_A Modern Troubadour_
THEY seated themselves at a round table, on which everything seemed
brilliant and sparkling; nothing heavy, nothing oppressive. There
was scarcely anything that Sidonia disliked so much as a small table,
groaning, as it is aptly termed, with plate. He shrunk from great masses
of gold and silver; gigantic groups, colossal shields, and mobs of
tankards and flagons; and never used them except on great occasions,
when the banquet assumes an Egyptian character, and becomes too vast
for refinement. At present, the dinner was served on Sèvres porcelain of
Rose du Barri, raised on airy golden stands of arabesque workmanship;
a mule bore your panniers of salt, or a sea-nymph proffered it you on
a shell just fresh from the ocean, or you found it in a bird’s nest; by
every guest a different pattern. In the centre of the table, mounted on
a pedestal, was a group of pages in Dresden china. Nothing could be
more gay than their bright cloaks and flowing plumes, more elaborately
exquisite than their laced shirts and rosettes, or more fantastically
saucy than their pretty affected faces, as each, with extended arm, held
a light to a guest. The room was otherwise illumined from the sides.
The guests had scarcely seated themselves when the two absent ones
arrived.
‘Well, you did not divide, Vavasour,’ said Lord Henry.
‘Did I not?’ said Vavasour; ‘and nearly beat the Government. You are a
pretty fellow!’
‘I was paired.’
‘With some one who could not stay. Your brother, Mrs. Coningsby, behaved
like a man, sacrificed his dinner, and made a capital speech.’
‘Oh! Oswald, did he speak? Did you speak, Harry?’
‘No; I voted. There was too much speaking as it was; if Vavasour had not
replied, I believe we should have won.’
‘But then, my dear fellow, think of my points; think how they laid
themselves open!’
‘A majority is always the best repartee,’ said Coningsby.
‘I have been talking with Montacute,’ whispered Lord Henry to Coningsby,
who was seated next to him. ‘Wonderful fellow! You can conceive nothing
richer! Very wild, but all the right ideas; exaggerated of course. You
must get hold of him after dinner.’
‘But they say he is going to Jerusalem.’
‘But he will return.’
‘I do not know that; even Napoleon regretted that he had ever re-crossed
the Mediterranean. The East is a career.’
Mr. Vavasour was a social favourite; a poet and a real poet, and
a troubadour, as well as a member of Parliament; travelled,
sweet-tempered, and good-hearted; amusing and clever. With catholic
sympathies and an eclectic turn of mind, Mr. Vavasour saw something good
in everybody and everything, which is certainly amiable, and perhaps
just, but disqualifies a man in some degree for the business of life,
which requires for its conduct a certain degree of prejudice. Mr.
Vavasour’s breakfasts were renowned. Whatever your creed, class, or
country, one might almost add your character, you were a welcome guest
at his matutinal meal, provided you were celebrated. That qualification,
however, was rigidly enforced.
It not rarely happened that never were men more incongruously grouped.
Individuals met at his hospitable house who had never met before, but
who for years had been cherishing in solitude mutual detestation, with
all the irritable exaggeration of the literary character. Vavasour liked
to be the Amphitryon of a cluster of personal enemies. He prided himself
on figuring as the social medium by which rival reputations became
acquainted, and paid each other in his presence the compliments which
veiled their ineffable disgust. All this was very well at his rooms in
the Albany, and only funny; but when he collected his menageries at his
ancestral hall in a distant county, the sport sometimes became tragic.
A real philosopher, alike from his genial disposition and from the
influence of his rich and various information, Vavasour moved amid
the strife, sympathising with every one; and perhaps, after all, the
philanthropy which was his boast was not untinged by a dash of humour,
of which rare and charming quality he possessed no inconsiderable
portion. Vavasour liked to know everybody who was known, and to see
everything which ought to be seen. He also was of opinion that everybody
who was known ought to know him; and that the spectacle, however
splendid or exciting, was not quite perfect without his presence.
His life was a gyration of energetic curiosity; an insatiable whirl of
social celebrity. There was not a congregation of sages and philosophers
in any part of Europe which he did not attend as a brother. He was
present at the camp of Kalisch in his yeomanry uniform, and assisted at
the festivals of Barcelona in an Andalusian jacket. He was everywhere,
and at everything; he had gone down in a diving-bell and gone up in a
balloon. As for his acquaintances, he was welcomed in every land; his
universal sympathies seemed omnipotent. Emperor and king, jacobin and
carbonaro, alike cherished him. He was the steward of Polish balls and
the vindicator of Russian humanity; he dined with Louis Philippe, and
gave dinners to Louis Blanc.
