



Produced by David Widger and Dagny









DEVEREUX

BY

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON (Lord Lytton)





ADVERTISEMENT TO THE PRESENT EDITION.

IN this edition of a work composed in early youth, I have not attempted
to remove those faults of construction which may be sufficiently
apparent in the plot, but which could not indeed be thoroughly rectified
without re-writing the whole work. I can only hope that with the defects
of inexperience may be found some of the merits of frank and artless
enthusiasm. I have, however, lightened the narrative of certain
episodical and irrelevant passages, and relieved the general style of
some boyish extravagances of diction. At the time this work was written
I was deeply engaged in the study of metaphysics and ethics, and out of
that study grew the character of Algernon Mordaunt. He is represented
as a type of the Heroism of Christian Philosophy,--a union of love and
knowledge placed in the midst of sorrow, and labouring on through the
pilgrimage of life, strong in the fortitude that comes from belief in
Heaven.

KNEBWORTH, May 3, 1852.

E. B. L.



DEDICATORY EPISTLE

TO

JOHN AULDJO, ESQ., ETC.,

AT NAPLES



LONDON.

MY DEAR AULDJO,--Permit me, as a memento of the pleasant hours we passed
together, and the intimacy we formed by the winding shores and the rosy
seas of the old Parthenope, to dedicate to you this romance. It was
written in perhaps the happiest period of my literary life,--when
success began to brighten upon my labours, and it seemed to me a fine
thing to make a name. Reputation, like all possessions, fairer in the
hope than the reality, shone before me in the gloss of novelty; and I
had neither felt the envy it excites, the weariness it occasions, nor
(worse than all) that coarse and painful notoriety, that, something
between the gossip and the slander, which attends every man whose
writings become known,--surrendering the grateful privacies of life to

   "The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day."

In short, yet almost a boy (for, in years at least, I was little more,
when "Pelham" and "The Disowned" were conceived and composed), and full
of the sanguine arrogance of hope, I pictured to myself far greater
triumphs than it will ever be mine to achieve: and never did architect
of dreams build his pyramid upon (alas!) a narrower base, or a more
crumbling soil!... Time cures us effectually of these self-conceits, and
brings us, somewhat harshly, from the gay extravagance of confounding
the much that we design with the little that we can accomplish.

"The Disowned" and "Devereux" were both completed in retirement, and
in the midst of metaphysical studies and investigations, varied and
miscellaneous enough, if not very deeply conned. At that time I was
indeed engaged in preparing for the press a Philosophical Work which
I had afterwards the good sense to postpone to a riper age and a more
sobered mind. But the effect of these studies is somewhat prejudicially
visible in both the romances I have referred to; and the external and
dramatic colourings which belong to fiction are too often forsaken for
the inward and subtile analysis of motives, characters, and actions. The
workman was not sufficiently master of his art to forbear the vanity
of parading the wheels of the mechanism, and was too fond of calling
attention to the minute and tedious operations by which the movements
were to be performed and the result obtained. I believe that an author
is generally pleased with his work less in proportion as it is good,
than in proportion as it fulfils the idea with which he commenced it. He
is rarely perhaps an accurate judge how far the execution is in itself
faulty or meritorious; but he judges with tolerable success how far it
accomplishes the end and objects of the conception. He is pleased with
his work, in short, according as he can say, "This has expressed what
I meant it to convey." But the reader, who is not in the secret of the
author's original design, usually views the work through a different
medium; and is perhaps in this the wiser critic of the two: for the book
that wanders the most from the idea which originated it may often
be better than that which is rigidly limited to the unfolding and
_denouement_ of a single conception. If we accept this solution, we may
be enabled to understand why an author not unfrequently makes favourites
of some of his productions most condemned by the public. For my own
part, I remember that "Devereux" pleased me better than "Pelham" or
"The Disowned," because the execution more exactly corresponded with the
design. It expressed with tolerable fidelity what I meant it to express.
That was a happy age, my dear Auldjo, when, on finishing a work, we
could feel contented with our labour, and fancy we had done our best!
Now, alas I I have learned enough of the wonders of the Art to recognize
all the deficiencies of the Disciple; and to know that no author worth
the reading can ever in one single work do half of which he is capable.

