‘Tadpole wants me to stand for Birmingham,’ said Mr. Ormsby, gravely.
‘You!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and throwing himself back in his chair, he broke into a real, hearty laugh.
‘Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two candidates; a manufacturer they have got, and they have written up to Tadpole for a “West-end man.”’
‘A what?’
‘A West-end man, who will make the ladies patronise their fancy articles.’
‘The result of the Reform Bill, then,’ said Lucian Gay, ‘will be to give Manchester a bishop, and Birmingham a dandy.’
‘I begin to believe the result will be very different from what we expected,’ said Lord Monmouth.
Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to prophesy, when Lord Eskdale, who liked talk to be short, and was of opinion that Rigby should keep his amplifications for his slashing articles, put in a brief careless observation, which balked his inspiration.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘when the guns were firing over Vyvyan’s last speech and confession, I never expected to be asked to stand for Birmingham.’
‘Perhaps you may be called up to the other house by the title,’ said Lucian Gay. ‘Who knows?’
‘I agree with Tadpole,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘that if we only stick to the Registration the country is saved.’
‘Fortunate country!’ said Sidonia, ‘that can be saved by a good registration!’
‘I believe, after all, that with property and pluck,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘Parliamentary Reform is not such a very bad thing.’
Here several gentlemen began talking at the same time, all agreeing with their host, and proving in their different ways, the irresistible influence of property and pluck; property in Lord Monmouth’s mind meaning vassals, and pluck a total disregard for public opinion. Mr. Guy Flouncey, who wanted to get into parliament, but why nobody knew, who had neither political abilities nor political opinions, but had some floating idea that it would get himself and his wife to some more balls and dinners, and who was duly ticketed for ‘a good thing’ in the candidate list of the Tadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion that an immense deal might be done by properly patronising borough races. That was his specific how to prevent revolution.
Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth said, ‘I should like to know what you think of this question, Sidonia?’
‘I am scarcely a competent judge,’ he said, as if wishing to disclaim any interference in the conversation, and then added, ‘but I have been ever of opinion that revolutions are not to be evaded.’
‘Exactly my views,’ said Mr. Rigby, eagerly; ‘I say it now, I have said it a thousand times, you may doctor the registration as you like, but you can never get rid of Schedule A.’
‘Is there a person in this room who can now tell us the names of the boroughs in Schedule A?’ said Sidonia.
‘I am sure I cannot, ‘said Lord Monmouth, ‘though six of them belong to myself.’
‘But the principle,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘they represented a principle.’
‘Nothing else, certainly,’ said Lucian Gay.
‘And what principle?’ inquired Sidonia.
‘The principle of nomination.’
‘That is a practice, not a principle,’ said Sidonia. ‘Is it a practice that no longer exists?’
‘You think then,’ said Lord Eskdale, cutting in before Rigby, ‘that the Reform Bill has done us no harm?’
‘It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken the aristocracy of this country, but the means by which that Bill was carried,’ replied Sidonia.
‘Physical force?’ said Lord Eskdale.
‘Or social power?’ said Sidonia.
Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient at any one giving the tone in a political discussion but himself, and chafing under the vigilance of Lord Eskdale, which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, violently assaulted the argument, and astonished several country gentlemen present by its volubility. They at length listened to real eloquence. At the end of a long appeal to Sidonia, that gentleman only bowed his head and said, ‘Perhaps;’ and then, turning to his neighbour, inquired whether birds were plentiful in Lancashire this season; so that Mr. Rigby was reduced to the necessity of forming the political opinions of Mr. Guy Flouncey.
As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Coningsby, though at some distance, was observed by Sidonia, who stopped instantly, then advanced to Coningsby, and extending his hand said, ‘I said we should meet again, though I hardly expected so quickly.’
‘And I hope we shall not separate so soon,’ said Coningsby; ‘I was much struck with what you said just now about the Reform Bill. Do you know that the more I think the more I am perplexed by what is meant by Representation?’
