Part Two

Being Dizzy, 1837–1859

I

Three weeks after entering parliament Disraeli delivered his maiden speech. For one who had long dreamed of dominating men by the brilliance of his oratory, this was bound to be a watershed event. Instead, it turned into a humiliation. During the summer he had read up about Ireland and chose a debate over the contested election of several Irish MPs as the battlefield on which to win his spurs. It was an ill-judged cause. The Irish members were notoriously unruly, while Disraeli was infamous for having traduced their leader, O’Connell. Hardly had he commenced his elaborate oration before the Irishmen in the chamber began to barrack him and bray. He struggled on but eventually gave up with a final splutter of defiance: “I sit down now, but the time will come when you will hear me.”1

In fact, his debut was not as calamitous as he feared. Peel and Lord Chandos both cheered his effort. A few days later at the Athenaeum the veteran Irish MP Richard Sheil took him aside and offered solid advice about how to address the House. Disraeli was an adept pupil, and his next speech was a success. He chose a subject, copyright, on which he had a great deal of expertise and avoided florid expressions. Although he spoke only four times during the session, each performance went well and fortified his confidence as well as his reputation.2

Parliamentary politics in Britain from the late 1830s to the late 1840s were dominated by social unrest and demands for constitutional reform. Hectic industrialisation and unregulated urban growth led to grim working and living conditions for much of the population. To them the New Poor Law of 1834—which offered relief to the unemployed and indigent on only the harshest of terms—exposed the class bias of parliament and hence the importance of widening the electorate beyond that created by the Reform Act (1832). The Chartist movement sought to enfranchise workingmen and make parliament more responsive to the entire population. The Charter, containing their demands, was launched on a wave of mass meetings in 1838 and caused alarm amongst the propertied classes, who perceived it as a harbinger of social revolution. The “hungry forties” saw mass support build for the repeal of the Corn Law that was passed at the close of the Napoleonic wars to protect the interests of farmers and landowners by preventing the importation of grain at a lower price than home produce. A coalition of manufacturers, middle-class reformers, and working-class radicals campaigned for repeal in the name of cheap bread. Meanwhile, Ireland was a constant source of turbulence. Whereas the Tories were united in defence of the landed interest, the parliamentary status quo, and the Protestant hegemony in Ireland, the other side of the political spectrum was increasingly fractured. The Whigs had championed reform in the 1830s, but Liberals and Radicals emerged from their ranks to demand more far-reaching measures. The presence of giant personalities like Wellington and Palmerston, men with their own personal following, rendered the political scene even more fluid. But however eccentric Disraeli’s approach to politics and however unusual the panaceas he offered to the problems of the day, he “fitted squarely into a mid–nineteenth century British political order that was engaged on a quest for national leadership in response to radicalism, uncertainty and materialism.”3

When a Chartist delegation presented the House of Commons with a monster petition demanding universal male suffrage, annual parliaments, and a secret ballot Disraeli made it his business to hear them out and address their cause even though Chartism exuded a whiff of revolution. This was hardly expected of a Tory unless, that is, you understood Disraeli’s singular analysis of recent history. He saw the Charter as further proof that the Reform Act of 1832 had been driven through by the Whigs in the narrow interest of the middle classes. He explained to the House that while he disapproved of the methods adopted by the Chartists, he understood their ire. Because Whig-inspired electoral reform had put a sectional interest in control of the legislature, working people had become the victims of class legislation. This was a theme he had opened up in Vindication of the English Constitution, but now he added the misery of the working population to the charge sheet against the Whigs.⁴

Disraeli maintained his stance even after Chartist demonstrations led to violence. He spoke against the expansion of the police force to cope with popular unrest and condemned harsh sentences on Chartists convicted of rioting. Later he wrote to Charles Attwood, a Chartist leader, telling him that he favoured a union between the Conservatives and the “Radical masses” to preserve the empire. “Their interests are identical,” he asserted, “united they form the nation; and their division has only permitted a miserable minority, under the specious name of the People, to assail all rights of property and person.” He told Attwood that he had always advocated an inclusive “national party,” a movement that would embody the “national character” at a time when “a domestic oligarchy, under the guise of liberalism, is denationalizing England.”5

Disraeli’s panacea for class conflict merits closer examination. He employed rhetoric to paper over real conflicts of interest in the economy and society. His invective against liberalism, his scorn for modern industrial production and its concomitant urban environment, his adulation of the national character, and his appeal for cross-class unity to save the empire eerily prefigure the mainly right-wing populist politics that emerged in the late nineteenth century.⁶

Meanwhile, Disraeli’s search for the respectability and financial succour afforded by a good marriage seemed to be nearing a successful conclusion. In March 1838 his constituency partner Wyndham Lewis died suddenly, and within a very short time Disraeli went from consoling his widow to courting her. Mary Anne Lewis held many attractions. They had known each other for some time, and he had already registered that she was pretty as well as amusing. She was twelve years his senior (although at first he thought she was younger) and childless, so he would have her undivided attention. Lewis had left her a fine house at 1 Grosvenor Gate (now 93 Park Lane) and a sizeable annual income. Even though she had little formal education and had grown up in modest circumstances (her father was a naval officer who died at sea), she was a proven hostess. By taking on her late husband’s constituency partner she also took on the outstanding debts he had incurred in winning it, while her popularity with the locals would be a continuing asset.⁷

Despite underestimating her age and overestimating her fortune Disraeli embarked on courtship with his customary vigour. In September he was so sure she was in the bag that he told Pyne he would be wed by the end of the year, thus unlocking money his father had promised to him upon starting married life.8

To Disraeli’s increasing irritation, though, Mary Anne was not so precipitate. She believed it was important to observe a full year of mourning before she could remarry and tried to slow him down. Disraeli reacted sharply. He told her that his reputation would suffer if he was perceived as her paramour, which was inevitable given the “indefinite and uncertain nature of our connection.” In early February 1839 he sent her a letter saying he had decided to break off their relationship and followed it up with another that was extraordinary for its candour. Disraeli first apologised for bullying her but explained that he couldn’t bear the thought that his friends were still expecting an announcement. If they continued their affair informally it “could only render you disreputable; me it would render infamous.” She had to choose. Then, in a highly risky attempt to persuade her which choice to make, he confessed that while initially he had not been attracted to her for romantic reasons he had subsequently fallen in love. He added, as if this were evidence of his good faith, that he had since discovered her fortune was less than he anticipated and that she had only a life interest in 1 Grosvenor Gate. “To eat and sleep in that house, and nominally to call it mine; these could be only objects for a penniless adventurer.” Even though he had recently passed on to her a substantial bill for settling the cost of litigation connected with the constituency, he declared that “as far as worldly interests are concerned, your alliance could not benefit me.” He was no gold digger, he averred, and could get by on his own. Ending on a sour note, he told Mary Anne that his friends had warned him she was a flirt.⁹

Surprisingly, perhaps, his letter had the desired effect. Mary Anne implored him to come to her. Their engagement was announced a few weeks later, and they were married at St George’s Church, Hanover Square, on 28 August 1839. Mary Anne’s cousin gave away the bride; the best man was Lord Lyndhurst. No one from Disraeli’s family attended, although he took care to inform friends and relatives. He also kept Pyne up to date on his marital progress, and the nuptial agreement took account of his indebtedness—up to a point. Mary Anne’s most recent biographer, Daisy Hay, has shown that Disraeli persistently misled his wife and lied to her about his chaotic finances. More than once his “secrecy and double-dealing” threated to ruin her, too.10

After a few days in Tonbridge Wells, the couple set off on their honeymoon. They travelled to Baden Baden, Munich, and Paris, where they stayed for several weeks. It was a very happy time for Disraeli and raised the curtain on a long and ultimately satisfying marriage. He may have commenced his courtship cynically, but he developed real affection for Mary Anne and came to rely on her for a domestic haven. She proved her worth by managing their household, hosting political dinners, and harnessing her popularity with voters to his election campaigns.¹¹

Mary Anne also provided a reflecting mirror of his attitude towards Jews and Judaism. Disraeli was acutely “Jew-conscious” and could not resist identifying and labelling Jews whom he encountered, often employing crude stereotypes. When he met the new wife of Lord Lyndhurst, the daughter of Lewis Goldsmith, he commented to Sarah D’Israeli, “Without being absolutely pretty, her appearance is highly interesting. . . . She is very little, but her appearance is elegant and delicate. She is not at all national in the vulgar sense, her features being very small.” Soon after returning from their own honeymoon, the couple attended a dinner at the home of Henrietta Montefiore (née Rothschild), with whom Mary Anne was independently friendly. The evening was intended to introduce friends and relatives to Anthony de Rothschild, who was engaged to marry Charlotte Montefiore, Hannah’s daughter. Disraeli recalled to his sister that “there were Rothschilds, Montefiores, Alberts, Disraelis—not a Xtian [sic] name, but Mary Anne bearing it like a philosopher.” This comment says a lot more about him than her. In fact, Mary Anne had a long, affectionate relationship with Henrietta Montefiore, Charlotte de Rothschild, and her daughter Evelina. She actually seems to have felt rather more at ease in the company of Jews than her husband. According to one biographer, Molly Hardwick, she even considered herself Jewish by marriage. Disraeli’s half-joking imputation that Jews would discomfort his Christian wife instead exposed his jaundiced view of the people whose origins he really did share.12

Possession of a handsome residence and a wife to act as hostess enabled Disraeli to further his political ambitions through entertaining. Conversely, in March 1840 Peel invited Disraeli to dine with him and other selected Tory MPs who comprised a virtual shadow cabinet. When the wilting Whig ministry called a general election for June, Disraeli’s prospects looked bright.¹³

There was one shadow over his career: debt. Disputes over his election expenses at Maidstone compelled him to abandon that constituency for Shrewsbury. Regrettably, his opponents there were well informed about his money troubles. They plastered the town with posters advertising judgements against Disraeli at the Queen’s Bench, the court of Common Pleas, and the Court of Exchequer totalling no less than £22,000. It was alleged that he had taken on these liabilities knowing he had no means of meeting them, bringing ruin to “unhappy Tailors, Hosiers, Upholsterers, Jew Money Lenders (for this Child of Israel was not satisfied with merely spoiling the Egyptians), Spunging Housekeepers, and, in short[,] persons of every denomination who were foolish enough to trust him.”¹⁴

Disraeli quickly published a refutation, asserting that the majority of the allegations were false. Then he tried to turn the indictment to his advantage by arguing that, in any case, property and wealth should not matter in an election contest; virtue was the only thing that counted. The voters may or may not have believed this flimflam, but it was a solid Tory seat, one well populated by farmers who regarded the Tory Party as a bastion defending the Corn Laws. Disraeli left no doubt of his commitment in that quarter. He was returned on 30 June 1841, having been out of parliament for a mere five days.15

The truth was that his finances had been only marginally improved by his marriage. Mary Anne responded heroically. She spent £13,000 on his election expenses and did all she could to help him service the debts she knew about. She cut down on household expenditure at Grosvenor Gate and routinely decamped with Disraeli to Bradenham or France to save money. By 1842 she was forced to guarantee her husband’s loans, and, finally, the contents of her house were put up as security. Mary Anne was exposed more than once to a “ruffian” beating at the door, threatening legal proceedings and public exposure of her husband. After one creditor went bankrupt Disraeli’s name was kept out of The Times thanks only to the intervention of the proprietor, John Walter, who was a friend. The situation was so desperate that in July 1845 Disraeli contemplated selling the copyright of all his works for an advance of £5,000 from his publisher.¹⁶

The endless juggling of obligations was exhausting Disraeli and alarming Mary Anne. His indebtedness magnified the danger of losing an election beyond a mere political setback since defeat would have landed him in prison. In April 1846 Disraeli realised he could no longer cope on his own and sought the services of a private secretary. He was recommended to approach Philip Rose, a wealthy solicitor. It was a good move. Within a short time Rose had a grip on Disraeli’s financial affairs and eventually displayed an equal genius for ordering the affairs of the Conservative Party.17

II

In August 1841, following the general election that returned 367 Tories to 291 Whigs, Peel finally got his chance to form a stable Conservative government. Disraeli’s hopes of office soared. His patron Lord Lyndhurst was made lord chancellor and led his protégé to understand that he would put in a good word for him with Peel. But days passed and no news arrived at Grosvenor Gate from Downing Street. Once he was sure he would not be offered a post, Disraeli wrote a peevish letter to the prime minister that displayed the worst side of his ambition.¹⁸ He complained that he had fought four contests for the party since 1834, expended “great sums,” and used his intellectual talents to promote party policy, all without the backing of wealth or family. He then homed in on what he felt was the one thing that worked decisively in his favour: “I have had to struggle against a storm of political hate and malice which few men ever experienced, from the moment, at the instigation of a member of your cabinet, I enrolled myself under your banner, and I have only been sustained under these trials by the conviction that the day would come when the foremost man of the country would publickly [sic] testify that he had some respect for my ability and my character.” If Peel did not show what Disraeli believed to be his qualities of “justice” and “magnanimity,” the consequence would be “an intolerable humiliation.”¹⁹

This plea was much more revealing than Disraeli perhaps intended. It begged the question of why he had encountered such hostility. Was it because he was of Jewish origin? Or because he was a political bruiser who once seemed able to dish out punishment but was now less keen to take it? It made him look like a foot soldier in the party who was manipulated by a senior member and heavily motivated by the lure of place. The impact of failure was couched not in political terms but personal ones—as if Peel should care that his feelings were hurt by being overlooked. Mary Anne sent a similar importuning letter to 10 Downing Street.20

Peel’s reply squashed the notion that anyone in his cabinet had authority to promise offices. (Which was not quite what Disraeli had actually said.) He affirmed that had it been possible he would have taken up Disraeli’s “offer of service” and was keenly aware of how deserving a case his was. But he was not the only member with a strong claim whom he had been forced to disappoint. It was impossible to appoint many whom he would be “proud to have, and whose qualifications and pretensions for office I do not contest.”²¹

Disraeli was not satisfied by Peel’s explanation and began to nurse a grudge. He had never much liked or respected the Conservative leader anyway. In January 1837 he cavilled to Sarah about a speech Peel had made, observing that “he cannot soar, and his attempts to be imaginative and sentimental must be offensive to every man of taste and refined feeling.” When Peel borrowed ideas and phrases from Vindication, Disraeli saw it as confirmation of the leader’s inability to think for himself.²²

Disraeli had little alternative but to settle into the life of a government backbencher and try to make an impression through intervention in debates. He now had nothing to lose from pursuing an independent course and, when he fancied, attacking the government. By the spring of 1842 he was becoming a magnet for Tory dissidents worried by Peel’s increasing deviation from Tory orthodoxy. He boasted to Mary Anne that “I already find myself with[ou]t effort the leader of a party—chiefly of the youth & new members.”²³

