Vulgarity
The Duke and Duchess with their children and personal servants
reached Gatherum Castle the day before the first crowd of visitors
was expected. It was on a lovely autumn afternoon, and the Duke,
who had endeavoured to make himself pleasant during the journey,
had suggested that as soon as the heat would allow them they would
saunter about the grounds and see what was being done. They could
dine late, at half-past eight or nine, so that they might be walking
from seven to eight. But the Duchess when she reached the Castle
declined to fall into this arrangement. The journey had been hot
and dusty and she was a little cross. They reached the place about
five, and then she declared that she would have a cup of tea and lie
down; she was too tired to walk; and the sun, she said, was still
scorchingly hot. He then asked that the children might go with him;
but the two little girls were weary and travel-worn, and the two
boys, the elder of whom was home from Eton and the younger from
some minor Eton, were already out about the place after their own
pleasures. So the Duke started for his walk alone.
The Duchess certainly did not wish to have to inspect the works in
conjunction with her husband. She knew how much there was that she
ought still to do herself, how many things that she herself ought
to see. But she could neither do anything nor see anything to any
purpose under his wing. As to lying down, that she knew to be quite
out of the question. She had already found out that the life which
she had adopted was one of incessant work. But she was neither weak
nor idle. She was quite prepared to work,--if only she might work
after her own fashion and with companions chosen by herself. Had not
her husband been so perverse, she would have travelled down with Mrs.
Finn, whose coming was now postponed for two days, and Locock would
have been with her. The Duke had given directions which made it
necessary that Locock's coming should be postponed for a day, and
this was another grievance. She was put out a good deal, and began to
speculate whether her husband was doing it on purpose to torment her.
Nevertheless, as soon as she knew that he was out of the way, she
went to her work. She could not go out among the tents and lawns and
conservatories, as she would probably meet him. But she gave orders
as to bedchambers, saw to the adornments of the reception-rooms, had
an eye to the banners and martial trophies suspended in the vast
hall, and the busts and statues which adorned the corners, looked
in on the plate which was being prepared for the great dining-room,
and superintended the moving about of chairs, sofas, and tables
generally. "You may take it as certain, Mrs. Pritchard," she said to
the housekeeper, "that there will never be less than forty for the
next two months."
"Forty to sleep, my lady?" To Pritchard the Duchess had for many
years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that her
mistress liked the old appellation.
"Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But
that's nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every day! Do
you think you've got everything that you want?"
"It depends, my lady, how long each of 'em stays."
"One night! No,--say two nights on an average."
"That makes shifting the beds very often;--doesn't it, my lady?"
"Send up to Puddick's for sheets to-morrow. Why wasn't that thought
of before?"
"It was, my lady,--and I think we shall do. We've got the
steam-washery put up."
"Towels!" suggested the Duchess.
"Oh yes, my lady. Puddick's did send a great many things;--a whole
waggon load there was come from the station. But the tablecloths
ain't, none of 'em, long enough for the big table." The Duchess's
face fell. "Of course there must be two. On them very long tables, my
lady, there always is two."
"Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have had them made? It's
impossible,--impossible that one brain should think of it all. Are
you sure you've got enough hands in the kitchen?"
"Well, my lady;--we couldn't do with more; and they ain't an atom of
use,--only just in the way,--if you don't know something about 'em.
I suppose Mr. Millepois will be down soon." This name, which Mrs.
Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a French cook who was as yet
unknown at the Castle.
"He'll be here to-night."
"I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady, so as
just to see about him."
"And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won't make any
difficulties. The confectioner did come?"
"Yes, my lady; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that drunk
last night that--; oh, dear, we didn't know what to do with him."
"I don't mind that before the affair begins. I don't suppose he'll
get tipsy while he has to work for all these people. You've plenty of
eggs?"
These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking
of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before she
dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to speak of,
noting either perfection or imperfection. In the meantime the Duke
had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he had made up his mind
that he would enjoy his first holiday out of town by walking about
his own grounds, and he would not allow the heat to interrupt him.
