Roy Rockwood - "The Wizard of the Sea"

Jeffery Farnol et al - "The Amateur Gentleman"

Various - "Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 445"

Henry Beam Piper - "Ministry of Disturbance"

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




'Still anxious to secure an amicable separation,' said Mr. Rigby, 'your
Ladyship must allow me to place the circumstances of the case fairly
before your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth has decided upon a course:
you know as well as I that he never swerves from his resolutions. He has
left peremptory instructions, and he will listen to no appeal. He has
empowered me to represent to your Ladyship that he wishes in every way to
consider your convenience. He suggests that everything, in short, should
be arranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily no more; that your
Ladyship should at once enter into your jointure, which shall be made
payable quarterly to your order, provided you can find it convenient to
live upon the Continent,' added Mr. Rigby, with some hesitation.

'And suppose I cannot?'

'Why, then, we will leave your Ladyship to the assertion of your rights.'

'We!'

'I beg your Ladyship's pardon. I speak as the friend of the family, the
trustee of your marriage settlement, well known also as Lord Monmouth's
executor,' said Mr. Rigby, his countenance gradually regaining its usual
callous confidence, and some degree of self-complacency, as he remembered
the good things which he enumerated.

'I have decided,' said Lady Monmouth. 'I will assert my rights. Your
master has mistaken my character and his own position. He shall rue the
day that he assailed me.'

'I should be sorry if there were any violence,' said Mr. Rigby,
'especially as everything is left to my management and control. An office,
indeed, which I only accepted for your mutual advantage. I think, upon
reflection, I might put before your Ladyship some considerations which
might induce you, on the whole, to be of opinion that it will be better
for us to draw together in this business, as we have hitherto, indeed,
throughout an acquaintance now of some years.' Rigby was assuming all his
usual tone of brazen familiarity.

'Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord Monmouth's estimate of it,' said
Lucretia.

'Now, now, you are unkind. Your Ladyship mistakes my position. I am
interfering in this business for your sake. I might have refused the
office. It would have fallen to another, who would have fulfilled it
without any delicacy and consideration for your feelings. View my
interposition in that light, my dear Lady Monmouth, and circumstances will
assume altogether a new colour.'

'I beg that you will quit the house, sir.'

Mr. Rigby shook his head. 'I would with pleasure, to oblige you, were it
in my power; but Lord Monmouth has particularly desired that I should take
up my residence here permanently. The servants are now my servants. It is
useless to ring the bell. For your Ladyship's sake, I wish everything to
be accomplished with tranquillity, and, if possible, friendliness and good
feeling. You can have even a week for the preparations for your departure,
if necessary. I will take that upon myself. Any carriages, too, that you
desire; your jewels, at least all those that are not at the bankers'. The
arrangement about your jointure, your letters of credit, even your
passport, I will attend to myself; only too happy if, by this painful
interference, I have in any way contributed to soften the annoyance which,
at the first blush, you may naturally experience, but which, like
everything else, take my word, will wear off.'

'I shall send for Lord Eskdale,' said Lady Monmouth. 'He is a gentleman.'

'I am quite sure,' said Mr. Rigby, 'that Lord Eskdale will give you the
same advice as myself, if he only reads your Ladyship's letters,' he added
slowly, 'to Prince Trautsmansdorff.'

'My letters?' said Lady Monmouth.

'Pardon me,' said Rigby, putting his hand in his pocket, as if to guard
some treasure, 'I have no wish to revive painful associations; but I have
them, and I must act upon them, if you persist in treating me as a foe,
who am in reality your best friend; which indeed I ought to be, having the
honour of acting as trustee under your marriage settlement, and having
known you so many years.'

'Leave me for the present alone,' said Lady Monmouth. 'Send me my servant,
if I have one. I shall not remain here the week which you mention, but
quit at once this house, which I wish I had never entered. Adieu! Mr.
Rigby, you are now lord of Monmouth House, and yet I cannot help feeling
you too will be discharged before he dies.'

Mr. Rigby made Lady Monmouth a bow such as became the master of the house,
and then withdrew.




CHAPTER VII.


