Our Mutual Friend
name as a Member of my Committee? I don’t go so far as to ask for his
lordship; I only ask for his name. Do you think he would give me his
name?’
In sudden low spirits, Twemlow replies, ‘I don’t think he would.’
‘My political opinions,’ says Veneering, not previously aware of having
any, ‘are identical with those of Lord Snigsworth, and perhaps as a
matter of public feeling and public principle, Lord Snigsworth would
give me his name.’
‘It might be so,’ says Twemlow; ‘but—’ And perplexedly scratching his
head, forgetful of the yolks of eggs, is the more discomfited by being
reminded how stickey he is.
‘Between such old and intimate friends as ourselves,’ pursues Veneering,
‘there should in such a case be no reserve. Promise me that if I ask you
to do anything for me which you don’t like to do, or feel the slightest
difficulty in doing, you will freely tell me so.’
This, Twemlow is so kind as to promise, with every appearance of most
heartily intending to keep his word.
‘Would you have any objection to write down to Snigsworthy Park, and ask
this favour of Lord Snigsworth? Of course if it were granted I should
know that I owed it solely to you; while at the same time you would put
it to Lord Snigsworth entirely upon public grounds. Would you have any
objection?’
Says Twemlow, with his hand to his forehead, ‘You have exacted a promise
from me.’
‘I have, my dear Twemlow.’
‘And you expect me to keep it honourably.’
‘I do, my dear Twemlow.’
‘ON the whole, then;—observe me,’ urges Twemlow with great nicety, as
if; in the case of its having been off the whole, he would have done it
directly—‘ON the whole, I must beg you to excuse me from addressing any
communication to Lord Snigsworth.’
‘Bless you, bless you!’ says Veneering; horribly disappointed, but
grasping him by both hands again, in a particularly fervent manner.
It is not to be wondered at that poor Twemlow should decline to inflict
a letter on his noble cousin (who has gout in the temper), inasmuch
as his noble cousin, who allows him a small annuity on which he lives,
takes it out of him, as the phrase goes, in extreme severity; putting
him, when he visits at Snigsworthy Park, under a kind of martial law;
ordaining that he shall hang his hat on a particular peg, sit on a
particular chair, talk on particular subjects to particular people, and
perform particular exercises: such as sounding the praises of the Family
Varnish (not to say Pictures), and abstaining from the choicest of the
Family Wines unless expressly invited to partake.
‘One thing, however, I CAN do for you,’ says Twemlow; ‘and that is, work
for you.’
Veneering blesses him again.
‘I’ll go,’ says Twemlow, in a rising hurry of spirits, ‘to the
club;—let us see now; what o’clock is it?’
‘Twenty minutes to eleven.’
‘I’ll be,’ says Twemlow, ‘at the club by ten minutes to twelve, and I’ll
never leave it all day.’
Veneering feels that his friends are rallying round him, and says,
‘Thank you, thank you. I knew I could rely upon you. I said to Anastatia
before leaving home just now to come to you—of course the first friend
I have seen on a subject so momentous to me, my dear Twemlow—I said to
Anastatia, “We must work.”’
‘You were right, you were right,’ replies Twemlow. ‘Tell me. Is SHE
working?’
‘She is,’ says Veneering.
‘Good!’ cries Twemlow, polite little gentleman that he is. ‘A woman’s
tact is invaluable. To have the dear sex with us, is to have everything
with us.’
‘But you have not imparted to me,’ remarks Veneering, ‘what you think of
my entering the House of Commons?’
‘I think,’ rejoins Twemlow, feelingly, ‘that it is the best club in
London.’
Veneering again blesses him, plunges down stairs, rushes into his
Hansom, and directs the driver to be up and at the British Public, and
to charge into the City.
Meanwhile Twemlow, in an increasing hurry of spirits, gets his hair down
as well as he can—which is not very well; for, after these glutinous
applications it is restive, and has a surface on it somewhat in the
nature of pastry—and gets to the club by the appointed time. At the
club he promptly secures a large window, writing materials, and all
the newspapers, and establishes himself; immoveable, to be respectfully
contemplated by Pall Mall. Sometimes, when a man enters who nods to
him, Twemlow says, ‘Do you know Veneering?’ Man says, ‘No; member of
the club?’ Twemlow says, ‘Yes. Coming in for Pocket-Breaches.’ Man says,
‘Ah! Hope he may find it worth the money!’ yawns, and saunters out.
Towards six o’clock of the afternoon, Twemlow begins to persuade
himself that he is positively jaded with work, and thinks it much to be
regretted that he was not brought up as a Parliamentary agent.
From Twemlow’s, Veneering dashes at Podsnap’s place of business. Finds
Podsnap reading the paper, standing, and inclined to be oratorical
over the astonishing discovery he has made, that Italy is not England.
Respectfully entreats Podsnap’s pardon for stopping the flow of his
words of wisdom, and informs him what is in the wind. Tells Podsnap that
their political opinions are identical. Gives Podsnap to understand that
he, Veneering, formed his political opinions while sitting at the feet
of him, Podsnap. Seeks earnestly to know whether Podsnap ‘will rally
round him?’
Says Podsnap, something sternly, ‘Now, first of all, Veneering, do you
ask my advice?’
Veneering falters that as so old and so dear a friend—
‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well,’ says Podsnap; ‘but have you made up
your mind to take this borough of Pocket-Breaches on its own terms, or
do you ask my opinion whether you shall take it or leave it alone?’
