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37 TANCRED
OR
THE NEW CRUSADE
By Benjamin Disraeli
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CHAPTER I.
_A Matter of Importance_
IN THAT part of the celebrated parish of St. George which is bounded on
one side by Piccadilly and on the other by Curzon Street, is a district
of a peculiar character. 'Tis cluster of small streets of little houses,
frequently intersected by mews, which here are numerous, and sometimes
gradually, rather than abruptly, terminating in a ramification of those
mysterious regions. Sometimes a group of courts develops itself, and
you may even chance to find your way into a small market-place. Those,
however, who are accustomed to connect these hidden residences of
the humble with scenes of misery and characters of violence, need not
apprehend in this district any appeal to their sympathies, or any shock
to their tastes. All is extremely genteel; and there is almost as much
repose as in the golden saloons of the contiguous palaces. At any rate,
if there be as much vice, there is as little crime.
No sight or sound can be seen or heard at any hour, which could pain the
most precise or the most fastidious. Even if a chance oath may float on
the air from the stable-yard to the lodging of a French cook, 'tis of
the newest fashion, and, if responded to with less of novel charm, the
repartee is at least conveyed in the language of the most polite of
nations. They bet upon the Derby in these parts a little, are interested
in Goodwood, which they frequent, have perhaps, in general, a weakness
for play, live highly, and indulge those passions which luxury and
refinement encourage; but that is all.
A policeman would as soon think of reconnoitring these secluded streets
as of walking into a house in Park Lane or Berkeley Square, to which,
in fact, this population in a great measure belongs. For here reside the
wives of house-stewards and of butlers, in tenements furnished by the
honest savings of their husbands, and let in lodgings to increase their
swelling incomes; here dwells the retired servant, who now devotes
his practised energies to the occasional festival, which, with his
accumulations in the three per cents., or in one of the public-houses of
the quarter, secures him at the same time an easy living, and the casual
enjoyment of that great world which lingers in his memory. Here may be
found his grace's coachman, and here his lordship's groom, who keeps a
book and bleeds periodically too speculative footmen, by betting odds
on his master's horses. But, above all, it is in this district that
the cooks have ever sought a favourite and elegant abode. An air of
stillness and serenity, of exhausted passions and suppressed emotion,
rather than of sluggishness and of dullness, distinguishes this quarter
during the day.
When you turn from the vitality and brightness of Piccadilly, the
park, the palace, the terraced mansions, the sparkling equipages, the
cavaliers cantering up the hill, the swarming multitude, and enter
the region of which we are speaking, the effect is at first almost
unearthly. Not a carriage, not a horseman, scarcely a passenger; there
seems some great and sudden collapse in the metropolitan system, as if
a pest had been announced, or an enemy were expected in alarm by a
vanquished capital. The approach from Curzon Street has not this effect.
Hyde Park has still about it something of Arcadia. There are woods and
waters, and the occasional illusion of an illimitable distance of sylvan
joyance. The spirit is allured to gentle thoughts as we wander in what
is still really a lane, and, turning down Stanhope Street, behold that
house which the great Lord Chesterfield tells us, in one of his letters,
he was 'building among the fields.' The cawing of the rooks in his
gardens sustains the tone of mind, and Curzon Street, after a long,
straggling, sawney course, ceasing to be a thoroughfare, and losing
itself in the gardens of another palace, is quite in keeping with all
the accessories.
In the night, however, the quarter of which we are speaking is alive.
The manners of the population follow those of their masters. They keep
late hours. The banquet and the ball dismiss them to their homes at a
time when the trades of ordinary regions move in their last sleep, and
dream of opening shutters and decking the windows of their shops.
At night, the chariot whirls round the frequent corners of these little
streets, and the opening valves of the mews vomit forth their legion
of broughams. At night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball
at Holdernesse, or a concert at Lansdowne House, and knowing that,
in either instance, the link-boy will answer when necessary for his
summoned name, ventures to look in at his club, reads the paper, talks
of his master or his mistress, and perhaps throws a main. The shops of
this district, depending almost entirely for their custom on the classes
we have indicated, and kept often by their relations, follow the order
of the place, and are most busy when other places of business are
closed.
