Coningsby

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Coningsby

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And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone with the lady,
Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, with a
countenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, 'I was pleased, I mean
surprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank; I thought by this
time she might have borne another name?'

Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, and
then said, 'Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitate
in marrying. Marriage is for a woman _the_ event. Edith is too precious to
be carelessly bestowed.'

'But I understood,' said Coningsby, 'when I left Paris,' and here, he
became very confused, 'that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point of
marriage.'

'With whom?'

'Our friend Sidonia.'

'I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor Monsieur
de Sidonia, Edith. 'Tis a preposterous idea!' said Lady Wallinger.

'But he very much admired her?' said Coningsby with a searching eye.

'Possibly,' said Lady Wallinger; 'but he never even intimated his
admiration.'

'But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank?'

'Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect.'

'You have known Sidonia a long time?'

'It was Monsieur de Sidonia's father who introduced us to the care of Mr.
Wallinger,' said Lady Wallinger, 'and therefore I have ever entertained
for his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as a compatriot.
Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us, especially to
Edith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great number of
jewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain; and, what she
prized infinitely more, the whole of her mother's correspondence which she
maintained with this relative since her marriage. Nothing but the
influence of Sidonia could have effected this. Therefore, of course, Edith
is attached to him almost as much as I am. In short, he is our dearest
friend; our counsellor in all our cares. But as for marrying him, the idea
is ridiculous to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly consideration
would ever induce him to impair that purity of race on which he prides
himself. Besides, there are other obvious objections which would render an
alliance between him and my niece utterly impossible: Edith is quite as
devoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race.'

A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger said
these words. The agitated interview, which never could be explained away,
already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became pensive,
remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he had
hitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of the day
that the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit to
Hellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that Mr.
Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like the change of
life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with Hellingsley,
which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished place, with fine
gardens, of which his niece was particularly fond.

When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon about
to quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his removal, his
eye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsby
had often projected a visit to Oxford, which he much desired to make, but
hitherto it had been impossible for him to effect it, except in the
absence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed it that he might
combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning with one to his
old schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable. And immediately
Coningsby wrote to apprise Millbank that he had taken his degree, was
free, and prepared to pay him immediately the long-projected visit. Three
years and more had elapsed since they had quitted Eton. How much had
happened in the interval! What new ideas, new feelings, vast and novel
knowledge! Though they had not met, they were nevertheless familiar with
the progress and improvement of each other's minds. Their suggestive
correspondence was too valuable to both of them to have been otherwise
than cherished. And now they were to meet on the eve of entering that
world for which they had made so sedulous a preparation.

CHAPTER II.

There are few things in life more interesting than an unrestrained
interchange of ideas with a congenial spirit, and there are few things
more rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the world a man of great
abilities, acquirements, experience, who will unmask his mind, unbutton
his brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque phrase all the
results of his studies and observation; his knowledge of men, books, and
nature. On the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives an
original idea, he hoards it as if it were old gold; and rather avoids the
subject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you may
appropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of our renowned
dulness in conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy. It must be
admitted that in this respect authors, but especially poets, bear the
palm. They never think they are sufficiently appreciated, and live in
tremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. Artists have the repute
of being nearly as bad. And as for a small rising politician, a clever
speech by a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office destroys his
appetite and disturbs his slumbers.

One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is, that one is
perpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and rare
acquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these discourses the
intellect makes daring leaps and marvellous advances. The tone that
colours our afterlife is often caught in these chance colloquies, and the
bent given that shapes a career.

And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more open, the
brain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue more
prompt and eloquent, than when two school-day friends, knit by every
sympathy of intelligence and affection, meet at the close of their college
careers, after a long separation, hesitating, as it were, on the verge of
active life, and compare together their conclusions of the interval;
impart to each other all their thoughts and secret plans and projects;
high fancies and noble aspirations; glorious visions of personal fame and
national regeneration.

Ah! why should such enthusiasm ever die! Life is too short to be little.
Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and expresses
himself with frankness and with fervour.