George Smythe, Lord John Manners, and Alexander Cochrane Baillie comprised the core of this tiny faction. They all came from privileged backgrounds and had known each other at Eton and Cambridge before entering parliament on the Tory wave of June 1841. They shared a distaste for industrial capitalism, utilitarian philosophy and policy, and the middle classes associated with both. They were romantic, High Church, and so monarchist that they affected Jacobite sympathies, seeing Charles I as a martyr king. They despised Peel because he was none of these, came from a middle-class background, and was struggling to reorient the Tory Party away from representing chiefly the agricultural and landed interest (which confined its support to the shires) towards embracing the propertied urban classes who the prime minister believed should be its natural supporters.24

Smythe, Manners, and Baillie met with Disraeli while he was in Paris with Mary Anne, between October 1842 and January 1843. They agreed to sit together when the House of Commons resumed business, to discuss policy, and, where they agreed, to vote in concert. Disraeli, now surrounded by his own little claque, stepped up his attacks on Peel. With each speech he became more needling and more personal. Following one assault on the government, Sir James Graham, a Tory Party manager, wrote to John Croker, “I consider him unprincipled and disappointed, and in despair he has tried the effect of bullying. . . . Disraeli alone is mischievous; and with him I have no desire to keep terms. It would be better for the party if he were driven into the ranks of our enemies.”²⁵

In September 1843 Disraeli spent several weeks at the home of Henry Hope at Deepdene, near Dorking in Surrey, working on a new novel. From there he went to Manchester to address a large audience of artisans and workers at the Free Trade Hall on the subject of literature. After a visit to Liverpool, he returned to Bradenham, where he completed his first fiction work in seven years, drawing on his travels and his parliamentary experience to paint a picture of politics and society in modern England as the background to a manifesto for a new Tory politics.26

When parliament resumed he found he was effectively excluded from the Conservative Party. Piqued, he wrote to Peel inquiring why he was being cold-shouldered and accused the Tory leader of “want of courtesy in debate which I have had the frequent mortification of experiencing from you since your accession to power.” This was rather disingenuous given his dissent from the party line and attacks on the prime minister. Peel replied courteously enough, expressing “an honest doubt” whether the rebellious backbencher actually wanted to be included. He assured Disraeli that he bore him no ill-feeling and intended no slight. Disraeli responded warmly, but within a few weeks he was again hacking away at Peel’s standing with the Tory rank and file.²⁷

In May 1844 his novel Coningsby, or, the New Generation appeared. It had a conventional plot and amusing characters, but it was also a historical tract and a political progamme. Running through the narrative were powerful statements on key concerns of the day. Within the story, and not really connecting with any other part, was an unprecedented assertion of Jewish superiority. No previous novel had been fashioned to deliver a manifesto into one section of the political nation and a bombshell into the ranks of the other. The effect was electrifying but also perplexing.

Disraeli explained that the novel was intended “to elevate the tone of public life, ascertain the true character of political parties, and induce us for the future more carefully to distinguish between facts and phrases, realities and phantoms.” Following several puzzled reviews, he added a more elaborate explanation to the fifth edition in 1849. It was conceived “to vindicate the just claims of the Tory Party to be the popular political confederation of the country.” The target readers were those young Englishmen buoyed up by the Conservative victory in 1841 but left asking “what after all, they had conquered to preserve.” Clearly, though, some were bemused by the segments on Jews and Judaism. So he added that he regarded the Church as “the most powerful agent in the previous development of England, and the most efficient means of the renovation of the national spirit.” Having placed organised Christianity centre stage (which is not obvious in the novel itself), he felt he needed to account for its origins. The Church was “a sacred corporation for the promulgation and maintenance in Europe of certain Asian principles, which, although local in their birth, are of divine origins, and of universal application.” By the circumlocution “certain Asian principles” he meant Judaism. Hence it was appropriate to introduce Jews and to give an account of modern Jewish history.28

Coningsby has three loosely connected strands: English political history, the hero’s quest for a cause and a solution to the problems of society, and the place of Jews and Judaism in civilization. Over the course of the novel Disraeli embroiders the political history unveiled in his Vindication with a sort of social history. He argues that while the Napoleonic wars had generated a vast growth of industry and commerce “there was no proportionate advance in our moral civilisation.” A great part of the populace was now excluded from politics and prosperity by an interlocking system that had “nothing in common with the ancient character of our political settlement, or the manners and customs of the English people.” Having recounted the political turbulence of the period 1815–32, he narrates Peel’s rise and accuses him of inconsistency, mocking his efforts to modernise the Tory Party by putting its reactionary past behind it. Peel had led the Tories to an election victory, but to what end? If the crown, the Church, and the aristocracy were all compromised, what was there left to conserve?²⁹

Harry Coningsby is the vehicle for Disraeli to dramatize these questions. Like all Disraeli’s male heroes, he is a handsome, brilliant youth of noble lineage filled with an inchoate longing to make his mark on the world. In the course of seeking an outlet for his ambition he engages with a succession of other characters who are as one-dimensional as the dogmas they enunciate. Having been exposed to different points of view and seen poverty as well as varieties of welfare in both the country and the town, Coningsby takes stock. He cannot accept either the laissez-faire of “Manchester liberalism” or the stubborn agrarianism of the Tory Party. He has no faith in mass democracy because the masses lack education, but equally he thinks it is wrong to deny them political rights. He feels condemned to choose between Conservatism and Liberalism, between “Political infidelity and a Destructive creed.” Parliament holds no attractions: in his eyes the House of Commons is dominated by a selfish faction of society and is actually less representative of public opinion than the press. The only solution that occurs to him is to revive the power of the monarch: only the crown stands above sects, classes, and factions.30

At the end of the novel Harry marries the daughter of an enlightened factory owner, a symbolic union between the old landed aristocracy and the new industrial tycoons. He enters parliament determined to improve the lot of the people, although quite what his programme may be Disraeli never tells us. The author can reconcile opposing social and economic interests on the pages of a novel but cannot produce a concrete policy that would have the same effect in the real world.³¹

In the course of his perambulations Coningsby meets a stranger named Sidonia, who quickly identifies himself as a Jew. Sidonia is one of Disraeli’s most enduring creations, a landmark in Jewish literary history, and a major trope in representations of the Jews. While it is often assumed that Sidonia was modelled on Lionel de Rothschild, whom Disraeli had recently met, he is more a Hebraised version of earlier wisdom figures such as Beckendorff in the second volume of Vivian Grey or Contarini’s father. The portrayal of Sidonia may also owe something to Disraeli’s self-perception as mentor to Young England. Since Disraeli constructs him as a representative Jewish figure and since the views imputed to him are by extension those of Jewry as a whole, his characterisation and opinions require careful examination.32

Sidonia was descended from an ancient and noble Jewish family from Aragon which converted superficially to Christianity and served the Spanish state, the Church, and even the Inquisition. Eventually his father opted for emigration to England, where he could resume the open practice of Judaism. He made a fortune and set up his brothers in business in every European capital. Having travelled widely and immersed himself in culture, Sidonia inherited this financial empire: “He was lord and master of the money-markets of the world, and of course virtually lord and master of everything else.” Yet for all his wisdom and knowledge he was inscrutable and remote. The only criticism Harry can make of Sidonia is his lack of feeling for people, which he attributes to his racial predisposition.³³

Sidonia offers the Englishman an entirely fresh way of looking at politics. He was a man without passions or prejudices who saw everything in the cold light of reason. But he was not a desiccated rationalist: he believed in the power of imagination and individual genius. Sidonia has contempt for representative democracy: peoples and nations need inspired leadership. In any case, politics for him is merely a means to an end. At a time of social disintegration due to class conflict and religious fanaticism there is a grave danger that democracy will act as a transmitter for these destructive forces. Hence the task of the statesman is to grasp the imagination of the masses, not to engage in utilitarian calculations about how this or that measure may satisfy the material interests of a majority: “Man is only truly great when he acts from the passions; never irresistible but when he appeals to the imagination.” In an injunction that prefigures the vitalist philosophy that underpinned early twentieth-century authoritarianism, Sidonia pronounces, “Man is made to adore and to obey.” The masses need to be commanded, given something to worship. He advises Coningsby that “the tendency of advanced civilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy.”34

This reactionary political philosophy is in part legitimated by a theory of race grounded in a history of the Jews. Sidonia explains to Coningsby that the Jews are one of five races that populate the world: Caucasian, Mongolian, Malayan, American, and Ethiopian. The Arabs, amongst whom Disraeli included the Jews, stand at the apex of the Caucasian race, followed by Saxons and Greeks. The Jews are superior because they have remained pure. Even the debased lower order of Jews occupied in “sordid pursuits” have retained their intellectual acuity. They are proof that “organisation would outlive persecution.”³⁵

The exact working of this racial genealogy is unclear. Disraeli conflates Caucasians, Arabs, Jews, “Orientals,” and the “East.” According to his typology, Arabs and Saxons have a great deal in common. Just like his blurring of Judaism and Christianity, this can work in discourse but has no relationship to reality. Even if Hebrews and Greeks were of the same racial group (itself unscientific nonsense), their distinctive linguistic, historical, and cultural characteristics that had developed over a millennium would make any alleged commonality of race a pointless assertion. Disraeli reorganised the world in words, but his fictive reconstructions were as dangerous as they were unreal.

Having asserted the resilience of the Hebrew race, Sidonia inserts them into his analysis of political affairs. “The secret history of the world was his pastime,” and he had consulted with all the other “outcasts of the world” to divine the true state of things. Only he and a few cognoscenti knew the “subterranean agencies” that in fact controlled politics and “exercise so great an influence on public events.” He tells Harry that “the Jewish mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs of Europe.” Jews animate Russian diplomacy, stand behind the revolutionary movements in Germany, and are to be found at the highest levels of government in Spain and France. “The world,” he intones, “is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.” Jews predominate in culture as well as politics: Jewish thinkers have shaped philosophy and natural science. Maimonides and Spinoza are the fount of all modern knowledge. Sidonia also lists musicians who he alleges are Jewish, though only Giacomo Mayerbeer and Felix Mendelssohn would survive objective scrutiny. Like his list of “Jewish” politicians, the detail was as inaccurate as the notion was fantastic.36

Despite their achievements, Jews face prejudice and discrimination. Sidonia notes sardonically that he can save the Treasury, but he cannot be a full citizen. This is even more absurd in his eyes because the Jews are naturally conservative. Jews are as “a race essentially monarchical” and an asset to any country in which they dwell. Instead, rejection drives them into the ranks of dissent. This in turn arouses resentment and persecution, but this is pointless: “You cannot destroy a pure race of the Caucasian origin. It is a physiological fact.”³⁷

Disraeli may have intended Sidonia’s observations about the Jews to buttress their claims to civic equality, but the effect was paradoxical. Notwithstanding his assurance that Jews were natural Tories he had created a scary Jewish phantasm, an all-powerful, indestructible racial entity operating invisibly in every corner of the world. He was not the first to ascribe exaggerated wealth and power to the Jews, but no one had so far conjured up the image of the Jews as a potent global force. Disraeli had not only created a bond between Jews that existed only in his imagination, but by rooting it in biological descent had rendered them fundamentally alien and unassimilable.38

This aspect of Coningsby puzzled Jews and non-Jews alike. William Makepeace Thackeray in The Times dubbed it “superb coxcombry,” causing Disraeli “pain and astonishment.” Lord Ponsonby was so intrigued that he asked Lionel de Rothschild to arrange for him to meet the author. Richard Monckton Milnes, a poetry-writing Conservative MP, took exception to the identification of some personalities as Jews, notably the German writer and politician Ludwig von Arnim, but did not challenge the premise. His queries provoked Disraeli to a characteristically nebulous restatement of his racial theory: he insisted that von Arnim was Jewish because “his countenance confirms the rumour.” Disraeli’s reaction to Milnes’s curiosity as to how the Jews arrived in Germany reveals both his blithe disregard for facts and his overblown racial thinking: “How the race ever got to Sarmatia and thereabouts, I could never ascertain. The Germans are now the most intelligent of the tribes; but they don’t rank high in blood. They are not Sephardim; like the Hebrews of Spain and Portugal; our friends the Sidonias and the Villareals.” More harmful than bad reviews or puzzled inquiries, Coningsby triggered a host of parodies that circulated anti-Jewish tropes more widely. Disraeli may have intended to create a more favourable atmosphere for Jewish emancipation, but he ended up polluting it.³⁹

Not that it was the Judaic gallimaufry that made Coningsby a political sensation. Conservatives were electrified by its stirring idealism on the one hand and its caustic treatment of Peel’s leadership on the other. Around two hundred Tory MPs assembled in the Carlton Club a few weeks after its publication to hear Disraeli declaim on the meaning of Conservatism. He defied the party line by supporting an amendment to modify the Poor Law and backed the Ten Hour Bill to reduce the length of the working day in factories. In the summer he embarked on a tour of northern England to address meetings and research his next novel. He was building a reputation as a friend of the workingman and found himself regaling hundreds of artisans and clerks in Manchester with his panaceas to end class conflict. Disraeli had raised his standard; the rupture with Peel had turned into open revolt.40

III

Disraeli met Peel for the last time in cordial circumstances in January 1845, when both attended a party given for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert by the Duke of Buckingham at Stowe. Just a few weeks later he delighted the agrarian interest by mocking Peel’s increasingly wobbly stand on protectionism, declaring, “A Conservative government is an organised hypocrisy.” To discontented Tory backbenchers who feared that Peel was backsliding on every issue important to them, including defence of the Anglican Church, Disraeli was right to denounce the government as a tyranny. Unfortunately, not all the members of Young England could ignore Disraeli’s inconsistency. The fact that he placed himself in the ranks of the ultra-Protestant anti-Catholics was too much for some, and the faction began to splinter.⁴¹

In the autumn Disraeli and Mary Anne took a house at Cassel in the Flanders countryside. While there he heard that Peel had committed the ultimate act of treachery to the Tory Party. In response to the potato blight and famine in Ireland, he resolved that it was necessary to suspend the Corn Law for at least a trial period of several years. However, Peel could not carry his own cabinet and was obliged to resign. When this news reached Disraeli he was euphoric. He wrote to Lord Palmerston that “the great object of my political life is now achieved.” His relish was short-lived: by the time he returned to London in January 1846 Peel was back in office. Lord John Russell had tried to assemble a Whig administration but gave up after a few days. Peel resumed the premiership with the mission of repealing the Corn Law, although he could do so only with Whig support. He was effectively carrying through their programme, a turnabout that offered Disraeli an open goal.42

When Peel introduced the legislation for repeal, his backbenchers were momentarily stunned by his audacity. Only Disraeli appeared ready to challenge their leader, tearing into Peel’s opening oration. He was unexpectedly joined by Lord George Bentinck, the son of the immensely wealthy Duke of Portland, who normally preferred the racetrack to the debating chamber. The taciturn Bentinck was so outraged by Peel’s volte-face that he steeled himself to lead the opposition. Within a short time he and Disraeli had formed an unlikely duo and rallied the backbenchers for a last-ditch effort to halt the bill. Despite all of Disraeli’s eloquence and merciless wit, they could not prevail against the combined weight of Peel loyalists and Whigs. After twelve days of bitter argumentation the measure was passed. Over 240 Tories rebelled against their leader. The party was so split it would remain unable to form a stable governing majority for thirty years.⁴³

In a cannonade of speeches Disraeli accused Peel of selling out Conservatism. The Tory backwoodsmen loved this and were reassured by Bentinck’s proximity to him that Disraeli was truly their man despite being so different from them in almost every respect. On 15 May 1846, after an acerbic review of the prime minister’s record, Peel’s famous self-control finally cracked. Why, he asked the House, if he had always been such a wretched party leader, had Disraeli sought office from him in 1841? Instead of letting the slight pass, at the end of the debate Disraeli leapt up and assured the members, “I never directly or indirectly solicited office.” This was a blatant lie. Peel must have been temporarily stunned because he failed to answer immediately and thereby lost the opportunity to administer serious long-term damage to Disraeli’s credibility. Instead, within a month Peel was forced to resign. In a critical vote on a measure to impose order in Ireland, Bentinck and Disraeli led the rump of the Tory Party into the voting lobby with the Whigs and brought him down. It was the culmination of an unprecedented parliamentary vendetta: Disraeli had systematically undermined his leader and in the process shattered his party.44

Thanks partly to his next novel, Sybil, or, the Two Nations, Disraeli emerged from the wreckage with the reputation of a man of principle, even a visionary, who was driven by the highest motives. Sybil drew on his recent encounters with artisans and workers in the north of England. He had also studied the correspondence of a Chartist leader and numerous parliamentary inquiries into the condition of the people. The result was a novel that combined history and social comment with propaganda, loosely held together by a melodramatic plot.

