Maurice Maeterlinck - "The Blue Bird: A Fairy Play in Six Acts"

Washington Irving - "Old Christmas From the Sketch Book of Washington Irving"

J. B. Salmond - "My Man Sandy"

George Durston - "The Boy Scouts on the Trail"

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




Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to extricate himself
from the perils that were encompassing him. There was something about his
grandfather that defied persuasion. Prone as eloquent youth generally is
to believe in the resistless power of its appeals, Coningsby despaired at
once of ever moving Lord Monmouth. There had been a callous dryness in his
manner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit, that at once baffled all
attempts at influence. Nor could Coningsby forget the look he received
when he quitted the room. There was no possibility of mistaking it; it
said at once, without periphrasis, 'Cross my purpose, and I will crush
you!'

This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the counsels, of friendship
might have been grateful. A clever woman might have afforded even more
than sympathy; some happy device that might have even released him from
the mesh in which he was involved. And once Coningsby had turned his
horse's head to Park Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But surely if there
were a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which subsisted between
himself and Edith. No, that must never be violated. Then there was Lady
Wallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to her. He resolved to
tell her all. He looked in for a moment at a club to take up the 'Court
Guide' and find her direction. A few men were standing in a bow window. He
heard Mr. Cassilis say,

'So Beau, they say, is booked at last; the new beauty, have you heard?'

'I saw him very sweet on her last night,' rejoined his companion. 'Has she
any tin?'

'Deuced deal, they say,' replied Mr. Cassilis.' The father is a cotton
lord, and they all have loads of tin, you know. Nothing like them now.'

'He is in Parliament, is not he?'

''Gad, I believe he is,' said Mr. Cassilis; 'I never know who is in
Parliament in these days. I remember when there were only ten men in the
House of Commons who were not either members of Brookes' or this place.
Everything is so deuced changed.'

'I hear 'tis an old affair of Beau,' said another gentleman. 'It was all
done a year ago at Rome or Paris.'

'They say she refused him then,' said Mr. Cassilis.

'Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer's daughter,' said his
friend. 'What next?'

'I wonder how the Duke likes it?' said Mr. Cassilis.

'Or the Duchess?' added one of his friends.

'Or the Everinghams?' added the other.

'The Duke will be deuced glad to see Beau settled, I take it,' said Mr.
Cassilis.

'A good deal depends on the tin,' said his friend.

Coningsby threw down the 'Court Guide' with a sinking heart. In spite of
every insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all his
aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost unconsciously to
himself, was Edith. It was over. The strange manner of last night was
fatally explained. The heart that once had been his was now another's. To
the man who still loves there is in that conviction the most profound and
desolate sorrow of which our nature is capable. All the recollection of
the past, all the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend into one
bewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the club, and mounting his horse,
rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his direction. He found
himself at length in a green lane near Willesden, silent and undisturbed;
he pulled up his horse, and summoned all his mind to the contemplation of
his prospects.

Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, accept his
mission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour and fortune, power,
prosperity, rank, distinction would be the consequence of this step; might
not he add even vengeance? Was there to be no term to his endurance? Might
not he teach this proud, prejudiced manufacturer, with all his virulence
and despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his daughter, too, this
betrothed, after all, of a young noble, with her flush futurity of
splendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, if indeed she heard
of him at all, as of one toiling or trifling in the humbler positions of
existence; and wonder, with a blush, that he ever could have been the hero
of her romantic girlhood? What degradation in the idea? His cheek burnt at
the possibility of such ignominy!

It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He thought of his
companions who looked up to him with such ardent anticipations of his
fame, of delight in his career, and confidence in his leading; were all
these high and fond fancies to be balked? On the very threshold of life
was he to blunder? 'Tis the first step that leads to all, and his was to
be a wilful error. He remembered his first visit to his grandfather, and
the delight of his friends at Eton at his report on his return. After
eight years of initiation was he to lose that favour then so highly
prized, when the results which they had so long counted on were on the
very eve of accomplishment? Parliament and riches, and rank and power;
these were facts, realities, substances, that none could mistake. Was he
to sacrifice them for speculations, theories, shadows, perhaps the vapours
of a green and conceited brain? No, by heaven, no! He was like Caesar by
the starry river's side, watching the image of the planets on its fatal
waters. The die was cast.

