The Duke's Children

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘Few people have cared so little about it as you,’ said the elder son.

  ‘And you, both of you, have been born to be rich.’ This assertion did not take the elder brother by surprise. It was a matter of course. But Lord Gerald, who had never as yet heard anything as to his future destiny from his father, was interested by the statement. ‘When I think of all this, – of what constitutes happiness, – I am almost tempted to grieve that it should be so.’

  ‘If a large fortune were really a bad thing,’ said Gerald, ‘a man could I suppose get rid of it.’

  ‘No; – it is a thing of which a man cannot get rid, – unless by shameful means. It is a burden which he must carry to the end.’

  ‘Does anybody wish to get rid of it, as Sinbad9 did of the Old Man?’ asked Gerald pertinaciously. ‘At any rate I have enjoyed the kidneys.’

  ‘You assured us just now that the bread and cheese at Ely were just as good.’ The Duke as he said this looked as though he knew that he had taken all the wind out of his adversary's sails. ‘Though you add carriage to carriage, you will not be carried more comfortably.’

  ‘A second horse out hunting is a comfort,’ said Silverbridge.

  ‘Then at any rate don't desire a third for show. But such comforts will cease to be joys when they become matters of course. That a boy who does not see a pudding once a year should enjoy a pudding when it comes I can understand; but the daily pudding, or the pudding twice a day, is soon no more than simple daily bread, – which will or will not be sweet as it shall or shall not have been earned. Then he went slowly to the door, but, as he stood with the handle of it in his hand, he turned round and spoke another word. ‘When, hereafter, Gerald, you may chance to think of that bread and cheese at Ely, always remember that you had skated from Cambridge.’

  The two brothers then took themselves to some remote part of the house where arrangements had been made for smoking, and there they finished the conversation. ‘I was very glad to hear what he said about you, old boy.’ This of course came from Silverbridge.

  ‘I didn't quite understand him.’

  ‘He meant you to understand that you wouldn't be like other younger brothers.’

  ‘Then what I have will be taken from you.’

  ‘There is lots for three or four of us. I do agree that if a fellow has as much as he can spend he ought not to want anything more. Morton was telling me the other day something about the settled estates. I sat in that office with him all one morning. I could not understand it all, but I observed that he said nothing about the Scotch property.10 You'll be a laird, and I wish you joy with all my heart. The governor will tell you all about it before long. He's going to have two eldest sons.’

  ‘What an unnatural piece of cruelty to me; – and so unnecessary!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He says that a property is no better than a burden. But I'll try and bear it.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Dinner at the Beargarden

  The Duke was in the gallery of the House of Commons which is devoted to the use of peers, and Silverbridge having heard that his father was there, had come up to him. It was then about half-past five, and the House had settled down to business. Prayers had been read, petitions had been presented, and Ministers had gone through their course of baiting with that equanimity and air of superiority which always belongs to a well-trained occupant of the Treasury bench.

  The Duke was very anxious that his son should attend to his parliamentary duties, but he was too proud a man and too generous to come to the House as a spy. It was his present habit always to be in his own place when the Lords were sitting, and to remain there while the Lords sat. It was not, for many reasons, an altogether satisfactory occupation, but it was the best which his life afforded him. He would never, however, come across into the other House, without letting his son know of his coming, and Lord Silverbridge had on this occasion been on the look out, and had come up to his father at once. ‘Don't let me take you away,’ said the Duke, ‘if you are particularly interested in your Chiefs defence,’ for Sir Timothy Beeswax was defending some measure of legal reform in which he was said to have fallen into trouble.

  ‘I can hear it up here you know, sir.’

  ‘Hardly if you are talking to me.’

  ‘To tell the truth it's a matter I don't care much about. They've got into some mess as to the number of Judges and what they ought to do. Finn was saying that they had so arranged that there was one Judge who never could possibly do anything.’

  ‘If Mr Finn said so it would probably be so, with some little allowance for Irish exaggeration. He is a clever man, with less of his country's hyperbole than others; – but still not without his share.’

