Mr. CHILLINGLY MIVERS never gave a dinner at his own rooms. When he
did give a dinner it was at Greenwich or Richmond. But he gave
breakfast-parties pretty often, and they were considered pleasant. He
had handsome bachelor apartments in Grosvenor Street, daintily
furnished, with a prevalent air of exquisite neatness, a good library
stored with books of reference, and adorned with presentation copies
from authors of the day, very beautifully bound. Though the room
served for the study of the professed man of letters, it had none of
the untidy litter which generally characterizes the study of one whose
vocation it is to deal with books and papers. Even the implements for
writing were not apparent, except when required. They lay concealed
in a vast cylinder bureau, French made, and French polished. Within
that bureau were numerous pigeon-holes and secret drawers, and a
profound well with a separate patent lock. In the well were deposited
the articles intended for publication in "The Londoner," proof-sheets,
etc.; pigeon-holes were devoted to ordinary correspondence; secret
drawers to confidential notes, and outlines of biographies of eminent
men now living, but intended to be completed for publication the day
after their death.
No man wrote such funeral compositions with a livelier pen than that
of Chillingly Mivers; and the large and miscellaneous circle of his
visiting acquaintances allowed him to ascertain, whether by
authoritative report or by personal observation, the signs of mortal
disease in the illustrious friends whose dinners he accepted, and
whose failing pulses he instinctively felt in returning the pressure
of their hands; so that he was often able to put the finishing-stroke
to their obituary memorials days, weeks, even months, before their
fate took the public by surprise. That cylinder bureau was in harmony
with the secrecy in which this remarkable man shrouded the productions
of his brain. In his literary life Mivers had no "I," there he was
ever the inscrutable, mysterious "We." He was only "I" when you met
him in the world, and called him Mivers.
Adjoining the library on one side was a small dining or rather
breakfast room, hung with valuable pictures,--presents from living
painters. Many of these painters had been severely handled by Mr.
Mivers in his existence as "We,"--not always in "The Londoner." His
most pungent criticisms were often contributed to other intellectual
journals conducted by members of the same intellectual clique.
Painters knew not how contemptuously "We" had treated them when they
met Mr. Mivers. His "I" was so complimentary that they sent him a
tribute of their gratitude.
On the other side was his drawing-room, also enriched by many gifts,
chiefly from fair hands,--embroidered cushions and table-covers, bits
of Sevres or old Chelsea, elegant knick-knacks of all kinds.
Fashionable authoresses paid great court to Mr. Mivers; and in the
course of his life as a single man, he had other female adorers
besides fashionable authoresses.
Mr. Mivers had already returned from his early constitutional walk in
the Park, and was now seated by the cylinder /secretaire/ with a
mild-looking man, who was one of the most merciless contributors to
"The Londoner" and no unimportant councillor in the oligarchy of the
clique that went by the name of the "Intellectuals."
"Well," said Mivers, languidly, "I can't even get through the book; it
is as dull as the country in November. But, as you justly say, the
writer is an 'Intellectual,' and a clique would be anything but
intellectual if it did not support its members. Review the book
yourself; mind and make the dulness of it the signal proof of its
merit. Say: 'To the ordinary class of readers this exquisite work may
appear less brilliant than the flippant smartness of'--any other
author you like to name; 'but to the well educated and intelligent
every line is pregnant with,' etc. By the way, when we come by and by
to review the exhibition at Burlington House, there is one painter
whom we must try our best to crush. I have not seen his pictures
myself, but he is a new man; and our friend, who has seen him, is
terribly jealous of him, and says that if the good judges do not put
him down at once, the villanous taste of the public will set him up as
a prodigy. A low-lived fellow too, I hear. There is the name of the
man and the subject of the pictures. See to it when the time comes.
Meanwhile, prepare the way for onslaught on the pictures by occasional
sneers at the painter." Here Mr. Mivers took out of his cylinder a
confidential note from the jealous rival and handed it to his
mild-looking /confrere/; then rising, he said, "I fear we must suspend
our business till to-morrow; I expect two young cousins to breakfast."
As soon as the mild-looking man was gone, Mr. Mivers sauntered to his
drawing-room window, amiably offering a lump of sugar to a canary-bird
sent to him as a present the day before, and who, in the gilded cage
which made part of the present, scanned him suspiciously and refused
the sugar.
Time had remained very gentle in its dealings with Chillingly Mivers.
He scarcely looked a day older than when he was first presented to the
reader on the birth of his kinsman Kenelm. He was reaping the fruit
of his own sage maxims. Free from whiskers and safe in wig, there was
no sign of gray, no suspicion of dye. Superiority to passion,
abnegation of sorrow, indulgence of amusement, avoidance of excess,
had kept away the crow's-feet, preserved the elasticity of his frame
and the unflushed clearness of his gentlemanlike complexion. The door
opened, and a well-dressed valet, who had lived long enough with
Mivers to grow very much like him, announced Mr. Chillingly Gordon.