A gusty March morning had subsided into a sunshiny afternoon, nearly two
years ago, when a young man, slender, above the middle height, with a
physiognomy thoughtful yet delicate, his brown hair worn long, slight
whiskers, on his chin a tuft, knocked at the door of a house in
Carrington Street, May Fair. His mien and his costume denoted a
character of the class of artists. He wore a pair of green trousers,
braided with a black stripe down their sides, puckered towards the
waist, yet fitting with considerable precision to the boot of French
leather that enclosed a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroon
velvet, displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manufacture, and a
black satin cravat, with a coral brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was
frogged and braided like his trousers. As the knocker fell from the
primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand, he uncovered, and
passing his fingers rapidly through his hair, resumed his new silk hat,
which he placed rather on one side of his head.
'Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?' exclaimed a pretty girl, who opened the
door and blushed.
'And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at home? For I want to see him
much.'
'I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander, for he will be very
happy to see you. We have been thinking of hearing of you,' she added,
talking as she ushered her guest up the narrow staircase. 'The good papa
has a little cold: 'tis not much, I hope; caught at Sir Wallinger's, a
large dinner; they would have the kitchen windows open, which spoilt all
the entrees, and papa got a cold; but I think, perhaps, it is as much
vexation as anything else, you know if anything goes wrong, especially
with the entrees------'
'He feels as a great artist must,' said Leander, finishing her sentence.
'However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him a prisoner, for I
am pressed to see him. It is only this morning that I have returned from
Mr. Coningsby's at Hellingsley: the house full, forty covers every
day, and some judges. One does not grudge one's labour if we are
appreciated,' added Leander; 'but I have had my troubles. One of my
marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I had a genius, but on the
third day he lost his head; and had it not been---- Ah! good papa,'
he exclaimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly shook
the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting in an easy
chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a French
newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a white cotton nightcap on his
head.
'Ah! my child,' said Papa Prevost, 'is it you? You see me a prisoner;
Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant's; dressed in a draught;
everything spoiled, and I------' and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped his
_eau sucree_.
'We have all our troubles,' said Leander, in a consoling tone; 'but
we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country;
Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found
him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis.
The son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted.
Camacho's wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a
capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our
marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is
to be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood,
high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke's cook is not
equal to the occasion. 'Tis an hereditary chef who gives dinners of the
time of the continental blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send
them the first artist of the age,' said Leander; 'and,' added he, with
some hesitation, 'Daubuz has written to me.'
'And he did quite right, my child,' said Prevost, 'for there is not a
man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? That Abreu rivals
you in flavour, and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can
combine _gout_ with new combinations? 'Tis yourself, Leander; and there
is no question, though you have only twenty-five years, that you are the
chef of the age.'
'You are always very good to me, sir,' said Leander, bending his head
with great respect; 'and I will not deny that to be famous when you are
young is the fortune of the gods. But we must never forget that I had an
advantage which Abreu and Gaillard had not, and that I was your pupil.'
'I hope that I have not injured you,' said Papa Prevost, with an air of
proud self-content. 'What you learned from me came at least from a good
school. It is something to have served under Napoleon,' added Prevost,
with the grand air of the Imperial kitchen. 'Had it not been for
Waterloo, I should have had the cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks
of the Empire never could understand each other: They brought over an
emigrant chef, who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to
bring everything back to the time of the _oeil de bouf_. When Monsieur
passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was doomed.
But we gossip. You wished to consult me?'
'I want not only your advice but your assistance. This affair of the
Duke of Bellamont requires all our energies. I hope you will accompany
me; and, indeed, we must muster all our forces. It is not to be denied
that there is a want, not only of genius, but of men, in our art. The
cooks are like the civil engineers: since the middle class have taken to
giving dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.'
'There is Andrien,' said Papa Prevost; 'you had some hopes of him?'
'He is too young; I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his head on
the third day. I entrusted the soufflees to him, and, but for the most
desperate personal exertions, all would have been lost. It was an affair
of the bridge of Areola.'
