The Duke of Omnium
The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on
that account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beauty
of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion
of London in Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner at
Gatherum Castle--for such was the name of his mansion--was to be
confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days
on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county,
in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established glory
of his hospitable house become dim.
On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would be
one of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle was
not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr Moffat, and
Frank Gresham. They went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, driven
very knowingly by George de Courcy; and the fourth seat on the back
of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the
horses at Gatherum.
The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached
the duke's house in safety; but he drove very fast. Poor Miss
Dunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but good
happened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers!
They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gatherum Castle
in good humour with each other.
The castle was a new building of white stone, lately erected at an
enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. It was an
immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized
town. But, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed,
the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, on
this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in
a house of perhaps one-tenth the size, built by his grandfather in
another county.
Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of
architecture; though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such
edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy.
It was a vast edifice; irregular in height--or it appeared to be
so--having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the
eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to
make the house behind it look like another building of a greater
altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in
itself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by a
flight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach by a
flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house, to the immediate
entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive,
there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly
used. A carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand
occasions--the visits, for instance, of queens and kings, and royal
dukes--be brought up under the portico; as the steps had been so
constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, being
made close in front of the wing up into the very porch.
Opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the
top of the house. It was magnificent, indeed; being decorated with
many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the
house of Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts
of many noble progenitors; full-length figures in marble of those
who had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory that
wealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. If
only a man could but live in his hall and be for ever happy there!
But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall; and the
fact was, that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance
for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's house as
regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence.
Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as
it does on an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many a
distant knoll and verdant-wooded hill.
At seven o'clock Mr de Courcy and his friends got down from their
drag at the smaller door--for this was no day on which to mount up
under the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been
entitled to such honour. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger
than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in
company with the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to
think on what points he would talk to the man who was the largest
landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an
interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duke
to choose his own subjects; merely reserving to himself the right of
pointing out how deficient in gorse covers was West Barsetshire--that
being the duke's division.
They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and,
without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, were
conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small
drawing-room--small, that is, in proportion to the number of
gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was
inclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward
to greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at once
knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short,
whereas the duke was thin and tall.
There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking
to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself. It
was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little
constraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much
freedom as farmers at an ordinary.
"Which is the duke?" at last Frank contrived to whisper to his
cousin.
"Oh;--he's not here," said George; "I suppose he'll be in presently.
I believe he never shows till just before dinner."
Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to
feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though
he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them
that he was glad to see them.
More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather
closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He was
not badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a
living near Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented decease
of Dr Stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy--Mr
Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown,
and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county. He was
somewhat of a bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood
dinner-parties; and with much good nature he took Frank under his
special protection.
"You stick to me, Mr Gresham," he said, "when we go into the
dining-room. I'm an old hand at the duke's dinners, and know how to
make a friend comfortable as well as myself."
"But why doesn't the duke come in?" demanded Frank.
"He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready," said Mr Athill. "Or,
rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don't care,
therefore, how soon he comes."
Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait
and see how things went.
He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full,
and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenly
a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door
that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed,
plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at
last in the presence of the Duke of Omnium.
But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host,
seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the
rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in
a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him.
The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. Frank, when he
found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought
to go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he
whispered his surprise to Mr Athill, that gentleman told him that
this was the duke's practice on all such occasions.
"Fothergill," said the duke--and it was the only word he had yet
spoken out loud--"I believe we are ready for dinner." Now Mr
Fothergill was the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greeted
Frank and his friends at their entrance.
Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out
of the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened. The duke led the
way, and then the guests followed. "Stick close to me, Mr Gresham,"
said Athill, "we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall
be cosy--and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful
draught--I know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me."
Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated
himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr
Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say
grace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should
take any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr Athill consequently
dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer--if it was a
prayer--that they might all have grateful hearts for that which God
was about to give them.
If it was a prayer! As far as my own experience goes, such utterances
are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers. And if not prayers, what
then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest
chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good
living, and the Giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt
praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees,
may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass
of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but add
what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by
the manner in which one sees it performed--uttered, that is--and
listened to. Clergymen there are--one meets them now and then--who
endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of
a church ritual, and what is the effect? Much the same as though one
were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church
liturgies to hear a drinking-song.
