Edward Estlin Cummings - "The Enormous Room"

United States Department of the Interior - "The Nation's River"

Coningsby Dawson - "The Glory of the Trenches"

Various - "Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 442"

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




The drops became thicker. They reached, at a rapid pace, the cottage. The
absent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the river. The
cottage was an old building of rustic logs, with a shelving roof, so that
you might obtain sufficient shelter without entering its walls. Coningsby
found a rough garden seat for Edith. The shower was now violent.

Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the joy and
tenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are summer showers. In
this instance the vehemence of her emotion was transient, though the tears
kept stealing down her cheek for a long time, and gentle sighs and sobs
might for some period be distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere had
evaporated; the grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze came
dancing up the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and waters; the
perfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There was a
carolling of birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; freshness and stir,
and a sense of joyous life, pervaded all things; it seemed that the heart
of all creation opened.

Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, and
speculating on its progress, which did not much annoy them, had seated
himself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a maiden and a youth
more beautiful and engaging had seldom met before in a scene more fresh
and fair. Edith on her rustic seat watched the now blue and foaming river,
and the birch-trees with a livelier tint, and quivering in the sunset air;
an expression of tranquil bliss suffused her beautiful brow, and spoke
from the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby gazed on
that countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek was
flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her head; she
met that glance, and, troubled, she withdrew her own.

'Edith!' he said in a tone of tremulous passion, 'Let me call you Edith!
Yes,' he continued, gently taking her hand, let me call you my Edith! I
love you!'

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as the
impending twilight.




CHAPTER VI.


It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached the Hall; an
embarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction that they had
not to encounter a very critical inspection. What, then, were their
feelings when the first servant that they met informed them that Mr.
Millbank had arrived! Edith never could have believed that the return of
her beloved father to his home could ever have been to her other than a
cause of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard the
announcement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her existence. But
this was not the season of meditation. Her heart was still agitated by the
tremulous admission that she responded to that fervent and adoring love
whose eloquent music still sounded in her ear, and the pictures of whose
fanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision. Unconsciously she
pressed the arm of Coningsby as the servant spoke, and then, without
looking into his face, whispering him to be quick, she sprang away.

As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, and the
ethereal joy which flowed in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbank
sounded, something like a knell. However, this was not the time to
reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most rapid toilet that ever
was consummated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes entered the
drawing-room of Hellingsley, to encounter the gentleman whom he hoped by
some means or other, quite inconceivable, might some day be transformed
into his father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent duties
towards whom he had commenced by keeping him waiting for dinner.

'How do you do, sir,' said Mr. Millbank, extending his hand to Coningsby.
'You seem to have taken a long walk.'

Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady Wallinger, and half addressed his
murmured answer to her, explaining how they had lost her, and their way,
and were caught in a storm or a shower, which, as it terminated about
three hours back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than a mile from
the Hall, very satisfactorily accounted for their not being in time for
dinner.

Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds having
frightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a little
of their sport, and of their having seen an otter; but there was, or at
least there seemed to Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment which
distressed him. The fact is, keeping people from dinner under any
circumstances is distressing. They are obliged to talk at the very moment
when they wish to use their powers of expression for a very different
purpose. They are faint, and conversation makes them more exhausted. A
gentleman, too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted to him, making
a great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner time, to please
and surprise them; and finding them all dispersed, dinner so late that he
might have reached home in good time without any great inconvenient
effort; his daughter, whom he had wished a thousand times to embrace,
taking a singularly long ramble with no other companion than a young
gentleman, whom he did not exactly expect to see; all these are
circumstances, individually perhaps slight, and yet, encountered
collectively, it may be doubted they would not a little ruffle even the
sweetest temper.

Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest temper, though not a bad one; a
little quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when Edith, who
had providentially sent down a message to order dinner, entered and
embraced him at the very moment that dinner was announced, her father
forgot everything in his joy in seeing her, and his pleasure in being
surrounded by his friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger, and Sir
Joseph led away his niece. Coningsby put his arm around the astonished
neck of Oswald, as if they were once more in the playing fields of Eton.

'By Jove! my dear fellow,' he exclaimed, 'I am so sorry we kept your
father from dinner.'

