Coningsby Dawson - "The Glory of the Trenches"

Emma Goldman - "Marriage and Love"

Charles Miner Thompson - "The Calico Cat"

Sallust - "Conspiracy of Catiline and The Jurgurthine War"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Coningsby

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Coningsby




Lord Eskdale, who was always doing kind things to actors and actresses,
had a great regard for Villebecque, with whom he had often supped. He had
often been kind, too, to La Petite. Lord Eskdale had a plan for putting
Villebecque, as he termed it, 'on his legs again.' It was to establish him
with a French Company in London at some pretty theatre; Lord Eskdale to
take a private box and to make all his friends do the same. Villebecque,
who was as sanguine as he was good-tempered, was ravished by this friendly
scheme. He immediately believed that he should recover his great fortunes
as rapidly as he had lost them. He foresaw in La Petite a genius as
distinguished as that of her mother, although as yet not developed, and he
was boundless in his expressions of gratitude to his patron. And indeed of
all friends, a friend in need is the most delightful. Lord Eskdale had the
talent of being a friend in need. Perhaps it was because he knew so many
worthless persons. But it often happens that worthless persons are merely
people who are worth nothing.

Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby of his intention to reside for
some months at Coningsby, and having mentioned that he wished a troop of
French comedians to be engaged for the summer, Mr. Rigby had immediately
consulted Lord Eskdale on the subject, as the best current authority.
Thinking this a good opportunity of giving a turn to poor Villebecque, and
that it might serve as a capital introduction to their scheme of the
London company, Lord Eskdale obtained for him the engagement.

Villebecque and his little troop had now been a month at Coningsby, and
had hitherto performed three times a-week. Lord Monmouth was content; his
guests much gratified; the company, on the whole, much approved of. It
was, indeed, considering its limited numbers, a capital company. There was
a young lady who played the old woman's parts, nothing could be more
garrulous and venerable; and a lady of maturer years who performed the
heroines, gay and graceful as May. Villebecque himself was a celebrity in
characters of airy insolence and careless frolic. Their old man, indeed,
was rather hard, but handy; could take anything either in the high
serious, or the low droll. Their sentimental lover was rather too much
bewigged, and spoke too much to the audience, a fault rare with the
French; but this hero had a vague idea that he was ultimately destined to
run off with a princess.

In this wise, affairs had gone on for a month; very well, but not too
well. The enterprising genius of Villebecque, once more a manager,
prompted him to action. He felt an itching desire to announce a novelty.
He fancied Lord Monmouth had yawned once or twice when the heroine came
on. Villebecque wanted to make a _coup._ It was clear that La Petite must
sooner or later begin. Could she find a more favourable audience, or a
more fitting occasion, than were now offered? True it was she had a great
repugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed more to her advantage that
she should make her first appearance at a private theatre than at a public
one; supported by all the encouraging patronage of Coningsby Castle, than
subjected to all the cynical criticism of the stalls of St. James'.

These views and various considerations were urged and represented by
Villebecque to La Petite, with all the practised powers of plausibility of
which so much experience as a manager had made him master. La Petite
looked infinitely distressed, but yielded, as she ever did. And the night
of Coningsby's arrival at the Castle was to witness in its private theatre
the first appearance of MADEMOISELLE FLORA.




CHAPTER VIII.


The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they repaired to the
theatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Coningsby a
haughty, but not ungracious bow; which he returned, unconscious of the
person to whom he bent. She was, however, a striking person; not
beautiful, her face, indeed, at the first glance was almost repulsive, yet
it ever attracted a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished her;
her features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were her eyes
fine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of no ordinary
character or capacity. Her figure was as fine and commanding as her face
was void of charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immortality, could have
presented nothing more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she swept along
like a resistless Fate.

Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet of
the performance. It announced in striking characters the _debut_ of
Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, came
forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to the
Grand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was
ready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were
following; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her beau.

It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated here and
there; the painting just touched; a little gilding on a cornice. There
were no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended, was
carpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with a
new and rich curtain of green velvet.

