The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Oswald,” she said, “let me introduce you to Mr. Finn. Mr. Finn, I do not think you have ever met my brother, Lord Chiltern.” Then the two young men bowed, and each of them muttered something. “Do not be in a hurry, Oswald. You have nothing special to take you away. Here is Mr. Finn come to tell us who are all the possible new Prime Ministers. He is uncivil enough not to have named papa.”

  “My father is out of the question,” said Lord Chiltern.

  “Of course he is,” said Lady Laura, “but I may be allowed my little joke.”

  “I suppose he will at any rate be in the Cabinet,” said Phineas.

  “I know nothing whatever about politics,” said Lord Chiltern.

  “I wish you did,” said his sister, — “with all my heart.”

  “I never did, — and I never shall, for all your wishing. It’s the meanest trade going I think, and I’m sure it’s the most dishonest. They talk of legs on the turf, and of course there are legs; but what are they to the legs in the House? I don’t know whether you are in Parliament, Mr. Finn.”

  “Yes, I am; but do not mind me.”

  “I beg your pardon. Of course there are honest men there, and no doubt you are one of them.”

  “He is indifferent honest, — as yet,” said Lady Laura.

  “I was speaking of men who go into Parliament to look after Government places,” said Lord Chiltern.

  “That is just what I’m doing,” said Phineas. “Why should not a man serve the Crown? He has to work very hard for what he earns.”

  “I don’t believe that the most of them work at all. However, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean you in particular.”

  “Mr. Finn is such a thorough politician that he will never forgive you,” said Lady Laura.

  “Yes, I will,” said Phineas, “and I’ll convert him some day. If he does come into the House, Lady Laura, I suppose he’ll come on the right side?”

  “I’ll never go into the House, as you call it,” said Lord Chiltern. “But, I’ll tell you what; I shall be very happy if you’ll dine with me to-morrow at Moroni’s. They give you a capital little dinner at Moroni’s, and they’ve the best Château Yquem in London.”

  “Do,” said Lady Laura, in a whisper. “Oblige me.”

  Phineas was engaged to dine with one of the Vice-Chancellors on the day named. He had never before dined at the house of this great law luminary, whose acquaintance he had made through Mr. Low, and he had thought a great deal of the occasion. Mrs. Freemantle had sent him the invitation nearly a fortnight ago, and he understood there was to be an elaborate dinner party. He did not know it for a fact, but he was in hopes of meeting the expiring Lord Chancellor. He considered it to be his duty never to throw away such a chance. He would in all respects have preferred Mr. Freemantle’s dinner in Eaton Place, dull and heavy though it might probably be, to the chance of Lord Chiltern’s companions at Moroni’s. Whatever might be the faults of our hero, he was not given to what is generally called dissipation by the world at large, — by which the world means self-indulgence. He cared not a brass farthing for Moroni’s Château Yquem, nor for the wondrously studied repast which he would doubtless find prepared for him at that celebrated establishment in St. James’s Street; — not a farthing as compared with the chance of meeting so great a man as Lord Moles. And Lord Chiltern’s friends might probably be just the men whom he would not desire to know. But Lady Laura’s request overrode everything with him. She had asked him to oblige her, and of course he would do so. Had he been going to dine with the incoming Prime Minister, he would have put off his engagement at her request. He was not quick enough to make an answer without hesitation; but after a moment’s pause he said he should be most happy to dine with Lord Chiltern at Moroni’s.