As Edith headed her father's table, according to his rigid rule, Coningsby
was on one side of her. They never spoke so little; Coningsby would have
never unclosed his lips, had he followed his humour. He was in a stupor of
happiness; the dining room took the appearance of the fishing-cottage; and
he saw nothing but the flowing river. Lady Wallinger was however next to
him, and that was a relief; for he felt always she was his friend. Sir
Joseph, a good-hearted man, and on subjects with which he was acquainted
full of sound sense, was invaluable to-day, for he entirely kept up the
conversation, speaking of things which greatly interested Mr. Millbank.
And so their host soon recovered his good temper; he addressed several
times his observations to Coningsby, and was careful to take wine with
him. On the whole, affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen,
indeed, stayed much longer over their wine than on the preceding days, and
Coningsby did not venture on the liberty of quitting the room before his
host. It was as well. Edith required repose. She tried to seek it on the
bosom of her aunt, as she breathed to her the delicious secret of her
life. When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room the ladies were not
there.

This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again; he had not seen enough of his
daughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reappear; and
even to sing. Then Coningsby went up to her and asked her to sing the song
of the Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and with a fond yet
serious look,

'I am not in the mood for such a song, but if you wish me--'

She sang it, and with inexpressible grace, and with an arch vivacity, that
to a fine observer would have singularly contrasted with the almost solemn
and even troubled expression of her countenance a moment afterwards.

The day was about to die; the day the most important, the most precious in
the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been spoken,
vows breathed, which were to influence their careers for ever. For them
hereafter there was to be but one life, one destiny, one world. Each of
them was still in such a state of tremulous excitement, that neither had
found time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result. They both
required solitude; they both longed to be alone. Coningsby rose to depart.
He pressed the soft hand of Edith, and his glance spoke his soul.

'We shall see you at breakfast to-morrow, Coningsby!' said Oswald, very
loud, knowing that the presence of his father would make Coningsby
hesitate about coming. Edith's heart fluttered; but she said nothing. It
was with delight she heard her father, after a moment's pause, say,

'Oh! I beg we may have that pleasure.'

'Not quite at so early an hour,' said Coningsby; 'but if you will permit
me, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you to-morrow, sir, that
your journey has not fatigued you.'




CHAPTER VII.


To be alone; to have no need of feigning a tranquillity he could not feel;
of coining common-place courtesy when his heart was gushing with rapture;
this was a great relief to Coningsby, though gained by a separation from
Edith.

The deed was done; he had breathed his long-brooding passion, he had
received the sweet expression of her sympathy, he had gained the long-
coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of unsophisticated
breasts, and the inspiration of an exquisite nature, combined to fashion
the spell that now entranced his life. He turned to gaze upon the moonlit
towers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, the
picturesque pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with the silver light
and surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic gardens tipped with
the glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half sparkling in the
midnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had been the subject
of the morning's sketch. Almost he wished there should be some sound to
assure him of his reality. But nothing broke the all-pervading stillness.
Was his life to be as bright and as tranquil? And what was to be his life?

Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he had gained? Were the portals
of Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates that were to greet her? How
long would they greet him after the achievement of the last four-and-
twenty hours was known to their lord? Was this the return for the
confiding kindness of his grandsire? That he should pledge his troth to
the daughter of that grandsire's foe?

Away with such dark and scaring visions! Is it not the noon of a summer
night fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with the beam that
lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian breezes? Within that
sweet and stately residence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough to
revive chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she leans on her
pensive hand, or, if perchance she dream, recalls him in her visions? And
himself, is he one who would cry craven with such a lot? What avail his
golden youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and all his
stores of wisdom, if they help not now? Does not he feel the energy divine
that can confront Fate and carve out fortunes? Besides it is nigh
Midsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign for but to aid such a bright
pair as this?

He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which but a few
hours past he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls a thousand times
the still, small voice, that murmured her agitated felicity: more than a
thousand times, for his heart clenched the idea as a diver grasps a gem,
he recalls the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had sealed upon her
blushing cheek his mystical and delicious sovereignty.




CHAPTER VIII


The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small white clouds, dull and
immovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl seemed
to have become black and almost stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsley
looked like the hard lines of a model; and the mansion itself had a harsh
and metallic character. Before the chief portal of his Hall, the elder
Millbank, with an air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and the
heavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny of the day.

Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy and restless
step he paced the raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley church
had given the chimes of noon. His son and Coningsby appeared at the end of
one of the avenues. His eye lightened; his lip became compressed; he
advanced to meet them.

'Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald?' he inquired of his son.

'We had some thoughts of it, sir.'

