PHINEAS AND HIS OLD FRIENDS.
Phineas Finn returned from Tankerville to London in much better
spirits than those which had accompanied him on his journey thither.
He was not elected; but then, before the election, he had come to
believe that it was quite out of the question that he should be
elected. And now he did think it probable that he should get the seat
on a petition. A scrutiny used to be a very expensive business, but
under the existing law, made as the scrutiny would be in the borough
itself, it would cost but little; and that little, should he be
successful, would fall on the shoulders of Mr. Browborough. Should he
knock off eight votes and lose none himself, he would be member for
Tankerville. He knew that many votes had been given for Browborough
which, if the truth were known of them, would be knocked off; and he
did not know that the same could be said of any one of those by which
he had been supported. But, unfortunately, the judge by whom all this
would be decided might not reach Tankerville in his travels till
after Christmas, perhaps not till after Easter; and in the meantime,
what should he do with himself?
As for going back to Dublin, that was now out of the question. He had
entered upon a feverish state of existence in which it was impossible
that he should live in Ireland. Should he ultimately fail in regard
to his seat he must--vanish out of the world. While he remained in his
present condition he would not even endeavour to think how he might
in such case best bestow himself. For the present he would remain
within the region of politics, and live as near as he could to the
whirl of the wheel of which the sound was so dear to him. Of one club
he had always remained a member, and he had already been re-elected
a member of the Reform. So he took up his residence once more at the
house of a certain Mr. and Mrs. Bunce, in Great Marlborough Street,
with whom he had lodged when he first became a member of Parliament.
"So you're at the old game, Mr. Finn?" said his landlord.
"Yes; at the old game. I suppose it's the same with you?" Now Mr.
Bunce had been a very violent politician, and used to rejoice in
calling himself a Democrat.
"Pretty much the same, Mr. Finn. I don't see that things are much
better than they used to be. They tell me at the People's Banner
office that the lords have had as much to do with this election as
with any that ever went before it."
"Perhaps they don't know much about it at the People's Banner office.
I thought Mr. Slide and the People's Banner had gone over to the
other side, Bunce?"
"Mr. Slide is pretty wide-awake whatever side he's on. Not but what
he's disgraced himself by what he's been and done now." Mr. Slide
in former days had been the editor of the People's Banner, and
circumstances had arisen in consequence of which there had been some
acquaintance between him and our hero. "I see you was hammering away
at the Church down at Tankerville."
"I just said a word or two."
"You was all right, there, Mr. Finn. I can't say as I ever saw very
much in your religion; but what a man keeps in the way of religion
for his own use is never nothing to me;--as what I keeps is nothing
to him."
"I'm afraid you don't keep much, Mr. Bunce."
"And that's nothing to you, neither, is it, sir?"
"No, indeed."
"But when we read of Churches as is called State Churches,--Churches
as have bishops you and I have to pay for, as never goes into them--"
"But we don't pay the bishops, Mr. Bunce."
"Oh yes, we do; because, if they wasn't paid, the money would come to
us to do as we pleased with it. We proved all that when we pared them
down a bit. What's an Ecclesiastical Commission? Only another name
for a box to put the money into till you want to take it out again.
When we hear of Churches such as these, as is not kept up by the
people who uses them,--just as the theatres are, Mr. Finn, or the gin
shops,--then I know there's a deal more to be done before honest men
can come by their own. You're right enough, Mr. Finn, you are, as far
as churches go, and you was right, too, when you cut and run off the
Treasury Bench. I hope you ain't going to sit on that stool again."
Mr. Bunce was a privileged person, and Mrs. Bunce made up for his
apparent rudeness by her own affectionate cordiality. "Deary me,
and isn't it a thing for sore eyes to have you back again! I never
expected this. But I'll do for you, Mr. Finn, just as I ever did in
the old days; and it was I that was sorry when I heard of the poor
young lady's death; so I was, Mr. Finn; well, then, I won't mention
her name never again. But after all there's been betwixt you and us
it wouldn't be natural to pass it by without one word; would it, Mr.
