Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘The words make no difference,’ she replied.

  ‘Not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief. I do love you. I know no other reason but that why you should be my wife. I have no other excuse to offer for coming to you again. You are the one thing in the world that to me has any charm. Can you be surprised that I should be persistent in asking for it?’ He was looking at her still with the same gaze, and there seemed to be a power in his eye from which she could not escape. He was still standing with his right hand out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that her hand might be put into his.

  ‘How am I to answer you?’ she said.

  ‘With your love, if you can give it to me. Do you remember how you swore once that you would love me for ever and always?’

  ‘You should not remind me of that. I was a child then, – a naughty child,’ she added, smiling; ‘and was put to bed for what I did on that day.’

  ‘Be a child still.’

  ‘Ah, if we but could!’

  ‘And have you no other answer to make me?’

  ‘Of course I must answer you. You are entitled to an answer. Lord Chiltern, I am sorry that I cannot give you the love for which you ask.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Is it myself personally, or what you have heard of me, that is so hateful to you?’

  ‘Nothing is hateful to me. I have never spoken of hate. I shall always feel the strongest regard for my old friend and playfellow. But there are many things which a woman is bound to consider before she allows herself so to love a man that she can consent to become his wife.’

  ‘Allow herself! Then it is a matter entirely of calculation.’

  ‘I suppose there should be some thought in it, Lord Chiltern.’

  There was now a pause, and the man's hand was at last allowed to drop, as there came no response to the proffered grasp. He walked once or twice across the room before he spoke again, and then he stopped himself closely opposite to her.

  ‘I shall never try again,’ he said.

  ‘It will be better so,’ she replied.

  ‘There is something to me unmanly in a man's persecuting a girl. Just tell Laura, will you, that it is all over; and she may as well tell my father. Good-bye.’

  She then tendered her hand to him, but he did not take it, – probably did not see it, and at once left the room and the house.

  ‘And yet I believe you love him,’ Lady Laura said to her friend in her anger, when they discussed the matter immediately on Lord Chiltern's departure.

  ‘You have no right to say that, Laura.’

  ‘I have a right to my belief, and I do believe it. I think you love him, and that you lack the courage to risk yourself in trying to save him.’

  ‘Is a woman bound to marry a man if she love him?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ replied Lady Laura impetuously without thinking of what she was saying; ‘that is, if she be convinced that she also is loved.’

  ‘Whatever be the man's character; – whatever be the circumstances? Must she do so, whatever friends may say to the contrary? Is there to be no prudence in marriage?'

  ‘There may be a great deal too much prudence,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘That is true. There is certainly too much prudence if a woman marries prudently, but without love.’ Violet intended by this no attack upon her friend, – had not had present in her mind at the moment any idea of Lady Laura's special prudence in marrying Mr Kennedy; but Lady Laura felt it keenly, and knew at once that an arrow had been shot which had wounded her.

  ‘We shall get nothing,’ she said, ‘by descending to personalities with each other.’

  ‘I meant none, Laura.’

  ‘I suppose it is always hard,’ said Lady Laura, ‘for any one person to judge altogether of the mind of another. If I have said anything severe of your refusal of my brother, I retract it. I only wish that it could have been otherwise.’

  Lord Chiltern, when he left his sister's house, walked through the slush and dirt to a haunt of his in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, and there he remained through the whole afternoon and evening. A certain Captain Clutterbuck joined him, and dined with him. He told nothing to Captain Clutterbuck of his sorrow, but Captain Clutterbuck could see that he was unhappy.

  ‘Let's have another bottle of “cham”,’ said Captain Clutterbuck, when their dinner was nearly over. ‘“Cham” is the only thing to screw one up when one is down a peg.’

  ‘You can have what you like,’ said Lord Chiltern; ‘but I shall have some brandy-and-water.’

  ‘The worst of brandy-and-water is, that one gets tired of it before the night is over,’ said Captain Clutterbuck.

