Mr. Turnbull was certainly a great Radical, and as such enjoyed a great reputation. I do not think that high office in the State had ever been offered to him; but things had been said which justified him, or seemed to himself to justify him, in declaring that in no possible circumstances would he serve the Crown. “I serve the people,” he had said, “and much as I respect the servants of the Crown, I think that my own office is the higher.” He had been greatly called to task for this speech; and Mr. Mildmay, the present Premier, had asked him whether he did not recognise the so-called servants of the Crown as the most hard-worked and truest servants of the people. The House and the press had supported Mr. Mildmay, but to all that Mr. Turnbull was quite indifferent; and when an assertion made by him before three or four thousand persons at Manchester, to the effect that he, — he specially, — was the friend and servant of the people, was received with acclamation, he felt quite satisfied that he had gained his point. Progressive reform in the franchise, of which manhood suffrage should be the acknowledged and not far distant end, equal electoral districts, ballot, tenant right for England as well as Ireland, reduction of the standing army till there should be no standing army to reduce, utter disregard of all political movements in Europe, an almost idolatrous admiration for all political movements in America, free trade in everything except malt, and an absolute extinction of a State Church, — these were among the principal articles in Mr. Turnbull’s political catalogue. And I think that when once he had learned the art of arranging his words as he stood upon his legs, and had so mastered his voice as to have obtained the ear of the House, the work of his life was not difficult. Having nothing to construct, he could always deal with generalities. Being free from responsibility, he was not called upon either to study details or to master even great facts. It was his business to inveigh against existing evils, and perhaps there is no easier business when once the privilege of an audience has been attained. It was his work to cut down forest-trees, and he had nothing to do with the subsequent cultivation of the land. Mr. Monk had once told Phineas Finn how great were the charms of that inaccuracy which was permitted to the Opposition. Mr. Turnbull no doubt enjoyed these charms to the full, though he would sooner have put a padlock on his mouth for a month than have owned as much. Upon the whole, Mr. Turnbull was no doubt right in resolving that he would not take office, though some reticence on that subject might have been more becoming to him.
The conversation at dinner, though it was altogether on political subjects, had in it nothing of special interest as long as the girl was there to change the plates; but when she was gone, and the door was closed, it gradually opened out, and there came on to be a pleasant sparring match between the two great Radicals, — the Radical who had joined himself to the governing powers, and the Radical who stood aloof. Mr. Kennedy barely said a word now and then, and Phineas was almost as silent as Mr. Kennedy. He had come there to hear some such discussion, and was quite willing to listen while guns of such great calibre were being fired off for his amusement.
“I think Mr. Mildmay is making a great step forward,” said Mr. Turnbull.
“I think he is,” said Mr. Monk.
“I did not believe that he would ever live to go so far. It will hardly suffice even for this year; but still coming from him, it is a great deal. It only shows how far a man may be made to go, if only the proper force be applied. After all, it matters very little who are the Ministers.”
“That is what I have always declared,” said Mr. Monk.
“Very little indeed. We don’t mind whether it be Lord de Terrier, or Mr. Mildmay, or Mr. Gresham, or you yourself, if you choose to get yourself made First Lord of the Treasury.”
“I have no such ambition, Turnbull.”
“I should have thought you had. If I went in for that kind of thing myself, I should like to go to the top of the ladder. I should feel that if I could do any good at all by becoming a Minister, I could only do it by becoming first Minister.”
“You wouldn’t doubt your own fitness for such a position?”
“I doubt my fitness for the position of any Minister,” said Mr. Turnbull.
“You mean that on other grounds,” said Mr. Kennedy.
“I mean it on every ground,” said Mr. Turnbull, rising on his legs and standing with his back to the fire. “Of course I am not fit to have diplomatic intercourse with men who would come to me simply with the desire of deceiving me. Of course I am unfit to deal with members of Parliament who would flock around me because they wanted places. Of course I am unfit to answer every man’s question so as to give no information to any one.”
“Could you not answer them so as to give information?” said Mr. Kennedy.
But Mr. Turnbull was so intent on his speech that it may be doubted whether he heard this interruption. He took no notice of it as he went on. “Of course I am unfit to maintain the proprieties of a seeming confidence between a Crown all-powerless and a people all-powerful. No man recognises his own unfitness for such work more clearly than I do, Mr. Monk. But if I took in hand such work at all, I should like to be the leader, and not the led. Tell us fairly, now, what are your convictions worth in Mr. Mildmay’s Cabinet?”