Ostensibly, Sybil tells the story of Charles Egremont, the scion of an old family that owed its fortune to the plunder of the Church, a genealogy that enables Disraeli to repeat his anti-Whig interpretation of English history. No sooner have readers been introduced to the main characters than they are plunged into a dense chapter filled entirely with history. The novel is then wrenched back to Egremont’s pampered youth and his aimless, prodigal existence. After travelling abroad he enters parliament but is rather more active backing racehorses. As in Coningsby, the hero has a number of encounters with men and women who articulate rival visions of society: his reactionary Tory father, Lord Marney, self-taught artisans, Chartists, and paternalist mill owners. Disraeli shocked his readers with highly wrought descriptions of the northern mill towns, the poverty therein, and the exploitation of workers. The plot converges on the calling of the Chartist National Convention and the delivery of the great petition to the House of Commons. Egremont is one of the few MPs to pay it any heed, echoing Disraeli’s own speech in 1839. Yet he does not endorse the cause of democracy. Salvation for the workers will come from above: the aristocracy are “the natural leaders of the People.” In a typical Disraelian ending that reconciles opposing points of view and social conflict, Egremont marries Sybil, the daughter of a workingman. She just happens to be really descended from gentry, which rather subverts the symbolic value of this cross-class union.45

There is little in Sybil concerning Jews, and yet it does have some bearing on Disraeli’s burgeoning preoccupation with Jewish matters. Quite out of the blue Aubrey St Lys, the vicar in an industrial town Egremont visits, delivers an impassioned defence of the Jews, declaring that “the second Testament is avowedly only a supplement. Christianity is completed Judaism or it is nothing. Christianity is incomprehensible without Judaism, as Judaism is incomplete without Christianity.” This is the only segment comparable to Sidonia’s monologues in Coningsby. But there is much more in Sybil about the role of the Church, which suggests that the explanation for the Jewish content of Coningsby Disraeli gave in the 1849 preface was actually a reflection of what he wrote in Sybil in 1845.⁴⁶

The antimodernism and antiurbanism of Sybil is also worth consideration in the light of Disraeli’s Jewishness. Not only does he defy the assumption that Jews were automatically on the left of politics, he was a living refutation of the frequently made assertion that Jews were most comfortable in an urban environment and adept at modernity. Perversely, he harked back to an age in which an intolerant Church dominated society. All across Europe it was natural for Jews to embrace modernity because progress offered them opportunity, mobility, and security. Only someone who did not take Jewish history seriously or felt little connection with the plight of Jews in previous eras could hark back to medievalism in the way Disraeli did.

Meanwhile, politics swept on inexorably. In early July 1846 Lord John Russell formed a Whig government. Lord Henry Stanley stepped forward to reorganise the protectionist rump of the Tory Party, and Bentinck agreed to lead them in the Commons, with Disraeli beside him. During the summer they toured the country together rallying the morale of the agriculturalists. Bentinck also paid a visit to Bradenham, where Disraeli settled down for the rest of the year to write what would become the third in the Young England trilogy.47

Tancred, or, the New Crusade appeared in March 1847. The novel took longer than he expected to complete, and it shows signs of a struggle with character, plot, and theme. Like the others in the trilogy it has a number of strands that interconnect fitfully. It begins as the quest of a young aristocrat, Tancred Montacute, a stereotypical Disraelian protagonist in search of ideals by which to live. Tancred believes he can find inspiration in the Holy Land, where his ancestors once crusaded. Before departing he takes advice from Sidonia, who articulates his belief in Jewish superiority and the centrality of race in human affairs. In Jerusalem Tancred sees evidence that the Hebrew faith is indeed the fons et origo of Christianity. He also meets a young Jewess, Eva, who defends Judaism against the conventional prejudices of the day. Confusingly, through Tancred’s encounter with her half brother Fakredeen the novel develops a third theme: the regeneration of the East. This involves extensive historical discussion of the “Eastern Question” and British foreign policy in 1840–41. The plot becomes extremely convoluted and takes over the book in such a way that none of the themes are ever actually resolved.⁴⁸

Sidonia and Tancred share a disdain for modern ideas of equality and democracy. The Jew regards progress as a sham. Scientific change and social forces do not explain the rise and fall of nations: “It is an affair of race. . . . when a superior race, with a superior idea to Work and Order, advances, its state will be progressive, and we shall, perhaps, follow the example of the desolate countries. All is race; there is no other truth.” At a lavish dinner organised by Sidonia, Tancred explains to his friends that he is going to “a land that has never been blessed by that fatal drollery called representative government.” Echoing Sidonia, he bewails the tyranny of common sense and popular culture.49

After sundry delays and frustrations Tancred finally reaches the Holy City. For the descriptions of Jerusalem, Disraeli recycles material he had previously used. But there is a strong suggestion from within the novel that he refreshed his memory by studying the watercolours of David Roberts, the traveller and orientalist painter. Roberts had explored Palestine in the late 1830s and published a best-selling book of reproductions. Before he leaves England, Tancred meets a noblewoman who sympathises with his mission, Lady Bellamont, and together they scrutinise Roberts’s paintings, many of which represent places Disraeli had not seen during his brief excursion to the Jerusalem fifteen years earlier.⁵⁰

There is very little that is “Jewish” about the Jerusalem through which Tancred moves, notwithstanding his exaggerated appreciation of the Jewish legacy. He gazes on the city from the Mount of Olives, visits the Holy Sepulchre, stays at a convent, enters the Garden of Gethsemane, and is entertained in the home of a prominent Arab merchant. He does not go to a synagogue, and there is no mention of the Western Wall. The real Jewish Jerusalem is invisible. Instead, Disraeli regales the reader with a fantasy of Judaism in which “the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob is now worshipped before every altar in Rome.” In the Holy Sepulchre, Tancred “recognises in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the presence of a Divine redeemer.” The cult of Mary is devoted to a “Hebrew woman.” He scorns the efforts of Europeans to disavow their Hebrew heritage, “to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith.”⁵¹

When Tancred does encounter a Jew the description is ludicrous: “His black turban intimated that he was a Hebrew.” Disraeli describes the festival of Sukkot, as observed in Jerusalem and amongst Jews in the diaspora, but completely misunderstands its origin and meaning. “There is something profoundly interesting,” he writes, “in this devoted observance of oriental customs in the heart of our Saxon and Sclavonian cities; in these descendants of Bedoueens, who conquered Canaan more than three thousand years ago, still celebrating that success which secured their forefathers, for the first time, grapes and wine.” Passing over the bewildering racial genealogy, the festival actually commemorates the opposite of the conquest of Canaan. It recalls the time the Jews spent in the wilderness before they reached the Land of Israel, when they were refugees, not conquerors.52

The confusion deepens when Tancred meets Eva, the daughter of a Jewish banker. In their conversations Eva continually blurs Judaism and Christianity. She calls him “one of those Franks who worships a Jewess” and describes herself as “of the same blood as Mary whom you venerate.” She avers that she finds much with which to agree in a Christian conversionist tract; it is the persecution of Jews that repels her from Christianity. When Tancred tries to justify Christian hostility by referring to the crucifixion, Eva delivers a tirade against the oldest and most potent anti-Jewish calumny: the charge of deicide. First, she points out, Jesus was a Jew. Anyway, why should guilt for the malefaction of Jews at that time be transferred onto subsequent generations? Why not forgive them, as Jesus preached? Eva also points out that at the time of the crucifixion a majority of Jews already lived outside Judea. So why should they be held responsible for the conduct of a minority in Jerusalem? She then turns the “curse” of exile on its head by demonstrating that the dispersion actually benefited the Jews. Finally, she poses the question of what would have happened without the Jews who called for Jesus to be crucified? In that case he would not have suffered for mankind and relieved them of their sins for all eternity.53

As Tancred travels in search of the truth he ruminates on the association between Western thought, Christianity, the East, and the Jews. This produces a miasma in which it is almost impossible to distinguish one thing from another. He muses that God chose “an Arabian tribe” as his “Chosen People,” while his travelling companion, Baroni (one of Sidonia’s agents), remarks, “The Arabs are only Jews upon horseback.” Tancred reflects that at home “Arabian laws regulated his life. . . . The life and property of England are protected by the laws of Sinai.” And yet, he recalled, in England as throughout Europe “they persecute the Jews, and hold up to odium the race to whom they are indebted.”⁵⁴

On Mount Sinai he has a vision in which an “almighty form” counsels him to resist the trend in Europe away from the “Arabian faith” and towards the pernicious doctrine of the “equality of man.” Inspired by these words Tancred joins forces with Fakredeen, a perpetually indebted adventurer who nurtures a grandiose project to carve out an empire in Lebanon and Syria. Tancred infuses this enterprise with his utopian aspirations, telling his sceptical partner that “one should conquer the world not to enthrone a man, but an idea, for ideas exist for ever.” The exact nature of this idea is left unclear. In any case, the rebels are defeated and Tancred is forced to flee into the desert for half a year. When he finally emerges he renews his passion for Eva, and they plan to marry. The narrative stops abruptly with the Duke and Lady Bellamont arriving in Jerusalem for the wedding.⁵⁵

Although it was a bizarre medley of fact and fiction, Tancred was Disraeli’s most “Jewish” book to date—apologetic in some parts and arrogant in others. Yet the assertion of Jewish rights based on Jewish superiority may have been motivated less by national or racial pride than by amour propre. Arguably he was signalling to his Tory colleagues that he would never surrender to their prejudices and, in so doing, asserting his independence from them.56

In book 5 he drew a wonderfully accurate and wickedly funny picture of assimilated Jews who are embarrassed by their religion and heritage. The Mademoiselles Laurella are a couple of Jewish grandes dames on a visit to Jerusalem: “But the Mademoiselles Laurella were ashamed of their race, and not fanatically devoted to their religion.” Therese, out of despair, says insulting things about Jews. Sophonisbe maintains that prejudice can be eradicated by educating non-Jews and improving Jewish behaviour. “Jews would not be so much disliked if they were better known,” she thought, and “all they had to do was to imitate as closely as possible the habit and customs of the nations among whom they chanced to live; and she really did believe that eventually, such was the progressive spirit of the age, a difference in religion would cease to be regarded, and that a respectable Hebrew, particularly if well dressed and well mannered, might be able to pass through society without being discovered, or at least noticed.”⁵⁷

This was a slashing portrayal of delusional assimilation, but it is hard to reconcile with the fact that Disraeli personally wanted nothing more than to appear like an archetypal English country squire. Furthermore, his description of these ladies and other Jews was shot through with prejudice. When he describes poor Jews in Whitechapel, he uses stock types “occupied with the meanest, if not the vilest toil, bargaining for frippery, speculating in usury.” Despite his myth of Jewish superiority he cannot ignore the squalid reality of Jewish life in most European cities (for the first time he mentions the ghetto in Frankfurt), but when he confronts it neither can he avoid replicating the most disparaging motifs.⁵⁸

Tancred is also revealing in that it name-checks dramatic events in recent Jewish history about which Disraeli was silent when they actually unfolded. Eva pleads with Tancred to defend the Jews when he returns to Europe and refers explicitly to the false charges of ritual murder made against Jews in Damascus in 1840, charges which led to a European-wide protest campaign by Jews and international intervention. “You will not let them persecute us, as they did a few years back,” she begs, “because they said we crucified children at the feast of our passover?” Tancred pledges to fight for the Jews, thereby throwing up a painful contrast between the character’s fictive courage and Disraeli’s actual passivity.59

To grasp the significance of this mimetic episode it is necessary to recall the Damascus affair as Disraeli lived through it. In early March 1840 the French press had reported that several Jews in Damascus had been detained in connection with the disappearance of an Italian friar, Father Tommaso. The reports, reprinted in The Times, stated that the unfortunate Jews were tortured and confessed to murdering the friar in order to use his blood for ritual purposes. Syria was at this time under the control of Mehmet Ali and ruled from Cairo. Information later emerged from Egyptian governmental sources to the effect that the Jews would be executed. These dispatches appalled Jews in France and England. Adolph Crémieux, a prominent French Jewish lawyer who was a member of the governing body of French Jews and a liberal political activist, published a rebuttal in the Journal des Débats, rebuking the French consul in Damascus for endorsing such preposterous charges. French Jewish leaders began to consider how to rescue the prisoners. Around the same time, the British consul in Rhodes astonished Jewish opinion in London by pressing charges of ritual murder against Jews on the island, then a British possession. Shortly afterwards, Sir Moses Montefiore, the president of the Board of Deputies of British Jews, received formal pleas for help from the Jews of both Damascus and Rhodes.⁶⁰

The Jewish press spread the news of the ritual murder accusations, while self-confident Jewish political activists leapt into action. Crémieux and the French Rothschilds protested to the French government and launched a press campaign. The Board of Deputies, led by Montefiore and abetted by the London Rothschilds, followed suit. They took out advertisements in The Times, Morning Post, and Morning Chronicle denouncing the atrocity and organized a delegation to the foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston. He quickly issued instruction to the British consul in Alexandria to make an official protest to Mehmet Ali’s government and ordered the British embassy in Constantinople to initiate an inquiry into the affair on Rhodes.61