This was a dinner of which the guests came to partake. Though they
delighted in each other’s society, their meetings were not so rare that
they need sacrifice the elegant pleasures of a refined meal for the
opportunity of conversation. They let that take its chance, and ate
and drank without affectation. Nothing so rare as a female dinner where
people eat, and few things more delightful. On the present occasion some
time elapsed, while the admirable performances of Sidonia’s cook were
discussed, with little interruption; a burst now and then from the
ringing voice of Mrs. Coningsby crossing a lance with her habitual
opponent, Mr. Vavasour, who, however, generally withdrew from the
skirmish when a fresh dish was handed to him.
At length, the second course being served, Mrs. Coningsby said, ‘I think
you have all eaten enough: I have a piece of information for you. There
is going to be a costume ball at the Palace.’
This announcement produced a number of simultaneous remarks and
exclamations. ‘When was it to be? What was it to be? An age, or a
country; or an olio of all ages and all countries?’
‘An age is a masquerade,’ said Sidonia. ‘The more contracted the circle,
the more perfect the illusion.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Vavasour, shaking his head. ‘An age is the thing; it is a
much higher thing. What can be finer than to represent the spirit of an
age?’
‘And Mr. Vavasour to perform the principal part,’ said Mrs. Coningsby.
‘I know exactly what he means. He wants to dance the polka as Petrarch,
and find a Laura in every partner.’
‘You have no poetical feeling,’ said Mr. Vavasour, waving his hand. ‘I
have often told you so.’
‘You will easily find Lauras, Mr. Vavasour, if you often write such
beautiful verses as I have been reading to-day,’ said Lady Marney.
‘You, on the contrary,’ said Mr. Vavasour, bowing, ‘have a great deal of
poetic feeling, Lady Marney; I have always said so.’
‘But give us your news, Edith,’ said Coningsby. ‘Imagine our suspense,
when it is a question, whether we are all to look picturesque or
quizzical.’
‘Ah, you want to know whether you can go as Cardinal Mazarin, or the
Duke of Ripperda, Harry. I know exactly what you all are now thinking
of; whether you will draw the prize in the forthcoming lottery, and get
exactly the epoch and the character which suit you. Is it not so, Lord
Montacute? Would not you like to practise a little with your crusados at
the Queen’s ball before you go to the Holy Sepulchre?’
‘I would rather hear your description of it,’ said Tancred.
‘Lord Henry, I see, is half inclined to be your companion as a Red-cross
Knight,’ continued Edith. ‘As for Lady Marney, she is the successor
of Mrs. Fry, and would wish, I am sure, to go to the ball as her
representative.’
‘And pray what are you thinking of being?’ said Mr. Vavasour. ‘We
should like very much to be favoured with Mrs. Coningsby’s ideal of
herself.’
‘Mrs. Coningsby leaves the ideal to poets. She is quite satisfied to
remain what she is, and it is her intention to do so, though she means
to go to Her Majesty’s ball.’
‘I see that you are in the secret,’ said Lord Marney.
‘If I could only keep secrets, I might turn out something.’ said Mrs.
Coningsby. ‘I am the depositary of so much that is occult-joys, sorrows,
plots, and scrapes; but I always tell Harry, and he always betrays me.
Well, you must guess a little. Lady Marney begins.’
‘Well, we were at one at Turin,’ said Lady Marney, ‘and it was oriental,
Lalla Rookh. Are you to be a sultana?’
Mrs. Coningsby shook her head.
‘Come, Edith,’ said her husband; ‘if you know, which I doubt----’
‘Oh! you doubt----’
‘Valentine told me yesterday,’ said Mr. Vavasour, in a mock peremptory
tone, ‘that there would not be a ball.’
‘And Lord Valentine told me yesterday that there would be a ball, and
what the ball would be; and what is more, I have fixed on my dress,’
said Mrs. Coningsby.
‘Such a rapid decision proves that much antiquarian research is not
necessary,’ said Sidonia. ‘Your period is modern.’
‘Ah!’ said Edith, looking at Sidonia, ‘he always finds me out. Well, Mr.
Vavasour, you will not be able to crown yourself with a laurel wreath,
for the gentlemen will wear wigs.’
‘Louis Quatorze?’ said her husband. ‘Peel as Louvois.’