What man ever wrote anything really good who did not feel that he had
the ability to write something better? Writing, after all, is a cold and
a coarse interpreter of thought. How much of the imagination, how much
of the intellect, evaporates and is lost while we seek to embody it
in words! Man made language and God the genius. Nothing short of an
eternity could enable men who imagine, think, and feel, to express
all they have imagined, thought, and felt. Immortality, the spiritual
desire, is the intellectual _necessity_.

In "Devereux" I wished to portray a man flourishing in the last century
with the train of mind and sentiment peculiar to the present; describing
a life, and not its dramatic epitome, the historical characters
introduced are not closely woven with the main plot, like those in
the fictions of Sir Walter Scott, but are rather, like the narrative
romances of an earlier school, designed to relieve the predominant
interest, and give a greater air of truth and actuality to the supposed
memoir. It is a fiction which deals less with the Picturesque than the
Real. Of the principal character thus introduced (the celebrated and
graceful, but charlatanic, Bolingbroke) I still think that my sketch,
upon the whole, is substantially just. We must not judge of the
politicians of one age by the lights of another. Happily we now demand
in a statesman a desire for other aims than his own advancement; but at
that period ambition was almost universally selfish--the Statesman was
yet a Courtier--a man whose very destiny it was to intrigue, to plot, to
glitter, to deceive. It is in proportion as politics have ceased to be
a secret science, in proportion as courts are less to be flattered and
tools to be managed, that politicians have become useful and honest
men; and the statesman now directs a people, where once he outwitted an
ante-chamber. Compare Bolingbroke--not with the men and by the rules of
this day, but with the men and by the rules of the last. He will lose
nothing in comparison with a Walpole, with a Marlborough on the one
side,--with an Oxford or a Swift upon the other.

And now, my dear Auldjo, you have had enough of my egotisms. As our
works grow up,--like old parents, we grow garrulous, and love to recur
to the happier days of their childhood; we talk over the pleasant pain
they cost us in their rearing, and memory renews the season of dreams
and hopes; we speak of their faults as of things past, of their merits
as of things enduring: we are proud to see them still living, and, after
many a harsh ordeal and rude assault, keeping a certain station in the
world; we hoped perhaps something better for them in their cradle, but
as it is we have good cause to be contented. You, a fellow-author, and
one whose spirited and charming sketches embody so much of personal
adventure, and therefore so much connect themselves with associations of
real life as well as of the studious closet; _you_ know, and must feel
with me, that these our books are a part of us, bone of our bone and
flesh of our flesh! They treasure up the thoughts which stirred us, the
affections which warmed us, years ago; they are the mirrors of how
much of what we were! To the world they are but as a certain number
of pages,--good or bad,--tedious or diverting; but to ourselves, the
authors, they are as marks in the wild maze of life by which we can
retrace our steps, and be with our youth again. What would I not give to
feel as I felt, to hope as I hoped, to believe as I believed, when this
work was first launched upon the world! But time gives while it takes
away; and amongst its recompenses for many losses are the memories I
referred to in commencing this letter, and gratefully revert to at
its close. From the land of cloud and the life of toil, I turn to that
golden clime and the happy indolence that so well accords with it; and
hope once more, ere I die, with a companion whose knowledge can
recall the past and whose gayety can enliven the present, to visit the
Disburied City of Pompeii, and see the moonlight sparkle over the waves
of Naples. Adieu, my dear Auldjo,

 And believe me,
  Your obliged and attached friend,
   E. B. LYTTON.




THE AUTOBIOGRAPHER'S INTRODUCTION.

MY life has been one of frequent adventure and constant excitement. It
has been passed, to this present day, in a stirring age, and not without
acquaintance of the most eminent and active spirits of the time. Men of
all grades and of every character have been familiar to me. War, love,
ambition, the scroll of sages, the festivals of wit, the intrigues of
states,--all that agitate mankind, the hope and the fear, the labour and
the pleasure, the great drama of vanities, with the little interludes
of wisdom; these have been the occupations of my manhood; these will
furnish forth the materials of that history which is now open to your
survey. Whatever be the faults of the historian, he has no motive to
palliate what he has committed nor to conceal what he has felt.

Children of an after century, the very time in which these pages will
greet you destroys enough of the connection between you and myself to
render me indifferent alike to your censure and your applause. Exactly
one hundred years from the day this record is completed will the seal I
shall place on it be broken and the secrets it contains be disclosed.
I claim that congeniality with you which I have found not among my own
coevals. _Their_ thoughts, their feelings, their views, have nothing
kindred to my own. I speak their language, but it is not as a native:
_they_ know not a syllable of mine! With a future age my heart may have
more in common; to a future age my thoughts may be less unfamiliar, and
my sentiments less strange. I trust these confessions to the trial!

Children of an after century, between you and the being who has traced
the pages ye behold--that busy, versatile, restless being--there is but
one step,--but that step is a century! His _now_ is separated from your
now by an interval of three generations! While he writes, he is exulting
in the vigour of health and manhood; while ye read, the very worms are
starving upon his dust. This commune between the living and the dead;
this intercourse between that which breathes and moves and _is_,
and that which life animates not nor mortality knows,--annihilates
falsehood, and chills even self-delusion into awe. Come, then, and look
upon the picture of a past day and of a gone being, without apprehension
of deceit; and as the shadows and lights of a checkered and wild
existence flit before you, watch if in your own hearts there be aught
which mirrors the reflection.

 MORTON DEVEREUX.




NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION (1852).

If this work possess any merit of a Narrative order, it will perhaps be
found in its fidelity to the characteristics of an Autobiography.
The reader must, indeed, comply with the condition exacted from his
imagination and faith; that is to say, he must take the hero of the
story upon the terms for which Morton Devereux himself stipulates;
and regard the supposed Count as one who lived and wrote in the last
century, but who (dimly conscious that the tone of his mind harmonized
less with his own age than with that which was to come) left his
biography as a legacy to the present. This assumption (which is not an
unfair one) liberally conceded, and allowed to account for occasional
anachronisms in sentiment, Morton Devereux will be found to write as a
man who is not constructing a romance, but narrating a life. He gives
to Love, its joy and its sorrow, its due share in an eventful and
passionate existence; but it is the share of biography, not of fiction.
He selects from the crowd of personages with whom he is brought into
contact, not only those who directly influence his personal destinies,
but those of whom a sketch or an anecdote would appear to a biographer
likely to have interest for posterity. Louis XIV., the Regent Orleans,
Peter the Great, Lord Bolingbroke, and others less eminent, but still
of mark in their own day, if growing obscure to ours, are introduced
not for the purposes and agencies of fiction, but as an autobiographer's
natural illustrations of the men and manners of his time.

And here be it pardoned if I add that so minute an attention has
been paid to accuracy that even in petty details, and in relation to
historical characters but slightly known to the ordinary reader, a
critic deeply acquainted with the memoirs of the age will allow that the
novelist is always merged in the narrator.

Unless the Author has failed more in his design than, on revising the
work of his early youth with the comparatively impartial eye of maturer
judgment, he is disposed to concede, Morton Devereux will also be found
with that marked individuality of character which distinguishes the man
who has lived and laboured from the hero of romance. He admits into his
life but few passions; those are tenacious and intense: conscious that
none who are around him will sympathize with his deeper feelings, he
veils them under the sneer of an irony which is often affected and never
mirthful. Wherever we find him, after surviving the brief episode of
love, we feel--though he does not tell us so--that he is alone in the
world. He is represented as a keen observer and a successful actor in
the busy theatre of mankind, precisely in proportion as no cloud from
the heart obscures the cold clearness of the mind. In the scenes of
pleasure there is no joy in his smile; in the contests of ambition there
is no quicker beat of the pulse. Attaining in the prime of manhood such
position and honour as would first content and then sate a man of this
mould, he has nothing left but to discover the vanities of this world
and to ponder on the hopes of the next; and, his last passion dying
out in the retribution that falls on his foe, he finally sits down in
retirement to rebuild the ruined home of his youth,--unconscious that to
that solitude the Destinies have led him to repair the waste and ravages
of his own melancholy soul.

But while outward Dramatic harmonies between cause and effect, and the
proportionate agencies which characters introduced in the Drama bring
to bear upon event and catastrophe, are carefully shunned,--as real life
does for the most part shun them,--yet there is a latent coherence in
all that, by influencing the mind, do, though indirectly, shape out the
fate and guide the actions.