Delegates of both Jewish communities resolved to send Crémieux and Montefiore to Cairo. Before they left, British Jews arranged a public meeting at Mansion House that drew together representatives of the Evangelical Protestant organizations, Quakers, Radicals, antislavery activists, and prominent politicians such as O’Connell. Crémieux and Montefiore arrived in Egypt to find Mehmet Ali wilting under the combined diplomatic pressure of the British, the Austrians, the Prussians, and the Russians. In August 1840 he commanded the governor of Damascus to free the imprisoned Jews. A few months later Montefiore returned from Constantinople in triumph.⁶²

During the entire campaign, there was not a squeak from Disraeli. He remained silent even though Peel twice raised the matter in the House of Commons. On the second occasion O’Connell argued that the British government’s intervention on behalf of the Syrian Jews would have carried greater conviction if Jews in England were not themselves the victims of discrimination. He added that Peel’s intervention “would have been much more forcible if it had proceeded from a Hebrew gentleman in that House.” There was only one “Hebrew gentleman” whom he could have meant.⁶³

In Tancred, Disraeli certainly writes movingly about the bigotry that Jews suffer and that he had personally experienced. But his response is not to legitimate Judaism in and for itself. According to him, Jews deserve respect and proper treatment because in the person of Jesus they brought forth Christianity: “Through this last and greatest of their princes it was ordained that the inspired Hebrew mind should mould and govern the world. Through Jews God spoke to the Gentiles, and not to the tribes of Israel only. That is the great worldly difference between Jesus and his inspired predecessors. Christianity is Judaism for the multitude; but still it is Judaism.” The paradox of this apologia is that it confirmed the triumphalism of the New Testament. Disraeli’s valorisation of Judaism depends upon Christian supercession.64

Disraeli never took a stand on the issue of general prejudice against Jews, either as a matter of principle or on pragmatic grounds. In March 1839 he watched a portrayal of Fagin in a theatrical adaptation of Oliver Twist without expressing any concern. Then again, why should he be discomfited by such negative stereotypes when he did not scruple about using them himself? He was perennially sniffing out and identifying individuals who he believed were Jewish on the basis of their conformity to his preconceptions of Jewish behaviour and physiognomy, preconceptions that mirrored the common prejudices of the time. When he was informed that the Radical MP George Muntz was the grandson of a German Jew he remarked to Sarah, “Another and an[0the]r still.” After a dinner hosted by his cousin Benjamin Ephraim Lindo he noted that the company was “intensely Stock Exchange.”⁶⁵

Nor did he contribute to the parliamentary debates over measures to relieve Jews of civil disabilities and correct historic wrongs against them. In 1841 a private member introduced a bill to allow Jews to take up municipal office, but it was defeated in the Lords. Three years later the issue came up again when David Salomons, a prominent banker and a member of the Board of Deputies of British Jews, was elected an alderman of the City of London and asked to take the oath of office in a manner acceptable to a professing Jew. When he was refused, he took his case to Peel, who instructed Lord Lyndhurst, the lord chancellor, to devise legislation to remove the barrier. Peel also told Lyndhurst to establish a Royal Commission to investigate discrimination against non-Anglicans in general. The commission eventually recommended legislation to repeal all the laws that penalised Jews for their faith. In July 1845 one act was passed to open municipal offices to Jews and another that formally revoked the anti-Jewish statute of Edward I as well as other bits of discriminatory legislation. Even though Lyndhurst, his former patron, led the way, Disraeli did not say a word. On exactly the sort of matters about which his characters in Tancred expatiated with Jewish pride, the normally eloquent Disraeli was tongue-tied.66

But perhaps the most troubling aspect of Tancred has nothing whatever to do with Jews. It contains the shrillest expressions of Disraeli’s antipathy to democracy and equality. Needless to say, a character in a novel is not necessarily articulating the thoughts of the author. Nevertheless, there is a striking consistency between the monarchism and disdain for representative government expressed in Disraeli’s political writings and the authoritarian impulse manifested here. These were extraordinary sentiments coming from the leader of a great parliamentary party who was about to take his seat on the opposition front bench.⁶⁷

When parliament resumed in January 1847 there was initial confusion about who sat where. In the end the Peelites took their places on the government side. The protectionist Tories occupied the benches immediately opposite those occupied by the ministry and its Whig supporters. Disraeli at last placed himself on the opposition front bench, by the dispatch box. He would address the House from this location, on one side of the chamber or the other, for the next three decades. Most of that time would be spent in opposition. Due to the great fracture over protection, the Conservatives would only be able to form minority governments and hold office for ten months in 1852, sixteen months in 1858–59, and two and a half years in 1866–68.68

In May 1847 Russell dissolved parliament and called a general election. Disraeli had in the meantime decamped from Shrewsbury to the county seat of Buckinghamshire. In March he had commenced negotiations to buy Hughendon Manor, an estate of 750 acres near High Wycombe, which gave him ample qualification to stand as a knight of the shire. More pertinently, landowning qualified him to lead the Tory Party. Although it would take months to clinch the deal, when he addressed the electors of Buckinghamshire it was not as an urban interloper. His pledge to uphold the “territorial constitution of England” was well grounded, even if his promise to defend the “protective system” was more equivocal. Despite having fought repeal of the Corn Laws unto the last ditch, he argued that it was necessary to give free trade a try and not do anything that might injure the working classes of the country. This rather than his origins may explain why, although he was returned unopposed, Disraeli was not a unanimously popular choice; at the traditional dinner to celebrate the election of the Conservative MPs, chaired by Baron Meyer de Rothschild, he was greeted by “very loud cheering, accompanied by hissing and groans.”⁶⁹

If he was to ingratiate himself completely with his constituents and his party he had to shake off his reputation as an importuning, carpetbagging alien. Unfortunately, the Hughendon estate was valued at £35,000, and Disraeli lacked anything like that amount of capital. He was fortunate that Lord George Bentinck and his family saw the dilemma in the same light. Bentinck, partnered by his brothers and with their father’s approval, agreed to lend Disraeli £10,000. Philip Rose supplied a further £25,000, with the estate as security. The contract was signed on 5 June, although the sale was not completed until December.70

IV

The purchase of Hughendon and his relations with Bentinck were messily interwoven with the question of Disraeli’s standing in the Tory Party and his place in the leadership. Put bluntly, a large part of the parliamentary party did not like or trust him. The fact that he was of foreign and Jewish origin may have contributed to this froideur, but there were many reasons for doubting his fidelity to any person, party, or idea. His character assassination of Peel was only the latest. As a consequence of this incurable suspicion the party settled on a clumsy triumvirate consisting of Bentinck and Disraeli in the House of Commons with Lord Stanley presiding overall from the House of Lords. No sooner had they arrived at a workable arrangement than events thrust Disraeli’s Jewishness to the fore and threatened to undo their handiwork.⁷¹

In May, Lionel de Rothschild offered himself as a parliamentary candidate for the Liberal stronghold of the City, alongside Lord John Russell. They were both duly elected with a resounding majority. But when it came to the swearing in of new members at the opening of parliament in November, Rothschild declined to take the oath of abjuration, which contained the words “on the true faith of a Christian.” His objection precipitated renewed debate on what Lord John Manners called the “horrid question” of Jewish disabilities. This time Disraeli could not keep his head down as he had in 1837. His prominence and his pronounced views on the superiority of the Jews would have obliged him to take a stand. And there was an even more pressing obligation: over the previous decade he had become a friend of the English Rothschilds.⁷²

Disraeli had long been fascinated by the Rothschild family: their fabulous wealth, their connections, their poise and culture, their extraordinary intelligence network, and their persistence as Jews. In February 1838 he wrote to Sarah that he had attended a concert at which “the most picturesque group was the Rothschilds . . . quite a Murillo.” Coincidentally, Mary Anne Lewis had also been present. She was already friendly with Henrietta Montefiore and apparently more at ease in her company than Disraeli was. On the eve of a dinner with Henrietta early the next year, he told Sarah she was “very different to what I expected, a very pleasing appearance and manner, and extremely well bred; great repose yet readiness and savoir vivre.” Following this glittering occasion he reported on “the daughters, especially one very fair and young just out and something like the Queen, only prettier, very charming, perfectly bred, clever, highly educated and apparently in voice, pronunc[ia]tion and appearance thoroughly English. I like her very much.” One can almost hear his regret at not being in a position to seek her hand or that of any other Rothschild maiden. The tone of the letter also begs the question of what he expected them to be like. Did he go to the dinner assuming they would speak English with a lisp and a foreign accent, like his creation Levison? Did he anticipate the bad manners and vulgarity he attributed to Jews other than Sephardim?73

Disraeli’s relationship with Lionel de Rothschild deepened after the Tory victory of 1841 and was enhanced by meeting with French members of the family during the sojourn in Paris in the winter of 1842–43. Hannah de Rothschild, Lionel’s sister, was a fan of his novels. In a letter to Charlotte, Lionel’s wife, she praised Disraeli’s representation of the Jews in Coningsby: “In dwelling upon the good qualities of Sidonia’s race; in using many arguments for their emancipation, he cleverly introduced many circumstances we might recognise.” The positive influence the novel might have on Jewish fortunes prompted Hannah to send Disraeli a note of admiration. By the summer of 1845 he was referring to “the Lionels.” He sent Lionel an unctuous epistle on the birth of his son, wishing he would “prove worthy of his pure and sacred race.” In March 1847, in the run-up to the general election, Meyer de Rothschild, Lionel’s brother, put on a banquet for Disraeli at the White Hart in Buckingham and subsequently presided over his nomination. The irony was that whereas Meyer de Rothschild was already a county magnate and could promote Disraeli’s political prospects, he himself could not sit in parliament. After Lionel’s election there was no ducking the “horrid question.”74

It was horrid because virtually the entire Tory Party was implacably opposed to the admission of a practicing Jew into parliament. Disraeli could side with his party and deny his origins, but this risked incurring contempt for an act of cowardice. Or he could vote for the relief of Jewish disabilities, which would appear to demonstrate another loyalty. He might win points for fortitude and sincerity, but the gesture would highlight his essential difference from the country members whom he aspired to lead. And then there was Lionel himself. Bentinck informed John Croker that “Disraeli, of course, will warmly support the Jews, first from hereditary predisposition in their favour, and next because he and the Rothschilds are great allies.”⁷⁵

Bentinck turned out to be an unexpected ally, though not from any special commitment to Jewish rights. He told Croker, “I never could work myself into caring two straws about the question one way or the other. . . . The Jew matter I look upon as a personal matter.” He would give the bill his “silent vote,” as he had done in the past, mainly because he reckoned it was a bad idea to pitch the party against the City. Regardless of the logic, his willingness to support Lionel de Rothschild was calculated to irritate the backbenchers he now led, and his intention to do it quietly was nullified by their display of prejudice. As Disraeli told Lord John Manners in November 1847, Bentinck was “terribly annoyed” at the way the party was acting towards Rothschild. Unfortunately, the rank and file were immovable. Bentinck reported to Disraeli that “Lord Stanley and all the party are pressing me very hard to surrender my opinions about Jews.”76

Disraeli tried to defuse the issue. In response to his anxious inquiries Lionel de Rothschild assured him that the “peril is not so imminent”; legislation might be delayed until the New Year. Even then, a bill to amend the oath might be introduced into the House of Lords first. It would probably be defeated and so obviate the need for an embarrassing situation in the lower house. Demonstrating yet again his carelessness about Jewish matters, Disraeli wondered whether Rothschild could simply swear the oath devised for Roman Catholics. This option was quickly rendered irrelevant as well as inappropriate when, on 16 December 1847, Lord John Russell moved that the House of Commons should form itself into a committee to consider Jewish disabilities.⁷⁷

In the subsequent debate Russell repeated the timeworn argument that it was unjust to exclude men of property and influence on the grounds of their faith. Sir Robert Inglis reiterated the equally well tried objection that Jews could not sit in the Christian legislature of a Christian nation without de-Christianising it. William Ewart Gladstone, formerly a High Tory who held office under Peel and followed him into the wilderness in 1846, made a crucial intervention. Reversing his earlier opposition to the admission of Jews, Gladstone argued, “parliament will not have ceased to be a Christian parliament, because some few Jews may have been admitted into it.”⁷⁸

Disraeli made several interruptions in the course of these speeches until he finally rose to add his arguments. For the first time he publicly advocated the admission of Jews to parliament but, in an extraordinary twist, not as a Jew. He argued that the question was not about the principle of religious liberty. Instead, he maintained that “religious truth” demanded the acceptance of Jews into the legislature.79

Using almost the exact words of Eva’s speech in Tancred he rejected the claim that Jews were unfit to hold elected office because they were responsible for deicide. Then he riled the Anglican Tories at his back by accusing them of denying their own religious heritage if they denied rights to the Jews. He asked them to set aside their fears for the security of society if Jews were advanced. The Jews professed a true religion and were no threat. He was careful to say that Judaism was not the true religion but argued that it contained principles that had validity, not least because Judaism shared its basic tenets with Christianity. “The very reason for admitting the Jews,” he said, “is because they can show so near an affinity to you. Where is your Christianity, if you do not believe in their Judaism?” On a personal note, he added, “Nothing but a conviction of solemn duty has caused me to undertake a task which I assure the Hon. Gentleman is no agreeable one.” He called on his fellow members to put aside “the darkest superstition of the darkest ages” and calumnies based on “gross misrepresentations of history, geography and theology.”

