Vanity Fair - Page 394/573

In comparing, too, the poor man's situation with that of the great,

there is (always according to Mr. Eaves) another source of comfort for

the former. You who have little or no patrimony to bequeath or to

inherit, may be on good terms with your father or your son, whereas the

heir of a great prince, such as my Lord Steyne, must naturally be angry

at being kept out of his kingdom, and eye the occupant of it with no

very agreeable glances. "Take it as a rule," this sardonic old Laves

would say, "the fathers and elder sons of all great families hate each

other. The Crown Prince is always in opposition to the crown or

hankering after it. Shakespeare knew the world, my good sir, and when

he describes Prince Hal (from whose family the Gaunts pretend to be

descended, though they are no more related to John of Gaunt than you

are) trying on his father's coronet, he gives you a natural description

of all heirs apparent. If you were heir to a dukedom and a thousand

pounds a day, do you mean to say you would not wish for possession?

Pooh! And it stands to reason that every great man, having experienced

this feeling towards his father, must be aware that his son entertains

it towards himself; and so they can't but be suspicious and hostile.

"Then again, as to the feeling of elder towards younger sons. My dear

sir, you ought to know that every elder brother looks upon the cadets

of the house as his natural enemies, who deprive him of so much ready

money which ought to be his by right. I have often heard George Mac

Turk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say that if he had his will when he

came to the title, he would do what the sultans do, and clear the

estate by chopping off all his younger brothers' heads at once; and so

the case is, more or less, with them all. I tell you they are all

Turks in their hearts. Pooh! sir, they know the world." And here,

haply, a great man coming up, Tom Eaves's hat would drop off his head,

and he would rush forward with a bow and a grin, which showed that he

knew the world too--in the Tomeavesian way, that is. And having laid

out every shilling of his fortune on an annuity, Tom could afford to

bear no malice to his nephews and nieces, and to have no other feeling

with regard to his betters but a constant and generous desire to dine

with them.

Between the Marchioness and the natural and tender regard of mother for

children, there was that cruel barrier placed of difference of faith.

The very love which she might feel for her sons only served to render

the timid and pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf which

separated them was fatal and impassable. She could not stretch her

weak arms across it, or draw her children over to that side away from

which her belief told her there was no safety. During the youth of his

sons, Lord Steyne, who was a good scholar and amateur casuist, had no

better sport in the evening after dinner in the country than in setting

the boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing)

on her ladyship's director, Father Mole, over their wine, and in

pitting Oxford against St. Acheul. He cried "Bravo, Latimer! Well

said, Loyola!" alternately; he promised Mole a bishopric if he would

come over, and vowed he would use all his influence to get Trail a

cardinal's hat if he would secede. Neither divine allowed himself to

be conquered, and though the fond mother hoped that her youngest and

favourite son would be reconciled to her church--his mother church--a

sad and awful disappointment awaited the devout lady--a disappointment

which seemed to be a judgement upon her for the sin of her marriage.