The Adventures of David Simple (1904)/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
containing some proofs, that all men are not exactly what they wish to pass for in the world
The next lodging our hero took, was near Covent Garden; where he met a gentleman who accidentally lodged in the same house, whose conversation Mr. Simple was mightily charmed with. He had something in his manner which seemed to declare that inward serenity of mind, which arises from a consciousness of doing well, and every trifle appeared to give him pleasure, because he had no tumults within to disturb his happiness. His sentiments were all so refined, and his thoughts so delicate, that David imagined such a companion, if he was not again deceived in his opinion, would be the greatest blessing this world could afford.
This gentleman, whose name was Orgueil, being of French extraction, was equally pleased with Mr. Simple, and they spent their whole time together: he had a great deal of good acquaintance; that is, he conversed with all the people of sense he could meet with, without any considerations what their fortunes were; for he did not rate men at all by the riches they possessed, but by their own behaviour. In this man therefore did David think he had met with the completion of all his wishes; for, on the closest observation, he could not find he was guilty of any one vice, nor that he neglected any opportunity in his power of doing good; the only fault he could ever discern in him, was, a too severe condemnation of others' actions; for he would never make any allowance for the frailties of human nature, but expected every one to act up to the strictest rules of reason and goodness. But this was overlooked by a friend, and imputed to his knowing, by himself, the possibility of avoiding those frailties, if due care was taken. Wherever he went, he carried David with him, and introduced him into a perfect new scene of life: for hitherto his conversation had been chiefly amongst a lower degree of men. The company in which Mr. Orgueil delighted, was of people who were bred to genteel professions, and who were neither to be reckoned in very high, nor in low life. They went one night to a tavern, with four other gentlemen, who had every one a great deal of that kind of wit which consists in the assemblage of those ideas which, though not commonly joined, have such a ressemblance to each other, that there is nothing preposterous or monstrous in the joining them; whereas I have known some people, for the sake of saying a witty thing, as it were by force, haul together such inconsistent ideas, as nothing but vanity, and a strong resolution of being witty in spite of nature, could have made them think of. But this conversation was quite of a different kind; all the wit was free and easy; every thing that was said semm'd to be spoke with a desire of entertaining the company, without any reflection on the applause that was to arise from it to themselves. In short, nothing but envy and anger, at not having been author of very thing that was said, could have prevented any body's being pleased with every expression that was made use of. And, as David's mind was entirely free from those low, mean qualities, his entertainment was pure and unmixed.
The next morning passed in observations on the conversation of the foregoing night, and David thanked his fried for the pleasure his acquaintance had given him. "Ay," says the other, "I do not in the least double but one of your taste might be highly satisfied with every one of those gentlemen you were with last night; but your goodness will make you sigh at what I am going to relate. Each of those men you were so delighted with, has such glaring faults, as make them all unfit to be thought of in any other light than that of contributing to our diversion. They are not to be trusted, nor depended on in any point in life; and although they have such parts and sense, that I cannot help liking their company, I am forced, when I reflect, to think of them just as I do of a buffoon, who diverts me, without engaging either my love or esteem. Perhaps you may blame me, when I have told you their real characters, for having anything to say to them; but as I consider I have not the power of creation, I must take men as they are; and a man must be miserable who cannot bring himself to enjoy all the pleasures he can innocently attain, without examining too nicely into the delicacy of them. That man who sat next to you, and to whom I was not at all surprised to see you hearken with so much attention, notwithstanding all those beautiful thoughts of his on covetousness, and the eloquence in which he displayed its contemptibleness, is so great a miser, that he would let the greatest friend suffer the height of misery rather than part with anything to relieve him: and was it possible to raise, by any means, compassion enough in him to extort the least trifle, the person who once had a farthing of his money would be ever afterwards hateful to him. For men of his turn of mind take as great an aversion to those people whom they think themselves, or, to speak more properly, their chests a penny the poorer for, as children do to the surgeons who have drawn away any of their blood.
