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New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
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PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




"It gave the turn to my mind," said Lothair, and I am grateful to you
for it. What it will all end in, God only knows."

"It will end in His glory and in yours," said the cardinal. "I have
spoken, perhaps, too much and too freely, but you greatly interest me,
not merely because you are my charge, and the son of my beloved friend,
but because I perceive in you great qualities -- qualities so great,"
continued the cardinal with earnestness, "that properly guided, they may
considerably affect the history of this country, and perhaps even have a
wider range."

Lothair shook his head.

"Well, well," continued the cardinal in a lighter tone, "we will pursue
our ramble. At any rate, I am not wrong in this, that you have no
objection to join in my daily prayer for the conversion of this kingdom
to -- religious truth," his eminence added after a pause.

"Yes religious truth," said Lothair, "we must all pray for that."



CHAPTER 18


Lothair returned to town excited and agitated. He felt that he was on
the eve of some great event in his existence, but its precise character
was not defined. One conclusion, however, was indubitable: life must be
religion; when we consider what is at stake, and that our eternal
welfare depends on our due preparation for the future, it was folly to
spare a single hour from the consideration of the best means to secure
our readiness. Such a subject does not admit of half measures or of
halting opinions. It seemed to Lothair that nothing could interest him
in life that was not symbolical of divine truths and an adumbration of
the celestial hereafter.

Could truth have descended from heaven ever to be distorted, to be
corrupted, misapprehended, misunderstood? Impossible! Such a belief
would confound and contradict all the attributes of the All-wise and the
All-mighty. There must be truth on earth now as fresh and complete is
it was at Bethlehem. And how could it be preserved but by the influence
of the Paraclete acting on an ordained class? On this head his tutor at
Oxford had fortified him; by a conviction of the Apostolical succession
of the English bishops, which no Act of Parliament could alter or
affect. But Lothair was haunted by a feeling that the relations of his
Communion with the Blessed Virgin were not satisfactory. They could not
content either his heart or his intellect. Was it becoming that a
Christian should live as regards the hallowed Mother of his God in a
condition of harsh estrangement? What mediatorial influence more
awfully appropriate than the consecrated agent of the mighty mystery?
Nor could he, even in his early days, accept without a scruple the
frigid system that would class the holy actors in the divine drama of
the Redemption as mere units in the categories of vanished generations.
Human beings who had been in personal relation with the Godhead must be
different from other human beings. There must be some transcendent
quality in their lives and careers, in their very organization, which
marks them out from all secular heroes. What was Alexander the Great,
or even Caius Julius, compared with that apostle whom Jesus loved?

Restless and disquieted, Lothair paced the long and lofty rooms which
had been secured for him in a London hotel which rivalled the colossal
convenience of Paris and the American cities. Their tawdry ornaments
and their terrible new furniture would not do after the galleries and
portraits of Vauxe. Lothair sighed.

Why did that visit ever end? Why did the world consist of any thing
else but Tudor palaces in ferny parks, or time be other than a perpetual
Holy Week? He never sighed at Vauxe. Why? He supposed it was because
their religion was his life, and here -- and he looked around him with a
shudder. The cardinal was right: it was a most happy thing for him to
be living so much with so truly a religious family.

The door opened, and servants came in bearing a large and magnificent
portfolio. It was of morocco and of prelatial purple with broad bands
of gold and alternate ornaments of a cross and a coronet. A servant
handed to Lothair a letter, which enclosed the key that opened its lock.
The portfolio contained the plans and drawings of the cathedral.

Lothair was lost in admiration of these designs and their execution.
But after the first fever of investigation was over, he required
sympathy and also information. In a truly religious family there would
always be a Father Coleman or a Monsignore Catesby to guide and to
instruct. But a Protestant, if he wants aid or advice on any matter,
can only go to his solicitor. But as he proceeded in his researches he
sensibly felt that the business was one above even an oratorian or a
monsignore. It required a finer and a more intimate sympathy; a taste
at the same time more inspired and more inspiring; some one who blended
with divine convictions the graceful energy of human feeling, and who
would not only animate him to effort but fascinate him to its
fulfilment. The counsellor he required was Miss Arundel.

