Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (263 page)

‘You are very beautiful.’

She started and looked round at him, to see whether his face would give some help to the interpretation of this novel speech. He was looking up at her quite calmly, very much as a reverential Protestant might look at a picture of the Virgin, with a devoutness suggested by the type rather than by the image. Esther’s vanity was not in the least gratified: she felt that, somehow or other, Felix was going to reproach her.

‘I wonder,’ he went on, still looking at her, ‘whether the subtle measuring of forces will ever come to measuring the force there would be in one beautiful woman whose mind was as noble as her face was beautiful - who made a man’s passion for her rush in one current with all the great aims of his life.’

Esther’s eyes got hot and smarting. It was no use trying to be dignified. She had turned away her head, and now said, rather bitterly, ‘It is difficult for a woman ever to try to be anything good when she is not believed in - when it is always supposed that she must be contemptible.’

‘No, dear Esther’ - it was the first time Felix had been prompted to call her by her Christian name, and as he did so he laid his large hand on her two little hands, which were clasped on her knees. ‘You don’t believe that I think you contemptible. When I first saw you -’

‘I know, I know,’ said Esther, interrupting him impetuously, but still looking away. ‘You mean you did think me contemptible then. But it was very narrow of you to judge me in that way, when my life had been so different from yours. I have great faults. I know I am selfish, and think too much of my own small tastes and too little of what affects others. But I am not stupid. I am not unfeeling. I can see what is better.’

‘But I have not done you injustice since I knew more of you,’ said Felix, gently.

‘Yes, you have,’ said Esther, turning and smiling at him through her tears. ‘You talk to me like an angry pedagogue. Were you always wise? Remember the time when you were foolish or naughty.’

‘That is not far off,’ said Felix, curtly, taking away his hand and clasping it with the other at the back of his head. The talk, which seemed to be introducing a mutual understanding, such as had not existed before, seemed to have undergone some check.

‘Shall we get up and walk back now?’ said Esther, after a few moments.

‘No,’ said Felix, entreatingly. ‘Don’t move yet. I daresay we shall never walk together or sit here again.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am a man who am warned by visions. Those old stories of visions and dreams guiding men have their truth: we are saved by making the future present to ourselves.’

‘I wish I could get visions, then,’ said Esther, smiling at him, with an effort at playfulness, in resistance to something vaguely mournful within her.

‘That is what I want,’ said Felix, looking at her very earnestly. ‘Don’t turn your head. Do look at me, and then I shall know if I may go on speaking. I do believe in you; but I want you to have such a vision of the future that you may never lose your best self. Some charm or other may be flung about you - some of your atta-of-rose fascinations - and nothing but a good strong terrible vision will save you. And if it did save you, you might be that woman I was thinking of a little while ago when I looked at your face: the woman whose beauty makes a great task easier to men instead of turning them away from it. I am not likely to see such fine issues; but they may come where a woman’s spirit is finely touched. I should like to be sure they would come to you.’

‘Why are you not likely to know what becomes of me?’ said Esther, turning away her eyes in spite of his command. ‘Why should you not always be my father’s friend and mine?’

‘O, I shall go away as soon as I can to some large town,’ said Felix, in his more usual tone, - ‘some ugly, wicked, miserable place. I want to be a demagogue of a new sort; an honest one, if possible, who will tell the people they are blind and foolish, and neither flatter them nor fatten on them. I have my heritage - an order I belong to. I have the blood of a line of handicraftsmen in my veins, and I want to stand up for the lot of the handicraftsmen as a good lot, in which a man may be better trained to all the best functions of his nature than if he belonged to the grimacing set who have visiting-cards, and are proud to be thought richer than their neighbours.’

‘Would nothing ever make it seem right to you to change your mind?’ said Esther (she had rapidly woven some possibilities out of the new uncertainties in her own lot, though she would not for the world have had Felix know of her weaving). ‘Suppose, by some means or other, a fortune might come to you honourably - by marriage, or in any other unexpected way - would you see no change in your course?’

