He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (books you need to read .txt) 📕

payment of the debt due by all men to all women.’

‘Such is certainly the rule of living in our country, sir,’ said Mr

Spalding.

‘The chances are,’ continued the Englishman, ‘that no further

observation follows the payment of such a debt. It has been a thing of

course.’

‘We delight to think it so, Mr Glascock, in our own cities.’

‘But in this instance it has given rise to one of the pleasantest, and

as I hope most enduring friendships that I have ever formed,’ said Mr

Glascock with enthusiasm. What could the American Minister do but bow

again three times? And what other meaning could he attach to such words

than that which so many of his friends had been attributing to Mr

Glascock for some weeks past? It had occurred to Mr Spalding, even

since he had been sitting in his present close proximity to Mr

Glascock, that it might possibly be his duty as an uncle having to deal

with an Englishman, to ask that gentleman what were his intentions. He

would do his duty let it be what it might; but the asking of such a

question would be very disagreeable to him. For the present he

satisfied himself with inviting his neighbour to come and drink tea

with Mrs Spalding on the next evening but one. ‘The girls will be

delighted, I am sure,’ said he, thinking himself to be justified in

this friendly familiarity by Mr Glascock’s enthusiasm. For Mr Spalding

was clearly of opinion that, let the value of republican simplicity be

what it might, an alliance with the crumbling marbles of Europe would

in his niece’s circumstances be not inexpedient. Mr Glascock accepted

the invitation with alacrity, and the minister when he was closeted

with his wife that evening declared his opinion that after all the

Britisher meant fighting. The aunt told the girls that Mr Glascock was

coming, and in order that it might not seem that a net was being

specially spread for him, others were invited to join the party. Miss

Petrie consented to be there, and the Italian, Count Buonarosci, to

whose presence, though she could not speak to him, Mrs Spalding was

becoming accustomed. It was painful to her to feel that she could not

communicate with those around her, and for that reason she would have

avoided Italians. But she had an idea that she could not thoroughly

realise the advantages of foreign travel unless she lived with

foreigners; and, therefore, she was glad to become intimate at any rate

with the outside of Count Buonarosci.

‘I think your uncle is wrong, dear,’ said Miss Petrie early in the day

to her friend.

‘But why? He has done nothing more than what is just civil.’

‘If Mr Glascock kept a store in Broadway he would not have thought it

necessary to shew the same civility.’

‘Yes if we all liked the Mr Glascock who kept the store.’

‘Caroline,’ said the poetess with severe eloquence, ‘can you put your

hand upon your heart and say that this inherited title, this tinkling

cymbal as I call it, has no attraction for you or yours? Is it the

unadorned simple man that you welcome to your bosom, or a thing of

stars and garters, a patch of parchment, the minion of a throne, the

lordling of twenty descents, in which each has been weaker than that

before it, the hero of a scutcheon, whose glory is in his quarterings,

and whose worldly wealth comes from the sweat of serfs whom the

euphonism of an effete country has learned to decorate with the name of

tenants?’

But Caroline Spalding had a spirit of her own, and had already made up

her mind that she would not be talked down by Miss Petrie. ‘Uncle

Jonas,’ said she, ‘asks him because we like him; and would do so too if

he kept the store in Broadway. But if he did keep the store perhaps we

should not like him.’

‘I trow not,’ said Miss Petrie.

Livy was much more comfortable in her tactics, and without consulting

anybody sent for a hairdresser. ‘It’s all very well for Wallachia,’

said Livy Miss Petrie’s name was Wallachia ‘but I know a nice sort of

man when I see him, and the ways of the world are not to be altered

because Wally writes poetry.’

When Mr Glascock was announced, Mrs Spalding’s handsome rooms were

almost filled, as rooms in Florence are filled, obstruction in every

avenue, a crowd in every corner, and a block at every doorway, not

being among the customs of the place. Mr Spalding immediately caught

him, intercepting him between the passages and the ladies, and engaged

him at once in conversation.

‘Your John S. Mill is a great man,’ said the minister.

‘They tell me so,’ said Mr Glascock. ‘I don’t read what he writes

myself.’

This acknowledgment seemed to the minister to be almost disgraceful,

and yet he himself had never read a word of Mr Mill’s writings. ‘He is

a far-seeing man,’ continued the minister. ‘He is one of the few

Europeans who can look forward, and see how the rivers of civilization

are running on. He has understood that women must at last be put upon

an equality with men.’

