The Wolves and the Lamb Read online

  Project Gutenberg's The Wolves and the Lamb, by William Makepeace Thackeray This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Wolves and the Lamb Author: William Makepeace Thackeray Release Date: May 27, 2006 [EBook #2797] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB *** Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger

  THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB

  By William Makepeace Thackeray

  * * *

  Contents

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  * * *

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  MR. HORACE MILLIKEN, a Widower, a wealthy City Merchant. GEORGE MILLIKEN, a Child, his Son. CAPTAIN TOUCHIT, his Friend. CLARENCE KICKLEBURY, brother to Milliken's late Wife. JOHN HOWELL, M's Butler and confidential Servant. CHARLES PAGE, Foot-boy. BULKELEY, Lady Kicklebury's Servant. MR. BONNINGTON. Coachman, Cabman; a Bluecoat Boy, another Boy (Mrs. Prior's Sons). LADY KICKLEBURY, Mother-in-law to Milliken. MRS. BONNINGTON, Milliken's Mother (married again). MRS. PRIOR. MISS PRIOR, her Daughter, Governess to Milliken's Children. ARABELLA MILLIKEN, a Child. MARY BARLOW, School-room Maid. A grown-up Girl and Child of Mrs. Prior's, Lady K.'s Maid, Cook.

  THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.

  ACT I.

  Scene.—MILLIKEN'S villa at Richmond; two drawing-rooms opening into one another. The late MRS. MILLIKEN'S portrait over the mantel-piece; bookcases, writing-tables, piano, newspapers, a handsomely furnished saloon. The back-room opens, with very large windows, on the lawn and pleasure-ground; gate, and wall—over which the heads of a cab and a carriage are seen, as persons arrive. Fruit, and a ladder on the walls. A door to the dining-room, another to the sleeping-apartments, &c.

  JOHN.—Everybody out; governor in the city; governess (heigh-ho!) walking in the Park with the children; ladyship gone out in the carriage. Let's sit down and have a look at the papers. Buttons fetch the Morning Post out of Lady Kicklebury's room. Where's the Daily News, sir?

  PAGE.—Think it's in Milliken's room.

  JOHN.—Milliken! you scoundrel! What do you mean by Milliken? Speak of your employer as your governor if you like; but not as simple Milliken. Confound your impudence! you'll be calling me Howell next.

  PAGE.—Well! I didn't know. YOU call him Milliken.

  JOHN.—Because I know him, because I'm intimate with him, because there's not a secret he has but I may have it for the asking; because the letters addressed to Horace Milliken, Esq., might as well be addressed John Howell, Esq., for I read 'em, I put 'em away and docket 'em, and remember 'em. I know his affairs better than he does: his income to a shilling, pay his tradesmen, wear his coats if I like. I may call Mr. Milliken what I please; but not YOU, you little scamp of a clod-hopping ploughboy. Know your station and do your business, or you don't wear THEM buttons long, I promise you. [Exit Page.]

  Let me go on with the paper [reads]. How brilliant this writing is! Times, Chronicle, Daily News, they're all good, blest if they ain't. How much better the nine leaders in them three daily papers is, than nine speeches in the House of Commons! Take a very best speech in the 'Ouse now, and compare it with an article in The Times! I say, the newspaper has the best of it for philosophy, for wit, novelty, good sense too. And the party that writes the leading article is nobody, and the chap that speaks in the House of Commons is a hero. Lord, Lord, how the world is 'umbugged! Pop'lar representation! what IS pop'lar representation? Dammy, it's a farce. Hallo! this article is stole! I remember a passage in Montesquieu uncommonly like it. [Goes and gets the book. As he is standing upon sofa to get it, and sitting down to read it, MISS PRIOR and the Children have come in at the garden. Children pass across stage. MISS PRIOR enters by open window, bringing flowers into the room.]

  JOHN.—It IS like it. [He slaps the book, and seeing MISS PRIOR who enters, then jumps up from sofa, saying very respectfully,]

  JOHN.—I beg your pardon, Miss.

  MISS P.—[sarcastically.] Do I disturb you, Howell?

  JOHN.—Disturb! I have no right to say—a servant has no right to be disturbed, but I hope I may be pardoned for venturing to look at a volume in the libery, Miss, just in reference to a newspaper harticle—that's all, Miss.

  MISS P.—You are very fortunate in finding anything to interest you in the paper, I'm sure.

