The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “No indeed. You know the old saying, ‘God disposes it all.’ I have to make the best of it, — and so no doubt do you.”

  “There’s no doubt about it, sir,” said Arthur, speaking in a low but almost angry voice. They were not in a room by themselves, but in a recess which separated them from the room. “I don’t know that I want to talk about it, but to me it is one of those things for which there is no remedy. When a man loses his leg, he hobbles on, and sometimes has a good time of it at last; — but there he is, without a leg.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Arthur.”

  “There has been no fault but my own. I went in for the running and got distanced. That’s simply all about it, and there’s no more to be said.”

  “You ain’t surprised that I should wish to see you.”

  “I’m ever so much obliged. I think it’s very kind of you.”

  “I can’t go in for a new life as you can. I can’t take up politics and Parliament. It’s too late for me.”

  “I’m going to. There’s a Bill coming on this very night that I’m interested about. You mustn’t be angry if I rush off a little before ten. We are going to lend money to the parishes on the security of the rates for draining bits of common land. Then we shall sell the land and endow the unions, so as to lessen the poor rates, and increase the cereal products of the country. We think we can bring 300,000 acres under the plough in three years, which now produce almost nothing, and in five years would pay all the expenses. Putting the value of the land at £25 an acre, which is low, we shall have created property to the value of seven millions and a half. That’s something, you know.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wharton, who felt himself quite unable to follow with any interest the aspirations of the young legislator.

  “Of course it’s complicated,” continued Arthur, “but when you come to look into it it comes out clear enough. It is one of the instances of the omnipotence of capital. Parliament can do such a thing, not because it has any creative power of its own, but because it has the command of unlimited capital.” Mr. Wharton looked at him, sighing inwardly as he reflected that unrequited love should have brought a clear-headed young barrister into mists so thick and labyrinths so mazy as these. “A very good beefsteak indeed,” said Arthur. “I don’t know when I ate a better one. Thank you, no; — I’ll stick to the claret.” Mr. Wharton had offered him Madeira. “Claret and brown meat always go well together. Pancake! I don’t object to a pancake. A pancake’s a very good thing. Now would you believe it, sir; they can’t make a pancake at the House.”

  “And yet they sometimes fall very flat too,” said the lawyer, making a real lawyer’s joke.

  “It’s all in the mixing, sir,” said Arthur, carrying it on. “We’ve mixture enough just at present, but it isn’t of the proper sort; — too much of the flour, and not enough of the egg.”

  But Mr. Wharton had still something to say, though he hardly knew how to say it. “You must come and see us in the Square after a bit.”

  “Oh; — of course.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to dine there to-day, because I thought we should be less melancholy here; — but you mustn’t cut us altogether. You haven’t seen Everett since you’ve been in town?”

  “No, sir. I believe he lives a good deal, — a good deal with — Mr. Lopez. There was a little row down at Silverbridge. Of course it will wear off, but just at present his lines and my lines don’t converge.”

  “I’m very unhappy about him, Arthur.”

  “There’s nothing the matter?”

  “My girl has married that man. I’ve nothing to say against him; — but of course it wasn’t to my taste; and I feel it as a separation. And now Everett has quarrelled with me.”

  “Quarrelled with you!”

  Then the father told the story as well as he knew how. His son had lost some money, and he had called his son a gambler; — and consequently his son would not come near him. “It is bad to lose them both, Arthur.”

  “That is so unlike Everett.”

  “It seems to me that everybody has changed, — except myself. Who would have dreamed that she would have married that man? Not that I have anything to say against him except that he was not of our sort. He has been very good about Everett, and is very good about him. But Everett will not come to me unless I — withdraw the word; — say that I was wrong to call him a gambler. That is a proposition that no son should make to a father.”

  “It is very unlike Everett,” repeated the other. “Has he written to that effect?”

  “He has not written a word.”

  “Why don’t you see him yourself, and have it out with him?”

  “Am I to go to that club after him?” said the father.

  “Write to him and bid him come to you. I’ll give up my seat if he don’t come to you. Everett was always a quaint fellow, a little idle, you know, — mooning about after ideas — “

  “He’s no fool, you know,” said the father.

  “Not at all; — only vague. But he’s the last man in the world to have nasty vulgar ideas of his own importance as distinguished from yours.”

  “Lopez says — “

  “I wouldn’t quite trust Lopez.”

  “He isn’t a bad fellow in his way, Arthur. Of course he is not what I would have liked for a son-in-law. I needn’t tell you that. But he is kind and gentle-mannered, and has always been attached to Everett. You know he saved Everett’s life at the risk of his own.” Arthur could not but smile as he perceived how the old man was being won round by the son-in-law, whom he had treated so violently before the man had become his son-in-law. “By-the-way, what was all that about a letter you wrote to him?”

  “Emily, — I mean Mrs. Lopez, — will tell you if you ask her.”

  “I don’t want to ask her. I don’t want to appear to set the wife against the husband. I am sure, my boy, you would write nothing that could affront her.”

