I would not be retarded, and I came on. I crave your excuses for the hour of my arrival. The grounds for my coming at all you will very well understand, and you will applaud me when I declare to you that I come to her penitent; to exculpate myself, certainly, but despising self-justification. I love my wife, Mr. Beltham. Yes; hear me out, sir. I can point to my unhappy star, and say, blame that more than me. That star of my birth and most disastrous fortunes should plead on my behalf to you; to my wife at least it will.'
'You've come to see my daughter Marian, have you?'
'My wife, sir.'
'You don't cross my threshold while I live.'
'You compel her to come out to me?'
'She stays where she is, poor wretch, till the grave takes her. You've done your worst; be off.'
'Mr. Beltham, I am not to be restrained from the sight of my wife.'
'Scamp!'
'By no scurrilous epithets from a man I am bound to respect will I be deterred or exasperated.'
'Damned scamp, I say!' The squire having exploded his wrath gave it free way. 'I've stopped my tongue all this while before a scoundrel 'd corkscrew the best-bottled temper right or left, go where you will one end o' the world to the other, by God! And here 's a scoundrel stinks of villany, and I've proclaimed him 'ware my gates as a common trespasser, and deserves hanging if ever rook did nailed hard and fast to my barn doors! comes here for my daughter, when he got her by stealing her, scenting his carcase, and talking 'bout his birth, singing what not sort o' foreign mewin' stuff, and she found him out a liar and a beast, by God! And she turned home. My doors are open to my flesh and blood. And here she halts, I say, 'gainst the law, if the law's against me. She's crazed: you've made her mad; she knows none of us, not even her boy. Be off; you've done your worst; the light's gone clean out in her; and hear me, you Richmond, or Roy, or whatever you call yourself, I tell you I thank the Lord she has lost her senses. See her or not, you 've no hold on her, and see her you shan't while I go by the name of a man.'
Mr. Richmond succeeded in preserving an air of serious deliberation under the torrent of this tremendous outburst, which was marked by scarce a pause in the delivery.
He said, 'My wife deranged! I might presume it too truly an inherited disease. Do you trifle with me, sir? Her reason unseated! and can you pretend to the right of dividing us? If this be as you say—Oh! ten thousand times the stronger my claim, my absolute claim, to cherish her. Make way for me, Mr. Beltham. I solicit humbly the holiest privilege sorrow can crave of humanity. My wife! my wife! Make way for me, sir.'
His figure was bent to advance. The squire shouted an order to Sewis to run round to the stables and slip the dogs loose.
'Is it your final decision?' Mr. Richmond asked.
'Damn your fine words! Yes, it is. I keep my flock clear of a foul sheep.'
'Mr. Beltham, I implore you, be merciful. I submit to any conditions: only let me see her. I will walk the park till morning, but say that an interview shall be granted in the morning. Frankly, sir, it is not my intention to employ force: I throw myself utterly on your mercy. I love the woman; I have much to repent of. I see her, and I go; but once I must see her. So far I also speak positively.'
'Speak as positively as you like,' said the squire.
'By the laws of nature and the laws of man, Marian Richmond is mine to support and comfort, and none can hinder me, Mr. Beltham; none, if I resolve to take her to myself.'
'Can't they!' said the squire.
'A curse be on him, heaven's lightnings descend on him, who keeps husband from wife in calamity![1q]'
The squire whistled for his dogs.
As if wounded to the quick by this cold-blooded action, Mr. Richmond stood to his fullest height.
'Nor, sir, on my application during to-morrow's daylight shall I see her?'
'Nor, sir, on your application'—the squire drawled in uncontrollable mimicking contempt of the other's florid forms of speech, ending in his own style,—'no, you won't.'
'You claim a paternal right to refuse me: my wife is your child. Good. I wish to see my son.'
On that point the squire was equally decided. 'You can't. He's asleep.'
'I insist.'
'Nonsense: I tell you he's a-bed and asleep.'
'I repeat, I insist.'
'When the boy's fast asleep, man!'
'The boy is my flesh and blood. You have spoken for your daughter—I speak for my son. I will see him, though I have to batter at your doors till sunrise.'
