Tradition and Biography

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

SUCH a book as Wilfrid Meynell’s about Disraeli¹ makes one doubt whether a formal biography has, after all, so great an advantage over tradition in fixing the reputation of a man who has lived long in full view of the public. It is one contrast more between the great rivals. Mr. Morley’s copious illustration of Gladstone appeared nearly at the same time that we learned of Lord Rowton’s death. He was Disraeli’s literary executor, and for twenty years it had been supposed that the official life of his chief would come from him. But he is gone ; and except for a handful of what Americans would call “ campaign ” biographies of Disraeli, along with the personal detail and pleasant gossip that Mr. Meynell has now given us in his disconnected narrative, we have no documented record of his career. Yet what figure could stand out with more individual distinctness in the history of his time ? Could the most elaborate written life do more than expand or deepen the impression of him that intelligent students of the English politics of his day have already formed ? His novels and speeches and epigrams, with the report of him that thousands bore away from personal contact, have etched a character which, we may be sure, no amount of recovered letters or diaries could present with fundamental difference. Color and body might be added, but the great outlines are there. “ Dizzy always wants plenty of lights,” said his attentive wife. He lived in full glare. A set biography could bring out little from dark corners. The Disraeli tradition has grown up, and we are entitled to say of it, with the prince in Richard III: —

Men will have their stubborn theories, of hero or villain, in real life, and so they will in biography. What an idea of tenacious conviction one gets, for example, from Mr. Meynell’s account of Nathaniel Basevi, Disraeli’s cousin. Early in his political career, when he was hard pressed for money, as, indeed, he long was, Disraeli had applied to his uncle, Mr. George Basevi, for a loan. The father called son Nathaniel into counsel, and the two determined that the flighty political adventurer, as they decided he was, had no real security to offer. Accordingly, the request for an advance met a peremptory refusal. Very well; uncles had been hard-hearted and cousins incredulous before. But note what followed. Years later, the Right Honorable Benjamin Disraeli, Prime Minister of England, was at Torquay, where Mr. Nathaniel Basevi was living in retirement. To this Israelite, indeed, in whom there was no giving in, it was intimated that his distinguished kinsman would be glad to receive him, letting bygones be bygones. But the stout old gentleman would not budge. He was not dazzled. Once an adventurer, always an adventurer, whether starveling aspirant or triumphant Premier. The cousin would neither call upon him, nor be called upon by him. How could Lord Rowton possibly have converted this sturdy skeptic ?

Jowett’s theory of Disraeli was less simple or rigorous. He wrote to Sir R. B. D. Morier in 1878 : “ Dizzy is a curious combination of the Archpriest of Humbug and a great man.” Mr. Meynell, loyal as he is to Disraeli, — but also loyal to the truth, — does not wholly break down the first part of this definition of Jowett’s, though he undoubtedly brings much reinforcement to the second part. At a few critical junctures, Disraeli appears tricky, careless of veracity. There was, for example, that letter which he wrote to Sir Robert Peel, applying for office. This in his lifetime he roundly denied having written. After his death it was published in the Life of Peel. Mr. Meynell admits that we have here something “ mysterious.” There were other things betraying a shifty nature. They helped make Disraeli so intensely “ unpopular ” even with his own party, as one of his colleagues in different Ministries, Lord Malmesbury, frequently noted in his diary that he was. Yet he made himself indispensable to the inarticulate country squires who were the strength of the Tory party. He could speak. His fleering audacity in debate and bold initiative in policy, his merciless attack, his biting characterization, his immense gift of language, and his unbounded selfconfidence made him the leader he was for so many years. Little loved, he was greatly admired. There was never any question of his genius, though there unfortunately sometimes was of his sincerity. Strong and straightforward natures somehow found in him no echo. They caught, rather, an ostentatious, an Oriental note. Asked once what was the most enviable life, Disraeli replied in a gleam of self-revelation, “ A continued grand procession from manhood to the tomb.” He had it. The crowd and the shouting seldom failed him. Opportunities for display came thick and fast. The extraordinary favor of the Queen he knew how to conquer. For his astonishing talents he found a great theatre. Yet tradition has been just; it has perpetuated a faithful picture of the man in habit as he was; and no biography, no matter how full it might be, nor how many minor myths it might destroy, could now make posterity see Benjamin Disraeli in any other essential guise than that in which his shrewdest and most sharp-sighted contemporaries have bidden us behold him.