“Forty to sleep, my lady?” To Pritchard the Duchess had for many years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that her mistress liked the old appellation.
“Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But that’s nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every day! Do you think you’ve got everything that you want?”
“It depends, my lady, how long each of ‘em stays.”
“One night! No, — say two nights on an average.”
“That makes shifting the beds very often; — doesn’t it, my lady?”
“Send up to Puddick’s for sheets to-morrow. Why wasn’t that thought of before?”
“It was, my lady, — and I think we shall do. We’ve got the steam-washery put up.”
“Towels!” suggested the Duchess.
“Oh yes, my lady. Puddick’s did send a great many things; — a whole waggon load there was come from the station. But the tablecloths ain’t, none of ‘em, long enough for the big table.” The Duchess’s face fell. “Of course there must be two. On them very long tables, my lady, there always is two.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, so that I could have had them made? It’s impossible, — impossible that one brain should think of it all. Are you sure you’ve got enough hands in the kitchen?”
“Well, my lady; — we couldn’t do with more; and they ain’t an atom of use, — only just in the way, — if you don’t know something about ‘em. I suppose Mr. Millepois will be down soon.” This name, which Mrs. Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a French cook who was as yet unknown at the Castle.
“He’ll be here to-night.”
“I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady, so as just to see about him.”
“And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won’t make any difficulties. The confectioner did come?”
“Yes, my lady; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that drunk last night that — ; oh, dear, we didn’t know what to do with him.”
“I don’t mind that before the affair begins. I don’t suppose he’ll get tipsy while he has to work for all these people. You’ve plenty of eggs?”
These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before she dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to speak of, noting either perfection or imperfection. In the meantime the Duke had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he had made up his mind that he would enjoy his first holiday out of town by walking about his own grounds, and he would not allow the heat to interrupt him. He went out through the vast hall, and the huge front door, which was so huge and so grand that it was very seldom used. But it was now open by chance, owing to some incident of this festival time, and he passed through it and stood upon the grand terrace, with the well-known and much-lauded portico over head. Up to the terrace, though it was very high, there ran a road, constructed upon arches, so that grand guests could drive almost into the house. The Duke, who was never grand himself, as he stood there looking at the far-stretching view before him, could not remember that he had ever but once before placed himself on that spot. Of what use had been the portico, and the marbles, and the huge pile of stone, — of what use the enormous hall just behind him, cutting the house in two, declaring aloud by its own aspect and proportions that it had been built altogether for show and in no degree for use or comfort? And now as he stood there he could already see that men were at work about the place, that ground had been moved here, and grass laid down there, and a new gravel road constructed in another place. Was it not possible that his friends should be entertained without all these changes in the gardens? Then he perceived the tents, and descending from the terrace and turning to the left towards the end of the house he came upon a new conservatory. The exotics with which it was to be filled were at this moment being brought in on great barrows. He stood for a moment and looked, but said not a word to the men. They gazed at him but evidently did not know him. How should they know him, — him, who was so seldom there, and who when there never showed himself about the place? Then he went farther afield from the house and came across more and more men. A great ha-ha fence had been made, enclosing on three sides a large flat and turfed parallelogram of ground, taken out of the park and open at one end to the gardens, containing, as he thought, about an acre. “What are you doing this for?” he said to one of the labourers. The man stared at him, and at first seemed hardly inclined to make him an answer. “It be for the quality to shoot their bows and harrows,” he said at last, as he continued the easy task of patting with his spade the completed work. He evidently regarded this stranger as an intruder who was not entitled to ask questions, even if he were permitted to wander about the grounds.
From one place he went on to another and found changes, and new erections, and some device for throwing away money everywhere. It angered him to think that there was so little of simplicity left in the world that a man could not entertain his friends without such a fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently to the consideration of the money, not that he grudged the loss of it, but the spending of it in such a cause. And then perhaps there occurred to him an idea that all this should not have been done without a word of consent from himself. Had she come to him with some scheme for changing everything about the place, making him think that the alterations were a matter of taste or of mere personal pleasure, he would probably have given his assent at once, thinking nothing of the money. But all this was sheer display. Then he walked up and saw the flag waving over the Castle, indicating that he, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, was present there on his own soil. That was right. That was as it should be, because the flag was waving in compliance with an acknowledged ordinance. Of all that properly belonged to his rank and station he could be very proud, and would allow no diminution of that outward respect to which they were entitled. Were they to be trenched on by his fault in his person, the rights of others to their enjoyment would be endangered, and the benefits accruing to his country from established marks of reverence would be imperilled. But here was an assumed and preposterous grandeur that was as much within the reach of some rich swindler or of some prosperous haberdasher as of himself, — having, too, a look of raw newness about it which was very distasteful to him. And then, too, he knew that nothing of all this would have been done unless he had become Prime Minister. Why on earth should a man’s grounds be knocked about because he becomes Prime Minister? He walked on arguing this within his own bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger. It was clear that he must henceforth take things more into his own hands, or he would be made to be absurd before the world. Indifference he knew he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought he could endure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was pervious. Suppose the papers were to say of him that he built a new conservatory and made an archery ground for the sake of maintaining the Coalition!
When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the small room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours she was now reclining for the few minutes her husband’s absence might allow her, knowing that after dinner there were a score of letters for her to write. “I don’t think,” said she, “I was ever so tired in my life.”
“It isn’t such a very long journey after all.”
“But it’s a very big house, and I’ve been, I think, into every room since I have been here, and I’ve moved most of the furniture in the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I’ve counted the pounds of butter, and inspected the sheets and tablecloths.”
“Was that necessary, Glencora?”
“If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House of Commons; — but things should be looked after, I suppose.”
“There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling yourself with many things.”
“I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no Marthas there would never be any
thing fit to eat. But it’s odd how sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn’t please a busy, hard-working man like you.”
“I don’t know that I have scolded, — not as yet.”
“Are you going to begin?”
“Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I ever scolded you?”
“I can remember a great many times when you ought.”
“But to tell you the truth, I don’t like all that you have done here. I cannot see that it was necessary.”
“People make changes in their gardens without necessity sometimes.”
“But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing, — although even in that case I think you might have told me what you proposed to do.”
“What; — when you are so burdened with work that you do not know how to turn?”
“I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like it. But it distresses me to think that what might have been good enough for our friends before should be thought to be insufficient because of the office I hold. There is a — a — a — I was almost going to say vulgarity about it which distresses me.”
“Vulgarity!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.
“I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that should annoy you; — but pray, pray do not go on with it.” Then again he left her.
Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not accuse her of vulgarity, — but nevertheless the accusation had been made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly than by saying to him that you would not say that he lied? They dined together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very little was said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the lady’s ears, and the remembrance of having uttered the word was heavy on the man’s conscience. He had told himself very plainly that the thing was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word. When uttered it came even upon himself as a surprise. But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may be made, a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across the table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep dudgeon.
She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before the meal was done. “Vulgarity!” She uttered the word aloud to herself, as she sat herself down in the little room up-stairs which she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was very angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contradict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn’t she be vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity? What was the meaning of the word vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things, — was daily doing things, — which would have been odious to her had not her husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness, to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her smiles, — so she now said to herself, — on butchers and tinkers. What she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did, whither she went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind, — was it not all said and done and arranged with reference to his and her own popularity? When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity, and must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him. The Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever since the days of Coriolanus. “The old Duke kept out of it,” she said to herself, “and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice. He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can’t do it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name!” Then it occurred to her that the world tells lies every day, — telling on the whole much more lies than truth, — but that the world has wisely agreed that the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn’t venture to express open disbelief even of one’s wife; and with the world at large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of course, — because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith, — who has known the lie to be a lie, — has asserted his assured belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able to live pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell her so? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.
The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment in which she resolved that they should not be written. The work was very hard, and what good would come from it? Why should she make her hands dirty, so that even her husband accused her of vulgarity? Would it not be better to give it all up, and be a great woman, une grande dame, of another kind, — difficult of access, sparing of her favours, aristocratic to the backbone, — a very Duchess of duchesses? The role would be one very easy to play. It required rank, money, and a little manner, — and these she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease, without the slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost like a god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change even yet, — and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she thought she would make it.
But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there had come to her another thought. Nothing to her was so distasteful as failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and had assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming them. Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the difficulties which she had to overcome? Was her courage already gone from her? Was she so weak that a single word should knock her over, — and a word evidently repented of as soon as uttered? Vulgar! Well; — let her be vulgar as long as she gained her object. There had been no penalty of everlasting punishment denounced against vulgarity. And then a higher idea touched her, not without effect, — an idea which she could not analyse, but which was hardly on that account the less effective. She did believe thoroughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him the fittest man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His fame was dear to her. Her nature was loyal; and though she might, perhaps, in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with a more loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more gay, given to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could recognise merits with which her sympathy was imperfect. It was good that he should be England’s Prime Minister, and therefore she would do all she could to keep him in that place. The vulgarity was a necessary essential. He might not acknowledge this, — might even, if the choice were left to him, refuse to be Prime Minister on such terms. But she need not, therefore, give way. Having in this way thought it all out, she took up her pen and completed the batch of letters before she allowed herself to go to bed.
