The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “The weight of the load on his mind makes him irritable.”

  “Either that, or having no load. If he had really much to do he wouldn’t surely have time to think so much of that poor wretch who destroyed himself. Such sensitiveness is simply a disease. One can never punish any fault in the world if the sinner can revenge himself upon us by rushing into eternity. Sometimes I see him shiver and shudder, and then I know that he is thinking of Lopez.”

  “I can understand all that, Lady Glen.”

  “It isn’t as it should be, though you can understand it. I’ll bet you a guinea that Sir Timothy Beeswax has to go out before the beginning of next Session.”

  “I’ve no objection. But why Sir Timothy?”

  “He mentioned Lopez’ name the other day before Plantagenet. I heard him. Plantagenet pulled that long face of his, looking as though he meant to impose silence on the whole world for the next six weeks. But Sir Timothy is brass itself, a sounding cymbal of brass that nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance of bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and shut himself up. He didn’t declare to himself that he’d dismiss Sir Timothy, because that’s not the way of his mind. But you’ll see that Sir Timothy will have to go.”

  “That, at any rate, will be a good riddance of bad rubbish,” said Mrs. Finn, who did not love Sir Timothy Beeswax.

  Soon after that the Duchess made up her mind that she would interrogate the Duke of St. Bungay as to the present state of affairs. It was then the end of June, and nearly one of those long and tedious months had gone by of which the Duke spoke so feelingly when he asked Phineas Finn to come down to Matching. Hope had been expressed in more than one quarter that this would be a short Session. Such hopes are much more common in June than in July, and, though rarely verified, serve to keep up the drooping spirits of languid senators. “I suppose we shall be early out of town, Duke,” she said one day.

  “I think so. I don’t see what there is to keep us. It often happens that ministers are a great deal better in the country than in London, and I fancy it will be so this year.”

  “You never think of the poor girls who haven’t got their husbands yet.”

  “They should make better use of their time. Besides, they can get their husbands in the country.”

  “It’s quite true that they never get to the end of their labours. They are not like you members of Parliament who can shut up your portfolios and go and shoot grouse. They have to keep at their work spring and summer, autumn and winter, — year after year! How they must hate the men they persecute!”

  “I don’t think we can put off going for their sake.”

  “Men are always selfish, I know. What do you think of Plantagenet lately?” The question was put very abruptly, without a moment’s notice, and there was no avoiding it.

  “Think of him!”

  “Yes; — what do you think of his condition; — of his happiness, his health, his capacity of endurance? Will he be able to go on much longer? Now, my dear Duke, don’t stare at me like that. You know, and I know, that you haven’t spoken a word to me for the last two months. And you know, and I know, how many things there are of which we are both thinking in common. You haven’t quarrelled with Plantagenet?”

  “Quarrelled with him! Good heavens, no.”

  “Of course I know you still call him your noble colleague, and your noble friend, and make one of the same team with him and all that. But it used to be so much more than that.”

  “It is still more than that; — very much more.”

  “It was you who made him Prime Minister.”

  “No, no, no; — and again no. He made himself Prime Minister by obtaining the confidence of the House of Commons. There is no other possible way in which a man can become Prime Minister in this country.”

  “If I were not very serious at this moment, Duke, I should make an allusion to the — Marines.” No other human being could have said this to the Duke of St. Bungay, except the young woman whom he had petted all his life as Lady Glencora. “But I am very serious,” she continued, “and I may say not very happy. Of course the big wigs of a party have to settle among themselves who shall be their leader, and when this party was formed they settled, at your advice, that Plantagenet should be the man.”

  “My dear Lady Glen, I cannot allow that to pass without contradiction.”

  “Do not suppose that I am finding fault, or even that I am ungrateful. No one rejoiced as I rejoiced. No one still feels so much pride in it as I feel. I would have given ten years of my life to make him Prime Minister, and now I would give five to keep him so. It is like it was to be king, when men struggled among themselves who should be king. Whatever he may be, I am ambitious. I love to think that other men should look to him as being above them, and that something of this should come down upon me as his wife. I do not know whether it was not the happiest moment of my life when he told me that the Queen had sent for him.”

  “It was not so with him.”

  “No, Duke, — no! He and I are very different. He only wants to be useful. At any rate, that was all he did want.”

  “He is still the same.”

  “A man cannot always be carrying a huge load up a hill without having his back bent.”

  “I don’t know that the load need be so heavy, Duchess.”

  “Ah, but what is the load? It is not going to the Treasury Chambers at eleven or twelve in the morning, and sitting four or five times a week in the House of Lords till seven or eight o’clock. He was never ill when he would remain in the House of Commons till two in the morning, and not have a decent dinner above twice in the week. The load I speak of isn’t work.”

  “What is it then?” said the Duke, who in truth understood it all nearly as well as the Duchess herself.

  “It is hard to explain, but it is very heavy.”

  “Responsibility, my dear, will always be heavy.”

