The Young Duke

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> The Young Duke

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

Sir Carte, as usual, did wonders. There was, fortunately for his
employer, no time to build or paint, but some dingy rooms were hung with
scarlet cloth; cart-loads of new furniture were sent down; the theatre
was re-burnished; the stables put in order; and, what was of infinitely
more importance in the estimation of all Englishmen, the neglected pile
was 'well aired.'

CHAPTER II.

_A Dandy From Vienna_

WE ARE in the country, and such a country, that even in Italy we think
of thee, native Hesperia! Here, myrtles grow, and fear no blasting
north, or blighting east. Here, the south wind blows with that soft
breath which brings the bloom to flesh. Here, the land breaks in gentle
undulations; and here, blue waters kiss a verdant shore. Hail! to thy
thousand bays, and deep-red earth, thy marble quarries, and thy silver
veins! Hail! to thy far-extending landscape, whose sparkling villages
and streaky fields no clime can match!

Some gales we owe to thee of balmy breath, some gentle hours when life
had fewest charms. And we are grateful for all this, to say nothing of
your cider and your junkets.

The Duke arrived just as the setting sun crowned the proud palace with
his gleamy rays. It was a pile which the immortal Inigo had raised in
sympathy with the taste of a noble employer, who had passed his
earliest years in Lombardy. Of stone, and sometimes even of marble, with
pediments and balustrades, and ornamental windows, and richly-chased
keystones, and flights of steps, and here and there a statue, the
structure was quite Palladian, though a little dingy, and, on the whole,
very imposing.

There were suites of rooms which had no end, and staircases which had no
beginning. In this vast pile, nothing was more natural than to lose your
way, an agreeable amusement on a rainy morning. There was a collection
of pictures, very various, by which phrase we understand not select.
Yet they were amusing; and the Canalettis were unrivalled. There was a
regular ball-room, and a theatre; so resources were at hand. The scenes,
though dusty, were numerous; and the Duke had provided new dresses. The
park was not a park; by which we mean, that it was rather a chase than
the highly-finished enclosure which we associate with the first title.
In fact, Pen Bronnock Chase was the right name of the settlement; but
some monarch travelling, having been seized with a spasm, recruited his
strength under the roof of his loyal subject, then the chief seat of the
House of Hauteville, and having in his urgency been obliged to hold a
privy council there, the supreme title of palace was assumed by right.

The domain was bounded on one side by the sea; and here a yacht and
some slight craft rode at anchor in a small green bay, and offered an
opportunity for the adventurous, and a refuge for the wearied. When you
have been bored for an hour or two on earth, it sometimes is a change to
be bored for an hour or two on water.

The house was soon full, and soon gay. The guests, and the means
of amusing them, were equally numerous. But this was no common
_villeggiatura_, no visit to a family with their regular pursuits and
matured avocations. The host was as much a guest as any other. The young
Duke appointed Lord Squib master of the ceremonies, and gave orders
for nothing but constant excitement. Constant excitement his Lordship
managed to maintain, for he was experienced, clever, careless and gay,
and, for once in his life, had the command of unbounded resources. He
ordered, he invented, he prepared, and he expended. They acted, they
danced, they sported, they sailed, they feasted, they masqueraded; and
when they began to get a little wearied of themselves, and their own
powers of diversion gradually vanished, then a public ball was given
twice a week at the palace, and all the West of England invited. New
faces brought new ideas; new figures brought new fancies. All were
delighted with the young Duke, and flattery from novel quarters will for
a moment whet even the appetite of the satiated. Simplicity, too, can
interest. There were some Misses Gay-weather who got unearthed, who
never had been in London, though nature had given them sparkling eyes
and springing persons. This tyranny was too bad. Papa was quizzed, mamma
flattered, and the daughters' simplicity amused these young lordlings.
Rebellion was whispered in the small ears of the Gay weathers. The
little heads, too, of the Gay-weathers were turned. They were the
constant butt, and the constant resource, of every lounging dandy.

The Bird of Paradise also arranged her professional engagements so as
to account with all possible propriety for her professional visit at Pen
Bronnock. The musical meeting at Exeter over, she made her appearance,
and some concerts were given, which electrified all Cornwall. Count
Frill was very strong here; though, to be sure, he also danced, and
acted, in all varieties. He was the soul, too, of a masqued ball; but
when complimented on his accomplishments, and thanked for his exertions,
he modestly depreciated his worth, and panegyrised the dancing-dogs.

