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

Lady Fitz-pompey determined that the young Duke should make his debut at
once, and at her house. Although it was yet January, she did not despair
of collecting a select band of guests, Brahmins of the highest caste.
Some choice spirits were in office, like her lord, and therefore in
town; others were only passing through; but no one caught a flying-fish
with more dexterity than the Countess. The notice was short, the whole
was unstudied. It was a felicitous impromptu, and twenty guests were
assembled, who were the Corinthian capitals of the temple of fashion.

There was the Premier, who was invited, not because he was a minister,
but because he was a hero. There was another Duke not less celebrated,
whose palace was a breathing shrine which sent forth the oracles of
mode. True, he had ceased to be a young Duke; but he might be consoled
for the vanished lustre of youth by the recollection that he had enjoyed
it, and by the present inspiration of an accomplished manhood. There
were the Prince and the Princess Protocoli: his Highness a first-rate
diplomatist, unrivalled for his management of an opera; and his consort,
with a countenance like Cleopatra and a tiara like a constellation,
famed alike for her shawls and her snuff. There were Lord and Lady
Bloomerly, who were the best friends on earth: my Lord a sportsman, but
soft withal, his talk the Jockey Club, filtered through White's; my Lady
a little blue, and very beautiful. Their daughter, Lady Charlotte, rose
by her mother's side like a tall bud by a full-blown flower. There were
the Viscountess Blaze, a peeress in her own right, and her daughter,
Miss Blaze Dash-away, who, besides the glory of the future coronet,
moved in all the confidence of independent thousands. There was the
Marquess of Macaroni, who was at the same time a general, an ambassador,
and a dandy; and who, if he had liked, could have worn twelve orders;
but this day, being modest, only wore six. There, too, was the
Marchioness, with a stomacher stiff with brilliants extracted from the
snuff-boxes presented to her husband at a Congress.

There were Lord Sunium, who was not only a peer but a poet; and his
lady, a Greek, who looked just finished by Phidias. There, too, was
Pococurante, the epicurean and triple millionaire, who in a political
country dared to despise politics, in the most aristocratic of kingdoms
had refused nobility, and in a land which showers all its honours upon
its cultivators invested his whole fortune in the funds. He lived in a
retreat like the villa of Hadrian, and maintained himself in an elevated
position chiefly by his wit and a little by his wealth. There, too, were
his noble wife, thoroughbred to her fingers' tips, and beaming like the
evening star; and his son, who was an M.P., and thought his father a
fool. In short, our party was no common party, but a band who formed the
very core of civilisation; a high court of last appeal, whose word was
a fiat, whose sign was a hint, whose stare was death, and
sneer----damnation!

The Graces befriend us! We have forgotten the most important personage.
It is the first time in his life that Charles Annesley has been
neglected. It will do him good.

Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. It may be doubted
whether the revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it
had its faults at first, the muse of Byron has made it not only English,
but classical. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a
beau. There was nothing in his dress--though some mysterious arrangement
in his costume, some rare simplicity, some curious happiness, always
made it distinguished--there was nothing, however, in his dress, which
could account for the influence which he exercised over the manners of
his contemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited
from his father, a younger brother, a small estate; and, though heir
to a wealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called 'his
prospects.' Yet his establishment, his little house in Mayfair, his
horses, his moderate stud at Melton, were all unique, and everything
connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and
its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued
nonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy;
his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious
courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle
much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their
passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed
those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even
while it refrained from wounding. All feared, marry admired, and none
hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to
admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner
was his exquisite superciliousness, a quality which, of all, is the most
difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential,
and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie
which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the leading
men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our
old brilliant comedy, the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels.

Charles Annesley was a member of the distinguished party who were this
day to decide the fate of the young Duke. Let him come forward!