He then went on to concede a good part of the case against the Jews. “I feel,” he continued, “that the race are deficient in many of the qualities, as well as in numbers, which would make a statesman, for reasons of state, undertake the advocacy of their interests.” He concluded, “It is entirely on religious grounds and on religious principles that I venture to recommend the subject to your notice.” Having dismissed arguments based on tolerance, equality, and the rights of man or even on pragmatism, he ended on a personal note: “I cannot sit in this House with any misconception of my opinion on the subject. Whatever may be the consequences on the seat I hold. . . . I cannot, for one, give a vote which is not in deference to what I believe to be the true principles of religion. Yes, it is as a Christian that I will not take upon me the awful responsibility of excluding from the Legislature those who are of the religion in the bosom of which my Lord and Saviour was born.”80

The debate was adjourned shortly afterwards, amidst signs of impatience and irritation on the Tory benches, and resumed the next day. After several MPs had made their contributions, Bentinck got to his feet with a feeling of dread. “I never rose to address the House under such a sense of difficulty as on this occasion,” he admitted. He regretted placing himself in opposition to the “majority of those with whom I generally act,” but if he failed to speak his mind it would have amounted to “slinking” away.⁸¹

When the vote was taken the bill gained a healthy majority for a second reading. But Lord George and Disraeli were amongst only a handful of Conservatives to support it. Over subsequent days Bentinck received a storm of indignant letters from his backbenchers saying he had thereby disqualified himself from the leadership. He was so mortified by the stance of the party and so offended by what this implied about his friend and colleague Disraeli that he resigned the leadership. As Disraeli explained to Lord John Manners at the end of December, “By this time, you have heard of the Hebrew explosion. The truth is, but I say this in the greatest confidence, I doubt whether this would have taken place, but for the previous irritating causes, wh[ich] could no longer be endured by G.B. [Bentinck]. Every day something occurred wh[ich] has disgusted him.”⁸²

The next stage of the bill’s passage was fixed for early February 1848. In the meantime Disraeli offered counsel to Lionel de Rothschild. Recently discovered correspondence shows that he met several times with the Rothschilds and assisted the writing of a pamphlet advocating the Jewish cause that was to be distributed to every MP prior to the forthcoming debate. Bentinck supplied information about the voting record of peers in the 1830s, and much of the pamphlet echoed the approach he had taken in his December speech. Indeed, it is possible that Disraeli was counseling him, too. The freshly uncovered proofs of The Progress of Jewish Emancipation Since 1829 show Disraeli in a very different light from that of his public pronouncements: the case it made is entirely pragmatic. How much was written by him is unclear. He was certainly in frequent correspondence with Lionel de Rothschild. On 3 January 1848 he sent him “a sketch of the sort of thing you require. . . . Although it affects to be a dry synopsis, the facts are so disposed that their impression, I apprehend, will be highly favourable to your cause among those doubtful but, not very prejudiced.” He asked to be sent the proofs and annotated them carefully several times over.83 These exchanges tell us something about his commitment. He had now come out publicly in favour of emancipation, yet in practice he still preferred to promote it behind the scenes. This was to be a pattern for the next decade, if not the rest of his parliamentary career. He made a few highly public, contentious, divisive interventions while remaining for most of the time in the shadows and doing much less than his noisy demarches suggested.⁸⁴

Russell’s bill had its second reading in the Commons on 7 February 1848 and passed. Disraeli recorded his vote in favour, although he did not speak then or at the committee stage in April. It passed its third reading on 4 May 1848, without Disraeli’s vote. Three weeks later it was debated by the peers, who were apparently untouched by the evidence set out in The Progress of Jewish Emancipation Since 1829. Disraeli lamented to Mary Anne that “their prospects are very black.”⁸⁵

Lord Stanley, Disraeli’s colleague and leader, spoke strongly against the bill. His speech is worth dwelling on in view of his relations with his Jewish-born subordinate, now effectively the leader of the opposition in the House of Commons. Stanley could not countenance the admission to parliament of persons “whose views with regard to everything in which Christianity is brought to bear upon legislation must be hostile to the views of the majority! . . . I ask what is the great object you have to gain in the admission of some two or three rich Jews into the Legislature? . . . The question you, my Lords, have to solve this night . . . is, whether you will not maintain the Christian character of this and the other House of Parliament?” Their lordships heeded Stanley and voted down Jewish emancipation. As the Tory and anti-Jewish Morning Post editorialized, most of Disraeli’s “noble friends,” in concert with the Lords Spiritual, had opposed the bill: “The Bishops floored Little Lord Jim [Russell] and the Jew Baron.” Consequently, the question of Jewish equality continued to fester. It was a source of constant unease for Disraeli, an embarrassment, and an inconvenience that interrupted the normal transaction of party business.86

After Bentinck resigned as leader, the Tory grandees flailed around looking for a successor other than Disraeli. Greville noted in his diary on 7 January 1848, “It seems they detest Disraeli, the only man of talent, and in fact they have nobody.” The rather more sympathetic Lord Malmesbury observed, “There can be no doubt that there is a very strong feeling among Conservatives in the House of Commons against him. They are puzzled and alarmed by his mysterious manner which has much of the foreigner about it, and are incapable of understanding and appreciating the great abilities which certainly underlie, and, as it were, are concealed by his mask.” The crux of the problem was his stand on the Jewish question.⁸⁷

Bentinck did his best to promote his friend and ally. He wrote to Lord Stanley that “Disraeli is very much disgusted, as well he might be” by the attitude of the party. According to Lord George, Disraeli was “dragged out of retirement and literary occupations by special invitation from the protectionist party in the hour of their greatest need, before I was even thought of as their leader.” He claimed rather wildly that this had cost Disraeli earnings of £6000–7,000 per year as well as the pleasure of writing novels. Instead of thanking him, “the reward he has met with . . . would leave a blot on the fair name of the Country Gentlemen of England.”88

When parliament resumed in February 1848 there was disarray in the Tory hierarchy. Lord George declined to sit on the opposition front bench. The Marquess of Granby was thrust into the leadership role but performed lamentably. By contrast Disraeli was on sparkling form. At Stanley’s request, when parliament adjourned at the end of August he delivered the customary speech summing up the session from the opposition point of view. It was a brilliant demonstration of his gifts. The party managers were still hoping Bentinck would relent when he suddenly died of a heart attack. Lord Malmesbury immediately saw the implications of this tragedy: “No one but Disraeli can fill his place. . . . It will leave Disraeli without a rival, and enable him to show the great genius he undoubtedly possesses.”⁸⁹

Disraeli was genuinely stricken by Bentinck’s untimely demise. While he spent the autumn in contemplating a book about his dead friend, the more farsighted Tory magnates who realized they had no choice but Disraeli began to lean on Lord Stanley. Disraeli unexpectedly found himself in a position of strength and now played hard to get; if the party wanted him as leader, it would have to pay a higher price.⁹⁰

Lord Stanley, however, was acutely aware that the man who destroyed Peel was hardly likely to reunite the Conservatives by luring back those, like Gladstone, who had followed Peel into exile. Stanley also knew that Disraeli suffered from a credibility problem. Charles Newdegate, one of the MPs who spoke for the Anglican country squires, told him that “I have been warned repeatedly not to trust Disraeli.” Newdegate personally could “see nothing in his public conduct to justify the want of confidence so many seem to feel” but assumed it was due to “some circumstances of his earlier life.” As a passionate believer in the Christian character of the nation, Newdegate could have objected to Disraeli as a Jew, but it was his youthful indiscretions that sprang to mind. Overlaying these was a history of inconsistency, vituperation, and backstabbing.91

Consequently, Stanley tried to find a compromise. He suggested that Disraeli agree to serve under an unimpeachable figurehead, such as the aged but much-admired J. C. Herries. Sensing that he had the magnates and the party managers over a barrel, Disraeli upped the stakes. In a letter that both mollified and threatened he averred that he would have served gladly under Stanley or Bentinck, but in their absence “I am now free from all personal ties; and I am no longer disposed to sacrifice interesting pursuits, health, and a happy hearth, for a political career, which can bring one little fame, and even if successful in a vulgar sense, would bear me a reward which I now little appreciate.” He could serve the party just as well, if not better, “by acting alone and unshackled.” The last thing Stanley wanted was Disraeli like a loose canon on the Conservative backbenches.⁹²

During the first weeks of 1849 the Tory Party convulsed itself over the leadership question. In the Tory clubs Lord Henry Bentinck (the brother of the late Lord George) and Lord Newcastle pressed the case for Disraeli. Bentinck even mooted a concession to his feelings on Jewish emancipation. He suggested “on the Jewish Question, that while you would not conceive it to be proper in any way to make use of the power the party would put into your hands, to further a measure obnoxious to them, you must claim for yourself the right of individually following the same course you had followed before, and to have unfettered discretion to take the line that you would deem fair to your Church and just to the party.” Conversely, William Beresford, one of the Tory whips, complained to Stanley that “there has been a deep intrigue carrying on in the party to force Disraeli on us as the Leader.” Greville grumbled that it was impossible to submit to “a character so disreputable that he cannot be trusted.”93

Finally, Stanley buckled. In a series of exchanges with Disraeli he thrashed out the basis for him to assume the leadership. Taking his cue from Henry Bentinck, he balanced an appeal to Disraeli’s sense of duty with a promise of latitude in matters concerning Jewish disabilities. Disraeli could feel the tide flowing in his direction. He expressed his feelings candidly to Prince Metternich, in exile in London, whom he had befriended: “Certainly it is a great anomaly, that a proud aristocracy should find a Chief in one, who is not only not an aristocrat, but against whose origins exist other prejudices, than being merely a man of the people.” He would not accept a “subordinate position” with the “humiliating inference” it would carry. On the contrary, “the very fact that I am not an aristocrat renders it to my mind, still more necessary that my position should be assured, and my character enforced and sustained, to increase my influence in a struggle where I have, at the same time, to watch the Whigs, check Sir Robert Peel, and beat back the revolutionary waves of the Manchester School.”⁹⁴

Disraeli was confident that the leadership lay within his grasp. One remaining challenge was to find a means for Stanley to concede without losing face. Disraeli also wanted assurance that the party would back him unconditionally. On 31 January 1849 he sent a note to Mary Anne informing her breathlessly, “I sh[ould], or rather, must be, the real leader.” Three weeks later he told Sarah, “After much struggling, I am fairly the leader.” To Metternich he confessed, “The Leadership fell into my hands by the irresistible course of circumstances.”⁹⁵

For once Disraeli may have been overmodest. He had played his cards with great skill. While he was not highly adept at mass politics, he was a master of chamber politics. He knew how to gauge men and manipulate them. As a result, the Tory Party found itself led by a man whom many members regarded as a mysterious alien, an “unprincipled adventurer.” He did not come from their social circles, did not instinctively share their passions, and obstinately defied their prejudices. It would be years before the party came to terms with him; his life as leader may have become more comfortable only because so many of those who loathed him died or retired from the scene.96

Disraeli’s position was eased by the purchase of Hughendon Manor, which established him as a country gentleman, though it would be more accurate to say he was set up as a counterfeit squire. He had inherited sizeable amounts of money following the death of his mother at the age of seventy-two in April 1847 and of his father at the age of eighty-one in January 1848, but this was nowhere near enough to afford the estate and also clear his massive debts. He was still reliant on the Bentincks when the death of Lord George threw the entire project into doubt. Lord Henry and his brother, Lord Titchfield, remained faithful to their brother’s intentions, but with a reservation. Instead of lending Disraeli the money, they wanted to purchase the estate for him. Disraeli was unhappy at this prospect. He told them “it w[oul]d be no object to them & no pleasure to me, unless I played the high game in public life; & that I could not do that with[ou]t being on a rock.” Eventually, the Duke of Portland and his sons agreed to lend Disraeli £25,000, on condition the rents from the estate be paid directly to them. When Disraeli and Mary Anne finally moved in at the beginning of December 1848, Hughendon was little more than a tied cottage for a tenant whose job was leader of the Conservative Party.⁹⁷

Disraeli’s finances remained in a perilous state and aggravated his relations with Mary Anne, though there are indications he was also having an affair. For several weeks in mid-1849 he was forced to take refuge in a hotel and begged his sister and Lionel de Rothschild to supply him with an alibi.98

None of these travails were visible to the party or the public. Rather, Disraeli appeared to be a hugely energetic force seeking to revivify the Tories and overcome the crippling effects of the split over protection. His goal was to convince the agricultural interest that protection was now a lost cause and to rebalance the party’s electoral appeal. To his surprise, in the winter of 1850 the prime minister Lord John Russell reacted furiously to information that the Roman Catholic Church intended to appoint bishops in England. Russell denounced this move as “papal aggression” and promised to bring in legislation to frustrate the Vatican’s alleged ambition to reconvert England. At a stroke the Whigs appropriated one of the most popular Tory causes: defense of the Protestant Church. But Russell paid a high price, alienating the Irish Catholic MPs and also Liberals whose sensibilities were offended by any hint of religious intolerance. By early 1851 the government looked sickly. On 20 February Russell lost a vote on electoral reform and announced his imminent resignation.⁹⁹

Queen Victoria called for Lord Stanley to form a government, and Disraeli’s expectations rocketed. Unfortunately, over a tense two-day period Stanley and Disraeli proved unable to marshal sufficient experience and talent to form a cabinet. Peel’s sudden death in June 1850 seemed to open a window for the return of Conservatives with ministerial experience, but their memories of Disraeli’s rebellion were so ingrained that none would agree to serve in a cabinet that included him. Furthermore, Queen Victoria told Stanley, “I always felt, that if there were a Protectionist Government, Mr Disraeli must be leader of the House of Commons: but I do not approve of Mr Disraeli. I do not approve of his conduct to Sir Robert Peel.” Stanley, by his own account, defended his subaltern with a certain amount of sympathy and perception: “Madam, Mr Disraeli has had to make his position, and men who make their positions will say and do things which are not necessarily said or done by those to whom positions are provided.” Victoria agreed. “That is true . . . and all I can hope now is, that having attained this great position, he will be temperate. I accept Mr Disraeli on your guarantee.” The need did not arise. By the start of March, Russell was back as prime minister.100

This failure was a bitter experience for Disraeli, the first of many such. He wearily resumed the task of weaning his party off the old political nostrums and seeking a cause in tune with the “spirit of the age.” The year 1851 closed with renewed rumblings of discontent about his leadership in the House of Commons. Many country members were still unwilling to surrender protection. There was some confusion over where the party stood in relation to “papal aggression.” Anti-Catholic MPs like Sir Robert Inglis had wanted to join the assault and did not grasp Disraeli’s subtle tactic of standing back and letting Russell wreck his government on a religious issue. Nor had Disraeli done anything to endear himself to the party with his first publication in a decade, a political biography of Lord George Bentinck.¹⁰¹

V

The book on which he began work in the summer of 1850 was initially conceived as a memorial to his friend and a tribute to his rearguard action against repeal of the Corn Laws. To this extent it was intended as an act of gratitude to the Bentinck family, his munificent benefactors. The Duke of Portland willingly cooperated and supplied Disraeli with two chests containing his son’s papers. Then the death of Peel seems to have given Disraeli the inspiration and license to add a second strand. The project expanded into a full-scale political history of the years 1846–48 with a deep analysis of Peel, the man and his policies.102

Lord George Bentinck: A Political Biography was, in the end, much more about its author than its ostensible subject. Disraeli’s description of Bentinck’s trials as leader of a demoralized opposition and his contest with Peel was a barely concealed record of his own campaign. Even his dissection of Peel’s character, leadership style, and parliamentary performance is partially self-reflection. Peel, he asserted, lacked imagination and could not command the House of Commons with his oratory. Ironically, like Disraeli, he was held in high esteem because he was of relatively humble origins. “An aristocracy is rather apt to exaggerate the qualities and magnify the importance of a plebeian leader,” Disraeli observed, no doubt from firsthand experience.¹⁰³

The work disclosed more of Disraeli’s contempt for the middle classes, democracy, and his racial thinking. He derided the antislavery movement as middle-class sentimentalism. He alleged that the compensation for slave owners who were obliged to free their slaves had produced a farcical situation in which the freed slaves enjoyed a life of ease and plenty: “I don’t think when John Bull paid twenty million pounds to knock off their chains, he meant to make idle gentlemen of the emancipated negro.” It was to avoid such solecisms that government ought to be in the hands of the aristocracy: “The first duty of the aristocracy is to lead, to guide, to enlighten; to soften vulgar prejudices and to dare to counter popular passions.” Progress understood as greater democratization and social reform was anathema to him: “The truth is progress and reaction are but words to mystify the millions. They mean nothing, they are nothing, they are phrases and not facts. All is race. In the structure, the decay, and the development of the various families of man, the vicissitudes of history find their main solution.” The persistence of the Anglo-Saxon race in England was more important for defining the character and conduct of the nation than the political process.104

Having detailed the struggle that led to Peel’s downfall, Disraeli arrived at the moment when Bentinck resolved to support Jewish emancipation and thereby jeopardized his leadership of the party. This afforded the pretext for a chapter devoted entirely to the Jewish question since, he explained, its eruption was so damaging that it required elucidation. The Jewish reader might have immediately felt some alarm when he explained that the difficulty arose because an aspiring MP, Lionel de Rothschild, “being not only of the Jewish race, but unfortunately believing only in the first part of the Jewish religion,” sought to take his seat in parliament. He therefore intended to explore the relations between “the Bedoueen race that under the name of Jews is found in every country of Europe” and the other races that have adopted the “laws and customs of these Arabian tribes.” He would lay bare the reasons why the Jews, who were “the only medium of communication between the Creator and themselves,” were so widely persecuted.¹⁰⁵

Chapter 24 of Lord George Bentinck comprises Disraeli’s most extensive disquisition on the Jews and, if anything does, qualifies him to be considered as a Jewish thinker. It is one of the most curious, paradoxical, and damaging things a Jew ever wrote about his own people, their religion and their history. He commenced by rebutting the argument, so frequently stated in both Houses of parliament, that Jews did not merit civic equality on account of their culpability for the crucifixion of Jesus. Much of this traversed familiar ground. Next, he maintained that Jesus had not proffered a new morality that set Jews and Christians at loggerheads: the Holy Father, who was the god of the Jews, and his son could not possibly preach at variance with one another. Jesus, a descendent of the House of David, spoke the “Law of Moses.” Furthermore, his death, even if it was at the hands of the Jews, was necessary for him to atone for all mankind: “The immolators were pre-ordained like the victim, and the holy race supplied both.” Nor was the dispersion a punishment for this alleged crime: the Jewish diaspora preceded the time of Jesus. It was true, though, that exile had ruined the Jews. It had “reduced the modern Jew to a state almost justifying malignant vengeance. They may have become so odious, and so hostile to mankind, as to merit for their present conduct, no matter how occasioned, the obloquy and ill-treatment of the communities in which they dwell.”106

While he sought to refute the reasons Jews should be denied equal status, Disraeli seemed to confirm the imputations favoured by anti-Jewish bigots. The Jews were indeed always to be found in the “infamous classes” of the great cities. They were neither the largest in number nor the only race to be implicated, but “they contribute perhaps more than their proportion to the aggregate of the vile.” It was an iron law of persecution that “the infamous is the business of the dishonoured.” Since they were forced into a position where they had to break the law in order to survive and were the cleverest race, the Jews were the cleverest lawbreakers. Yet even then they were not a lost cause: “Obdurate, malignant, odious, and revolting as the lowest Jew appears to us, he is rarely demoralised. Beneath his own roof his heart opens to the influence of his beautiful Arabian traditions.”¹⁰⁷

This explained why Jews were the best dramatists, singers, dancers, and musicians. They “charm the public taste and elevate the public feeling.” It would never be possible to destroy or absorb such a “superior race.” They “represent the semitic principle; all that is spiritual in our nature.” They are the “trustees of tradition, the conservators of the religious element.” As such, they “are a living and the most striking evidence of the falsity of that pernicious doctrine of modern times, the natural equality of man.”¹⁰⁸

Whereas most advocates of the Jewish cause in the mid-nineteenth century based their case on the principle of equality and natural rights, Disraeli used the Jews to assault these cherished notions. He turned them into the poster children of reaction, an advertisement for racial inequality. Equal political rights, he sneered, were “a matter of municipal arrangement.” Rather, “the natural equality of man now in vogue, and taking the form of cosmopolitan fraternity, is a principle which, were it possible to act on it, would deteriorate the great races and destroy all the genius of the world.” The prospect of miscegenation aroused horror in him not just with respect to his beloved Jews. What, he asked askance, would happen if Anglo-Saxons were to “mingle with their negro and coloured populations?” Answering his own question, he replied that eventually they would be “supplanted” by “aborigines.”109

To Disraeli, the continued existence of the Jews did not just refute the principle of equality. The Jews were its natural antagonists: “All the tendencies of the Jewish race are conservative. Their bias is to religion, property, and natural aristocracy.” What is more, they “also have another characteristic, the faculty of acquisition.” That said, if these proclivities are not respected, they will tend in the opposite direction. Thus Jews were also the leading subversive element in the world: “They may be traced in the last outbreak of the destructive principle in Europe.” The destruction of aristocracy, property, and religion was the goal of the secret societies, and “men of Jewish race are found at the head of every one of them.” So, having denied that there was any deep-rooted animosity between Jews and Christians, Disraeli now stood on his head and argued that some Jews gravitated towards revolution “because they wish to destroy that ungrateful Christendom which owes them even its name, and whose tyranny they can no longer endure.”¹¹⁰

Perhaps even more startling than this regurgitation of anti-Jewish canards, Disraeli ended with a panegyric to conversionism. “It is no doubt to be deplored that several millions of the Jewish race should persist in believing in only a part of their religion,” a regrettable situation that could be remedied since, “different treatment, may remove the anomaly which perhaps may be accounted for.” He apologetically explained that Jews who persisted in being Jewish were the descendents of those who had left Palestine before the time of Jesus and therefore missed his direct appeal. Whereas most Palestinian Jews became Christians, the Jews of the dispersion received the Christian message from dubious sources. To them, “it appeared to be a gentile religion, accompanied by idolatrous practices.” Presented in the correct light, Christianity would not have repelled them. In fact, “there is nothing one would suggest very repugnant to the feelings of a Jew when he hears that the redemption of the human race has been effected by the mediatorial agency of a child of Israel.” There were “just a few points of doctrine” separating the two belief systems, and in “enlightened times” Jews might now perceive how “their Messiah” had triumphed.111

It is hard to know where to begin evaluating these fanciful assertions. For one thing, Disraeli contradicted and even invalidated his own arguments. He gave a concise but reasonably exact explanation of why the Jews rejected Christianity in antiquity, only to ignore the implications of that repudiation for the present. Since neither religion had changed, in essence the gulf that had divided them still remained. He might blithely attribute the chasm to a few doctrinal points, but these went to the heart of the schism that resulted in two quite different and antagonistic belief systems. His racial-sociological analysis of contemporary Jews was as perverse as it was counterproductive. By associating Jews with reaction he offended liberals, who normally championed the Jewish cause, and confirmed the prejudices of reactionary Jew-haters by blaming Jews for revolutionary unrest. His “Jewish geography” was inexplicably warped. France, the country he claimed oppressed Jews, was the first to free them from discrimination; Russia, which he said was animated by the “semitic principle,” was infamous for making Jewish life miserable. Chapter 24 of Lord George Bentinck is a compendium of muddled thinking and mid-nineteenth-century racism.112

Despite his efforts to justify inclusion of the chapter and to differentiate his opinions from those of Lord George, most reviewers and many readers found the chapter weird, even offensive. The Times complained that in an already bloated volume it was “at least a superfluous aggravation.” The friends of Lord George would not thank the author “for the national cause thus associated with his personal claims.” While Hannah de Rothschild rushed to read chapter 24, the clergy of Buckinghamshire revolted against their MP. A few months after the book’s publication, when Disraeli, as a consequence of assuming office as chancellor of the exchequer, had to stand for reelection, he was seriously worried about a clerical “movement” against him in his constituency.¹¹³

His assumption of high office was sudden and unexpected. At the close of 1851 Russell had sacked his foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston, and thereby triggered a feud between the two men. On 20 February 1852 the government was defeated on an amendment to the Militia Bill put down by the disgruntled Palmerston and supported by his followers. Russell dutifully resigned, and the Earl of Derby (as Lord Stanley became on the death of his father in 1851) was invited to form a new administration. This time he succeeded, although the cabinet comprised so few men of renown that it was known as the “Who? Who?” government. Derby appointed Disraeli as chancellor of the exchequer, a post for which he had no experience or qualifications except, perhaps, dodging creditors.¹¹⁴

VI

Disraeli had few illusions about his political life expectancy as chancellor in a threadbare cabinet at the head of a minority party. Nevertheless, having secured his reelection in the face of local dissent, he threw himself into the job. As both leader of the House of Commons and chancellor of the exchequer, not to mention the strongest speaker his party could deploy, he had a hectic and exhausting schedule. One of his duties was to report to the queen on affairs in the Commons. These missives enabled him to improve his image in the eyes of the palace and marked the beginning of his relationship with Victoria, a crucial step in rendering him respectable and a key to his later success. He couched his reports in a personal, confidential tone that Victoria initially found unusual but quickly came to enjoy and appreciate. She confided to the Belgian king, “Mr D (alias Dizzy) writes very curious reports to me of the House of Commons proceedings—much in the style of his books.”115

In July 1852 the government called a general election in the hope of gaining a workable majority. The result gave only modest gains to the Conservatives. Disraeli set about preparing his second budget, this time in unfavourable conditions. At the end of November he warned the prime minister, Lord Derby, “I fear we are in a great scrape and I hardly see how the Budget can live in so stormy a sea.” It was launched in a mammoth five-hour speech on 3 December, when he was suffering from flu. During the ensuing debate it was holed beneath the waterline by Gladstone, who mounted an unusually strident attack on the chancellor. A fortnight later the government was defeated on acceptance of the budget by 305 to 286 votes.¹¹⁶

Ejection from office was a double blow. Disraeli lost his salary of £5,000 and faced renewed pressure servicing his debts. His chronic insolvency lay behind the inception around this time of one of the strangest friendships of his life and a curious footnote to the history of “radical assimilation.”

In early 1851 he received a letter from a Mrs Sarah Brydges Willyams, a septuagenarian widow who lived near Torquay. She was the daughter of a Sephardi Jewish merchant, Abraham Mendes da Costa, who had settled in Bath, and had inherited a considerable amount of money from her uncle Isaac Mendes da Costa. Raised outside the Jewish community, she had married James Brydges Willyams, a colonel in the Devonshire Militia. The couple were childless and so, on his death, she inherited further property. Out of the blue she wrote to Disraeli expressing admiration for him, particularly his advocacy of the Jewish cause, and asked if he would act as her executor. Such a function customarily entailed receiving a considerable portion of the estate in question. Disraeli was so taken aback that he consulted Philip Rose on the matter. They agreed that no harm could come from humouring an old lady, while, if she was serious, the connection might do Disraeli a great deal of financial good. A few weeks later he sent her Tancred, which he described as “a vindication, and I hope, a complete one of the race from which we alike spring.” She replied that she had “read the new Crusade with the attention it commands” and complimented him that nothing did more “to exalt the great Nation we belong to.”117

Disraeli subsequently posted her a freshly printed copy of Lord George Bentinck, which was well calculated to gratify her peculiar Jewish consciousness. There was then a pause in their relationship until he was freed from the trammels of office. Subsequently, Disraeli maintained a regular correspondence with Mrs Brydges Willyams. His letters typically mixed political and social gossip with frequent references to race and the Jews. His intimate chat about the Rothschilds seems intended to perk her interest. In February 1853 he told her, “It is race, not religion, that interests me. . . . All Europeans, and many others, profess the religion of the Hebrews.” In a much-quoted passage of self-reflection he elaborated, “I, like you, was not bred among my race, and was nurtured in great prejudice against them. Thought, and the mysterious sympathy of organization, have led me to adopt the views with respect to them, which I have advocated, and which, I hope I may say, I have affected in their favour public opinion.”118

This “mysterious sympathy” and the “organization” it sustained are Disraeli’s terms for what one might call ethnicity and the bonds that are forged out of a shared sense of origins. It was this “sympathy” that led him to report on his encounters with the Rothschilds and to remark on any matter of Jewish interest. However, it is impossible to banish the suspicion that there was also something very unmysterious about the energy he invested in their friendship. Mrs Brydges Willyams did not hide her wish to settle a large sum of money on him. The fortnightly summer visits he made to Torquay with Mary Anne in 1853–56 were designed to reinforce that intention. He actually loathed the place. From 1857 to 1862 their annual get-together took place during parliament’s winter recess. In between they exchanged gifts as well as letters, like flirtatious youngsters.¹¹⁹

Over the same period, Disraeli’s friendship with the Rothschilds deepened. It was no less an alloy of utilitarian intentions and genuine affection. He solicited financial advice from Lionel de Rothschild and borrowed over £1,000 from him at a time when he was particularly hard-pressed. They met quite often in the first half of 1849, probably in connection with the latest bill to relieve the Jews of political disabilities. Disraeli was a guest at the banquet Sir Anthony de Rothschild, Lionel’s brother, held to celebrate the marriage of Nathaniel Montefiore (his brother-in-law) to Emma Goldsmid. Charlotte de Rothschild loaned him books, and he sent her presents. In August 1850 he was confident enough to ask Sir Anthony for a letter of reference addressed to the Neapolitan Rothschilds on behalf of his brother James, who was going to Naples.¹²⁰

For all that, his private asides on the Rothschild family display a persistent streak of ambivalence, blending envy and something verging on sarcasm. In July 1849, after Lord John Manners had lost to Lionel de Rothschild in a by-election for the City of London constituency, he wrote to Sarah, “I consoled him with the thought that Lionel’s majority would induce him to take a Christian view of Johnny’s conduct.” When he regaled Sarah with an account of the marriage celebration for Nathaniel Montefiore, he observed that “the Hebrew aristocracy assembled in great force and numbers, mitigated by the Dowager of Morley” and other non-Jews (including the author William Makepeace Thackeray). In August 1851 he recalled to her a faux pas at the expense of “the Lionels” that arose after the Duke of Portland sent him half a buck just as he and Mary Anne were about to decamp for Hughendon. Rather than dispose of it, he sent it round to Charlotte, forgetting that it was “unclean meat.” But since the Rothschilds loved dukes and lords, even though the peers routinely vetoed bills to relieve the Jews of disabilities, he joked to Sarah, “I think they will swallow it.” He drooled over their wealth, their homes, and their estates. When he heard that Hannah Mayer de Rothschild had died he remarked enviously to Lady Londonderry that she was worth £700,000 in consols, a fair share of which would pass to her son-in-law, Henry Fitzroy.121

More serious was the clash over their respective approaches to Jewish emancipation. In late 1847, after he had expounded on the best tactics, a somewhat alarmed Louisa de Rothschild noted in her diary that he told them “we must ask for our rights and privileges not for concessions and liberty of conscience.” Yet religious liberty and equality were inscribed on the banner of the Liberals under which Lionel fought his battles. Two years later, in early December 1849, Disraeli wrote to Henry Drummond remarking, “Even the Rothschildren don’t like my view of the case. It is not Liberal or Christian enough for them.”¹²²