The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exaltation of his
spirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and tranquillity
and consolation, came clustering round his heart like seraphs. He thought
of Edith in her hours of fondness; he thought of the pure and solemn
moments when to mingle his name with the heroes of humanity was his
aspiration, and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring purpose of his
life. What were the tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition to him? No
domestic despot could deprive him of his intellect, his knowledge, the
sustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. If he possessed the
intelligence in which he had confidence, the world would recognise his
voice even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the principles of his
philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation would respond to their
expression. Coningsby felt at this moment a profound conviction which
never again deserted him, that the conduct which would violate the
affections of the heart, or the dictates of the conscience, however it may
lead to immediate success, is a fatal error. Conscious that he was perhaps
verging on some painful vicissitude of his life, he devoted himself to a
love that seemed hopeless, and to a fame that was perhaps a dream.

It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions that he wrote, on
his return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed all that
affection which he really felt for his grandfather, and all the pangs
which it cost him to adhere to the conclusions he had already announced.
In terms of tenderness, and even humility, he declined to become a
candidate for Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as the master
of his own conduct.




CHAPTER V.


Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir which had
been fitted up under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as he then
believed for the Princess Colonna. The walls were hung with amber satin,
painted by Delaroche with such subjects as might be expected from his
brilliant and picturesque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines in
dazzling costume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what is commonly
styled civilisation, moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid palaces
and gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fashion of the
Saracens, was richly gilt and picked out in violet. Upon a violet carpet
of velvet was represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche.

It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth House, and
Flora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth as was her custom, to read to her
as she was employed with some light work.

''Tis a new book of Sue,' said Lucretia. 'They say it is good.'

Flora, seated by her side, began to read. Reading was an accomplishment
which distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice faltered, her expression
was uncertain; she seemed but imperfectly to comprehend her page. More
than once Lady Monmouth looked round at her with an inquisitive glance.
Suddenly Flora stopped and burst into tears.

'O! madam,' she at last exclaimed, 'if you would but speak to Mr.
Coningsby, all might be right!'

'What is this?' said Lady Monmouth, turning quickly on the sofa; then,
collecting herself in an instant, she continued with less abruptness, and
more suavity than usual, 'Tell me, Flora, what is it; what is the matter?'

'My Lord,' sobbed Flora, 'has quarrelled with Mr. Coningsby.'

An expression of eager interest came over the countenance of Lucretia.

'Why have they quarrelled?'

'I do not know they have quarrelled; it is not, perhaps, a right term; but
my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby.'

'Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and about what?'

'Oh! very angry, madam,' said Flora, shaking her head mournfully. 'My Lord
told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter the house
again.'

'Was it to-day?' asked Lucretia.

'This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will not
do what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not know
exactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: my
father is frightened even to go into his room when he is so.'

'Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day?' asked Lucretia.

'Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this morning
before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby was not in town.
That is why I know it.'

Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa, and walked once or twice up and down the
room. Then turning to Flora, she said, 'Go away now: the book is stupid;
it does not amuse me. Stop: find out all you can for me about the quarrel
before I speak to Mr. Coningsby.'

Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained for some time in meditation;
then she wrote a few lines, which she despatched at once to Mr. Rigby.




CHAPTER VI.


