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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




It had been raised during the latter of the sixteenth century by
Vignola, when, under the influence of the great Pagan revival, the
Christian church began to assume the character of an Olympian temple. A
central painted cupola of large but exquisite proportions, supported by
pilasters with gilded capitals, and angels of white marble springing
from golden brackets; walls incrusted with rare materials of every tint,
and altars supported by serpentine columns of agate and alabaster; a
blaze of pictures, and statues, and precious stones, and precious
metals, denoted one of the chief temples of the sacred brotherhood of
Jesus, raised when the great order had recognized that the views of
primitive and mediaeval Christianity, founded on the humility of man,
were not in accordance with the age of confidence in human energy, in
which they were destined to rise, and which they were determined to
direct.

Guided by Catesby, and leaning on a staff, Lothair gained a gorgeous
side chapel in which mass was celebrating; the air was rich with
incense, and all heaven seemed to open in the ministrations of a
seraphic choir. Crushed by his great calamities, both physical and
moral, Lothair sometimes felt that be could now be content if the rest
of his life could flow away amid this celestial fragrance and these
gushing sounds of heavenly melody. And absorbed in these feelings it
was not immediately observed by him that on the altar, behind the
dazzling blaze of tapers, was a picture of the Virgin, and identically
the same countenance as that he had recognized with emotion in the
drawing of Raffaelle.

It revived perplexing memories which agitated him, thoughts on which it
seemed his brain had not now strength enough to dwell, and yet with
which it now seemed inevitable for him to grapple. The congregation was
not very numerous, and, when it broke up, several of them lingered
behind and whispered to the monsignore, and then, after a little time,
Catesby approached Lothair and said: "There are some here who would
wish to kiss your hand, or even touch the hem of your garments. It is
troublesome, but natural, considering all that has occurred and that
this is the first time, perhaps, that they have met any one who has been
so favored."

"Favored!" said Lothair; "Am I favored? It seems to me I am the most
forlorn of men -- if even I am that."

"Hush!" said the monsignore, "we must not talk of these things at
present;" and he motioned to some, who approached and contemplated
Lothair with blended curiosity and reverence.

These visits of Lothair to the beautiful church of the Jesuits became of
daily occurrence, and often happened several times on the same day;
indeed they formed the only incident which seemed to break his
listlessness. He became interested in the change and variety of the
services, in the persons and characters of the officiating priests. The
soft manners of these fathers, their intelligence in the performance of
their offices, their obliging carriage, and the unaffected concern with
which all he said or did seemed to inspire the won upon him
unconsciously. The church had become his world; and his sympathies, if
he still had sympathies, seemed confined to those within its walls.

In the mean time his physical advancement though slow was gradual and
had hitherto never been arrested. He could even walk a little alone,
though artificially supported, and ramble about the halls and galleries
full of a prodigious quantity of pictures, from the days of Raffael
Sanzio to those of Raffael Mengs.

"The doctors think now we might try a little drive," said the monsignore
one morning. "The rains have ceased and refreshed every thing. To-day
is like the burst of spring;" and, when Lothair seemed to shudder at the
idea of facing any thing like the external world, the monsignore
suggested immediately that they should go out in a close carriage, which
they finally entered in the huge quadrangle of the building. Lothair
was so nervous that he pulled down even the blind of his window; and the
monsignore, who always humored him, half pulled down his own.

Their progress seemed through a silent land, and they could hardly be
traversing streets. Then the ascent became a little precipitous, and
then the carriage stopped, and the monsignore said: "Here is a solitary
spot. We shall meet no one. The view is charming, and the air is
soft." And he placed his hand gently on the arm of Lothair, and, as it
were, drew him out of the carriage.

The sun was bright, and the sky was bland. There was something in the
breath of Nature that was delightful. The scent of violets was worth
all the incense in the world; all the splendid marbles and priestly
vestments seemed hard and cold when compared with the glorious colors of
the cactus and the wild forms of the golden and gigantic aloes. The
Favonian breeze played on the brow of this beautiful hill, and the
exquisite palm-trees, while they bowed their rustling heads, answered in
responsive chorus to the antiphon of Nature.

