 1 Phineas Finn. Dr. Finn of Killaloe in County Clair was as well known in those parts, the confines, that is, of the Counties Clair, Limerick, Tipperary, and Galway, as was the bishop himself who lived in the same town, and was as much respected. Many said that the doctor was the richer man of the two, and the practice of his profession was extended over almost as wide a district. Indeed, the bishop whom he was privileged to attend, although a Roman Catholic, always spoke of their diocese being contaminant. It will therefore be understood that Dr. Finn, Malachi Finn was his full name, had obtained a wide reputation as a country practitioner in the west of Ireland, and he was a man sufficiently well to do, though that boast made by his friends, that he was as warm a man as the bishop, had but little truth to support it. Bishops in Ireland, if they live at home, even in these days, are very warm men, and Dr. Finn had not a penny in the world for which he had not worked hard. He had, moreover, a costly family, five daughters and one son, and at the time of which we are speaking, no provision in the way of marriage or profession had been made for any of them. Of the one son, Phineas, the hero of the following pages, the mother and five sisters were very proud. The doctor was accustomed to say that his goose was as good as any other man's goose as far as he could see as yet, but that he should like some very strong evidence before he allowed himself to express an opinion that the young bird partook, in any degree, of the qualities of a swan, from which it may be gathered that Dr. Finn was a man of common sense. Phineas had come to be a swan in the estimation of his mother and sisters by reason of certain early successes at college. His father, whose religion was not of that bitter kind in which we in England are apt to suppose that all the Irish-Roman Catholics indulge, had sent his son to Trinity, and there were some in the neighborhood of Killaloe, patients probably of Dr. Duggan, of Castle Connell, a learned physician who had spent a fruitless life in endeavouring to make head against Dr. Finn, who declared that old Finn would not be sorry if his son were to turn Protestant and go in for a fellowship. Mrs. Finn was a Protestant, and the five Miss Finns were Protestants, and the doctor himself was very much given to dining out among his Protestant friends on a Friday. Our Phineas, however, did not turn Protestant up in Dublin, whatever his father's secret wishes on that subject may have been. He did join a debating society, to success in which his religion was no bar, and he there achieved a sort of distinction, which was both easy and pleasant, and which, making its way down to Killaloe, assisted in engendering those ideas as to swanhood of which maternal and sisterly minds are so sweetly susceptible. "'I know half a dozen old windbags at the present moment,' said the doctor, who were great fellows at debating clubs when they were boys. "'Phineas is not a boy any longer,' said Mrs. Finn, and windbags don't get college scholarships,' said Matilda Finn, the second daughter. "'But Papa always snubs Finney,' said Barbara, the youngest. "'I'll snub you if you don't take care,' said the doctor, taking Barbara tenderly by the ear, for his youngest daughter was the doctor's pet. The doctor certainly did not snub his son, for he allowed him to go over to London when he was twenty-two years of age, in order that he might read with an English barrister. It was the doctor's wish that his son might be called to the Irish Bar, and the young man's desire that he might go to the English Bar. The doctor so far gave way under the influence of Phineas himself, and of all the young women of the family, as to pay the usual fee to a very competent and learned gentleman in the Middle Temple, and to allow his son one hundred and fifty pounds per annum for three years. Dr. Finn, however, was still firm in his intention that his son should settle in Dublin and take the Munster Circuit, believing that Phineas might come to want home influences and home connections in spite of the swanhood which was attributed to him. Phineas sat his terms for three years, and was duly called to the Bar. But no evidence came home as to the acquirement of any considerable amount of law-lore, or even as to much law-study, on the part of the young aspirant. The learned pundit at whose feet he had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of his pupil's industry, though he did say a pleasant word or two as to his pupil's intelligence. Phineas himself did not boast much of his own hard work when at home during the long vacation. No rumors of expected successes, of expected professional successes, reached the ears of any of the Finn family at Killalow. And nevertheless there came tidings which maintained those high ideas in the maternal bosom of which mention has been made, and which were of sufficient strength to induce the doctor in opposition to his own judgment, to consent to the continued residence of his son in London. Phineas belonged to an excellent club, the Reform Club, and went into very good society. He was hand-in-glove with the honourable Lawrence Fitzgibbon, the youngest son of Lord Kladdech. He was intimate with Barrington Earl, who had been private secretary, one of the private secretaries, to the great Whig Prime Minister who was lately in, but was now out. He had dined three or four times with that great Whig nobleman, the Earl of Brentford. And he had been assured that if he stuck to the English bar he would certainly do well. Though he might fail to succeed in court or in chambers he would doubtless have given to him some one of those numerous appointments for which none but clever young barristers are supposed to be fitting candidates. The old doctor yielded for another year, although at the end of the second year he was called upon to pay a sum of three hundred pounds, which was then due by Phineas to creditors in London. When the doctor's male friends in and about Killaloe heard that he had done so, they said that he was doting. Not one of the Miss Finns was as yet married, and after all that had been said about the doctor's wealth, it was supposed that there would not be above five hundred pounds a year among them all, were he to give up his profession. But the doctor, when he paid that three hundred pounds for his son, buckled to his work again, though he had for twelve months talked of giving up the midwifery. He buckled to again, to the great disgust of Dr. Duggan, who at this time said very ill-natured things about young Phineas. At the end of the three years Phineas was called to the bar, and immediately received a letter from his father asking minutely as to his professional intentions. His father recommended him to settle in Dublin, and promised the one hundred and fifty pounds for three more years, on condition that this advice was followed. He did not absolutely say that the allowance would be stopped if the advice were not followed, but that was plainly to be implied. That letter came at the moment of a dissolution of Parliament. Lord Deterrier, the Conservative Prime Minister, who had now been in office for the almost unprecedentedly long period of fifteen months, had found that he could not face continued majorities against him in the House of Commons, and had dissolved the House. Rumour declared that he would have much preferred to resign, and to take himself once again to the easy glories of opposition. But his party had naturally been obdurate with him, and he had resolved to appeal to the country. When Phineas received his father's letter, it had just been suggested to him at the Reform Club, that he should stand for the Irish Brough of Lach Shane. This proposition had taken Phineas Finn so much by surprise that when first made to him by Barrington Earl, it took his breath away. What? He, stand for Parliament, twenty-four years old, with no vestige of property belonging to him, without a penny in his purse, as completely dependent on his father as he was when he first went to school at eleven years of age. And for Lach Shane, a little borough in the county Galway, for which a brother of that fine old Irish peer, the Earl of Tola, had been sitting for the last twenty years, a fine, high-minded representative of the thoroughgoing orange Protestant feeling of Ireland, and the Earl of Tola, to whom almost all Lach Shane belonged, or at any rate the land about Lach Shane, was one of his father's staunchest friends. Lach Shane is in county Galway, but the Earl of Tola usually lived at his seat in county Claire, not more than ten miles from Killaloe, and always confided his gouty feet and the weak nerves of the old Countess, and the stomachs of all his domestics, to the care of Dr. Finn. How was it possible that Phineas should stand for Lach Shane? From whence was the money to come for such a contest? It was a beautiful dream, a grand idea, lifting Phineas almost off the earth by its glory. When the proposition was first made to him in the smoking-room at the Reform Club by his friend Earl, he was aware that he blushed like a girl, and that he was unable at the moment to express himself plainly. So great was his astonishment, and so great his gratification. But before ten minutes had passed by, while Barrington Earl was still sitting over his shoulder on the club sofa, and before the blushes had altogether vanished, he had seen the improbability of the scheme, and had explained to his friend that the thing could not be done. But to his increased astonishment his friend made nothing of the difficulties. Lach Shane, according to Barrington Earl, was so small a place that the expense would be very little. There were altogether no more than three hundred and seven registered electors. The inhabitants were so far removed from the world, and were so ignorant of the world's good things, that they knew nothing about bribery. The Honorable George Morris, who had sat for the last twenty years, was very unpopular. He had not been near the borough since the last election. He had hardly done more than show himself in Parliament, and had neither given a shilling in the town, nor got a place under government for a single son of Lach Shane. "'And he has quarrelled with his brother,' said Barrington Earl. "'The devil he has,' said Phineas. "'I thought they always swore by each other.' "'It's at each other, they swear now,' said Barrington. "'George has asked the Earl for more money, and the Earl has cut up rusty.' Then the negotiator went on to explain that the expenses of the election would be defrayed out of a certain fund collected for such purposes, that Lach Shane had been chosen as a cheap place, and that Phineas Finn had been chosen as a safe and promising young man. As for qualification, if any question were raised, that should be made all right. An Irish candidate was wanted, and a Roman Catholic. So much the Lach Shaneers would require on their own account, when instigated to dismiss from their service, that thoroughgoing Protestant, the Honorable George Morris. Then the party, by which Barrington Earl probably meant, the great man in whose service he himself had become a politician, required that the candidate should be a safe man, one who would support the party. Not a cantankerous, red-hot, semi-phinean running about to meetings at the Rotunda, and such like, with views of his own about Tennant Wright and the Irish Church. But I have views of my own, said