irreparable, and sought in vain for means of escape. He prepared a
schedule of his liabilities, the total sum of his indebtedness amounting
to £107,000, not including a number of debts to private friends, which
made an additional sum of £13,000. It was even contemplated that he
should go through the Court of Bankruptcy, but a difficulty was found in
the fact that it could not be proved that he was a commercial man or an
agriculturalist. He only sowed wild oats.
The situation so pressed upon him, that he allowed himself for a time to
become the prey of impostors, who declared that they had achieved what
the alchemists of old had so long looked for in vain, the conversion of
the baser metals into gold!
From an unveracious chronicle we quote a passage which is veracious:—
“Now, among the shyest birds that ever ducked from a missile of the law
was, without an exception the Marquis d’Horsay (D’Orsay). His maxim
had long been ‘catch me who can;’ at the same time, acting up to the
patent-safety rule of ‘prevention being so much better than cure,’ he
afforded no facilities whatever of being hobbled in the chase. At bay
he kept the yelping pack, and within the good, stout, rich walls of
his covert he maintained both a pleasant and a secure retreat from the
dangers besetting him. He now no longer ventured to frame himself, as it
were, in his cab, and exhibit his colours and attractions to the curious
crowds, except on that privileged day—when even the debtor is at liberty
to rest—the seventh of the week.[26] Then, indeed, he issued forth,
decked as of old, and, like a bird free from the confines of his cage,
made the most of the brief hours of his freedom.
“Every art, every manœuvre within the subtle and almost inexhaustible
resources of those apt functionaries of the law who are ever on the
alert to deprive the subject of his liberty, let him be never so chary
of the preservation of it, had been put in force to trap our hero; but
hitherto in vain. Mr Sloughman,[27] truly, arrived within a short journey
of accomplishing this much-desired end; still he was frustrated, and now
among the ranks of bums there was a cloud which damped their hopes and
mildewed their energies. The Marquis was not to be grabbed, and they knew
it. With flagging spirits the attempts were renewed over and over again.
Bribes and offers of rewards were extended liberally to his menials for
their traitorous assistance in obtaining the design, but they had been
too well selected, and knew their own interests depended on no such frail
or fleeting benefits. False messengers in all garbs and disguises, upon
all kinds of errands and excuses, applied for admission and interviews.
Even—yes, even the fair sex were at last made not bearers of Love’s
despatches, but conveyancers of stern writs, notices of declarations,
trials, and suchlike means to the end and breaking up of a man of
fashion. Still the Marquis was proof against all these attacks, let them
come in what shape they would.”
That may be fancy, but it is close akin to fact.
In _The English Spy_ we read of the crowd in Hyde Park of a Sunday
afternoon at the fashionable hour:—
“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,
Who dine at two, are ranged along
On both sides of the way;
With various views, these honest folk
Descant on fashions, quiz and joke,
Or march a _shy cock_[28] down;
For many a star in fashion’s sphere
Can only once a week appear
In public haunts of town,
Lest those two ever _watchful_ friends,
The _step_-brothers, whom sheriff sends,
John Doe and Richard Roe,
A _taking_ pair should deign to borrow,
To wit, until _All Souls_ the morrow,
The body of a beau;
But Sunday sets the prisoner free,
He _shows_ the Park, and laughs with glee,
At creditors and Bum.”
Henry Vizetelly used on occasion to make an early call upon Thackeray,
and walk into town with him from Kensington. “On one of these journeys,”
he says, “soon after Lady Blessington gave up Gore House to reside in
Paris, I remember his taking me with him to look over the little crib,
adjacent to the big mansion, where Count d’Orsay, Lady Blessington’s
recognised lover, was understood to have resided, with the view of
saving appearances. For years past the ringleted and white-kidded
Count, although his tailor and other obliging tradespeople dressed him
for nothing, or rather, in consideration of the advertisement that his
equivocal patronage procured for them, had been a self-constituted
prisoner through dread of arrest for debt. It was only on Sundays that
he ventured outside the Gore House grounds, and for his protection on
other days the greatest possible precaution was exercised when it was
necessary for any of Lady Blessington’s many visitors to be admitted.
