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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




Lothair had passed a happy morning, for he had contrived, without
difficulty, to be the companion of Theodora during the greater part of
it. As the duchess and Lady Corisande had already inspected the castle,
they disappeared after breakfast to write letters; and, when the
after-luncheon expedition took place, Lothair allotted them to the care
of Lord Carisbrooke, and himself became the companion of Lady St. Jerome
and Theodora.

Notwithstanding all his efforts in the smoking-room, St. Aldegonde had
only been able to induce Colonel Campian to be his companion in the
shooting expedition, and the colonel fell into the lure only through his
carelessness and good-nature. He much doubted the discretion of his
decision as he listened to Lord St. Aldegonde's reasons for the
expedition, in their rapid journey to the moors.

"I do not suppose," he said, "we shall have any good sport; but when you
are in Scotland, and come to me, as I hope you will, I will give you
something you will like. But it is a great thing to get off seeing the
Towers, and the gardens, and all that sort of thing. Nothing bores me
so much as going over a man's house. Besides, we get rid of the women."

The meeting between the two guardians did not promise to be as pleasant
as that between the bishop and the cardinal, but the crusty Lord
Culloden was scarcely a match for the social dexterity of his eminence.
The cardinal, crossing the room, with winning ceremony approached and
addressed his colleague.

"We can have no more controversies, my lord, for our reign is over;" and
he extended a delicate hand, which the surprised peer touched with a
huge finger.

"Yes; it all depends on himself now," replied Lord Culloden, with a grim
smile; "and I hope he will not make a fool of himself."

"What have you got for us to-night?" inquired Lothair of Mr. Giles, as
the gentlemen rose from the dining-table.

Mr. Giles said he would consult his wife, but Lothair observing he would
himself undertake that office, when he entered the saloon, addressed
Apollonia. Nothing could be more skilful than the manner in which Mrs.
Giles, in this party, assumed precisely the position which equally
became her and suited her own views; at the same time the somewhat
humble friend, but the trusted counsellor, of the Towers, she disarmed
envy and conciliated consideration. Never obtrusive, yet always prompt
and prepared with unfailing resource, and gifted apparently, with
universal talents, she soon became the recognized medium by which every
thing was suggested or arranged; and before eight-and-forty hours had
passed she was described by duchesses and their daughters as that "dear
Mrs. Giles."

"Monsieur Raphael and his sister came down in the train with us," said
Mrs. Giles to Lothair; "the rest of the troupe will not be here until
to-morrow; but they told me they could give you a perfect proverbe if
your lordship would like it; and the Spanish conjuror is here; but I
rather think, from what I gather, that the young ladies would like a
dance."

"I do not much fancy acting the moment these great churchmen have
arrived, and with cardinals and bishops I would rather not have dances
the first -night. I almost wish we had kept the Hungarian lady for this
evening."

"Shall I send for her? She is ready."

"The repetition would be too soon, and would show a great poverty of
resources," said Lothair, smiling; "what we want is some singing."

"Mardoni ought to have been here to-day," said Mrs. Giles; "but he never
keeps his engagements."

"I think our amateur materials are rather rich," said Lothair.

"There is Mrs. Campian," said Apollonia in a low voice; but Lothair
shook his head.

"But, perhaps, if others set her the example," he added, after a pause;
"Lady Corisande is first rate, and all her sisters sing; I will go and
consult the duchess."

There was soon a stir in the room. Lady St. Aldegonde and her sisters
approached the piano, at which was seated the eminent professor. A note
was heard, and there was silence. The execution was exquisite; and,
indeed, there are few things more dainty than the blended voices of
three women. No one seemed to appreciate the performance more than Mrs.
Campian, who, greatly attracted by what was taking place, turned a
careless ear, even to the honeyed sentences of no less a personage than
the lord-bishop.

After an interval Lady Corisande was handed to the piano by Lothair.
She was in fine voice, and sang with wonderful effect. Mrs. Campian,
who seemed much interested, softly rose, and stole to the outward circle
of the group which had gathered round the instrument. When the sounds
had ceased, amid the general applause her voice of admiration was heard.
The duchess approached her, evidently prompted by the general wish, and
expressed her hope that Mrs. Campian would now favor them. It was not
becoming to refuse when others had contributed so freely to the general
entertainment, but Theodora was anxious not to place herself in
competition with those who had preceded her. Looking over a volume of
music, she suggested to Lady Corisande a duet, in which the
peculiarities of their two voices, which in character were quite
different, one being a soprano and the other a contralto, might be
displayed. And very seldom, in a private chamber, had any thing of so
high a class been heard. Not a lip moved except those of the singers,
so complete was the fascination, till the conclusion elicited a burst of
irresistible applause.