Phineas, blushing again. Of course you have, my dear boy, said Barrington, clapping him on the back. I shouldn't come to you unless you had views, but your views and ours are the same, and you're just the lad for Galway. You mightn't have such an opening again in your life, and of course you'll stand for Lach Shane. Then the conversation was over. The private secretary went away to arrange some other little matter of the kind, and Phineas Finn was left alone to consider the proposition that had been made to him. To become a member of the British Parliament? In all those hot contests at the two debating clubs to which he had belonged, this had been the ambition which had moved him. For, after all, to what purpose of their own had those empty debates ever tended? He and three or four others, who had called themselves liberals, had been pitted against four or five who had called themselves conservatives, and night after night they had discussed some ponderous subject without any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that their talking would ever conduce to any action or to any result. But each of these combatants had felt, without daring to announce a hope on the subject among themselves, that the present arena was only a trial ground for some possible greater amphitheater, for some future debating club, in which debates would lead to action, and in which eloquence would have power, even though persuasion might be out of the question. Phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to himself, of such a hope. The labors of the bar had to be encountered before the dawn of such a hope could come to him, and he had gradually learned to feel that his prospects at the bar were not as yet very promising. As regarded professional work he had been idle, and how then could he have a hope? And now this thing, which he regarded as being of all things in the world the most honorable, had come to him all at once, and was possibly within his reach. If he could believe Barrington Earl, he had only to lift up his hand, and he might be in Parliament within two months. And who was to be believed on such a subject if not Barrington Earl? This was Earl's special business, and such a man would not have come to him on such a subject had he not been in earnest, and had he not himself believed in success. There was an opening ready, an opening to this great glory, if only it might be possible for him to fill it. What would his father say? His father would, of course, oppose the plan, and if he opposed his father, his father would, of course, stop his income. And such an income as it was, could it be that a man should sit in Parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty pounds a year? Since that payment of his debts he had become again embarrassed to a slight amount. He owed a tailor a trifle, and a bootmaker a trifle, and something to the man who sold gloves and shirts, and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt, with more than Irish pertenacity, living very closely, breakfasting upon tea and roll, and dining frequently for a shilling at a luncheon-house up a court near Lincoln's Inn. Where should he dine if the Lachchaners elected him to Parliament? And then he painted to himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries of a man who begins life too high up on the ladder, who succeeds in mounting before he has learned how to hold on when he is aloft. For our finneas fin was a young man not without sense, not entirely a wind-bag. If he did this thing the probability was that he might become utterly a castaway, and go entirely to the dogs before he was thirty. He had heard of penniless men who had got into Parliament, and to whom had come such a fate. He was able to name to himself a man or two whose barks, carrying more sale than they could bear, had gone to pieces among early breakers in this way. But then, would it not be better to go to pieces early than never to carry any sale at all? And there was at any rate the chance of success. He was already a barrister, and there were so many things open to a barrister with a seat in Parliament. And as he knew of men who had been utterly ruined by such early mounting, so also did he know of others whose fortunes had been made by happy audacity when they were young. He almost thought that he could die happy if he had once taken his seat in Parliament. If he had received one letter with those grand initials written after his name on the address. Young men in battle are called upon to lead forlorn hopes. Three fall, perhaps, to one who gets through. But the one who gets through will have the Victoria Cross to carry for the rest of his life. This was his forlorn hope, and as he had been invited to undertake the work he would not turn from the danger. On the following morning he again saw Barrington Earl by appointment, and then wrote the following letter to his father. Reform Club. February. 1860 Blank. My dear father, I am afraid that the purport of this letter will startle you, but I hope that when you have finished it you will think that I am right in my decision as to what I am going to do. You are no doubt aware that the dissolution of Parliament will take place at once, and that we shall be in all the turmoil of a general election by the middle of March. I have been invited to stand for Lach Shane and have consented. The proposition has been made to me by my friend Barrington Earl, Mr. Mildmay's private secretary, and has been made on behalf of the political committee of the Reform Club. I need hardly say that I should not have thought of such a thing with a less thorough promise of support than this gives me, nor should I think of it now had I not been assured that none of the expense of the election would fall upon me. Of course I could not have asked you to pay for it. But to such a proposition, so made, I have felt that it would be cowardly to give a refusal. I cannot but regard such a selection as a great honour. I own that I am fond of politics, and have taken great delight in their study. Stupid young fool, his father said to himself as he read this. And it has been my dream, for years past, to have a seat in Parliament at some future time. Dream, yes, I wonder whether he has ever dreamed what he is to live upon. The chance has now come to me much earlier than I have looked for it, but I do not think that it should on that account be thrown away. Looking to my profession, I find that many things are open to a barrister with a seat in Parliament, and that the House need not interfere much with a man's practice. Not if he has got to the top of his tree, said the Doctor. My chief doubt arose from the fact of your old friendship with Lord Tulla, whose brother has filled the seat for I don't know how many years. But it seems that George Morris must go, or at least that he must be opposed by a liberal candidate. If I do not stand, someone else will, and I should think that Lord Tulla will be too much of a man to make any personal quarrel on such a subject. If he is to lose the borough, why should not I have it as well as another? I can fancy, my dear father, all that you will say as to my imprudence, and I quite confess that I have not a word to answer. I have told myself more than once, since last night, that I shall probably ruin myself. I wonder whether he has ever told himself that he will probably ruin me also, said the Doctor. But I am prepared to ruin myself in such a cause. I have no one dependent on me, and as long as I do nothing to disgrace my name, I may dispose of myself as I please. If you decide on stopping my allowance, I shall have no feeling of anger against you. How very considerate, said the Doctor. And in that case I shall endeavor to support myself by my pen. I have already done a little for the magazines. Give my best love to my mother and sisters. If you will receive me during the time of the election, I shall see them soon. Perhaps it will be best for me to say that I have positively decided on making the attempt. That is to say, if the club committee is as good as its promise. I have weighed the matter all round, and I regard the prize as being so great that I am prepared to run any risk to obtain it. Indeed, to me, with my views about politics, the running of such a risk is no more than a duty. I cannot keep my hand from the work, now that the work has come in the way of my hand. I shall be most anxious to get a line from you in answer to this. Your most affectionate son, Phineas Finn. I question whether Dr. Finn, when he read this letter, did not feel more of pride than of anger, whether he was not rather gratified than displeased, in spite of all that his commonsense told him on the subject. His wife and daughters, when they heard the news, were clearly on the side of the young man. Mrs. Finn immediately expressed an opinion that Parliament would be the making of her son, and that everybody would be sure to employ so distinguished a barrister. The girls declared that Phineas ought, at any rate, to have his chance, and almost asserted that it would be brutal in their father to stand in their brother's way. It was in vain that the doctor tried to explain that going into Parliament could not help a young barrister, whatever it might do for one thoroughly established in his profession, that Phineas, if successful at Lakshane, would at once abandon all idea of earning any income, that the proposition, coming from so poor a man, was a monstrosity, that such an opposition to the Morris family, coming from a son of his, would be gross in gratitude to Lord Tulla. Mrs. Finn and the girls talked him down, and the doctor himself was almost carried away by something like vanity in regard to his son's future position. Nevertheless, he wrote a letter strongly advising Phineas to abandon the project. But he himself was aware that the letter which he wrote was not one from which any success could be expected. He advised his son, but did not command him. He made no threats as to stopping his income. He did not tell Phineas, in so many words, that he was proposing to make an ass of himself. He argued very prudently against the plan, and Phineas, when he received his father's letter, of course felt that it was tantamount to a paternal permission to proceed with the matter. On the next day he got a letter from his mother, full of affection, full of pride, not exactly telling him to stand for Lachsheen by all means, for Mrs. Finn was not the woman to run openly counter to her husband in any advice given by her to their son. But giving him every encouragement which motherly affection and motherly pride could bestow. Of course you will come to us, she said. If you do make up your mind to be member for Lachsheen, we shall all of us be so delighted to have you. Phineas, who had fallen into a sea of doubt after writing to his father, and who had demanded a week from Barrington Earl to consider the matter, was elated to positive certainty by the joint effect of the two letters from home. He understood it all. His mother and sisters were all together in favor of his audacity, and even his father was not disposed to quarrel with him on the subject. I shall take you at your word, he said to Barrington Earl at the club that evening. What word, said Earl, who had too many irons in the fire to be thinking always of Lachsheen and Phineas Finn, or who at any rate did not choose to let his anxiety on the subject be seen? About Lachsheen. All right, old fellow, we shall be sure to carry