Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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"Well, I wish, for his sake, he might have it," said Endymion, "though I
might lose a kind friend."
"Look at Seymour Hicks," said St. Barbe; "he has smoked his cigar, and
he is going. He never remains. He is going to a party, I'll be found.
That fellow gets about in a most extraordinary manner. Is it not
disgusting? I doubt whether he is asked much to dinner though, or I
think we should have heard of it. Nevertheless, Trenchard said the other
day that Hicks had dined with Lord Cinque-Ports. I can hardly believe
it; it would be too disgusting. No lord ever asked me to dinner. But the
aristocracy of this country are doomed!"
"Mr. Hicks," said Endymion, "probably lays himself out for society."
"I suppose you will," said St. Barbe, with a scrutinising air. "I should
if I were the son of a privy councillor. Hicks is nothing; his father
kept a stable-yard and his mother was an actress. We have had several
dignitaries of the Church in my family and one admiral. And yet Hicks
dines with Lord Cinque-Ports! It is positively revolting! But the things
he does to get asked!--sings, rants, conjures, ventriloquises, mimics,
stands on his head. His great performance is a parliamentary debate. We
will make him do it for you. And yet with all this a dull dog--a very
dull dog, sir. He wrote for 'Scaramouch' some little time, but they can
stand it no more. Between you and me, he has had notice to quit. That
I know; and he will probably get the letter when he goes home from
his party to-night. So much for success in society! I shall now say
good-night to you."
CHAPTER XXI
It was only ten o'clock when Endymion returned to Warwick Street, and
for the first time in his life used a pass-key, with which Mr. Rodney
had furnished him in the morning, and re-entered his new home. He
thought he had used it very quietly, and was lighting his candle and
about to steal up to his lofty heights, when from the door of the
parlour, which opened into the passage, emerged Miss Imogene, who took
the candlestick from his hand and insisted on waiting upon him.
"I thought I heard something," she said; "you must let me light you up,
for you can hardly yet know your way. I must see too if all is right;
you may want something."
So she tripped up lightly before him, showing, doubtless without
premeditation, as well-turned an ankle and as pretty a foot as could
fall to a damsel's fortunate lot. "My sister and Mr. Rodney have gone to
the play," she said, "but they left strict instructions with me to see
that you were comfortable, and that you wanted for nothing that we could
supply."
"You are too kind," said Endymion, as she lighted the candles on his
dressing-table, "and, to tell you the truth, these are luxuries I am not
accustomed to, and to which I am not entitled."
"And yet," she said, with a glance of blended admiration and pity, "they
tell me time was when gold was not good enough for you, and I do not
think it could be."
"Such kindness as this," said Endymion, "is more precious than gold."
"I hope you will find your things well arranged. All your clothes are in
these two drawers; the coats in the bottom one, and your linen in those
above. You will not perhaps be able to find your pocket-handkerchiefs
at first. They are in this sachet; my sister made it herself. Mr. Rodney
says you are to be called at eight o'clock and breakfast at nine. I
think everything is right. Good-night, Mr. Endymion."
The Rodney household was rather a strange one. The first two floors, as
we have mentioned, were let, and at expensive rates, for the apartments
were capacious and capitally furnished, and the situation, if not
distinguished, was extremely convenient--quiet from not being a
thoroughfare, and in the heart of civilisation. They only kept a couple
of servants, but their principal lodgers had their personal attendants.
And yet after sunset the sisters appeared and presided at their
tea-table, always exquisitely dressed; seldom alone, for Mr. Rodney
had many friends, and lived in a capacious apartment, rather finely
furnished, with a round table covered with gaudy print-books, a
mantelpiece crowded with vases of mock Dresden, and a cottage piano, on
which Imogene could accompany her more than pleasing voice.
Somehow or other, the process is difficult to trace, Endymion not
unfrequently found himself at Mrs. Rodney's tea-table. On the first
occasion or so, he felt himself a little shy and embarrassed, but it
soon became natural to him, and he would often escape from the symposia
at Joe's, and, instead of the Divan, find in Warwick Street a more
congenial scene. There were generally some young men there, who seemed
delighted with the ladies, listened with enthusiasm to Imogene's
singing, and were allowed to smoke. They were evidently gentlemen, and
indeed Mr. Rodney casually mentioned to Endymion that one of the most
frequent guests might some day even be a peer of the realm. Sometimes
there was a rubber of whist, and, if wanted, Mrs. Rodney took a hand in
it; Endymion sitting apart and conversing with her sister, who amused
him by her lively observations, indicating even flashes of culture; but
always addressed him without the slightest pretence and with the utmost
naturalness. This was not the case with Mr. Rodney; pretence with him
was ingrained, and he was at first somewhat embarrassed by the presence
of Endymion, as he could hardly maintain before his late patron's son
his favourite character of the aristocratic victim of revolution. And
yet this drawback was more than counterbalanced by the gratification of
his vanity in finding a Ferrars his habitual guest. Such a luxury seemed
a dangerous indulgence, but he could not resist it, and the moth was
always flying round the candle. There was no danger, however, and that
Mr. Rodney soon found out. Endymion was born with tact, and it came to
him as much from goodness of heart as fineness of taste. Mr. Rodney,
therefore, soon resumed his anecdotes of great men and his personal
experience of their sayings, manners, and customs, with which he was
in the habit of enlivening or ornamenting the whist table; occasionally
introducing Endymion to the notice of the table by mentioning in a low
tone, "That is Mr. Ferrars, in a certain sense under my care; his father
is a privy councillor, and had it not been for the revolution--for I
maintain, and always will, the Reform Bill was neither more nor less
than a revolution--would probably have been Prime Minister. He was my
earliest and my best friend."
When there were cards, there was always a little supper: a lobster and
a roasted potato and that sort of easy thing, and curious drinks, which
the sisters mixed and made, and which no one else, at least all said so,
could mix and make. On fitting occasions a bottle of champagne appeared,
and then the person for whom the wine was produced was sure with
wonderment to say, "Where did you get this champagne, Rodney? Could you
get me some?" Mr. Rodney shook his head and scarcely gave a hope,
but subsequently, when the praise in consequence had continued and
increased, would observe, "Do you really want some? I cannot promise,
but I will try. Of course they will ask a high figure."
"Anything they like, my dear Rodney."
And in about a week's time the gentleman was so fortunate as to get his
champagne.
There was one subject in which Mr. Rodney appeared to be particularly
interested, and that was racing. The turf at that time had not developed
into that vast institution of national demoralisation which it now
exhibits. That disastrous character may be mainly attributed to the
determination of our legislators to put down gaming-houses, which,
practically speaking, substituted for the pernicious folly of a
comparatively limited class the ruinous madness of the community. There
were many influences by which in the highest classes persons might
be discouraged or deterred from play under a roof; and in the great
majority of cases such a habit was difficult, not to say impossible, to
indulge. But in shutting up gaming-houses, we brought the gaming-table
into the street, and its practices became the pursuit of those who
would otherwise have never witnessed or even thought of them. No doubt
Crockford's had its tragedies, but all its disasters and calamities
together would hardly equal a lustre of the ruthless havoc which has
ensued from its suppression.
Nevertheless, in 1835 men made books, and Mr. Rodney was not inexpert
in a composition which requires no ordinary qualities of character
and intelligence; method, judgment, self-restraint, not too much
imagination, perception of character, and powers of calculation. All
these qualities were now in active demand and exercise; for the Derby
was at hand, and the Rodney family, deeply interested in the result,
were to attend the celebrated festival.
One of the young gentlemen, who sometimes smoked a cigar and sometimes
tasted a lobster in their parlour, and who seemed alike and equally
devoted to Mrs. Rodney and her sister, insisted upon taking them to
Epsom in his drag, and they themselves were to select the party to
accompany them. That was not difficult, for they were naturally all
friends of their munificent host with one exception. Imogene stipulated
that Endymion should be asked, and Mr. Rodney supported the suggestion.
"He is the son of the privy councillor the Right Hon. William Pitt
Ferrars, my earliest and my best friend, and in a certain sense is under
my care."
The drive to the Derby was not then shorn of its humours and glories. It
was the Carnival of England, with equipages as numerous and various,
and with banter not less quick and witty. It was a bright day--a day, no
doubt, of wild hopes and terrible fears, but yet, on the whole, of joy
and exultation. And no one was happier and prouder than pretty Mrs.
Rodney, exquisitely dressed and sitting on the box of a patrician
drag, beside its noble owner. On the seat behind them was Imogene, with
Endymion on one side, and on the other the individual "who might one
day be a peer." Mr. Rodney and some others, including Mr. Vigo, faced
a couple of grooms, who sat with folded arms and unmoved countenances,
fastidiously stolid amid all the fun, and grave even when they opened
the champagne.
The right horse won. Mr. Rodney and his friends pocketed a good stake,
and they demolished their luncheon of luxuries with frantic gaiety.
"It is almost as happy as our little suppers in Warwick Street,"
whispered their noble driver to his companion.
"Oh! much more than anything you can find there," simpered Mrs. Rodney.
"I declare to you, some of the happiest hours of my life have been
passed in Warwick Street," gravely murmured her friend.
"I wish I could believe that," said Mrs. Rodney.
As for Endymion, he enjoyed himself amazingly. The whole scene was new
to him--he had never been at a race before, and this was the most famous
of races. He did not know he had betted, but he found he too had won a
little money, Mr. Rodney having put him on something, though what that
meant he had not the remotest idea. Imogene, however, assured him it was
all right--Mr. Rodney constantly put her on something. He enjoyed
the luncheon too; the cold chicken, and the French pies, the wondrous
salads, and the iced champagne. It seemed that Imogene was always
taking care that his plate or his glass should be filled. Everything was
delightful, and his noble host, who, always courteous, had hitherto been
reserved, called him "Ferrars."
What with the fineness of the weather, the inspirations of the excited
and countless multitude, the divine stimulus of the luncheon, the
kindness of his charming companions, and the general feeling of
enjoyment and success that seemed to pervade his being, Endymion felt
as he were almost acting a distinguished part in some grand triumph of
antiquity, as returning home, the four splendid dark chestnuts swept
along, two of their gay company playing bugles, and the grooms sitting
with folded arms of haughty indifference.
Just at this moment his eye fell upon an omnibus full, inside and out,
of clerks in his office. There was a momentary stoppage, and while he
returned the salute of several of them, his quick eye could not avoid
recognising the slightly surprised glance of Trenchard, the curious
amazement of Seymour Hicks, and the indignant astonishment of St. Barbe.
"Our friend Ferrars seems in tiptop company," said Trenchard.
"That may have been a countess on the box," said Seymour Hicks, "for I
observed an earl's coronet on the drag. I cannot make out who it is."
"There is no more advantage in going with four horses than with two,"
said St. Barbe; "indeed, I believe you go slower. It is mere pride;
puffed-up vanity. I should like to send those two grooms with their
folded arms to the galleys--I hate those fellows. For my part, I never
was behind four horses except in a stage-coach. No peer of the realm
ever took me on his drag. However, a day of reckoning will come; the
people won't stand this much longer."
Jawett was not there, for he disapproved of races.
CHAPTER XXII
Endymion had to encounter a rather sharp volley when he went to the
office next morning. After some general remarks as to the distinguished
party which he had accompanied to the races, Seymour Hicks could not
resist inquiring, though with some circumlocution, whether the lady was
a countess. The lady was not a countess. Who was the lady? The lady was
Mrs. Rodney. Who was Mrs. Rodney? She was the wife of Mr. Rodney, who
accompanied her. Was Mr. Rodney a relation of Lord Rodney? Endymion
believed he was not a relation of Lord Rodney. Who was Mr. Rodney then?
"Mr. Rodney is an old friend of my father."
This natural solution of doubts and difficulties arrested all further
inquiry. Generally speaking, the position of Endymion in his new life
was satisfactory. He was regular and assiduous in his attendance at
office, was popular with his comrades, and was cherished by his chief,
who had even invited him to dinner. His duties were certainly at present
mechanical, but they were associated with an interesting profession;
and humble as was his lot, he began to feel the pride of public life. He
continued to be a regular guest at Joe's, and was careful not to seem
to avoid the society of his fellow-clerks in the evenings, for he had
an instinctive feeling that it was as well they should not become
acquainted with his circle in Warwick Street. And yet to him the
attractions of that circle became daily more difficult to resist. And
often when he was enduring the purgatory of the Divan, listening to the
snarls of St. Barbe over the shameful prosperity of everybody in this
world except the snarler, or perhaps went half-price to the pit of Drury
Lane with the critical Trenchard, he was, in truth, restless and absent,
and his mind was in another place, indulging in visions which he did not
care to analyse, but which were very agreeable.
One evening, shortly after the expedition to Epsom, while the rest were
playing a rubber, Imogene said to him, "I wish you to be friends with
Mr. Vigo; I think he might be of use to you."
Mr. Vigo was playing whist at this moment; his partner was Sylvia, and
they were playing against Mr. Rodney and Waldershare.
Waldershare was a tenant of the second floor. He was the young gentleman
"who might some day be a peer." He was a young man of about three or
four and twenty years; fair, with short curly brown hair and blue eyes;
not exactly handsome, but with a countenance full of expression, and the
index of quick emotions, whether of joy or of anger. Waldershare was the
only child of a younger son of a patrician house, and had inherited from
his father a moderate but easy fortune. He had been the earliest lodger
of the Rodneys, and, taking advantage of the Tory reaction, had just
been returned to the House of Commons.
What he would do there was a subject of interesting speculation to his
numerous friends, and it may be said admirers. Waldershare was one of
those vivid and brilliant organisations which exercise a peculiarly
attractive influence on youth. He had been the hero of the debating club
at Cambridge, and many believed in consequence that he must become
prime minister. He was witty and fanciful, and, though capricious and
bad-tempered, could flatter and caress. At Cambridge he had introduced
the new Oxford heresy, of which Nigel Penruddock was a votary.
Waldershare prayed and fasted, and swore by Laud and Strafford. He took,
however, a more eminent degree at Paris than at his original Alma Mater,
and becoming passionately addicted to French literature, his views
respecting both Church and State became modified--at least in private.
His entrance into English society had been highly successful, and as he
had a due share of vanity, and was by no means free from worldliness,
he had enjoyed and pursued his triumphs. But his versatile nature, which
required not only constant, but novel excitement, became palled, even
with the society of duchesses. There was a monotony in the splendour of
aristocratic life which wearied him, and for some time he had persuaded
himself that the only people who understood the secret of existence were
the family under whose roof he lodged.
Waldershare was profligate, but sentimental; unprincipled, but romantic;
the child of whim, and the slave of an imagination so freakish and
deceptive, that it was always impossible to foretell his course. He was
alike capable of sacrificing all his feelings to worldly considerations
or of forfeiting the world for a visionary caprice. At present his
favourite scheme, and one to which he seemed really attached, was to
educate Imogene. Under his tuition he had persuaded himself that she
would turn out what he styled "a great woman." An age of vast change,
according to Waldershare, was impending over us. There was no male
career in which one could confide. Most men of mark would probably be
victims, but "a great woman" must always make her way. Whatever the
circumstances, she would adapt herself to them; if necessary, would
mould and fashion them. His dream was that Imogene should go forth
and conquer the world, and that in the sunset of life he should find a
refuge in some corner of her palace.
Imogene was only a child when Waldershare first became a lodger. She
used to bring his breakfast to his drawing-room and arrange his table.
He encountered her one day, and he requested her to remain, and always
preside over his meal. He fell in love with her name, and wrote her a
series of sonnets, idealising her past, panegyrising her present,
and prophetic of her future life. Imogene, who was neither shy nor
obtrusive, was calm amid all his vagaries, humoured his fancies, even
when she did not understand them, and read his verses as she would a
foreign language which she was determined to master.
Her culture, according to Waldershare, was to be carried on chiefly by
conversations. She was not to read, or at least not to read much, until
her taste was formed and she had acquired the due share of previous
knowledge necessary to profitable study. As Waldershare was eloquent,
brilliant, and witty, Imogene listened to him with wondering interest
and amusement, even when she found some difficulty in following him; but
her apprehension was so quick and her tact so fine, that her progress,
though she was almost unconscious of it, was remarkable. Sometimes in
the evening, while the others were smoking together or playing whist,
Waldershare and Imogene, sitting apart, were engaged in apparently
the most interesting converse. It was impossible not to observe the
animation and earnestness of Waldershare, and the great attention with
which his companion responded to his representations. Yet all this time
he was only giving her a lecture on Madame de Sevigne.
Waldershare used to take Imogene to the National Gallery and Hampton
Court, and other delightful scenes of popular education, but of late
Mrs. Rodney had informed her sister that she was no longer young enough
to permit these expeditions. Imogene accepted the announcement without
a murmur, but it occasioned Waldershare several sonnets of heartrending
remonstrance. Imogene continued, however, to make his breakfast, and
kept his Parliamentary papers in order, which he never could manage,
but the mysteries of which Imogene mastered with feminine quickness and
precision. Whenever Waldershare was away he always maintained a constant
correspondence with Imogene. In this he communicated everything to her
without the slightest reserve; describing everything he saw, almost
everything he heard, pages teeming with anecdotes of a world of which
she could know nothing--the secrets of courts and coteries, memoirs of
princes and ministers, of dandies and dames of fashion. "If anything
happens to me," Waldershare would say to Imogene, "this correspondence
may be worth thousands to you, and when it is published it will connect
your name with mine, and assist my grand idea of your becoming 'a great
woman.'"
"But I do not know Mr. Vigo," whispered Endymion to Imogene.
"But you have met him here, and you went together to Epsom. It is
enough. He is going to ask you to dine with him on Saturday. We shall
be there, and Mr. Waldershare is going. He has a beautiful place, and
it will be very pleasant." And exactly as Imogene had anticipated,
Mr. Vigo, in the course of the evening, did ask Endymion to do him the
honour of being his guest.
The villa of Mr. Vigo was on the banks of the Thames, and had once
belonged to a noble customer. The Palladian mansion contained a suite of
chambers of majestic dimensions--lofty ceilings, rich cornices, and
vast windows of plate glass; the gardens were rich with the products of
conservatories which Mr. Vigo had raised with every modern improvement,
and a group of stately cedars supported the dignity of the scene and
gave to it a name. Beyond, a winding walk encircled a large field
which Mr. Vigo called the park, and which sparkled with gold and silver
pheasants, and the keeper lived in a newly-raised habitation at the
extreme end, which took the form of a Swiss cottage.
The Rodney family, accompanied by Mr. Waldershare and Endymion, went to
the Cedars by water. It was a delightful afternoon of June, the river
warm and still, and the soft, fitful western breeze occasionally rich
with the perfume of the gardens of Putney and Chiswick. Waldershare
talked the whole way. It was a rhapsody of fancy, fun, knowledge,
anecdote, brilliant badinage--even passionate seriousness. Sometimes
he recited poetry, and his voice was musical; and, then, when he had
attuned his companions to a sentimental pitch, he would break into
mockery, and touch with delicate satire every mood of human feeling.
Endymion listened to him in silence and admiration. He had never heard
Waldershare talk before, and he had never heard anybody like him. All
this time, what was now, and ever, remarkable in Waldershare were his
manners. They were finished, even to courtliness. Affable and winning,
he was never familiar. He always addressed Sylvia as if she were one of
those duchesses round whom he used to linger. He would bow deferentially
to her remarks, and elicit from some of her casual observations an acute
or graceful meaning, of which she herself was by no means conscious. The
bow of Waldershare was a study. Its grace and ceremony must have been
organic; for there was no traditionary type in existence from which he
could have derived or inherited it. He certainly addressed Imogene and
spoke to her by her Christian name; but this was partly because he was
in love with the name, and partly because he would persist in still
treating her as a child. But his manner to her always was that of tender
respect. She was almost as silent as Endymion during their voyage, but
not less attentive to her friend. Mr. Rodney was generally silent, and
never opened his mouth on this occasion except in answer to an inquiry
from his wife as to whom a villa might belong, and it seemed always that
he knew every villa, and every one to whom they belonged.
The sisters were in demi-toilette, which seemed artless, though in
fact it was profoundly devised. Sylvia was the only person who really
understood the meaning of "simplex munditiis," and this was one of
the secrets of her success. There were some ladies, on the lawn of the
Cedars when they arrived, not exactly of their school, and who were
finely and fully dressed. Mrs. Gamme was the wife of a sporting attorney
of Mr. Vigo, and who also, having a villa at hand, was looked upon as
a country neighbour. Mrs. Gamme was universally recognised to be a
fine woman, and she dressed up to her reputation. She was a famous
whist-player at high points, and dealt the cards with hands covered with
diamond rings. Another country neighbour was the chief partner in the
celebrated firm of Hooghley, Dacca, and Co., dealers in Indian and other
shawls. Mr. Hooghley had married a celebrated actress, and was proud and
a little jealous of his wife. Mrs. Hooghley had always an opportunity
at the Cedars of meeting some friends in her former profession, for Mr.
Vigo liked to be surrounded by genius and art. "I must have talent," he
would exclaim, as he looked round at the amusing and motley multitude
assembled at his splendid entertainments. And to-day upon his lawn might
be observed the first tenor of the opera and a prima-donna who had just
arrived, several celebrated members of the English stage of both sexes,
artists of great reputation, whose principal works already adorned the
well-selected walls of the Cedars, a danseuse or two of celebrity, some
literary men, as Mr. Vigo styled them, who were chiefly brethren of the
political press, and more than one member of either House of Parliament.