Consolation
On the day following Madame Goesler’s dinner party, Phineas, though
he was early at his office, was not able to do much work, still
feeling that as regarded the realities of the world, his back
was broken. He might no doubt go on learning, and, after a time,
might be able to exert himself in a perhaps useful, but altogether
uninteresting kind of way, doing his work simply because it was
there to be done,--as the carter or the tailor does his;--and from
the same cause, knowing that a man must have bread to live. But as
for ambition, and the idea of doing good, and the love of work for
work’s sake,--as for the elastic springs of delicious and beneficent
labour,--all that was over for him. He would have worked from day
till night, and from night till day, and from month till month
throughout the year to have secured for Violet Effingham the
assurance that her husband’s position was worthy of her own. But now
he had no motive for such work as this. As long as he took the public
pay, he would earn it; and that was all.
On the next day things were a little better with him. He received a
note in the morning from Lord Cantrip saying that they two were to
see the Prime Minister that evening, in order that the whole question
of the railway to the Rocky Mountains might be understood, and
Phineas was driven to his work. Before the time of the meeting came
he had once more lost his own identity in great ideas of colonial
welfare, and had planned and peopled a mighty region on the Red
River, which should have no sympathy with American democracy. When
he waited upon Mr. Gresham in the afternoon he said nothing about
the mighty region; indeed, he left it to Lord Cantrip to explain
most of the proposed arrangements,--speaking only a word or two here
and there as occasion required. But he was aware that he had so far
recovered as to be able to save himself from losing ground during the
interview.
“He’s about the first Irishman we’ve had that has been worth his
salt,” said Mr. Gresham to his colleague afterwards.
“That other Irishman was a terrible fellow,” said Lord Cantrip,
shaking his head.
On the fourth day after his sorrow had befallen him, Phineas went
again to the cottage in Park Lane. And in order that he might not be
balked in his search for sympathy he wrote a line to Madame Goesler
to ask if she would be at home. “I will be at home from five to
six,--and alone.--M. M. G.” That was the answer from Marie Max
Goesler, and Phineas was of course at the cottage a few minutes
after five. It is not, I think, surprising that a man when he wants
sympathy in such a calamity as that which had now befallen Phineas
Finn, should seek it from a woman. Women sympathise most effectually
with men, as men do with women. But it is, perhaps, a little odd that
a man when he wants consolation because his heart has been broken,
always likes to receive it from a pretty woman. One would be disposed
to think that at such a moment he would be profoundly indifferent
to such a matter, that no delight could come to him from female
beauty, and that all he would want would be the softness of a simply
sympathetic soul. But he generally wants a soft hand as well, and an
eye that can be bright behind the mutual tear, and lips that shall
be young and fresh as they express their concern for his sorrow. All
these things were added to Phineas when he went to Madame Goesler in
his grief.
“I am so glad to see you,” said Madame Max.
“You are very good-natured to let me come.”
“No;--but it is so good of you to trust me. But I was sure you would
come after what took place the other night. I saw that you were
pained, and I was so sorry for it.”
“I made such a fool of myself.”
“Not at all. And I thought that you were right to tell them when the
question had been asked. If the thing was not to be kept a secret, it
was better to speak it out. You will get over it quicker in that way
than in any other. I have never seen the young lord, myself.”
“Oh, there is nothing amiss about him. As to what Lord Fawn said, the
half of it is simply exaggeration, and the other half is
misunderstood.”
“In this country it is so much to be a lord,” said Madame Goesler.
Phineas thought a moment of that matter before he replied. All the
Standish family had been very good to him, and Violet Effingham had
been very good. It was not the fault of any of them that he was now
wretched and back-broken. He had meditated much on this, and had
resolved that he would not even think evil of them. “I do not in my
heart believe that that has had anything to do with it,” he said.
“But it has, my friend,--always. I do not know your Violet
Effingham.”
“She is not mine.”
“Well;--I do not know this Violet that is not yours. I have met her,
and did not specially admire her. But then the tastes of men and
women about beauty are never the same. But I know she is one that
always lives with lords and countesses. A girl who always lived with
countesses feels it to be hard to settle down as a plain Mistress.”
“She has had plenty of choice among all sorts of men. It was not the
title. She would not have accepted Chiltern unless she had--. But
what is the use of talking of it?”
“They had known each other long?”
“Oh, yes,--as children. And the Earl desired it of all things.”
“Ah;--then he arranged it.”
“Not exactly. Nobody could arrange anything for Chiltern,--nor, as
far as that goes, for Miss Effingham. They arranged it themselves, I
fancy.”
