Felix Holt

by George Eliot

  ‘And my nephew here – he comes of a Tory breed, you know – I’ll answer for the Lingons. In the old Tory times there was never a pup belonging to a Lingon but would howl if a Whig came near him. The Lingon blood is good, rich, old Tory blood – like good rich milk – and that’s why, when the right time comes, it throws up a Liberal cream. The best sort of Tory turns to the best sort of Radical. There’s plenty of Radical scum – I say, beware of the scum, and look out for the cream. And here’s my nephew – some of the cream, if there is any: none of your Whigs, none of your painted water that looks as if it ran, and it’s standing still all the while; none of your spinning-jenny fellows. A gentleman; but up to all sorts of business. I’m no fool myself; I’m forced to wink a good deal, for fear of seeing too much, for a neighbourly man must let himself be cheated a little. But though I’ve never been out of my own country, I know less about it than my nephew does. You may tell what he is, and only look at him. There’s one sort of fellow sees nothing but the end of his own nose, and another sort that sees nothing but the hinder side of the moon; but my nephew Harold is of another sort; he sees everything that’s at hitting distance, and he’s not one to miss his mark. A good-looking man in his prime! Not a greenhorn; not a shrivelled old fellow, who’ll come to speak to you and find he’s left his teeth at home by mistake. Harold Transome will do you credit; if anybody says the Radicals are a set of sneaks, Brummagem halfpennies, scamps who want to play pitch-and-toss with the property of the country, you can say, “Look at the member for North Loamshire!” And mind what you’ll hear him say; he’ll go in for making everything right – Poor-laws and Charities and Church – he wants to reform ’em all. Perhaps you’ll say, “There’s that Parson Lingon talking about Church Reform – why, he belongs to the Church himself – he wants reforming too.” Well, well, wait a bit, and you’ll hear by-and-by that old Parson Lingon is reformed – shoots no more, cracks his joke no more, has drunk his last bottle: the dogs, the old pointers, will be sorry; but you’ll hear that the Parson at Little Treby is a new man. That’s what Church Reform is sure to come to before long. So now here are some more nuts for you, lads, and I leave you to listen to your candidate. Here he is – give him a good hurray; wave your hats, and I’ll begin. Hurray!’

  Harold had not been quite confident beforehand as to the good effect of his uncle’s introduction; but he was soon reassured. There was no acrid partisanship among the old-fashioned Tories who mustered strong about the Marquis of Granby, and Parson Jack had put them in a good humour. Harold’s only interruption came from his own party. The oratorical clerk at the Factory, acting as the tribune of the Dissenting interest, and feeling bound to put questions, might have been troublesome; but his voice being unpleasantly sharp, while Harold’s was full and penetrating, the questioning was cried down. Harold’s speech ‘did’: it was not of the glib-nonsensical sort, not ponderous, not hesitating – which is as much as to say, that it was remarkable among British speeches. Read in print the next day, perhaps it would be neither pregnant nor conclusive, which is saying no more than that its excellence was not of an abnormal kind, but such as is usually found in the best efforts of eloquent candidates. Accordingly the applause drowned the opposition, and content predominated.

  But, perhaps, the moment of most diffusive pleasure from public speaking is that in which the speech ceases and the audience can turn to commenting on it. The one speech, sometimes uttered under great responsibility as to missiles and other consequences, has given a text to twenty speakers who are under no responsibility. Even in the days of duelling a man was not challenged for being a bore, nor does this quality apparently hinder him from being much invited to dinner, which is the great index of social responsibility in a less barbarous age.

  Certainly the crowd in the market-place seemed to experience this culminating enjoyment when the speaking on the platform in front of the Ram had ceased, and there were no less than three orators holding forth from the elevation of chance vehicles, not at all to the prejudice of the talking among those who were on a level with their neighbours. There was little ill-humour among the listeners, for Queen Bess was striking the last quarter before two, and a savoury smell from the inn kitchens inspired them with an agreeable consciousness that the speakers were helping to trifle away the brief time before dinner.

