Beauchamps Career, v1
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George Meredith >> Beauchamps Career, v1
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He loathed them for the curse they were to the country. And he was one
of the few who spoke out. The fashion was to pet them. We stood against
them; were halfhearted, and were beaten; and then we petted them, and bit
by bit our privileges were torn away. We made lords of them to catch
them, and they grocers of us by way of a return. 'Already,' said
Everard, 'they have knocked the nation's head off, and dry-rotted the
bone of the people.'
'Don't they,' Nevil asked, 'belong to the Liberal party?'
'I'll tell you,' Everard replied, 'they belong to any party that upsets
the party above them. They belong to the GEORGE FOXE party, and my
poultry-roosts are the mark they aim at. You shall have a glance at the
manufacturing district some day. You shall see the machines they work
with. You shall see the miserable lank-jawed half-stewed pantaloons
they've managed to make of Englishmen there. My blood 's past boiling.
They work young children in their factories from morning to night. Their
manufactories are spreading like the webs of the devil to suck the blood
of the country. In that district of theirs an epidemic levels men like a
disease in sheep. Skeletons can't make a stand. On the top of it all
they sing Sunday tunes!'
This behaviour of corn-law agitators and protectors of poachers was an
hypocrisy too horrible for comment. Everard sipped claret. Nevil lashed
his head for the clear idea which objurgation insists upon implanting,
but batters to pieces in the act.
'Manchester's the belly of this country!' Everard continued. 'So long as
Manchester flourishes, we're a country governed and led by the belly.
The head and the legs of the country are sound still; I don't guarantee
it for long, but the middle's rapacious and corrupt. Take it on a
question of foreign affairs, it 's an alderman after a feast. Bring it
upon home politics, you meet a wolf.'
The faithful Whig veteran spoke with jolly admiration of the speech of a
famous Tory chief.
'That was the way to talk to them! Denounce them traitors! Up whip, and
set the ruffians capering! Hit them facers! Our men are always for the
too-clever trick. They pluck the sprouts and eat them, as if the loss of
a sprout or two thinned Manchester! Your policy of absorption is good
enough when you're dealing with fragments. It's a devilish unlucky thing
to attempt with a concrete mass. You might as well ask your head to
absorb a wall by running at it like a pugnacious nigger. I don't want
you to go into Parliament ever. You're a fitter man out of it; but if
ever you're bitten--and it's the curse of our country to have politics as
well as the other diseases--don't follow a flag, be independent, keep a
free vote; remember how I've been tied, and hold foot against Manchester.
Do it blindfold; you don't want counselling, you're sure to be right.
I'll lay you a blood-brood mare to a cabstand skeleton, you'll have an
easy conscience and deserve the thanks of the country.'
Nevil listened gravely. The soundness of the head and legs of the
country he took for granted. The inflated state of the unchivalrous
middle, denominated Manchester, terrified him. Could it be true that
England was betraying signs of decay? and signs how ignoble! Half-a-
dozen crescent lines cunningly turned, sketched her figure before the
world, and the reflection for one ready to die upholding her was that the
portrait was no caricature. Such an emblematic presentation of the land
of his filial affection haunted him with hideous mockeries. Surely the
foreigner hearing our boasts of her must compare us to showmen bawling
the attractions of a Fat Lady at a fair!
Swoln Manchester bore the blame of it. Everard exulted to hear his young
echo attack the cotton-spinners. But Nevil was for a plan, a system,
immediate action; the descending among the people, and taking an
initiative, LEADING them, insisting on their following, not standing
aloof and shrugging.
'We lead them in war,' said he; 'why not in peace? There's a front for
peace as well as war, and that's our place rightly. We're pushed aside;
why, it seems to me we're treated like old-fashioned ornaments! The
fault must be ours. Shrugging and sneering is about as honourable as
blazing fireworks over your own defeat. Back we have to go! that's the
point, sir. And as for jeering the cotton-spinners, I can't while
they've the lead of us. We let them have it! And we have thrice the
stake in the country. I don't mean properties and titles.'
'Deuce you don't,' said his uncle.
'I mean our names, our histories; I mean our duties. As for titles, the
way to defend them is to be worthy of them.'
'Damned fine speech,' remarked Everard. 'Now you get out of that trick
of prize-orationing. I call it snuffery, sir; it's all to your own nose!
