any eccentric with whom he came in contact, among his principal butts
being M. Julien le Jeune de Paris, as he dubbed himself; he had played
his small part in the French Revolution and had been employed by
Robespierre. This queer old gentleman had perpetrated a considerable
quantity of fearful poetry, portions of which it was his delight to
recite. These effusions he called “_Mes Chagrins_,” and carried about
with him written out upon sheets of foolscap, which peeped out modestly
from the breast-pocket of his coat. It was D’Orsay’s delight when M.
Julien visited Seamore Place to induce him to recite a “_Chagrin_,” the
doing of which reduced the old man to tears of sorrow and the listeners
to tears of laughter. One evening a large party was assembled, among whom
were M. Julien, James Smith, Madden, and Dr Quin, a physician whom young
Mathews describes as “The ever genial Dr Quin … inexhaustible flow of fun
and good-humour.” D’Orsay gravely begged Julien to oblige the company,
and overcame his assumed reluctance, by the appeal—
“N’est ce pas Madden vous n’avez jamais entendu les Chagrins politiques
de notre cher ami, Monsieur Julien?”
“Jamais,” Madden stammered out, stifling a laugh.
“Allons, mon ami,” D’Orsay continued, turning again to his victim, “ce
pauvre Madden a bien besoin d’entendre vos Chagrins politiques—il a les
siens aussi—il a souffert—lui—il a des sympathies pour les blessés, il
faut lui donner ce triste plaisir—n’est ce pas, Madden?”
“Oui,” gurgled Madden.
Then the funereal fun began. Julien planted himself at the upper end
of the room, near to a table upon which some wax candles were burning,
and drew forth his “_Chagrins_” from his breast. Lady Blessington seated
herself at his left hand, gazing solicitously into his face; at his other
hand stood D’Orsay, ever and anon pressing his handkerchief to his eyes,
and turning at one of the saddest moments to Madden, and whispering,
“Pleurez donc!”
Quin, looking amazingly youthful, made his appearance during a
particularly melting “_Chagrin_,” wherein the author, supposed to be in
chase of capricious happiness, exclaimed:—
“Le bonheur! le voilà!
Ici! Ici! La! La!
En haut, en bas! En bas!”
The doctor entered into the spirit of the affair, and whenever D’Orsay
acclaimed any passage, would chime in with “Magnifique!” “Superbe!”
“Vraiment beau!”
The recital ended as usual in a flood of tears.
But D’Orsay was not yet contented, but must be further plaguing the
tearful old gentleman. He whispered mysteriously to him, drawing his
attention to Quin and James Smith.
“Ah! Que c’est touchant!” exclaimed Julien. “Ah! mon Dieu! Ce tendre
amour filial comme c’est beau! comme c’est touchant!”
Then D’Orsay went up to Quin, and to his amazement said—
“Allez, mon ami, embrassez votre père! Embrassez le, mon pauvre enfant,”
then added, pointing to Smith, who was holding out his arms, “C’est
toujours comme ça, toujours comme ça, ce pauvre garçon—avant le monde il
a honte d’embrasser son père.”
Quin took the cue; jumped from his chair, and flung himself violently
in Smith’s arms, nearly upsetting the gouty old gentleman. Locked in
each other’s arms, they exclaimed—“Oh, fortunate meeting! Oh, happy
reconciliation! Oh, fond father! Oh, affectionate son!” while D’Orsay
stood beside them overwhelmed with emotion, Julien equally and really
affected, sobbing, gasping, and exclaiming—
“Ah! Mon Dieu! Que c’est touchant! Pauvre jeune homme! Pauvre père!”
[Illustration: SEAMORE PLACE
[TO FACE PAGE 114]
Lord William Pitt Lennox first met Louis Napoleon at Seamore Place, also
the Countess Guiccioli:—
“My first acquaintance with Napoleon,” he says, “was at an evening
party at the Countess of Blessington’s, in Seymour Place. On arriving
there my attention was attracted to two individuals, whom I had never
previously seen. The one was a lady, who appeared to have numbered nearly
forty years, with the most luxuriant gold-coloured hair, blue eyes and
fresh complexion, that I ever saw. The other a gentleman, who, from the
deference paid him, was evidently a distinguished foreigner. Before I
had time to ascertain the name of the latter, a friend remarked: ‘How
handsome the Guiccioli is looking this evening!’
“‘Splendidly,’ I replied, as the idea flashed across my mind that the
_incognita_ must be Byron’s ‘fair-haired daughter of Italia,’ Teresa
Gamba, Countess Guiccioli. ‘Do you know Madame Guiccioli?’ I asked.
