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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




There was a stir in Mrs. Campian's box: a gentleman entered and seated
himself. Lothair concluded he was an invited guest, and envied him. In
about a quarter of an hour the gentleman bowed and retired, and another
person came in, and one whom Lothair recognized as a young man who had
been sitting during the first act in a stall beneath him. The system of
paying visits at the opera then flashed upon his intelligence, as some
discovery in science upon a painful observer. Why should he not pay a
visit too? But how to do it? At last he was bold enough to open the
door of his own box and go forth, but he could find no attendant, and
some persons passing his open door, and nearly appropriating his lodge,
in a fit of that nervous embarrassment which attends inexperience in
little things, he secured his rights by returning baffled to his post.

There had been a change in Mrs. Campian's box in the interval. Colonel
Campian had quitted it, and Mr. Phoebus occupied his place. Whether it
were disappointment at his own failure or some other cause, Lothair felt
annoyed. He was hot and cold by turns; felt awkward and blundering;
fancied people were looking at him; that in some inexplicable sense he
was ridiculous; wished he had never gone to the opera.

As time, and considerable time, elapsed, he became even miserable. Mr.
Phoebus never moved, and Mrs. Campian frequently conversed with him.
More than one visitor had in the interval paid their respects to the
lady, but Mr. Phoebus never moved. They did not stay, perhaps because
Mr. Phoebus never moved.

Lothair never liked that fellow from the first. Sympathy and antipathy
share our being as day and darkness share our lives. Lothair had felt
an antipathy for Mr. Phoebus the moment he saw him. He had arrived at
Belmont yesterday before Lothair, and he had outstayed him. These might
be Arian principles, but they were not the principles of good-breeding.

Lothair determined to go home, and never to come to the opera again. He
opened the door of his box with firmness, and slammed it with courage;
he had quite lost his shyness, was indeed ready to run a muck with any
one who crossed him. The slamming of the door summoned a scudding
attendant from a distant post, who with breathless devotion inquired
whether Lothair wanted any thing.

"Yes, I want you to show me the way to Mrs. Campian's box."

"Tier above, No. 22," said the box-keeper.

"Ay, ay; but conduct me to it," said Lothair, and he presented the man
with an overpowering honorarium.

"Certainly, my lord," said the attendant.

"He knows me," thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British
nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic, they always call you "my
lord."

But in his progress, to "No. 22, tier above," all his valor evaporated,
and when the box-door was opened he felt very much like a convict on the
verge of execution; he changed color, his legs tottered, his heart beat,
and he made his bow with a confused vision. The serenity of Theodora
somewhat reassured him, and he seated himself, and even saluted Mr.
Phoebus.

The conversation was vapid and conventional -- remarks about the opera
and its performers -- even the heat of the weather was mentioned.
Lothair had come, and he had nothing to say. Mrs. Campian seemed much
interested in the performance; so, if he had had any thing to say, there
was no opportunity of expressing it. She had not appeared to be so
engrossed with the music before his arrival. In the mean time that
Phoebus would not move; a quarter of an hour elapsed, and that Phoebus
would not move. Lothair could not stand it any longer; he rose and
bowed.

"Are you going?" said Theodora. "Colonel Campian will be here in a
moment; he will be quite grieved not to see you."

But Lothair was inflexible. "Perhaps," she added, "we may see you
to-morrow night?"

"Never," said Lothair to himself, as he clinched his teeth; "my visit to
Belmont was my first and my last. The dream is over."

He hurried to a club in which he had been recently Initiated, and of
which the chief purpose is to prove to mankind that night to a wise man
has its resources as well as gaudy day. Here striplings mature their
minds in the mysteries of whist, and stimulate their intelligence by
playing at stakes which would make their seniors look pale; here matches
are made; and odds are settled, and the cares or enterprises of life are
soothed or stimulated by fragrant cheroots or beakers of Badminton.
Here, in the society of the listless and freakish St. Aldegonde, and
Hugo Bohun, and Bertram, and other congenial spirits, Lothair consigned
to oblivion the rival churches of Christendom, the Aryan race, and the
genius of Semitism.