He went out through the vast hall, and the huge front door, which
was so huge and so grand that it was very seldom used. But it was
now open by chance, owing to some incident of this festival time,
and he passed through it and stood upon the grand terrace, with the
well-known and much-lauded portico over head. Up to the terrace,
though it was very high, there ran a road, constructed upon arches,
so that grand guests could drive almost into the house. The Duke,
who was never grand himself, as he stood there looking at the
far-stretching view before him, could not remember that he had ever
but once before placed himself on that spot. Of what use had been
the portico, and the marbles, and the huge pile of stone,--of what
use the enormous hall just behind him, cutting the house in two,
declaring aloud by its own aspect and proportions that it had been
built altogether for show and in no degree for use or comfort? And
now as he stood there he could already see that men were at work
about the place, that ground had been moved here, and grass laid down
there, and a new gravel road constructed in another place. Was it not
possible that his friends should be entertained without all these
changes in the gardens? Then he perceived the tents, and descending
from the terrace and turning to the left towards the end of the house
he came upon a new conservatory. The exotics with which it was to
be filled were at this moment being brought in on great barrows. He
stood for a moment and looked, but said not a word to the men. They
gazed at him but evidently did not know him. How should they know
him,--him, who was so seldom there, and who when there never showed
himself about the place? Then he went farther afield from the house
and came across more and more men. A great ha-ha fence had been made,
enclosing on three sides a large flat and turfed parallelogram of
ground, taken out of the park and open at one end to the gardens,
containing, as he thought, about an acre. "What are you doing this
for?" he said to one of the labourers. The man stared at him, and
at first seemed hardly inclined to make him an answer. "It be for
the quality to shoot their bows and harrows," he said at last, as
he continued the easy task of patting with his spade the completed
work. He evidently regarded this stranger as an intruder who was not
entitled to ask questions, even if he were permitted to wander about
the grounds.
From one place he went on to another and found changes, and new
erections, and some device for throwing away money everywhere. It
angered him to think that there was so little of simplicity left in
the world that a man could not entertain his friends without such a
fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently to the consideration
of the money, not that he grudged the loss of it, but the spending of
it in such a cause. And then perhaps there occurred to him an idea
that all this should not have been done without a word of consent
from himself. Had she come to him with some scheme for changing
everything about the place, making him think that the alterations
were a matter of taste or of mere personal pleasure, he would
probably have given his assent at once, thinking nothing of the
money. But all this was sheer display. Then he walked up and saw the
flag waving over the Castle, indicating that he, the Lord Lieutenant
of the County, was present there on his own soil. That was right.
That was as it should be, because the flag was waving in compliance
with an acknowledged ordinance. Of all that properly belonged to
his rank and station he could be very proud, and would allow no
diminution of that outward respect to which they were entitled. Were
they to be trenched on by his fault in his person, the rights of
others to their enjoyment would be endangered, and the benefits
accruing to his country from established marks of reverence would
be imperilled. But here was an assumed and preposterous grandeur
that was as much within the reach of some rich swindler or of some
prosperous haberdasher as of himself,--having, too, a look of raw
newness about it which was very distasteful to him. And then, too,
he knew that nothing of all this would have been done unless he had
become Prime Minister. Why on earth should a man's grounds be knocked
about because he becomes Prime Minister? He walked on arguing this
within his own bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger.
It was clear that he must henceforth take things more into his
own hands, or he would be made to be absurd before the world.
Indifference he knew he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought he
could endure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was pervious.
Suppose the papers were to say of him that he built a new
conservatory and made an archery ground for the sake of maintaining
the Coalition!
When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the small
room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours she was
now reclining for the few minutes her husband's absence might allow
her, knowing that after dinner there were a score of letters for
her to write. "I don't think," said she, "I was ever so tired in my
life."
"It isn't such a very long journey after all."
"But it's a very big house, and I've been, I think, into every room
since I have been here, and I've moved most of the furniture in
the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I've counted the pounds of
butter, and inspected the sheets and tablecloths."
"Was that necessary, Glencora?"
"If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have
gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House of
Commons;--but things should be looked after, I suppose."
"There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling yourself
with many things."
