Were we writing a drama instead of a true history, we might like to
linger for a few moments on the leave-taking between the Princess and
Sir Horace Upton. They were indeed both consummate “artists,” and they
played their parts to perfection,--not as we see high comedy performed
on the stage, by those who grotesque its refinements and exaggerate
its dignity; “lashing to storm” the calm and placid lake, all whose
convulsive throes are many a fathom deep, and whose wildest workings
never bring a ripple to the surface. No, theirs was the true version
of well-bred “performance.” A little well-affected grief at separation,
brief as it was meant to be; a little half-expressed surprise, on the
lady's part, at the suddenness of the departure; a little, just
as vaguely conveyed, complaint on the other side, over the severe
requirements of duty, and a very little tenderness--for there was no one
to witness it--at the thought of parting; and with a kiss upon her hand,
whose respectful courtesy no knight-errant of old could have surpassed,
Sir Horace backed from the “presence,” sighed, and slipped away.
Had our reader been a spectator instead of a peruser of the events
we have lately detailed, he might have fancied, from certain small
asperities of manner, certain quicknesses of reproof and readiness at
rejoinder, that here were two people only waiting for a reasonable and
decent pretext to go on their separate roads in life. Yet nothing of
this kind was the case; the bond between them was not affection, it was
simply convenience. Their partnership gave them a strength and a social
solvency which would have been sorely damaged had either retired from
“the firm;” and they knew it.
What would the Princess's dinners have been without the polished ease
of him who felt himself half the host? What would all Sir Horace Upton's
subtlety avail him, if it were not that he had sources of information
which always laid open the game of his adversaries? Singly, each would
have had a tough struggle with the world; together, they were more than
a match for it.
The highest order of diplomatist, in the estimation of Upton, was the
man who, at once, knew what was _possible_ to be done. It was his
own peculiar quality to possess this gift; but great as his natural
acuteness was, it would not have availed him, without those secret
springs of intelligence we have alluded to. There is no saying to what
limit he might not have carried this faculty, had it not been that one
deteriorating and detracting feature marred and disfigured the fairest
form of his mind.
He could not, do all that he would, disabuse himself of a very
low estimate of men and their motives. He did not slide into this
philosophy, as certain indolent people do, just to save them the trouble
of discriminating; he did not acquire it by the hard teachings of
adversity. No; it came upon him slowly and gradually, the fruit, as he
believed, of calm judgment and much reflection upon life. As little did
he accept it willingly; he even labored against the conviction: but,
strive as he might, there it was, and there it would remain.
His fixed impression was, that in every circumstance and event in
life there was always a _dessous des cartes_,--a deeper game concealed
beneath the surface,--and that it was a mere question of skill and
address how much of this penetrated through men's actions. If this
theory unravelled many a tangled web of knavery to him, it also served
to embarrass and confuse him in situations where inferior minds had
never recognized a difficulty! How much ingenuity did he expend to
detect what had no existence! How wearily did he try for soundings where
there was no bottom!
Through the means of the Princess he had learned--what some very wise
heads do not yet like to acknowledge--that the feeling of the despotic
governments towards England was very different from what it had been at
the close of the great war with Napoleon. They had grown more dominant
and exacting, just as we were becoming every hour more democratic. To
maintain our old relations with them, therefore, on the old footing,
would be only to involve ourselves in continual difficulty, with a
certainty of final failure; and the only policy that remained was to
encourage the growth of liberal opinions on the Continent, out of which
new alliances might be formed, to recompense us for the loss of the
old ones. There is a story told of a certain benevolent prince, whose
resources were, unhappily, not commensurate with his good intentions,
and whose ragged retinue wearied him with entreaties for assistance. “Be
of good cheer,” said he, one day, “I have ordered a field of flax to be
sown, and you shall all of you have new shirts.” Such were pretty much
the position and policy of England. Out of our crop of Constitutionalism
we speculated on a rich harvest, to be afterwards manufactured for our
use and benefit. We leave it to deeper heads to say if the result has
been all that we calculated on, and, asking pardon for such digression,
we join Sir Horace once more.
When Sir Horace Upton ordered post-horses to his carriage, he no more
knew where he was going, nor where he would halt, than he could have
anticipated what course any conversation might take when once started.
He had, to be sure, a certain ideal goal to be reached; but he was one
of those men who liked to think that the casual interruptions one meets
with in life are less obstruction than opportunity; so that, instead of
deeming these subjects for regret or impatience, he often accepted them
as indications that there was some profit to be derived from them,--a
kind of fatalism more common than is generally believed. When he set
out for Sorrento it was with the intention of going direct to Massa;
not that this state lay within the limits his functions ascribed to
him,--that being probably the very fact which imparted a zest to the
journey. Any other man would have addressed himself to his colleague in
Tuscany, or wherever he might be; while he, being Sir Horace Upton,
took the whole business upon himself in his own way. Young Massy's case
opened to his eyes a great question, viz., what was the position the
Austrians assumed to take in Italy? For any care about the youth, or any
sympathy with his sufferings, he distressed himself little; not that he
was, in any respect, heartless or unfeeling, it was simply that greater
interests were before him. Here was one of those “grand issues” that he
felt worthy of his abilities,--it was a cause where he was proud to hold
a brief.
Resolving all his plans of action methodically, yet rapidly; arranging
every detail in his own mind, even to the use of certain expressions
he was to employ,--he arrived at the palace of the Embassy, where he
desired to halt to take up his letters and make a few preparations
before his departure. His Maestro di Casa, Signor Franchetti, was in
waiting for his arrival, and respectfully assured him “that all was in
readiness, and that his Excellency would be perfectly satisfied. We had,
it is true,” continued he, “a difficulty about the fish, but I sent off
an express to Baia, and we have secured a sturgeon.”
“What are you raving about, caro Pipo?” said the Minister; “what is all
this long story of Baia and the fish?”
“Has your Excellency forgotten that we have a grand dinner to-day, at
eight o'clock; that the Prince Maximilian of Bavaria and all the foreign
ambassadors are invited?”
“Is this Saturday, Pipo?” said Sir Horace, blandly.
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“Send Mr. Brockett to me,” said Sir Horace, as he slowly mounted the
stairs to his own apartment.
Sir Horace was stretched on a sofa, in all the easy luxury of
magnificent dressing-gown and slippers, when Mr. Brockett entered; and
without any preliminary of greeting he said, with a quiet laugh, “You
have let me forget all about the dinner to-day, Brockett!”
“I thought you knew it; you took great trouble about the persons to
be asked, and you canvassed whether the Duc de Borodino, being only a
Chargé d'Affaires--”
“There, there; don't you see the--the inappropriateness of what you are
doing? Even in England a man is not asked to criminate himself. How many
are coming?”
“Nineteen; the 'Nonce' is ill, and has sent an apology.”
“Then the party can be eighteen, Brockett; you must tell them that I am
ill,--too ill to come to dinner. I know the Prince Max very well,--he
'll not take it badly; and as to Cineselli, we shall see what humor he
is in!”
“But they 'll know that you arrived here this afternoon; they 'll
naturally suppose--”
“They 'll naturally suppose--if people ever do anything so intensely
stupid as naturally to suppose anything--that I am the best judge of my
own health; and so, Mr. Brockett, you may as well con over the terms by
which you may best acquaint the company with the reasons for my absence;
and if the Prince proposes a visit to me in the evening, let him come;
he 'll find me here in my own room. Would you do me the kindness to let
Antinori fetch his cupping-glasses, and tell Franchetti also that I 'll
take my chicken grilled, not roasted. I'll look over the treaty in the
evening. One mushroom, only one, he may give me, and the Carlsbad water,
at 28 degrees. I 'm very troublesome, Brockett, but I 'm sure you 'll
excuse it. Thanks, thanks;” and he pressed the Secretary's hand, and
gave him a smile, whose blandishment had often done good service, and
would do so again!
To almost any other man in the world this interruption to his
journey--this sudden tidings of a formally-arranged dinner which he
could not or would not attend--would have proved a source of chagrin and
dissatisfaction. Not so with Upton; he liked a “contrariety.” Whatever
stirred the still waters of life, even though it should be a head-wind,
was far more grateful than a calm! He laughed to himself at the various
comments his company were sure to pass over his conduct; he pictured to
his mind the anger of some and the astonishment of others, and revelled
in the thought of the courtier-like indignation such treatment of a
Royal Highness was certain to elicit.
“But who can answer for his health?” said he, with an easy laugh to
himself. “Who can promise what he may be ten days hence?” The appearance
of his dinner--if one may dignify by such a name the half of a chicken,
flanked by a roasted apple and a biscuit--cut short his lucubrations;
and Sir Horace ate and sipped his Carlsbad with as much enjoyment as
many another man has felt over venison and Chambertin.
“Are they arrived, Pipo?” said he, as his servant removed the dessert of
two figs and a lime.
“Yes, your Excellency, they are at table.”
“How many are there?”
“Seventeen, sir, and Mr. Brockett.”
“Did the Prince seem to--to feel my absence, Pipo?”
“I thought he appeared very sorry for your Excellency when Mr. Brockett
spoke to him, and he whispered something to the aide-de-camp beside
him.”
“And the others, how did they take it?”
“Count Tarrocco said he'd retire, sir, that he could not dine where the
host was too ill to receive him; but the Duc de Campo Stretto said
it was impossible they could leave the room while a 'Royal Highness'
continued to remain in it; and they all agreed with him.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Upton, in a low tone. “I hope the dinner is a good
one?”
“It is exquisite, sir; the Prince ate some of the caviare soup, and was
asking a second time for the 'pain des ortolans' when I left the room.”
“And the wine, Pipo? have you given them that rare 'La Rose'?”
“Yes, your Excellency, and the 'Klausthaller cabinet;' his Royal
Highness asked for it.”
“Go back, then, now. I want for nothing more; only drop in here by and
by, and tell me how all goes on. Just light that pastil before you go;
there--that will, do.”
And once more his Excellency was left to himself. In that vast
palace,--the once home of a royal prince,--no sounds of the distant
revelry could reach the remote quarter where he sat, and all was silent
and still around him, and Upton was free to ruminate and reflect at
ease. There was à sense of haughty triumph in thinking that beneath his
roof, at that very moment, were assembled the great representatives of
almost every important state of Europe, to whom he had not deigned
to accord the honor of his presence; but though this thought did flit
across his mind, far more was he intent on reflecting what might be the
consequences--good or evil--of the incident. “And then,” said he, aloud,
“how will Printing House Square treat us? What a fulminating leader
shall we not have, denouncing either our insolence or our incompetence,
ending with the words: 'If, then, Sir Horace Upton be not incapacitated
from illness for the discharge of his high functions, it is full time
for his Government to withdraw him from a sphere where his caprice and
impertinence have rendered him something worse than useless;' and then
will come a flood of petty corroborations,--the tourist tribe who heard
of us at Berlin, or called upon as at the Hague, and whose unreturned
cards and uninvited wives are counts in the long indictment against us.
What a sure road to private friendships is diplomacy! How certain is one
of conciliating the world's good opinion by belonging to it! I wish
I had followed the law, or medicine,” muttered he; “they are both
abstruse, both interesting; or been a gardener, or a shipwright, or a
mathematical instrument maker, or--” Whatever the next choice might have
been we know not, for he dropped off asleep.
From that pleasant slumber, and a dream of Heaven knows what life of
Arcadian simplicity, of rippling streams and soft-eyed shepherdesses,
he was destined to be somewhat suddenly, if not rudely, aroused, as
Franchetti introduced a stranger who would accept no denial.
“Your people were not for letting me up, Upton,” cried a rich, mellow
voice; and Harcourt stood before him, bronzed and weather-beaten, as he
came off his journey.
“You, George? Is it possible!” exclaimed Sir Horace; “what best of all
lucky winds has driven you here? I'm not sure I wasn't dreaming of you
this very moment. I know I have had a vision of angelic innocence and
simplicity, which you must have had your part in; but do tell me when
did you arrive, and whence--”
“Not till I have dined, by Jove! I have tasted nothing since daybreak,
and then it was only a mere apology for a breakfast.”
“Franchetti, get something, will you?” said Upton, languidly,--“a
cutlet, a fowl; anything that can be had at once.”
“Nothing of the kind, Signor Franchetti,” interposed Harcourt; “if
I have a wolfs appetite, I have a man's patience. Let me have a real
dinner,--soup, fish, an entrée,--two if you like,--roast beef; and I
leave the wind-up to your own discretion, only premising that I like
game, and have a weakness for woodcocks. By the way, does this climate
suit Bordeaux, Upton?”
“They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation.”
“Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don't I make myself at home, old
fellow, eh?” said he, clapping Upton on the shoulder. “Have I not taken
his Majesty's Embassy by storm, eh?”
“We surrender at discretion, only too glad to receive our vanquisher.
Well, and how do you find me looking? Be candid: how do I seem to your
eyes?”
“Pretty much as I have seen you these last fifteen years,--not an hour
older, at all events. That same delicacy of constitution is a confounded
deal better than most men's strong health, for it never wears out; but I
have always said it, Upton will see us all down!”
Sir Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be true.
“Well,” said he, at last, “but you have not told me what good chance has
brought you here. Is it the first post-station on the way to India?”
“No; they've taken me off the saddle, and given me a staff appointment
at Corfu. I 'm going out second in command there; and whether it was
to prevent my teasing them for something else, or that there was really
some urgency in the matter, they ordered me off at once.”
“Are they reinforcing the garrison there?” asked Upton.
“No; not so far as I have heard.”
“It were better policy to do so than to send out a 'commander-in-chief
and a drummer of great experience,'” muttered Upton to himself; but
Harcourt could not catch the remark. “Have you any news stirring in
England? What do the clubs talk about?” asked Sir Horace.
“Glencore's business occupied them for the last week or so; now, I
think, it is yourself furnishes the chief topic for speculation.”
“What of me?” asked Upton, eagerly.
“Why, the rumor goes that you are to have the Foreign Office; Adderley,
they say, goes out, and Conway and yourself are the favorites, the odds
being slightly on his side.”
“This is all news to me, George,” said Upton, with a degree of animation
that had nothing fictitious about it; “I have had a note from Adderley
in the last bag, and there's not a word about these changes.”
“Possibly; but perhaps my news is later. What I allude to is said to
have occurred the day I started.”
“Ah, very true; and now I remember that the messenger came round by
Vienna, sent there by Adderley, doubtless,” muttered he, “to consult
Conway before seeing _me_; and, I have little doubt, with a letter for
_me_ in the event of Conway declining.”
“Well, have you hit upon the solution of it?” said Har-court, who had
not followed him through his half-uttered observation.
“Perhaps so,” said Upton, slowly, while he leaned his head upon his
hand, and fell into a fit of meditation. Meanwhile, Harcourt's dinner
made its appearance, and the Colonel seated himself at the table with a
traveller's appetite.
“Whenever any one has called you a selfish fellow, Upton,” said he, as
he helped himself twice from the same dish, “I have always denied it,
and on this good ground, that, had you been so, you had never kept the
best cook in Europe, while unable to enjoy his talents. What a rare
artist must this be! What's his name?”
“Pipo, how is he called?” said Upton, languidly.
“Monsieur Carmael, your Excellency.”
“Ah, to be sure; a person of excellent family. I've been told he's from
Provence,” said Upton, in the same weary voice.
“I could have sworn to his birthplace,” cried Harcourt; “no man can
manage cheese and olives in cookery but a Provençal. Ah, what a glass
of Bordeaux! To your good health, Upton, and to the day that you may be
able to enjoy this as I do,” said he, as he tossed off a bumper.
“It does me good even to witness the pleasure it yields,” said Upton,
blandly.
“By Jove! then, I 'll be worth a whole course of tonics to you, for I
most thoroughly appreciate all the good things you have given me. By the
way, how are you off for dinner company here,--any pleasant people?”
“I have no health for pleasant people, my dear Harcourt; like horse
exercise, they only agree with you when you are strong enough not to
require them.”
“Then what have you got?” asked the Colonel, somewhat abashed.
“Princes, generals, envoys, and heads of departments.”
“Good heavens! legions of honor and golden fleeces!”
“Just so,” said Upton, smiling at the dismay in the other's countenance;
“I have had such a party as you describe to-day. Are they gone yet,
Franchetti?”
“They're at coffee, your Excellency, but the Prince has ordered his
carriage.”
“And you did not go near them?” asked Harcourt, in amazement.
“No; I was poorly, as you see me,” said Upton, smiling. “Pipo tells me,
however, that the dinner was a good one, and I am sure they pardon my
absence.”
“Foreign ease, I've no doubt; though I can't say I like it,” muttered
Harcourt. “At all events, it is not for _me_ to complain, since the
accident has given me the pleasure of your society.”
“You are about the only man I could have admitted,” said Upton, with
a certain graciousness of look and manner that, perhaps, detracted a
little from its sincerity.
Fortunately, not so to Harcourt's eyes, for he accepted the speech in
all honesty and good faith, as he said, “Thank you heartily, my boy. The
welcome is better even than the dinner, and that is saying a good deal.
No more wine, thank you; I 'm going to have a cigar, and, with your
leave, I 'll ask for some brandy and water.”
This was addressed to Franchetti, who speedily reappeared with a liqueur
stand and an ebony cigar-case.
“Try these, George; they 're better than your own,” said Upton, dryly.
“That I will,” cried Harcourt, laughing; “I'm determined to draw all
my resources from the country in occupation, especially as they are
superior to what I can obtain from home. This same career of yours,
Upton, strikes me as rather a good thing. You have all these things duty
free?”
“Yes, we have that privilege,” said Upton, sighing.
“And the privilege of drawing some few thousand pounds per annum, paid
messengers to and from England, secret-service money, and the rest of
it, eh?”
Upton smiled, and sighed again.
“And what do you do for all that,--I mean, what are you expected to do?”
“Keep your party in when they are in; disconcert the enemy when your
friends are out.”
“And is that always a safe game?” asked Harcourt, eagerly.
“Not when played by unskilful players, my dear George. They occasionally
make sad work, and get bowled out themselves for their pains; but
there's no great harm in that neither.”
“How do you mean there 's no harm in it?”
“Simply, that if a man can't keep his saddle, he ought n't to try to
ride foremost; but these speculations will only puzzle you, my dear
Harcourt. What of Glencore? You said awhile ago that the town was
talking of him--how and wherefore was it?”
“Haven't you heard the story, then?”
“Not a word of it.”
“Well, I'm a bad narrator; besides, I don't know where to begin; and
even if I did, I have nothing to tell but the odds and ends of club
gossip, for I conclude nobody knows all the facts but the King himself.”
“If I were given to impatience, George, you would be a most consummate
plague to me,” said Upton; “but I am not. Go on, however, in your own
blundering way, and leave me to glean what I can _in mine_.”
Cheered and encouraged by this flattering speech, Harcourt did begin;
but, more courteous to him than Sir Horace, we mean to accord him a new
chapter for his revelations; premising the while to our reader that the
Colonel, like the knife-grinder, had really “no story to tell.”