As for the Prince, on the whole, he maintained his silence; but it
was at length discovered by the fair sex that he was not stupid, but
sentimental. When this was made known he rather lost ground with the
dark sex, who, before thinking him thick, had vowed that he was a
devilish good fellow; but now, being really envious, had their tale
and hint, their sneer and sly joke. M. de Whiskerburg had one active
accomplishment; this was his dancing. His gallopade was declared to
be divine: he absolutely sailed in air. His waltz, at his will, either
melted his partner into a dream, or whirled her into a frenzy! Dangerous
M. de Whiskerburg!

CHAPTER III.

_'A Little Rift.'_

IT IS said that the conduct of refined society, in a literary point of
view, is, on the whole, productive but of slight interest; that all we
can aspire to is, to trace a brilliant picture of brilliant manners;
and that when the dance and the festival have been duly inspired by the
repartee and the sarcasm, and the gem, the robe, and the plume adroitly
lighted up by the lamp and the lustre, our cunning is exhausted. And so
your novelist generally twists this golden thread with some substantial
silken cord, for use, and works up, with the light dance, and with the
heavy dinner, some secret marriage, and some shrouded murder. And thus,
by English plots and German mysteries, the page trots on, or jolts,
till, in the end, Justice will have her way, and the three volumes are
completed.

A plan both good and antique, and also popular, but not our way. We
prefer trusting to the slender incidents which spring from out our
common intercourse. There is no doubt that that great pumice-stone,
Society, smooths down the edges of your thoughts and manners. Bodies of
men who pursue the same object must ever resemble each other: the life
of the majority must ever be imitation. Thought is a labour to which few
are competent; and truth requires for its development as much courage as
acuteness. So conduct becomes conventional, and opinion is a legend; and
thus all men act and think alike.

But this is not peculiar to what is called fashionable life, it is
peculiar to civilisation, which gives the passions less to work upon.
Mankind are not more heartless because they are clothed in ermine; it is
that their costume attracts us to their characters, and we stare because
we find the prince or the peeress neither a conqueror nor a heroine. The
great majority of human beings in a country like England glides through
existence in perfect ignorance of their natures, so complicated and so
controlling is the machinery of our social life! Few can break the bonds
that tie them down, and struggle for self-knowledge; fewer, when
the talisman is gained, can direct their illuminated energies to the
purposes with which they sympathise.

A mode of life which encloses in its circle all the dark and deep
results of unbounded indulgence, however it may appear to some who
glance over the sparkling surface, does not exactly seem to us one
either insipid or uninteresting to the moral speculator; and, indeed, we
have long been induced to suspect that the seeds of true sublimity lurk
in a life which, like this book, is half fashion and half passion.

We know not how it was, but about this time an unaccountable, almost
an imperceptible, coolness seemed to spring up between our hero and the
Lady Aphrodite. If we were to puzzle our brains for ever, we could not
give you the reason. Nothing happened, nothing had been said or done,
which could indicate its origin. Perhaps this _was_ the origin; perhaps
the Duke's conduct had become, though unexceptionable, too negative.
But here we only throw up a straw. Perhaps, if we must go on suggesting,
anxiety ends in callousness.

His Grace had thought so much of her feelings, that he had quite
forgotten his own, or worn them out. Her Ladyship, too, was perhaps
a little disappointed at the unexpected reconciliation. When we have
screwed our courage up to the sticking point, we like not to be baulked.
Both, too, perhaps--we go on _perhapsing_--both, too, we repeat,
perhaps, could not help mutually viewing each other as the cause of much
mutual care and mutual anxiousness. Both, too, perhaps, were a little
tired, but without knowing it. The most curious thing, and which would
have augured worst to a calm judge, was, that they silently seemed
to agree not to understand that any alteration had really taken place
between them, which, we think, was a bad sign: because a lover's
quarrel, we all know, like a storm in summer, portends a renewal of warm
weather or ardent feelings; and a lady is never so well seated in her
admirer's heart as when those betters are interchanged which express so
much, and those explanations entered upon which explain so little.

