Society—Conversation and the lack of it—Miss Gordon Cumming and
Munro of Novar—The Duke of Wellington’s hatred of publicity—
Sir Robert Peel’s wedding at Apsley House—Mr. Delane—An
eccentric patron—A curate’s wit—The Stock Exchange and the
West End—Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar’s drive home—American
influence—Lions—Mr. Watts and the crinolette—Matchmaking—
Lady Beaconsfield—Some anecdotes—Lord Henry Lennox and the
Duchess of Cleveland—Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury—Frances,
Lady Waldegrave.
Society in old days cannot in any way be compared with the motley crowd
which calls itself society to-day. A witty Frenchman of the eighteenth
century once said that in perusing the memoirs of the time of Louis XIV.
one discovered, even in the bad company of that age, something which was
lacking in the good of his own day—a remark which with but slight
alteration might, with justice, I think, be applied to the society of
to-day as compared with that of fifty or sixty years ago. To-day it
would be difficult to discover accurately who is in or who out of
society, or, for the matter of that, whether society itself
exists—though, of course, many little coteries of people think that
they, and they only, are the leaders of the fashionable world.
In old days society was led by certain recognised rulers who framed its
ordinances, against which there was no appeal; whilst it was entertained
by men whose capacity for wit and brilliant conversation was universally
admitted—individuals, indeed, who ruled with almost undisputed sway and
retained their power even when age had somewhat dulled their wits.
Society was quite content to listen, and it was not considered good
manners to resent being told things one knew perfectly well even by
people who did not sometimes know them at all. Now, however, everybody
chatters; it is not talkers that are wanted, far from it; but listening
is almost a lost art. The general tone of modern conversation is,
without doubt, much lower than it was in the days of the great talkers
of the past—inane flippancy being treated in much too lenient a manner.
The general impression given by those who habitually indulge in it
always seems to me to be that they are not quite sure that they are
ladies and gentlemen, and are therefore perpetually engaged in trying to
laugh it off.
On the other hand, the conversational autocrats of other days were far
too dictatorial, and, in many cases, undoubtedly checked general
conversation owing to a secret fear of incurring their displeasure and
evoking some verbal castigation not at all conducive to social
enjoyment.
The professional conversationalist, who in former days did really exist,
has now long since passed away. To-day he would be voted a bore, for his
social qualifications were not such as would render him popular in the
modern world, in which every one likes to share in the conversation,
which for the most part deals with trivialities.
The great talkers of old days, bold of speech and ruthlessly outspoken
at times, were especially deft in making use of banter, a weapon of
which, when necessary, they availed themselves with terrible effect.
This banter, let it be understood, was quite a different thing from the
chaff of to-day, which in most cases is little more than silly comment
on personal peculiarities, or criticism of a very primitive and obvious
kind which sometimes sinks to the level of childish teasing. A good
maxim which should never be forgotten is that to chaff any one up to
such a point that the victim loses his temper, places the assailant in a
very awkward and uncomfortable position, whilst demonstrating his
complete mental inefficiency in that particular line in which he has
been attempting to indulge.
It should never be forgotten that one angry or even irritated individual
will completely spoil a dinner-party. The difference between a clever
talker and one who delights in saying things which embarrass and annoy
is much the same as that which exists between a first-class fencer and a
bungling assassin.
In these days, when the art of conversation is little understood, it is
no infrequent thing to encounter hosts and hostesses who wilfully check
conversation by remarks, in many cases well meant, such as, “Now we will
talk of something else,” “Don’t you think we have heard enough about
that?” and other verbal stupidities which affect the good talker like an
icy blast.
The necessity for such crude methods can never really exist, for it is
perfectly easy to lead a conversation away from one topic to another by
almost imperceptible gradations which do not entail that awful silence
which is the solemn requiem of social enjoyment. After a pause of this
kind general conversation is difficult to revive, and then it is that a
bold and even an assertive talker is especially valuable in order to put
every one at their ease. In connection with this subject I cannot help
telling a little story which will exemplify what I mean.
Miss Gordon Cumming, a lady noted for her independence of speech, would
at times make very apposite and amusing remarks. Years ago there was a
certain Scotch gentleman, Munro of Novar, who was well known for his
carelessness as to dress, which indeed amounted almost to eccentricity.
He was, by the way, the possessor of a very fine collection of pictures,
which were sold in order to help the Turks in their struggle against
Russia in 1878, by his successor and heir, Mr. Butler Johnston, M.P.,
who was a warm and generous supporter of the Ottoman Empire. This
gentleman, I remember, created a great sensation by making a most
admirable speech in the House of Commons, which at the time caused
people to predict a great political future for him. His health, however,
broke down and nothing more was heard of him, for, becoming an invalid,
he withdrew from public life and died not very long afterwards of
consumption. Munro of Novar was, as I have said, very unconventional in
his attire, and usually managed to display a considerable amount of
shirt between the ending of his waistcoat and the beginning of his
trousers. This snowy space was one evening especially noticeable. During
dinner, for some reason or other, an awful pause in the conversation,
amounting practically to a dead silence, occurred, when Miss Gordon
Cumming, raising her voice, suddenly remarked, “I beg to call the
attention of the company to the very lucid interval between Novar’s
waistcoat and his trousers.” This utterance, naturally provoking
uproarious laughter, caused the chieftain in question to make the
necessary adjustment in his dress, and put every one into a good humour.