It was an hour past dawn when he strolled home. London is often
beautiful in summer at that hour, the architectural lines clear and
defined in the smokeless atmosphere, and ever and anon a fragrant gale
from gardened balconies wafted in the blue air. Nothing is stirring
except wagons of strawberries and asparagus, and no one visible except
a policeman or a member of Parliament returning from a late division,
where they have settled some great question that need never have been
asked. Eve has its spell of calmness and consolation, but dawn brings
hope and joy.

But not to Lothair. Young, sanguine, and susceptible, he had, for a
moment, yielded to the excitement of the recent scene, but with his
senses stilled by the morning air, and free from the influence of
Bertram's ready sympathy, and Hugo Bohun's gay comments on human life,
and all the wild and amusing caprice, and daring wilfulness, and grand
affectation, that distinguish and inspire a circle of patrician youth,
there came over him the consciousness that to him something dark had
occurred, something bitter and disappointing and humiliating, and that
the breaking morn would not bring to him a day so bright and hopeful as
his former ones.

At first he fell into profound slumber: it was the inevitable result of
the Badminton and the late hour. There was a certain degree of physical
exhaustion which commanded repose. But the slumber was not long, and
his first feeling, for it could not be called thought, was that some
great misfortune had occurred to him; and then the thought following the
feeling brought up the form of the hated Phoebus. After that he had no
real sleep, but a sort of occasional and feverish doze with intervals of
infinite distress, waking always to a consciousness of inexpressible
mortification and despair.

About one o'clock, relinquishing all hope of real and refreshing
slumber, he rang his bell, and his valet appearing informed him that
Father Coleman had called, and the monsignore had called, and that now
the cardinal's secretary had just called, but the valet had announced
that his lord was indisposed. There was also a letter from Lady St.
Jerome. This news brought a new train of feeling. Lothair remembered
that this was the day of the great ecclesiastical function, under the
personal auspices of the cardinal, at which indeed Lothair hid never
positively promised to assist, his presence at which he had sometimes
thought they pressed unreasonably, not to say even indelicately, but at
which he had perhaps led them, not without cause, to believe that he
would be present. Of late the monsignore had assumed that Lothair had
promised to attend it.

Why should he not? The world was all vanity. Never did he feel more
convinced than at this moment of the truth of his conclusion, that if
religion were a real thing, man should live for it alone; but then came
the question of the Churches. He could not bring himself without a pang
to contemplate a secession from the Church of his fathers. He took
refuge in the wild but beautiful thought of a reconciliation between
Rome and England. If the consecration of the whole of his fortune to
that end could assist in effecting the purpose, he would cheerfully make
the sacrifice. He would then go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre,
and probably conclude his days in a hermitage on Mount Athos.

In the mean time he rose, and, invigorated by his bath, his thoughts
became in a slight degree more mundane. They recurred to the events of
the last few days of his life, but in a spirit of self-reproach and of
conscious vanity and weakness. Why, he had not known her a week! This
was Sunday morning, and last Sunday he had attended St. Mary's and
offered up his earnest supplications for the unity of Christendom. That
was then his sovereign hope and thought. Singular that a casual
acquaintance with a stranger, a look, a glance, a word, a nothing,
should have so disturbed his spirit and distracted his mind.

And yet --

And then he fell into an easy-chair, with a hair-brush in either hand,
and conjured up in reverie all that had passed since that wondrous morn
when he addressed her by the road-side, until the last dark hour when
they parted -- and forever. There was not a word she had uttered to
him, or to any one .else, that he did not recall; not a glance, not a
gesture -- her dress, her countenance, her voice, her hair. And what
scenes had all this passed in! What refined and stately loveliness!
Blenheim, and Oxford, and Belmont! They became her. Ah! why could not
life consist of the perpetual society of such delightful people in such
delightful places?

His valet entered and informed him that the monsignore had returned, and
would not be denied. Lothair roused himself from his delicious reverie,
and his countenance became anxious and disquieted. He. would have
struggled against the intrusion, and was murmuring resistance to his
hopeless attendant, who shook his head, when the monsignore glided into
the room without permission, as the valet disappeared.

It was a wonderful performance: the monsignore had at the same time to
make a reconnoissance and to take up a position -- to find out what
Lothair intended to do, and yet to act and speak as if he was acquainted
with those intentions, and was not only aware of, but approved them. He
seemed hurried and yet tranquil, almost breathless with solicitude and
yet conscious of some satisfactory consummation. His tones were at all
times hushed, but to-day he spoke in a whisper, though a whisper of
emphasis, and the dark eyes of his delicate aristocratic visage peered
into Lothair, even when he was making a remark which seemed to require
no scrutiny.