And here we would dilate on greater things than some imagine; but,
unfortunately, we are engaged. For Newmarket calls Sir Lucius and his
friends. We will not join them, having lost enough. His Grace half
promised to be one of the party; but when the day came, just remembered
the Shropshires were expected, and so was very sorry, and the rest. Lady
Aphrodite and himself parted with warmth which remarkably contrasted
with their late intercourse, and which neither of them could decide
whether it were reviving affection or factitious effort. M. de
Whiskerburg and Count Frill departed with Sir Lucius, being extremely
desirous to be initiated in the mysteries of the turf, and, above all,
to see a real English jockey.

CHAPTER IV.

_Satiety._

THE newspapers continued to announce the departures of new visitors to
the Duke of St. James, and to dilate upon the protracted and princely
festivity of Pen Bron-nock. But while thousands were envying his lot,
and hundreds aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of our
hero?

A month or two had rolled on and if he had not absolutely tasted
enjoyment, at least he had thrown off reflection; but as the autumn wore
away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the
repetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, he
could no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and those
feelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one who
was receiving the homage of an admiring world. In a word, the Duke of
St. James was the most miserable wretch that ever lived.

'Where is this to end?' he asked himself. 'Is this year to close, to
bring only a repetition of the past? Well, I have had it all, and what
is it? My restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetites
are at length exhausted. I have known this mighty world, and where am
I? Once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the
tremulous and panting lust with which I sighed for it. Have I been
deceived? Have I been disappointed? Is it different from what I
expected? Has it fallen short of my fancy? Has the dexterity of my
musings deserted me? Have I under-acted the hero of my reveries? Have
I, in short, mismanaged my debut? Have I blundered? No, no, no! Far, far
has it gone beyond even my imagination, and _my_ life has, if no other,
realised its ideas!

'Who laughs at me? Who does not burn incense before my shrine? What
appetite have I not gratified? What gratification has proved bitter? My
vanity! Has it been, for an instant, mortified? Am I not acknowledged
the most brilliant hero of the most brilliant society in Europe? Intense
as is my self-love, has it not been gorged? Luxury and splendour were my
youthful dreams, and have I not realised the very romance of indulgence
and magnificence? My career has been one long triumph. My palaces, and
my gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equipages, my
horses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when I
could only meditate; and have my determinations proved a delusion? Ask
the admiring world.

'And now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which all
this was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight,
to honour. Woman! Oh! when I first dared, among the fields of Eton,
to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fancy, that some day my existence
might perhaps be rendered more intense, by the admiration of these
maddening but then mysterious creatures; could, could I have dreamt of
what has happened? Is not this the very point in which my career has
most out-topped my lofty hopes?

'I have read, and sometimes heard, of _satiety_. It must then be satiety
that I feel; for I do feel more like a doomed man, than a young noble
full of blood and youth. And yet, satiety; it is a word. What then? A
word is breath, and am I wiser? Satiety! Satiety! Satiety! Oh! give me
happiness! Oh! give me love!

'Ay! there it is, I feel it now. Too well I feel that happiness must
spring from purer fountains than self-love. We are not born merely for
ourselves, and they who, full of pride, make the trial, as I have done,
and think that the world is made for them, and not for mankind, must
come to as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate; for, by Heavens! I
am half tempted at this moment to fling myself from off this cliff, and
so end all.

'Why should I live? For virtue, and for duty; to compensate for all
my folly, and to achieve some slight good end with my abused and
unparalleled means. Ay! it is all vastly rational, and vastly sublime,
but it is too late. I feel the exertion above me. I am a lost man.

'We cannot work without a purpose and an aim. I had mine, although it
was a false one, and I succeeded. Had I one now I might succeed again,
but my heart is a dull void. And Caroline, that gentle girl, will not
give me what I want; and to offer her but half a heart may break hers,
and I would not bruise that delicate bosom to save my dukedom. Those
sad, silly parents of hers have already done mischief enough; but I will
see Darrell, and will at least arrange that. I like him, and will make
him my friend for her sake. God! God! why am I not loved! A word from
her, and all would change. I feel a something in me which could put all
right. I have the will, and she could give the power.