The dreary look that had been so long imprinted on the face of Lothair
melted away.

"'Tis well that we came, is it not?" said Catesby; "and now we will seat
ourselves." Below and before them, on an undulating site, a city of
palaces and churches spread out its august form, enclosing within its
ample walls sometimes a wilderness of classic ruins -- column, and arch,
and theatre -- sometimes the umbrageous spread of princely gardens. A
winding and turbid river divided the city in unequal parts, in one of
which there rose a vast and glorious temple, crowned with a dome of
almost superhuman size and skill, on which the favorite sign of heaven
flashed with triumphant truth.

The expression of relief which, for a moment, had reposed on the face of
Lothair, left it when he said, in an agitated voice, "I at length behold
Rome!"



CHAPTER 62


This recognition of Rome by Lothair evinced not only a consciousness of
locality, but an interest in it not before exhibited; and the monsignore
soon after seized the opportunity of drawing the mind of his companion
to the past, and feeling how far he now realized the occurrences that
immediately preceded his arrival in the city. But Lothair would not
dwell on them. "I wish to think of nothing," he said, "that happened
before I entered this city: all I desire now is to know those to whom I
am indebted for my preservation in a condition that seemed hopeless."

"There is nothing hopeless with Divine aid," said the monsignore; "but,
humanly speaking, you are indebted for your preservation to English
friends, long and intimately cherished. It is under their roof that you
dwell, the Agostini palace, tenanted by Lord St. Jerome."

"Lord St. Jerome!" murmured Lothair to himself.

"And the ladies of his house are those who, only with some slight
assistance from my poor self, tended you throughout your most desperate
state, and when we sometimes almost feared that mind and body were alike
wrecked."

"I have a dream of angels," said Lothair; "and sometimes I listened to
heavenly voices that I seemed to have heard before."

"I am sure you have not forgotten the ladies of that house?" said
Catesby, watching his countenance.

"No; one of them summoned me to meet her at Rome," murmured Lothair,
"and I am here."

"That summons was divine," said Catesby, "and only the herald of the
great event that was ordained and has since occurred. In this holy
city, Miss Arundel must ever count as the most sanctified of her sex."

Lothair lapsed into silence, which subsequently appeared to be
meditation, for, when the carriage stopped, and the monsignore assisted
him to alight, he said, "I must see Lord St. Jerome."

And, in the afternoon, with due and preparatory announcement, Lord St.
Jerome waited on Lothair. The monsignore ushered him into the chamber,
and, though he left them as it were alone, never quitted it. He watched
them conversing, while he seemed to be arranging books and flowers; he
hovered over the conference, dropping down on them at a critical moment,
when the words became either languid or embarrassing. Lord St. Jerome
was a hearty man, simple and high-bred. He addressed Lothair with all
his former kindness, but with some degree of reserve, and even a dash of
ceremony. Lothair was not insensible to the alteration in his manner,
but could ascribe it to many causes. He was himself resolved to make an
effort, when Lord St. Jerome arose to depart, and expressed the
intention of Lady St. Jerome to wait on him on the morrow. "No, my dear
lord," said Lothair; "to-morrow I make my first visit, and it shall be
to my best friends. I would try to come this evening, but they will not
be alone; and I must see them alone if it be only once."

This visit of the morrow rather pressed on the nervous system of
Lothair. It was no slight enterprise, and called up many recollections.
He brooded over his engagement during the whole evening, and his night
was disturbed. His memory, long in a state of apathy, or curbed and
controlled into indifference, seemed endowed with unnatural vitality,
reproducing the history of his past life in rapid and exhausting tumult.
All its scenes rose before him -- Brentham, and Vauxe, and, Muriel --
and closing with one absorbing spot, which, for a long time, it avoided,
and in which all merged and ended -- Belmont. Then came that anguish of
the heart, which none can feel but those who in the youth of life have
lost some one infinitely fascinating and dear, and the wild query why
he, too, had not fallen on the fatal plain which had entombed all the
hope and inspiration of his existence.

