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TERRIBLY INTIMATE PORTRAITS
COMPILED BY
NOEL COWARD
WITH SIXTEEN
REPRODUCTIONS FROM OLD MASTERS BY
LORN MACNAUGHTAN
BONI AND LIVERIGHT
PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK
TERRIBLY INTIMATE PORTRAITS
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC.
_Printed in the United States of America_
_To_
GLADYS BARBER
AUTHOR'S NOTE
In view of the fact that I have received many
tiresome and even carping letters from the
more captious critics of this child of my brain, I
feel in justice to myself and Miss Macnaughtan
that it is incumbent upon me to protest, in no
measured terms, against what is not only an organised
opposition and a pusillanimous display of
superficial egotism, but a dirty trick.
I have been taunted with my inaccuracies; I
have been called a fool; an idiot; an uneducated
dolt; and an illiterate cow! This is far from kind,
and I resent it.
My concentrated researches prove these memoirs
to be absolutely accurate in every historical detail.
I refute utterly these criticisms, fostered by
naught but the basest jealousy.
My parents and other relatives consider the book
excellent.
NOEL COWARD.
"THE HOLLIES,"
MARINE CRESCENT,
ROME.
FOREWORD
I have endeavoured in writing and compiling this book, to emphasize not
only actual deeds and historical facts, but to aspire to an even higher
goal--to conjure to life for a few brief moments the "Souls" of my
subjects, stark in all their deathless beauty. What task could be nobler
than to delve in these vivid famous lives and bring to light, perhaps,
some hitherto undiscovered motive--some delicate and radiant action
which so far has escaped the common historian and lain unplucked like a
wee wood violet in an old, old garden!
Modern realists would have us believe that romance and beauty are dead,
that the spirit of heroic achievement and chivalry has been crushed by
the juggernautic wheels of civilisation. Poor blind, sad-hearted
fools--their dreary, unlovely minds have risen like gaunt weeds from the
ashes of their wasted opportunities. Romance dead? Never! And in order
to disprove their dismal forebodings, I have included in my portrait
gallery studies of such national heroes as--Snurge, Spout, Puffwater and
Plinge. Men selected purposely not merely for the glory of their
achievements but for the individual dissimilarity of their fundamental
characteristics, and to illustrate to doubting minds the amazing
resemblance between the signal courage and romanticism of our forebears,
and the innate present day spirit of high endeavour.
Take for example "Madcap Moll," Eighth Duchess of Wapping, and her
famous ride to Norwich--and compare it with Jabez Puffwater's ride to
the succour of his old Aunt Topsy. Or E. Maxwell Snurge's celebrated
national appeal in West Forty-Second street, and Sarah, Lady
Tunnell-Penge's dramatic speech from Tower Hill to the turbulent people
of London.
All, all are impregnated through and through with the never failing
spirit of public heroism, and staunch loyalty to existing standards, and
all will stand for beauty, romance, and nobility of purpose until the
end of time.
Ring up the curtain. Bring to life the faded tapestries of yesterday
side by side with the vivid multi-coloured bas-reliefs of to-day! The
frou-frou of brocade and lavender adown bygone corridors, and the sharp
toned clarion call of Twentieth Century heroism and daring-do!
NOEL COWARD
"THE HOLLIES,"
MARINE CRESCENT,
ROME.
CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD
1. MY AMERICAN DIARY
2. JULIE DE POOPINAC
3. MADCAP MOLL, EIGHTH DUCHESS OF WAPPING
4. E. MAXWELL SNURGE, AN INTIMATE STUDY
5. BIANCA DI PIANNO-FORTI
6. SARAH, LADY TUNNELL-PENGE ("WINSOME SAL")
7. JABEZ PUFFWATER
8. FURSTIN LIEBERWURST ZU SCHWEINEN-KALBER
9. JAKE D'ANNUNZIO SPOUT
10. DONNA ISABELLA ANGELA Y BANANAS
11. MAGGIE MACWHISTLE
12. THE EDUCATION OF RUPERT PLINGE
13. ANNA PODD
14. SOPHIE, THE UNCROWNED QUEEN OF HENRY VIII
15. "LA BIBI"
16. AH! AH!, QUEEN OF THE RUDE ISLANDS
GLOSSARY
PRESS NOTICES
FOOTNOTES
[Illustration: NOEL COWARD _Author of "My American Diary_"]
TERRIBLY INTIMATE PORTRAITS
I
"MY AMERICAN DIARY"
_SATURDAY_
I felt that some sort of scene was necessary in order to celebrate my
first entrance into America, so I said "Little lamb, who made thee?" to
a customs official. A fracas ensued far exceeding my wildest dreams,
during which he delved down--with malice aforethought--to the bottom of
my trunk and discovered the oddest things in my sponge bag. I think I'm
going to like America.
I have very good letters to Daniel Blood, Dolores Hoofer, Senator
Pinchbeck, Violet Curzon-Meyer, and Julia Pescod, so I ought to get
along all right socially at any rate.
It would be quite impossible to give an adequate description of one's
first glimpse of Broadway at night--I should like to have a little
pocket memory of it to take out and look at whenever I feel depressed. I
shall feel awfully offended for Piccadilly Circus when I get back.
God! How I love frosted chocolate!
_WEDNESDAY_
For a really jolly evening, recommend me to the Times Square subway
station. You get into any train with that delicious sensation of
breathless uncertainty as to where exactly you are going to be conveyed.
To approach an official is sheer folly, as any tentative question is
quickly calculated to work him up into a frenzy of rage and violence,
while to ask your fellow passengers is equally useless as they are
generally as dazed as you are. The great thing is to keep calm and at
all costs avoid expresses.
