Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘I don't see how a fellow is to help himself,’ said Phineas. ‘When a fellow begins to meddle with politics they will come.’

  ‘Why can't you grow into them gradually as your betters and elders have done before you? It ought to be enough for any man, when he begins, to know that he's a Liberal. He understands which side of the House he's to vote, and who is to lead him. What's the meaning of having a leader to a party, if it's not that? Do you think that you and Mr Monk can go and make a government between you?’

  ‘Whatever I think, I'm sure he doesn't.’

  ‘I'm not so sure of that. But look here, Phineas. I don't care two straws about Monk's going. I always thought that Mildmay and the Duke were wrong when they asked him to join. I knew he'd go over the traces, – unless, indeed, he took his money and did nothing for it, which is the way with some of those Radicals. I look upon him as gone.’

  ‘He has gone.’

  ‘The devil go along with him, as you say in Ireland. But don't you be such a fool as to ruin yourself for a crotchet of Monk's. It isn't too late yet for you to hold back. To tell you the truth, Gresham has said a word to me about it already. He is most anxious that you should stay, but of course you can't stay and vote against us.’

  ‘Of course I cannot.’

  ‘I look upon you, you know, as in some sort my own child. I've tried to bring other fellows forward who seemed to have something in them, but I have never succeeded as I have with you. You've hit the thing off, and have got the ball at your foot. Upon my honour, in the whole course of my experience I have never known such good fortune as yours.’

  ‘And I shall always remember how it began, Barrington,’ said Phineas, who was greatly moved by the energy and solicitude of his friend.

  ‘But, for God's sake, don't go and destroy it all by such mad perversity as this. They mean to do something next session. Morrison is going to take it up.’ Sir Walter Morrison was at this time Secretary for Ireland. ‘But of course we can't let a fellow like Monk take the matter into his own hands just when he pleases. I call it d—d treachery.’

  ‘Monk is no traitor, Barrington.’

  ‘Men will have their own opinions about that. It's generally understood that when a man is asked to take a seat in the Cabinet he is expected to conform with his colleagues, unless something very special turns up. But I am speaking of you now, and not of Monk. You are not a man of fortune. You cannot afford to make ducks and drakes. You are excellently placed, and you have plenty of time to hark back, if you'll only listen to reason. All that Irish stump balderdash will never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will just go on as though it had never been uttered.’

  Phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, which was at least disinterested, and was good of its kind, and tell him that he would think of it. He did think of it very much. He almost thought that, were it to do again, he would allow Mr Monk to go upon his tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance of anything that so good a judge as Erle could call stump balderdash. As he sat in his arm-chair in his room at the Colonial Office, with despatch-boxes around him, and official papers spread before him, – feeling himself to be one of those who in truth managed and governed the affairs of this great nation, feeling also that if he relinquished his post now he could never regain it, – he did wish that he had been a little less in love with independence, a little quieter in his boastings that no official considerations should ever silence his tongue. But all this was too late now. He knew that his skin was not thick enough to bear the arrows of those archers who would bend their bows against him if he should now dare to vote against Mr Monk's motion. His own party might be willing to forgive and forget; but there would be others who would have read those reports, and would appear in the House with the odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands.

  Then he received a letter from his father. Some good-natured person had enlightened the doctor as to the danger in which his son was placing himself. Dr Finn, who in his own profession was a very excellent and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of Parliamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son's success at the Irish meetings. He had thought that Phineas was carrying on his trade as a public speaker with proper energy and continued success. He had cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknowledged to Mr Monk that he could not understand in what it was that the farmers were wronged. But he knew that Mr Monk was a Cabinet Minister, and he thought that Phineas was earning his salary. Then there came some one who undeceived him, and the paternal bosom of the doctor was dismayed. ‘I don't mean to interfere,’ he said in his letter, ‘but I can hardly believe that you really intend to resign your place. Yet I am told that you must do so if you go on with this matter. My dear boy, pray think about it. I cannot imagine you are disposed to lose all that you have won for nothing.’ Mary also wrote to him. Mrs Finn had been talking to her, and Mary had taught herself to believe that after the many sweet conversations she had had with a man so high in office as Phineas, she really did understand something about the British Government. Mrs Finn had interrogated Mary, and Mary had been obliged to own that it was quite possible that Phineas would be called upon to resign.

