But the doubt made his sojourn7 in Ireland very wearisome to him. And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort8, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And, first, I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved. In one of these, which he received about the end of November, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were simply a joint9 acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There was no allusion10 to the existence of any special regard on his part for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at Saulsby — but if she did so, Lady Laura was happy in her powers of reticence11. Our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that Mrs Flood Jones and Miss Flood Jones had retired12 from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained13 to exhibit towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation14 made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly15. Nothing more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made acquainted at some period of our lives. “I think, Phineas,” said his sister, “we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us.” “What’s all that about?” Phineas had demanded — understanding the whole matter thoroughly16. Then his sister had demurely17 refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living, he did not doubt, in a very desolate19 way — and quite willing, he did not doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt that he had two identities — that he was, as it were, two separate persons — and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fullness of heart, and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear Mary — he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! It was not possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No doubt they had been right to remove her. But, still, as he took his solitary20 walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble suitor — to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him — and of going to Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without a scruple21 of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course, such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up Parliament.
And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady, one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs Finn, the mother of our hero. With this lady Dr Finn had quarrelled persistently22 ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere23 in the management of his family — offering to purchase such right by favourable24 arrangements in reference to her will. This the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Persse was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money. And now she died, leaving ￡3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn. Another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. “She couldn’t have done better with it,” said the old doctor; “and as far as we are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly unexpected. In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by his son’s success in life, and never said much about the law. Phineas in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue books, reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same time — but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him.
On the receipt of his legacy25 he at once offered to repay his father all money that had been advanced him over and above his original allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. “It comes to the same thing, Phineas,” he said. “What you have of your share now you can’t have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me work a little longer than I had intended; and I believe that the later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live.” Phineas, therefore, when he returned to London, had his ￡3,000 in his pocket. He owed some ￡500; and the remainder he would, of course, invest.
There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr Mildmay’s decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such would be the decision of any Minister to whom was left the slightest fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any Minister court the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work, and incur26 the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest? In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old Ministry27, when the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot28, pointing now to one set of men as the coming Government and then to another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful. And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr Mildmay, when he spoke29 on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the question of Reform should not be postponed30 even for six months. “Don’t pledge yourself,” said the Duke — and Mr Mildmay did not pledge himself. Afterwards, when Mr Mildmay found that he was once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord de Terrier had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue books at Killaloe. The difference between his English life and his life at home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove gallantly31 to hide his weariness from his father and mother.
At this time the world was talking much about Reform, though Mr Mildmay had become placidly32 patient. The feeling was growing, and Mr Turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject; but the excitement had grown downwards33, from the leaders to the people — from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down, by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of growing upwards34, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people themselves. There was no strong throb35 through the country, making men feel that safety was to be had by Reform, and could not be had without Reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the orators36 were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of Reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession37 was made, the less it might be necessary to concede. And all men of all parties were agreed on this point. That Reform was in itself odious38 to many of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to be its promoters, was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord de Terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so to many of Mr Mildmay’s most constant supporters. The Duke had no wish for Reform. Indeed it is hard to suppose that such a Duke can wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages. Farmers were paying their rent. Capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant spirit of speculative39 commerce — and there was nothing in Reform to check that. Why should the Duke want Reform? As for such men as Lord Brentford, Sir Harry40 Coldfoot, Lord Plinlimmon, and Mr Legge Wilson, it was known to all men that they advocated Reform as we all of us advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We may hardly hope to avoid it. But let us have as little of the doctor as possible. Mr Turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the doctrine41 of many — perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let us give with an open hand — but still with a hand which, though open, shall not bestow42 too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be made. But let us have the drag on both the hind43 wheels. And we must remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come to serious misfortune.
But there were men, even in the Cabinet, who had other ideas of public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr Gresham was in earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was in earnest. That exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was in earnest. Mr Mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation45 of the manner in which the present cry for Reform had been aroused. He was thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic46, and thoroughly ambitious that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a long life had worked sedulously47 for the welfare of the people — but he disbelieved in Mr Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. And there was no man in England more in earnest, more truly desirous of Reform, than Mr Monk48. It was his great political idea that political advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people clamoured for them or did not clamour for them — even whether they desired them or did not desire them. “You do not ask a child whether he would like to learn his lesson,” he would say. “At any rate, you do not wait till he cries for his book.” When, therefore, men said to him that there was no earnestness in the cry for Reform, that the cry was a false cry, got up for factious49 purposes by interested persons, he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in obedience50 to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was a debt due to the people.
Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr Monk on the politics of the moment, and the following had been Mr Monk’s reply:
“ Longroyston, October 12, 186 —
“ MY DEAR FINN,
“I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr Mildmay was here last week; but as I don’t shoot, and can’t play billiards51, and have no taste for charades52, I am becoming tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them tomorrow. Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn session. I think that Mr Mildmay is right. Could we have been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with our bill in a session convened53 for the express purpose of passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed, we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I would as lief have a good measure from Lord de Terrier as from Mr Mildmay, and that I am indifferent to my own present personal position, still I think that we should endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good measure than are our opponents.