you through. The Irish writs will be out on the third of March, and the sooner you are there, the better. CHAPTER II Of Phineas Finn the Irish Member This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mille Nicholson Phineas Finn the Irish Member By Anthony Trollop CHAPTER II Phineas Finn is elected for Lachsheen. One great difficulty about the borough vanished in a very wonderful way at the first touch. Dr. Finn, who was a man stout at heart and by no means afraid of his great friends, drove himself over to Castle Morris to tell his news to the Earl, as soon as he got a second letter from his son declaring his intention of proceeding with the business, let the results be what they might. Lord Tuller was a passionate old man, and the doctor expected that there would be a quarrel, but he was prepared to face that. He was under no special debt of gratitude to the Lord, having given as much as he had taken in the long intercourse which had existed between them, and he agreed with his son in thinking that if there was to be a liberal candidate at Lachsheen, no consideration of old pillboxes and galley-pots should deter his son Phineas from standing. Other considerations might very probably deter him, but not that. The Earl probably would be of a different opinion, and the doctor felt it to be incumbent on him to break the news to Lord Tuller. The devil he is, said the Earl, and the doctor had told his story. Then I'll tell you what, Phine, I'll support him. You support him, Lord Tuller? Yes. Why shouldn't I support him? I suppose it's not so bad with me in the country that my support will rob him of his chance. I'll tell you one thing for certain. I won't support George Morris. But my Lord, well, go on. I've never taken much part in politics myself, as you know, but my boy Phineas is on the other side. I don't care a damn for sides. What has my party done for me? Look at my cousin Dick Morris. There's not a clergyman in Ireland stauncher to them than he has been, and now they've given the deenery of Kilfinora to a man that never had a father. Though I condescended to ask for it for my cousin, let them wait till I ask for anything again. Dr. Phine, who knew all about Dick Morris's debts, and who had heard of his modes of preaching, was not surprised at the decision of the conservative bestower of Irish church patronage, but on the subject he said nothing. And as for George, continued the Earl, I will never lift my hand again for him. His standing for love's shame would be quite out of the question. My own tenants wouldn't vote for him if I were to ask them myself. Peter Blake, Mr. Peter Blake was the Lord's agent, told me only a week ago that it would be useless. The whole thing is gone, and for my part I wish they'd disenfranchise the borough. I wish they'd disenfranchise the whole country, and send us a military governor. What's the use of such members as we send? There isn't one gentleman among ten of them. Your son is welcome for me. What support I can give him he shall have, but it isn't much. I suppose he'd better come and see me. The doctor promised that his son should ride over to Castle Morris, and then took his leave. Not specially flattered, as he felt that were his son to be returned, the Earl would not regard him as the one gentleman among ten whom the county might send to leaven the remainder of its members. But aware that the greatest impediment in his son's way was already removed. He certainly had not gone to Castle Morris with any idea of canvassing for his son, and yet he had canvassed for him most satisfactorily. When he got home he did not know how to speak of the matter otherwise than triumphantly to his wife and daughters. Though he desired a curse, his mouth would speak blessings. Before that evening was over the prospects of Phineas at Loughshain were spoken of with open enthusiasm before the doctor, and by the next day's post a letter was written to him by Matilda, informing him that the Earl was prepared to receive him with open arms. "'Papar has been over there, and managed it all,' said Matilda. "'I'm till George Morris isn't going to stand,' said Barrington Earl, to Phineas the night before his departure. His brother won't support him. "'His brother means to support me,' said Phineas. "'That can hardly be so. "'What I tell you it is. "'My father has known the Earl these twenty years, and has managed it.' "'I say, Phine, you're not going to play us a trick, are you?' said Mr. Earl, with something like dismay in his voice. "'What sort of trick?' "'You're not coming out on the other side.' "'Not if I know it,' said Phineas proudly. "'Let me assure you, I wouldn't change my views in politics, "'either for you or for the Earl, though each of you carried seats "'in your breeches' pockets. "'If I go into Parliament, I shall go there as a sound liberal, "'not to support a party, but to do the best I can for the country. "'I tell you so, and I shall tell the Earl the same.' Barrington Earl turned away and discussed. Such language was to him simply disgusting. It fell upon his ears as false, mortal and sentiment falls on the ears of the ordinary honest man of the world. Barrington Earl was a man ordinarily honest. He would not have been untrue to his mother's brother, William Mildmay, the great wig-minister of the day, for any earthly consideration. He was ready to work with wages or without wages. He was really zealous in the cause, not asking very much for himself. He had some undefined belief that it was much better for the country that Mr. Mildmay should be in power than that Lord Deterrier should be there. He was convinced that liberal politics were good for Englishmen, and that liberal politics and the Mildmay party were one and the same thing. It would be unfair to Barrington Earl to deny him some praise for patriotism, but he hated the very name of independence in Parliament, and when he was told of any man that that man intended to look to measures and not to men, he regarded that man as being both unstable as water and dishonest as the wind. No good could possibly come from such a one, and much evil might and probably would come. Such a politician was a Greek to Barrington Earl, from whose hands he feared to accept even the gift of a vote. Many hermits were distasteful to him, and dwellers in political caves were regarded by him with a version as being either naivish or impractical. With a good conservative opponent he could shake hands almost as readily as with a good Whig ally, but the man who was neither flesh nor foul was odious to him. According to his theory of parliamentary government, the House of Commons should be divided by a marked line, and every member should be required to stand on one side of it or on the other. If not with me, at any rate be against me, he would have said to every representative of the people in the name of the great leader whom he followed. He thought that debates were good because of the people outside, because they served to create that public opinion which was hereafter to be used in creating some future House of Commons, but he did not think it possible that any vote should be given on a great question, either this way or that, as the result of a debate, and he was certainly assured in his own opinion that any such changing of votes would be dangerous, revolutionary, and almost unparliamentary. A member's vote, except on some small crotchety open question thrown out for the amusement of crotchety members, was due to the leader of that member's party. Which was Mr. Earle's idea of the English system of Parliament, and lending semi-official assistance, as he did frequently, to the introduction of candidates into the House, he was naturally anxious that his candidates should be candidates after his own heart. When, therefore, Phineas Finn talked of measures and not men, Barrington Earle turned away in open disgust, but he remembered the youth in extreme rawness of the lad, and he remembered also the careers of other men. Barrington Earle was forty, and experience had taught him something. After a few seconds he brought himself to think mildly of the young man's vanity, as of the vanity of a plunging coat who resents the liberty even of a touch. By the end of the first session the thong will be cracked over his head, as he patiently assists in pulling the coat up hill, without producing from him even a flick of his tail. He said Barrington Earle to an old parliamentary friend. If he were to come out, after all, on the wrong side, said the parliamentary friend, Earle admitted that such a trick as that would be unpleasant, but he thought that old Lord Tuller was hardly equal to so clever a stratagem. Phineas went to Ireland, and walked over the course at Lafeshain. He called upon Lord Tuller, and heard that venerable nobleman talk a great deal of nonsense. To tell the truth of Phineas, I must confess that he wished to talk the nonsense himself, but the Earle would not hear him, and put him down very quickly. We won't discuss politics, if you please, Mr. Phine, because, as I have already said, I am throwing aside all political considerations. Phineas, therefore, was not allowed to express his views on the government of the country in the Earle's sitting-room at Castle Morris. There was, however, a good time coming, and so for the present he allowed the Earle to ramble on about the sins of his brother George, and the want of all proper pedigree on the part of the new dean of Kilfenora. The conference ended with an assurance on the part of Lord Tuller, that if the Lafeshainers chose to elect Mr. Phineas Finn, he would not be in the least offended. The electors did elect Mr. Phineas Finn, perhaps for the reason given by one of the Dublin Conservative papers, which declared that it was all the fault of the Carlton Club in not sending a proper candidate. There was a great deal said about the matter, both in London and Dublin, and the blame was supposed to fall on the joint shoulders of George Morris and his elder brother. In the meantime our hero, Phineas Finn, had been duly elected Member of Parliament for the borough of Lafeshain. The Finn family could not restrain their triumphings at Killalow, and I do not know that it would have been natural had they done so. A Gosling from such a flock does become something of a real swan by getting into Parliament. The doctor had his misgivings, had great misgivings, fearful forebodings, but there was the young man elected and he could not help it. He could not refuse his right hand to his son, or withdraw his paternal assistance because that son had been specially honoured among the young men of his country. So he pulled out of his hoard what sufficed to pay off outstanding debts. They were not heavy, and undertook to allow Phineas two hundred and fifty pounds a year as long as the session should last. There was a widow, lady, living at Killalow, who was named Mrs. Flood Jones, and she had a daughter. She had a son also, born to inherit the property of the late Floscavel Flood Jones of Floodborough, as soon as that property should have disembarrassed itself, but with him now serving with his regiment in India we shall have no concern. Mrs. Flood Jones was living modestly at Killalow on her widow's jointure. Floodborough having, to tell the truth, pretty nearly fallen into absolute ruin, and with her one daughter Mary. Now on the evening before the return of Phineas Finn Esquire, MP, to London, Mrs. and Mrs. Flood Jones drank tea at the doctor's