Dialogue and adventures which, considered dramatically, would be
episodical,--considered biographically, will be found essential to the
formation, change, and development of the narrator's character. The
grave conversations with Bolingbroke and Richard Cromwell, the light
scenes in London and at Paris, the favour obtained with the Czar of
Russia, are all essential to the creation of that mixture of wearied
satiety and mournful thought which conducts the Probationer to the
lonely spot in which he is destined to learn at once the mystery of his
past life and to clear his reason from the doubts that had obscured the
future world.

Viewing the work in this more subtile and contemplative light, the
reader will find not only the true test by which to judge of its design
and nature, but he may also recognize sources of interest in the story
which might otherwise have been lost to him; and if so, the Author will
not be without excuse for this criticism upon the scope and intention of
his own work. For it is not only the privilege of an artist, but it is
also sometimes his duty to the principles of Art, to place the spectator
in that point of view wherein the light best falls upon the canvas. "Do
not place yourself there," says the painter; "to judge of my composition
you must stand where I place you."


CONTENTS.



  Book I.


  CHAPTER I.
  Of the Hero's Birth and Parentage.--Nothing can differ more from the
   End of Things than their Beginning

  CHAPTER II.
  A Family Consultation.--A Priest, and an Era in Life

  CHAPTER III.
  A Change in Conduct and in Character: our evil Passions will some-
   times produce good Effects; and on the contrary, an Alteration for
   the better in Manners will, not unfrequently, have amongst its
   Causes a little Corruption of Mind; for the Feelings are so blended
   that, in suppressing those disagreeable to others, we often suppress
   those which are amiable in themselves

  CHAPTER IV.
  A Contest of Art and a League of Friendship.--Two Characters in
   mutual Ignorance of each other, and the Reader no wiser than
   either of them

  CHAPTER V.
  Rural Hospitality.--An extraordinary Guest.--A Fine Gentleman is
   not necessarily a Fool

  CHAPTER VI.
  A Dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer

  CHAPTER VII.
  A Change of Prospects.--A new Insight into the Character of the Hero.
  --A Conference between two Brothers

  CHAPTER VIII.
  First Love

  CHAPTER IX.
  A Discovery and a Departure

  CHAPTER X.
  A very short Chapter,--containing a Valet

  CHAPTER XI.
  The Hero acquits himself honourably as a Coxcomb.--A Fine Lady of
   the Eighteenth Century, and a fashionable Dialogue; the Substance
   of fashionable Dialogue being in all Centuries the same

  CHAPTER XII.
  The Abbe's Return.--A Sword, and a Soliloquy

  CHAPTER XIII.
  A mysterious Letter.-A Duel.--The Departure of one of the Family

  CHAPTER XIV.
  Being a Chapter of Trifles

  CHAPTER XV.
  The Mother and Son.--Virtue should be the Sovereign of the Feelings,
   not their Destroyer



  Book II.


  CHAPTER I.
  The Hero in London.--Pleasure is often the shortest, as it is the
   earliest road to Wisdom, and we may say of the World what Zeal-of-
   the-Land-Busy says of the Pig-Booth, "We escape so much of the
   other Vanities by our early Entering"

  CHAPTER II.
  Gay Scenes and Conversations.--The New Exchange and the Puppet-
   Show.--The Actor, the Sexton, and the Beauty

  CHAPTER III.
  More Lions

  CHAPTER IV.
  An intellectual Adventure

  CHAPTER V.
  The Beau in his Den, and a Philosopher discovered

  CHAPTER VI.
  A universal Genius.--Pericles turned Barber.--Names of Beauties in
   171-.--The Toasts of the Kit-Cat Club

  CHAPTER VII.
  A Dialogue of Sentiment succeeded by the Sketch of a Character, in
   whose Eyes Sentiment was to Wise Men what Religion is to Fools;
   namely, a Subject of Ridicule

  CHAPTER VIII.
  Lightly won, lightly lost.--A Dialogue of equal Instruction and
   Amusement.--A Visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller

  CHAPTER IX.
  A Development of Character, and a long Letter; a Chapter, on the
   whole, more important than it seems

  CHAPTER X.
  Being a short Chapter, containing a most important Event

  CHAPTER XI.
  Containing more than any other Chapter in the Second Book of this
  History



  Book III.


