Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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"What Bertie Tremaine will end in," Endymion would sometimes say,
"perplexes me. Had there been no revolution in 1832, and he had entered
parliament for his family borough, I think he must by this time have
been a minister. Such tenacity of purpose could scarcely fail. But he
has had to say and do so many odd things, first to get into parliament,
and secondly to keep there, that his future now is not so clear. When
I first knew him, he was a Benthamite; at present, I sometimes seem to
foresee that he will end by being the leader of the Protectionists and
the Protestants."
"And a good strong party too," said Trenchard, "but query whether strong
enough?"
"That is exactly what Bertie Tremaine is trying to find out."
Mr. Bertie Tremaine's manner in receiving his guests was courtly and
ceremonious; a contrast to the free and easy style of the time. But it
was adopted after due reflection. "No man can tell you what will be the
position he may be called upon to fill. But he has a right to assume
he will always be ascending. I, for example, may be destined to be
the president of a republic, the regent of a monarchy, or a sovereign
myself. It would be painful and disagreeable to have to change one's
manner at a perhaps advanced period of life, and become liable to the
unpopular imputation that you had grown arrogant and overbearing. On the
contrary, in my case, whatever my elevation, there will be no change.
My brother, Mr. Tremaine Bertie, acts on a different principle. He is a
Sybarite, and has a general contempt for mankind, certainly for the mob
and the middle class, but he is 'Hail fellow, well met!' with them
all. He says it answers at elections; I doubt it. I myself represent
a popular constituency, but I believe I owe my success in no slight
measure to the manner in which I gave my hand when I permitted it to be
touched. As I say sometimes to Mr. Tremaine Bertie, 'You will find
this habit of social familiarity embarrassing when I send you to St.
Petersburg or Vienna.'"
Waldershare dined there, now a peer, though, as he rejoiced to say,
not a peer of parliament. An Irish peer, with an English constituency,
filled, according to Waldershare, the most enviable of positions. His
rank gave him social influence, and his seat in the House of Commons
that power which all aspire to obtain. The cynosure of the banquet,
however, was a gentleman who had, about a year before, been the
president of a republic for nearly six weeks, and who being master of a
species of rhapsodical rhetoric, highly useful in troubled times, when
there is no real business to transact, and where there is nobody to
transact it, had disappeared when the treasury was quite empty, and
there were no further funds to reward the enthusiastic citizens who had
hitherto patriotically maintained order at wages about double in amount
to what they had previously received in their handicrafts. This great
reputation had been brought over by Mr. Tremaine Bertie, now introducing
him into English political society. Mr. Tremaine Bertie hung upon
the accents of the oracle, every word of which was intended to be
picturesque or profound, and then surveyed his friends with a glance of
appreciating wonder. Sensible Englishmen, like Endymion and Trenchard,
looked upon the whole exhibition as fustian, and received the
revelations with a smile of frigid courtesy.
The presence, however, of this celebrity of six weeks gave occasionally
a tone of foreign politics to the conversation, and the association of
ideas, which, in due course, rules all talk, brought them, among other
incidents and instances, to the remarkable career of King Florestan.
"And yet he has his mortifications," said a sensible man. "He wants a
wife, and the princesses of the world will not furnish him with one."
"What authority have you for saying so?" exclaimed the fiery
Waldershare. "The princesses of the world would be great fools if they
refused such a man, but I know of no authentic instance of such denial."
"Well, it is the common rumour."
"And, therefore, probably a common falsehood."
"Were he wise," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, "King Florestan would not
marry. Dynasties are unpopular; especially new ones. The present age is
monarchical, but not dynastic. The king, who is a man of reach, and who
has been pondering such circumstances all his life, is probably well
aware of this, and will not be such a fool as to marry."
"How is the monarchy to go on, if there is to be no successor?" inquired
Trenchard. "You would not renew the Polish constitution?"
"The Polish constitution, by the by, was not so bad a thing," said Mr.
Bertie Tremaine. "Under it a distinguished Englishman might have mixed
with the crowned heads of Europe, as Sir Philip Sidney nearly did. But I
was looking to something superior to the Polish constitution, or
perhaps any other; I was contemplating a monarchy with the principle
of adoption. That would give you all the excellence of the Polish
constitution, and the order and constancy in which it failed. It would
realise the want of the age; monarchical, not dynastical, institutions,
and it would act independent of the passions and intrigues of the
multitude. The principle of adoption was the secret of the strength and
endurance of Rome. It gave Rome alike the Scipios and the Antonines."