His Grace moved towards them, tall and elegant in figure, and with that
air of affable dignity which becomes a noble, and which adorns a court;
none of that affected indifference which seems to imply that nothing can
compensate for the exertion of moving, and 'which makes the dandy, while
it mars the man.' His large and somewhat sleepy grey eye, his clear
complexion, his small mouth, his aquiline nose, his transparent
forehead, his rich brown hair, and the delicacy of his extremities,
presented, when combined, a very excellent specimen of that style of
beauty for which the nobility of England are remarkable. Gentle, for
he felt the importance of the tribunal, never loud, ready, yet a little
reserved, he neither courted nor shunned examination. His finished
manner, his experience of society, his pretensions to taste, the
gaiety of his temper, and the liveliness of his imagination, gradually
developed themselves with the developing hours.

The banquet was over: the Duke of St. James passed his examination with
unqualified approval; and having been stamped at the mint of fashion as
a sovereign of the brightest die, he was flung forth, like the rest
of his golden brethren, to corrupt the society of which he was the
brightest ornament.

CHAPTER V.

_Sweeping Changes_

THE morning after the initiatory dinner the young Duke drove to
Hauteville House, his family mansion, situated in his family square. His
Grace particularly prided himself on his knowledge of the arts; a taste
for which, among other things, he intended to introduce into England.
Nothing could exceed the horror with which he witnessed the exterior of
his mansion, except the agony with which he paced through the interior.

'Is this a palace?' thought the young Duke; 'this hospital a palace!'

He entered. The marble hall, the broad and lofty double staircase
painted in fresco, were not unpromising, in spite of the dingy gilding;
but with what a mixed feeling of wonder and disgust did the Duke roam
through clusters of those queer chambers which in England are called
drawing-rooms!

'Where are the galleries, where the symmetrical saloons, where the
lengthened suite, where the collateral cabinets, sacred to the statue of
a nymph or the mistress of a painter, in which I have been customed to
reside? What page would condescend to lounge in this ante-chamber? And
is this gloomy vault, that you call a dining-room, to be my hall of
Apollo? Order my carriage.'

The Duke sent immediately for Sir Carte Blanche, the successor, in
England, of Sir Christopher Wren. His Grace communicated at the same
time his misery and his grand views. Sir Carte was astonished with his
Grace's knowledge, and sympathised with his Grace's feelings. He offered
consolation and promised estimates. They came in due time. Hauteville
House, in the drawing of the worthy Knight, might have been mistaken for
the Louvre. Some adjoining mansions were, by some magical process for
which Sir Carte was famous, to be cleared of their present occupiers,
and the whole side of the square was in future to be the site of
Hauteville House. The difficulty was great, but the object was greater.
The expense, though the estimate made a bold assault on the half
million, was a mere trifle, 'considering.' The Duke was delighted. He
condescended to make a slight alteration in Sir Carte's drawing, which
Sir Carte affirmed to be a great improvement. Now it was Sir Carte's
turn to be delighted. The Duke was excited by his architect's
admiration, and gave him a dissertation on Schoenbrunn.

Although Mr. Dacre had been disappointed in his hope of exercising a
personal influence over the education of his ward, he had been more
fortunate in his plans for the management of his ward's property.
Perhaps there never was an instance of the opportunities afforded by
a long minority having been used to greater advantage. The estates had
been increased and greatly improved, all and very heavy mortgages had
been paid off, and the rents been fairly apportioned. Mr. Dacre, by his
constant exertions and able dispositions since his return to England,
also made up for the neglect with which an important point had been a
little treated; and at no period had the parliamentary influence of the
house of Hauteville been so extensive, so decided, and so well bottomed
as when our hero became its chief.

In spite of his proverbial pride, it seemed that Mr. Dacre was
determined not to be offended by the conduct of his ward. The Duke had
not yet announced his arrival in England to his guardian; but about a
month after that event he received a letter of congratulation from Mr.
Dacre, who at the same time expressed a desire to resign a trust into
his Grace's hand which, he believed, had not been abused. The Duke,
who rather dreaded an interview, wrote in return that he intended very
shortly to visit Yorkshire, when he should have the pleasure of availing
himself of the kind invitation to Castle Dacre; and having thus, as he
thought, dexterously got rid of the old gentleman for the present, he
took a ride with Lady Caroline St. Maurice.