"That other gentleman, who seemed to pitch on extravagance as the properest subject to harangue against, is himself the most extravagant of all mortals; he values not how he gets money, so that he can but spend it; and notwithstanding his lavishness, he is full as much a miser, to everybody but himself, as the other. Indeed, he is reputed by the mistaken world to be generous; and, as he perfectly understands the art of flattering himself, he believes he is so; but nothing can be farther from it. For though he would not scruple to throw away the last twenty guineas he had in the world to satisfy any fancy of his own, he would grudge a shilling to do anything that is right, or to serve another. These two men, who appear so widely different, you may suppose have a strong contempt for each other; but if they could think of themselves with that impartiality, and judge of their own actions with that good sense with which they judge of everything else, they would find that they are much more alike than they at present imagine. The motive of both their actions is selfishness, which makes everything centre wholly in themselves. It was accident brought them together last night; for a covetous man as naturally shuns the company of a prodigal, unless he has a great estate, and he can make a prey of him, as an envious ugly woman does that of a handsome one, unless she can contrive to do her some mischief by conversing with her.
"That gentleman who sat next me, and inveighed against treachery and ingratitude, with such a strength of imagination, and delightful variety of expressions, that a Pythagorean would have thought the soul of Seneca had been transmigrated into him, I know a story of, that will at once raise your wonder and detestation.
"His father was one of those sort of men, who, though he never designed any ill, yet from an indolent, careless disposition, and trusting his affairs entirely to others, ran out a very good estate, and left his son at the age of fifteen, upon the wide world, to shift for himself. An uld gentleman in the neighbourhood took a great fancy to this boy, from the genius he saw in him. He received him into his house, kept him, as if he had been his own son, and at length made use of all his interest to procure him a commission in the army, which he accomplished; and being in the time of peace, he easily obtained leave for him to come often, and spend much of his time at his house. The good old man had a daughter, who was just fifteen when our spark was twenty. She was handsome to a miracle, the object of her father's most tender love and affection, and the admiration of everybody who knew her. She repaid her father's tenderness with the utmost duty and care to please him, and her whole happiness was placed in his kindness and good opinion of her. She was naturally warm in her passions, and inclined to love everybody who endeavoured to oblige her. This young gentleman soon fell in love with her: that is, he found it was in her power to give him pleasure, and he gave himself no trouble what price she paid for gratifying his inclination. In short, he made use of all the arts he is master of (and you see how agreeable he can make himself) to get her affections; which, as soon as he found he had obtained, he made no scruple of making use of that very love in her breast (which ought to have made him wish to protect find guard her from every misfortune) to betray her into the greatest scene of misery imaginable; and all the return he made to the man, who had been a father to him from choice and good nature, was to destroy all the comfort he proposed in his old age, of seeing his beloved only child happy.
"He was soon weary of her, and then left her in a condition the most unable to bear afflictions, to suffer more than can be expressed. The being forsaken by the man she loved, and the horror of being discovered by her father, made her almost distracted; it was not that she was afraid of her father, but she loved him so well, that her greatest terror was the thoughts of making him uneasy. It was impossible to conceal her folly long, and she could by no means bring herself to disclose it. The alteration of her behaviour, which from the most lively cheerfulness, grew into a settled melancholy, with her pale and dejected countenance, made the poor old man fear she was going into a consumption. He was always enquiring what was the matter with her; he perceived whenever he spoke to her on that subject, the tears rising in her eyes, and that she was hardly able to give him an answer. At last, by continual importunities, he got from her the whole truth. What words can describe his distress when he heard it! His thoughts were so confused, and his amazement so great, it was some time before he could utter his words. She stood pale and trembling before him, without power to speak, till at last she fainted away. He then catched her up in his arms, cried out for help, and the moment she began to recover, welcomed her to returning life, not in passion and reproaches, but in all the most endearing expressions the most tender love can suggest. He assured her, he never would upbraid her; that all his resentment should fall on the proper object, the villain who had imposed on her soft artless temper, to both their ruins. He wondered what could induce the wretch to so much baseness, since if he had asked her in marriage, as she was fond of him, there was nothing he would not have done to have made her easy. 'Nay,' said he, with tears bursting from his aged eyes, 'I should have had an additional pleasure in contributing to the happiness of that man who hath now so barbarously destroyed all the comfort I proposed in my decline of life, and hath undone me, and my poor only girl.'