"In imagination I am throwing endless bouquets," said Hugo Bohun.

"I wish we could induce her to give us a recitation from Alfieri," said
Mrs. Putney Giles in a whisper to Lady St. Aldegonde. "I heard it once:
it was the finest thing I ever listened to."

"But cannot we?" said Lady St. Aldegonde.

Apollonia shook her head. "She is extremely reserved. I am quite
surprised that she sang; but she could not well refuse after your
ladyship and your sisters had been so kind."

"But if the Lord of the Towers asks her," suggested Lady St. Aldegonde.

"No, no," said Mrs. Giles, "that would not do; nor would he. He knows
she dislikes it. A word from Colonel Campian, and the thing would be
settled; but it is rather absurd to invoke the authority of a husband
for so light a matter."

"I should like so much to hear her," said Lady St. Aldegonde. "I think
I will ask her myself. I will go and speak to mamma."

There was much whispering and consulting in the room, but unnoticed, as
general conversation had now been resumed. The duchess sent for
Lothair, and conferred with him; but Lothair seemed to shake his head.
Then her grace rose and approached Colonel Campian, who was talking to
Lord Culloden, and then the duchess and Lady St. Aldegonde went to Mrs.
Campian. Then, after a short time, Lady St. Aldegonde rose and fetched
Lothair.

"Her grace tells me," said Theodora, "that Colonel Campian wishes me to
give a recitation. I cannot believe that such a performance can ever be
generally interesting, especially in a foreign language, and I confess
that I would rather not exhibit. But I do not like to be churlish when
all are so amiable and compliant, and her grace tells me that it cannot
well be postponed, for this is the last quiet night we shall have. What
I want is a screen, and I must be a moment alone, before I venture on
these enterprises. I require it to create the ideal presence."

Lothair and Bertram arranged the screen, the duchess and Lady St.
Aldegonde glided about, and tranquilly intimated what was going to
occur, so that, without effort, there was in a moment complete silence
and general expectation. Almost unnoticed Mrs. Campian had disappeared,
whispering a word as she passed to the eminent conductor, who was still
seated at the piano. The company had almost unconsciously grouped
themselves in the form of a theatre, the gentlemen generally standing
behind the ladies who were seated. There were some bars of solemn
music, and then, to an audience not less nervous than herself, Theodora
came forward as Electra in that beautiful appeal to Clytemnestra, where
she veils her mother's guilt even while she intimates her more than
terrible suspicion of its existence, and makes one last desperate appeal
of pathetic duty in order to save her parent and her fated house:

"O amata madre,
Che fai? Non credo io, no, che ardente fiamma
Il cor ti avvampi."

The ineffable grace of her action, simple without redundancy, her
exquisite elocution, her deep yet controlled passion, and the magic of a
voice thrilling even in a whisper -- this form of Phidias with the
genius of Sophocles -- entirely enraptured a fastidious audience. When
she ceased, there was an outburst of profound and unaffected
appreciation; and Lord St. Aldegonde, who had listened in a sort of
ecstasy, rushed forward, with a countenance as serious as the theme, to
offer his thanks and express his admiration.

And then they gathered round her -- all these charming women and some of
these admiring men -- as she would have resumed her seat, and entreated
her once more -- only once more -- to favor them. She caught the
adoring glance of the lord of the Towers, and her eyes seemed to inquire
what she should do. "There will be many strangers here to-morrow," said
Lothair, "and next week all the world. This is a delight only for the
initiated," and he entreated her to gratify them.

"It shall be Alfieri's ode to America, then," said Theodora, "if you
please."

"She is a Roman, I believe," said Lady St. Jerome to his eminence, "but
not, alas! a child of the Church. Indeed, I fear her views generally
are advanced," and she shook her head.

"At present," said the cardinal, "this roof and this visit may influence
her. I should like to see such powers engaged in the cause of God."

