But what was he to do? At the outset of his pecuniary troubles, when he first found it necessary to litigate some question with the De Courcy people, and withstand the web which Mortimer Gazebee wove so assiduously, his own attorney had introduced him to Dobbs Broughton, and the assistance which he had needed had come to him, at any rate, without trouble. He did not especially like Mr. Broughton; and when Mr. Broughton first invited him to come and eat a little bit of dinner, he had told himself with painful remorse that in his early days he had been accustomed to eat his little bits of dinner with people of a different kind. But there had been nothing really painful in this. Since his marriage with a daughter of the De Courcys—by which marriage he had intended to climb to the highest pinnacle of social eating and drinking—he had gradually found himself to be falling in the scale of such matters, and could bring himself to dine with a Dobbs Broughton without any violent pain. But now he had fallen so low that Dobbs Broughton had insulted him, and he was in such distress that he did not know where to turn for ten pounds. Mr. Gazebee had beaten him at litigation, and his own lawyer had advised him that it would be foolish to try the matter further. In his marriage with the noble daughter of the De Courcys he had allowed the framers of the De Courcy settlement to tie him up in such a way that now, even when chance had done so much for him in freeing him from his wife, he was still bound to the De Courcy faction. Money had been paid away—on his behalf, as alleged by Mr. Gazebee—like running water; money for furniture, money for the lease of a house, money when he had been separated from his wife, money while she was living abroad. It had seemed to him that he had been made to pay for the entire support of the female moiety of the De Courcy family which had settled itself at Baden-Baden, from the day, and in some respects from before the day, on which his wife had joined that moiety. He had done all in his power to struggle against these payments, but every such struggle had only cost him more money. Mr. Gazebee had written to him the civilest notes; but every note seemed to cost him money—every word of each note seemed to find its way into some bill. His wife had died and her body had been brought back, with all the pomp befitting the body of an earl’s daughter, that it might be laid with the old De Courcy dust—at his expense. The embalming of her dear remains had cost a wondrous sum, and was a terrible blow upon him. All these items were showered upon him by Mr. Gazebee with the most courteously worded demands for settlement as soon as convenient. And then, when he applied that Lady Alexandrina’s small fortune should be made over to him—according to a certain agreement under which he had made over all his possessions to his wife, should she have survived him—Mr. Gazebee expressed a mild opinion that he was wrong in his law, and blandly recommended an amicable lawsuit. The amicable lawsuit was carried on. His own lawyer seemed to throw him over. Mr. Gazebee was successful in everything. No money came to him. Money was demanded from him on old scores and on new scores—and all that he received to console him for what he had lost was a mourning ring with his wife’s hair—for which, with sundry other mourning rings, he had to pay—and an introduction to Mr. Dobbs Broughton. To Mr. Dobbs Broughton he owed five hundred pounds; and as regarded a bill for the one-half of that sum which was due to-morrow, Mr. Dobbs Broughton had refused to grant him renewal for a single month!
I know no more uncomfortable walking than that which falls to the lot of men who go into the City to look for money, and who find none. Of all the lost steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that fashion are the most melancholy. It is not only that they are so vain, but that they are accompanied by so killing a sense of shame! To wait about in dingy rooms, which look on to bare walls, and are approached through some Hook Court; or to keep appointments at a low coffee-house, to which trystings the money-lender will not trouble himself to come unless it pleases him; to be civil, almost suppliant, to a cunning knave whom the borrower loathes; to be refused thrice, and then cheated with his eyes open on the fourth attempt; to submit himself to vulgarity of the foulest kind, and to have to seem to like it; to be badgered, reviled, and at last accused of want of honesty by the most fraudulent of mankind; and at the same time to be clearly conscious of the ruin that is coming—this is the fate of him who goes into the City to find money, not knowing where it is to be found!
Crosbie went along the lane into Lombard Street, and then he stood still for a moment to think. Though he knew a good deal of affairs in general, he did not quite know what would happen to him if his bill should be dishonoured. That somebody would bring it to him noted, and require him instantly to put his hand into his pocket and bring out the amount of the bill, plus the amount of certain expenses, he thought that he did know. And he knew that were he in trade he would become a bankrupt; and he was well aware that such an occurrence would prove him to be insolvent. But he did not know what his creditors would immediately have the power of doing. That the fact of the bill having been dishonoured would reach the Board under which he served—and, therefore, also the fact that he had had recourse to such bill transactions—this alone was enough to fill him with dismay. In early life he had carried his head so high, he had been so much more than a mere Government clerk, that the idea of the coming disgrace almost killed him. Would it not be well that he should put an end to himself, and thus escape? What was there in the world now for which it was worth his while to live? Lily, whom he had once gained, and by that gain had placed himself high in all hopes of happiness and riches—whom he had thrown away from him, and who had again seemed to be almost within his reach—Lily had so refused him that he knew not how to approach her with a further prayer. And, had she not refused him, how could he have told her of his load of debt? As he stood at the corner where the lane runs into Lombard Street, he came for a while to think almost more of Lily than of his rejected bill. Then, as he thought of both his misfortunes together, he asked himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put an end to them together.
