Aristocracy (Social class) -- England -- Fiction; England -- Social conditions -- 19th century -- Fiction; Rich people -- Fiction
For despite the deference which he really felt for the world into which
he had entered, he could not help the shrewd good sense in him boiling
up sometimes into a savage contempt. To his rough strong temper and his
unscrupulous keenness the gentlemen who were now his companions in life
did seem very poor creatures.
“If I ever get into the Cabinet I’ll show them the time of day,” he
thought very often. There was no reason why he should not get into
the Cabinet as he had once got into the House. He was made of the
solid metal, and the plebeian respectability, with which patrician
conservatism, trembling in its shoes for its own existence, is
delighted to ally itself; and knew that he would make a very good
minister of the type which works hard, pleases the public, is always
mentioned with praise by the Press of the Party, and lends itself to
the illustration of admirable public dinner speeches in praise of the
Constitution, and of that constitutional bulwark the Middle Class.
He was a very shrewd man and he had the golden gift of silence. He
knew his shortcomings better than his wife knew hers, and so concealed
his ambitions more successfully. Nobody could “draw” him. Men in the
smoking-room of his own or other houses often tried after dinner
to make him “give himself away,” but they never succeeded. He was
never warmed by wine or friendship into indiscreet reminiscences or
revelations.
Moreover in business he was _facile princeps_; no one could beat him
in the supreme knowledge of money or how to make it. And indeed the
thorough knowledge of and capacity for business does carry its own
weight with it in an age in which the Mercurius of mart and change is
chief of all the gods.
In society he was a heavy, awkward, common-looking man, who did
not know what to do with his hands, and always sat on the edge of
his chair, with his legs very wide apart. But in a clubroom, a
committee-room, a board-room, a bank parlor, anywhere where there was
question of the sowing and reaping of gold, he was a totally different
person; he was at his ease, on his ground, master of his subject and
of his hearers; his hands rested on his knees with a firm grip, his
words were trenchant, convincing, logical; and on his pallid, fleshy,
expressionless face there came a look, very hard, very unmerciful, very
cunning, but a look of intelligence and power, and of entire command of
his object. The mind showed through the envelope of flesh.
It was a money-making mind, a harsh astute grasping mind, a mean
ignoble greedy mind, but it was a master mind in its way, and as such
impressed itself on all those who encountered it on its field of
combat. And the men that came into contact with him knew that he had
been a day laborer who had, entirely by his own ability and industry,
become the possessor of a colossal fortune, and all men respect this
successful self-help, and few inquire if the self-help had been made
with clean hands.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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