They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied by
another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody evidently
crosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the scene. In a
moment the curtain will rise also.

'Have you seen Lucretia?' said the Princess to Coningsby. 'She is so
anxious to resume her acquaintance with you.'

But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose.

The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward and maintained a
conversation with his housekeeper; not bad. The young woman who played the
grave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite, and was
ever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully furnished; a
table with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a lap-dog on a
cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially the ladies;
they like to recognise signs of _bon ton_ in the details of the scene. A
rather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was greeted with
even vehement approbation. Her agitation is extreme; she curtseys and bows
her head, as if to hide her face. The face was pleasing, and pretty
enough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and rather graceful. Nothing
could be more perfect than her costume; purely white, but the fashion
consummate; a single rose her only ornament. All admitted that her hair
was arranged to admiration.

At length she spoke; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution,
though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, and
nodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien, that
she instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not long,
but it was successful.

Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one of the
act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and rather of
an impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He entered first on
the stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed with more spirit. You
would not have given him five-and-twenty years; he seemed redolent of
youth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied the most
distinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had outdone them all.
The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great connoisseur, a
celebrated French nobleman, Count D'O----y, who had been one of the
guests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch of snuff,
and tapped approbation on the top of his box.

Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not seem,
however, that in the interval she had gained courage; she looked agitated.
She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned. She had to
speak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to confess that
she loved another; her emotion was exquisitely performed, the mournful
tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout the audience, a
dead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of the unrivalled
artist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but while they were
fascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The emotion was the
disturbance of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilled
from the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with all the exhaustion of
woe; an expression of agony flitted over her countenance; and she burst
into tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and carried, rather than led, her
from the stage; the audience looking at each other, some of them
suspecting that this movement was a part of the scene.

'She has talent,' said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, 'but
wants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the provinces.'

At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret that the
sudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it impossible for
the company to proceed with the piece; but that the curtain would descend
to rise again for the second and last piece announced.

All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted the
heroines now came forward and disported most jocundly. The failure of
Flora had given fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed
the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in male
attire; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of the field.
She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his grandpapa.

The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused,
chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to the
saloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances. Nobody
thought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her in her
grief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her future.
And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least, thought one
of the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd, absorbed in
their coming amusements.

Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with great
advantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from the
beginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound.
He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled from the cruelty and
the callousness that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy, could
leave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and who was
suffering for her trial.

He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora.
They pointed to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora was
sitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque was
there, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress in
which he had performed in the last piece.

'I took the liberty,' said Coningsby, 'of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;'
and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, 'I am sure
my grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for making
such exertions when you were suffering under so much indisposition.'

'This is very amiable of you, sir,' said the young lady, looking at him
with earnestness.

'Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,' said Villebecque, making an
observation by way of diversion.

'And yet that must be the soul of fine acting,' said Coningsby; 'I look
forward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion on
which you will favour us.'

'Never!' said La Petite, in a plaintive tone; 'oh, I hope, never!'

'Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,' said Coningsby, 'how much her
talent is appreciated. I assure you, sir,' he added, turning to
Villebecque, 'I heard but one opinion, but one expression of gratification
at her feeling and her fine taste.'

'The talent is hereditary,' said Villebecque.

'Indeed you have reason to say so,' said Coningsby.

'Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much of
another this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir, to
reassure Mademoiselle.'

'I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our sakes as well as
her own, her indisposition.'

'It is not indisposition,' said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyes
cast down.

'Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a first
appearance,' said Villebecque.

'A last appearance,' said La Petite: 'yes, it must be the last.' She rose
gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his breast, and
placed her arms round his neck, 'My father, my best father, yes, say it is
the last.'

'You are the mistress of your lot, Flora,' said Villebecque; 'but with
such a distinguished talent--'

'No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am not
of those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still life. I
have no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to me than
the stage.'

'But you hear what this gentleman says,' said Villebecque, returning her
embrace. 'He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I believe,
sir, that every one, that--'

'Oh, no, no, no!' said Flora, shaking her head. 'He comes here because he
is generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe the soul
that he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for me and
before me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your daughter
have parted for ever.'

