Prime Ministers and Some Others | Page 8

could always admit me to the
privileged seats "under the Gallery," then more numerous than now. So
it came about that I heard all the most famous debates in Committee on

the Tory Reform Bill, and thereby learned for the first time the
fascination of Disraeli's genius. The Whigs, among whom I was reared,
did not dislike "Dizzy" as they disliked Lord Derby, or as Dizzy
himself was disliked by the older school of Tories. But they absolutely
miscalculated and misconceived him, treating him as merely an
amusing charlatan, whose rococo oratory and fantastic tricks afforded a
welcome relief from the dulness of ordinary politics.
To a boy of fourteen thus reared, the Disraeli of 1867 was an
astonishment and a revelation--as the modern world would say, an
eye-opener. The House of Commons was full of distinguished
men--Lord Cranborne, afterwards Lord Salisbury; John Bright and
Robert Lowe, Gathorne Hardy, Bernal-Osborne, Goschen, Mill,
Kinglake, Renley, Horsman, Coleridge. The list might be greatly
prolonged, but of course it culminates in Gladstone, then in the full
vigour of his powers. All these people I saw and heard during that
memorable summer; but high above them all towers, in my recollection,
the strange and sinister figure of the great Disraeli. The Whigs had
laughed at him for thirty years; but now, to use a phrase of the nursery,
they laughed on the wrong side of their mouths. There was nothing
ludicrous about him now, nothing to provoke a smile, except when he
wished to provoke it, and gaily unhorsed his opponents of every
type--Gladstone, or Lowe, or Beresford-Hope. He seemed, for the
moment, to dominate the House of Commons, to pervade it with his
presence, and to guide it where he would. At every turn he displayed
his reckless audacity, his swiftness in transition, his readiness to throw
overboard a stupid colleague, his alacrity to take a hint from an
opponent and make it appear his own. The Bill underwent all sorts of
changes in Committee; but still it seemed to be Disraeli's Bill, and no
one else's. And, indeed, he is entitled to all the credit which he got, for
it was his genius that first saw the possibilities hidden in a Tory
democracy.
To a boy of fourteen, details of rating, registration, and residential
qualification make no strong appeal; but the personality of this strange
magician, un-English, inscrutable, irresistible, was profoundly
interesting. "Gladstone," wrote Lord Houghton to a friend, "seems quite

awed with the diabolical cleverness of Dizzy, who, he says, is gradually
driving all ideas of political honour out of the House, and accustoming
it to the most revolting cynicism." I had been trained by people who
were sensitive about "Political honour," and I knew nothing of
"cynicism"; but the "diabolical cleverness" made an impression on me
which has lasted to this day.
What was Dizzy in personal appearance? If I had not known the fact, I
do not think that I should have recognized him as one of the ancient
race of Israel. His profile was not the least what we in England consider
Semitic. He might have been a Spaniard or an Italian, but he certainly
was not a Briton. He was rather tall than short, but slightly bowed,
except when he drew himself up for the more effective delivery of
some shrewd blow. His complexion was extremely pale, and the pallor
was made more conspicuous by contrast with his hair, steeped in
Tyrian dye, worn long, and eked out with artificial additions.
He was very quietly dressed. The green velvet trousers and rings worn
outside white kid gloves, which had helped to make his fame in "the
days of the dandies," had long since been discarded. He dressed, like
other men of his age and class, in a black frock-coat worn open, a
waistcoat cut rather deep, light-coloured trousers, and a black cravat
tied in a loose bow--and those spring-sided boots of soft material which
used to be called "Jemimas." I may remark, in passing, that these
details of costume were reproduced with startling fidelity in Mr. Dennis
Eadie's wonderful play--the best representation of personal appearance
that I have ever seen on the stage.
Disraeli's voice was by nature deep, and he had a knack of deepening it
when he wished to be impressive. His articulation was extremely
deliberate, so that every word told; and his habitual manner was calm,
but not stolid. I say "habitual," because it had variations. When
Gladstone, just the other side of the Table, was thundering his protests,
Disraeli became absolutely statuesque, eyed his opponent stonily
through his monocle, and then congratulated himself, in a kind of stage
drawl, that there was a "good broad piece of furniture" between him
and the enraged Leader of the Opposition. But when it was his turn to

simulate the