The Duke in His Study
It was natural that at such a time, when success greater than had
been expected had attended the efforts of the Liberals, when some
dozen unexpected votes had been acquired, the leading politicians of
that party should have found themselves compelled to look about them
and see how these good things might be utilised. In February they
certainly had not expected to be called to power in the course of
the existing Session. Perhaps they did not expect it yet. There was
still a Conservative majority,--though but a small majority. But the
strength of the minority consisted, not in the fact that the majority
against them was small, but that it was decreasing. How quickly does
the snowball grow into hugeness as it is rolled on,--but when the
change comes in the weather how quickly does it melt, and before
it is gone become a thing ugly, weak, and formless! Where is the
individual who does not assert to himself that he would be more loyal
to a falling than to a rising friend? Such is perhaps the nature
of each one of us. But when any large number of men act together,
the falling friend is apt to be deserted. There was a general
feeling among politicians that Lord Drummond's ministry,--or Sir
Timothy's--was failing, and the Liberals, though they could not yet
count the votes by which they might hope to be supported in power,
nevertheless felt that they ought to be looking to their arms.
There had been a coalition. They who are well read in the political
literature of their country will remember all about that. It had
perhaps succeeded in doing that for which it had been intended. The
Queen's government had been carried on for two or three years. The
Duke of Omnium had been the head of that Ministry; but during those
years had suffered so much as to have become utterly ashamed of the
coalition,--so much as to have said often to himself that under no
circumstances would he again join any Ministry. At this time there
was no idea of another coalition. That is a state of things which
cannot come about frequently,--which can only be reproduced by men
who have never hitherto felt the mean insipidity of such a condition.
But they who had served on the Liberal side in that coalition must
again put their shoulders to the wheel. Of course it was in every
man's mouth that the Duke must be induced to forget his miseries and
once more to take upon himself the duties of an active servant of the
State.
But they who were most anxious on the subject, such men as Lord
Cantrip, Mr. Monk, our old friend Phineas Finn, and a few others,
were almost afraid to approach him. At the moment when the coalition
was broken up he had been very bitter in spirit, apparently almost
arrogant, holding himself aloof from his late colleagues,--and since
that, troubles had come to him, which had aggravated the soreness of
his heart. His wife had died, and he had suffered much through his
children. What Lord Silverbridge had done at Oxford was matter of
general conversation, and also what he had not done.
That the heir of the family should have become a renegade in politics
was supposed greatly to have affected the father. Now Lord Gerald had
been expelled from Cambridge, and Silverbridge was on the turf in
conjunction with Major Tifto! Something, too, had oozed out into
general ears about Lady Mary,--something which should have been
kept secret as the grave. It had therefore come to pass that it was
difficult even to address the Duke.
There was one man, and but one, who could do this with ease to
himself;--and that man was at last put into motion at the instance
of the leaders of the party. The old Duke of St. Bungay wrote the
following letter to the Duke of Omnium. The letter purported to be an
excuse for the writer's own defalcation. But the chief object of the
writer was to induce the younger Duke once more to submit to harness.
Longroyston, 3rd June, 187--.
DEAR DUKE OF OMNIUM,
How quickly the things come round! I had thought that I
should never again have been called upon even to think of
the formation of another Liberal Ministry; and now, though
it was but yesterday that we were all telling ourselves
that we were thoroughly manumitted from our labours by the
altered opinions of the country, sundry of our old friends
are again putting their heads together.
Did they not do so they would neglect a manifest duty.
Nothing is more essential to the political well-being
of the country than that the leaders on both sides in
politics should be prepared for their duties. But for
myself, I am bound at last to put in the old plea with
a determination that it shall be respected. "Solve
senescentem." It is now, if I calculate rightly, exactly
fifty years since I first entered public life in obedience
to the advice of Lord Grey. I had then already sat five
years in the House of Commons. I assisted humbly in the
emancipation of the Roman Catholics, and have learned by
the legislative troubles of just half a century that those
whom we then invited to sit with us in Parliament have
been in all things our worst enemies. But what then? Had
we benefited only those who love us, would not the sinners
also,--or even the Tories,--have done as much as that?