The Rothschilds, like the rest of the organized Jewish community in London, were not just unhappy with Disraeli’s eclectic arguments: they resented the unpredictability of his interventions. For a time Charlotte de Rothschild suspected that he stayed in the fight only because Lionel loaned him money. Louisa de Rothschild was disgusted by his “lack of principles.” After he lost office in 1852, she noted waspishly, “His own elevation having been his only aim, he has nothing now to sweeten the bitter cup of his ill success.” These Rothschilds shrewdly observed something that has eluded many of Disraeli’s biographers. If anything sheds light on Disraeli as a Jewish figure, a man motivated by Jewish impulses, as against one painted as a Jew by others, it is the record of his gyrations throughout the campaign for Jewish civic equality.123

In February 1849 Russell introduced a bill to enable Lionel de Rothschild to take his seat by amending the oath of abjuration. Disraeli did not record a vote on the initial motion but contributed to the committee stage. Quixotically, he confined his remarks to the effect a change would have on Roman Catholics. He ignored the vicious attack on the Jews that issued from his High Anglican colleague Charles Newdegate at the third reading, even though Newdegate cited a string of calumnies against the Jews and quoted liberally from a tract by the convert Johann Eisenmenger, Judaism Unmasked—a staple source of modern anti-Semitism.¹²⁴

Disraeli’s inconsistency did not escape censure. After the bill was brought forward by Russell without any contribution from the leader of the opposition, Charlotte de Rothschild exclaimed in her journal, “Disi was silent . . . last year he was our warmest champion and now!” Edward Stanley, who had recently entered parliament, noted in his diary that “in the Commons, the second reading of the Jew Bill came on. . . . Disraeli remained silent, though called upon repeatedly by name. He voted with the Government.” Following the committee stage in June he wrote, “Jew Bill read a third time, by 272 to 206, after a dull debate. Disraeli voted, but kept out of the House until towards the close of the debate.” The Morning Chronicle accused him of “genius stooping to political cowardice.” Punch marked his conduct with a doggerel that used anti-Jewish stereotypes against him at the same time as showing the impossibility of evading them whether he supported or opposed emancipation:

DISRAELI, DISRAELI, your feelins you’ve bartered,

You’ve swopp’d all your pride in the race of your sires,

For the notice of Dukes all bestarred and begartered,

And the empty applause of Protestant Squires.

Yah! vy vos you shilent, MISHTER DISRAELI?125

In public Disraeli posed as a misunderstood champion of the Jews. He told Drummond, “I am surprised that you should think my silence about the Jews was to please Bankes [a diehard Tory opponent of Jews entering parliament], or that anyone would dare to dictate to me on such a subject. I am silent about the Jews, because no single member of the House of Commons agrees with me in my view of the question, except perhaps yourself, who always vote against them. What use in addressing an assembly where there is not a single sympathiser?”¹²⁶

His real motives are indicated in a letter he sent to the Duke of Newcastle: “The sooner we get rid of the Jew Bill, wh[ich], for my part I wish were at the bottom of the Red Sea, the better: after it has been rejected by your House, Rothschild will resign his seat, the question will then rest until that Revolution has succeeded—wh[ich] I hope to stave off for a good many years if not altogether to crush.” In other words Disraeli associated the achievement of full civil equality for the Jews with a political upheaval that he feared and that he resolved to prevent. If maintaining the status quo entailed denying a seat in parliament to his friend Lionel de Rothschild, so be it. This private communication does much to undermine the notion that he was either a genuine supporter of Jewish emancipation or a true friend of the Rothschilds. It implies that he took a position on Jewish affairs only when he could not do otherwise without incurring more political damage than silence or inaction would beget. And it casts a sickly light over his capacity for friendship and sincerity.127

As predicted in June, the bill was rejected by the House of Lords. But this was not the end of it. Lionel de Rothschild immediately resigned his seat and successfully stood for reelection. A month later he came to the bar of the House and asked to be sworn in using the Old Testament and to omit the words “on the true faith of a Christian” from the oath of abjuration. The Speaker asked him to withdraw, and the House then debated a resolution put down by the Radical MP Joseph Hume that would have enabled Rothschild to take his seat. After a prolonged, rancorous debate that was adjourned several times, Rothschild’s advocates won. Disraeli held his peace but voted with the government rather than his party. He told Mary Anne, “Lionel has gained his point as to taking the oaths on the Old Testament by a majority of 113 to 59. So far he has made some progress. His next, and the important, step will not lead to such favourable results, and I fear, will array against him an overwhelming majority, including some of his best friends.”¹²⁸

He was right. It was now so late in the session that it was impractical for Russell to introduce a new oaths bill. So, the attorney general put two resolutions to the House. The first maintained that Rothschild had sworn the oath in an acceptable form and should be allowed to take his seat; the second signaled that the House would consider the matter during the next session. At the end of July, Lionel de Rothschild again stood before the House and attempted to swear with the words “so help me God.” Again, he was asked to withdraw, and the House debated whether to accept the change. Disraeli complained to Lady Londonderry that “the Rothschild business has made a great stir and delayed everything. . . . The House sits every day from 12 till 1/2 2 in the morning, which is very severe.”129

Disraeli did not make a major intervention until early August, and then it was characteristically perverse. He attacked the government for fiddling with the traditional oaths and defended the House of Lords for their cautious approach. Yet he hoped to see “full and complete justice for the Jews” and reaffirmed his support for the principle of admitting Jews to parliament—albeit not on the grounds of religious liberty or civic equality. He also took the opportunity to address criticism of his absence from past discussions, telling MPs that “inasmuch as I believe that my opinions upon the subject are not shared by one single Member on either side of the House, I thought that it was consistent, both with good sense and good taste, that, after having once unequivocally expressed the grounds on which my vote was given, I should have taken refuge in a silence which, at least, could not offend the opinions or the prejudices of any hon. Gentleman on either side. The opinions I then expressed I now retain.” After the Commons voted on the two motions advanced by the attorney general, Disraeli wrote to Mary Anne, “The Jewish debate is at length closed. I spoke this morning, and to my satisfaction.” The Jewish community, on the other hand, was less than satisfied. The Jewish Chronicle snarled, “If ultimately any Jew does enter parliament it will not be due to Disraeli’s efforts.”¹³⁰

The following May Russell introduced another short bill to amend the oath of abjuration. Disraeli silently supported its passage through the Commons, but it was defeated by the Lords in July. He made no comment. Nor did he intervene in the furious controversy occasioned by David Salomons, a banker and leading member of the Board of Deputies who had won a by-election for Greenwich. When he was presented at the bar of the House, Salomons took the oaths in the manner pioneered by Rothschild and obediently withdrew while the members considered his case. But when the debate resumed on 21 July he slipped onto a member’s bench and stayed put until escorted out by the serjeant-at-arms. Salomon’s case was fought over during the next week but foundered when Russell again attempted the shortcut of passing a resolution. Disraeli cast his vote against, as he had done in the past when an attempt was made to circumvent legislation. Again, the Jewish Chronicle articulated the disappointment felt by many Jews: “We confess we do not base our hopes on Mr Disraeli’s support.”131

In February 1853 Russell, now the foreign secretary, tried again. The Jewish Disabilities Removal Bill passed its third reading in the House of Commons on 15 April, with Disraeli’s tacit backing. It was, nevertheless, vigorously opposed by members of his party, including Sir Robert Peel (the son of the former prime minister). In the course of the debates Peel made several insulting remarks, holding young Jews responsible for a disproportionate amount of crime in the capital and accusing the Rothschilds of using their wealth to muzzle opinion. It was another, unpleasant reminder of how isolated Disraeli was amongst his own backbenchers. Despite support from the prime minister, the Earl of Aberdeen, the bill was defeated by the peers.¹³²

Peel’s intemperate language may have reflected a coarsening of discourse about Jews in general and about Disraeli in particular—the two phenomena being connected. As his political profile rose he naturally attracted more attention. Of national and even international importance, he now invited comment and criticism from within and beyond parliamentary circles. And, given the eminence he accorded to his origins plus his own racial rhetoric, it was hardly surprising that adversaries picked on his Jewishness. Disraeli was positively delighted when the Jews were discussed in racial terms, especially when the usage of racial categories could be ascribed to his publications.133

Anyone encountering Disraeli was bound to consider him in the terms he himself prescribed. Hence Queen Victoria noted in her journal soon after first meeting him that he was “thoroughly Jewish looking.” In his novel Bleak House (1853) Charles Dickens could not resist combining a dig at the futility of politics with a shaft aimed at Disraeli. In a mocking reverie on the feud between Palmerston and Russell that had led to the fall of the government and the brief administration in which Disraeli served, the narrator wondered whether “the limited choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle—supposing it to be impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and the Leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Coodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle, what are you to do with Noodle?” While he was chancellor the Morning Chronicle ritually referred to Disraeli as B Dejuda.¹³⁴

Every malevolent claim about him and virtually the gamut of anti-Jewish stereotypes were collated in one of the first biographies of Disraeli. It was written by Thomas Macknight, a liberal journalist and political writer of Ulster Protestant heritage. All the themes expounded by Disraeli’s critics and his enemies are to be found here. That it appeared in 1854 is significant: it shows that Disraeli’s prominence is a key to understanding the strength of feeling he generated. The higher he rose, the greater the power he accumulated, the more intense the antipathy he aroused.¹³⁵

Macknight’s portrait was structured around the antimony between the “English character” and everything Disraeli stood for. The young Disraeli was raised by his father, who “could scarcely be called an Englishman.” He had absorbed a great pride in the Jews from whom he came, and Macknight regarded this as “the best part of Mr Disraeli’s character.” However, he asked, how could a man so proud of his ancestry sincerely lead a party so hostile to the Jews?136

Towards the end of the tract Macknight tackled Disraeli’s pronouncements on Jews and Judaism. He read his argument for admitting Jews to parliament as a demand for “extraordinary preference” on the grounds of racial superiority and accused him of “confounding the mere fact of blood with religious principles.” Macknight emphasized that Christianity was a universal creed: “A true Christian can never pride himself on his race.” He berated Disraeli for extolling a racial tribalism that set Jews apart from and at odds with their neighbours. Their arrogance had brought them suffering, although “they endured only what they would themselves have inflicted on the Christians.” Contrary to Disraeli’s claim that the Jews spread culture and enlightenment, he argued that they clung to the archaic and immoral tenets enshrined in the Old Testament.¹³⁷

Macknight’s book is important because it articulates traditional religious prejudices against Jews while carefully rejecting racial thinking. If people began to talk about Disraeli and Jews in racial terms, associating them with revolution and power, this may have been a tribute to the potency of Disraeli’s own rhetoric. Macknight was also a savvy student of Disraeli’s politics and laid bare his every inconsistency and betrayal of principle or person. The vehemence of his broadside is a register of the sincere moral outrage Disraeli’s career provoked. He attracted vitriol, but this was not necessarily because his critics were Jew-haters.¹³⁸

It is plausible to see the attacks on Disraeli as a Jew as being mainly a reaction to his racial rhetoric, because his actions as a Jew were so sparse. Despite the “mysterious sympathy” he proclaimed to Mrs Willyams, he did little to give it form other than in words. One rare instance was recorded by Edward Stanley, the 14th Earl of Derby’s eldest son. Stanley admired Disraeli and after he entered parliament in 1849 regarded him as a mentor. Disraeli, in turn, became fond of the young man and nurtured his career. We can follow their relationship intimately thanks to the notes and the diary Stanley kept. They testify to one of the most astounding fantasies ever to emerge from Disraeli’s fervid imagination.139

In January 1851 Stanley visited Disraeli at Hughendon. He arrived when Disraeli was completing Lord George Bentinck. While they were out walking, Disraeli started to talk about “the Hebrew race,” their numbers and distribution. He spoke of his own (invented) roots in Spain and vaunted the contribution that Jews had made to European culture. Stanley asked if the different portions of the diaspora communicated, to which Disraeli answered that they did not. “He then unfolded a plan for restoring the Jewish nation to Palestine—said the country was admirably suited for them—the financiers all over Europe might help—the Porte is weak—the Turks / holders of property could be bought out—this, he said, was the object of his life—great energy in tone and manner—‘Rothschild says I have given them up—it is not true—I can help them better in this way than in any other.’ He thought the merchants would not go themselves but send younger sons etc. (He seemed to think he had said too much, and drew back into himself).” The conversation then swerved towards religion and the “Asian mystery,” meaning the influence of the creeds born in Palestine. Towards the end of the exchange Disraeli mentioned that he was working on Bentinck’s political life. Stanley then deliberately brought Disraeli back to his amazing statement: “I said he ought to have the Foreign Office in order to gain information and influence on his favourite subject. Questioned whether the Jews would wish to return—this he allowed to be the great difficulty. Also the prejudice of the Sephardim against the others would have to be got over. ‘Coningsby was merely a feeler—my views were not fully developed at that time—since then all I have written has been for one purpose. The man who should restore the H. race to their country would be the Messiah—the real savior of prophecy!’ He did not add formally that he aspired to play this part, but it was evidently implied. He thought very highly of the capabilities of the country, and hinted that his chief object in acquiring power here would be to promote the return.”140

What is one to make of this dreamlike scene set in the wintry grounds of an English country house, like a chapter from one of Disraeli’s novels? First, in 1855 Stanley rewrote the early portions of his diary, and the later version differs from the first in some significant details. In 1855 Stanley had added that Disraeli had said Rothschild wealth and the weakness of the Turkish government would enable the establishment of “colonies with rights over the soil, and security from ill-treatment. The question of nationality might wait until these had taken hold.” Second, over the following years Stanley had evidently mulled over the encounter and watched out for anything that might confirm whether it hinted at a consistent turn of mind or was a singular effusion. He subsequently noted that he had

often recalled to mind, and been perplexed by, this very singular conversation: he never recurred to it again: his manner seemed that of a man thoroughly in earnest: and though I have many times since seen him under the influence of pleasurable excitement, this is the only instance in which he ever appeared to me to show any signs of any higher emotion. There is certainly nothing in his character to render it unlikely that the whole scene was a mystification: and in the succeeding four years I have heard of no practical step taken, or attempted to be taken by him in the matter: but which purpose could the mystification, if it were one, serve? Scarcely even that of amusement, for no witness was present. There is no doubt D’s mind is frequently occupied with subjects relative to the Hebrews: he said to me once, incidentally, but with earnestness, that if he retired from politics in time enough, he should resume literature, and write the Life of Christ from a national point of view, intending it for a posthumous work.141

In the second version Stanley drops the suggestion that Disraeli saw himself in a messianic role and, on the contrary, implies that it was a “mystification” or a fantasy. He very pertinently observed that Disraeli had done nothing to realize his vision. Instead, Stanley brings the incident down to the level of a vague rumination about writing a book on Jesus from the Jewish point of view. So, although Disraeli’s cogitations seem stunningly prescient, they were just products of his imagination and were to be taken no more seriously than the plot for an unwritten novel.¹⁴²

