David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

“I only mean that politics is a very particular thing- in which people seem interested largely in their own gain.”

“You are a cynic, sir. Can it not be that they are interested in the Whig cause?”

“And what is the Whig cause, if I may ask?”

“I see no point in arguing this matter with you,” he said irritably.

“I do not seek a quarrel. I am most interested in hearing what constitutes the Whig cause. From my perspective, it appears to be little more than protecting the privileges of new men with new money and standing in the way of anything that would suggest there is more to seek than to enrich oneself at the cost of the world. If there is a more fundamental ideology that the party rests upon, I should very much like to know it.”

“Do you suggest,” Hertcomb asked, “that the Tory party is above seeking gain and advantage where it can?”

“I would never suggest anything of the sort about anyone involved in politics. I do not propose that there is no corruption among Tories. I am, however, asking about the philosophical foundation of your party, not the immoral practice of all parties, and I ask in earnestness.”

Hertcomb quite clearly had nothing to say. He neither knew nor cared what it meant, in principle, to be a Whig, only in practice. At last he muttered something about the Whig party being the king’s party.

“If association is of such importance,” I said, “I should rather you had observed that the Whig party is Miss Dogmill’s party, for that is reason enough for any sane man to follow its banners.”

“Mr. Evans attempts to flatter me, but I believe he has, in a way, answered his own question. I choose to support the Whigs because my family has always done so for as long as parties have mattered. The Whigs serve my family and my family serves the Whigs. I cannot say it is the most upstanding of the parties, but I know that none are above reproach; there is a certain pragmatic approach that must be followed. Nevertheless, if I could wish all of these politics and politicians away, I would do so in an instant.”

“So you mislike the very system you serve?” I asked.

“Oh, immensely. But these parties are like great savage lions, Mr. Evans. They stand over you and salivate and lick their lips, and if you don’t offer them a morsel of food now and again, they will eat you. You may stand upon principle and refuse to placate the beasts, but if you do so, all that will happen is that the lion will remain and you will be quite gone.”

When we stepped out of the carriage at Covent Garden, I immediately pulled Hertcomb aside. “You and I are used to being on friendly terms,” I said. “Have I done something to change that, sir?”

He stared at me, his face slightly less blank than usual. “I am not obliged to be every man’s friend.”

“I should not think you are. But as you have been mine in the past, I should like to know why you are not now.”

“Is it not obvious?” he said. “I have a preference for Miss Dogmill, and you think nothing of trying to steal her affections away.”

“I cannot argue when it comes to affairs of the heart, but I believe my fondness for Miss Dogmill was evident last night, and while you may not have liked it, you continued to be civil to me.”

“I thought of it more, and I concluded I don’t much like it- nor you either, Evans.”

“If I believed you, I would respect your words. But I think you’re hiding something, sir. You may confide in me, you know.”

He bit his lip and looked away. “It is Dogmill,” he said at last. “He has instructed me that I must no longer be friendly with you, sir. I am sorry, but the matter is quite out of my hands. I have been told that you and I are not to be on good terms, but that we are to be on bad terms as often as possible, so if you will cooperate in this, you will make my task much easier.”

“Cooperate!” I nearly shouted. “You wish my assistance in cultivating you as my enemy? You will not have it, sir. I think it is time you learned that because Mr. Dogmill demands something of you, there is no need for you to provide it.”

Here a redness began to spread across his eyes, like the plague of blood in ancient Egypt. “He struck me,” Hertcomb whispered.

“What?”

“He struck me in the face. He slapped me as though I were a badly behaved child and told me he would serve me more of the same sauce if I did not recall that we meant to win a seat of the House of Commons, and that end is not generally achieved by being overly friendly with the enemy.”

“You mustn’t let him use you thus,” I said, in a harsh whisper.

“What choice have I? I cannot defy him. I cannot strike him back. I can do nothing but endure his abuse until I win this election, and then I shall make every effort to free myself of his grasp.”

I nodded. “I quite understand. You must let him have his way in this, but you and I need not allow his opinions to rule us. You may tell him you said the harshest things in the world to me, and I to you, and he will know no better. And, if we find ourselves in Mr. Dogmill’s company, you may be as unkind to me as you like, and I promise I shan’t hold it against you.”

For a moment I thought Hertcomb would hug me. Instead he smiled as broadly and as innocently as a baby and then grabbed my hand, which he shook heartily. “You are a true friend, Mr. Evans, a true friend. After this election, when I sever my connections with Dogmill, I shall show you what it means to be well liked by Albert Hertcomb.”

I could not but be touched by his affection, even though I was not his true friend. I would not have hesitated to ruin him if it would advance my cause, and, though I did not view the world as Dogmill did, under the proper circumstances I might strike Hertcomb in the face as well.

The canvass proved a strange and curious ritual. Miss Dogmill had a piece of foolscap on which the names of her voters had been written. There were indications if their political leanings were known to Mr. Dogmill, but most were not. I wondered why it was that so pretty a lady should be sent to so rough a part of the city to spread her message, but I found my answer soon enough. We visited the shop of one Mr. Blacksmith, an apothecary. He was in his fifties, perhaps, and had weathered his years not so well as he might have liked. When we walked into his shop, I thought perhaps he had never seen a creature so exquisite as Miss Dogmill in all his life.

“Sir,” said Mr. Hertcomb at once, “have you yet voted in the general election?”

“I haven’t,” he said. “No one’s been by yet.”

“We have come by now,” the Whig said. “I am Albert Hertcomb.”

The apothecary sucked on his gums so that his face, in an instant, went from plum to prune. “Hertcomb is one I ain’t heard of. Which one are you now?”

Miss Dogmill smiled sweetly at him and curtsied to show off the colors of her gown. “Mr. Hertford is the blue-and-orange candidate,” she said.

The apothecary returned her smile sheepishly. “Blue and orange, is he? Well, those are fine colors, I reckon. What do ye have to offer me for the vote?”

“Why, justice and liberty,” Mr. Hertcomb said. “Freedom from tyranny.”

“I got as much of them as I’m like to have right now, and that ain’t much, so try again.”

“Half a shilling,” proposed Miss Dogmill.

The apothecary scratched at the wispy bits of hair on his pate as he pondered the offer. “How do I know the other fellows won’t offer me a better price?”

“You don’t, but they may not offer you anything at all,” Miss Dogmill said sweetly. “Come then, sir. If you will vote for Mr. Hertcomb, I will stroll over to the polling place with you right this moment. I will wait with you, and I will place the money in your hand myself.” She took a step closer to him and placed her arm in his. “Do you not wish to accompany me?”