The cardinal was an entire believer in female influence, and a
considerable believer in his influence over females; and he had good
cause for his convictions. The catalogue of his proselytes was numerous
and distinguished. He had not only converted a duchess and several
countesses, but he had gathered into his fold a real Mary Magdalen. In
the height of her beauty and her fame, the most distinguished member of
the demi-monde had suddenly thrown up her golden whip and jingling
reins, and cast herself at the feet of the cardinal. He had a right,
therefore, to be confident; and, while his exquisite taste and
consummate cultivation rendered it impossible that he should not have
been deeply gratified by the performance of Theodora, he was really the
whole time considering the best means by which such charms and powers
could be enlisted in the cause of the Church.

After the ladies had retired, the gentlemen talked for a few minutes
over the interesting occurrence of the evening.

"Do you know," said the bishop to the duke and some surrounding
auditors, "fine as was the Electra, I preferred the ode to the tragedy?
There was a tumult of her brow, especially in the address to Liberty,
that was sublime -- quite a Moenad look."

"What do you think of it, Carry?" said St. Aldegonde to Lord
Carisbrooke.

"Brecon says she puts him in mind of Ristori."

"She is not in the least like Ristori, or any one else," said St.
Aldegonde. "I never heard, I never saw any one like her. I'll tell you
what -- you must take care what you say about her in the smoking-room,
for her husband will be there, and an excellent fellow too. We went
together to the moors this morning, and he did not bore me in the least.
Only, if I had known as much about his wife as I do now, I would have
stayed at home, and passed my morning with the women."



CHAPTER 43


St. Aldegonde loved to preside over the mysteries of the smoking-room.
There, enveloped in his Egyptian robe, occasionally blurting out some
careless or headstrong paradox to provoke discussion among others, which
would amuse himself, rioting in a Rabelaisan anecdote, and listening
with critical delight to endless memoirs of horses and prima-donnas, St.
Aldegonde was never bored. Sometimes, too, when he could get hold of an
eminent traveller, or some individual distinguished for special
knowledge, St. Aldegonde would draw him out with skill; himself
displaying an acquaintance with the particular topic which often
surprised his habitual companions, for St. Aldegonde professed never to
read; but he had no ordinary abilities, and an original turn of mind and
habit of life, which threw him in the way of unusual persons of all
classes; from whom he imbibed or extracted a vast variety of queer,
always amusing, and not altogether useless information.

"Lothair has only one weakness," he said to Colonel Campian as the
ladies disappeared; "he does not smoke. Carry, you will come?"

"Well, I do not think I shall to-night," said Lord Carisbrooke. Lady
Corisande, it appears, particularly disapproved of smoking.

"Hum!" said St. Aldegonde; "Duke of Brecon, I know, will come, and Hugo
and Bertram. My brother Montairy would give his ears to come, but is
afraid of his wife; and then there is the monsignore, a most capital
fellow, who knows every thing."

There were other gatherings, before the midnight bell struck at the
Towers, which discussed important affairs, though they might not sit so
late as the smoking-party. Lady St. Aldegonde had a reception in her
room as well as her lord. There the silent observation of the evening
found avenging expression in sparkling criticism, and the summer
lightning, though it generally blazed with harmless brilliancy,
occasionally assumed a more arrowy character. The gentlemen of the
smoking-room have it not all their own way quite as much as they think.
If, indeed, a new school of Athens were to be pictured, the sages and
the students might be represented in exquisite dressing-gowns, with
slippers rarer than the lost one of Cinderella, and brandishing
beautiful brushes over tresses still more fair. Then is the time when
characters are never more finely drawn, or difficult social questions
more accurately solved; knowledge without reasoning and truth without
logic -- the triumph of intuition! But we must not profane the
mysteries of Bona Dea.

The archdeacon and the chaplain had also been in council with the bishop
in his dressing-room, who, while he dismissed them with his benison,
repeated his apparently satisfactory assurance that something would
happen "the first thing after breakfast."

Lothair did not smoke, but he did not sleep. He was absorbed by the
thought of Theodora. He could not but be conscious, and so far he was
pleased by the consciousness, that she was as fascinating to others as
to himself. What then? Even with the splendid novelty of his majestic
home, and all the excitement of such an incident in his life, and the
immediate prospect of their again meeting, he had felt, and even
acutely, their separation. Whether it were the admiration of her by
others which proved his own just appreciation, or whether it were the
unobtrusive display of exquisite accomplishments, which, with all their
intimacy, she had never forced on his notice -- whatever the cause, her
hold upon his heart and life, powerful as it was before, had
strengthened. Lothair could not conceive existence tolerable without
her constant presence; and with her constant presence existence would be
rapture. It had come to that. All his musings, all his profound
investigation and high resolve, all his sublime speculations on God and
man, and life, and immortality, and the origin of things, and religious
truth, ended in an engrossing state of feeling, which could be denoted
in that form and in no other.