  JOHN.—Perhaps, Miss, you are not accustomed to political discussion, and ignorant of—ah—I beg your pardon: a servant, I know, has no right to speak. [Exit into dining-room, making a low bow.]

  MISS PRIOR.—The coolness of some people is really quite extraordinary! the airs they give themselves, the way in which they answer one, the books they read! Montesquieu: "Esprit des Lois!" [takes book up which J. has left on sofa.] I believe the man has actually taken this from the shelf. I am sure Mr. Milliken, or her ladyship, never would. The other day "Helvetius" was found in Mr. Howell's pantry, forsooth! It is wonderful how he picked up French whilst we were abroad. "Esprit des Lois!" what is it? it must be dreadfully stupid. And as for reading "Helvetius" (who, I suppose, was a Roman general), I really can't understand how—Dear, dear! what airs these persons give themselves! What will come next? A footman—I beg Mr. Howell's pardon—a butler and confidential valet lolls on the drawing-room sofa, and reads Montesquieu! Impudence! And add to this, he follows me for the last two or three months with eyes that are quite horrid. What can the creature mean? But I forgot—I am only a governess. A governess is not a lady—a governess is but a servant—a governess is to work and walk all day with the children, dine in the school-room, and come to the drawing-room to play the man of the house to sleep. A governess is a domestic, only her place is not the servants' hall, and she is paid not quite so well as the butler who serves her her glass of wine. Odious! George! Arabella! there are those little wretches quarrelling again! [Exit. Children are heard calling out, and seen quarrelling in garden.]

  JOHN [re-entering].—See where she moves! grace is in all her steps. 'Eaven in her high—no—a-heaven in her heye, in every gesture dignity and love—ah, I wish I could say it! I wish you may procure it, poor fool! She passes by me—she tr-r-amples on me. Here's the chair she sets in [kisses it.] Here's the piano she plays on. Pretty keys, them fingers out-hivories you! When she plays on it, I stand and listen at the drawing-room door, and my heart thr-obs in time! Fool, fool, fool! why did you look on her, John Howell! why did you beat for her, busy heart! You were tranquil till you knew her! I thought I could have been a-happy with Mary till then. That girl's affection soothed me. Her conversation didn't amuse me much, her ideers ain't exactly elevated, but they are just and proper. Her attentions pleased me. She ever kep' the best cup of tea for me. She crisped my buttered toast, or mixed my quiet tumbler for me, as I sat of hevenings and read my newspaper in the kitching. She respected the sanctaty of my pantry. When I was a-studying there, she never interrupted me. She darned my stockings for me, she starched and folded my chokers, and she sowed on the habsent buttons of which time and chance had bereft my linning. She has a good heart, Mary has. I know she'd get up and black the boots for me of the coldest winter mornings. She did when we was in humbler life, she did.

  Enter MARY.

  You have a good heart, Mary!

  MARY.—Have I, dear John? [sadly.]

  JOHN.—Yes, child—yes. I think a better never beat in woman's bosom. You're good to everybody—good to your parents whom you send half your wages to: good to your employers whom you never robbed of a halfpenny.
>
  MARY [whimpering].—Yes, I did, John. I took the jelly when you were in bed with the influenza; and brought you the pork-wine negus.

  JOHN.—Port, not pork, child. Pork is the hanimal which Jews ab'or. Port is from Oporto in Portugal.

  MARY [still crying].—Yes, John; you know everything a'most, John.

  JOHN.—And you, poor child, but little! It's not heart you want, you little trump, it's education, Mary: it's information: it's head, head, head! You can't learn. You never can learn. Your ideers ain't no good. You never can hinterchange em with mine. Conversation between us is impossible. It's not your fault. Some people are born clever; some are born tall, I ain't tall.

  MARY.—Ho! you're big enough for me, John. [Offers to take his hand.]

  JOHN.—Let go my 'and—my a-hand, Mary! I say, some people are born with brains, and some with big figures. Look at that great ass, Bulkeley, Lady K.'s man—the besotted, stupid beast! He's as big as a life-guardsman, but he ain't no more education nor ideers than the ox he feeds on.

  MARY.—Law, John, whatever do you mean?

  JOHN.—Hm! you know not, little one! you never can know. Have YOU ever felt the pangs of imprisoned genius? have YOU ever felt what 'tis to be a slave?

