The Infernal Marriage
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Benjamin Disraeli >> The Infernal Marriage
But the Queen of Hell was not destined to undisturbed repose. A dream
descended on her brain, and the dream was terrible and strange. She
beheld herself a child, playing, as was her wont, in the gardens of
Enna, twining garlands of roses, and chasing butterflies. Suddenly, from
a bosky thicket of myrtle, slowly issued forth an immense serpent, dark
as night, but with eyes of the most brilliant tint, and approached the
daughter of Ceres. The innocent child, ignorant of evil, beheld the
monster without alarm. Not only did she neither fly nor shriek, but she
even welcomed and caressed the frightful stranger, patted its voluminous
back, and admired its sparkling vision. The serpent, fascinated instead
of fascinating, licked her feet with his arrowy tongue, and glided about
for her diversion in a thousand shapes. Emboldened by its gentleness,
the little Proserpine at length even mounted on its back, and rode in
triumph among her bowers. Every day the dark serpent issued from the
thicket, and every day he found a welcome playmate. Now it come to
pass that one day the serpent, growing more bold, induced the young
Proserpine to extend her ride beyond the limits of Enna. Night came on,
and as it was too late to return, the serpent carried her to a large
cave, where it made for her a couch of leaves, and while she slept the
affectionate monster kept guard for her protection at the mouth of the
cavern. For some reason or other which was not apparent, for in dreams
there are always some effects without causes, Proserpine never returned
to Enna, but remained and resided with cheerfulness in this cavern. Each
morning the serpent went forth alone to seek food for its charge,
and regularly returned with a bough in its mouth laden with delicious
fruits. One day, during the absence of her guardian, a desire seized
Proserpine to quit the cavern, and accordingly she went forth. The fresh
air and fragrance of the earth were delightful to her, and she roamed
about, unconscious of time, and thoughtless of her return. And as she
sauntered along, singing to herself, a beautiful white dove, even
the same dove that had welcomed her in the morning on the heights of
Elysium, flew before her with its wings glancing in the sunshine. It
seemed that the bird wished to attract the attention of the child, so
long and so closely did it hover about her; now resting on a branch, as
if inviting capture, and then skimming away only to return more swiftly;
and occasionally, when for a moment unnoticed, even slightly flapping
the rambler with its plume. At length the child was taken with a fancy
to catch the bird. But no sooner had she evinced this desire, than the
bird, once apparently so anxious to be noticed, seemed resolved to
lead her a weary chase; and hours flew away ere Proserpine, panting and
exhausted, had captured the beautiful rover and pressed it to her bosom.
It was, indeed, a most beautiful bird, and its possession repaid her
for all her exertions. But lo! as she stood, in a wild sylvan scene
caressing it, smoothing its soft plumage, and pressing its head to her
cheek, she beheld in the distance approaching her the serpent, and
she beheld her old friend with alarm. Apparently her misgiving was
not without cause. She observed in an instant that the appearance and
demeanour of the serpent were greatly changed. It approached her swift
as an arrow, its body rolling in the most agitated contortions, its jaws
were distended as if to devour her, its eyes flashed fire, its tongue
was a forked flame, and its hiss was like a stormy wind. Proserpine
shrieked, and the Queen of Hell awoke from her dream.
The next morning the Elysian world called to pay their respects to
Proserpine. Her Majesty, indeed, held a drawing-room, which was
fully and brilliantly attended. Her beauty and her graciousness were
universally pronounced enchanting. From this moment the career of
Proserpine was a series of magnificent entertainments. The principal
Elysians vied with each other in the splendour and variety of the
amusements, which they offered to the notice of their Queen. Operas,
plays, balls, and banquets followed in dazzling succession. Proserpine,
who was almost inexperienced in society, was quite fascinated. She
regretted the years she had wasted in her Sicilian solitude; she
marvelled that she ever could have looked forward with delight to a dull
annual visit to Olympus; she almost regretted that, for the sake of an
establishment, she could have been induced to cast her lot in the regal
gloom of Tartarus. Elysium exactly suited her. The beauty of the climate
and the country, the total absence of care, the constant presence of
amusement, the luxury, gaiety, and refined enjoyment perfectly accorded
with her amiable disposition, her lively fancy and her joyous temper.
She drank deep and eagerly of the cup of pleasure. She entered into all
the gay pursuits of her subjects; she even invented new combinations
of diversion. Under her inspiring rule every one confessed that Elysium
became every day more Elysian. The manners of her companions greatly
pleased her. She loved those faces always wreathed with smiles, yet
never bursting into laughter. She was charmed at the amiable tone in
which they addressed each other. Never apparently were people at the
same time so agreeable, so obliging, and so polished. For in all they
said and did might be detected that peculiar air of high-breeding which
pervades the whole conduct of existence with a certain indefinable
spirit of calmness, so that your nerves are never shaken by too intense
an emotion, which eventually produces a painful reaction. Whatever they
did, the Elysians were careful never to be vehement; a grand passion,
indeed, was unknown in these happy regions; love assumed the milder form
of flirtation; and as for enmity, you were never abused except behind
your back, or it exuded itself in an epigram, or, at the worst, a
caricature scribbled upon a fan.
