Like all celebrated wits, he suffered both from the ascription of his own bons mots to others, and from those of others being fathered upon him. Thus the “without a redeeming vice” (about Lord Hatherley) was his, not Westbury’s, while the “dinner all cold except the ices,” was said not by him, but by Sir David Dundas. His pithy sentences were simply one manifestation of his naturally laconic turn of mind.
He was occasionally over-adroit, especially in his desire to gain distinguished recruits for his party; and he sometimes, perhaps, magnified the machinations of secret conspiracies, although their hidden tyranny was gauged by him with unerring instinct. His predilection both in art and nature was for extremes. Full of atmosphere himself, he owned the social nerves which suffer overmuch from lack of it in others. He detested bores, those masterpieces of nature’s bad art. One of them (if I may say so without disrespect to his kindness and amiability, since departed) has told with artless humour how at one of the last dinner-parties that Lord Beaconsfield attended, he engaged him in conversation, but was pained to notice how ill and absent he seemed. Suddenly, however, on the arrival of a distinguished guest, a Russian diplomatist, the great man brightened and grew young again, as if by miracle!
After his elevation to the peerage,[41] when he would often revisit the “glimpses of the moon,” and watch new members with rapt interest, on one occasion he listened patiently to a long speech of ideal dreariness from the lips of one unknown to him. He inquired, as usual, who the speaker was, and learned that Mr. —— had no other peculiarity but deafness. “Poor fellow!” he sighed, “and yet he seems unaware of his natural advantages. He cannot hear himself speak.”
Of Disraeli’s attitude towards fashionable society, as well as towards that which really fascinated him, I shall say more in my eighth chapter; but one incident of his old age must be presented here. I can vouch for it, since it was told me by an eye-witness—a political opponent.
It was after “Peace with honour”[42]—after he had “descended from the Teutonic chariot,” after the congress where he discovered the alternative Russian map of Bulgaria, concealed by diplomacy, where he earned Bismarck’s undying praise and admiration. The scene was a magnificent reunion in an historic mansion. All the fine flower of society was gathered in a galaxy of splendour and of grandeur. In one of the saloons a brilliant crowd was awaiting Lord Beaconsfield’s entry. As the big doors opened, a thrill went through them. Haughty ladies in the feeling of the moment made obeisance as if to royalty, while that pale figure with the inscrutable smile passed along their serried ranks. Unmoved and immovable, he went straight forward, his eyes fixed on the future, scarcely conscious of their presence, except for his recognition of their homage.
Such are some of his leading features. They combine and reconcile the seeming contradictions of a nature at once calm and impetuous, deep and light, astute and far-seeing in affairs of importance; in trifles, careless. These contrasts, united by genius, pursue the forms of his mind—his ideas. He was, of course, no monster of consistency, but the ideas that animated his actions and utterance sprang from a singularly consistent outlook and a most definite personality. In every case they were the outcome on the one hand of his race, on the other of his nationality. The antithesis between nationality and mere race is most important, and too often ignored. There is no such thing as a nation of a single strain. The national idea is the fusion of reconcilable races, the creation of an artificial and ideal individuality, of a consolidating pattern; the absorption of discordant races and their replacement by a central idea which subordinates instinct to society. Later civilisation means little else, if we reflect, than a gradual process of this description; and it is not a little curious that the distinctive greatness of English literature is largely due to the admission and naturalisation of foreign influences—to England’s free trade in ideas, to the openness of her literary ports. What would it have proved had it remained purely insular; if Italy, France, and Germany had not infused both form and spirit; above all, if it had not been inspired by the noble rhythm of the Englished Bible and by the supreme models of Greece and Rome? Disraeli’s wit, which is to find a due consideration hereafter, is half eighteenth century in form, half talmudic. The shape of his ideas was also partly determined by the time of his birth and by the circumstances of his home.
He was born at the parting of the ways. His early reading, and, indeed, his cast of mind, were steeped in the style of the eighteenth century; but the movements of the nineteenth, the significance of the French Revolution and of Napoleon, who had made all things new, simmered in him from the first, and his earliest reflections were how to attune the democratic idea to the vital institutions of an ancient empire. As regards his home, he was truly, as he has put it, “born in a library;” and this circumstance contributed as much as others to a certain detachment of thought which in politics afforded him the clue to the character of movements, and, above all, to the movements of character; in fiction, as will be apparent from my ninth chapter, it led him to regard things as they appeared of themselves, and not always as they seemed to others; while under the play of fancy he transposed their outward environments to accentuate their essence. Of his father, himself a most interesting study, I shall have more to say in my eighth chapter. Here, I only wish to draw attention to the fact that Isaac Disraeli’s influence on his son’s ideas was twofold. On the one hand, his views on “predisposition,” on the use of solitude, on the true meaning of education, on historical “cause and pretext,” on the hollowness of “joint-stock felicity,” on the self-recognition of creative minds before their late acknowledgment by contemporaries, with others glanced at in my later chapters, were directly derived by Disraeli from his father. From him, too, he inherited his fondness for Burke. On the other hand, Disraeli’s native leanings reacted against many of that peripatetic philosopher’s opinions. His interpretation of the Bible was, if not at variance with, at any rate different from his father’s,[43] and was, I fancy, shared by his sister. His admiration for Bolingbroke, as genius and constitutional interpreter, was in direct opposition, just as that father’s own dispassionate outlook remained independent and often the reverse of his own early associations. Byron, however, entered Disraeli’s mental being through his father; and of three main influences on his boyhood—the Bible, Bolingbroke, and Byron (strange conjunction!), the last was not the least.
Outside politics, the contradictions combined in Disraeli’s mind are patent throughout his fiction, and they were reconciled by his leading idea that everything great in the world springs from individuality alone. Thus, for example, as regards Destiny, he was both for free will and fatalism—the individual will was for him the universal fate. If a man, he has said, is ready to die for an object, he must attain it unless he has utterly miscalculated his powers. Then again, the twin sympathies of his mind, both with antique authority and modern revolution, its bias towards the Chartism of Sybil, the chivalry of her aristocratic deliverer, and the discipline of her time-honoured creed, towards the noble personality of “Theodora” in Lothair (his finest heroine),[44] and the noble ideals of “Coningsby”—these are reconciled by the national idea, the idea that sets earned privilege and reciprocal duties above and against illimitable and irresponsible “rights.” “Conspiracies are for aristocrats, not for nations.”
In this regard it is most interesting to observe the influence of Shelley on Disraeli—a subject which has been treated by Dr. Richard Garnett in a masterly monograph.[45] From many of his conclusions I dissent, but his facts are most enlightening, and form an entrancing comment on the character of “Herbert” in Venetia. He shows that probably through Trelawny, whom he met often at Lady Blessington’s, Disraeli gleaned many recollections and even thoughts and words, unpublished till the Shelley Papers were given to the world some years afterwards; that his description too of the ethereal poet as “a golden phantom” is probably Trelawny’s own; that subtle shades of admiring appreciation are to be traced throughout; that Disraeli was undoubtedly influenced by Shelley’s thoughts. The discovery of these in some portions of the Revolutionary Epick (where “Demogorgon” is introduced) does not seem to me conclusive; nor are the verbal resemblances singled out for comparison very striking. I cannot close this branch of my subject without noticing a fact almost unknown. In 1825, when Disraeli was a stripling, he published an anonymous pamphlet, which may be found in the British Museum, on the restrictions enforced by the Government upon the British working of American mines. The tract is boldly dedicated “by a sincere admirer” to Canning,[46] as “one who has reformed without bravery or scandal of former times or persons; asking counsel of both times; of the ancient times that which is best, of the modern times, that which is fittest;” and it further contains this remarkable passage, if we remember its date, about America—
“... The prosperity of England mainly depends upon its relations with America, and in proportion as the energies of America are developed and her resources strengthened, will the power and prosperity of England be confirmed and increased.”