The Conqueror (Galsworthy)

By JOHN GALSWORTHY

"HE man who is successful, as Mr. Galsworthy's "Conqueror" is successful, is a type familiar everywhere—especially in this country. This article, the last of the distinguished series, is, in its analysis of character, one of the finest pieces of work in recent English literature"

E was given that way almost from his nursery days, for he could not even dress without racing his little brother in the doing up of little buttons, and being upset if he got one little button behind. At the age of eight he climbed all the trees of his father's garden, and arriving at their tops, felt a pang because the creatures left off so abruptly that he could not get any higher. He wrestled with anybody who did not mind rolling on the floor; and kept awake once all night, because he heard that one of his cousins was coming next day who was a year older than himself. It was not that he desired to see this cousin, to welcome, or give him a good time; he simply designed to race him in the kitchen garden, and to wrestle with him afterwards. It would be grand, he thought, to beat some one a year older than himself. The cousin however was scratched at the last moment. It was a blow. At the age of ten he cut his head open against a swing, and so far forgot himself as to cry when he saw the blood flowing. To have missed such an opportunity of being superior to other small boys made an indelible mark on his soul, for though he had not cried from pain he had cried from fright, and he might have beaten both emotions.

His first term at school he came out top, after a terrific struggle; there was one other boy in the class. And, term after term he went on coming out top, or very near it. He never knew what he was learning, but he knew that he beat other boys. He ran all the races he could, and played all the games; not because he enjoyed them, but because unless you did, you could not win. He was considered almost a prize specimen.

He went to College in an exhausted condition, and for two years devoted himself to dandyism, designing to be the coolest, slackest, best-dressed man up. He almost was. But as that day approached when one must either beat or be beaten in learning by one's contemporaries, a fearful feeling beset him, and he rushed off to a crammer. For a whole year he poured the crammer's notes into his memory. What they were all about he had no notion, but his memory retained them just over that hot week when he sat writing for his life, twice a day. He would have received a first, had not an examiner who did not understand that examinations are simply held to determine who can beat whom, asked him in the living voice a question, to answer which required a knowledge of why there was an answer. He came down exhausted, and ate his dinners for the Bar. It was an occupation at which he could achieve no distinction save that of eating them faster than any other student; and for two whole years he merely dreamed of becoming the best amateur actor and the best shot in England. His method of acting was based on nothing so flat as identification with the character he personified, but on the amount of laughter and applause that he could get in excess of that bestowed on any other member of the company. Nor did he shoot birds because he loved them, like a true sportsman, but because it was a pleasure to him to feel each day that he had shot or was going to shoot more than any one else who was shooting with him.

The time had now come for him to embrace his profession, and he did so like an Englishman, with his eye ever on the future. He perceived from the first that this particular race was longer than any race he had ever started for, and he began slowly, with a pebble in his mouth, husbanding his wind. The whole thing was extremely dry and extremely boring, but of course one hod to get there before all those other fellows. And round and round he ran, increasing his speed almost imperceptibly, soon beginning to have his eye on the half-dozen who seemed dangerously likely to get there before him if he did not mind that eye. It cannot be said that he enjoyed that work, or cared for the money it brought him. for what with getting through his day, and thinking of those other fellows who might be forging ahead of him, he had no time to spend money or even to give it away. And so it began rolling up. One day, however, perceiving that he had quite a lot, the thought came to him that he ought to do something with it. And happening soon after to go into a picture gallery, he bought a picture. He had not had it long before it seemed to him better than the picture of a friend who rather went in for them; and he thought: "I could easily beat him if I gave myself to it a little." And he did. It was fascinating to perceive, each time he bought, that his taste had improved, and was getting steadily ahead of his friend's taste: and indeed not only of his friend's, but of that of other people. He felt that soon he would have better taste than anybody, and he bought and bought. It was not that he cared for the pictures, for he really had not time or mind to give to them—set as he was on reaching eminence; but he dreamed of leaving them to the National Gallery us a monument of his taste, and final proof of superiority to his friend, after they were both gone.