  ‘But why, my dear? Heaven and earth! Resign two thousand a year!’

  ‘That he may maintain his independence,’ said Mary proudly.

  ‘Fiddlestick!’ said Mrs Finn. ‘How is he to maintain you, or himself either, if he goes on in that way? I shouldn't wonder if he didn't get himself all wrong, even now.’ Then Mrs Finn began to cry; and Mary could only write to her lover, pointing out to him how very anxious all his friends were that he should do nothing in a hurry. But what if the thing were done already! Phineas in his great discomfort went to seek further counsel from Madame Goesler. Of all his counsellors, Madame Goesler was the only one who applauded him for what he was about to do.

  ‘But, after all, what is it you give up? Mr Gresham may be out to-morrow, and then where will be your place?’

  ‘There does not seem to be much chance of that at present.’

  ‘Who can tell? Of course I do not understand, – but it was only the other day when Mr Mildmay was there, and only the day before that when Lord De Terrier was there, and again only the day before that when Lord Brock was there.’ Phineas endeavoured to make her understand that of the four Prime Ministers whom she had named, three were men of the same party as himself, under whom it would have suited him to serve. ‘I would not serve under any man if I were an English gentleman in Parliament,’ said Madame Goesler.

  ‘What is a poor fellow to do?’ said Phineas, laughing.

  ‘A poor fellow need not be a poor fellow unless he likes,’ said Madame Goesler. Immediately after this Phineas left her, and as he went along the street he began to question himself whether the prospects of his own darling Mary were at all endangered by his visits to Park Lane; and to reflect what sort of a blackguard he would be, – a blackguard of how deep a dye, – were he to desert Mary and marry Madame Max Goesler. Then he also asked himself as to the nature and quality of his own political honesty if he were to abandon Mary in order that he might maintain his parliamentary independence. After all, if it should ever come to pass that his biography should be written, his biographer would say very much more about the manner in which he kept his seat in Parliament than of the manner in which he kept his engagement with Miss Mary Flood Jones. Half a dozen people who knew him and her might think ill of him for his conduct to Mary, but the world would not condemn him! And when he thundered forth his liberal eloquence from below the gangway as an independent member, having the fortune of his charming wife to back him, giving excellent dinners at the same time in Park Lane, would not the world praise him very loudly?

  When he got to his office he found a note from Lord Brentford inviting him to dine in Portman Square.

  CHAPTER 68

  The Joint Attack

  THE note from Lord Brentford surprised our hero not a little. He had had no communication with the Earl since the day
on which he had been so savagely scolded about the duel, when the Earl had plainly told him that his conduct had been as bad it could be. Phineas had not on that account become at all ashamed of his conduct in reference to the duel, but he had conceived that any reconciliation between him and the Earl had been out of the question. Now there had come a civilly-worded invitation, asking him to dine with the offended nobleman. The note had been written by Lady Laura, but it had purposed to come from Lord Brentford himself. He sent back word to say that he should be happy to have the honour of dining with Lord Brentford.