But such memories are of no avail now. I write to say that
after so much of active political life, I will at last
retire. My friends when they see me inspecting a pigsty
or picking a peach are apt to remind me that I can still
stand on my legs, and with more of compliment than of
kindness will argue therefore that I ought still to
undertake active duties in Parliament. I can select my
own hours for pigs and peaches, and should I, through the
dotage of age, make mistakes as to the breeding of the one
or the flavour of the other, the harm done will not go
far. In politics I have done my work. What you and others
in the arena do will interest me more than all other
things of this world, I think and hope, to my dying day.
But I will not trouble the workers with the querulousness
of old age.
So much for myself. And now let me, as I go, say a parting
word to him with whom in politics I have been for many
years more in accord than with any other leading man. As
nothing but age or infirmity would to my own mind have
justified me in retiring, so do I think that you, who can
plead neither age nor infirmity, will find yourself at
last to want self-justification, if you permit yourself
to be driven from the task either by pride or by
indifference.
I should express my feelings better were I to say by pride
and diffidence. I look to our old friendship, to the
authority given to me by my age, and to the thorough
goodness of your heart for pardon in thus accusing you.
That little men should have ventured to ill-use you, has
hurt your pride. That these little men should have been
able to do so has created your diffidence. Put you to
a piece of work that a man may do, you have less false
pride as to the way in which you may do it than any man
I have known; and, let the way be open to you, as little
diffidence as any. But in this political mill of ours
in England, a man cannot always find the way open to do
things. It does not often happen that an English statesman
can go in and make a great score off his own bat. But not
the less is he bound to play the game and to go to the
wicket when he finds that his time has come.
There are, I think, two things for you to consider in this
matter, and two only. The first is your capacity, and the
other is your duty. A man may have found by experience
that he is unfitted for public life. You and I have known
men in regard to whom we have thoroughly wished that such
experience had been reached. But this is a matter in which
a man who doubts himself is bound to take the evidence of
those around him. The whole party is most anxious for your
co-operation. If this be so,--and I make you the assurance
from most conclusive evidence,--you are bound to accept
the common consent of your political friends on that
matter. You perhaps think that at a certain period of your
life you failed. They all agree with me that you did not
fail. It is a matter on which you should be bound by our
opinion rather than by your own.
As to that matter of duty I shall have less difficulty
in carrying you with me. Though this renewed task may be
personally disagreeable to you, even though your tastes
should lead you to some other life,--which I think is not
the case,--still if your country wants you, you should
serve your country. It is a work as to which such a one
as you has no option. Of most of those who choose public
life,--it may be said that were they not there, there
would be others as serviceable. But when a man such as you
has shown himself to be necessary, as long as health and
age permit he cannot recede without breach of manifest
duty. The work to be done is so important, the numbers to
be benefited are so great, that he cannot be justified in
even remembering that he has a self.
As I have said before, I trust that my own age and
your goodness will induce you to pardon this great
interference. But whether pardoned or not I shall always
be
Your most affectionate friend,
ST. BUNGAY.
The Duke,--our Duke,--on reading this letter was by no means pleased
by its contents. He could ill bear to be reminded either of his pride
or of his diffidence. And yet the accusations which others made
against him were as nothing to those with which he charged himself.
He would do this till at last he was forced to defend himself against
himself by asking himself whether he could be other than as God had
made him. It is the last and the poorest makeshift of a defence to
which a man can be brought in his own court! Was it his fault that he
was so thin-skinned that all things hurt him? When some coarse man
said to him that which ought not to have been said, was it his fault
that at every word a penknife had stabbed him? Other men had borne
these buffets without shrinking, and had shown themselves thereby to
be more useful, much more efficacious; but he could no more imitate
them than he could procure for himself the skin of a rhinoceros or
the tusk of an elephant. And this shrinking was what men called
pride,--was the pride of which his old friend wrote! "Have I
ever been haughty, unless in my own defence?" he asked himself,
remembering certain passages of humility in his life,--and certain
passages of haughtiness also.