As another means of locomotion the Elevated possesses a rugged charm
which is all its own, the serene pleasure of gazing into frowsy bedroom
windows at elderly coloured ladies in bust bodices and flannel
petticoats, being only equalled by the sudden thrill you experience when
the two front carriages hurtle down into the street in flames.
I took three of my plays to Fred Latham at the Globe Theatre. He didn't
accept them for immediate production, but he told me of two delightful
bus rides, one going up Riverside Drive, and the other coming down
Riverside Drive. I was very grateful as the busses, though slow moving,
are more or less tranquil and filled with the wittiest
advertisements--especially the little notices about official civility,
which made everyone rock with laughter.
_FRIDAY_
Met Alexander Woollcott and Heywood Broun at a first night--we were
roguish together for hours--Alexander Woollcott says that each new play
is a fresh joy to him, but the question is whether he's a fresh joy to
each new play!--I wonder.
_TUESDAY_
Spent all last night at Coney Island--I've never known such an
atmosphere of genuine carnival. We went on "The Whip," the sudden
convulsions of which drove the metal clasp of my braces sharply into my
back, I think scarring me for life. Then we went into "The Haunted
House" where a board gave way beneath my feet and ricked my ankle, the
"Giant Dipper" was comparatively tame as I only bruised my side and cut
my cheek. After this we had "hot dog" and stout, which the others seemed
to enjoy immensely, then--laughing gaily--we all ran through a revolving
wooden wheel, at least the others did, I inadvertently caught my foot
and fell, which caused a lot of amusement. I shall not go out again with
a sharp edged cigarette case in my pocket.
_THURSDAY_
Went down to Chinatown with a jolly party all in deep evening dress
which I thought was rather inappropriate. Mrs. Vernon Bale dropped her
side comb into the chop suey which occasioned much laughter--Jeffery was
very tiresome and refused to be impressed, saying repeatedly that he'd
seen it all before in "Aladdin!"
We all went to "Montmartre" afterwards. Ina Claire was there looking
lovely as usual. Marie Prune was sitting at the next table squinting
dreadfully and, I think, rather drunk and obviously upset about her
sister running away with a Chinaman--poor dear, she's had a lot of
trouble but still even that's no excuse for looking like a blanc mange
slipping off the dish, she should cultivate a little more vitality and
never wear pink.
_MONDAY_
Just back from a week-end at Southampton with Mrs. Vernon Bale. Apart
from coming down to breakfast she's a perfect hostess. We played the
most peculiar games on Sunday evening and she and Florrie Wick did a
Nautch dance which was most entertaining and bizarre! How hospitable
Americans are, I've fixed up heaps of luncheon engagements for next
week--Edgar Peopthatch was particularly kind--he offered to introduce me
to Carl Van Vechten and Sophie Tucker both of whom I've been longing to
meet.
_THURSDAY_
Such a busy day! Had plays refused by Edgar Selwyn and William Harris,
and this book turned down by Scribner's. I also fell off a bus, being
unused to getting out on the right-hand side. I just love America.
_SUNDAY_
Went with Lester to hear Tom Burke sing at the Hippodrome. His voice is
better than it's ever been and he sang exceedingly good stuff. Poor John
MacCormack with his winsome Irish ballads.
_TUESDAY_
Lunched at the Coffee House--what an atmosphere--even the veal and ham
pie tasted of the best American literature, and there was a lovely
signed photograph of Hugh Walpole. I do hope I shall be taken again.
The "Vanity Fair" offices impressed me a lot, they're so comfortable,
artistic, and full of deathless endeavour. They took the proofs of this
book in order to publish one or two extracts from it and sent it back
full of the loveliest corrections. I was duly grateful as Mr. Bishop had
told me a _lot_ about burlesque during the afternoon.
_WEDNESDAY_
Lynn Fontanne took me to tea at Neysa McMein's studio which was most
attractive, she is a charming hostess and there was an air of pleasing
bohemianism about the whole affair which went far towards making me take
another cake--in more formal surroundings I should naturally have
refrained. After tea I played and sang and everybody talked. It was all
great fun. I liked F. P. A. enormously, he really ought to write for the
papers.
_SATURDAY_
If I had money I should buy the English rights of "Dulcy" and drag Lynn
back to England by sheer force--we have few enough good actresses
without letting those we have, fly away. There's no denying that
America's the place to get on--this book was refused by Harcourt Brace
only yesterday.
Met the Theatre Guild this morning and played hide and seek with them in
the park--such a merry set of rascals! Teresa Helburn invented a new
prank--she took all my MSS. and hid them in a tin box for two
months--how we laughed!
_THURSDAY_
Apparently all the theatrical "Elite" congregate at the Algonquin for
supper, I noticed Elsie and Mrs. Janis, Irving Berlin, Frances Carson,
and Desiree Bibble who looked appalling in probably the rudest hat that
has ever been worn by man, woman, or child.
Marc Connelly made me laugh for twenty minutes over a friend's
funeral--_what_ a sense of humour!
_TUESDAY_
Spent all day on an island in the middle of the Sound with a lot of old
gentlemen in towels--returned very sunburned and in great pain--now I
know what Jeffery suffered when he embarked for England looking like a
fire engine.
Went to the first night of "Bluebeard's Eighth Wife" with Alfred
Lunt--in which Barry Baxter made an enormous hit, he is now a brilliant
light comedian. I think one or two of his sworn acquaintances in England
will be _quite_ cross when I tell them.
