by George Eliot
Felix felt himself in danger of getting into a rage. There is hardly any mental misery worse than that of having our own serious phrases, our own rooted beliefs, caricatured by a charlatan or a hireling. He began to feel the sharp lower edge of his tin pint-measure, and to think it a tempting missile.
Mr Johnson certainly had some qualifications as an orator. After this impressive pause he leaned forward again, and said, in a lowered tone, looking round,
‘I think you all know the good news.’
There was a movement of shoe-soles on the quarried floor, and a scrape of some chair legs, but no other answer.
‘The good news I mean is, that a first-rate man, Mr Transome of Transome Court, has offered himself to represent you in Parliament, sirs. I say you in particular, for what he has at heart is the welfare of the working man – of the brave fellows that wield the pickaxe, and the saw, and the hammer. He’s rich – has more money than Garstin – but he doesn’t want to keep it to himself. What he wants is, to make a good use of it, gentlemen. He’s come back from foreign parts with his pockets full of gold. He could buy up the Debarrys if they were worth buying, but he’s got something better to do with his money. He means to use it for the good of the working men in these parts. I know there are some men who put up for Parliament and talk a little too big. They may say they want to befriend the colliers, for example. But I should like to put a question to them. I should like to ask them, “What colliers?” There are colliers up at Newcastle, and there are colliers down in Wales. Will it do any good to honest Tom, who is hungry in Sproxton, to hear that Jack at Newcastle has his bellyful of beef and pudding?’
‘It ought to do him good,’ Felix burst in, with his loud abrupt voice, in odd contrast with glib Mr Johnson’s. ‘If he knows it’s a bad thing to be hungry and not have enough to eat, he ought to be glad that another fellow, who is not idle, is not suffering in the same way.’
Every one was startled. The audience was much impressed with the grandeur, the knowledge, and the power of Mr Johnson. His brilliant promises confirmed the impression that Reform had at length reached the New Pits; and Reform, if it were good for anything, must at last resolve itself into spare money – meaning ‘sport’ and drink, and keeping away from work for several days in the week. These ‘brave’ men of Sproxton liked Felix as one of themselves, only much more knowing – as a working man who had seen many distant parts, but who must be very poor, since he never drank more than a pint or so. They were quite inclined to hear what he had got to say on another occasion, but they were rather irritated by his interruption at the present moment. Mr Johnson was annoyed, but he spoke with the same glib quietness as before, though with an expression of contempt.
‘I call it a poor-spirited thing to take up a man’s straightforward words and twist them. What I meant to say was plain enough – that no man can be saved from starving by looking on while others eat. I think that’s common sense, eh, sirs?’
There was again an approving ‘Haw, haw.’ To hear anything said, and understand it, was a stimulus that had the effect of wit. Mr Chubb cast a suspicious and viperous glance at Felix, who felt that he had been a simpleton for his pains.
‘Well, then,’ continued Mr Johnson, ‘I suppose I may go on. But if there is any one here better able to inform the company than I am, I give way – I give way.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr Chubb, magisterially, ‘no man shall take the words out of your mouth in this house. And,’ he added, looking pointedly at Felix, ‘company that’s got no more orders to give, and wants to turn up rusty to them that has, had better be making room than filling it. Love an’ ’armony’s the word on our Club’s flag, an’ love an’ ’armony’s the meaning of “The Sugar Loaf, William Chubb”. Folks of a different mind had better seek another house of call.’
‘Very good,’ said Felix, laying down his money and taking his cap, ‘I’m going.’ He saw clearly enough that if he said more, there would be a disturbance which could have no desirable end.
When the door had closed behind him, Mr Johnson said, ‘What is that person’s name?’
‘Does anybody know it?’ said Mr Chubb.
A few noes were heard.
‘I’ve heard him speak like a downright Reformer, else I should have looked a little sharper after him. But you may see he’s nothing partic’lar.’
‘It looks rather bad that no one knows his name,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘He’s most likely a Tory in disguise – a Tory spy. You must be careful, sirs, of men who come to you and say they’re Radicals, and yet do nothing for you. They’ll stuff you with words – no lack of words – but words are wind. Now, a man like Transome comes forward and says to the working men of this country: “Here I am, ready to serve you and to speak for you in Parliament, and to get the laws made all right for you; and in the meanwhile, if there’s any of you who are my neighbours who want a day’s holiday, or a cup to drink with friends, or a copy of the King’s likeness – why, I’m your man. I’m not a paper handbill – all words and no substance – nor a man with land and nothing else; I’ve got bags of gold as well as land.” I think you know what I mean by the King’s likeness?’
Here Mr Johnson took a half-crown out of his pocket and held the head towards the company.