What a great man was the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby! Here was one of
the first peers of England, and one of the finest ladies in London, both
waiting with equal anxiety his return to town; and unable to transact two
affairs of vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without his
interposition! What was the secret of the influence of this man, confided
in by everybody, trusted by none? His counsels were not deep, his
expedients were not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could create no
sympathy. It is that, in most of the transactions of life, there is some
portion which no one cares to accomplish, and which everybody wishes to be
achieved. This was always the portion of Mr. Rigby. In the eye of the
world he had constantly the appearance of being mixed up with high
dealings, and negotiations and arrangements of fine management, whereas in
truth, notwithstanding his splendid livery and the airs he gave himself in
the servants' hall, his real business in life had ever been, to do the
dirty work.

Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa of late. He was concocting,
you could not term it composing, an article, a 'very slashing article,'
which was to prove that the penny postage must be the destruction of the
aristocracy. It was a grand subject, treated in his highest style. His
parallel portraits of Rowland Hill the conqueror of Almarez and Rowland
Hill the deviser of the cheap postage were enormously fine. It was full of
passages in italics, little words in great capitals, and almost drew
tears. The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel.
Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and general, who had been in
office with himself, and who were inspired with an equal zeal against that
spirit of reform of which they had alike been victims, supplied him with
information which nothing but a breach of ministerial duty could have
furnished. The prophetic peroration as to the irresistible progress of
democracy was almost as powerful as one of Rigby's speeches on Aldborough
or Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good hearty kick to the
people like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of the populace, this was
disinterested. What could be more patriotic and magnanimous than his
Jeremiads over the fall of the Montmorencis and the Crillons, or the
possible catastrophe of the Percys and the Manners! The truth of all this
hullabaloo was that Rigby had a sly pension which, by an inevitable
association of ideas, he always connected with the maintenance of an
aristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the French revolution were
impelled by this secret influence; and when he wailed over 'la guerre aux
chateaux,' and moaned like a mandrake over Nottingham Castle in flames,
the rogue had an eye all the while to quarter-day!

Arriving in town the day after Coningsby's interview with his grandfather,
Mr. Rigby found a summons to Monmouth House waiting him, and an urgent
note from Lucretia begging that he would permit nothing to prevent him
seeing her for a few minutes before he called on the Marquess.

Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had in the course
of four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and accurate details of the
cause of contention between Coningsby and her husband. She could inform
Mr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was highly incensed against his
grandson, but that the cause of their misunderstanding arose about a seat
in the House of Commons, and that seat too the one which Mr. Rigby had
long appropriated to himself, and over whose registration he had watched
with such affectionate solicitude.

Lady Monmouth arranged this information like a firstrate artist, and gave
it a grouping and a colour which produced the liveliest effect upon her
confederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as he received
the intelligence; a grin, half of malice, half of terror, played over his
features.

'I told you to beware of him long ago,' said Lady Monmouth. 'He is, he has
ever been, in the way of both of us.'

'He is in my power,' said Rigby. 'We can crush him!'

'How?'

'He is in love with the daughter of Millbank, the man who bought
Hellingsley.'

'Hah!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a prolonged tone.

'He was at Coningsby all last summer, hanging about her. I found the
younger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a fact which, of
itself, if known to Lord Monmouth, would ensure the lad's annihilation.'

'And you kept this fine news for a winter campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,'
said Lady Monmouth, with a subtle smile. 'It was a weapon of service. I
give you my compliments.'

'The time is not always ripe,' said Mr. Rigby.

'But it is now most mature. Let us not conceal it from ourselves that,
since his first visit to Coningsby, we have neither of us really been in
the same position which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy. My
Lord, though you would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this boy;
and though I by my marriage, and you by your zealous ability, have
apparently secured a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never doubted
that when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit is plucked
by one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is no reason why
we two should clash together: we can both of us find what we want, and
more securely if we work in company.'

'I trust my devotion to you has never been doubted, dear madam.'

'Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now: the game is before you. Rid me
of this Coningsby, and I will secure you all that you want. Doubt not me.
There is no reason. I want a firm ally. There must be two.'

'It shall be done,' said Rigby; 'it must be done. If once the notion gets
wind that one of the Castle family may perchance stand for Darlford, all
the present combinations will be disorganised. It must be done at once. I
know that the Government will dissolve.'