Finn? Well, yes; he's just the same man as ever, without a ha'porth
of difference. He's gone on paying that shilling to the Union every
week of his life, just as he used to do; and never got so much out
of it, not as a junketing into the country. That he didn't. It makes
me that sick sometimes when I think of where it's gone to, that I
don't know how to bear it. Well, yes; that is true, Mr. Finn. There
never was a man better at bringing home his money to his wife than
Bunce, barring that shilling. If he'd drink it, which he never does,
I think I'd bear it better than give it to that nasty Union. And
young Jack writes as well as his father, pretty nigh, Mr. Finn,
which is a comfort,"--Mr. Bunce was a journeyman scrivener at a law
stationer's,--"and keeps his self; but he don't bring home his money,
nor yet it can't be expected, Mr. Finn. I know what the young 'uns
will do, and what they won't. And Mary Jane is quite handy about the
house now,--only she do break things, which is an aggravation; and
the hot water shall be always up at eight o'clock to a minute, if I
bring it with my own hand, Mr. Finn."
[Illustration: "Well, then, I won't mention her name again."]
And so he was established once more in his old rooms in Great
Marlborough Street; and as he sat back in the arm-chair, which he
used to know so well, a hundred memories of former days crowded back
upon him. Lord Chiltern for a few months had lived with him; and then
there had arisen a quarrel, which he had for a time thought would
dissolve his old life into ruin. Now Lord Chiltern was again his
very intimate friend. And there had used to sit a needy money-lender
whom he had been unable to banish. Alas! alas! how soon might he now
require that money-lender's services! And then he recollected how he
had left these rooms to go into others, grander and more appropriate
to his life when he had filled high office under the State. Would
there ever again come to him such cause for migration? And would he
again be able to load the frame of the looking-glass over the fire
with countless cards from Countesses and Ministers' wives? He had
opened the oyster for himself once, though it had closed again with
so sharp a snap when the point of his knife had been withdrawn. Would
he be able to insert the point again between those two difficult
shells? Would the Countesses once more be kind to him? Would
drawing-rooms be opened to him, and sometimes opened to him and to
no other? Then he thought of certain special drawing-rooms in which
wonderful things had been said to him. Since that he had been a
married man, and those special drawing-rooms and those wonderful
words had in no degree actuated him in his choice of a wife. He had
left all those things of his own free will, as though telling himself
that there was a better life than they offered to him. But was he
sure that he had found it to be better? He had certainly sighed for
the gauds which he had left. While his young wife was living he had
kept his sighs down, so that she should not hear them; but he had
been forced to acknowledge that his new life had been vapid and
flavourless. Now he had been tempted back again to the old haunts.
Would the Countesses' cards be showered upon him again?
One card, or rather note, had reached him while he was yet at
Tankerville, reminding him of old days. It was from Mrs. Low, the
wife of the barrister with whom he had worked when he had been a
law student in London. She had asked him to come and dine with them
after the old fashion in Baker Street, naming a day as to which she
presumed that he would by that time have finished his affairs at
Tankerville, intimating also that Mr. Low would then have finished
his at North Broughton. Now Mr. Low had sat for North Broughton
before Phineas left London, and his wife spoke of the seat as a
certainty. Phineas could not keep himself from feeling that Mrs. Low
intended to triumph over him; but, nevertheless, he accepted the
invitation. They were very glad to see him, explaining that, as
nobody was supposed to be in town, nobody had been asked to meet
him. In former days he had been very intimate in that house, having
received from both of them much kindness, mingled, perhaps, with some
touch of severity on the part of the lady. But the ground for that
was gone, and Mrs. Low was no longer painfully severe. A few words
were said as to his great loss. Mrs. Low once raised her eyebrows in
pretended surprise when Phineas explained that he had thrown up his
place, and then they settled down on the question of the day. "And
so," said Mrs. Low, "you've begun to attack the Church?" It must be
remembered that at this moment Mr. Daubeny had not as yet electrified
the minds of East Barsetshire, and that, therefore, Mrs. Low was not
disturbed. To Mrs. Low, Church and State was the very breath of her
nostrils; and if her husband could not be said to live by means of
the same atmosphere it was because the breath of his nostrils had
been drawn chiefly in the Vice-Chancellor's Court in Lincoln's Inn.