_SATURDAY_
Had my first experience of surf bathing to-day, at Easthampton. Apart
from spraining my wrist, being grazed all over, stunned by a breaker,
and finally swept several miles out to sea, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
_MONDAY_
Met Mr. Liveright--what a dear!
JULIE DE POOPINAC
[Illustration: JULIE DE POOPINAC
_From a Miniature_]
For several years all France rang with the name of Julie de Poopinac--or
to give her her full title, Angelique Yvonne Mathilde Clementine
Virginie Celeste Julie, Vicomtesse de Poopinac. As the most peerless of
all the beauties at Court during the last years of a desperately
tottering throne, she has been hailed and heralded (and is still in some
outlying villages in Old Provence and Old Normandy) as almost an
enchantress, so great was her beauty and her wit. Born in a stately
chateau in Old Picardy, she was brought up in comparative seclusion; her
father, the Duc de Potache,[1] spent his time at Court, so that her
radiant loveliness was left to mature and develop unnoticed. Her
childhood was uneventful, but at the age of seventeen this ravishing
creature was wedded by proxy to Gustave de Poopinac, a dashing young
officer in the Garde du Corps,[2] and at twenty-five she came to Court
in order to see her husband; but alas! Fate, seated securely in
Destiny's irreproachable turret, willed it that her journey should be in
vain. She left Old Picardy a merry, laughing married woman--and arrived
at Versailles a widow. Gustave, the husband whose love she would never
know, perished at an early hour on the morning of her arrival, at an
adversary's sword-point behind a potting-shed near the Petit Trianon.
Rumour whispered that it was on account of a woman that he fought and
lost, but this last blow of Providence's hatchet was spared his girl
bride, innocent, secure in her supreme purity and innate virginity. If
evil tongues had even mentioned the word "woman" to her, she would not
have known what they meant.
Gradually the pain of her loss grew less. She commenced to enter into
Court life with a certain amount of zest. Ben-Hepple tells us that it
was during a masked carnival in the Park of Versailles that she first
attracted the attention of the amorous King. He had dropped behind Du
Barry for a moment to tie up his bootlace, and Julie, running girlishly
along the moonlit path, bumped violently into his arched back. With a
muttered exclamation he straightened himself and tore off her mask.
Ben-Hepple goes on to say that his Majesty went from scarlet to white,
from white to green, and then back again to scarlet before he made his
world-famed remark, "_Mon Dieu! Quel visage!_" At this moment Du Barry
appeared, furious at being left, and dragged her royal paramour away.
But the mischief was done. The wheel of circumstance had turned once
more--and a few days later Julie changed her _appartements_ for some on
a higher landing.
What vice! What intrigue! What corruption! Versailles seemed but a vast
conservatory sheltering the vile soil from which sprang the lilies of
France--La Belle France, as Edgar Sheepmeadow so eloquently puts it.
Did any single bloom escape the blight of ineffable depravity? No--not
one! Occasionally some fresh young thing would appear at
Court--appealing and innocent. Then the atmosphere would begin to take
effect: some one would whisper something to her--she would leer almost
unconsciously; a few days later she would be discovered carrying on
anyhow!
Julie de Poopinac, beautiful, accomplished and incredibly witty, queened
it in this _melee_ of appalling degeneracy; she was not at heart wicked,
but her environment closed in upon her pinched and wasted heart,
crushing the youth and sweetness from it.
She held between her slim fingers the reins of government, and womanlike
she twisted them this way and that, her foolish head slightly turned by
adulation and flattery. Louis adored her: he gave her a cameo brooch, a
beaded footstool (which his mother had used), and the loveliest cock
linnet, which used to fly about all over the place, singing songs of its
own composition.
All the world knows of her celebrated scene with Marie Antoinette, but
Edgar Sheepmeadow recounts it so deliciously in Volume III of "Women
Large and Women Small" that it would be a sin not to quote it. "They
met," he says, "on the Grand Staircase. The Dauphine, with her usual
hauteur, was mounting with her head held high. Julie, by some
misfortune, happened to get in her way. The Dauphine, not seeing her,
trod heavily on her foot, then jogged her in the ribs with her elbow.
Though realising who it was, the great lady could not but apologise.
Drawing herself up as high as possible, she said in icy tones, 'I beg
your pardon!' Quick as thought Julie replied, 'Granted as soon as
asked!' Then with a toss of her curls she ran down the stairs, leaving
the haughty Princess's mind a vortex of tumultuous feelings."
A few words of description should undoubtedly be vouchsafed to the
decoration of her apartments at Versailles. Artistic from birth, Julie
de Poopinac inaugurated almost a revolution in colour schemes: her
_salle des populaces_ (room of the people), where she received
supplicants for alms and various other favours, was upholstered in
Godstone blue, with hangings of griffin pink; her _salle a manger_
(dining-room) was a tasteful _melange_ of elephant green, cerise, and
burnt umber. Her _salle de bain_ (bathroom) deserves special mention,
owing to its bizarre mixture of mustard colour and vetch purple--while
her _chambre a coucher_ (bedroom) was a truly fitting setting for so
brilliant a gem. The walls were lined with costly Bridgeport tapestries
in brown and black, picked out here and there with beads and tufts of
gloriously coloured wool. The bed curtains were of soft Norwegian
yellow, with massive tassels of crab mauve, while the carpet and
upholstery were almost entirely Spanish crimson with head-rests of
Liverpool plush! It was here, of course, that she wrote most of her
poems.[3]
Her world-renowned "Idyl to Summer":--
"Dawn,
The poplars droop and sway and droop,
A lazy bee
With wings athread with gold and green
His merry way with esctasy
He takes, amid the garden blooms--
Ah me, ah God, ah God, ah me!
