MIA > Archive > Hyndman > Adventurous Life
If it is difficult for those who did not live through the seventies and eighties of the last century to understand the extraordinary personal regard amounting to unreasoning hero-worship which the Liberals felt for Mr. Gladstone, who could do nothing wrong and was held to be a sanctified leader immune from criticism; still more difficult is it for the young men of to-day to comprehend the position which Mr. Disraeli attained to at the end of his life of stress and strain. No man was more hated by his political opponents, or more distrusted by his political friends, than this strange Jew adventurer, who made his way to the very highest positions in the State, at a time when Jews were by no means so readily received as they are to-day, and in spite of the fact that he was a satirical novelist with no money save that which he obtained from his wife. My friend Butler Johnstone used to say that Disraeli owed his success, aside from the great abilities he possessed, and the persistence of his race in following up the line of his ambitions, to the fact that he was in reality a foreigner, who regarded all the problems of English society from the outside, with a detachment and coolness impossible for a native.
Thus, said my friend, when Disraeli looked round the House of Commons, after he had definitely taken the Conservative side, he saw himself surrounded by men who did not understand him, who were bitterly prejudiced against him, who cordially disliked him indeed as much for his good as for his bad qualities. “That damned Jew” had, therefore, a hard row to hoe on his way to the leadership, and he needed a set of people who, like himself, were divorced from English polities proper, in order to form a sort of praetorian guard for him, and protect him from the intrigues of the Cecils and the cabals of the Carlton Club.
Hence, though probably in favour of Home Rule for Ireland from the first, he gathered round him a set of Irishmen who were deadly opposed to any such measure, who were always on the look-out to better themselves by political service, and who were consequently ready to back any man who was prepared and able to give them office in return for their steady support. The North of Ireland combination, the Hills and Hamiltons, the Taylors, the Beresfords, and so on, attached themselves to Disraeli, therefore, and Disraeli attached himself to them: they being well rewarded for their unfailing personal loyalty by obtaining places and dignities, through his influence, which they could never by any possibility have got in any other way. That, of course, is the tale of a malicious admirer, who at least had a good opportunity of seeing what was going on. As to Disraeli’s foreign appearance my old friend used to say that when the sun shone full on the Conservative benches one afternoon, while all the rest looked white Disraeli appeared black. The sort of talk that was current about this famous littérateur and politician in Radical circles made him out to be black indeed.
I remember dining at the Windham Club with Mr. W.C. Borlase, who then held some minor post in the Liberal administration, Sir William Marriott and Professor Thorold Rogers. We were a very jolly party, indeed, and sat up late. Rogers at the time was specially bitter against the Tory Leader, and would concede to him no good quality whatever. Rogers himself had taken a very active part in the General Election which had just finished, and prided himself upon having helped to save several seats for his party. He did this, so he averred, to a large extent by a very clever comparison of the great Tory leader to a well-known character in a famous drama. We three sat and listened as Thorold Rogers told of his oratorical masterpiece with great gusto:–
“You remember, ladies and gentlemen, the scenes which I am about briefly to describe. They must have imprinted themselves indelibly on your memory. Here is an old man of science and culture tottering on the verge of the grave, his frame enfeebled, his vigour failing, even his mind not so bright as it was. He waits, not patiently but resentfully, for the inevitable end, which shall for ever obliterate his cherished individuality and waft him off into the domain of nothingness and the unknown. As he sits, brooding over the past and repining at the present, suddenly a man appears at his side in answer to the worn-out veteran’s appeal for a renewed life and re-invigorated intelligence and says to him I will restore to you your vigour, I will give you back your vitality, I will resuscitate your intelligence, I will fire afresh your jaded passions, I will grant you again all the brightness of youth, all the freshness of early manhood, all the joys of vigorous maturity, and for my reward I ask but this small thing: that when you are thus born again I shall have the privilege of accompanying you constantly through your days of revived felicity.’
“The old man accepts the offer. He drinks off the potion. Then we see him again. All that has been promised him has been fulfilled. All the pleasures of activity, all the delights of existence, flood in upon him once more. But wherever he goes, whatever be the charm of his surroundings, the delights of impassioned love, or the brilliancy of his companions, ever that fatal comrade keeps relentlessly by his side.