“‘Yes,’ responded my companion; ‘I met her at Venice, and shall be
delighted to present you.…’”
“While conversing with the Guiccioli, Count d’Orsay approached us,
and, apologising for his intrusion, said that Prince Louis Napoleon
was anxious to be introduced to me, with a view to thanking me for my
kind advice. Accordingly, I took leave of madame, but not before I had
received her permission to call upon her at Sablonière’s Hotel, in what
the ordinary frequenters of Leicester Square call ‘_le plus beau quartier
de Londres_.’”
The advice referred to had come in a round-about way to Louis Napoleon,
and had reference to the projected duel with Léon.[10]
XII
HANDSOME IS—
What manner of man was D’Orsay at this period of his life, when he was
treading so gaily the primrose way of pleasure as a man about London
town? What were his claims to the reputation he gained as a dandy and a
wit? How did he appear to his contemporaries?
That he was generally liked and by many looked on with something
approaching to affection there is ample evidence to prove. Was ever a
social sinner so beloved? Was dandy ever so trusted?
He was strikingly handsome in face and figure, of that his portraits
assure us. One enthusiast tells us: “He was incomparably the handsomest
man of his time … uniting to a figure scarcely inferior in the perfection
of its form to that of Apollo, a head and face that blended the grace
and dignity of the Antinous with the beaming intellect of the younger
Bacchus, and the almost feminine softness and beauty of the Ganymede.”
He was an adept in the mysteries of the toilet, as careful of his
complexion as a professional _belle_; revelling in perfumed baths;
equipped with an enormous dressing-case fitted in gold, as became the
prince of dandies, which he carried everywhere, though it took two men to
lift it.
As to clothes, he led the fashion by the nose, and led it whithersoever
he wished. He indulged in extravagances, which he knew his reputation
and his figure could carry off, and then laughed to see his satellites
and toadies making themselves ridiculous by adopting them. His tailor,
Herr Stultz, is reported to have proudly described himself as “Tailor to
M. le Comte d’Orsay,” full well knowing that the recommendation of mere
royalty could carry no such weight. Where D’Orsay led the way all men of
fashion must follow. Indeed, it was said that D’Orsay was fully aware of
the value of his patronage, and that he expected his tailors to express
substantial gratitude for it. When clothes arrived at Seamore Place,
in the most mysterious manner banknotes had found their way into their
pockets. Once when this accident had not happened, D’Orsay bade his valet
return the garment with the message that “the lining of the pockets had
been forgotten.”
The ordinary man, as regards his costume, takes care about the main
points and permits the details to take care of themselves. Not so
your true dandy. Thus we find D’Orsay writing to Banker Moritz
Feist at Frankfort: “Will you send me a dozen pair of gloves colour
‘feuille-morte,’ such as they have on sale at the Tyrolean glove shops?
They ought to fit your hand (that’s a compliment!), and (this is a fib!)
I’ll send along the cash.”
D’Orsay was sometimes quite unkind when friends spoke to him on the
subject of some new garment he was sporting.
Gronow meeting D’Orsay one day arrayed in a vest of supreme originality,
exclaimed: “My dear Count, you really must give me that waistcoat.”
“Wiz pleasure, Nogrow,”—the Count’s comical misrendering of Gronow’s
name—“but what shall you do wiz him? Aha! he shall make you an
dressing-gown.”
What the Count could carry off would have extinguished the
less-distinguished Gronow.
In Hyde Park, at the happy hour when all “the world” assembled there,
some driving, some riding, some strolling, some leaning on the railings
and quizzing the passers-by, D’Orsay was to be seen in all his glory. An
afternoon lounge in the Park was as delightful then as it is nowadays.
To quote Patmore:—
“See! what is this vision of the age of chivalry, that comes careering
towards us on horseback, in the form of a stately cavalier, than whom
nothing has been witnessed in modern times more noble in air and bearing,
more splendid in person, more _distingué_ in dress, more consummate in
equestrian skill, more radiant in intellectual expression, and altogether
more worthy and fitting to represent one of those knights of the olden
time, who warred for truth and beauty, beneath the banner of Cœur de
Lion. It is Count D’Orsay.”
This language is as dazzling as the vision itself must have been!
Writing of various fashions in horsemanship, Sidney says:—
“As late as 1835 it was the fashion for the swells or dandies of the
period—Count d’Orsay, the Earl of Chesterfield, and their imitators—to
tittup along the streets and in the Park with their toes just touching
the stirrups, which hung three inches lower than in the hunting-field.”
Abraham Hayward rode in the Park with D’Orsay in March 1838, “to the
admiration of all beholders, for every eye is sure to be fixed upon him,
and the whole world was out, so that I began to tremble for my character.”
Here is another contemporary account, which deals rather with the outer
habit than with knight-like man:—
“From the colour and tie of the kerchief which adorned his neck, to the
spurs ornamenting the heels of his patent boots, he was the original for
countless copyists, particularly and collectively. The hue and cut of his
many faultless coats, the turn of his closely-fitting inexpressibles, the
shade of his gloves, the knot of his scarf, were studied by the motley
multitude with greater interest and avidity than objects more profitable
and worthy of their regard, perchance, could possibly hope to obtain.
Nor did the beard that flourished luxuriantly upon the delicate and
nicely-chiselled features of the Marquis (Count) escape the universal
imitation. Those who could not cultivate their scanty crops into the
desirable arrangement, had recourse to art and stratagem to supply the
natural deficiency.”
D’Orsay was indeed the Prince of the Dandies, it might be more truthfully
said, the Tyrant. What he did and wore, they must do and wear; the cut of
his coat and the cut of his hair, the arrangement of his tie—the Prince
could do no wrong. Of this sincere form of flattery a comical tale is
told. Riding back to town one day, as usual capitally mounted, D’Orsay
was overtaken by a downpour of rain. The groom, who usually carried an
overcoat for his master, had this day forgotten to bring it. D’Orsay was
equal to this as to most occasions. He spied a sailor who wore a long,
heavy waistcoat which kept him snug.
“Hullo, friend,” called out D’Orsay, pulling up, “would you like to go
into that inn and drink to my health until the rain’s over?”
The sailor was naturally enough somewhat surprised, and asked D’Orsay why
he was chaffing him.
“I’m not,” said D’Orsay, dismounting and going into the inn, followed by
the sailor, “but I want your vest, sell it me.”
He took out and offered the poor devil ten guineas, assuring him at the
same time that he “could buy another after the rain was over.”
D’Orsay put on the vest over his coat, buttoned it from top to bottom,
remounted and rode on to town.
The rain passed over, the sun came out again, and as it was the proper
hour to show himself in Hyde Park, D’Orsay showed himself.
“How original! How charming! How delicious!” cried the elegant dandies,
astonished by D’Orsay’s new garment, “only a D’Orsay could have thought
of such a creation!”
The next day dandies similarly enveloped were “the thing,” and thus the
paletot was invented.
An anecdote is told, with what authority or want of it we do not know, by
the Comtesse de Basanville, bearing upon D’Orsay’s good nature. One day
out riding he stopped at an inn, took out a cigar, and was going to call
out for a light, when a lad who came out of the tavern, offered him the
match with which he had been going to light his own pipe. D’Orsay, who
was struck by the boy’s politeness and good looks, began to chat with him.
“From what country do you come?”
“From Wales, my lord.”
“And you don’t mind leaving your mountains for the smoky streets of
London?”
“I’d go back without minding at all,” answered the boy, “but poor folk
can’t do what they want, and God knows when I’ll be going back to my old
mother who’s crying and waiting for me.”
“You’re ambitious then?”
“I want to get bread. I’m young and strong, and work’s better paid in
London than at home. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Well,” said D’Orsay, “I’d like to help you make your fortune. Here’s a
guinea for your match. To-morrow, come to Hyde Park when the promenade is
full; bring with you a box of matches, and when you see me with a lot of
people round me, come up and offer me your ware.”
Naturally enough the boy turned up at the right hour and the right place.
“Who’ll buy my matches,” he called out.
“Aha! It’s you,” said D’Orsay. “Give me one quick to light my cigar.”
Another guinea—and the Count said carelessly to those grouped around him—
“Just imagine, that I couldn’t smoke a cigar which is not lit with one
of this boy’s matches—others seem to me horrible.”
No sooner hinted than done; off went the matches and down came the
guineas, and addresses even were given for delivery of a further supply.
Even if this story be not true, it is characteristic.
One other story of his power.
A certain peer quarrelled violently with him; result, a duel. It was
pointed out to the unfortunate gentleman that if D’Orsay fought with
him it would become the fashion to do so! When D’Orsay heard of his
adversary’s urgent reason for wishing not to meet him, he agreed readily
that it was reasonable, and the affair was arranged. D’Orsay laughingly
added: “It’s lucky I’m a Frenchman and don’t suffer from the dumps. If I
cut my throat, to-morrow there’d be three hundred suicides in London, and
for a time at any rate the race of dandies would disappear.”