'Ah! _mon Dieu!_ those are moments!' exclaimed Prevost. 'Gaillard and
Abreu will not serve under you, eh? And if they would, they could not be
trusted. They would betray you at the tenth hour.'
'What I want are generals of division, not commanders-in-chief. Abreu is
sufficiently _bon garcon_, but he has taken an engagement with Monsieur
de Sidonia, and is not permitted to go out.'
'With Monsieur de Sidonia! You once thought of that, my Leander. And
what is his salary?'
'Not too much; four hundred and some perquisites. It would not suit me;
besides, I will take no engagement but with a crowned head. But Abreu
likes travelling, and he has his own carriage, which pleases him.'
'There are Philippon and Dumoreau,' said Prevost; 'they are very safe.'
'I was thinking of them,' said Leander, 'they are safe, under you.
And there is an Englishman, Smit, he is chef at Sir Stanley's, but his
master is away at this moment. He has talent.'
'Yourself, four chefs, with your marmitons; it would do,' said Prevost.
'For the kitchen,' said Leander; 'but who is to dress the tables?'
'A-h!' exclaimed Papa Prevost, shaking his head.
'Daubuz' head man, Trenton, is the only one I could trust; and he wants
fancy, though his style is broad and bold. He made a pyramid of pines
relieved with grapes, without destroying the outline, very good, this
last week, at Hellingsley. But Trenton has been upset on the railroad,
and much injured. Even if he recover, his hand will tremble so for the
next month that! could have no confidence in him.'
'Perhaps you might find some one at the Duke's?'
'Out of the question!' said Leander; 'I make it always a condition
that the head of every department shall be appointed by myself. I take
Pellerini with me for the confectionery. How often have I seen the
effect of a first-rate dinner spoiled by a vulgar dessert! laid flat on
the table, for example, or with ornaments that look as if they had been
hired at a pastrycook's: triumphal arches, and Chinese pagodas, and
solitary pines springing up out of ice-tubs surrounded with peaches, as
if they were in the window of a fruiterer of Covent Garden.'
'Ah! it is incredible what uneducated people will do,' said Prevost.
'The dressing of the tables was a department of itself in the Imperial
kitchen.'
'It demands an artist of a high calibre,' said Leander. 'I know only
one man who realises my idea, and he is at St. Petersburg. You do not
know Anastase? There is a man! But the Emperor has him secure. He can
scarcely complain, however, since he is decorated, and has the rank of
full colonel.'
'Ah!' said Prevost, mournfully, 'there is no recognition of genius in
this country. What think you of Vanesse, my child? He has had a regular
education.'
'In a bad school: as a pis aller one might put up with him. But his
eternal tiers of bonbons! As if they were ranged for a supper of the
Carnival, and my guests were going to pelt each other! No, I could not
stand Vanesse, papa.'
'The dressing of the table: 'tis a rare talent,' said Prevost,
mournfully, 'and always was. In the Imperial kitchen------'
'Papa,' said Eugenie, opening the door, and putting in her head, 'here
is Monsieur Vanillette just come from Brussels. He has brought you a
basket of truffles from Ardennes. I told him you were on business, but
to-night, if you be at home, he could come.'
'Vanillette!' exclaimed Prevost, starting in his chair, 'our little
Vanillette! There is your man, Le-ander. He was my first pupil, as you
were my last, my child. Bring up our little Vanillette, Eugenie. He is
in the household of King Leopold, and his forte is dressing the table!'
CHAPTER II.
_The House of Bellamont_
THE Duke of Bellamont was a personage who, from his rank, his blood, and
his wealth, might almost be placed at the head of the English nobility.
Although the grandson of a mere country gentleman, his fortunate
ancestor, in the decline of the last century, had captivated the heiress
of the Montacutes, Dukes of Bellamont, a celebrated race of the times
of the Plantagenets. The bridegroom, at the moment of his marriage,
had adopted the illustrious name of his young and beautiful wife. Mr.
Montacute was by nature a man of energy and of an enterprising spirit.
