that proved how ready the _Cupidon déchainé_, as Byron called him, was
to extricate himself from any difficulty. The party consisted of ten,
and out of them there were about six who enjoyed what is called a glass
of wine, meaning a bottle. Before dinner the Count had alluded to some
splendid Clicquot champagne and claret of celebrated vintage. While we
were waiting to sit down, D’Orsay was more than once called out of the
room, and a quick-sighted individual hinted to me that he feared some
unpleasant visitors of the dun family were importunate for some ‘small
account.’ Still, there was nothing on the light-hearted Frenchman’s
face to show that he was at all put out. Dinner was announced, and all
promised to go well, as the soup and the fish were unexceptionable,
when my quick-sighted friend, who was a great _gourmet_, remarked that
he saw no champagne. ‘Perhaps,’ I replied, _sotto voce_, ‘it is being
kept in ice outside.’ The sherry was handed round, and repeated looks
passed between the hostess and the Count, and between the same and the
head servant. The _entrées_ were handed round, and a thirsty soul,
with rather bad tact, for he was too gentlemanlike to be deficient in
taste, asked in an undertone for a glass of champagne. The servant looked
confused; D’Orsay saw it, and exclaimed aloud: ‘No champagne to-day;
my Lady and I have a treat for you—a royal treat. You know that the
Queen has lately patronised what is called the Balmoral brose, and here
is some.’ At this moment one of the servants entered with a large jug
containing this Scotch delicacy, which, of course, following the example
of our hostess, we all declared to be excellent. ‘Far better than wine,’
said the late Lord Pembroke, a sentiment, I need scarcely say, in which
the rest did not agree. Balmoral brose did duty for champagne and claret,
and the only wine upon that memorable occasion was sherry. Whether
the butler was absent without leave, or the key of the cellar lost or
mislaid, or, as was hinted by my neighbour at dinner, the wine merchant
had been seized with a sudden fit of hard-heartedness, I know not. All I
do know is, that a mixture of Highland whisky and honey was substituted
for the foaming grape of eastern France.”
“Foaming grape” is good! Not good, however, is the taste left by this
anecdote; a party of well-to-do men dining with D’Orsay and Lady
Blessington, and cracking jokes behind their backs at their impecuniosity.
D’Orsay was once dining with his brother dandy Disraeli, and was grieved
by the undoubted fact that the dishes were served up distinctly cool.
But the climax was reached when tepid ices were brought forward.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed D’Orsay, “at last we have got something hot!”
As a matter of course the circumstances in which he was so ostentatiously
living and his general reputation kept D’Orsay outside the houses of
those who did not open their doors to everybody, though most male folk
were pleased enough to visit him and Lady Blessington at Seamore Place,
where of womankind, however, none except relatives and exotics were to be
met with. But even a dandy must find occasionally a crumpled rose-leaf
in his bed. But what counted this exclusion against the having been
spoken of by young Ben Dizzy as “the most delightful of men and best of
friends,” and by Victor Prévost, Viscount d’Arlincourt, as “_le roi de la
grâce et du goût_”?
It took much to disturb D’Orsay’s serenity and peace of mind; he was one
of those blessed beings, whom all we poor miserable sinners must envy,
who did not own to a conscience. Certainly the being head over ears
in debt did not cause him a moment’s anxiety. He did not realise that
money had any value; guineas to him were simply counters of which it was
convenient to have a sufficient supply wherewith to pay gambling debts
and to discharge the incidental ready-money expenditure of each day. As
for other expenses, were not tradesmen honoured by his custom, were they
not a race of slaves ordained to supply the necessities of noble men such
as D’Orsay, was it not a scandal that they should dare to ask him to
pay his bills? What pleasure is there in the bills we pay? D’Orsay never
denied himself anything which he could obtain for love or by owing money.
It has even been said of him—and what will not little men say of even the
greatest?—that he was “unscrupulous and indelicate about money matters.”
How poor-spirited the creature who could ask such a man as D’Orsay to
pay back the money he had lent him or to render their due to the tailors
and such like whom he had honoured with his patronage! The spirit of a
D’Orsay cannot be appreciated rightly save by one of kindred genius. Who
that was worthy to be his friend would not feel honoured by a request
from him for a loan, and injured by even a hint at repayment? Of what
value is a rich friend if he will not be your banker?