You're talking to me, not to a gallery. "Worthy of them!" Caesar wraps
his head in his robe: he gets his dig in the ribs for all his
attitudinizing. It's very well for a man to talk like that who owns no
more than his barebodkin life, poor devil. Tall talk's his jewelry: he
must have his dandification in bunkum. You ought to know better.
Property and titles are worth having, whether you are "worthy of them" or
a disgrace to your class. The best way of defending them is to keep a
strong fist, and take care you don't draw your fore-foot back more than
enough.'
'Please propose something to be done,' said Nevil, depressed by the
recommendation of that attitude.
Everard proposed a fight for every privilege his class possessed. 'They
say,' he said, 'a nobleman fighting the odds is a sight for the gods: and
I wouldn't yield an inch of ground. It's no use calling things by fine
names--the country's ruined by cowardice. Poursuivez! I cry. Haro! at
them! The biggest hart wins in the end. I haven't a doubt about that.
And I haven't a doubt we carry the tonnage.'
'There's the people,' sighed Nevil, entangled in his uncle's haziness.
'What people?'
'I suppose the people of Great Britain count, sir.'
'Of course they do; when the battle's done, the fight lost and won.'
'Do you expect the people to look on, sir?'
'The people always wait for the winner, boy Nevil.'
The young fellow exclaimed despondingly, 'If it were a race!'
'It's like a race, and we're confoundedly out of training,' said Everard.
There he rested. A mediaeval gentleman with the docile notions of the
twelfth century, complacently driving them to grass and wattling them in
the nineteenth, could be of no use to a boy trying to think, though he
could set the youngster galloping. Nevil wandered about the woods of
Steynham, disinclined to shoot and lend a hand to country sports. The
popping of the guns of his uncle and guests hung about his ears much like
their speech, which was unobjectionable in itself, but not sufficient; a
little hard, he thought, a little idle. He wanted something, and wanted
them to give their time and energy to something, that was not to be had
in a market. The nobles, he felt sure, might resume their natural
alliance with the people, and lead them, as they did of old, to the
battle-field. How might they? A comely Sussex lass could not well tell
him how. Sarcastic reports of the troublesome questioner represented him
applying to a nymph of the country for enlightenment. He thrilled
surprisingly under the charm of feminine beauty. 'The fellow's sound at
bottom,' his uncle said, hearing of his having really been seen walking
in the complete form proper to his budding age, that is, in two halves.
Nevil showed that he had gained an acquaintance with the struggles of the
neighbouring agricultural poor to live and rear their children. His
uncle's table roared at his enumeration of the sickly little beings,
consumptive or bandy-legged, within a radius of five miles of Steynham.
Action was what he wanted, Everard said. Nevil perhaps thought the same,
for he dashed out of his mooning with a wave of the Tory standard,
delighting the ladies, though in that conflict of the Lion and the
Unicorn (which was a Tory song) he seemed rather to wish to goad the dear
lion than crush the one-horned intrusive upstart. His calling on the
crack corps of Peers to enrol themselves forthwith in the front ranks,
and to anticipate opposition by initiating measures, and so cut out that
funny old crazy old galleon, the People, from under the batteries of the
enemy, highly amused the gentlemen.
Before rejoining his ship, Nevil paid his customary short visit of
ceremony to his great-aunt Beauchamp--a venerable lady past eighty,
hitherto divided from him in sympathy by her dislike of his uncle
Everard, who had once been his living hero. That was when he was in
frocks, and still the tenacious fellow could not bear to hear his uncle
spoken ill of.
'All the men of that family are heartless, and he is a man of wood, my
dear, and a bad man,' the old lady said. 'He should have kept you at
school, and sent you to college. You want reading and teaching and
talking to. Such a house as that is should never be a home for you.'
She hinted at Rosamund. Nevil defended the persecuted woman, but with no
better success than from the attacks of the Romfrey ladies; with this
difference, however, that these decried the woman's vicious arts, and
Mistress Elizabeth Mary Beauchamp put all the sin upon the man. Such a
man! she said. 'Let me hear that he has married her, I will not utter
another word.' Nevil echoed, 'Married!' in a different key.
'I am as much of an aristocrat as any of you, only I rank morality
higher,' said Mrs. Beauchamp. 'When you were a child I offered to take
you and make you my heir, and I would have educated you. You shall see a
great-nephew of mine that I did educate; he is eating his dinners for the
bar in London, and comes to me every Sunday. I shall marry him to a good
girl, and I shall show your uncle what my kind of man-making is.'