  ‘You know him well, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes; – as one man does know another in the political world.’

  ‘But he is a friend of yours? I don't mean an “honourable friend”, which is great bosh; but you know him at home.’

  ‘Oh yes; – certainly. He has been staying with me at Matching. In public life such intimacies come from politics.’

  ‘You don't care very much about him then.’

  The Duke paused a moment before he answered. ‘Yes I do; – and in what I said just now perhaps I wronged him. I have been under obligations to Mr Finn,1 – in a matter as to which he behaved very well. I have found him to be a gentleman. If you come across him in the House I would wish you to be courteous to him. I have not seen him since we came from abroad. I have been able to see nobody. But if ever again I should entertain my friends at my table, Mr Finn would be one who would always be welcome there.’ This he said with a sadly serious air as though wishing that his words should be noted. At the present moment he was remembering that he owed recompense to Mrs Finn, and was making an effort to pay the debt. ‘But your leader is striking out into unwonted eloquence. Surely we ought to listen to him.’

  Sir Timothy was a fluent speaker, and when there was nothing to be said was possessed of great plenty of words. And he was gifted with that peculiar power which enables a man to have the last word in every encounter, – a power which we are apt to call repartee, which is in truth the readiness which comes from continual practice. You shall meet two men of whom you shall know the one to be endowed with the brilliancy of true genius, and the other to be possessed of but moderate parts, and shall find the former never able to hold his own against the latter. In a debate, the man of moderate parts will seem to be greater than the man of genius. But this skill of tongue, this glibness of speech is hardly an affair of intellect at all. It is – as is style to the writer, – not the wares which he has to take to market, but the vehicle in which they may be carried. Of what avail to you is it to have filled granaries with corn if you cannot get your corn to the consumer? Now Sir Timothy was a great vehicle, but he had not in truth much corn to send. He could turn a laugh against an adversary; – no man better. He could seize, at the moment, every advantage which the opportunity might give him. The Treasury Bench on which he sat and the big box on the table before him were to him fortifications of which he knew how to use every stone. The cheers and the jeers of the House had been so measured by him that he knew the value and force of every sound. Politics had never been to him a study; but to parliamentary strategy he had devoted all his faculties. No one knew so well as Sir Timothy how to make arrangements for business, so that every detail should be troublesome to his opponents. He could foresee a month beforehand that on a certain day a Royal concert2 would make the house empty, and would generously give that day to a less observant adversary. He knew how to blind the eyes of members to the truth. Those on the opposite side of the House would find themselves checkmated by his astuteness, – when with all their pieces on the board, there should be none which they could move. And this to him was Government! It was to these purposes that he conceived that a great Statesman should devote himself! Parliamentary management! That in his mind, was under this Constitution of ours the one act essential for Government
.

  In all this he was very great; but when it might fall to his duty either to suggest or to defend any real piece of proposed legislation he was less happy. On this occasion he had been driven to take the matter in hand because he had previously been concerned in it as a lawyer. He had allowed himself to wax angry as he endeavoured to answer certain personal criticisms. Now Sir Timothy was never stronger than when he simulated anger. His mock indignation was perhaps his most powerful weapon. But real anger is a passion which few men can use with judgement. And now Sir Timothy was really angry, and condescended to speak of our old friend Phineas who had made the onslaught as a bellicose Irishman. There was an over-true story as to our friend having once been seduced into fighting a duel,3 and those who wished to decry him sometimes alluded to the adventure. Sir Timothy had been called to order, but the Speaker had ruled that ‘bellicose Irishman’ was not beyond the latitude of parliamentary animadversion. Then Sir Timothy had repeated the phrase with emphasis, and the Duke hearing it in the gallery had made his remark as to the unwonted eloquence of his son's parliamentary chief.

  ‘Surely we ought to listen to him,’ said the Duke. And for a short time they did listen. ‘Sir Timothy is not a man I like, you know,’ said the son, feeling himself obliged to apologise for his subjection to such a chief.