"Good morning," said Mivers; "I was much pleased to see you talking so
long and so familiarly with Danvers: others, of course, observed it,
and it added a step to your career. It does you great good to be seen
in a drawing-room talking apart with a Somebody. But may I ask if the
talk itself was satisfactory?"
"Not at all: Danvers throws cold water on the notion of Saxboro', and
does not even hint that his party will help me to any other opening.
Party has few openings at its disposal nowadays for any young man.
The schoolmaster being abroad has swept away the school for statesmen
as he has swept away the school for actors,--an evil, and an evil of a
far greater consequence to the destinies of the nation than any good
likely to be got from the system that succeeded it."
"But it is of no use railing against things that can't be helped. If
I were you, I would postpone all ambition of Parliament and read for
the bar."
"The advice is sound, but too unpalatable to be taken. I am resolved
to find a seat in the House, and where there is a will there is a
way."
"I am not so sure of that."
"But I am."
"Judging by what your contemporaries at the University tell me of your
speeches at the Debating Society, you were not then an ultra-Radical.
But it is only an ultra-Radical who has a chance of success at
Saxboro'."
"I am no fanatic in politics. There is much to be said on all sides:
/coeteris paribus/, I prefer the winning side to the losing; nothing
succeeds like success."
"Ay, but in politics there is always reaction. The winning side one
day may be the losing side another. The losing side represents a
minority, and a minority is sure to comprise more intellect than a
majority: in the long run intellect will force its way, get a majority
and then lose it, because with a majority it will become stupid."
"Cousin Mivers, does not the history of the world show you that a
single individual can upset all theories as to the comparative wisdom
of the few or the many? Take the wisest few you can find, and one man
of genius not a tithe so wise crushes them into powder. But then that
man of genius, though he despises the many, must make use of them.
That done, he rules them. Don't you see how in free countries
political destinations resolve themselves into individual
impersonations? At a general election it is one name around which
electors rally. The candidate may enlarge as much as he pleases on
political principles, but all his talk will not win him votes enough
for success, unless he says, 'I go with Mr. A.,' the minister, or with
Mr. Z., the chief of the opposition. It was not the Tories who beat
the Whigs when Mr. Pitt dissolved Parliament. It was Mr. Pitt who
beat Mr. Fox, with whom in general political principle--slave-trade,
Roman Catholic emancipation, Parliamentary reform--he certainly agreed
much more than he did with any man in his own cabinet."
"Take care, my young cousin," cried Mivers, in accents of alarm;
"don't set up for a man of genius. Genius is the worst quality a
public man can have nowadays: nobody heeds it, and everybody is
jealous of it."
"Pardon me, you mistake; my remark was purely objective, and intended
as a reply to your argument. I prefer at present to go with the many
because it is the winning side. If we then want a man of genius to
keep it the winning side, by subjugating its partisans to his will, he
will be sure to come. The few will drive him to us, for the few are
always the enemies of the one man of genius. It is they who
distrust,--it is they who are jealous,--not the many. You have
allowed your judgment, usually so clear, to be somewhat dimmed by your
experience as a critic. The critics are the few. They have
infinitely more culture than the many. But when a man of real genius
appears and asserts himself, the critics are seldom such fair judges
of him as the many are. If he be not one of their oligarchical
clique, they either abuse, or disparage, or affect to ignore him;
though a time at last comes when, having gained the many, the critics
acknowledge him. But the difference between the man of action and the
author is this, that the author rarely finds this acknowledgment till
he is dead, and it is necessary to the man of action to enforce it
while he is alive. But enough of this speculation: you ask me to meet
Kenelm; is he not coming?"
"Yes, but I did not ask him till ten o'clock. I asked you at
half-past nine, because I wished to hear about Danvers and Saxboro',
and also to prepare you somewhat for your introduction to your cousin.
I must be brief as to the last, for it is only five minutes to the
hour, and he is a man likely to be punctual. Kenelm is in all ways
your opposite. I don't know whether he is cleverer or less clever;
there is no scale of measurement between you: but he is wholly void of
ambition, and might possibly assist yours. He can do what he likes
with Sir Peter; and considering how your poor father--a worthy man,
but cantankerous--harassed and persecuted Sir Peter, because Kenelm
came between the estate and you, it is probable that Sir Peter bears
you a grudge, though Kenelm declares him incapable of it; and it would
be well if you could annul that grudge in the father by conciliating
the goodwill of the son."
"I should be glad so to annul it; but what is Kenelm's weak side?--the
turf? the hunting-field? women? poetry? One can only conciliate a man
by getting on his weak side."
"Hist! I see him from the windows. Kenelm's weak side was, when I
knew him some years ago, and I rather fancy it still is--"
"Well, make haste! I hear his ring at your door-bell."
"A passionate longing to find ideal truth in real life."
"Ah!" said Gordon, "as I thought,--a mere dreamer"