The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  And of course that corner of the world where war still raged attracted some attention, and was concerned with the unjust demands of the executive government of America, with the condition of the British army in Canada and its indifferent leadership, with the necessity of negotiating from strength not weakness. One member, speaking of the burning of Washington, referred to the army and its commanders as Goths and Vandals. This was sharply rejected by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who stated that when we witnessed the utmost malice on the part of the Americans we were justified by the laws of God and man in executing a strict retaliation.

  All very important indeed; but where was the debating time given to the condition of the starving poor of England? Even the Earl of Darnley, who had made an impassioned speech demanding that the rest of the world should follow England’s example in abolishing the slave trade, had not dropped a word about conditions in the North of England and the Midlands and the West.

  Ross was in time for the meeting of his committee, and made some use of his position to explain the basic needs of the tin and copper producers. On the second Thursday he was in London he accepted an invitation to supper at a house in St James’s Street, Buckingham Gate.

  This had no connection with metals, but perhaps rather too direct a connection with the matter of his own sympathies. His host was an elderly landed gentleman called Major Cartwright, whom Ross had known on and off for fifteen years; but only as it were on nodding acquaintance, and of course by reputation. Cartwright had been one of the stormy petrels of England for as long as most people could remember. Long long ago, at the outbreak of the American war, when offered a high position in the Army under Howe, he had rejected it and shortly afterwards brought out a pamphlet entitled ‘American Independence the Glory and Interest of Great Britain’. A major in the Nottinghamshire Militia for seventeen years, he had been cashiered for celebrating the fall of the Bastille. He had begun the first Corresponding Society which had been the forerunner of the many others that had become the revolutionary nightmare of successive British governments.

  When Ross had taken Gwyllym Wardle’s side in the House in 1809, in his attack on the principles of the rotten boroughs, Cartwright had written Ross a warm letter of congratulation. Ross had replied politely but had gone no further. The war was on, and though he had spoken his mind on Parliamentary reform it must all wait until the menace of Napoleon had been removed.

  Cartwright was the brother of the clergyman who had invented something called a power loom which was revolutionizing production in the work places. This Cartwright, John, was a tall thin straight old man with a smiling, open face and a plain brown wig concealing his white hair. He greeted Ross warmly and they went into a salon half full of men. Only two women were present and they quickly absented themselves. Ross sipped a very good Canary wine and munched a biscuit while being introduced to this guest and that.

  Most he had not met before but some he knew by name. A youngish middle-aged man called Clifford, who wrote on legal matters and was making a name for himself as an advanced radical. Henry Hunt, of about the same age, known for his size and his bombast and his inflammatory speeches. A very young man with a broad Lancashire accent whom Ross took to; Samuel Bamford, he said his name was. Beside him was Henry Brougham, the radical lawyer who had helped to found the Edinburgh Review – temporarily without a seat in the House. Samuel Whitbread, the brewer’s son and sworn pacifist, was there, but he looked ill-at-ease.

  But the guest of honour, if there was such a thing tonight, was a 40-odd-year-old mill owner and reformer called Robert Owen. Uneducated and poor, he had, it seemed, been apprenticed to a draper at the age of ten, but by the time he was nineteen by some alchemy of his own had come to have the management of a mill in Manchester employing 500 people. Since then he had become the philanthropist owner of the New Lanark Mills on the Clyde where amazing experiments had been carried out in welfare, child education and profit sharing. His recent book, A New View of Society, had created a big impression last year. Ross had read it during the summer, so was able to congratulate its author when they met.

  The evening was a pleasant one, and after they had supped and brandy was circulating Major Cartwright said, nodding towards Robert Owen:

  ‘A New View of Society, eh, Poldark. Isn’t it what we all seek?’

  ‘It is what most of us here seek,’ said Ross. ‘I’m not sure you could answer for the country as a whole.’

  ‘It depends how you define the country. Not, I agree, among the nobility. Not among gentry such as ourselves—’

  ‘Nor among the mercantile classes, the bankers, the mill-owners, the trading folk . . . But of course I take your meaning.’

  ‘It is an ideal I have been fighting for all my life.’

  ‘I know. No one has done more.’ Ross added: ‘I have recently read your Letters on a Reform of the Commons. A very good piece of reasoning. I’m sure it will have due effect.’

  ‘Due effect. Small effect, I fear.’

  ‘Oh, I would not say that,’ Ross began, and then stopped, aware that his host probably spoke only the truth.

  Cartwright said: ‘Someday a historian may write that reform in this country has been put back fifty years by the example of the French. Those who promote peaceful evolution in Britain are instantly suspected of contriving it by bloody revolution. There is a continuing impasse; a continuing misunderstanding not of ways but of means.’

  ‘Now the war is over, Parliament will be much more susceptible to your ideas.’

  ‘I hoped, sir, you would say our ideas!’

  ‘Very well. Let us say that.’