CHAPTER VI.

_The Duke Visits Hauteville_

PARLIAMENT assembled, the town filled, and every moment in the day of
the Duke of St. James was occupied. Sir Carte and his tribe filled
up the morning. Then there were endless visits to endless visitors;
dressing; riding, chiefly with Lady Caroline; luncheons, and the bow
window at White's. Then came the evening with all its crash and glare;
the banquet, the opera, and the ball.

The Duke of St. James took the oaths and his seat. He was introduced
by Lord Fitz-pompey. He heard a debate. We laugh at such a thing,
especially in the Upper House; but, on the whole, the affair is
imposing, particularly if we take part in it. Lord Ex-Chamberlain
thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency
and constitution. Baron Deprivyseal seconded him with great effect,
brief but bitter, satirical and sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered
these, full of confidence in the nation and in himself. When the debate
was getting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light. The
Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness.
But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort
of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his
character, when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives,
because his auditors could not understand his acts. Then there was a
maiden speech, so inaudible that it was doubted whether, after all, the
young orator really did lose his virginity. In the end, up started the
Premier, who, having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and liberal;
gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and then the
motion was withdrawn.

While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some
consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept; yet, on the
whole, there was an air about the assembly which can be witnessed in no
other in Europe. Even the most indifferent looked as if he would come
forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most imbecile as if
he could serve his country if it required him. When a man raises his
eyes from his bench and sees his ancestor in the tapestry, he begins to
understand the pride of blood.

The young Duke had not experienced many weeks of his career before he
began to sicken of living in an hotel. Hitherto he had not reaped any of
the fruits of the termination of his minority. He was a _cavalier seul_,
highly considered, truly, but yet a mere member of society. He had been
this for years. This was not the existence to enjoy which he had hurried
to England. He aspired to be society itself. In a word, his tastes were
of the most magnificent description, and he sighed to be surrounded by
a court. As Hauteville House, even with Sir Carte's extraordinary
exertions, could not be ready for his reception for three years,
which to him appeared eternity, he determined to look about for an
establishment. He was fortunate. A nobleman who possessed an hereditary
mansion of the first class, and much too magnificent for his resources,
suddenly became diplomatic, and accepted an embassy. The Duke of St.
James took everything off his hands: house, furniture, wines, cooks,
servants, horses. Sir Carte was sent in to touch up the gilding and make
a few temporary improvements; and Lady Fitz-pompey pledged herself to
organise the whole establishment ere the full season commenced and the
early Easter had elapsed, which had now arrived.

It had arrived, and the young Duke had departed to his chief family
seat, Hauteville Castle, in Yorkshire. He intended at the same time
to fulfil his long-pledged engagement at Castle Dacre. He arrived at
Hauteville amid the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and the
crackling of bonfires. The Castle, unlike most Yorkshire castles, was a
Gothic edifice, ancient, vast, and strong; but it had received numerous
additions in various styles of architecture, which were at the same time
great sources of convenience and great violations of taste. The young
Duke was seized with a violent desire to live in a genuine Gothic
castle: each day his refined taste was outraged by discovering Roman
windows and Grecian doors. He determined to emulate Windsor, and he sent
for Sir Carte.

Sir Carte came as quick as thunder after lightning. He was immediately
struck with Hauteville, particularly with its capabilities. It was a
superb place, certainly, and might be rendered unrivalled. The situation
seemed made for the pure Gothic. The left wing should decidedly be
pulled down, and its site occupied by a Knight's hall; the old terrace
should be restored; the donjon keep should be raised, and a gallery,
three hundred feet long, thrown through the body of the castle.
Estimates, estimates, estimates! But the time? This was a greater point
than the expense. Wonders should be done. There were now five hundred
men working for Hauteville House; there should be a thousand for
Hauteville Castle. Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche!