'Nay, Mademoiselle,' said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take her
hand, a soft hand, 'make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque can
have no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me, 'tis
not I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must respect
you.'

'I prefer respect to admiration,' said Flora; 'but I fear that respect is
not the appanage of such as I am.'

'All must respect those who respect themselves,' said Coningsby. 'Adieu,
Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.' He bowed
to Villebecque and retired.

In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very different
character from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to brilliancy,
groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, universal content, and
Russian dances!

'And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?' said Madame
Colonna.

'I cannot dance at all,' said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose his
pride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton he had thought it
spirited to despise.

'Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you,' said
the Princess; 'nothing will please her so much.'

On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in the
entertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in being
instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess was
all very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not pardon
was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them trying
to put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every other occasion,
proved herself a more finished performer than even the Russians
themselves.

Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter. They
were people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man of
good estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was
even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she could
sing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress of the
art of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had taken care
to call at Monmouth House the instant the _Morning Post_ apprised her he
had arrived in England; the consequence was an invitation to Coningsby.
She came with a wardrobe which, in point of variety, fancy, and fashion,
never was surpassed. Morning and evening, every day a new dress equally
striking; and a riding habit that was the talk and wonder of the whole
neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created far more sensation in the borough
when she rode down the High Street, than what the good people called the
real Princesses.

At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her over
their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal
question, 'Who is she?' After dinner they formed always into polite
groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if ever
the Princess Colonna, impelled partly by goodnature, and partly from
having known her on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St.
Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was sure, by an adroit appeal to
Her Highness on some point which could not be decided without moving, to
withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted companion.

It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. Guy
Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing to one's
self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at prints, in
a fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don't speak to you. But Mrs.
Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by storm, was not to be
driven out of its drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. Julians.
Experience convinced her that all that was required was a little patience.
Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever ready
accomplishments, and her practised powers of attraction. And she was
right. She was always sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen appeared.
The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner was only too happy to meet
her again. More than once, too, she had caught her noble host, though a
whole garrison was ever on the watch to prevent her, and he was greatly
amused, and showed that he was greatly amused by her society. Then she
suggested plans to him to divert his guests. In a country-house the
suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, before a week passed,
Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of everything, was always surrounded by
a cluster of admirers, and with what are called 'the best men' ever ready
to ride with her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The
fine ladies found it absolutely necessary to thaw: they began to ask her
questions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She was
an adroit flatterer, with a temper imperturbable, and gifted with a
ceaseless energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patterns
for new fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and what
with some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues and
salt for their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all.




CHAPTER IX.


Nothing could present a greater contrast than the respective interiors of
Coningsby and Beaumanoir. That air of habitual habitation, which so
pleasingly distinguished the Duke's family seat, was entirely wanting at
Coningsby. Everything, indeed, was vast and splendid; but it seemed rather
a gala-house than a dwelling; as if the grand furniture and the grand
servants had all come down express from town with the grand company, and
were to disappear and to be dispersed at the same time. And truly there
were manifold traces of hasty and temporary arrangement; new carpets and
old hangings; old paint, new gilding; battalions of odd French chairs,
squadrons of queer English tables; and large tasteless lamps and tawdry
chandeliers, evidently true cockneys, and only taking the air by way of
change. There was, too, throughout the drawing-rooms an absence of all
those minor articles of ornamental furniture that are the offering of
taste to the home we love. There were no books neither; few flowers; no
pet animals; no portfolios of fine drawings by our English artists like
the album of the Duchess, full of sketches by Landseer and Stanfield, and
their gifted brethren; not a print even, except portfolios of H. B.'s
caricatures. The modes and manners of the house were not rural; there was
nothing of the sweet order of a country life. Nobody came down to
breakfast; the ladies were scarcely seen until dinner-time; they rolled
about in carriages together late in the afternoon as if they were in
London, or led a sort of factitious boudoir life in their provincial
dressing-rooms.