  CHAPTER I.
  Wherein the History makes great Progress and is marked by one
   important Event in Human Life

  CHAPTER II.
  Love; Parting; a Death-Bed.--After all human Nature is a beautiful
   Fabric; and even its Imperfections are not odious to him who has
   studied the Science of its Architecture, and formed a reverent
   Estimate of its Creator

  CHAPTER III.
  A great Change of Prospects

  CHAPTER IV.
  An Episode.--The Son of the Greatest Man who (one only excepted)
   _ever rose to a Throne_, but by no means of the Greatest Man (save
   one) _who ever existed_

  CHAPTER V.
  In which the Hero shows Decision on more Points than one.--More of
   Isora's Character is developed

  CHAPTER VI.
  An Unexpected Meeting.--Conjecture and Anticipation

  CHAPTER VII.
  The Events of a Single Night.--Moments make the Hues in which
   Years are 



  Book IV.


  CHAPTER I.
  A Re-entrance into Life through the Ebon Gate, Affliction

  CHAPTER II.
  Ambitious Projects

  CHAPTER III.

  The real Actors Spectators to the false ones

  CHAPTER IV.
  Paris.--A Female Politician, and an Ecclesiastical One.--Sundry other
   Matters

  CHAPTER V.
  A Meeting of Wits.--Conversation gone out to Supper in her Dress of
   Velvet and Jewels

  CHAPTER VI.
  A Court, Courtiers, and a King

  CHAPTER VII.
  Reflections.--A Soiree.--The Appearance of one important in the
   History.--A Conversation with Madame de Balzac highly satisfactory
   and cheering.--A Rencontre with a curious old Soldier.--
   The Extinction of a once great Luminary

  CHAPTER VIII.
  In which there is Reason to fear that Princes are not invariably free
   from Human Peccadilloes

  CHAPTER IX.
  A Prince, an Audience, and a Secret Embassy

  CHAPTER X.
  Royal Exertions for the Good of the People

  CHAPTER XI.
  An Interview



  Book V.


  CHAPTER I.
  A Portrait

  CHAPTER II.
  The Entrance into Petersburg.--A Rencontre with an inquisitive and
   mysterious Stranger.--Nothing like Travel

  CHAPTER III.
  The Czar.--The Czarina.--A Feast at a Russian Nobleman's

  CHAPTER IV.
  Conversations with the Czar.--If Cromwell was the greatest Man
   (Caesar excepted) who ever _rose_ to the Supreme Power, Peter was
   the greatest Man ever _born_ to it

  CHAPTER V.
  Return to Paris.--Interview with Bolingbroke.--A gallant Adventure.
  --Affair with Dubois.--Public Life is a Drama, in which private
   Vices generally play the Part of the Scene-shifters

  CHAPTER VI.
  A long Interval of Years.--A Change of Mind and its Causes



  Book VI.


  CHAPTER I.
  The Retreat

  CHAPTER II.
  The Victory

  CHAPTER III.
  The Hermit of the Well

  CHAPTER IV.
  The Solution of many Mysteries.--A dark View of the Life and Nature
   of Man

  CHAPTER V.
  In which the History makes a great Stride towards the final Catastrophe.
  --The Return to England, and the Visit to a Devotee

  CHAPTER VI.
  The Retreat of a celebrated Man, and a Visit to a great Poet

  CHAPTER VII.
  The Plot approaches its _Denouement_

  CHAPTER VIII.
  The Catastrophe



  CONCLUSION




DEVEREUX.




BOOK I.



CHAPTER I.

OF THE HERO'S BIRTH AND PARENTAGE.--NOTHING CAN DIFFER MORE FROM THE END
OF THINGS THAN THEIR BEGINNING.

MY grandfather, Sir Arthur Devereux (peace be with his ashes!) was a
noble old knight and cavalier, possessed of a property sufficiently
large to have maintained in full dignity half a dozen peers,--such as
peers have been since the days of the first James. Nevertheless, my
grandfather loved the equestrian order better than the patrician