“I am astonished by the difference of opinion which exists about Reform — not only as to the difference in the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is needed — but that there should be such a divergence54 of ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want Reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned by a larger proportion of the people than is at present employed upon that work, and that each member when returned should represent a somewhat more equal section of the whole constituencies of the country than our members generally do at present. All men confess that a ￡50 county franchise55 must be too high, and that a borough18 with less than two hundred registered voters must be wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive, or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing these things and reforming what is wrong without delay. One great authority told us the other day that the sole object of legislation on this subject should be to get together the best possible 658 members of Parliament. That to me would be a most repulsive56 idea if it were not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative. Who shall say what is best; or what characteristic constitutes excellence57 in a member of Parliament? If the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private character, or even excellence in patriotism58, then I say that he is utterly59 wrong, and has never touched with his intellect the true theory of representation. One only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the excellence of likeness60. As a portrait should be like the person portrayed61, so should a representative House be like the people whom it represents. Nor in arranging a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for representative government — and it may be that there are still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of all blessings62 — the question as to what state policy may be best for them is a different question. But if we do have representation, let the representative assembly be like the people, whatever else may be its virtues63 — and whatever else its vices64.
“Another great authority has told us that our House of Commons should be the mirror of the people. I say, not its mirror, but its miniature. And let the artist be careful to put in every line of the expression of that ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the artist must know his trade well. In America the work has been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline of the face. As you look from the represented to the representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness — but there is in that portrait more of the body than of the mind. The true portrait should represent more than the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches of the countenance of the nation which have been inimitable — a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine. There have been marvels65 on the canvas so beautiful that one approaches the work of remodelling66 it with awe67. But not only is the picture imperfect — a thing of snatches — but with years it becomes less and still less like its original.
“The necessity for remodelling it is imperative68, and we shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be specially69 careful to retain as much as possible of those lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical majority of the people that power which the numerical majority has in the United States, would not be to achieve representation. The nation as it now exists would not be known by such a portrait — but neither can it now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that they who are adverse70 to change, looking back with an unmeasured respect on what our old Parliaments have done for us, ignore the majestic71 growth of the English people, and forget the present in their worship of the past. They think that we must be what we were — at any rate, what we were thirty years since. They have not, perhaps, gone into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice44 has increased, and these politicians, with ears but no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance. And then they declare to themselves that this wicked, half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle-people may be controlled — but not a people thoughtful, educated, and industrious72. We must look to it that we do not endeavour to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from thoughtfulness and industry.
“I hope we shall find you helping73 at the good work early in the spring.
“Yours, always faithfully,
“ JOSHUA MONK
Phineas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr Low was there, and to him he showed Mr Monk’s letter, thinking that it must be convincing even to Mr Low. This he did in Mrs Low’s drawing-room, knowing that Mrs Low would also condescend74 to discuss politics on an occasion. He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her husband’s late pupil. She had condescended75 to congratulate him on becoming member for an English borough instead of an Irish one, and had asked him questions about Saulsby Castle. But, nevertheless, Mr Monk’s letter was not received with that respectful admiration76 which Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas, foolishly, had read it out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously77 from the husband and from the wife.
“It is just the usual claptrap,” said Mr Low, only put into language somewhat more grandiloquent78 than usual.”
“Claptrap!” said Phineas.
“It’s what I call downright Radical79 nonsense,” said Mrs Low, nodding her head energetically. “Portrait indeed! Why should we want to have a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have things quiet and orderly.”
“Then you’d better have a paternal80 government at once,” said Phineas.
“Just so,” said Mr Low — only that what you call a paternal government is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to be submission81 to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if I were sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury.”
“But such a man as you would not be sent to Cayenne,” said Phineas.
“My next-door neighbour might be — which would be almost as bad. Let him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that he has deserved it. My idea of government is this — that we want to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a legislature to make our laws. If I thought that Parliament as at present established made the laws badly, I would desire a change; but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in Parliament which Reform will give us.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs Low. But we shall have a lot of beggars put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to.”
Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or any woman on a point of politics — not even though he who argues may have an eloquent82 letter from a philosophical83 Cabinet Minister in his pocket to assist him.
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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galloped
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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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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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joint
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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reticence
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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constrained
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accusation
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petulantly
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thoroughly
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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borough
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desolate
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solitary
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scruple
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persistently
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interfere
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favourable
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legacy
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incur
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ministry
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pivot
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spoke
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postponed
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gallantly
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placidly
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downwards
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upwards
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throb
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orators
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concession
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odious
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speculative
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harry
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doctrine
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bestow
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hind
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vice
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appreciation
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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sedulously
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monk
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factious
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| adj.好搞宗派活动的，派系的，好争论的 | |
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obedience
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billiards
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charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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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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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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