  Parliament at this time had been sitting nearly a month, and it was already March. Phineas had heard nothing of Lady Laura, and did not even know that she was in London till he saw her handwriting. He did know that she had not gone back to her husband, and that she had remained with her father all the winter at Saulsby. He had also heard that Lord Chiltern had been at Saulsby. All the world had been talking of the separation of Mr Kennedy from his wife, one half of the world declaring that his wife, if not absolutely false to him, had neglected all her duties; and the other half asserting that Mr Kennedy's treatment of his wife had been so bad that no woman could possibly have lived with him. There had even been a rumour that Lady Laura had gone off with a lover from the Duke of Omnium's garden party, and some indiscreet tongue had hinted that a certain unmarried Under-Secretary of State was missing at the same time. But Lord Chiltern upon this had shown his teeth with so strong a propensity to do some real biting, that no one had ventured to repeat that rumour. Its untruth was soon established by the fact that Lady Laura Kennedy was living with her father at Saulsby. Of Mr Kennedy, Phineas had as yet seen nothing since he had been up in town. That gentleman, though a member of the Cabinet, had not been in London at the opening of the session, nor had he attended the Cabinet meetings during the recess. It had been stated in the newspapers that he was ill, and stated in private that he could not bear to show himself since his wife had left him. At last, however, he came to London, and Phineas saw him in the House. Then, when the first meeting of the Cabinet was summoned after his return, it became known that he also had resigned his office. There was nothing said about his resignation in the House. He had resigned on the score of ill-health, and that very worthy peer, Lord Mount Thistle, formerly Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, came back to the Duchy of Lancaster in his place. A Prime Minister sometimes finds great relief in the possession of a serviceable stick who can be made to go in and out as occasion may require; only it generally happens that the stick will expect some reward when he is made to go out. Lord Mount Thistle immediately saw his way to a viscount's coronet, when he was once more summoned to the august councils of the Ministers.

  A few days after this had been arranged in the interval between Lord Brentford's invitation and Lord Brentford's dinner, Phineas encountered Mr Kennedy so closely in one of the passages of the House that it was impossible that they should not speak to each other, unless they were to avoid each other as people do who have palpably quarrelled. Phineas saw that Mr Kennedy was hesitating, and therefore took the bull by the horns. He greeted his former friend in a friendly fashion, shaking him by the hand, and then prepared to pass on. But Mr Kennedy, though he had hesitated at first, now detained his brother member. ‘Finn,’ he said, ‘if you are not engaged I should like to speak to you for a moment.’ Phineas was not engaged, and allowed himself to be led out arm-in-arm by the late Chancellor of the Duchy into Westminster Hall. ‘Of course you know what a terrible thing has happened to me,’ said Mr Kennedy.

  ‘Yes; — I have heard of it,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Everybody has heard of it. That is one of the terrible cruelties of such a blow.’

  ‘All those things are very bad of course. I was very much grieved, – because you have both been intimate friends of mine.’

  ‘Yes, – yes; we were. Do you ever see her now?’

  ‘Not since last July, – at the Duke's party, you know.’

  ‘Ah, yes; – the morning of that day was the last on which I spoke to her. It was then she left me.’

  ‘I am going to dine with Lord Brentford to-morrow, and I dare say she will be there.’

  ‘Yes; – she is in town. I saw her yesterday in her father's carriage. I think that she had no cause to leave me.’

  ‘Of course I cannot say anything about that.’

  ‘I think she had no cause to leave me.’ Phineas as he heard this could not but remember all that Lady Laura had told himself, and thought that no woman had ever had a better reason for leaving her husband. ‘There were things I did not like, and I said so.’

  ‘I suppose that is generally the way,’ replied Phineas.

  ‘But surely a wife should listen to a word of caution from her husband.’

  ‘I fancy they never like it,’ said Phineas.

  ‘But are we all of us to have all that we like? I have not found it so. Or would it be good for us if we had?’ Then he paused; but as Phineas had no further remark to make, he continued speaking after they had walked about a third of the length of the hall. ‘It is not of my own comfort I am thinking now so much as of her name and her future conduct. Of course it will in every sense be best for her that she should come back to her husband's roof.’

  ‘Well; yes; – perhaps it would,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Has she not accepted that lot for better or for worse?’ said Mr Kennedy, solemnly.

  ‘But incompatibility of temper, you know, is always, – always supposed –. You understand me?’