Nevil had no desire to meet the other great-nephew, especially when he
was aware of the extraordinary circumstance that a Beauchamp great-niece,
having no money, had bestowed her hand on a Manchester man defunct,
whereof this young Blackburn Tuckham, the lawyer, was issue. He took his
leave of Mrs. Elizabeth Beauchamp, respecting her for her constitutional
health and brightness, and regretting for the sake of the country that
she had not married to give England men and women resembling her.
On the whole he considered her wiser in her prescription for the malady
besetting him than his uncle. He knew that action was but a temporary
remedy. College would have been his chronic medicine, and the old lady's
acuteness in seeing it impressed him forcibly. She had given him a
peaceable two days on the Upper Thames, in an atmosphere of plain good
sense and just-mindedness. He wrote to thank her, saying:
'My England at sea will be your parlour-window looking down the grass to
the river and rushes; and when you do me the honour to write, please tell
me the names of those wildflowers growing along the banks in Summer.'
The old lady replied immediately, enclosing a cheque for fifty pounds:
'Colonel Halkett informs me you are under a cloud at Steynham, and I have
thought you may be in want of pocket-money. The wild-flowers are
willowherb, meadow-sweet, and loosestrife. I shall be glad when you are
here in Summer to see them.'
Nevil despatched the following: 'I thank you, but I shall not cash the
cheque. The Steynham tale is this:
I happened to be out at night, and stopped the keepers in chase of a
young fellow trespassing. I caught him myself, but recognized him as one
of a family I take an interest in, and let him run before they came up.
My uncle heard a gun; I sent the head gamekeeper word in the morning to
out with it all. Uncle E. was annoyed, and we had a rough parting. If
you are rewarding me for this, I have no right to it.'
Mrs. Beauchamp rejoined: 'Your profession should teach you subordination,
if it does nothing else that is valuable to a Christian gentleman.
You will receive from the publisher the "Life and Letters of Lord
Collingwood," whom I have it in my mind that a young midshipman should
task himself to imitate. Spend the money as you think fit.'
Nevil's ship, commanded by Captain Robert Hall (a most gallant officer,
one of his heroes, and of Lancashire origin, strangely!), flew to the
South American station, in and about Lord Cochrane's waters; then as
swiftly back. For, like the frail Norwegian bark on the edge of the
maelstrom, liker to a country of conflicting interests and passions, that
is not mentally on a level with its good fortune, England was drifting
into foreign complications. A paralyzed Minister proclaimed it. The
governing people, which is looked to for direction in grave dilemmas by
its representatives and reflectors, shouted that it had been accused of
pusillanimity. No one had any desire for war, only we really had (and it
was perfectly true) been talking gigantic nonsense of peace, and of the
everlastingness of the exchange of fruits for money, with angels waving
raw-groceries of Eden in joy of the commercial picture. Therefore, to
correct the excesses of that fit, we held the standing by the Moslem, on
behalf of the Mediterranean (and the Moslem is one of our customers,
bearing an excellent reputation for the payment of debts), to be good,
granting the necessity. We deplored the necessity. The Press wept over
it. That, however, was not the politic tone for us while the Imperial
berg of Polar ice watched us keenly; and the Press proceeded to remind us
that we had once been bull-dogs. Was there not an animal within us
having a right to a turn now and then? And was it not (Falstaff, on a
calm world, was quoted) for the benefit of our constitutions now and then
to loosen the animal? Granting the necessity, of course. By dint of
incessantly speaking of the necessity we granted it unknowingly. The
lighter hearts regarded our period of monotonously lyrical prosperity as
a man sensible of fresh morning air looks back on the snoring bolster.
Many of the graver were glad of a change. After all that maundering over
the blessed peace which brings the raisin and the currant for the
pudding, and shuts up the cannon with a sheep's head, it became a
principle of popular taste to descant on the vivifying virtues of war;
even as, after ten months of money-mongering in smoky London, the citizen
hails the sea-breeze and an immersion in unruly brine, despite the cost,
that breeze and brine may make a man of him, according to the doctor's
prescription: sweet is home, but health is sweeter! Then was there
another curious exhibition of us. Gentlemen, to the exact number of the
Graces, dressed in drab of an ancient cut, made a pilgrimage to the icy
despot, and besought him to give way for Piety's sake. He, courteous,
colossal, and immoveable, waved them homeward. They returned and were
hooted for belying the bellicose by their mission, and interpreting too
well the peaceful. They were the unparalyzed Ministers of the occasion,
but helpless.
And now came war, the purifier and the pestilence.