His vast and early success rapidly developed his native powers. With the
castles and domains and boroughs of the Bellamonts, he resolved also to
acquire their ancient baronies and their modern coronets. The times were
favourable to his projects, though they might require the devotion of
a life. He married amid the disasters of the American war. The king and
his minister appreciated the independent support afforded them by Mr.
Montacute, who represented his county, and who commanded five votes
in the House besides his own. He was one of the chief pillars of their
cause; but he was not only independent, he was conscientious and had
scruples. Saratoga staggered him. The defection of the Montacute votes,
at this moment, would have at once terminated the struggle between
England and her colonies. A fresh illustration of the advantages of
our parliamentary constitution! The independent Mr. Montacute, however,
stood by his sovereign; his five votes continued to cheer the noble lord
in the blue ribbon, and their master took his seat and the oaths in the
House of Lords, as Earl of Bellamont and Viscount Montacute. This might
be considered sufficiently well for one generation; but the silver spoon
which some fairy had placed in the cradle of the Earl of Bellamont was
of colossal proportions. The French Revolution succeeded the American
war, and was occasioned by it. It was but just, therefore, that it also
should bring its huge quota to the elevation of the man whom a colonial
revolt had made an earl. Amid the panic of Jacobinism, the declamations
of the friends of the people, the sovereign having no longer Hanover for
a refuge, and the prime minister examined as a witness in favour of the
very persons whom he was trying for high treason, the Earl of Bellamont
made a calm visit to Downing Street, and requested the revival of all
the honours of the ancient Earls and Dukes of Bellamont in his own
person. Mr. Pitt, who was far from favourable to the exclusive character
which distinguished the English peerage in the last century, was
himself not disinclined to accede to the gentle request of his powerful
supporter; but the king was less flexible. His Majesty, indeed, was on
principle not opposed to the revival of titles in families to whom the
domains without the honours of the old nobility had descended; and he
recognised the claim of the present Earls of Bellamont eventually to
regain the strawberry leaf which had adorned the coronet of the father
of the present countess. But the king was of opinion that this supreme
distinction ought only to be conferred on the blood of the old house,
and that a generation, therefore, must necessarily elapse before a
Duke of Bellamont could again figure in the golden book of the English
aristocracy.
But George the Third, with all his firmness, was doomed to frequent
discomfiture. His lot was cast in troubled waters, and he had often to
deal with individuals as inflexible as himself. Benjamin Franklin was
not more calmly contumacious than the individual whom his treason had
made an English peer. In that age of violence, change and panic, power,
directed by a clear brain and an obdurate spirit, could not fail of its
aim; and so it turned out, that, in the very teeth of the royal will,
the simple country gentleman, whose very name was forgotten, became,
at the commencement of this century, Duke of Bellamont, Marquis of
Montacute, Earl of Bellamont, Dacre, and Villeroy, with all the baronies
of the Plantagenets in addition. The only revenge of the king was, that
he never would give the Duke of Bellamont the garter. It was as well
perhaps that there should be something for his son to desire.
The Duke and Duchess of Bellamont were the handsomest couple in England,
and devoted to each other, but they had only one child. Fortunately,
that child was a son. Precious life! The Marquis of Montacute was
married before he was of age. Not a moment was to be lost to find heirs
for all these honours. Perhaps, had his parents been less precipitate,
their object might have been more securely obtained. The union' was not
a happy one. The first duke had, however, the gratification of dying a
grandfather. His successor bore no resemblance to him, except in that
beauty which became a characteristic of the race. He was born to enjoy,
not to create. A man of pleasure, the chosen companion of the Regent in
his age of riot, he was cut off in his prime; but he lived long enough
to break his wife's heart and his son's spirit; like himself, too, an
only child.
The present Duke of Bellamont had inherited something of the clear
intelligence of his grandsire, with the gentle disposition of his
mother. His fair abilities, and his benevolent inclinations, had been
cultivated. His mother had watched over the child, in whom she found
alike the charm and consolation of her life. But, at a certain period of
youth, the formation of character requires a masculine impulse, and that
was wanting. The duke disliked his son; in time he became even jealous
of him. The duke had found himself a father at too early a period of
life. Himself in his lusty youth, he started with alarm at the form that
recalled his earliest and most brilliant hour, and who might prove a
rival. The son was of a gentle and affectionate nature, and sighed for
the tenderness of his harsh and almost vindictive parent. But he had not
that passionate soul which might have appealed, and perhaps not in vain,
to the dormant sympathies of the being who had created him. The young
Montacute was by nature of an extreme shyness, and the accidents of his
life had not tended to dissipate his painful want of self-confidence.
Physically courageous, his moral timidity was remarkable. He alternately
blushed or grew pale in his rare interviews with his father, trembled
in silence before the undeserved sarcasm, and often endured the unjust
accusation without an attempt to vindicate himself. Alone, and in
tears alike of woe and indignation, he cursed the want of resolution or
ability which had again missed the opportunity that, both for his mother
and himself, might have placed affairs in a happier position. Most
persons, under these circumstances, would have become bitter, but
Montacute was too tender for malice, and so he only turned melancholy.
On the threshold of manhood, Montacute lost his mother, and this seemed
the catastrophe of his unhappy life. His father neither shared his
grief, nor attempted to alleviate it. On the contrary, he seemed to
redouble his efforts to mortify his son. His great object was to prevent
Lord Montacute from entering society, and he was so complete a master
of the nervous temperament on which he was acting that there appeared
a fair chance of his succeeding in his benevolent intentions. When his
son's education was completed, the duke would not furnish him with the
means of moving in the world in a becoming manner, or even sanction his
travelling. His Grace was resolved to break his son's spirit by keeping
him immured in the country. Other heirs apparent of a rich seignory
would soon have removed these difficulties. By bill or by bond, by
living usury, or by post-obit liquidation, by all the means that private
friends or public offices could supply, the sinews of war would have
been forthcoming. They would have beaten their fathers' horses at
Newmarket, eclipsed them with their mistresses, and, sitting for their
boroughs, voted against their party. But Montacute was not one of those
young heroes who rendered so distinguished the earlier part of this
century. He had passed his life so much among women and clergymen that
he had never emancipated himself from the old law that enjoined him
to honour a parent. Besides, with all his shyness and timidity, he was
extremely proud. He never forgot that he was a Montacute, though he had
forgotten, like the world in general, that his grandfather once bore a
different and humbler name. All merged in the great fact, that he was
the living representative of those Montacutes of Bellamont, whose wild
and politic achievements, or the sustained splendour of whose stately
life had for seven hundred years formed a stirring and superb portion
of the history and manners of our country. Death was preferable, in
his view, to having such a name soiled in the haunts of jockeys and
courtesans and usurers; and, keen as was the anguish which the conduct
of the duke to his mother or himself had often occasioned him, it
was sometimes equalled in degree by the sorrow and the shame which he
endured when he heard of the name of Bellamont only in connection with
some stratagem of the turf or some frantic revel. Without a friend,
almost without an acquaintance, Montacute sought refuge in love. She who
shed over his mournful life the divine ray of feminine sympathy was
his cousin, the daughter of his mother's brother, an English peer, but
resident in the north of Ireland, where he had vast possessions. It was
a family otherwise little calculated to dissipate the reserve and gloom
of a depressed and melancholy youth; puritanical, severe and formal in
their manners, their relaxations a Bible Society, or a meeting for the
conversion of the Jews. But Lady Katherine was beautiful, and all were
kind to one to whom kindness was strange, and the soft pathos of whose
solitary spirit demanded affection.
Montacute requested his father's permission to marry his cousin, and was
immediately refused. The duke particularly disliked his wife's family;
but the fact is, he had no wish that his son should ever marry. He meant
to perpetuate his race himself, and was at this moment, in the midst of
his orgies, meditating a second alliance, which should compensate him
for his boyish blunder. In this state of affairs, Montacute, at length
stung to resistance, inspired by the most powerful of passions, and
acted upon by a stronger volition than his own, was planning a marriage
in spite of his father (love, a cottage by an Irish lake, and seven
hundred a-year) when intelligence arrived that his father, whose
powerful frame and vigorous health seemed to menace a patriarchal term,
was dead.
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