‘Well, sirs, there are some men who like to keep this pretty picture a great deal too much to themselves. I don’t know whether I’m right, but I think I’ve heard of such a one not a hundred miles from here. I think his name was Spratt, and he managed some company’s coal-pits.’
‘Haw, haw! Spratt – Spratt’s his name,’ was rolled forth to an accompaniment of scraping shoe-soles.
‘A screwing fellow, by what I understand – a domineering fellow – who would expect men to do as he liked without paying them for it. I think there’s not an honest man who wouldn’t like to disappoint such an upstart.’
There was a murmur which was interpreted by Mr Chubb. ‘I’ll answer for ’em, sir.’
‘Now, listen to me. Here’s Garstin: he’s one of the Company you work under. What’s Garstin to you? who sees him? and when they do see him they see a thin miserly fellow who keeps his pockets buttoned. He calls himself a Whig, yet he’ll split votes with a Tory – he’ll drive with the Debarrys. Now, gentlemen, if I said I’d got a vote, and anybody asked me what I should do with it, I should say, “I’ll plump for Transome.” You’ve got no votes, and that’s a shame. But you will have some day, if such men as Transome are returned; and then you’ll be on a level with the first gentleman in the land, and if he wants to sit in Parliament, he must take off his hat and ask your leave. But though you haven’t got a vote you can give a cheer for the right man, and Transome’s not a man like Garstin; if you lost a day’s wages by giving a cheer for Transome, he’ll make you amends. That’s the way a man who has no vote can yet serve himself and his country: he can lift up his hand and shout “Transome for ever” – “hurray for Transome.” Let the working men – let colliers and navvies and stone-cutters, who between you and me have a good deal too much the worst of it, as things are now – let them join together and give their hands and voices for the right man, and they’ll make the great people shake in their shoes a little; and when you shout for Transome, remember you shout for more wages, and more of your rights, and you shout to get rid of rats and sprats and such small animals, who are the tools the rich make use of to squeeze the blood out of the poor man.’
‘I wish there’d be a row – I’d pommel him,’ said Dredge, who was generally felt to be speaking to the question.
‘No, no, my friend – there you’re a little wrong. No pommelling – no striking first. There you have the law and the constable against you. A little rolling in the dust and knocking hats off, a little pelting with soft things that’ll stick and not bruise – all that doesn’t spoil the fun. If a man is to speak when you don’t like to hear him, it is but fair you should give him something he doesn’t like in return. And the same if he’s got a vote and doesn’t use it for the good
of the country; I see no harm in splitting his coat in a quiet way. A man must be taught what’s right if he doesn’t know it. But no kicks, no knocking down, no pommelling.’
‘It ’ud be good fun, though, if so-be,’ said Old Sleck, allowing himself an imaginative pleasure.
‘Well, well, if a Spratt wants you to say Garstin, it’s some pleasure to think you can say Transome. Now, my notion is this. You are men who can put two and two together – I don’t know a more solid lot of fellows than you are; and what I say is, let the honest men in this country who’ve got no vote show themselves in a body when they have the chance. Why, sirs, for every Tory sneak that’s got a vote, there’s fifty-five fellows who must stand by and be expected to hold their tongues. But I say, let ’em hiss the sneaks, let ’em groan at the sneaks, and the sneaks will be ashamed of themselves. The men who’ve got votes don’t know how to use them. There’s many a fool with a vote, who is not sure in his mind whether he shall poll, say for Debarry, or Garstin, or Transome – whether he’ll plump or whether he’ll split; a straw will turn him. Let him know your mind if he doesn’t know his own. What’s the reason Debarry gets returned? Because people are frightened at the Debarrys. What’s that to you? You don’t care for the Debarrys. If people are frightened at the Tories, we’ll turn round and frighten them. You know what a Tory is – one who wants to drive the working men as he’d drive cattle. That’s what a Tory is; and a Whig is no better, if he’s like Garstin. A Whig wants to knock the Tory down and get the whip, that’s all. But Transome’s neither Whig nor Tory; he’s the working man’s friend, the collier’s friend, the friend of the honest navvy. And if he gets into Parliament, let me tell you, it will be the better for you. I don’t say it will be the better for overlookers and screws, and rats and sprats; but it will be the better for every good fellow who takes his pot at the Sugar Loaf.’
Mr Johnson’s exertions for the political education of the Sproxton men did not stop here, which was the more disinterested in him as he did not expect to see them again, and could only set on foot an organization by which their instruction could be continued without him. In this he was quite successful. A man known among the ‘butties’7 as Pack, who had already been mentioned by Mr Chubb, presently joined the party, and had a private audience of Mr Johnson, that he might be instituted as the ‘shepherd’ of this new flock.
‘That’s a right down genelman,’ said Pack, as he took the seat vacated by the orator, who had ridden away.