A paragraph in the _Morning Post_, a few days after his interview with his
grandfather, announcing that Lord and Lady Monmouth had quitted town for
the baths of Kissengen, startled Coningsby, who called the same day at
Monmouth House in consequence. There he learnt more authentic details of
their unexpected movements. It appeared that Lady Monmouth had certainly
departed; and the porter, with a rather sceptical visage, informed
Coningsby that Lord Monmouth was to follow; but when, he could not tell.
At present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few days was about to
take possession of a villa at Richmond, which had for some time been
fitting up for him under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, who, as
Coningsby also learnt, now permanently resided at Monmouth House. All this
intelligence made Coningsby ponder. He was sufficiently acquainted with
the parties concerned to feel assured that he had not learnt the whole
truth. What had really taken place, and what was the real cause of the
occurrences, were equally mystical to him: all he was convinced of was,
that some great domestic revolution had been suddenly effected.

Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. With the
exception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experienced from
Lord Monmouth nothing but kindness both in phrase and deed. There was also
something in Lord Monmouth, when he pleased it, rather fascinating to
young men; and as Coningsby had never occasioned him any feelings but
pleasurable ones, he was always disposed to make himself delightful to his
grandson. The experience of a consummate man of the world, advanced in
life, detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness and facility, is
bewitching. Lord Monmouth was never garrulous: he was always pithy, and
could be picturesque. He revealed a character in a sentence, and detected
the ruling passion with the hand of a master. Besides, he had seen
everybody and had done everything; and though, on the whole, too indolent
for conversation, and loving to be talked to, these were circumstances
which made his too rare communications the more precious.

With these feelings, Coningsby resolved, the moment that he learned that
his grandfather was established at Richmond, to pay him a visit. He was
informed that Lord Monmouth was at home, and he was shown into a drawing-
room, where he found two French ladies in their bonnets, whom he soon
discovered to be actresses. They also had come down to pay a visit to his
grandfather, and were by no means displeased to pass the interval that
must elapse before they had that pleasure in chatting with his grandson.
Coningsby found them extremely amusing; with the finest spirits in the
world, imperturbable good temper, and an unconscious practical philosophy
that defied the devil Care and all his works. And well it was that he
found such agreeable companions, for time flowed on, and no summons
arrived to call him to his grandfather's presence, and no herald to
announce his grandfather's advent. The ladies and Coningsby had exhausted
badinage; they had examined and criticised all the furniture, had rifled
the vases of their prettiest flowers; and Clotilde, who had already sung
several times, was proposing a duet to Ermengarde, when a servant entered,
and told the ladies that a carriage was in attendance to give them an
airing, and after that Lord Monmouth hoped they would return and dine with
him; then turning to Coningsby, he informed him, with his lord's
compliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry he was too much engaged to see
him.

Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerably good face upon it. 'Embrace
Lord Monmouth for me,' said Coningsby to his fair friends, 'and tell him I
think it very unkind that he did not ask me to dinner with you.'

Coningsby said this with a gay air, but really with a depressed spirit. He
felt convinced that his grandfather was deeply displeased with him; and as
he rode away from the villa, he could not resist the strong impression
that he was destined never to re-enter it. Yet it was decreed otherwise.
It so happened that the idle message which Coningsby had left for his
grandfather, and which he never seriously supposed for a moment that his
late companions would have given their host, operated entirely in his
favour. Whatever were the feelings with respect to Coningsby at the bottom
of Lord Monmouth's heart, he was actuated in his refusal to see him not
more from displeasure than from an anticipatory horror of something like a
scene. Even a surrender from Coningsby without terms, and an offer to
declare himself a candidate for Darlford, or to do anything else that his
grandfather wished, would have been disagreeable to Lord Monmouth in his
present mood. As in politics a revolution is often followed by a season of
torpor, so in the case of Lord Monmouth the separation from his wife,
which had for a long period occupied his meditation, was succeeded by a
vein of mental dissipation. He did not wish to be reminded by anything or
any person that he had still in some degree the misfortune of being a
responsible member of society. He wanted to be surrounded by individuals
who were above or below the conventional interests of what is called 'the
World.' He wanted to hear nothing of those painful and embarrassing
influences which from our contracted experience and want of enlightenment
we magnify into such undue importance. For this purpose he wished to have
about him persons whose knowledge of the cares of life concerned only the
means of existence, and whose sense of its objects referred only to the
sources of enjoyment; persons who had not been educated in the idolatry of
Respectability; that is to say, of realising such an amount of what is
termed character by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices of the
community as may enable them, at suitable times, and under convenient
circumstances and disguises, to plunder the public. This was the Monmouth
Philosophy.

With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled at this moment from grandsons
and relations and ties of all kinds. He did not wish to be reminded of his
identity, but to swim unmolested and undisturbed in his Epicurean dream.
When, therefore, his fair visitors; Clotilde, who opened her mouth only to
breathe roses and diamonds, and Ermengarde, who was so good-natured that
she sacrificed even her lovers to her friends; saw him merely to exclaim
at the same moment, and with the same voices of thrilling joyousness,--

'Why did not you ask him to dinner?'

And then, without waiting for his reply, entered with that rapidity of
elocution which Frenchwomen can alone command into the catalogue of his
charms and accomplishments, Lord Monmouth began to regret that he really
had not seen Coningsby, who, it appeared, might have greatly contributed
to the pleasure of the day. The message, which was duly given, however,
settled the business. Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of explanations,
or even allusions to the past, was out of the question; and to defend
himself from the accusations of his animated guests, he said,

'Well, he shall come to dine with you next time.'

There is no end to the influence of woman on our life. It is at the bottom
of everything that happens to us. And so it was, that, in spite of all the
combinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, and the mortification and
resentment of Lord Monmouth, the favourable impression he casually made on
a couple of French actresses occasioned Coningsby, before a month had
elapsed since his memorable interview at Monmouth House, to receive an
invitation again to dine with his grandfather.

The party was agreeable. Clotilde and Ermengarde had wits as sparkling as
their eyes. There was a manager of the Opera, a great friend of
Villebecque, and his wife, a splendid lady, who had been a prima donna of
celebrity, and still had a commanding voice for a chamber; a Carlist
nobleman who lived upon his traditions, and who, though without a sou,
could tell of a festival given by his family, before the revolution, which
had cost a million of francs; and a Neapolitan physician, in whom Lord
Monmouth had great confidence, and who himself believed in the elixir
vitae, made up the party, with Lucian Gay, Coningsby, and Mr. Rigby. Our
hero remarked that Villebecque on this occasion sat at the bottom of the
table, but Flora did not appear.

In the meantime, the month which brought about this satisfactory and at
one time unexpected result was fruitful also in other circumstances still
more interesting. Coningsby and Edith met frequently, if to breathe the
same atmosphere in the same crowded saloons can be described as meeting;
ever watching each other's movements, and yet studious never to encounter
each other's glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had become an universal
topic, they were celebrated in ball-rooms, they were discussed at clubs:
Edith was the beauty of the season. All admired her, many sighed even to
express their admiration; but the devotion of Lord Beaumanoir, who always
hovered about her, deterred them from a rivalry which might have made the
boldest despair. As for Coningsby, he passed his life principally with the
various members of the Sydney family, and was almost daily riding with
Lady Everingham and her sister, generally accompanied by Lord Henry and
his friend Eustace Lyle, between whom, indeed, and Coningsby there were
relations of intimacy scarcely less inseparable. Coningsby had spoken to
Lady Everingham of the rumoured marriage of her elder brother, and found,
although the family had not yet been formally apprised of it, she
entertained little doubt of its ultimate occurrence. She admired Miss
Millbank, with whom her acquaintance continued slight; and she wished, of
course, that her brother should marry and be happy. 'But Percy is often in
love,' she would add, 'and never likes us to be very intimate with his
inamoratas. He thinks it destroys the romance; and that domestic
familiarity may compromise his heroic character. However,' she added, 'I
really believe that will be a match.'

On the whole, though he bore a serene aspect to the world, Coningsby
passed this month in a state of restless misery. His soul was brooding on
one subject, and he had no confidant: he could not resist the spell that
impelled him to the society where Edith might at least be seen, and the
circle in which he lived was one in which her name was frequently
mentioned. Alone, in his solitary rooms in the Albany, he felt all his
desolation; and often a few minutes before he figured in the world,
apparently followed and courted by all, he had been plunged in the darkest
fits of irremediable wretchedness.

He had, of course, frequently met Lady Wallinger, but their salutations,
though never omitted, and on each side cordial, were brief. There seemed
to be a tacit understanding between them not to refer to a subject
fruitful in painful reminiscences.

The season waned. In the fulfilment of a project originally formed in the
playing-fields of Eton, often recurred to at Cambridge, and cherished with
the fondness with which men cling to a scheme of early youth, Coningsby,
Henry Sydney, Vere, and Buckhurst had engaged some moors together this
year; and in a few days they were about to quit town for Scotland. They
had pressed Eustace Lyle to accompany them, but he, who in general seemed
to have no pleasure greater than their society, had surprised them by
declining their invitation, with some vague mention that he rather thought
he should go abroad.

