The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XI.

  LADY CARBURY AT HOME.

  During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixeddepression and elevation. Her great work had come out,--the "CriminalQueens,"--and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it hadbeen by no means all pleasure, in as much as many very hard words hadbeen said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself andMr. Alf, one of Mr. Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had beenset upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabidmalignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardlyhave been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after errorwas laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of thearticle must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointingout the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical factswhich had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as beingfamiliar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve yearsold. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that hehimself, having been fully provided with books of reference, andhaving learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at amoment's notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off theblunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than ahousekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into thecoal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady,and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intendedto show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with himalways. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and hisname was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was alwaysthere at the command of Mr. Alf,--and his cruelty. The greatness ofMr. Alf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr. Jones or twoready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr.Alf's, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, forpoetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones,extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references,entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.

  There is the review intended to sell a book,--which comes outimmediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes beforeit; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale,and which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book outquietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a singlepeg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly tomake an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberantJones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crusha man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that hehas accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is themost popular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroadthat some notable man has been actually crushed,--been positivelydriven over by an entire Juggernaut's car of criticism till hisliterary body be a mere amorphous mass,--then a real success has beenachieved, and the Alf of the day has done a great thing; but eventhe crushing of a poor Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective.Such a review will not make all the world call for the "EveningPulpit," but it will cause those who do take the paper to besatisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such apaper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter ofcourse, admonish their Alf to add a little power to the crushingdepartment.

  Lady Carbury had been crushed by the "Evening Pulpit." We may fancythat it was easy work, and that Mr. Alf's historical Mr. Joneswas not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many booksof reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface; andthe whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes bypretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated inMr. Jones's very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterlycrushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an houror two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went toher publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the seniorpartner, Mr. Leadham. "I've got it all in black and white," she said,full of the wrong which had been done her, "and can prove him tobe wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and hecouldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the'Biographie Universelle.' I'll write to Mr. Alf myself,--a letter tobe published, you know."

  "Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury."

  "I can prove that I'm right."

  "And they can prove that you're wrong."

  "I've got all the facts,--and the figures."

  Mr. Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures,--had noopinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; buthe knew very well that the "Evening Pulpit" would surely get thebetter of any mere author in such a contention. "Never fight thenewspapers, Lady Carbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by thatkind of thing? It's their business, and you are not used to it."

  "And Mr. Alf is my particular friend! It does seem so hard," saidLady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.

  "It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury."

  "It'll stop the sale?"

  "Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, youknow. The 'Breakfast Table' gave it an excellent lift, and came justat the right time. I rather like the notice in the 'Pulpit,' myself."

  "Like it!" said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre ofher self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut'scar-wheels.

  "Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great manypeople remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carryaway nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very goodadvertisement."

  "But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history,--afterworking as I have worked!"

  "That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury."

  "You think the book has done pretty well?"

  "Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know."

  "There'll be something coming to me, Mr. Leadham?"

  Mr. Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran upa few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something,but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. Itdid not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book.Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, didcarry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked verywell, and had smiled on Mr. Leadham. Mr. Leadham, too, was no morethan man, and had written--a small cheque.

  Mr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune ofthe "Breakfast Table," and Mr. Booker of the "Literary Chronicle,"had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised,"done" Mr. Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table."That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr.Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve,and suggesting to Mr. Broune that no one understood her so wellas he did, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a verythoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. What had been saidabout his work in the "Breakfast Table" had been very distasteful topoor Mr. Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence thatsuch rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experienceof life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that hemust pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately becomeaccustomed. So Mr. Booker himself wrote the article on the "CriminalQueens" in the "Literary Chronicle," knowing that what he wrotewould also be rubbish. "Remarkable vivacity." "Power of delineatingcharacter." "Excellent choice of subject." "Considerable intimacywith the historical details of various periods." "The literary worldwould be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again." The composition of thereview, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogetherperhaps an hour of Mr. Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut thepages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done thiskind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He couldhave reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When thework was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He feltit to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigenciesof his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did notoccur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and thathe was quite at liberty
to break stones, or to starve honestly, if noother honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. "If Ididn't, somebody else would," he said to himself.