Some minutes later the boy was taken out of his bed by his aunt Dorothy, who dressed him by the dark window-light, crying bitterly, while she said, 'Hush, hush!' and fastened on his small garments between tender huggings of his body and kissings of his cheeks. He was told that he had nothing to be afraid of. A gentleman wanted to see him: nothing more. Whether the gentleman was a good gentleman, and not a robber, he could not learn but his aunt Dorothy, having wrapped him warm in shawl and comforter, and tremblingly tied his hat-strings under his chin, assured him, with convulsive caresses, that it would soon be over, and he would soon be lying again snug and happy in his dear little bed. She handed him to Sewis on the stairs, keeping his fingers for an instant to kiss them: after which, old Sewis, the lord of the pantry, where all sweet things were stored, deposited him on the floor of the hall, and he found himself facing the man of the night. It appeared to him that the stranger was of enormous size, like the giants of fairy books: for as he stood a little out of the doorway there was a peep of night sky and trees behind him, and the trees looked very much smaller, and hardly any sky was to be seen except over his shoulders.
The squire seized one of the boy's hands to present him and retain him at the same time: but the stranger plucked him from his grandfather's hold, and swinging him high, exclaimed, 'Here he is! This is Harry Richmond. He has grown a grenadier.'
'Kiss the little chap and back to bed with him,' growled the squire.
The boy was heartily kissed and asked if he had forgotten his papa. He replied that he had no papa: he had a mama and a grandpapa. The stranger gave a deep groan.
'You see what you have done; you have cut me off from my own,' he said terribly to the squire; but tried immediately to soothe the urchin with nursery talk and the pats on the shoulder which encourage a little boy to grow fast and tall. 'Four years of separation,' he resumed, 'and my son taught to think that he has no father. By heavens! it is infamous, it is a curst piece of inhumanity. Mr. Beltham, if I do not see my wife, I carry off my son.'
'You may ask till you're hoarse, you shall never see her in this house while I am here to command,' said the squire.
'Very well; then Harry Richmond changes homes. I take him. The affair is concluded.'
'You take him from his mother?' the squire sang out.
'You swear to me she has lost her wits; she cannot suffer. I can. I shall not expect from you, Mr. Beltham, the minutest particle of comprehension of a father's feelings. You are earthy; you are an animal.'
The squire saw that he was about to lift the boy, and said, 'Stop, never mind that. Stop, look at the case. You can call again to-morrow, and you can see me and talk it over.'
'Shall I see my wife?'
'No, you shan't.'
'You remain faithful to your word, sir, do you?'
'I do.'
'Then I do similarly.'
'What! Stop! Not to take a child like that out of a comfortable house at night in Winter, man?'
'Oh, the night is temperate and warm; he shall not remain in a house where his father is dishonoured.'
'Stop! not a bit of it,' cried the squire. 'No one speaks of you. I give you my word, you 're never mentioned by man, woman or child in the house.'
'Silence concerning a father insinuates dishonour, Mr. Beltham.'
'Damn your fine speeches, and keep your blackguardly hands off that boy,' the squire thundered. 'Mind, if you take him, he goes for good. He doesn't get a penny from me if you have the bringing of him up. You've done for him, if you decide that way. He may stand here a beggar in a stolen coat like you, and I won't own him. Here, Harry, come to me; come to your grandad.'
Mr. Richmond caught the boy just when he was turning to run.
'That gentleman,' he said, pointing to the squire, 'is your grandpapa. I am your papa. You must learn at any cost to know and love your papa. If I call for you to-morrow or next day they will have played tricks with Harry Richmond, and hid him. Mr. Beltham, I request you, for the final time, to accord me your promise observe, I accept your promise—that I shall, at my demand, to-morrow or the next day, obtain an interview with my wife.'
The squire coughed out an emphatic 'Never!' and fortified it with an oath as he repeated it upon a fuller breath.
'Sir, I will condescend to entreat you to grant this permission,' said Mr. Richmond, urgently.
'No, never: I won't!' rejoined the squire, red in the face from a fit of angry coughing. 'I won't; but stop, put down that boy; listen to me, you Richmond! I'll tell you what I'll do. I 'll—if you swear on a Bible, like a cadger before a bench of magistrates, you'll never show your face within a circuit o' ten miles hereabouts, and won't trouble the boy if you meet him, or my daughter or me, or any one of us-hark ye, I'll do this: let go the boy, and I'll give ye five hundred—I'll give ye a cheque on my banker for a thousand pounds; and, hark me out, you do this, you swear, as I said, on the servants' Bible, in the presence of my butler and me, “Strike you dead as Ananias and t' other one if you don't keep to it,” do that now, here, on the spot, and I'll engage to see you paid fifty pounds a year into the bargain. Stop! and I'll pay your debts under two or three hundred. For God's sake, let go the boy! You shall have fifty guineas on account this minute. Let go the boy! And your son—there, I call him your son—your son, Harry Richmond, shall inherit from me; he shall have Riversley and the best part of my property, if not every bit of it. Is it a bargain? Will you swear? Don't, and the boy's a beggar, he's a stranger here as much as you. Take him, and by the Lord, you ruin him. There now, never mind, stay, down with him. He's got a cold already; ought to be in his bed; let the boy down!'
