The Young Duke
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Benjamin Disraeli >> The Young Duke
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The carriage stopped; the lights and noise called him to life. This,
surely, could not be home? Whirled open the door, down dashed the steps,
with all that prompt precision which denotes the practised hand of an
aristocratic retainer. (284)
'What is all this, Symmons? Why did you not drive home?'
'Your Grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and some gentlemen sup with your
Grace to-night at the Alhambra.'
'Impossible! Drive home.'
'Your Grace perhaps forgets that your Grace is expected?' said the
experienced servant, who knew when to urge a master, who, to-morrow,
might blame him for permitting his caprice.
'What am I to do? Stay here. I will run upstairs, and put them off.'
He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was just over, and some parties
who were not staying the ballet, had already assembled there. As he
passed along he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, who would not let such
a capital opportunity escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young Duke
together.
'Mr. Bulkley,' said her Ladyship, 'there must be something wrong about
the carriage.' An experienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in
society by being always ready and knowing his cue, resigned the arm of
Lady Caroline St. Maurice and disappeared.
'George,' said Lady Fitz-pompey, 'give your arm to Carry just for one
moment.'
If it had been anybody but his cousin, the Duke would easily have
escaped; but Caroline he invariably treated with marked regard; perhaps
because his conscience occasionally reproached him that he had not
treated her with a stronger feeling. At this moment, too, she was
the only being in the world, save one, whom he could remember with
satisfaction: he felt that he loved her most affectionately, but somehow
she did not inspire him with those peculiar feelings which thrilled his
heart at the recollection of May Dacre.
In this mood he offered an arm, which was accepted; but he could not in
a moment assume the tone of mind befitting his situation and the scene.
He was silent; for him a remarkable circumstance.
'Do not stay here,' said Lady Caroline is a soft voice, which her mother
could not overhear. 'I know you want to be away. Steal off.'
'Where can I be better than with you, Carry?' said the young Duke,
determined not to leave her, and loving her still more for her modest
kindness; and thereon he turned round, and, to show that he was sincere,
began talking with his usual spirit. Mr. Bulkley of course never
returned, and Lady Fitz-pompey felt as satisfied with her diplomatic
talents as a plenipotentiary who has just arranged an advantageous
treaty.
Arundel Dacre came up and spoke to Lady Fitz-pompey. Never did two
persons converse together who were more dissimilar in their manner and
their feelings; and yet Arundel Dacre did contrive to talk; a result
which he could not always accomplish, even with those who could
sympathise with him. Lady Fitz-pompey listened to him with attention;
for Arundel Dacre, in spite of his odd manner, or perhaps in some degree
in consequence of it, had obtained a distinguished reputation both among
men and women; and it was the great principle of Lady Fitz-pompey to
attach to her the distinguished youth of both sexes. She was pleased
with this public homage of Arundel Dacre; because he was one who, with
the reputation of talents, family, and fashion, seldom spoke to anyone,
and his attentions elevated their object. Thus she maintained her
empire.
St. Maurice now came up to excuse himself to the young Duke for not
attending at the Alhambra to-night. 'Sophy could not bear it,' he
whispered: 'she had got her head full of the most ridiculous fancies,
and it was in vain to speak: so he had promised to give up that, as well
as Crockford's.'
This reminded our hero of his party, and the purpose of his entering the
opera. He determined not to leave Caroline till her carriage was called;
and he began to think that he really must go to the Alhambra, after all.
He resolved to send them off at an early hour.
'Anything new to-night, Henry?' asked his Grace, of Lord St. Maurice. 'I
have just come in.'
'Oh! then you have seen them?'
'Seen whom?'
'The most knowing _forestieri_ we ever had. We have been speaking of
nothing else the whole evening. Has not Caroline told you? Arundel Dacre
introduced me to them.'
'Who are they?'
'I forget their names. Dacre, how do you call the heroes of the night?
Dacre never answers. Did you ever observe that? But, see! there they
come.'
The Duke turned, and observed Lord Darrell advancing with two gentlemen
with whom his Grace was well acquainted. These were Prince Charles de
Whiskerburg and Count Frill.