'Now see what a farce life is! I shall go on, Heaven knows how! I cannot
live long. Men like me soon bloom and fade. What I may come to, I dread
to think. There is a dangerous facility in my temper; I know it well,
for I know more of myself than people think; there is a dangerous
facility which, with May Dacre, might be the best guaranty of virtue;
but with all others, for all others are at the best weak things, will as
certainly render me despicable, perhaps degraded. I hear the busy devil
whispering even now. It is my demon. Now, I say, see what a farce life
is! I shall die like a dog, as I have lived like a fool; and then my
epitaph will be in everybody's mouth. Here are the consequences of
self-indulgence: here is a fellow, forsooth, who thought only of the
gratification of his vile appetites; and by the living Heaven, am I not
standing here among my hereditary rocks, and sighing to the ocean, to be
virtuous!

'She knew me well, she read me in a minute, and spoke more truth at that
last meeting than is in a thousand sermons. It is out of our power to
redeem ourselves. Our whole existence is a false, foul state, totally
inimical to love and purity, and domestic gentleness, and calm delight.
Yet are we envied! Oh! could these fools see us at any other time except
surrounded by our glitter, and hear of us at any other moment save in
the first bloom of youth, which is, even then, often wasted; could they
but mark our manhood, and view our hollow marriages, and disappointed
passions; could they but see the traitors that we have for sons, the
daughters that own no duty; could they but watch us even to our grave,
tottering after some fresh bauble, some vain delusion, which, to the
last, we hope may prove a substitute for what we have never found
through life, a contented mind, they would do something else but envy
us.

'But I stand prating when I am wanted. I must home. Home! O sacred word!
and then comes night! Horrible night! Horrible day! It seems to me I am
upon the eve of some monstrous folly, too ridiculous to be a crime, and
yet as fatal. I have half a mind to go and marry the Bird of Paradise,
out of pure pique with myself, and with the world.'

CHAPTER V.

_A Startling Letter_

SOUTHEY, that virtuous man, whom Wisdom calls her own, somewhere thanks
God that he was not born to a great estate. We quite agree with the
seer of Keswick; it is a bore. Provided a man can enjoy every personal
luxury, what profits it that your flag waves on castles you never visit,
and that you count rents which you never receive? And yet there are some
things which your miserable, moderate incomes cannot command, and which
one might like to have; for instance, a band.

A complete, a consummate band, in uniforms of uncut white velvet, with
a highly-wrought gold button, just tipped with a single pink topaz,
appears to me [Greek phrase]. When we die, 'Band' will be found
impressed upon our heart, like 'Frigate' on the core of Nelson. The
negroes should have their noses bored, as well as their ears, and hung
with rings of rubies. The kettle-drums should be of silver. And with
regard to a great estate, no doubt it brings great cares; or, to get
free of them, the estate must be neglected, and then it is even worse.

Elections come on, and all your members are thrown out; so much for
neglected influence. Agricultural distress prevails, and all your
farms are thrown up; so much for neglected tenants. Harassed by leases,
renewals, railroads, fines, and mines, you are determined that life
shall not be worn out by these continual and petty cares. Thinking it
somewhat hard, that, because you have two hundred thousand a-year, you
have neither ease nor enjoyment, you find a remarkably clever man, who
manages everything for you. Enchanted with his energy, his acuteness,
and his foresight, fascinated by your increasing rent-roll, and the
total disappearance of arrears, you dub him your right hand, introduce
him to all your friends, and put him into Parliament; and then, fired
by the ambition of rivalling his patron, he disburses, embezzles, and
decamps.

But where is our hero? Is he forgotten? Never! But in the dumps, blue
devils, and so on. A little bilious, it may be, and dull. He scarcely
would amuse you at this moment. So we come forward with a graceful bow;
the Jack Pudding of our doctor, who is behind.

In short, that is to say, in long--for what is true use of this affected
brevity? When this tale is done, what have you got? So let us make it
last. We quite repent of having intimated so much: in future, it is our
intention to develop more, and to describe, and to delineate, and to
define, and, in short, to bore. You know the model of this kind of
writing, Richardson, whom we shall revive. In future, we shall, as a
novelist, take Clarendon's Rebellion for our guide, and write our hero's
notes, or heroine's letters, like a state paper, or a broken treaty.

