The Palliser Novels: Complete Parliamentary Chronicles (All Six Novels in One Volume). Anthony Trollope
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console him in his failure.
Within three days he heard from her, saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success in his enterprise, but beyond this her letter said nothing. There was no word of love,—no word of welcome,—no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived all this in the reading of her note, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was illusing him by her coldness, and there was comfort in revenge. “It serves her right,” he said to himself. “She should have married me at once when she said she would do so, and then it would have been my own.”
When Mr Tombe had communicated with John Grey on the matter of this increased demand,—this demand which Mr Tombe began to regard as carrying a love-affair rather too far,—Grey had telegraphed back that Vavasor’s demand for money, if made through Mr John Vavasor, was to be honoured to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr Tombe raised his eyebrows, and reflected that some men were very foolish. But John Grey’s money matters were of such a nature as to make Mr Tombe know that he must do as he was bidden; and the money was paid to George Vavasor’s account.
He told Kate nothing of this. Why should he trouble himself to do so? Indeed, at this time he wrote no letters to his sister, though she twice sent to him, knowing what his exigencies would be, and made further tenders of her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been forthcoming from that other quarter, and so he left them unanswered.
In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr Travers, the other Liberal candidate, spent his money freely,—or else some other person did so on his behalf. When Mr Scruby mentioned this last alternative to George Vavasor, George cursed his own luck in that he had never found such backers. “I don’t call a man half a Member when he’s brought in like that,” said Mr Scruby, comforting him. “He can’t do what he likes with his vote. He ain’t independent. You never hear of those fellows getting anything good. Pay for the article yourself, Mr Vavasor, and then it’s your own. That’s what I always say.”
Mr Grimes went to work strenuously, almost fiercely, in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew, and perhaps more than he knew, of Vavasor’s circumstances. He was at work morning, noon, and night, not only in his own neighbourhood, but among those men on the river bank of whom he had spoken so much in his interview with Vavasor in Cecil Street. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion, and was once absolutely driven ignominiously into the river mud. And all this was done under the direction of Mr Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with offal from the sinking tide, so that the very name of the River Bank became odious to him. He was a man who did not like to have his person touched, and when they hustled him he became angry. “Lord love you, Mr Vavasor,” said Scruby, “that’s nothing! I’ve had a candidate so mauled,—it was in the Hamlets, I think,—that there wasn’t a spot on him that wasn’t painted with rotten eggs. The smell was something quite awful. But I brought him in, through it all.”
And Mr Scruby at last did as much for George Vavasor as he had done for the hero of the Hamlets. At the close of the poll Vavasor’s name stood at the head by a considerable majority, and Scruby comforted him by saying that Travers certainly wouldn’t stand the expense of a petition, as the seat was to be held only for a few months.
“And you’ve done it very cheap, Mr Vavasor,” said Scruby, “considering that the seat is metropolitan. I do say that you have done it cheap. Another thousand, or twelve hundred, will cover everything—say thirteen, perhaps, at the outside. And when you shall have fought the battle once again, you’ll have paid your footing, and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that.”
A further sum of thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once, and then the whole thing was to be repeated over again in six months’ time! This was not consolatory. But, nevertheless, there was a triumph in the thing itself which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons, though it should only have been for half a session.
Chapter XLV.
George Vavasor Takes His Seat
George Vavasor’s feeling of triumph was not unjustifiable. It is something to have sat in the House of Commons, though it has been but for one session! There is on the left-hand side of our great national hall,—on the left-hand side as one enters it, and opposite to the doors leading to the Law Courts,—a pair of gilded lamps, with a door between them, near to which a privileged old dame sells her apples and her oranges solely, as I presume, for the accommodation of the Members of the House and of the great policeman who guards the pass. Between those lamps is the entrance to the House of Commons, and none but Members may go that way! It is the only gate before which I have ever stood filled with envy,—sorrowing to think that my steps might never pass under it. There are many portals forbidden to me, as there are many forbidden to all men; and forbidden fruit, they say, is sweet; but my lips have watered after no other fruit but that which grows so high, within the sweep of that great policeman’s truncheon.
Ah, my male friend and reader, who earnest thy bread, perhaps, as a country vicar; or sittest, may-be, at some weary desk in Somerset House; or who, perhaps, rulest the yard behind the Cheapside counter, hast thou never stood there and longed,—hast thou never confessed, when standing there, that Fate has been unkind to thee in denying thee the one thing that thou hast wanted? I have done so; and as my slow steps have led me up that more than royal staircase, to those passages and halls which require the hallowing breath of centuries to give them the glory in British eyes which they shall one day possess, I have told myself, in anger and in grief, that to die and not to have won that right of way, though but for a session,—not to have passed by the narrow entrance through those lamps,—is to die and not to have done that which it most becomes an Englishman to have achieved.
There are, doubtless, some who come out by that road, the loss of whose society is not to be regretted. England does not choose her six hundred and fifty-four best men. One comforts one’s self, sometimes, with remembering that. The George Vavasors, the Calder Joneses, and the Botts are admitted. Dishonesty, ignorance, and vulgarity do not close the gate of that heaven against aspirants; and it is a consolation to the ambition of the poor to know that the ambition of the rich can attain that glory by the strength of its riches alone. But though England does not send thither none but her best men, the best of her Commoners do find their way there. It is the highest and most legitimate pride of an Englishman to have the letters M.P. written after his name. No selection from the alphabet, no doctorship, no fellowship, be it of ever so learned or royal a society, no knightship,—not though it be of the Garter,—confers so fair an honour. Mr Bott was right when he declared that this country is governed from between the walls of that House, though the truth was almost defiled by the lips which uttered it. He might have added that from thence flow the waters of the world’s progress,—the fullest fountain of advancing civilization.
George Vavasor, as he went in by the lamps and the apple-stall, under the guardianship of Mr Bott, felt all the pride of which I have been speaking. He was a man quite capable of feeling such pride as it should be felt,—capable, in certain dreamy moments, of looking at the thing with pure and almost noble eyes; of understanding the ambition of serving with truth so great a nation as that which fate had made his own. Nature, I think, had so fashioned George Vavasor, that he might have been a good, and perhaps a great man; whereas Mr Bott had been born small. Vavasor had educated himself to badness with his eyes open. He had known what was wrong, and had done it, having taught himself to think that bad things were best. But poor Mr Bott had meant to do well, and thought that he had done very well indeed. He was a tufthunter and a toady, but he did not know that he was doing amiss in seeking to rise by tufthunting and toadying. He was both mean and vain, both a bully and a coward, and in politics, I fear, quite unscrupulous in spite of his grand dogmas; but he believed that he was progressing in public life by the proper and usual means, and was troubled by no idea that he did wrong.
Vavasor, in those dreamy moments of which I have spoken, would