‘It is a principle of which a limited definition is only current in this country,’ said Sidonia, quitting the room with him. ‘People may be represented without periodical elections of neighbours who are incapable to maintain their interests, and strangers who are unwilling.’
The entrance of the gentlemen produced the same effect on the saloon as sunrise on the world; universal animation, a general though gentle stir. The Grand-duke, bowing to every one, devoted himself to the daughter of Lady St. Julians, who herself pinned Lord Beaumanoir before he could reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby instead talked nonsense to that lady. Brilliant cavaliers, including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beautiful damsels grouped on a large ottoman. Everywhere sounded a delicious murmur, broken occasionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too loud. Sidonia and Lord Eskdale did not join the ladies. They stood for a few moments in conversation, and then threw themselves on a sofa.
‘Who is that?’ asked Sidonia of his companion rather earnestly, as Coningsby quitted them.
‘’Tis the grandson of Monmouth; young Coningsby.’
‘Ah! The new generation then promises. I met him once before, by chance; he interests me.’
‘They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a prodigious favourite here, and I should not be surprised if Monmouth made him his heir.’
‘I hope he does not dream of inheritance,’ said Sidonia. ‘’Tis the most enervating of visions.’
‘Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?’ said Mrs. Guy Flouncey to Coningsby.
‘I admire no one except yourself.’
‘Oh! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby!’
‘When should men be gallant, if not to the brilliant and the beautiful!’ said Coningsby.
‘Ah! you are laughing at me.’
‘No, I am not. I am quite grave.’
‘Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, Lord Henry Sydney is a very great friend of yours?’
‘Very.’
‘He is very amiable.’
‘Very.’
‘He does a great deal for the poor at Beaumanoir. A very fine place, is it not?’
‘Very.’
‘As fine as Coningsby?’
‘At present, with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beaumanoir would have no chance.’
‘Ah! you laugh at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, what do you think we shall do to-night? I look upon you, you know, as the real arbiter of our destinies.’
‘You shall decide,’ said Coningsby.
‘Mon cher Harry,’ said Madame Colonna, coming up, ‘they wish Lucretia to sing and she will not. You must ask her, she cannot refuse you.’
‘I assure you she can,’ said Coningsby.
‘Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire me to beg you to ask her to sing.’
So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucretia, who was talking with the Russian Ambassador.
‘I am sent upon a fruitless mission,’ said Coningsby, looking at her, and catching her glance.
‘What and why?’ she replied.
‘The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; and the cause of its failure will be that I am the envoy.’
‘If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be the envoy, you need never fear failure with me.’
‘I must presume then to lead you away,’ said Coningsby, bending to the Ambassador.
‘Remember,’ said Lucretia, as they approached the instrument, ‘that I am singing to you.’
‘It is impossible ever to forget it,’ said Coningsby, leading her to the piano with great politeness, but only with great politeness.
‘Where is Mademoiselle Flora?’ she inquired.
Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it were behind some furniture, and apparently looking over some music. She looked up as he approached, and a smile stole over her countenance. ‘I am come to ask a favour,’ he said, and he named his request.
‘I will sing,’ she replied; ‘but only tell me what you like.’
Coningsby felt the difference between the courtesy of the head and of the heart, as he contrasted the manner of Lucretia and Flora. Nothing could be more exquisitely gracious than the daughter of Colonna was to-night; Flora, on the contrary, was rather agitated and embarrassed; and did not express her readiness with half the facility and the grace of Lucretia; but Flora’s arm trembled as Coningsby led her to the piano.
Meantime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are in deep converse.
‘Hah! that is a fine note!’ said Sidonia, and he looked round. ‘Who is that singing? Some new protégée of Lord Monmouth?’
‘’Tis the daughter of the Colonnas,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘the Princess Lucretia.’
‘Why, she was not at dinner to-day.’
‘No, she was not there.’
