The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

said to himself over and over again as he slowly went to Mount Street. LV Clerical Charities

Melmotte’s success, and Melmotte’s wealth, and Melmotte’s antecedents were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen there in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes from sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those parts knew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London. The purchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all the Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his past frauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest man in England. Miss Melmotte’s little attempt had also been communicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not recognised as being “real Suffolk” himself, was so far connected with Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality respecting the Melmottes generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned. Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmotte fashion. Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably Conservative, did not believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member of Parliament. Suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the other day, as Suffolk counts days, since the original Longestaffe was in trade. This selling of Pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmotte, was a mean thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmotte had picked the very bones of every shareholder in that Franco-Austrian Assurance Company.

Mr. Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking about him⁠—or talking rather of the attempted elopement. “I know nothing about it,” said Roger, “and I do not intend to ask. Of course I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I did believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father had consented or not I never enquired.”

“It seems he did not consent.”

“Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the Gazette before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it.”

“You think Melmotte will turn out a failure.”

“A failure! Of course he’s a failure, whether rich or poor;⁠—a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end⁠—too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?”

“At just a table here and there,” suggested his friend.

“No;⁠—it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so can I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know⁠—at any rate they believe⁠—that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the approval of all the world⁠—and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general.”

Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero was discussed under a different heading. “He has given £200,” said the Bishop, “to the Curates’ Aid Society. I don’t know that a man could spend his money much better than that.”

“Claptrap!” said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter.

“The money is not claptrap, my friend. I presume that the money is really paid.”

“I don’t feel at all sure of that.”

“Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men⁠—very ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the election.”

“And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?”

“Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society⁠—and I am always for encouraging useful men.”

“Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?”

“There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we should say that it is vile in this man.” Roger frowned and shook his head. “Of course Mr. Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a Conservative constituency. But the country is changing.”

“It’s going to the dogs, I think;⁠—about as fast as it can go.”

“We build churches much faster than we used to do.”

“Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?” asked the Squire.

“It is very hard to see into the minds of men,” said the Bishop; “but we can see the results of their minds’ work. I think that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury, by following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them.”

“I