Most assuredly there never was a congress of friendship wherein more was
said and felt than in this meeting, so long projected, and yet perhaps on
the whole so happily procrastinated, between Coningsby and Millbank. In a
moment they seemed as if they had never parted. Their faithful
correspondence indeed had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken. But
details are only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind without
stint. Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment but was
canvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a principle they
had adopted that was not confessed. Often, with boyish glee still
lingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as they discovered that
they had formed the same opinion or adopted the same conclusion. They
talked all day and late into the night. They condensed into a week the
poignant conclusions of three years of almost unbroken study. And one
night, as they sat together in Millbank's rooms at Oriel, their
conversation having for some time taken a political colour, Millbank said,

'Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be the state of
parties in this country; for it seems to me that if we penetrate the
surface, the classification must be more simple than their many names
would intimate.'

'The principle of the exclusive constitution of England having been
conceded by the Acts of 1827-8-32,' said Coningsby, 'a party has arisen in
the State who demand that the principle of political liberalism shall
consequently be carried to its extent; which it appears to them is
impossible without getting rid of the fragments of the old constitution
that remain. This is the destructive party; a party with distinct and
intelligible principles. They seek a specific for the evils of our social
system in the general suffrage of the population.

'They are resisted by another party, who, having given up exclusion, would
only embrace as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment; who,
without any embarrassing promulgation of principles, wish to keep things
as they find them as long as they can, and then will manage them as they
find them as well as they can; but as a party must have the semblance of
principles, they take the names of the things that they have destroyed.
Thus they are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown, although in truth
the Crown has been stripped of every one of its prerogatives; they affect
a great veneration for the constitution in Church and State, though every
one knows that the constitution in Church and State no longer exists; they
are ready to stand or fall with the "independence of the Upper House of
Parliament", though, in practice, they are perfectly aware that, with
their sanction, "the Upper House" has abdicated its initiatory functions,
and now serves only as a court of review of the legislation of the House
of Commons. Whenever public opinion, which this party never attempts to
form, to educate, or to lead, falls into some violent perplexity, passion,
or caprice, this party yields without a struggle to the impulse, and, when
the storm has passed, attempts to obstruct and obviate the logical and,
ultimately, the inevitable results of the very measures they have
themselves originated, or to which they have consented. This is the
Conservative party.

'I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories, Radicals or Chartists,
or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race may designate
themselves; but these two divisions comprehend at present the English
nation.

'With regard to the first school, I for one have no faith in the remedial
qualities of a government carried on by a neglected democracy, who, for
three centuries, have received no education. What prospect does it offer
us of those high principles of conduct with which we have fed our
imaginations and strengthened our will? I perceive none of the elements of
government that should secure the happiness of a people and the greatness
of a realm.

'But in my opinion, if Democracy be combated only by Conservatism,
Democracy must triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is our
position. The man who enters public life at this epoch has to choose
between Political Infidelity and a Destructive Creed.'

'This, then,' said Millbank, 'is the dilemma to which we are brought by
nearly two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary Church.'

''Tis true,' said Coningsby. 'We cannot conceal it from ourselves, that
the first has made Government detested, and the second Religion
disbelieved.'

'Many men in this country,' said Millbank, 'and especially in the class to
which I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy; because
they have accustomed themselves to believe, that it is the only power by
which we can sweep away those sectional privileges and interests that
impede the intelligence and industry of the community.'

'And yet,' said Coningsby, 'the only way to terminate what, in the
language of the present day, is called Class Legislation, is not to
entrust power to classes. You would find a Locofoco majority as much
addicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. The only power
that has no class sympathy is the Sovereign.'

'But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign, what would be your check
against him?'

'The same as against an arbitrary Parliament.'

'But a Parliament is responsible.'

'To whom?'

'To their constituent body.'

'Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?'

'But public opinion would prevent that.'

'And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than on a body?'

'But public opinion may be indifferent. A nation may be misled, may be
corrupt.'

'If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the elected body
will resemble it. The nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But this
only shows that there is something to be considered beyond forms of
government, national character. And herein mainly should we repose our
hopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and the great, depend upon
it, whatever be its form, the government will respond to its convictions
and its sentiments.'