  Two or three of Harold’s committee had lingered talking to each other on the platform, instead of re-entering; and Jermyn, after coming out to speak to one of them, had turned to the corner near which the carriages were standing, that he might tell the Transomes’ coachman to drive round to the side door, and signal to his own coachman to follow. But a dialogue which was going on below induced him to pause, and, instead of giving the order, to assume the air of a careless gazer. Christian, whom the attorney had already observed looking out of a window at the Marquis of Granby, was talking to Dominic. The meeting appeared to be one of new recognition, for Christian was saying –

  ‘You’ve not got grey as I have, Mr Lenoni; you’re not a day older for the sixteen years. But no wonder you didn’t know me; I’m bleached like a dried bone.’

  ‘Not so. It is true I was confused a meenute – I could put your face nowhere; but after that, Naples came behind it, and I said, Mr Creestian. And so you reside at the Manor, and I am at Transome Court.’

  ‘Ah! it’s a thousand pities you’re not on our side, else we might have dined together at the Marquis,’ said Christian. ‘Eh, could you manage it?’ he added, languidly, knowing there was no chance of a yes.

  ‘No – much obliged – couldn’t leave the leetle boy. Ahi! Arry, Arry, pinch not poor Moro.’

  While Dominic was answering, Christian had stared about him, as his manner was when he was being spoken to, and had had his eyes arrested by Esther, who was leaning forward to look at Mr Harold Transome’s extraordinary little gipsy of a son. But happening to meet Christian’s stare, she felt annoyed, drew back, and turned away her head, colouring.

  ‘Who are those ladies?’ said Christian, in a low tone, to Dominic, as if he had been startled into a sudden wish for this information.

  ‘They are Meester Jermyn’s daughters,’ said Dominic, who knew nothing either of the lawyer’s family or of Esther.

  Christian looked puzzled a moment or two, and was silent.

  ‘O, well – au revoir,’ he said, kissing the tips of his fingers, as the coachman, having had Jermyn’s order, began to urge on the horses.

  ‘Does he see some likeness in the girl?’ thought Jermyn, as he turned away. ‘I wish I hadn’t invited her to come in the carriage, as it happens.’

  CHAPTER XX

  ‘Good earthenware pitchers, sir! – of an excellent quaint pattern and sober colour.’

  The market dinner at ‘the Marquis’ was in high repute in Treby and its neighbourhood. The frequenters of this three-and-sixpenny ordinary liked to allude to it, as men allude to anything which implies that they move in good society, and habitually converse with those who are in the secret of the highest affairs. The guests were not only such rural residents as had driven to market, but some of the most substantial townsmen, who had always assured their wives that business required this weekly sacrifice of domestic pleasure. The poorer farmers, who put up at the Ram or the Seven Stars, where there was no fish, felt their disadvantage, bearing it modestly or bitterly, as the case might be; and although the Marquis was a Tory house, devoted to Debarry, it was too much to expect that such tenants of the Transomes as had always been used to dine there, should consent to eat a worse dinner, and sit with worse company, because they suddenly found themselves under a Radical landlord, opposed to the political party known as Sir Maxim’s. Hence the recent political divisions had not reduced the handsome length of the table at the Marquis; and the many gradations of dignity – from Mr Wace, the brewer, to the rich butcher from Leek Malton, who always modestly took the lowest seat, though without the reward of being asked to come up higher – had not been abbreviated by any secessions.

/>   To-day there was an extra table spread for expected supernumeraries, and it was at this that Christian took his place with some of the younger farmers, who had almost a sense of dissipation in talking to a man of his questionable station and unknown experience. The provision was especially liberal, and on the whole the presence of a minority destined to vote for Transome was a ground for joking, which added to the good-humour of the chief talkers. A respectable old acquaintance turned Radical rather against his will, was rallied with even greater gusto than if his wife had had twins twice over. The best Trebian Tories were far too sweet-blooded to turn against such old friends, and to make no distinction between them and the Radical, Dissenting, Papistical, Deistical set with whom they never dined, and probably never saw except in their imagination. But the talk was necessarily in abeyance until the more serious business of dinner was ended, and the wine, spirits, and tobacco raised mere satisfaction into beatitude.