Dawn...."
And the perfectly delicious light poem dedicated to Louis--
"Beloved, it is morn--I rise
To smell the roses sweet;
Emphatic are my hips and thighs,
Phlegmatic are my feet.
Ten thousand roses have I got
Within a garden small,
Give me but strength to smell the lot,
Oh, let me sniff them all!"
Then her rather sordid realistic poem to Louis's death-bed commencing
"Oh, Bed
Wherein he frequently disposed
His weary limbs when day was done,
His last long sleep has murmured down--
Oh Bed--beneath your silken pall,
His eyes aglaze with death, and dim
With age--are closed.
Oh, Bed!"
It was of course after Louis's death that Julie was forced to seek
retirement in her chateau in Old Brittany. There for many years she
lived in almost complete seclusion, writing her books which were the
inspired outpourings of a tortured soul: "Lilith: the Story of a Woman";
"The Hopeless Quest," an allegorical tale of the St. Malo sand-dunes,
then unexplored; and "The Pig-Sty," a biting satire on life at Court.
Then the storm-cloud of the revolution broke athwart the length and
breadth of fair France, relentless, and indomitable and irredeemable.
Julie was arrested while blackberrying in a Dolly Varden hat. With a
brave smile, Ben-Hepple tells us, she flung the berries away. "I am
ready!" she said.
You all know of her journey to Paris, and her mockery of a trial before
the tribunal--her pitiful bravery when the inhuman monsters tried to
make her say "_A la lanterne!_" Nothing would induce her to--she had the
firmness of many ancestors behind her.
We will quote Ben-Hepple's vivid description of her execution:--
"The day dawned grey with heavy clouds to the east," he says. "About
five minutes past ten, a few rain-drops fell. The tumbrils were already
rattling along amidst the frenzied jeers of the crowd. The first one
contained a group of _ci-devant_ aristos, laughing and singing--one
elderly vicomtesse was playing on a mouth-organ. In the second tumbril
sat two women--one, Marie Topinambour, a poor dancer, was weeping; the
other, Julie de Poopinac, was playing at cat's cradles. Her dress was of
sprigged muslin, and she wore a rather battered Dolly Varden hat. She
was haughtily impervious to the vile epithets of this mob. Upon reaching
the guillotine, Marie Topinambour became panic-stricken, and swarmed up
one of the posts before any one could stop her. In bell-like tones,
Julie bade her descend. 'Fear nothing, _ma petite_,' she cried. 'See, I
am smiling!' The terrified Marie looked down and was at once calmed.
Julie was indeed smiling. One or two marquises who were waiting their
turn were in hysterics. Marie slowly descended, and was quickly
executed. Then Julie stepped forward. '_Vive le Roi!_' she cried,
forgetting in her excitement that he was already dead, and flinging her
Dolly Varden hat in the very teeth of the crowd, she laid her head in
the prescribed notch. A woman in the mob said '_Pauvre_' and somebody
else said '_A bas!_' The knife fell...."
MADCAP MOLL
EIGHTH DUCHESS OF WAPPING
[Illustration: THE DUCHESS OF WAPPING
_From the world-famous portrait by Sir Oswald Cronk, Bart._]
Nobody who knew George I. could help loving him--he possessed that
peculiar charm of manner which had the effect of subjugating all who
came near him into immediate slavery. Madcap Moll--his true love, his
one love (England still resounds with her gay laugh)--adored him with
such devotion as falls to the lot of few men, be they kings or beggars.
They met first in the New Forest, where Norman Bramp informs us, in his
celebrated hunting memoirs "Up and Away," the radiant Juniper spent her
wild, unfettered childhood. She was ever a care-free, undisciplined
creature, snapping her shapely fingers at bad weather, and riding for
preference without a saddle--as hoydenish a girl as one could encounter
on a day's march. Her auburn ringlets ablow in the autumn wind, her
cheeks whipped to a flush by the breeze's caress, and her eyes sparkling
and brimful of tomboyish mischief and roguery! This, then, was the
picture that must have met the King's gaze as he rode with a few trusty
friends through the forest for his annual week of otter shooting. Upon
seeing him, Madcap Moll gave a merry laugh, and crying "Chase me,
George!" in provocative tones, she rode swiftly away on her pony. Many
of the courtiers trembled at such a daring exhibition of _lese majeste_,
but the King, provoked only by her winning smile, tossed his gun to Lord
Twirp and set off in hot pursuit. Eventually he caught his roguish
quarry by the banks of a sunlit pool. She had flung herself off her
mount and flung herself on the trunk of a tree, which she bestrode as
though it were a better and more fiery steed. The King cast an
appraising glance at her shapely legs, and then tethered his horse to an
old oak.
"Are you a creature of the woods?" he said.
Madcap Moll tossed her curls. "Ask me!" she cried derisively.
"I am asking you," replied the King.
"Odds fudge--you have spindleshanks!" cried Madcap Moll irrelevantly.
The King was charmed. He leant towards her.
"One kiss, mistress!" he implored. At that she slapped his face and made
his nose bleed. He was captivated.
"I'faith, art a daring girl," he cried delightedly. "Knowest who I am?"
"I care not!" replied the girl.
"George the First!" said the King, rising. Madcap Moll blanched.
"Sire," she murmured, "I did not know--a poor, unwitting country
lass--have mercy!"
The King touched her lightly on the nape.