At that moment a loud, harsh voice greeted his ear. “Hallo, Crosbie, what brings you so far east? One does not often see you in the City.” It was the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle, which in former days had been very odious to Crosbie’s ears—for Sir Raffle Buffle had once been the presiding genius of the office to which Crosbie still belonged.
“No, indeed, not very often,” said Crosbie, smiling. Who can tell, who has not felt it, the pain that goes to the forcing of such smiles? But Sir Raffle was not an acutely observant person, and did not see that anything was wrong.
“I suppose you’re doing a little business?” said Sir Raffle. “If a man has kept a trifle of money by him, this certainly is the time for turning it. You have always been wide awake about such things.”
“No, indeed,” said Crosbie. If he could only make up his mind that he would shoot himself, would it not be a pleasant thing to inflict some condign punishment on this odious man before he left the world? But Crosbie knew that he was not going to shoot himself, and he knew also that he had no power of inflicting condign punishment on Sir Raffle Buffle. He could only hate the man, and curse him inwardly.
“Ah, ha!” said Sir Raffle. “You wouldn’t be here unless you knew where a good thing is to be picked up. But I must be off. I’m on the Rocky Mountain Canal Company Directory. I’m not above taking my two guineas a day. Good-bye, my boy. Remember me to old Optimist.” And so Sir Raffle passed on, leaving Crosbie still standing at the corner of the lane.
What was he to do? This interruption had at least seemed to drive Lily from his mind, and to send his ideas back to the consideration of his pecuniary difficulties. He thought of his own bank, a West-End establishment at which he was personally known to many of the clerks, and where he had been heretofore treated with great consideration. But of late his balances had been very low, and more than once he had been reminded that he had overdrawn his account. He knew well that the distinguished firm of Bounce, Bounce, and Bounce would not cash a bill for him or lend him money without security. He did not even dare to ask them to do so.
On a su
dden he jumped into a cab, and was driven back to his office. A thought had come upon him. He would throw himself upon the kindness of a friend there. Hitherto he had contrived to hold his head so high above the clerks below him, so high before the Commissioners who were above him, that none there suspected him to be a man in difficulty. It not seldom happens that a man’s character stands too high for his interest—so high that it cannot be maintained, and so high that any fall will be dangerous. And so it was with Crosbie and his character at the General Committee Office. The man to whom he was now thinking of applying as his friend was a certain Mr. Butterwell, who had been his predecessor in the secretary’s chair, and who now filled the less onerous but more dignified position of a Commissioner. Mr. Crosbie had somewhat despised Mr. Butterwell, and had of late years not been averse to showing that he did so. He had snubbed Mr. Butterwell, and Mr. Butterwell, driven to his wits’ ends, had tried a fall or two with him. In all these struggles Crosbie had had the best of it, and Butterwell had gone to the wall. Nevertheless, for the sake of official decency, and from certain wise remembrances of the sources of official comfort and official discomfort, Mr. Butterwell had always maintained a show of outward friendship with the secretary. They smiled and were gracious, called each other Butterwell and Crosbie, and abstained from all cat-and-dog absurdities. Nevertheless, it was the frequently expressed opinion of every clerk in the office that Mr. Butterwell hated Mr. Crosbie like poison. This was the man to whom Crosbie suddenly made up his mind that he would have recourse.
As he was driven back to his office he resolved that he would make a plunge at once at the difficulty. He knew that Butterwell was fairly rich, and he knew also that he was good-natured—with that sort of sleepy good-nature which is not active for philanthropic purposes, but which dislikes to incur the pain of refusing. And then Mr. Butterwell was nervous, and if the thing was managed well, he might be cheated out of an assent, before time had been given him in which to pluck up courage for refusing. But Crosbie doubted his own courage also—fearing that if he gave himself time for hesitation he would hesitate, and that, hesitating, he would feel the terrible disgrace of the thing and not do it. So, without going to his own desk, or ridding himself of his hat, he went at once to Butterwell’s room. When he opened the door, he found Mr. Butterwell alone, reading The Times. “Butterwell,” said he, beginning to speak before he had even closed the door, “I have come to you in great distress. I wonder whether you can help me; I want you to lend me five hundred pounds? It must be for not less than three months.”
Mr. Butterwell dropped the paper from his hands, and stared at the secretary over his spectacles.