It was the last day of July, and all the world were at a breakfast given,
at a fanciful cottage situate in beautiful gardens on the banks of the
Thames, by Lady Everingham. The weather was as bright as the romances of
Boccaccio; there were pyramids of strawberries, in bowls colossal enough
to hold orange-trees; and the choicest band filled the air with enchanting
strains, while a brilliant multitude sauntered on turf like velvet, or
roamed in desultory existence amid the quivering shades of winding walks.

'My fete was prophetic,' said Lady Everingham, when she saw Coningsby. 'I
am glad it is connected with an incident. It gives it a point.'

'You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell me what we are to celebrate.'

'Theresa is going to be married.'

'Then I, too, will prophesy, and name the hero of the romance, Eustace
Lyle.'

'You have been more prescient than I,' said Lady Everingham, 'perhaps
because I was thinking too much of some one else.'

'It seems to me an union which all must acknowledge perfect. I hardly know
which I love best. I have had my suspicions a long time; and when Eustace
refused to go to the moors with us, though I said nothing, I was
convinced.'

'At any rate,' said Lady Everingham, sighing, with a rather smiling face,
'we are kinsfolk, Mr. Coningsby; though I would gladly have wished to have
been more.'

'Were those your thoughts, dear lady? Ever kind to me! Happiness,' he
added, in a mournful tone, 'I fear can never be mine.'

'And why?'

'Ah! 'tis a tale too strange and sorrowful for a day when, like Seged, we
must all determine to be happy.'

'You have already made me miserable.'

'Here comes a group that will make you gay,' said Coningsby as he moved
on. Edith and the Wallingers, accompanied by Lord Beaumanoir, Mr. Melton,
and Sir Charles Buckhurst, formed the party. They seemed profuse in their
congratulations to Lady Everingham, having already learnt the intelligence
from her brother.

Coningsby stopped to speak to Lady St. Julians, who had still a daughter
to marry. Both Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and Clara Isabella,
who ought to have been there, had each secured the right man. But Adelaide
Victoria had now appeared, and Lady St. Julians had a great regard for the
favourite grandson of Lord Monmouth, and also for the influential friend
of Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. In case Coningsby did not
determine to become her son-in-law himself, he might counsel either of his
friends to a judicious decision on an inevitable act.

'Strawberries and cream?' said Lord Eskdale to Mr. Ormsby, who seemed
occupied with some delicacies.

'Egad! no, no, no; those days are passed. I think there is a little
easterly wind with all this fine appearance.'

'I am for in-door nature myself,' said Lord Eskdale. 'Do you know, I do
not half like the way Monmouth is going on? He never gets out of that
villa of his. He should change his air more. Tell him.'

'It is no use telling him anything. Have you heard anything of Miladi?'

'I had a letter from her to-day: she writes in good spirits. I am sorry it
broke up, and yet I never thought it would last so long.'

'I gave them two years,' said Mr. Ormsby. 'Lord Monmouth lived with his
first wife two years. And afterwards with the Mirandola at Milan, at least
nearly two years; it was a year and ten months. I must know, for he called
me in to settle affairs. I took the lady to the baths at Lucca, on the
pretence that Monmouth would meet us there. He went to Paris. All his
great affairs have been two years. I remember I wanted to bet Cassilis, at
White's, on it when he married; but I thought, being his intimate friend;
the oldest friend he has, indeed, and one of his trustees; it was perhaps
as well not to do it.'

'You should have made the bet with himself,' said Lord Eskdale, 'and then
there never would have been a separation.'

'Hah, hah, hah! Do you know, I feel the wind?'

About an hour after this, Coningsby, who had just quitted the Duchess,
met, on a terrace by the river, Lady Wallinger, walking with Mrs. Guy
Flouncey and a Russian Prince, whom that lady was enchanting. Coningsby
was about to pass with some slight courtesy, but Lady Wallinger stopped
and would speak to him, on slight subjects, the weather and the fete, but
yet adroitly enough managed to make him turn and join her. Mrs. Guy
Flouncey walked on a little before with her Russian admirer. Lady
Wallinger followed with Coningsby.