The cry of the English people for war was pretty general, as far as the
criers went. They put on their Sabbath face concerning the declaration
of war, and told with approval how the Royal hand had trembled in
committing itself to the form of signature to which its action is
limited. If there was money to be paid, there was a bugbear to be slain
for it; and a bugbear is as obnoxious to the repose of commercial
communities as rivals are to kings.
The cry for war was absolutely unanimous, and a supremely national cry,
Everard Romfrey said, for it excluded the cotton-spinners.
He smacked his hands, crowing at the vociferations of disgust of those
negrophiles and sweaters of Christians, whose isolated clamour amid the
popular uproar sounded of gagged mouths.
One of the half-stifled cotton-spinners, a notorious one, a spouter of
rank sedition and hater of aristocracy, a political poacher, managed to
make himself heard. He was tossed to the Press for morsel, and tossed
back to the people in strips. Everard had a sharp return of appetite in
reading the daily and weekly journals. They printed logic, they printed
sense; they abused the treasonable barking cur unmercifully. They
printed almost as much as he would have uttered, excepting the strong
salt of his similes, likening that rascal and his crew to the American
weed in our waters, to the rotting wild bees' nest in our trees, to the
worm in our ships' timbers, and to lamentable afflictions of the human
frame, and of sheep, oxen, honest hounds. Manchester was in eclipse.
The world of England discovered that the peace-party which opposed was
the actual cause of the war: never was indication clearer. But my
business is with Mr. Beauchamp, to know whom, and partly understand his
conduct in after-days, it will be as well to take a bird'seye glance at
him through the war.
'Now,' said Everard, 'we shall see what staff there is in that fellow
Nevil.'
He expected, as you may imagine, a true young Beauchamp-Romfrey to be
straining his collar like a leash-hound.
CHAPTER IV
A GLIMPSE OF NEVIL IN ACTION
The young gentleman to whom Everard Romfrey transferred his combative
spirit despatched a letter from the Dardanelles, requesting his uncle not
to ask him for a spark of enthusiasm. He despised our Moslem allies, he
said, and thought with pity of the miserable herds of men in regiments
marching across the steppes at the bidding of a despot that we were
helping to popularize. He certainly wrote in the tone of a jejune
politician; pardonable stuff to seniors entertaining similar opinions,
but most exasperating when it runs counter to them: though one question
put by Nevil was not easily answerable. He wished to know whether the
English people would be so anxious to be at it if their man stood on the
opposite shore and talked of trying conclusions on their green fields.
And he suggested that they had become so ready for war because of their
having grown rather ashamed of themselves, and for the special reason
that they could have it at a distance.
'The rascal's liver's out of order,' Everard said.
Coming to the sentence: 'Who speaks out in this crisis? There is one,
and I am with him'; Mr. Romfrey's compassionate sentiments veered round
to irate amazement. For the person alluded to was indeed the infamous
miauling cotton-spinner. Nevil admired him. He said so bluntly. He
pointed to that traitorous George-Foxite as the one heroical Englishman
of his day, declaring that he felt bound in honour to make known his
admiration for the man; and he hoped his uncle would excuse him. 'If we
differ, I am sorry, sir; but I should be a coward to withhold what I
think of him when he has all England against him, and he is in the right,
as England will discover. I maintain he speaks wisely--I don't mind
saying, like a prophet; and he speaks on behalf of the poor as well as of
the country. He appears to me the only public man who looks to the state
of the poor--I mean, their interests. They pay for war, and if we are to
have peace at home and strength for a really national war, the only war
we can ever call necessary, the poor must be contented. He sees that.
I shall not run the risk of angering you by writing to defend him, unless
I hear of his being shamefully mishandled, and the bearer of an old name
can be of service to him. I cannot say less, and will say no more.'
Everard apostrophized his absent nephew: 'You jackass!'
I am reminded by Mr. Romfrey's profound disappointment in the youth, that
it will be repeatedly shared by many others: and I am bound to forewarn
readers of this history that there is no plot in it. The hero is
chargeable with the official disqualification of constantly offending
prejudices, never seeking to please; and all the while it is upon him the
narrative hangs. To be a public favourite is his last thought.
