Ярмарка тщеславия / Vanity Fair

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5

Cuff’s fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that contest, will long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail’s famous school. The latter Youth was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail’s young gentlemen. His parent was a grocer in the city: and he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail’s academy upon what are called “mutual principles” – that is to say, the expenses of his board and schooling were compensated by his father in goods, not money.

A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of the school, saw the cart of Dobbin & Rudge at the Doctor’s door, discharging a cargo.

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful, and merciless against him.

“Your father’s only a merchant, Osborne,” Dobbin said in private to the little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latter replied, “My father’s a gentleman, and keeps his carriage”; and Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the playground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness.

High and low, all made fun of him. And he bore everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the townboys. Ponies used to come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He could knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry.

What else didn’t he know, or couldn’t he do? They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him. Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes: that toasted his bread, others would give him balls at cricket during summer afternoons.

“Figs” was the fellow whom he despised most. One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was sitting over a home letter; when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some message.

“I can’t,” says Dobbin; “I want to finish my letter.”

“You CAN’T?” says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer’s wife) “You CAN’T?” says Mr. Cuff: “I should like to know why, pray? Can’t you write to old Mother Figs tomorrow?”

“Don’t call names,” Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.