‘No,’ said Felix, peremptorily: ‘I will never be rich. I don’t count that as any peculiar virtue. Some men do well to accept riches, but that is not my inward vocation: I have no fellow-feeling with the rich as a class; the habits of their lives are odious to me. Thousands of men have wedded poverty because they expect to go to heaven for it; I don’t expect to go to heaven for it, but I wed it because it enables me to do what I most want to do on earth. Whatever the hopes for the world may be - whether great or small - I am a man of this generation; I will try to make life less bitter for a few within my reach. It is held reasonable enough to toil for the fortunes of a family, though it may turn to imbecility in the third generation. I choose a family with more chances in it.’

Esther looked before her dreamily till she said, ‘That seems a hard lot; yet it is a great one.’ She rose to walk back.

‘Then you don’t think I’m a fool,’ said Felix, loudly, starting to his feet, and then stooping to gather up his cap and stick.

‘Of course you suspected me of that stupidity.’

‘Well - women, unless they are Saint Theresas or Elizabeth Frys, generally think this sort of thing madness, unless when they read of it in the Bible.’

‘A woman can hardly ever choose in that way; she is dependent on what happens to her. She must take meaner things, because only meaner things are within her reach.’

‘Why, can you imagine yourself choosing hardship as the better lot?’ said Felix, looking at her with a sudden question in his eyes.

‘Yes, I can,’ she said, flushing over neck and brow.

Their words were charged with a meaning dependent entirely on the secret consciousness of each. Nothing had been said which was necessarily personal. They walked a few yards along the road by which they had come, without further speech, till Felix said gently, ‘Take my arm.’ She took it, and they walked home so, entirely without conversation. Felix was struggling as a firm man struggles with a temptation, seeing beyond it and disbelieving its lying promise. Esther was struggling as a woman struggles with the yearning for some expression of love, and with vexation under that subjection to a yearning which is not likely to be satisfied. Each was conscious of a silence which each was unable to break, till they entered Malthouse Lane, and were within a few yards of the minister’s door.

‘It is getting dusk,’ Felix then said; ‘will Mr Lyon be anxious about you?’

‘No, I think not. Lyddy would tell him that I went out with you, and that you carried a large stick,’ said Esther, with her light laugh.

Felix went in with Esther to take tea, but the conversation was entirely between him and Mr Lyon about the tricks of canvassing, and foolish personality of the placards, and the probabilities of Transome’s return, as to which Felix declared himself to have become indifferent. This scepticism made the minister uneasy: he had great belief in the old political watchwords, had preached that universal suffrage and no ballot were agreeable to the will of God, and liked to believe that a visible ‘instrument’ was forthcoming in the Radical candidate who had pronounced emphatically against Whig finality. Felix, being in a perverse mood, contended that universal suffrage would be equally agreeable to the devil; that he would change his politics a little, having a larger traffic, and see himself more fully represented in parliament.

‘Nay, my friend,’ said the minister, ‘you are again sporting with paradox; for you will not deny that you glory in the name of Radical, or Root-and-branch man, as they said in the great times when Nonconformity was in its giant youth.’

‘A Radical - yes; but I want to go to some roots a good deal lower down than the franchise.’

‘Truly there is a work within which cannot be dispensed with; but it is our preliminary work to free men from the stifled life of political nullity, and bring them into what Milton calls “the liberal air”, wherein alone can be wrought the final triumphs of the Spirit.’

‘With all my heart. But while Caliban is Caliban, though you multiply him by a million, he’ll worship every Trinculo that carries a bottle. I forget, though - you don’t read Shakspeare, Mr Lyon.’

‘I am bound to confess that I have so far looked into a volume of Esther’s as to conceive your meaning; but the fantasies therein were so little to be reconciled with a steady contemplation of that divine economy which is hidden from sense and revealed to faith, that I forbore the reading, as likely to perturb my ministrations.’

