Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  He left the House alone, carefully avoiding all speech with any one. As he came out he had seen Laurence Fitzgibbon in the lobby, but he had gone on without pausing a moment, so that he might avoid his friend. And when he was out in Palace Yard, where was he to go next? He looked at his watch, and found that it was just ten. He did not dare to go to his club, and it was impossible for him to go home and to bed. He was very miserable, and nothing would comfort him but sympathy. Was there any one who would listen to his abuse of himself, and would then answer him with kindly apologies for his own weakness? Mrs Bunce would do it if she knew how, but sympathy from Mrs Bunce would hardly avail. There was but one person in the world to whom he could tell his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and that person was Lady Laura Kennedy. Sympathy from any man would have been distasteful to him. He had thought for a moment of flinging himself at Mr Monk's feet and telling all his weakness; – but he could not have endured pity even from Mr Monk. It was not to be endured from any man.

  He thought that Lady Laura Kennedy would be at home, and probably alone. He knew, at any rate, that he might be allowed to knock at her door, even at that hour. He had left Mr Kennedy in the House, and there he would probably remain for the next hour. There was no man more constant than Mr Kennedy in seeing the work of the day, – or of the night, – to its end. So Phineas walked up Victoria Street, and from thence into Grosvenor Place, and knocked at Lady Laura's door. ‘Yes; Lady Laura was at home; and alone.’ He was shown up into the drawing-room, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for her husband.

  ‘So the great debate is over,’ she said, with as much of irony as she knew how to throw into the epithet.

  ‘Yes; it is over.’

  ‘And what have they done, – those leviathans of the people?’

  Then Phineas told her what was the majority.

  ‘Is there anything the matter with you, Mr Finn?’ she said, looking at him suddenly. ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘Yes; I am very well.’

  ‘Will you not sit down? There is something wrong, I know. What is it?’

  ‘I have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest coward, the most awkward ass that ever lived!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I do not know why I should come to tell you of it at this hour at night, but I have come that I might tell you. Probably because there is no one else in the whole world who would not laugh at me.’

  ‘At any rate, I shall not laugh at you,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘But you will despise me.’

  ‘That I am sure I shall not do.’

  ‘You cannot help it. I despise myself. For years I have placed before myself the ambition of speaking in the House of Commons; – for years I have been thinking whether there would ever come to me an opportunity of making myself heard in that assembly, which I consider to be the first in the world. To-day the opportunity has been offered to me, – and, though the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great. The subject was one on which I was thoroughly prepared. The manner in which I was summoned was most flattering to me. I was especially called on to perform a task which was most congenial to my feelings; – and I declined because I was afraid.’

  ‘You had thought too much about it, my friend,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘Too much or too little, what does it matter?’ replied Phineas, in despair. ‘There is the fact. I could not do it. Do you remember the story of Conachar in the “Fair Maid of Perth;”36 – how his heart refused to give him blood enough to fight? He had been suckled with the milk of a timid creature, and, though he could die, there was none of the strength of manhood in him. It is about the same thing with me, I take it.’

  ‘I do not think you are at all like Conachar,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘I am equally disgraced, and I must perish after the same fashion. I shall apply for the Chiltern Hundreds in a day or two.’

  ‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ said Lady Laura, getting up from her chair and coming towards him. ‘You shall not leave this room till you have promised me that you will do nothing of the kind. I do not know as yet what has occurred to-night; but I do know that that modesty which has kept you silent is more often a grace than a disgrace.’

  This was the kind of sympathy which he wanted. She drew her chair nearer to him, and then he explained to her as accurately as he could what had taken place in the House on this evening, – how he had prepared his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was vain, how he perceived from the course of the debate that if he spoke at all his speech must be very different from what he had first intended; how he had declined to take upon himself a task which seemed to require so close a knowledge of the ways of the House and of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a man as Mr Monk. In accusing himself he, unconsciously, excused himself, and his excuse, in Lady Laura's ears, was more valid than his accusation.

  ‘And you would give it all up for that?’ she said.

  ‘Yes; I think I ought.’

  ‘I have very little doubt but that you were right in allowing Mr Bonteen to undertake such a task. I should simply explain to Mr Monk that you felt too keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an untried member in his defence. It is not, I think, the work for a man who is not at home in the House. I am sure Mr Monk will feel this, and I am quite certain that Mr Kennedy will think that you have been right.’

  ‘I do not care what Mr Kennedy may think.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Mr Finn? That is not courteous.’

  ‘Simply because I care so much what Mr Kennedy's wife may think. Your opinion is all in all to me, – only that I know you are too kind to me.’

  ‘He would not be too kind to you. He is never too kind to any one. He is justice itself.’

  Phineas, as he heard the tones of her voice, could not but feel that there was in Lady Laura's words something of an accusation against her husband.