Veneering repeats that his heart’s desire and his soul’s thirst are,
that Podsnap shall rally round him.
‘Now, I’ll be plain with you, Veneering,’ says Podsnap, knitting his
brows. ‘You will infer that I don’t care about Parliament, from the fact
of my not being there?’
Why, of course Veneering knows that! Of course Veneering knows that if
Podsnap chose to go there, he would be there, in a space of time that
might be stated by the light and thoughtless as a jiffy.
‘It is not worth my while,’ pursues Podsnap, becoming handsomely
mollified, ‘and it is the reverse of important to my position. But it
is not my wish to set myself up as law for another man, differently
situated. You think it IS worth YOUR while, and IS important to YOUR
position. Is that so?’
Always with the proviso that Podsnap will rally round him, Veneering
thinks it is so.
‘Then you don’t ask my advice,’ says Podsnap. ‘Good. Then I won’t give
it you. But you do ask my help. Good. Then I’ll work for you.’
Veneering instantly blesses him, and apprises him that Twemlow is
already working. Podsnap does not quite approve that anybody should
be already working—regarding it rather in the light of a liberty—but
tolerates Twemlow, and says he is a well-connected old female who will
do no harm.
‘I have nothing very particular to do to-day,’ adds Podsnap, ‘and I’ll
mix with some influential people. I had engaged myself to dinner, but
I’ll send Mrs Podsnap and get off going myself; and I’ll dine with you
at eight. It’s important we should report progress and compare notes.
Now, let me see. You ought to have a couple of active energetic fellows,
of gentlemanly manners, to go about.’
Veneering, after cogitation, thinks of Boots and Brewer.
‘Whom I have met at your house,’ says Podsnap. ‘Yes. They’ll do very
well. Let them each have a cab, and go about.’
Veneering immediately mentions what a blessing he feels it, to possess
a friend capable of such grand administrative suggestions, and really
is elated at this going about of Boots and Brewer, as an idea wearing
an electioneering aspect and looking desperately like business. Leaving
Podsnap, at a hand-gallop, he descends upon Boots and Brewer, who
enthusiastically rally round him by at once bolting off in cabs, taking
opposite directions. Then Veneering repairs to the legal gentleman in
Britannia’s confidence, and with him transacts some delicate affairs
of business, and issues an address to the independent electors of
Pocket-Breaches, announcing that he is coming among them for their
suffrages, as the mariner returns to the home of his early childhood: a
phrase which is none the worse for his never having been near the place
in his life, and not even now distinctly knowing where it is.
Mrs Veneering, during the same eventful hours, is not idle. No sooner
does the carriage turn out, all complete, than she turns into it, all
complete, and gives the word ‘To Lady Tippins’s.’ That charmer dwells
over a staymaker’s in the Belgravian Borders, with a life-size model
in the window on the ground floor of a distinguished beauty in a blue
petticoat, stay-lace in hand, looking over her shoulder at the town in
innocent surprise. As well she may, to find herself dressing under the
circumstances.
Lady Tippins at home? Lady Tippins at home, with the room darkened,
and her back (like the lady’s at the ground-floor window, though for a
different reason) cunningly turned towards the light. Lady Tippins is
so surprised by seeing her dear Mrs Veneering so early—in the middle of
the night, the pretty creature calls it—that her eyelids almost go up,
under the influence of that emotion.
To whom Mrs Veneering incoherently communicates, how that Veneering
has been offered Pocket-Breaches; how that it is the time for rallying
round; how that Veneering has said ‘We must work’; how that she is here,
as a wife and mother, to entreat Lady Tippins to work; how that the
carriage is at Lady Tippins’s disposal for purposes of work; how that
she, proprietress of said bran new elegant equipage, will return home on
foot—on bleeding feet if need be—to work (not specifying how), until
she drops by the side of baby’s crib.
‘My love,’ says Lady Tippins, ‘compose yourself; we’ll bring him in.’
And Lady Tippins really does work, and work the Veneering horses too;
for she clatters about town all day, calling upon everybody she knows,
and showing her entertaining powers and green fan to immense advantage,
by rattling on with, My dear soul, what do you think? What do
you suppose me to be? You’ll never guess. I’m pretending to be an
electioneering agent. And for what place of all places? Pocket-Breaches.
And why? Because the dearest friend I have in the world has bought it.
And who is the dearest friend I have in the world? A man of the name of
Veneering. Not omitting his wife, who is the other dearest friend I have
in the world; and I positively declare I forgot their baby, who is the
other. And we are carrying on this little farce to keep up appearances,
and isn’t it refreshing! Then, my precious child, the fun of it is that
nobody knows who these Veneerings are, and that they know nobody, and
that they have a house out of the Tales of the Genii, and give dinners
out of the Arabian Nights. Curious to see ’em, my dear? Say you’ll know
’em. Come and dine with ’em. They shan’t bore you. Say who shall meet
you. We’ll make up a party of our own, and I’ll engage that they shall
not interfere with you for one single moment. You really ought to see
their gold and silver camels. I call their dinner-table, the Caravan.
Do come and dine with my Veneerings, my own Veneerings, my exclusive
property, the dearest friends I have in the world! And above all, my
dear, be sure you promise me your vote and interest and all sorts of
plumpers for Pocket-Breaches; for we couldn’t think of spending sixpence
on it, my love, and can only consent to be brought in by the spontaneous
thingummies of the incorruptible whatdoyoucallums.
Now, the point of view seized by the bewitching Tippins, that this same