  But the review in the "Morning Breakfast Table" was the making ofLady Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr. Broune saw thelady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter ofthis Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had beenfully performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work,and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture ofamusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury's"Criminal Queens." It was the very book that had been wanted foryears. It was a work of infinite research and brilliant imaginationcombined. There had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint.At that last meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome,and very winning; Mr. Broune had given the order with good will, andit had been obeyed in the same feeling.

  Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had alsobeen some elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed tothink that her literary career might yet be a success. Mr. Leadham'scheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead theway to something better. People at any rate were talking abouther, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full. But herliterary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr.Broune, her business with Mr. Booker, and her crushing by Mr. Alf'sMr. Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life ofhers of which the absorbing interest was her son. And with regard tohim too she was partly depressed, and partly elated, allowing herhopes however to dominate her fears. There was very much to frightenher. Even the moderate reform in the young man's expenses which hadbeen effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Thoughhe never told her anything, she became aware that during the lastmonth of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew,too, that he had a horse up in town. She never saw him but once inthe day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was awarethat he was always at his club throughout the night. She knew thathe was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimesthe most dangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for hisimmediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were giftedwith a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased totrouble her in Welbeck Street. For the present, therefore, sheconsoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. Buther elation sprung from a higher source than this. From all that shecould hear, she thought it likely that Felix would carry off thegreat prize; and then,--should he do that,--what a blessed son wouldhe have been to her! How constantly in her triumph would she be ableto forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, andhis cruel treatment of herself! As she thought of it the bliss seemedto be too great for the possibility of realisation. She was taught tounderstand that L10,000 a year, to begin with, would be the least ofit; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to makeSir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England. In her very heartof hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather thanfor herself. Then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and shewas lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had alreadynearly engulfed her in his own ruin.

  And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much,though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She haddiscovered that her son had become a Director of the South CentralPacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known,--shecertainly did know,--that Felix, such as he was, could not lendassistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in theworld. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choicehidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood.A ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose lifesince he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice andfolly,--whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regardinghim as one incapable of knowing what principle is,--of what servicecould he be, that he should be made a Director? But Lady Carbury,though she knew that he could be of no service, was not at allshocked. She was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and didnot forget to send the news by post to Roger Carbury. And her son satat the same Board with Mr. Melmotte! What an indication was this ofcoming triumphs!

  Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on themorning of Saturday, 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club atabout seven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to seehim. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; andwhen she sought him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caughthim. "I hope," she said, "you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening."Hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her eveningparties by his presence.

  "All your people are coming! You know, mother, it is such an awfulbore."

  "Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here."

  "One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's ownhouse. Everybody sees that it has been contrived. And it is such apokey, stuffy little place!"

  Then Lady Carbury spoke out her mind. "Felix, I think you must be afool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anythingto please me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hopefor a return. But when I am doing everything to advance your owninterests, when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, Ithink you might at any rate help a little,--not for me of course, butfor yourself."

  "I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't wantyou to work day and night."

  "There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of thisgirl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told theyare going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet LordNidderdale down in the country."

  "She can't endure Nidderdale. She says so herself."

  "She will do as she is told,--unless she can be made to be downrightin love with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once onTuesday?"

  "If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm notgoing to be driven."

  "Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see herwhen she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think thatyou really love her."

  "Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;--I'll look in.What time do the animals come to feed?"

  "There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruelthat I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your ownway and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here aboutten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be hereto receive her, not later than ten."

  "If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come."

  When the Tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive toget his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigarsmoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to presenthimself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten.Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there,--and manyothers, of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among themMr. Alf was in the room, and was at this very moment discussingLady Carbury's book with Mr. Booker. He had been quite graciouslyreceived, as though he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carburyhad given him her hand with that energy of affection with which shewas wont to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown oneglance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face,--asthough asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruelto one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. "I cannotstand this kind of thing," said Mr. Alf, to Mr. Booker. "There's aregular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down."

  "If you're strong enough," said Mr. Booker.

  "Well, I think I am. I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that I'mnot afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for ourfriend here;--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book,an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of establishedreputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed tomisapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she
writes tome and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best Icould."

  Mr. Alf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker wasaware of the extent of Mr. Alf's knowledge. "What you say is all veryright," said Mr. Booker; "only you want a different kind of world tolive in."

  "Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how ourfriend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the'Criminal Queens' was the greatest historical work of modern days."

  "I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, asfar as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censureor violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn'twant to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendlybutterfly."

  "As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea,"said Mr. Alf, moving away.