“You have recognised the familiar legend, ladies and gentlemen, and Faust and his sinister companion have risen before you as I spoke. Now consider. In 1847, after the death of Lord George Bentinck, the Conservative Party was destitute alike of the energy of youth and of the wisdom of age, worn-out, decrepit, useless. Ideals faded, policies destroyed, hopes of office and power finally evaporated. So it seemed. A new era was dawning which this wearyful old figure could never even dimly see. Just at that moment a man comes to the party in its last agony and says: ‘I will restore to you your health, revivify your powers, refresh your intelligence, obtain for you victory, office, domination. I ask but one reward for these inestimable services: that I who do all this for you shall be ever by your side.’
“The proposal was accepted, the miracle was worked, the new period was begun. Victory, office, political domination came again. But ever, ladies and gentlemen, during all the wild exultation of success, amid all the intoxication of triumph, that fatal man has stood gazing with cynical derision at the dancing of the resuscitated skeleton to which he had granted a new lease of life. And there he stands to-day, watching, with the same sardonic smile as before, the struggles against fate of the party into which he alone has breathed vitality and hope.”
The thing was very well done; and, to say the truth, none of us round the table had before credited Rogers with so much political verve or such trenchant though perhaps too elaborate satire. But that Disraeli was a sort of Hebraic Mephistopheles was a common opinion in those days, and Mr. Hill’s virulent articles in the Fortnightly Review, while keeping pretty close to the truth, served to confirm the general impression; as did also the sphinx-like appearance of the man in his age, and the terrible epigrams which he gave vent to, or which were fathered upon him – on ne prête qu’aux riches.
Why Mr. Gladstone, who changed his opinions whenever it suited his convenience, after turning from the extremest Toryism to advanced Liberalism, should have been credited with the highest political morality, while Disraeli, who, having once chosen his party, stuck to it all his life without the slightest shadow of turning, was regarded as a man of few scruples I am at loss to understand. Both men entered political affairs with the thorough determination to achieve complete personal success. Gladstone with nearly all the advantages, Disraeli with very few. But the truth seems to be that, unless a man lives to a green old age and achieves the highest position, our countrymen cannot appreciate the sort of career which combines great literary achievement with remarkable political faculties. If Disraeli had died twenty years before he did he would have been regarded as a comparative failure for at least a generation after his departure. As it was, his abilities were only appreciated very late, and then more for what he probably took up as a useful political cry rather than for the valuable work he did and tried to do.
My view of Disraeli, with the exception of one very long interview I had with him, was entirely from the outside. I never heard him speak, and I only once saw him in the House of Commons. What attracted me to his career was his manifest sympathy for democratic and social progress as opposed to middle-class Liberal hypocrisy and chicane, and his strenuous opposition to the advance of Russia, at a juncture when that power manifestly threatened danger to democracy in Europe. Maybe, also, the desire I then felt to see the British Empire consolidated so far as its free colonies were concerned, with India liberated from our ruinous dominance, led me to attach higher importance to his foreign and Colonial policy than it deserved, viewed from the Socialist standpoint.
But the real influence of the Jew statesman upon me was due not so much to his political as to his literary work. That he sympathised with the revolutionary Chartists is, I think, quite clear, and that he only gave up his adherence to their views when he saw that it was quite impossible their ideas should attain to political success in his day is, it seems to me, equally manifest. Nobody can read Sybil carefully, even neglecting the hint contained in the second title, The Two Nations, without recognising that the same current of ideas that affected Carlyle, Ruskin, Kingsley, and other well-known writers of this period also swept Disraeli in its direction, or without gaining the impression that, although compelled by the exigencies of an inferior profession – for party politics in England is a poor calling, however well remunerated it may be in the shape of money and reputation – to take sides, he never lost a chance of helping forward the political emancipation and social advancement of the class which he had begun by supporting.
I wonder how many of Disraeli’s followers have ever read Henrietta Temple through? If it surprises students of Marx’s life to learn that he began by writing poetry, it must be with at least equal astonishment that those who take up Disraeli’s novels peruse the love letters in that romance. Who would dream of the sarcastic, saturnine politician as the writer of those high-flown epistles? They are quite oriental in their passionate style and imagery. Then, again, who would think of Lord Beaconsfield as nervous? Yet I remember a friend who had watched him very closely under all sorts of circumstances, declaring to me that he was a man of the keenest sensitiveness which he kept under relentless control, and that his strange, calm, immovable face was only a mask covering very strong emotions. However that may be, his power of influencing other men either in the way of attraction or repulsion was remarkable. Frederick Greenwood was never the same man after his interview with the Tory leader on the Suez Canal business. His faculty of criticism where Lord Beaconsfield was concerned seemed to have left him, and his admiration for the Imperialist statesman intensified the dislike of his rival which was already keen enough.
On the other hand, of course, there were men and women who, ordinarily sound in their judgment of politics and business, could see no good in anything Disraeli ever did. My old college friend, James Lowther, was one of these; although he had held office under him and had therefore shared in the political success which at that particular period Disraeli and Disraeli alone could have obtained for the party. Disraeli was to him the “damned old Jew” for all time, and Lowther represented quite a large number of his party, alike in his sturdy conservatism of an English sportsman and in his strong prejudices against people he could not understand.
After Lord Beaconsfield had returned from his unwilling “Peace with Honour” expedition to Berlin, which he knew very well had benefited Germany and Austria – tertius gaudens – more than anybody else, and the Treaty of Berlin was “being carried out feet foremost” his career with all its great adventures was at an end. This, no doubt, he felt himself; for the long conflict between Lord Salisbury and Disraeli in the Cabinet had ended in favour of the former when, owing to Mr. Ward Hunt’s illness, Lord Beaconsfield found himself in a minority, and, but for the Queen’s own personal request to him, would have resigned office. It was a curious position and all sorts of stories were current. That Prince Bismarck formed a very high opinion of “that old Jew’s” sagacity there is no doubt; whether, however, he committed himself so far as to contrast the two English plenipotentiaries, after the fashion which was commonly believed at the time, to the great disadvantage of Lord Salisbury, may well be doubted. There is one anecdote, however, which I like to believe was true; though as Bismarck and Disraeli were alone at the time the incident occurred we must suppose in this case that either the German or the English statesman was unduly communicative.
The two men are represented as having a large map of the world before them, discussing the question of colonisation, to which Prince Bismarck at that time was, or thought it wise to appear to be, opposed. During the conversation Disraeli’s first finger wandered, as if by accident, over the great area of country covered by what are still known, as a whole, as “the Balkan Provinces.” “Don’t you think there is some fine colonisation ground here?” asked the English Premier. Bismarck’s reply is not on record; but the struggle for domination in the near East now going on shows that the English Plenipotentiary was not far wrong in his anticipations.
I used to hear a good deal about Prince Bismarck and his views and methods from Dr. Rudolph Meyer, who was one of his private secretaries, and who, having incurred his displeasure, made off to Austria and England in order to get out of the old Berserker’s way and thus avoid imprisonment. What his precise offence was Meyer never told me. But he gave me a most amusing description of the Chancellor’s efforts to make up for lost time in the domain of political economy of which he was entirely ignorant, even after his conversations with Lassalle. As Meyer himself truly said: “The day will never come when a Professor of Political Economy, as such, will be a statesman; but the day when a statesman can afford to be ignorant of political economy has come already.” So, no doubt, Prince Bismarck felt before Meyer thus sententiously formulated his position, felt his own shortcomings and tried to remedy them. And that is how it happened that my old friend found the Chancellor one night with works on “the dismal science” strewn on the floor all round him, his head wrapped in a wet towel, studying hard to master problems which, as Meyer said, he ought to have been familiar with in his youth.
Disraeli, probably, was as little versed in political economy as Bismarck, certainly his public utterances give no evidence of deep knowledge of the subject; but he had sufficient sympathy with the agitators of an earlier day to be able to anticipate in some degree the social needs of the period; though, like Lord Randolph Churchill at a later date, he was wholly unable to take his party with him. But I have always regarded this encounter at Berlin between the German and the Jew Englishman as one of the most dramatic political events of our time. It was not Lord Beaconsfield’s policy that was winning, and, of course, Prince Bismarck was very well aware of this; but he understood, nevertheless, that he was face to face with a profound and subtle intellect in the political sphere, and it would have been interesting to know what each really thought of the other.
