บทที่ บทที่ 8 · Chapter VIII

As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to

express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very

curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she

would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness

to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord

Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would

come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded

him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,

on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she

asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker

she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he

had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The

brothers and sisters were very good people--“not particularly clever,

you know,” he said, “but very decent and pleasant;” and he was so good

as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in

the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was

a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his

thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then

Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which

were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to

be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of

them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her

she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had

doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,

if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing

in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the

questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only

another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,

of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly

superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;

there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and

her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than

many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were

ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his

lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and

dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it

and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of

which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest

pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other

brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed

and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to

pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. “I don’t

think I shall pay any more,” said her friend; “he lives a monstrous deal

better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much

finer gentleman than I. As I’m a consistent radical I go in only for

equality; I don’t go in for the superiority of the younger brothers.”

Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of

them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.

The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but

unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,

was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire

in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five

children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his

young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to

lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel

was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he

seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. “He

thinks I’m a barbarian,” she said, “and that I’ve never seen forks and

spoons;” and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of

hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,

“It’s a pity you can’t see me in my war-paint and feathers,” she

remarked; “if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would

have brought over my native costume!” Lord Warburton had travelled

through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he

was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the

world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that

Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained

to them. “If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!”

he said. “I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite

bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me

more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;

they’re rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you

can trust me; about what I tell you there’s no mistake.” There was no

mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and

knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most

interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to

exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,

as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making

a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not

spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect

of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times

almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as

agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone

of responsible kindness.

“I like your specimen English gentleman very much,” Isabel said to Ralph

after Lord Warburton had gone.

“I like him too--I love him well,” Ralph returned. “But I pity him

more.”

Isabel looked at him askance. “Why, that seems to me his only

fault--that one can’t pity him a little. He appears to have everything,

to know everything, to be everything.”

“Oh, he’s in a bad way!” Ralph insisted.

“I suppose you don’t mean in health?”

“No, as to that he’s detestably sound. What I mean is that he’s a man

with a great position who’s playing all sorts of tricks with it. He

doesn’t take himself seriously.”

“Does he regard himself as a joke?”

“Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse.”

“Well, perhaps he is,” said Isabel.

“Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don’t think so. But in that case

what’s more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by

other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?

For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.

He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great

responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great

wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great

country. But he’s all in a muddle about himself, his position, his

power, and indeed about everything in the world. He’s the victim of a

critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn’t know

what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I

know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.

I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don’t

understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who

can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an

institution.”

“He doesn’t look very wretched,” Isabel observed.

“Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I

think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being

of his opportunities that he’s not miserable? Besides, I believe he is.”

“I don’t,” said Isabel.

“Well,” her cousin rejoined, “if he isn’t he ought to be!”

In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the

old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup

of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her

what she thought of their late visitor.

Isabel was prompt. “I think he’s charming.”

“He’s a nice person,” said Mr. Touchett, “but I don’t recommend you to

fall in love with him.”

“I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your

recommendation. Moreover,” Isabel added, “my cousin gives me rather a

sad account of Lord Warburton.”

“Oh, indeed? I don’t know what there may be to say, but you must

remember that Ralph must talk.”

“He thinks your friend’s too subversive--or not subversive enough! I

don’t quite understand which,” said Isabel.

The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. “I don’t

know which either. He goes very far, but it’s quite possible he doesn’t

go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but

he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that’s natural, but it’s

rather inconsistent.”

“Oh, I hope he’ll remain himself,” said Isabel. “If he were to be done

away with his friends would miss him sadly.”

“Well,” said the old man, “I guess he’ll stay and amuse his friends.

I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always

amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.

There’s a considerable number like him, round in society; they’re very

fashionable just now. I don’t know what they’re trying to do--whether

they’re trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they’ll put it

off till after I’m gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;

but I’m a pretty big landowner here, and I don’t want to be

disestablished. I wouldn’t have come over if I had thought they

were going to behave like that,” Mr. Touchett went on with expanding

hilarity. “I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I

call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable

changes; there’ll be a large number disappointed in that case.”

“Oh, I do hope they’ll make a revolution!” Isabel exclaimed. “I should

delight in seeing a revolution.”

“Let me see,” said her uncle, with a humorous intention; “I forget

whether you’re on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I’ve

heard you take such opposite views.”

“I’m on the side of both. I guess I’m a little on the side of

everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should

be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they’ve a

chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely.”

“I don’t know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,

but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear.”

“Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!” the girl interrupted.

“I’m afraid, after all, you won’t have the pleasure of going gracefully

to the guillotine here just now,” Mr. Touchett went on. “If you want to

see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come

to the point it wouldn’t suit them to be taken at their word.”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper

class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the

changes, but I don’t think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we

know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always

thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.

And then I ain’t a lord; you’re a lady, my dear, but I ain’t a lord. Now

over here I don’t think it quite comes home to them. It’s a matter of

every day and every hour, and I don’t think many of them would find it

as pleasant as what they’ve got. Of course if they want to try, it’s

their own business; but I expect they won’t try very hard.”

“Don’t you think they’re sincere?” Isabel asked.

“Well, they want to _feel_ earnest,” Mr. Touchett allowed; “but it seems

as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a

kind of amusement; they’ve got to have some amusement, and they might

have coarser tastes than that. You see they’re very luxurious, and these

progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel

moral and yet don’t damage their position. They think a great deal of

their position; don’t let one of them ever persuade you he doesn’t, for

if you were to proceed on that basis you’d be pulled up very short.”

Isabel followed her uncle’s argument, which he unfolded with his quaint

distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the

British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions

of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord

Warburton’s behalf. “I don’t believe Lord Warburton’s a humbug; I don’t

care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the

test.”

“Heaven deliver me from my friends!” Mr. Touchett answered. “Lord

Warburton’s a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a

hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of

this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a

dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my

own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,

for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste

for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more

perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over

there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don’t

think it’s as pleasant as this. That doesn’t matter, however--he has

so many others. His views don’t hurt any one as far as I can see; they

certainly don’t hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he

would come off very easily. They wouldn’t touch him, they’d leave him as

he is: he’s too much liked.”

“Ah, he couldn’t be a martyr even if he wished!” Isabel sighed. “That’s

a very poor position.”

“He’ll never be a martyr unless you make him one,” said the old man.

Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the

fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. “I shall never make any

one a martyr.”

“You’ll never be one, I hope.”

“I hope not. But you don’t pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?”

Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. “Yes, I do, after

all!”