"I wish it were broken up," said the Prime Minister.
"You have your duty to do by the country and by the Queen, and you mustn't regard your own wishes. Next Session let Monk be ready with his Bill again,—the same measure exactly. Let Sir Orlando resign then if he will. Should he do so I doubt whether any one would go with him. Drummond does not like him much better than you and I do." The poor Prime Minister was forced to obey. The old Duke was his only trusted counsellor, and he found himself constrained12 by his conscience to do as that counsellor counselled him. When, however, Sir Orlando, in his place as Leader of the House, in answer to some question from a hot and disappointed Radical13, averred14 that the whole of her Majesty15's Government had been quite in unison16 on this question of the county suffrage, he was hardly able to restrain himself. "If there be differences of opinion they must be kept in the background," said the Duke of St. Bungay. "Nothing can justify17 a direct falsehood," said the Duke of Omnium. Thus it came to pass that the only real measure which the Government had in hand was one by which Phineas Finn hoped so to increase the power of Irish municipalities as to make the Home Rulers believe that a certain amount of Home Rule was being conceded to them. It was not a great measure, and poor Phineas himself hardly believed in it. And thus the Duke's ministry came to be called the Faineants.
But the Duchess, though she had been much snubbed, still persevered18. Now and again she would declare herself to be broken-hearted, and would say that things might go their own way, that she would send in her resignation, that she would retire into private life and milk cows, that she would shake hands with no more parliamentary cads and "caddesses,"—a word which her Grace condescended19 to coin for her own use; that she would spend the next three years in travelling about the world; and lastly, that, let there come of it whatever might, Sir Orlando Drought should never again be invited into any house of which she was the mistress. This last threat, which was perhaps the most indiscreet of them all, she absolutely made good,—thereby adding very greatly to her husband's difficulties.
But by the middle of June the parties at the house in Carlton Terrace were as frequent and as large as ever. Indeed it was all party with her. The Duchess possessed21 a pretty little villa22 down at Richmond, on the river, called The Horns, and gave parties there when there were none in London. She had picnics, and flower parties, and tea parties, and afternoons, and evenings, on the lawn,—till half London was always on its way to Richmond or back again. How she worked! And yet from day to day she swore that the world was ungrateful, and that she would work no more! I think that the world was ungrateful. Everybody went. She was so far successful that nobody thought of despising her parties. It was quite the thing to go to the Duchess's, whether at Richmond or in London. But people abused her and laughed at her. They said that she intrigued23 to get political support for her husband,—and, worse than that, they said that she failed. She did not fail altogether. The world was not taken captive as she had intended. Young members of Parliament did not become hotly enthusiastic in support of her and her husband as she had hoped that they would do. She had not become an institution of granite24, as her dreams had fondly told her might be possible;—for there had been moments in which she had almost thought that she could rule England by giving dinner and supper parties, by ices and champagne25. But in a dull, phlegmatic26 way, they who ate the ices and drank the champagne were true to her. There was a feeling abroad that "Glencora" was a "good sort of fellow" and ought to be supported. And when the ridicule27 became too strong, or the abuse too sharp, men would take up the cudgels for her, and fight her battles;—a little too openly, perhaps, as they would do it under her eyes, and in her hearing, and would tell her what they had done, mistaking on such occasions her good humour for sympathy. There was just enough of success to prevent that abandonment of her project which she so often threatened, but not enough to make her triumphant28. She was too clever not to see that she was ridiculed29. She knew that men called her Glencora among themselves. She was herself quite alive to the fact that she herself was wanting in dignity, and that with all the means at her disposal, with all her courage and all her talent, she did not quite play the part of the really great lady. But she did not fail to tell herself that labour continued would at last be successful, and she was strong to bear the buffets30 of the ill-natured. She did not think that she brought first-class materials to her work, but she believed,—a belief as erroneous as, alas31, it is common,—that first-rate results might be achieved by second-rate means. "We had such a battle about your Grace last night," Captain Gunner said to her.
"And were you my knight32?"
"Indeed I was. I never heard such nonsense."
