Chapter II

When Disraeli resumed the art of the novelist, he was no longer talking of what lay outside his experience when he touched on politics. In 1837 he had entered the House at last, as Member for Maidstone, and although his enemies roared him down on the first occasion of his rising to speak, he soon learned how to impose his voice on Parliament. In 1839 his declaration that "the rights of labour are as sacred as the rights of property" made him famous, and in 1841 he was one of Sir Robert Peel's Conservative army in the House. Then followed the formation of the Young England Party, with Disraeli as one of its leaders; these men broke away from Peel, and held that the Tory Party required stringent reform from within. It was in 1843 that Henry Thomas Hope, of Deepdene, urged, at a meeting of the Young Englanders, the expediency of Disraeli's "treating in a literary form those views and subjects which were the matter of their frequent conversations." Disraeli instantly returned to literary composition, and produced in quick succession the four books which form the second section of his work as an author; these are _Coningsby_, _Sybil_, _Tancred_, and the _Life of Lord George Bentinck_.

In this group of books we observe, in the first place, a great advance in vitality and credibility over the novels of the earlier period. Disraeli is now describing what he knows, no longer what he hopes in process of time to know. He writes from within, no longer from without the world of political action. These three novels and a biography are curiously like one another in form, and all equally make a claim to be considered not mere works of entertainment, but serious contributions to political philosophy. The assumption is borne out by the character of the books, each of which had a definite aim and purpose. _Coningsby_ was designed to make room for new talent in the Tory Party by an unflinching attack on the "mediocrities." In _Sybil_ the heartless abuse of capital and the vices of class distinction are exposed. _Tancred_ is a vision of better things to follow upon the reforms already indicated. In _Lord George Bentinck_, under the guise of a record of the struggle between Protection and Free Trade, we have a manual of personal conduct as applied to practical politics.

In all these works narrative pure and simple inclines to take a secondary place. It does so least in _Coningsby_ which, as a story, is the most attractive book of Disraeli's middle period, and one of the most brilliant studies of political character ever published. The tale is interspersed with historical essays, which impede its progress but add to its weight and value. Where, however, the author throws himself into his narrative, the advance he has made in power, and particularly in truth of presentment, is very remarkable. In the early group of his novels he had felt a great difficulty in transcribing conversations so as to produce a natural and easy effect. He no longer, in _Coningsby_, is confronted by this artificiality. His dialogues are now generally remarkable for their ease and nature. The speeches of Rigby (who represents John Wilson Croker), of Lord Monmouth (who stands for Lord Hertford), of the Young Englanders themselves, of the laughable chorus of Taper and Tadpole, who never "despaired of the Commonwealth," are often extremely amusing. In _Coningsby_ we have risen out of the rose-coloured mist of unreality which hung over books like _The Young Duke_ and _Henrietta Temple_. The agitated gentleman whose peerage hangs in the balance, and who on hearing that the Duke of Wellington is with the King breathes out in a sigh of relief "Then there _is_ a Providence," is a type of the subsidiary figure which Disraeli had now learned to introduce with infinite lightness of irony.

Disraeli had a passion for early youth, and in almost all his books he dwells lovingly upon its characteristics. It is particularly in _Contarini Fleming_ and in _Coningsby_--that is to say, in the best novels of his first and of his second period--that he lingers over the picture of schoolboy life with tenderness and sympathy. We have only to compare them, however, to see how great an advance he had made in ten years in his power of depicting such scenes. The childish dreams of Contarini are unchecked romance, and though the friendship with Musaeus is drawn with delicacy and insight, and though that is an extremely pretty scene where Christiana soothes the pride of Contarini, yet a manliness and a reality are missing which we find in the wonderful Eton scenes of _Coningsby_.

Disraeli's comprehension of the feelings of half-grown ambitious boys of good family was extraordinary, and when we consider that he had never been to a public school, his picture of the life and conversation at Eton is remarkable for its fidelity to nature. The relation of the elder schoolboys to one another--a theme to which he was fond of recurring--is treated in a very adroit and natural spirit, not without a certain Dorian beauty. This preoccupation with the sentiments and passions of schoolboys was rather crudely found fault with at the time. We need have no difficulty in comprehending the pleasure he felt in watching the expansion of those youthful minds from whom he hoped for all that was to make England wise and free. The account of Coningsby's last night at Eton is one of the most deeply felt pages which Disraeli ever composed, and here it may be said that the careful avoidance of all humour--an act of self-denial which a smaller writer would not have been capable of--is justified by the dignified success of a very dangerous experiment.

The portraiture of living people is performed with the greatest good-nature. It is difficult to believe that the most sensitive and the most satirised could really be infuriated, so kindly and genial is the caricaturing. We are far here from Swift's bludgeon and from Voltaire's poisoned needle. The regeneration of the social order in England, as Disraeli dreamed it, involved the removal of some mediocrities, but he was neither angry nor impatient. The "brilliant personages who had just scampered up from Melton, thinking it probable that Sir Robert might want some moral Lords of the Bedchamber," and the Duke, who "might have acquired considerable information, if he had not in his youth made so many Latin verses," were true to their principles, and would scarcely have done more than blush faintly when he poked his fun at them. Of all the portraits none is more interesting than that of the dark, pale stranger, Sidonia, as he revealed himself to Coningsby at the inn in the forest, over the celebrated dish of "still-hissing bacon and eggs that looked like tufts of primroses." This was a figure which was to recur, and to become in the public mind almost coincident with that of Disraeli himself.

When we pass from _Coningsby_ to _Sybil_ we find the purely narrative interest considerably reduced in the pursuit of a scheme of political philosophy. This is of all Disraeli's novels the one which most resembles a pamphlet on a serious topic. For this reason it has never been a favourite among his works, and his lighter readers have passed it over with a glance. _Sybil_, however, is best not read at all if it is not carefully studied. In the course of _Coningsby_, that young hero had found his way to Manchester, and had discovered in it a new world, "poignant with new ideas, and suggestive of new trains of thought and feeling." His superficial observation had revealed many incongruities in our methods of manipulating wealth, and Disraeli had sketched the portrait of Mr. Jawster Sharp with a superfluity of sarcastic wit. But it was not until somewhat later that the condition of the working-classes in our northern manufacturing districts began to attract his most serious attention. The late Duke of Rutland, that illustrious and venerable friend who alone survived in the twentieth century to bear witness to the sentiments of Young England, told me that he accompanied Disraeli on the journey which led to the composition of Sybil, and that he never, in long years of intimacy, saw him so profoundly moved as he was at the aspect of the miserable dwellings of the hand-loom workers.

All this is reflected on the surface of _Sybil_, and, notwithstanding curious faults in execution, the book bears the impress of a deep and true emotion. Oddly enough, the style of Disraeli is never more stilted than it is in the conversations of the poor in this story. When Gerard, the weaver, wishes to prevent the police-inspector from arresting his daughter, he remarks: "Advance and touch this maiden, and I will fell you and your minions like oxen at their pasture." Well may the serjeant answer, "You _are_ a queer chap." Criticism goes further and says, "You are a chap who never walked in wynd or factory of a Yorkshire town." This want of nature, which did not extend to Disraeli's conversations among well-to-do folks, was a real misfortune, and gave _Sybil_ no chance of holding its own in rivalry with such realistic studies of the depression of trade in Manchester as Mrs. Gaskell was presently to produce, nor with the ease of dialogue in Dickens' Christmas Stories, which were just now (in 1845) running their popular course. A happier simplicity of style, founded on a closer familiarity, would have given fresh force to his burning indignation, and have helped the cause of Devils-dust and Dandy Mick. But the accident of stilted speech must not blind us to the sincere and glowing emotion that inspired the pictures of human suffering in _Sybil_.

Then followed _Tancred_, which, as it has always been reported, continued to the last to be the author's favourite among his literary offspring. Disraeli had little sympathy with either of the great parties which in that day governed English political life. As time went on, he became surer than ever of the degeneracy of modern society, and he began to despair of discovering any cure for it. In _Tancred_ he laid aside in great measure his mood of satirical extravagance. The whole of this book is steeped in the colours of poetry--of poetry, that is to say, as the florid mind of Disraeli conceived it. It opens--as all his books love to open--with the chronicle of an ardent and innocent boy's career. This is commonplace, but when Tancred, who is mainly the author's customary type of young Englishman born in the purple, arrives in the Holy Land, a flush of pure romance passes over the whole texture of the narrative. Real life is forgotten, and we move in a fabulous, but intensely picturesque, world of ecstasy and dream.

The Prerogation of Judaism, as it had been laid down by Sidonia in _Coningsby_, is emphasised and developed, and is indeed made the central theme of the story in _Tancred_. This novel is inspired by an outspoken and enthusiastic respect for the Hebrew race and a perfect belief in its future. In the presence of the mighty monuments of Jerusalem, Disraeli forgets that he is a Christian and an ambitious member of the English Parliament. His only solicitude is to recover his privileges as a Jew, and to recollect that he stands in the majestic cradle of his race. He becomes interpenetrated with solemn mysticism; a wind of faith blows in his hair. He cries, "God never spoke except to an Arab," and we are therefore not surprised to find an actual Divine message presently pronounced in Tancred's ears as he stands on the summit of Mount Sinai. This is, perhaps, the boldest flight of imagination which occurs in the writings of Disraeli. Tancred endeavours to counteract the purely Hebraic influences of Palestine by making a journey of homage to Astarte, a mysterious and beautiful Pagan queen--an "Aryan," as he loves to put it--who reigns in the mountains of Syria. But even she does not encourage him to put his trust in the progress of Western Europe.

_Tancred_ is written in Disraeli's best middle style, full, sonorous, daring, and rarely swelling into bombast. It would even be too uniformly grave if the fantastic character of Facredeen did not relieve the solemnity of the discourse with his amusing tirades. Like that of all Disraeli's novels, the close of this one is dim and unsatisfactory. If there is anything that the patient reader wants to know it is how the Duke and Duchess of Bellemont behaved to the Lady of Bethany when they arrived at Jerusalem and found their son in the kiosk under her palm-tree. But this is curiosity of a class which Disraeli is not unwilling to awaken, but which he never cares to satisfy. He places the problems in a heap before us, and he leaves us to untie the knots. It is a highly characteristic trait of his mind as a writer that he is for ever preoccupied with the beginnings of things, and as little as possible with their endings.

It is not, however, from _Tancred_ but from _Coningsby_, that we take our example of Disraeli's second manner:--

"Even to catch Lord Monmouth's glance was not an easy affair; he
was much occupied on one side by the great lady, on the other were
several gentlemen who occasionally joined in the conversation. But
something must be done.

"There ran through Coningsby's character, as we have before
mentioned, a vein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It
resulted, no doubt, in a great degree from the earnestness of his
nature. There never was a boy so totally devoid of affectation,
which was remarkable, for he had a brilliant imagination, a quality
that, from its fantasies, and the vague and indefinite desires it
engenders, generally makes those whose characters are not formed,
affected. The Duchess, who was a fine judge of character, and who
greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this trait as one
which, combined with his great abilities and acquirements so
unusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. In the present
instance it happened that, while Coningsby was watching his
grandfather, he observed a gentleman advance, make his bow, say and
receive a few words and retire. This little incident, however, made
a momentary diversion in the immediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and
before they could all resume their former talk and fall into their
previous positions, an impulse sent forth Coningsby, who walked up
to Lord Monmouth, and standing before him, said,

"'How do you do, grandpapa?'

"Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive and
penetrating glance took in every point with a flash. There stood
before him one of the handsomest youths he had ever seen, with a
mien as graceful as his countenance was captivating; and his whole
air breathing that freshness and ingenuousness which none so much
appreciates as the used man of the world. And this was his child;
the only one of his blood to whom he had been kind. It would be an
exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth's heart was touched; but his
good-nature effervesced, and his fine taste was deeply gratified.
He perceived in an instant such a relation might be a valuable
adherent; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a
brilliant tool to work out the Dukedom. All these impressions and
ideas, and many more, passed through the quick brain of Lord
Monmouth ere the sound of Coningsby's words had seemed to cease,
and long before the surrounding guests had recovered from the
surprise which they had occasioned them, and which did not
diminish, when Lord Monmouth, advancing, placed his arms round
Coningsby with a dignity of affection that would have become Louis
XIV., and then, in the high manner of the old Court, kissed him on
each cheek.

"'Welcome to your home,' said Lord Monmouth. 'You have grown a
great deal.'

"Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great lady,
who was a Princess and an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm
gracefully in that of his grandson, he led him across the room, and
presented him in due form to some royal blood that was his guest,
in the shape of a Russian Grand Duke. His Imperial Highness
received our hero as graciously as the grandson of Lord Monmouth
might expect; but no greeting can be imagined warmer than the one
he received from the lady with whom the Grand Duke was conversing.
She was a dame whose beauty was mature, but still radiant. Her
figure was superb; her dark hair crowned with a tiara of curious
workmanship. Her rounded arm was covered with costly bracelets, but
not a jewel on her finely-formed bust, and the least possible rouge
on her still oval cheek. Madame Colonna retained her charms."