What, then, was his future? It seemed dark and distressing. Her
constant presence his only happiness; her constant presence impossible.
He seemed on an abyss.

In eight-and-forty hours or so one of the chief provinces of England
would be blazing with the celebration of his legal accession to his high
estate. If any one in the queen's dominions had to be fixed upon as the
most fortunate and happiest of her subjects, it might well be Lothair.
If happiness depend on lofty station, his ancient and hereditary rank
was of the highest; if, as there seems no doubt, the chief source of
felicity in this country is wealth, his vast possessions and accumulated
treasure could not easily be rivalled, while he had a matchless
advantage over those who pass, or waste, their gray and withered lives
in acquiring millions, in his consummate and healthy youth. He had
bright abilities, and a brighter heart. And yet the unknown truth was,
that this favored being, on the eve of this critical event, was pacing
his chamber agitated and infinitely disquieted, and struggling with
circumstances and feelings over which alike he seemed to have no
control, and which seemed to have been evoked without the exercise of
his own will, or that of any other person.

"I do not think I can blame myself," he said; "and I am sure I cannot
blame her. And yet -- "

He opened his window and looked upon the moonlit garden, which filled
the fanciful quadrangle. The light of the fountain seemed to fascinate
his eye, and the music of its fall soothed him into reverie. The
distressful images that had gathered round his heart gradually vanished,
and all that remained to him was the reality of his happiness. Her
beauty and her grace, the sweet stillness of her searching intellect,
and the refined pathos of her disposition, only occurred to him, and he
dwelt on them with spell-bound joy.

The great clock of the Towers sounded two.

"Ah!" said Lothair, "I must try to sleep. I have got to see the bishop
to-morrow morning. I wonder what he wants?"



CHAPTER 44


The bishop was particularly playful on the morrow at breakfast. Though
his face beamed with Christian kindness, there was a twinkle in his eye
which seemed not entirely superior to mundane self-complacency, even to
a sense of earthly merriment. His seraphic raillery elicited
sympathetic applause from the ladies, especially from the daughters of
the house of Brentham, who laughed occasionally, even before his angelic
jokes were well launched. His lambent flashes sometimes even played
over the cardinal, whose cerulean armor, nevertheless, remained always
unscathed. Monsignore Chidioch, however, who would once unnecessarily
rush to the aid of his chief, was tumbled over by the bishop with
relentless gayety, to the infinite delight of Lady Corisande, who only
wished it had been that dreadful Monsignore Catesby. But, though less
demonstrative, apparently not the least devout, of his lordship's
votaries, were the Lady Flora and the Lady Grizell. These young
gentlewomen, though apparently gifted with appetites becoming their
ample, but far from graceless, forms, contrived to satisfy all the wants
of nature without taking their charmed vision for a moment off the
prelate, or losing a word which escaped his consecrated lips. Sometimes
even they ventured to smile, and then they looked at their father and
sighed. It was evident, notwithstanding their appetites and their
splendid complexions, which would have become the Aurora of Guido, that
these young ladies had some secret sorrow which required a confidante.
Their visit to Muriel Towers was their introduction to society, for the
eldest had only just attained sweet seventeen. Young ladies under these
circumstances always fall in love, but with their own sex. Lady Flora
and Lady Grizell both fell in love with Lady Corisande, and before the
morning had passed away she had become their friend and counsellor, and
the object of their devoted adoration. It seems that their secret
sorrow had its origin in that mysterious religious sentiment which
agitates or affects every class and condition of man, and which creates
or destroys states, though philosophers are daily assuring us "that
there is nothing in it." The daughters of the Earl of Culloden could
not stand any longer the Free Kirk, of which their austere parent was a
fiery votary. It seems that they had been secretly converted to the
Episcopal Church of Scotland by a governess, who pretended to be a
daughter of the Covenant, but who was really a niece of the primus, and,
as Lord Culloden accurately observed, when he ignominiously dismissed
her, "a Jesuit in disguise." From that moment there had been no peace
in his house. His handsome and gigantic daughters, who had hitherto
been all meekness, and who had obeyed him as they would a tyrant father
of the feudal ages, were resolute, and would not compromise their souls.
They humbly expressed their desire to enter a convent, or to become at
least sisters of mercy. Lord Culloden raged and raved, and delivered
himself of cynical taunts, but to no purpose. The principle that forms
Free Kirks is a strong principle, and takes many forms, which the social
Polyphemes, who have only one eye, cannot perceive. In his desperate
confusion, be thought that change of scene might be a diversion when
things were at the worst, and this was the reason that be had, contrary
to his original intention, accepted the invitation of his ward.