"What were they saying?"
"Oh, the old story;—that you were like Martha, busying yourself about many things."
"Why shouldn't I busy myself about many things? It is a pity, Captain Gunner, that some of you men have not something to busy yourselves about." All this was unpleasant. She could on such an occasion make up her mind to drop any Captain Gunner who had ventured to take too much upon himself; but she felt that in the efforts which she had made after popularity, she had submitted herself to unpleasant familiarities;—and though persistent33 in her course, she was still angry with herself.
When she had begun her campaign as the Prime Minister's wife, one of her difficulties had been with regard to money. An abnormal expenditure34 became necessary, for which her husband's express sanction must be obtained, and steps taken in which his personal assistance would be necessary;—but this had been done, and there was now no further impediment in that direction. It seemed to be understood that she was to spend what money she pleased. There had been various contests between them, but in every contest she had gained something. He had been majestically35 indignant with her in reference to the candidature at Silverbridge,—but, as is usual with many of us, had been unable to maintain his anger about two things at the same time. Or, rather, in the majesty of his anger about her interference, he had disdained37 to descend20 to the smaller faults of her extravagance. He had seemed to concede everything else to her, on condition that he should be allowed to be imperious in reference to the borough38. In that matter she had given way, never having opened her mouth about it after that one unfortunate word to Mr. Sprugeon. But, having done so, she was entitled to squander39 her thousands without remorse,—and she squandered40 them. "It is your five-and-twenty thousand pounds, my dear," she once said to Mrs. Finn, who often took upon herself to question the prudence41 of all this expenditure. This referred to a certain sum of money which had been left by the old Duke to Madame Goesler, as she was then called,—a legacy42 which that lady had repudiated43. The money had, in truth, been given away to a relation of the Duke's by the joint44 consent of the lady and of the Duke himself, but the Duchess was pleased to refer to it occasionally as a still existing property.
"My five-and-twenty thousand pounds, as you call it, would not go very far."
"What's the use of money if you don't spend it? The Duke would go on collecting it and buying more property, which always means more trouble,—not because he is avaricious45, but because for the time that comes easier than spending. Supposing he had married a woman without a shilling, he would still have been a rich man. As it is, my property was more even than his own. If we can do any good by spending the money, why shouldn't it be spent?"
"If you can do any good!"
"It all comes round to that. It isn't because I like always to live in a windmill! I have come to hate it. At this moment I would give worlds to be down at Matching with no one but the children, and to go about in a straw hat and a muslin gown. I have a fancy that I could sit under a tree and read a sermon, and think it the sweetest recreation. But I've made the attempt to do all this, and it is so mean to fail!"
"But where is to be the end of it?"
"There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He is the first man in England. Some people would say the first in Europe,—or in the world. A Prince should entertain like a Prince."
"He need not be always entertaining."
"Hospitality should run from a man with his wealth and his position, like water from a fountain. As his hand is known to be full, so it should be known to be open. When the delight of his friends is in question he should know nothing of cost. Pearls should drop from him as from a fairy. But I don't think you understand me."
"Not when the pearls are to be picked up by Captain Gunners, Lady Glen."
"I can't make the men any better,—nor yet the women. They are poor mean creatures. The world is made up of such. I don't know that Captain Gunner is worse than Sir Orlando Drought or Sir Timothy Beeswax. People seen by the mind are exactly different to things seen by the eye. They grow smaller and smaller as you come nearer down to them, whereas things become bigger. I remember when I used to think that members of the Cabinet were almost gods, and now they seem to be no bigger than the shoeblacks,—only less picturesque46. He told me the other day of the time when he gave up going into power for the sake of taking me abroad. Ah me! how much was happening then,—and how much has happened since that! We didn't know you then."
"He has been a good husband to you."
"And I have been a good wife to him! I have never had him for an hour out of my heart since that, or ever for a moment forgotten his interest. I can't live with him because he shuts himself up reading blue-books, and is always at his office or in the House;—but I would if I could. Am I not doing it all for him? You don't think that the Captain Gunners are particularly pleasant to me! Think of your life and of mine. You have had lovers."