"A court would be rather dull without a woman at its head."
"On the contrary," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine. "It was Louis Quatorze who
made the court; not his queen."
"Well," said Waldershare, "all the same, I fear King Florestan will
adopt no one in this room, though he has several friends here, and I am
one; and I believe that he will marry, and I cannot help fancying that
the partner of this throne will not be as insignificant as Louis the
Fourteenth's wife, or Catherine of Braganza."
Jawett dined this day with Mr. Bertie Tremaine. He was a frequent guest
there, and still was the editor of the "Precursor," though it sometimes
baffled all that lucidity of style for which he was celebrated to
reconcile the conduct of the party, of which the "Precursor" was
alike the oracle and organ, with the opinions with which that now
well-established journal first attempted to direct and illuminate the
public mind. It seemed to the editor that the "Precursor" dwelt more
on the past than became a harbinger of the future. Not that Mr. Bertie
Tremaine ever for a moment admitted that there was any difficulty in any
case. He never permitted any dogmas that he had ever enunciated to be
surrendered, however contrary at their first aspect.
"All are but parts of one stupendous whole,"
and few things were more interesting than the conference in which Mr.
Bertie Tremaine had to impart his views and instructions to the master
of that lucid style, which had the merit of making everything so very
clear when the master himself was, as at present, extremely perplexed
and confused. Jawett lingered after the other guests, that he might
have the advantage of consulting the great leader on the course which
he ought to take in advocating a measure which seemed completely at
variance with all the principles they had ever upheld.
"I do not see your difficulty," wound up the host. "Your case is clear.
You have a principle which will carry you through everything. That is
the charm of a principle. You have always an answer ready."
"But in this case," somewhat timidly inquired Mr. Jawett, "what would be
the principle on which I should rest?"
"You must show," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, "that democracy is
aristocracy in disguise; and that aristocracy is democracy in disguise.
It will carry you through everything."
Even Jawett looked a little amazed.
"But"--he was beginning, when Mr. Bertie Tremaine arose. "Think of what
I have said, and if on reflection any doubt or difficulty remain in your
mind, call on me to-morrow before I go to the House. At present, I must
pay my respects to Lady Beaumaris. She is the only woman the Tories can
boast of; but she is a first-rate woman, and is a power which I must
secure."
CHAPTER XCII
A month had nearly elapsed since the Montfort ball; the season was over
and the session was nearly finished. The pressure of parliamentary life
for those in office is extreme during this last month, yet Endymion
would have contrived, were it only for a day, to have visited his
sister, had Lady Roehampton much encouraged his appearance. Strange as
it seemed to him, she did not, but, on the contrary, always assumed that
the prorogation of parliament would alone bring them together again.
When he proposed on one occasion to come down for four-and-twenty hours,
she absolutely, though with much affection, adjourned the fulfilment of
the offer. It seemed that she was not yet quite settled.
Lady Montfort lingered in London even after Goodwood. She was rather
embarrassed, as she told Endymion, about her future plans. Lord Montfort
was at Princedown, where she wished to join him, but he did not respond
to her wishes; on the contrary, while announcing that he was indisposed,
and meant to remain at Princedown for the summer, he suggested that she
should avail herself of the opportunity, and pay a long visit to her
family in the north. "I know what he means," she observed; "he wants the
world to believe that we are separated. He cannot repudiate me--he is
too great a gentleman to do anything coarsely unjust; but he thinks, by
tact and indirect means, he may achieve our virtual separation. He has
had this purpose for years, I believe now ever since our marriage, but
hitherto I have baffled him. I ought to be with him; I really believe
he is indisposed, his face has become so pale of late; but were I to
persist in going to Princedown I should only drive him away. He would
go off into the night without leaving his address, and something would
happen--dreadful or absurd. What I had best do, I think, is this. You
are going at last to pay your visit to your sister; I will write to my
lord and tell him that as he does not wish me to go to Princedown, I
propose to go to Montfort Castle. When the flag is flying at Montfort,
I can pay a visit of any length to my family. It will only be a
neighbouring visit from Montfort to them; perhaps, too, they might
return it. At any rate, then they cannot say my lord and I are
separated. We need not live under the same roof, but so long as I live
under his roof the world considers us united. It is a pity to have to
scheme in this manner, and rather degrading, particularly when one might
be so happy with him. But you know, my dear Endymion, all about our
affairs. Your friend is not a very happy woman, and if not a very
unhappy one, it is owing much to your dear friendship, and a little to
my own spirit which keeps me up under what is frequent and sometimes
bitter mortification. And now adieu! I suppose you cannot be away less
than a week. Probably on your return you will find me here. I cannot go
to Montfort without his permission. But he will give it. I observe that
he will always do anything to gain his immediate object. His immediate
object is, that I shall not go to Princedown, and so he will agree that
I shall go to Montfort."
For the first time in his life, Endymion felt some constraint in
the presence of Myra. There was something changed in her manner. No
diminution of affection, for she threw her arms around him and pressed
him to her heart; and then she looked at him anxiously, even sadly, and
kissed both his eyes, and then she remained for some moments in
silence with her face hid on his shoulder. Never since the loss of Lord
Roehampton had she seemed so subdued.
"It is a long separation," she at length said, with a voice and smile
equally faint, "and you must be a little wearied with your travelling.
Come and refresh yourself, and then I will show you my boudoir I have
made here; rather pretty, out of nothing. And then we will sit down and
have a long talk together, for I have much to tell you, and I want your
advice."
"She is going to marry Sidney Wilton," thought Endymion; "that is
clear."
The boudoir was really pretty, "made out of nothing;" a gay chintz, some
shelves of beautiful books, some fanciful chairs, and a portrait of Lord
Roehampton.
It was a long interview, very long, and if one could judge by the
countenance of Endymion, when he quitted the boudoir and hastened to his
room, of grave import. Sometimes his face was pale, sometimes scarlet;
the changes were rapid, but the expression was agitated rather than one
of gratification.
He sent instantly for his servant, and then penned this telegram to Lady
Montfort: "My visit here will be short. I am to see you immediately.
Nothing must prevent your being at home when I call to-morrow, about
four o'clock. Most, most important."
CHAPTER XCIII
"Well, something has happened at last," said Lady Montfort with a
wondering countenance; "it is too marvellous."
"She goes to Osborne to-day," continued Endymion, "and I suppose after
that, in due course, it will be generally known. I should think the
formal announcement would be made abroad. It has been kept wonderfully
close. She wished you to know it first, at least from her. I do not
think she ever hesitated about accepting him. There was delay from
various causes; whether there should be a marriage by proxy first in
this country, and other points; about religion, for example."
"Well?"
"She enters the Catholic Church, the Archbishop of Tyre has received
her. There is no difficulty and no great ceremonies in such matters. She
was re-baptized, but only by way of precaution. It was not necessary,
for our baptism, you know, is recognised by Rome."
"And that was all!"
"All, with a first communion and confession. It is all consummated now;
as you say, 'It is too wonderful.' A first confession, and to Nigel
Penruddock, who says life is flat and insipid!"
"I shall write to her: I must write to her. I wonder if I shall see her
before she departs."
"That is certain if you wish it; she wishes it."
"And when does she go? And who goes with her?"
"She will be under my charge," said Endymion. "It is fortunate that it
should happen at a time when I am free. I am personally to deliver her
to the king. The Duke of St. Angelo, Baron Sergius, and the archbishop
accompany her, and Waldershare, at the particular request of his
Majesty."
"And no lady?"
"She takes Adriana with her."
"Adriana!" repeated Lady Montfort, and a cloud passed over her brow.
There was a momentary pause, and then Lady Montfort said, "I wish she
would take me."
"That would be delightful," said Endymion, "and most becoming--to have
for a companion the greatest lady of our court."
"She will not take me with her," said Lady Montfort, sorrowfully but
decisively, and shaking her head. "Dear woman! I loved her always,
often most when I seemed least affectionate--but there was between us
something"--and she hesitated. "Heigho! I may be the greatest lady of
our court, but I am a very unhappy woman, Endymion, and what annoys and
dispirits me most, sometimes quite breaks me down, is that I cannot see
that I deserve my lot."
It happened as Endymion foresaw; the first announcement came from
abroad. King Florestan suddenly sent a message to his parliament, that
his Majesty was about to present them with a queen. She was not the
daughter of a reigning house, but she came from the land of freedom and
political wisdom, and from the purest and most powerful court in Europe.
His subjects soon learnt that she was the most beautiful of women, for
the portrait of the Countess of Roehampton, as it were by magic, seemed
suddenly to fill every window in every shop in the teeming and brilliant
capital where she was about to reign.
It was convenient that these great events should occur when everybody
was out of town. Lady Montfort alone remained, the frequent, if not
constant, companion of the new sovereign. Berengaria soon recovered her
high spirits. There was much to do and prepare in which her hints
and advice were invaluable. Though she was not to have the honour of
attending Myra to her new home, which, considering her high place in the
English court, was perhaps hardly consistent with etiquette, for so she
now cleverly put it, she was to pay her Majesty a visit in due time. The
momentary despondency that had clouded her brilliant countenance had not
only disappeared, but she had quite forgotten, and certainly would not
admit, that she was anything but the most sanguine and energetic of
beings, and rallied Endymion unmercifully for his careworn countenance
and too frequent air of depression. The truth is, the great change that
was impending was one which might well make him serious, and sometimes
sad.
The withdrawal of a female influence, so potent on his life as that of
his sister, was itself a great event. There had been between them from
the cradle, which, it may be said, they had shared, a strong and perfect
sympathy. They had experienced together vast and strange vicissitudes of
life. Though much separated in his early youth, there had still been a
constant interchange of thought and feeling between them. For the last
twelve years or so, ever since Myra had become acquainted with the
Neuchatel family, they may be said never to have separated--at least
they had maintained a constant communication, and generally a personal
one. She had in a great degree moulded his life. Her unfaltering, though
often unseen, influence had created his advancement. Her will was more
powerful than his. He was more prudent and plastic. He felt this keenly.
He was conscious that, left to himself, he would probably have achieved
much less. He remembered her words when they parted for the first time
at Hurstley, "Women will be your best friends in life." And that brought
his thoughts to the only subject on which they had ever differed--her
wished-for union between himself and Adriana. He felt he had crossed her
there--that he had prevented the fulfilment of her deeply-matured plans.
Perhaps, had that marriage taken place, she would never have quitted
England. Perhaps; but was that desirable? Was it not fitter that so
lofty a spirit should find a seat as exalted as her capacity? Myra was
a sovereign! In this age of strange events, not the least strange.
No petty cares and griefs must obtrude themselves in such majestic
associations. And yet the days at Hainault were very happy, and the
bright visits to Gaydene, and her own pleasant though stately home. His
heart was agitated, and his eyes were often moistened with emotion.
He seemed to think that all the thrones of Christendom could be no
compensation for the loss of this beloved genius of his life, whom
he might never see again. Sometimes, when he paid his daily visit to
Berengaria, she who knew him by heart, who studied every expression of
his countenance and every tone of his voice, would say to him, after a
few minutes of desultory and feeble conversation, "You are thinking of
your sister, Endymion?"
He did not reply, but gave a sort of faint mournful smile.
"This separation is a trial, a severe one, and I knew you would feel
it," said Lady Montfort. "I feel it; I loved your sister, but she did
not love me. Nobody that I love ever does love me."
"Oh! do not say that, Lady Montfort."
"It is what I feel. I cannot console you. There is nothing I can do for
you. My friendship, if you value it, which I will not doubt you do,
you fully possessed before your sister was a Queen. So that goes for
nothing."
"I must say, I feel sometimes most miserable."
"Nonsense, Endymion; if anything could annoy your sister more than
another, it would be to hear of such feelings on your part. I must say
she has courage. She has found her fitting place. Her brother ought to
do the same. You have a great object in life, at least you had, but I
have no faith in sentimentalists. If I had been sentimental, I should
have gone into a convent long ago."
"If to feel is to be sentimental, I cannot help it."
"All feeling which has no object to attain is morbid and maudlin," said
Lady Montfort. "You say you are very miserable, and at the same time you
do not know what you want. Would you have your sister dethroned? And if
you would, could you accomplish your purpose? Well, then, what nonsense
to think about her except to feel proud of her elevation, and prouder
still that she is equal to it!"
"You always have the best of every argument," said Endymion.
"Of course," said Lady Montfort. "What I want you to do is to exert
yourself. You have now a strong social position, for Sidney Wilton tells
me the Queen has relinquished to you her mansion and the whole of her
income, which is no mean one. You must collect your friends about you.
Our government is not too strong, I can tell you. We must brush up in
the recess. What with Mr. Bertie Tremaine and his friends joining the
Protectionists, and the ultra-Radicals wanting, as they always do,
something impossible, I see seeds of discomfiture unless they are
met with energy. You stand high, and are well spoken of even by our
opponents. Whether we stand or fall, it is a moment for you to increase
your personal influence. That is the element now to encourage in your
career, because you are not like the old fogies in the cabinet, who,
if they go out, will never enter another again. You have a future, and
though you may not be an emperor, you may be what I esteem more, prime
minister of this country."
"You are always so sanguine."
"Not more sanguine than your sister. Often we have talked of this. I
wish she were here to help us, but I will do my part. At present let us
go to luncheon."
CHAPTER XCIV
There was a splendid royal yacht, though not one belonging to our
gracious Sovereign, lying in one of Her Majesty's southern ports, and
the yacht was convoyed by a smart frigate. The crews were much ashore,
and were very popular, for they spent a great deal of money. Everybody
knew what was the purpose of their bright craft, and every one was
interested in it. A beautiful Englishwoman had been selected to fill a
foreign and brilliant throne occupied by a prince, who had been educated
in our own country, who ever avowed his sympathies with "the inviolate
island of the sage and free." So in fact there was some basis for
the enthusiasm which was felt on this occasion by the inhabitants of
Nethampton. What every one wanted to know was when she would sail. Ah!
that was a secret that could hardly be kept for the eight-and-forty
hours preceding her departure, and therefore, one day, with no formal
notice, all the inhabitants of Nethampton were in gala; streets and
ships dressed out with the flags of all nations; the church bells
ringing; and busy little girls running about with huge bouquets.
At the very instant expected, the special train was signalled, and drove
into the crimson station amid the thunder of artillery, the blare of
trumpets, the beating of drums, and cheers from thousands even louder
and longer than the voices of the cannon. Leaning on the arm of her
brother, and attended by the Princess of Montserrat, and the Honourable
Adriana Neuchatel, Baron Sergius, the Duke of St. Angelo, the Archbishop
of Tyre, and Lord Waldershare, the daughter of William Ferrars,
gracious, yet looking as if she were born to empire, received the
congratulatory address of the mayor and corporation and citizens
of Nethampton, and permitted her hand to be kissed, not only by his
worship, but by at least two aldermen.
They were on the waters, and the shores of Albion, fast fading away, had
diminished to a speck. It is a melancholy and tender moment, and Myra
was in her ample and splendid cabin and alone. "It is a trial," she
felt, "but all that I love and value in this world are in this vessel,"
and she thought of Endymion and Adriana. The gentlemen were on deck,
chiefly smoking or reconnoitring their convoy through their telescopes.
"I must say," said Waldershare, "it was a grand idea of our kings making
themselves sovereigns of the sea. The greater portion of this planet is
water; so we at once became a first-rate power. We owe our navy entirely
to the Stuarts. King James the Second was the true founder and hero of
the British navy. He was the worthy son of his admirable father, that
blessed martyr, the restorer at least, if not the inventor, of ship
money; the most patriotic and popular tax that ever was devised by man.
The Nonconformists thought themselves so wise in resisting it, and they
have got the naval estimates instead!"
The voyage was propitious, the weather delightful, and when they had
entered the southern waters Waldershare confessed that he felt the
deliciousness of life. If the scene and the impending events, and their
own fair thoughts, had not been adequate to interest them, there were
ample resources at their command; all the ladies were skilled musicians,
their concerts commenced at sunset, and the sweetness of their voices
long lingered over the moonlit waters.
Adriana, one evening, bending over the bulwarks of the yacht, was
watching the track of phosphoric light, struck into brilliancy from the
dark blue waters by the prow of their rapid vessel. "It is a fascinating
sight, Miss Neuchatel, and it seems one might gaze on it for ever."