  ‘I hate justice,’ said Phineas. ‘I know that justice would condemn me. But love and friendship know nothing of justice. The value of love is that it overlooks faults, and forgives even crimes.’

  ‘I, at any rate,’ said Lady Laura, ‘will forgive the crime of your silence in the House.37 My strong belief in your success will not be in the least affected by what you tell me of your failure to-night. You must await another opportunity; and, if possible, you should be less anxious as to your own performance. There is Violet.’ As Lady Laura spoke the last words, there was a sound of a carriage stopping in the street, and the front door was immediately opened. ‘She is staying here, but has been dining with her uncle, Admiral Effingham.’ Then Violet Effingham entered the room, rolled up in pretty white furs, and silk cloaks, and lace shawls. ‘Here is Mr Finn, come to tell us of the debate about the ballot.’

  ‘I don't care twopence about the ballot,’ said Violet, as she put out her hand to Phineas. ‘Are we going to have a new iron fleet built? 38 That's the question.’

  ‘Sir Simeon has come out strong to-night,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘There is no political question of any importance except the question of the iron fleet,’ said Violet. ‘I am quite sure of that, and so, if Mr Finn can tell me nothing about the iron fleet, I'll go to bed.’

  ‘Mr Kennedy will tell you everything when he comes home,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Oh, Mr Kennedy! Mr Kennedy never tells one anything. I doubt whether Mr Kennedy thinks that any woman knows the meaning of the British Constitution.’

  ‘Do you know what it means, Violet?’ asked Lady Laura.

  ‘To be sure I do. It is liberty to growl about the iron fleet, or the ballot, or the taxes, or the peers, or the bishops, – or anything else, except the House of Commons. That's the British Constitution. Good-night, Mr Finn.’

  ‘What a beautiful creature she is!’ said Phineas.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘And full of wit and grace and pleasantness. I do not wonder at your brother's choice.’

  It will be rem
embered that this was said on the day before Lord Chiltern had made his offer for the third time.

  ‘Poor Oswald! he does not know as yet that she is in town.’

  After that Phineas went, not wishing to await the return of Mr Kennedy. He had felt that Violet Effingham had come into the room just in time to remedy a great difficulty. He did not wish to speak of his love to a married woman, – to the wife of the man who called him friend, – to a woman who he felt sure would have rebuked him. But he could hardly have restrained himself had not Miss Effingham been there.

  But as he went home he thought more of Miss Effingham than he did of Lady Laura; and I think that the voice of Miss Effingham had done almost as much towards comforting him as had the kindness of the other. At any rate, he had been comforted.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘Do Be Punctual’

  ON the very morning after his failure in the House of Commons, when Phineas was reading in the Telegraph, – he took the Telegraph not from choice but for economy,39 – the words of that debate which he had heard and in which he should have taken a part, a most unwelcome visit was paid to him. It was near eleven, and the breakfast things were still on the table. He was at this time on a Committee of the House with reference to the use of potted peas in the army and navy, at which he had sat once, – at a preliminary meeting, – and in reference to which he had already resolved that as he had failed so frightfully in debate, he would certainly do his duty to the utmost in the more easy but infinitely more tedious work of the Committee Room. The Committee met at twelve, and he intended to walk down to the Reform Club, and then to the House. He had just completed his reading of the debate and of the leaders in the Telegraph on the subject. He had told himself how little the writer of the article knew about Mr Turnbull, how little about Mr Monk, and how little about the people, – such being his own ideas as to the qualifications of the writer of that leading article, – and was about to start. But Mrs Bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a man below who wanted to see him.

  ‘What sort of a man, Mrs Bunce?’

  ‘He ain't a gentleman, sir.’

  ‘Did he give his name?’

  ‘He did not, sir; but I know it's about money. I know the ways of them so well. I've seen this one's face before somewhere.’

  ‘You had better show him up,’ said Phineas. He knew well the business on which the man was come. The man wanted money for that bill which Laurence Fitzgibbon had sent afloat, and which Phineas had endorsed. Phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply into troubles of money as to make it necessary that he need refuse himself to any callers on that score, and he did not choose to do so now. Nevertheless he most heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for the club before the man had come. This was not the first he had heard of the bill being overdue and unpaid. The bill had been brought to him noted a month since, and then he had simply told the youth who brought it that he would see Mr Fitzgibbon and have the matter settled. He had spoken to his friend Laurence, and Laurence had simply assured him that all should be made right in two days, – or, at furthest, by the end of a week. Since that time he had observed that his friend had been somewhat shy of speaking to him when no others were with them. Phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and Laurence been alone together; but he had been quick enough to guess from his friend's manner that the matter was not settled. Now, no doubt, serious trouble was about to commence.