  ‘I never particularly loved him myself.’

  ‘They say that he is a sort of necessity.’

  ‘A Conservative Fate,’ said the Duke.

  ‘Well, yes; he is so, – so awfully clever! We all feel that we could not get on without him. When you were in, he was one of your party.’

  ‘Oh yes; – he was one of us. I have no right to complain of you for using him. But when you say you could not get on without him, does it not occur to you that should he, – let us say be taken up to heaven, – you would have to get on without him.’

  ‘Then he would be, – out of the way, sir.’

  ‘What you mean perhaps is that you do not know how to get rid of him.’

  ‘Of course I don't pretend to understand much about it; but they all think that he does know how to keep the party together. I don't think we are proud of him.’

  ‘Hardly that.’

  ‘He is awfully useful. A man has to look out so sharp to be always ready for those other fellows! I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean your side.’

  ‘I understand who the other fellows are.’

  ‘And it isn't everybody who will go through such a grind. A man to do it must be always ready. He has so many little things to think of. As far as I can see we all feel that we could not get along very well without him.’ Upon the whole the Duke was pleased with what he heard from his son. The young man's ideas about politics were boyish, but they were the ideas of a clear-headed boy. Silverbridge had picked up some of the ways of the place, though he had not yet formed any sound political opinions.

  Then Sir Timothy finished a long speech with a flowery peroration, in which he declared that if Parliament were desirous of keeping the realms of Her Majesty free from the invasions of foreigners it must be done by maintaining the dignity of the Judicial bench. There were some clamours at this; and although it was now dinner-time Phineas Finn, who had been called a bellicose Irishman, was able to say a word or two. ‘The Right Honourable gentleman no doubt means,’ said Phineas, ‘that we must carry ourselves with some increased external dignity. The world is bewigging itself, and we must buy a bigger wig than any we have got, in order to confront the world with proper self-respect. Turveydrop4 and deportment will suffice for us against any odds.’

  About half-past seven the House became very empty. ‘Where are you going to dine, sir?’ asked Silverbridge. The Duke, with something like a sigh, said he supposed he should dine at home.

  ‘You never were at the Beargarden; – were you, sir?’ asked Silverbridge suddenly.

  ‘Never,’ said the Duke.

  ‘Come and dine with me.’

  ‘I am not a member of the club.’

  ‘We don't care at all about that. Anybody can take in anybody.’

  ‘Does not that make it promiscuous?’

  ‘Well; – no; I don't know that it does. It seems to go on very well. I daresay there are some cads there sometimes. But I don't know where one doesn't meet cads. There are plenty in the House of Commons.’

  ‘There is something in that, Silverbridge, which makes me think that you have not realised the difference between private and public life. In the former you choose your own associates and are responsible for your choice. In the latter you are concerned with others for the good of the State; and though even for the State's sake, you would not willingly be closely allied with those whom you think dishonest, the outward manners and fashions of life need create no barriers. I should not turn up my nose at the House of Commons because some constituency might send them an illiterate shoemaker; but I might probably find the illiterate shoemaker an unprofitable companion for my private hours.’

  ‘I don't think there will be any shoemakers at the Beargarden.’

  ‘Even if there were I would go and dine with you. I shall be glad to see the place where you, I suppose, pass many hours.’

  ‘I find it a very good shop to dine at. The place at the House is so stuffy and nasty. Besides, one likes to get away for a little time.’

  ‘Certainly. I never was an advocate for living in the House. One should always change the atmosphere.’ Then they got into a cab and went to the club. Silverbridge was a little afraid of what he was doing. The invitation had come from him on the spur of the moment, and he hardly ventured to think that his father would accept it. And now he did not quite know how the Duke would go through the ceremony. ‘The other fellows’ would all come and stare at a man whom they had all been taught to regard as the most un-Beargardenish of men. But he was especially anxious to make things pleasant for his father.