  “But it is hardly that; — certainly not that alone. It is the feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and the doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And then he becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness is beneath him and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in his mind, and condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He spends one quarter of an hour in thinking that as he is Prime Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers’ ends, and the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime Minister at all.” Here something like a frown passed across the old man’s brow, which was, however, no indication, of anger. “Dear Duke,” she said, “you must not be angry with me. Who is there to whom I can speak but you?”

  “Angry, my dear! No, indeed!”

  “Because you looked as though you would scold me.” At this he smiled. “And of course all this tells upon his health.”

  “Do you think he is ill?”

  “He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of course I watch him.”

  “Does his doctor see him?”

  “Never. When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James Thorax, — for he was getting hoarse, you know, — he only shook his head and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House, and speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do just what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and having Sir James to look down it. But now he won’t let any one touch him.”

  “What would you have me do, Lady Glen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think that he is so far out of health that he ought to give it up?”

  “I don’t say that. I don’t dare to say it. I don’t dare to recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with him at all. If he were to die to-morrow as the penalty of doing something useful to-night, he wouldn’t think twice about it. If you wanted to make him stay where he is, the way to do it would be to tell him that his
health was failing him. I don’t know that he does want to give up now.”

  “The autumn months will do everything for him; — only let him be quiet.”

  “You are coming to Matching, Duke?”

  “I suppose so, — if you ask me, — for a week or two.”

  “You must come. I am quite nervous if you desert us. I think he becomes more estranged every day from all the others. I know you won’t do a mischief by repeating what I say.”

  “I hope not.”

  “He seems to me to turn his nose up at everybody. He used to like Mr. Monk; but he envies Mr. Monk, because Mr. Monk is Chancellor of the Exchequer. I asked him whether we shouldn’t have Lord Drummond at Matching, and he told me angrily that I might ask all the Government if I liked.”

  “Drummond contradicted him the other day.”

  “I knew there was something. He has got to be like a bear with a sore head, Duke. You should have seen his face the other day, when Mr. Rattler made some suggestion to him about the proper way of dividing farms.”

  “I don’t think he ever liked Rattler.”

  “What of that? Don’t I have to smile upon men whom I hate like poison; — and women too, which is worse? Do you think that I love old Lady Ramsden, or Mrs. MacPherson? He used to be so fond of Lord Cantrip.”

  “I think he likes Lord Cantrip,” said the Duke.

  “He asked his lordship to do something, and Lord Cantrip declined.”

  “I know all about that,” said the Duke.

  “And now he looks gloomy at Lord Cantrip. His friends won’t stand that kind of thing, you know, for ever.”

  “He is always courteous to Finn,” said the Duke.

  “Yes; — just now he is on good terms with Mr. Finn. He would never be harsh to Mr. Finn, because he knows that Mrs. Finn is the one really intimate female friend whom I have in the world. After all, Duke, besides Plantagenet and the children, there are only two persons in the world whom I really love. There are only you and she. She will never desert me; — and you must not desert me either.” Then he put his hand behind her waist, and stooped over her and kissed her brow, and swore to her that he would never desert her.

  But what was he to do? He knew, without being told by the Duchess, that his colleague and chief was becoming, from day to day, more difficult to manage. He had been right enough in laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are selected for that position by the general confidence of the House of Commons; — but he was aware at the same time that it had hardly been so in the present instance. There had come to be a dead-lock in affairs, during which neither of the two old and well-recognised leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for the carrying on of the Government. With unusual patience these two gentlemen had now for the greater part of three Sessions sat by, offering but little opposition to the Coalition, but of course biding their time. They, too, called themselves, — perhaps thought themselves, — Cincinnatuses. But their ploughs and peaches did not suffice to them, and they longed again to be in every mouth, and to have, if not their deeds, then even their omissions blazoned in every paragraph. The palate accustomed to Cayenne pepper can hardly be gratified by simple salt. When that dead-lock had come, politicians who were really anxious for the country had been forced to look about for a Premier, — and in the search the old Duke had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when she declared that her husband’s promotion had been effected by their old friend. But it is sometimes easier to make than to unmake. Perhaps the time had now in truth come, in which it would be better for the country that the usual state of things should again exist. Perhaps, — nay, the Duke now thought that he saw that it was so, — Mr. Gresham might again have a Liberal majority at his back if the Duke of Omnium could find some graceful mode of retiring. But who was to tell all this to the Duke of Omnium? There was only one man in all England to whom such a task was possible, and that was the old Duke himself, — who during the last two years had been constantly urgent with his friend not to retire! How often since he had taken office had the conscientious and timid Minister begged of his friend permission to abandon his high office! But that permission had always been refused, and now, for the last three months, the request had not been repeated. The Duchess probably was right in saying that her husband “didn’t want to give it up now.”