Lothair had quitted Vauxe one week, and it seemed to him a year. During
the first four-and-twenty hours he felt like a child who had returned to
school, and, the day after, like a man on a desert island. Various
other forms of misery and misfortune were suggested by his succeeding
experience. Town brought no distractions to him; he knew very few
people, and these be had not yet encountered; he had once ventured to
White's, but found only a group of gray-beaded men, who evidently did
not know him, and who seemed to scan him with cynical nonchalance.
These were not the golden youth whom he had been assured by Bertram
would greet him; so, after reading a newspaper for a moment upside
downward, he got away. But he had no harbor of refuge, and was obliged
to ride down to Richmond and dine alone, and meditate on symbols and
celestial adumbrations. Every day he felt how inferior was this
existence to that of a life in a truly religious family.

But, of all the members of the family to which his memory recurred with
such unflagging interest, none more frequently engaged his thoughts than
Miss Arundel. Her conversation, which stimulated his intelligence while
it rather piqued his self-love, exercised a great influence over him,
and he had omitted no opportunity of enjoying her society. That society
and its animating power he sadly missed; and now that he had before him
the very drawings about which they had frequently talked, and she was
not by his side to suggest and sympathize and criticism and praise, he
felt unusually depressed.

Lothair corresponded with Lady St. Jerome, and was aware of her intended
movements. But the return the family to London had been somewhat
delayed. When this disappointment was first made known to him, his
impulse was to ride down to Vauxe; but the tact in which he was not
deficient assured him that he ought not to reappear on a stage where be
had already figured for perhaps too considerable a time, and so another
week had to be passed, softened, however, by visits from the father of
the oratory and the chamberlain of his holiness, who came to look after
Lothair with much friendliness, and with whom it was consolatory and
even delightful for him to converse on sacred art, still holier things,
and also Miss Arundel.

At length, though it seemed impossible, this second week elapsed, and
to-morrow Lothair was to lunch with Lady St. Jerome in St. James's
Square, and to meet all his friends. He thought of it all day, and he
passed a restless night. He took an early canter to rally his energies,
and his fancy was active in the splendor of the spring. The chestnuts
were in silver bloom, and the pink May had flushed the thorns, and banks
of sloping turf were radiant with plots of gorgeous flowers. The waters
glittered in the sun, and the air was fragrant with that spell which
only can be found in metropolitan mignonette. It was the hour and the
season when heroic youth comes to great decisions, achieves exploits, or
perpetrates scrapes.

Nothing could be more cordial, nothing more winning, than the reception
of Lothair by Lady St. Jerome. She did not conceal her joy at their
being again together. Even Miss Arundel, though still calm, even a
little demure, seemed glad to see him: her eyes looked kind and pleased,
and she gave him her hand with graceful heartiness. It was the sacred
hour of two when Lothair arrived, and they were summoned to luncheon
almost immediately. Then they were not alone; Lord St. Jerome was not
there, but the priests were present and some others. Lothair, however,
sat next to Miss Arundel.

"I have been thinking of you very often since I left Vauxe," said
Lothair to his neighbor.

"Charitably, I am sure."

"I have been thinking of you every day," he continued, "for I wanted
your advice."

"Ah! but that is not a popular thing to give."

"But it is precious -- at least, yours is to me -- and I want it now
very much."

"Father Coleman told me you had got the plans for the cathedral," said
Miss Arundel.

"And I want to show them to you."

"I fear I am only a critic," said Miss Arundel, "and I do not admire
mere critics. I was very free in my comments to you on several subjects
at Vauxe; and I must now say I thought you bore it very kindly."

"I was enchanted," said Lothair, "and desire nothing but to be ever
subject to such remarks. But this affair of the cathedral, it is your
own thought -- I would fain hope your own wish, for unless it were your
own wish I do not think I ever should be able to accomplish it."

"And when the cathedral is built," said Miss Arundel "what then?"

"Do you not remember telling me at Vauxe that all sacred buildings
should be respected, for that in the long-run they generally fell to the
professors of the true faith?"

"But when they built St. Peter's, they dedicated it to a saint in
heaven," said Miss Arundel. "To whom is yours to be inscribed?"

"To a saint in heaven and in earth," said Lothair, blushing; "to St.
Clare."