  “I think not, Mr. Wharton. If I know myself at all, or my own nature, it is not probable that I should affront your daughter.”

  “No; no; no. I know that, my dear boy. I was always sure of that. Take some more wine.”

  “No more, thank you. I must be off because I’m so anxious about this Bill.”

  “I couldn’t ask Emily about this letter. Now that they are married I have to make the best of it, — for her sake. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to her which might seem to accuse him.”

  “I thought it right, sir, to explain to her that were I not in the hands of other people I would not do anything to interfere with her happiness by opposing her husband. My language was most guarded.”

  “He destroyed the letter.”

  “I have a copy of it, if it comes to that,” said Arthur.

  “It will be best, perhaps, to say nothing further about it. Well; — good night, my boy, if you must go.” Then Fletcher went off to the House, wondering as he went at the change which had apparently come over the character of his old friend. Mr. Wharton had always been a strong man, and now he seemed to be as weak as water. As to Everett, Fletcher was sure that there was something wrong, but he could not see his way to interfere himself. For the present he was divided from the family. Nevertheless he told himself again and again that that division should not be permanent. Of all the world she must always be to him the dearest.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  The Horns

  The first months of the Session went on very much as the last Session had gone. The ministry did nothing brilliant. As far as the outer world could see, they seemed to be firm enough. There was no opposing party in the House strong enough to get a vote against them on any subject. Outsiders, who only studied politics in the columns of their newspapers, imagined the Coalition to be very strong. But they who were inside, members themselves, and the club quidnuncs who were always rubbing their shoulders against members, knew better. The opposition to the Coalition was within the Coalition itself. Sir Orlando Drought had not been allowed to build
his four ships, and was consequently eager in his fears that the country would be invaded by the combined forces of Germany and France, that India would be sold by those powers to Russia, that Canada would be annexed to the States, that a great independent Roman Catholic hierarchy would be established in Ireland, and that Malta and Gibraltar would be taken away from us; — all which evils would be averted by the building of four big ships. A wet blanket of so terrible a size was in itself pernicious to the Cabinet, and heartrending to the poor Duke. But Sir Orlando could do worse even than this. As he was not to build his four ships, neither should Mr. Monk be allowed to readjust the county suffrage. When the skeleton of Mr. Monk’s scheme was discussed in the Cabinet, Sir Orlando would not agree to it. The gentlemen, he said, who had joined the present Government with him, would never consent to a measure which would be so utterly destructive of the county interest. If Mr. Monk insisted on his measure in its proposed form, he must, with very great regret, place his resignation in the Duke’s hands, and he believed that his friends would find themselves compelled to follow the same course. Then our Duke consulted the old Duke. The old Duke’s advice was the same as ever. The Queen’s Government was the main object. The present ministry enjoyed the support of the country, and he considered it the duty of the First Lord of the Treasury to remain at his post. The country was in no hurry, and the question of suffrages in the counties might be well delayed. Then he added a little counsel which might be called quite private, as it was certainly intended for no other ears than those of his younger friend. “Give Sir Orlando rope enough and he’ll hang himself. His own party are becoming tired of him. If you quarrel with him this Session, Drummond, and Ramsden, and Beeswax, would go out with him, and the Government would be broken up; but next Session you may get rid of him safely.”

  “I wish it were broken up,” said the Prime Minister.

  “You have your duty to do by the country and by the Queen, and you mustn’t regard your own wishes. Next Session let Monk be ready with his Bill again, — the same measure exactly. Let Sir Orlando resign then if he will. Should he do so I doubt whether any one would go with him. Drummond does not like him much better than you and I do.” The poor Prime Minister was forced to obey. The old Duke was his only trusted counsellor, and he found himself constrained by his conscience to do as that counsellor counselled him. When, however, Sir Orlando, in his place as Leader of the House, in answer to some question from a hot and disappointed Radical, averred that the whole of her Majesty’s Government had been quite in unison on this question of the county suffrage, he was hardly able to restrain himself. “If there be differences of opinion they must be kept in the background,” said the Duke of St. Bungay. “Nothing can justify a direct falsehood,” said the Duke of Omnium. Thus it came to pass that the only real measure which the Government had in hand was one by which Phineas Finn hoped so to increase the power of Irish municipalities as to make the Home Rulers believe that a certain amount of Home Rule was being conceded to them. It was not a great measure, and poor Phineas himself hardly believed in it. And thus the Duke’s ministry came to be called the Faineants.

  But the Duchess, though she had been much snubbed, still persevered. Now and again she would declare herself to be broken-hearted, and would say that things might go their own way, that she would send in her resignation, that she would retire into private life and milk cows, that she would shake hands with no more parliamentary cads and “caddesses,” — a word which her Grace condescended to coin for her own use; that she would spend the next three years in travelling about the world; and lastly, that, let there come of it whatever might, Sir Orlando Drought should never again be invited into any house of which she was the mistress. This last threat, which was perhaps the most indiscreet of them all, she absolutely made good, — thereby adding very greatly to her husband’s difficulties.