On his arrival in Yorkshire the Duke had learnt that the Dacres were
in Norfolk on a visit. As the Castle was some miles off, he saw no
necessity to make a useless exertion, and so he sent his jaeger with his
card. He had now been ten days in his native county. It was dull, and he
was restless. He missed the excitement of perpetual admiration, and his
eye drooped for constant glitter. He suddenly returned to town, just
when the county had flattered itself that he was about to appoint his
public days.

CHAPTER VII.

_The First Fancy_

EASTER was over, the sun shone, the world was mad, and the young Duke
made his debut at Almack's. He determined to prove that he had profited
by a winter at Vienna. His dancing was declared consummate. He galloped
with grace and waltzed with vigour. It was difficult to decide which
was more admirable, the elegance of his prance or the precision of his
whirl. A fat Russian Prince, a lean Austrian Count, a little German
Baron, who, somehow or other, always contrived to be the most marked
characters of the evening, disappeared in despair.

There was a lady in the room who attracted the notice of our hero. She
was a remarkable personage. There are some sorts of beauty which defy
description, and almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult
of life like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a
picture. Our first impression is anything but fleshly. We are struck
dumb, we gasp, our limbs quiver, a faintness glides over our frame,
we are awed; instead of gazing upon the apparition, we avert the eyes,
which yet will feed upon its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain
mixes with the intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call
back to our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover our
commonplace demeanour. These, indeed, are rare visions, early feelings,
when our young existence leaps with its mountain torrents; but as the
river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow dimmer or our blood more cold.

Some effect of this kind was produced on the Duke of St. James by the
unknown dame. He turned away his head to collect his senses. His eyes
again rally; and this time, being prepared, he was more successful in
his observations.

The lady was standing against the wall; a young man was addressing some
remarks to her which apparently were not very interesting. She was tall
and young, and, as her tiara betokened, married; dazzling fair, but
without colour; with locks like night and features delicate, but
precisely defined. Yet all this did not at first challenge the
observation of the young Duke. It was the general and peculiar
expression of her countenance which had caused in him such emotion.
There was an expression of resignation, or repose, or sorrow, or
serenity, which in these excited chambers was strange, and singular, and
lone. She gazed like some genius invisible to the crowd, and mourning
over its degradation.

He stopped St. Maurice, as his cousin passed by, to inquire her name,
and learnt that she was Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the wife of Sir Lucius
Grafton.

'What, Lucy Grafton!' exclaimed the Duke. 'I remember; I was his fag
at Eton. He was a handsome dog; but I doubt whether he deserves such a
wife. Introduce me.'

Lady Aphrodite received our hero with a gentle bow, and did not seem
quite as impressed with his importance as most of those to whom he had
been presented in the course of the evening. The Duke had considerable
tact with women, and soon perceived that the common topics of a hack
flirtation would not do in the present case. He was therefore mild and
modest, rather piquant, somewhat rational, and apparently perfectly
unaffected. Her Ladyship's reserve wore away. She refused to dance,
but conversed with more animation. The Duke did not leave her side. The
women began to stare, the men to bet: Lady Aphrodite against the
field. In vain his Grace laid a thousand plans to arrange a tea-room
tete-a-tete. He was unsuccessful. As he was about to return to the
charge her Ladyship desired a passer-by to summon her carriage. No time
was to be lost. The Duke began to talk hard about his old friend and
schoolfellow, Sir Lucius. A greenhorn would have thought it madness to
take an interest in such a person of all others; but women like you to
enter their house as their husband's friend. Lady Aphrodite could not
refrain from expressing her conviction that Sir Lucius would be most
happy to renew his acquaintance with the Duke of St. James, and the
Duke of St. James immediately said that he would take the earliest
opportunity of giving him that pleasure.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A Noble Reprobate_

SIR LUCIUS GRAFTON was five or six years older than the Duke of St.
James, although he had been his contemporary at Eton. He, too, had been
a minor, and had inherited an estate capable of supporting the becoming
dignity of an ancient family. In appearance he was an Antinous. There
was, however, an expression of firmness, almost of ferocity, about his
mouth, which quite prevented his countenance from being effeminate, and
broke the dreamy voluptuousness of the rest of his features. In mind he
was a roue. Devoted to pleasure, he had racked the goblet at an early
age; and before he was five-and-twenty procured for himself a reputation
which made all women dread and some men shun him. In the very wildest
moment of his career, when he was almost marked like Cain, he had met
Lady Aphrodite Maltravers. She was the daughter of a nobleman who justly
prided himself, in a degenerate age, on the virtue of his house. Nature,
as if in recompense for his goodness, had showered all her blessings on
his only daughter. Never was daughter more devoted to a widowed sire;
never was woman influenced by principles of purer morality.