Esther sat by in unusual silence. The conviction that Felix willed her exclusion from his life was making it plain that something more than friendship between them was not so thoroughly out of the question as she had always inwardly asserted. In her pain that his choice lay aloof from her, she was compelled frankly to admit to herself the longing that it had been otherwise, and that he had entreated her to share his difficult life. He was like no one else to her: he had seemed to bring at once a law, and the love that gave strength to obey the law. Yet the next moment, stung by his independence of her, she denied that she loved him; she had only longed for a moral support under the negations of her life. If she were not to have that support, all effort seemed useless.

Esther had been so long used to hear the formulas of her father’s belief without feeling or understanding them, that they had lost all power to touch her. The first religious experience of her life - the first self-questioning, the first voluntary subjection, the first longing to acquire the strength of greater motives and obey the more strenuous rule - had come to her through Felix Holt. No wonder that she felt as if the loss of him were inevitable backsliding.

But was it certain that she should lose him? She did not believe that he was really indifferent to her.

CHAPTER 28

‘Titus. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter:

I never drank with him in all my life.’

                                                                                                                                                                                              
Titus Andronicus.

THE multiplication of uncomplimentary placards noticed by Mr Lyon and Felix Holt was one of several signs that the days of nomination and election were approaching. The presence of the revising barrister in Treby was not only an opportunity for all persons not otherwise busy to show their zeal for the purification of the voting-lists, but also to reconcile private ease and public duty by standing about the streets and lounging at doors.

It was no light business for Trebians to form an opinion; the mere fact of a public functionary with an unfamiliar title was enough to give them pause, as a premiss that was not to be quickly started from. To Mr Pink the saddler, for example, until some distinct injury or benefit had accrued to him, the existence of the revising barrister was like the existence of the young giraffe which Wombwell had lately brought into those parts - it was to be contemplated, and not criticised. Mr Pink professed a deep-dyed Toryism; but he regarded all fault-finding as Radical and somewhat impious, as disturbing to trade, and likely to offend the gentry or the servants through whom their harness was ordered: there was a Nemesis in things which made objection unsafe, and even the Reform Bill was a sort of electric eel which a thriving tradesman had better leave alone. It was only the ‘Papists’ who lived far enough off to be spoken of uncivilly.

But Mr Pink was fond of news, which he collected and retailed with perfect impartiality, noting facts and rejecting comments. Hence he was well pleased to have his shop so constant a place of resort for loungers, that to many Trebians there was a strong association between the pleasures of gossip and the smell of leather. He had the satisfaction of chalking and cutting, and of keeping his journeymen close at work, at the very time that he learned from his visitors who were those whose votes had been called in question before His Honour, how Lawyer Jermyn had been too much for Lawyer Labron about Todd’s cottages, and how, in the opinion of some townsmen, this looking into the value of people’s property, and swearing it down below a certain sum, was a nasty, inquisitorial kind of thing; while others observed that being nice to a few pounds was all nonsense - they should put the figure high enough, and then never mind if a voter’s qualification was thereabouts. But, said Mr Sims the auctioneer, everything was done for the sake of the lawyers. Mr Pink suggested impartially that lawyers must live; but Mr Sims, having a ready auctioneering wit, did not see that so many of them need live, or that babies were born lawyers. Mr Pink felt that this speculation was complicated by the ordering of side-saddles for lawyers’ daughters, and, returning to the firm ground of fact, stated that it was getting dusk.

The dusk seemed deepened the next moment by a tall figure obstructing the doorway, at sight of whom Mr Pink rubbed his hands and smiled and bowed more than once, with evident solicitude to show honour where honour was due, while he said -

‘Mr Christian, sir, how do you do, sir?’

Christian answered with the condescending familiarity of a superior. ‘Very badly, I can tell you, with these confounded braces that you were to make such a fine job of. See, old fellow, they’ve burst out again.’

‘Very sorry, sir. Can you leave them with me?’

‘O yes, I’ll leave them. What’s the news, eh?’ said Christian, half seating himself on a high stool, and beating his boot with a hand-whip.

‘Well, sir, we look to you to tell us that,’ said Mr Pink, with a knowing smile. ‘You’re at headquarters - eh, sir? That was what I said to Mr Scales the other day. He came for some straps, Mr Scales did, and he asked that question in pretty near the same terms that you’ve done, sir, and I answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning any disrespect to you, sir, but a way of speaking.’