‘What’s his trade, think you?’ said Gills, the wiry stone-cutter.
‘Trade?’ said Mr Chubb. ‘He’s one of the top-sawyers of the country. He works with his head, you may see that.’
‘Let’s have our pipes, then,’ said Old Sleck; ‘I’m pretty well tired o’ jaw.’
‘So am I,’ said Dredge. ‘It’s wriggling work – like follering a stoat. It makes a man dry. I’d as lief hear preaching, on’y there’s nought to be got by’t. I shouldn’t know which end I stood on if it wasn’t for the tickets8 and the treatin’.’
CHAPTER XII
‘Oh, sir, ’twas that mixture of spite and over-fed merriment which passes for humour with the vulgar. In their fun they have much resemblance to a turkey-cock. It has a cruel beak, and a silly iteration of ugly sounds; it spreads its tail in self-glorification, but shows you the wrong side of that ornament – liking admiration, but knowing not what is admirable.’
This Sunday evening, which promised to be so memorable in the experience of the Sproxton miners, had its drama also for those unsatisfactory objects to Mr Johnson’s moral sense, the Debarrys. Certain incidents occurring at Treby Manor caused an excitement there which spread from the dining-room to the stables; but no one underwent such agitating transitions of feeling as Mr Scales. At six o’clock that superior butler was chuckling in triumph at having played a fine and original practical joke on his rival Mr Christian. Some two hours after that time, he was frightened, sorry, and even meek; he was on the brink of a humiliating confession; his cheeks were almost livid; his hair was flattened for want of due attention from his fingers; and the fine roll of his whiskers, which was too firm to give way, seemed only a sad reminiscence of past splendour and felicity. His sorrow came about in this wise.
After service on that Sunday morning, Mr Philip Debarry had left the rest of the family to go home in the carriage, and had remained at the Rectory to lunch with his uncle Augustus, that he might consult him touching some letters of importance. He had returned the letters to his pocket-book but had not returned the book to his pocket, and he finally walked away leaving the enclosure of private papers and bank-notes on his uncle’s escritoire. After his arrival at home he was reminded of his omission, and immediately despatched Christian with a note begging his uncle to seal up the pocket-book and send it by the bearer. This commission, which was given between three and four o’clock, happened to be very unwelcome to the courier. The fact was that Mr Christian, who had been remarkable through life for that power of adapting himself to circumstances which enables a man to fall safely on all-fours in the most hurried expulsions and escapes, was not exempt from bodily suffering – a circumstance to which there is no known way of adapting one’s self so as to be perfectly comfortable under it, or to push it off on to other people’s shoulders. He did what he could: he took doses of opium when he had an access of nervous pains, and he consoled himself as to future possibilities by thinking that if the pains ever became intolerably frequent a considerable increase in the dose might put an end to them altogether. He was neither Cato nor Hamlet, and though he had learned their soliloquies at his first boarding-school, he would probably have increased his dose without reciting those masterpieces. Next to the pain itself he disliked that any one should know of it: defective health diminished a man’s market value; he did not like to be the object of the sort of pity he himself gave to a poor devil who was forced to make a wry face or ‘give in’ altogether.
He had felt it expedient to take a slight dose this afternoon, and still he was not altogether relieved at the time he set off to the Rectory. On returning with the valuable case safely deposited in his hind pocket he felt increasing bodily uneasiness, and took another dose. Thinking it likely that he looked rather pitiable, he chose not to proceed to the house by the carriage-road. The servants often walked in the park on a Sunday, and he wished to avoid any meeting. He would make a circuit, get into the house privately, and after delivering his packet to Mr Debarry, shut himself up till the ringing of the half-hour bell. But when he reached an elbowed seat under some sycamores, he felt so ill at ease that he yielded to the temptation of throwing himself on it to rest a little. He looked at his watch: it was but five; he had done his errand quickly hitherto, and Mr Debarry had not urged haste. But in less than ten minutes he was in a sound sleep. Certain conditions of his system had determined a stronger effect than usual from the opium.