M. de Whiskerburg was the eldest son of a prince, who, besides being
the premier noble of the empire, possessed, in his own country, a very
pretty park of two or three hundred miles in circumference, in the
boundaries of which the imperial mandate was not current, but hid its
diminished head before the supremacy of a subject worshipped under the
title of John the Twenty-fourth. M. de Whiskerburg was a young man,
tall, with a fine figure, and fine features. In short, a sort of
Hungarian Apollo; only his beard, his mustachios, his whiskers,
his _favoris_, his _padishas_, his sultanas, his mignonettas, his
dulcibellas, did not certainly entitle him to the epithet of _imberbis_,
and made him rather an apter representative of the Hungarian Hercules.
Count Frill was a different sort of personage. He was all rings and
ringlets, ruffles, and a little rouge. Much older than his companion,
short in stature, plump in figure, but with a most defined waist, fair,
blooming, with a multiplicity of long light curls, and a perpetual smile
playing upon his round countenance, he looked like the Cupid of an opera
Olympus.
The Duke of St. James had been intimate with these distinguished
gentlemen in their own country, and had received from them many and
distinguished attentions. Often had he expressed to them his sincere
desire to greet them in his native land. Their mutual anxiety of never
again meeting was now removed. If his heart, instead of being bruised,
had been absolutely broken, still honour, conscience, the glory of his
house, his individual reputation, alike urged him not to be cold or
backward at such a moment. He advanced, therefore, with a due mixture
of grace and warmth, and congratulated them on their arrival. At this
moment, Lady Fitz-pompey's carriage was announced. Promising to return
to them in an instant, he hastened to his cousin; but Mr. Arundel Dacre
had already offered his arm, which, for Arundel Dacre, was really pretty
well.
The Duke was now glad that he had a small reunion this evening, as he
could at once pay a courtesy to his foreign friends. He ran into the
Signora's dressing-room, to assure her of his presence. He stumbled
upon Peacock Piggott as he came out, and summoned him to fill the vacant
place of St. Maurice, and then sent him with a message to some friends
who yet lingered in their box, and whose presence, he thought, might be
an agreeable addition to the party.
You entered the Alhambra by a Saracenic cloister, from the ceiling of
which an occasional lamp threw a gleam upon some Eastern arms hung up
against the wall. This passage led to the armoury, a room of moderate
dimensions, but hung with rich contents. Many an inlaid breastplate,
many a Mameluke scimitar and Damascus blade, many a gemmed pistol
and pearl-embroidered saddle, might there be seen, though viewed in a
subdued and quiet light. All seemed hushed, and still, and shrouded in
what had the reputation of being a palace of pleasure.
In this chamber assembled the expected guests. And having all arrived,
they proceeded down a small gallery to the banqueting-room. The room
was large and lofty. It was fitted up as an Eastern tent. The walls
were hung with scarlet cloth, tied up with ropes of gold. Round the room
crouched recumbent lions richly gilt, who grasped in their paws a lance,
the top of which was a coloured lamp. The ceiling was emblazoned with
the Hauteville arms, and was radiant with burnished gold. A cresset lamp
was suspended from the centre of the shield, and not only emitted an
equable flow of soft though brilliant light, but also, as the aromatic
oil wasted away, distilled an exquisite perfume.
The table blazed with golden plate, for the Bird of Paradise loved
splendour. At the end of the room, under a canopy and upon a throne, the
shield and vases lately executed for his Grace now appeared. Everything
was gorgeous, costly, and imposing; but there was no pretence, save
in the original outline, at maintaining the Oriental character. The
furniture was French; and opposite the throne Canova's Hebe, bounded
with a golden cup from a pedestal of ormolu.
The guests are seated; but after a few minutes the servants withdraw.
Small tables of ebony and silver, and dumb waiters of ivory and gold,
conveniently stored, are at hand, and Spiridion never leaves the room.
The repast was refined, exquisite, various. It was one of those meetings
where all eat. When a few persons, easy and unconstrained, unencumbered
with cares, and of dispositions addicted to enjoyment, get together at
past midnight, it is extraordinary what an appetite they evince. Singers
also are proverbially prone to gourmandise; and though the Bird of
Paradise unfortunately possessed the smallest mouth in all Singingland,
it is astonishing how she pecked! But they talked as well as feasted,
and were really gay.
'Prince,' said the Duke, 'I hope Madame de Harestein approves of your
trip to England?'
The Prince only smiled, for he was of a silent disposition, and
therefore wonderfully well suited his travelling companion.
'Poor Madame de Harestein!' exclaimed Count Frill. 'What despair she was
in, when you left Vienna, my dear Duke. I did what I could to amuse her.
