Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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"Ah! Lord Waldershare, you caught me in a reverie."
"What more sweet?"
"Well, that depends on its subject. To tell the truth, I was thinking
that these lights resembled a little your conversation; all the wondrous
things you are always saying or telling us."
The archbishop was a man who never recurred to the past. One could never
suppose that Endymion and himself had been companions in their early
youth, or, so far as their intercourse was concerned, that there was
such a place in the world as Hurstley. One night, however, as they were
pacing the deck together, he took the arm of Endymion, and said, "I
trace the hand of Providence in every incident of your sister's life.
What we deemed misfortunes, sorrows, even calamities, were forming a
character originally endowed with supreme will, and destined for the
highest purposes. There was a moment at Hurstley when I myself was
crushed to the earth, and cared not to live; vain, short-sighted mortal!
Our great Master was at that moment shaping everything to His ends, and
preparing for the entrance into His Church of a woman who may be, who
will be, I believe, another St. Helena."
"We have not spoken of this subject before," said Endymion, "and I
should not have cared had our silence continued, but I must now tell you
frankly, the secession of my sister from the Church of her fathers was
to me by no means a matter of unmixed satisfaction."
"The time will come when you will recognise it as the consummation of a
Divine plan," said the archbishop.
"I feel great confidence that my sister will never be the slave of
superstition," said Endymion. "Her mind is too masculine for that; she
will remember that the throne she fills has been already once lost by
the fatal influence of the Jesuits."
"The influence of the Jesuits is the influence of Divine truth,"
said his companion. "And how is it possible for such influence not to
prevail? What you treat as defeats, discomfitures, are events which you
do not comprehend. They are incidents all leading to one great end--the
triumph of the Church--that is, the triumph of God."
"I will not decide what are great ends; I am content to ascertain what
is wise conduct. And it would not be wise conduct, in my opinion, for
the King to rest upon the Jesuits."
"The Jesuits never fell except from conspiracy against them. It is never
the public voice that demands their expulsion or the public effort that
accomplishes it. It is always the affair of sovereigns and statesmen, of
politicians, of men, in short, who feel that there is a power at
work, and that power one not favourable to their schemes or objects of
government."
"Well, we shall see," said Endymion; "I candidly tell you, I hope the
Jesuits will have as little influence in my brother-in-law's kingdom as
in my own country."
"As little!" said Nigel, somewhat sarcastically; "I should be almost
content if the holy order in every country had as much influence as they
now have in England."
"I think your Grace exaggerates."
"Before two years are past," said the archbishop, speaking very slowly,
"I foresee that the Jesuits will be privileged in England, and the
hierarchy of our Church recognised."
It was a delicious afternoon; it had been sultry, but the sun had now
greatly declined, when the captain of the yacht came down to announce to
the Queen that they were in sight of her new country, and she hastened
on deck to behold the rapidly nearing shore. A squadron of ships of war
had stood out to meet her, and in due time the towers and spires of a
beautiful city appeared, which was the port of the capital, and itself
almost worthy of being one. A royal barge, propelled by four-and-twenty
rowers, and bearing the lord chamberlain, awaited the queen, and the
moment her Majesty and the Princess of Montserrat had taken their seats,
salutes thundered from every ship of war, responded to by fort and
battery ashore.
When they landed, they were conducted by chief officers of the court to
a pavilion which faced the western sky, now glowing like an opal with
every shade of the iris, and then becoming of a light green colour
varied only by some slight clouds burnished with gold. A troop of
maidens brought flowers as bright as themselves, and then a company
of pages advanced, and kneeling, offered to the Queen chocolate in a
crystal cup.
According to the programme drawn up by the heralds, and every tittle of
it founded on precedents, the King and the royal carriages were to have
met the travellers on their arrival at the metropolis; but there are
feelings which heralds do not comprehend, and which defy precedents.
Suddenly there was a shout, a loud cheer, and a louder salute. Some one
had arrived unexpectedly. A young man, stately but pale, moved through
the swiftly receding crowd, alone and unattended, entered the pavilion,
advanced to the Queen, kissed her hand, and then both her cheeks, just
murmuring, "My best beloved, this, this indeed is joy."
The capital was fortified, and the station was without the walls; here
the royal carriages awaited them. The crowd was immense; the ramparts on
this occasion were covered with people. It was an almost sultry night,
with every star visible, and clear and warm and sweet. As the royal
carriage crossed the drawbridge and entered the chief gates, the
whole city was in an instant suddenly illuminated--in a flash. The
architectural lines of the city walls, and of every street, were
indicated, and along the ramparts at not distant intervals were tripods,
each crowned with a silver flame, which cast around the radiance of day.
He held and pressed her hand as in silence she beheld the wondrous
scene. They had to make a progress of some miles; the way was kept
throughout by soldiery and civic guards, while beyond them was an
infinite population, all cheering and many of them waving torches. They
passed through many streets, and squares with marvellous fountains,
until they arrived at the chief and royal street, which has no equal in
the world. It is more than a mile long, never swerving from a straight
line, broad, yet the houses so elevated that they generally furnish the
shade this ardent clime requires. The architecture of this street is
so varied that it never becomes monotonous, some beautiful church, or
palace, or ministerial hotel perpetually varying the effect. All the
windows were full on this occasion, and even the roofs were crowded.
Every house was covered with tapestry, and the line of every building
was marked out by artificial light. The moon rose, but she was not
wanted; it was as light as day.
They were considerate enough not to move too rapidly through this heart
of the metropolis, and even halted at some stations, where bands of
music and choirs of singers welcomed and celebrated them. They moved
on more quickly afterwards, made their way through a pretty suburb,
and then entered a park. At the termination of a long avenue was the
illumined and beautiful palace of the Prince of Montserrat, where Myra
was to reside and repose until the momentous morrow, when King Florestan
was publicly to place on the brow of his affianced bride the crown which
to his joy she had consented to share.
CHAPTER XCV
There are very few temperaments that can resist an universal
and unceasing festival in a vast and beautiful metropolis. It is
inebriating, and the most wonderful of all its accidents is how the
population can ever calm and recur to the monotony of ordinary life.
When all this happens, too, in a capital blessed with purple skies,
where the moonlight is equal to our sunshine, and where half the
population sleep in the open air and wish for no roof but the heavens,
existence is a dream of phantasy and perpetual loveliness, and one is
at last forced to believe that there is some miraculous and supernatural
agency that provides the ever-enduring excitement and ceaseless
incidents of grace and beauty.
After the great ceremony of the morrow in the cathedral, and when Myra,
kneeling at the altar with her husband, received, under a canopy of
silver brocade, the blessings of a cardinal and her people, day followed
day with court balls and municipal banquets, state visits to operas, and
reviews of sumptuous troops. At length the end of all this pageantry and
enthusiasm approached, and amid a blaze of fireworks, the picturesque
population of this fascinating city tried to return to ordinary feeling
and to common sense.
If amid this graceful hubbub and this glittering riot any one could
have found time to remark the carriage and conduct of an individual, one
might have observed, and perhaps been surprised at, the change in those
of Miss Neuchatel. That air of pensive resignation which distinguished
her seemed to have vanished. She never wore that doleful look for which
she was too remarkable in London saloons, and which marred a countenance
favoured by nature and a form intended for gaiety and grace. Perhaps it
was the influence of the climate, perhaps the excitement of the scene,
perhaps some rapture with the wondrous fortunes of the friend whom she
adored, but Adriana seemed suddenly to sympathise with everybody and to
appreciate everything; her face was radiant, she was in every dance,
and visited churches and museums, and palaces and galleries, with keen
delight. With many charms, the intimate friend of their sovereign,
and herself known to be noble and immensely rich, Adriana became the
fashion, and a crowd of princes were ever watching her smiles, and
sometimes offering her their sighs.
"I think you enjoy our visit more than any one of us," said Endymion to
her one day, with some feeling of surprise.
"Well, one cannot mope for ever," said Miss Neuchatel; "I have passed my
life in thinking of one subject, and I feel now it made me very stupid."
Endymion felt embarrassed, and, though generally ready, had no repartee
at command. Lord Waldershare, however, came to his relief, and claimed
Adriana for the impending dance.
This wondrous marriage was a grand subject for "our own correspondents,"
and they abounded. Among them were Jawett and St. Barbe. St. Barbe hated
Jawett, as indeed he did all his brethren, but his appointment in this
instance he denounced as an infamous job. "Merely to allow him to
travel in foreign parts, which he has never done, without a single
qualification for the office! However, it will ruin his paper, that is
some consolation. Fancy sending here a man who has never used his
pen except about those dismal statistics, and what he calls first
principles! I hate his style, so neat and frigid. No colour, sir. I hate
his short sentences, like a dog barking; we want a word-painter here,
sir. My description of the wedding sold one hundred and fifty thousand,
and it is selling now. If the proprietors were gentlemen, they would
have sent me an unlimited credit, instead of their paltry fifty pounds
a day and my expenses; but you never meet a liberal man now,--no such
animal known. What I want you to do for me, Lord Waldershare, is to get
me invited to the Villa Aurea when the court moves there. It will be
private life there, and that is the article the British public want now.
They are satiated with ceremonies and festivals. They want to know what
the royal pair have for dinner when they are alone, how they pass their
evenings, and whether the queen drives ponies."
"So far as I am concerned," said Waldershare, "they shall remain state
secrets."
"I have received no special favours here," rejoined St. Barbe, "though,
with my claims, I might have counted on the uttermost. However, it is
always so. I must depend on my own resources. I have a retainer, I can
tell you, my lord, from the 'Rigdum Funidos,' in my pocket, and it is in
my power to keep up such a crackling of jokes and sarcasms that a very
different view would soon be entertained in Europe of what is going
on here than is now the fashion. The 'Rigdum Funidos' is on the
breakfast-table of all England, and sells thousands in every capital of
the world. You do not appreciate its power; you will now feel it."
"I also am a subscriber to the 'Rigdum Funidos,'" said Waldershare,
"and tell you frankly, Mr. St. Barbe, that if I see in its columns the
slightest allusion to any persons or incident in this country, I will
take care that you be instantly consigned to the galleys; and, this
being a liberal government, I can do that without even the ceremony of a
primary inquiry."
"You do not mean that?" said St. Barbe; "of course, I was only jesting.
It is not likely that I should say or do anything disagreeable to those
whom I look upon as my patrons--I may say friends--through life. It
makes me almost weep when I remember my early connection with Mr.
Ferrars, now an under-secretary of state, and who will mount higher. I
never had a chance of being a minister, though I suppose I am not more
incapable than others who get the silver spoon into their mouths. And
then his divine sister! Quite an heroic character! I never had a sister,
and so I never had even a chance of being nearly related to royalty. But
so it has been throughout my life. No luck, my lord; no luck. And
then they say one is misanthropical. Hang it! who can help being
misanthropical when he finds everybody getting on in life except
himself?"
The court moved to their favourite summer residence, a Palladian palace
on a blue lake, its banks clothed with forests abounding with every
species of game, and beyond them loftier mountains. The king was devoted
to sport, and Endymion was always among his companions. Waldershare
rather attached himself to the ladies, who made gay parties floating in
gondolas, and refreshed themselves with picnics in sylvan retreats. It
was supposed Lord Waldershare was a great admirer of the Princess
of Montserrat, who in return referred to him as that "lovable
eccentricity." As the autumn advanced, parties of guests of high
distinction, carefully arranged, periodically arrived. Now, there was
more ceremony, and every evening the circle was formed, while the king
and queen exchanged words, and sometimes ideas, with those who were
so fortunate as to be under their roof. Frequently there were dramatic
performances, and sometimes a dance. The Princess of Montserrat was
invaluable in these scenes; vivacious, imaginative, a consummate mimic,
her countenance, though not beautiful, was full of charm. What was
strange, Adriana took a great fancy to her Highness, and they were
seldom separated. The only cloud for Endymion in this happy life was,
that every day the necessity of his return to England was more urgent,
and every day the days vanished more quickly. That return to England,
once counted by weeks, would soon be counted by hours. He had conferred
once or twice with Waldershare on the subject, who always turned
the conversation; at last Endymion reminded him that the time of his
departure was at hand, and that, originally, it had been agreed they
should return together.
"Yes, my dear Ferrars, we did so agree, but the agreement was
permissive, not compulsory. My views are changed. Perhaps I shall never
return to England again; I think of being naturalised here."
The queen was depressed at the prospect of being separated from her
brother. Sometimes she remonstrated with him for his devotion to sport
which deprived her of his society; frequently in a morning she sent for
him to her boudoir, that they might talk together as in old times. "The
king has invited Lord and Lady Beaumaris to pay us a visit, and they
are coming at once. I had hoped the dear Hainaults might have visited us
here. I think she would have liked it. However, they will certainly pass
the winter with us. It is some consolation to me not to lose Adriana."
"The greatest," said Endymion, "and she seems so happy here. She seems
quite changed."
"I hope she is happier," said the queen, "but I trust she is not
changed. I think her nearly perfection. So pure, even so exalted a mind,
joined with so sweet a temper, I have never met. And she is very much
admired too, I can tell you. The Prince of Arragon would be on his knees
to her to-morrow, if she would only give a single smile. But she smiles
enough with the Princess of Montserrat. I heard her the other day
absolutely in uncontrollable laughter. That is a strange friendship; it
amuses me."
"The princess has immense resource."
The queen suddenly rose from her seat; her countenance was disturbed.
"Why do we talk of her, or of any other trifler of the court, when there
hangs over us so great a sorrow, Endymion, as our separation? Endymion,
my best beloved," and she threw her arms round his neck, "my heart! my
life! Is it possible that you can leave me, and so miserable as I am?"
"Miserable!"
"Yes! miserable when I think of your position--and even my own. Mine own
has risen like a palace in a dream, and may vanish like one. But that
would not be a calamity if you were safe. If I quitted this world
to-morrow, where would you be? It gives me sleepless nights and anxious
days. If you really loved me as you say, you would save me this. I am
haunted with the perpetual thought that all this glittering prosperity
will vanish as it did with our father. God forbid that, under any
circumstances, it should lead to such an end--but who knows? Fate is
terribly stern; ironically just. O Endymion! if you really love me, your
twin, half of your blood and life, who have laboured for you so much,
and thought for you so much, and prayed for you so much--and yet I
sometimes feel have done so little--O Endymion! my adored, my own
Endymion, if you wish to preserve my life--if you wish me not only to
live, but really to be happy as I ought to be and could be, but for one
dark thought, help me, aid me, save me--you can, and by one single act."
"One single act!"
"Yes! marry Adriana."
"Ah!" and he sighed.
"Yes, Adriana, to whom we both of us owe everything. Were it not for
Adriana, you would not be here, you would be nothing," and she whispered
some words which made him start, and alternately blush and look pale.
"Is it possible?" he exclaimed. "My sister, my beloved sister, I have
tried to keep my brain cool in many trials. But I feel, as it were, as
if life were too much for me. You counsel me to that which we should all
repent."
"Yes, I know it; you may for a moment think it a sacrifice, but believe
me, that is all phantasy. I know you think your heart belongs to
another. I will grant everything, willingly grant everything you could
say of her. Yes, I admit, she is beautiful, she has many charms, has
been to you a faithful friend, you delight in her society; such things
have happened before to many men, to every man they say they happen, but
that has not prevented them from being wise, and very happy too. Your
present position, if you persist in it, is one most perilous. You have
no root in the country; but for an accident you could not maintain
the public position you have nobly gained. As for the great crowning
consummation of your life, which we dreamed over at unhappy Hurstley,
which I have sometimes dared to prophesy, that must be surrendered. The
country at the best will look upon you only as a reputable adventurer
to be endured, even trusted and supported, in some secondary post,
but nothing more. I touch on this, for I see it is useless to speak of
myself and my own fate and feelings; only remember, Endymion, I have
never deceived you. I cannot endure any longer this state of affairs.
When in a few days we part, we shall never meet again. And all the
devotion of Myra will end in your destroying her."
"My own, my beloved Myra, do with me what you like. If ----"
At this moment there was a gentle tap at the door, and the king entered.
"My angel," he said, "and you too, my dear Endymion. I have some news
from England which I fear may distress you. Lord Montfort is dead."
CHAPTER XCVI
There was ever, when separated, an uninterrupted correspondence between
Berengaria and Endymion. They wrote to each other every day, so
that when they met again there was no void in their lives and mutual
experience, and each was acquainted with almost every feeling and
incident that had been proved, or had occurred, since they parted. The
startling news, however, communicated by the king had not previously
reached Endymion, because he was on the eve of his return to England,
and his correspondents had been requested to direct their future letters
to his residence in London.
His voyage home was an agitated one, and not sanguine or inspiriting.
There was a terrible uncertainty in the future. What were the feelings
of Lady Montfort towards himself? Friendly, kind, affectionate, in a
certain sense, even devoted, no doubt; but all consistent with a deep
and determined friendship which sought and wished for no return more
ardent. But now she was free. Yes, but would she again forfeit her
freedom? And if she did, would it not be to attain some great end,
probably the great end of her life? Lady Montfort was a woman of
far-reaching ambition. In a certain degree, she had married to secure
her lofty aims; and yet it was only by her singular energy, and the
playfulness and high spirit of her temperament, that the sacrifice had
not proved a failure; her success, however, was limited, for the ally on
who she had counted rarely assisted and never sympathised with her. It
was true she admired and even loved her husband; her vanity, which was
not slight, was gratified by her conquest of one whom it had seemed no
one could subdue, and who apparently placed at her feet all the power
and magnificence which she appreciated.
Poor Endymion, who loved her passionately, over whom she exercised the
influence of a divinity, who would do nothing without consulting her,
and who was moulded, and who wished to be moulded, by her inspiring
will, was also a shrewd man of the world, and did not permit his
sentiment to cloud his perception of life and its doings. He felt that
Lady Montfort had fallen from a lofty position, and she was not of a
temperament that would quietly brook her fate. Instead of being the
mistress of castles and palaces, with princely means, and all the
splendid accidents of life at her command, she was now a dowager with
a jointure! Still young, with her charms unimpaired, heightened even by
the maturity of her fascinating qualities, would she endure this? She
might retain her friendship for one who, as his sister ever impressed
upon him, had no root in the land, and even that friendship, he felt
conscious, must yield much of its entireness and intimacy to the
influence of new ties; but for their lives ever being joined together,
as had sometimes been his wild dreams, his cheek, though alone, burned
with the consciousness of his folly and self-deception.
"He is one of our rising statesmen," whispered the captain of the vessel
to a passenger, as Endymion, silent, lonely, and absorbed, walked, as
was his daily custom, the quarterdeck. "I daresay he has a good load
on his mind. Do you know, I would sooner be a captain of a ship than a
minister of state?"
Poor Endymion! Yes, he bore his burthen, but it was not secrets of state
that overwhelmed him. If his mind for a moment quitted the contemplation
of Lady Montfort, it was only to encounter the recollection of a
heart-rending separation from his sister, and his strange and now
perplexing relations with Adriana.
Lord Montfort had passed the summer, as he had announced, at Princedown,
and alone; that is to say, without Lady Montfort. She wrote to him
frequently, and if she omitted doing so for a longer interval than
usual, he would indite to her a little note, always courteous, sometimes
even almost kind, reminding her that her letters amused him, and that
of late they had been rarer than he wished. Lady Montfort herself made
Montfort Castle her home, paying sometimes a visit to her family in
the neighbourhood, and sometimes receiving them and other guests. Lord
Montfort himself did not live in absolute solitude. He had society
always at command. He always had a court about him; equerries, and
secretaries, and doctors, and odd and amusing men whom they found out
for him, and who were well pleased to find themselves in his
beautiful and magnificent Princedown, wandering in woods and parks and
pleasaunces, devouring his choice _entrees_, and quaffing his curious
wines. Sometimes he dined with them, sometimes a few dined with him,
sometimes he was not seen for weeks; but whether he were visible or not,
he was the subject of constant thought and conversation by all under his
roof.
Lord Montfort, it may be remembered, was a great fisherman. It was the
only sport which retained a hold upon him. The solitude, the charming
scenery, and the requisite skill, combined to please him. He had a love
for nature, and he gratified it in this pursuit. His domain abounded in
those bright chalky streams which the trout love. He liked to watch the
moor-hens, too, and especially a kingfisher.
Lord Montfort came home late one day after much wading. It had been a
fine day for anglers, soft and not too bright, and he had been tempted
to remain long in the water. He drove home rapidly, but it was in an
open carriage, and when the sun set there was a cold autumnal breeze.
He complained at night, and said he had been chilled. There was always
a doctor under the roof, who felt his patient's pulse, ordered the usual
remedies, and encouraged him. Lord Montfort passed a bad night, and his
physician in the morning found fever, and feared there were symptoms of
pleurisy. He prescribed accordingly, but summoned from town two great
authorities. The great authorities did not arrive until the next day.
They approved of everything that had been done, but shook their heads.
"No immediate danger, but serious."