'Do you then declare against Parliamentary government.'

'Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of evils, for
it comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the permanence of the
existing settlement, if the very individuals who established it are, year
after year, proposing their modifications or their reconstructions; so
also, while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare ourselves for the
change we deem impending?

'Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow-citizens, should be
taken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who opposed the Reform Bill
offered contrary objections to it which destroyed each other, so ignorant
were they of its real character, its historical causes, its political
consequences. We should now so act that, when the occasions arrives, we
should clearly comprehend what we want, and have formed an opinion as to
the best means by which that want can be supplied.

'For this purpose I would accustom the public mind to the contemplation of
an existing though torpid power in the constitution, capable of removing
our social grievances, were we to transfer to it those prerogatives which
the Parliament has gradually usurped, and used in a manner which has
produced the present material and moral disorganisation. The House of
Commons is the house of a few; the Sovereign is the sovereign of all. The
proper leader of the people is the individual who sits upon the throne.'

'Then you abjure the Representative principle?'

'Why so? Representation is not necessarily, or even in a principal sense,
Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet the
nation is represented in its highest as well as in its most minute
interests. Not a grievance escapes notice and redress. I see in the
newspaper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally chastised his pupil.
It is a fact known over all England. We must not forget that a principle
of government is reserved for our days that we shall not find in our
Aristotles, or even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon
Wittenagemotes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is now
supreme, and Opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press is
far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentary
representation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it was
admirably adapted: an age of semi-civilisation, when there was a leading
class in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude. It is
controlled by a system of representation more vigorous and comprehensive;
which absorbs its duties and fulfils them more efficiently, and in which
discussion is pursued on fairer terms, and often with more depth and
information.'

'And to what power would you entrust the function of Taxation?'

'To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in creating our
present amount of debt, and in establishing our present system of imposts.

'In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect its ends by
the influence of opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms.
Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to our
consideration the idea of a free monarchy, established on fundamental
laws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government,
ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual press.
Before such a royal authority, supported by such a national opinion, the
sectional anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system,
where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, even
statesmen would be educated; we should have no more diplomatists who could
not speak French, no more bishops ignorant of theology, no more generals-
in-chief who never saw a field.

'Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions, our
feelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of great ends and
appealing to high sentiments; a polity which, in my opinion, would render
government an object of national affection, which would terminate
sectional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and extinguish Chartism.'

'You said to me yesterday,' said Millbank after a pause, 'quoting the
words of another, which you adopted, that Man was made to adore and to
obey. Now you have shown to me the means by which you deem it possible
that government might become no longer odious to the subject; you have
shown how man may be induced to obey. But there are duties and interests
for man beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and national
greatness, higher interests and greater duties. How would you deal with
their spiritual necessities? You think you can combat political infidelity
in a nation by the principle of enlightened loyalty; how would you
encounter religious infidelity in a state? By what means is the principle
of profound reverence to be revived? How, in short, is man to be led to
adore?'

'Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten,' replied Coningsby. 'I
know from your letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts. I confess
to you that it has often filled mine with perplexity and depression. When
we were at Eton, and both of us impregnated with the contrary prejudices
in which we had been brought up, there was still between us one common
ground of sympathy and trust; we reposed with confidence and affection in
the bosom of our Church. Time and thought, with both of us, have only
matured the spontaneous veneration of our boyhood. But time and thought
have also shown me that the Church of our heart is not in a position, as
regards the community, consonant with its original and essential
character, or with the welfare of the nation.'

'The character of a Church is universality,' replied Millbank. 'Once the
Church in this country was universal in principle and practice; when
wedded to the State, it continued at least universal in principle, if not
in practice. What is it now? All ties between the State and the Church are
abolished, except those which tend to its danger and degradation.