house. "'It won't make a bit of change in him,' Barbara Phine said to her friend Mary, up in some bedroom privacy before the tea-drinking ceremonies had altogether commenced. "'Oh, it must,' said Mary. "'I tell you it won't, my dear. He is so good and so true.' "'I know he is good, Barbara, and as for truth there is no question about it, because he has never said a word to me that he might not say to any girl. "'That's nonsense, Mary. He never has, then, as sure as the Blessed Virgin watches over us. Only you don't believe she does. Never mind about the Virgin now, Mary. "'But he never has. Your brother is nothing to me, Barbara. Then I hope he will be before the evening's over. He was walking with you all yesterday and the day before. Why shouldn't he, and we that have known each other all our lives? But, Barbara, pray, pray never say a word of this to anyone. Is it I? Wouldn't I cut out my tongue first? I don't know why I let you talk to me in this way. There has never been anything between me and Phineas—your brother, I mean. I know whom you mean very well. And I feel quite sure that there never will be. Why should there? He'll go out among great people, and be a great man, and I've already found out that there is a certain Lady Laura Standish, whom he admires very much—Lady Laura Fiddlestick—a man in Parliament, you know, may look up to anybody,' said Miss Mary Flood-Johns. I want Phine to look up to you, my dear. That wouldn't be looking up—placed as he is now, but would be looking down—and he's so proud that he'll never do that. But calm down, dear, else they'll wonder where we are. Mary Flood-Johns was a little girl, about twenty years of age, with the softest hair in the world, of a colour varying between brown and urban. For sometimes you would swear it was the one, and sometimes the other. And she was as pretty as ever she could be. She was one of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom men with tastes that way given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment. And when she liked her lion, she had a look about her, which seemed to ask to be devoured. There are girls so cold-looking—pretty girls, too—Lady-like, discreet, and armed with all accomplishments, whom to attack seems to require the same sort of courage, and the same sort of preparation as a journey and quest of the North-West passage. One thinks of a pedestal near the Artheneum as the most appropriate and most honourable reward of such courage. But again there are other girls to upstain from attacking whom is, to a man of any warmth of temperament, quite impossible. They are like water when one is a thirst, like plover's eggs in march, like cigars when one is out in the autumn. No one ever dreams of denying himself when such temptation comes in the way. It often happens, however, that in spite of appearances the water will not come from the well, nor the egg from its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. A girl of such appearance, so charming, was Mary-Flug Jones of Killer Low, and our hero, Phineas, was not allowed to thirst in vain for a drop from the cool spring. When the girls went down into the drawing-room, Mary was careful to go to a part of the room quite remote from Phineas, so as to seat herself between Mrs. Finn and Dr. Finn's young partner, Mr. Elias Bodkin, from Balanaslo. But Mrs. Finn and the Miss Finn's and all Killer Low knew that Mary had no love for Mr. Bodkin, and when Mr. Bodkin handed her the hot-cake, she hardly so much as smiled at him. But in two minutes Phineas was behind her chair, and then she smiled, and in five minutes more she had got herself so twisted around that she was sitting in a corner with Phineas and his sister Barbara, and in two more minutes Barbara had returned to Mr. Elias Bodkin so that Phineas and Mary were uninterrupted. They managed these things very quickly and very cleverly in Killer Low. I shall be off tomorrow morning by the early train, said Phineas, so soon, and when will you have to begin in Parliament, I mean? I shall have to take my seat on Friday. I am going back just in time. But when shall be here if you're saying something? Never probably. Not one in ten who go into Parliament ever do say anything. But you will, won't you? Well, I hope you will. I do so hope you will distinguish yourself, because of your sister and for the sake of the town, you know. And is that all, Mary? Isn't that enough? You don't care a bit about me self, then? You know that I do. Haven't we been friends ever since we were children? Of course it will be the great pride to me that a person whom I've known so intimately should come to be talked about as a great man. I shall never be talked about as a great man. You're a great man to me already, being in Parliament. Only think. I never saw a member of Parliament in my life before. You have seen the bishop's scores of times. Is he in Parliament? Ah, but not like you. He couldn't come to be a cabinet minister, and one never reads anything about him in the newspapers. I shall expect to see your name very often, and I shall always look for it. Mr. Finney's Finn, paired off with Mr. Mildmay. What is the meaning of pairing off? I'll explain it all to you when I come back, after learning my lesson. Mind you do come back, but I don't suppose you ever will. You will be going somewhere to see Lady Laura Standish when you're not wanted in Parliament. Lady Laura Standish? And why shouldn't you? Of course with your prospects you should go as much as possible among people of that sort. Is Lady Laura very pretty? She's about six feet high. Nonsense! I don't believe that. She would look as though she were standing by you. Because I'm so insignificant and small? Because your figure is perfect, and because she is struggling. She is as unlike you as possible in everything. She has thick, lumpy red hair, while yours is all silk and softness. She has large hands and feet, and why Finney's? You're making her out to be an ochreess, and yet I know that you admire her. So I do, because she possesses such an appearance of power. And after all, in spite of the lumpy hair, in spite of large hands and straggling figure, she is handsome. One can't tell what it is. One can see that she is quite contented with herself, and intends to make others contented with her. And so she does. I see that you're in love with her, Finneyus. No, not in love, not with her at least. Of all the men in the world, I suppose that I am the last that has a right to be in love. I dare say I shall marry some day. I'm sure I hope you will. Would not till I'm forty, or perhaps fifty years old. If I was not full enough to have what men call a high ambition, I might venture to be in love now. I'm sure I'm very glad that you've got a high ambition. That is what every man ought to have. And I've no doubt that we shall hear of your marriage soon, very soon. And then, if she can help you in your ambition, we shall all be so glad. Finneyus did not say a word further then. Perhaps some commotion among the party broke up the little private conversation in the corner. And he was not alone with Mary again, till there came a moment for him to put her cloak over her shoulders in the back parlor, while Mrs. Flood Jones was finishing some important narrative to his mother. It was Barbara, I think, who stood in some doorway and prevented people from passing, and so gave him the opportunity which he abused. Mary, said he, taking her in his arms about a single word of love-making beyond what the reader has heard, one kiss before we part—no, Finneyus, no! But the kiss had been taken and given, before she had even answered him. Oh, Finneyus, you shouldn't! I should. Why shouldn't I? And Mary, I will have one morsel of your hair. You shall not, indeed you shall not! But the scissors were at hand, and the ringlet was cut and in his pocket before she was ready with her resistance. There was nothing further, not a word more, and Mary went away with her veil down under her mother's wing, weeping sweet silent tears which no one saw. You do love her, don't you, Finneyus? asked Barbara. Bother! Do you go to bed, and don't trouble yourself about such trifles? But mind your old girl to see me off in the morning. She was up to see him off in the morning, to give him coffee and good advice and kisses and to throw all manner of old shoes after him as he started on his great expedition to Parliament. His father gave him an extra twenty-pound note and begged him for God's sake to be careful about his money. His mother told him always to have an orange in his pocket when he intended to speak longer than usual. Then Barbara, in a last whisper, begged him never to forget Dear Mary Flood Jones. Finneyus Finn by Antony Trollop. Chapter 3 Finneyus Finn takes his seat. Finneyus had many serious, almost solemn thoughts on his journey towards London. I am sorry I must assure my female readers that very few of them had reference to Mary Flood Jones. He had, however, very carefully packed up the tress and could bring that out for proper acts of erotic worship at seasons in which his mind might be less engaged with affairs of state than it was at present. Would he make a failure of this great matter which he had taken in hand? He could not but tell himself that the chances were twenty to one against him. Now that he looked nearer at it all, the difficulties loomed larger than ever and the rewards seemed to be less, more difficult of approach and more evanescent. How many members were there who could never get a hearing? How many who only spoke to fail? How many who spoke well who could speak to no effect as far as their own worldly prospects were concerned? He had already known many members of Parliament to whom no outward respect or sign of honour was ever given by anyone and it seemed to him, as he thought over it, that Irish members of Parliament were generally treated with more indifference than any others. There were OB blank and OC blank and OD blank for whom no one cared a straw, who could hard to get men to dine with them at the club and yet they were genuine members of Parliament. Why should he ever be better than OB blank or OC blank or OD blank? And in what way should he begin to be better? He had an idea of the fashion after which it would be his duty to strive that he might excel those gentlemen. He did not give any of them credit for much earnestness in their country's behalf and he was minded to be very earnest. He would go to his work honestly and conscientiously, determined to do his duty as best he might, let the results to himself be what they would. This was a noble resolution and might have been pleasant to him, had he not remembered that smile of derision which had come over his friend Earl's face when he declared his intention of doing his duty to his country as a liberal and not of supporting a party. OB blank and OC blank and OD blank were keen enough to support their party, only they were sometimes a little astray at knowing which was their party for the nonce. He knew that Earl and such men would despise him if he did not fall into the regular groove and if the Barrington Earl's despised him what would then be left for him? His moody thoughts were somewhat dissipated when he found one Lawrence Fitzgibbon, the honorable Lawrence Fitzgibbon, a special friend of his own and a very clever fellow on board the boat as it steamed out of Kingston Harbor. Lawrence Fitzgibbon had also just been over about his election and had been returned as a matter