  Among the frequent though not regular guests, whom every one was glad to see, was Mr Nolan, the retired London hosier, a wiry old gentleman past seventy, whose square tight forehead, with its rigid hedge of grey hair, whose bushy eyebrows, sharp dark eyes, and remarkable hooked nose, gave a handsome distinction to his face in the midst of rural physiognomies. He had married a Miss Pendrell early in life, when he was a poor young Londoner, and the match had been thought as bad as ruin by her family; but fifteen years ago he had had the satisfaction of bringing his wife to settle amongst her own friends, and of being received with pride as a brother-in-law, retired from business, possessed of unknown thousands, and of a most agreeable talent for anecdote and conversation generally. No question had ever been raised as to Mr Nolan’s extraction on the strength of his hooked nose, or of his name being Baruch. Hebrew names ‘ran’ in the best Saxon families; the Bible accounted for them; and no one among the uplands and hedgerows of that district was suspected of having an Oriental origin unless he carried a pedlar’s jewel-box. Certainly, whatever genealogical research might have discovered, the worthy Baruch Nolan was so free from any distinctive marks of religious persuasion – he went to church with so ordinary an irregularity, and so often grumbled at the sermon – that there was no ground for classing him otherwise than with good Trebian Churchmen. He was generally regarded as a good-looking old gentleman, and a certain thin eagerness in his aspect was attributed to the life of the metropolis, where narrow space had the same sort of effect on men as on thickly-planted trees. Mr Nolan always ordered his pint of port, which, after he had sipped it a little, was wont to animate his recollections of the Royal Family, and the various ministries which had been contemporary with the successive stages of his prosperity. He was always listened to with interest: a man who had been born in the year when good old King George1 came to the throne – who had been acquainted with the nude leg of the Prince Regent, and hinted at private reasons for believing that the Princess Charlotte ought not to have died2 – had conversational matter as special to his auditors as Marco Polo could have had on his return from Asiatic travel.

  ‘My good sir,’ he said to Mr Wace, as he crossed his knees and spread his silk handkerchief over them, ‘Transome may be returned, or he may not be returned – that’s a question for North Loamshire; but it makes little difference to the kingdom. I don’t want to say things which may put younger men out of spirits, but I believe this country has seen its best days – I do indeed.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it from one of your experience, Mr Nolan,’ said the brewer, a large happy-looking man. ‘I’d make a good fight myself before I’d leave a worse world for my boys than I’ve found for myself. There isn’t a greater pleasure than doing a bit of planting and improving one’s buildings, and investing one’s money in some pretty acres of land, when it turns up here and there – land you’ve known from a boy. It’s a nasty thought that these Radicals are to turn things round so as one can calculate on nothing. One doesn’t like it for one’s self, and one doesn’t like it for one’s neighbours. But somehow, I believe it won’t do: if we can’t trust the Government just now, there’s Providence and the good sense of the country; and there’s a right in things – that’s what I’ve always said – there’s a right in things. The heavy end will get downmost. And if Church and King, and every man being sure of his own, are things good for this country, there’s a God above will take care of ’em.’

  ‘It won’t do, my dear sir,’ said Mr Nolan – ‘it won’t do. When Peel and the Duke turned round about the Catholics in ’29,3 I saw it was all over with us. We could never trust ministers any more. It was to keep off a rebellion, they said; but I say it was to keep their places. They’re monstrously fond of place, both of them – that I know.’ Here Mr Nolan changed the crossing of his legs, and gave a deep cough, conscious of having made a point. Then he went on – ‘What we want is a king with a good will of his own. If we’d had that, we shouldn’t have heard what we’ve heard to-day; Reform would never have come to this pass. When our good old King George the Third heard his ministers talking about Catholic Emancipation,4 he boxed their ears all round. Ah, poor soul! he did indeed, gentlemen,’ ended Mr Nolan, shaken by a deep laugh of admiration.