And the Duke told him also that he was diffident. Of course he was
diffident. Was it not one and the same thing? The very pride of which
he was accused was no more than that shrinking which comes from the
want of trust in oneself. He was a shy man. All his friends and all
his enemies knew that;--it was thus that he still discoursed with
himself;--a shy, self-conscious, timid, shrinking, thin-skinned man!
Of course he was diffident. Then why urge him on to tasks for which
he was by nature unfitted?
And yet there was much in his old friend's letter which moved him.
There were certain words which he kept on repeating to himself. "He
cannot be justified in even remembering that he has a self." It was
a hard thing to say of any man, but yet a true thing of such a man
as his correspondent had described. His correspondent had spoken of
a man who should know himself to be capable of serving the State.
If a man were capable, and was sure within his own bosom of his own
capacity, it would be his duty. But what if he were not so satisfied?
What if he felt that any labours of his would be vain, and all
self-abnegation useless? His friend had told him that on that matter
he was bound to take the opinion of others. Perhaps so. But if so,
had not that opinion been given to him very plainly when he was told
that he was both proud and diffident? That he was called upon to
serve his country by good service, if such were within his power, he
did acknowledge freely; but not that he should allow himself to be
stuck up as a ninepin only to be knocked down! There are politicians
for whom such occupation seems to be proper;--and who like it too. A
little office, a little power, a little rank, a little pay, a little
niche in the ephemeral history of the year will reward many men
adequately for being knocked down.
And yet he loved power, and even when thinking of all this allowed
his mind from time to time to run away into a dreamland of
prosperous political labours. He thought what it would be to be
an all-beneficent Prime Minister, with a loyal majority, with a
well-conditioned unanimous cabinet, with a grateful people, and an
appreciative Sovereign. How well might a man spend himself night and
day, even to death, in the midst of labours such as these.
Half an hour after receiving the Duke's letter he suddenly jumped up
and sat himself down at his desk. He felt it to be necessary that he
should at once write to his old friend;--and the more necessary that
he should do so at once, because he had resolved that he would do so
before he had made up his mind on the chief subject of that letter.
It did not suit him to say either that he would or that he would not
do as his friend advised him. The reply was made in a very few words.
"As to myself," he said, after expressing his regret that the Duke
should find it necessary to retire from public life--"as to myself,
pray understand that whatever I may do I shall never cease to be
grateful for your affectionate and high-spirited counsels."
Then his mind recurred to a more immediate and, for the moment, a
heavier trouble. He had as yet given no answer to that letter from
Mrs. Finn, which the reader will perhaps remember. It might indeed be
passed over without an answer; but to him that was impossible. She
had accused him in the very strongest language of injustice, and had
made him understand that if he were unjust to her, then would he
be most ungrateful. He, looking at the matter with his own lights,
had thought that he had been right, but had resolved to submit the
question to another person. As judge in the matter he had chosen Lady
Cantrip, and Lady Cantrip had given judgment against him.
He had pressed Lady Cantrip for a decided opinion, and she had told
him that she, in the same position, would have done just as Mrs. Finn
had done. He had constituted Lady Cantrip his judge, and had resolved
that her judgment should be final. He declared to himself that he
did not understand it. If a man's house be on fire, do you think of
certain rules of etiquette before you bid him send for the engines?
If a wild beast be loose, do you go through some ceremony before you
caution the wanderers abroad? There should not have been a moment!
But, nevertheless, it was now necessary that he should conform
himself to the opinion of Lady Cantrip, and in doing so he must
apologise for the bitter scorn with which he had allowed himself to
treat his wife's most loyal and loving friend.
The few words to the Duke had not been difficult, but this letter
seemed to be an Herculean task. It was made infinitely more difficult
by the fact that Lady Cantrip had not seemed to think that this
marriage was impossible. "Young people when they have set their minds
upon it do so generally prevail at last!" These had been her words,
and they discomforted him greatly. She had thought the marriage to
be possible. Had she not almost expressed an opinion that they ought
to be allowed to marry? And if so, would it not be his duty to take
his girl away from Lady Cantrip? As to the idea that young people,
because they have declared themselves to be in love, were to have
just what they wanted,--with that he did not agree at all. Lady
Cantrip had told him that young people generally did prevail at last.
