One man, whom he had made, betrayed him; I knew that man well and was acquainted with the whole story; but Disraeli had the magnanimity of a noble character; no one ever heard him utter a word against the confidential subordinate who had used him so ill. This may, perhaps, be contrasted with the bitterness of his early attacks upon Peel. But at the time of which I am writing he was no longer a disappointed man struggling, as the French say, to “arrive.” He had “arrived,” and in his proud position took no heed of the malice and venom of lesser men. His conversation was always delightful; but nowhere did he shine more than at the Sunday dinners of Baron Lionel de Rothschild. Those dinners were indeed brilliant—Dizzy, Charles Villiers, the famous free-trade member for Wolverhampton, and Bernal Osborne were almost always there; John Delane, the Jupiter of the _Times_, another frequent guest.[37] To listen to those wonderful wits, talking not for the gallery, but throwing the ball to and fro for their own pleasure, was something worth remembering. Those were conversational fireworks. There were always one or two of the smartest and most beautiful women present, and one or two young men—often Henry Calcraft and myself. Baron Lionel himself was one of the wisest, kindest and noblest men that I ever knew, and the Baroness, who must have been so beautiful in her youth, was as a matron the picture of grace and dignity. In a Jewish house Disraeli was always happy. He retained (witness “Coningsby”) the greatest admiration for the people from whom it was his pride to have sprung. One day I went to call upon Baron Lionel in Piccadilly. “Your friend has just left me,” said the Baron. “Whom do you mean?” I asked. “Why, Dizzy, to be sure—he is your friend, isn’t he?” I asked at haphazard what they had been talking about. “Oh!” said the Baron, “as usual, the Race.” The great fascination of Lord Beaconsfield’s talk lay in the grotesque turn which he could give to the most ordinary subjects. His epithets were sometimes quite startling, even in his Parliamentary speeches. A friend of mine (I cannot remember who it was) once put this to me very wittily and very sadly. The House of Commons had been sitting all night. I went down to the House—to which my office gave me access—and saw the green benches, not crowded, but occupied by a number of members looking hideously debauched and being addressed by an Irishman, wild, unkempt, unshorn. As I entered the lobby my friend came out. “This is a pretty state of things,” he said, “and there is no one in authority. Hartington has gone to Goodwood, Dizzy has gone to the Lords, and Gladstone is reading Homer at Hawarden! If only Dizzy had been here he would have crushed these men with an adjective!” It was so true!