  Cartwright thumped one hand into the other. ‘So much remains to be done! We particularly lack parliamentary help, people who can speak for us in the House, persuade, argue, advocate. Look at tonight! Apart from yourself the only member of the House here is Whitbread, who for all his splendid gifts is no longer well – and driven to distraction, I believe, about the Drury Lane Theatre. You may know I have stood for Parliament often but have never been elected. We, the forerunners, the Radicals, who want no other than to proceed by constitutional means, we are looked upon with suspicion and distrust, the breeders of discontent and sedition!’

  Ross sipped his brandy. ‘What you have advocated all your life, Major Cartwright, is not so very far from Tom Paine’s “Rights”. A vote for every man, pensions for the old, the secret ballot, annual Parliaments, and the rest . . . Is it? I am sure it is all good and will come in time; but the full programme, read on a single sheet of paper, does look alarming to the average Member. Do we not first of all want much more practical measures to alleviate distress now?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Well . . . a system of supervision of the working conditions in factories, a law forbidding the employment of children under a certain age, a law limiting the number of hours any one man, woman or child may work in a day, some amendment of the Poor Law which, while not removing the incentive to work, allows people in distress a minimum means of comfort and food?’

  ‘And why do you suppose such measures would have a greater chance of Parliamentary support than those I advocate? Of course all these I would urge too and press for equally; but the need for a total change in the representation of the people is central to all the others!’

  ‘Why do I think such measures would have a greater chance? Well, because, as you well know, a fair number of Whig gentlemen – you could name a dozen influential ones – and a fair smattering of Tories – have some compassion in their bowels, and know the hardships and the poverty, and would like it to be alleviated. The tragedy of the Enclosures has to be reversed somehow. But that is an economic change. What they fear to face is political change . . . It will come, of course, even if we do not see it. The whole system is out of date – has been rendered out of date by events elsewhere; but it will be a long haul . . . One sees all this in so influential a member as George Canning, who is greatly in favour of helping the poor – but not in
favour of helping the poor to vote.’

  ‘Oh, Canning, yes,’ Cartwright said in a derogatory tone.

  ‘Masters of the Commons are few. Any one of those few is invaluable to any cause.’

  ‘In the event,’ said Cartwright, ‘he cannot help us from his rich and luxurious ambassadorial house in Lisbon . . .’ He sighed. ‘No, it is on men such as yourself we depend, Poldark. Men of integrity. Men of known stability. Men of proven patriotism.’

  So it was out.

  ‘You have my good will,’ Ross said after a moment. ‘That I can promise. And vote, of course, if it comes to a vote. I feel much more urgently for your cause now the war is won. But I believe I am too old to be of great practical use to you. At fifty-four . . .’

  ‘I am seventy-four, Captain Poldark.’

  Ross half smiled. ‘Touché. What I meant is that at heart I am a Westcountryman who feels he has already been a member of parliament too long and is looking forward to retirement. I do not really like the atmosphere of Westminster, but while the war was in progress . . . The war was my cause. It seems to me too late to take up another cause, however sincerely I may support it.’

  ‘However sincerely. I take some comfort from that.’

  ‘Oh, have no doubts of my support. My regret is that it may not be of the extent you are seeking.’

  ‘Have you ever met Cobbett?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you should. He is a great man.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it.’

  ‘You may have read his recent article on the rotten boroughs.’

  ‘No. But, Major Cartwright, I have to remind you that I sit for one of the rotten boroughs myself.’

  ‘But that does not mean you support the system! You have said so!’

  ‘Certainly I do not. But there are – courtesies to be observed. Lord Falmouth is my patron. He and his father before him have always treated me with particular consideration and tolerance. Within reason I have felt free to take up what attitudes I chose, and when I made my speech in the House in support of Wardle, it did not occur to me that I had any duty to write to my patron and explain. But a solitary speech is one matter. An open campaign against some principle to which the Falmouths are committed is another.’

  ‘Such as the abolition of the pocket boroughs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should resign and contest an open seat, as Canning did at Liverpool. Of course even that sort of election is inadequate and corrupt; but at least you would have no master to serve.’

  Ross never very much liked being told what he should do, but he smiled easily and said: ‘You perceive the difficulties in my case. My instinct – and perhaps it is a lazy one – tells me enough is enough. To embrace your good cause would mean going against that instinct to the extent of a total re-assessment of what I am to do with the rest of my life. Beginning with a determination to try to return to Parliament, where I have never had the greatest success, and to fight for an open seat on policies which would almost certainly result in my defeat. I don’t see it as a practical proposition.’

  Cartwright sighed again. ‘In good causes, Poldark, it is sometimes only the impractical that succeeds. Determination to do a good thing is all.’

  They argued more or less amicably for another five minutes, and then the mixture changed and Ross was first with Samuel Bamford and after that with Robert Owen again. The party broke up about one o’clock, and, the night being fine, Ross walked down to Westminster steps and took a boat to the Adelphi and his George Street lodgings. There had been no conclusion to the discussion, no product of it all, no promises asked for, no undertakings given. But clearly Major Cartwright was disappointed with Ross’s response.

  Ross was not happy about it himself. He was irritated for not having perceived more clearly where the visit was likely to lead. He should have had the mental honesty to work it out beforehand and to have made his choice then. Go to the party with a willingness to do something definite for the group, or not go.

  Yet he was also irritated with Cartwright. Surely one could accept an invitation to a casual evening supper to show one’s approbation of Radical aims, without expecting to be recruited.

  Of course the true Radicals, those represented tonight and their colleagues, were, as they said, desperately short of parliamentary support. Their proposals were too advanced for reformers like Wilberforce, who saw them as extremists. The name of Poldark, though meaning nothing to the masses, would be a valuable recruitment.

  And he did support them. Though aware that some of the programme was too idealistic, he acknowledged the justice of it all. And if any abstract word meant anything to so essentially a practical man as himself, it was the word justice. Was he not therefore letting himself down when he turned away such a straightforward request for help with an evasive answer?

  Yet the obstacle to his speaking for them in Parliament was genuine and could not be evaded. To resign and to seek reselection elsewhere would need a dedication he was sure he did not possess. Nor was it in his nature, as he had said to Demelza, to attend big rallies making speeches, nor was it among his talents to be persuasive in print. His sole use in such a cause was as a member of the House.

  He got into bed and blew out the candle and for a while lay unsleeping, watching the light from the passing cart or flickering torch: they made bizarre patterns of wolves and bats on his ceiling. It was one occasion when he needed to talk to Demelza. Not necessarily to seek her advice but to use her as a sounding board, arguing his own case with his own conscience. Not that Demelza’s advice would have not been worth having. Or that it would have been predictable.

  He began to wonder about her and to worry about her, just for a change. In the days before he left she had seemed subdued, but there had been no hint of her again taking too much to drink. A sort of tacit understanding had grown up – a glance at the bottle, a couple of glasses but no more. When he left he had begun to mention it but she had put her finger to his lips and said: ‘Don’t say it,’ so he had not said it. He hoped she would be all right on her own every night, both Jeremy and Clowance gone, only the younger children and the servants for company.

  One day he had noticed several nasty scratches on her hands and she seemed to have sore knees, but she said she had slipped on the rocks coming back from Wheal Leisure. She had also found an interesting small silver cup on the beach, which had cleaned up very nicely. Sometimes these days she seemed to prefer taking walks on her own instead of with the children.

  Who would ever have supposed that the unsubtle starving child he had brought home from Redruth Fair should become such a complicated woman?

  Anything anyway so long as she did not take to drink . . . It was hours before he got to sleep, and then he dreamed of drowning miners.

  II

  Another meeting of a very different kind took place on the following Monday. A letter was delivered by hand.

  Fife House. 24 November.

  Dear Captain Poldark,

  I understand that you are in London, and should consider it a favour if you could call upon me this afternoon at Downing Street about 4 p.m. If that should not be suitable perhaps you could name a time on Wednesday, a day on which I am likely to be free.

  Believe me to be, etc.,

  Liverpool.

  The messenger was waiting. Ross wrote an acceptance saying he would attend upon the Prime Minister at four, which he did with an open mind, not having the least idea what to expect when he arrived.

  Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool, was some years younger than Ross, slight of build turning to stoutness, unpretentious, amiable, astute, economical of movement and speech. Two and a half years ago, when Perceval was murdered, Liverpool had taken over as head of a temporary administration which gradually had come to have an aura of permanence. Overshadowed by and squeezed between his more brilliant colleagues, particularly Castlereagh and Canning, he had somehow so far preserved a balance pleasing to the Prince Regent and no
t altogether displeasing to the country. He had happened to be at the helm when Britain achieved victory in its endless war, and even now with that great pressure gone there was no obvious movement gathering to unseat him.

  He said: ‘Sit down, Poldark; it’s good of you to come at such short notice. I had not heard until Friday that you were in Westminster, and as I gather the Committee will complete its hearings this week I thought to have a word with you before you went home.’

  ‘The last meeting is on Thursday,’ said Ross. ‘I shall hope to leave on Friday morning.’

  ‘Just so.’ Lord Liverpool pulled a bell. ‘I often take tea at this time of day. It is a habit I have caught from my wife. But I have a good brandy or a more than passable canary if you’d prefer it.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I am content with tea.’

  The servant silently came and as silently went.

  ‘Have you heard from George Canning recently?’

  ‘No, sir, not since he left.’

  ‘There are reports of severe storms in the Bay. I think his ship is due in Lisbon this week, but I shall await with some anxiety for news of his safety.’

  It was a long room with tall sash windows, and they sat at one end of it looking out over the Horse Guards Parade.

  ‘Were you here for the opening of Parliament?’

  ‘No, I came by sea and was embayed for several days in the Solent.’

  ‘Whitbread made a fierce attack on Canning’s appointment in the debate on the Address. Suggested it was merely an expensive and pointless emolument we had created for him. He was answered, of course; Charles Ellis made a sincere and moving reply. But since then The Morning Chronicle has taken up the cry.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘In fact Canning’s task will be a formidable one in Lisbon. Relations between ourselves and the Council of Regency have never been at a lower ebb. And even when the Regent returns Canning will have to walk a knife-edge of tact and diplomacy.’