But Lady St. Jerome and her guests rose at this moment, and it is
impossible to say with precision whether this last remark of Lothair
absolutely reached the ear of Miss Arundel. She looked as if it had
not. The priests and the other guests dispersed. Lothair accompanied
the ladies to the drawing-room; he lingered, and he was meditating if
the occasion served to say more.

Lady St. Jerome was writing a note, Mss Arundel was arranging some work,
Lothair was affecting an interest in her employment in order that he
might be seated by her and ask her questions, when the groom of the
chambers entered and inquired whether her ladyship was at home, and
being answered in the affirmative, retired, and announced and ushered in
the duchess and Lady Corisande.



CHAPTER 19


It seemed that the duchess and Lady St. Jerome were intimate, for they
called each other by their Christian names, and kissed each other. The
young ladies also were cordial. Her grace greeted Lothair with
heartiness; Lady Corisande with some reserve. Lothair thought she
looked very radiant and very proud.

It was some time since they had all met -- not since the end of the last
season -- so there was a great deal to talk about. There had been
deaths and births and marriages which required a flying comment -- all
important events; deaths which solved many difficulties, heirs to
estates which were not expected, and weddings which surprised everybody.

"And have you seen Selina?" inquired Lady St. Jerome.

"Not yet; except mamma, this is our first visit," replied the duchess.

"Ah! that is real friendship. She came down to Vauxe the other day,
but I did not think she was looking well. She frets herself too much
about her boys; she does not know what to do with them. They will not
go into the Church, and they have no fortune for the Guards."

"I understood that Lord Plantagenet was to be a civil engineer," said
Lady Corisande.

"And Lord Albert Victor to have a sheep-walk in Australia," continued
Lady St. Jerome.

"They say that a lord must not go to the bar," said Miss Arundel. "It
seems to me very unjust."

"Alfred Beaufort went the circuit," said Lady Corisande, "but I believe
they drove him into Parliament."

"You will miss your friend Bertram at Oxford," said the duchess,
addressing Lothair.

"Indeed," said Lothair, rather confused, for he was himself a defaulter
in collegiate attendance. "I was just going to write to him to see
whether one could not keep half a term."

"Oh! nothing will prevent his taking his degree," said the duchess, "but
I fear there must be some delay. There is a vacancy for our county --
Mr. Sandstone is dead, and they insist upon returning Bertram. I hope
he will be of age before the nomination. The duke is much opposed to
it; he wishes him to wait; but in these days it is not so easy for young
men to get into Parliament. It is not as it used to be; we cannot
choose."

"This is an important event," said Lothair to Lady Corisande.

"I think it is; nor do I believe Bertram is too young for public life.
These are not times to be laggard."

"There is no doubt they are very serious times," said Lothair.

"I have every confidence in Bertram -- in his ability and his
principles."

The ladies began to talk about the approaching drawing-room and Lady
Corisande's presentation, and Lothair thought it right to make his
obeisance and withdraw. He met in the hall Father Coleman, who was in
fact looking after him, and would have induced him to repair to the
father's room and hold some interesting conversation, but Lothair was
not so congenial as usual. He was even abrupt, and the father, who
never pressed any thing, assuming that Lothair had some engagement,
relinquished with a serene brow, but not without chagrin, what he had
deemed might have proved a golden opportunity.

And yet Lothair had no engagement, and did not know where to go or what
to do with himself. But he wanted to be alone, and of all persons in
the world at that moment, he had a sort of instinct that the one he
wished least to converse with was Father Coleman.

"She has every confidence in his principles," said Lothair to himself as
he mounted his horse, "and his principles were mine six months ago, when
I was at Brentham. Delicious Brentham! It seems like a dream; but
every thing seems like a dream; I hardly know whether life is agony or
bliss."



CHAPTER 20

The duke was one of the few gentlemen in, London who lived in a palace.
One of the half-dozen of those stately structures that our capital
boasts had fallen to his lot.

