him when proposing his health. He, I assure you, was touched when he
repeated them, and his feelings were infectious, for mine responded. To
be highly appreciated by those we most highly value, is, indeed, a source
of heartfelt gratification. From the first year of our acquaintance with
you, we had learned to admire your genius, to respect your principles,
and to love your goodness of heart, and the honest warmth of your nature.
These sentiments have never varied. Every year, by unfolding your noble
qualities to us, has served to prove how true were our first impressions
of you, and our sole regret has been that your occupations deprive us
of enjoying half as much of your society as all who have once enjoyed
it must desire. Count d’Orsay declares that yesterday was one of the
happiest days of his life. He feels proud of having assisted at the
triumph of a friend whose heart is as genial as his genius is great. Who
can resist being delighted at the success of one who wins for himself
thousands of friends (for all his readers become so), without ever
creating an enemy, even among those most envious of another’s fame, and
simply by the revelations of a mind and heart that excite only the best
feelings of our—nature? I cannot resist telling you what is passing in my
heart. You will understand this little outbreak of genuine feeling in the
midst of the toil of a literary life.”
There were almost as many writers of genius then as now!
Forster and Dickens were together at Gore House early in 1848, when
Madden tells us “there was a remarkable display of D’Orsay’s peculiar
ingenuity and successful tact in drawing out the oddities or absurdities
of eccentric or ridiculous personages—mystifying them with a grave
aspect, and imposing on their vanity by apparently accidental references
of a gratulatory description to some favourite hobby or exploit,
exaggerated merit or importance of the individual to be made sport of for
the Philistines of the fashionable circle.” Bear-baiting was succeeded in
those polite days by bore-baiting. Anent this particular evening, one of
those present wrote to Lady Blessington:—
“Count d’Orsay may well speak of our evening being a happy one, to whose
happiness he contributed so largely. It would be absurd, if one did not
know it to be true, to hear D⸺ (Dickens?) talk as he has done ever since
of Count d’Orsay’s power of drawing out always the best elements around
him, and of miraculously putting out the worst. Certainly I never saw it
so marvellously exhibited as on the night in question. I shall think of
him hereafter unceasingly, with the two guests that sat on either side of
him that night.”
It was but fitting that the Prince of Dandies and the future Poet
Laureate should come together. Tennyson writes:—“Count d’Orsay is a
friend of mine, co-godfather to Dickens’ child with me.” This was
Dickens’ sixth child and fourth son, christened Alfred Tennyson after his
godfathers.
D’Orsay was not so unkind as to neglect his native country entirely, and
we find him now and again running over to Paris.
As pendants to the Disraeli portrait of D’Orsay, here are two others, one
from a man’s hand, the other from a woman’s.
Chesterfield House was the headquarters of a racing set, and was gossiped
about as also the centre of some heavy gambling, probably untruly so.
The Honourable F. Leveson Gore in _Bygone Years_ expresses himself
bluntly: “I used to wonder that Lady Chesterfield admitted into her house
that good-for-nothing fellow, Count d’Orsay. He was handsome, clever and
amusing, and I am aware that in the eyes of some people such qualities
cover a multitude of sins. But his record was a bad one. No Frenchman
would speak to him because he had left the French army at the breaking
out of the war between his own country and Spain, in order to go to
Italy with Lord and Lady Blessington, and his conduct with regard to his
marriage was infamous.” How uncharitable is the judgment of a virtuous
world. Reading on we find that the writer holds that Lady Blessington
induced D’Orsay “entirely to neglect his young wife. She, moreover,
endeavoured to undermine her faith and her morals by getting her to read
books calculated to do so, and what was still worse, she promoted the
advances of other men, who made up to this inexperienced and beautiful
young woman. Her life at Gore House[32] became at last so intolerable
that she fled from it never to return.”
Mr Leveson Gore also calls Lady Harriet the only daughter of Lord
Blessington, which is really not doing his lordship justice.
It is much more helpful, however, to have the opinion of a keen, shrewd
woman; one who cannot have been disposed to like D’Orsay, yet who seems,
as did her husband, to have a soft place in her heart for him.
Jane Welsh Carlyle was a capital hand at a pen portrait; here is what she
has to say of D’Orsay:—
“_April 13, 1845._—To-day, oddly enough, while I was engaged in
re-reading Carlyle’s _Philosophy of Clothes_, Count d’Orsay walked in.
I had not seen him for four or five years. Last time he was as gay in
his colours as a humming-bird—blue satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat,
cream-coloured coat, lined with velvet of the same hue, trousers also
of a bright colour, I forget what; white French gloves, two glorious
breastpins attached by a chain, and length enough of gold watch-guard to
have hanged himself in. To-day, in compliment to his five more years,
he was all in black and brown—a black satin cravat, a brown velvet
waistcoat, a brown coat some shades darker than the waistcoat, lined with
velvet of its own shade, and almost black trousers, one breast-pin, a
large pear-shaped pearl set into a little cup of diamonds, and only one
fold of gold chain round his neck, tucked together right on the centre
of his spacious breast with one magnificent turquoise. Well! that man
understood his trade; if it be but that of dandy, nobody can deny that
he is a perfect master of it, that he dresses himself with consummate
skill! A bungler would have made no allowance for five more years at
his time of life, but he had the fine sense to perceive how much better
his dress of to-day sets off his slightly enlarged figure and slightly
worn complexion, than the humming-bird colours of five years back would
have done. Poor D’Orsay! he was born to have been something better than
even the king of dandies. He did not say nearly so many clever things
this time as on the last occasion. His wit, I suppose, is of the sort
that belongs more to animal spirits than to real genius, and his animal
spirits seem to have fallen many degrees. The only thing that fell from
him to-day worth remembering was his account of a mask he had seen of
Charles Fox, ‘all punched and flattened as if he had slept in a book.’
“Lord Jeffrey came, unexpected, while the Count was here. What a
difference! the prince of critics and the prince of dandies. How washed
out the beautiful dandiacal face looked beside that little clever old
man’s! The large blue dandiacal eyes, you would have said, had never
contemplated anything more interesting than the reflection of the
handsome personage they pertained to in a looking-glass; while the dark
penetrating ones of the other had been taking note of most things in
God’s universe, even seeing a good way into millstones.”
XXV
SUNSET
Sunset of the glories of Gore House came in the year 1849, a cold, bitter
sunset, presaging a stormy morrow. Lady Blessington was nearly sixty
years old, well-preserved indeed, but Time’s footsteps are crow’s-feet.
D’Orsay was nearing fifty. Darby and Joan; only the former at fifty is
more than ten years younger than the latter at sixty.
Behind all the gaiety of Gore House there had long been a dark
background, ever growing more sinister. Without the harassment of any
cares it would have been difficult for a woman of Lady Blessington’s
age to maintain a sovereignty which depended almost entirely upon her
beauty. Troubles met her at every turn, and the last few years at Gore
House must have been to her years of torment and despair. She heard her
doom approaching with sure foot, and knew that she was unable to stay the
advance.
Her jointure of £2000 was entirely inadequate to maintain the expenses
of either Seamore Place or Gore House, to the exchequers of which
D’Orsay cannot have contributed; any capital that came into his hands
was rapidly dispersed by them among hungry debtors, and his income of
£500 was probably hypothecated in the same way. It was essential for her,
therefore, to add to her revenue, for the reduction of expenditure does
not seem to have occurred to this luxury-loving soul. She does indeed
seem to have been careful to see that she obtained her money’s worth, and
kept a tight hand on the household expenses and accounts. One habit of
hers was to keep a “book of dinners,” noting down the names of the guests
at each entertainment.
When no other way of securing an income suggests itself to the needy or
hard-up, they invariably take up their pens and write. Lady Blessington,
if it had not been for her beauty and notoriety, could scarcely have
earned a livelihood as a hack writer for the lesser journals, but her
name gave to her writings a market value which their intrinsic merit did
not. Her _Conversations with Byron_ have already been mentioned, and
sufficiently dealt with; she also wrote books of travel, novels, verses,
edited such periodicals as _The Keepsake_ and _The Book of Beauty_,
to which the eminent authors who fluttered round her at Gore House
contributed, and in the end when these enterprises were failing became
a contributor to the _Daily News_ of “exclusive intelligence,” that is
to say of “any sort of intelligence she might like to communicate, of
the sayings, doings, memoirs or movements in the fashionable world,”
for which she received payment at the rate of £400 a year; Dickens and
Forster were her editors.
The death in 1848 of Heath, the publisher, in insolvency brought a loss
to Lady Blessington of about £700. Her earnings have been placed at a
thousand a year, but William Jerdan in his _Autobiography_ declares them
to have been much higher. “I have known her to enjoy from her pen an
amount somewhere midway between £2000 and £3000 per annum, and her title,
as well as talents, had considerable influence in ‘ruling high prices’ as
they say in Mark Lane and other markets. To this, also, her well-arranged
parties with a publisher now and then, to meet folks of a style unusual
to men in business, contributed their attractions; and the same society
was in reality of solid value towards the production of such publications
as the Annuals, the contents of which were provided by the editor almost
entirely from the pens of private friends.”
In 1833 by a robbery of jewellery and plate at Seamore Place, Lady
Blessington lost something like £1000.
These losses, the continual strain of working to obtain the funds
necessary for her luxurious mode of life and the difficulties in which
D’Orsay was involved told heavily upon her health and spirits. As she
herself writes in her commonplace book:—
“Great trials demand great courage, and all our energy is called up to
enable us to bear them. But it is the minor cares of life that wear out
the body, because, singly, and in detail, they do not appear sufficiently
important to engage us to rally our force and spirits to support them.…
Many minds that have withstood the most severe trials, have been broken
down by a succession of ignoble cares;” and there is a touch of sorrowful
bitterness in this: “Friends are the thermometers by which we may judge
the temperature of our fortunes.”
Not that she was ill-served by her friends, rather the contrary; few
women have had so many or so faithful.
The following letter paints the situation better than can any words of
ours; it was written to Lady Blessington in or about 1848:—
“MY DEAREST FRIEND,—You do not do me more than justice in the
belief that I most fully sympathise with all your troubles, and
I shall be only too happy if my advice can in any way assist
you.
“First. As to your jointure, nothing in law is so
indisputable—as that a widow’s jointure takes precedence of
every other claim on an estate. The very first money the
agent or steward receives from the property should go to the
discharge of this claim. No subsequent mortgages, annuities,
encumbrances, law-suits, expenses of management, etc., can be
permitted to interfere with the payment of jointure; and as,
whatever the distress of the tenants, or the embarrassments
of the estate, it is clear that some rents must have come in
half-yearly; so, on those rents you have an indisputable right;
and, I think, on consulting your lawyer, he will put you in a
way, either by a memorial to Chancery, or otherwise, to secure
in future the regular payment of this life-charge. Indeed, as
property charged with a jointure, although the rents are not
paid for months after the proper dates, the jointure must be
paid on the regular days, and if not, the proprietor would
become liable to immediate litigation. I am here presuming that
you but ask for the jointure, due quarterly, or half-yearly,
and not in advance, which, if the affairs are in Chancery, it
would be illegal to grant.
“Secondly. With respect to the diamonds, would it be possible
or expedient, to select a certain portion (say half), which
you least value on their own account; and if a jeweller
himself falls too short in his offer, to get him to sell them
on commission? You must remember, that every year, by paying
interest on them,[33] you are losing money on them, so that
in a few years you may thus lose more than by taking at once
less than their true value. There are diamond merchants, who,
I believe, give more for those articles than jewellers, and if
you know Anthony Rothschild, and would not object to speak to
him, he might help you.…
“I know well how, to those accustomed to punctual payments, and
with a horror of debt, pecuniary embarrassments prey upon the
mind, but I think they may be borne, not only with ease, but
some degree of complacency, when connected with such generous
devotions and affectionate services as those which must console
you amidst all your cares. In emptying your purse you have at
least filled your heart with consolations, which will long
outlast what I trust will be but the troubles of a season.”
The last sentences refer to the generous charity which was one of Lady
Blessington’s saving graces: parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lover,
all benefited by her aid. Two very pleasing letters from Mrs S. C. Hall
may be quoted on this and other points:—
“I have never had occasion to appeal to Lady Blessington for aid for any
kind or charitable purpose, that she did not _at once_, with a grace
peculiarly her own, come forward cheerfully and ‘help’ to the extent of
her power.”
And:—
“When Lady Blessington left London, she did not forget the necessities
of several of her poor dependants, who received regular aid from her
after her arrival, and while she resided in Paris.[34] She found time,
despite her literary labours, her anxieties and the claims which she
permitted society to make upon her time, not only to do acts of kindness
now and then for those in whom she felt an interest, but to give what
seemed perpetual thought to their well-doing: and she never missed an
opportunity of doing a gracious act or saying a gracious word.…
“I have no means of knowing whether what the world said of this beautiful
woman was true or false, but I am sure God intended her to be good, and
there was a deep-seated good intent in whatever she did that came under
my observation.
“Her sympathies were quick and cordial, and independent of worldiness;
her taste in art and literature womanly and refined; I say ‘womanly,’
because she had a perfectly feminine appreciation of whatever was
delicate and beautiful.… Her manners were singularly simple and graceful;
it was to me an intense delight to look at beauty, which though I never
saw in its full bloom, was charming in its autumn time; and the Irish
accent, and soft, sweet, Irish laugh, used to make my heart beat with the
pleasures of memory.… Her conversation was not witty nor wise, but it
was in good tune and good taste, mingled with a great deal of humour,
which escaped everything bordering on vulgarity. It was surprising how a
tale of distress or a touching anecdote would at once suffuse her clear
intelligent eyes with tears, and her beautiful mouth would break into
smiles and dimples at even the echo of wit or jest.”
This is singularly interesting as the evidence of a woman, one of the few
who were intimate with Lady Blessington. Of an Irish woman too, who could
perceive and appreciate the womanly side of Lady Blessington’s simple
nature. Simple, yes; she was just a simple, emotional, luxury-loving,
laughter-loving sympathetic Irish woman, who under favourable
circumstances might have been a true and adorable wife and helpmate; who
under the circumstances that did rule her life, became—Lady Blessington.
Such first-hand testimony as that of Mrs S. C. Hall is worth a wilderness
of commentary; to it we will add this from Lady Blessington’s maid, Anne
Cooper:—
“My lady’s spirits were naturally good: before she was overpowered with
difficulties, and troubles on account of them, she was very cheerful,
droll, and particularly amusing. This was natural to her. Her general
health was usually good; she often told me she had never been confined to
her bed one whole day in her life. And her spirits would have continued
good, but that she got so overwhelmed with care and expenses of all
kinds. The calls for her assistance were from all quarters. Some depended
wholly on her (and had a regular pension, quarterly paid)—her father and
mother, for many years before they died; the education of children of
friends fell upon her.… Constant assistance had to be given to others—(to
the family, in particular, of one poor lady, now dead some years, whom
she loved very dearly). She did a great many charities; for instance, she
gave very largely to poor literary people, poor artists; something yearly
to old servants … and from some, whom she served, to add to all her other
miseries, she met with shameful ingratitude.
“Labouring night and day at literary work, all her anxiety was to be
clear of debt. She was latterly constantly trying to curtail all her
expenses in her own establishment, and constantly toiling to get money.
Worried and harassed at not being able to pay bills when they were sent
in; at seeing large expenses still going on, and knowing the want of
means to meet them, she got no sleep at night. She long wished to give up
Gore House, to have a sale of her furniture, and to pay off her debts.
She wished this for two years before she left England; but when the
famine in Ireland rendered the payment of her jointure irregular, and
every succeeding year more and more so, her difficulties increased, and,
at last, Howell & James put an execution in the house.… Poor soul! her
heart was too large for her means.”
Still Lady Blessington fought on, and faced the footlights without
outward faltering; she played her part in the comedy and received the
applause of her friends, few of whom realised that the comedy was a
tragedy. “Passion! Possession! Indifference!” she writes, “what a
history is comprised in these three words! What hopes and fears succeeded
by a felicity as brief as intoxicating—followed in its turn by the old
consequence of possession—indifference! What burning tears, what bitter
pangs, rending the very heartstrings—what sleepless nights and watchful
days form part of this everyday story of life, whose termination leaves
the actors to search again for new illusions to finish like the last.”
But what new illusions can be looked for by a tried, sad woman of sixty?
D’Orsay was locked up in Gore House during these last two years of sunset
for six days out of each seven; debt hung like a millstone round his neck
also. These two, who had sailed over happy seas with favourable winds,
were now together drifting on the rocks.
One day in April a sheriff’s officer, effectually disguised, managed to
enter the house, and then the end of this second act of our play came
rapidly. Lady Blessington informed of the mishap, realising that once it
was known that an execution was laid upon her property there would no
more be any safety for the Count’s person, sent to D’Orsay’s room to warn
him of his danger.
“Bah!” exclaimed D’Orsay, unable or unwilling to believe that the hour
for flight had at last come upon him; and again and again “Bah!” Not
until Lady Blessington herself added her personal persuasion did he grasp
the situation.
De Contades gives a somewhat different account. Just before the dinner
hour, a pastry-cook’s boy presented himself at Gore House with a dish,
sent in, so he said, by the confectioner. Having left this in the
kitchen, he deliberately walked upstairs to the Count’s dressing-room.
“Well, who’s that?” asked D’Orsay.
It was a sheriff’s officer!
“Really!” exclaimed D’Orsay, and demanded that he should be permitted to
complete the tying of his tie—_salon_ or prison—his tie must be perfect.
“But, Count—”
“Bah, bah! All in good time.”
The officer was quite interested in the tying of that tie; few men had
been so honoured as to be allowed to see how D’Orsay tied his tie—and,
lo! by the time the tie _was_ tied, the sun had sunk to rest and D’Orsay
was free till sunrise!
“John,” said D’Orsay, calmly walking off to the drawing-room, “kick this
chap out of the door.”
The which was executed and the writ was not.
In the grey of the morning, however, D’Orsay, taking every precaution
against capture on the way, set out for Paris with a valet, a valise,
and an umbrella. The words of a great man at any moment of crisis in his
affairs are worth recording; one of D’Orsay’s last remarks in London was:
“Well, at least, if I have nothing else, I will have the best umbrella!”
That was the bravado of a brave man. What really was in his mind? What
were Napoleon’s thoughts as he turned his back upon Moscow? What were
D’Orsay’s as he fled that morning, conquered, from the town he had
captured and enslaved so long?
XXVI
THE END OF GORE HOUSE
Before following D’Orsay to Paris, we will witness the end of the
Blessington _régime_ at Gore House. The harassed lady’s creditors swarmed
round her; she had given bills and bonds in anticipation of her jointure
for something like £1500; Howell & James’ account seems to have amounted
to £4000!! Money-lenders, bill-discounters, tax-collectors, tradesmen of
every kind, all rushed in to see what could be saved. In the event it was
found impossible to avoid a sale of her goods and effects.
On April 9th, 1849, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House:
“As I purpose leaving England in a few days, it will pain me very much to
depart without personally wishing you farewell; and though I am in all
the fever of packing up, I will make time to receive a visit from you, if
you can call any day this week between eleven o’clock in the fore-noon,
or after nine in the evening. Count d’Orsay was called to Paris so
suddenly, that he had not time to take leave of any of his friends, but
he charged me to say a thousand kind things to you.”
[Illustration: GARDEN VIEW OF GORE HOUSE
[TO FACE PAGE 280]
The following from Disraeli reached her in Paris:—
_25th April 1849._
“We returned to town on the 16th, and a few days after, I
called at Gore House, but you were gone. It was a pang; for
though absorbing duties of my life have prevented me of late
from passing as much time under that roof as it was once my
happiness and good fortune through your kindness to do; you are
well assured, that my heart never changed for an instant to its
inmates and that I invariably entertained for them the same
interest and affection.
“Had I been aware of your intentions, I would have come up to
town earlier, and specially to have said ‘Adieu!’ mournful as
that is.