"Get up," he said gently; "you are as loyal and spirited a girl as one
could meet in all Hampshire, I'll warrant. Hast a liking for Court?"
"Oh, sire!" answered the girl.
Thus did the King meet her who was to mean everything in his life, and
more....
It was twilight in the forest, Raymond Waffle tells us, when the King
rode away. In the opposite direction rode a pensive girl, her eyes aglow
with something deeper than had ever before illumined their translucency.
Budde Towers, according to Plabbin's "Guide to Hampshire," lay in the
heart of the forest. Built in the days of William the Conqueror, 1066,
and William Rufus, 1087, by Sir Francis Budde, it had been inhabited by
none but Buddes of each successive generation. Madcap Moll's
great-grandfather, Lord Edmund Budde,[4] added a tower here and there
when he felt inclined, while her uncle Robert Budde--known from
Bournemouth to Lyndhurst as Bounding Bob--built the celebrated picture
gallery (which can be viewed to this day by genealogical enthusiasts),
the family portraits up to then having been stored in the box-room.
Old Earl Budde, Moll's father, was as crusty an old curmudgeon as one
could find in a county. His wife (the lovely Evelyn Wormgate, a daughter
of the Duke of Bognor and Wormgate) had died while the radiant Moll was
but a puling infant. Thus it was that, knowing no hand of motherly
authority, the child perforce ran wild throughout her dazzling
adolescence.
The trees were her playmates, the twittering of the birds her music--all
the wild things of the forest loved her, specially dogs and children.
She knew every woodcutter for miles round by his Christian name. "Why,
here's Madcap Moll!" they would say, as the beautiful girl came
galloping athwart her mustang, untamed and headstrong as she herself.
This, then, was the priceless jewel which George I., spurred on by an
overmastering passion, ordered to be transferred from its rough and
homely setting to the ornate luxury of life at Court, where he
immediately bestowed upon her the title of Eighth Duchess of Wapping.
It was about a month after her arrival in London that Sir Oswald Cronk
painted his celebrated life-size portrait of her in the costly
riding-habit which was one of the many gifts of her royal lover. Sir
Oswald, with his amazing technique, has managed to convey that
suggestion of determination and resolution, one might almost say
obstinacy, lying behind the gay, devil-may-care roguishness of her
bewitching glance. Her slim, girlish figure he has portrayed with
amazing accuracy, also the beautiful negligent manner in which she
invariably carried her hunting-crop; her left hand is lovingly caressing
the head of her faithful hound, Roger, who, Raymond Waffle informs us,
after his mistress's death refused to bury bones anywhere else but on
her grave. Ah me! Would that some of our human friends were as
unflagging in their affections as the faithful Roger!
Her reign as morganatic queen was remarkable for several scientific
inventions of great utility[5]--notably the "pushfast," a machine
designed exclusively for the fixing of leather buttons in church
hassocks; also Dr. Snaggletooth's cunning device for separating the
rind from Camembert cheese without messing the hands! There were in
addition to the examples here quoted many minor inventions which, though
perhaps not of any individually intrinsic value, went far to illustrate
Madcap Moll's influence on the progress of the civilisation of her time.
In Raymond Waffle's rather long-winded record of her life he dwells for
several chapters upon the Papist plots which menaced her position at
Court. After a visit to several of London's museums, I have discovered
that most of the facts he quotes are naught but fallacies. There were
undoubtedly plots, but nothing in the least Papist. She had her
enemies--who has not? But, as far as religion was concerned, Papists,
Protestants, Wesleyans, and occasionally Mahommedans, all joined
together in unstinting praise of her character and judgment.
Any faults or acts of thoughtlessness committed during her brilliant
life were amply compensated for by the supreme deed of loyalty and
patriotism which, alas! marked the tragic close of her all too short
career. Her ride to Norwich--show me the man whose pulses do not thrill
at the mention of that heroic achievement! That wonderful, wonderful
ride--that amazing, glorious _tour de force_ which caused her name to be
revered and hallowed in every sleepy hamlet and hovel of Old
England--her ride to Norwich on Piebald Polly, her thoroughbred mare!
On, on through the night--a fitful moon scrambling aslant the
cloud-blown heavens, the wind whistling past her ears, and the tune of
"God Save the King" ringing in her brain, the rhythm set by the
convulsive movements of Piebald Polly. On, on, through towns and
villages, and then once more the open country--what is that noise? The
roaring of water! Torrents are unloosed--the dam has burst! Miller's
Leap. Can she do it?--can she?--can she? She can--and has. Dawn shows in
the eastern sky--the lights of Norwich--Norwich at last![6]
Poor Moll! the day that dawned as she sped along those weary roads was
to prove itself her last. Her exhaustion was so great on reaching the
city gates that she fell from Piebald Polly's drooping back and never
regained consciousness.
Rumour asserts that the King plunged the country in mourning for several
weeks--some say he never smiled again. Madcap Moll, Eighth Duchess of
Wapping, left behind her no children, but she left engraved upon the
hearts of all who knew her the memory of a beautiful, noble, and winsome
woman.
E. MAXWELL SNURGE
AN INTIMATE STUDY
[Illustration: E. MAXWELL SNURGE, EMINENT POLITICIAN]
I will not seek to write of E. Maxwell Snurge as his friends have
written of him, tall, courageous, and vitally intelligent. Nor as his
enemies have chronicled him, short, fat and intensely stupid. I will
endeavour with a few brief flourishes of the pen, to portray the various
intricacies of his character as I see them, clearly and dispassionately
with the eyes of a psychological observer, whose hand is uncorrupted by
the bribes of ruthless profiteers, grafters and the like.