'You offer me money,' Mr. Richmond answered.
'That is one of the indignities belonging to a connection with a man like you. You would have me sell my son. To see my afflicted wife I would forfeit my heart's yearnings for my son; your money, sir, I toss to the winds; and I am under the necessity of informing you that I despise and loathe you. I shrink from the thought of exposing my son to your besotted selfish example. The boy is mine; I have him, and he shall traverse the wilderness with me. By heaven! his destiny is brilliant. He shall be hailed for what he is, the rightful claimant of a place among the proudest in the land; and mark me, Mr. Beltham, obstinate sensual old man that you are! I take the boy, and I consecrate my life to the duty of establishing him in his proper rank and station, and there, if you live and I live, you shall behold him and bow your grovelling pig's head to the earth, and bemoan the day, by heaven! when you,—a common country squire, a man of no origin, a creature with whose blood we have mixed ours—and he is stone-blind to the honour conferred on him—when you in your besotted stupidity threatened to disinherit Harry Richmond.'
The door slammed violently on such further speech as he had in him to utter. He seemed at first astonished; but finding the terrified boy about to sob, he drew a pretty box from one of his pockets and thrust a delicious sweetmeat between the whimpering lips. Then, after some moments of irresolution, during which he struck his chest soundingly and gazed down, talked alternately to himself and the boy, and cast his eyes along the windows of the house, he at last dropped on one knee and swaddled the boy in the folds of the shawl. Raising him in a business-like way, he settled him on an arm and stepped briskly across gravel-walk and lawn, like a horse to whose neck a smart touch of the whip has been applied.
The soft mild night had a moon behind it somewhere; and here and there a light-blue space of sky showed small rayless stars; the breeze smelt fresh of roots and heath. It was more a May-night than one of February. So strange an aspect had all these quiet hill-lines and larch and fir-tree tops in the half-dark stillness, that the boy's terrors were overlaid and almost subdued by his wonderment; he had never before been out in the night, and he must have feared to cry in it, for his sobs were not loud. On a rise of the park-road where a fir-plantation began, he heard his name called faintly from the house by a woman's voice that he knew to be his aunt Dorothy's. It came after him only once: 'Harry Richmond'; but he was soon out of hearing, beyond the park, among the hollows that run dipping for miles beside the great highroad toward London. Sometimes his father whistled to him, or held him high and nodded a salutation to him, as though they had just discovered one another; and his perpetual accessibility to the influences of spicy sugarplums, notwithstanding his grief, caused his father to prognosticate hopefully of his future wisdom. So, when obedient to command he had given his father a kiss, the boy fell asleep on his shoulder, ceasing to know that he was a wandering infant: and, if I remember rightly, he dreamed he was in a ship of cinnamon-wood upon a sea that rolled mighty, but smooth immense broad waves, and tore thing from thing without a sound or a hurt.
CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT
That night stands up without any clear traces about it or near it, like the brazen castle of romance round which the sea-tide flows. My father must have borne me miles along the road; he must have procured food for me; I have an idea of feeling a damp forehead and drinking new milk, and by-and-by hearing a roar of voices or vehicles, and seeing a dog that went alone through crowded streets without a master, doing as he pleased, and stopping every other dog he met. He took his turning, and my father and I took ours. We were in a house that, to my senses, had the smell of dark corners, in a street where all the house-doors were painted black, and shut with a bang. Italian organ-men and milk-men paraded the street regularly, and made it sound hollow to their music. Milk, and no cows anywhere; numbers of people, and no acquaintances among them; my thoughts were occupied by the singularity of such things.