'So I hear for certain,' said Lucretia. 'Be sure there is no time to lose.
What does he want with you to-day?'

'I know not: there are so many things.'

'To be sure; and yet I cannot doubt he will speak of this quarrel. Let not
the occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be introduced. If
good, you will guide him more easily; if dark, the love for the
Hellingsley girl, the fact of the brother being in his castle, drinking
his wine, riding his horses, ordering about his servants; you will omit no
details: a Millbank quite at home at Coningsby will lash him to madness!
'Tis quite ripe. Not a word that you have seen me. Go, go, or he may hear
that you have arrived. I shall be at home all the morning. It will be but
gallant that you should pay me a little visit when you have transacted
your business. You understand. _Au revoir!_'

Lady Monmouth took up again her French novel; but her eyes soon glanced
over the page, unattached by its contents. Her own existence was too
interesting to find any excitement in fiction. It was nearly three years
since her marriage; that great step which she ever had a conviction was to
lead to results still greater. Of late she had often been filled with a
presentiment that they were near at hand; never more so than on this day.
Irresistible was the current of associations that led her to meditate on
freedom, wealth, power; on a career which should at the same time dazzle
the imagination and gratify her heart. Notwithstanding the gossip of
Paris, founded on no authentic knowledge of her husband's character or
information, based on the haphazard observations of the floating
multitude, Lucretia herself had no reason to fear that her influence over
Lord Monmouth, if exerted, was materially diminished. But satisfied that
he had formed no other tie, with her ever the test of her position, she
had not thought it expedient, and certainly would have found it irksome,
to maintain that influence by any ostentatious means. She knew that Lord
Monmouth was capricious, easily wearied, soon palled; and that on men who
have no affections, affection has no hold. Their passions or their
fancies, on the contrary, as it seemed to her, are rather stimulated by
neglect or indifference, provided that they are not systematic; and the
circumstance of a wife being admired by one who is not her husband
sometimes wonderfully revives the passion or renovates the respect of him
who should be devoted to her.

The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject which never was long absent
from the vigilance or meditation of Lucretia. She was well assured that
his life was no longer secure. She knew that after their marriage he had
made a will, which secured to her a large portion of his great wealth in
case of their having no issue, and after the accident at Paris all hope in
that respect was over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord Monmouth
had evinced about terminating the abeyance of the barony to which his
first wife was a co-heiress in favour of his grandson, had alarmed
Lucretia. To establish in the land another branch of the house of
Coningsby was evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, and perhaps
a permanent one. If the idea were once accepted, notwithstanding the limit
to its endowment which Lord Monmouth might at the first start contemplate,
Lucretia had sufficiently studied his temperament to be convinced that all
his energies and all his resources would ultimately be devoted to its
practical fulfilment. Her original prejudice against Coningsby and
jealousy of his influence had therefore of late been considerably
aggravated; and the intelligence that for the first time there was a
misunderstanding between Coningsby and her husband filled her with
excitement and hope. She knew her Lord well enough to feel assured that
the cause for displeasure in the present instance could not be a light
one; she resolved instantly to labour that it should not be transient; and
it so happened that she had applied for aid in this endeavour to the very
individual in whose power it rested to accomplish all her desire, while in
doing so he felt at the same time he was defending his own position and
advancing his own interests.

Lady Monmouth was now waiting with some excitement the return of Mr.
Rigby. His interview with his patron was of unusual length. An hour, and
more than an hour, had elapsed. Lady Monmouth again threw aside the book
which more than once she had discarded. She paced the room, restless
rather than disquieted. She had complete confidence in Rigby's ability for
the occasion; and with her knowledge of Lord Monmouth's character, she
could not contemplate the possibility of failure, if the circumstances
were adroitly introduced to his consideration. Still time stole on: the
harassing and exhausting process of suspense was acting on her nervous
system. She began to think that Rigby had not found the occasion
favourable for the catastrophe; that Lord Monmouth, from apprehension of
disturbing Rigby and entailing explanations on himself, had avoided the
necessary communication; that her skilful combination for the moment had
missed. Two hours had now elapsed, and Lucretia, in a state of
considerable irritation, was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby were with
his Lordship when the door of her boudoir opened, and that gentleman
appeared.