'A fine day for sport, I should think,' he observed, as he turned towards
the Hall with them.

Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its twisted columns,
and Caryatides carved in dark oak.

'Yes, it's very well,' said Millbank; 'but I really do not know why I came
here; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place; none
of us do, I believe.'

'Oh! I like it now, father; and Edith doats on it.'

'She was very happy at Millbank,' said the father, rather sharply.

'We are all of us happy at Millbank,' said Oswald.

'I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement when I first
saw it,' said Coningsby.

'Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald,' said Mr. Millbank, 'and
Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the meantime.'

The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantly
carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should be
so anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely used
it. His son had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned to Coningsby,
and said very abruptly,

'You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; step in, for I wish
to say a word to you.' And thus speaking, he advanced before the
astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a door
and long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished as a
library, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting the
door with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his guest to
be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his throat, said
without preface, 'I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, that you are
attached to my daughter?'

'I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently,' replied
Coningsby, in a calm and rather measured tone, but looking very pale.

'And I have reason to believe that she returns your attachment?' said Mr.
Millbank.

'I believe she deigns not to disregard it,' said Coningsby, his white
cheek becoming scarlet.

'It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce mutual
unhappiness,' said Mr. Millbank.

'I would fain believe the reverse,' said Coningsby.

'Why?' inquired Mr. Millbank.

'Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality, and virtue, that
can bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return, I
have a heart, if I know myself, that would struggle to deserve her.'

'I know you to be a man of sense; I believe you to be a man of honour,'
replied Mr. Millbank. 'As the first, you must feel that an union between
you and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a man
of correct principle is obvious.'

'I could conceive that our union might be attended with difficulties,'
said Coningsby, in a somewhat deprecating tone.

'Sir, it is impossible,' repeated Mr. Millbank, interrupting him, though
not with harshness; 'that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage
which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasion
greater misery.'

'The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery,' said Coningsby,
'and even they may be imaginary.'

'The sacrifices and the misery are certain and inseparable,' said Mr.
Millbank. 'Come now, see how we stand! I speak without reserve, for this
is a subject which cannot permit misconception, but with no feelings
towards you, sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of my
Lord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his
bounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you may
be the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and myself
are foes; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle to mince
phrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may regret that they
have ever arisen; I may regret it especially at this exigency. They are
not the feelings of good Christians; they may be altogether to be deplored
and unjustifiable; but they exist, mutually exist; and have not been
confined to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, had he the power, like a
worm; and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not for this
feeling I should not be here; I purchased this estate merely to annoy him,
as I have done a thousand other acts merely for his discomfiture and
mortification. In our long encounter I have done him infinitely more
injury than he could do me; I have been on the spot, I am active,
vigilant, the maker of my fortunes. He is an epicurean, continually in
foreign parts, obliged to leave the fulfilment of his will to others. But,
for these very reasons, his hate is more intense. I can afford to hate him
less than he hates me; I have injured him more. Here are feelings to exist
between human beings! But they do exist; and now you are to go to this
man, and ask his sanction to marry my daughter!'

'But I would appease these hatreds; I would allay these dark passions, the
origin of which I know not, but which never could justify the end, and
which lead to so much misery. I would appeal to my grandfather; I would
show him Edith.'

'He has looked upon as fair even as Edith,' said Mr. Millbank, rising
suddenly from his seat, and pacing the room, 'and did that melt his heart?
The experience of your own lot should have guarded you from the perils
that you have so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery which you
have been preparing for others besides yourself. Is my daughter to be
treated like your mother? And by the same hand? Your mother's family were
not Lord Monmouth's foes. They were simple and innocent people, free from
all the bad passions of our nature, and ignorant of the world's ways. But
because they were not noble, because they could trace no mystified descent
from a foreign invader, or the sacrilegious minion of some spoliating
despot, their daughter was hunted from the family which should have
exulted to receive her, and the land of which she was the native ornament.
Why should a happier lot await you than fell to your parents? You are in
the same position as your father; you meditate the same act. The only
difference being aggravating circumstances in your case, which, even if I
were a member of the same order as my Lord Monmouth, would prevent the
possibility of a prosperous union. Marry Edith, and you blast all the
prospects of your life, and entail on her a sense of unceasing
humiliation. Would you do this? Should I permit you to do this?'

Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, his face a little shaded, his
eyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There was a pause; broken
by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without changing his posture or raising
his glance, he said, 'It seems, sir, that you were acquainted with my
mother!'