  MARY.—Not in a free country, I should hope, John Howell—no such a thing. A place is a place, and I know mine, and am content with the spear of life in which it pleases heaven to place me, John: and I wish you were, and remembered what we learned from our parson when we went to school together in dear old Pigeoncot, John—when you used to help little Mary with her lessons, John, and fought Bob Brown, the big butcher's boy, because he was rude to me, John, and he gave you that black hi.

  JOHN.—Say eye, Mary, not heye [gently].

  MARY.—Eye; and I thought you never looked better in all your life than you did then: and we both took service at Squire Milliken's—me as dairy-girl, and you as knife-boy; and good masters have they been to us from our youth hup: both old Squire Milliken and Mr. Charles as is master now, and poor Mrs. as is dead, though she had her tantrums—and I thought we should save up and take the "Milliken Arms"—and now we have saved up—and now, now, now—oh, you are a stone, a stone, a stone! and I wish you were hung round my neck, and I were put down the well! There's the hup-stairs bell. [She starts, changing her manner as she hears the bell, and exit.]

  JOHN [looking after her].—It's all true. Gospel-true. We were children in the same village—sat on the same form at school. And it was for her sake that Bob Brown the butcher's boy whopped me. A black eye! I'm not handsome. But if I were ugly, ugly as the Saracen's 'Ead, ugly as that beast Bulkeley, I know it would be all the same to Mary. SHE has never forgot the boy she loved, that brought birds'-nests for her, and spent his halfpenny on cherries, and bought a fairing with his first half-crown—a brooch it was, I remember, of two billing doves a-hopping on one twig, and brought it home for little yellow-haired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked Mary. Lord, Lord! I don't like to think how I've kissed 'em, the pretty cheeks! they've got quite pale now with crying—and she has never once reproached me, not once, the trump, the little tr-rump!

  Is it my fault [stamping] that Fate has separated us? Why did my young master take me up to Oxford, and give me the run of his libery and the society of the best scouts in the University? Why did he take me abroad? Why have I been to Italy, France, Jummany with him—their manners noted and their realms surveyed, by jingo! I've improved myself, and Mary has remained as you was. I try a conversation, and she can't respond. She's never got a word of poetry beyond Watt's Ims, and if I talk of Byron or Moore to her, I'm blest if she knows anything more about 'em than the cook, who is as hignorant as a pig, or that beast Bulkeley, Lady Kick's footman. Above all, why, why did I see the woman upon whom my wretched heart is fixed for ever, and who carries away my soul with her—prostrate, I say, prostrate, through the mud at the skirts of her gownd! Enslaver! why did I ever come near you? O enchantress Kelipso! how you have got hold of me! It was Fate, Fate, Fate. When Mrs. Milliken fell ill of scarlet fever at Naples, Milliken was away at Petersborough, Rooshia, looking after his property. Her foring woman fled. Me and the governess remained and nursed her and the children. We nursed the little ones out of the fever. We buried their mother. We brought the children home over Halp and Happenine. I nursed 'em all three. I tended 'em all three, the orphans, and the lovely gu-gu-governess. At Rome, where she took ill, I waited on her; as we went to Florence, had we been attacked by twenty thousand brigands, this little arm had courage for them all! And if I loved thee, Julia, was I wrong? and if I basked in thy beauty day and night, Julia, am I not a man? and if, before this Peri, this enchantress, this gazelle, I forgot poor little Mary Barlow, how could I help it? I say, how the doose could I help it?

  Enter Lady KICKLEBURY, BULKELEY following with parcels and a spaniel.

  LADY K.—Are the children and the governess come home?

  JOHN.—Yes, my lady [in a perfectly altered tone].

  LADY K.—Bulkeley, take those parcels to my sitting-room.

  JOHN.—Get up, old stoopid. Push along, old daddylonglegs [aside to BULKELEY].

  LADY K.—Does any one dine here to-day, Howell?

  JOHN.—Captain Touchit, my lady.

  LADY K.—He's always dining here.

  JOHN.—My master's oldest friend.

  LADY K.—Don't tell me. He comes from his club. He smells of smoke; he is a low, vulgar person. Send Pinhorn up to me when you go down stairs. [Exit Lady K.]