“That is a question which a man may hardly answer himself,” said Mr. Monk.
“It is a question which a man should at least answer for himself before he consents to sit there,” said Mr. Turnbull, in a tone of voice which was almost angry.
“And what reason have you for supposing that I have omitted that duty?” said Mr. Monk.
“Simply this, — that I cannot reconcile your known opinions with the practices of your colleagues.”
“I will not tell you what my convictions may be worth in Mr. Mildmay’s Cabinet. I will not take upon myself to say that they are worth the chair on which I sit when I am there. But I will tell you what my aspirations were when I consented to fill that chair, and you shall judge of their worth. I thought that they might possibly leaven the batch of bread which we have to bake, — giving to the whole batch more of the flavour of reform than it would have possessed had I absented myself. I thought that when I was asked to join Mr. Mildmay and Mr. Gresham, the very fact of that request indicated liberal progress, and that if I refused the request I should be declining to assist in good work.”
“You could have supported them, if anything were proposed worthy of support,” said Mr. Turnbull.
“Yes; but I could not have been so effective in taking care that some measure be proposed worthy of support as I may possibly be now. I thought a good deal about it, and I believe that my decision was right.”
“I am sure you were right,” said Mr. Kennedy.
“There can be no juster object of ambition than a seat in the Cabinet,” said Phineas.
“Sir, I must dispute that,” said Mr. Turnbull, turning round upon our hero. “I regard the position of our high Ministers as most respectable.”
“Thank you for so much,” said Mr. Monk. But the orator went on again, regardless of the interruption: —
“The position of gentlemen in inferior offices, — of gentlemen who attend rather to the nods and winks of their superiors in Downing Street than to the interest of their constituents, — I do not regard as being highly respectable.”
“A man cannot begin at the top,” said Phineas.
“Our friend Mr. Monk has begun at what you are pleased to call the top,” said Mr. Turnbull. “But I will not profess to think that even he has raised himself by going into office. To be an independent representative of a really popular commercial constituency is, in my estimation, the highest object of an Englishman’s ambition.”
“But why commercial, Mr. Turnbull?” said Mr. Kennedy.
“Because the commercial constituencies really do elect their own members in accordance with their own judgments, whereas the counties and the small towns are coerced either by individuals or by a combination of aristocratic influences.”
“And yet,” said Mr. Kennedy, “ther
e are not half a dozen Conservatives returned by all the counties in Scotland.”
“Scotland is very much to be honoured,” said Mr. Turnbull.
Mr. Kennedy was the first to take his departure, and Mr. Turnbull followed him very quickly. Phineas got up to go at the same time, but stayed at his host’s request, and sat for awhile smoking a cigar.
“Turnbull is a wonderful man,” said Mr. Monk.
“Does he not domineer too much?”
“His fault is not arrogance, so much as ignorance that there is, or should be, a difference between public and private life. In the House of Commons a man in Mr. Turnbull’s position must speak with dictatorial assurance. He is always addressing, not the House only, but the country at large, and the country will not believe in him unless he believe in himself. But he forgets that he is not always addressing the country at large. I wonder what sort of a time Mrs. Turnbull and the little Turnbulls have of it?”
Phineas, as he went home, made up his mind that Mrs. Turnbull and the little Turnbulls must probably have a bad time of it.
CHAPTER XIX
Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker
It was known that whatever might be the details of Mr. Mildmay’s bill, the ballot would not form a part of it; and as there was a strong party in the House of Commons, and a very numerous party out of it, who were desirous that voting by ballot should be made a part of the electoral law, it was decided that an independent motion should be brought on in anticipation of Mr. Mildmay’s bill. The arrangement was probably one of Mr. Mildmay’s own making; so that he might be hampered by no opposition on that subject by his own followers if, — as he did not doubt, — the motion should be lost. It was expected that the debate would not last over one night, and Phineas resolved that he would make his maiden speech on this occasion. He had very strong opinions as to the inefficacy of the ballot for any good purposes, and thought that he might be able to strike out from his convictions some sparks of that fire which used to be so plentiful with him at the old debating clubs. But even at breakfast that morning his heart began to beat quickly at the idea of having to stand on his legs before so critical an audience.