But he, no doubt, would be very much disturbed indeed should he ever
be told that he was required, as an expectant member of Mr. Daubeny's
party, to vote for the Disestablishment of the Church of England.
"You don't mean that I am guilty of throwing the first stone?" said
Phineas.
"They have been throwing stones at the Temple since first it was
built," said Mrs. Low, with energy; "but they have fallen off its
polished shafts in dust and fragments." I am afraid that Mrs. Low,
when she allowed herself to speak thus energetically, entertained
some confused idea that the Church of England and the Christian
religion were one and the same thing, or, at least, that they had
been brought into the world together.
"You haven't thrown the first stone," said Mr. Low; "but you have
taken up the throwing at the first moment in which stones may be
dangerous."
"No stones can be dangerous," said Mrs. Low.
"The idea of a State Church," said Phineas, "is opposed to my theory
of political progress. What I hope is that my friends will not
suppose that I attack the Protestant Church because I am a Roman
Catholic. If I were a priest it would be my business to do so; but
I am not a priest."
Mr. Low gave his old friend a bottle of his best wine, and in all
friendly observances treated him with due affection. But neither did
he nor did his wife for a moment abstain from attacking their guest
in respect to his speeches at Tankerville. It seemed, indeed, to
Phineas that as Mrs. Low was buckled up in such triple armour that
she feared nothing, she might have been less loud in expressing her
abhorrence of the enemies of the Church. If she feared nothing,
why should she scream so loudly? Between the two he was a good
deal crushed and confounded, and Mrs. Low was very triumphant when
she allowed him to escape from her hands at ten o'clock. But, at
that moment, nothing had as yet been heard in Baker Street of Mr.
Daubeny's proposition to the electors of East Barsetshire! Poor Mrs.
Low! We can foresee that there is much grief in store for her, and
some rocks ahead, too, in the political career of her husband.
Phineas was still in London, hanging about the clubs, doing nothing,
discussing Mr. Daubeny's wonderful treachery with such men as came up
to town, and waiting for the meeting of Parliament, when he received
the following letter from Lady Laura Kennedy:--
Dresden, November 18, ----.
MY DEAR MR. FINN,
I have heard with great pleasure from my sister-in-law
that you have been staying with them at Harrington Hall.
It seems so like old days that you and Oswald and Violet
should be together,--so much more natural than that you
should be living in Dublin. I cannot conceive of you as
living any other life than that of the House of Commons,
Downing Street, and the clubs. Nor do I wish to do so. And
when I hear of you at Harrington Hall I know that you are
on your way to the other things.
Do tell me what life is like with Oswald and Violet. Of
course he never writes. He is one of those men who, on
marrying, assume that they have at last got a person to do
a duty which has always hitherto been neglected. Violet
does write, but tells me little or nothing of themselves.
Her letters are very nice, full of anecdote, well
written,--letters that are fit to be kept and printed;
but they are never family letters. She is inimitable in
discussing the miseries of her own position as the wife
of a Master of Hounds; but the miseries are as evidently
fictitious as the art is real. She told me how poor dear
Lady Baldock communicated to you her unhappiness about her
daughter in a manner that made even me laugh; and would
make thousands laugh in days to come were it ever to be
published. But of her inside life, of her baby, or of her
husband as a husband, she never says a word. You will have
seen it all, and have enough of the feminine side of a
man's character to be able to tell me how they are living.
I am sure they are happy together, because Violet has more
common sense than any woman I ever knew.