"It is one of the most important days for England that have happened in
our time," said the monsignore. "Lady St. Jerome thinks of nothing
else. All our nobility will be there -- the best blood in England --
and some others who sympathize with the unity of the Church, the real
question. Nothing has ever gratified the cardinal more than your
intended presence. He sent to you this morning. He would have called
himself, bat he has much to go through today. His eminence said to me:
'It is exactly what I want. Whatever way be our differences, and they
are really slight, what I want is to show to the world that the sons of
the Church will unite for the cause of Divine truth. It is the only
course that can save society.' When Lady St. Jerome told him that you
were coming this evening, his eminence was so affected that -- "

"But I never said I was coming this evening," said Lothair, rather
dryly, and resolved to struggle, "either to Lady St. Jerome or to any
one else. I said I would think of it."

"But for a Christian to think of duty is to perform it," said the
monsignore. "To be ignorant of a duty is a sin, but to be aware of
duty, and not to fulfil it, is heinous."

"But is it a duty?" said Lothair, rather doggedly.

"What! to serve God and save society? Do you doubt it? Have you read
the 'Declaration of Geneva?' They have declared war against the
Church, the state, and the domestic principle. All the great truths and
laws on which the family reposes are denounced. Have you seen
Garibaldi's letter? When it was read, and spoke of the religion of God
being propagated throughout the world, there was a universal cry of 'No,
no! no religion!' But the religion of God was soon so explained as to
allay all their fears. It is the religion of science. Instead of Adam,
our ancestry is traced to the most grotesque of creatures, thought is
phosphorus, the soul complex nerves, and our moral sense a secretion of
sugar. Do you want these views in England? Rest assured they are
coming. And how are we to contend against them? Only by Divine truth.
And where is Divine truth? In the Church of Christ -- in the gospel of
order, peace, and purity."

Lothair rose, and paced the room with his eyes on the ground.

"I wish I had been born in the middle ages," he exclaimed, "or on the
shores of the Sea of Galilee, or in some other planet: anywhere, or at
any time, but in this country and in this age!"

"That thought is not worthy of you, my lord," said Catesby. "It is a
great privilege to live in this country and in this age. It is a great
privilege, in the mighty contest between the good and the evil
principle, to combat for the righteous. They stand face to face now, as
they have stood before. There is Christianity, which, by revealing the
truth, has limited the license of human reason; there is that human
reason which resists revelation as a bondage -- which insists upon being
atheistical, or polytheistical, or pantheistical -- which looks upon the
requirements of obedience, justice, truth, and purity, as limitations of
human freedom. It is to the Church that God has committed the custody
and execution of His truth and law. The Church, as witness, teacher,
and judge, contradicts and offends the spirit of license to the quick.
This is why it is hated; this is why it is to be destroyed, and why they
are preparing a future of rebellion, tyranny, falsehood, and degrading
debauchery. The Church alone can save us, and you are asked to
supplicate the Almighty to-night, under circumstances of deep hope, to
favor the union of churchmen, and save the human race from the impending
deluge."

Lothair threw himself again into his seat and sighed. "I am rather
indisposed today, my dear monsignore, which is unusual with me, and
scarcely equal to such a theme, doubtless of the deepest interest to me
and to all. I myself wish, as you well know, that all mankind were
praying under the same roof. I shall continue in seclusion this
morning. Perhaps you will permit me to think over what you have said
with so much beauty and force."

"I had forgotten that I had a letter to deliver to you," said Catesby;
and he drew from his breast-pocket a note which he handed to Lothair,
who opened it quite unconscious of the piercing and even excited
observation of his companion.

Lothair read the letter with a changing countenance, and then he read it
again and blushed deeply. The letter was from Miss Arundel. After a
slight pause, without looking up, he said, "Nine o'clock is the hour, I
believe."

"Yes," said the monsignore rather eagerly, "but, were I you, I would be
earlier than that. I would order my carnage at eight. If you will
permit me, I will order it for you. You are not quite well. It will
save you some little trouble, people coming into the room and all that,
and the cardinal will be there by eight o'clock."

