Phineas, when he left the indignant Bunce to go among his friends, walked to the House thinking a good deal of what Mr Slide had said to him. The potted peas Committee was again on, and he had intended to be in the committee-room by twelve punctually; but he had been unable to leave Mr Bunce in the lurch, and it was now past one. Indeed, he had, from one unfortunate circumstance after another, failed hitherto in giving to the potted peas that resolute attention which the subject demanded. On the present occasion his mind was full of Mr Quintus Slide and the People's Banner. After all, was there not something in Mr Slide's proposition? He, Phineas, had come into Parliament as it were under the wing of a Government pack, and his friendships, which had been very successful, had been made with Ministers, and with the friends of Ministers. He had made up his mind to be Whig Ministerial, and to look for his profession in that line. He had been specially fortified in this resolution by his dislike to the ballot, – which dislike had been the result of Mr Monk's teaching. Had Mr Turnbull become his friend instead, it may well be that he would have liked the ballot. On such subjects men must think long, and be sure that they have thought in earnest, before they are justified in saying that their opinions are the results of their own thoughts. But now he began to reflect how far this ministerial profession would suit him. Would it be much to be a Lord of the Treasury, subject to the dominion of Mr Ratler? Such lordship and such subjection would be the result of success. He told himself that he was at heart a true Liberal. Would it not be better for him to abandon the idea of office trammels, and go among them on the People's Banner? A glow of enthusiasm came over him as he thought of it. But what would Violet Effingham say to the People's Banner and Mr Quintus Slide? And he would have liked the Banner better had not Mr Slide talked about the 'Ouse.
From the committee-room, in which, alas! he took no active part in reference to the potted peas, he went down to the House, and was present when the debate was resumed. Not unnaturally, one speaker after another made some allusion to the row in the streets, and the work which had fallen to the lot of the magistrates. Mr Turnbull had declared that he would vote against the second reading of Mr Mildmay's bill, and had explained that he would do so because he could consent to no Reform Bill which did not include the ballot as one of its measures. The debate fashioned itself after this speech of Mr Turnbull's, and turned again very much upon the ballot, – although it had been thought that the late debate had settled that question. One or two of Mr Turnbull's followers declared that they also would vote against the bill, – of course, as not going far enough; and one or two gentlemen from the Conservative benches extended a spoken welcome to these new colleagues. Then Mr Palliser got up and addressed the House for an hour, struggling hard to bring back the real subject, and to make the House understand that the ballot, whether good or bad, had been knocked on the head, and that members had no right at the present moment to consider anything but the expediency or inexpediency of so much Reform as Mr Mildmay presented to them in the present bill.
Phineas was determined to speak, and to speak on this evening if he could catch the Speaker's eye. Again the scene before him was going round before him; again things became dim, and again he felt his blood beating hard at his heart. But things were not so bad with him as they had been before, because he had nothing to remember. He hardly knew, indeed, what he intended to say. He had an idea that he was desirous of joining in earnest support of the measure, with a vehement protest against the injustice which had been done to the people in general, and to Mr Bunce in particular. He had firmly resolved that no fear of losing favour with the Government should induce him to hold his tongue as to the Buncean cruelties. Sooner than do so he would certainly ‘go among them’ at the Banner office.
He started up, wildly, when Mr Palliser had completed his speech; but the Speaker's eye, not unnaturally, had travelled to the other side of the House, and there was a Tory of the old school upon his legs, – Mr Western, the member for East Barsetshire, one of the gallant few who dared to vote against Sir Robert Peel's bill for repealing the Corn Laws in 1846.45 Mr Western spoke with a slow, ponderous, unimpressive, but very audible voice, for some twenty minutes, disdaining to make reference to Mr Turnbull and his politics, but pleading against any Reform, with all the old arguments. Phineas did not hear a word that he said; – did not attempt to hear. He was keen in his resolution to make another attempt at the Speake's eye, and, at the present moment was thinking of that, and of that only. He did not even give himself a moment's reflection as to what his own speech should be. He would dash at it and take his chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage. Twice he was on his legs before Mr Western had finished his slow harangue, and twice he was compelled to reseat himself, – thinking that he had subjected himself to ridicule. At last the member for East Barset sat down, and Phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in presenting himself again to the Speaker.
He held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals for the right of speech. He held his ground, and was instantly aware that he had gained his point. There was a slight pause, and as some other urgent member did not reseat himself, Phineas heard the president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the House. The thing was now to be done. There he was with the House of Commons at his feet, – a crowded House, bound to be his auditors as long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know what the young member for Loughshane would say in this his maiden speech.
Phineas Finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which perhaps might carry him through the perils of his new position. And he had also the great advantage of friends in the House who were anxious that he should do well. But he had not that gift of slow blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own resources within his own reach. He began with the expression of an opinion that every true reformer ought to accept Mr Mildmay's bill, even if it were accepted only as an instalment, – but before he had got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he was repeating his own words.
He was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went on that he was failing. He had certain arguments at his fingers’ ends, – points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use, – and he forgot even these. He found that he was going on with one platitude after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club. He pressed on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused; – but he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together so that no reporter could properly catch them. But he had nothing to say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds would say again. Still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him the idea, – the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police.
He tried it, and succeeded thoroughly in making the House understand that he was very angry; – but he succeeded in nothing else. He could not catch the words to express the thoughts of his mind. He could not explain his idea that the people out of the House had as much right to express their opinion in favour of the ballot as members in the House had to express theirs against it; and that animosity had been shown to the people by the authorities because they had so expressed their opinion. Then he attempted to tell the story of Mr Bunce in a light and airy way, failed, and sat down in the middle of it. Again he was cheered by all around him, – cheered as a new member is usually cheered, – and in the midst of the cheer would have blown out his brains had there bee
n a pistol there ready for such an operation.
That hour with him was very bad. He did not know how to get up and go away, or how to keep his place. For some time he sat with his hat off, forgetful of his privilege of wearing it; and then put it on hurriedly, as though the fact of his not wearing it must have been observed by everybody. At last, at about two, the debate was adjourned, and then as he was slowly leaving the House, thinking how he might creep away without companionship, Mr Monk took him by the arm.
‘Are you going to walk?’ said Mr Monk.
‘Yes,’ said Phineas; ‘I shall walk.’
‘Then we may go together as far as Pall Mall. Come along.’ Phineas had no means of escape, and left the House hanging on Mr Monk's arm, without a word. Nor did Mr Monk speak till they were out in Palace Yard. ‘It was not much amiss,’ said Mr Monk; ‘but you'll do better than that yet.’
‘Mr Monk,’ said Phineas, ‘I have made an ass of myself so thoroughly, that there will at any rate be this good result, that I shall never make an ass of myself again after the same fashion.’
‘Ah! – I thought you had some such feeling as that, and therefore I was determined to speak to you. You may be sure, Finn, that I do not care to flatter you, and I think you ought to know that, as far as I am able, I will tell you the truth. Your speech, which was certainly nothing great, was about on a par with other maiden speeches in the House of Commons. You have done yourself neither good nor harm. Nor was I desirable that you should. My advice to you now is, never to avoid speaking on any subject that interests you, but never to speak for above three minutes till you find yourself as much at home on your legs as you are when sitting. But do not suppose that you have made an ass of yourself, – that is, in any special degree. Now, good-night.’
CHAPTER 27
Phineas Discussed
LADY LAURA KENNEDY heard two accounts of her friend's speech, – and both from men who had been present. Her husband was in his place, in accordance with his constant practice, and Lord Brentford had been seated, perhaps unfortunately, in the peers' gallery.
‘And you think it was a failure?’ Lady Laura said to her husband.
‘It certainly was not a success. There was nothing particular about it. There was a good deal of it you could hardly hear.’
After that she got the morning newspapers, and turned with great interest to the report. Phineas Finn had been, as it were, adopted by her as her own political offspring, – or at any rate as her political godchild. She had made promises on his behalf to various personages of high political standing, – to her father, to Mr Monk, to the Duke of St Bungay, and even to Mr Mildmay himself. She had thoroughly intended that Phineas Finn should be a political success from the first; and, since her marriage, she had, I think, been more intent upon it than before. Perhaps there was a feeling on her part that having wronged him in one way, she would repay him in another. She had become so eager for his success, – for a while scorning to conceal her feeling, – that her husband had unconsciously begun to entertain a dislike to her eagerness. We know how quickly women arrive at an understanding of the feelings of those with whom they live; and now, on that very occasion, Lady Laura perceived that her husband did not take in good part her anxiety on behalf of her friend. She saw that it was so as she turned over the newspaper looking for the report of the speech. It was given in six lines, and at the end of it there was an intimation, – expressed in the shape of advice, – that the young orator had better speak more slowly if he wished to be efficacious either with the House or with the country.
‘He seems to have been cheered a good deal,’ said Lady Laura.
‘All members are cheered at their first speech,’ said Mr Kennedy.
