Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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"That is exactly what we want to do," was the reply.
So it will be seen that the position of the ministry, previous to the
meeting of parliament in 1839, was somewhat critical. In the meantime,
its various members, who knew their man, lavished every practicable
social attention on Jorrocks. The dinners they gave him were doubled;
they got their women to call on his women; and Sidney Wilton, a member
of an illustrious garter family, capped the climax by appointing him one
of the party to shoot the Blue Ribbon Covert.
Mr. Wilton had invited Endymion to Gaydene, and, as his stay there could
only be brief, had even invited him to repeat the visit. He was, indeed,
unaffectedly kind to one whom he remembered so young, and was evidently
pleased with him.
One evening, a day or two before the break-up of the party, while some
charming Misses Playfellow, with an impudent brother, who all lived
in the neighbourhood, were acting charades, Mr. Wilton said to Lady
Roehampton, by whose side he was sitting in the circle--
"I have had a very busy morning about my office. There is to be a
complete revolution in it. The whole system is to be reconstructed;
half the present people are to be pensioned off, and new blood is to be
introduced. It struck me that this might be an opening for your brother.
He is in the public service--that is something; and as there are to be
so many new men, there will be no jealousy as to his promotion. If you
will speak to him about it, and he likes it, I will appoint him one of
the new clerks; and then, if he also likes it, he shall be my private
secretary. That will give him position, and be no mean addition to
his income, you know, if we last--but that depends, I suppose, on Mr.
Jorrocks."
Lady Roehampton communicated all this to her brother on her return to
London. "It is exactly what I wished," she said. "I wanted you to be
private secretary to a cabinet minister, and if I were to choose any
one, except, of course, my lord, it would be Mr. Wilton. He is a perfect
gentleman, and was dear papa's friend. I understand you will have three
hundred a year to begin with, and the same amount as his secretary.
You ought to be able to live with ease and propriety on six hundred a
year--and this reminds me of what I have been thinking of before we went
to Gaydene. I think now you ought to have a more becoming residence. The
Rodneys are good people, I do not doubt, and I dare say we shall have
an opportunity of proving our sense of their services; but they are not
exactly the people that I care for you to live with, and, at any rate,
you cannot reside any longer in a garret. I have taken some chambers
in the Albany, therefore, for you, and they shall be my contribution to
your housekeeping. They are not badly furnished, but they belonged to
an old general officer, and are not very new-fashioned; but we will go
together and see them to-morrow, and I dare say I shall soon be able to
make them _comme il faut_."
CHAPTER XLVIII
This considerable rise in the life of Endymion, after the first
excitement occasioned by its announcement to him had somewhat subsided,
was not contemplated by him with unmixed feelings of satisfaction. It
seemed to terminate many relations of life, the value of which he had
always appreciated, but which now, with their impending conclusion,
he felt, and felt keenly, had absolutely contributed to his happiness.
There was no great pang in quitting his fellow-clerks, except Trenchard,
whom he greatly esteemed. But poor little Warwick Street had been to
him a real home, if unvarying kindness, and sedulous attention, and the
affection of the eyes and heart, as well as of the mouth, can make a
hearth. He hoped he might preserve the friendship of Waldershare, which
their joint intimacy with the prince would favour; but still he could
hardly flatter himself that the delightful familiarity of their past
lives could subsist. Endymion sighed, and then he sighed again. He felt
sad. Because he was leaving the humble harbour of refuge, the entrance
to which, even in the darkest hour of his fallen fortunes, was thought
somewhat of an indignity, and was about to assume a position which would
not have altogether misbecome the earliest expectations of his life?
That seems unreasonable; but mankind, fortunately, are not always
governed by reason, but by sentiment, and often by very tender
sentiment.
When Endymion, sitting in his little room, analysed his feelings, he
came to the conclusion that his sadness was occasioned by his having to
part from Imogene. It often requires an event in life, and an unexpected
one, to make us clearly aware of the existence of feelings which
have long influenced us. Never having been in a position in which the
possibility of uniting his fate to another could cross his mind for
a moment, he had been content with the good fortune which permitted a
large portion of his life to be passed in the society of a woman who,
unconsciously both to him and to herself, had fascinated him. The
graceful child who, four or five years ago, had first lit him to his
garret, without losing any of her rare and simple ingenuousness, had
developed into a beautiful and accomplished woman. There was a strong
resemblance between Imogene and her sister, but Imogene was a brunette.