D’Orsay’s finances from now onward were in a state of hopeless chaos,
from which the efforts of his friends signally failed to extricate him.
Which failure, however, in the long run cannot have made any difference;
to have hauled him out of his ocean of debt would only have landed him
for a brief space upon dry land, whereon he would have gasped like a fish
out of water; he was a born debtor. His marriage had replenished, or
rather filled, his exchequer; then he proceeded with skill and rapidity
to empty it. Why should not a colourless wife contribute to the support
of a resplendent husband? Yet, marvellous, almost incredible, there were
carping and jealous spirits who boggled over this and other transactions
of Count d’Orsay.
As for instance Patmore, commenting on D’Orsay’s social difficulties,
writes:—
“And yet it was in England, that Count d’Orsay while a mere boy, made
the fatal mistake of marrying one beautiful woman, while he was, without
daring to confess it even to himself, madly in love with another,
still more beautiful, whom he could not marry—because, I say, under
these circumstances, and discovering his fatal error when too late,
he separated himself from his wife almost at the church door, he was,
during the greatest part of his social career in England, cut off from
the advantages of the more fastidious portion of female society, by the
indignant fiat of its heads and leaders.”
There are quite a wonderful number of blunders in the above meandering
sentences.
True as it was that he was cut by “the more fastidious portion of female
society,” D’Orsay found consolation, sympathy and understanding—doubtless
also advice and counsel—in the comradeship of Lady Blessington—and
others. Grantley Berkeley tells us that D’Orsay “was as fickle as a
French lover might be expected to be to a woman some years his senior.”
In which sneer there is a smack of insular envy. On the other hand
Dickens, the exponent of the middle-class conscience, wrote of him as
one “whose gentle heart even a world of fashion left unspoiled!” How can
history be written with any approach to truth when contemporary evidence
differs so widely? Was D’Orsay a saint or a sinner? Who dare say?
Society gossiped evilly about him, as it will do about anyone and
everyone, telling tales that did not redound to his credit. The Duchesse
de Dino retails this, under date February 20th, 1834:—
“A new and very ugly story is afloat concerning Count Alfred d’Orsay,
which is as follows: Sir Willoughby Cotton, writing from Brighton at the
same time to Count d’Orsay and to Lady Fitzroy Somerset, cross-directed
the letters so that M. d’Orsay on opening the letter which he received,
instead of seeing the mistake and stopping at the first line, which ran
‘Dear Lady Fitzroy,’ read it through and found, among other Brighton
gossip, some pleasantries about Lady Tullemore and one of her lovers, and
a sharp saying about himself. What did he do but go to the club, read
out the letter before every one, and finally put it under cover and send
it to Lord Tullemore! The result very nearly was a crop of duels. Lady
Tullemore is very ill, and the guilty lover has fled to Paris. Friends
intervened, however, and the thing was hushed up for the sake of the
ladies, but M. d’Orsay cut (and cuts) an odious figure.”
Such a story disgraces those who tell it, not him of whom it is told.
D’Orsay guilty of hurting a woman’s reputation, directly or indirectly?
The idea is absurd! Of a man too who was a philanthropist and one of the
founders of the Société de Bienfaisance in London!
XIII
A LONDON SALON
What have been the causes of the decline and fall in London of the
_salon_ as a social and sociable institution? It is a difficult question
to answer. Our hostesses are as lovely, as charming, as cultured and as
hospitable to-day as ever they were; our men as gallant and as fond of
feminine society; where then lurked the seeds of decay?
A successful _salon_ depended upon the brilliancy of the conversation
of those who frequented it; a _salon_ without wit would be as a pond
without water, or a sky at night empty of stars. Conversation is a lost
art. Talk we have in superabundance, also argument. But the light give
and take, the prompt wit, the ready repartee, which form the mainstay
of a conversation, are now all so rare that it would be impossible to
gather together anything like a company of true masters and mistresses of
conversation. The finest conversation to-day is heard among those who do
not frequent the drawing-rooms of the leaders of fashion. Moreover, in
those bygone days men of fashion were expected to be also men of wit and
of culture; now-a-days men are rated at cheque-value not at brain-value,
more’s the pity. D’Orsay would be hopelessly at sea in London society
to-day, not on account of his morals, but because he would not be able
to contribute his share of unconsidered and platitudinous trifles at
tea-fights, over-lengthy dinners and over-crowded dances.