‘I've no doubt he'll do well yet,’ said Lady Laura.
‘Very likely,’ said Mr Kennedy. Then he turned to his newspaper, and did not take his eyes off it as long as his wife remained with him.
Later in the day Lady Laura saw her father, and Miss Effingham was with her at the time. Lord Brentford said something which indicated that he had heard the debate on the previous evening, and Lady Laura instantly began to ask him about Phineas.
‘The less said the better,’ was the Earl's reply.
‘Do you mean that it was so bad as that?’ asked Lady Laura.
‘It was not very bad at first; – though indeed nobody could say it was very good. But he got himself into a mess about the police and the magistrates before he had done, and nothing but the kindly feeling always shown to a first effort saved him from being coughed down.’ Lady Laura had not a word more to say about Phineas to her father; but, womanlike, she resolved that she would not abandon him. How many first failures in the world have been the precursors of ultimate success? ‘Mildmay will lose his bill,' said the Earl, sorrowfully. ‘There does not seem to be a doubt about that.’
‘And what will you all do?’ asked Lady Laura.
‘We must go to the country, I suppose,’ said the Earl.
‘What's the use? You can't have a more liberal House than you have now,’ said Lady Laura.
‘We may have one less liberal, – or rather less radical, – with fewer men to support Mr Turnbull. I do not see what else we can do. They say that there are no less than twenty-seven men on our side of the House who will either vote with Turnbull against us, or will decline to vote at all.’
‘Every one of them ought to lose his seat,’ said Lady Laura.
‘But what can we do? How is the Queen's Government to be carried on?’ We all know the sad earnestness which impressed itself on the Earl's brow as he asked these momentous questions. ‘I don't suppose that Mr Turnbull can form a Ministry.’
‘With Mr Daubeny as whipper-in, perhaps he might,’ said Lady Laura.
‘And will Mr Finn lose his seat?’ asked Violet Effingham.
‘Most probably,’ said the Earl. ‘He only got it by an accident.’
‘You must find him a seat somewhere in England,’ said Violet.
‘That might be difficult,’ said the Earl, who then left the room.
The two women remained together for some quarter of an hour before they spoke again. Then Lady Laura said something about her brother. ‘If there be a dissolution, I hope Oswald will stand for Loughton.’ Loughton was a borough close to Saulsby, in which, as regarded its political interests, Lord Brentford was supposed to have considerable influence. To this Violet said nothing. ‘It is quite time,’ continued Lady Laura, ‘that old Mr Standish should give way. He has had the seat for twenty-five years, and has never done anything, and he seldom goes to the House now.’
‘He is not your uncle, is he?’
‘No; he is papa's cousin; but he is ever so much older than papa; – nearly eighty, I believe.’
‘Would not that be just the place for Mr Finn?’ said Violet.
Then Lady Laura became very serious. ‘Oswald would of course have a better right to it than anybody else.’
‘But would Lord Chiltern go into Parliament? I have heard him declare that he would not.’
‘If we could get papa to ask him, I think he would change his mind,’ said Lady Laura.
There was again silence for a few moments, after which Violet returned to the original subject of their conversation. ‘It would be a thousand pities that Mr Finn should be turned out into the cold. Don't you think so?’
‘I, for one, should be very sorry.’
‘So should I, – and the more so from what Lord Brentford says about his not speaking well last night. I don't think that it is very much of an accomplishment for a gentleman to speak well. Mr Turnbull, I suppose, speaks well; and they say that that horrid man, Mr Bonteen, can talk by the hour together. I don't think that it shows a man to be clever at all. But I believe Mr Finn would do it, if he set his mind to it, and I shall think it a great shame if they turn him out.’
‘It would depend very much, I suppose, on Lord Tuila.’
‘I don't know anything about Lord Tulla,’ said Violet; ‘but I'm qui
te sure that he might have Loughton, if we manage it properly. Of course Lord Chiltern should have it if he wants it, but I don't think he will stand in Mr Finn's way.’
‘I'm afraid it's out of the question,’ said Lady Laura, gravely. ‘Papa thinks so much about the borough.’ The reader will remember that both Lord Brentford and his daughter were thorough reformers! The use of a little borough of his own, however, is a convenience to a great peer.
‘Those difficult things have always to be talked of for a long while, and then they become easy,' said Violet. ‘I believe if you were to propose to Mr Kennedy to give all his property to the Church Missionaries and emigrate to New Zealand, he'd begin to consider it seriously after a time.’
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 30