Lady Corisande was exactly the guide the girls required. They sat on
each side of her, each holding her hand, which they frequently pressed
to their lips. As her form was slight, though of perfect grace and
symmetry, the contrast between herself and her worshippers was rather
startling; but her noble brow, full of thought and purpose, the firmness
of her chiselled lip, and the rich fire of her glance vindicated her
post as the leading spirit.

They breakfasted in a room which opened on a gallery, and at the other
end of the gallery was an apartment similar to the breakfast-room, which
was the male morning-room, and where the world could find the
newspapers, or join in half an hour's talk over the intended
arrangements of the day. When the breakfast-party broke up, the bishop
approached Lothair, and looked at him earnestly.

"I am at your lordship's service," said Lothair, and they quitted the
breakfast-room together. Half-way down the gallery they met Monsignore
Catesby, who had in his hand a number, just arrived, of a newspaper
which was esteemed an Ultramontane organ. He bowed as he passed them,
with an air of some exultation, and the bishop and himself exchanged
significant smiles, which, however, meant different things. Quitting
the gallery, Lothair led the way to his private apartments; and, opening
the door, ushered in the bishop.

Now, what was contained in the Ultramontane organ which apparently
occasioned so much satisfaction to Monsignore Catesby? A deftly
drawn-up announcement of some important arrangements which had been
deeply planned. The announcement would be repeated In all the daily
papers, which were hourly expected. The world was informed that his
eminence, Cardinal Grandison, now on a visit at Muriel Towers to his
ward, Lothair, would celebrate high mass on the ensuing Sunday in the
city which was the episcopal capital of the bishop's see, and afterward
preach on the present state of the Church of Christ. As the bishop must
be absent from his cathedral that day, and had promised to preach in the
chapel at Muriel, there was something dexterous in thus turning his
lordship's flank, and desolating his diocese when he was not present to
guard it from the fiery dragon. It was also remarked that there would
be an unusual gathering of the Catholic aristocracy for the occasion.
The rate of lodgings in the city had risen in consequence. At the end
of the paragraph it was distinctly contradicted that Lothair had entered
the Catholic Church. Such a statement was declared to be "premature,"
as his guardian, the cardinal, would never sanction his taking such a
step until he was the master of his own actions; the general impression
left by the whole paragraph being, that the world was not to be
astonished if the first stop of Lothair, on accomplishing his majority,
was to pursue the very course which was now daintily described as
premature.

At luncheon the whole party were again assembled. The newspapers had
arrived in the interval, and had been digested. Every one was aware of
the popish plot, as Hugo Bohun called it. The bishop, however, looked
serene, and, if not as elate as in the morning, calm and content. He
sat by the duchess, and spoke to her in a low voice, and with
seriousness. The monsignore watched every expression.

When the duchess rose, the bishop accompanied her into the recess of a
window, and she said: "You may depend upon me; I cannot answer for the
duke. It is not the early rising; he always rises early in the country,
but he likes to read his letters before he dresses, and that sort of
thing. I think you had better speak to Lady Corisande yourself."

What had taken place at the interview of the bishop with Lothair, and
what had elicited from the duchess an assurance that the prelate might
depend upon her, generally transpired, in consequence of some
confidential communications, in the course of the afternoon. It
appeared that the right reverend lord had impressed, and successfully,
on Lothair, the paramount duty of commencing the day of his majority by
assisting in an early celebration of the most sacred rite of the Church.
This, in the estimation of the bishop, though he had not directly
alluded to the subject in the interview, but had urged the act on higher
grounds, would be a triumphant answer to the insidious and calumnious
paragraphs which had circulated during the last six months, and an
authentic testimony that Lothair was not going to quit the Church of his
fathers.