It is my desire to convey to the reader the real E. Maxwell Snurge shorn
of tawdry trappings of party politics and the illusion and glamour of
public idolatry--a man--just a man--but _what_ a man!
To dwell on the widely circulated story of his life would be needless,
and to follow his political career, merely futile. What is there left?
you ask. And I answer you with extreme firmness, there is one aspect of
E. Maxwell Snurge which has never been seriously analysed--his soul! And
it is that and that alone which will be the foundation stone of my
structural portrayal of his character.
Why wasn't E. Maxwell Snurge president of the United States? Many have
asked that question, he frequently used to ask it himself, and his
wife--the sainted Amy Snurge of ever revered memory--would rest her
thin, ascetic hand upon his coat sleeve and answer him with yearning
sympathy but little satisfaction--Why?
Let us turn to an early episode in his career in our search for the key
to the complexities of his mind, an episode slight in itself but well
worthy of recording if only for the illumination it throws upon the much
questioned motives of his later actions. He was spending a week-end with
friends on Long Island--a fishing week-end. Mrs. Jake Van Opus (formerly
the lovely Consuelo Root) out of consideration for her eminent guest
and with great tact and charm, immediately he arrived made a point of
forbidding politics as a subject for discussion in the house, and
confined the general conversation exclusively to fish. That this
thoughtful act was appreciated by the overworked politician it is
needless to remark; he settled down to his brief respite with a tranquil
contentment and complete blankness of mind which only the cleverest of
us can assume at will.
Athletic from birth, Snurge cast his line repeatedly far out to sea with
the strength and dogged perseverance which characterised his every
deed--but alas, nearly fifteen hours went by before his patience was
rewarded. Day had turned to dusk and the sun was setting when he was
suddenly jerked from the fishing stand into the water. With an exultant
shout, he clambered on to a rock still clasping his rod--"A Bite, a
Bite!" he cried in tones strangely alien from those he customarily
employed when addressing a civic conference. "A Bite at last!" Playing
his submarine quarry with extraordinary finesse, he eventually, amid
laudatory shouts and frantic cheering, landed an exquisitely striped
bass, which lay at his feet gasping, apparently quite exhausted by its
struggles to evade captivity. Now comes the point of the story, Snurge
surveyed his catch quietly for a few moments--those standing near by
noticed sternly repressed tears in his eyes--then he said a thing which
come what may will eternally prove him the possessor of unparalleled
insight and humanity. Touching the recumbent fish gently with his foot
he sighed deeply--
"This bass is Democracy," he murmured, "And see what I have done with
it!" Superstitious observers state that at this point the bass closed
its eyes wearily, but this may only be a fanatical exaggeration.
Then with a set face he lifted the fish high above his head and flung it
back into its native element, thereby undoing the efforts of many hours'
untiring labour and patience.
I have told this story in order to illustrate definitely the initial
weakness in his lifelong policy, call it folly if you like, or even
imbecility, but I prefer to assign to it the one all embracing
word--"Generosity." He was too generous, all through his career he
sacrificed everything through his generous capacity for seeing and
sympathising with both sides of every question. Many, many times he
would shelve the carefully formulated schemes of months on the sudden
realisation of what the Opposition would suffer if he carried them
through.
Think--as I sometimes think--what a sad thing, what a vortex of
conflicting emotions the heart of Amy Snurge must have been during those
hard years, knowing her husband's strength and resource, deploring yet
loving his weakness, encouraging, aiding and abetting his every act with
the feminine pertinacity which has characterized the world's greatest
heroines. Poor woman, no wonder the grave claimed her so soon, for like
the bass--like Democracy, her vitality was exhausted by the destructive
and constructive force of Snurge. Only unlike the bass she couldn't swim
well, and unlike Democracy she had the man to contend with as well as
the politician.
Snurge was by no means a revolutionary; he possessed too many ideals
and too little passion, he was essentially a passionless man--except of
course the one historic occasion during his campaign against prohibition
when he completely lost control, and flying low in a government
aeroplane broke a bottle of green chartreuse over the head of the Statue
of Liberty.
The uproar which was the natural outcome of this defiant protest, was
abruptly stemmed by the sudden reversal of his tactics on the day
following the event, when he made a spirited appeal in West Forty-Second
Street _for_ prohibition! This resulted in a hopeless gloom enveloping
the metropolis. The populace commenced to realise in a measure the
unreliability of Snurge as a saviour of the state, while at the same
time fully appreciating his many sterling qualities.
Dark things were whispered in the White House.
One need not go far then to seek the reason for his fall from grace, his
utter failure as a Republican candidate for the presidency--it was his
generosity, his innate humanity, and his extraordinary breadth and
clarity of vision.
If this man had but been president in 1914 there might not have been any
war. Had he been president in 1776 there might not have been any
revolution, and had he but been president in 1491 God knows what there
might not have been.
REFERENCE
America in Sunshine and Shadow _B. F. Bramp_. 2 Vols.
The Roguish Royalist _Anonymous_
Mirrors of Salt Lake City _By the Gentleman with the Cuspidor. 5 Vols._
Amy Snurge, a Grand Woman _Ernest Frapple_. 2 Vols.
"Columbia Beware!" _Weedheim._
_I am also deeply indebted to Esther Throtch for her unlimited energy
and devoted assistance._
BIANCA DI PIANNO-FORTI
[Illustration: BIANCA DI PIANNO-FORTI
_After an engraving by Vittorio Campanele_]
Mediaeval Italy has in its time boasted many beautiful women, but there
is one who must take her place before them all, one whose name is a
byword to this day in every corner of that sun-washed country--Bianca di
Pianno-Forti. One shudders at that name--so radiant was she, and yet so
incredibly evil. Her tragic death somehow seems a fitting ending to a
life such as hers--a life so without mercy, so without pity, and yet so
amazingly vivid that it seems to be emblazoned on Italy's very heart.
She first saw the light in Florence. Her father, Allegro, of the
celebrated house of Andante Caprioso, married at the age of fourteen
Giulia Presto, of Verona, at the age of nine. At the birth of Bianca her
mother died, leaving her to the care of her broken-hearted father and
brother Pizzicato (destined later on to make the world ring with his
music). Perhaps the only thing to be said in excuse of Bianca's later
conduct is the fact that she never knew a mother's love. The nuns at the
convent wherein she spent her ripening childhood were kind; but, alas!
they were not mothers--at least, not all of them. Bianca left the
convent when she was sixteen. Slim, lissom, sinuous, with those
arresting eyes that seemed, so Fibinio tells us, to search out the very
souls of all who came near her. Her first love affair occured about a
week after her arrival in her home in Florence. She was in the habit of
walking to mass at the cathedral with her maid Vivace. One morning, so
Poliolioli relates, a handsome soldier stepped out of the shadows of an
adjoining buttress and looked at her. Bianca at once swooned. The same
thing happened again--and again--and yet again. One night she heard the
shutters of her bedchamber rattle! "Who is there?" she cried, yet not
too loudly, because her woman's instinct warned her to be wary. The
shutters were flung open, and the young soldier stepped flamboyantly
into the room. "I am here, _cara, cara mia_!" he cried. "I, Vibrato
Adagio!" With a sibilant cry she fell into his out-stretched arms.
"_Mio, mio,_" she echoed in ecstasy, "I am yours and you are mine!" So
lightly was the first stepping-stone passed on her reckless path of
immorality and vice. Her fickle heart soon tired of the debonair
Vibrato, and in a fit of satiated pique she had his ears cut off and his
tongue removed and tied to his big toe. Thus was her ever-increasing
lust for bloodshed apparent even at that early age. Her next _affaire_
occured when she was travelling to Rome with her brother Pizzicato, who
was to become a chorister at the Vatican. On stopping for refreshment at
a wayside tavern, Bianca was struck by the arresting looks of the ostler
who was tending their steaming steeds. Beckoning to him, she asked of
him his name; he turned his vacant eyes round and round wonderingly for
a moment. "Crescendo," he replied. Bianca's eyes flashed fire.
"_Accelerato!_" she cried imperiously, and, hypnotised into submission,
the scared man fled upstairs, Bianca following.
Upon arriving in Rome, Bianca and Pizzicato repaired to their father's
brother-in-law, who was well known as a lavish entertainer. He was one
Rapidamente Tempo di Valse, a widower, living with his two sons, Lento
and Comprino, handsome lads both in the first flush of manhood, and both
destined to fall victims to Bianca's compelling attractions.
Contemporary history informs us that Bianca stayed in the Palazzo Tempo
di Valse for seven years, visiting Pizzicato from time to time, and
employing herself with various love affairs.
In June she became betrothed to Duke Crazioso di Pianno-Forti, of the
famous family of Moderato e Diminuendo--indirectly descended from the
Cardinal Appassionato Tutti. Tutti was the great-uncle of the infamous
Con Spirito, well known to posterity as the lover of the lovely but
passionate Violenza Allargando, destined to become the mother of Largo
con Craviata, the fearless captain of Dolcissimo's light horse under
General Lamento Agitato, whose grandmother, Sempre Calando, was
notorious for her illicit liaison with Pesante e Stentato, a union
which was to bear fruit in the shape of Lusingando Molto.
Bianca's wedding was celebrated with enormous rejoicing in Venice, where
was situated the ducal palace of the Pianno-Fortis. Mention should be
made of the life led by Bianca during the first years of her marriage,
of her pet staghounds, of her tapestried bedchamber with bloodthirsty
scenes of the chase depicted thereon--how she loved blood, this
beautiful girl!
Her portrait herein reproduced is after an engraving by Campanele; note
the sinister line of the cheek-bone and the passionate beauty of the
nethermost lip! One can visualise her--radiant at the head of crowded
dining-tables, drinking from gem-encrusted goblets, accepting glances
fraught with ardent desire from one or other of the male guests.
All the world knows of her famous visit to the Pope, and how he died a
few hours later; while it would be mere repetition of general knowledge
to enlarge on her sojourn with the Doge, and his subsequent demise. Let
us touch ever so lightly on her three children, Poco, Confuoco, and
Strepitoso. How could they help being beautiful with such a mother, poor
mites, branded from birth with the sense of their impending fate! After
a while Bianca became aware that tongues were a-wag in Venice, sullying
her name with foul calumnies. Her decision for their downfall was swift
and terrible. She persuaded her easy-going husband to ride to Naples;
then, free of his cumbersome authority, she set to work on the
preparations for her world-famous supper party. Picture it if you will:
five hundred and eighty-three guests[7] all seated laughingly in the
immense banqueting-hall--Bianca at the head of the table, superb,
incomparable, her corsage a glittering mass of gems, her breast chilled
by the countless diamonds on her camisole, her smile radiant and a
peach-like flush on the ivory pallor of her face. This was indeed her
hour--her triumph--her subtle revenge. Her heart thrilled with the
knowledge of that inward secret that was hers immutably, for every
morsel of food and drink upon that festive board was impregnated with
the deadliest poison--all except the two pieces of toast with which she
regaled herself, having dined earlier and alone.