The interview was not so trying an incident as Lothair anticipated, as
often under such circumstances occurs. Miss Arundel was not present;
and, in the second place, although Lothair could not at first be
insensible to a change in the manner of Lady St. Jerome, as well as in
that of her lord, exhibiting as it did a degree of deference and
ceremony which with her toward him were quite unusual, still the genial,
gushing nature of this lively and enthusiastic woman, full of sympathy,
soon asserted itself, and her heart was overflowing with sorrow for all
his sufferings and gratitude for his escape.

"And, after all," she said, "every thing must have been ordained; and,
without these trials, and even calamities, that great event could not
have been brought about which must make all hail you as the most favored
of men."

Lothair stared with a look of perplexity, and then said: "If I be the
most favored of men, it is only because two angelic beings have deigned
to minister to me in my sorrow, with a sweet devotion I can never
forget, and, alas! can never repay."



CHAPTER 63


Lothair was not destined to meet Clare Arundel alone or only in the
presence of her family. He had acceded, after a short time, to the wish
of Lady St. Jerome, and the advice of Monsignore Catesby, to wait on her
in the evening, when Lady St. Jerome was always at home and never alone.
Her rooms were the privileged resort of the very cream of Roman society
and of those English who, like herself, had returned to the Roman
Church. An Italian palace supplied an excellent occasion for the
display of the peculiar genius of our countrywomen to make a place
habitable. Beautiful carpets, baskets of flowers and cases of ferns,
and chairs which you could sit upon, tables covered with an infinity of
toys -- sparkling, useful, and fantastic -- huge silken screens of rich
color, and a profusion of light, produced a scene of combined comfort
and brilliancy which made every one social who entered it, and seemed to
give a bright and graceful turn even to the careless remarks of ordinary
gossip.

Lady St. Jerome rose the moment her eye caught the entry of Lothair,
and, advancing, received him with an air of ceremony, mixed, however,
with an expression of personal devotion which was distressing to him,
and singularly contrasted with the easy and genial receptions that he
remembered at Vauxe. Then Lady St. Jerome led Lothair to her companion
whom she had just quitted, and presented him to the Princess
Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a dame in whose veins, it was said, flowed both
consular and pontifical blood of the rarest tint.

The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento was the greatest lady in Rome; had
still vast possessions -- palaces and villas and vineyards and broad
farms. Notwithstanding all that had occurred, she still looked upon the
kings and emperors of the world as the mere servants of the pope, and on
the old Roman nobility as still the conscript fathers of the world. Her
other characteristic was superstition. So she was most distinguished by
an irrepressible haughtiness and an illimitable credulity. The only
softening circumstance was that, being in the hands of the Jesuits, her
religion did not assume an ascetic or gloomy character. She was fond of
society, and liked to show her wondrous jewels, which were still
unrivalled, although she had presented his holiness in his troubles with
a tiara of diamonds.

There were rumors that the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento had on
occasions treated even the highest nobility of England with a certain
indifference; and all agreed that to laymen, however distinguished, her
highness was not prone too easily to relax. But, in the present
instance, it is difficult to convey a due conception of the graciousness
of her demeanor when Lothair bent before her. She appeared even
agitated, almost rose from her seat, and blushed through her rouge.
Lady St. Jerome, guiding Lothair into her vacant seat, walked away.

"We shall never forget what you have done for us," said the princess to
Lothair.

"I have done nothing," said Lothair, with a surprised air.

"Ali, that is so like gifted beings like you," said the princess. "They
never will think they have done any thing, even were they to save the
world."

"You are too gracious, princess," said Lothair; "I have no claims to
esteem which all must so value."

"Who has, if you have not?" rejoined the princess. "Yes, it is to you,
and to you alone, that we must look. I am very impartial in what I say,
for, to be frank, I have not been of those who believed that the great
champion would rise without the patrimony of St. Peter. I am ashamed to
say that I have even looked with jealousy on the energy that has been
shown by individuals in other countries; but I now confess that I was in
error. I cannot resist this manifestation. It was a privilege to have
lived when it happened. All that we can do now is to cherish your
favored life."

"You are too kind, madam," murmured the perplexed Lothair.

"I have done nothing," rejoined the princess, "and am ashamed that I
have done nothing. But it is well for you, at this season, to be at
Rome; and you cannot be better, I am sure, than under this roof. But,
when the spring breaks, I hope you will honor me, by accepting for your
use a villa which I have at Albano, and which, at that season, has many
charms."