Beauchampism, as one confronting him calls it, may be said to stand for
nearly everything which is the obverse of Byronism, and rarely woos your
sympathy, shuns the statuesque pathetic, or any kind of posturing. For
Beauchamp will not even look at happiness to mourn its absence; melodious
lamentations, demoniacal scorn, are quite alien to him. His faith is in
working and fighting. With every inducement to offer himself for a
romantic figure, he despises the pomades and curling-irons of modern
romance, its shears and its labels: in fine, every one of those positive
things by whose aid, and by some adroit flourishing of them, the nimbus
known as a mysterious halo is produced about a gentleman's head. And a
highly alluring adornment it is! We are all given to lose our solidity
and fly at it; although the faithful mirror of fiction has been showing
us latterly that a too superhuman beauty has disturbed popular belief in
the bare beginnings of the existence of heroes: but this, very likely, is
nothing more than a fit of Republicanism in the nursery, and a deposition
of the leading doll for lack of variety in him. That conqueror of
circumstances will, the dullest soul may begin predicting, return on his
cockhorse to favour and authority. Meantime the exhibition of a hero
whom circumstances overcome, and who does not weep or ask you for a tear,
who continually forfeits attractiveness by declining to better his own
fortunes, must run the chances of a novelty during the interregnum.
Nursery Legitimists will be against him to a man; Republicans likewise,
after a queer sniff at his pretensions, it is to be feared. For me, I
have so little command over him, that in spite of my nursery tastes, he
drags me whither he lists. It is artless art and monstrous innovation to
present so wilful a figure, but were I to create a striking fable for
him, and set him off with scenic effects and contrasts, it would be only
a momentary tonic to you, to him instant death. He could not live in
such an atmosphere. The simple truth has to be told: how he loved his
country, and for another and a broader love, growing out of his first
passion, fought it; and being small by comparison, and finding no giant
of the Philistines disposed to receive a stone in his fore-skull,
pummelled the obmutescent mass, to the confusion of a conceivable epic.
His indifferent England refused it to him. That is all I can say. The
greater power of the two, she seems, with a quiet derision that does not
belie her amiable passivity, to have reduced in Beauchamp's career the
boldest readiness for public action, and some good stout efforts besides,
to the flat result of an optically discernible influence of our hero's
character in the domestic circle; perhaps a faintly-outlined circle or
two beyond it. But this does not forbid him to be ranked as one of the
most distinguishing of her children of the day he lived in. Blame the
victrix if you think he should have been livelier.
Nevil soon had to turn his telescope from politics. The torch of war was
actually lighting, and he was not fashioned to be heedless of what
surrounded him. Our diplomacy, after dancing with all the suppleness of
stilts, gravely resigned the gift of motion. Our dauntless Lancastrian
thundered like a tempest over a gambling tent, disregarded. Our worthy
people, consenting to the doctrine that war is a scourge, contracted the
habit of thinking it, in this case, the dire necessity which is the sole
excuse for giving way to an irritated pugnacity, and sucked the
comforting caramel of an alliance with their troublesome next-door
neighbour, profuse in comfits as in scorpions. Nevil detected that
politic element of their promptitude for war. His recollections of
dissatisfaction in former days assisted him to perceive the nature of it,
but he was too young to hold his own against the hubbub of a noisy
people, much too young to remain sceptical of a modern people's
enthusiasm for war while journals were testifying to it down the length
of their columns, and letters from home palpitated with it, and shipmates
yawned wearily for the signal, and shiploads of red coats and blue,
infantry, cavalry, artillery, were singing farewell to the girl at home,
and hurrah for anything in foreign waters. He joined the stream with a
cordial spirit. Since it must be so! The wind of that haughty
proceeding of the Great Bear in putting a paw over the neutral brook
brushed his cheek unpleasantly. He clapped hands for the fezzy defenders
of the border fortress, and when the order came for the fleet to enter
the old romantic sea of storms and fables, he wrote home a letter fit for
his uncle Everard to read. Then there was the sailing and the landing,
and the march up the heights, which Nevil was condemned to look at. To
his joy he obtained an appointment on shore, and after that Everard heard
of him from other channels. The two were of a mind when the savage
winter advanced which froze the attack of the city, and might be imaged
as the hoar god of hostile elements pointing a hand to the line reached,
and menacing at one farther step. Both blamed the Government, but they
divided as to the origin of governmental inefficiency; Nevil accusing the
Lords guilty of foulest sloth, Everard the Quakers of dry-rotting the
country. He passed with a shrug Nevil's puling outcry for the enemy as
well as our own poor fellows: 'At his steppes again!' And he had to be
forgiving when reports came of his nephew's turn for overdoing his duty:
'show-fighting,' as he termed it.
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