Historians tell us that following close on that event some rather ugly
rumours were noised abroad--in fact, some of the relatives of the
poisoned guests even went so far as to complain to various people in
authority and stir up strife in every way possible. Bianca was naturally
furious. Some say that it was her sudden rage on hearing this that
caused her to burn her children to death; others say her act was merely
due to bad temper owing to a sick headache. Anyhow, as later events go
to show, she had chosen the very worst time to murder her children. More
ugly rumours were at once noised abroad by those who were jealous of
her. Upon her husband's return from Naples he was immediately arrested,
and a few days later hung. Too late the hapless Bianca sought to make
her escape; she was caught and taken prisoner while swimming across the
Grand Canal with her clothes and a few personal effects in a bundle in
her mouth. She was carried shrieking to Milan, where she endured a
mockery of a trial; on political grounds she was sentenced to being torn
to pieces by she-goats at Genoa. Poor, beautiful Bianca! On the
fulfilment of her unjust and barbarous sentence it is too horrible to
dwell at any length. This glorious creature, this resplendent vision,
this divine goddess--she-goats! Dreadful, degrading, unutterable!!!
The day for her death[8] dawned fair over the Mediterranean. Bianca,
garbed in white, walked with dignity into the meadow wherein the
she-goats anxiously awaited her. She bravely repressed a shudder, and
fell upon her knees. History tells us that every goat turned away, as
though ashamed of the part it was destined to play. Then, with a look of
ineffable peace stealing over her waxen face, Bianca rose to her full
height, and, flinging her arms heavenwards, she delivered that
celebrated and heartrending speech which has lived after her for so
long:--
"_Dio mio, concerto--concerto!_"
One by one the she-goats advanced....
SARAH, LADY TUNNELL-PENGE
("WINSOME SAL")
[Illustration: SARAH, LADY TUNNELL-PENGE
_From a painting by Augustus Punter_]
Ffraddle of 1643 was very different from the Ffraddle of 1789, and still
more different from the Ffraddle of 1832. At a time when civil war was
raging between Jacobites and Papists and Roundheads and Ironsides and
everything, Ffraddle stood grey, silent and indomitable--the very spirit
of peace allied with strength seemed embodied in its grim masonry. The
clash of arms and the death cries from millions of rebellious throats
which echoed athwart the length and breadth of young England were unable
to pierce the stillness of Ffraddle's moated security. Owls murmured on
its battered turrets, sparrows perched on its portcullis, cuckoos cooed
all over it, heedless indeed of the turmoil and frenzied strife raging
outside its feudal gates.
What a birthplace for one of history's most priceless pearls--Sarah
Twig! The heart of every lover of beauty leaps and jumps and starts at
the sound of that name--Sarah Twig. Why are some destined for so much
while others are destined, alas! for so little? Who knows? Sarah--a
rose-leaf, a crumpled atom, dropped as it were from some heavenly garden
into the black times of the Merry Monarch--when, according to
Bloodworthy, virtue was laughed to scorn and evil went unpunished; when,
according to Follygob, virginity was a scream, and harlotry a hobby; and
when, according to Sheepmeadow, homeliness was sin, and beauty but a
gilded casket concealing vice and depravity unutterable.
History relates that though food was scarce and light hearts hard to
find, at the birth of Sarah Twig there was no dearth of these
commodities. The snow was on the ground, Follygob says--the woods and
coppices and hills lay slumbering beneath a glistening white mantle.
What a mind! To have written those words! It was undoubtedly Follygob's
artistic style and phraseology that branded him once and for all as the
master-chronicler of his time.
Sarah Twig was born in the east wing, a lofty room which can be viewed
to this day by all true lovers of historical architecture. To describe
it adequately is indeed difficult. Some say there was a bed in it and an
early Norman window; others have it that there was no bed but a late
Gothic fireplace; while a few outstanding writers insist that there was
nothing at all in the room but a very old Roman washstand.[9]
The night of Sarah's birth was indeed a wild one--snow and sleet eddied
and swirled around the massive structure destined to harbour one whose
radiant beauty was to be a byword in all Europe. The wind, so Follygob
with his incomparable style tells us, lashed itself to a livid fury
against the sturdy Ffraddle turrets and mullions, whilst outside beyond
the keep and raised drawbridge the beacons and camp fires stained the
frost-laden air with vivid streaks of red and yellow--colours which
formed the background of the Ffraddle coat of arms, thus presenting an
omen to the startled inhabitants which history relates they were not
slow to recognise.
Bloodworthy describes for us the plan by which Lord Ffraddle was to
acquaint the village with the sex of the child. If it were a boy, red
fire was to be burnt on the south turret, and if a girl, green fire was
to be burnt on the north turret; but unfortunately, he goes on to tell
us, owing to some misadventure blue fire was firmly burnt on all the
turrets. Imagine the horror of the superstitious populace! Some left the
country never to return, crying aloud that a chameleon had been born to
their beloved chatelaine!
Of Sarah's youth historians tell us little. She was, apart from her
beauty, a very knowing child. Often when missing from the
banqueting-hall she would be discovered in the library reading and
studying the political works of the period.[10] Often Lord Ffraddle was
known to remark in his usual witty way, "In sooth, the child will soon
have as much knowledge as her father," a sally which was invariably
received with shrieks of delight by the infant Sarah, whose brilliant
sense of humour was plainly apparent, even at that early age.