  But by the middle of June the parties at the house in Carlton Terrace were as frequent and as large as ever. Indeed it was all party with her. The Duchess possessed a pretty little villa down at Richmond, on the river, called The Horns, and gave parties there when there were none in London. She had picnics, and flower parties, and tea parties, and afternoons, and evenings, on the lawn, — till half London was always on its way to Richmond or back again. How she worked! And yet from day to day she swore that the world was ungrateful, and that she would work no more! I think that the world was ungrateful. Everybody went. She was so far successful that nobody thought of despising her parties. It was quite the thing to go to the Duchess’s, whether at Richmond or in London. But people abused her and laughed at her. They said that she intrigued to get political support for her husband, — and, worse than that, they said that she failed. She did not fail altogether. The world was not taken captive as she had intended. Young members of Parliament did not become hotly enthusiastic in support of her and her husband as she had hoped that they would do. She had not become an institution of granite, as her dreams had fondly told her might be possible; — for there had been moments in which she had almost thought that she could rule England by giving dinner and supper parties, by ices and champagne. But in a dull, phlegmatic way, they who ate the ices and drank the champagne were true to her. There was a feeling abroad that “Glencora” was a “good sort of fellow” and ought to be supported. And when the ridicule became too strong, or the abuse too sharp, men would take up the cudgels for her, and fight her battles; — a little too openly, perhaps, as they would do it under her eyes, and in her hearing, and would tell her what they had done, mistaking on such occasions her good humour for sympathy. There was just enough of success to prevent that abandonment of her project which she so often threatened, but not enough to make her triumphant. She was too clever not to see that she was ridiculed. She knew that men called her Glencora among themselves. She was herself quite alive to the fact that she herself was wanting in dignity, and that with all the means at her disposal, with all her courage and all her talent, she did not quite play the part of the really great lady. But she did not fail to tell herself that labour continued would at last be successful, and she was strong to bear the buffets of the ill-natured. She did not think that she brought first-class materials to her work, but she believed, — a belief as erroneous as, alas, it is common, — that first-rate results might be achieved by second-rate means. “We had such a battle about your Grace last night,” Captain Gunner said to her.

  “And were you my knight?”

  “Indeed I was. I never heard such nonsense.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “Oh, the old story; — that you were like Martha, busying yourself about many things.”

  “Why shouldn’t I busy myself about many things? It is a pity, Captain Gunner, that some of you men have not something to busy yourselves about.” All this was unpleasant. She could on such an occasion make up her mind to drop any Captain Gunner who had ventured to take too much upon himself; but she felt that in the efforts which she had made after popularity, she had submitted herself to unpleasant familiarities; — and though persistent in her course, she was still angry with herself.

  When she had begun her campaign as the Prime Minister’s wife, one of her difficulties had been with regard to money. An abnormal expenditure became necessary, for which her husband’s express sanction must be obtained, and steps taken in which his personal assistance would be necessary; — but this had been done, and there was now no further impediment in that direction. It seemed to be understood that she was to spend what money she pleased. There had been various contests between them, but in every contest she had gained something. He had been majestically indignant with her in reference to the candidature at Silverbridge, — but, as is usual with many of us, had been unable to maintain his anger about two things at the same time. Or, rather, in the majesty of his anger about her interference, he had disdained to descend to the smaller faults of her extravagance. He had seemed to concede everything else to her, on condition that he should be allowed to be imperious
in reference to the borough. In that matter she had given way, never having opened her mouth about it after that one unfortunate word to Mr. Sprugeon. But, having done so, she was entitled to squander her thousands without remorse, — and she squandered them. “It is your five-and-twenty thousand pounds, my dear,” she once said to Mrs. Finn, who often took upon herself to question the prudence of all this expenditure. This referred to a certain sum of money which had been left by the old Duke to Madame Goesler, as she was then called, — a legacy which that lady had repudiated. The money had, in truth, been given away to a relation of the Duke’s by the joint consent of the lady and of the Duke himself, but the Duchess was pleased to refer to it occasionally as a still existing property.

  “My five-and-twenty thousand pounds, as you call it, would not go very far.”

  “What’s the use of money if you don’t spend it? The Duke would go on collecting it and buying more property, which always means more trouble, — not because he is avaricious, but because for the time that comes easier than spending. Supposing he had married a woman without a shilling, he would still have been a rich man. As it is, my property was more even than his own. If we can do any good by spending the money, why shouldn’t it be spent?”

  “If you can do any good!”

  “It all comes round to that. It isn’t because I like always to live in a windmill! I have come to hate it. At this moment I would give worlds to be down at Matching with no one but the children, and to go about in a straw hat and a muslin gown. I have a fancy that I could sit under a tree and read a sermon, and think it the sweetest recreation. But I’ve made the attempt to do all this, and it is so mean to fail!”

  “But where is to be the end of it?”

  “There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He is the first man in England. Some people would say the first in Europe, — or in the world. A Prince should entertain like a Prince.”

  “He need not be always entertaining.”