  "I'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!" said LadyCarbury, holding Mr. Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered tohim.

  "Nothing more than my duty," said he, smiling.

  "I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,"she replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some otherguest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Ofenduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: butat this moment she did feel that Mr. Broune had done much for her,and that she would willingly make him some return of friendship.Of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towardsflirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had onceacted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. Shehad forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. Shewas at any rate too much in earnest at the present moment to thinkabout it. But it was otherwise with Mr. Broune. He could not quitemake up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love withhim,--or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulgeher;--and if so, in what manner. Then as he looked after her,he told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that herfigure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rankconsiderable. Nevertheless, Mr. Broune knew of himself that he wasnot a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would notsuit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected howimpossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury should turn himfrom his resolution.

  "I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr. Alf," Lady Carburysaid to the high-minded editor of the "Evening Pulpit."

  "Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?"

  "You are very good. But I feared,--"

  "Feared what, Lady Carbury?"

  "That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling towelcome you after,--well, after the compliments of last Thursday."

  "I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see,Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself."

  "No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did."

  "To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavourto get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case,it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic shouldbe hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of myown, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend mayhave spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alfwho has the misfortune to edit a newspaper."

  "It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you," saidLady Carbury with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word thatMr. Alf had said to her. She thought, and thought rightly, that Mr.Alf's Mr. Jones had taken direct orders from his editor, as to histreatment of the "Criminal Queens." But she remembered that sheintended to write another book, and that she might perhaps conquereven Mr. Alf by spirit and courage under her present infliction.

  It was Lady Carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things toeverybody. And she did her duty. But in the midst of it all she wasever thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did at lastventure to separate the girl from her mother. Marie herself was notunwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, hadnever seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! She, poorgirl, bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the lifeto which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonitionfrom her father, who would again, fitfully, leave her unnoticed fora week at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother--for poor Mariehad in truth been born before her father had been a married man, andhad never known what was her own mother's fate,--with no enjoyment inher present life, had come solely to this conclusion, that it wouldbe well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. Many a variedphase of life had already come in her way. She could just rememberthe dirty street in the German portion of New York in which she hadbeen born and had lived for the first four years of her life, andcould remember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been hermother. She could remember being at sea, and her sickness,--but couldnot quite remember whether that woman had been with her. Then shehad run about the streets of Hamburgh, and had sometimes been veryhungry, sometimes in rags,--and she had a dim memory of some troubleinto which her father had fallen, and that he was away from her for atime. She had up to the present splendid moment her own convictionsabout that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a humanbeing. Then her father had married her present mother in Francfort.That she could remember distinctly, as also the rooms in which shewas then taken to live, and the fact that she was told that fromhenceforth she was to be a Jewess. But there had soon come anotherchange. They went from Francfort to Paris, and there they were allChristians. From that time they had lived in various apartments inthe French capital, but had always lived well. Sometimes there hadbeen a carriage, sometimes there had been none. And then there camea time in which she was grown woman enough to understand that herfather was being much talked about. Her father to her had always beenalternately capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel,but just at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife.And Madame Melmotte would weep at times and declare that they wereall ruined. Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendourat Paris. There was an hotel, with carriages and horses almostunnumbered;--and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark,swarthy, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously; but there werefew women. At this time Marie was hardly nineteen, and young enoughin manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen. Suddenly againshe was told that she was to be taken to London, and the migrationhad been effected with magnificence. She was first taken to Brighton,where the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been broughtto Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown into the matrimonialmarket. No part of her life had been more disagreeable to her, morefrightful, than the first months in which she had been trafficked forby the Nidderdales and Grassloughs. She had been too frightened, toomuch of a coward to object to anything proposed to her, but stillhad been conscious of a desire to have some hand in her own futuredestiny. Luckily for her, the first attempts at trafficking with theNidderdales and Grassloughs had come to nothing; and at length shewas picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that itmight be possible to prevent a disposition of herself which did notsuit her own tastes. She was also beginning to think that there mightbe a disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes.

  Felix Carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was seatedon a chair close to him. "I love you better than anyone in theworld," he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhapsindifferent as to the hearing of others.

  "Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that."

  "You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be mywife."

  "How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything."

  "May I go to papa?"

  "You may if you like," she replied in a very low whisper. It was thusthat the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any dayif people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny.