Madame de Sabloukoff inhabited “the grand apartment” of the Hôtel d'Italie, which is the handsomest quarter of the great hotel of Florence. The same suite which had once the distinguished honor of receiving a Czar and a King of Prussia, and Heaven knows how many lesser potentates! was now devoted to one who, though not of the small number of the elect-in-purple, was yet, in her way, what politicians calls a “puissance.”
As in the drama a vast number of agencies are required for the due performance of a piece, so, on the greater stage of life, many of the chief motive powers rarely are known to the public eye. The Princess was of this number. She was behind the scenes, in more than one sense, and had her share in the great events of her time.
While her beauty lasted, she had traded on the great capital of attractions which were unsurpassed in Europe. As the perishable flower faded, she, with prudential foresight, laid up a treasure in secret knowledge of people and their acts, which made her dreaded and feared where she was once admired and flattered. Perhaps—it is by no means improbable—she preferred this latter tribute to the former.
Although the strong sunlight was tempered by the closed jalousies and the drawn muslin curtains, she sat with her back to the window, so that her features were but dimly visible in the darkened atmosphere of the room. There was something of coquetry in this; but there was more,—there was a dash of semi-secrecy in the air of gloom and stillness around, which gave to each visitor who presented himself,—and she received but one at a time,—an impression of being admitted to an audience of confidence and trust. The mute-like servant who waited in the corridor without, and who drew back a massive curtain on your entrance, also aided the delusion, imparting to the interview a character of mysterious solemnity.
Through that solemn portal there had passed, in and out, during the morning, various dignitaries of the land, ministers and envoys, and grand “chargés” of the Court. The embroidered key of the Chamberlain and the purple stockings of a Nuncio had come and gone; and now there was a Brief pause, for the groom in waiting had informed the crowd in the antechamber that the Princess could receive no more. Then there was a hurried scrawling of great names in a large book, a shower of visiting-cards, and all was over; the fine equipages of fine people dashed off, and the courtyard of the hotel was empty.
The large clock on the mantelpiece struck three, and Madame de Sabloukoff compared the time with her watch, and by a movement of impatience showed a feeling of displeasure. She was not accustomed to have her appointments lightly treated, and he for whom she had fixed an hour was now thirty minutes behind his time. She had been known to resent such unpunctuality, and she looked as though she might do so again. “I remember the day when his grand-uncle descended from his carriage to speak to me,” muttered she; “and that same grand-uncle was an emperor.”
Perhaps the chance reflection of her image in the large glass before her somewhat embittered the recollection, for her features flushed, and as suddenly grew pale again. It may have been that her mind went rapidly back to a period when her fascination was a despotism that even the highest and the haughtiest obeyed. “Too true,” said she, speaking to herself, “time has dealt heavily with us all. But they are no more what they once were than am I. Their old compact of mutual assistance is crumbling away under the pressure of new rivalries and new pretensions. Kings and Kaisers will soon be like bygone beauties. I wonder will they bear their altered fortune as heroically?” It is but just to say that her tremulous accents and quivering lip bore little evidence of the heroism she spoke of.
She rang the bell violently, and as the servant entered she said, but in a voice of perfect unconcern,—
“When the Count von Wahnsdorf calls, you will tell him that I am engaged, but will receive him to-morrow—”
“And why not to-day, charming Princess?” said a young man, entering hastily, and whose graceful but somewhat haughty air set off to every advantage his splendid Hungarian costume. “Why not now?” said he, stooping to kiss her hand with respectful gallantry. She motioned to the servant to withdraw, and they were alone.
“You are not over exact in keeping an appointment, monsieur,” said she, stiffly. “It is somewhat cruel to remind me that my claims in this respect have grown antiquated.”
“I fancied myself the soul of punctuality, my dear Princess,” said he, adjusting the embroidered pelisse he wore over his shoulder. “You mentioned four as the hour—”
“I said three o'clock,” replied she, coldly.
“Three, or four, or even five,—what does it signify?” said he, carelessly. “We have not either of us, I suspect, much occupation to engage us; and if I have interfered with your other plans—if you have plans—A thousand pardons!” cried he, suddenly, as the deep color of her face and her flashing eye warned him that he had gone too far; “but the fact is, I was detained at the riding-school. They have sent me some young horses from the Banat, and I went over to look at them.”
“The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need make no apologies to Madame de Sabloukoff,” said she, calmly; “but it were just as graceful, perhaps, to affect them. My dear Count,” continued she, but in a tone perfectly free from all touch of irritation, “I have asked to see and speak with you on matters purely your own—”
“You want to dissuade me from this marriage,” said he, interrupting; “but I fancy that I have already listened to everything that can be urged on that affair. If you have any argument other than the old one about misalliance and the rest of it, I 'll hear it patiently; though I tell you beforehand that I should like to learn that a connection with an imperial house had some advantage besides that of a continual barrier to one's wishes.”
“I understand,” said she, quietly, “that you named the terms on which you would abandon this project,—is it not so?”
“Who told you that?” cried he, angrily. “Is this another specimen of the delicacy with which ministers treat a person of my station?”
“To discuss that point, Count, would lead us wide of our mark. Am I to conclude that my informant was correct?”
“How can I tell what may have been reported to you?” said he, almost rudely.
“You shall hear and judge for yourself,” was the calm answer. “Count Kollorath informed me that you offered to abandon this marriage on condition that you were appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars.”
The young man's face became scarlet with shame, and he tried twice to speak, but unavailingly.
With a merciless slowness of utterance, and a manner of the most unmoved sternness, she went on: “I did not deem the proposal at all exorbitant. It was a price that they could well afford to pay.”
“Well, they refused me,” said he, bluntly.
“Not exactly refused you,” said she, more gently. “They reminded you of the necessity of conforming—of at least appearing to conform—to the rules of the service; that you had only been a few months in command of a squadron; that your debts, which were considerable, had been noised about the world, so that a little time should elapse, and a favorable opportunity present itself, before this promotion could be effected.”
“How correctly they have instructed you in all the details of this affair!” said he, with a scornful smile.
“It is a rare event when I am misinformed, sir,” was her cold reply; “nor could it redound to the advantage of those who ask my advice to afford me incorrect information.”
“Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with me.” cried he. “It is plain enough you are in possession of all that I could tell you. Or is all this only the prelude to some menace or other?”
She made no other answer to this rude question than by a smile so dubious in its meaning, it might imply scorn, or pity, or even sorrow.
“You must not wonder if I be angry,” continued he, in an accent that betokened shame at his own violence. “They have treated me so long as a fool that they have made me something worse than one.”
“I am not offended by your warmth, Count,” said she, softly. “It is at least the guarantee of your sincerity. I tell you, therefore, I have no threat to hold over you. It will be enough that I can show you the impolicy of this marriage,—I don't want to use a stronger word,—what estrangement it will lead to as regards your own family, how inadequately it will respond to the sacrifices it must cost.”
“That consideration is for me to think of, madam,” said he, proudly.
“And for your friends also,” interposed she, softly.
“If by my friends you mean those who have watched every occasion of my life to oppose my plans and thwart my wishes, I conclude that they will prove themselves as vigilant now as heretofore; but I am getting somewhat weary of this friendship.”
“My dear Count, give me a patient—if possible, an indulgent—hearing for five minutes, or even half that time, and I hope it will save us both a world of misconception. If this marriage that you are so eager to contract were an affair of love,—of that ardent, passionate love which recognizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes,—I could regard the question as one of those everyday events in life whose uniformity is seldom broken by a new incident; for love stories have a terrible sameness in them.” She smiled as she said this, and in such a way as to make him smile at first, and then laugh heartily.
“But if,” resumed she, seriously,—“if I only see in this project a mere caprice, half—more than half—based upon the pleasure of wounding family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to you; if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on either side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as 'the attenuating circumstance' in rash marriages—”
“And who has told you that I do not love Ida, or that she is not devoted with her whole heart to me?” cried he, interrupting her.
“You yourself have told the first. You have shown by the price you have laid on the object the value at which you estimate it. As for the latter part of your question—” She paused, and arranged the folds of her shawl, purposely playing with his impatience, and enjoying it.
“Well,” cried he, “as for the latter part; go on.”
“It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre last night in a society of which her affianced husband was not one; and, I will be bold enough to say, hers was not the bearing that bespoke engaged affections.”
“Indeed!” said he, but in a tone that indicated neither displeasure nor surprise.
“It was as I have told you, Count. Surrounded by the youth of Florence, such as you know them, she laughed, and talked, and sang, in all the careless gayety of a heart at ease; or, if at moments a shade of sadness crossed her features, it was so brief that only one observing her closely as myself could mark it.”
“And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret this show of sorrow?” said he, in a voice of mockery, but yet of deep anxiety.
“My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I knew her secret,” said the Princess, with all the strength of conscious power.
“Her secret—her secret!” said he, eagerly. “What do you mean by that?”
The Princess smiled coldly, and said, “I have not yet found my frankness so well repaid that I should continue to extend it.”
“What is the reward to be, madam? Name it,” said he, boldly.
“The same candor on your part, Count; I ask for no more.”
“But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that your omniscience has not penetrated?”
“There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, my dear Count.”
“If you refer to what you have called Ida's secret—”
“No,” broke she in. “I was now alluding to what might be called your secret.”
“Mine! my secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to convey great astonishment, the confusion of his manner was far more apparent.
“Your secret, Count,” she repeated slowly, “which has been just as safe in my keeping as if it had been confided to me on honor.”
“I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, madam,” said he, scoffingly.
“I am but too happy when any services of mine can rescue the fame of a great family from reproach, sir,” replied she, proudly; for all the control she had heretofore imposed upon her temper seemed at last to have yielded to offended dignity. “Happily for that illustrious house—happily for you, too—I am one of a very few who know of Count Wahnsdorf's doings. To have suffered your antagonist in a duel to be tracked, arrested, and imprisoned in an Austrian fortress, when a word from you had either warned him of his peril or averted the danger, was bad enough; but to have stigmatized his name with cowardice, and to have defamed him because he was your rival, was far worse.”
Wahnsdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it shook beneath the blow, but never uttered a word, while with increased energy she continued,—
“Every step of this bad history is known to me; every detail of it, from your gross and insulting provocation of this poor friendless youth to the last scene of his committal to a dungeon.”
“And, of course, you have related your interesting narrative to Ida?” cried he.
“No, sir; the respect which I have never lost for those whose name you bear had been quite enough to restrain me, had I not even other thoughts.”
“And what may they be?” asked he.
“To take the first opportunity of finding myself alone with you, to represent how nearly it concerns your honor that this affair should never be bruited abroad; to insist upon your lending every aid to obtain this young man's liberation; to show that the provocation came from yourself; and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the stain you have inflicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem that your calumny may have robbed him of. These were the other thoughts I alluded to.”
“And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of trouble for the sake of some nameless bastard, while in doing so I compromise myself and my own honor?”
“Do you prefer that it should be done by another, Count Wahnsdorf?” asked she.
“This is a threat, madam.”
“All the speedier will the matter be settled if you understand it as such.”
“And, of course, the next condition will be for me to resign my pretensions to Ida in his favor,” said he, with a savage irony.
“I stipulate for nothing of the sort; Count Wahnsdorf's pretensions will be to-morrow just where they are to-day.”
“You hold them cheaply, madam. I am indeed unfortunate in all my pursuit of your esteem.”
“You live in a sphere to command it, sir,” was her reply, given with a counterfeited humility; and whether it was the tone of mingled insolence and submission she assumed, or simply the sense of his own unworthiness in her sight, but Wahnsdorf cowered before her like a frightened child. At this moment the servant entered, and presented a visiting-card to the Princess.
“Ah, he comes in an opportune moment,” cried she. “This is the Minister of the Duke of Massa's household,—the Chevalier Stubber. Yes,” continued she to the servant, “I will receive him.”
If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the Chevalier's approach, there was an air of quiet self-possession that bespoke a sense of his own worth and importance; and while he turned to pay his respects to the young Count, his unpolished manner was not devoid of a certain dignity.
“It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count Wahnsdorf,” said he, “for you will be glad to learn that the young fellow you had that affair with at Massa has just been liberated.”
“When, and how?” cried the Princess, hastily.
“As to the time, it must be about four days ago, as my letters inform me; as to the how, I fancy the Count can best inform you,—he has interested himself greatly in the matter.” The Count blushed deeply, and turned away to hide his face, but not so quickly as to miss the expression of scornful meaning with which the Princess regarded him.
“But I want to hear the details, Chevalier,” said she.
“And I can give you none, madam. My despatches simply mention that the act of arrest was discovered in some way to be informal. Sir Horace Upton proved so much. There then arose a question of giving him up to us; but my master declined the honor,—he would have no trouble, he said, with England or Englishmen; and some say that the youth claims an English nationality. The cabinet of Vienna are, perhaps, like-minded in the matter; at all events, he is free, and will be here to-morrow.”
“Then I shall invite him to dinner, and beg both of you gentlemen to meet him,” said she, with a voice wherein a tone of malicious drollery mingled.
“I am your servant, madam,” said Stubber.
“And I am engaged,” said Wahnsdorf, taking up his shako.
“You are off to Vienna to-night, Count Wahnsdorf,” whispered the Princess-in his ear.
“What do you mean, madam?” said he, in a tone equally low.
“Only that I have a letter written for the Archduchess Sophia, which I desire to intrust to your hands. You may as well read ere I seal it.”
The Count took the letter from her hand, and retired towards the window to read it. While she conversed eagerly with Stubber, she did not fail from time to time to glance towards the other, and mark the expression of his features as he folded and replaced the letter in its envelope, and, slowly approaching her, said,—
“You are most discreet, madam.”
“I hope I am just, sir,” said she, modestly.
“This was something of a difficult undertaking, too,” said he, with an equivocal smile.
“It was certainly a pleasant and proud one, sir, as it always must be, to write to a mother in commendation of her son. By the way, Chevalier, you have forgotten to make your compliments to the Count on his promotion—”
“I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?” asked Stubber.
“To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir,—one of the proudest 'charges' of the Empire.”
A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf's face was as quickly followed by a deadly pallor, and with a broken, faint utterance he said, “Good-bye,” and left the room.
“A fine young fellow,—the very picture of a soldier,” exclaimed Stubber, looking after him.
“A chevalier of the olden time, sir,—the very soul of honor,” said the Princess, enthusiastically. “And now for a little gossip with yourself.”
It is not “in our brief” to record what passed in that chatty interview; plenty of state secrets and state gossip there was,—abundance of that dangerous trifling which mixes up the passions of society with the great game of politics, and makes statecraft feel the impress of men's whims and caprices. We were just beginning that era, “the policy of resentments,” which has since pervaded Europe, and the Chevalier and the Princess were sufficiently behind the scenes to have many things to communicate; and here we must leave them while we hasten on to other scenes and other actors.
The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than usually astir. Hackney-coaches and cabs at an early hour, private chariots somewhat later, went to and fro along the dreary pavement, and two cabinet messengers with splashed calèches arrived in hot haste from Dover. Frequent, too, were the messages from the House; a leading Oppositionist was then thundering away against the Government, inveighing against the treacherous character of their foreign policy, and indignantly calling on them for certain despatches to their late envoy at Naples. At every cheer which greeted him from his party a fresh missive would be despatched from the Treasury benches, and the whisper, at first cautiously muttered, grew louder and louder, “Why does not Upton come down?”
So intricate has been the web of our petty entanglements, so complex the threads of those small intrigues by which we have earned our sobriquet of the “perfide Albion,” that it is difficult at this time of day to recall the exact question whose solution, in the words of the orator of the debate, “placed us either at the head of Europe, or consigned to us the fatal mediocrity of a third-rate power.” The prophecy, whichever way read, gives us unhappily no clew to the matter in hand, and we are only left to conjecture that it was an intervention in Spain, or “something about the Poles.” As is usual in such cases, the matter, insignificant enough in itself, was converted into a serious attack on the Government, and all the strength of the Opposition was arrayed to give power and consistency to the assault. As is equally usual, the cabinet was totally unprepared for defence; either they had altogether undervalued the subject, or they trusted to the secrecy with which they had conducted it; whichever of these be the right explanation, each minister could only say to his colleague, “It never came before me; Upton knows all about it.”
“And where is Upton?—why does he not come down?”—were again and again reiterated; while a shower of messages and even mandates invoked his presence.
The last of these was a peremptory note from no less a person than the Premier himself, written in three very significant words, thus: “Come, or go;” and given to a trusty whip, the Hon. Gerald Neville, to deliver.
Armed with this not very conciliatory document, the well-practised tactician drew up to the door of the Foreign Office, and demanded to see the Secretary of State.
“Give him this card and this note, sir,” said he to the well-dressed and very placid young gentleman who acted as his private secretary.
“Sir Horace is very poorly, sir; he is at this moment in a mineral bath; but as the matter you say is pressing, he will see you. Will you pass this way?”
Mr. Neville followed his guide through an infinity of passages, and at length reached a large folding-door, opening one side of which he was ushered into a spacious apartment, but so thoroughly impregnated with a thick and offensive vapor that he could barely perceive, through the mist, the bath in which Upton lay reclined, and the figure of a man, whose look and attitude bespoke the doctor, beside him.
“Ah, my dear fellow,” sighed Upton, extending two dripping fingers in salutation, “you have come in at the death. This is the last of it!”
“No, no; don't say that,” cried the other, encouragingly. “Have you had any sudden seizure? What is the nature of it?”
“He,” said he, looking round to the doctor, “calls it 'arachnoidal trismus,'—a thing, he says, that they have all of them ignored for many a day, though Charlemagne died of it. Ah, Doctor,”—and he addressed a question to him in German.
A growled volley of gutturals ensued, and Upton went on:—
“Yes, Charlemagne,—Melancthon had it, but lingered for years. It is the peculiar affection of great intellectual natures over-taxed and over-worked.”
Whether there was that in the manner of the sick man that inspired hope, or something in the aspect of the doctor that suggested distrust, or a mixture of the two together, but certainly Neville rapidly rallied from the fears which had beset him on entering, and in a voice of a more cheery tone, said,—
“Come, come, Sir Horace, you 'll throw off this as you have done other such attacks. You have never been wanting either to your friends or yourself when the hour of emergency called. We are in a moment of such difficulty now, and you alone can rescue us.”
“How cruel of the Duke to write me that!” sighed Upton, as he held up the piece of paper, from which the water had obliterated all trace of the words. “It was so inconsiderate,—eh, Neville?”
“I'm not aware of the terms he employed,” said the other.
This was the very admission that Upton sought to obtain, and in a far more cheery voice he said,—
“If I was capable of the effort,—if Doctor Geimirstad thought it safe for me to venture,—I could set all this to right. These people are all talking 'without book,' Neville,—the ever-recurring blunder of an Opposition when they address themselves to a foreign question: they go upon a newspaper paragraph, or the equally incorrect 'private communication from a friend.' Men in office alone can attain to truth—exact truth—about questions of foreign policy.”
“The debate is taking a serious turn, however,” interposed Neville. “They reiterate very bold assertions, which none of our people are in a position to contradict. Their confidence is evidently increasing with the show of confusion in our ranks. Something must be done to meet them, and that quickly.”
“Well, I suppose I must go,” sighed Upton; and as he held out his wrist to have his pulse felt, he addressed a few words to the doctor.
“He calls it 'a life period,' Neville. He says that he won't answer for the consequences.”
The doctor muttered on.
“He adds that the trismus may be thus converted into 'Bi-trismus.' Just imagine Bi-trismus!”
This was a stretch of fancy clear and away beyond Neville's apprehension, and he began to feel certain misgivings about pushing a request so full of danger; but from this he was in a measure relieved by the tone in which Upton now addressed his valet with directions as to the dress he intended to wear. “The loose pelisse, with the astrakhan, Giuseppe, and that vest of cramoisie velvet; and if you will just glance at the newspaper, Neville, in the next room, I 'll come to you immediately.”
The newspapers of the morning after this interview afford us the speediest mode of completing the incidents; and the concluding sentences of a leading article will be enough to place before our readers what ensued:—
“It was at this moment, and amidst the most enthusiastic cheers of the Treasury bench, that Sir Horace Upton entered the House. Leaning on the arm of Mr. Neville, he slowly passed up and took his accustomed place. The traces of severe illness in his features, and the great debility which his gestures displayed, gave an unusual interest to a scene already almost dramatic in its character. For a moment the great chief of Opposition was obliged to pause in his assault, to let this flood-tide of sympathy pass on; and when at length he did resume, it was plain to see how much the tone of his invective had been tempered by a respect for the actual feeling of the House. The necessity for this act of deference, added to the consciousness that he was in presence of the man whose acts he so strenuously denounced, were too much for the nerves of the orator, and he came to an abrupt conclusion, whose confused and uncertain sentences scarcely warranted the cheers with which his friends rallied him.
“Sir Horace rose at once to reply. His voice was at first so inarticulate that we could but catch the burden of what he said,—a request that the House would accord him all the indulgence which his state of debility and suffering called for. If the first few sentences he uttered imparted a painful significance to the entreaty, it very soon became apparent that he had no occasion to bespeak such indulgence. In a voice that gained strength and fulness as he proceeded, he entered upon what might be called a narrative of the foreign policy of the administration, clearly showing that their course was guided by certain great principles which dictated a line of action firm and undeviating; that the measures of the Government, however modified by passing events in Europe, had been uniformly consistent,—based upon the faith of treaties, but ever mindful of the growing requirements of the age. Through a narrative of singular complexity he guided himself with consummate skill, and though detailing events which occupied every region of the globe, neither confusion nor inconsistency ever marred the recital, and names and places and dates were quoted by him without any artificial aid to memory.”
There was in the polished air, and calm, dispassionate delivery of the speaker, something which seemed to charm the ears of those who for four hours before had been so mercilessly assailed by all the vituperation and insolence of party animosity. It was, so to say, a period of relief and repose, to which even antagonists were not insensible. No man ever understood the advantage of his gifts in this way better than Upton, nor ever was there one who could convert the powers which fascinated society into the means of controlling a popular assembly, with greater assurance of success. He was a man of a strictly logical mind, a close and acute thinker; he was of a highly imaginative temperament, rich in all the resources of a poetic fancy; he was thoroughly well read, and gifted with a ready memory; but, above all these,—transcendently above them all,—he was a “man of the world;” and no one, either in Parliament or out of it, knew so well when it was wrong to say “the right thing.” But let us resume our quotation:—
“For more than three hours did the House listen with breathless attention to a narrative which in no parliamentary experience has been surpassed for the lucid clearness of its details, the unbroken flow of its relation. The orator up to this time had strictly devoted himself to explanation; he now proceeded to what might be called reply. If the House was charmed and instructed before, it was now positively astonished and electrified by the overwhelming force of the speaker's raillery and invective. Not satisfied with showing the evil consequences that must ensue from any adoption of the measures recommended by the Opposition, he proceeded to exhibit the insufficiency of views always based upon false information.
“'We have been taunted,' said he, 'with the charge of fomenting discords in foreign lands; we have been arraigned as disturbers of the world's peace, and called the firebrands of Europe; we are exhibited as parading the Continent with a more than Quixotic ardor, since we seek less the redress of wrong than the opportunity to display our own powers of interference,—that quality which the learned gentleman has significantly stigmatized as a spirit of meddling impertinence, offensive to the whole world of civilization. Let me tell him, sir, that the very debate of this night has elicited, and from himself too, the very outrages he has had the temerity to ascribe to us. His has been this indiscriminate ardor, his this unjudging rashness, his this meddling impertinence (I am but quoting, not inventing, a phrase), by which, without accurate, without, indeed, any, information, he has ventured to charge the Government with what no administration would be guilty, of—a cool and deliberate violation of the national law of Europe.
“'He has told you, sir, that in our eagerness to distinguish ourselves as universal redressers of injury, we have “ferreted out”—I take his own polished expression—the case of an obscure boy in an obscure corner of Italy, converted a commonplace and very vulgar incident into a tale of interest, and, by a series of artful devices and insinuations based upon this narrative, a grave and insulting charge upon one of the oldest of our allies. He has alleged that throughout the whole of those proceedings we had not the shadow of pretence for our interference; that the acts imputed occurred in a land over which we had no control, and in the person of an individual in whom we had no interest; that this Sebastiano Greppi—this image boy, for so with a courteous pleasantry he has called him—was a Neapolitan subject, the affiliated envoy of I know not what number of secret societies; that his sculptural pretensions were but pretexts to conceal his real avocations,—the agency of a bloodthirsty faction; that his crime was no less than an act of high treason; and that Austrian gentleness and mercy were never more conspicuously illustrated than in the commutation of a death-sentence to one of perpetual imprisonment.
“'What a rude task is mine when I must say that for even one of these assertions there is not the slightest foundation in fact. Greppi's offence was not a crime against the state; as little was it committed within the limits of the Austrian territory. He is not the envoy, or even a member, of any revolutionary club; he never—I am speaking with knowledge, sir—he never mingled in the schemes of plotting politicians; as far removed is he from sympathy with such men, as, in the genius of a great artist, he is elevated above the humble path to which the learned gentleman's raillery would sentence him. For the character of “an image vendor,” the learned gentleman must look nearer home; and, lastly, this youth is an Englishman, and born of a race and a blood that need feel no shame in comparison with any I see around me!'
“To the loud cry of 'Name, name,' which now arose, Sir Horace replied: 'If I do not announce the name at this moment, it is because there are circumstances in the history of the youth to which publicity would give irreparable pain. These are details which I have no right to bring under discussion, and which must inevitably thus become matters of town-talk. To any gentleman of the opposite side who may desire to verify the assertions I have made to the House, I would, under pledge of secrecy, reveal the name. I would do more; I would permit him to confide it to a select number of friends equally pledged with himself. This is surely enough?'”
We have no occasion to continue our quotation farther, and we take up our history as Sir Horace, overwhelmed by the warmest praises and congratulations, drove off from the House to his home. Amid all the excitement and enthusiasm which this brilliant success produced among the ministerialists, there was a kind of dread lest the overtaxed powers of the orator should pay the heavy penalty of such an effort. They had all heard how he came from a sick chamber; they had all seen him, trembling, faint, and almost voiceless, as he stole up to his place, and they began to fear lest they had, in the hot zeal of party, imperilled the ablest chief in their ranks.
What a relief to these agonies had it been, could they have seen Upton as he once more gained the solitude of his chamber, where, divested of all the restraints of an audience, he walked leisurely up and down, smoking a cigar, and occasionally smiling pleasantly as some “conceit” crossed his mind.
Had there been any one to mark him there, it is more than likely that he would have regarded him as a man revelling in the after-thought of a great success,—one who, having come gloriously through the combat, was triumphantly recalling to his memory every incident of the fight. How little had they understood Sir Horace Upton who would have read him in this wise! That daring and soaring nature rarely dallied in the past; even the present was scarcely full enough for the craving of a spirit that cried ever, “Forward!”
What might be made of that night's success; how best it should be turned to account!—these were the thoughts which beset him, and many were the devices which his subtlety hit on to this end. There was not a goal his ambition could point to but which became associated with some deteriorating ingredient. He was tired of the Continent, he hated England, he shuddered at the Colonies. “India, perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly,—“India, perhaps, might do.” To continue as he was,—to remain in office, as having reached the topmost round of the ladder,—would have been insupportable indeed; and yet how, without longer service at his post, could any man claim a higher reward?
It was not till Sir Horace had smoked his third cigar that he seated himself at his writing-table. He then wrote rapidly a brief note, of which he proceeded to make a careful copy. This he folded and placed in an envelope, addressing it to his Grace the Duke of Cloudeslie.
A few minutes afterwards he began to prepare for bed. The day was already breaking, and yet that sick man was unwearied and unwasted; not a trace of fatigue on features that, under the infliction of a tiresome dinner-party, would have seemed bereft of hope.
The tied-up knocker, the straw-strewn street, the closely drawn curtains announced to London the next morning that the distinguished minister was seriously ill; and from an early hour the tide of inquirers, in carriages and on foot, passed silently along that dreary way. High and mighty were the names inscribed in the porter's book; royal dukes had called in person; and never was public solicitude more widely manifested. There is something very flattering in the thought of a great intelligence being damaged and endangered in our service! With all its melancholy influences, there is a feeling of importance suggested by the idea that for us and our interests a man of commanding powers should have jeoparded his life. There is a very general prejudice, not alone in obtaining the best article for our money, but the most of it also; and this sentiment extends to the individuals employed in the public service; and it is doubtless a very consolatory reflection to the tax-paying classes that the great functionaries of state are not indolent recipients of princely incomes, but hard-worked men of office, up late and early at their duties,—prematurely old, and worn out before their time! Something of this same feeling inspires much of the sympathy displayed for a sick statesman,—a sentiment not altogether void of a certain misgiving that we have probably over-taxed the energies employed in our behalf.
Scarcely one in a hundred of those who now called and “left their names” had ever seen Sir Horace Upton in their lives. Few are more removed from public knowledge than the men who fill even the highest places in our diplomacy. He was, therefore, to the mass a mere name. Since his accession to office little or nothing had been heard of him, and of that little, the greater part was made up of sneering allusions to his habits of indolence; impertinent hints about his caprices and his tastes. Yet now, by a grand effort in the “House,” and a well got-up report of a dangerous illness the day after, was he the most marked man in all the state,—the theme of solicitude throughout two millions of people!
There was a dash of mystery, too, in the whole incident, which heightened its flavor for public taste; a vague, indistinct impression—it did not even amount to rumor—was abroad, that Sir Horace had not been “fairly treated” by his colleagues; either that they could, if they wished it, have defended the cause themselves, or that they had needlessly called him from a sick bed to come to the rescue, or that some subtle trap had been laid to ensnare him. These were vulgar beliefs, which, if they obtained little credence in the higher region of club-life, were extensively circulated, and not discredited, in less distinguished circles. How they ever got abroad at all; how they found their ways into newspaper paragraphs, terrifying timid supporters of the ministry by the dread prospect of a “smash,” exciting the hopes of Opposition with the notion of a great secession, throwing broadcast before the world of readers every species of speculation, all kinds of combination,—who knows how all this happened? Who, indeed, ever knew how things a thousand times more secret ever got wind and became club-talk ere the actors in the events had finished an afternoon's canter in the Park?
If, then, the world of London learned on the morning in question that Sir Horace Upton was very ill, it also surmised—why and wherefore it knows best—that the same Sir Horace was an ill-used man. Now, of all the objects of public sympathy and interest, next after a foreign emperor on a visit at Buckingham Palace, or a newly arrived hippopotamus at the Zoological Gardens, there is nothing your British public is so fond of as “an ill-used man.” It is essential, however, to his great success that he be ill-used in high places; that his enemies and calumniators should have been, if not princes, at least dukes and marquises and great dignitaries of the state. Let him only be supposed to be martyred by these, and there is no saying where his popularity may be carried. A very general impression is current that the mass of the nation is more or less “ill-used,”—denied its natural claims and just rewards. To hit upon, therefore, a good representation of this hard usage, to find a tangible embodiment of this great injustice, is a discovery that is never unappreciated.
To read his speech of the night before, and to peruse the ill-scrawled bulletin of his health at the hall door in the morning, made up the measure of his popularity, and the world exclaimed, “Think of the man they have treated in this fashion!” Every one framed the indictment to his own taste; nor was the wrong the less grievous that none could give it a name. Even cautious men fell into the trap, and were heard to say, “If all we hear be true, Upton has not been fairly treated.”
What an air of confirmation to all these rumors did it give, when the evening papers announced in the most striking type: Resignation of Sir Horace Upton. If the terms in which he communicated that step to the Premier were not before the world, the date, the very night of the debate, showed that the resolution had been come to suddenly.
Some of the journals affected to be in the whole secret of the transaction, and only waiting the opportune moment to announce it to the world. The dark, mysterious paragraphs in which journalists show their no-meanings abounded, and menacing hints were thrown out that the country would no longer submit to.—Heaven knows what. There was, besides all this, a very considerable amount of that catechetical inquiry, which, by suggesting a number of improbabilities, hopes to arrive at the likely, and thus, by asking questions where they had a perfect confidence they would never be answered, they seemed to overwhelm their adversaries with shame and discomfiture. The great fact, however, was indisputable,—Upton had resigned.
To the many who looked up at the shuttered windows of his sad-looking London house, this reflection occurred naturally enough,—How little the poor sufferer, on his sick bed, cared for the contest that raged around him; how far away were, in all probability, his thoughts from that world of striving and ambition whose waves came to his door-sills. Let us, in that privilege which belongs to us, take a peep within the curtained room, where a bright fire is blazing, and where, seated behind a screen, Sir Horace is now penning a note; a bland half smile rippling his features as some pleasant conceit has flashed across his mind. We have rarely seen him looking so well. The stimulating events of the last few days have done for him more than all the counsels of his doctors, and his eyes are brighter and his cheeks fuller than usual. A small miniature hangs suspended by a narrow ribbon round his neck, and a massive gold bracelet adorns one wrist,—“two souvenirs” which he stops to contemplate as he writes; nor is there a touch of sorrowful meaning in the glance he bestows upon them,—the look rather seems the self-complacent regard that a successful general might bestow on the decorations he had won by his valor. It is essentially vainglorious.
More than once has he paused to read over the sentence he has written, and one may see, by the motion of his lips as he reads, how completely he has achieved the sentiment he would express. “Yes, charming Princess,” said he, perusing the lines before him, “I've once more to throw myself at your feet, and reiterate the assurances of a devotion which has formed the happiness of my existence.” (“That does not sound quite French, after all,” muttered he; “better perhaps: 'has formed the religion of my heart.'”) “I know you will reproach my precipitancy; I feel how your judgment, unerring as it ever is, will condemn what may seem a sudden ebullition of temper; but, I ask, is this amongst the catalogue of my weaknesses? Am I of that clay which is always fissured when heated? No. You know me better,—you alone of all the world have the clew to a heart whose affections are all your own. The few explanations of all that has happened must be reserved for our meeting. Of course, neither the newspapers nor the reviews have any conception of the truth. Four words will set your heart at ease, and these you must have: 'I have done wisely;' with that assurance you have no more to fear. I mean to leave this in all secrecy by the end of the week. I shall go over to Brussels, where you can address me under the name of Richard Bingham. I shall only remain there to watch events for a day or two, and thence on to Geneva.
“I am quite charmed with your account of poor Lady G———, though, as I read, I can detect how all the fascinations you tell of were but reflected glories. Your view of her situation is admirable, and, by your skilful tactique, it is she herself that ostracizes the society that would only have accepted her on sufferance. How true is your remark as to the great question at issue,—not her guilt or innocence, but what danger might accrue to others from infractions that invite publicity. The cabinet were discussing t' other day a measure by which sales of estated property could be legalized without those tiresome and costly researches into title which, in a country where confiscations were frequent, became at last endless labor. Don't you think that some such measure might be beneficially adopted as regards female character? Could there not be invented a species of social guarantee which, rejecting all investigation into bygones after a certain limit, would confer a valid title that none might dispute?
“Lawyers tell us that no man's property would stand the test of a search for title. Are we quite certain how far the other sex are our betters in this respect; and might it not be wise to interpose a limit beyond which research need not proceed?
“I concur in all you say about G———himself. He was always looking for better security than he needed,—a great mistake, whether the investment consist of our affections or our money. Physicians say that if any man could only see the delicate anatomy on which his life depends, and watch the play of those organs that sustain him, he would not have courage to move a step or utter a loud word. Might we not carry the analogy into morals, and ask, is it safe or prudent in us to investigate too deeply? are we wise in dissecting motives? or would it not be better to enjoy our moral as we do our material health, without seeking to assure ourselves further?
“Besides all this, the untravelled Englishman—and such was Glencore when he married—never can be brought to understand the harmless levities of foreign life. Like a fresh-water sailor, he always fancies the boat is going to upset, and he throws himself out at the first 'jobble'! I own to you frankly, I never knew the case in question; 'how far she went,' is a secret to me. I might have heard the whole story. It required some address in me to escape it; but I do detest these narrations, where truth is marred by passion, and all just inferences confused and confounded with vague and absurd suspicions.
“Glencore's conduct throughout was little short of insanity; like a man who, hearing his banker is insecure, takes refuge in insolvency, he ruins himself to escape embarrassment. They tell me here that the shock has completely deranged his intellect, and that he lives a life of melancholy isolation in that old castle in Ireland.
“How few men in this world can count the cost of their actions, and make up that simple calculation, 'How much shall I have to pay for it?'
“Take any view one pleases of the case, would it not have been better for him to have remained in the world and of it? Would not its pleasures, even its cares, have proved better 'distractions' than his own brooding thoughts? If a man have a secret ailment, does he parade it in public? Why, then, this exposure of a pain for which there is no sympathy?
“Life, after all, is only a system of compensations. Wish it to be whatever you please, but accept it as it really is, and make the best of it! For my own part, I have ever felt like one who, having got a most disastrous account of a road he was about to travel, is delightfully surprised to find the way better and the inns more comfortable than he looked for. In the main, men and women are very good; our mistake is, expecting to find people always in our own humor. Now, if one is very rich, this is practical enough; but the mass must be content to encounter disparity of mood and difference of taste at every step. There is, therefore, some tact required in conforming to these 'irregularities,' and unhappily everybody has not got tact.
“You, charming Princess, have tact; but you have beauty, wit, fascination, rank,—all that can grace high station, and all that high station can reflect upon great natural gifts; that you should see the world through a rose-tinted medium is a very condition of your identity; and there is truth, as well as good philosophy, in this view! You have often told me that if people were not exactly all that strict moralists might wish, yet that they made up a society very pleasant and livable withal, and that there was also a floating capital of kindness and good feeling quite sufficient to trade upon, and even grow richer by negotiating!
“People who live out of the world, or, what comes to the same thing, in a little world of their own, are ever craving after perfectibility,—just as, in time of peace, nations only accept in their armies six-foot grenadiers and gigantic dragoons. Let the pressure of war or emergency arise, however, or, in other words, let there be the real business of life to be done, then the standard is lowered at once, and the battle is sought and won by very inferior agency. Now, show troops and show qualities are very much alike; they are a measure of what would be very charming to arrive at, were it only practicable! Oh that poor Glencore had only learned this lesson, instead of writing nonsense verses at Eton!
“The murky domesticities of England have no correlatives in the sunny enjoyments of Italian life; and John Bull has got a fancy that virtue is only cultivated where there are coal fires, stuff curtains, and a window tax. Why, then, in the name of Doctors' Commons, does he marry a foreigner?”
Just as Upton had written these words, his servant presented him with a visiting-card.
“Lord Glencore!” exclaimed he, aloud. “When was he here?”
“His Lordship is below stairs now, sir. He said he was sure you'd see him.”
“Of course; show him up at once. Wait a moment; give me that cane, place those cushions for my feet, draw the curtain, and leave the aconite and ether drops near me,—that will do, thank you.”
Some minutes elapsed ere the door was opened; the slow footfall of one ascending the stairs, step by step, was heard, accompanied by the labored respiration of a man breathing heavily; and then Lord Glencore entered, his form worn and emaciated, and his face pale and colorless. With a feeble, uncertain voice, he said,—
“I knew you 'd see me, Upton, and I would n't go away!” And with this he sank into a chair and sighed deeply.
“Of course, my dear Glencore, you knew it,” said the other, feelingly, for he was shocked by the wretched spectacle before him; “even were I more seriously indisposed than—”
“And were you really ill, Upton?” asked Glencore, with a weakly smile.
“Can you ask the question? Have you not seen the evening papers, read the announcement on my door, seen the troops of inquirers in the streets?”
“Yes,” sighed he, wearily, “I have heard and seen all you say; and yet I bethought me of a remark I once heard from the Duke of Orleans: 'Monsieur Upton is a most active minister when his health permits; and when it does not, he is the most mischievous intriguant in Europe.'”
“He was always straining at an antithesis; he fancied he could talk like St. Simon, and it really spoiled a very pleasant converser.”
“And so you have been very ill?” said Glencore, slowly, and as though he had not heeded the last remark; “so have I also!”
“You seem to me too feeble to be about, Glencore,” said Upton, kindly.
“I am so, if it were of any consequence,—I mean, if my life could interest or benefit any one. My head, however, will bear solitude no longer; I must have some one to talk to. I mean to travel; I will leave this in a day or so.”
“Come along with me, then; my plan is to make for Brussels, but it must not be spoken of, as I want to watch events there before I remove farther from England.”
“So it is all true, then,—you have resigned?” said Glencore.
“Perfectly true.”
“What a strange step to take! I remember, more than twenty years ago, your telling me that you'd rather be Foreign Secretary of England than the monarch of any third-rate Continental kingdom.”
“I thought so then, and, what is more singular, I think so still.”
“And you throw it up at the very moment people are proclaiming your success!”
“You shall hear all my reasons, Glencore, for this resolution, and will, I feel assured, approve of them; but they 'd only weary you now.”
“Let me know them now, Upton; it is such a relief to me when, even by a momentary interest in anything, I am able to withdraw this poor tired brain from its own distressing thoughts.” He spoke these words not only with strong feeling, but even imparted to them a tone of entreaty, so that Upton could not but comply.
“When I wished for the Secretaryship, my dear Glencore,” said he, “I fancied the office as it used to be in olden times, when one played the great game of diplomacy with kings and ministers for antagonists, and the world at large for spectators; when consummate skill and perfect secrecy were objects of moment, and when grand combinations rewarded one's labor with all the certainty of a mathematical problem. Every move on the board could be calculated beforehand, no disturbing influences could derange plans that never were divulged till they were accomplished. All that is past and gone; our Constitution, grown every day more and more democratic, rules by the House of Commons. Questions whose treatment demands all the skill of a statesman and all the address of a man of the world come to be discussed in open Parliament; correspondence is called for, despatches and even private notes are produced; and while the State you are opposed to revels in the security of secrecy, your whole game is revealed to the world in the shape of a blue-book.
“Nor is this all: the debaters on these nice and intricate questions, involving the most far-reaching speculation of statesmanship, are men of trade and enterprise, who view every international difficulty only in its relation to their peculiar interests. National greatness, honor, and security are nothing,—the maintenance of that equipoise which preserves peace is nothing,—the nice management which, by the exhibition of courtesy here, or of force there, is nothing compared to alliances that secure us ample supplies of raw material, and abundant markets for manufactures. Diplomacy has come to this!”
“But you must have known all this before you accepted office; you had seen where the course of events led to, and were aware that the House ruled the country.”
“Perhaps I did not recognize the fact to its full extent. Perhaps I fancied I could succeed in modifying the system,” said Upton, cautiously.
“A hopeless undertaking!” said Glencore.
“I'm not quite so certain of that,” said Upton, pausing for a while as he seemed to reflect. When he resumed, it was in a lighter and more flippant tone: “To make short of it, I saw that I could not keep office on these conditions, but I did not choose to go out as a beaten man. For my pride's sake I desired that my reasons should be reserved for myself alone; for my actual benefit it was necessary that I should have a hold over my colleagues in office. These two conditions were rather difficult to combine, but I accomplished them.
“I had interested the King so much in my views as to what the Foreign Office ought to be that an interchange of letters took place, and his Majesty imparted to me his fullest confidence in disparagement of the present system. This correspondence was a perfect secret to the whole Cabinet; but when it had arrived at a most confidential crisis, I suggested to the King that Cloudeslie should be consulted. I knew well that this would set the match to the train. No sooner did Cloudeslie learn that such a correspondence had been carried on for months without his knowledge, views stated, plans promulgated, and the King's pleasure taken on questions not one of which should have been broached without his approval and concurrence, than he declared he would not hold the seals of office another hour. The King, well knowing his temper, and aware what a terrific exposure might come of it, sent for me, and asked what was to be done. I immediately suggested my own resignation as a sacrifice to the difficulty and to the wounded feelings of the Duke. Thus did I achieve what I sought for. I imposed a heavy obligation on the King and the Premier, and I have secured secrecy as to my motives, which none will ever betray.
“I only remained for the debate of the other night, for I wanted a little public enthusiasm to mark the fall of the curtain.”
“So that you still hold them as your debtors?” asked Glencore.
“Without doubt, I do; my claim is a heavy one.”
“And what would satisfy it?”
“If my health would stand England,” said Upton, leisurely, “I'd take a peerage; but as this murky atmosphere would suffocate me, and as I don't care for the latter without the political privileges, I have determined to have the 'Garter.'”
“The Garter! a blue ribbon!” exclaimed Glencore, as though the insufferable coolness with which the pretension was announced might justify any show of astonishment.
“Yes; I had some thoughts of India, but the journey deters me,—in fact, as I have enough to live on, I 'd rather devote the remainder of my days to rest, and the care of this shattered constitution.” It is impossible to convey to the reader the tender and affectionate compassion with which Sir Horace seemed to address these last words to himself.
“Do you ever look upon yourself as the luckiest fellow in Europe, Upton?” asked Glencore.
“No,” sighed he; “I occasionally fancy I have been hardly dealt with by fortune. I have only to throw my eyes around me, and see a score of men, richer and more elevated than myself, not one of whom has capacity for even a third-rate task, so that really the self-congratulation you speak of has not occurred to me.”
“But, after all, you have had a most successful career—”
“Look at the matter this way, Glencore; there are about six—say six men in all Europe—who have a little more common sense than all the rest of the world: I could tell you the names of five of them.” If there was a supreme boastfulness in the speech, the modest delivery of it completely mystified the hearer, and he sat gazing with wonderment at the man before him.