In the London of D’Orsay’s prime the _salon_ was still a power for
pleasure, and he and Lady Blessington reigned over that which was perhaps
the most brilliant that our country has ever seen. There were others.
That at Holland House, for example, where Lady Holland reigned supreme
and somewhat severe. To that select circle, from which he was now, alas,
excluded, D’Orsay had been admitted when as a mere youth he first visited
London. Dining there one day, he was honoured by a seat next his hostess,
who apparently looked upon the young Frenchman as sure to be awe-stricken
by her presence. She did not know her man. Time and again she allowed
her napkin to slip down to the floor, on each occasion asking D’Orsay to
recover it for her. This exercise at last exhausted his patience, and
when the “accident” occurred again he startled her haughtiness by saying,
“_Ne ferais-je pas mieux, madame, de m’asseoir sous la table, afin de
pouvoir vous passer la serviette plus rapidement?_”
Lady Holland had been a wealthy Miss Vassall, and deserted her first
husband, Sir Godfrey Webster, at the charming of Lord Holland. The latter
has been described as “the last and the best of the Whigs of the old
school,” and was a man of highly cultivated mind, of genial hospitality,
of wit, and a master of the art of conversation. Among the frequenters of
the Holland House circle were Tom Moore, Macaulay, Lord John Russell,
to mention three men of very different character. D’Orsay, in what
is perchance a stray relic of that famous Journal of his, gives this
picture of Lord Holland:—“It is impossible to know Lord Holland without
feeling for him a strong sentiment of affection; he has so much goodness
of heart, that one forgets often the superior qualities of mind which
distinguish him; and it is difficult to conceive that a man so simple, so
natural and so good, should be one of the most distinguished senators of
our days.” Lady Holland had not shown her best self to D’Orsay; she was
a despot, but benevolent in the use of her power and full of the milk of
human kindness.
That D’Orsay was fully equipped to king it over a _salon_ frequented by
distinguished men is evident; no less was Lady Blessington endowed with
all the requisites to reign as queen. The gift of all gifts to a woman,
beauty, was hers in a high degree. Willis thus describes her:—
“Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an admirable
shape; her foot is not pressed in a satin slipper for which a Cinderella
might long be sought in vain; and her complexion (an unusually fair
skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows) is of even a girlish delicacy
and freshness. Her dress, of blue satin … was cut low, and folded across
her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round and sculpture-like
curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair,
dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with a
rich _ferronier_ of turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with
which it would be difficult to find a fault. Her features are regular,
and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fullness and
freedom of play peculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the
most unsuspicious good-humour. Add to all this, a voice merry and sad by
turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance,
yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the
prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women I have
ever seen.”
In these years her conversation was full of frank spontaneity; a smile
always hovered round her lips, and there was not mingled with her wit
any spite of malice. She expressed herself with felicity, though not
in any studied manner, and accompanied her words with expressive looks
and gestures. Above all, she understood that conversation is a game of
give and take, “one _bon mot_ followed another, without pause or effort,
for a minute or two, and then, while her wit and humour were producing
their desired effect, she would take care, by an apt word or gesture,
provocative of mirth and communicativeness, to draw out the persons who
were best fitted to shine in company, and leave no intelligence, however
humble, without affording it an opportunity and encouragement to make
some display, even in a single trite remark, a telling observation in the
course of conversation.”
The evening at Seamore Place often began with a dinner party; some of
these it will be pleasant for us to attend, in a proper spirit.
_Habitués_ not only dined there, but when so disposed dropped in of an
evening at almost any hour. Tom Moore records in his memoirs that he did
so on 17th December 1833:—“Went to Lady Blessington’s, having heard that
she is at home most evenings. Found her gay rooms splendidly lighted up,
and herself in a similar state of illumination, sitting ‘alone in her
glory,’ reading. It was like the solitude of some princess confined in a
fairy palace. After I had been a few minutes with her, however, D’Orsay
made his appearance. Stayed about three-quarters of an hour conversing.…”
Then on 11th August of the following year he “Dined at Lady
Blessington’s: company, D’Orsay (as master of the house), John Ponsonby,
Willis the American, Count Pahlen (whom I saw a good deal of when he was
formerly in London, and liked), Fonblanque, the editor of _The Examiner_,
and a foreigner, whose name I forget. Sat next to Fonblanque, and was
glad of the opportunity of knowing him. A clever fellow certainly, and
with great powers occasionally as a writer. Got on very well together.”
That must have been a pleasant gathering: a witty hostess, a witty
host, and several other wits, Fonblanque among them, of whom Lytton
speaks enthusiastically to Lady Blessington: “What a combination to
reconcile one to mankind, and _such_ honour, _such_ wisdom and _such_
genius.” Albany Fonblanque, as so many others have done, deserted law
for journalism, achieving a high degree of success as editor of _The
Examiner_. He was a master of sarcasm. Before Dickens set out on his
first trip to America, in 1842, Fonblanque cuttingly said: “Why, aren’t
there disagreeable people enough to describe in Blackburn or Leeds?”
In the same year (1834) Benjamin Disraeli was one of a distinguished
company entertained one night in May:—“On Monday I dined with Lady
Blessington, the Prince of Moskowa, Charles Lafitte, Lords Castlereagh,
Elphinstone, and Allen, Mr Talbot, myself.…” Disraeli in his thirtieth
year was a man after D’Orsay’s heart, a fellow dandy and a brother wit.
But there was a difference in kind: Disraeli was an amateur, D’Orsay a
professional; to the former dandyism was a pose, of his life a thing
apart, it was the latter’s whole existence; dandyism with Disraeli was
part of a means to an end, with D’Orsay it was the end itself. The useful
Willis gives a description of Disraeli at somewhere about this date, but
Madden casts a doubt upon his accuracy. It was a strange scene, like
pages torn from _Vivian Grey_, and from what we learn from other sources
the “atmosphere” at any rate is correct and typical:—
“Disraeli had arrived before me at Lady Blessington’s,” Willis writes,
“and sat in the deep window, looking out upon Hyde Park, with the
last rays of daylight reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of an
embroidered waistcoat. Patent leather pumps, a white stick, with a
black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chains about his neck and
pockets, served to make him, even in the dim light, rather a conspicuous
object. Disraeli has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw. He is
lividly pale, and, but for the energy of his action and the strength
of his lungs, would seem a victim to consumption. His eye is black as
Erebus, and has the most mocking and lying-in-wait sort of expression
conceivable.… His hair is as extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats. A
thick heavy mass of jet-black ringlets falls over his left cheek almost
to his collarless stock; while on the right it is parted and put away
with the smooth carefulness of a girl, and shines most unctuously,
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
Disraeli was the only one at table who knew Beckford, and the style in
which he gave a sketch of his habits and manners was worthy of himself. I
might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea, as to convey an
idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description.
There were, at least, five words in every sentence that must have been
very much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others
apparently could so well have conveyed his idea. He talked like a
race-horse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in action, and the
utmost energy of expression flung out in every burst. Victor Hugo and his
extraordinary novels came next under discussion; and Disraeli, who was
fired with his own eloquence, started off _apropos de bottes_, with a
long story of empalement he had seen in Upper Egypt. It was as good, and
perhaps as authentic, as the description of the chow-chow-tow in _Vivian
Grey_. The circumstantiality of the account was equally horrible and
amusing. Then followed the sufferer’s history, with a score of murders
and barbarities heaped together like Martin’s feast of Belshazzar, with
a mixture of horror and splendour that was unparalleled in my experience
of improvisation. No mystic priest of the Corybantes could have worked
himself up into a finer frenzy of language.”
Willis himself seems to have been bitten with this fine frenzy.
Madden says that it was Disraeli’s wont to be reserved and silent in
company, but that when he was aroused “his command of language was truly
wonderful, his power of sarcasm unsurpassed.”