  Nevertheless, Lord Chiltern did go down to Peterborough the next day by the hunting train, and rode his horse Bonebreaker so well in that famous run from Sutton springs to Gidding that after the run young Piles, – of the house of Piles, Sarsnet, and Gingham, – offered him three hundred pounds for the animal.

  ‘He isn't worth above fifty,’ said Lord Chiltern.

  ‘But I'll give you the three hundred,’ said Piles.

  ‘You couldn't ride him if you'd got him,’ said Lord Chiltern.

  ‘Oh, couldn't I!’ said Piles. But Mr Piles did not continue the conversation, contenting himself with telling his friend Grogram that that red devil Chiltern was as drunk as a lord.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Debate on the Ballot

  PHINEAS took his seat in the House with a consciousness of much inward trepidation of heart on that night of the ballot debate. After leaving Lord Chiltern he went down to his club and dined alone. Three or four men came and spoke to him; but he could not talk to them at his ease, nor did he quite know what they were saying to him. He was going to do something which he longed to achieve, but the very idea of which, now that it was so near to him, was a terror to him. To be in the House and not to speak would, to his thinking, be a disgraceful failure. Indeed, he could not continue to keep his seat unless he spoke. He had been put there that he might speak. He would speak. Of course he would speak. Had he not already been conspicuous almost as a boy orator? And yet, at this moment he did not know whether he was eating mutton or beef, or who was standing opposite to him and talking to him, so much was he in dread of the ordeal which he had prepared for himself. As he went down to the House after dinner, he almost made up his mind that it would be a good thing to leave London by one of the night mail trains. He felt himself to be stiff and stilted as he walked, and that his clothes were uneasy to him. When he turned into Westminster Hall he regretted more keenly than ever he had done that he had seceded from the keeping of Mr Low. He could, he thought, have spoken very well in court, and would there have learned that self-confidence which now failed him so terribly. It was, however, too late to think of that. He could only go in and take his seat.

  He went in and took his seat, and the chamber seemed to him to be mysteriously large, as though benches were crowded over benches, and galleries over galleries. He had been long enough in the House to have lost the original awe inspired by the Speaker and the clerks of the House, by the row of Ministers, and by the unequalled importance of the place. On ordinary occasions he could saunter in and out, and whisper at his ease to a neighbour. But on this occasion he went direct to the bench on which he ordinarily sat, and began at once to rehearse to himself his speech. He had in truth been doing this all day, in spite of the effort that he had made to rid himself of all memory of the occasion. He had been collecting the heads of his speech while Mr Low had been talking to him, and refreshing his quotations in the presence of Lord Chiltern and the dumb-bells. He had taxed his memory and his intellect with various tasks, which, as he feared, would not adjust themselves one with another. He had learned the headings of his speech, – so that one heading might follow the other, and nothing be forgotten. And he had learned verbatim the words which he intended to utter under each heading, – a hope that if any one compact part should be destroyed or injur
ed in its compactness by treachery of memory, or by the course of the debate, each other compact part might be there in its entirety, ready for use; – or at least so many of the compact parts as treachery of memory and the accidents of the debate might leave to him; so that his speech might be like a vessel, watertight in its various compartments, that would float by the buoyancy of its stern and bow, even though the hold should be waterlogged. But this use of his composed words, even though he should be able to carry it through, would not complete his work; – for it would be his duty to answer in some sort those who had gone before him, and in order to do this he must be able to insert, without any pre-arrangement of words or ideas, little intercalatory parts between those compact masses of argument with which he had been occupying himself for many laborious hours. As he looked round upon the House and perceived that everything was dim before him, that all his original awe of the House had returned, and with it a present quaking fear that made him feel the pulsations of his own heart, he became painfully aware that the task he had prepared for himself was too great. He should, on this the occasion of his rising to his maiden legs, have either prepared for himself a short general speech, which could indeed have done little for his credit in the House, but which might have served to carry off the novelty of the thing, and have introduced him to the sound of his own voice within those walls, – or he should have trusted to what his wit and spirit would produce for him on the spur of the moment, and not have burdened himself with a huge exercise of memory. During the presentation of a few petitions he tried to repeat to himself the first of his compact parts, – a compact part on which, as it might certainly be brought into use let the debate have gone as it might, he had expended great care. He had flattered himself that there was something of real strength in his words as he repeated them to himself in the comfortable seclusion of his own room, and he had made them so ready to his tongue that he thought it to be impossible that he should forget even an intonation. Now he found that he could not remember the first phrases without unloosing and looking at a small roll of paper which he held furtively in his hand. What was the good of looking at it? He would forget it again in the next moment. He had intended to satisfy the most eager of his friends, and to astound his opponents. As it was, no one would be satisfied, – and none astounded but they who had trusted in him.