D’Orsay’s friend, Thomas Slingsby Duncombe, who was mixed up with him in
numerous bill transactions, used to say that the Count’s debts amounted
to £120,000, and that before he retired to the safe asylum of Gore House,
he was literally mobbed by duns.”
[Illustration: HYDE PARK CORNER IN 1824
[TO FACE PAGE 250]
Tom Duncombe describes Lady Blessington’s parties as gay, “where all
the men about town assembled, and sunned themselves in her charms; and
where, for certain reasons, she was secure from the intrusion of rivals.
There Count d’Orsay, tied by the leg with 120,000_l._ of debt, was sure
to welcome his ‘_cher Tomie_.’”
“_Cher Tomie_” saw and knew much of D’Orsay, and did his best to help him
in his money troubles. The following letters tell a tale of woe:—
_Saturday, 12th February 1842._
“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I know that you have been to C. Lewis, and
that he told you it was settled. It is not so; he expected
that I would have signed the renewals at sixty per cent. which
he sent me, and which I delivered. Therefore, if you have a
moment to lose, have the kindness to see him this morning and
persuade him of the impossibility of my renewing at that rate;
say anything you like on the subject, but that is the moral
of the tale. You must come and dine with us soon again.—Yours
faithfully,
“D’ORSAY.”
* * * * *
_Thursday, 6th April 1842._
“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I see by the papers that Lord Campbell and Mr
T. S. Duncombe received a petition against the _Imprisonment
for Debt_! It is the moment to immortalise yourself, and also
the _sweetest_ revenge against all our gang of Jews, if you
succeed in carrying this petition through. I have taken proper
means to keep this proposal alive in the Press. Will you come
and dine with us?—Yours affectionately,
“D’ORSAY.”
This last _may_ refer to the schedule above-mentioned:—
“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I send you this precious document; the only
one I could obtain. It is a flaring-up page of the _History of
the Nineteenth Century_! God is great, and will be greater the
day He will annihilate our persecutors. _En attendant_, I am
always,—Your affectionate friend,
“D’ORSAY.”
The following refers again to the Imprisonment Abolition Bill:—
“MON CHER TOMMY,—I think that we ought to try to ascertain
how far the humbugging system can go. As soon as I received
your note this morning I wrote to Brougham, and explained
all the unfructuous attempts of Mr Hawes.[29] I enclose the
first answer. _Now_, he has just been here, after having had
a long conversation with Lyndhurst, who is decided to spur
the Solicitor-General, stating, as the Parliament will last
until Thursday week, there will be time enough to pass the
bill. See what you can do with Mr Hawes. I am sure that if he
will strike the iron now, when it is hot, that we have still a
chance. Lyndhurst, I assure you, is very anxious about it, and
expressed it strongly to Brougham. Do not be discouraged.—Yours
affectionately,
“D’ORSAY.”
The enclosed note from Brougham ran:—
“MON CHER A.,—Je suis _coloré_ plutôt que _désespéré_. Il faut
que je mette ordre à tout cela. Je vais chez Lyndhurst dans
l’instant, H. B.”
Tom Duncombe was himself a capital hand at getting into debt; we
read:—“Duncombe is playing good boy, having completely drawn in; he has
given up his house and carriages, and taken his name out of the Clubs.
He had become so involved that he could not carry on the war any longer.
They say that he has committed himself to the amount of 120,000_l._”
Readers of _Vanity Fair_ will recall “Mr Moss’s mansion in Cursitor
Street,” “that dismal place of hospitality,” to which Colonel Crawdon was
an unwilling visitor. It was such an ordeal, that D’Orsay was determined
not to undergo. Shame upon those who threatened him with it.