  JOHN.—I know. Send Pinhorn to me, means, Send my bonny brown hair, and send my beautiful complexion, and send my figure—and, O Lord! O Lord! what an old tigress that is! What an old Hector! How she do twist Milliken round her thumb! He's born to be bullied by women: and I remember him henpecked—let's see, ever since—ever since the time of that little gloveress at Woodstock, whose picter poor Mrs. M. made such a noise about when she found it in the lumber-room. Heh! HER picture will be going into the lumber-room some day. M. must marry to get rid of his mother-in-law and mother over him: no man can stand it, not M. himself, who's a Job of a man. Isn't he, look at him! [As he has been speaking, the bell has rung, the Page has run to the garden-door, and MILLIKEN enters through the garden, laden with a hamper, band-box, and cricket-bat.]

  MILLIKEN.—Why was the carriage not sent for me, Howell? There was no cab at the station, and I have had to toil all the way up the hill with these confounded parcels of my lady's.

  JOHN.—I suppose the shower took off all the cabs, sir. When DID a man ever git a cab in a shower?—or a policeman at a pinch—or a friend when you wanted him—or anything at the right time, sir?

  MILLIKEN.—But, sir, why didn't the carriage come, I say?

  JOHN.—YOU know.

  MILLIKEN.—How do you mean I know? confound your impudence!

  JOHN.—Lady Kicklebury took it—your mother-in-law took it—went out a-visiting—Ham Common, Petersham, Twick'nam—doose knows where. She, and her footman, and her span'l dog.

  MILLIKEN.—Well, sir, suppose her ladyship DID take the carriage? Hasn't she a perfect right? And if the carriage was gone, I want to know, John, why the devil the pony-chaise wasn't sent with the groom? Am I to bring a bonnet-box and a hamper of fish in my own hands, I should like to know?

  JOHN.—Heh! [laughs.]

  MILLIKEN.—Why do you grin, you Cheshire cat?

  JOHN.—Your mother-in-law had the carriage; and your mother sent for the pony-chaise. Your Pa wanted to go and see the Wicar of Putney. Mr. Bonnington don't like walking when he can ride.

  MILLIKEN.—And why shouldn't Mr. Bonnington ride, sir, as long as there's a carriage in my stable? Mr. Bonnington has had the gout, sir! Mr. Bonnington is a clergyman, and married to my mother. He has EVERY title to my respect.

  JOHN.—And to your pony-chaise—yes, sir.

  MILLIKEN.—And to everything he likes in this house, sir.

  JOHN.—What a good fellow you are, sir! You'd give your head off your shoulders, that you would. Is the fis
h for dinner to-day? Band-box for my lady, I suppose, sir? [Looks in]—Turban, feathers, bugles, marabouts, spangles—doose knows what. Yes, it's for her ladyship. [To Page.] Charles, take this band-box to her ladyship's maid. [To his master.] What sauce would you like with the turbot? Lobster sauce or Hollandaise? Hollandaise is best—most wholesome for you. Anybody besides Captain Touchit coming to dinner?

  MILLIKEN.—No one that I know of.

  JOHN.—Very good. Bring up a bottle of the brown hock? He likes the brown hock, Touchit does. [Exit JOHN.]

  Enter Children. They run to MILLIKEN.

  BOTH.—How d'you do, Papa! How do you do, Papa!

  MILLIKEN.—Kiss your old father, Arabella. Come here, George—What?

  GEORGE.—Don't care for kissing—kissing's for gals. Have you brought me that bat from London?

  MILLIKEN.—Yes. Here's the bat; and here's the ball [takes one from pocket]—and—

  GEORGE.—Where's the wickets, Papa. O-o-o—where's the wickets? [howls.]

  MILLIKEN.—My dear, darling boy! I left them at the office. What a silly papa I was to forget them! Parkins forgot them.

  GEORGE.—Then turn him away, I say! Turn him away! [He stamps.]

  MILLIKEN.—What! an old, faithful clerk and servant of your father and grandfather for thirty years past? An old man, who loves us all, and has nothing but our pay to live on?

  ARABELLA.—Oh, you naughty boy!

  GEORGE.—I ain't a naughty boy.

  ARABELLA.—You are a naughty boy.

  GEORGE.—He! he! he! he! [Grins at her.]

  MILLIKEN.—Hush, children! Here, Arabella darling, here is a book for you. Look—aren't they pretty pictures?

  ARABELLA.—Is it a story, Papa? I don't care for stories in general. I like something instructive and serious. Grandmamma Bonnington and grandpapa say—