  ‘What shall I order?’ said the son as he took the Duke into a dressing-room to wash his hands. The Duke suggested that anything sufficient for his son would certainly be sufficient for him.

  Nothing especial occurred during the dinner, which the Duke appeared to enjoy very much. ‘Yes; I think it is very good soup,’ he said. ‘I don't think they ever give me any soup at home.’ Then the son expressed his opinion that unless his father looked about rather more sharply, ‘they’ very soon would provide no dinner at all, remarking that experience had taught him that the less people demanded the more they were ‘sat upon’. The Duke did like his dinner, – or rather he liked the feeling that he was dining with his son. A report that the Duke of Omnium was with Lord Silverbridge soon went round the room, and they who were justified by some previous acquaintance came up to greet him. To all who did so he was very gracious, and was specially so to Lord Popplecourt, who happened to pass close by the table.

  ‘I think he is a fool,’ whispered Silverbridge as soon as Popplecourt had passed.

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘We thought him an ass at Eton.’

  ‘He has done pretty well however.’

  ‘Oh yes, in a way.’

  ‘Somebody has told me that he is a careful man about his property.’

  ‘I believe he is all that,’ said Silverbridge.

  ‘Then I don't see why you should think him a fool.’

  To this Silverbridge made no reply; partly perhaps because he had nothing to say, – but hindered also by the coming in of Tregear. This was an accident, the possibility of which had not crossed him. Unfortunately too the Duke's back was turned, so that Tregear, as he walked up the room, could not see who was sitting at his friend's table. Tregear coming up stood close to the Duke's elbow before he recognised the man, and spoke some word or two to Silverbridge. ‘How do you do, Mr Tregear,’ said the Duke, turning round.

  ‘Oh, my Lord, I did not know that it was you.’

  ‘You hardly would. I am quite a stranger here. Silverbridge and I came up from the House together, and he has been hospitable enough t
o give me a dinner. I will tell you an odd thing for a London man, Mr Tregear. I have not dined at a London club for fifteen years before this.’

  ‘I hope you like it, sir,’ said Silverbridge.

  ‘Very much indeed. Good-evening, Mr Tregear. I suppose you have to go to your dinner now.’

  Then they went into one of the rooms upstairs to have coffee, the son declining to go into the smoking-room, and assuring his father that he did not in the least care about a cigar after dinner. ‘You would be smothered, sir.’ The Duke did as he was bidden and went upstairs. There was in truth a strong reason for avoiding the publicity of the smoking-room. When bringing his father to the club he had thought nothing about Tregear but he had thought about Tifto. As he entered he had seen Tifto at a table dining alone, and had bobbed his head at him. Then he had taken the Duke to the further end of the room, and had trusted that fear would keep the Major in his place. Fear had kept the Major in his place. When the Major learned who the stranger was, he had become silent and reserved. Before the father and son had finished their dinner, Tifto had gone to his cigar; and so that danger was over.

  ‘By George, there's Silverbridge has got his governor to dinner,’ said Tifto, standing in the middle of the room, and looking round as though he were announcing some confusion of the heavens and earth.

  ‘Why shouldn't Lord Silverbridge have his father to dine with him?’ asked Mr Lupton.

  ‘I believe I know Silverbridge as well as any man, and by George it is the very last thing of the kind that I should have expected. There have been no end of quarrels.’

  ‘There has been no quarrel at all,’ said Tregear, who had then just entered the room. ‘Nothing on earth would make Silverbridge quarrel with his father, and I think it would break the Duke's heart to quarrel with his son.’ Tifto endeavoured to argue the matter out; but Tregear having made the assertion on behalf of his friend would not allow himself to be enticed into further speech. Nevertheless there was a good deal said by others, during which the Major drank two glasses of whisky-and-water. In the dining-room he had been struck with awe by the Duke's presence, and had certainly no idea of presenting himself personally to the great man. But Bacchus5 lent him aid, and when the discussion was over and the whisky had been swallowed, it occurred to him that he would go upstairs and ask to be introduced.