The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morning after his arrival and asked
him to breakfast with him in his private rooms. Nothing could be more kind
or more agreeable than his grandfather. He appeared to be interested in
his grandson's progress, was glad to find Coningsby had distinguished
himself at Eton, solemnly adjured him not to neglect his French. A
classical education, he said, was a very admirable thing, and one which
all gentlemen should enjoy; but Coningsby would find some day that there
were two educations, one which his position required, and another which
was demanded by the world. 'French, my dear Harry,' he continued, 'is the
key to this second education. In a couple of years or so you will enter
the world; it is a different thing to what you read about. It is a
masquerade; a motley, sparkling multitude, in which you may mark all forms
and colours, and listen to all sentiments and opinions; but where all you
see and hear has only one object, plunder. When you get into this crowd
you will find that Greek and Latin are not so much diffused as you
imagine. I was glad to hear you speaking French yesterday. Study your
accent. There are a good many foreigners here with whom you may try your
wing a little; don't talk to any of them too much. Be very careful of
intimacies. All the people here are good acquaintance; at least pretty
well. Now, here,' said the Marquess, taking up a letter and then throwing
it on the table again, 'now here is a man whom I should like you to know,
Sidonia. He will be here in a few days. Lay yourself out for him if you
have the opportunity. He is a man of rare capacity, and enormously rich.
No one knows the world like Sidonia. I never met his equal; and 'tis so
pleasant to talk with one that can want nothing of you.'

Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to take a drive with him in the
afternoon. The Marquess wished to show a part of his domain to the
Ambassadress. Only Lucretia, he said, would be with them, and there was a
place for him. This invitation was readily accepted by Coningsby, who was
not yet sufficiently established in the habits of the house exactly to
know how to pass his morning. His friend and patron, Mr. Rigby, was
entirely taken up with the Grand-duke, whom he was accompanying all over
the neighbourhood, in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby himself
saw for the first time, but all of which he fluently explained to his
Imperial Highness. In return for this, he extracted much information from
the Grand-duke on Russian plans and projects, materials for a 'slashing'
article against the Russophobia that he was preparing, and in which he was
to prove that Muscovite aggression was an English interest, and entirely
to be explained by the want of sea-coast, which drove the Czar, for the
pure purposes of commerce, to the Baltic and the Euxine.

When the hour for the drive arrived, Coningsby found Lucretia, a young
girl when he had first seen her only four years back, and still his
junior, in that majestic dame who had conceded a superb recognition to him
the preceding eve. She really looked older than Madame Colonna; who, very
beautiful, very young-looking, and mistress of the real arts of the
toilet, those that cannot be detected, was not in the least altered since
she first so cordially saluted Coningsby as her dear young friend at
Monmouth House.

The day was delightful, the park extensive and picturesque, the
Ambassadress sparkling with anecdote, and occasionally, in a low voice,
breathing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who bowed his graceful
consciousness of her distinguished confidence. Coningsby occasionally took
advantage of one of those moments, when the conversation ceased to be
general, to address Lucretia, who replied in calm, fine smiles, and in
affable monosyllables. She indeed generally succeeded in conveying an
impression to those she addressed, that she had never seen them before,
did not care to see them now, and never wished to see them again. And all
this, too, with an air of great courtesy.

They arrived at the brink of a wooded bank; at their feet flowed a fine
river, deep and rushing, though not broad; its opposite bank the boundary
of a richly-timbered park.

'Ah! this is beautiful!' exclaimed the Ambassadress. 'And is that yours,
Lord Monmouth?'

'Not yet,' said the Marquess. 'That is Hellingsley; it is one of the
finest places in the county, with a splendid estate; not so considerable
as Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to an old, a very old man,
without a relative in the world. It is known that the estate will be sold
at his death, which may be almost daily expected. Then it is mine. No one
can offer for it what I can afford. For it gives me this division of the
county, Princess. To possess Hellingsley is one of my objects.' The
Marquess spoke with an animation unusual with him, almost with a degree of
excitement.

Copyright (c) 2007. topboookz.com. All rights reserved.