And pray tell me about the affair at Tankerville. My
cousin Barrington writes me word that you will certainly
get the seat. He declares that Mr. Browborough is almost
disposed not to fight the battle, though a man more
disposed to fight never bribed an elector. But Barrington
seems to think that you managed as well as you did by
getting outside the traces, as he calls it. We certainly
did not think that you would come out strong against the
Church. Don't suppose that I complain. For myself I hate
to think of the coming severance; but if it must come, why
not by your hands as well as by any other? It is hardly
possible that you in your heart should love a Protestant
ascendant Church. But, as Barrington says, a horse won't
get oats unless he works steady between the traces.
As to myself, what am I to say to you? I and my father
live here a sad, sombre, solitary life, together. We have
a large furnished house outside the town, with a pleasant
view and a pretty garden. He does--nothing. He reads the
English papers, and talks of English parties, is driven
out, and eats his dinner, and sleeps. At home, as you
know, not only did he take an active part in politics, but
he was active also in the management of his own property.
Now it seems to him to be almost too great a trouble to
write a letter to his steward; and all this has come upon
him because of me. He is here because he cannot bear that
I should live alone. I have offered to return with him to
Saulsby, thinking that Mr. Kennedy would trouble me no
further,--or to remain here by myself; but he will consent
to neither. In truth the burden of idleness has now fallen
upon him so heavily that he cannot shake it off. He dreads
that he may be called upon to do anything.
To me it is all one tragedy. I cannot but think of things
as they were two or three years since. My father and my
husband were both in the Cabinet, and you, young as you
were, stood but one step below it. Oswald was out in the
cold. He was very poor. Papa thought all evil of him.
Violet had refused him over and over again. He quarrelled
with you, and all the world seemed against him. Then of a
sudden you vanished, and we vanished. An ineffable misery
fell upon me and upon my wretched husband. All our good
things went from us at a blow. I and my poor father became
as it were outcasts. But Oswald suddenly retricked his
beams, and is flaming in the forehead of the morning sky.
He, I believe, has no more than he has deserved. He won
his wife honestly;--did he not? And he has ever been
honest. It is my pride to think I never gave him up. But
the bitter part of my cup consists in this,--that as he
has won what he has deserved, so have we. I complain of no
injustice. Our castle was built upon the sand. Why should
Mr. Kennedy have been a Cabinet Minister;--and why should
I have been his wife? There is no one else of whom I can
ask that question as I can of you, and no one else who can
answer it as you can do.
Of Mr. Kennedy it is singular how little I know, and how
little I ever hear. There is no one whom I can ask to tell
me of him. That he did not attend during the last Session
I do know, and we presume that he has now abandoned his
seat. I fear that his health is bad,--or perhaps, worse
still, that his mind is affected by the gloom of his life.
I suppose that he lives exclusively at Loughlinter. From
time to time I am implored by him to return to my duty
beneath his roof. He grounds his demand on no affection of
his own, on no presumption that any affection can remain
with me. He says no word of happiness. He offers no
comfort. He does not attempt to persuade with promises of
future care. He makes his claim simply on Holy Writ, and
on the feeling of duty which thence ought to weigh upon
me. He has never even told me that he loves me; but he is
persistent in declaring that those whom God has joined
together nothing human should separate. Since I have been
here I have written to him once,--one sad, long, weary
letter. Since that I am constrained to leave his letters
unanswered.
And now, my friend, could you not do for me a great
kindness? For a while, till the inquiry be made at
Tankerville, your time must be vacant. Cannot you come and
see us? I have told Papa that I should ask you, and he
would be delighted. I cannot explain to you what it would
be to me to be able to talk again to one who knows all
the errors and all the efforts of my past life as you do.
Dresden is very cold in the winter. I do not know whether
you would mind that. We are very particular about the
rooms, but my father bears the temperature wonderfully
well, though he complains. In March we move down south
for a couple of months. Do come if you can.
Most sincerely yours,
LAURA KENNEDY.
If you come, of course you will have yourself brought
direct to us. If you can learn anything of Mr. Kennedy's
life, and of his real condition, pray do. The faint
rumours which reach me are painfully distressing.