There is one characteristic of the Elysians which, in justice to them, I
ought not to have omitted. They were eminently a moral people. If a lady
committed herself, she was lost for ever, and packed off immediately to
the realm of Twilight. Indeed, they were so particular, that the moment
one of the softer sex gave the slightest symptoms of preference to
a fortunate admirer, the Elysian world immediately began to look
unutterable things, shrug its moral shoulders, and elevate its
charitable eyebrows. But if the preference, by any unlucky chance,
assumed the nobler aspect of devotion, and the unhappy fair one gave any
indication of really possessing a heart, rest assured she was already
half way on the road to perdition. Then commenced one of the most
curious processes imaginable, peculiar I apprehend to Elysium, but which
I record that the society of less fortunate lands may avail itself of
the advantage, and adopt the regulation in its moral police. Immediately
that it was clearly ascertained that two persons of different sexes took
an irrational interest in each other's society, all the world instantly
went about, actuated by a purely charitable sentiment, telling the most
extraordinary falsehoods concerning them that they could devise. Thus it
was the fashion to call at one house and announce that you had detected
the unhappy pair in a private box at the theatre, and immediately to pay
your respects at another mansion and declare that you had observed them
on the very same day, and at the very same hour, in a boat on the river.
At the next visit, the gentleman had been discovered driving her in his
cab; and in the course of the morning the scene of indiscretion was the
Park, where they had been watched walking by moonlight, muffled up in
sables and cashmeres.
This curious process of diffusing information was known in Elysium
under the title of _'being talked about;_' and although the stories thus
disseminated were universally understood to be fictions, the Elysians
ascribed great virtue to the proceeding, maintaining that many an
indiscreet fair one had been providentially alarmed by thus becoming the
subject of universal conversation; that thus many a reputation had
been saved by this charitable slander. There were some malignant
philosophers, indeed, doubtless from that silly love of paradox in all
ages too prevalent, who pretended that all this Elysian morality was one
great delusion, and that this scrupulous anxiety about the conduct of
others arose from a principle, not of _Purity_, but of _Corruption_.
The woman who is 'talked about,' these sages would affirm, is generally
virtuous, and she is only abused because she devotes to one the charms
which all wish to enjoy.
Thus Dido, who is really one of the finest creatures that ever existed,
and who with a majestic beauty combines an heroic soul, has made her
way with difficulty to the Elysian circle, to which her charms and
rank entitle her; while Helen, who, from her very _debut_, has
been surrounded by fifty lovers, and whose intrigues have ever been
notorious, is the very queen of fashion; and all this merely because she
has favoured fifty instead of one, and in the midst of all her scrapes
has contrived to retain the countenance of her husband.
Apropos of Dido, the Queen of Carthage was the person in all Elysium for
whom Proserpine took the greatest liking. Exceedingly beautiful, with
the most generous temper and the softest heart in the world, and blessed
by nature with a graceful simplicity of manner, which fashion had
never sullied, it really was impossible to gaze upon the extraordinary
brilliancy of her radiant countenance, to watch the symmetry of her
superb figure, and to listen to the artless yet lively observations
uttered by a voice musical as a bell, without being fairly bewitched.
When we first enter society, we are everywhere; yet there are few, I
imagine, who, after a season, do not subside into a coterie. When the
glare of saloons has ceased to dazzle, and we are wearied with the
heartless notice of a crowd, we require refinement and sympathy. We find
them, and we sink into a clique. And after all, can the river of life
flow on more agreeably than in a sweet course of pleasure with those
we love? To wander in the green shade of secret woods and whisper our
affection; to float on the sunny waters of some gentle stream, and
listen to a serenade; to canter with a light-hearted cavalcade over
breezy downs, or cool our panting chargers in the summer stillness of
winding and woody lanes; to banquet with the beautiful and the witty; to
send care to the devil, and indulge the whim of the moment; the priest,
the warrior and the statesman may frown and struggle as they like; but
this is existence, and this, this is Elysium!
So Proserpine deemed when, wearied with the monotony of the great
world, she sought refuge in the society of Dido and Atalanta, Achilles,
Amphion, and Patroclus or Memnon. When AEneas found that Dido had become
fashionable, he made overtures for a reconciliation, but Dido treated
him with calm contempt. The pious AEneas, indeed, was the aversion of
Proserpine. He was the head of the Elysian saints, was president of a
society to induce the Gnomes only to drink water, and was so horrified
at the general conduct of the Elysians, that he questioned the decrees
of Minos and Rhadamanthus, who had permitted them to enter the happy
region so easily. The pious AEneas was of opinion that everybody ought to
have been damned except himself. Proserpine gave him no encouragement.
Achilles was the finest gentleman in Elysium. No one dressed or rode
like him. He was very handsome, very witty, very unaffected, and had an
excellent heart. Achilles was the leader of the Elysian youth, who were
indeed devoted to him: Proserpine took care, therefore, that he should
dangle in her train. Amphion had a charming voice for a supper after the
opera. He was a handsome little fellow, but not to be depended upon.
He broke a heart, or a dinner engagement, with the same reckless
sentimentality; for he was one of those who always weep when they betray
you, and whom you are sure never to see again immediately that they have
vowed eternal friendship. Patroclus was a copy of Achilles without his
talents and vivacity, but elegant and quiet. Of all these, Memnon was
perhaps the favourite of Proserpine; nor must he be forgotten; amiable,
gay, brilliant, the child of whim and impulse, in love with every woman
he met for four-and-twenty hours, and always marvelling at his own
delusion!