Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘It has not affected me, Lady Laura.’

  ‘As far as I can see, there is no great difficulty in government. A man must learn to have words at command when he is upon his legs in the House of Commons, in the same way as he would if he were talking to his own servants. He must keep his temper; and he must be very patient. As far as I have seen Cabinet Ministers, they are not more clever than other people.’

  ‘I think there are generally one or two men of ability in the Cabinet.’

  ‘Yes, of fair ability. Mr Mildmay is a good specimen. There is not, and never was, anything brilliant in him. He is not eloquent, nor, as far as I am aware, did he ever create anything. But he has always been a steady, honest, persevering man, and circumstances have made politics come easy to him.’

  ‘Think of the momentous questions which he has been called upon to decide,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Every question so handled by him has been decided rightly according to his own party, and wrongly according to the party opposite. A political leader is so sure of support and so sure of attack, that it is hardly necessary for him to be even anxious to be right. For the country's sake, he should have officials under him who know the routine of business.’

  ‘You think very badly then of politics as a profession.’

  ‘No; I think of them very highly. It must be better to deal with the repealing of laws than the defending of criminals. But all this is papa's wisdom, not mine. Papa has never been in the Cabinet yet, and therefore of course he is a little caustic.’

  ‘I think he was quite right,’ said Barrington Erle stoutly. He spoke so stoutly that everybody at the table listened to him.

  ‘I don't exactly see the necessity for such internecine war just at present,’ said Lord Brentford.

  ‘I must say I do,’ said the other. ‘Lord De Terrier took office knowing that he was in a minority. We had a fair majority of nearly thirty when he came in.’

  ‘Then how very soft you must have been to go out,’ said Miss Fitzgibbon.

  ‘Not in the least soft,’ continued Barrington Erle. ‘We could not command our men, and were bound to go out. For aught we knew, some score of them might have chosen to support Lord De Terrier, and then we should have owned ourselves beaten for the time.’

  ‘You were beaten, – hollow,’ said Miss Fitzgibbon.

  ‘Then why did Lord De Terrier dissolve?’

  ‘A Prime Minister is quite right to dissolve in such a position,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘He must do so for the Queen's sake. It is his only chance.’

  ‘Just so. It is, as you say, his only chance, and it is his right. His very possession of power will give him near a score of votes, and if he thinks that he has a chance, let him try it. We maintain that he had no chance, and that he must have known that he had none; – that if he could not get on with the late House, he certainly could not get on with a new House. We let him have his own way as far as we could in February. We had failed last summer, and if he could get along he was welcome. But he could not get along.’

  ‘I must say I think he was right to dissolve,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘And we are right to force the consequences upon him as quickly as we can. He practically lost nine seats by his dissolution. Look at Loughshane.’

  ‘Yes; look at Loughshane,’ said Miss Fitzgibbon. ‘The country at any rate has gained something there.’

  ‘It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Mr Finn,’ said the Earl.

  ‘What on earth is to become of poor George?' said Mr Fitzgibbon. ‘I wonder whether any one knows where he is. George wasn't a bad sort of fellow.’

  ‘Roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow,’ said Mr Bonteen. ‘Roby used to swear that it was hopeless trying to catch him.’ It may be as well to explain that Mr Roby was a Conservative gentleman of great fame who had for years acted as Whip under Mr Daubeny, and who now filled the high office of Patronage Secretary to the Treasury. ‘I believe in my heart,’ continued Mr Bonteen, ‘that Roby is rejoiced that poor George Morris should be out in the cold.’

  ‘If seats were halveable, he should share mine, for the sake of auld lang syne,’ said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

  ‘But not to-morrow night,’ said Barrington Erle; ‘the division to-morrow will be a thing not to be joked with. Upon my word I think they're right about old Moody. All private considerations should give way. And as for Gunning, I'd have him up or I'd know the reason why.’

  ‘And shall we have no defaulters, Barrington?’ asked Lady Laura.