‘Come, that’s gammon, Pink,’ said Christian. ‘You know everything. You can tell me, if you will, who is the fellow employed to paste up Transome’s handbills?’

‘What do you say, Mr Sims?’ said Pink, looking at the auctioneer.

‘Why, you know and I know well enough. It’s Tommy Trounsem - an old, crippling, half-mad fellow. Most people know Tommy. I’ve employed him myself for charity.’

‘Where shall I find him?’ said Christian.

‘At the Cross-Keys, in Pollard’s End, most likely,’ said Mr Sims. ‘I don’t know where he puts himself when he isn’t at the public.’

‘He was a stoutish fellow fifteen year ago, when he carried pots,’ said Mr Pink.

‘Ay, and has snared many a hare in his time,’ said Mr Sims. ‘But he was always a little cracked. Lord bless you! he used to swear he’d a right to the Transome estate.’

‘Why, what put that notion into his head?’ said Christian, who had learned more than he expected.

‘The lawing, sir - nothing but the lawing about the estate. There was a deal of it twenty year ago,’ said Mr Pink. ‘Tommy happened to turn up hereabout at that time; a big, lungeous fellow, who would speak disrespectfully of hanybody.’

‘O, he meant no harm,’ said Mr Simms. ‘He was fond of a drop to drink, and not quite right in the upper story, and he could hear no difference between Trounsem and Transome. It’s an odd way of speaking they have in that part where he was born - a little north’ard. You’ll hear it in his tongue now, if you talk to him.’

‘At the Cross-Keys I shall find him, eh?’ said Christian, getting off his stool. ‘Good-day, Pink, good-day.’

Christian went straight from the saddler’s to Quorlen’s, the Tory printer’s, with whom he had contrived a political spree. Quorlen was a new man in Treby, who had so reduced the trade of Dow, the old hereditary printer, that Dow had lapsed to Whiggery and Radicalism and opinions in general, so far as they were contented to express themselves in a small stock of types. Quorlen had brought his Duffield wit with him, and insisted that religion and joking were the handmaids of politics; on which principle he and Christian undertook the joking, and left the religion to the rector. The joke at present in question was a practical one. Christian, turning into the shop, merely said, ‘I’ve found him out - give me the placards’; and, tucking a thickish flat bundle, wrapped in a black glazed cotton bag, under his arm, walked out into the dusk again.

‘Suppose now,’ he said to himself, as he strode along - ‘suppose there should be some secret to be got out of this old scamp, or some notion that’s as good as a secret to those who know how to use it? That would be virtue rewarded. But I’m afraid the old tosspot is not likely to be good for much. There’s truth in wine, and there may be some in gin and muddy beer; but whether it’s truth worth my knowing, is another question. I’ve got plenty of truth in my time out of men who were half-seas-over, but never any that was worth a sixpence to me.’

The Cross-Keys was a very old-fashioned ‘public’: its bar was a big rambling kitchen, with an undulating brick floor; the small-paned windows threw an interesting obscurity over the far-off dresser, garnished with pewter and tin, and with large dishes that seemed to speak of better times; the two settles were half pushed under the wide-mouthed chimney; and the grate, with its brick hobs, massive iron crane, and various pothooks, suggested a generous plenty possibly existent in all moods and tenses except the indicative present. One way of getting an idea of our fellow-countrymen’s miseries is to go and look at their pleasures. The Cross-Keys had a fungous-featured landlord and a yellow sickly landlady, with a napkin bound round her head like a resuscitated

Lazarus; it had doctored ale, an odour of bad tobacco, and remarkably strong cheese. It was not what Astraea, when come back, might be expected to approve as the scene of ecstatic enjoyment for the beings whose special prerogative it is to lift their sublime faces towards heaven. Still, there was ample space on the hearth - accommodation for narrative bagmen or boxmen - room for a man to stretch his legs; his brain was not pressed upon by a white wall within a yard of him, and the light did not stare in mercilessly on bare ugliness, turning the fire to ashes. Compared with some beerhouses of this more advanced period, the Cross-Keys of that day presented a high standard of pleasure.