There were other Roman ladies in the room only inferior in rank and
importance to the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento; and in the course of
the evening, at their earnest request, they were made acquainted with
Lothair, for it cannot be said he was presented to them. These ladies,
generally so calm, would not wait for the ordinary ceremony of life,
but, as he approached to be introduced, sank to the ground with the
obeisance offered only to royalty.

There were some cardinals in the apartment and several monsignori.
Catesby was there in close attendance on a pretty English countess, who
had just "gone over." Her husband had been at first very much
distressed at the event, and tore himself from the severe duties of the
House of Lords, in the hope that he might yet arrive in time at Rome to
save her soul. But he was too late; and, strange to say, being of a
domestic turn, and disliking family dissensions, he remained at Rome
during the rest of the session, and finally "went over" himself.

Later in the evening arrived his eminence, Cardinal Berwick, for our
friend had gained, and bravely gained, the great object of a churchman's
ambition, and which even our Laud was thinking at one time of accepting,
although he was to remain a firm Anglican. In the death-struggle
between the Church and the secret societies, Berwick had been the
victor, and no one in the Sacred College more truly deserved the scarlet
hat.

His eminence had a reverence of radiant devotion for the Princess
Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a glance of friendship for Lady St. Jerome -- for
all, a courtly and benignant smile; but, when he recognized Lothair, he
started forward, seized and retained his hand, and then seemed
speechless with emotion. "Ah! my comrade in the great struggle!" he at
length exclaimed; "this is, indeed, a pleasure -- and to see you here!"

Early in the evening, while Lothair was sitting by the side of the
princess, his eye had wandered round the room, not unsuccessfully, in
search of Miss Arundel; and, when he was free, he would immediately have
approached her, but she was in conversation with a Roman prince. Then,
when she was for a moment free, he was himself engaged; and, at last, he
had to quit abruptly a cardinal of taste, who was describing to him a
statue just discovered in the baths of Diocletian, in order to seize the
occasion that again offered itself.

Her manner was constrained when he addressed her, but she gave him her
hand, which he pressed to his lips. Looking deeply into her violet
eyes, he said: "You summoned me to meet you at Rome; I am here."

"And I summoned you to other things," she answered, at first with
hesitation and a blush; but then, as if rallying herself to the
performance of a duty too high to allow of personal embarrassment, she
added: "all of which you will perform, as becomes one favored by
Heaven."

"I have been favored by you," said Lothair, speaking low and hurriedly;
"to whom I owe my life, and more than my life. Yes," he continued,
"this is not the scene I would have chosen to express my gratitude to
you for all that you have done for me, and my admiration of your sublime
virtues; but I can no longer repress the feelings of my heart, though
their utterance be as inadequate as your deeds have been transcendent."

"I was but the instrument of a higher power."

"We are all instruments of a higher power, but the instruments chosen
are always choice."

"Ay, there it is!" said Miss Arundel; "and that is what I rejoice you
feel. For it is impossible that such a selection could have been made,
as in your case, without your being reserved for great results."

"I am but a shattered actor for great results," said Lothair, shaking
his head.

"You have had trials," said Miss Arundel, "so had St. Ignatius, so had
St. Francis, and great temptations; but these are the tests of
character, of will, of spiritual power -- the fine gold is searched.
All things that have happened have tended and have been ordained to one
end, and that was to make you the champion of the Church of which you
are now more than the child."

"More than the child?"

"Indeed I think so. However, this is hardly the place and occasion to
dwell on such matters; and, indeed, I know your friends -- my friends
equally -- are desirous that your convalescence should not be
unnecessarily disturbed by what must be, however delightful, still
agitating thoughts; but you touched yourself unexpectedly on the theme,
and, at any rate, you will pardon one who has the inconvenient quality
of having only one thought."

"Whatever you say or think must always interest me."

"You are kind to say so. I suppose you know that our cardinal, Cardinal
Grandison, will be here in a few days?"



CHAPTER 64


Although the reception of Lothair by his old friends and by the leaders
of the Roman world was in the highest degree flattering, there was
something in its tone which was perplexing to him and ambiguous. Could
they be ignorant of his Italian antecedents? Impossible. Miss Arundel
had admitted, or rather declared, that he had experienced great trials,
and, even temptations. She could only allude to what had occurred since
their parting in England. But all this was now looked upon as
satisfactory, because it was ordained, and tended to one end; and what
was that end? His devotion to the Church of Rome, of which they
admitted he was not formally a child.

It was true that his chief companion was a priest, and that he passed a
great portion of his life within the walls of a church. But the priest
was his familiar friend in England, who in a foreign land had nursed him
with devotion in a desperate illness; and, although in the great
calamities, physical and moral, that had overwhelmed him, he had found
solace in the beautiful services of a religion which he respected, no
one for a moment had taken advantage of this mood of his suffering and
enfeebled mind to entrap him into controversy, or to betray him into
admissions that he might afterward consider precipitate and immature.
Indeed, nothing could be more delicate than the conduct of the Jesuit
fathers throughout his communications with them. They seemed sincerely
gratified that a suffering fellow creature should find even temporary
consolation within their fair and consecrated structure; their voices
modulated with sympathy; their glances gushed with fraternal affection;
their affectionate politeness contrived, in a thousand slight instances,
the selection of a mass, the arrangement of a picture, the loan of a
book, to contribute to the interesting or elegant distraction of his
forlorn and brooding being.

And yet Lothair began to feel uneasy, and his uneasiness increased
proportionately as his health improved. He sometimes thought that he
should like to make an effort and get about a little in the world, but
he was very weak, and without any of the resources to which he had been
accustomed throughout life. He had no servants of his own, no
carriages, no man of business, no banker; and when at last he tried to
bring himself to write to Mr. Putney Giles -- a painful task --
Monsignore Catesby offered to undertake his whole correspondence for
him, and announced that his medical attendants had declared that he must
under no circumstances whatever attempt at present to write a letter.
Hitherto he had been without money, which was lavishly supplied for his
physicians and other wants; and he would have been without clothes if
the most fashionable tailor in Rome, a German, had not been in frequent
attendance on him under the direction of Monsignore Catesby, who, in
fact, had organized his wardrobe as he did every thing else.

Somehow or other Lothair never seemed alone. When he woke in the
morning the monsignore was frequently kneeling before an oratory in his
room, and if by any chance Lothair was wanting at Lady St. Jerome's
reception, Father Coleman, who was now on a visit to the family, would
look in and pass the evening with him, as men who keep a gaming-table
find it discreet occasionally to change the dealer. It is a huge and
even stupendous pile -- that Palazzo Agostini, and yet Lothair never
tried to thread his way through its vestibules and galleries, or attempt
a reconnaissance of its endless chambers, without some monsignore or
other gliding up quite propos and relieving him from the dulness of
solitary existence during the rest of his promenade.

Lothair was relieved by hearing that big former guardian, Cardinal
Grandison, was daily expected at Rome; and he revolved in his mind
whether he should not speak to his eminence generally on the system of
his life, which he felt now required some modification. In the
interval, however, no change did occur. Lothair attended every day the
services of the church, and every evening the receptions of Lady St.
Jerome; and between the discharge of these two duties he took a drive
with a priest -- sometimes with more than one, but always most agreeable
men -- generally in the environs of the city, or visited a convent, or a
villa, some beautiful gardens, or a gallery of works of art.

It was at Lady St. Jerome's that Lothair met his former guardian. The
cardinal had only arrived in the morning. His manner to Lothair was
affectionate. He retained Lothair's hand and pressed it with his pale,
thin fingers; his attenuated countenance blazed for a moment with a
divine light.

"I have long wished to see you, sir," said Lothair, "and much wish to
talk with you."

"I can hear nothing from you nor of you but what must be most pleasing
to me," said the cardinal.

"I wish I could believe that," said Lothair.

The cardinal caressed him; put his arm round Lothair's neck and said,
"There is no time like the present. Let us walk together in this
gallery," and they withdrew naturally from the immediate scene.

"You know all that has happened, I dare say," said Lothair with
embarrassment and with a sigh, "since we parted in England, sir."