"One in my life,—when I was quite entitled to have one."
"Well; I am Duchess of Omnium, and I am the wife of the Prime Minister, and I had a larger property of my own than any other young woman that ever was born; and I am myself too,—Glencora M'Cluskie that was, and I've made for myself a character that I'm not ashamed of. But I'd be the curate's wife to-morrow, and make puddings, if I could only have my own husband and my own children with me. What's the use of it all? I like you better than anybody else, but you do nothing but scold me." Still the parties went on, and the Duchess laboured hard among her guests, and wore her jewels, and stood on her feet all the night, night after night, being civil to one person, bright to a second, confidential47 to a third, and sarcastic48 to an unfortunate fourth;—and in the morning she would work hard with her lists, seeing who had come to her and who had stayed away, and arranging who should be asked and who should be omitted.
In the meantime the Duke altogether avoided these things. At first he had been content to show himself, and escape as soon as possible;—but now he was never seen at all in his own house, except at certain heavy dinners. To Richmond he never went at all, and in his own house in town very rarely even passed through the door that led into the reception rooms. He had not time for ordinary society. So said the Duchess. And many, perhaps the majority of those who frequented the house, really believed that his official duties were too onerous49 to leave him time for conversation. But in truth the hours went heavily with him as he sat alone in his study, sighing for some sweet parliamentary task, and regretting the days in which he was privileged to sit in the House of Commons till two o'clock in the morning, in the hope that he might get a clause or two passed in his Bill for decimal coinage.
It was at the Horns at an afternoon party, given there in the gardens by the Duchess, early in July, that Arthur Fletcher first saw Emily after her marriage, and Lopez after the occurrence in Silverbridge. As it happened he came out upon the lawn close after them, and found them speaking to the Duchess as they passed on. She had put herself out of the way to be civil to Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, feeling that she had in some degree injured him in reference to the election, and had therefore invited both him and his wife on more than one occasion. Arthur Fletcher was there as a young man well known in the world, and as a supporter of the Duke's Government. The Duchess had taken up Arthur Fletcher,—as she was wont50 to take up new men, and had personally become tired of Lopez. Of course she had heard of the election, and had been told that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr. Lopez she did not know enough to care anything, one way or the other;—but she still encouraged him because she had caused him disappointment. She had now detained them a minute on the terrace before the windows while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became one of the little party before he knew whom he was meeting. "I am delighted," she said, "that you two Silverbridge heroes should meet together here as friends." It was almost incumbent51 on her to say something, though it would have been better for her not to have alluded52 to their heroism53. Mrs. Lopez put out her hand, and Arthur Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed slightly to each other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a moment with them, as they passed on from the Duchess, thinking that he would say something in a friendly tone. But he was silenced by the frown on the husband's face, and was almost constrained to go away without a word. It was very difficult for him even to be silent, as her greeting had been kind. But yet it was impossible for him to ignore the displeasure displayed in the man's countenance54. So he touched his hat, and asking her to remember him affectionately to her father, turned off the path and went away.
"Why did you shake hands with that man?" said Lopez. It was the first time since their marriage that his voice had been that of an angry man and an offended husband.
"Why not, Ferdinand? He and I are very old friends, and we have not quarrelled."
"You must take up your husband's friendships and your husband's quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you?"
"He never insulted me."
"Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted you, and then he behaved like a poltroon55 down at Silverbridge, and I will not have you know him any more. When I say so I suppose that will be enough." He waited for a reply, but she said nothing. "I ask you to tell me that you will obey me in this."
"Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of going to his, if you disapproved56."
"Going to his house! He is unmarried."
"Supposing he had a wife! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better that you and I should not talk about him."
"By G––––," said Lopez, "there shall be no subject on which I will be afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist on your assuring me that you will never speak to him again."
He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was desolate57, and he could there speak to her, as he thought, without being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint attempt to lead him down upon the lawn, no doubt feeling averse58 to private conversation at the moment; but he had persevered, and had resented the little effort. The idea in his mind that she was unwilling59 to hear him abuse Arthur Fletcher, unwilling to renounce60 the man, anxious to escape his order for such renunciation, added fuel to his jealousy61. It was not enough for him that she had rejected this man and had accepted him. The man had been her lover, and she should be made to denounce the man. It might be necessary for him to control his feelings before old Wharton;—but he knew enough of his wife to be sure that she would not speak evil of him or betray him to her father. Her loyalty62 to him, which he could understand though not appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant63 to her. So now he repeated his order to her, pausing in the path, with a voice unintentionally loud, and frowning down upon her as he spoke64. "You must tell me, Emily, that you will never speak to him again."
She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous eyes, but with infinite woe65 written in them, had he been able to read the writing. She knew that he was disgracing himself, and yet he was the man whom she loved! "If you bid me not to speak to him, I will not;—but he must know the reason why."
"He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say that you would write to him?"
"Papa must tell him."
"I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be master,—as it is fit that I should be. I will not have you talk to your father about Mr. Fletcher."
"Why not, Ferdinand?"
"Because I have so decided66. He is an old family friend. I can understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere36 between him and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an insolent67 letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my affairs. As to what should be done between you and him I must be the judge, and not your father."
"And must I not speak to papa about it?"
"No!"
"Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and affections of a whole life."
"I will hear nothing about affection," he said angrily.
"You cannot mean that—that—you doubt me?"
"Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of him." It did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too well of her for that. "But the man who has offended me must be held to have offended you also."
"You might say the same if it were my father."
He paused at this, but only for a moment. "Certainly I might. It is not probable, but no doubt I might do so. If your father were to quarrel with me, you would not, I suppose, hesitate between us?"
"Nothing on earth could divide me from you."
"Nor me from you. In this very matter I am only taking your part, if you did but know it." They had now passed on, and had met other persons, having made their way through a little shrubbery on to a further lawn; and she had hoped, as they were surrounded by people, that he would allow the matter to drop. She had been unable as yet to make up her mind as to what she would say if he pressed her hard. But if it could be passed by,—if nothing more were demanded from her,—she would endeavour to forget it all, saying to herself that it had come from sudden passion. But he was too resolute68 for such a termination as that, and too keenly alive to the expediency69 of making her thoroughly70 subject to him. So he turned her round and took her back through the shrubbery, and in the middle of it stopped her again and renewed his demand. "Promise me that you will not speak again to Mr. Fletcher."
"Then I must tell papa."
"No;—you shall tell him nothing."
"Ferdinand, if you exact a promise from me that I will not speak to Mr. Fletcher or bow to him should circumstances bring us together as they did just now, I must explain to my father why I have done so."
"You will wilfully71 disobey me?"
"In that I must." He glared at her, almost as though he were going to strike her, but she bore his look without flinching72. "I have left all my old friends, Ferdinand, and have given myself heart and soul to you. No woman did so with a truer love or more devoted73 intention of doing her duty to her husband. Your affairs shall be my affairs."
"Well; yes; rather."
She was endeavouring to assure him of her truth, but could understand the sneer74 which was conveyed in his acknowledgement. "But you cannot, nor can I for your sake, abolish the things which have been."
"I wish to abolish nothing that has been. I speak of the future."
"Between our family and that of Mr. Fletcher there has been old friendship which is still very dear to my father,—the memory of which is still very dear to me. At your request I am willing to put all that aside from me. There is no reason why I should ever see any of the Fletchers again. Our lives will be apart. Should we meet our greeting would be very slight. The separation can be effected without words. But if you demand an absolute promise,—I must tell my father."
"We will go home at once," he said instantly, and aloud. And home they went, back to London, without exchanging a word on the journey. He was absolutely black with rage, and she was content to remain silent. The promise was not given, nor, indeed, was it exacted under the conditions which the wife had imposed upon it. He was most desirous to make her subject to his will in all things, and quite prepared to exercise tyranny over her to any extent,—so that her father should know nothing of it. He could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Wharton. "You had better go to bed," he said, when he got her back to town;—and she went, if not to bed, at any rate into her own room.
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1
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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