Her countenance indicated far more intellect and character than that
of Sylvia. Her brow was delicately pencilled and finely arched, and her
large dark eyes gleamed with a softness and sweetness of expression,
which were irresistibly attractive, and seemed to indicate sympathy with
everything that was good and beautiful. Her features were not so regular
as her sister's; but when she smiled, her face was captivating.
Endymion had often listened, half with fondness and half with
scepticism, to Waldershare dilating, according to his wont, on the high
character and qualities of Imogene, whom he persisted in believing he
was preparing for a great career. "How it will come about I cannot say,"
he would remark; "but it will come. If my legitimate sovereign were on
the throne, and I in the possession of my estates, which were graciously
presented by the usurper to the sausage-makers, or some other choice
middle-class corporation, I would marry her myself. But that is
impossible. That would only be asking her to share my ruin. I want her
to live in palaces, and perhaps, in my decline of life, make me her
librarian, like Casanova. I should be content to dine in her hall
every day beneath the salt, and see her enter with her state, amid the
flourish of trumpets." And now, strange to say, Endymion was speculating
on the fate of Imogene, and, as he thought, in a more practical spirit.
Six hundred a year, he thought, was not a very large income; but it was
an income, and one which a year ago he never contemplated possessing
until getting grey in the public service. Why not realise perfect
happiness at once? He could conceive no bliss greater than living with
Imogene in one of those little villas, even if semi-detached, which
now are numbered by tens of thousands, and which were then beginning
to shoot out their suburban antennae in every direction of our huge
metropolis. He saw her in his mind's eye in a garden of perpetual
sunshine, breathing of mignonette and bright with roses, and waiting for
him as he came down from town and his daily labours, in the cheap and
convenient omnibus. What a delightful companion to welcome him! How much
to tell her, and how much to listen to! And then their evenings with a
delicious book or some delightful music! What holidays, too, of romantic
adventure! The vine-clad Rhine, perhaps Switzerland; at any rate, the
quaint old cities of Flanders, and the winding valley of the Meuse. They
could live extremely well on six hundred a year, yes, with all the real
refinements of existence. And all their genuine happiness was to be
sacrificed for utterly fantastic and imaginary gratifications, which,
if analysed, would be found only to be efforts to amuse and astonish
others.
It did not yet occur to Endymion that his garden could not always be
sunshiny; that cares crop up in villas, even semi-detached, as well as
joys; that he would have children, and perhaps too many; that they
would be sick, and that doctors' bills would soon put a stop to romantic
excursions; that his wife would become exhausted with nursing and
clothing and teaching them; that she herself would become an invalid,
and moped to death; that his resources would every day bear a less
proportion to his expenditure; and that wanting money, he would return
too often from town a harassed husband to a jaded wife!
Mr. Rodney and Sylvia were at Conington on a visit to Lord Beaumaris,
hunting. It was astonishing how Sylvia had ridden to the hounds, mounted
on the choicest steeds, and in a scarlet habit which had been presented
to her by Mr. Vigo. She had created quite an enthusiasm in the field,
and Lord Beaumaris was proud of his guests. When Endymion parted with
his sister at the Albany, where they had been examining his rooms, he
had repaired to Warwick Street, with some expectation that the Rodneys
would have returned from Conington, and he intended to break to his host
the impending change in his life. The Rodneys, however, had not arrived,
and so he ascended to his room, where he had been employed in arranging
his books and papers, and indulging in the reverie which we have
indicated. When he came downstairs, wishing to inquire about the
probable arrival of his landlord, Endymion knocked at the door of the
parlour where they used to assemble, and on entering, found Imogene
writing.
"How do you do, Mr. Ferrars?" she said, rising. "I am writing to Sylvia.
They are not returning as soon as they intended, and I am to go down to
Conington by an early train to-morrow."
"I want to see Mr. Rodney," said Endymion moodily.
"Can I write anything to him, or tell him anything?" said Imogene.
"No," continued Endymion in a melancholy tone. "I can tell you what
I wanted to say. But you must be occupied now, going away, and
unexpectedly, to-morrow. It seems to me that every one is going away."