CHAPTER XLIV
“I Suppose I Must Let You Have It”
Crosbie had been preparing the exact words with which he assailed Mr. Butterwell for the last quarter of an hour, before they were uttered. There is always a difficulty in the choice, not only of the words with which money should be borrowed, but of the fashion after which they should be spoken. There is the slow deliberate manner, in using which the borrower attempts to carry the wished-for lender along with him by force of argument, and to prove that the desire to borrow shows no imprudence on his own part, and that a tendency to lend will show none on the part of the intended lender. It may be said that this mode fails oftener than any other. There is the piteous manner—the plea for commiseration. “My dear fellow, unless you will see me through now, upon my word I shall be very badly off.” And this manner may be divided again into two. There is the plea piteous with a lie, and the plea piteous with a truth. “You shall have it again in two months as sure as the sun rises.” That is generally the plea piteous with a lie. Or it may be as follows: “It is only fair to say that I don’t quite know when I can pay it back.” This is the plea piteous with a truth, and upon the whole I think that this is generally the most successful mode of borrowing. And there is the assured demand—which betokens a close intimacy. “Old fellow, can you let me have thirty pounds? No? Just put your name, then, on the back of this, and I’ll get it done in the City.” The worst of that manner is, that the bill so often does not get itself done in the City. Then there is the sudden attack—that being the manner to which Crosbie had recourse in the present instance. That there are other modes of borrowing by means of which youth becomes indebted to age, and love to respect, and ignorance to experience, is a matter of course. It will be understood that I am here speaking only of borrowing and lending between the Butterwells and Crosbies of the world. “I have come to you in great distress,” said Crosbie. “I wonder whether you can help me. I want you to lend me five hundred pounds.” Mr. Butterwell, when he heard the words, dropped the paper which he was reading from his hand, and stared at Crosbie over his spectacles.
“Five hundred pounds,” he said. “Dear me, Crosbie; that’s a large sum of money.”
“Yes, it is—a very large sum. Half that is what I want at once; but I shall want the other half in a month.”
“I thought that you were always so much above the world in money matters. Gracious me—nothing that I have heard for a long time has astonished me more. I don’t know why, but I always thought you had your things so very snug.”
Crosbie was aware that he had made one very great step towards success. The idea had been presented to Mr. Butterwell’s mind, and had not been instantly rejected as a scandalously iniquitous idea, as an idea to which no reception could be given for a moment. Crosbie had not been treated as was the needy knife-grinder, and had ground to stand upon while he urged his request. “I have been so pressed since my marriage,” he said, “that it has been impossible for me to keep things straight.”
“But Lady Alexandrina—”
“Yes, of course; I know. I do not like to trouble you with my private affairs—there is nothing, I think, so bad as washing one’s dirty linen in public—but the truth is, that I am only now free from the rapacity of the De Courcys. You would hardly believe me if I told you what I’ve had to pay. What do you think of two hundred and forty-five pounds for bringing her body over here, and burying it at De Courcy?”
“I’d have left it where it was.”
“And so would I. You don’t suppose I ordered it to be done. Poor dear thing. If it could do her any good, God knows I would not begrudge it. We had a bad time of it when we were together, but I would have spared nothing for her, alive or dead, that was reasonable. But to make me pay for bringing the body over here, when I never had a shilling with her! By George, it was too bad. And that oaf John De Courcy—I had to pay his travelling bill too.”
“He didn’t come to be buried—did he?”
“It’s too disgusting to talk of, Butterwell; it is indeed. And when I asked for her money that was settled upon me—it was only two thousand pounds—they made me go to law, and it seems there was no two thousand pounds to settle. If I like, I can have another lawsuit with the sisters, when the mother is dead. Oh, Butterwell, I have made such a fool of myself. I have come to such shipwreck! Oh, Butterwell, if you could but know it all.”
“Are you free from the De Courcys now?”
“I owe Gazebee, the man who married the other woman, over a thousand pounds. But I pay that off at two hundred a year, and he has a policy on my life.”
“What do you owe that for?”
“Don’t ask me. Not that I mind telling you—furniture, and the lease of a house, and his bill for the marriage settlement—d—— him.”
“God bless me. They seem to have been very hard upon you.”
“A man doesn’t marry an earl’s daughter for nothing, Butterwell. And then to think what I lost! It can’t be helped now, you know. As a man makes his bed he must lie on it. I am sometimes so mad with myself when I think over it all—that I should like to blow my brains out.”
“You must not talk in that way, Crosbie. I hate to hear a man talk like that.”
“I don’t mean that I shall. I’m too much of a coward, I fancy.” A man who desires to soften another man’s heart
should always abuse himself. In softening a woman’s heart, he should abuse her. “But life has been so bitter with me for the last three years! I haven’t had an hour of comfort—not an hour. I don’t know why I should trouble you with all this Butterwell. Oh—about the money; yes; that’s just how I stand. I owed Gazebee something over a thousand pounds, which is arranged as I have told you. Then there were debts, due by my wife—at least some of them were, I suppose—and that horrid, ghastly funeral—and debts, I don’t doubt, due by the cursed old countess. At any rate, to get myself clear I raised something over four hundred pounds, and now I owe five which must be paid, part to-morrow, and the remainder this day month.”
“And you’ve no security?”
“Not a rag, not a shred, not a line, not an acre. There’s my salary, and after paying Gazebee what comes due to him, I can manage to let you have the money within twelve months—that is, if you can lend it to me. I can just do that and live; and if you will assist me with the money, I will do so. That’s what I’ve brought myself to by my own folly.”
“Five hundred pounds is such a large sum of money.”
“Indeed it is.”
“And without any security!”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 327