My father could soon make me forget that I was transplanted; he could act dog, tame rabbit, fox, pony, and a whole nursery collection alive, but he was sometimes absent for days, and I was not of a temper to be on friendly terms with those who were unable to captivate my imagination as he had done. When he was at home I rode him all round the room and upstairs to bed, I lashed him with a whip till he frightened me, so real was his barking; if I said 'Menagerie' he became a caravan of wild beasts; I undid a button of his waistcoat, and it was a lion that made a spring, roaring at me; I pulled his coat-tails and off I went tugging at an old bear that swung a hind leg as he turned, in the queerest way, and then sat up and beating his breast sent out a mew-moan. Our room was richer to me than all the Grange while these performances were going forward. His monkey was almost as wonderful as his bear, only he was too big for it, and was obliged to aim at reality in his representation of this animal by means of a number of breakages; a defect that brought our landlady on the scene. The enchantment of my father's companionship caused me to suffer proportionately in his absence. During that period of solitude, my nursemaid had to order me to play, and I would stumble about and squat in the middle of the floor, struck suddenly by the marvel of the difference between my present and my other home. My father entered into arrangements with a Punch and Judy man for him to pay me regular morning visits opposite our window; yet here again his genius defeated his kind intentions; for happening once to stand by my side during the progress of the show, he made it so vivid to me by what he said and did, that I saw no fun in it without him: I used to dread the heralding crow of Punch if he was away, and cared no longer for wooden heads being knocked ever so hard.
On Sundays we walked to the cathedral, and this was a day with a delight of its own for me. He was never away on the Sunday. Both of us attired in our best, we walked along the streets hand in hand; my father led me before the cathedral monuments, talking in a low tone of British victories, and commending the heroes to my undivided attention. I understood very early that it was my duty to imitate them. While we remained in the cathedral he talked of glory and Old England, and dropped his voice in the middle of a murmured chant to introduce Nelson's name or some other great man's and this recurred regularly. 'What are we for now?' he would ask me as we left our house. I had to decide whether we took a hero or an author, which I soon learnt to do with capricious resolution. We were one Sunday for Shakespeare; another for Nelson or Pitt. 'Nelson, papa,' was my most frequent rejoinder, and he never dissented, but turned his steps toward Nelson's cathedral dome, and uncovered his head there, and said: 'Nelson, then, to-day'; and we went straight to his monument to perform the act of homage. I chose Nelson in preference to the others because near bed-time in the evening my father told me stories of our hero of the day, and neither Pitt nor Shakespeare lost an eye, or an arm, or fought with a huge white bear on the ice to make himself interesting. I named them occasionally out of compassion, and to please my father, who said that they ought to have a turn. They were, he told me, in the habit of paying him a visit, whenever I had particularly neglected them, to learn the grounds for my disregard of their claims, and they urged him to intercede with me, and imparted many of their unpublished adventures, so that I should be tempted to give them a chance on the following Sunday.
'Great Will,' my father called Shakespeare, and 'Slender Billy,' Pitt. The scene where Great Will killed the deer, dragging Falstaff all over the park after it by the light of Bardolph's nose, upon which they put an extinguisher if they heard any of the keepers, and so left everybody groping about and catching the wrong person, was the most wonderful mixture of fun and tears. Great Will was extremely youthful, but everybody in the park called him, 'Father William'; and when he wanted to know which way the deer had gone, King Lear (or else my memory deceives me) punned, and Lady Macbeth waved a handkerchief for it to be steeped in the blood of the deer; Shylock ordered one pound of the carcase; Hamlet (the fact was impressed on me) offered him a three-legged stool; and a number of kings and knights and ladies lit their torches from Bardolph; and away they flew, distracting the keepers and leaving Will and his troop to the deer. That poor thing died from a different weapon at each recital, though always with a flow of blood and a successful dash of his antlers into Falstaff; and to hear Falstaff bellow! But it was mournful to hear how sorry Great Will was over the animal he had slain. He spoke like music. I found it pathetic in spite of my knowing that the whole scene was lighted up by Bardolph's nose. When I was just bursting out crying—for the deer's tongue was lolling out and quick pantings were at his side; he had little ones at home—Great Will remembered his engagement to sell Shylock a pound of the carcase; determined that no Jew should eat of it, he bethought him that Falstaff could well spare a pound, and he said the Jew would not see the difference: Falstaff only got off by hard running and roaring out that he knew his unclean life would make him taste like pork and thus let the Jew into the trick.
My father related all this with such a veritable matter-of-fact air, and such liveliness—he sounded the chase and its cries, and showed King Lear tottering, and Hamlet standing dark, and the vast substance of Falstaff—that I followed the incidents excitedly, and really saw them, which was better than understanding them. I required some help from him to see that Hamlet's offer of a three-legged stool at a feverish moment of the chase, was laughable. He taught me what to think of it by pitching Great Will's voice high, and Hamlet's very low. By degrees I got some unconscious knowledge of the characters of Shakespeare.