"Well, we have lost the prince, certainly," said Imogene, "and I doubt
whether his rooms will be ever let again."
"Indeed!" said Endymion.
"Well, I only know what Mr. Waldershare tells me. He says that Mr.
Rodney and Mr. Vigo have made a great speculation, and gained a great
deal of money; but Mr. Rodney never speaks to me of such matters, nor
indeed does Sylvia. I am myself very sorry that the prince has gone, for
he interested me much."
"Well, I should think Mr. Rodney would not be very sorry to get rid of
me then," said Endymion.
"O Mr. Ferrars! why should you say or think such things! I am sure
that my brother and sister, and indeed every one in this house, always
consider your comfort and welfare before any other object."
"Yes," said Endymion, "you have all been most kind to me, and that makes
me more wretched at the prospect of leaving you."
"But there is no prospect of that?"
"A certainty, Imogene; there is going to be a change in my life," and
then he told her all.
"Well," said Imogene, "it would be selfish not to be happy at what I
hear; but though I hope I am happy, I need not be joyful. I never used
to be nervous, but I am afraid I am getting so. All these great changes
rather shake me. This adventure of the prince--as Mr. Waldershare
says, it is history. Then Miss Myra's great marriage, and your
promotion--although they are exactly what we used to dream about, and
wished a fairy would accomplish, and somehow felt that, somehow or
other, they must happen--yet now they have occurred, one is almost as
astounded as delighted. We certainly have been very happy in Warwick
Street, at least I have been, all living as it were together. But where
shall we be this time next year? All scattered, and perhaps not even the
Rodneys under this roof. I know not how it is, but I dread leaving the
roof where one has been happy."
"Oh! you know you must leave it one day or other, Imogene. You are sure
to marry; that you cannot avoid."
"Well, I am not by any means sure about that," said Imogene. "Mr.
Waldershare, in educating me, as he says, as a princess, has made me
really neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor even that coarser but popular
delicacy never forgotten. I could not unite my life with a being who was
not refined in mind and in manners, and the men of my class in life, who
are the only ones after all who might care to marry me, shock my taste,
I am ashamed to say so. I am not sure it is not wicked to think it even;
but so it is."
"Why do you not marry Waldershare?" said Endymion.
"That would be madness! I do not know any alliance that could prove
more unfortunate. Mr. Waldershare must never marry. All people of
imagination, they say, are difficult to live with; but a person who
consists solely of imagination, like Mr. Waldershare, who has indeed no
other attribute--before a year was past, married, he would fly to the
desert or to La Trappe, commit terrible scandals from mere weariness of
feeling, write pasquinades against the wife of his bosom, and hold us
both up to the fierce laughter of the world. No, no; he is the best,
the dearest, and the most romantic of friends; tender as a father, and
sometimes as wise, for genius can be everything. He is going to rise
early to-morrow, which he particularly dislikes, because he will not
let me go to the station alone; though I tell him, as I often tell him,
those are the becoming manners of my class."
"But you might meet a person of the refinement you require," said
Endymion, "with a moderate and yet a sufficient income, who would not be
unworthy of you."
"I doubt it," said Imogene.
"But, do not doubt it, dear Imogene," said Endymion, advancing; "such
charms as yours, both of body and of mind, such a companion in life,
so refined, so accomplished, and yet endowed with such clear sense, and
such a sweet disposition--believe me"----
But at this moment a splendid equipage drove up to the door, with
powdered footmen and long canes behind, and then a terrible rap, like
the tattoo of a field-marshal.
"Good gracious! what is all this?" exclaimed Imogene.
"It is my sister," said Endymion, blushing; "it is Lady Roehampton."
"I must go to her myself," said Imogene; "I cannot have the servant
attend upon your sister."
Endymion remained silent and confused. Imogene was some little time
at the carriage-door, for Lady Roehampton had inquiries to make after
Sylvia and other courteous things to say, and then Imogene returned, and
said to Endymion, "Lady Roehampton wishes you to go with her directly on
some particular business."
CHAPTER XLIX
Endymion liked his new official life very much. Whitehall was a great
improvement on Somerset House, and he had sufficient experience of the
civil service to duly appreciate the advantage of being permanently
quartered in one of the chief departments of the state, instead of
obscurely labouring in a subordinate office, with a limited future, and
detached from all the keenly interesting details of public life. But it
was not this permanent and substantial advantage which occasioned him
such lively and such novel pleasure, as the fact of his being a private
secretary, and a private secretary to a cabinet minister.