About this time he took silk, sacrificing nearly half of his income. He would have preferred to wait longer had he not perceived that if he did not, his friends, and , and , would be taking silk before him. And since he meant to be a Judge first, this must naturally be guarded against. The prospective loss of so much income made him for a moment restful and expansive, as if he felt that he had been pushed almost too far by his competitive genius; and so he found time to marry—it being the commencement of the Long Vacation. For six weeks he hardly thought of his friends, and , and , but at the end of September he was shocked back into a more normal frame of mind by the news that they also had been offered and had taken silk. It behooved him, he felt, to put his wife behind him, and go back into harness. It would be just like those fellows to get ahead of him, if they could; and he curtailed his honeymoon by quite three weeks. Not two years had elapsed, before it became clear to him that to keep his place he must enter Parliament. And against his own natural affection, against even the inclinations of his country, he secured a seat at the General Election, and began sitting. What, then, was his chagrin to find that his friend, and his friend , ad even his friend , had also secured seals, and were sitting when he got there! With sitting in the Courts, and sitting in the House, he became lean and very yellow; and his wife complained. He determined to give her a child every year to keep her quiet; for he felt that he must have perfect peace in his home surroundings if he were to maintain his position in the great life race for which he had started, knowing that his friends, and , and  would never hesitate to avail themselves of his ill-health, to beat him. Besides none of those fellows were having many. It cannot be said that he found his work in Parliament congenial; it seemed to him unreal. For he could not get a mind—firmly fixed on himself and the horizon—to believe that all those little measures which he was continually passing, would really benefit people whose lives he absolutely had not time or inclination to be familiar with. When one had got up, prepared two cases, had breakfast, walked down to the Courts, sat there from half-past ten to four; walked to the House, sat there a little longer than his friend  (the worst of them): spoken if his friend  had spoken, or if he thought his friend  were going to speak; had dinner, prepared two cases, kissed his wife, mentally compared his last picture with that last one of his friend's, had a glass of barley-water, and gone to bed—when one had done all this there really was not time for living his own life, much less any one else's. He sometimes thought he would have to give up doing so much, but that of course was out of the question, seeing that his friends would at once shoot ahead. He took "Vitogen" instead. They used his photograph, with the words: "It does wonders with me," coming out of his mouth, and on the opposite page they used a photograph of his friend  with the words: "I take a glass a day, and revel in it," coming out of his. On discovering this he increased the amount at some risk to two glasses, determined not to be outdone by that fellow.

He sometimes wondered whether, in the Army, the Church, or the Stock Exchange, or in Literature, he would not have had a more restful life; for he would by no means have admitted that he carried within himself the microbe of his own fate.

His natural love of beauty, for instance, inspired him when he saw a sunset or a mountain or even the sea, with the thought: How jolly it would be to look at it! but he had gradually become so reconciled to knowing he had not time for this, that he never did. But if he had heard by any chance that his friend  did find time to contemplate such natural beauties, he would certainly have contrived somehow to contemplate them too.

As the time approached for being made a Judge, he compared himself more and more carefully with his friends, and , and. If they were appointed before him, it would be very serious for his prospects of ultimate preëminence. And it was with a certain relief tempered with sorrow that he heard one summer morning that his friend had fallen seriously ill, and was not expected to recover. He was assiduous in the expression of an anxiety that was quite genuine. His friend died as the Courts rose. And all through that Long Vacation he thought continually of poor, and of his career cut so prematurely short. It was then that the idea came to him of capping his efforts by a book. He chose for subject "The Evils of Competition in the Modern State," and devoted to it every minute he could spare during autumn months fortunately bereft of Parliamentary duties. It would just, he felt, make the difference between himself and his friends, and  , to a Government essentially favorable to literary men. He finished it at Christmas and arranged for a prompt publication. It was with a certain natural impatience that he read, two days later, of the approaching issue of a book by his friend, entitled: "Joy of Life, or the Cult of the Moment." What on earth the fellow was about, to rush into print, and on such a subject, he was at a loss to understand! The book came out a week before his own. He read the reviews rather feverishly, for they were favorable. What to do now to recover his lead, he hardly knew. If he had not been married it might have been possible to arrange something in that line with the daughter of an important personage; as it was, there was nothing for it but to part with his pictures to the National Gallery by way of a loan. And this he did, to the chagrin of his wife, about the middle of May. On the first of June he read in his Sunday paper that his friend  had given his library to the British Museum. Some relief to the strain of his anxiety, however, was afforded in July by the unexpected accession of his friend to a peerage, through the death of a cousin. The estate attached was considerable. He felt that this friend at all events would not continue to struggle; being English he would surely recognize that he was removed from active life. His premonition was correct; and his friend  and himself were left to fight it out alone. That Judge who had so long been expected to quit his Judgeship, did so for another world in the fourth week of the Long Vacation.

He hastened hack to town at once. This was one of the most crucial moments of a crucial career. If appointed, he would be the youngest Judge. But his friend  was of the same age, the same politics, the same calibre in every way, and more robust. During those weeks of waiting, therefore, he grew perceptibly grayer. His joy knew only the bounds of a careful concealment when at the beginning of October he was appointed a Judge of the High Court; for it was not till the following morning that he learned that his friend   had also been appointed, the Government having decided to add one to the number of His Majesty's Judges. Which of them had been made the extra Judge he neither dared nor cared to inquire; but, setting his teeth, entered forthwith on his duties.

It cannot be pretended that he liked them; to like them one would have to take a profound and as it were amateurish interest in Equity, and the lives of one's fellow men. For this of course he had not time, having to devote all his energies to not having his judgments reversed, and watching the judgments of his friend. In the first year that fellow was upset in the Court of Appeal three times oftener than himself, and it came as a blow, when the House of Lords so restored him, that they came out equal. In other respects of course the life was something of a rest after that which he had led hitherto, and he watched himself carefully lest he might deteriorate and be tempted to enjoy life, steadily resisting every effort on the part of his friends and family to draw him into recreations other than those of dining out, playing golf, and improving his acquaintanceship with that Law of which he would require a perfect knowledge when he became Lord Chancellor. He never could quite make up his mind whether to be glad or sorry that his friend  did not confine himself entirely to this curriculum.

It was about then that he became a politician so extremely Moderate that neither Party knew to which of them he belonged. It was a period of uncertainty, when no man could say in whose hands power would be in, say, five or ten years' time, and instinctively he felt that he must look ahead. A moderate man stood perhaps the greater chance of steady and perpetual preferment, and he felt moderate, now that the spur of a necessary political activity was removed. It was a constant source of uneasiness to him that his friend  had become such a dark horse that one could find out nothing about his political convictions; people, indeed, went so far as to say that the beggar had none.

He had not been a Judge four years when an epidemic of influenza swept off three of His Majesty's Judges, and sent one mad; and almost imperceptibly he found himself sitting with his friend  in the Court of Appeal. Having the fellow there under his eye day by day, he was able to study him, and noted with satisfaction that, though more robust, he was certainly of full and choleric temperament, not very careful of himself; and at once he began taking extra care of his own health, giving up wine, tobacco, and any other pleasure that he had left. For three years they sat there side by side, almost mechanically differing in their judgments; and then one morning the Prime Minister went and made his friend  Lord Chief Justice, and himself only Master of the Rolls. The shock was very great. After a week's indisposition, he reset his teeth and decided to struggle on; his friend  was not Lord Chancellor yet. Two more years passed, during which he undermined his health by dining constantly in the highest social and political circles, and delivering longer and weightier judgments every day. His wife and children, who still had access to him at times, watched him with anxiety.

One morning they found him pacing up and down the dining-room, with the Times newspaper in his hand and every mark of cerebral excitement, His friend  had made a speech at a certain banquet, in which he bad hit the Government a nasty knock. It was now, of course, only a question of whether they would retain office till the Lord Chancellor, who was very shaky, dropped off. He dropped off in June, and they buried him in Westminster Abbey; his friend  and himself being chief mourners. In the same week the Government was defeated. The state of his mind can now not well be imagined. In one week he lost five pounds that could not be spared. He stopped losing weight when the Government decided to hang on till the end of the Session. On the fifteenth of July the Prime Minister sent for him and offered him the Chancellorship. He accepted it, after first drawing attention to the superior claims of his friend. That evening in the bosom of his family he sat silent. A little smile played three times on his worn lips, and now and again his thin hand smoothed the parallel folds in his cheeks. His youngest daughter, moving to the bell behind his chair, hearing him suddenly mutter bent hastily and just caught the words: "Pipped him on the post, by Gum!"

He took up his final honors with the utmost ceremony. From that moment it was almost too noticeable how his powers declined. It was as if he had felt that having won the race he had nothing left to live for. Indeed, he only waited till his friend  had received a slight stroke, before, under doctor's orders, he laid down office. He dragged on for several years, writing his memoirs, but without interest in life; till, one day being driven in his down the Esplanade at Margate, he was brought to a standstill by another chair being drawn in the opposite direction. Letting his eye rest wearily on the occupant, he recognized his friend. How the fellow had changed; but not in nature, for he quavered out at once: "Hallo! It's you! By George! You look jolly bad!" Hearing those words, seeing that paralytic smile, a fire seemed suddenly relit within him. Compressing his lips, he answered nothing, and dug his bath-chair man in the back. From that moment he regained his interest in life. If he could not outlive his friend   it would be odd! And he set himself to do it, thinking of nothing else by day or night, and sending daily to inquire how his friend {bar|2}} {bar|2}}  was. The fellow lived till New Year's Day, and died at two in the morning. They brought him the news at nine. A smile lighted up his parched and withered face, his old hands, clenched on the feeding cup, relaxed; he fell back dead. The shock of his old friend's death, they said, had been too much for him.