There never was so fascinating a father as mine for a boy anything under eight or ten years old. He could guess on Saturday whether I should name William Pitt on the Sunday; for, on those occasions, 'Slender Billy,' as I hope I am not irreverent in calling him, made up for the dulness of his high career with a raspberry-jam tart, for which, my father told me solemnly, the illustrious Minister had in his day a passion. If I named him, my father would say, 'W. P., otherwise S. B., was born in the year so-and-so; now,' and he went to the cupboard, 'in the name of Politics, take this and meditate upon him.' The shops being all shut on Sunday, he certainly bought it, anticipating me unerringly, on the Saturday, and, as soon as the tart appeared, we both shouted. I fancy I remember his repeating a couplet,
At any rate, the rumour of his having done so, at periods of strong excitement, led to the inexplicable display of foresight on my father's part.
My meditations upon Pitt were, under this influence, favourable to the post of a Prime Minister, but it was merely appetite that induced me to choose him; I never could imagine a grandeur in his office, notwithstanding my father's eloquent talk of ruling a realm, shepherding a people, hurling British thunderbolts. The day's discipline was, that its selected hero should reign the undisputed monarch of it, so when I was for Pitt, I had my tart as he used to have it, and no story, for he had none, and I think my idea of the ruler of a realm presented him to me as a sort of shadow about a pastrycook's shop. But I surprised people by speaking of him. I made remarks to our landlady which caused her to throw up her hands and exclaim that I was astonishing. She would always add a mysterious word or two in the hearing of my nursemaid or any friend of hers who looked into my room to see me. After my father had got me forward with instructions on the piano, and exercises in early English history and the book of the Peerage, I became the wonder of the house. I was put up on a stool to play 'In my Cottage near a Wood,' or 'Cherry Ripe,' and then, to show the range of my accomplishments, I was asked, 'And who married the Dowager Duchess of Dewlap?' and I answered, 'John Gregg Wetherall, Esquire, and disgraced the family.' Then they asked me how I accounted for her behaviour.
'It was because the Duke married a dairymaid,' I replied, always tossing up my chin at that. My father had concocted the questions and prepared me for the responses, but the effect was striking, both upon his visitors and the landlady's. Gradually my ear grew accustomed to her invariable whisper on these occasions. 'Blood Rile,' she said; and her friends all said 'No!' like the run of a finger down a fiddlestring.
A gentleman of his acquaintance called on him one evening to take him out for a walk. My father happened to be playing with me when this gentleman entered our room: and he jumped up from his hands and knees, and abused him for intruding on his privacy, but afterwards he introduced him to me as Shylock's great-great-great-grandson, and said that Shylock was satisfied with a pound, and his descendant wanted two hundred pounds, or else all his body: and this, he said, came of the emigration of the family from Venice to England. My father only seemed angry, for he went off with Shylock's very great grandson arm-in-arm, exclaiming, 'To the Rialto!' When I told Mrs. Waddy about the visitor, she said, 'Oh, dear! oh, dear! then I'm afraid your sweet papa won't return very soon, my pretty pet.' We waited a number of days, until Mrs. Waddy received a letter from him. She came full-dressed into my room, requesting me to give her twenty kisses for papa, and I looked on while she arranged her blue bonnet at the glass. The bonnet would not fix in its place. At last she sank down crying in a chair, and was all brown silk, and said that how to appear before a parcel of dreadful men, and perhaps a live duke into the bargain, was more than she knew, and more than could be expected of a lone widow woman. 'Not for worlds!' she answered my petition to accompany her. She would not, she said, have me go to my papa there for anything on earth; my papa would perish at the sight of me; I was not even to wish to go. And then she exclaimed, 'Oh, the blessed child's poor papa!' and that people were cruel to him, and would never take into account his lovely temper, and that everybody was his enemy, when he ought to be sitting with the highest in the land. I had realized the extremity of my forlorn state on a Sunday that passed empty of my father, which felt like his having gone for ever. My nursemaid came in to assist in settling Mrs. Waddy's bonnet above the six crisp curls, and while they were about it I sat quiet, plucking now and then at the brown silk, partly to beg to go with it, partly in jealousy and love at the thought of its seeing him from whom I was so awfully separated. Mrs. Waddy took fresh kisses off my lips, assuring me that my father would have them in twenty minutes, and I was to sit and count the time. My nursemaid let her out. I pretended to be absorbed in counting, till I saw Mrs. Waddy pass by the window. My heart gave a leap of pain. I found the street-door open and no one in the passage, and I ran out, thinking that Mrs. Waddy would be obliged to take me if she discovered me by her side in the street.