Madden tells us that D’Orsay’s sister “makes no concealment of her
conviction that Count d’Orsay’s ignorance of the value of money—the
profuse expenditure into which he was led by that ignorance, the
temptation to play arising from it, the reckless extravagance into which
he entered, not so much to minister to his own pleasure, as to gratify
the feelings of an inordinate generosity of disposition, that prompted
him to give whenever he was called on, and to forget the obligations he
contracted for the sake of others, and the heavy penalties imposed on
his friends by the frequent appeals for pecuniary assistance—were very
grievous faults, and great defects in his character.”
Mice nibbling at the reputation of a lion! Faults and defects; it is so
easy to see spots on the sun! The world is often cruel to its greatest
men; and who can deny that D’Orsay was much ill-used? Who can realise
the suffering inflicted on his generous heart by the lack of generosity
in others? How absurd to insult his memory by calling “reckless
extravagance” that which in ordinary men would be so, but which in him
was the striving to fulfil his great destiny. If his spirit haunts the
earth it must be torture, worse than any in the place to which he may
have gone, to find that he should have been so greatly misunderstood.
It is a lovable trait in a man that he should give to others of his
superfluity; it is adorable in D’Orsay that he should have distributed
with open hand and tender heart the spare cash of others. Petty
questionings as to right and wrong, _meum et tuum_, to which commonplace
men rightly pay attention, have no claim upon such a man as D’Orsay. To
the good all things are good.
He had the tongue of the charmer. Mr Mitchell, to whom he owed much
money, would in moments of despair, write and demand immediate payment.
In all his glory D’Orsay would answer in person; would calm the
tempest with fair words and would usually succeed in _increasing_ his
indebtedness.
XXIV
SUNDRY FESTIVITIES
There cannot, indeed, be any question but that D’Orsay possessed the gift
of fascination; his personality was one that compelled both admiration
and attention. It is impossible to define or describe wherein exactly
lies this power of personality. Of two women equally beautiful and
apparently equally attractive, one will fascinate and the other will not,
but it surpasses the ability of even those who are fascinated to say
wherein is the difference between the two charmers.
D’Orsay had charm, and for our part we believe that with him, at any
rate, part of this charm lay in the fact that he did not grow old; those
whom the gods love die young despite the passage of years. He was young
and he was gay; and joyousness is singularly and strongly attractive
in a world where the majority of men and women are apt to be unjoyous.
Gaiety of spirits, and unconquerable, unquenchable _joie de vivre_, are
treasures above all price because they cannot be purchased.
Especially with those who make pleasure a pursuit, and it was with
such that D’Orsay chiefly forgathered, the amusements of life too
frequently become “stale, flat and unprofitable”; such folk make
pleasure the business of life, pleasure does not come to them naturally,
spontaneously; they suffer from that most wearing of mental troubles,
boredom. Far otherwise was it with D’Orsay. We have been with him now in
many places and with many companies, and never once has there been a hint
that he was either satiated with enjoyment or depressed when things went
astray. He often said himself: “I have never known the meaning of the
word _ennui_.”
Beneath all the tinsel and unreality of some of Disraeli’s novels, there
is always a stratum of keen observation and shrewd knowledge of men and
women. It will help us, therefore, in our understanding of D’Orsay to see
how he appeared to his friend and fellow-dandy.
Disraeli sketched D’Orsay’s portrait as Count Alcibiades de Mirabel in
_Henrietta Temple_: “The satin-lined coat thrown open … and revealing a
breastplate of starched cambric …,” the wristbands were turned up with
“compact precision,” and were fastened by “jewelled studs.” “The Count
Mirabel could talk at all times well.… Practised in the world, the Count
Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace,
and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and
every act appropriate.… The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous.…
It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and
his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing.…” Into Count Mirabel’s
mouth is put this, which sounds very D’Orsayish: “Between ourselves, I
do not understand what this being bored is,” said the Count. “He who is
bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being
amused.… Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.”
Then this: “I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse
me.” And this: “Fancy a man ever being in low spirits. Life is too
short for such _bêtises_. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates
unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well then, he has
something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The
world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to live than to die, it
is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced
that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased
by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who
feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, ought
never to be miserable. The sun shines on all; every man can go to sleep;
if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you
have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and
Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything
depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find
it, enjoy everything. _Vive la bagatelle!_”
Then further on:—
“The Count Mirabel was announced.…
“The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and
gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye
bright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to
desert the recent mysteries of Mr Bond Sharpe;[30] and, as usual, the
dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed—that bed that
always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of
the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel
did laugh at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their own
folly with broken spirits and aching heads. Care, he knew nothing about;
Time, he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been
ill in his life, even for five minutes.
“Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was
no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and
brilliant raillery.”
Then to his friend, Armine, who is _distrait_:—
“A melancholy man! _Quelle bêtise!_ I will cure you; I will be your
friend, and put you all right. Now we will just drive down to Richmond;
we will have a light dinner—a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of
champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you
to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper.
Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!”
Could Armine resist a tempting invitation so irresistible? No, “so, in
a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet
in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud
consciousness of its master.”
We hold that portrait to be excellent not only as regards the outer but
also the inner man D’Orsay. He was the “child of impulse,” not a cold,
cynical, calculating voluptuary; he did not deliberately “feel slightly,
think little”; it was not in him to suffer deep emotion or to think
deeply. “_Vive la bagatelle!_” that was his motto, because for him there
was not in life anything else than “_bagatelle_”; existence for him was
compounded of “trifles light as air.” His good spirits, as Disraeli
hints, were based upon his splendid physical vitality as infectious good
spirits must ever be. The joy of life may be apparent to and partially
enjoyed by those whose physical health is weak, but complete realisation
of the joy of living, of merely being alive, is only for those whose
vitality is abundant and superb. Further, he had the faculty of enjoying
himself; it was not that he would not but that he could not be bored.
Even children felt his fascination. Madden writes:—
“One of the proofs of the effect on others of his insinuating manners and
prepossessing appearance, was the extreme affection and confidence he
inspired in children, of whom he was very fond, but who usually seemed as
if they were irresistibly drawn towards him, even before he attempted to
win them. The shyest and most reserved were no more proof against this
influence than the most confiding. Children who in general would hardly
venture to look at a stranger, would steal to his side, take his hand,
and seem to be quite happy and at ease when they were near him.”
Nor, as we have learned, was it merely the butterflies who found pleasure
in his sunny nature; he had a striking faculty of suiting himself to
his company, an adaptability which is essential for success in general
society. Landor loved him, so almost it may be said did the somewhat
stern Macready. Indeed the actor was one of the most ardent of D’Orsay’s
admirers; he wrote after his death:—
“No one who knew and had affections could help loving him. When he
liked he was most fascinating and captivating. It was impossible to
be insensible to his graceful, frank and most affectionate manner. I
have reason to believe that he liked me, perhaps much, and I certainly
entertained the most affectionate regard for him. He was the most
brilliant, graceful, endearing man I ever saw—humorous, witty and
clear-headed. But the name of D’Orsay alone had a charm; even in the most
distant cities of the United States all inquired with interest about him.”
A few notes from Macready’s Diary, and from records kept by others, will
serve to confirm the testimony already adduced of the great variety and
interest of the friends with whom D’Orsay was surrounded in the Gore
House days.
On February 16th, 1839, there was a pleasant company there, of which
Macready makes this record:—
“Went to Lady Blessington’s with Forster, who had called in the course of
the day. Met there the Count de Vigny, with whom I had a most interesting
conversation on _Richelieu_.… Met also with D’Orsay, Bulwer, Charles
Buller, Lord Durham, who was very cordial and courteous to me, Captain
Marryat, who wished to be reintroduced to me, Hall, Standish, Chorley,
Greville, who wished to be introduced to me also, Dr Quin, etc. Passed a
very agreeable two hours.”
With most of these we have already met on other occasions. On May
31st, 1840, Macready met at Gore House the Fonblanques, Lord Normanby,
Lord Canterbury, Monckton Milnes, Chorley, Rubini and “Liszt, the most
marvellous pianist I ever heard. I do not know when I have been so
excited.” And in April 1846, we hear of him dining at Gore House in the
company of, amongst others, Liston, Quin, Chesterfield, Edwin Landseer,
Forster, Jerdan and Dickens.
And on the other hand many a time did D’Orsay dine with Macready to meet
good company, but Lady Blessington was not and could not be included
in the invitations. It is a feather in their caps for men to conquer
beautiful ladies, but _væ victis_. On the evening of May 6th, 1840,
Planché “was present at a very large and brilliant gathering at Gore
House. Amongst the company were the Marquis of Normanby and several other
noblemen, and, memorably, Edwin Landseer. During the previous week there
had been a serious disturbance at the Opera, known as ‘The Tamburini
Row,’ and it naturally formed the chief subject of conversation in a
party, nearly every one of whom had been present. Lord Normanby, Count
d’Orsay, and Landseer were specially excited; there was some difference
of opinion, but no quarrelling, and the great animal painter was in high
spirits and exceedingly amusing till the small hours of the morning, when
we all gaily separated, little dreaming of the horrible deed perhaps at
that very moment perpetrating, the murder of Lord William Russell by his
valet Courvoisier.”
Of James Robinson Planché, herald and writer of extravaganzas and student
of the history of costume, Edmund Yates gives a thumbnail sketch in later
years:—
“Such a pleasant little man, even in his extreme old age—he was over
eighty at his death[31]—and always neatly dressed, showing his French
origin in his vivacity and his constant gesticulation.”
The murder of Lord William Russell created an unpleasant sensation,
though there was not anything mysterious in it, or particularly
interesting to the amateur in crime. François Benjamin Courvoisier, a
Swiss and Lord William’s valet, two maid-servants and Lord William,
aged seventy-two, formed the household at the establishment in Norfolk
Street, Park Lane. On the morning of 7th May, the housemaid found her
master’s writing-room in a state of disarray, and in the hall a cloak, an
opera-glass and other articles of wearing apparel done up together as if
prepared to be taken away. The maid roused Courvoisier, who exclaimed,
when he came upon the scene: “Some one has been robbing us; for God’s
sake go and see where his lordship is!”
They went together to Lord William’s room, where a shocking sight
presented itself, their master lying dead upon the bed, his head nearly
severed from his body. The police were summoned, and money, banknotes,
and some jewellery, believed to have been stolen from Lord William,
being found concealed behind the skirting in the pantry, Courvoisier
was arrested, tried, condemned, and then acknowledged his crime. He was
executed on 6th July, before an immense mob of men, women and children.
Of another evening at Gore House Planché has this to relate of Lablache:—
“It was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary
representation of a thunderstorm simply by facial expression. The gloom
that gradually overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual
darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the
tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, and twitchings of
the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the
mouth which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to
rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his
head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the
gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face assured
you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over.”
Another house to which D’Orsay frequently went was that of Charles
Dickens, and we read of in 1845 an entertainment which no doubt was a
festive jollification. In September of that year an amateur performance,
with Dickens at the head of the troupe, was given of _Every Man in His
Humour_, at Miss Kelly’s Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known as
the Royalty. After the “show” it was decided to wind up with a supper,
concerning which Dickens writes to Macready:—
“At No. 9 Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging
to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the
favour of thy company and that of Mrs Macready. The guests are limited to
the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves and D’Orsay
and George Cattermole, ‘or so’—that sounds like Bobadil a little.”
In the company were included Douglas Jerrold, John Leech and Forster.
Referring to yet another dinner, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from
Gore House, on 12th April 1848:—