‘No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing less than _Le
Grand Colbert, rue Richelieu, No. 75, grand magasin de nouveautés
très-anciennes: prix fixé, avec quelques rabais._’
‘A description of Conservatism,’ said Coningsby.
The secret was soon revealed: every one had a conjecture and a
commentary: gentlemen in wigs, and ladies powdered, patched, and sacked.
Vavasour pondered somewhat dolefully on the anti-poetic spirit of the
age; Coningsby hailed him as the author of Leonidas.
‘And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the “boys” arrayed against
the great Sir Robert?’ said Mr. Vavasour, with a countenance of mock
veneration for that eminent personage.
‘The “boys” beat him at last,’ said Coningsby; and then, with a rapid
precision and a richness of colouring which were peculiar to him, he
threw out a sketch which placed the period before them; and they
began to tear it to tatters, select the incidents, and apportion the
characters.
Two things which are necessary to a perfect dinner are noiseless
attendants, and a precision in serving the various dishes of each
course, so that they may all be placed upon the table at the same
moment. A deficiency in these respects produces that bustle and delay
which distract many an agreeable conversation and spoil many a pleasant
dish. These two excellent characteristics were never wanting at the
dinners of Sidonia. At no house was there less parade. The appearance
of the table changed as if by the waving of a wand, and silently as a
dream. And at this moment, the dessert being arranged, fruits and their
beautiful companions, flowers, reposed in alabaster baskets raised on
silver stands of filigree work.
There was half an hour of merry talk, graceful and gay: a good story,
a _bon-mot_ fresh from the mint, some raillery like summer lightning,
vivid but not scorching.
‘And now,’ said Edith, as the ladies rose to return to the library,
‘and now we leave you to Maynooth.’
‘By-the-bye, what do they say to it in your House, Lord Marney?’
inquired Henry Sydney, filling his glass.
‘It will go down,’ said Lord Marney. ‘A strong dose for some, but they
are used to potent potions.’
‘The bishops, they say, have not made up their minds.’
‘Fancy bishops not having made up their minds,’ exclaimed Tancred: ‘the
only persons who ought never to doubt.’
‘Except when they are offered a bishopric,’ said Lord Marney.
‘Why I like this Maynooth project,’ said Tancred, ‘though otherwise it
little interests me, is, that all the shopkeepers are against it.’
‘Don’t tell that to the minister,’ said Coningsby, ‘or he will give up
the measure.’
‘Well, that is the very reason,’ said Vavasour, ‘why, though otherwise
inclined to the grant, I hesitate as to my vote. I have the highest
opinion of the shopkeepers; I sympathise even with their prejudices.
They are the class of the age; they represent its order, its decency,
its industry.’
‘And you represent them,’ said Coningsby. ‘Vavasour is the quintessence
of order, decency, and industry.’
‘You may jest,’ said Vavasour, shaking his head with a spice of solemn
drollery; ‘but public opinion must and ought to be respected, right or
wrong.’
‘What do you mean by public opinion?’ said Tancred.
‘The opinion of the reflecting majority,’ said Vavasour.
‘Those who don’t read your poems,’ said Coningsby.
‘Boy, boy!’ said Vavasour, who could endure raillery from one he
had been at college with, but who was not over-pleased at Coningsby
selecting the present occasion to claim his franchise, when a new man
was present like Lord Montacute, on whom Vavasour naturally wished to
produce an impression. It must be owned that it was not, as they say,
very good taste in the husband of Edith, but prosperity had developed in
Coningsby a native vein of sauciness which it required all the solemnity
of the senate to repress. Indeed, even there, upon the benches, with
a grave face, he often indulged in quips and cranks that convulsed
his neighbouring audience, who often, amid the long dreary nights of
statistical imposture, sought refuge in his gay sarcasms, his airy
personalities, and happy quotations.
‘I do not see how there can be opinion without thought,’ said Tancred;
‘and I do not believe the public ever think. How can they? They have no
time. Certainly we live at present under the empire of general ideas,
which are extremely powerful. But the public have not invented those
ideas. They have adopted them from convenience. No one has confidence in
himself; on the contrary, every one has a mean idea of his own strength
and has no reliance on his own judgment. Men obey a general impulse,
they bow before an external necessity, whether for resistance or action.
Individuality is dead; there is a want of inward and personal energy
in man; and that is what people feel and mean when they go about
complaining there is no faith.’