‘My favourite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When I was a boy, it made me almost in love even with Pisaroni.’
‘Well, the Princess is scarcely more lovely. ‘Tis a pity the plumage is not as beautiful as the note. She is plain.’
‘No; not plain with that brow.’
‘Well, I rather admire her myself,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘She has fine points.’
‘Let us approach,’ said Sidonia.
The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, made his compliments, and then said, ‘You were not at dinner to-day.’
‘Why should I be?’ said the Princess.
‘For our sakes, for mine, if not for your own,’ said Lord Eskdale, smiling. ‘Your absence has been remarked, and felt, I assure you, by others as well as myself. There is my friend Sidonia so enraptured with your thrilling tones, that he has abruptly closed a conversation which I have been long counting on. Do you know him? May I present him to you?’
And having obtained a consent, not often conceded, Lord Eskdale looked round, and calling Sidonia, he presented his friend to the Princess.
‘You are fond of music, Lord Eskdale tells me?’ said Lucretia.
‘When it is excellent,’ said Sidonia.
‘But that is so rare,’ said the Princess.
‘And precious as Paradise,’ said Sidonia. ‘As for indifferent music, ‘tis Purgatory; but when it is bad, for my part I feel myself—’
‘Where?’ said Lord Eskdale.
‘In the last circle of the Inferno,’ said Sidonia.
Lord Eskdale turned to Flora.
‘And in what circle do you place us who are here?’ the Princess inquired of Sidonia.
‘One too polished for his verse,’ replied her companion.
‘You mean too insipid,’ said the Princess. ‘I wish that life were a little more Dantesque.’
‘There is not less treasure in the world,’ said Sidonia, ‘because we use paper currency; and there is not less passion than of old, though it is bon ton to be tranquil.’
‘Do you think so?’ said the Princess, inquiringly, and then looking round the apartment. ‘Have these automata, indeed, souls?’
‘Some of them,’ said Sidonia. ‘As many as would have had souls in the fourteenth century.’
‘I thought they were wound up every day,’ said the Princess.
‘Some are self-impelling,’ said Sidonia.
‘And you can tell at a glance?’ inquired the Princess. ‘You are one of those who can read human nature?’
‘’Tis a book open to all.’
‘But if they cannot read?’
‘Those must be your automata.’
‘Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller?’
‘I have not discovered a new world.’
‘But you have visited it?’
‘It is getting old.’
‘I would sooner recall the old than discover the new,’ said the Princess.
‘We have both of us cause,’ said Sidonia. ‘Our names are the names of the Past.’
‘I do not love a world of Utility,’ said the Princess.
‘You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable,’ said Sidonia.
‘It seems to me that the world is withering under routine.’
‘’Tis the inevitable lot of humanity,’ said Sidonia. ‘Man must ever be the slave of routine: but in old days it was a routine of great thoughts, and now it is a routine of little ones.’
The evening glided on; the dance succeeded the song; the ladies were fast vanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a movement, when Lord Beaumanoir, as he passed him, said, ‘Come to Lucian Gay’s room; we are going to smoke a cigar.’
This was a favourite haunt, towards midnight, of several of the younger members of the party at the Castle, who loved to find relaxation from the decorous gravities of polished life in the fumes of tobacco, the inspiration of whiskey toddy, and the infinite amusement of Lucian Gay’s conversation and company. This was the genial hour when the good story gladdened, the pun flashed, and the song sparkled with jolly mirth or saucy mimicry. To-night, being Coningsby’s initiation, there was a special general meeting of the Grumpy Club, in which everybody was to say the gayest things with the gravest face, and every laugh carried a forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable president. He told a tale for which he was famous, of ‘the very respectable county family who had been established in the shire for several generations, but who, it was a fact, had been ever distinguished by the strange and humiliating peculiarity of being born with sheep’s tails.’ The remarkable circumstances under which Lucian Gay had become acquainted with this fact; the traditionary mysteries by which the family in question had succeeded for generations in keeping it secret; the decided measures to which the chief of the family had recourse to stop for ever the rumour when it first became prevalent; and finally the origin and result of the legend; were details which Lucian Gay, with the most rueful countenance, loved to expend upon the attentive and expanding intelligence of a new member of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as all present were with the story whose stimulus of agonising risibility they had all in turn experienced, it was with extreme difficulty that any of them could resist the fatal explosion which was to be attended with the dreaded penalty. Lord Beaumanoir looked on the table with desperate seriousness, an ominous pucker quivering round his lip; Mr. Melton crammed his handkerchief into his mouth with one hand, while he lighted the wrong end of a cigar with the other; one youth hung over the back of his chair pinching himself like a faquir, while another hid his countenance on the table.