  “That’s right; 7.30 sharp, — only I can tell you you won’t meet any other members.” Then the servant announced more visitors, and Lord Chiltern escaped out of the room before he was seen by the new comers. These were Mrs. Bonteen and Laurence Fitzgibbon, and then Mr. Bonteen, — and after them Mr. Ratler, the Whip, who was in a violent hurry, and did not stay there a moment, and then Barrington Erle and young Lord James Fitz-Howard, the youngest son of the Duke of St. Bungay. In twenty or thirty minutes there was a gathering of liberal political notabilities in Lady Laura’s drawing-room. There were two great pieces of news by which they were all enthralled. Mr. Mildmay would not be Prime Minister, and Sir Everard Powell was — dead. Of course nothing quite positive could be known about Mr. Mildmay. He was to be with the Queen at Windsor on the morrow at eleven o’clock, and it was improbable that he would tell his mind to any one before he told it to her Majesty. But there was no doubt that he had engaged “the Duke,” — so he was called by Lord James, — to go down to Windsor with him, that he might be in readiness if wanted. “I have learned that at home,” said Lord James, who had just heard the news from his sister, who had heard it from the Duchess. Lord James was delighted with the importance given to him by his father’s coming journey. From this, and from other equally well-known circumstances, it was surmised that Mr. Mildmay would decline the task proposed to him. This, nevertheless, was only a surmise, — whereas the fact with reference to Sir Everard was fully substantiated. The gout had flown to his stomach, and he was dead. “By –––– yes; as dead as a herring,” said Mr. Ratler, who at that moment, however, was not within hearing of either of the ladies present. And then he rubbed his hands, and looked as though he were delighted. And he was delighted, — not because his old friend Sir Everard was dead, but by the excitement of the tragedy. “Having done so good a deed in his last moments,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon, “we may take it for granted that he will go straight to heaven.” “I hope there will be no crowner’s quest, Ratler,” said Mr. Bonteen; “if there is I don’t know how you’ll get out of it.” “I don’t see anything in it so horrible,” said Mr. Ratler. “If a fellow dies leading his regiment we don’t think anything of it. Sir Everard’s vote was of more service to his country than anything that a colonel or a captain can do.” But nevertheless I think that Mr. Ratler was somewhat in dread of future newspaper paragraphs, should it be found necessary to summon a coroner’s inquisition to sit upon poor Sir Everard.

  While this was going on Lady Laura took Phineas apart for a moment. “I am so much obliged to you; I am indeed,” she said.

  “What nonsense!”

  “Never mind whether it’s nonsense or not; — but I am. I can’t explain it all now, but I do so want you to know my brother. You may be of the greatest service to him, — of the very greatest. He is not half so bad as people say he is. In many ways he is very good, — very good. And he is very clever.”

  “At any rate I will think and believe no ill of him.”

  “Just so; — do not believe evil of him, — not more evil than you see. I am so anxious, — so very anxious to try to put him on his legs, and I find it so difficult to get any connecting link with him. Papa will not speak with him, — because of money.”

  “But he is friends with you.”

  “Yes; I think he loves me. I saw how distasteful it was to you to go to him; — and probably you were engaged?”

  “One can always get off those sort of things if there is an object.”

  “Yes; — just so. And the object was to oblige me; — was it not?”

  “Of course it was. But I must go now. We are to hear Daubeny’s statement at four, and I would not miss it for worlds.”

  “I wonder whether you would go abroad with my brother in the autumn? But I have no right to think of such a thing; — have I? At any rate I will not think of it yet. Good-bye, — I shall see you perhaps on Sunday if you are in town.”

  Phineas walked down to Westminster with his mind very full of Lady Laura and Lord Chiltern. What did she mean by her affectionate manner to himself, and what did she mean by the continual praises which she lavished upon Mr. Kennedy? Of whom was she thinking most, of Mr. Kennedy, or of him? She had called herself his mentor. Was the descri
ption of her feelings towards himself, as conveyed in that name, of a kind to be gratifying to him? No; — he thought not. But then might it not be within his power to change the nature of those feelings? She was not in love with him at present. He could not make any boast to himself on that head. But it might be within his power to compel her to love him. The female mentor might be softened. That she could not love Mr. Kennedy, he thought that he was quite sure. There was nothing like love in her manner to Mr. Kennedy. As to Lord Chiltern, Phineas would do whatever might be in his power. All that he really knew of Lord Chiltern was that he had gambled and that he had drunk.

