daring, and rarely swelling into bombast. It would even be too uniformly
grave if the fantastic character of Facredeen did not relieve the
solemnity of the discourse with his amusing tirades. Like that of all
Disraeli's novels, the close of this one is dim and unsatisfactory. If
there is anything that the patient reader wants to know it is how the
Duke and Duchess of Bellemont behaved to the Lady of Bethany when they
arrived at Jerusalem and found their son in the kiosk under her
palm-tree. But this is curiosity of a class which Disraeli is not
unwilling to awaken, but which he never cares to satisfy. He places the
problems in a heap before us, and he leaves us to untie the knots. It is
a highly characteristic trait of his mind as a writer that he is for
ever preoccupied with the beginnings of things, and as little as
possible with their endings.
It is not, however, from _Tancred_ but from _Coningsby_, that we take
our example of Disraeli's second manner:--
"Even to catch Lord Monmouth's glance was not an easy affair; he
was much occupied on one side by the great lady, on the other were
several gentlemen who occasionally joined in the conversation. But
something must be done.
"There ran through Coningsby's character, as we have before
mentioned, a vein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It
resulted, no doubt, in a great degree from the earnestness of his
nature. There never was a boy so totally devoid of affectation,
which was remarkable, for he had a brilliant imagination, a quality
that, from its fantasies, and the vague and indefinite desires it
engenders, generally makes those whose characters are not formed,
affected. The Duchess, who was a fine judge of character, and who
greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this trait as one
which, combined with his great abilities and acquirements so
unusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. In the present
instance it happened that, while Coningsby was watching his
grandfather, he observed a gentleman advance, make his bow, say and
receive a few words and retire. This little incident, however, made
a momentary diversion in the immediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and
before they could all resume their former talk and fall into their
previous positions, an impulse sent forth Coningsby, who walked up
to Lord Monmouth, and standing before him, said,
"'How do you do, grandpapa?'
"Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive and
penetrating glance took in every point with a flash. There stood
before him one of the handsomest youths he had ever seen, with a
mien as graceful as his countenance was captivating; and his whole
air breathing that freshness and ingenuousness which none so much
appreciates as the used man of the world. And this was his child;
the only one of his blood to whom he had been kind. It would be an
exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth's heart was touched; but his
good-nature effervesced, and his fine taste was deeply gratified.
He perceived in an instant such a relation might be a valuable
adherent; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a
brilliant tool to work out the Dukedom. All these impressions and
ideas, and many more, passed through the quick brain of Lord
Monmouth ere the sound of Coningsby's words had seemed to cease,
and long before the surrounding guests had recovered from the
surprise which they had occasioned them, and which did not
diminish, when Lord Monmouth, advancing, placed his arms round
Coningsby with a dignity of affection that would have become Louis
XIV., and then, in the high manner of the old Court, kissed him on
each cheek.
"'Welcome to your home,' said Lord Monmouth. 'You have grown a
great deal.'
"Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great lady,
who was a Princess and an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm
gracefully in that of his grandson, he led him across the room, and
presented him in due form to some royal blood that was his guest,
in the shape of a Russian Grand Duke. His Imperial Highness
received our hero as graciously as the grandson of Lord Monmouth
might expect; but no greeting can be imagined warmer than the one
he received from the lady with whom the Grand Duke was conversing.
She was a dame whose beauty was mature, but still radiant. Her
figure was superb; her dark hair crowned with a tiara of curious
workmanship. Her rounded arm was covered with costly bracelets, but
not a jewel on her finely-formed bust, and the least possible rouge
on her still oval cheek. Madame Colonna retained her charms."
III
Nearly a quarter of a century passed, during which Disraeli slowly rose
to the highest honours in the State. Lord Derby died, and the novelist,
already Leader of the House of Commons, found himself called to be Prime
Minister of England. His first administration, however, was brief, and
in the last days of 1868 he resigned in favour of Mr. Gladstone. The
Liberals were in for five years, and Disraeli, in opposition, found a
sort of tableland stretch in front of him after so much arduous
climbing. It was at this moment, shortly after the resignation of the
Tory Minister, that the publisher of a magazine approached him with the
request that he would write a novel to appear in its pages. He was
offered, it is said, a sum of money far in excess of what any one, at
that time, had ever received for "serial rights." Disraeli refused the
offer, but it may have drawn his thoughts back to literature, and in the
course of 1869, after the disestablishment of the Church of Ireland was
completed, he found time to write what is unquestionably the greatest of
his literary works--the superb ironic romance of _Lothair_.
Eminent as he was and eminently successful, Disraeli was far, in 1870,
from having conquered public opinion in England. The reception of his
new novel was noisy, and enjoyed to the full the clamours of
advertisement, but it was not favourable. The critics laughed it to
scorn, and called it a farce and a failure. The _Quarterly Review_, in
the course of a savage diatribe, declared that it was "as dull as
ditch-water and as flat as a flounder," and in a graver mood reproved it
as a mere "bid for the bigoted voices of Exeter Hall." Some of the
criticisms were not wanting in acumen. It was perceived at once that, as
Theodora Campion is the heroine of the book, it was an error in art to
kill her off in the middle of it. Moreover, it is only fair to admit
that if the stormy Parliamentarian life Disraeli had led so long had
given him immense personal advantages, it had also developed some
defects. It had taught him boundless independence and courage, it had
given him a rare experience of men and manners, and it had lifted his
satire far above petty or narrow personal considerations. But it had
encouraged a looseness of utterance, a mixture of the colloquial and the
bombastic, which was unfortunate. In the best parts of _Coningsby_ and
of _Tancred_ he had shown himself a very careless writer of English. But
_Lothair_, even in its corrected form--and the first edition is a
miracle of laxity--is curiously incorrect. It reads as though it were
taken down from the flowing speech of a fine orator, not as though it
were painfully composed in a study; it contains surprising ellipses,
strange freaks of grammar. There was all this, and more, to encourage
the critics, whom Disraeli had gone out of his way to affront in a
violent epigram, to attack _Lothair_ with contempt and resentment.
The critics took irony for timidity; they thought that the sardonic
novelist was the dupe of the splendours which he invented and gloated
over. But if one thing is more evident than another to-day it is that
this gorgeous story of a noble boy, whose guardians, a Presbyterian earl
and a Roman cardinal, quarrelled for his soul and for his acres, is an
immense satire from first to last. In Disraeli's own words, used in
another sense, the keynote of _Lothair_ is "mockery blended with Ionian
splendour." Never had he mocked so dauntlessly, never had his fancy been
more exuberant, and those who criticise the magnificence must realise
that it was intentional. It was thus that Disraeli loved to see life,
and, most of all, the life he laughed at. He had always been gorgeous,
but he let himself go in _Lothair_; all is like the dream of a Lorenzo
dei Medicis or an Aurungzebe. Nothing is done by halves. Muriel Towers
was set on "the largest natural lake that inland England boasts"--some
lake far larger than Windermere and entirely unsuspected by geographers.
This piece of water is studded with "green islands," which is natural.
But the author cannot stay his hand: this largest of the English lakes
is also alive with "golden gondolas," which are rarer objects. In one of
the odd little flashes of self-criticism which illuminate the book
Lothair says of a certain northern garden, with its fanes and its
fountains, its glittering statues and its Babylonian terraces, that
there are "perhaps too many temples."
There are perhaps too many temples in the landscape of _Lothair_, but
they were put in on purpose. The splendour is part of the satire. When
the hero has ordered an architect to make some plans for a building, the
door opens and servants enter bearing "a large and magnificent portfolio
of morocco, made of prelatial purple with broad bands of gold and
alternate ornaments of a cross and a coronet." It is the sort of
portfolio that Belshazzar might have used, but no English master-builder
since time began ever launched forth into such splendour. This is
characteristic of Disraeli and of his book; it pleased him to wrap all
his fancies in jewelled cloth of gold. He chose that the world should
consist of nothing but Tudor palaces in colossal parks, and that time
should be no other than a perpetual Holy Week of golden ceremonial. He
knew his public, and that it adored these follies. He spoke to them in
the language that they loved, but in a tone of the most seraphical
disdain and irony.
What marks the whole of Disraeli's writings more than any other quality
is the buoyant and radiant temperament of their author. In _Lothair_ he
is like an inspired and enfranchised boy, set free from all the trammels
of reality, and yet bringing to the service of his theme the results of
an extraordinary inherited experience. If the picture is not real, we
may take courage to say that it is far better than reality--more rich,
more entertaining, more intoxicating. We have said that it is carelessly
written, but that is part of the author's superb self-confidence, and
when he is fortunately inspired, he obtains here an ease of style, a
mastery which he had never found before. The sureness of his touch is
seen in the epigrams which strew the pages of _Lothair_, and have become
part of our habitual speech--the phrase about eating "a little fruit on
a green bank with music"; that which describes the hansom cab, "'Tis the
gondola of London." This may lead us on to the consideration that
Disraeli is one of those who have felt most vividly and expressed most
gaily the peculiar physical beauty of London. He saw the Park as the
true Londoner sees it--when "the chestnuts are in silver bloom, and the
pink may has flushed the thorns, and banks of sloping turf are radiant
with plots of gorgeous flowers; when the water glitters in the sun, and
the air is fragrant with that spell which only can be found in
metropolitan mignonette." He describes as no one else has ever done with
equal mastery a stately and successful house-party in a great country
mansion. He had developed, when he composed _Lothair_, a fuller sense of
beauty than he had ever possessed before, but it revelled in forms that
were partly artificial and partly fabulous. An example of these forms
may now be welcome:--
"Mr. Giles took an early easy opportunity of apprising Lady
Farringford that she had nearly met Cardinal Grandison at dinner,
and that his Eminence would certainly pay his respects to Mrs.
Putney Giles in the evening. As Lady Farringford was at present a
high ritualist, and had even been talked of as 'going to Rome,'
this intelligence was stunning, and it was observed that her
Ladyship was unusually subdued during the whole of the second
course.
"On the right of Lothair sate the wife of a Vice-Chancellor, a
quiet and pleasing lady, to whom Lothair, with natural good
breeding, paid snatches of happy attention, when he could for a
moment with propriety withdraw himself from the blaze of
Apollonia's coruscating conversation. Then there was a rather
fierce-looking Red Ribbon, medalled as well as be-starred, and the
Red Ribbon's wife, with a blushing daughter, in spite of her
parentage not yet accustomed to stand fire. A partner and his
unusually numerous family had the pleasure also of seeing Lothair
for the first time, and there were no less than four M.P.'s, one of
whom was even in office.
"Apollonia was stating to Lothair, with brilliant perspicuity, the
reasons which quite induced her to believe that the Gulf Stream had
changed its course, and the political and social consequences that
might accrue.
"'The religious sentiment of the Southern races must be wonderfully
affected by a more rigorous climate,' said Apollonia. 'I cannot
doubt,' she continued, 'that a series of severe winters at Rome
might put an end to Romanism.
"'But is there any fear that a reciprocal influence might be
exercised on the Northern nations?' inquired Lothair. 'Would there
be any apprehension of our Protestantism becoming proportionately
relaxed?'
"'Of course not,' said Apollonia. 'Truth cannot be affected by
climate. Truth is truth alike in Palestine and Scandinavia.'
"'I wonder what the Cardinal would think of this,' said Lothair,
'who, you tell me, is coming to you this evening.'
"'Yes, I am most interested to see him, though he is the most
puissant of our foes. Of course he would take refuge in sophistry;
and science, you know, they deny.'
"'Cardinal Grandison is giving some lectures on science,' said the
Vice-Chancellor's lady, quietly.
"'It is remorse,' said Apollonia. 'Their clever men can never
forget that unfortunate affair of Galileo, and think they can
divert the indignation of the nineteenth century by mock zeal about
red sandstone or the origin of species.'
"'And are you afraid of the Gulf Stream?' inquired Lothair of his
calmer neighbour.
"'I think we want more evidence of a change. The Vice-Chancellor
and I went down to a place we have near town on Saturday, where
there is a very nice piece of water; indeed, some people call it a
lake; it was quite frozen, and my boys wanted to skate, but that I
would not permit.'
"'You believe in the Gulf Stream to that extent,' said Lothair; 'no
skating.'
"The Cardinal came early; the ladies had not long left the
dining-room. They were agitated when his name was announced; even
Apollonia's heart beat; but then that might be accounted for by the
inopportune recollection of an occasional correspondence with
Caprera.
"Nothing could exceed the simple suavity with which the Cardinal
appeared, approached, and greeted them. He thanked Apollonia for
her permission to pay his respects to her, which he had long
wished to do; and then they were all presented, and he said exactly
the right thing to every one."
Disraeli began his career, as I have pointed out in the earlier part of
this essay, as a purveyor of entertainment to the public in a popular
and not very dignified kind. He contended with the crowd of fashionable
novelists whose books consoled the leisure of Mrs. Wititterly as she
reclined on the drawing-room sofa. He found rivals in Bulwer and Mrs.
Gore, and a master in Plumer Ward. His brilliant stories sold, but at
first they won him little advantage. Slowly, by dint of his inherent
force of genius, his books have not merely survived their innumerable
fellows, but they have come to represent to us the form and character of
a whole school; nay, more, they have come to take the place in our
memories of a school which, but for them, would have utterly passed away
and been forgotten. Disraeli, accordingly, is unique, not merely because
his are the only fashionable novels of the pre-Victorian era which any
one ever reads nowadays, but because in his person that ineffable manner
of the "thirties" reaches an isolated sublimity and finds a permanent
place in literature. But if we take a still wider view of the literary
career of Disraeli, we are bound to perceive that the real source of the
interest which his brilliant books continue to possess is the evidence
their pages reveal of the astonishing personal genius of the man. Do
what we will, we find ourselves looking beyond Contarini Fleming and
Sidonia and Vivian Grey to the adventurous Jew who, by dint of infinite
resolution and an energy which never slept, conquered all the prejudices
of convention, and trod English society beneath his foot in the
triumphant irony of success. It is the living Disraeli who is always
more salient than the most fascinating of his printed pages.
THREE EXPERIMENTS IN PORTRAITURE
I
LADY DOROTHY NEVILL
AN OPEN LETTER
Dear Lady Burghclere,
When we met for the first time after the death of our friend, you
desired me to produce what you were kind enough to call "one of my
portraits." But the art of the portrait-writer is capricious, and
at that time I felt wholly disinclined for the adventure. I excused
myself on the ground that the three thick volumes of her
reminiscences made a further portrait needless, and I reflected,
though I did not say, that the difficulties of presenting the
evanescent charm and petulant wit of Lady Dorothy were insuperable.
I partly think so still, but your command has lingered in my memory
all these months, and I have determined to attempt to obey you,
although what I send you can be no "portrait," but a few leaves
torn out of a painter-writer's sketch-book.
The existence of the three published volumes does, after all, not
preclude a more intimate study, because they are confessedly
exterior. They represent what she saw and heard, not what others
perceived in her. In the first place, they are very much better
written than she would have written them herself. I must dwell
presently on the curious fact that, with all her wit, she
possessed no power of sustained literary expression. Her Memoirs
were composed, as you know, by Mr. Ralph Nevill, who is a practised
writer and not otherwise could they have been given to the public.
On this point her own evidence is explicit. She wrote to me, in all
the excitement of the success of the volume of 1906: "The Press has
been wonderfully good to my little efforts, but to Ralph the better
part is due, as, out of the tangled remnants of my brain, he
extracted these old anecdotes of my early years." This is as
bravely characteristic of her modesty as it is of her candour, but
I think it shows that there is still room for some record of the
more intimate features of her charming and elusive character. I
take up my pencil, but with little hope of success, since no more
formidable task could be set me. I will at least try to be, as she
would have scorned me for not being, sincere.
My friendship with Lady Dorothy Nevill occupied more than a quarter
of a century. I met her first in the house of Sir Redvers and Lady
Audrey Buller in the winter of 1887, soon after their return from
Ireland. She had done me the great honour of desiring that I should
be invited to meet her. She had known my venerable relative, the
zoologist, Thomas Bell of Selborne, and she had corresponded in
years long past, about entomology, with my father. We talked
together on that first occasion for hours, and it seems to me that
I was lifted, without preliminaries, into her intimacy. From that
afternoon, until I drank tea with her for the last time, ten days
before her death, the precious link was never loosened.
In 1887, her great social popularity had not begun. She was, I now
know, already near sixty, but it never occurred to me to consider
her age. She possessed a curious static quality, a perennial
youthfulness. Every one must have observed how like Watts' picture
of her at twenty she still was at eighty-six. This was not
preserved by any arts or fictile graces. She rather affected,
prematurely, the dress and appearance of an elderly woman. I
remember her as always the same, very small and neat, very pretty
with her chiselled nose, the fair oval of her features, the
slightly ironic, slightly meditative smile, the fascinating colour
of the steady eyes, beautifully set in the head, with the eyebrows
rather lifted as in a perpetual amusement of curiosity. Her head,
slightly sunken into the shoulders, was often poised a little
sideways, like a bird's that contemplates a hemp-seed. She had no
quick movements, no gestures; she held herself very still. It
always appeared to me that, in face of her indomitable energy and
love of observation, this was an unconscious economy of force. It
gave her a very peculiar aspect; I remember once frivolously saying
to her that she looked as though she were going to "pounce" at me;
but she never pounced. When she had to move, she rose energetically
and moved with determination, but she never wasted a movement. Her
physical strength--and she such a tiny creature--seemed to be
wonderful. She was seldom unwell, although, like most very healthy
people, she bewailed herself with exaggerated lamentations whenever
anything was the matter with her. But even on these occasions she
defied what she called "coddling." Once I found her suffering from
a cold, on a very chilly day, without a fire, and I expostulated.
She replied, with a sort of incongruity very characteristic of her,
"Oh! none of your hot bottles for me!" In her last hours of
consciousness she battled with the doctor's insistence that she
must have a fire in her bedroom, and her children had to conceal
the flame behind screens because she threatened to get out of bed
and put it out. Her marvellous physical force has to be insisted
on, for it was the very basis of her character.
Her humorous petulance, her little sharp changes of voice, the
malice of her downcast eyes, the calmness of her demure and easy
smile--how is any impression to be given of things so fugitive?
Her life, which had not been without its troubles and anxieties,
became one of prolonged and intense enjoyment. I think that this
was the main reason of the delight which her company gave to almost
every one. She was like a household blaze upon a rainy day, one
stretched out one's hands to be warmed. She guarded herself against
the charge of being amiable. "It would be horrid to be amiable,"
she used to say, and, indeed, there was always a touch of sharpness
about her. She was amused once because I told her she was like an
acidulated drop, half sweet and half sour. "Oh! any stupid woman
can be sweet," she said, "it's often another name for imbecile."
She had curious little prejudices and antipathies. I never fathomed
the reason of her fantastic horror of the feasts of the Church,
particularly of Christmas. She always became curiously agitated as
the month of December waned. In her notes she inveighed, in quaint
alarm, against the impending "Christmas pains and penalties." I
think she disliked the disturbance of social arrangements which
these festivals entailed. But there was more than that. She was
certainly a little superstitious, in a mocking, eighteenth-century
sort of way, as Madame du Deffand might have been. She constantly
said, and still more frequently wrote, "D.V." after any project,
even of the most frivolous kind. The idea was that one should be
polite all round, in case of any contingency. When she was in the
Riviera, she was much interested to hear that the Prince of Monaco
had built and endowed a handsome church at Monte Carlo. "Very
clever of him," she said, "for you never can tell."