‘You would hold, then,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘that the progress of public
liberty marches with the decay of personal greatness?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘But the majority will always prefer public liberty to personal
greatness,’ said Lord Marney.
‘But, without personal greatness, you never would have had public
liberty,’ said Coningsby.
‘After all, it is civilisation that you are kicking against,’ said
Vavasour.
‘I do not understand what you mean by civilisation,’ said Tancred.
‘The progressive development of the faculties of man,’ said Vavasour.
‘Yes, but what is progressive development?’ said Sidonia; ‘and what are
the faculties of man? If development be progressive, how do you
account for the state of Italy? One will tell you it is superstition,
indulgences, and the Lady of Loretto; yet three centuries ago, when all
these influences were much more powerful, Italy was the soul of Europe.
The less prejudiced, a Puseyite for example, like our friend Vavasour,
will assure us that the state of Italy has nothing to do with the
spirit of its religion, but that it is entirely an affair of commerce; a
revolution of commerce has convulsed its destinies. I cannot forget that
the world was once conquered by Italians who had no commerce. Has the
development of Western Asia been progressive? It is a land of tombs and
ruins. Is China progressive, the most ancient and numerous of existing
societies? Is Europe itself progressive? Is Spain a tithe as great as
she was? Is Germany as great as when she invented printing; as she was
under the rule of Charles the Fifth? France herself laments her relative
inferiority to the past. But England flourishes. Is it what you
call civilisation that makes England flourish? Is it the universal
development of the faculties of man that has rendered an island, almost
unknown to the ancients, the arbiter of the world? Clearly not. It is
her inhabitants that have done this; it is an affair of race. A Saxon
race, protected by an insular position, has stamped its diligent and
methodic character on the century. And when a superior race, with
a superior idea to work and order, advances, its state will be
progressive, and we shall, perhaps, follow the example of the desolate
countries. All is race; there is no other truth.’
‘Because it includes all others?’ said Lord Henry.
‘You have said it.’
‘As for Vavasour’s definition of civilisation,’ said Coningsby,
‘civilisation was more advanced in ancient than modern times; then what
becomes of the progressive principle? Look at the great centuries of the
Roman Empire! You had two hundred millions of human beings governed by
a jurisprudence so philosophical that we have been obliged to adopt
its laws, and living in perpetual peace. The means of communication,
of which we now make such a boast, were far more vast and extensive in
those days. What were the Great Western and the London and Birmingham to
the Appian and Flaminian roads? After two thousand five hundred years,
parts of these are still used. A man under the Antonines might travel
from Paris to Antioch with as much ease and security as we go from
London to York. As for free trade, there never was a really unshackled
commerce except in the days when the whole of the Mediterranean coasts
belonged to one power. What a chatter there is now about the towns, and
how their development is cited as the peculiarity of the age, and the
great security for public improvement. Why, the Roman Empire was the
empire of great cities. Man was then essentially municipal.’
‘What an empire!’ said Sidonia. ‘All the superior races in all the
superior climes.’
‘But how does all this accord with your and Coningsby’s favourite theory
of the influence of individual character?’ said Vavasour to Sidonia;
‘which I hold, by-the-bye,’ he added rather pompously, ‘to be entirely
futile.’
‘What is individual character but the personification of race,’ said
Sidonia, ‘its perfection and choice exemplar? Instead of being an
inconsistency, the belief in the influence of the individual is a
corollary of the original proposition.’
‘I look upon a belief in the influence of individual character as a
barbarous superstition,’ said Vavasour.
‘Vavasour believes that there would be no heroes if there were a
police,’ said Coningsby; ‘but I believe that civilisation is only fatal
to minstrels, and that is the reason now we have no poets.’
‘How do you account for the Polish failure in 1831?’ said Lord Marney.
‘They had a capital army, they were backed by the population, but they
failed. They had everything but a man.’
‘Why were the Whigs smashed in 1834,’ said Coningsby, ‘but because they
had not a man?’
‘What is the real explanation of the state of Mexico?’ said Sidonia. ‘It
has not a man.’
‘So much for progress since the days of Charles the Fifth,’ said Henry
Sydney. ‘The Spaniards then conquered Mexico, and now they cannot
govern it.’
‘So much for race,’ said Vavasour. ‘The race is the same; why are not
the results the same?’
‘Because it is worn out,’ said Sidonia. ‘Why do not the Ethiopians build
another Thebes, or excavate the colossal temples of the cataracts? The
decay of a race is an inevitable necessity, unless it lives in deserts
and never mixes its blood.’