A CONSTITUTIONAL CONGRESS
John Stuart Mill looked ill at ease. He shuffled through the sheaf of papers on the table before him, then squared the pile and pushed them away. The room was large and ornate, the walls hung thickly with the portraits of long-dead English kings. Outside the tall windows stretched the immaculately manicured gardens of Buckingham Palace. At the far end of the conference table General Sherman signed the last of the orders in the folder, closed it, then glanced up at the clock on the wall.
“Well — I see that our guests are not as prompt as might be expected,” he said. “But they will come, be assured of that.” He spoke lightly, hoping to alleviate the philosopher’s unease. Mill smiled wanly.
“Yes, of course, they must realize the importance of this meeting.”
“If they don’t — I count upon you to enlighten them.”
“I shall do my best, General, but you must realize that I am no man of action. I am more at home in my study than on the debating floor.”
“You underestimate your abilities, Mr. Mill. In Dublin you had the politicians eating out of your hand. When you spoke they were silent, intent on partaking of your wisdom. You will be fine.”
“Ah, yes — but that was Dublin.” Mill sounded distressed, and there was a fine beading of perspiration on his brow. “In Ireland I was telling them what they had spent their lifetimes waiting to hear. I showed them just how they could finally rule in their own land. They could not but be attentive.” Now Mill frowned unhappily at more recent memories. “However, my countrymen have taken great umbrage at my presence in Dublin. The Times went so far as to call me a traitor to my country and to my class. The other newspapers were — how shall I say it? — more than indignant, actually calling down curses upon my head…”
“My dear Mr. Mill,” Sherman said calmly. “Newspapers exist to sell copies, not to dispense the truth — or to see both sides of an argument. Some years ago, before I resumed my interrupted military career, I was, for a short while, a banker in California. When my bank fell upon hard times, there were calls to tar and feather me — or, preferably, burn me at the stake. Pay the papers no heed, sir. Their miasmic vaporings rise from the pit and will be dispersed by the clear winds of truth.”
“You are something of a poet, General,” Mill said, smiling weakly.
“Please don’t let anyone else know; let it be our secret.”
Colonel Summers knocked discreetly, then let himself in. “Finished with these, General?” he asked, pointing to the folder.
“All signed. Take care of them, Andy.”
“The two English gentlemen are here to see you, sir,” he said, picking up the papers.
“Show them in, by all means.”
When the door opened again John Stuart Mill was on his feet; General Sherman slowly joined him.
“Lord John Russell, Mr. Disraeli,” the colonel said, then quietly closed the door and left.
The two politicians crossed the room, as different in appearance as they could possibly be. The aristocratic Russell amply filling his old-fashioned broadcloth suit. Disraeli, the successful novelist, the veteran politician, the man about town, spare and thin and dressed in the most outstanding way. He stroked his small, pointed beard and nodded politely toward Sherman.
“Do you gentleman know Mr. John Stuart Mill?” Sherman asked.
?
??Only by reputation,” Disraeli said, bowing slightly toward Mill, his politician’s face empty of any expression.
“I have met Mr. Mill and have followed his public activities. I have no desire to be in his company,” Russell said in a cold voice, averting his eyes from the other man. Mill’s face was suddenly drawn and white.
“Mr. Russell — I would suggest that you be more courteous. We are here on a matter of some importance to both you and your country; therefore, your ill temper does you no favors, sir.” Sherman snapped the words out like a military command.
Russell flushed at the harshness of the words, the common form of address. He clamped his mouth shut and stared out of the window, resentful at being put down by this Yankee upstart. Sherman sat and waved the others to their chairs.
“Please be seated, gentlemen, and this meeting will begin.” He waited a moment, then went on. “I have asked you to come here in your official positions. As Prime Minister of the government and leader of the opposition. In those capacities I would like you to assemble a meeting of the House of Commons in Parliament.”
With an effort Lord Russell controlled his temper, and when he spoke his words were as cold and emotionless as he could manage. “Might I remind you, General, that the Houses of Parliament have been locked tight — upon your orders, sir.”
“They have indeed.” Sherman’s voice was as flat as the other man’s. “When the time comes the doors will be unlocked.”
“To both chambers?” Disraeli asked, his voice betraying no evidence of the singular importance of his question.
“No.” Sherman’s words now had the imperious force of command. “The House of Lords has been abolished and will not reconvene. There is no place for hereditary titles in a democracy.”
“By God, sir — you cannot!” Russell said vehemently.