I have never felt anything at all approaching to the same admiration for the politician, successful or unsuccessful, that I have for the man of ideas, whether in science, art, literature or sociology. The mere Parliament man, who does no more than trim his sails to suit the breezes of popularity, or manipulate the votes of the day for the advantage of his party, can rarely display, even if he himself possesses them, the higher faculties of originality and initiative. He is too much limited by his surroundings and by the human tools he has at his disposal. If, therefore, even the astronomer, or the chemist, or the social philosopher is inevitably the creature of his environment, and can do no more than help to anticipate by his genius results which would almost certainly be attained a generation or two later in any case, it is obvious that the statesman, however eminent he may be, is still more restricted in his field of operations. But in Great Britain this is not the general view. The prominent politician, or general, or admiral, is the really great man to whom statues are raised or days of celebration devoted. Darwin, Faraday, Simpson, Robert Owen or Thomas Paine, Shelley or Dickens or Browning are placed upon a much lower level than Canning, Peel or Palmerston, Gladstone or Disraeli.
To us English the political arena is the great dramatic show of the day and of every day. It is like Laurence Oliphant’s novel Piccadilly, which gave the actual experiences of his personages as going on simultaneously with the record of the daily doings of the world. The continual play of life and character in Parliament, on the best platform, with the best sounding board in the world, gives Englishmen a direct interest in politics which is almost equal to the excitement they derive from horse-racing and football. The conflicts of the principal political leaders, ever in the public eye with the limelight of the Press continuously thrown upon them, constitute a sort of gladiatorial display, in which intellectual skill of fence, oratorical ability and tactical dexterity in party affairs have taken the place of physical training and mastery of weapons in the Circus. With these ideas in my mind as to the relative importance even of the highest and most successful politicians, I went to see Lord Beaconsfield at the end of his life in Curzon Street without any of that feeling of hesitation which came over me when I visited the great Italian agitator in the purlieus of Fulham, or when I first called upon the greater German theorist in the commonplace surroundings of Haverstock Hill.
My object in seeking an interview with the famous old statesman at all was, if possible, to enlist Lord Beaconsfield’s sympathies in favour of the policy which I was absolutely convinced in 1881 as I am to-day was the policy that, if taken up in earnest and pushed vigorously and persistently to its legitimate conclusion, could alone save this country and the empire from disastrous collapse. Lord Beaconsfield, though he had retired from active politics, still retained great influence, and if I could, by some happy chance, obtain his help on the side I took, he might at the very close of his life help to divert the people of the United Kingdom from the sordid, barren Imperialism, which even then was deteriorating the intelligence of the educated classes, to a higher conception of our duties towards our fellow-subjects and mankind at large.
This may appear to have been a very quixotic mission on my part. Lord Beaconsfield was supposed to be the greatest and most capable Imperialist of his time, and Tory Democracy was certainly not translated by his party as meaning anything very democratic, or as calculated to lessen, in any way, the supremacy of the mother country over its conquered dependencies abroad, or the domination of the upper classes over the producing class at home. That, in spite of all this, I hoped to be successful in my attempt is a tribute to my sanguine temperament, or possibly the unfriendly might say conclusive evidence of my sublime self-confidence.
And so in 1881, when I stood at Lord Beaconsfield’s door, I was thinking much more of what I wanted to say to him than of what he might be good enough to say to me. I knew I had to deal with a man of imagination, who had conceptions far above the level of the miserable buy-cheap-and-sell-dear school which had so long prevailed over our policy, wholly regardless of the well-being of the people so long as the capitalist and profit-making class gained wealth. Having also achieved all that could be achieved in the domain of politics and society, there was no reason why he should not take an impartial view of the future. Ushered up into the drawing-room I found myself in two apartments of moderate size with old-fashioned folding doors between them thrown open. The furniture, which also seemed old-fashioned, was upholstered in red damask, and the curtains and wall-paper were red, much gilding being apparent everywhere. The whole was a gorgeous colour symphony in scarlet and gold. Entering from a doorway in the back room came a strange figure, likewise, I was going to say, upholstered in red; for that was the impression produced upon me as Lord Beaconsfield, in a long red gabardine, came very slowly and almost painfully forward, with his head somewhat bowed, one eye completely and the other eye partially closed.
As this strange figure with its remarkable face, so deeply lined, with the curl over the forehead showing so clearly above, and the lower lip protruding so strongly below, advanced into the room, it came across my mind that I had to do with a resuscitated mummy of the same race whose previous existence had been in the Nile Valley, what time the Pharaohs had held his Semitic forefathers in subjection. And it occurred to me, too, that if my views were of any value I might succeed in raising those closed and half-closed lids, and awakening something akin to vitality in that mask-like face. And then, as suddenly, the remembrance of those satirical utterances by this same inscrutable personage, with his play-acting propensities and his marvellous power of detachment, came back to me, and I wondered how I should meet similar caustic epigrams if he happened to indulge in them at my expense.
He had, for instance, been specially courteous to Professor Fawcett, the blind Radical, when he first entered the House of Commons, sitting by him outside, and talking to him in so pleasant and flattering a manner that Fawcett, who had, of course, no idea that Disraeli had been conversing with him, asked a neighbour who it was that had spoken so kindly and appreciatively. Yet upon a friend saying to him afterwards as Fawcett was boring the House with one of his long dry speeches: “What a pity it is Fawcett has not got his eyes.” Disraeli replied, “If he had they would have been damned long ago.” This and similar remarks, I say, came back to me, and I hoped I should be able to hold the old statesman’s attention sufficiently to keep him from such vitriolic criticism.
He took a seat on a couch by the fire-place and motioned me to an armchair by his side. The move was to me. It was like opening a conversation with a graven image. I began, I remember, by expressing my regret that his policy in regard to Russia had not carried the day; as all democrats would feel that this huge semi-barbarian power gaining strength at the expense of its southern neighbour must be an ever-increasing danger to the freedoms of Europe, bound up as she inevitably was with the maintenance of the military autocracies to the west of her, and that I could not believe, even now peace had been brought about, that the position, with Cyprus annexed and the doubtful gendarmerie experiment in Asia Minor undertaken, was quite what he would have wished. He bowed his head. And I went on to say that I specially mourned the overthrow of his administration because I felt that, as Sir Louis Mallet had put it to me, the last chance of justice being done to India had faded. This was venturing on dangerous ground; for I had an idea that Lord Beaconsfield, having given up the lead to Lord Salisbury, in what was still nominally his own Ministry, was scarcely in sympathy with the policy which Lord Cranbrook, with the support of other members of the Government, had begun: the gradually building up, that is to say, of Indian rule in Hindustan under British guidance. However, all that followed this was another assenting motion of the head.
Thereupon, I touched upon domestic affairs, and said I had hoped to witness an inauguration at home of some such palliative social policy as that which he had shadowed forth in his early works, and had since, from time to time, as I understood, endeavoured to press upon his colleagues. I added that, in my opinion, the only hope of rapid improvement in this direction, Radical and Socialist as I was, lay with the Conservative party. Measures of this kind, if introduced by that party, could not be opposed by the Liberals, without imperilling their cohesion as a political organisation; whereas, if the Liberals introduced Bills in favour of such beneficial social changes, the more reactionary Conservatives would be sure to revolt and find a factious backing in the country. It seemed to me, therefore, that what was going on in India, in Ireland, in Egypt, and at home was worse than would have happened had the Tory Government remained in power.
For the first time the sphinx-like figure on the couch delivered its oracle. In deep, low, almost sepulchral tones it said, with the very worst French accent I have ever heard, thickly pronounced and almost unintelligible, “Tu l’as voulu Georges Dandin,” and the eye that was half closed began to open. “If you mean John Bull by Georges Dandin, Lord Beaconsfield, I venture to say the issue was never properly put to him. Peace with Honour was a dead formula: Peace with Comfort was what the people wanted to hear about.” He turned towards me at this little joke, and the other eyelid began to lift. “Peace with Comfort is not a bad phrase. Who used it?” asked the deep, slow voice. “Why, I did, of course,” I replied, rather sharply; “who else?” The moment I had uttered the words I felt they might have offended the old gentleman, which I need scarcely say was not at all what I wished to do. But they had quite the opposite effect. He appeared to wake up entirely, opened both eyes, and, I could not be deceived, the face smiled as he now turned full towards me.
”You have, I presume, some ideas on the subject, Mr. Hyndman?” I said I had, and that it was upon this I wished to have his opinion. “What do you mean by comfort, then?” “Plenty to eat, enough to drink, good clothes, pleasant homes, thorough education and sufficient leisure for all.” “Utopia made to order?” “Rather a happy life for everybody growing naturally out of the conditions of our time.” “A pleasing dream, not, I fear, easily realised in fact. And how would you begin?”
Thus encouraged I set to work in earnest, and put before the old statesman things as I saw them and as I wished them to be. At that time, it may be borne in mind, laissez-faire still held mastery in England, and Socialism in its modern form was almost unknown in this island. I was full of the matter myself, and eager to put my ideas into words. I referred, therefore, to the efforts of the Chartists with which Lord Beaconsfield had sympathised in his youth, and urged that the work they had set on foot should be taken up afresh and applied to the more advanced period we had reached. Without complete education of the whole people nothing could be done. They must be intelligent participators in the changes to be brought about, and the completest democratic forms ought to be placed at their disposal in order that they should be able peacefully to help in the transformation by their own initiative and voting power.
“I have done all that I could do in the latter direction.” “But it needs also much superior education,” I answered, “to any we have to-day for the democracy to comprehend the real issues, and to exercise their influence in an understanding way.” “Your difficulties have then already begun.” “Of course there are difficulties, or success would have been achieved already, but a democracy without education can mean only either perpetuation of the present anarchical system, or worse anarchy still with no system. There is no other way out than through collective organisation by the democracy under its chosen agents for the benefit of all. You admit that.” “I admit nothing, Mr. Hyndman; I am listening to you.” “Well, we cannot go on as we are going without national decay and eventual collapse. Our people are being crushed into the cities, where they lose their bodily and mental vigour, or the more capable of them emigrate straight from the country to the Colonies, and leave only the weaklings to perpetuate the race at home. The process of deterioration is going on steadily. There are fewer agriculturists every year, and the recruiting ground for healthy inhabitants of the cities is thus being reduced every year. All can see that the physique of the population is falling off. And at the very same time we are grasping more territory than ever before.”
“Suppose all you say is true, what then?”
“We must recognise this truth at once, and reorganise our entire Empire at home and abroad, replacing go-as-you-please by a resolute policy of general social improvement throughout Britain, adopting Home Rule and general Colonial Federation instead of domination, and granting self-government to India. This would bring us abreast of a great and harmonious policy that would, possessing a powerful navy, give us, with our extraordinary geographical position, the lead of the democratic movement throughout the world.” “Why not say Socialist movement? That is what you mean.” “I have no objection, though we are barely ready for that yet.” And then, as Lord Beaconsfield kept on asking questions and making short comments, I went clean through the whole thing. In the middle of it Lord Rowton sent up the butler to say he was ready for Lord Beaconsfield if he should at all need him. I rose at once to go. “Tell Lord Rowton, with my compliments, I shall be glad if he will wait for me for a few minutes.” I sat down again and started at it once more, until I had contrived to tumble out somehow, in the additional hour to which the few minutes extended, pretty nearly all I had to say, advocating collective control and ownership in every direction.
“And you think,” said Lord Beaconsfield, “you have any chance of carrying out such a policy as things stand here to-day?” I replied I could not feel confident, but I would have a good try at it. “You can never carry it out with the Conservative party. That is quite certain. Your life would become a burden to you. It is only possible through such a democracy as you speak of. The moment you tried to realise it on our side you would find yourself surrounded by a phalanx of the great families who would thwart you at every turn they and their women. And you would be no better off on the other side.” “But this party system,” I rejoined, “need not go on for ever?” “No, but private property which you hope to communise, and vested interests which you openly threaten, have a great many to speak up for them still. I do not say it to discourage you, but you have taken upon yourself a very – heavy – work indeed, and” (smiling), “even now you are not a very young man to have so much zeal and enthusiasm. It is a very difficult country to move, Mr. Hyndman, a very difficult country indeed, and one in which there is more disappointment to be looked for than success. But you do intend to go on?” I said I did. “Then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
But I never did see Lord Beaconsfield again. He had an attack of illness shortly afterwards, and died within a few weeks. Taking a lady of my acquaintance, who knew of this long interview with me, down to dinner, two days later, she asked him how it went on. The reply was, “Your friend Mr. Hyndman came to talk, and I am bound to tell you he did talk,” but she herself gave me to understand that his tone about the whole thing was very friendly. Certainly, nothing could have been more so than his attitude during the three hours I was with him. The impression Lord Beaconsfield left upon my mind was that he was dissatisfied with the great personal success he had achieved, and would have wished his life to have been other than it was. Whether this impression was due to any pose on his part, or arose from the sheer weariness he suffered from at the end of a long and arduous career, it is, of course, impossible for me to say. From that day to this, however, I have always felt that Benjamin Disraeli was neither so thorough-going an Imperialist, nor to himself so triumphant a personality as his enthusiastic admirers and decorators of his statue believe every April 19th.
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Last updated on 30.7.2006