Indeed, three years later, when Henry Drummond raised with Disraeli the prospect of restoring the Jews to Palestine, he got a dusty reply. Disraeli did not take the opportunity to reiterate what he had said to Stanley. Instead, he wrote, “The House of Israel has outlived Pharoes, Assyrians, & Babylon. It will exist when Turks & Russians are alike forgotten. The only race, to whom God has spoken, defies Time & Fate. Their laws are written, their history read, their poems sung, in all the Churches; & the only conqueror, whom no Congress can arrest, is the divine Prince of the Royal House of David.” Far from aspiring to a national rebirth, he apparently regarded the dispersion and spread of Christianity as the real victory of the Jews.¹⁴³

The gulf between Disraeli’s Jewish racial fantasies and what he actually accomplished on behalf of Jews in his lifetime is illustrated by his response to Russell’s next effort to secure the admission of professing Jews to parliament. In May 1854 Russell introduced a bill to consolidate all three oaths and simultaneously amend the wording to make it inoffensive to Roman Catholics and Jews. He specifically proposed striking out the anachronistic requirement that Roman Catholics abjure support for the Stuart pretenders to the throne of England and changing the wording to “so help me God.” This more radical step stirred up a hornet’s nest.144

Disraeli now found himself in the happy position of being on the same side as the most vehement advocates of the Christian constitution. He was able to oppose the bill in good faith on the grounds that it was a constitutional amendment and required careful consideration. He also enjoyed for once being able to bruit his support for Jewish emancipation while knocking Russell, who had been, if anything, its more consistent champion. “Here is a Bill,” he protested, “in which the word ‘Jew’ never appears, in which a person not versed in our political tactics could not for a moment divine that the object of the noble Lord lay concealed in it.” The bill was defeated by 251 to 247 votes, and during the debate Disraeli took a rare delight in turning the tables on Russell, who had earlier charged him with insincerity.¹⁴⁵

For the next three years the government was distracted by the war with Russia in the Crimea. It was left to a private member, the Mancunian Liberal MP Milner Gibson, to make a fresh attempt to facilitate the entry of Jews into parliament. In May 1856 he proposed a simple amendment to the wording of the oath of abjuration. Although supported by the prime minister, Lord Palmerston, the bill met heavy opposition. Disraeli made another quirky contribution, saying he would support the measure until it reached committee stage and then propose an amendment to retain the original wording but exempt the Jews from having to use it. The bill emerged slightly battered from the lower house only to be soundly rejected by the peers.¹⁴⁶

It was becoming increasingly untenable, though, for the House of Lords to negate legislation sent up from the Commons with sizeable majorities. When Lord Palmerston won a sweeping victory in the general election in April 1857, the liberal tide flowed even more strongly, and it was only a question of when another push would be made to secure what had become a totemic issue for Liberal and Radical MPs. Palmerston duly introduced a bill to consolidate the oaths and amend objectionable features. Despite its commingling of Jewish with Catholic interests, the bill passed. It was defeated by the peers, notwithstanding a powerful supporting speech by Lord Lyndhurst, Disraeli’s old patron. Lord Derby, his current master, led the bulk of Tory aristocrats in opposition.147

Russell, who was now under pressure from indignant Liberal and Radical circles, tried to circumvent the resistance by introducing an Oaths Validity Amendment Bill that would extend to parliament the modifications passed long ago with respect to oaths taken by municipal officers. Tory MPs saw through this device and objected that it was unparliamentary. Anticipating that the measure would lack the force of one sent up with the ringing endorsement of the Commons, Russell gave up. He tried another approach in August, convening a committee of twenty-five members, including the chief law officers, Disraeli and Gladstone, to consider whether a declaration might be substituted for the problematic oath. This avenue, too, proved a dead end. The committee reaffirmed that the issue required a specific resolution, one preferably endorsed by parliament as a whole. Undeterred, Russell introduced a bill to substitute a single oath for the three existing ones and to exempt Jews from the need to utter the words contrary to their faith. It went through the House of Commons without facing a division, but before Russell could take it further the government fell. By chance, Disraeli found himself in power just when the Jewish question reached its climax.¹⁴⁸

VII

The years of opposition between 1852 and 1858 had been long and grueling. Disraeli worked ceaselessly to persuade his party to drop protection and to persuade the electorate that the Tories had changed. He also had to nurture his relationship with Lord Derby, whose notion of leadership sometimes reduced him in despair. At times it seemed as if all the magnates did was hunt, shoot, and race horses.149

At the end of January 1855 the government of Lord Aberdeen was defeated on a key vote, and once more Disraeli’s anticipation quickened. But, once more, Lord Derby failed to knit together an administration that could command the confidence of the Commons. Disraeli had now been thwarted twice at the very cusp of power. In the winter of 1856–57, while he was vacationing in Paris with Mary Anne, there was more grumbling about his leadership. It was spiced with prejudice. Alexander Beresford Hope, one of his most persistent antagonists, always referred to him as “the Jew.”¹⁵⁰

In March 1857 Palmerston won an increased majority in the general election. His dominance appeared absolute, and Disraeli seemed condemned to spend his life in fruitless opposition. To compound his misery, Lord Litchfield decided to call in the loan he and his brother had extended for the purchase of Hughendon. His debts now amounted to a near-astronomical £25,750, and his income could not cover the cost of both running the estate and servicing the interest—let alone repaying such a huge capital sum.¹⁵¹

Partial salvation came in the form of another government crisis. On 19 February 1858 Palmerston’s government unexpectedly lost a vote in the Commons. Queen Victoria called on Lord Derby to form an administration and, rather to everyone’s surprise, he did. Paradoxically, his task was simplified because renewed attempts to persuade Lord Grey and Gladstone to join him were rejected. Once again Disraeli’s presence repelled them. Lord Edward Stanley, by now a rising talent on the liberal wing of the Conservative Party, also declined to take office, partly because he foresaw that it would be a weak, doomed administration but also because “the character of Disraeli, who must lead the Commons, does not command general confidence, either in parliament or among the public.” The government would never attract men of stature from the Peelites because of the “connection with Disraeli. Able as he is, this man will never command public confidence.”152

Nevertheless, a week later Disraeli was back in the chancellor’s official residence, 11 Downing Street, in an office that carried a handsome annuity and a pension. Notwithstanding this good fortune he faced a myriad of problems both at the Treasury and as leader of the House. The first hurdle was the budget, which the new chancellor managed with aplomb. Efforts to strengthen the minority government by inducing Gladstone to join foundered on his now implacable antipathy to Disraeli. The government struggled on into the summer, when, amidst the welter of routine business, the Jewish question blew up again.¹⁵³

Russell’s Oaths Bill had passed through the Commons without a division, in spite of objections from the usual quarters, but before it could go into committee the government fell. Normally such disruption would be fatal to a government-backed measure, but Russell was allowed to keep it alive. Presumably Disraeli, as leader of the House of Commons, assented to this. The bill was next considered on 17 March 1858 and accepted despite ritual opposition from Newdegate, who referred to a petition signed by 320 Anglican clergymen “praying that the House would not abandon its Christian character.” It completed the committee stage and received its third reading on 12 April, again without a division. Disraeli wrote to Mrs Brydges Willyams, “The great campaign recommences.”¹⁵⁴

If Disraeli did only one thing to justify inclusion in a Jewish pantheon, it was his performance over the next weeks when he cajoled his leader into swallowing full civil rights for professing Jews and braved the indignation of a still sizeable portion of his party in order to complete the last stage of Jewish emancipation. The twists and turns need to be followed in detail to appreciate just how much energy and intelligence he expended to bring this about. Even so, while his intentions were clear his motives remain opaque.

Once it arrived in the House of Lords the new bill was torn apart. Lyndhurst was unable to prevail against the combined force of Derby and Chelmsford, the new lord chancellor (previously Sir Francis Thesiger). The crucial fifth clause, which amended the wording of the oath of allegiance for the benefit of professing Jews, was removed. This left Disraeli in a quandary. His party in the Lords had decisively rejected the admission of Jews; there was now a danger that the Whig, Liberal, and Radical MPs would see this as an unacceptable affront and use their majority to assail the peers. Yet he could make headway only in cooperation with Russell, and, very quietly, this is what he did. Having met privately with the opposition leader on 7 May, he informed Lord Derby that “Lord John Russell told me, that it was impossible for him to bring forward any more Oaths bills in any form: That his men, in the Commons, were quite as difficult to manage as your men in the Lords, & that ‘resolution’ must be his next step, for he had exhausted all means to prevent it. He suggested, however, that some Peer, might move, by way of amendment, wh[ich] he said c[oul]d be done, the plan which I intimated to him. Indeed, he said, he thought it would be better from the Lords as a compromise, which would terminate the struggle.”155

The “plan” was for a bill that would enable each House to administer its own oath to new members. This was a reasonable solution, but Derby panicked at the thought that Disraeli might suggest he endorsed it. He was prepared for Disraeli and Russell to give it a go but insisted that his name could not be associated with “such an arrangement.” He would vote on it as his conscience dictated. In accordance with their joint scheme, on 10 May Russell put down a motion stating that the House of Commons disagreed with the peers and then proposed that a committee be formed to explain why. The proposition was passed by 263 to 150 votes. Lionel de Rothschild, reelected for the City, was invited to join the committee’s deliberations.156

Three days later the House of Commons stated its reasons for being unable to accept the action of the Lords and voted to hold a conference of both Houses to resolve their differences. The meeting was duly convened, and the original bill sent back. The ball was now again with the peers, but this time Disraeli had been manoeuvring behind the scenes. Lord Lyndhurst informed him that “the question of Jewish disabilities has become more perplexed than ever. Many peers, on both sides of the House are anxious for some compromise, if possible.” Another peer, Lord Bethell, proposed an acceptable substitute for Clause 5, which Lyndhurst urged Disraeli to put to Derby. In their debate on 31 May Lord Lucan also advanced the idea of a bill that would allow each House to go its own way. Derby gave his grudging assent, although he wanted a special piece of legislation to this effect rather than an amendment to an existing law. Unfortunately, he fell ill shortly afterwards, and the whole thing was put into abeyance until mid-June.¹⁵⁷

When Disraeli resumed his covert role in piloting the measure through parliament, one of his chief concerns was to find a way that would be acceptable to Russell and his people while not making Derby and the Tory peers look bad. It was a delicate task. He told his leader he had consulted with the attorney general, Sir Richard Bethell, who had approved the principle of a bill that would license each House to administer its own style of oath. But it was desirable that it come from a Tory peer, either Lucan or Lyndhurst. Both peers rather confusingly now put bills before the Lords. Derby was absent from the chamber when the bills were first debated, giving an opportunity to the diehards to wreck Disraeli’s ploy. They insisted that any step to relieve the Jews of disabilities should come from the lower house and that the Lords be put in a position of registering their dissent prior to letting the other House go its own way.158

Disraeli’s frustration was immense, and he turned to Stanley for help in turning around his father. On 12 July, with Derby restored to the front bench in the upper house, the peers debated Lord Lucan’s bill (Lyndhurst having earlier agreed to postpone his). Disraeli hoped the peers would accept the compromise, but instead they passed the bill in amended form and attached five reasons why they considered that Jews should not be admitted to parliament. The fourth reason stated: “Because, without imputing any Disloyalty or Disaffection to Her Majesty’s Subjects of the Jewish Persuasion, the Lords consider that the Denial and Rejection of that Saviour, in whose Name each House of parliament daily offers up its collective Prayers for the Divine Blessing on its Councils, constitutes a moral unfitness to take part in the Legislation of a professedly Christian Community.”¹⁵⁹

When the House of Commons received the bill and the reasons the next day, Russell was nonplussed. As he pointed out, there was a flat contradiction between the two: it was a ridiculous and offensive situation. Nevertheless, he saw an opportunity to finally resolve the long-running sore. He proposed to the House that it ignore the reasons given by the peers for continuing to exclude Jews from the legislature and pass Lucan’s amended bill, which would do what was necessary. Disraeli stayed late in the House to hear Russell’s “observations,” but he took no further role in the proceedings. The bill had its second reading on 16 July, went into committee on 19 July, received its third reading on 20 July, and obtained the Royal Assent three days later.160

Having been elected by the Liberal voters of the City of London no fewer than five times before, on 26 July 1858 Lionel de Rothschild finally took the oath in a form that he found palatable and assumed his seat. During his brief passage from the bar of the house to the Liberal benches Rothschild deviated in order to shake the hand of his friend and quondam ally. This gesture helped to cement Disraeli’s image as a champion of the Jewish cause, but the evidence suggests he was a fickle, if not a false, friend. Just a few days earlier Rothschild had visited him in his office at the Palace of Westminster to enquire when the bill would be signed into law. As he recalled to Charlotte, “I told him that we were very anxious to have the royal assent to the Bill in time to enable me to take my seat this year, but you know what a humbug he is. He talked of what is customary without promising anything.” According to Lionel, Disraeli reiterated that “he worked all he could for us”—and then added skeptically to Charlotte, “so he said.”¹⁶¹

It is notable that in his correspondence, usually the vehicle for spontaneous expressions of his innermost feelings, Disraeli made no explicit comment about Lionel’s rite of passage. The only possible reference is in a letter to Mrs Brydges Willyams written on the same day. He told her: “The last month has been one of almost supernatural labour. It has, however, been successful.” This was a strangely muted way to celebrate a great triumph, especially in a letter to one as devoted to the good reputation of the Jewish people as Mrs Willyams. It could just as well have related to the prorogation and the end of the session as a whole. Disraeli never mentioned the struggle and its eventual conclusion in his later autobiographical notes, either. From his silence on this subject, when he was ebullient about so much else, one can only conclude that the achievement of Jewish emancipation did not matter that much to him. The effort he put into resolving it was calibrated to the scale of the obstacle it posed to smooth relations between himself, his leader, and his party, not to mention between himself and the Rothschilds. Like so much else in his career, seen in the context of the moment, it was a triumph of political tactics rather than the fulfilment of a cherished ideal.162

Routine business had continued all the while, and the measure to reform the government of India was of more weight than yet another Jew Bill. All through February 1859, alongside Stanley and Derby he had batted back and forth proposals for parliamentary reform. At the start of March Disraeli introduced a bill to enlarge the electorate but in such a way as to build in checks and balances. The checks were the “fancy franchises” designed to give additional votes to those with assets and a vested interest in upholding property rights. The bill foundered under repeated assaults from Gladstone and the Radicals and was finally defeated at the end of the month.¹⁶³

Derby now called a general election that Disraeli recommended should be fought on the basis of modest parliamentary reform to secure stable government. The electorate was less than impressed, and the government failed to obtain an overall majority. Rather than stagger on, losing vote after vote until all the ministry’s authority had been eroded, Disraeli resolved to quit with dignity. He could not foresee that Palmerston, despite his age, would form an administration and rule serenely for another five years until his death in October 1865.¹⁶⁴