of course for his father's county. Lawrence Fitzgibbon had sat in the house for the last 15 years and was yet well nigh as young a man as any in it, and he was a man altogether different from the OBEs, OCs, and ODs. Lawrence Fitzgibbon could always get the ear of the house if he chose to speak and his friends declared that he might have been high up in office long since if he would have taken the trouble to work. He was a welcome guest at the houses of the very best people and was a friend of whom anyone might be proud. It had for two years been a feather in the cap of Fenneas that he knew Lawrence Fitzgibbon and yet people said that Lawrence Fitzgibbon had nothing of his own and men wondered how he lived. He was the youngest son of Lord Cladda, an Irish peer with a large family who could do nothing for Lawrence, his favorite child, beyond finding him a seat in Parliament. Well, Finn my boy said Lawrence, shaking hands with the young member on board the steamer, so you've made it all right at Lowshane. Then Fenneas was beginning to tell all the story, the wonderful story of George Morris and the Earl of Tula, how the men of Lowshane had elected him without opposition, how he had been supported by Conservatives as well as Liberals, how unanimous Lowshane had been in electing him, Fenneas Finn, as its representative. But Mr. Fitzgibbon seemed to care very little about all this and went so far as to declare that those things were accidents which fell out sometimes one way and sometimes another, and were altogether independent of any merit or demerit on the part of the candidate himself. And it was marvelous and almost painful to Fenneas that his friend Fitzgibbon should accept the fact of his membership with so little of congratulation, with absolutely no blowing of trumpets whatever. Had he been elected a member of the Municipal Corporation of Lowshane, instead of its representative in the British Parliament, Lawrence Fitzgibbon could not have made less fuss about it. Fenneas was disappointed, but he took the cue from his friend too quickly to show his disappointment. And when, half an hour after their meeting, Fitzgibbon had to be reminded that his companion was not in the house during the last session, Fenneas was able to make the remark as though he thought as little about the house as did the old accustomed member himself. As far as I can see as yet, said Fitzgibbon, we are sure to have seventeen. Seventeen, said Fenneas, not quite understanding the meaning of the number quoted. A majority of seventeen. There are four Irish counties and three Scotch, which haven't returned as yet. But we know pretty well what they'll do. There's a doubt about Tipperary, of course, but whichever gets in of the seven who are standing, it will be a vote on our side. Now the government can't live against that. The uphill strain is too much for them. According to my idea, nothing can justify them trying to live against a majority. That's gammon. When the thing is so equal, anything is fair. But you see, they don't like it. Of course, there are some among them as hungry as we are, and Dubby would give his toes and fingers to remain in. Dubby was the ordinary name by which among friends and foes Mr. Dobbyny was known. Mr. Dobbyny, who at that time was the leader of the Conservative Party in the House of Commons. But most of them, continued Mr. Fitzgibbon, prefer the other game, and if you don't care about money, upon my word, it's the pleasanter game of the two. But the country gets nothing done by a Tory government. As to that, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. I never knew a government yet that wanted to do anything. Give a government a real strong majority, as the Tories used to have half a century since, and as a matter of course, it will do nothing. Why should it? Doing things, as you call it, is only bidding for power, for patronage, and pay. And is the country to have no service done? The country gets quite as much service as it pays for, and perhaps a little more. The clerks and the offices work for the country, and the ministers work too if they've got anything to manage. There is plenty of work done, but of work in Parliament, the less the better, according to my ideas. It's very little that ever is done, and that little is generally too much. But the people come down and have a glass of brandy and water, and leave the people alone for the present. The people can take care of themselves a great deal better than we can take care of them. Mr. Fitzgibbon's doctrine, as to the Commonwealth, was very different from that of Barrington Earl, and was still less to the taste of the new member. Barrington Earl considered that his leader, Mr. Mildmay, should be entrusted to make all necessary changes in the laws, and that an obedient House of Commons should implicitly obey that leader in authorizing all changes proposed by him. But according to Barrington Earl, such changes should be numerous and of great importance, and would, if duly passed into law, it is Lord's behest, gradually produce such a wig utopia in England as has never yet been seen on the face of the earth. Now, according to Mr. Fitzgibbon, the present utopia would be good enough, if only he himself might be once more put into possession of a certain semi-political place about the court, from which he had heretofore drawn one thousand pounds per annum, without any work much to his comfort. He made no secret of his ambition, and was chagrin simply at the prospect of having to return to his electors before he could enjoy those good things which he expected to receive from the undoubted majority of seventeen, which had been, or would be, achieved. I hate all change as a rule, said Fitzgibbon, but upon my word we ought to alter that. When a fellow has got a crumb of comfort after waiting for it years and years, and perhaps spending thousands in elections, he has to go back and try his hand again at the last moment, merely in obedience to some antiquated prejudice. Look at poor Jack Bond, the best friend I ever had in the world. He was wrecked upon that rock forever. He spent every shilling he had in contesting Romford three times running, and three times running he got in. Then they made him vice-controller of the granaries, and I'm shot if he didn't get spilt at Romford on standing for his re-election. And what became of him? God knows. I think I heard that he married an old woman and settled down somewhere. I know he never came up again. Now I call that a confounded shame. I suppose I'm safe down in Mayo, but there's no knowing what may happen in these days. As they parted at Euston Square, Phineas asked his friends some little nervous question as to the best mode of making a first entrance into the house. Would Lawrence Fitzgibbon see him through the difficulties of the oath-taking? But Lawrence Fitzgibbon made very little of the difficulty. Oh, you just come down and there'll be a rush of fellows and you'll know everybody. You'll have to hang about for an hour or so, and then you'll get pushed through. There isn't time for much ceremony after a general election. Phineas reached London early in the morning and went home to bed for an hour or so. The house was to meet on that very day and he intended to begin his parliamentary duties at once if he should find it possible to get someone to accompany him. He felt that he should lack courage to go down to Westminster Hall alone and explained to the policemen and doorkeepers that he was the man who had just been elected member for Lowshane. So about noon he went into the reform club and there he found a great crowd of men, among whom there was a plentiful sprinkling of members. Earl saw him in a moment and came to him with congratulations. �So you're all right, Finn� said he. �Yes, I'm all right. I didn't have much doubt about it when I went over. I never heard of a fellow with such a run of luck,� said Earl. �It's just one of those flukes that occur once in a dozen elections. Anyone on earth might have got in without spending a shilling.� Phineas didn't at all like this. �I don't think anyone could have got in,� said he, without knowing Lord Tula. Lord Tula was nowhere, my dear boy, and could have nothing to say to it. But never mind that. You meet me in the lobby at two. There will be a lot of us there and we'll go in together. Have you seen Fitzgibbon? Then Barrington Earl went off to other business and Finn was congratulated by other men. But it seemed to him that the congratulations of his friends were not hardy. He spoke to some men, of whom he thought that he knew they would have given their eyes to be in Parliament, and that they spoke of his success as being a very ordinary thing. �Well, my boy, I hope you like it,� said one middle-aged gentleman, whom he had known ever since he came up to London. �The difference is between working for nothing and working for money. You'll have to work for nothing now.� �That's about it,� I suppose,� said Phineas. �They say the house is a comfortable club,� said the middle-aged friend. �But I confess that I shouldn't like being rung away from my dinner myself.� At two punctually, Phineas was in the lobby at Westminster, and then he found himself taken into the house with a crowd of other men. The old and young, and they who were neither old nor young, were mingled together, and there seemed to be very little respect of persons. On three or four occasions there was some cheering when a popular man or a great leader came in, but the work of the day left but little clear impression on the mind of the young member. He was confused, half-related, half-disappointed, and had not his wits about him. He found himself constantly regretting that he was there and is constantly telling himself that he, hardly yet twenty-five, without a shilling of his own, had achieved an entrance into that assembly which by the consent of all men is the greatest in the world and which many of the rich magnets of the country had in vain spent heaps of treasure in their endeavours to open to their own footsteps. He tried hard to realize what he had gained, but the dust and the noise and the crowds and the want of something august to the eye were almost too strong for him. He managed, however, to take the oath early among those who took it and heard the queen's speech read and the address moved and seconded. He was seated very uncomfortably, high up on a back seat between two men whom he did not know, and he found the speeches to be very long. He had been in the habit of seeing such speeches reported in about a column, and he thought that these speeches must take at least four columns each. He sat out the debate on the address till the house was adjourned and then he went away to dine at his club. He did go into the dining room of the house, but there was a crowd there and he found himself alone, and to tell the truth he was afraid to order his dinner. The nearest approach to a triumph which he had in London came to him from the glory which his election reflected upon his landlady. She was a kindly good motherly soul whose husband was a journeyman law stationer and who kept a very decent house in Great Marlboro Street. Here Phineas had lodged since he had been in London and was a great favourite. God bless my soul, Mr. Phineas, said she, only think of your being a member of Parliament. Yes, I'm a member of Parliament, Mrs. Bunce, and you'll go on with the rooms the same as ever while I never thought to have a member of Parliament in