The relations between a minister and his secretary are, or at least
should be, among the finest that can subsist between two individuals.
Except the married state, there is none in which so great a degree of
confidence is involved, in which more forbearance ought to be exercised,
or more sympathy ought to exist. There is usually in the relation an
identity of interest, and that of the highest kind; and the perpetual
difficulties, the alternations of triumph and defeat, develop devotion.
A youthful secretary will naturally feel some degree of enthusiasm for
his chief, and a wise minister will never stint his regard for one in
whose intelligence and honour he finds he can place confidence.
There never was a happier prospect of these relations being established
on the most satisfactory basis than in the instance of Endymion and
his new master. Mr. Sidney Wilton was a man of noble disposition, fine
manners, considerable culture, and was generally gracious. But he was
disposed to be more than gracious to Endymion, and when he found that
our young friend had a capacity for work--that his perception was quick
and clear--that he wrote with facility--never made difficulties--was
calm, sedulous, and patient, the interest which Mr. Wilton took in him
as the son of William Ferrars, and, we must add, as the brother of Lady
Roehampton, became absorbed in the personal regard which the minister
soon entertained for his secretary. Mr. Wilton found a pleasure in
forming the mind of Endymion to the consideration and comprehension of
public affairs; he spoke to him both of men and things without reserve;
revealed to him the characters of leading personages on both sides,
illustrated their antecedents, and threw light upon their future; taught
him the real condition of parties in parliament, rarely to be found in
newspapers; and finally, when he was sufficiently initiated, obtained
for his secretary a key for his cabinet boxes, which left little of the
business of government unknown to Endymion.
Such great confidence, and that exhibited by one who possessed so many
winning qualities, excited in the breast of Endymion the most lively
feelings of gratitude and respect. He tried to prove them by the
vigilant and unwearying labour with which he served his master, and he
served him every day more effectually, because every day he became more
intimate with the mind and method of Mr. Wilton. Every one to a certain
degree is a mannerist; every one has his ways; and a secretary will be
assisted in the transaction of business if a vigilant observation has
made him acquainted with the idiosyncrasy of his chief.
The regulations of the office which authorise a clerk, appointed to
a private secretaryship, to deviate from the routine duties of the
department, and devote his time entirely to the special requirements of
his master, of course much assisted Endymion, and proved also a pleasant
relief, for he had had enough at Somerset House of copying documents and
drawing up formal reports. But it was not only at Whitehall that he saw
Mr. Wilton, and experienced his kindness. Endymion was a frequent guest
under Mr. Wilton's roof, and Mr. Wilton's establishment was one of the
most distinguished in London. They met also much in the evenings, and
always at Lady Roehampton's, where Mr. Wilton was never absent. Whenever
and wherever they met, even if they had been working together the
whole morning, Mr. Wilton always greeted Endymion with the utmost
consideration--because he knew such a recognition would raise Endymion
in the eyes of the social herd, who always observe little things, and
generally form from them their opinions of great affairs.
CHAPTER L
Mr. Wilton was at Charing Cross, on his way to his office, when a lady
saluted him from her carriage, which then drew up to the pavement and
stopped.
"We have just arrived," said Lady Montfort, "and I want you to give me
a little dinner to-day. My lord is going to dine with an Old Bailey
lawyer, who amuses him, and I do not like to be left, the first day, on
the _pave_."
"I can give you a rather large dinner, if you care to come," said Mr.
Wilton, "but I fear you will not like it. I have got some House of
Commons men dining with me to-day, and one or two of the other House to
meet them. My sister Georgina has very good-naturedly promised to come,
with her husband, and I have just written a note to the Duchess Dowager
of Keswick, who often helps me--but I fear this sort of thing would
hardly suit you."
"On the contrary, I think it will be very amusing. Only do not put
me between two of your colleagues. Anybody amuses me for once. A
new acquaintance is like a new book. I prefer it, even if bad, to a
classic."