  The debate began, and if the leisure afforded by a long and tedious speech could have served him, he might have had leisure enough. He tried at first to follow all that this advocate for the ballot might say, hoping thence to acquire the impetus of strong interest; but he soon wearied of the work, and began to long that the speech might be ended, although the period of his own martyrdom would thereby be brought nearer to him. At half-past seven so many members had deserted their seats, that Phineas began to think that he might be saved all further pains by a ‘count out’. He reckoned the members present and found that they were below the mystic forty, – first by two, then by four, by five, by seven, and at one time by eleven. It was not for him to ask the Speaker to count the House, but he wondered that no one else should do so. And yet, as the idea of this termination to the night's work came upon him, and as he thought of his lost labour, he almost took courage again, – almost dreaded rather than wished for the interference of some malicious member. But there was no malicious member then present, or else it was known that Lords of the Treasury and Lords of the Admiralty would flock in during the Speaker's ponderous counting, – and thus the slow length of the ballot-love's verbosity was permitted to evolve itself without interruption. At eight o'clock he had completed his catalogue of illustrations, and immediately Mr Monk rose from the Treasury bench to explain the grounds on which the Government must decline to support the motion before the House.

  Phineas was aware that Mr Monk intended to speak, and was aware also that his speech would be very short. ‘My idea is,’ he had said to Phineas, ‘that every man possessed of the franchise should dare to have and to express a political opinion of his own; – that otherwise the franchise is not worth having; and that men will learn that when all so dare, no evil can come from such daring. As the ballot would make any courage of that kind unnecessary, I dislike the ballot. I shall confine myself to that, and leave the illustration to younger debaters.’ Phineas also had been informed that Mr Turnbull would reply to Mr Monk, with the purpose of crushing Mr Monk into dust, and Phineas had prepared his speech with something of an intention of subsequently crushing Mr Turnbull. He knew, however, that he could not command his opportunity. There was the chapter of accidents to which he must accommodate himself; but such had been his programme for the evening.

  Mr Monk made his speech, – and though he was short, he was very fiery and energetic. Quick as lightning words of wrath and scorn flew from him, in which he painted the cowardice, the meanness, the falsehood of the ballot. ‘The ballot-box,’ he said, ‘was the grave of all true political opinion. Though he spoke hardly for ten minutes, he seemed to say more than enough, ten times enough, to slaughter the argument of the former speaker. At every hot word as it fell, Phineas was driven to regret that a paragraph of his own was taken away from him, and that his choicest morsels of standing ground were being cut from under his feet. When Mr Monk sat down, Phineas felt that Mr Monk had said all that he, Phineas Finn, had intended to say.

  Then Mr Turnbull rose slowly from the bench below the gangway. With a speaker so frequent and so famous as Mr Turnbull no hurry is necessary. He is sure to have his opportunity. The Speaker's eye is ever travelling to the accustomed spots. Mr Turnbull rose slowly and began his oration very mildly. ‘There was nothing,’ he said, ‘that he admired so much as the poetic imagery and the highflown sentiment of his right honourable friend the member for West Bromwich,’ – Mr Monk sat for West Bromwich, – ‘unless it were the stubborn facts and unanswered arguments of his honourable friend who had brought forward this motion.’ Then Mr Turnbull proceeded after his fashion to crush Mr Monk. He was very prosaic, very clear both in voice and language, very harsh, and very unscrupulous. He and Mr Monk had been joined together in politics for over twenty years; – but one would have thought, from Mr Turnbull's words, that they had been the bitterest of enemies. Mr Monk was taunted with his office, taunted with his desertion of the liberal party, taunted with his ambition, – and taunted with his lack of ambition. ‘I once thought,’ said Mr Turnbull, – ‘nay, not long ago I thought, that he and I would have fought this battle for the people, shoulder to shoulder, and knee to knee; – but he has preferred that the knee next to his own shall wear a garter, and that the shoulder which supports him shall be decked with a blue ribbon, – as shoulders, I presume, are decked in those closet conferences which are called Cabinets.’