'I knew sufficient of her,' replied Mr. Millbank, with a kindling cheek,
'to learn the misery that a woman may entail on herself by marrying out of
her condition. I have bred my children in a respect for their class. I
believe they have imbibed my feeling; though it is strange how in the
commerce of the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparently
baffled my designs.'

'Oh! do not say it is chance, sir,' said Coningsby, looking up, and
speaking with much fervour. 'The feelings that animate me towards your
family are not the feelings of chance: they are the creation of sympathy;
tried by time, tested by thought. And must they perish? Can they perish?
They were inevitable; they are indestructible. Yes, sir, it is in vain to
speak of the enmities that are fostered between you and my grandfather;
the love that exists between your daughter and myself is stronger than all
your hatreds.'

'You speak like a young man, and a young man that is in love,' said Mr.
Millbank. 'This is mere rhapsody; it will vanish in an instant before the
reality of life. And you have arrived at that reality,' he continued,
speaking with emphasis, leaning over the back of his chair, and looking
steadily at Coningsby with his grey, sagacious eye; 'my daughter and
yourself can meet no more.'

'It is impossible you can be so cruel!' exclaimed Coningsby.

'So kind; kind to you both; for I wish to be kind to you as well as to
her. You are entitled to kindness from us all; though I will tell you now,
that, years ago, when the news arrived that my son's life had been saved,
and had been saved by one who bore the name of Coningsby, I had a
presentiment, great as was the blessing, that it might lead to
unhappiness.'

'I can answer for the misery of one,' said Coningsby, in a tone of great
despondency. 'I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! why should there be such
wretchedness? Why are there family hatreds and party feuds? Why am I the
most wretched of men?'

'My good young friend, you will live, I doubt not, to be a happy one.
Happiness is not, as we are apt to fancy, entirely dependent on these
contingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure what you are now
suffering, and they can look back to such conjunctures through the vista
of years with calmness.'

'I may see Edith now?'

'Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is in her room; I have had some
conversation with her. Of course she suffers not less than yourself. To
see her again will only aggravate woe. You leave under this roof, sir,
some sad memories, but no unkind ones. It is not likely that I can serve
you, or that you may want my aid; but whatever may be in my power,
remember you may command it; without reserve and without restraint. If I
control myself now, it is not because I do not respect your affliction,
but because, in the course of my life, I have felt too much not to be able
to command my feelings.'

'You never could have felt what I feel now,' said Coningsby, in a tone of
anguish.

'You touch on delicate ground,' said Millbank; 'yet from me you may learn
to suffer. There was a being once, not less fair than the peerless girl
that you would fain call your own, and her heart was my proud possession.
There were no family feuds to baffle our union, nor was I dependent on
anything, but the energies which had already made me flourishing. What
happiness was mine! It was the first dream of my life, and it was the
last; my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my heart. Ah! you
dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through life, you think
there is no romance in the loves of a man who lives in the toil and
turmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid my career of travail,
there was ever a bright form which animated exertion, inspired my
invention, nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and life I first made
many of those discoveries, and entered into many of those speculations,
that have since been the foundation of my wide prosperity.

'Her faith was pledged to me; I lived upon her image; the day was even
talked of when I should bear her to the home that I had proudly prepared
for her.

'There came a young noble, a warrior who had never seen war, glittering
with gewgaws. He was quartered in the town where the mistress of my heart,
who was soon to share my life and my fortunes, resided. The tale is too
bitter not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that he loved
her; she gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she found she had
never given to me; and instead of bearing the name I had once hoped to
have called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to one who, like
you, was called, CONINGSBY.'

'My mother!'

'You see, I too have had my griefs.'

'Dear sir,' said Coningsby, rising and taking Mr. Millbank's hand, 'I am
most wretched; and yet I wish to part from you even with affection. You
have explained circumstances that have long perplexed me. A curse, I fear,
is on our families. I have not mind enough at this moment even to ponder
on my situation. My head is a chaos. I go; yes, I quit this Hellingsley,
where I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy. Nay, let me go,
dear sir! I must be alone, I must try to think. And tell her, no, tell her
nothing. God will guard over us!'

Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered step, his
countenance lost, as it were, in a wild abstraction, Coningsby encountered
Oswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his turbulent thoughts, and
throwing on Oswald one look that seemed at the same time to communicate
woe and to demand sympathy, flung himself into his arms.

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