By Greville we are informed that D’Orsay was “tolerably well-informed,”
which surely must be the judgment of jealousy.
In manner and habits D’Orsay grew to be thoroughly English, no small
feat, while retaining all the vivacity, _joie de vivre_, and “little
arts” of the Frenchman. But he does not seem ever to have acquired a
perfect English accent; Willis in 1835 says of him, he “still speaks the
language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows
him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind.” The language and
the waistcoats of those dandy days were alike flowery.
It is difficult to decide, the evidence being scanty, whether or not
D’Orsay was a wit of eminence, or a mere humorist. Chorley the musical
critic, or rather the critic of music, said that his wit “was more quaint
than anything I have heard from Frenchmen (there are touches of like
quality in Rabelais), more airy than the brightest London wit of my time,
those of Sydney Smith and Mr Fonblanque not excepted.” It was a kindly
wit, too, which counts for grace. It is not unlikely that the broken
English which he knew well how to use to the best advantage helped to add
a sense of comicality to remarks otherwise not particularly amusing; just
as Lamb found his stammer of assistance.
A little wit carried off with a radiant manner goes a long way, and we
are inclined to believe that D’Orsay on account of his good-humoured
chaff and laughing impertinences gained a reputation for a higher wit
than he really possessed. True wit raises only a smile, sometimes a
rather wry one; humour forces us to break out into laughter such as
apparently usually accompanied D’Orsay’s sallies. The following is
preserved for us by Gronow, who held that D’Orsay’s conversation was
original and amusing, but “more humour and _à propos_ than actual wit.”
Tom Raikes, whose face was badly marked by small-pox, for some reason or
other, wrote D’Orsay an anonymous letter, and sealed it, using something
like the top of a thimble for the purpose. D’Orsay found out who was the
writer of the epistle, and accosted him with—“Ha! ha! my good Raikes, the
next time you write an anonymous letter, you must not seal it with your
nose!”—looking at that pock-pitted organ. Which is more facetious than
witty.
Here is another story of a somewhat similar character, kindly provided me
by Mr Charles Brookfield:—“My father once met D’Orsay at breakfast. After
the meal was over and the company were lounging about the fireplace,
a singularly tactless gentleman of the name of Powell crept up behind
the Count, and twitching suddenly a hair out of the back of his head
exclaimed: ‘Excuse me, Count, one solitary white hair!’ D’Orsay contrived
to conceal his annoyance, but bided his time. Very soon he found his
chance and approaching Mr Powell he deliberately plucked a hair from his
head, exclaiming, ‘Parrdon, Pow-ail, one solitary _black_ ’air.’”
Gronow also tells this. “Lord Allen, none the better for drink, was
indulging in some rough rather than ready chaff at D’Orsay’s expense.
When John Bush came in, d’Orsay greeted him cordially, exclaiming:
‘_Voilà la différence entre une bonne bouche et une mauvaise haleine_.’”
D’Orsay, Lord William Pitt Lennox and “King” Allen were invited to dinner
at the house of a Jewish millionaire, and the first-named promised to
call for the other two.
“We shall be late,” grumbled Allen. “You’re never in time, D’Orsay.”
“You shall see,” answered D’Orsay, unruffled, and drove off at a fine
pace.
Even though they arrived in time Allen was not appeased, and grumbled at
everything and everybody, and the cup of his wrath hopelessly overflowed
when he overheard one of the servants saying to another:
“The gents are come.”
“Gents,” snorted Allen. “Gents! What a wretched low fellow! It’s worthy
of a public-house!”
“I beg your pardon, Allen, it is quite correct. The man is a Jew. He
means to say the Gentiles have arrived. Gent is the short for Gentile!”
Landor writes in June 1840: “I sat at dinner (at Gore House) by Charles
Forester, Lady Chesterfield’s brother. In the last hunting season Lord
Chesterfield, wanting to address a letter to him, and not knowing
exactly where to find him, gave it to D’Orsay to direct it. He directed
it—Charles Forester, one field before the hounds, Melton Mowbray. Lord
Alvanley took it, and (he himself told me) gave it to him on the very
spot.” Landor goes on to speak of meeting a lady who accosted him with:
“Sure, Landor, it is a beautiful book, your _Periwinkle and Asparagus_!”
But surely the most delightful thing D’Orsay ever said was on the
occasion of a visit of him to Lady Blessington’s publishers, whom he
rated in high language.
“Count d’Orsay,” said a solemn personage in a high, white neckcloth,
“I would sooner lose Lady Blessington’s patronage than submit to such
personal abuse.”