  ‘Well, now, that’s something like a king,’ said Mr Crowder, who was an eager listener.

  ‘It was uncivil, though. How did they take it?’ said Mr Timothy Rose, a ‘gentleman farmer’ from Leek Malton, against whose independent position nature had provided the safeguard of a spontaneous servility. His large porcine cheeks, round twinkling eyes, and thumbs habitually twirling, expressed a concentrated effort not to get into trouble, and to speak everybody fair except when they were safely out of hearing.

  ‘Take it! they’d be obliged to take it,’ said the impetuous young Joyce, a farmer of superior information. ‘Have you ever heard of the king’s prerogative?’

  ‘I don’t say but what I have,’ said Rose, retreating. ‘I’ve nothing against it – nothing at all.’

  ‘No, but the Radicals have,’ said young Joyce, winking. ‘The prerogative is what they want to clip close. They want us to be governed by delegates from the trades-unions,5 who are to dictate to everybody, and make everything square to their mastery.’

  ‘They’re a pretty set, now, those delegates,’ said Mr Wace, with disgust. ‘I once heard two of ’em spouting away. They’re a sort of fellow I’d never employ in my brewery, or anywhere else. I’ve seen it again and again. If a man takes to tongue-work it’s all over with him. “Everything’s wrong,” says he. That’s a big text. But does he want to make everything right? Not he. He’d lose his text. “We want every man’s good,” say they. Why, they never knew yet what a man’s good is. How should they? It’s working for his victual – not getting a slice of other people’s.’

  ‘Ay, ay,’ said young Joyce, cordially. ‘I should just have liked all the delegates in the country mustered for our yeomanry to go into – that’s all. They’d see where the strength of Old England lay then. You may tell what it is for a country to trust to trade when it breeds such spindling fellows as those.’

  ‘That isn’t the fault of trade, my good sir,’ said Mr Nolan, who was often a little pained by the defects of provincial culture. ‘Trade, properly conducted, is good for a man’s constitution. I could have shown you, in my time, weavers past seventy, with all their faculties as sharp as a pen-knife, doing without spectacles. It’s the new system of trade that’s to blame: a country can’t have too much trade, if it’s properly managed. Plenty of sound Tories have made their fortune by trade. You’ve heard of Calibut & Co. – everybody has heard of Calibut. Well, sir, I knew old Mr Calibut as well as I know you. He was once a crony of mine in a city warehouse; and now, I’ll answer for it, he has a larger rent-roll than Lord Wyvern. Bless your soul! his subscriptions to charities would make a fine income for a nobleman. And he’s as good a Tory as I am. And as for his town establishment – why, how much butter do you think is consumed there annually?’

  Mr Nolan paused, and then his face glowed wi
th triumph as he answered his own question. ‘Why, gentlemen, not less than two thousand pounds of butter during the few months the family is in town! Trade makes property, my good sir, and property is Conservative, as they say now. Calibut’s son-in-law is Lord Fortinbras. He paid me a large debt on his marriage. It’s all one web, sir. The prosperity of the country is one web.’

  ‘To be sure,’ said Christian, who, smoking his cigar with his chair turned away from the table, was willing to make himself agreeable in the conversation. ‘We can’t do without nobility. Look at France. When they got rid of the old nobles they were obliged to make new.’

  ‘True, very true,’ said Mr Nolan, who thought Christian a little too wise for his position, but could not resist the rare gift of an instance in point. ‘It’s the French Revolution that has done us harm here. It was the same at the end of the last century, but the war kept it off – Mr Pitt saved us. I knew Mr Pitt.6 I had a particular interview with him once. He joked me about getting the length of his foot. “Mr Nolan,” said he, “there are those on the other side of the water whose name begins with N. who would be glad to know what you know.” I was recommended to send an account of that to the newspapers after his death, poor man! but I’m not fond of that kind of show myself.’ Mr Nolan swung his upper leg a little, and pinched his lip between his thumb and finger, naturally pleased with his own moderation.