  ‘It is my intention that she should come back to me. I do not wish to make any legal demand; – at any rate, not as yet. Will you consent to be the bearer of a message from me both to herself and to the Earl?’

  Now it seemed to Phineas that of all the messengers whom Mr Kennedy could have chosen he was the most unsuited to be a Mercury in this cause, – not perceiving that he had been so selected with some craft, in order that Lady Laura might understand that the accusation against her was, at any rate, withdrawn, which had named Phineas as her lover. He paused again before he answered. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I should be most willing to be of service, if it were possible. But I do not see how I can speak to the Earl about it. Though I am going to dine with him I don't know why he has asked me; – for he and I are on very bad terms. He heard that stupid story about the duel, and has not spoken to me since.’

  ‘I heard that, too,’ said Mr Kennedy, frowning blackly as he remembered his wife's duplicity.

  ‘Everybody heard of it. But it has made such a difference between him and me, that I don't think I can meddle. Send for Lord Chiltern, and speak to him.’

  ‘Speak to Chiltern! Never! He would probably strike me on the head with his club.’

  ‘Call on the Earl yourself.’

  ‘I did, and he would not see me.’

  ‘Write to him.’

  ‘I did, and he sent back my letter unopened.’

  ‘Write to her.’

  ‘I did; – and she answered me, saying only thus; “Indeed, indeed, it cannot be so.” But it must be so. The laws of God require it, and the laws of man permit it. I want some one to point out that to them more softly than I could do if I were simply to write to that effect. To the Earl, of course, I cannot write again.’ The conference ended by a promise from Phineas that he would, if possible, say a word to Lady Laura.

  When he was shown into Lord Brentford's drawing-room he found not only Lady Laura there, but her brother. Lord Brentford was not in the room. Barrington Erle was there, and so also were Lord and Lady Cantrip.

  ‘Is not your father going to be here?’ he said to Lady Laura, after their first greeting.

  ‘We live in that hope,’ said she, ‘and do not at all know why he should be late. What has become of him, Oswald?’

  ‘He came in with me half an hour ago, and I suppose he does not dress as quickly as I do,’ said Lord Chiltern; upon which Phineas immediately understood that the father and the son were reconciled, and he rushed to the con
clusion that Violet and her lover would also soon be reconciled, if such were not already the case. He felt some remnant of a soreness that it should be so, as a man feels where his headache has been when the real ache itself has left him. Then the host came in and made his apologies. ‘Chiltern kept me standing about,’ he said, ‘till the east wind had chilled me through and through. The only charm I recognise in youth is that it is impervious to the east wind.’ Phineas felt quite sure now that Violet and her lover were reconciled, and he had a distinct feeling of the place where the ache had been. Dear Violet! But, after all, Violet lacked that sweet, clinging, feminine softness which made Mary Flood Jones so pre-eminently the most charming of her sex. The Earl, when he had repeated his general apology, especially to Lady Cantrip, who was the only lady present except his daughter, came up to our hero and shook him kindly by the hand. He took him up to one of the windows and then addressed him in a voice of mock solemnity.

  ‘Stick to the colonies, young man,’ he said, ‘and never meddle with foreign affairs; – especially not at Blankenberg.’

  ‘Never again, my Lord; – never again.’

  ‘And leave all questions of fire-arms to be arranged between the Horse Guards and the War Office. I have heard a good deal about it since I saw you, and I retract a part of what I said. But a duel is a foolish thing, – a very foolish thing. Come; – here is dinner.’ And the Earl walked off with Lady Cantrip, and Lord Cantrip walked off with Lady Laura. Barrington Erle followed, and Phineas had an opportunity of saying a word to his friend, Lord Chiltern, as they went down together.

  ‘It's all right between you and your father?’

  ‘Yes; – after a fashion. There is no knowing how long it will last. He wants me to do three things, and I won't do any of them.’

  ‘What are the three?’