I used to take my guitar, and sing to her morning and night, but without
effect. She certainly would have died of a broken heart, if it had not
been for the dancing-dogs.'
'Did they bite her?' asked a lady who affected the wit of Lord Squib,
'and so inoculate her with gaiety.'
'Everybody was mad about the dancing-dogs. They came from Peru, and
danced the mazurka in green jackets with a _jabot_. Oh! what a _jabot!_'
'I dislike animals excessively,' remarked another lady, who was as
refined as Mr. Annesley, her model.
'Dislike the dancing-dogs!' said Count Frill. 'Ah! my good lady, you
would have been enchanted. Even the Kaiser fed them with pistachio nuts.
Oh! so pretty! Delicate leetle things, soft shining little legs, and
pretty little faces! so sensible, and with such _jabots!_'
'I assure you they were excessively amusing,' said the Prince, in a
soft, confidential undertone to his neighbour, Mrs. Montfort, who was as
dignified as she was beautiful, and who, admiring his silence, which she
took for state, smiled and bowed with fascinating condescension.
'And what else has happened very remarkable, Count, since I left you?'
asked Lord Darrell.
'Nothing, nothing, my dear Darrell. This _betise_ of a war has made
us all serious. If old Clamstandt had not married that gipsy, little
Dugiria, I really think I should have taken a turn to Belgrade.'
'You should not eat so much, Poppet!' drawled Charles Annesley to
a Spanish danseuse, tall, dusky and lithe, glancing like a lynx and
graceful as a jennet. She was very silent, but no doubt indicated
the possession of Cervantic humour by the sly calmness with which she
exhausted her own waiter, and pillaged her neighbours.
'Why not?' said a little French actress, highly finished like a
miniature, who scarcely ate anything, but drank champagne and chatted
with equal rapidity and composure, and who was always ready to fight
anybody's battle, provided she could get an opportunity to talk. 'Why
not, Mr. Annesley? You never will let anybody eat. I never eat myself,
because every night, having to talk so much, I am dry, dry, dry; so
I drink, drink, drink. It is an extraordinary thing that there is no
language which makes you so thirsty as French.'
'What can be the reason?' asked a sister of Mrs. Montfort, a tall fair
girl, who looked sentimental, but was only silly.
'Because there is so much salt in it,' said Lord Squib.
'Delia,' drawled Mr. Annesley, 'you look very pretty to-night!'
'I am charmed to charm you, Mr. Annesley. Shall I tell you what Lord Bon
Mot said of you?'
'No, _ma mignonne!_ I never wish to hear my own good things.'
'Spoiled, you should add,' said the fair rival of Lord Squib, 'if Bon
Mot be in the case.'
'Lord Bon Mot is a most gentlemanlike man,' said Delia, indignant at
an admirer being attacked. 'He always wants to be amusing. Whenever he
dines out, he comes and sits with me for half an hour to catch the air
of the Parisian badinage.'
'And you tell him a variety of little things?' asked Lord Squib,
insidiously drawing out the secret tactics of Bon Mot.
'_Beaucoup, beaucoup_,' said Delia, extending two little white hands
sparkling with gems. 'If he come in ever so, how do you call it? heavy,
not that: in the domps. Ah! it is that. If ever he come in the domps, he
goes out always like a _soufflee_.'
'As empty, I have no doubt,' said the witty lady.
'And as sweet, I have no doubt,' said Lord Squib; 'for Delcroix
complains sadly of your excesses, Delia.'
'Mr. Delcroix complain of me! That, indeed, is too bad. Just because I
recommend Montmorency de Versailles to him for an excellent customer,
ever since he abuses me, merely because Montmorency has forgot, in the
hurry of going off, to pay his little account.'
'But he says you have got all the things,' said Lord Squib, whose great
amusement was to put Delia in a passion.
'What of that?' screamed the little lady. 'Montmorency gave them me.'
'Don't make such a noise,' said the Bird of Paradise. 'I never can eat
when there is a noise. Duke,' continued she in a fretful tone, 'they
make such a noise!'
'Annesley, keep Squib quiet.'
'Delia, leave that young man alone. If Isidora would talk a little
more, and you eat a little more, I think you would be the most agreeable
little ladies I know. Poppet! put those bonbons in your pocket. You
should never eat sugarplums in company.'