them. Mrs. Bunce really had realised the magnitude of the step which her lodger had taken, and Phineas was grateful to her. CHAPTER IV Lady Laura Standish Phineas, in describing Lady Laura Standish to Mary Flood Jones at Cololoe, had not painted her in very glowing colours. Nevertheless, he admired Lady Laura very much, and she was worthy of admiration. It was probably the greatest pride of our hero's life that Lady Laura Standish was his friend, and that she had instigated him to undertake the risk of parliamentary life. Lady Laura was intimate also with Barrington Earl, who was, in some distant degree, her cousin, and Phineas was not without a suspicion that his selection for Lowe Shane, from out of all the young liberal candidates, may have been in some degree owing to Lady Laura's influence with Barrington Earl. He was not unwilling that it should be so, for though, as he had repeatedly told himself, he was by no means in love with Lady Laura, who was, as he imagined, somewhat older than himself. Nevertheless, he would feel gratified at accepting anything from her hands, and he felt a keen desire for some increase to those ties of friendship which bound them together. No, he was not in love with Lady Laura Standish. He had not the remotest idea of asking her to be his wife. So he told himself, both before he went over for his election and after his return. When he had found himself in a corner with poor little Mary Flood Jones, he had kissed her as a matter of course. But he did not think that he could, in any circumstances, be tempted to kiss Lady Laura. He supposed that he was in love with his darling little Mary after a fashion. Of course, it could never come to anything because of the circumstances of his life which were so imperious to him. He was not in love with Lady Laura, and yet he hoped that his intimacy with her might come to much. He had more than once asked himself how he would feel when somebody else came to be really in love with Lady Laura, for she was by no means a woman to lack lovers, when someone else should be in love with her and be received by her as a lover. But this question he had never been able to answer. There were many questions about himself which he usually answered by telling himself that it was his fate to walk over volcanoes. Of course, I shall be blown into Adam some fine day, he would say, but after all that is better than being slowly boiled down into pulp. The house had met on a Friday, again on the Saturday morning, and the debate on the address had been adjourned until the Monday. On the Sunday, Fenneas determined that he would see Lady Laura. She professed to be always at home on Sunday, and from three to four in the afternoon her drawing room would probably be half full of people. There would at any rate be comers and goers who would prevent anything like real conversation between himself and her. But for a few minutes before that he might probably find her alone, and he was most anxious to see whether her reception of him, as a member of parliament, would be in any degree warmer than that of his other friends. Hitherto he had found no such warmth since he came to London, accepting that which had glowed in the bosom of Mrs. Bunce. Lady Laura Standish was the daughter of the Earl of Brentford and was the only remaining lady of the Earl's family. The Countess had been long dead, and Lady Emily, the younger daughter who had been the great beauty of her day, was now the wife of a Russian nobleman whom she had persisted in preferring to any of her English suitors and lived at St. Petersburg. There was an aunt, old Lady Laura, who came up to town about the middle of May, but she was always in the country except for some six weeks in the season. There was a certain Lord Chiltern, the Earl's son and heir, who did indeed live at the family townhouse in Portman Square. But Lord Chiltern was a man of whom Lady Laura set did not often speak, and Fenneas, frequently as he had been at the house, had never seen Lord Chiltern there. He was a young nobleman of whom various accounts were given by various people. But I fear that the account most readily accepted in London attributed to him a great intimacy with the affairs at New Market and impartiality for convivial pleasures. Respecting Lord Chiltern, Fenneas had never as yet exchanged a word with Lady Laura. With her father he was acquainted, as he had died perhaps half a dozen times at the house. The point in Lord Brentford's character which had more than any other struck our hero was the unlimited confidence which he seemed to place in his daughter. Lady Laura seemed to have perfect power of doing what she pleased. She was much more mistress of herself than if she had been the wife instead of the daughter of the Earl of Brentford, and she seemed to be quite as much mistress of the house. Fenneas had declared at Killaloe that Lady Laura was six feet high, that she had red hair, that her figure was straggling, and that her hands and feet were large. She was in fact about five feet seven in height, and she carried her height well. There was something of nobility in her gate, and she seemed thus to be taller than her inches. Her hair was in truth red of a deep, thorough redness. Her brother's hair was the same, and so had been that of her father before it had become sandy with age. Her sisters had been of a soft, obron hue, and hers had been said to be the prettiest head of hair in Europe at the time of her marriage. But in these days we have got to like red hair, and Lady Laura's was not supposed to stand in the way of her being considered a beauty. Her face was very fair, though it lacked that softness which we all love in women. Her eyes, which were large and bright and very clear, never seemed to quail, never rose and sunk or showed themselves to be afraid of their own power. Indeed, Lady Laura Standish had nothing of fear about her. Her nose was perfectly cut, but was rather large, having the slightest possible tendency to be aquiline. Her mouth also was large, but was full of expression, and her teeth were perfect. Her complexion was very bright, but in spite of its brightness she never blushed. The shades of her complexion were set and steady. Those who knew her said that her heart was so fully under command that nothing could stir her blood to any sudden motion. As to that accusation of straggling which had been made against her, it had sprung from ill-natured observation of her modes of sitting. She never straggled when she stood or walked, but she would lean forward when sitting, as a man does and would use her arms in talking, and would put her hand over her face and pass her fingers through her hair, after the fashion of men rather than of women, and she seemed to despise that soft quiescence of her sex in which her generally found so many charms. Her hands and feet were large, as was her whole frame. Such was Lady Laura Standish, and Finneas Finn had been untrue to himself and to his own appreciation of the Lady when he had described her in disparaging terms to Mary Flood Jones. But, though he had spoken of Lady Laura in disparaging terms, he had so spoken of her as to make Miss Flood Jones quite understand that he thought a great deal about Lady Laura. And now, early on the Sunday, he made his way to Portman Square in order that he might learn whether there might be any sympathy for him there. Hitherto he had found none. Everything had been terribly dry and hard, and he had gathered as yet none of the fruit which he had expected that his good fortune would bear for him. It is true that he had not as yet gone among any friends, except those of his club, and then who were in the house along with him. And at the club it might be that there were some who envied him his good fortune, and others who thought nothing of it because it had been theirs for years. Now he would try a friend who he hoped could sympathize, and therefore he called in Portman Square at about half past two on the Sunday morning. Yes, Lady Laura was in the drawing room. The Hall Porter admitted as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had been disturbed from his dinner before his time. Phineas did not care a straw for the Hall Porter. If Lady Laura were not kind to him he would never trouble that Hall Porter again. He was especially sore at this moment because a valued friend, the barrister with whom he had been reading for the last three years, had spent the best part of an hour that Sunday morning improving to him that he had as good as ruined himself. When I first heard it, of course I thought you had inherited a fortune, said Mr. Low. I have inherited nothing, Phineas replied, not a penny, and I never shall. Then Mr. Low had opened his eyes very wide and shaken his head very sadly and had whistled. I am so glad you have come, Mr. Finn, said Lady Laura, meeting Phineas halfway across the large room. Thanks, said he, as he took her hand. I thought that perhaps you had managed to see me before anyone else was here. Well, to tell the truth I have wished it, though I can hardly tell why. I can tell you why, Mr. Finn, but never mind. Come and sit down. I am so very glad that you have been successful, so very glad. You know, I told you that I should never think much of you if you did not at least try it. And therefore I did try, and have succeeded. Faint heart, you know, never did any good. I think it is a man's duty to make his way into the house, that is, if he ever means to be anybody. Of course it is not every man who can get there by the time that he is five and twenty. Every friend that I have in the world says that I have ruined myself. No, I don't say so, said Lady Laura. And you are worth all the others put together. It is such a comfort to have someone to say a cheery word to one. You shall hear nothing but cheery words here. Papa shall say cheery words to you that shall be better than mine, because they shall be weighted with the wisdom of age. I have heard him say twenty times that the earlier a man goes into the house the better, there is much to learn. But your father was thinking of men of fortune. Not at all. Of younger brothers and barristers and of men who have their way to make as you have. Let me see. Can you dine here on Wednesday? There will be no party, of course, but Papa will want to shake hands with you, and you legislators of the lower house are more easily reached on Wednesdays than on any other day. I shall be delighted, said Phineas, feeling, however, that he did not expect much sympathy from Lord Brentford. Mr. Kennedy dines here. You know Mr. Kennedy of Law Lenter, and we will ask your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon. There will be nobody else. As for catching Barrington Earl, that is out of the question at such a time as this. But going back to my being roined, said Phineas, after a pause, don't think of anything so disagreeable. You must not suppose that I am afraid of it. I was going to say that there are worse things than roine, or at any rate than the chance of roine. Supposing that I have to emigrate and skin sheep, what does it matter? I myself, being unencumbered, have myself as my own property to do what I like with. With Nelson it was Westminster Abbey or a peerage. With me it is parliamentary success or sheep-skinning. There shall be no sheep-skinning, Mr. Finn. I will guarantee you. Then I shall be safe. At that moment the door of the room was opened and a man entered with quick steps, came a few yards in and then