‘Can he manage that men shall have half the babies?’ said Mr Glascock,

thinking to escape by an attempt at playfulness.

But the minister was down upon him at once, had him by the lappet of his

coat, though he knew how important it was for his dear niece that he

should allow Mr Glascock to amuse himself this evening after another

fashion. ‘I have an answer ready, sir, for that difficulty,’ he

said.‘step aside with me for a moment. The question is important, and I

should be glad if you would communicate my ideas to your great

philosopher. Nature, sir, has laid down certain laws, which are

immutable; and, against them—’

But Mr Glascock had not come to Florence for this. There were

circumstances in his present position which made him feel that he would

be gratified in escaping, even at the cost of some seeming incivility.

‘I must go in to the ladies at once,’ he said, ‘or I shall never get a

word with them.’ There came across the minister’s brow a momentary

frown of displeasure, as though he felt that he were being robbed of

that which was justly his own. For an instant his grasp fixed itself

more tightly to the coat. It was quite within the scope of his courage

to hold a struggling listener by physical strength but he remembered

that there was a purpose, and he relaxed his hold.

‘I will take another opportunity,’ said the minister. ‘As you have

raised that somewhat trite objection of the bearing of children, which

we in our country, sir, have altogether got over, I must put you in

possession of my views on that subject; but I will find another

occasion.’ Then Mr Glascock began to reflect whether an American lady,

married in England, would probably want to see much of her uncle in her

adopted country.

Mrs Spalding was all smiles when her guest reached her. ‘We did not

mean to have such a crowd of people,’ she said, whispering; ‘but you

know how one thing leads to another, and people here really like short

invitations.’ Then the minister’s wife bowed very low to an Italian

lady, and for the moment wished herself in Beacon Street. It was a

great trouble to her that she could not pluck up courage to speak a

word in Italian. ‘I know more about it than some that are glib enough,’

she would say to her niece Livy, ‘but these Tuscans are so particular

with their Bocca Tostana.’

It was almost spiteful on the part of Miss Petrie the manner in which,

on this evening, she remained close to her friend Caroline Spalding. It

is hardly possible to believe that it came altogether from high

principle, from a determination to save her friend from an impending

danger. One’s friend has no right to decide for one what is, and what

is not dangerous. Mr Glascock after awhile found himself seated on a

fixed couch, that ran along the wall, between Carry Spalding and Miss

Petrie; but Miss Petrie was almost as bad to him as had been the

minister himself. ‘I am afraid,’ she said, looking up into his face

with some severity, and rushing upon her subject with audacity, ‘that

the works of your Browning have not been received in your country with

that veneration to which they are entitled.’

‘Do you mean Mr or Mrs Browning?’ asked Mr Glascock perhaps with some

mistaken idea that the lady was out of her depth, and did not know the

difference.

‘Either, both; for they are one, the same, and indivisible. The spirit

and germ of each is so reflected in the outcome of the other, that one

sees only the result of so perfect a combination, and one is tempted to

acknowledge that here and there a marriage may have been arranged in

Heaven. I don’t think that in your country you have perceived this, Mr

Glascock.’

‘I am not quite sure that we have,’ said Mr Glascock. ‘Yours is not

altogether an inglorious mission,’ continued Miss Petrie.

‘I’ve got no mission,’ said Mr Glascock ‘either from the Foreign

Office, or from my own inner convictions.’

Miss Petrie laughed with a scornful laugh. ‘I spoke, sir, of the

mission of that small speck on the earth’s broad surface, of which you

think so much, and which we call Great Britain.’

‘I do think a good deal of it,’ said Mr Glascock.

‘It has been more thought of than any other speck of the same size,’

said Carry Spalding.

‘True,’ said Miss Petrie, sharply ‘because of its iron and coal. But

the mission I spoke of was this.’ And she put forth her hand with an

artistic motion as she spoke. ‘It utters prophecies, though it cannot

read them. It sends forth truth, though it cannot understand it. Though

its own ears are deaf as adder’s, it is the nursery of poets, who sing

not for their own countrymen, but for the higher sensibilities and

newer intelligences of lands in which philanthropy has made education

as common as the air that is breathed.’

‘Wally,’ said Olivia, coming up to the poetess, in anger that was

almost apparent, ‘I want to take you, and introduce you to the Marchesa

Pulti.’

But Miss Petrie no doubt knew that the eldest son of an English lord

was at least as good as an Italian marchesa. ‘Let her come here,’ said

the poetess, with her grandest smile.