Thus, talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agreeable dishes, and sipping
agreeable wines, an hour ran on. Sweetest music from an unseen source
ever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a censer full of perfumes
round the chamber. At length the Duke requested Count Frill to give them
a song. The Bird of Paradise would never sing for pleasure, only for
fame and a slight cheque. The Count begged to decline, and at the same
time asked for a guitar. The Signora sent for hers; and his Excellency,
preluding with a beautiful simper, gave them some slight thing to this
effect.
I.
Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!
What a gay little girl is charming Bignetta!
She dances, she prattles,
She rides and she rattles;
But she always is charming, that charming Bignetta!
II
Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!
What a wild little witch is charming Bignetta!
When she smiles, I'm all madness;
When she frowns, I'm all sadness;
But she always is smiling, that charming Bignetta!
III.
Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!
What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta!
She laughs at my shyness,
And flirts with his Highness;
Yet still she is charming, that charming Bignetta!
IV.
Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!
What a dear little girl is charming Bignetta!
'Think me only a sister,'
Said she trembling: I kissed her.
What a charming young sister is charming Bignetta!
To choicer music chimed his gay guitar 'In Este's Halls,' yet still his
song served its purpose, for it raised a smile.
'I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha, at the Congress of Verona,' said
Count Frill. 'It has been thought amusing.'
'Madame Sapiepha!' exclaimed the Bird of Paradise. 'What! that pretty
little woman, who has such pretty caps?'
'The same! Ah! what caps! what taste!'
'You like caps, then?' asked the Bird of Paradise, with a sparkling eye.
'Oh! if there be anything more than another that I know most, it is the
cap. Here,' said he, rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, 'you see
what lace I have got.'
'Ah me! what lace!' exclaimed the Bird, in rapture. 'Duke, look at his
lace. Come here, sit next to me. Let me look at that lace.' She examined
it with great attention, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a
fascinating smile. '_Ah! c'est jolie, n'est-ce pas?_ But you like caps.
I tell you what, you shall see my caps. Spiridion, go, _mon cher_, and
tell Ma'amselle to bring my caps, all my caps, one of each set.'
In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps, all the caps, one of each
set. As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a
panegyric upon each.
'That is pretty, is it not, and this also? but this is my favourite.
What do you think of this border? _c'est belle cette garniture? et
ce jabot, c'est tres-seduisant, n'est-ce pas? Mais voici_, the cap of
Princess Lichtenstein. _C'est superb, c'est mon favori_. But I also love
very much this of the Duchess de Berri. She gave me the pattern herself.
And, after, all, this _cornette a petite sante_ of Lady Blaze is a dear
little thing; then, again, this _coiffe a dentelle_ of Lady Macaroni is
quite a pet.'
'Pass them down,' said Lord Squib; 'we want to look at them.'
Accordingly they were passed down. Lord Squib put one on.
'Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty?' asked his Lordship. The
example was contagious, and most of the caps were appropriated. No one
laughed more than their mistress, who, not having the slightest idea of
the value of money, would have given them all away on the spot; not from
any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance that tomorrow she
might amuse half an hour in buying others.
Whilst some were stealing, and she remonstrating, the Duke clapped
his hands like a caliph. The curtain at the end of the apartment was
immediately withdrawn, and the ball-room stood revealed.
It was the same size as the banqueting-hall. Its walls exhibited a long
perspective of golden pilasters, the frequent piers of which were of
looking-glass, save where, occasionally, a picture had been, as it were,
inlaid in its rich frame. Here was the Titian Venus of the Tribune,
deliciously copied by a French artist: there, the Roman Fornarina, with
her delicate grace, beamed like the personification of Raf-faelle's
genius. Here, Zuleikha, living in the light and shade of that magician
Guercino, in vain summoned the passions of the blooming Hebrew: and
there, Cleopatra, preparing for her last immortal hour, proved by what
we saw that Guido had been a lover.
The ceiling of this apartment was richly painted, and richly gilt: from
it were suspended three lustres by golden cords, which threw a softened
light upon the floor of polished and curiously inlaid woods. At the end
of the apartment was an orchestra.
Round the room waltzed the elegant revellers. Softly and slowly, led by
their host, they glided along like spirits of air; but each time that
the Duke passed the musicians, the music became livelier, and the motion
more brisk, till at length you might have mistaken them for a college of
spinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted couple retreated from the
lists. Some threw themselves on a sofa, some monopolised an easy chair;
but in twenty minutes the whirl had ceased. At length Peacock Piggott
gave a groan, which denoted returning energy, and raised a stretching
leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, upon his foot, one of
the Bird's sublime and beautiful caps.