But though this venerable ‘public’ had not failed to share in the recent political excitement of drinking, the pleasures it offered were not at this early hour of the evening sought by a numerous company. There were only three or four pipes being smoked by the firelight, but it was enough for Christian when he found that one of these was being smoked by the bill-sticker, whose large flat basket stuffed with placards, leaned near him against the settle. So splendid an apparition as Christian was not a little startling at the Cross-Keys, and was gazed at in expectant silence; but he was a stranger in Pollard’s End, and was taken for the highest style of traveller when he declared that he was deucedly thirsty, ordered six-pennyworth of gin and a large jug of water, and, putting a few drops of the spirit into his own glass, invited Tommy Trounsem, who sat next him, to help himself. Tommy was not slower than a shaking hand obliged him to be in accepting this invitation. He was a tall broad-shouldered old fellow, who had once been good-looking; but his cheeks and chest were both hollow now, and his limbs were shrunken.

‘You’ve got some bills there, master, eh?’ said Christian, pointing to the basket. ‘Is there an auction coming on?’

‘Auction? no,’ said Tommy, with a gruff hoarseness, which was the remnant of a jovial bass, and with an accent which differed from the Trebian fitfully, as an early habit is wont to reassert itself ‘I’ve nought to do wi’ auctions; I’m a pol’tical charicter. It’s me am getting Trounsem into parliament.’

‘Trounsem, says he,’ the landlord observed, taking out his pipe with a low laugh. ‘It’s Transome, sir. Maybe you don’t belong to this part. It’s the candidate ‘ull do most for the working men, and’s proved it too, in the way o’ being openhanded and wishing ‘em to enjoy themselves. If I’d twenty votes, I’d give one for Transome, and I don’t care who hears me.’

The landlord peeped out from his fungous cluster of features with a beery confidence that the high figure of twenty had somehow raised the hypothetic value of his vote.

‘Spilkins, now,’ said Tommy, waving his hand to the landlord, ‘you let one genelman speak to another, will you? This genelman wants to know about my bills. Does he, or doesn’t he?’

‘What then? I spoke according,’ said the landlord, mildly holding his own.

‘You’re all very well, Spilkins,’ returned Tommy, ‘but y’aren’t me. I know what the bills are. It’s public business. I’m none o’ your common bill-stickers, master; I’ve left off sticking up ten guineas reward for a sheep-stealer, or low stuff like that. These are Trounsem’s bills; and I’m the rightful family, and so I give him a lift. A Trounsem I am, and a Trounsem I’ll be buried; and if Old Nick tries to lay hold on me for poaching, I’ll say, “You be hanged for a lawyer, Old Nick; every hare and pheasant on the Trounsem’s land is mine”; and what rises the family, rises old Tommy; and we’re going to get into parl’ment - that’s the long and the short on’t, master. And I’m the head o’ the family, and I stick the bills. There’s Johnsons, and Thomsons, and Jacksons, and Billsons; but I’m a Trounsem, I am. What do you say to that, master?’

This appeal, accompanied by a blow on the table, while the landlord winked at the company, was addressed to Christian, who answered, with severe gravity - ‘I say there isn’t any work more honourable than bill-sticking.’

‘No, no,’ said Tommy, wagging his head from side to side. ‘I thought you’d come in to that. I thought you’d know better than say contrairy. But I’ll shake hands wi’ you; I don’t want to knock any man’s head off. I’m a good chap - a sound crock - an old family kep’ out o’ my rights. I shall go to heaven, for all Old Nick.’

As these celestial prospects might imply that a little extra gin was beginning to tell on the bill-sticker, Christian wanted to lose no time in arresting his attention. He laid his hand on Tommy’s arm and spoke emphatically.

‘But I’ll tell you what you bill-stickers are not up to. You should be on the look-out when Debarry’s side have stuck up fresh bills, and go and paste yours over them. I know where there’s a lot of Debarry’s bills now. Come along with me, and I’ll show you. We’ll paste them over, and then we’ll come back and treat the company.’