“You had asked her?”
“Yes;--twice. And she had refused him more than twice. I have nothing
for which to blame her; but yet I had thought,--I had thought--”
“She is a jilt then?”
“No;--I will not let you say that of her. She is no jilt. But I think
she has been strangely ignorant of her own mind. What is the use of
talking of it, Madame Goesler?”
“None;--only sometimes it is better to speak a word, than to keep
one’s sorrow to oneself.”
“So it is;--and there is not one in the world to whom I can speak
such a word, except yourself. Is not that odd? I have sisters, but
they have never heard of Miss Effingham, and would be quite
indifferent.”
“Perhaps they have some other favourites.”
“Ah;--well. That does not matter, And my best friend here in London
is Lord Chiltern’s own sister.”
“She knew of your attachment?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And she told you of Miss Effingham’s engagement. Was she glad of
it?”
“She has always desired the marriage. And yet I think she would have
been satisfied had it been otherwise. But of course her heart must
be with her brother. I need not have troubled myself to go to
Blankenberg after all.”
“It was for the best, perhaps. Everybody says you behaved so well.”
“I could not but go, as things were then.”
“What if you had--shot him?”
“There would have been an end of everything. She would never have
seen me after that. Indeed I should have shot myself next, feeling
that there was nothing else left for me to do.”
“Ah;--you English are so peculiar. But I suppose it is best not to
shoot a man. And, Mr. Finn, there are other ladies in the world
prettier than Miss Violet Effingham. No;--of course you will not
admit that now. Just at this moment, and for a month or two, she
is peerless, and you will feel yourself to be of all men the most
unfortunate. But you have the ball at your feet. I know no one so
young who has got the ball at his feet so well. I call it nothing to
have the ball at your feet if you are born with it there. It is so
easy to be a lord if your father is one before you,--and so easy
to marry a pretty girl if you can make her a countess. But to make
yourself a lord, or to be as good as a lord, when nothing has been
born to you,--that I call very much. And there are women, and pretty
women too, Mr. Finn, who have spirit enough to understand this, and
to think that the man, after all, is more important than the lord.”
Then she sang the old well-worn verse of the Scotch song with
wonderful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and knowledge of
music for which he had hitherto never given her credit.
“A prince can mak’ a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that.”
“I did not know that you sung, Madame Goesler.”
“Only now and then when something specially requires it. And I am
very fond of Scotch songs. I will sing to you now if you like it.”
Then she sang the whole song,--“A man’s a man for a’ that,” she
said as she finished. “Even though he cannot get the special bit of
painted Eve’s flesh for which his heart has had a craving.” Then she
sang again:--
“There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
“But young Lochinvar got his bride,” said Phineas.
“Take the spirit of the lines, Mr. Finn, which is true; and not the
tale as it is told, which is probably false. I often think that Jock
of Hazledean, and young Lochinvar too, probably lived to repent their
bargains. We will hope that Lord Chiltern may not do so.”
“I am sure he never will.”
“That is all right. And as for you, do you for a while think of your
politics, and your speeches, and your colonies, rather than of your
love. You are at home there, and no Lord Chiltern can rob you of
your success. And if you are down in the mouth, come to me, and I
will sing you a Scotch song. And, look you, the next time I ask you
to dinner I will promise you that Mrs. Bonteen shall not be here.
Good-bye.” She gave him her hand, which was very soft, and left it
for a moment in his, and he was consoled.
Madame Goesler, when she was alone, threw herself on to her chair
and began to think of things. In these days she would often ask
herself what in truth was the object of her ambition, and the aim of
her life. Now at this moment she had in her hand a note from the Duke
of Omnium. The Duke had allowed himself to say something about a
photograph, which had justified her in writing to him,--or which she
had taken for such justification. And the Duke had replied. “He would
not,” he said, “lose the opportunity of waiting upon her in person
which the presentation of the little gift might afford him.” It would
be a great success to have the Duke of Omnium at her house,--but to
what would the success reach? What was her definite object,--or had
she any? In what way could she make herself happy? She could not say
that she was happy yet. The hours with her were too long and the days
too many.
The Duke of Omnium should come,--if he would. And she was quite
resolved as to this,--that if the Duke did come she would not be
afraid of him. Heavens and earth! What would be the feelings of such
a woman as her, were the world to greet her some fine morning as
Duchess of Omnium! Then she made up her mind very resolutely on one
subject. Should the Duke give her any opportunity she would take
a very short time in letting him know what was the extent of her
ambition.