'What can be more anomalous than the present connection between State and
Church? Every condition on which it was originally consented to has been
cancelled. That original alliance was, in my view, an equal calamity for
the nation and the Church; but, at least, it was an intelligible compact.
Parliament, then consisting only of members of the Established Church,
was, on ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and might, in some points of
view, be esteemed a necessary portion of Church government. But you have
effaced this exclusive character of Parliament; you have determined that a
communion with the Established Church shall no longer be part of the
qualification for sitting in the House of Commons. There is no reason, so
far as the constitution avails, why every member of the House of Commons
should not be a dissenter. But the whole power of the country is
concentrated in the House of Commons. The House of Lords, even the Monarch
himself, has openly announced and confessed, within these ten years, that
the will of the House of Commons is supreme. A single vote of the House of
Commons, in 1832, made the Duke of Wellington declare, in the House of
Lords, that he was obliged to abandon his sovereign in "the most difficult
and distressing circumstances." The House of Commons is absolute. It is
the State. "L'Etat c'est moi." The House of Commons virtually appoints the
bishops. A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the Established
Church. They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was expelled the throne
because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliament
might do this to-morrow with impunity. And this is the constitution in
Church and State which Conservative dinners toast! The only consequences
of the present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of the
State, there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, and
on the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those principles on
which alone Church government can be established, and by the influence of
which alone can the Church of England again become universal.'

'But it is urged that the State protects its revenues?'

'No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe that require protection. Modern
history is a history of Church spoliation. And by whom? Not by the people;
not by the democracy. No; it is the emperor, the king, the feudal baron,
the court minion. The estate of the Church is the estate of the people, so
long as the Church is governed on its real principles. The Church is the
medium by which the despised and degraded classes assert the native
equality of man, and vindicate the rights and power of intellect. It made,
in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of a Saxon pedlar Primate of
England, and placed Nicholas Breakspear, a Hertfordshire peasant, on the
throne of the Caesars. It would do as great things now, if it were
divorced from the degrading and tyrannical connection that enchains it.
You would have other sons of peasants Bishops of England, instead of men
appointed to that sacred office solely because they were the needy scions
of a factitious aristocracy; men of gross ignorance, profligate habits,
and grinding extortion, who have disgraced the episcopal throne, and
profaned the altar.'

'But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the present
bench?'

'Surely not: I speak of the past, of the past that has produced so much
present evil. We live in decent times; frigid, latitudinarian, alarmed,
decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our days a fit successor to the
authors of the gospels, if he be not the editor of a Greek play; and he
who follows St. Paul must now at least have been private tutor of some
young nobleman who has taken a good degree! And then you are all
astonished that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but the
indestructibleness of its principles, however feebly pursued, could have
maintained even the disorganised body that still survives.

'And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and all its present
deficiencies, it is by the Church; I would have said until I listened to
you to-night; by the Church alone that I see any chance of regenerating
the national character. The parochial system, though shaken by the fatal
poor-law, is still the most ancient, the most comprehensive, and the most
popular institution of the country; the younger priests are, in general,
men whose souls are awake to the high mission which they have to fulfil,
and which their predecessors so neglected; there is, I think, a rising
feeling in the community, that parliamentary intercourse in matters
ecclesiastical has not tended either to the spiritual or the material
elevation of the humbler orders. Divorce the Church from the State, and
the spiritual power that struggled against the brute force of the dark
ages, against tyrannical monarchs and barbarous barons, will struggle
again in opposition to influences of a different form, but of a similar
tendency; equally selfish, equally insensible, equally barbarising. The
priests of God are the tribunes of the people. O, ignorant! that with such
a mission they should ever have cringed in the antechambers of ministers,
or bowed before parliamentary committees!'

'The Utilitarian system is dead,' said Coningsby. 'It has passed through
the heaven of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, and
peppering, and it has melted away. And yet can we wonder that it found
some success, when we consider the political ignorance and social torpor
which it assailed? Anointed kings turned into chief magistrates, and
therefore much overpaid; estates of the realm changed into parliaments of
virtual representation, and therefore requiring real reform; holy Church
transformed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled at by all
the nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable harvest of
sedition, radicalism, infidelity! I really think there is no society,
however great its resources, that could long resist the united influences
of chief magistrate, virtual representation, and Church establishment!'

'I have immense faith in the new generation,' said Millbank, eagerly.

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