He knew that it would be well that he should if possible get the subject off his mind during the day, and therefore went out among the people who certainly would not talk to him about the ballot. He sat for nearly an hour in the morning with Mr. Low, and did not even tell Mr. Low that it was his intention to speak on that day. Then he made one or two other calls, and at about three went up to Portman Square to look for Lord Chiltern. It was now nearly the end of February, and Phineas had often seen Lady Laura. He had not seen her brother, but had learned from his sister that he had been driven up to London by the frost, He was told by the porter at Lord Brentford’s that Lord Chiltern was in the house, and as he was passing through the hall he met Lord Brentford himself. He was thus driven to speak, and felt himself called upon to explain why he was there. “I am come to see Lord Chiltern,” he said.
“Is Lord Chiltern in the house?” said the Earl, turning to the servant.
“Yes, my lord; his lordship arrived last night.”
“You will find him upstairs, I suppose,” said the Earl. “For myself I know nothing of him.” He spoke in an angry tone, as though he resented the fact that any one should come to his house to call upon his son; and turned his back quickly upon Phineas. But he thought better of it before he reached the front door, and turned again. “By-the-bye,” said he, “what majority shall we have to-night, Finn?”
“Pretty nearly as many as you please to name, my lord,” said Phineas.
“Well; — yes; I suppose we are tolerably safe. You ought to speak upon it.”
“Perhaps I may,” said Phineas, feeling that he blushed as he spoke.
“Do,” said the Earl. “Do. If you see Lord Chiltern will you tell him from me that I should be glad to see him before he leaves London. I shall be at home till noon to-morrow.” Phineas, much astonished at the commission given to him, of course said that he would do as he was desired, and then passed on to Lord Chiltern’s apartments.
He found his friend standing in the middle of the room, without coat and waistcoat, with a pair of dumb-bells in his hands. “When there’s no hunting I’m driven to this kind of thing,” said Lord Chiltern.
“I suppose it’s good exercise,” said Phineas.
“And it gives me something to do. When I’m in London I feel like a gipsy in church, till the time comes for prowling out at night. I’ve no occupation for my days whatever, and no place to which I can take myself. I can’t stand in a club window as some men do, and I should disgrace any decent club if I did stand there. I belong to the Travellers, but I doubt whether the porter would let me go in.”
“I think you pique yourself on being more of an outer Bohemian than you are,” said Phineas.
“I pique myself on this, that whether Bohemian or not, I will go nowhere that I am not wanted. Though, — for the matter of that, I suppose I’m not wanted here.” Then Phineas gave him the message from his father. “He wishes to see me to-morrow morning?” continued Lord Chiltern. “Let him send me word what it is he has to say to me. I do not choose to be insulted by him, though he is my father.”
“I would certainly go, if I were you.”
“I doubt it very much, if all the circumstances were the same. Let him tell me what he wants.”
“Of course I cannot ask him, Chiltern.”
“I know what he wants very well. Laura has been interfering and doing no good. You know Violet Effingham?”
“Yes; I know her,” said Phineas, much surprised.
“They want her to marry me.”
“And you do not wish to marry her?”
“I did not say that. But do you think that such a girl as Miss Effingham would marry such a man as I am? She would be much more likely to take you. By George, she would! Do you know that she has three thousand a year of her own?”
“I know that she has money.”
“That’s about the tune of it. I would take her without a shilling to-morrow, if she would have me, — because I like her. She is the only girl I ever did like. But what is the use of my liking her? They have painted me so black among them, especially my father, that no decent girl would think of marrying me.”
“Your father can’t be angry with you if you do your best to comply with his wishes.”
“I don’t care a straw whether he be angry or not. He allows me eight hundred a year, and he knows that if he stopped it I should go to the Jews the next day. I could not help myself. He can’t leave an acre away from me, and yet he won’t join me in raising money for the sake of paying Laura her fortune.”
“Lady Laura can hardly want money now.”
“That detestable prig whom she has chosen to marry, and whom I hate with all my heart, is richer than ever Crœsus was; but nevertheless Laura ought to have her own money. She shall have it some day.”
“I would see Lord Brentford, if I were you.”
“I will think about it. Now tell me about coming down to Willingford. Laura says you will come some day in March. I can mount you for a couple of days and should be delighted to have you. My horses all pull like the mischief, and rush like devils, and want a deal of riding; but an Irishman likes that.”
“I do not dislike it particularly.”
“I like it. I prefer to have something to do on horseback. When a man tells me that a horse is an armchair, I always tell him to put the brute into his bedroom. Mind you come. The house I stay at is called the Willingford Bull, and it’s just four miles from Peterborough.” Phineas swore that he would go down and ride the pulling horses, and then took his leave, earnestly advising Lord Chiltern, as he went, to keep the appointment proposed by his father.
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