Disraeli apparently met D’Orsay for the first time in February 1832, at a
_réunion_ at Bulwer’s house, and he describes him as “the famous Parisian
dandy.” They quickly struck up a friendship. It is easy to understand
what a fascinating study D’Orsay must have offered to Disraeli. We
hear of the latter, a few months after his marriage, entertaining
Lyndhurst, Bulwer, and D’Orsay. And in the spring of 1835 there was a
party at Lyndhurst’s at 25 George Street, at which Disraeli and d’Orsay
were present. One of the company was wearing a waistcoat of splendour
exceptional even for those splendid days. Said Disraeli as he entered
the room: “What a beautiful pattern! Where did you find it?” Then as the
guests with one accord displayed their vests, the host exclaimed: “By the
way, this brings to my mind a very curious suit I had about a waistcoat,
in which I was counsel for a Jew, and won his case.” And the story? It is
lost! As hopelessly as the story of “Ould Grouse in the Gun-room.”
After dinner some of the party went on to the Opera to hear _La
Sonnambula_, that rickety old piece of fireworks; in an opposite box
sat Lady Blessington, “not very young, somewhat florid, but effectively
arranged in a turban, _à la Joséphine_.”
Of the evening of 30th March 1835, Crabb Robinson notes: “At half-past
seven went to Lady Blessington’s, where I dined. The amusing man of the
party was a young Irishman—Lover—a miniature painter and an author. He
sang and accompanied himself, and told some Irish tales with admirable
effect.… Among other guests were Chorley and the American Willis. Count
d’Orsay, of course, did the honours. Did not leave till near one.…”
Lord Lyndhurst was a frequent visitor to Seamore Place. Henry Fothergill
Chorley was well-known and respected in his day as a musical critic, as a
novelist neither respected nor famous; he was a close friend of D’Orsay.
A rude journalist once spoke of “the Chorleys and the _chawbacons_ of
literature.” An intimate friend describes him as “doing all sorts of good
and generous deeds in a quiet, unostentatious way.” Samuel Lover is best
represented by his ballad of “Rory O’More,” and _Handy Andy_ still finds
a few readers.
William Archer Shee met Lover under somewhat similar circumstances at
another house:—“He is a man who shines much in a small circle. There is
a brilliancy of thought, a general versatility of talent about him that
makes his society very charming … he is one of the best _raconteurs_ that
ever kept an audience in a roar. He told two Irish stories with the most
racy humour.”
The Blessington of course often showed herself at the Opera, which then
as now was a fashionable lounge for musical and unmusical folk. Writing
to the Countess Guiccioli in August 1833, she says:—“Our Opera has been
brilliant, and offered a galaxy of talent, such as we never had before.
Pasta, Malibran, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, and a host of minor stars,
with a _corps de ballet_, with Taglioni at their head, who more than
redeemed their want of excellency. I did not miss a single night.…”
XIV
ROUND THE TOWN
D’Orsay was able to be almost anything to any man, or any woman. He
was highly accomplished in every art of pleasing, and endowed with the
ability not only to enjoy himself but to be the cause of enjoyment in
others. He was popular undoubtedly, wonderfully so, and with a wide and
varied range of men and women. But there were also many who despised him,
looking askance at one who so openly defied the most sacred conventions
of society, and who, in many ways, was accounted a mere adventurer. His
money transactions with his friends will not bear scrutiny. Yet when all
is said, he counted among the multitude of his friends and admirers such
men as Bulwer, Landor, Lamartine, Dickens, Byron, Disraeli and Lyndhurst.
John Forster warmed to him, and said that his “pleasantry, wit and
kindliness gave him a wonderful fascination.”
What did life mean to D’Orsay? Being a wise man he looked upon the world
as a place of pleasant sojourning, of which it was the whole duty of
man to make the very best. That there was, or might be, “another and a
better world” was no sort of excuse for being miserable in this one.
“_Vive la joie!_” was his motto, and he lived up to it gloriously. Life
was meant to be lived; money was made for spending; credit was a device
for obtaining good things for which the obtainer had not any means or
intention of paying. No one but a fool would lift the cup of pleasure
to his lips and then set it down before he had drained it dry. D’Orsay
looked upon the externals of a luxurious life, and found them very
pleasant. The Spartans pointed out the drunken helot to their children,
as a warning against tippling. So we may hold out to our young men the
life of D’Orsay as an example of what they should all endeavour to be,
and as a warning against the sheer foolishness of taking life seriously.
This is a degenerate age.