retreated, slamming the door after him. He was a man with thick, short, red hair and abundance of very red beard, and his face was red, and as it seemed to Phineas, his very eyes, there was something in the countenance of the man which struck him almost with dread, something approaching to ferocity. There was a pause a moment after the door was closed and then Lady Laura spoke. It was my brother children. I do not think that you have ever met him. End of Chapter 4, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 5 of Phineas Finn, The Irish Member This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mill Nicholson. Phineas Finn, The Irish Member by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 5 Mr. and Mrs. Low. That terrible apparition of the red Lord Chilton had disturbed Phineas in the moment of his happiness as he sat listening to the kind flatteries of Lady Laura. And though Lord Chilton had vanished as quickly as he had appeared, they had come no return of his joy. Lady Laura had said some word about her brother, and Phineas had replied that he had never chanced to see Lord Chilton. Then there had been an awkward silence, and almost immediately other persons had come in. After greeting one or two old acquaintances, among whom an elder sister of Laurence Fitzgibbon was one, he took his leave and escaped out into the square. Miss Fitzgibbon is going to dine with her son Wednesday, said Lady Laura. She says she won't answer for her brother, but she will bring him if she can. And you're a member of Parliament now too, they tell me," said Miss Fitzgibbon, holding up her hands. I think everybody will be in Parliament before long. I wish I knew some man who wasn't, that I might think of changing my condition. But Phineas cared very little what Miss Fitzgibbon said to him. Everybody knew Aspasia Fitzgibbon, and all who knew her were accustomed to put up with the violence of her jokes and the bitterness of her remarks. She was an old maid, over forty, very plain, who, having reconciled herself to the fat that she was an old maid, chose to take advantage of such poor privileges as the position gave her. Within the last few years a considerable fortune had fallen into her hands, some twenty-five thousand pounds, which had come to her unexpectedly, a wonderful windfall. And now she was the only one of her family who had money at command. She lived in a small house by herself, in one of the smallest streets of Mayfair, and walked about sturdily by herself, and spoke her mind about everything. She was greatly devoted to her brother Lawrence, so devoted that there was nothing she would not do for him, short of lending him money. But Phineas, when he found himself out in the square, thought nothing of her space if it's given. He had gone to Lady Laura Standish for sympathy, and she had given it to him in full measure. She understood him and his aspirations, if no one else did so on the face of the earth. She rejoiced in his triumph, and was not too hard to tell him that she looked forward to his success, and in what delightful language she had done so. Faint heart never won fair lady. It was thus, or almost thus, that she had encouraged him. He knew well that she had in truth meant nothing more than her words had seemed to signify. He did not for a moment attribute to her ought else, but might not he get another lesson from them. He had often told himself that he was not in love with Laura Standish. But why should he not now tell himself that he was in love with her? Of course there would be difficulty, but was it not the business of his life to overcome difficulties? Had he not already overcome one difficulty almost as great? And why should he be afraid of this other? Faint heart never won fair lady. And this fair lady, for at this moment he was ready to swear that she was very fair, was already half one. She could not have taken him by the hand so warmly, and looked into his face so keenly, had she not felt for him something stronger than common friendship? He had turned down Baker Street from the square, and was now walking towards the Regent's Park. He would go and see the beasts in the zoological gardens, and make up his mind as to his future mode of life in that delightful Sunday solitude. There was very much as to which it was necessary that he should make up his mind. If he resolved that he would ask Lady Laura Standish to be his wife, when should he ask her, and in what manner might he propose to her that they should live? It would hardly suit him to postpone his courtship indefinitely, knowing as he did know that he would be one among many suitors. He could not expect her to wait for him if he did not declare himself. And yet he could hardly ask her to come and share with him the allowance made to him by his father. Whether she had much fortune of her own, or little, or none at all, he did not in the least know. He did know that the Earl had been distressed by his son's extravagance, and that there had been some money difficulties arising from this source. But his great desire would be to support his own wife by his own labour. At present he was hardly in a fair way to do that, unless he could get paid for his parliamentary work. Those fortunate gentlemen who form the government are so paid. Yes, there was the treasury bench open to him, and he must resolve that he would seat himself there. He would make Lady Laura understand this, and then he would ask his question. It was true that at present his political opponents had possession of the treasury bench. But all governments are mortal, and conservative governments in this country are especially prone to die. It was true that he could not hold even a treasury lordship with a poor thousand a year for his salary, without having to face the electors of Lafseine again, before he entered upon the enjoyment of his place. But if he could only do something to give a grace to his name, to show that he was a rising man, the electors of Lafseine, who had once been so easy with him, would surely not be cruel to him, when he showed himself a second time among them. Lord Tuller was his friend, and he had those points of law in his favour which possession bestows. And then he remembered that Lady Laura was related to almost everybody who was anybody among the high wigs. She was, he knew, second cousin to Mr. Mildmay, who for years had been the leader of the wigs, and was third cousin to Barrington Earl. The late president of the council, the Duke of St. Bungay, and Lord Brentford had married sisters, and the St. Bungay people, and the Mildmay people, and the Brentford people had all some sort of connection with the Pelliser people, of whom the heir and coming chief Pantaginate Pelliser would certainly be Chancellor of the Exchequer in the next government. Simply as an introduction into official life, nothing could be more conducive to chances of success than a matrimonial alliance with Lady Laura. Not that he would have thought of such a thing on that account. No, he thought of it because he loved her, honestly because he loved her. He swore to that half a dozen times for his own satisfaction. But, loving her as he did, and resolving that in spite of all difficulties she should become his wife. There could be no reason why he should not, on her account as well as on his own, take advantage of any circumstances that they might be in his favour. As he wandered among the unsavory beasts, elbowed on every side by the Sunday visitors to the garden, he made up his mind that he would first let Lady Laura understand what were his intentions with regard to his future career, and then he would ask her to join her lot to his. At every turn the chances would, of course, be very much against him. Ten to one against him, perhaps on every point, but it was his lot in life to have to face such odds. Twelve months since it had been much more than ten to one against his getting into Parliament, and yet he was there. He expected to be blown into fragments, to sheep-skinning in Australia, or packing preserved meats on the plains of Paraguay. But when the blowing into atoms should come, he was resolved that courage to bear the ruin should not be wanting. Then he quoted a liner, too, of a Latin poet, and felt himself to be comfortable. So here you are again, Mr Finn," said a voice in his ear. Yes, Mitzvith Gibbon, here I am again. I fancied you members of Parliament had something else to do besides looking at wild beasts. I thought you all respent Sunday in arranging how you might most effectively badger each other on Monday. We got through all that early this morning, Mitzvith Gibbon, while you were saying your prayers. Here is Mr Kennedy, too. You know him, I dare say. He also is a member, but then he can afford to be idle. But it so happened that Finneas did not know Mr Kennedy, and consequently there was some slight form of introduction. I believe I am to meet you a dinner on Wednesday," said Finneas, at Lord Brentford's. And me, too," said Mitzvith Gibbon, which will be the greatest possible addition to our pleasure, said Finneas. Mr Kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some difficulty in speaking, and whose bow to our hero had hardly done more than produced the slightest possible motion to the top of his hat, hereupon muttered something which was taken to mean an ascent to the proposition as to Wednesday's dinner. Then he stood perfectly still, with his two hands fixed on the top of his umbrella, and gazed at the great monkey's cage. But it was clear that he was not looking at any special monkey, for his eyes never wandered. Did you ever see such a contrast in your life? said Mitzvith Gibbon, to Finneas, hardly in a whisper. Between what? said Finneas. Between Mr Kennedy and the monster, Kennedy and the monkey. The monkey has so much to say for himself, and is so delightfully wicked. I don't suppose that Mr Kennedy ever did anything wrong in his life. Mr Kennedy was a man who had very little temptation to do anything wrong. He was possessed of over a million and a half of money, which he was mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself. Whereas it may be doubted whether he had ever earned a penny. His father and his uncle had created a business in Glasgow, and that business now belonged to him. But his father and his uncle who had toiled through their long lives had left behind them servants who understood the work, and the business now went on prospering almost by its own momentum. The Mr Kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the business, though he did occasionally go to Glasgow, certainly did nothing towards maintaining it. He had a magnificent place in Perthshire called Loughlynter, and he sat for a Scotch group of boroughs, and he had a house in London, and a stud of horses in Leicestershire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried. He never spoke much to anyone, although he was constantly in society. He rarely did anything, although he had the means of doing everything. He had very seldom been on his legs in the House of Commons, though he had sat there for ten years. He was seen about everywhere, sometimes with one acquaintance and sometimes with another, but it may be doubted whether he had any friend. It may be doubted whether he had ever talked enough to any man to make that man his friend. Laurence Fitzgibbon tried him for one season, and after a month or two asked for a loan of a few hundred pounds. I never lend money to anyone under any