  ‘I'm not going to boast, but I don't know of one for whom we need blush. Sir Everard Powell is so bad with gout that he can't even bear any one to look at him, but Ratler says that he'll bring him up.’ Mr Ratler was in those days the Whip on the liberal side of the House.

  ‘Unfortunate wretch!’ said Miss Fitzgibbon.

  ‘The worst of it is that he screams in his paroxysms,’ said Mr Bonteen.

  ‘And you mean to say that you'll take him into the lobby,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Barrington Erle. ‘Why not? He has no business with a seat if he can't vote. But Sir Everard is a good man, and he'll be there if laudanum and bath-chair make it possible.’

  The same kind of conversation went on during the whole of dinner, and became, if anything, more animated when the three ladies had left the room. Mr Kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed that as far as he could see a majority of nineteen would be as serviceable as a majority of twenty. This he said in a very mild voice, and in a tone that was intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of his humility Barrington Erle flew at him almost savagely, – as though a liberal member of the House of Commons was disgraced by so mean a spirit; and Phineas found himself despising the man for his want of zeal.

  ‘If we are to beat them, let us beat them well,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Let there be no doubt about it,’ said Barrington Erle.

  ‘I should like to see every man with a seat polled,’ said Bonteen.

  ‘Poor Sir Everard!’ said Lord Brentford. ‘It will kill him, no doubt, but I suppose the seat is safe.’

  ‘Oh, yes; Llanwrwsth is quite safe,’ said Barrington, in his eagerness omitting to catch Lord Brentford's grim joke.

  Phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner, and was eagerly desirous of saying a few more words, – he knew not what words, – to Lady Laura. Mr Kennedy and Mr Bonteen had left the dining-room first, and Phineas again found Mr Kennedy standing close to Lady Laura's shoulder. Could it be possible that there was anything in it? Mr Kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in Parliament, and was not perhaps above forty years of age. There could be no reason why he should not ask Lady Laura to be his wife, – except, indeed, that he did not seem to have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for anything. But could it be that such a woman as Lady Laura could accept such a man as Mr Kennedy because of his wealth, and because of his fine place, – a man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who did not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked like a gentleman; – so Phineas told himself. But in truth Mr Kennedy, though he was a plain, unattractive man, with nothing in his personal appearance to call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his usual demeanour. Phineas himself, it may be here said, was six feet high, and very handsome, with bright blue eyes, and brown wavy hair, and light silken beard. Mrs Low had told her husband more than once that he was much too handsome to do any good. Mr Low, however, had replied that young Finn had never shown himself to be conscious of his own personal advantages. ‘He'll learn it soon enough,’ said Mrs Low. ‘Some woman will tell him, and then he'll be spoilt.’ I do not think that Phineas depended much as yet on his own good looks, but he felt that Mr Kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as Lady Laura Standish, because his looks were not good. And she must despise him! It could not be that a woman so full of life should be willing to put up with a man who absolutely seemed to have no life
within him. And yet why was he there, and why was he allowed to hang about just over her shoulders? Phineas Finn began to feel himself to be an injured man.

  But Lady Laura had the power of dispelling instantly this sense of injury. She had done it effectually in the dining-room by calling him to the seat by her side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire, and she did it again now by walking away from Mr Kennedy to the spot on which Phineas had placed himself somewhat sulkily.

  ‘Of course you'll be at the club on Friday morning after the division,’ she said.

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘When you leave it, come and tell me what are your impressions, and what you think of Mr Daubeny's speech. There'll be nothing done in the House before four, and you'll be able to run up to me.’

  ‘Certainly I will.’

  ‘I have asked Mr Kennedy to come, and Mr Fitzgibbon. I am so anxious about it, that I want to hear what different people say. You know, perhaps, that papa is to be in the Cabinet if there's a change.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’

  ‘Oh, yes; – and you'll come up?’

  ‘Of course I will. Do you expect to hear much of an opinion from Mr Kennedy?’

  ‘Yes I do. You don't quite know Mr Kennedy yet. And you must remember that he will say more to me than he will to you. He's not quick, you know, as you are, and has no enthusiasm on any subject; – but he has opinions, and sound opinions, too.’ Phineas felt that Lady Laura was in a slight degree scolding him for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of Mr Kennedy; and he felt also that he had committed himself, – that he had shown himself to be sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness.

  ‘The truth is I do not know him,’ said he, trying to correct his blunder.

  ‘No; – not as yet. But I hope that you may some day, as he is one of those men who are both useful and estimable.’

  ‘I do not know that I can use him,’ said Phineas; ‘but, if you wish it, I will endeavour to esteem him.’

  ‘I wish you to do both; – but that will all come in due time. I think it probable that in the early autumn there will be a great gathering of the real Whig Liberals at Loughlinter; – of those, I mean, who have their heart in it, and are at the same time gentlemen. If it is so, I should be sorry that you should not be there. You need not mention it, but Mr Kennedy has just said a word about it to papa, and a word from him always means so much! Well; – good-night; and mind you come up on Friday. You are going to the club now, of course. I envy you men your clubs more than I do the House; – though I feel that a woman's life is only half a life, as she cannot have a seat in Parliament.’

  Then Phineas went away, and walked down to Pall Mall with Laurence Fitzgibbon. He would have preferred to take his walk alone, but he could not get rid of his affectionate countryman. He wanted to think over what had taken place during the evening; and, indeed, he did do so in spite of his friend's conversation. Lady Laura, when she first saw him after his return to London, had told him how anxious her father was to congratulate him on his seat, but the Earl had not spoken a word to him on the subject. The Earl had been courteous, as hosts customarily are, but had been in no way specially kind to him. And then Mr Kennedy! As to going to Loughlinter, he would not do such a thing, – not though the success of the liberal party were to depend on it. He declared to himself that there were some things which a man could not do. But although he was not altogether satisfied with what had occurred in Portman Square, he felt as he walked down arm-in-arm with Fitzgibbon that Mr Low and Mr Low's counsels must be scattered to the winds. He had thrown the die in consenting to stand for Loughshane, and must stand the hazard of the cast.

  ‘Bedad, Phin, my boy, I don't think you're listening to me at all,’ said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

  ‘I am listening to every word you say,’ said Phineas.

  ‘And if I have to go down to the ould country again this session, you'll go with me?’

  ‘If I can I will.’

  ‘That's my boy! And it's I that hope you'll have the chance. What's the good of turning these fellows out if one isn't to get something for one's trouble?’

  CHAPTER 7

  Mr and Mrs Bunce

  IT was three o'clock on the Thursday night before Mr Daubeny's speech was finished. I do not think that there was any truth in the allegation made at the time, that he continued on his legs an hour longer than the necessities of his speech required, in order that five or six very ancient Whigs might be wearied out and shrink to their beds. Let a Whig have been ever so ancient and ever so weary, he would not have been allowed to depart from Westminster Hall that night. Sir Everard Powell was there in his bath-chair at twelve, with a doctor on one side of him and a friend on the other, in some purlieu of the House, and did his duty like a fine old Briton as he was. That speech of Mr Daubeny's will never be forgotten by any one who heard it. Its studied bitterness had perhaps never been equalled, and yet not a word was uttered for the saying of which he could be accused of going beyond the limits of parliamentary antagonism. It is true that personalities could not have been closer, that accusations of political dishonesty and of almost worse than political cowardice and falsehood could not have been clearer, that no words in the language could have attributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous conduct. But, nevertheless, Mr Daubeny in all that he said was parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator thoroughly well trained for the arena in which he had descended to the combat. His arrows were poisoned, and his lance was barbed, and his shot was heated red, – because such things are allowed. He did not poison his enemies' wells or use Greek fire, because those things are not allowed. He knew exactly the rules of the combat. Mr Mildmay sat and heard him without once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking a word to his neighbour. Men on both sides of the House said that Mr Mildmay suffered terribly; but as Mr Mildmay uttered no word of complaint to any one, and was quite ready to take Mr Daubeny by the hand the next time they met in company, I do not know that any one was able to form a true idea of Mr Mildmay's feelings. Mr Mildmay was an impassive man who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no doubt sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that no man might judge of them on that occasion by the impression on his features. ‘If he could have left off half an hour earlier it would have been perfect as an attack,’ said Barrington Erle in criticizing Mr Daubeny's speech, ‘but he allowed himself to sink into comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over before the end.’ – Then came the division. The Liberals had 333 votes to 314 for the Conservatives, and therefore counted a majority of 19. It was said that so large a number of members had never before voted at any division.

  ‘I own I'm disappointed,’ said Barrington Erle to Mr Ratler.

  ‘I thought there would be twenty,’ said Mr Ratler. ‘I never went beyond that. I knew they would have old Moody up, but I thought Gunning would have been too hard for them.’

  ‘They say they've promised them both peerages.’

  ‘Yes; – if they remain in. But they know they're going out.’

  ‘They must go, with such a majority against them,’ said Barrington Erle.

  ‘Of course they must,’ said Mr Ratler. ‘Lord De Terrier wants nothing better, but it is rather hard upon poor Daubeny. I never saw such an unfortunate old Tantalus.’

  ‘He gets a good drop of real water now and again, and I don't pity him in the least. He's clever of course, and has made his own way, but I've always a feeling that he has no business where he is. I suppose we shall know all about it at Brooks's by one o'clock to-morrow.’

  Phineas, though it had been past five before he went to bed, – for there had been much triumphant talking to be done among liberal members after the division, – was up at his breakfast at Mrs Bunce's lodgings by nine. There was a matter which he was called upon to settle immediately in which Mrs Bunce herself was much interested, and respecting which he had promised to give an answer on this very morning. A set of very dingy chambers up two pairs of stairs at No.
9, Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, to which Mr Low had recommended him to transfer himself and all his belongings, were waiting his occupation, should he resolve upon occupying them. If he intended to commence operations as a barrister, it would be necessary that he should have chambers and a clerk; and before he had left Mr Low's house on Sunday evening he had almost given that gentleman authority to secure for him these rooms at No. 9. ‘Whether you remain in Parliament or no, you must make a beginning,’ Mr Low had said; ‘and how are you even to pretend to begin if you don't have chambers?’ Mr Low hoped that he might be able to wean Phineas away from his Parliament bauble; – that he might induce the young barrister to give up his madness, if not this session or the next, at any rate before a third year had commenced. Mr Low was a persistent man, liking very much when he did like, and loving very strongly when he did love. He would have many a tug for Phineas Finn before he would allow that false Westminster Satan to carry off the prey as altogether his own. If he could only get Phineas into the dingy chambers he might do much!

  But Phineas had now become so imbued with the atmosphere of politics, had been so breathed upon by Lady Laura and Barrington Erle, that he could no longer endure the thought of any other life than that of a life spent among the lobbies. A desire to help to beat the Conservatives had fastened on his very soul, and almost made Mr Low odious in his eyes. He was afraid of Mr Low, and for the nonce would not go to him any more; – but he must see the porter at Lincoln's Inn, he must write a line to Mr Low, and he must tell Mrs Bunce that for the present he would still keep on her rooms. His letter to Mr Low was as follows: –

  Great Marlborough Street, May, 186—

  MY DEAR LOW,

  I have made up my mind against taking the chambers, and am now off to the Inn to say that I shall not want them. Of course, I know what you will think of me, and it is very grievous to me to have to bear the hard judgment of a man whose opinion I value so highly; but, in the teeth of your terribly strong arguments, I think that there is something to be said on my side of the question. This seat in Parliament has come in my way by chance, and I think it would be pusillanimous in me to reject it, feeling, as I do, that a seat in Parliament confers very great honour. I am, too, very fond of politics, and regard legislation as the finest profession going. Had I any one dependent on me, I probably might not be justified in following the bent of my inclination. But I am all alone in the world, and therefore have a right to make the attempt. If, after a trial of one or two sessions, I should fail in that which I am attempting, it will not even then be too late to go back to the better way. I can assure you that at any rate it is not my intention to be idle.