“There is nothing personal,” retorted D’Orsay, suavely. “If you are
Otley, then damn Saunders; if you are Saunders, then damn Otley.”
Edward Barrington de Fonblanque, nephew of Albany, records that D’Orsay
was a capital _raconteur_, with an inexhaustible stock of stories, which
he retailed “in a manner irresistibly droll.” One of these anecdotes ran
thus:—
Méhémet Ali asked of a Frenchman what was a republic.
The reply was—
“Si l’Egypte était une république, vous seriez le peuple et le peuple
serait le Pacha.”
Méhémet responded that he could not summon up “aucun goût, aucune
sympathie, pour une république.”
Madden says: “A mere report would be in vain, of the _bons mots_ he
uttered, without a faithful representation of his quiet, imperturbable
manner—his arch look, the command of varied emphasis in his utterance,
the anticipatory indications of coming drollery in the expression of his
countenance—the power of making his _entourage_ enter into his thoughts,
and his success in prefacing his _jeux d’esprit_ by significant glances
and gestures, suggestive of ridiculous ideas.”
To turn to another essential of the equipment of a complete dandy,
D’Orsay was an accomplished _gourmet_. This gift must have added greatly
to his usefulness in Lady Blessington’s establishment, where doubtless
he was master of the _menus_. Other folk also availed themselves of his
skill in this direction.
We quote from that staid depository of learning, _The Quarterly Review_,
from an article published in 1835 and written by Abraham Hayward:—
“It seems allowed on all hands that a first-rate dinner in England is
out of all comparison better than a dinner of the same class in any
other country; for we get the best cooks, as we get the best singers and
dancers, by bidding highest for them, and we have cultivated certain
national dishes to a point which makes them the envy of the world.
In proof of this bold assertion, which is backed, moreover, by the
unqualified admission of Ude, we request attention to the _menu_ of the
dinner given in May last to Lord Chesterfield, on his quitting the office
of Master of the Buckhounds, at the Clarendon. The party consisted of
thirty; the price was six guineas a head; and the dinner was ordered by
Comte d’Orsay, who stands without a rival amongst connoisseurs in this
department of art:—
“‘PREMIER SERVICE.
“‘_Potages._—Printanier: à la reine: _turtle_ (_two tureens_).
“‘Poissons.—Turbot (_lobster and Dutch sauces_): saumon à la
Tartare: rougets à la cardinal: friture de morue: _white-bait_.
“‘Relévés.—Filet de bœuf à la Napolitaine: dindon à la
chipolate: timballe de macaroni: _haunch of venison_.
“‘Entrées.—Croquettes de volaille: petits pâtés aux huîtres:
côtelettes d’agneau: purée de champignons: côtelettes d’agneau
aux pointes d’asperges: fricandeau de veau à l’oseille: ris de
veau piqué aux tomates: côtelettes de pigeons à la Dusselle:
chartreuse de légumes aux faisans: filets de cannetons à la
Bigarrade: boudins à la Richelieu: sauté de volaille aux
truffes: pâté de mouton monté.
“‘Coté.—Bœuf rôti: jambon: salade.
“‘SECOND SERVICE.
“‘_Rots._—Chapons, and quails, turkey poults, _green goose_.
“‘Entremets.—Asperges: haricots à la Française: mayonnaise
d’homard: gelée Macédoine: aspic d’œufs de pluvier: Charlotte
Russe: gelée au Marasquin: crême marbre: corbeille de
pâtisserie: vol-au-vent de rhubarb: tourte d’abricots:
corbeille de meringues: _dressed crab_: salade à la
gélantine.—Champignons aux fines herbes.
“‘Relévés.—Soufflée à la vanille: Nesselrode pudding: Adelaide
sandwiches: fondus. Pièces montées, etc., etc.’
“The reader will not fail to observe how well the English dishes—turtle,
white-bait, and venison—relieve the French in this dinner; and what a
breadth, depth, solidity, and dignity they add to it. Green goose, also,
may rank as English, the goose being held in little honour, with the
exception of its liver, by the French; but we think Comte d’Orsay did
quite right in inserting it.… The moderation of the price must strike
everyone.”
The Clarendon Hotel was situated in Bond Street and Albemarle Street,
and with Mivart’s in Brook Street shared the reputation of being the
best hotel in town, holding the premier place for dining in luxury and
elegance.
In the later Gore House days D’Orsay must have been sorely vexed,
though he showed it not openly, at a mishap at a dinner given by Lady
Blessington and himself. It is best told in the words of one who was
present:—