The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER V.

  THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

  We must now go back to our other hero, or, rather, to another of ourheroes. Arthur Wilkinson is our melancholy love-lorn tenor, GeorgeBertram our eager, excitable barytone, and Mr. Harcourt--HenryHarcourt--our bass, wide awake to the world's good things, imperviousto sentimentality, and not over-scrupulous--as is always the casewith your true deep-mouthed opera bass.

  Our present business is with the excitable barytone, whom we leftsome year and a half ago in not a very clear state of mind as tothe walk in life which would be best suited for his peculiar legs.Harcourt, who was himself a lawyer, recommended the law. Selfish aswas the general tone of Harcourt's heart, still he had within him ahigh, if not a generous feeling, which made him wish to have nearhim in his coming life a friend of such promise as George Bertram.Bertram might beat him in his career; nay, probably would do so; but,nevertheless, Harcourt wished to see him keeping his terms in London.He was convinced that he should gain more than he should lose by sucha friend.

  But Bertram's own mind was not so easily made up. His personalpossessions in life may be thus catalogued. He had come of a goodfamily; he had received the best education which England couldgive him; he was quick in speech and ready in thought; he had adouble-first degree, and would at once have a fellowship; he had alsoan uncle who was very rich and occasionally very disagreeable, and afather who was very poor, and of whom he heard all men say that hewas one of the most agreeable fellows that ever lived. Such being hisstock in trade, how was he to take it to the best market? and whatmarket would be the best?

  In thinking over his markets, it must not be supposed that hisonly object, or his chief object, was the making of money. That wasa rock, rather, of which it behoved him to be very careful. Themoney-making part of every profession was, according to his presentviews, a necessary incidental evil. To enable a poor man like him tocarry on his work some money must be made; for some sorts of work,perhaps for that very sort which he would most willingly choose, muchmoney must be made. But the making of it should never be his triumph.It could be but a disagreeable means to a desirable end. At the ageof twenty-two so thought our excitable barytone hero on that point.

  Two ends appeared to him to be desirable. But which of the two wasthe most desirable--that to him was the difficult question. To dogood to others, and to have his own name in men's mouths--these werethe fitting objects of a man's life. But whether he would attempt theformer in order to achieve the latter; or obtain, if he did obtain,the latter by seeking success in the former: on this point hischaracter was not sufficiently fixed, nor his principles sufficientlyhigh to enable him fitly to resolve.

  But the necessity of seeing his uncle before he took any actual stepssecured him from the necessity of coming to any absolutely immediatedecision. He and Harcourt were together for three or four days, andhe listened not unmoved to his friend's eloquence in favour of publiclife in London. Not unmoved, indeed, but always with a spirit ofantagonism. When Harcourt told of forensic triumphs, Bertram spoke ofthe joy of some rustic soul saved to heaven in the quiet nook of adistant parish. When his friend promised to him Parliament, and thelater glories of the ermine, he sighed after literary fame, to beenjoyed among the beauties of nature. But Harcourt understood allthis: he did not wish to convince his friend, but only to lead him.

  Mr. George Bertram senior was a notable man in the city of London. Iam not prepared to say what was his trade, or even whether he had oneproperly so called. But there was no doubt about his being a moneyedman, and one well thought of on 'Change. At the time of which Iwrite, he was a director of the Bank of England, chairman of alarge insurance company, was deep in water, far gone in gas, and anillustrious potentate in railway interests. I imagine that he hadneither counting-house, shop, nor ware-rooms: but he was not on thataccount at a loss whither to direct his steps; and those who knewcity ways knew very well where to meet Mr. George Bertram seniorbetween the hours of eleven and five.

  He was ten years older than his brother, Sir Lionel, and at the timeof which I write might be about seventy. He was still unmarried, andin this respect had always been regarded by Sir Lionel as a fountainfrom whence his own son might fairly expect such waters as werenecessary for his present maintenance and future well-being. But Mr.George Bertram senior had regarded the matter in a different light.He had paid no shilling on account of his nephew, or on otheraccounts appertaining to his brother, which he had not scored downas so much debt against Sir Lionel, duly debiting the amount withcurrent interest; and statements of this account were periodicallysent to Sir Lionel by Mr. Bertram's man of business,--andperiodically thrown aside by Sir Lionel, as being of no momentwhatsoever.

  When Mr. Bertram had paid the bill due by his brother to Mr.Wilkinson, there was outstanding some family unsettled claim fromwhich the two brothers might, or might not, obtain some small sumsof money. Sir Lionel, when much pressed by the city Croesus, hadbegged him to look to this claim, and pay himself from the fundswhich would be therefrom accruing. The city Croesus had done so: atrifle of two or three hundred pounds had fallen to Sir Lionel's lot,and had of course been duly credited to his account. But it went avery little way towards squaring matters, and the old man of businesswent on sending his half-yearly statements, which became anything but"small by degrees."

  Mr. Bertram had never absolutely told George of this debt, orcomplained of his not being repaid the advances which he had made;but little hints dropped from him, which were sometimes understoodfor more than they were worth, and which made the young Oxonian feelthat he would rather not be quite so much in his uncle's hands. Theold man gave him to understand that he must not look on himself asan heir to wealth, or imagine that another lot was his than thatordinary to mortals--the necessity, namely, of eating his bread inthe sweat of his brow.

  Old Mr. Bertram ordinarily lived at Hadley, a village about a milebeyond Barnet, just on the border of what used to be called EnfieldChase. Here he had an establishment very fit for a quiet oldgentleman, but perhaps not quite adequate to his reputed wealth. Bymy use of the word reputed, the reader must not be led to think thatMr. Bertram's money-bags were unreal. They were solid, and true asthe coffers of the Bank of England. He was no Colonel Waugh, richonly by means of his rich impudence. It is not destined that he shallfall brilliantly, bringing down with him a world of ruins. He willnot levant to Spain or elsewhere. His wealth is of the old-fashionedsort, and will abide at any rate such touch of time as it mayencounter in our pages. But none of the Hadleyites, or, indeed, anyother ites--not even, probably, the Bank-of-Englandites, or theCity-of-London-Widows'-Fundites--knew very well what his means were;and when, therefore, people at Hadley spoke of his modest household,they were apt to speak of it as being very insufficient for such amillionaire.

  Hitherto George had always passed some part of his vacations atHadley. The amusements there were not of a very exciting nature;but London was close, and even at Hadley there were pretty girlswith whom he could walk and flirt, and the means of keeping a horseand a couple of pointers, even if the hunting and shooting were notconveniently to be had.

  A few days after the glories of his degree, when his name was stillgreat on the High Street of Oxford, and had even been touched bytrue fame in a very flattering manner in the columns of the "DailyJupiter," he came home to Hadley. His uncle never encouraged visitsfrom him in the city, and they met, therefore, for the first time inthe old man's drawing-room just before dinner.

  "How are you, George?" said the uncle, putting out his hand to hisnephew, and then instantly turning round and poking the fire. "Whatsort of a journey have you had from Oxford? Yes, these railways makeit all easy. Which line do you use? Didcot, eh? That's wrong. You'llhave a smash some of these days with one of those Great Westernexpress trains"--Mr. Bertram held shares in the opposition line bywhich Oxford may be reached, and never omitted an opportunity ofdoing a little business. "I'm ready for dinner; I don't know whetheryou are. You eat lunch, I suppose. John, it's tw
o minutes past thehalf-hour. Why don't we have dinner?"

  Not a word was said about the degree--at least, not then. Indeed Mr.Bertram did not think very much about degrees. He had taken no degreehimself, except a high degree in wealth, and could not understandthat he ought to congratulate a young man of twenty-two as to asuccessful termination of his school-lessons. He himself at thatage had been, if not on 'Change, at any rate seated on the steps of'Change. He had been then doing a man's work; beginning to hardentogether the nucleus of that snowball of money which he had sincerolled onwards till it had become so huge a lump--destined, probably,to be thawed and to run away into muddy water in some much shorterspace of time. He could not blame his nephew: he could not call himidle, as he would have delighted to do had occasion permitted; but hewould not condescend to congratulate him on being great in Greek ormighty in abstract mathematics.

  "Well, George," said he, pushing him the bottle as soon as the clothwas gone, "I suppose you have done with Oxford now?"

  "Not quite, sir; I have my fellowship to receive."

  "Some beggarly two hundred pounds a year, I suppose. Not that I meanto say you should not be glad to have it," he added, thus correctingthe impression which his words might otherwise have made. "As youhave been so long getting it, it will be better to have that thannothing. But your fellowship won't make it necessary for you to liveat Oxford, will it?"

  "Oh, no. But then I may perhaps go into the church."

  "Oh, the church, eh? Well, it is a respectable profession; only menhave to work for nothing in it."

  "I wish they did, sir. If we had the voluntary system--"

  "You can have that if you like. I know that the Independentministers--"

  "I should not think of leaving the Church of England on any account."

  "You have decided, then, to be a clergyman?"

  "Oh, no; not decided. Indeed, I really think that if a man will work,he may do better at the bar."

  "Very well, indeed--if he have the peculiar kind of talentnecessary."

  "But then, I doubt whether a practising barrister can ever really bean honest man."

  "What?"

  "They have such dirty work to do. They spend their days in making outthat black is white; or, worse still, that white is black."

  "Pshaw! Have a little more charity, master George, and do not be soover-righteous. Some of the greatest men of your country have beenlawyers."

  "But their being great men won't alter the fact; nor will my beingcharitable. When two clear-headed men take money to advocate thedifferent sides of a case, each cannot think that his side is true."

  "Fiddlestick! But mind, I do not want you to be a lawyer. You mustchoose for yourself. If you don't like that way of earning yourbread, there are others."

  "A man may be a doctor, to be sure; but I have no taste that way."

  "And is that the end of the list?"

  "There is literature. But literature, though the grandest occupationin the world for a man's leisure, is, I take it, a slavishprofession."

  "Grub Street, eh? Yes, I should think so. You never heard ofcommerce, I suppose?"

  "Commerce. Yes, I have heard of it. But I doubt whether I have thenecessary genius."

  The old man looked at him as though he doubted whether or no he werebeing laughed at.

  "The necessary kind of genius, I mean," continued George.

  "Very likely not. Your genius is adapted to dispersing, perhaps,rather than collecting."

  "I dare say it is, sir."

  "And I suppose you never heard of a man with a--what is it you callyour degree? a double-first--going behind a counter. What sort of menare the double-lasts, I wonder!"

  "It is they, I rather think, who go behind the counters," saidGeorge, who had no idea of allowing his uncle to have all theraillery on his side.

  "Is it, sir? But I rather think they don't come out last when thepudding is to be proved by the eating. Success in life is not to bewon by writing Greek verses; not though you write ever so many. Aship-load of them would not fetch you the value of this glass of wineat any market in the world."

  "Commerce is a grand thing," said George, with an air of conviction.

  "It is the proper work for men," said his uncle, proudly.

  "But I have always heard," replied the nephew, "that a man in thiscountry has no right to look to commerce as a profession unless hepossesses capital." Mr. Bertram, feeling that the tables had beenturned against him, finished his glass of wine and poked the fire.

  A few days afterwards the same subject was again raised between them."You must choose for yourself, George," said the old man; "and youshould choose quickly."

  "If I could choose for myself--which I am aware that I cannot do; forcircumstances, after all, will have the decision--but, if I couldchoose, I would go into Parliament."

  "Go where?" said Mr. Bertram, who would have thought it as reasonableif his nephew had proposed to take a house in Belgrave Square withthe view of earning a livelihood.

  "Into Parliament, sir."

  "Is Parliament a profession? I never knew it before."

  "Perhaps not, ordinarily, a money-making profession; nor would I wishto make it so."

  "And what county, or what borough do you intend to honour byrepresenting it? Perhaps the University will return you."

  "Perhaps it may some of these days."

  "And, in the meantime, you mean to live on your fellowship, Isuppose?"

  "On that and anything else that I can get."

  Mr. Bertram sat quiet for some time without speaking, and George alsoseemed inclined to muse awhile upon the subject. "George," said theuncle, at last, "I think it will be better that we should thoroughlyunderstand each other. You are a good fellow in your way, and I likeyou well enough. But you must not get into your head any idea thatyou are to be my heir."

  "No, sir; I won't."

  "Because it would only ruin you. My idea is that a man should makehis own way in the world as I made mine. If you were my son, it maybe presumed that I should do as other men do, and give you my money.And, most probably, you would make no better use of it than the sonsof other men who, like me, have made money. But you are not my son."

  "Quite true, sir; and therefore I shall be saved the danger. At anyrate, I shall not be the victim of disappointment."

  "I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Bertram, who, however, did notgive any proof of his gladness, seeing that he evinced some littleaddition of acerbity in his temper and asperity in his manner. It washard to have to deal with a nephew with whom he could find so littleground for complaint.

  "But I have thought it right to warn you," he continued, "You areaware that up to the present moment the expense of your education hasbeen borne by me."

  "No, sir; not my education."

  "Not your education! How, then, has it been borne?"

  "I speak of my residence at Oxford. I have had a great manyindulgences there, and you have paid for them. The expenses of myeducation I could have paid myself." This was fair on George's part.He had not asked his uncle for a liberal allowance, and was hardlyopen to blame for having taken it.

  "I only know I have paid regularly one hundred and fifty pounds ayear to your order, and I find from Pritchett"--Pritchett was his manof business--"that I am paying it still."

  "He sent me the last quarter the other day; but I have not touchedit."

  "Never mind; let that pass. I don't know what your father's views areabout you, and never could find out."

  "I'll ask him. I mean to go and see him."

  "Go and see him! Why, he's at Bagdad."

  "Yes. If I start at once I shall just catch him there, or perhapsmeet him at Damascus."

  "Then you'll be a great fool for your pains--a greater fool almostthan I take you to be. What do you expect your father can do for you?My belief is, that if four hundred pounds would take him to heaven,he couldn't make up the money. I don't think he could raise it eitherin Europe or Asia. I'm sure of this; I wouldn't lend it him."
/>
  "In such a case as that, sir, his personal security would go for solittle."

  "His personal security has always gone for little. But, as I wassaying, I have consented ever since you went to Wilkinson's to allowyour father to throw the burthen of your expenses on my shoulders.I thought it a pity that you should not have the chance of a decenteducation. Mind, I claim no gratitude, as I shall expect your fatherto pay me what I have advanced."

  "How on earth can he do that, sir? But perhaps I can."

  "Can you? very well; then you can settle it with him. But listen tome."

  "Listen to me for a moment, uncle George. I think you are hard on myfather, and certainly hard on me. When I went to Wilkinson's, whatdid I know of who paid the bill?"

  "Who says you knew anything, sir?"

  "And, counting on from that time, at what period ought I to havebegun to know it? When should I have first learnt to feel that I wasa burden to any one?"

  "Who has talked about a burden?"

  "You say I am not to be your heir?"

  "Certainly not."

  "I never thought of being your heir. I don't care a straw about beinganybody's heir. What you have given freely, I have taken freely. Asfor my father, if you felt so harshly towards him, why did you lethim incur this debt?"

  "I was to see you kicked out of Wilkinson's house and starve in theditch, I suppose? But now, if you can control your fine feelings forone moment, will you listen to me? I have never blamed you in thematter at all, and don't blame you now--at least not yet."

  "I hope you never will--that is about money matters."

  "Now do listen to me. It seems to me that you are quite astray abouta profession. You don't like commerce, and what you said the otherday about capital is quite true. I count a man a knave who goes intotrade without capital. In a small way we might, perhaps, have managedit. But in a very small way you would not have liked it."

  "Neither small nor great, sir."

  "Very well. You need not be afraid that anything very great will bethrust upon you. But it seems to me that what you are most fitted foris a lawyer."

  Young Bertram paused a moment. "Uncle, I really hardly know.Sometimes I have a strange desire to go into orders."

  "Very strange indeed! But now, if you will listen to me--I have beenspeaking to Mr. Dry. Messrs. Dry and Stickatit have done business forme for the last forty years. Now, George, I will advance you threethousand pounds at four per cent.--"

  "What should I want with three thousand pounds?"

  "You don't suppose you can get into a house like that without money,do you?"

  "And be an attorney?" said George, with a look of horror which almostpenetrated the thick skin of the old man's feelings. What! had hetaken a double-first, been the leading man of his year, spouted atthe debating club, and driven himself nearly dizzy with Aristotlefor this--for a desk in the office of Messrs. Dry and Stickatit,attorneys of old Bucklersbury! No, not for all the uncles! not forany uncle!

  "They net four thousand pounds a year," said Mr. Bertram; "and inprocess of time you would be the working partner, and have, at anyrate, a full half of the business."

  But, no! George was not to be talked into such a scheme as that bythe offer of any loan, by the mention of any number of thousands. Hepositively refused to consider the proposition; and his uncle, withequal positiveness, refused to hold any further converse with him onthe subject of a profession. "Pritchett will pay you your presentallowance," said he, "for two years longer--that is, if I live."

  "I can do without it, sir," said George.

  "Pritchett will pay that amount for two years," said the uncle, withgreat positiveness; "after that it will be discontinued. And for thenext three months I shall be happy to see you here as my guest."

  It will be readily believed that George Bertram did not overstay thethree months.