And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at
the moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving? or will it be
thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is
uttered after dinner? It can hardly be imagined that any one will so
argue, or so think.
Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain
daily services [1] which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones,
complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines we
have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of
the dinner-graces also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his own
part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving--and if not that, what
then?
[Footnote 1: It is, I know, alleged that graces are said
before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before
his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy
is pleasing to me.]
When the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemen
might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at
the table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own, who
were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom
he lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year,
in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who
distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food
and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository
of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;--but it
was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present
appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be
left alone.
Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every one
at the table.
"That's Apjohn," said he: "don't you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorney
from Barchester? he's always here; he does some of Fothergill's law
business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of
a good dinner, he does. You'll see that the duke's hospitality will
not be thrown away on him."
"It's very much thrown away upon me, I know," said Frank, who could
not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without
having been spoken to by his host.
"Oh, nonsense!" said his clerical friend; "you'll enjoy yourself
amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house
in Barsetshire; and then the claret--" And Mr Athill pressed his lips
together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion
that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for any
penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining
it.
"Who's that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr de
Courcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life."
"Don't you know old Bolus? Well, I thought every one in Barsetshire
knew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend
of Dr Thorne."
"A dear friend of Dr Thorne?"
"Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr
Fillgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be a
very good sort of doctor."
"Is he--is he--" whispered Frank, "is he by way of a gentleman?"
"Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he
is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here--" and
Mr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, "You see there's
Finnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where
Finnie goes Bolus may go too."
"The more the merrier, I suppose," said Frank.
"Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here?
I'm sure he was asked."
"Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do
you know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for
myself, I wish I was anywhere else."
"Ha! ha! ha! You don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more,
you're young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; he
ought to show himself here."
The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the
volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first
shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such
constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly,
and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more
impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who sat
immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre,
contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately,
he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A
very limited portion--so at least thought Mr Apjohn--had been put on
his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed
behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohn
in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but
he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As
he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of
anguish at his plate.
"Anything the matter, Apjohn?" said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing
the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; "can I get
anything for you?"
"The sauce!" said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a
hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he pointed at the now
distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten
heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.
Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds,
and in a minute or two, Mr Apjohn was employed quite to his heart's
content.
"Well," said Frank to his neighbour, "it may be very well once in a
way; but I think that on the whole Dr Thorne is right."
"My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides," said Mr Athill,
who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own
appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the
gentleman opposite. "See the world on all sides if you have an
opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very
good thing."
"Yes; but I don't like eating it with hogs."
"Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn's
digestion. Upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done. Now, I
like this kind of thing once in a way."
"Do you?" said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage.
"Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what
harm does it do?"
"My idea is that people should live with those whose society is
pleasant to them."
"Live--yes, Mr Gresham--I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me
to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn't understand, or probably
approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant
presence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then--once in a year or so--I do
own I like to see them both. Here's the cup; now, whatever you do, Mr
Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it."
And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but
all too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine came
circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being
released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret
the duke's presence was forgotten.
But very speedily the coffee was brought. "This will soon be over
now," said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no means
despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy
it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet
was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so
did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not
seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the
duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying
no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, "we are all right.
Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I know you stick to the
Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my
belief is there'll never be more like it."
And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank
merrily for the next two hours.
"Shan't we see any more of him?" asked Frank.
"Any more of whom?" said Mr Athill.
"Of the duke?"
"Oh, no; you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee
comes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light of
his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent
friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more
of him than that."
"I shall go away," said Frank.
"Nonsense. Mr de Courcy and your other friend won't stir for this
hour yet."
"I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be
wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to
dine with him and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times
Duke of Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I
am his equal." And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in
somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along
the road towards Courcy.
Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the
Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one
so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative,
born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your
thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.
When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his
friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.
"Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?" said
he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag.
"The juke was jeuced jude wine--lem me tell you that, old fella,"
hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leader
under the flank.