This was the woman who inspired Sir Lucius Grafton with an ungovernable
passion. Despairing of success by any other method, conscious that,
sooner or later, he must, for family considerations, propagate future
baronets of the name of Grafton, he determined to solicit her hand. But
for him to obtain it, he was well aware, was difficult. Confident in
his person, his consummate knowledge of the female character, and
his unrivalled powers of dissimulation, Sir Lucius arranged his
dispositions. The daughter feared, the father hated him. There was
indeed much to be done; but the remembrance of a thousand triumphs
supported the adventurer. Lady Aphrodite was at length persuaded that
she alone could confirm the reformation which she alone had originated.
She yielded to a passion which her love of virtue had alone kept in
subjection. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite knelt at the feet of the old
Earl. The tears of his daughter, ay! and of his future son-in-law--for
Sir Lucius knew when to weep--were too much for his kind and generous
heart. He gave them his blessing, which faltered on his tongue.

A year had not elapsed ere Lady Aphrodite woke to all the wildness of a
deluded woman. The idol on whom she had lavished all the incense of
her innocent affections became every day less like a true divinity.
At length even the ingenuity of a passion could no longer disguise the
hideous and bitter truth. She was no longer loved. She thought of her
father. Ah, what was the madness of her memory!

The agony of her mind disappointed her husband's hope of an heir, and
the promise was never renewed.

In vain she remonstrated with the being to whom she was devoted: in vain
she sought by meek endurance again to melt his heart. It was cold; it
was callous. Most women would have endeavoured to recover their lost
influence by different tactics; some, perhaps, would have forgotten
their mortification in their revenge. But Lady Aphrodite had been the
victim of passion, and now was its slave. She could not dissemble.

Not so her spouse. Sir Lucius knew too well the value of a good
character to part very easily with that which he had so unexpectedly
regained. Whatever were his excesses, they were prudent ones. He felt
that boyhood could alone excuse the folly of glorying in vice; and he
knew that, to respect virtue, it was not absolutely necessary to be
virtuous. No one was, apparently, more choice in his companions than Sir
Lucius Grafton; no husband was seen oftener with his wife; no one paid
more respect to age, or knew better when to wear a grave countenance.
The world praised the magical influence of Lady Aphrodite; and Lady
Aphrodite, in private, wept over her misery. In public she made an
effort to conceal all she felt; and, as it is a great inducement to
every woman to conceal that she is neglected by the man whom she adores,
her effort was not unsuccessful. Yet her countenance might indicate that
she was little interested in the scene in which she mixed. She was too
proud to weep, but too sad to smile. Elegant and lone, she stood among
her crushed and lovely hopes like a column amid the ruins of a beautiful
temple.

The world declared that Lady Aphrodite was desperately virtuous, and the
world was right. A thousand fireflies had sparkled round this myrtle,
and its fresh and verdant hue was still unsullied and un-scorched. Not
a very accurate image, but pretty; and those who have watched a glancing
shower of these glittering insects will confess that, poetically, the
bush might burn. The truth is, that Lady Aphrodite still trembled when
she recalled the early anguish of her broken sleep of love, and had not
courage enough to hope that she might dream again. Like the old Hebrews,
she had been so chastened for her wild idolatry that she dared not again
raise an image to animate the wilderness of her existence. Man she at
the same time feared and despised. Compared with her husband, all who
surrounded her were, she felt, in appearance inferior, and were, she
believed, in mind the same.

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