'How long you have been!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 'Now sit down and tell
me what has passed.'

Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which Flora had occupied.

'I thank your Ladyship,' said Mr. Rigby, with a somewhat grave and yet
perplexed expression of countenance, and seating himself at some little
distance from his companion, 'but I am very well here.'

There was a pause. Instead of responding to the invitation of Lady
Monmouth to communicate with his usual readiness and volubility, Mr. Rigby
was silent, and, if it were possible to use such an expression with regard
to such a gentleman, apparently embarrassed.

'Well,' said Lady Monmouth, 'does he know about the Millbanks?'

'Everything,' said Mr. Rigby.

'And what did he say?'

'His Lordship was greatly shocked,' replied Mr. Rigby, with a pious
expression of features. 'Such monstrous ingratitude! As his Lordship very
justly observed, "It is impossible to say what is going on under my own
roof, or to what I can trust."'

'But he made an exception in your favour, I dare say, my dear Mr. Rigby,'
said Lady Monmouth.

'Lord Monmouth was pleased to say that I possessed his entire confidence,'
said Mr. Rigby, 'and that he looked to me in his difficulties.'

'Very sensible of him. And what is to become of Mr. Coningsby?'

'The steps which his Lordship is about to take with reference to the
establishment generally,' said Mr. Rigby, 'will allow the connection that
at present subsists between that gentleman and his noble relative, now
that Lord Monmouth's eyes are open to his real character, to terminate
naturally, without the necessity of any formal explanation.'

'But what do you mean by the steps he is going to take in his
establishment generally?'

'Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change of scene.'

'Oh! is he going to drag me abroad again?' exclaimed Lady Monmouth, with
great impatience.

'Why, not exactly,' said Mr. Rigby, rather demurely.

'I hope he is not going again to that dreadful castle in Lancashire.'

'Lord Monmouth was thinking that, as you were tired of Paris, you might
find some of the German Baths agreeable.'

'Why, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as a German
bathing-place!'

'Exactly,' said Mr. Rigby.

'Then how capricious in him wanting to go to them?'

'He does not want to go to them!'

'What do you mean, Mr. Rigby?' said Lady Monmouth, in a lower voice, and
looking him full in the face with a glance seldom bestowed.

There was a churlish and unusual look about Rigby. It was as if malignant,
and yet at the same time a little frightened, he had screwed himself into
doggedness.

'I mean what Lord Monmouth means. He suggests that if your Ladyship were
to pass the summer at Kissengen, for example, and a paragraph in the
_Morning Post_ were to announce that his Lordship was about to join you
there, all awkwardness would be removed; and no one could for a moment
take the liberty of supposing, even if his Lordship did not ultimately
reach you, that anything like a separation had occurred.'

'A separation!' said Lady Monmouth.

'Quite amicable,' said Mr. Rigby. 'I would never have consented to
interfere in the affair, but to secure that most desirable point.'

'I will see Lord Monmouth at once,' said Lucretia, rising, her natural
pallor aggravated into a ghoul-like tint.

'His Lordship has gone out,' said Mr. Rigby, rather stubbornly.

'Our conversation, sir, then finishes; I wait his return.' She bowed
haughtily.

'His Lordship will never return to Monmouth House again.'

Lucretia sprang from the sofa.

'Miserable craven!' she exclaimed. 'Has the cowardly tyrant fled? And he
really thinks that I am to be crushed by such an instrument as this! Pah!
He may leave Monmouth House, but I shall not. Begone, sir!'

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