CHAPTER XX
Sir Orlando’s Policy
When the guests began to arrive our friend the Duchess had apparently got through her little difficulties, for she received them with that open, genial hospitality which is so delightful as coming evidently from the heart. There had not been another word between her and her husband as to the manner in which the thing was to be done, and she had determined that the offensive word should pass altogether out of her memory. The first comer was Mrs. Finn, — who came indeed rather as an assistant hostess than as a mere guest, and to her the Duchess uttered a few half-playful hints as to her troubles. “Considering the time, haven’t we done marvels? Because it does look nice, — doesn’t it? There are no dirt heaps about, and it’s all as green as though it had been there since the Conquest. He doesn’t like it because it looks new. And we’ve got forty-five bedrooms made up. The servants are all turned out over the stables somewhere, — quite comfortable, I assure you. Indeed they like it. And by knocking down the ends of two passages we’ve brought everything together. And the rooms are all numbered just like an inn. It was the only way. And I keep one book myself, and Locock has another. I have everybody’s room, and where it is, and how long the tenant is to be allowed to occupy it. And here’s the way everybody is
to take everybody down to dinner for the next fortnight. Of course that must be altered, but it is easier when we have a sort of settled basis. And I have some private notes as to who should flirt with whom.”
“You’d better not let that lie about.”
“Nobody could understand a word of it if they had it. A. B. always means X. Y. Z. And this is the code of the Gatherum Archery Ground. I never drew a bow in my life, — not a real bow in the flesh, that is, my dear, — and yet I’ve made ‘em all out, and had them printed. The way to make a thing go down is to give it some special importance. And I’ve gone through the bill of fare for the first week with Millepois, who is a perfect gentleman, — perfect.” Then she gave a little sigh as she remembered that word from her husband, which had so wounded her. “I used to think that Plantagenet worked hard when he was doing his decimal coinage; but I don’t think he ever stuck to it as I have done.”
“What does the Duke say to it all?”
“Ah; well, upon the whole he behaves like an angel. He behaves so well that half my time I think I’ll shut it all up and have done with it, — for his sake. And then, the other half, I’m determined to go on with it, — also for his sake.”
“He has not been displeased?”
“Ask no questions, my dear, and you’ll hear no stories. You haven’t been married twice without knowing that women can’t have everything smooth. He only said one word. It was rather hard to bear, but it has passed away.”
That afternoon there was quite a crowd. Among the first comers were Mr. and Mrs. Roby, and Mr. and Mrs. Rattler. And there were Sir Orlando and Lady Drought, Lord Ramsden, and Sir Timothy Beeswax. These gentlemen with their wives represented, for the time, the Ministry of which the Duke was the head, and had been asked in order that their fealty and submission might be thus riveted. There were also there Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, with Lord Thrift and his daughter Angelica, who had belonged to former Ministries, — one on the Liberal and the other on the Conservative side, — and who were now among the Duke’s guests, in order that they and others might see how wide the Duke wished to open his hands. And there was our friend Ferdinand Lopez, who had certainly made the best use of his opportunities in securing for himself so great a social advantage as an invitation to Gatherum Castle. How could any father, who was simply a barrister, refuse to receive as his son-in-law a man who had been a guest at the Duke of Omnium’s country house? And then there were certain people from the neighbourhood; — Frank Gresham of Greshamsbury, with his wife and daughter, the master of the hounds in those parts, a rich squire of old blood, and head of the family to which one of the aspirant Prime Ministers of the day belonged. And Lord Chiltern, another master of fox hounds, two counties off, — and also an old friend of ours, — had been asked to meet him, and had brought his wife. And there was Lady Rosina De Courcy, an old maid, the sister of the present Earl De Courcy, who lived not far off and had been accustomed to come to Gatherum Castle on state occasions for the last thirty years, — the only relic in those parts of a family which had lived there for many years in great pride of place; for her elder brother, the Earl, was a ruined man, and her younger brothers were living with their wives abroad, and her sisters had married, rather lowly in the world, and her mother now was dead, and Lady Rosina lived alone in a little cottage outside the old park palings, and still held fast within her bosom all the old pride of the De Courcys. And then there were Captain Gunner and Major Pountney, two middle-aged young men, presumably belonging to the army, whom the Duchess had lately enlisted among her followers as being useful in their way. They could eat their dinners without being shy, dance on occasions, though very unwillingly, talk a little, and run on messages; — and they knew the peerage by heart, and could tell the details of every unfortunate marriage for the last twenty years. Each thought himself, especially since this last promotion, to be indispensably necessary to the formation of London society, and was comfortable in a conviction that he had thoroughly succeeded in life by acquiring the privilege of sitting down to dinner three times a week with peers and peeresses.
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