  Just after this, while Mr Turnbull was still going on with a variety of illustrations drawn from the United States, Barrington Erle stepped across the benches up to the place where Phineas was sitting, and whispered a few words into his ear. ‘Bonteen is prepared to answer Turnbull, and wishes to do it. I told him that I thought you should have the opportunity, if you wish it.’ Phineas was not ready with a reply to Erle at the spur of the moment. ‘Somebody told me,’ continued Erle, ‘that you had said that you would like to speak to-night.’

  ‘So I did,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Shall I tell Bonteen that you will do it?’

  The chamber seemed to swim round before our hero's eyes. Mr Turnbull was still going on with his clear, loud, unpleasant voice, but there was no knowing how long he might go on. Upon Phineas, if he should now consent, might devolve the duty, within ten minutes, within three minutes, of rising there before a full House to defend his great friend, Mr Monk, from a gross personal attack. Was it fit that such a novice as he should undertake such a work as that? Were he to do so, all that speech which he had prepared, with its various self-floating parts, must go for nothing. The task was exactly that which, of all tasks, he would best like to have accomplished, and to have accomplished well. But if he should fail! And he f
elt that he would fail. For such work a man should have all his senses about him, – his full courage, perfect confidence, something almost approaching to contempt for listening opponents, and nothing of fear in regard to listening friends. He should be as a cock in his own farmyard, master of all the circumstances around him. But Phineas Finn had not even as yet heard the sound of his own voice in that room. At this moment, so confused was he, that he did not know where sat Mr Mildmay, and where Mr Daubeny. All was confused, and there arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears, and a feeling as of a great hell around him. ‘I had rather wait,’ he said at last. ‘Bonteen had better reply.’ Barrington Erle looked into his face, and then stepping back across the benches, told Mr Bonteen that the opportunity was his.

  Mr Turnbull continued speaking quite long enough to give poor Phineas time for repentance; but repentance was of no use. He had decided against himself, and his decision could not be reversed. He would have left the House, only it seemed to him that had he done so every one would look at him. He drew his hat down over his eyes, and remained in his place, hating Mr Bonteen, hating Barrington Erle, hating Mr Turnbull, – but hating no one so much as he hated himself. He had disgraced himself for ever, and could never recover the occasion which he had lost.

  Mr Bonteen's speech was in no way remarkable. Mr Monk, he said, had done the State good service by adding his wisdom and patriotism to the Cabinet. The sort of argument which Mr Bonteen used to prove that a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in process of time become a member of the executive, is trite and common, and was not used by Mr Bonteen with any special force. Mr Bonteen was glib of tongue, and possessed that familiarity with the place which poor Phineas had lacked so sorely. There was one moment, however, which was terrible to Phineas. As soon as Mr Bonteen had shown the purpose for which he was on his legs, Mr Monk looked round at Phineas, as though in reproach. He had expected that this work should fall into the hands of one who would perform it with more warmth of heart than could be expected from Mr Bonteen. When Mr Bonteen ceased, two or three other short speeches were made, and members fired of their little guns. Phineas having lost so great an opportunity, would not now consent to accept one that should be comparatively valueless. Then there came a division. The motion was lost by a large majority, – by any number you might choose to name, as Phineas had said to Lord Brentford; but in that there was no triumph to the poor wretch who had failed through fear, and who was now a coward in his own esteem.