  The visitor was a little man with grey hair and a white cravat, some sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat, – which, on entering the room, he at once put down on the nearest chair, – with reference to whom, any judge on the subject would have concurred at first sight in the decision pronounced by Mrs Bunce, though none but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions could have given the reasons for that early decision. ‘He ain't a gentleman,’ Mrs Bunce had said. And the man certainly was not a gentleman. The old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed, and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed arrogance which is at once fatal to another class. But, nevertheless, Mrs Bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman, – had seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one mission. She was right there too. This visitor had come about money.

  ‘About this bill, Mr Finn,’ said the visitor, proceeding to take out of his breast coat-pocket a rather large leathern case, as he advanced up towards the fire. ‘My name is Clarkson, Mr Finn. If I may venture so far, I'll take a chair.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Clarkson,’ said Phineas, getting up and pointing to a seat.

  ‘Thankye, Mr Finn, thankye. We shall be more comfortable doing business sitting, shan't we?’ Whereupon the horrid little man drew himself close in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio lay this identical bit which he was seeking. He seemed to be quite at home, and to feel that there was no ground whatever for hurry in such comfortable quarters. Phineas hated him at once, – with a hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend Fitzgibbon had brought upon him.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Mr Clarkson at last, ‘Oh, dear me, dear me! the third of November, and here we are in March! I didn't think it was so bad as this; – I didn't indeed. This is very bad, – very bad! And for Parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual than anybody, because of the privilege. Shouldn't they now, Mr Finn?’

  ‘All men should be punctual, I suppose,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Of course they should; of course they should. I always say to my gents, “Be punctual, and I'll do anything for you.”40 But, perhaps, Mr Finn, you can hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and I will begin square.’

  ‘Indeed I cannot, Mr Clarkson.’

  ‘Not hand me a cheque for it!’

  ‘Upon my word, no.’

  ‘That's very bad; – very bad indeed. Then I suppose I must take the half, and renew for the remainder, though I don't like it; – I don't indeed.’

  ‘I can pay no part of that bill, Mr Clarkson.’

  ‘Pay no part of it!’ and Mr Clarkson, in order that he might the better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of poking his host's fire.

  ‘If you'll allow me, I'll manage the fire,’ said Phineas, putting out his hand for the poker.

  But Mr Clarkson was fond of poking fires, and would not surrender the poker. ‘Pay no part of it!’ he said again, holding the poker away from Phineas in his left hand. ‘Don't say that, Mr Finn. Pray don't say that. Don't drive me to be severe. I don't like to be severe with my gents. ‘I'll do anything, Mr Finn, if you'll only be punctual.’

  ‘The fact is, Mr Clarkson, I have never had one penny of consideration for that bill, and –’

  ‘Oh, Mr Finn! oh, Mr Finn!’ and then Mr Clarkson had his will of the fire.

  ‘I never had one penny of consideration for that bill,’ continued Phineas. ‘Of course I don't deny my responsibility.’

  ‘No, Mr Finn; you can't deny that. Here it is; – Phineas Finn; – and everybody knows you, because you're a Parliament gent.’

  ‘I don't deny it. But I had no reason to suppose that I should be called upon for the money when I accommodated my friend, Mr Fitzgibbon, and I have not got it. That is the long and the short of it. I must see him and take care that arrangements are made.’

  ‘Arrangements!’

  ‘Yes, arrangements for settling the bill.’

  ‘He hasn't got the money, Mr Finn. You know that as well as do.’

  ‘I know nothing about it, Mr Clarkson.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Finn; you know; you know.’

  ‘I tell you I know nothing about it,’ said Phineas, waxing angry.

  ‘As to Mr Fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent that ever lived. Isn't he now? I've know'd him these ten years. I don't suppo
se that for ten years I've been without his name in my pocket. But bless you, Mr Finn, there's an end to everything. I shouldn't have looked at this bit of paper if it hadn't been for your signature. Of course not. You're just beginning, and it's natural you should want a little help. You'll find me always ready, if you'll only be punctual.’

  ‘I tell you again, sir, that I never had a shilling out of that for myself, and do not want any such help.’ Here Mr Clarkson smiled sweetly. ‘I gave my name to my friend simply to oblige him.’

  ‘I like you Irish gents because you do hang together so close,’ said Mr Clarkson.

  ‘Simply to oblige him,’ continued Phineas. ‘As I said before, I know that I am responsible; but, as I said before also, I have not the means of taking up that bill. I will see Mr Fitzgibbon, and let you know what we propose to do.’ Then Phineas got up from his seat and took his hat. It was full time that he should go down to his Committee. But Mr Clarkson did not get up from his seat. ‘I'm afraid I must ask you to leave me now, Mr Clarkson, as I have business down at the House.’

  ‘Business at the House never presses, Mr Finn,’ said Mr Clarkson. ‘That's the best of Parliament. I've known Parliament gents this thirty years and more. Would you believe it, – I've had a Prime Minister's name in that portfolio; that I have; and a Lord Chancellor's; that I have; – and an Archbishop's too. I know what Parliament is, Mr Finn. Come, come; don't put me off with Parliament.’