'Halloa! Piggott, armed _cap-au-pied_, I see,' said Lord Squib. This
joke was a signal for general resuscitation.
The Alhambra formed a quadrangle: all the chambers were on the basement
story. In the middle of the court of the quadrangle was a beautiful
fountain; and the court was formed by a conservatory, which was built
along each side of the interior square, and served, like a cloister
or covered way, for a communication between the different parts of the
building. To this conservatory they now repaired. It was broad, full
of rare and delicious plants and flowers, and brilliantly illuminated.
Busts and statues were intermingled with the fairy grove; and a rich,
warm hue, by a skilful arrangement of coloured lights, was thrown over
many a nymph and fair divinity, many a blooming hero and beardless god.
Here they lounged in different parties, talking on such subjects as
idlers ever fall upon; now and then plucking a flower, now and then
listening to the fountain, now and then lingering over the distant
music, and now and then strolling through a small apartment which opened
to their walks, and which bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. Here,
Canova's Venus breathed an atmosphere of perfume and of light; that
wonderful statue, whose full-charged eye is not very classical, to be
sure; but then, how true!
While they were thus whiling away their time, Lord Squib proposed a
visit to the theatre, which he had ordered to be lit up. To the theatre
they repaired. They rambled over every part of the house, amused
themselves with a visit to the gallery, and then collected behind the
scenes. They were excessively amused with the properties; and Lord Squib
proposed they should dress themselves. In a few minutes they were all
in costume. A crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and chimney-sweeps,
lawyers and Charleys, Spanish Dons, and Irish officers, rushed upon
the stage. The little Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into magnificent
attitudes, with her sword and plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of
Brentford, and very funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell,
Grimaldi. The Prince, and the Count without knowing it, figured as
watchmen. Squib whispered Annesley, that Sir Lucius O'Trigger might
appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress the joke.
The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with infinite spirit,
and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by breakfasting
on the stage. By the time this meal was despatched the purple light of
morn had broken into the building, and the ladies proposed an immediate
departure.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
_Pen Bronnock Palace_
THE arrival of the two distinguished foreigners reanimated the dying
season. All vied in testifying their consideration, and the Duke of St.
James exceeded all. He took them to see the alterations at Hauteville
House, which no one had yet witnessed; and he asked their opinion of his
furniture, which no one had yet decided on. Two fetes in the same week
established, as well as maintained, his character as the Archduke of
fashion. Remembering, however, the agreeable month which he had spent in
the kingdom of John the Twenty-fourth, he was reminded, with annoyance,
that his confusion at Hauteville prevented him from receiving his
friends _en grand seigneur_ in his hereditary castle. Metropolitan
magnificence, which, if the parvenu could not equal, he at least could
imitate, seemed a poor return for the feudal splendour and impartial
festivity of an Hungarian magnate. While he was brooding over these
reminiscences, it suddenly occurred to him that he had never made a
progress into his western territories. Pen Bronnock Palace was the boast
of Cornwall, though its lord had never paid it a visit. The Duke of St.
James sent for Sir Carte Blanche.
Besides entertaining the foreign nobles, the young Duke could no longer
keep off the constantly-recurring idea that something must be done to
entertain himself. He shuddered to think where and what he should have
been been, had not these gentlemen so providentially arrived. As for
again repeating the farce of last year, he felt that it would no longer
raise a smile. Yorkshire he shunned. Doncaster made him tremble. A
week with the Duke of Burlington at Marringworth; a fortnight with the
Fitz-pompeys at Malthorpe; a month with the Graftons at Cleve; and so
on: he shuddered at the very idea. Who can see a pantomime more than
once? Who could survive a pantomime the twentieth time? All the shifting
scenes, and flitting splendour; all the motley crowds of sparkling
characters; all the quick changes, and full variety, are, once,
enchantment. But when the splendour is discovered to be monotony; the
change, order, and the caprice a system; when the characters play ever
the same part, and the variety never varies; how dull, how weary, how
infinitely flat, is such a world to that man who requires from its
converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant excitement!
Pen Bronnock was a new object. At this moment in his life, novelty was
indeed a treasure. If he could cater for a month, no expense should be
grudged; as for the future, he thrust it from his mind. By taking up his
residence, too, at Pen Bronnock, he escaped from all invitations;
and so, in a word, the worthy Knight received orders to make all
preparations at the palace for the reception of a large party in the
course of three weeks.
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