"This excess of goodness was more fatal to the wretched young creature, than if he had behaved as most fathers do in the like case; who, when they find their vanity disappointed, and despair of seeing their daughters married to advantage, fall into a violent rage, and turn them out of doors: for this uncommon behaviour of his quite overcame her; she fell from one fainting fit to another, and lived but three days. During all which time, she would never let her father stir from her; and all she said, was to beg him to be comforted, to forget and drive her out of his memory. On this occasion she exerted an uncommon height of generosity, for by exaggerating her own fault, she endeavoured to draw his mind from contemplating her former behaviour, and all those little scenes, in which, by the utmost duty and tenderness, she had so often drawn tears of joy from her then happy father: but the thoughts of his goodness to her overwhelmed her soul; the apprehension that ever she had been the cause of so much grief to him, was worse than ten thousand griefs to her; all the rest she could have borne with patience, but the consideration of what she had brought on him (the best of fathers) was more than nature could support.
"The poor man stifled his groans while she could hear them, for fear of hurting her; but the moment she was gone, he tore his hair, beat his breast, and fell into such agonies, as is impossible to describe. So I shall follow the example of the painter, who drew a veil before Agamemnon's face, when his daughter was sacrificed, despairing from the utmost stretch of his art, to paint any countenance that could express all that nature must feel on such a dreadful occasion: I shall leave to your own imagination to represent what he suffered; and only tell you, it was so much, that his life and misery soon ended together."
Here Mr. Orgueil stopped, seeing poor David could hear no more, not being able to stifle his sighs and tears, at the idea of such a scene; for he did not think it beneath a man to cry from tenderness, though he would have thought it much too effeminate to be moved to tears by any accident that concerned himself only.
As soon as he could recover enough to speak, he cried out, "Good God ! is this a world for me to look for happiness in, when those very men, who seem to be the favourites of nature; in forming whom, she has taken such particular care to give them every thing agreeahis, can be guilty of such crimes as make them a disgrace to the species they are born of! What could incite a man to such monstrous ingratitude! there was no circumstance to alleviate his villainy; for if his passion was violent he might have married her." "Yes," answered Mr. Orgueil, "but that was not his scheme, he was ambitious, and thought marrying so young would have spoiled his fortune; he could not expect with this poor creature above fifteen hundred pounds at first: he did not know how long the father might live, and he did not doubt, but when he had been some time in the world, he might meet with women equally agreeable, and much more to his advantage."
"Well," replied David, "and is this man respected in the world? Will men converse with him? Should he not be drove from society, and a mark set upon him, that he might be shunned and despised? He certainly is one of the agreeablest creatures I ever saw; but I had rather spend my time with the greatest fool in nature, provided he was an honest man, than with such a wretch." "Oh, sir!" says the other, "by that time you have conversed in the world as long as I have, you will find, while a man can support himself like a gentleman, and has parts sufficient to contribute to the entertainment of mankind, his company will be courted where poverty and merit will not be admitted. Every one knows who can entertain them best, but few people are judges of merit. He has succeeded in his designs; for he has married a woman immensely rich." At this David was more astonished than ever, and asked if his wife knew the story he had just told him. "Yes," says he; "I knew a gentleman, her friend, who told her of it before she was married, and all the answer she made was—Truly, if women would be such fools to put themselves in men's power, it was their own fault, and good enough for them; she was sure he would not use a virtuous woman ill, and she did not doubt but her conduct would make him behave well. In short, she was fond of him, and would have him. He keeps an equipage, and is liked by all his acquaintance. This story is not known to everybody, and amongst those who have heard it, they are so inclined to love him, that while they are with him, they can believe nothing against him. No wonder he could impose upon a young unexperienced creature, when I have known him impose on men of the best sense."
David could not bear the thought that anybody's wit and parts should have power enough to make the world forget they were villains, and lamented to his friend, that whoever was capable of giving pleasure, should not also have goodness. "Why, really sir," says Mr. Orgueil, "in my observations on the world, I have remarked that good heads and good hearts generally go together; but they are not inseparable companions, of which I have already given you three instances, and have one more in the other gentleman who was with us last night, though it is impossible to equal the last story.