"Thank you," said Lothair; "have the kindness then, my dear monsignore,
to order my brougham for me at half-past eight and just say that I can
see no one. Adieu!"

And the priest glided away.

Lothair remained the whole morning in a most troubled state, pacing his
rooms, leaning sometimes with his arm upon the mantel-piece, and his
face buried in his arm, and often he sighed. About half-past five he
rang for his valet and, dressed, and in another hour he broke his fast
-- a little soup, a cutlet, and a glass or two of claret. And then he
looked at his watch; and he looked at his watch every five minutes for
the next hour.

He was in deep reverie, when the servant announced that his carriage was
ready. He started as from a dream, then pressed his hand to his eyes,
and kept it there for some moments, and then, exclaiming, "Jacta est
alea," he descended the stairs.

"Where to, my lord?" inquired the servant when he had entered the
carriage.

Lothair seemed to hesitate, and then he said, "To Belmont."



CHAPTER 31


"Belmont is the only house I know that is properly lighted," said Mr.
Phoebus, and he looked with complacent criticism round the brilliant
saloons. "I would not visit any one who had gas in his house; but even
in palaces I find lamps -- it is too dreadful. When they came here
first, there was an immense chandelier suspended in each of these rooms,
pulling down the ceilings, dwarfing the apartments, leaving the guests
all in darkness, and throwing all the light on the roof. The chandelier
is the great abomination of furniture; it makes a noble apartment look
small. And then they say you cannot light rooms without chandeliers!
Look at these -- need any thing be more brilliant? And all the light in
the right place -- on those who are in the chamber. All light should
come from the side of a room, and if you choose to have candelabra like
these you can always secure sufficient."

Theodora was seated on a sofa, in conversation with a lady of
distinguished mien and with the countenance of a Roman empress. There
were various groups in the room, standing or seated. Colonel Campian
was attending a lady to the piano where a celebrity presided, a
gentleman with cropped head and a long black beard. The lady was of
extraordinary beauty -- one of those faces one encounters in Asia Minor,
rich, glowing, with dark fringed eyes of tremulous lustre; a figure
scarcely less striking, of voluptuous symmetry. Her toilet was
exquisite -- perhaps a little too splendid for the occasion, but
abstractedly of fine taste -- and she held, as she sang, a vast bouquet
entirely of white stove-flowers. The voice was as sweet as the
stephanopolis, and the execution faultless. It seemed the perfection of
chamber-singing -- no shrieks and no screams, none of those agonizing
experiments which result from the fatal competition of rival
prima-donnas.

She was singing when Lothair was ushered in. Theodora rose and greeted
him with friendliness. Her glance was that of gratification at his
arrival, but the performance prevented any conversation save a few kind
remarks interchanged in a hashed tone. Colonel Campian came up: he
seemed quite delighted at renewing his acquaintance with Lothair, and
began to talk rather too loudly, which made some of the gentlemen near
the piano turn round with glances of wondering reproach. This
embarrassed his newly-arrived guest, who in his distress caught the bow
of a lady who recognized him, and whom he instantly remembered as Mrs.
Putney Giles. There was a vacant chair by her side, and he was glad to
occupy it.

"Who is that lady?" inquired Lothair of his companion, when the singing
ceased.

"That is Madame Phoebus," said Mrs. Giles.

"Madame Phoebus!" exclaimed Lothair, with an unconscious feeling of some
relief. "She is a very beautiful woman. Who was she?"

"She is a Cantacuzene, a daughter of the famous Greek merchant. The
Cantcuzenes, you know, are great people, descendants of the Greek
emperors. Her uncle is prince of Samos. Mr. Cantacuzene was very much
opposed to the match, but I think quite wrong. Mr. Phoebus is a most
distinguished man, and the alliance is of the happiest. Never was such
mutual devotion."

"I am not surprised," said Lothair, wonderfully relieved.

"Her sister Euphrosyne is in the room," continued Mrs. Giles, "the most
extraordinary resemblance to her. There is just the difference between
the matron and the maiden; that is all. They are nearly of the same
age, and before the marriage might have been mistaken for each other.
The most charming thing in the world is to hear the two sisters sing
together. I hope they may to-night. I know the family very well. It
was Mrs. Cantacuzene who introduced me to Theodora. You know it is
quite en r gle to call her Theodora. All the men call her Theodora;
'the divine Theodora' is, I believe, the right thing."