  CHAPTER IX

  The New Government

  In the House of Lords that night, and in the House of Commons, the outgoing Ministers made their explanations. As our business at the present moment is with the Commons, we will confine ourselves to their chamber, and will do so the more willingly because the upshot of what was said in the two places was the same. The outgoing ministers were very grave, very self-laudatory, and very courteous. In regard to courtesy it may be declared that no stranger to the ways of the place could have understood how such soft words could be spoken by Mr. Daubeny, beaten, so quickly after the very sharp words which he had uttered when he only expected to be beaten. He announced to his fellow-commoners that his right honourable friend and colleague Lord de Terrier had thought it right to retire from the Treasury. Lord de Terrier, in constitutional obedience to the vote of the Lower House, had resigned, and the Queen had been graciously pleased to accept Lord de Terrier’s resignation. Mr. Daubeny could only inform the House that her Majesty had signified her pleasure that Mr. Mildmay should wait upon her to-morrow at eleven o’clock. Mr. Mildmay, — so Mr. Daubeny understood, — would be with her Majesty to-morrow at that hour. Lord de Terrier had found it to be his duty to recommend her Majesty to send for Mr. Mildmay. Such was the real import of Mr. Daubeny’s speech. That further portion of it in which he explained with blandest, most beneficent, honey-flowing words that his party would have done everything that the country could require of any party, had the House allowed it to remain on the Treasury benches for a month or two, — and explained also that his party would never recriminate, would never return evil for evil, would in no wise copy the factious opposition of their adversaries; that his party would now, as it ever had done, carry itself with the meekness of the dove, and the wisdom of the serpent, — all this, I say, was so generally felt by gentlemen on both sides of the House to be “leather and prunella” that very little attention was paid to it. The great point was that Lord de Terrier had resigned, and that Mr. Mildmay had been summoned to Windsor.

  The Queen had sent for Mr. Mildmay in compliance with advice given to her by Lord de Terrier. And yet Lord de Terrier and his first lieutenant had used all the most practised efforts of their eloquence for the last three days in endeavouring to make their countrymen believe that no more unfitting Minister than Mr. Mildmay ever attempted to hold the reins of office! Nothing had been too bad for them to say of Mr. Mildmay, — and yet, in the very first moment in which they found themselves unable to carry on the Government themselves, they advised the Queen to send for that most incompetent and baneful statesman! We who are conversant with our own methods of politics, see nothing odd in this, because we are used to it; but surely in the eyes of strangers our practice must be very singular. There is nothing like it in any other country, — nothing as yet. Nowhere else is there the same good-humoured, affectionate, prize-fighting ferocity in politics. The leaders of our two great parties are to each other exactly as are the two champions of the ring who knock each other about for the belt and for five hundred pounds a side once in every two years. How they fly at each other, striking as though each blow should carry death if it were but possible! And yet there is no one whom the Birmingham Bantam respects so highly as he does Bill Burns the Brighton Bully, or with whom he has so much delight in discussing the merits of a pot of half-and-half. And so it was with Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Mildmay. In private life Mr. Daubeny almost adulated his elder rival, — and Mr. Mildmay never omitted an opportunity of taking Mr. Daubeny warmly by the hand. It is not so in the United States. There the same political enmity exists, but the political enmity produces private hatred. The leaders of parties there really mean what they say when they abuse each other, and are in earnest when they talk as though they were about to tear each other limb from limb. I doubt whether Mr. Daubeny would have injured a hair of Mr. Mildmay’s venerable head, even for an assurance of six continued months in office.

  When Mr. Daubeny had completed his statement, Mr. Mildmay simply told the House that he had received and would obey her Majesty’s commands. The House would of course understand that he by no means meant to aver that the Queen would even commission him to form a Ministry. But if he took no such command from her Majesty it would become his duty to recommend her Majesty to impose the task upon some other person. Then everything was said that had to be said, and members returned to their clubs. A certain damp was thrown over the joy of some excitable Liberals by tidings which reached the House during Mr. Daubeny’s speech. Sir Everard Powell was no more dead than was Mr. Daubeny himself. Now it is very unpleasant to find that your news is untrue, when you have been at great pains to disseminate it. “Oh, but he is dead,” said Mr. Ratler. “Lady Powell assured me half an hour ago,” said Mr. Ratler’s opponent, “that he was at that moment a great deal better than he had been for the last three months. The journey down to the House did him a world of good.” “Then we’ll have him down for every division,” said Mr. Ratler.