The Duke, and the young Duke--oh! to be a Duke, and to be young, it is
too much--was seldom seen by the gay crowd who feasted in his hall. His
mornings now were lonely, and if, at night, his eye still sparkled, and
his step still sprang, why, between us, wine gave him beauty, and wine
gave him grace.

It was the dreary end of dull November, and the last company were
breaking off. The Bird of Paradise, according to her desire, had gone
to Brighton, where his Grace had presented her with a tenement, neat,
light, and finished; and though situated amid the wilds of Kemp Town,
not more than one hyaena on a night ventured to come down from the
adjacent heights. He had half promised to join her, because he thought
he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited
a fresh supply of visitors from town, or rather from the country. As he
was hesitating about what he should do, he received a letter from his
bankers, which made him stare. He sent for the groom of the chambers,
and was informed the house was clear, save that some single men still
lingered, as is their wont. They never take a hint. His Grace ordered
his carriage; and, more alive than he had been for the last two months,
dashed off to town.

CHAPTER VI.

_The Cost of Pleasure_

THE letter from his bankers informed the Duke of St. James that not only
was the half-million exhausted, but, in pursuance of their powers, they
had sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, had advanced
even beyond it. They were ready to accommodate him in every possible
way, and to advance as much more as he could desire, at five per cent.!
Sweet five per cent.! Oh! magical five per cent.! Lucky the rogue now
who gets three. Nevertheless, they thought it but proper to call his
Grace's attention to the circumstance, and to put him in possession of
the facts. Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell
the truth.

The Duke of St. James had never affected to be a man of business; still,
he had taken it for granted that pecuniary embarrassment was not ever
to be counted among his annoyances. He wanted something to do, and
determined to look into his affairs, merely to amuse himself.

The bankers were most polite. They brought their books, also several
packets of papers neatly tied up, and were ready to give every
information. The Duke asked for results. He found that the turf,
the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in purchasing the lease and
furniture of his mansion, and the rest, had, with his expenditure,
exhausted his first year's income; but he reconciled himself to this,
because he chose to consider them extraordinary expenses. Then the
festivities of Pen Bronnock counterbalanced the economy of his more
scrambling life the preceding year; yet he had not exceeded his income
much. Then he came to Sir Carte's account. He began to get a little
frightened. Two hundred and fifty thousand had been swallowed by
Hauteville Castle: one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville House.
Ninety-six thousand had been paid for furniture. There were also some
awkward miscellanies which, in addition, exceeded the half-million.

This was smashing work; but castles and palaces, particularly of the
correctest style of architecture, are not to be had for nothing. The
Duke had always devoted the half-million to this object; but he had
intended that sum to be sufficient. What puzzled and what annoyed him
was a queer suspicion that his resources had been exhausted without
his result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, who gave every
information, and assured him that, had he had the least idea that a
limit was an object, he would have made his arrangements accordingly. As
it was, he assured the young Duke that he would be the Lord of the most
sumptuous and accurate castle, and of the most gorgeous and tasteful
palace, in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of words, when his
employer cut him short by a peremptory demand of the exact sum requisite
for the completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, and requested
time. The estimates should be sent in as quickly as possible. The clerks
should sit up all night, and even his own rest should not be an object,
any more than the Duke's purse. So they parted.

The Duke determined to run down to Brighton for change of scene.
He promised his bankers to examine everything on his return; in the
meantime, they were to make all necessary advances, and honour his
drafts to any amount.

He found the city of chalk and shingles not quite so agreeable as last
year. He discovered that it had no trees. There was there, also, just
everybody that he did not wish to see. It was one great St. James'
Street, and seemed only an anticipation of that very season which he
dreaded. He was half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not fix
upon any spot. London might be agreeable, as it was empty; but then
those confounded accounts awaited him. The Bird of Paradise was a sad
bore. He really began to suspect that she was little better than an
idiot: then, she ate so much, and he hated your eating women. He gladly
shuffled her off on that fool Count Frill, who daily brought his guitar
to Kemp Town. They just suited each other. What a madman he had been, to
have embarrassed himself with this creature! It would cost him a pretty
ransom now before he could obtain his freedom. How we change! Already
the Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, shillings, and pence. A
year ago, so long as he could extricate himself from a scrape by force
of cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26