The Luck of Barry Lyndon by William Makepeace Thackeray (good english books to read TXT) 📕

a smattering of half-a-dozen modern languages, and, as I have said before, of many more sciences than I even knew the names of. She piqued herself on knowing Greek and Latin; but the truth is, that Mr. Runt used to supply her with the quotations which she introduced into her voluminous correspondence. She had as much love of admiration, as strong, uneasy a vanity, and as little heart, as any woman I ever knew. Otherwise, when her son, Lord Bullingdon, on account of his differences with me, ran⁠—but that matter shall be told in its proper time. Finally, my Lady Lyndon was about a year older than myself; though, of course, she would take her Bible oath that she was three years younger.

Few men are so honest as I am; for few will own to their real motives, and I don’t care a button about confessing mine. What Sir Charles Lyndon said was perfectly true. I made the acquaintance of Lady Lyndon with ulterior views. “Sir,” said I to him, when, after the scene described and the jokes he made upon me, we met alone, “let those laugh that win. You were very pleasant upon me a few nights since, and on my intentions regarding your lady. Well, if they are what you think they are⁠—if I do wish to step into your shoes, what then? I have no other intentions than you had yourself. I’ll be sworn to muster just as much regard for my Lady Lyndon as you ever showed her; and if I win her and wear her when you are dead and gone, corbleu, knight, do you think it will be the fear of your ghost will deter me?”

Lyndon laughed as usual; but somewhat disconcertedly: indeed I had clearly the best of him in the argument, and had just as much right to hunt my fortune as he had.

But one day he said, “If you marry such a woman as my Lady Lyndon, mark my words, you will regret it. You will pine after the liberty you once enjoyed. By George! Captain Barry,” he added, with a sigh, “the thing that I regret most in life⁠—perhaps it is because I am old, blasé, and dying⁠—is, that I never had a virtuous attachment.”

“Ha! ha! a milkmaid’s daughter!” said I, laughing at the absurdity.

“Well, why not a milkmaid’s daughter? My good fellow, I was in love in youth, as most gentlemen are, with my tutor’s daughter, Helena, a bouncing girl; of course older than myself” (this made me remember my own little love-passages with Nora Brady in the days of my early life), “and do you know, sir, I heartily regret I didn’t marry her? There’s nothing like having a virtuous drudge at home, sir; depend upon that. It gives a zest to one’s enjoyments in the world, take my word for it. No man of sense need restrict himself, or deny himself a single amusement for his wife’s sake: on the contrary, if he select the animal properly, he will choose such a one as shall be no bar to his pleasure, but a comfort in his hours of annoyance. For instance, I have got the gout: who tends me? A hired valet, who robs me whenever he has the power. My wife never comes near me. What friend have I? None in the wide world. Men of the world, as you and I are, don’t make friends; and we are fools for our pains. Get a friend, sir, and that friend a woman⁠—a good household drudge, who loves you. That is the most precious sort of friendship; for the expense of it is all on the woman’s side. The man needn’t contribute anything. If he’s a rogue, she’ll vow he’s an angel; if he’s a brute, she will like him all the better for his ill-treatment of her. They like it, sir, these women. They are born to be our greatest comforts and conveniences; our⁠—our moral bootjacks, as it were; and to men in your way of life, believe me such a person would be invaluable. I am only speaking for your bodily and mental comfort’s sake, mind. Why didn’t I marry poor Helena Flower, the curate’s daughter?”

I thought these speeches the remarks of a weakly disappointed man; although since, perhaps, I have had reason to find the truth of Sir Charles Lyndon’s statements. The fact is, in my opinion, that we often buy money very much too dear. To purchase a few thousands a year at the expense of an odious wife, is very bad economy for a young fellow of any talent and spirit; and there have been moments of my life when, in the midst of my greatest splendour and opulence, with half-a-dozen lords at my levée, with the finest horses in my stables, the grandest house over my head, with unlimited credit at my banker’s, and⁠—Lady Lyndon to boot, I have wished myself back a private of Bülow’s, or anything, so as to get rid of her. To return, however, to the story. Sir Charles, with his complication of ills, was dying before us by inches! and I’ve no doubt it could not have been very pleasant to him to see a young handsome fellow paying court to his widow before his own face as it were. After I once got into the house on the transubstantiation dispute, I found a dozen more occasions to improve my intimacy, and was scarcely ever out of her Ladyship’s doors. The world talked and blustered; but what cared I? The men cried fie upon the shameless Irish adventurer; but I have told my way of silencing such envious people: and my sword had by this time got such a reputation through Europe, that few people cared to encounter it. If I can once get my hold of a place, I keep it. Many’s the house I have been to where I have seen the men avoid me. “Faugh! the low Irishman,” they would say.