"I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no
Marthas there would never be anything fit to eat. But it's odd how
sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn't
please a busy, hard-working man like you."
"I don't know that I have scolded,--not as yet."
"Are you going to begin?"
"Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I ever
scolded you?"
"I can remember a great many times when you ought."
"But to tell you the truth, I don't like all that you have done here.
I cannot see that it was necessary."
"People make changes in their gardens without necessity sometimes."
"But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been
made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing,--although
even in that case I think you might have told me what you proposed to
do."
"What;--when you are so burdened with work that you do not know how
to turn?"
"I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you
know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for yourself,
though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like it. But it
distresses me to think that what might have been good enough for our
friends before should be thought to be insufficient because of the
office I hold. There is a--a--a--I was almost going to say vulgarity
about it which distresses me."
"Vulgarity!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.
"I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that
should annoy you;--but pray, pray do not go on with it." Then again
he left her.
Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to bear as
that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not accuse her
of vulgarity,--but nevertheless the accusation had been made. Could
you call your friend a liar more plainly than by saying to him that
you would not say that he lied? They dined together, the two boys,
also, dining with them, but very little was said at dinner. The
horrid word was clinging to the lady's ears, and the remembrance of
having uttered the word was heavy on the man's conscience. He had
told himself very plainly that the thing was vulgar, but he had not
meant to use the word. When uttered it came even upon himself as a
surprise. But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may
be made, a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across
the table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep
dudgeon.
She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before
the meal was done. "Vulgarity!" She uttered the word aloud to
herself, as she sat herself down in the little room up-stairs which
she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was very
angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contradict him.
Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn't she be vulgar, if she could
most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity? What was the meaning
of the word vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things,--was
daily doing things,--which would have been odious to her had not her
husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness,
to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her
smiles,--so she now said to herself,--on butchers and tinkers. What
she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did, whither she
went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind,--was it not all said
and done and arranged with reference to his and her own popularity?
When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity,
and must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him.
The Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever
since the days of Coriolanus. "The old Duke kept out of it," she said
to herself, "and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice.
He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can't do
it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name!" Then it occurred to
her that the world tells lies every day,--telling on the whole much
more lies than truth,--but that the world has wisely agreed that the
world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn't venture to express
open disbelief even of one's wife; and with the world at large
a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of
course,--because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith,--who
has known the lie to be a lie,--has asserted his assured belief,
lying again. But in this way the world is able to live pleasantly.
How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused her of
vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell her
so? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.
The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment in
which she resolved that they should not be written. The work was very
hard, and what good would come from it? Why should she make her hands
dirty, so that even her husband accused her of vulgarity? Would it
not be better to give it all up, and be a great woman, une grande
dame, of another kind,--difficult of access, sparing of her favours,
aristocratic to the backbone,--a very Duchess of duchesses? The role
would be one very easy to play. It required rank, money, and a little
manner,--and these she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease,
without the slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost
like a god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change
even yet,--and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she
thought she would make it.
But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there had
come to her another thought. Nothing to her was so distasteful as
failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and had
assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming them.
Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the difficulties
which she had to overcome? Was her courage already gone from her? Was
she so weak that a single word should knock her over,--and a word
evidently repented of as soon as uttered? Vulgar! Well;--let her be
vulgar as long as she gained her object. There had been no penalty of
everlasting punishment denounced against vulgarity. And then a higher
idea touched her, not without effect,--an idea which she could not
analyse, but which was hardly on that account the less effective. She
did believe thoroughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him
the fittest man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His fame
was dear to her. Her nature was loyal; and though she might, perhaps,
in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with a more
loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more gay, given
to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could recognise merits
with which her sympathy was imperfect. It was good that he should be
England's Prime Minister, and therefore she would do all she could to
keep him in that place. The vulgarity was a necessary essential. He
might not acknowledge this,--might even, if the choice were left to
him, refuse to be Prime Minister on such terms. But she need not,
therefore, give way. Having in this way thought it all out, she took
up her pen and completed the batch of letters before she allowed
herself to go to bed.