'The match that has been proclaimed to-day has greatly surprised me,' said
Lady Wallinger.

'Indeed!' said Coningsby: 'I confess I was long prepared for it. And it
seems to me the most natural alliance conceivable, and one that every one
must approve.'

'Lady Everingham seems much surprised at it.'

'Ah! Lady Everingham is a brilliant personage, and cannot deign to observe
obvious circumstances.'

'Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you were engaged to
Lady Theresa?'

'I!'

'Indeed, we were informed more than a month ago that you were positively
going to be married to her.'

'I am not one of those who can shift their affections with such rapidity,
Lady Wallinger.'

Lady Wallinger looked distressed. 'You remember our meeting you on the
stairs at ---- House, Mr. Coningsby?'

'Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain.'

'Edith had just been informed that you were going to be married to Lady
Theresa.'

'Not surely by him to whom she is herself going to be married?' said
Coningsby, reddening.

'I am not aware that she is going to be married to any one. Lord
Beaumanoir admires her, has always admired her. But Edith has given him no
encouragement, at least gave him no encouragement as long as she believed;
but why dwell on such an unhappy subject, Mr. Coningsby? I am to blame; I
have been to blame perhaps before, but indeed I think it cruel, very
cruel, that Edith and you are kept asunder.'

'You have always been my best, my dearest friend, and are the most amiable
and admirable of women. But tell me, is it indeed true that Edith is not
going to be married?'

At this moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned round, and assuring Lady Wallinger
that the Prince and herself had agreed to refer some point to her about
the most transcendental ethics of flirtation, this deeply interesting
conversation was arrested, and Lady Wallinger, with becoming suavity, was
obliged to listen to the lady's lively appeal of exaggerated nonsense and
the Prince's affected protests, while Coningsby walked by her side, pale
and agitated, and then offered his arm to Lady Wallinger, which she
accepted with an affectionate pressure. At the end of the terrace they met
some other guests, and soon were immersed in the multitude that thronged
the lawn.

'There is Sir Joseph,' said Lady Wallinger, and Coningsby looked up, and
saw Edith on his arm. They were unconsciously approaching them. Lord
Beaumanoir was there, but he seemed to shrink into nothing to-day before
Buckhurst, who was captivated for the moment by Edith, and hearing that no
knight was resolute enough to try a fall with the Marquess, was impelled
by his talent for action to enter the lists. He had talked down everybody,
unhorsed every cavalier. Nobody had a chance against him: he answered all
your questions before you asked them; contradicted everybody with the
intrepidity of a Rigby; annihilated your anecdotes by historiettes
infinitely more piquant; and if anybody chanced to make a joke which he
could not excel, declared immediately that it was a Joe Miller. He was
absurd, extravagant, grotesque, noisy; but he was young, rattling, and
interesting, from his health and spirits. Edith was extremely amused by
him, and was encouraging by her smile his spiritual excesses, when they
all suddenly met Lady Wallinger and Coningsby.

The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since they so
cruelly encountered on the staircase of ---- House. A deep, quick blush
suffused her face, her eyes gleamed with a sudden coruscation; suddenly
and quickly she put forth her hand.

Yes! he presses once more that hand which permanently to retain is the
passion of his life, yet which may never be his! It seemed that for the
ravishing delight of that moment he could have borne with cheerfulness all
the dark and harrowing misery of the year that had passed away since he
embraced her in the woods of Hellingsley, and pledged his faith by the
waters of the rushing Darl.

He seized the occasion which offered itself, a moment to walk by her side,
and to snatch some brief instants of unreserved communion.

'Forgive me!' she said.

'Ah! how could you ever doubt me?' said Coningsby.

'I was unhappy.'

'And now we are to each other as before?'

'And will be, come what come may.'

END OF BOOK VIII.




BOOK IX.


CHAPTER I.


It was merry Christmas at St. Genevieve. There was a yule log blazing on
every hearth in that wide domain, from the hall of the squire to the
peasant's roof. The Buttery Hatch was open for the whole week from noon to
sunset; all comers might take their fill, and each carry away as much bold
beef, white bread, and jolly ale as a strong man could bear in a basket
with one hand. For every woman a red cloak, and a coat of broadcloth for
every man. All day long, carts laden with fuel and warm raiment were
traversing the various districts, distributing comfort and dispensing
cheer. For a Christian gentleman of high degree was Eustace Lyle.

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