"And do you call her Theodora?" asked Lothair, rather dryly.

"Why, no," said Mrs. Giles, a little confused. "We are not intimate, at
least not very. Ms. Campian has been at my house, and I have been here
two et three times; not so often as I could wish, for Mr. Giles, you
see, does not like servants and horses to be used on Sundays -- and no
more do I -- and on weekdays he is too much engaged or too tired to come
out this distance; so you see -- "

The singing had ceased, and Theodora approached them. Addressing
Lothair, she said: "The Princess of Tivoli wishes that you should be
presented to her."

The Princess of Tivoli was a Roman dame of one of the most illustrious
houses, but who now lived at Paris. She had in her time taken an active
part in Italian politics, and had sacrificed to the cause to which she
was devoted the larger part of a large fortune. What had been spared,
however, permitted her to live in the French capital with elegance, if
not with splendor; and her saloon was the gathering roof, in Paris, of
almost every one who was celebrated for genius or accomplishments.
Though reputed to be haughty and capricious, she entertained for
Theodora an even passionate friendship, and now visited England only to
see her.

"Madame Campian has been telling me of all the kind things you did for
her at Oxford," said the princess. "Some day you must show me Oxford,
but it must be next year. I very much admire the free university life.
Tell me now, at Oxford you still have the Protestant religion?"

Lothair ventured to bow assent.

"Ah! that is well," continued the princess. "I advise you to keep it.
If we had only had the Protestant religion in Italy, things would have
been very different. You are fortunate in this country in having the
Protestant religion and a real nobility. Tell me now, in your
constitution, if the father sits in the Upper Chamber, the son sits in
the Lower House -- that I know; but is there any majorat at attached to
his seat?"

"Not at present."

"You sit in the Lower House, of course?"

"I am not old enough to sit in either House," said Lothair, "but when I
am of age, which I shall be when I have the honor of showing Oxford to
your highness, I must sit in the Upper House, for I have not the
blessing of a living father."

"Ah! that is a great thing in your country," exclaimed the princess, "a
man being his own master at so early an age."

"I thought it was a 'heritage of woe,'" said Lothair.

"No, no," said the princess; "the only tolerable thing in life is
action, and action is feeble without youth. What if you do not obtain
your immediate object? -- you always think you will, and the detail of
the adventure is full of rapture. And thus it is the blunders of youth
are preferable to the triumphs of manhood, or the successes of old age."

"Well, it will be a consolation for me to remember this when I am in a
scrape," said Lothair.

"Oh! you have many, many scrapes awaiting you," said the princess. "You
may look forward to at least ten years of blunders -- that is, illusions
-- that is, happiness. Fortunate young man!"

Theodora had, without appearing to intend it, relinquished her seat to
Lothair, who continued his conversation with the princess, whom he
liked, but who, he was sorry to hear, was about to leave England, and
immediately -- that very night. "Yes," she said, "it is my last act of
devotion. You know, in my country we have saints and shrines. All
Italians, they say, are fond, are superstitious; my pilgrimage is to
Theodora. I must come and worship her once a year."

A gentleman bowed lowly to the princess, who returned his salute with
pleased alacrity. "Do you know who that is?" said the princess to
Lothair. "That is Baron Gozelius, one of our great reputations. He
must have just arrived. II will present you to him; it is always
agreeable to know a great man," she added -- "at least Goethe says so!"

The philosopher, at her invitation, took a chair opposite the sofa.
Though a profound man, he had all the vivacity and passion which are
generally supposed to be peculiar to the superficial. He had remarkable
conversational power, which he never spared. Lothair was captivated by
his eloquence, his striking observations, his warmth, and the flashing
of his southern eye.

"Baron Gozelius agrees with your celebrated pastor, Dr. Cumming," said
Theodora, with a tinge of demure sarcasm, "and believes that the end of
the world is at hand."

"And for the same reasons?" inquired Lothair.

"Not exactly," said Theodora, "but in this instance science and
revelation have arrived at the same result, and that is what all
desire."

"All that I said was," said Gozelius, "that the action of the sun had
become so irregular that I thought the chances were in favor of the
destruction of our planet. At least, if I were a public office, I would
not insure it."