"Perhaps, sir, you would think it very unnatural that a person, with his understanding, should have all his good qualities swallowed up and overrun with the most egregious vanity; you see he is very handsome, and to his beauty are owing all his faults. I often think he manages the gifts in which nature has been so liberal to him, with just the same wisdom as a farmer would do, who should bestow all his time and labour on a little flower-garden, placing his whole delight in the various colours and fragrant smells he there enjoyed, and leave all the rich fields, which with a small care would produce real benefits, uncultivated and neglected. So this gentleman's mind, if he thought it worth his notice, is capable of rendering him a useful member of society; but his whole pleasure is in adorning his person, and making conquests. You could observe nothing of this, because there were no women amongst us; but if there had, you would have seen him fall into such ridiculous tosses of his person, and foolish coquetries, as would be barely excusable in a handsome girl of fifteen. He was thrown very young upon the town, where he met with such a reception wherever he went, and was so much admired for his beauty, even by ladies in the highest station, that his head was quite turned with it. You will think, perhaps, these are such trifling frailties, after what I have already told you of the others, they hardly deserve to be mentioned; but if you will consider for a moment, you will find that this man's vanity produces as many real evils as ill-nature, or the most cruel dispositions could do. For there are very few families, where he has ever been acquainted, in which there is not at least one person, and sometimes more, unhappy on his account. As the welfare and happiness of most families depend in a great measure on women, to go about endeavouring to destroy their peace of mind, and raise such passions in them as render them incapable of being either of use or comfort to their friends, is really taking a pleasure in general destruction. And I myself know at this present time several young ladies, formerly the comfort and joy of their parents, and the delight of all their companions, who are become, from a short acquaintance with this spark, negligent of everything; their tempers are changed from good-humour and liveliness, to peevishness and insipidity, each of them languishing away her days in fruitless hopes, and chimerical fancies, that her superior merit will at last fix him her own.
"In one house there are three sisters so much in love with him, that from being very good friends, and leading the most amicable life together, they are become such inveterate enemies, that they cannot refrain, even in company, from throwing out sly invectives and spiteful reproaches at one another. I know one lady of fashion, who has no fault but an unconquerable passion for this gentleman, and having too much honour to give her person to one man while another has her affections, has refused several good matches, pines herself away, and falls a perfect sacrifice to his vanity. And yet this man, in all his dealings with men, acts with honour and good-nature. It appears very strange to me, that any one who would scruple a murder, can without regret take pains to rack people's minds. His character is very well known, yet he is not the less, nay, I think, he is the more liked; for whether it arises from the hopes of gaining a prize that is sighed for by all the rest, or from thinking that they stand excused, for not resisting the arts of the man who is generally allowed to be irresistible, or what is the reason I cannot tell, but I have observed the man who is reported to have done most mischief, is received with most kindness by the women. I suppose, I need not bid you remember in what sprightly and polite expressions he ridiculed that very sort of vanity, which, from what I have just now related, it is plain he has a great share of himself."
David said, that was the very remark that had just occurred to himself; and he found, by his stories, every one of the company expressed the greatest aversion for the vices they were more particularly guilty of. "Yes," says Mr. Orgueil, "ever since I have known anything of the world, I have always observed that to be the case; insomuch that whenever I hear a man express an uncommon action, I always suspect he is guilty of it himself. It is what I have often reflected on; and I believe men think, by exclaiming against any particular vice, to blind the world, and make them imagine it impossible they should have a fault, against which all their satire seems to be pointed; or, perhaps, as most men take a great deal of pains to flatter themselves, they continually endeavour, by giving things false names, to impose on their own understandings; till at last they prevail so far with their own good nature, as to think they are entirely exempt from those very failings they are most addicted to. But still there remains some suspicion, that other people, who are not capable of distinguishing things so nicely, will think they have those faults of which their actions give such strong indications. Therefore, they resolve to try if a few words, which do not cost them much, will clear them in the opinion of the world. To say the truth, people with a lively imagination, and a strong resolution, may almost persuade themselves of anything.
"I remember a man very fond of a woman, whose person had no fault to be found with it, but a coarse red hand: he at first chose to compliment her on that part which was most defective, from a knowledge of nature, that nothing pleases so much, as to find blemishes turned into beauties. He persisted in this so long, that at last he really thought she had the finest white hand that ever was seen; but still there remained a suspicion in his mind, from a faint remembrance of what he had once thought himself, that others might not think so. Therefore he was continually averring to all people, he never saw so beautiful a hand in his life. The woman, whose understanding would have been found light in the scale, if weighed against a feather, was foolish enough to be pleased with it; and instead of trying to hide from sight, as she used to do, what really seemed too ugly to belong to the rest of her person, forgot all her beauties; and had no pleasure but in displaying, as much as possible, before every company, what she was now convinced was so deservedly the object of admiration. They carried this to such a ridiculous height, that they became a perfect proverb; and she was called by way of derision, the white-handed queen."
Mr. Orgueil was now quite exhausted with giving so many various characters; and I think it full time to conclude this long chapter.