He knew the story of one young person, whose position in her youth
had been very much the same as that of his daughter now, and she had
not prevailed. And in her case had not the opposition which had been
made to her wishes been most fortunate? That young person had become
his wife, his Glencora, his Duchess. Had she been allowed to have her
own way when she was a child, what would have been her fate? Ah what!
Then he had to think of it all. Might she not have been alive now,
and perhaps happier than she had ever been with him? And had he
remained always unmarried, devoted simply to politics, would not the
troubles of the world have been lighter on him? But what had that
to do with it? In these matters it was not the happiness of this or
that individual which should be considered. There is a propriety in
things;--and only by an adherence to that propriety on the part of
individuals can the general welfare be maintained. A King in this
country, or the heir or the possible heir to the throne, is debarred
from what might possibly be a happy marriage by regard to the good
of his subjects. To the Duke's thinking the maintenance of the
aristocracy of the country was second only in importance to the
maintenance of the Crown. How should the aristocracy be maintained if
its wealth were allowed to fall into the hands of an adventurer!
Such were the opinions with regard to his own order of one who was as
truly Liberal in his ideas as any man in England, and who had argued
out these ideas to their consequences. As by the spread of education
and increase of general well-being every proletaire was brought
nearer to a Duke, so by such action would the Duke be brought nearer
to a proletaire. Such drawing-nearer of the classes was the object
to which all this man's political action tended. And yet it was a
dreadful thing to him that his own daughter should desire to marry a
man so much beneath her own rank and fortune as Frank Tregear.
He would not allow himself to believe that the young people could
ever prevail; but nevertheless, as the idea of the thing had not
alarmed Lady Cantrip as it had him, it was necessary that he should
make some apology to Mrs. Finn. Each moment of procrastination was
a prick to his conscience. He now therefore dragged out from the
secrecy of some close drawer Mrs. Finn's letter and read it through
to himself once again. Yes--it was true that he had condemned her,
and that he had punished her. Though he had done nothing to her, and
said nothing, and written but very little, still he had punished her
most severely.
She had written as though the matter was almost one of life and death
to her. He could understand that too. His uncle's conduct to this
woman, and his wife's, had created the intimacy which had existed.
Through their efforts she had become almost as one of the family. And
now to be dismissed, like a servant who had misbehaved herself! And
then her arguments in her own defence were all so good,--if only that
which Lady Cantrip had laid down as law was to be held as law. He
was aware now that she had had no knowledge of the matter till his
daughter had told her of the engagement at Matching. Then it was
evident also that she had sent this Tregear to him immediately on her
return to London. And at the end of the letter she accused him of
what she had been pleased to call his usual tenacity in believing ill
of her! He had been obstinate,--too obstinate in this respect, but he
did not love her the better for having told him of it.
At last he did put his apology into words.
MY DEAR MRS. FINN,
I believe I had better acknowledge to you at once that I
have been wrong in my judgment as to your conduct in a
certain matter. You tell me that I owe it to you to make
this acknowledgment,--and I make it. The subject is, as
you may imagine, so painful that I will spare myself, if
possible, any further allusion to it. I believe I did you
a wrong, and therefore I write to ask your pardon.
I should perhaps apologise also for delay in my reply. I
have had much to think of in this matter, and have many
others also on my mind.
Believe me to be,
Yours faithfully,
OMNIUM.
It was very short, and as being short was infinitely less troublesome
at the moment than a fuller epistle; but he was angry with himself,
knowing that it was too short, feeling that it was ungracious. He
should have expressed a hope that he might soon see her again,--only
he had no such wish. There had been times at which he had liked her,
but he knew that he did not like her now. And yet he was bound to be
her friend! If he could only do some great thing for her, and thus
satisfy his feeling of indebtedness towards her! But all the favours
had been from her to him and his.