  The political portion of London was in a ferment for the next five days. On the Sunday morning it was known that Mr. Mildmay had declined to put himself at the head of a liberal Government. He and the Duke of St. Bungay, and Mr. Plantagenet Palliser, had been in conference so often, and so long, that it may almost be said they lived together in conference. Then Mr. Gresham had been with Mr. Mildmay, — and Mr. Monk also. At the clubs it was said by many that Mr. Monk had been with Mr. Mildmay; but it was also said very vehemently by others that no such interview had taken place. Mr. Monk was a Radical, much admired by the people, sitting in Parliament for that most Radical of all constituencies, the Pottery Hamlets, who had never as yet been in power. It was the great question of the day whether Mr. Mildmay would or would not ask Mr. Monk to join him; and it was said by those who habitually think at every period of change that the time has now come in which the difficulties to forming a government will at last be found to be insuperable, that Mr. Mildmay could not succeed either with Mr. Monk or without him. There were at the present moment two sections of these gentlemen, — the section which declared that Mr. Mildmay had sent for Mr. Monk, and the section which declared that he had not. But there were others, who perhaps knew better what they were saying, by whom it was asserted that the whole difficulty lay with Mr. Gresham. Mr. Gresham was willing to serve with Mr. Mildmay, — with certain stipulations as to the special seat in the Cabinet which he himself was to occupy, and as to the introduction of certain friends of his own; but, — so said these gentlemen who were supposed really to understand the matter, — Mr. Gresham was not willing to serve with the Duke and with Mr. Palliser. Now, everybody who knew anything knew that the Duke and Mr. Palliser were indispensable to Mr. Mildmay. And a liberal Government, with Mr. Gresham in the opposition, could not live half through a session! All Sunday and Monday these things were discussed; and on the Monday Lord de Terrier absolutely stated to the Upper House that he had received her Majesty’s commands to form another government. Mr. Daubeny, in half a dozen most modest words, — in words hardly audible, and most unlike himself, — made his statement in the Lower House to the same effect. Then Mr. Ratler, and Mr. Bonteen, and Mr. Barrington Erle, and Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon aroused themselves and swore that such things could not be. Should the prey which they had won for themselves, the spoil of their bows and arrows, be snatched from out of their very mouths by treachery? Lord de Terrier and Mr. Dau
beny could not venture even to make another attempt unless they did so in combination with Mr. Gresham. Such a combination, said Mr. Barrington Erle, would be disgraceful to both parties, but would prove Mr. Gresham to be as false as Satan himself. Early on the Tuesday morning, when it was known that Mr. Gresham had been at Lord de Terrier’s house, Barrington Erle was free to confess that he had always been afraid of Mr. Gresham. “I have felt for years,” said he, “that if anybody could break up the party it would be Mr. Gresham.”

  On that Tuesday morning Mr. Gresham certainly was with Lord de Terrier, but nothing came of it. Mr. Gresham was either not enough like Satan for the occasion, or else he was too closely like him. Lord de Terrier did not bid high enough, or else Mr. Gresham did not like biddings from that quarter. Nothing then came from this attempt, and on the Tuesday afternoon the Queen again sent for Mr. Mildmay. On the Wednesday morning the gentlemen who thought that the insuperable difficulties had at length arrived, began to wear their longest faces, and to be triumphant with melancholy forebodings. Now at last there was a dead lock. Nobody could form a government. It was asserted that Mr. Mildmay had fallen at her Majesty’s feet dissolved in tears, and had implored to be relieved from further responsibility. It was well known to many at the clubs that the Queen had on that morning telegraphed to Germany for advice. There were men so gloomy as to declare that the Queen must throw herself into the arms of Mr. Monk, unless Mr. Mildmay would consent to rise from his knees and once more buckle on his ancient armour. “Even that would be better than Gresham,” said Barrington Erle, in his anger. “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Ratler, “we shall have Gresham and Monk together, and you and I shall have to do their biddings.” Mr. Barrington Erle’s reply to that suggestion I may not dare to insert in these pages.