I was by no means disconcerted at not seeing her immediately. Running on from one street to another, I took the turnings with unhesitating boldness, as if I had a destination in view. I must have been out near an hour before I understood that Mrs. Waddy had eluded me; so I resolved to enjoy the shop-windows with the luxurious freedom of one whose speculations on those glorious things all up for show are no longer distracted by the run of time and a nursemaid. Little more than a glance was enough, now that I knew I could stay as long as I liked. If I stopped at all, it was rather to exhibit the bravado of liberty than to distinguish any particular shop with my preference: all were equally beautiful; so were the carriages; so were the people. Ladies frequently turned to look at me, perhaps because I had no covering on my head; but they did not interest me in the least. I should have been willing to ask them or any one where the Peerage lived, only my mind was quite full, and I did not care. I felt sure that a great deal of walking would ultimately bring me to St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey; to anything else I was indifferent.
Toward sunset my frame was struck as with an arrow by the sensations of hunger on passing a cook's-shop. I faltered along, hoping to reach a second one, without knowing why I had dragged my limbs from the first. There was a boy in ragged breeches, no taller than myself, standing tiptoe by the window of a very large and brilliant pastry-cook's. He persuaded me to go into the shop and ask for a cake. I thought it perfectly natural to do so, being hungry; but when I reached the counter and felt the size of the shop, I was abashed, and had to repeat the nature of my petition twice to the young woman presiding there.
'Give you a cake, little boy?' she said. 'We don't give cakes, we sell them.'
'Because I am hungry,' said I, pursuing my request.
Another young woman came, laughing and shaking lots of ringlets.
'Don't you see he's not a common boy? he doesn't whine,' she remarked, and handed me a stale bun, saying, 'Here, Master Charles, and you needn't say thank you.'
'My name is Harry Richmond, and I thank you very much,' I replied.
I heard her say, as I went out, 'You can see he's a gentleman's son.' The ragged boy was awaiting me eagerly. 'Gemini! you're a lucky one,' he cried; 'here, come along, curly-poll.' I believe that I meant to share the bun with him, but of course he could not be aware of my beneficent intentions: so he treated me as he thought I was for treating him, and making one snatch at the bun, ran off cramming it into his mouth. I stood looking at any hand. I learnt in that instant what thieving was, and begging, and hunger, for I would have perished rather than have asked for another cake, and as I yearned for it in absolute want of food, the boy's ungenerous treatment of me came down in a cloud on my reason. I found myself being led through the crush of people, by an old gentleman, to whom I must have related an extraordinary rigmarole. He shook his head, saying that I was unintelligible; but the questions he put to me, 'Why had I no hat on in the open street?—Where did my mother live?—What was I doing out alone in London?' were so many incitements to autobiographical composition to an infant mind, and I tumbled out my history afresh each time that he spoke. He led me into a square, stooping his head to listen all the while; but when I perceived that we had quitted the region of shops I made myself quite intelligible by stopping short and crying: 'I am so hungry.' He nodded and said, 'It 's no use cross-examining an empty stomach. You'll do me the favour to dine with me, my little man. We'll talk over your affairs by-and-by.'
My alarm at having left the savoury street of shops was not soothed until I found myself sitting at table with him, and a nice young lady, and an old one who wore a cap, and made loud remarks on my garments and everything I did. I was introduced to them as the little boy dropped from the sky. The old gentleman would not allow me to be questioned before I had eaten. It was a memorable feast. I had soup, fish, meat, and pastry, and, for the first time in my life, a glass of wine. How they laughed to see me blink and cough after I had swallowed half the glass like water. At once my tongue was unloosed. I seemed to rise right above the roofs of London, beneath which I had been but a wandering atom a few minutes ago. I talked of my wonderful father, and Great Will, and Pitt, and the Peerage. I amazed them with my knowledge. When I finished a long recital of Great Will's chase of the deer, by saying that I did not care about politics (I meant, in my own mind, that Pitt was dull in comparison), they laughed enormously, as if I had fired them off. 'Do you know what you are, sir?' said the old gentleman; he had frowning eyebrows and a merry mouth 'you're a comical character.'
I felt interested in him, and asked him what he was. He informed me that he was a lawyer, and ready to be pantaloon to my clown, if I would engage him.
'Are you in the Peerage?' said I.
'Not yet,' he replied.
'Well, then,' said I, 'I know nothing about you.'