circumstances, said Mr Kennedy. And it was the longest speech which had ever fallen from his mouth in the hearing of Laurence Fitzgibbon. But though he would not lend money, he gave a great deal, and he would give it for almost every object. Mr Robert Kennedy, MP, Loughlynter, a hundred and five pounds, appeared on almost every charitable list that was advertised. No one ever spoke to him as to this expenditure, nor did he ever speak to anyone. Circulers came to him and the checks were returned. The duty was a very easy one to him, and he performed it willingly. Had any amount of inquiry been necessary, it is possible that the labour would have been too much for him. Such was Mr Robert Kennedy, as to whom Phineas had heard that he had during the last winter entertained Lord Brentford and Lady Laura, with very many other people of note at his place in Perthshire. They very much prefer the monkey, said Phineas to Ms Fitzgibbon. Aether, you would, she said, like to like, you know. You have brought you the same aptitude for claiming, but the monkeys never fall, they tell me. Phineas, knowing that he could gain nothing by sparring with Ms Fitzgibbon, raised his hat and took his leave. Going out of a narrow gate, he found himself again brought into contact with Mr Kennedy. What a crowd there is here! He said, finding himself bound to say something. Mr Kennedy, who was behind him, answered him not a word. Then Phineas made up his mind that Mr Kennedy was insolent with the insolence of riches, and that he would hate Mr Kennedy. He was engaged to dine on this Sunday with Mr Lowe the Barrister, with whom he had been reading for the last three years. Mr Lowe had taken a strong liking to Phineas, as had also Mrs Lowe, and the Tute had more than once told his pupil that success in his profession was certainly open to him, if he would only stick to his work. Mr Lowe was himself an ambitious man, looking forward to entering parliament at some future time, when the exigencies of his life of labour might enable him to do so. But he was prudent, given to close calculation, and resolved to make the ground sure beneath his feet in every step that he took forward. When he first heard that Phine intended to stand for Lough Shane, he was stricken with dismay, and strongly dissuaded him. The electors may probably reject him at his only chance now, Mr Lowe had said to his wife, when he found that Phineas was, as he thought, foolhardy. But the electors of Lough Shane had not rejected Mr Lowe's pupil, and Mr Lowe is now called upon to advise what Phineas should do in his present circumstances. There is nothing to prevent the work of a chancery barrister being done by a Member of Parliament. Indeed, the most successful barristers are Members of Parliament. But Phineas Finn was beginning at the wrong end, and Mr Lowe knew that no good would come of it. Only think of your being in Parliament, Mr Finn, said Mrs Lowe. It is wonderful, isn't it? said Phineas. It took her so much by surprise, said Mrs Lowe, as a rule one never hears of a barrister going into Parliament till after his forty. And I'm only twenty-five. I do feel that I've disgraced myself. I do indeed, Mrs Lowe. No, not disgraced yourself, Mr Finn. The only question is whether it's prudent. I hope it will all turn out for the best, most heartily. Mrs Lowe was a very matter-of-fact lady, four or five years older than her husband, who had had a little money of her own, and was possessed of every virtue under the sun. Nevertheless, she did not quite like the idea of her husband's pupil having got into Parliament. If her husband and Phineas Finn were dining anywhere together, Phineas, who had come to them quite a boy, would walk out of the room before her husband. This could hardly be right. Nevertheless, she helped Phineas to the nicest bit of fish she could find, and had he been ill, would have nursed him with the greatest care. After dinner, when Mrs Lowe had gone upstairs, there came the great discussion between the tutor and the pupil, for the sake of which this little dinner had been given. When Phineas had last been with Mr Lowe, on the occasion of his showing himself at his tutor's chambers, after his return from Ireland, he had not made up his mind so thoroughly on certain points, as he had done since he had seen Lady Laura. The discussion could hardly be of any avail now, but it could not be avoided. Well, Phineas, and what do you mean to do? said Mr Lowe. Everybody who knew our hero, or nearly everybody, called him by his Christian name. There are men who seem to be so treated by general consent in all societies. Even Mrs Lowe, who is very prosaic, and unlikely to be familiar in her mode of address, had fallen into the way of doing it before the election, but she had dropped it, and the Phineas whom she used to know became a member of Parliament. That's the question, isn't it? said Phineas. Of course you'll stick to your work. What? To the bar? Yes, to the bar. Are you not thinking of giving it up permanently? Giving it up? said Mr Lowe, raising his hands in surprise. If you give it up, how do you intend to live? Men are not paid for being members of Parliament. Not exactly. But as I said before, are you not thinking of giving it up? Permanently. You mustn't give it up at all. Not for a day. That is, if you ever mean to do any good. There I think perhaps you may be wrong, Lowe. How can I be wrong? Did a period of idleness ever help a man in any profession? And is it not acknowledged by all who know anything about it that continuous labour is more necessary in our profession than in any other? I do not mean to be idle. What is it you do mean, Phineas? Well, simply this. Here I am in Parliament. We must take that as a fact. I don't doubt the fact. And if it be a misfortune, we must make the best of it. Even you wouldn't advise me to apply for the children hundreds at once. I would. Tomorrow. My dear fellow, though I do not like to give you pain, if you come to me I can only tell you what I think. My advice to you is to give it up tomorrow. Men would laugh at you for a few weeks, but that is better than being ruined for life. I can't do that, said Phineas, sadly. Very well. Then let us go on, said Mr Lowe. If you won't give up your seat, the next best thing will be to take care that it shall interfere as little as possible with your work. I suppose you must sit upon some committees. My idea is this, that I will give up one year to learn in the practices of the house. And do nothing? Nothing but that. Wait, the thing is a study in itself, as for learning it in a year, that is out of the question, but I am convinced that if a man intends to be a useful member of Parliament, he should make a study of it. And how do you mean to live in the meantime? Mr Lowe, who was an energetic man, had assumed almost an angry tone of voice. Phineas, for a while, sat silent. Not that he felt himself to be without words for a reply, but that he was thinking in what fewest words he might best convey his ideas. You have a very modest allowance from your father, on which you have never been able to keep yourself free from debt, continued Mr Lowe. He has increased it. And would it satisfy you to live here, in what will turn out to be parliamentary club idleness, on the savings of his industrious life? I think you will find yourself unhappy if you do that. Phineas, my dear fellow, as far as I have as yet been able to see the world, men don't begin either very good or very bad. They have generally good aspirations with infirm purposes, or, as we may say, strong bodies with weak legs to carry them. Then, because their legs are weak, they drift into idleness and ruin. During all this drifting they are wretched, and when they have thoroughly drifted they are still wretched. The agony of their old disappointment still clings to them. In nine cases out of ten it is some one small unfortunate event that puts a man astray at first. He sees some woman and loses himself with her, or he is taken to a race course and unluckily wins money, or some devil in the shape of a friend lures him to tobacco and brandy. Your temptation has come in the shape of this accursed seat in Parliament. Mr. Low had never said a soft word in his life to any woman, but the wife of his bosom. Had never seen a racehorse, always confined himself to two glasses of port after dinner, and looked upon smoking as the darkest of all the vices. You have made up your mind, then, that I mean to be idle. I have made up my mind that your time will be wholly unprofitable if you do as you say you intend to do. But you do not know my plan. Just listen to me. Then Mr. Low did listen, and Phineas explained his plan, saying, of course, nothing of his love for Lady Laura, but giving Mr. Low to understand that he intended to assist in turning out the existing Government, and to mount up to some seat, a humble seat at first, on the treasury bench, by the help of his exalted friends, and by the use of his own gifts of eloquence. Mr. Low heard him without a word. Of course, said Phineas, after the first year, my time will not be fully employed unless I succeed. And if I fail totally, for, of course, I may fail altogether. It is possible, said Mr. Low. If you are resolved to turn yourself against me, I must not say another word, said Phineas with anger. Turn myself against you? I would turn myself any way so that I might save you from the sort of life which you are preparing for yourself. I see nothing in it that can satisfy any manly heart. Even if you are successful, what are you to become? You will be the creature of some minister, not his colleague. You are to make your way up the ladder by pretending to agree whenever agreement is demanded from you, and by voting whether you agree or do not. And what is to be your reward? Some few precarious hundreds a year, lasting just so long as a party may remain in power, and you can retain a seat in Parliament. It is at the best slavery and degradation, even if you are lucky enough to achieve the slavery. You yourself hope to go into Parliament and join a ministry some day, said Phineas. Mr. Low is not quick to answer, but he did answer at last. That is true, though I have never told you so. Indeed, it is hardly true to say that I hope it. I have my dreams and sometimes dare to tell myself that they may possibly become waking facts. But if ever I sit on a treasury bench, I shall sit there by special invitation, having been summoned to take a high place because of my professional success. It is but a dream after all, and I would not have you repeat what I have said to anyone. I had no intention to talk about it myself. I am sure that you will succeed, said Phineas. Yes, I shall succeed. I am succeeding. I live upon what I earn, like a gentleman, and can already afford to be indifferent to work that I dislike. After all, the other part of it, that of which I dream, is but an unnecessary adjunct, the gilding on the gingerbread. I am inclined to think that the cake is more wholesome without it. Phineas did not go upstairs into Mrs. Low's drawing-room on that evening, nor did he stay very late with Mr. Low. He had heard enough of counsel to make him very unhappy, to shake from him much of the audacity which he had acquired for himself during his morning's walk, and to make him almost doubt whether, after all, the children-hundreds would not be for him the safest escape from his difficulties. But in that case, he must never venture to see Lady Laura Standish again.