As he had expected, there were servants strolling in the park, but they did not all choose the most frequented part. Mr Scales in pursuit of a slight flirtation with the younger lady’s-maid, had preferred a more sequestered walk in the company of that agreeable nymph. And it happened to be this pair, of all others, who alighted on the sleeping Christian – a sight which at the very first moment caused Mr Scales a vague pleasure as at an incident that must lead to something clever on his part. To play a trick, and make some one or other look foolish, was held the most pointed form of wit throughout the back regions of the Manor, and served as a constant substitute for theatrical entertainment: what the farce wanted in costume or ‘make up’ it gained in the reality of the mortification which excited the general laughter. And lo! here was the offensive, the exasperatingly cool and superior, Christian caught comparatively helpless, with his head hanging on his shoulder, and one coat-tail hanging out heavily below the elbow of the rustic seat. It was this coat-tail which served as a suggestion to Mr Scales’s genius. Putting his finger up in warning to Mrs Cherry, and saying, ‘Hush – be quiet – I see a fine b
it of fun’ – he took a knife from his pocket, stepped behind the unconscious Christian, and quickly cut off the pendant coat-tail. Scales knew nothing of the errand to the Rectory; and as he noticed that there was something in the pocket, thought it was probably a large cigar-case. So much the better – he had no time to pause. He threw the coat-tail as far as he could, and noticed that it fell among the elms under which they had been walking. Then, beckoning to Mrs Cherry, he hurried away with her towards the more open part of the park, not daring to explode in laughter until it was safe from the chance of waking the sleeper. And then the vision of the graceful well-appointed Mr Christian, who sneered at Scales about his ‘get up’, having to walk back to the house with only one tail to his coat, was a source of so much enjoyment to the butler, that the fair Cherry began to be quite jealous of the joke. Still she admitted that it really was funny, tittered intermittently, and pledged herself to secrecy. Mr Scales explained to her that Christian would try to creep in unobserved, but that this must be made impossible; and he requested her to imagine the figure this interloping fellow would cut when everybody was asking what had happened. ‘Hallo, Christian! where’s your coat-tail?’ would become a proverb at the Manor, where jokes kept remarkably well without the aid of salt; and Mr Christian’s comb would be cut so effectually that it would take a long time to grow again. Exit Scales, laughing, and presenting a fine example of dramatic irony to any one in the secret of Fate.
When Christian awoke, he was shocked to find himself in the twilight. He started up, shook himself, missed something, and soon became aware what it was he missed. He did not doubt that he had been robbed, and he at once foresaw that the consequences would be highly unpleasant. In no way could the cause of the accident be so represented to Mr Philip Debarry as to prevent him from viewing his hitherto unimpeachable factotum in a new and unfavourable light. And though Mr Christian did not regard his present position as brilliant, he did not see his way to anything better. A man nearly fifty who is not always quite well is seldom ardently hopeful: he is aware that this is a world in which merit is often overlooked. With the idea of robbery in full possession of his mind, to peer about and search in the dimness, even if it had occurred to him, would have seemed a preposterous waste of time and energy. He knew it was likely that Mr Debarry’s pocket-book had important and valuable contents, and that he should deepen his offence by deferring his announcement of the unfortunate fact. He hastened back to the house, relieved by the obscurity from that mortification of his vanity on which the butler had counted. Indeed, to Scales himself the affair had already begun to appear less thoroughly jocose than he had anticipated. For he observed that Christian’s non-appearance before dinner had caused Mr Debarry some consternation; and he had gathered that the courier had been sent on a commission to the Rectory. ‘My uncle must have detained him for some reason or other,’ he heard Mr Philip say; ‘but it is odd. If he were less trusty about commissions, or had ever seemed to drink too much, I should be uneasy.’ Altogether the affair was not taking the turn Mr Scales had intended. At last, when dinner had been removed, and the butler’s chief duties were at an end, it was understood that Christian had entered without his coat-tail, looking serious and even agitated; that he had asked leave at once to speak to Mr Debarry; and that he was even then in parley with the gentlemen in the dining-room. Scales was in alarm; it must have been some property of Mr Debarry’s that had weighted the pocket. He took a lantern, got a groom to accompany him with another lantern, and with the utmost practicable speed reached the fatal spot in the park. He searched under the elms – he was certain that the pocket had fallen there – and he found the pocket; but he found it empty, and, in spite of further search, did not find the contents, though he had at first consoled himself with thinking that they had fallen out, and would be lying not far off. He returned with the lanterns and the coat-tail and a most uncomfortable consciousness in that great seat of a butler’s emotion, the stomach. He had no sooner re-entered than he was met by Mrs Cherry, pale and anxious, who drew him aside to say that if he didn’t tell everything, she would; that the constables were to be sent for; that there had been no end of bank-notes and letters and things in Mr Debarry’s pocket-book, which Christian was carrying in that very pocket Scales had cut off; that the Rector was sent for, the constable was coming, and they should all be hanged. Mr Scales’s own intellect was anything but clear as to the possible issues. Crest-fallen, and with the coat-tail in his hands as an attestation that he was innocent of anything more than a joke, he went and made his confession. His story relieved Christian a little, but did not relieve Mr Debarry, who was more annoyed at the loss of the letters, and the chance of their getting into hands that might make use of them, than at the loss of the bank-notes. Nothing could be done for the present, but that the Rector, who was a magistrate, should instruct the constables, and that the spot in the park indicated by Scales should be carefully searched. This was done, but in vain; and many of the family at the Manor had disturbed sleep that night.