‘My dear Lord,’ began Lord Odo, ‘a dreadful rumour has reached us.’
‘Indeed! Pray, what is it?’
‘We have heard that you intend to open the proceedings tomorrow in French.’
‘Well, Lord Odo, what of that?’
‘Why, of course, we all know that there is no one in Europe more competent to do so than yourself. But then, after all, to make a speech in French is a commonplace accomplishment. There will be at least half a dozen men at the Congress who could do it almost, if not quite, as well as yourself. But, on the other hand, who but you can make an English speech? All these Plenipotentiaries have come from the various Courts of Europe expecting the greatest intellectual treat of their lives in hearing English spoken by its greatest living master.* The question for you, my dear Lord, is — will you disappoint them?’
Lord Beaconsfield put his glass in his eye, fixed his gaze on Lord Odo, and then said: ‘There is much force in what you say. I will consider the point.’ And the next day he opened the proceedings in English.
* An exaggeration of course, in the age of Anthony Trollope, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) and Thomas Hardy, but not entirely empty flattery. Disraeli’s father Isaac was an acknowledged man of letters, and Benjamin himself had published fifteen well-regarded novels (his sixteenth and last would appear in 1880), a volume of poetry, a play, and a handful of non-fiction works. His speaking skills had required some work, however: see As Good as his Word.