‘It was at the Hunt dinner,’ continued Lucian Gay, in an almost solemn tone, ‘that an idea for a moment was prevalent, that Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head of the family, had resolved to terminate for ever these mysterious aspersions on his race, that had circulated in the county for more than two centuries; I mean that the highly respectable family of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs had the misfortune to be graced with that appendage to which I have referred. His health being drunk, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh rose. He was a little unpopular at the moment, from an ugly story about killing foxes, and the guests were not as quiet as orators generally desire, so the Honourable Baronet prayed particular attention to a matter personal to himself. Instantly there was a dead silence—’ but here Coningsby, who had moved for some time very restlessly on his chair, suddenly started up, and struggling for a moment against the inward convulsion, but in vain, stamped against the floor, and gave a shout.
‘A song from Mr. Coningsby,’ said the president of the Grumpy Club, amid an universal, and now permissible roar of laughter.
Coningsby could not sing; so he was to favour them as a substitute with a speech or a sentiment. But Lucian Gay always let one off these penalties easily, and, indeed, was ever ready to fulfil them for all. Song, speech, or sentiment, he poured them all forth; nor were pastimes more active wanting. He could dance a Tarantella like a Lazzarone, and execute a Cracovienne with all the mincing graces of a ballet heroine.
His powers of mimicry, indeed, were great and versatile. But in nothing was he so happy as in a Parliamentary debate. And it was remarkable that, though himself a man who on ordinary occasions was quite incapable without infinite perplexity of publicly expressing his sense of the merest courtesy of society, he was not only a master of the style of every speaker of distinction in either house, but he seemed in his imitative play to appropriate their intellectual as well as their physical peculiarities, and presented you with their mind as well as their manner. There were several attempts to-night to induce Lucian to indulge his guests with a debate, but he seemed to avoid the exertion, which was great. As the night grew old, however, and every hour he grew more lively, he suddenly broke without further pressure into the promised diversion; and Coningsby listened really with admiration to a discussion, of which the only fault was that it was more parliamentary than the original, ‘plus Arabe que l’Arabie.’
The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Robert more specious; he was as fiery as Stanley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he do their opponents less justice. Lord Palmerston himself never treated a profound subject with a more pleasant volatility; and when Lucian rose at an early hour of morn, in a full house alike exhausted and excited, and after having endured for hours, in sarcastic silence, the menacing finger of Sir Robert, shaking over the green table and appealing to his misdeeds in the irrevocable records of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have afforded a more perfect representative of pluck.
But loud as was the laughter, and vehement the cheering, with which Lucian’s performances were received, all these ebullitions sank into insignificance compared with the reception which greeted what he himself announced was to be the speech of the night. Having quaffed full many a quaigh of toddy, he insisted on delivering, it on the table, a proposition with which his auditors immediately closed.
The orator appeared, the great man of the night, who was to answer everybody on both sides. Ah! that harsh voice, that arrogant style, that saucy superficiality which decided on everything, that insolent ignorance that contradicted everybody; it was impossible to mistake them! And Coningsby had the pleasure of seeing reproduced before him the guardian of his youth and the patron of the mimic, the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby!