It was said that the royal ear lent itself with no marked repugnance9 to suggestions which might rid the sovereign of ministers, who, after all, were the ministers not of his choice, but of his necessity. But William IV., after two failures in a similar attempt, after his respective embarrassing interviews with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne, on their return to office in 1832 and 1835, was resolved never to make another move unless it were a checkmate. The king, therefore, listened and smiled, and loved to talk to his favourites of his private feelings and secret hopes; the first outraged10, the second cherished; and a little of these revelations of royalty11 was distilled12 to great personages, who in their turn spoke13 hypothetically to their hangers-on of royal dispositions14, and possible contingencies15, while the hangers-on and go-betweens, in their turn, looked more than they expressed; took county members by the button into a corner, and advised, as friends, the representatives of boroughs17 to look sharply after the next registration.
Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than in adversity, and whose favourite excitement was to aim at the impossible, had never been more resolved on a Dukedom than when the Reform Act deprived him of the twelve votes which he had accumulated to attain18 that object. While all his companions in discomfiture19 were bewailing their irretrievable overthrow20, Lord Monmouth became almost a convert to the measure, which had furnished his devising and daring mind, palled21 with prosperity, and satiated with a life of success, with an object, and the stimulating22 enjoyment23 of a difficulty.
He had early resolved to appropriate to himself a division of the county in which his chief seat was situate; but what most interested him, because it was most difficult, was the acquisition of one of the new boroughs that was in his vicinity, and in which he possessed24 considerable property. The borough16, however, was a manufacturing town, and returning only one member, it had hitherto sent up to Westminster a radical25 shopkeeper, one Mr. Jawster Sharp, who had taken what is called ‘a leading part’ in the town on every ‘crisis’ that had occurred since 1830; one of those zealous26 patriots27 who had got up penny subscriptions28 for gold cups to Lord Grey; cries for the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill; and public dinners where the victual was devoured29 before grace was said; a worthy30 who makes speeches, passes resolutions, votes addresses, goes up with deputations, has at all times the necessary quantity of confidence in the necessary individual; confidence in Lord Grey; confidence in Lord Durham; confidence in Lord Melbourne: and can also, if necessary, give three cheers for the King, or three groans31 for the Queen.
But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp were over in this borough as well as in many others. He had contrived32 in his lustre33 of agitation34 to feather his nest pretty successfully; by which he had lost public confidence and gained his private end. Three hungry Jawster Sharps, his hopeful sons, had all become commissioners35 of one thing or another; temporary appointments with interminable duties; a low-church son-in-law found himself comfortably seated in a chancellor’s living; and several cousins and nephews were busy in the Excise36. But Jawster Sharp himself was as pure as Cato. He had always said he would never touch the public money, and he had kept his word. It was an understood thing that Jawster Sharp was never to show his face again on the hustings37 of Darlford; the Liberal party was determined38 to be represented in future by a man of station, substance, character, a true Reformer, but one who wanted nothing for himself, and therefore might, if needful, get something for them. They were looking out for such a man, but were in no hurry. The seat was looked upon as a good thing; a contest certainly, every place is contested now, but as certainly a large majority. Notwithstanding all this confidence, however, Reaction or Registration, or some other mystification, had produced effects even in this creature of the Reform Bill, the good Borough of Darlford. The borough that out of gratitude39 to Lord Grey returned a jobbing shopkeeper twice to Parliament as its representative without a contest, had now a Conservative Association, with a banker for its chairman, and a brewer40 for its vice41-president, and four sharp lawyers nibbing their pens, noting their memorandum-books, and assuring their neighbours, with a consoling and complacent42 air, that ‘Property must tell in the long run.’ Whispers also were about, that when the proper time arrived, a Conservative candidate would certainly have the honour of addressing the electors. No name mentioned, but it was not concealed43 that he was to be of no ordinary calibre; a tried man, a distinguished44 individual, who had already fought the battle of the constitution, and served his country in eminent45 posts; honoured by the nation, favoured by his sovereign. These important and encouraging intimations were ably diffused47 in the columns of the Conservative journal, and in a style which, from its high tone, evidently indicated no ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed, there appeared occasionally in this paper, articles written with such unusual vigour48, that the proprietors49 of the Liberal journal almost felt the necessity of getting some eminent hand down from town to compete with them. It was impossible that they could emanate50 from the rival Editor. They knew well the length of their brother’s tether. Had they been more versant in the periodical literature of the day, they might in this ‘slashing’ style have caught perhaps a glimpse of the future candidate for their borough, the Right Honourable51 Nicholas Rigby.
Lord Monmouth, though he had been absent from England since 1832, had obtained from his vigilant52 correspondent a current knowledge of all that had occurred in the interval53: all the hopes, fears, plans, prospects54, manoeuvres, and machinations; their rise and fall; how some had bloomed, others were blighted55; not a shade of reaction that was not represented to him; not the possibility of an adhesion that was not duly reported; he could calculate at Naples at any time, within ten, the result of a dissolution. The season of the year had prevented him crossing the Alps in 1834, and after the general election he was too shrewd a practiser in the political world to be deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord Eskdale, in whose judgment56 he had more confidence than in that of any individual, had told him from the first that the pear was not ripe; Rigby, who always hedged against his interest by the fulfilment of his prophecy of irremediable discomfiture, was never very sanguine57. Indeed, the whole affair was always considered premature by the good judges; and a long time elapsed before Tadpole1 and Taper3 recovered their secret influence, or resumed their ostentatious loquacity58, or their silent insolence59.
The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord Eskdale wrote that after the forthcoming registration a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth had the satisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at Naples into a cool thousand on the event. Soon after this he returned to England, and determined to pay a visit to Coningsby Castle, feast the county, patronise the borough, diffuse46 that confidence in the party which his presence never failed to do; so great and so just was the reliance in his unerring powers of calculation and his intrepid61 pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule A, the prestige of his power had not sensibly diminished, for his essential resources were vast, and his intellect always made the most of his influence.
True, however, to his organisation62, Lord Monmouth, even to save his party and gain his dukedom, must not be bored. He, therefore, filled his castle with the most agreeable people from London, and even secured for their diversion a little troop of French comedians63. Thus supported, he received his neighbours with all the splendour befitting his immense wealth and great position, and with one charm which even immense wealth and great position cannot command, the most perfect manner in the world. Indeed, Lord Monmouth was one of the most finished gentlemen that ever lived; and as he was good-natured, and for a selfish man even good-humoured, there was rarely a cloud of caprice or ill-temper to prevent his fine manners having their fair play. The country neighbours were all fascinated; they were received with so much dignity and dismissed with so much grace. Nobody would believe a word of the stories against him. Had he lived all his life at Coningsby, fulfilled every duty of a great English nobleman, benefited the county, loaded the inhabitants with favours, he would not have been half so popular as he found himself within a fortnight of his arrival with the worst county reputation conceivable, and every little squire64 vowing65 that he would not even leave his name at the Castle to show his respect.
Lord Monmouth, whose contempt for mankind was absolute; not a fluctuating sentiment, not a mournful conviction, ebbing66 and flowing with circumstances, but a fixed67, profound, unalterable instinct; who never loved any one, and never hated any one except his own children; was diverted by his popularity, but he was also gratified by it. At this moment it was a great element of power; he was proud that, with a vicious character, after having treated these people with unprecedented68 neglect and contumely, he should have won back their golden opinions in a moment by the magic of manner and the splendour of wealth. His experience proved the soundness of his philosophy.
Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, if necessary, he could squander69 it like a caliph. He had even a respect for very rich men; it was his only weakness, the only exception to his general scorn for his species. Wit, power, particular friendships, general popularity, public opinion, beauty, genius, virtue70, all these are to be purchased; but it does not follow that you can buy a rich man: you may not be able or willing to spare enough. A person or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became invested, in the eyes of Lord Monmouth, with a kind of halo amounting almost to sanctity.
As the prey71 rose to the bait, Lord Monmouth resolved they should be gorged72. His banquets were doubled; a ball was announced; a public day fixed; not only the county, but the principal inhabitants of the neighbouring borough, were encouraged to attend; Lord Monmouth wished it, if possible, to be without distinction of party. He had come to reside among his old friends, to live and die where he was born. The Chairman of the Conservative Association and the Vice President exchanged glances, which would have become Tadpole and Taper; the four attorneys nibbed73 their pens with increased energy, and vowed74 that nothing could withstand the influence of the aristocracy ‘in the long run.’ All went and dined at the Castle; all returned home overpowered by the condescension75 of the host, the beauty of the ladies, several real Princesses, the splendour of his liveries, the variety of his viands76, and the flavour of his wines. It was agreed that at future meetings of the Conservative Association, they should always give ‘Lord Monmouth and the House of Lords!’ superseding77 the Duke of Wellington, who was to figure in an after-toast with the Battle of Waterloo.
It was not without emotion that Coningsby beheld78 for the first time the castle that bore his name. It was visible for several miles before he even entered the park, so proud and prominent was its position, on the richly-wooded steep of a considerable eminence79. It was a castellated building, immense and magnificent, in a faulty and incongruous style of architecture, indeed, but compensating80 in some degree for these deficiencies of external taste and beauty by the splendour and accommodation of its exterior81, and which a Gothic castle, raised according to the strict rules of art, could scarcely have afforded. The declining sun threw over the pile a rich colour as Coningsby approached it, and lit up with fleeting82 and fanciful tints83 the delicate foliage84 of the rare shrubs85 and tall thin trees that clothed the acclivity on which it stood. Our young friend felt a little embarrassed when, without a servant and in a hack86 chaise, he drew up to the grand portal, and a crowd of retainers came forth60 to receive him. A superior servant inquired his name with a stately composure that disdained87 to be supercilious88. It was not without some degree of pride and satisfaction that the guest replied, ‘Mr. Coningsby.’ The instantaneous effect was magical. It seemed to Coningsby that he was borne on the shoulders of the people to his apartment; each tried to carry some part of his luggage; and he only hoped his welcome from their superiors might be as hearty89.
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1
tadpole
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| n.[动]蝌蚪 | |
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tadpoles
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| n.蝌蚪( tadpole的名词复数 ) | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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boroughs
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| （尤指大伦敦的）行政区( borough的名词复数 )； 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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excise
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| n.(国产)货物税；vt.切除，删去 | |
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hustings
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| n.竞选活动 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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51
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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53
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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nibbed
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| 装了尖头的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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superseding
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| 取代，接替( supersede的现在分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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84
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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85
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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86
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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87
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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88
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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89
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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