The dinner party to-day at Mr. Wilton's was miscellaneous, and not
heterogeneous enough to produce constraint, only to produce a little
excitement--some commoners high in office, and the Treasury whip,
several manufacturers who stood together in the room, and some
metropolitan members. Georgina's husband, who was a lord-in-waiting, and
a great swell, in a green riband, moved about with adroit condescension,
and was bewitchingly affable. The manufacturing members whispered to
each other that it was a wise thing to bring the two Houses together,
but when Her Grace the Duchess Dowager of Keswick was announced,
they exchanged glances of astounded satisfaction, and felt that
the government, which had been thought to be in a somewhat rickety
condition, would certainly stand.
Berengaria came a little late, not very. She thought it had been
earlier, but it was not. The duchess dowager opened her eyes with
wonderment when she beheld Lady Montfort, but the company in general
were not in the least aware of the vast social event that was occurring.
They were gratified in seeing another fine lady, but did not, of course,
rank her with a duchess.
The dinner went off better than Mr. Wilton could have hoped, as it was
impossible to place a stranger by Lady Montfort. He sate in the middle
of his table with the duchess dowager on his right hand, and Berengaria,
who was taken out by the green riband, on the other. As he knew the
green riband would be soon exhausted, he devoted himself to Lady
Montfort, and left the duchess to her own resources, which were
considerable, and she was soon laying down her opinions on men and
things to her other neighbours with much effect. The manufacturers
talked shop to each other in whispers, that is to say, mixed House of
Commons tattle about bills and committees with news from Manchester and
Liverpool, and the West Riding. The metropolitan members, then a more
cosmopolitan body and highly miscellaneous in their character and
pursuits, were louder, and perhaps more easy, even ventured to
talk across the table when near its end, and enticed the peers into
discussions on foreign politics.
Mr. Sidney Wilton having been delightful, thought it necessary to
observe that he feared Lady Montfort had been bored. "I have been, and
am, extremely amused," she replied; "and now tell me, who is that young
man at the very end of the table?"
"That is my private secretary, Mr. Ferrars."
"Ferrars!"
"A brother of Lady Roehampton."
"Present him to me after dinner."
Endymion knew Lady Montfort by sight, though she did not know him. He
had seen her more than once at the receptions of Mrs. Neuchatel, where,
as indeed in every place, she was the cynosure. He was much astonished
at meeting her at this party to-day,--almost as surprised as the duchess
dowager, for Endymion, who was of an observant nature, was beginning
to comprehend society and all its numerous elements, and schools,
and shades, and classes. When they entered the saloon, Mr. Wilton led
Endymion up to Lady Montfort at once, and she immediately inquired after
his sister. "Do you think," she said, "Lady Roehampton would see me
to-morrow if I called on her?"
"If I were Lady Roehampton, I would," said Endymion.
Lady Montfort looked at him with a glance of curious scrutiny; not
smiling, and yet not displeased. "I will write her a little note in
the morning," said Lady Montfort thoughtfully. "One may leave cards for
ever. Mr. Wilton tells me you are quite his right hand."
"Mr. Wilton is too kind to me," said Endymion. "One could not be excused
for not doing one's best for such a master."
"You like people to be kind to you?" said Lady Montfort.
"Well, I have not met with so much kindness in this world as to become
insensible to it."
"You are too young to be melancholy," said Lady Montfort; "are you older
than Lady Roehampton?"
"We are twins."
"Twins! and wonderfully like too! Is it not thought so?"
"I have sometimes heard it mentioned."
"Oh, it is striking!" said Lady Montfort, and she motioned to him to sit
down by her; and then she began to talk politics, and asked him what the
members thought at dinner of the prospects of the government, and what
he had heard of the malcontent movement that they said was _in petto_.
Endymion replied that Mr. Sharpset, the Secretary of the Treasury, did
not think much of it.
"Well, I wish I did not," said Lady Montfort. "However, I will soon find
out something about it. I have only just come to town; but I intend to
open my house, immediately. Now I must go. What are you going to do with
yourself to-morrow? I wish you would come and dine with Lord Montfort.
It will be quite without form, a few agreeable and amusing people; Lord
Montfort must be amused. It seems a reasonable fancy, but very difficult
to realise; and now you shall ask for my carriage, and to-morrow I hope
to be able to tell Lady Roehampton what very great pleasure I have had
in making the acquaintance of her brother."