  But he, the Duke of St. Bungay, had brought his friend into the trouble, and it was certainly his duty to extricate him from it. The admonition might come in the rude shape of repeated minorities in the House of Commons. Hitherto the number of votes at the command of the Ministry had not been very much impaired. A few always fall off as time goes on. Aristides becomes too just, and the mind of man is greedy of novelty. Sir Orlando, also, had taken with him a few, and it may be that two or three had told themselves that there could not be all that smoke raised by the “People’s Banner” without some fire below it. But there was a good working majority, — very much at Mr. Monk’s command, — and Mr. Monk was moved by none of that feeling of rebellion which had urged Sir Orlando on to his destruction. It was difficult to find a cause for resignation. And yet the Duke of St. Bungay, who had watched the House of Commons closely for nearly half a century, was aware that the Coalition which he had created had done its work, and was almost convinced that it would not be permitted to remain very much longer in power. He had seen symptoms of impatience in Mr. Daubeny, and Mr. Gresham had snorted once or twice, as though eager for the battle.

  CHAPTER LXIV

  The New K.G.

  Early in June had died the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. In all England there was no older family than that of the Fichy Fidgetts, whose baronial castle of Fichy Fellows is still kept up, the glory of archaeologists and the charm of tourists. Some people declare it to be the most perfect castle residence in the country. It is admitted to have been completed in the time of Edward VI, and is thought to have been commenced in the days of Edward I. It has always belonged to the Fichy Fidgett family, who with a persistence that is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every acre that it ever owned, and has added acre to acre in every age. The consequence has been that the existing Marquis of Mount Fidgett has always been possessed of great territorial influence, and has been flattered, cajoled, and revered by one Prime Minister after another. Now the late Marquis had been, as was the custom with the Fichy Fidgetts, a man of pleasure. If the truth may be spoken openly, it should be admitted that he had been a man of sin. The duty of keeping together the family property he had performed with a perfect zeal. It had always been acknowledged on behalf of the existing Marquis, that in whatever manner he might spend his money, however base might be the gullies into which his wealth descended, he never spent more than he had to spend. Perhaps there was but little praise in this, as he could hardly have got beyond his enormous income unless he had thrown it away on race-courses and roulette tables. But it had long been remarked of the Mount Fidgett marquises that they were too wise to gamble. The family had not been an honour to the country, but had nevertheless been honoured by the country. The man who had just died had perhaps been as selfish and as sensual a brute as had ever disgraced humanity; — but nevertheless he had been a Knight of the Garter. He had been possessed of considerable parliamentary interest, and the Prime Minister of the day had not dared not to make him a Knight of the Garter. All the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had for many years past been Knights of the Garter. On the last occasion a good deal had been said about it. A feeling had even then begun to prevail that the highest personal honour in the gift of the Crown should not be bestowed upon a man whose whole life was a disgrace, and who did indeed seem to deserve every punishment which human or divine wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but they were all illegitimate. Wives generally he liked, but of his own wife he very soon broke the heart. Of all the companies with which he consorted he was the admitted king, but his subjects could do no man any honour. The Castle of Fichy Fellows was visited by the world at large, but no
man or woman with a character to lose went into any house really inhabited by the Marquis. And yet he had become a Knight of the Garter, and was therefore, presumably, one of those noble Englishmen to whom the majesty of the day was willing to confide the honour, and glory, and safety of the Crown. There were many who disliked this. That a base reprobate should become a Marquis and a peer of Parliament was in accordance with the constitution of the country. Marquises and peers are not as a rule reprobates, and the misfortune was one which could not be avoided. He might have ill-used his own wife and other wives’ husbands without special remark, had he not been made a Knight of the Garter. The Minister of the day, however, had known the value of the man’s support, and, being thick-skinned, had lived through the reproaches uttered without much damage to himself. Now the wicked Marquis was dead, and it was the privilege and the duty of the Duke of Omnium to select another Knight.

  There was a good deal said about it at the time. There was a rumour, — no doubt a false rumour, — that the Crown insisted in this instance on dictating a choice to the Duke of Omnium. But even were it so, the Duke could not have been very much aggrieved, as the choice dictated was supposed to be that of himself. The late Duke had been a Knight, and when he had died, it was thought that his successor would succeed also to the ribbon. The new Duke had been at that time in the Cabinet, and had remained there, but had accepted an office inferior in rank to that which he had formerly filled. The whole history of these things has been written, and may be read by the curious. The Duchess, newly a duchess then and very keen in reference to her husband’s rank, had instigated him to demand the ribbon as his right. This he had not only declined to do, but had gone out of the way to say that he thought it should be bestowed elsewhere. It had been bestowed elsewhere, and there had been a very general feeling that he had been passed over because his easy temperament in such matters had been seen and utilised. Now, whether the Crown interfered or not, — a matter on which no one short of a writer of newspaper articles dares to make a suggestion till time shall have made mellow the doings of sovereigns and their ministers, — the suggestion was made. The Duke of St. Bungay ventured to say to his friend that no other selection was possible.