An heir-apparent to the throne, in the earlier days of the present
dynasty, had resolved to be lodged as became a prince, and had raised,
amid gardens which he had diverted from one of the royal parks, an
edifice not unworthy of Vicenza in its best days, though on a far more
extensive scale than any pile that favored city boasts. Before the
palace was finished, the prince died, and irretrievably in debt. His
executors were glad to sell to the trustees of the ancestors of the
chief of the house of Brentham the incomplete palace, which ought never
to have been commenced. The ancestor of the duke was by no means so
strong a man as the duke himself, and prudent people rather murmured at
the exploit. But it was what is called a lucky family -- that is to
say, a family with a charm that always attracted and absorbed heiresses;
and perhaps the splendor of CRECY HOUSE -- for it always retained its
original title -- might have in some degree contributed to fascinate the
taste or imagination of the beautiful women who, generation after
generation, brought their bright castles and their broad manors to swell
the state and rent-rolls of the family who were so kind to Lothair.

The centre of Crecy House consisted of a hall of vast proportion, and
reaching to the roof. Its walls commemorated, in paintings by the most
celebrated artists of the age, the exploits of the Black Prince; and its
coved ceiling, in panels resplendent with Venetian gold, contained the
forms and portraits of English heroes. A corridor round this hall
contained the most celebrated private collection of pictures in England
and opened into a series of sumptuous saloons.

It was a rather early hour when Lothair, the morning after his meeting
the duchess at Lady St. Jerome's, called at Crecy House; but it was only
to leave his card. He would not delay for a moment paying his respects
there, and yet he shrank from thrusting himself immediately into the
circle. The duke's brougham was in the court-yard. Lothair was holding
his groom's horse, who had dismounted, when the hall-door opened, and
his grace and Bertram came forth.

"Halloa, old fellow!" exclaimed Bertram, "only think of your being here.
It seems an age since we met. The duchess was telling us about you at
breakfast."

"Go in and see them," said the duke, "there is a large party at
luncheon; Augusta Montairy is there. Bertram and I are obliged to go to
Lincoln's Inn, something about his election."

But Lothair murmured thanks and declined.

"What are you going to do with yourself to-day?" said the duke. And
Lothair hesitating, his grace continued: "Well, then, come and dine
with us."

"Of course you will come, old fellow. I have not seen you since you
left Oxford at the beginning of the year. And then we can settle about
your term." And Lothair assenting, they drove away.

It was nine o'clock before they dined. The days were getting very long,
and soft, and sweet; the riding-parties lingered amid the pink May and
the tender twilight breeze. The Montairys dined to-day at Crecy House,
and a charming married daughter without her husband, and Lord and Lady
Clanmorne, who were near kin to the duchess, and themselves so
good-looking and agreeable that they were as good at a dinner-party as a
couple of first-rate entr es. There was also Lord Carisbrooke, a young
man of distinguished air and appearance; his own master, with a large
estate, and three years or so older than Lothair.

They dined in the Chinese saloon, which was of moderate dimensions, but
bright with fantastic forms and colors, brilliantly lit up. It was the
privilege of Lothair to hand the duchess to her seat. He observed that
Lord Carisbrooke was placed next to Lady Corisande, though he had not
taken her out.

"This dinner reminds me of my visit to Brentham," said Lothair.

"Almost the same party," said the duchess.

"The visit to Brentham was the happiest time of my life," said Lothair,
moodily.

"But you have seen a great deal since," said the duchess.

"I am not a sure it is of any use seeing things," said Lothair.

When the ladies retired, there was some talk about horses. Lord
Carisbrooke was breeding; Lothair thought it was a duty to breed, but
not to go on the turf. Lord Carisbrooke thought there could be no good
breeding without racing; Lothair was of opinion that races might be
confined to one's own parks, with no legs admitted, and immense prizes,
which must cause emulation. Then they joined the ladies, and then, in a
short time, there was music. Lothair hovered about Lady Corisande, and
at last seized a happy opportunity of addressing her.

"I shall never forget your singing at Brentham," he said; "at first I
thought it might be as Lady Montairy said, because I was not used to
fine singing; but I heard the Venusina the other day, and I prefer your
voice and style."

"Have you heard the Venusina?" said Lady Corisande, with animation; "I
know nothing that I look forward to with more interest. But I was told
she was not to open her mouth until she appeared at the opera. Where
did you hear her?"

"Oh, I heard her," said Lothair, "at the Roman Catholic cathedral."

"I am sure I shall never hear her there," said Lady Corisande, looking
very grave.

"Do not you think music a powerful accessory to religion?" said Lothair,
but a little embarrassed.

"Within certain limits," said Lady Corisande -- "the limits I am used
to; but I should prefer to hear opera-singers at the opera."

"Ah! if all amateurs could sing like you," said Lothair, "that would be
unnecessary. But a fine mass by Mozart -- it requires great skill as
well as power to render it. I admire no one so much as Mozart, and
especially his masses. I have been hearing a great many of them
lately."

"So we understood," said Lady Corisande, rather dryly, and looking about
her as if she were not much interested, or at any rate not much
gratified by the conversation.

Lothair felt he was not getting on, and he wished to get on, but he was
socially inexperienced, and his resources not much in hand. There was a
pause -- it seemed to him an awkward pause; and then Lady Corisande
walked away and addressed Lady Clanmorne.

Some very fine singing began at this moment; the room was hushed, no one
moved, and Lothair, undisturbed, had the opportunity of watching his
late companion. There was something in Lady Corisande that to him was
irresistibly captivating; and as he was always thinking and analyzing,
he employed himself in discovering the cause. "She is not particularly
gracious," he said to himself, "at least not to me; she is beautiful,
but so are others; and others, like her, are clever -- perhaps more
clever. But there is something in her brow, her glance, her carriage,
which intimate what they call character, which interests me. Six months
ago I was in love with her, because I thought she was like her sisters.
I love her sisters, but she is not the least like them."

The music ceased; Lothair moved away, and he approached the duke.

"I have a favor to ask your grace," he said. "I have made up my mind
that I shall not go back to Oxford this term; would your grace do me the
great favor of presenting me at the next lev e?"



CHAPTER 21


One's life changes in a moment. Half a month ago, Lothair, without an
acquaintance, was meditating his return to Oxford. Now he seemed to
know everybody who was anybody. His table was overflowing with
invitations to all the fine houses in town. First came the routs and
the balls; then, when he had been presented to the husbands, came the
dinners. His kind friends the duchess and Lady St. Jerome were the
fairies which had worked this sudden scene of enchantment. A single
word from them, and London was at Lothair's feet.

He liked it amazingly. He quite forgot the conclusion at which he had
arrived respecting society a year ago, drawn from his vast experience of
the single party which he had then attended. Feelings are different
when you know a great many persons, and every person is trying to please
you; above all, when there are individuals whom you want to meet, and
whom, if you do not meet, you become restless.

Town was beginning to blaze. Broughams whirled and bright barouches
glanced, troops of social cavalry cantered and caracolled in morning
rides, and the bells of prancing ponies, lashed by delicate hands,
jingled in the laughing air. There were stoppages in Bond Street, which
seems to cap the climax of civilization, after crowded clubs and
swarming parks.

But the great event of the season was the presentation of Lady
Corisande. Truly our bright maiden of Brentham woke and found herself
famous. There are families whom everybody praises, and families who are
treated in a different way. Either will do; all the sons and daughters
of the first succeed; all the sons and daughters of the last are
encouraged in perverseness by the prophetic determination of society.
Half a dozen married sisters, who were the delight and ornament of their
circles, in the case of Lady Corisande were good precursors of
popularity; but the world would not be content with that: they credited
her with all their charms and winning qualities, but also with something
grander and supreme; and from the moment her fair cheek was sealed by
the gracious approbation of majesty, all the critics of the court at
once recognized her as the cynosure of the empyrean.

Monsignore Catesby, who looked after Lothair, and was always
breakfasting with him without the necessity of an invitation -- a
fascinating man, and who talked upon all subjects except high mass --
knew every thing that took place at court without being himself. He led
the conversation to the majestic theme, and while he seemed to be busied
in breaking an egg with delicate precision, and hardly listening to the
frank expression of opinions which he carelessly encouraged, obtained a
not insufficient share of Lothair's views and impressions of human
beings and affairs in general during the last few days, which had
witnessed a lev e and a drawing-room.

"Ah! then, you were so fortunate as to know the beauty before her
d but," said the monsignore.

"Intimately; her brother is my friend. I was at Brentham last summer.
Delicious place! and the most agreeable visit I ever made in my life --
at least, one of the most agreeable."

"Ah, ah!" said the monsignore. "Let me ring for some toast."