The general level of conversation in the so-called society of modern
days must, of necessity, be low, for society, or what passes for it, is
now very large, whilst wealth is more welcome than intellect. Good
conversation, therefore, is practically non-existent. The majority of
people, indeed, would, I think, quite frankly admit their incompetence
in this respect, perhaps adding that serious conversation is a bore,
which is true enough when an attempt is made to indulge in it by those
who have never learned anything and never wish to learn. To such the
world appears much as it does to that species of lizard which, from
having lived for ages in dark caves, has no power of sight.
In former days the love of publicity, which is such a conspicuous
feature of modern life, had little or no existence, and people, for the
most part, disliked the chronicling of their doings by the Press—an
aversion which can hardly be said to flourish at the present time. The
second Duke of Wellington, in particular, was especially averse to
attracting public notice of this kind, and was once very angry at a full
account of a social function which had taken place at Apsley House
appearing in a daily newspaper—one, I may add, of the very highest
class.
When the late Sir Robert Peel was married to Lady Emily Hay (the
Duchess’s sister), the wedding breakfast took place at Apsley House, to
which, as usual, no Press representatives had been invited. What was the
Duke’s horror, therefore, to read the next day in his morning newspaper,
a full account of the proceedings, together with a report of such
speeches as had been delivered! He was absolutely furious, and knowing
that I was a friend of the proprietor of the paper, came round to see
me, in a towering rage, to try to get me to discover the culprit. “I am
sure,” said he, “one of these newspaper fellows smuggled himself in and
lay under the table whilst the breakfast was going on.” In spite,
however, of my strenuous efforts, the miscreant was never discovered,
much to the annoyance of the Duke, who for years would never speak to
the owner of the paper—a dear friend of mine, who happily is still
alive.
Some time after this the latter told me that, to avoid any other
incident of this kind occurring, he had given strict orders that no
report of any social festivities whatever should appear unless
accompanied by the written permission of the hosts, and I rather fancy
that the rule in question still holds good.
At that time, of course, the Press was not regarded quite in the same
light as it is to-day, and the majority of its representatives were
viewed with a good deal of suspicion. Mr. Delane, however, was an
exception to this, and was everywhere warmly welcomed in society. I
often went down to parties which he gave for Ascot races at a house
which I believe is now tenanted by the Jockey Club, and also used to see
a certain amount of him in London. Well do I remember his once saying to
me in connection with some troubles which he was describing: “Ah! you
have no worries; your path is strewn with rose-leaves, and those
carefully ironed out.”
The fear of public opinion which now exists had little influence upon
certain people in old days. There were many who held very tenaciously to
the doctrine that with their own they could do absolutely what they
liked. Such a one was the peer who, when thwarted, would occasionally
display an almost injudicious independence of action which gave rise to
many stories, of which the following is one. He had several livings in
his gift, but having become a Catholic found that owing to his change of
faith the law prohibited him from presenting any one to them. This, for
some reason or other, particularly annoyed him, and he determined to
have the matter thoroughly investigated, when he found that this
prohibition only applied to Catholics: a Buddhist, Mahometan, or even an
avowed Agnostic could present—a Catholic patron alone could not do so.
More angry than ever at this discovery, he then conceived the idea of
advertising these livings for sale, giving especial instructions that a
proviso should be inserted that “no Christian need apply,” the
consequence of which was that, as he used gleefully to narrate, he
eventually sold the rights of presentation to a Jew.
Whilst on the subject of presentations to livings, I remember an old
story of a bishop and his chaplain which may possibly bear repetition.
A bishop was once having a discussion with his chaplain as to the exact
nature of wit, and defied him to explain it. The chaplain in reply said,
“Your Lordship will see that I can easily do that. The rectory of ——
is vacant, give it to me. That will be wit.” “If you can prove it,”
answered the bishop, “the living shall be yours.” “It would be a good
thing well applied,” rejoined the chaplain, and by his nimbleness of
mind gained the coveted appointment.
It was in the ’seventies that two new and powerful forces began to make
their influence felt in society, for about that time Americans—of whom
formerly comparatively little had been seen—began to come to London in
considerable numbers, and then began those Anglo-American marriages
which are now quite common. About this time also the Stock Exchange
began to make itself felt as a social power outside the City, whilst
several young men—pioneers of that vast body who now every morning
migrate from the West End to their various offices—declared their
intention of adopting the City as a regular career. Before that time
hardly any one in the West End of London understood anything about
stocks and shares. Whether, on the whole, London society has gained much
by this departure seems a somewhat doubtful question. Many younger sons,
it is true, have found a means of making a livelihood; but, on the other
hand, many elder ones have, in consequence of unsuccessful speculations,
been compelled to look about for one. Directly the City mania obtained a
firm grip upon what was practically virgin soil, people began to make
much of every one whom they thought capable of pointing out an easy path
to wealth; and many shrewd business men, who hitherto had never dreamt
of forcing the strongly guarded portals of society, were not slow in
taking advantage of such a state of affairs. In almost every case they
obtained more than they gave, and the ample hospitality which they
dispensed brought in a rich harvest of speculators, who, with childlike
confidence, eagerly rushed into any and every venture. They fondly
dreamt that with the advice of their new-found advisers wealth beyond
the dreams of avarice was now really within their grasp; but the hopes
of only a very few were realised, and the large majority burnt their
fingers very severely by over-indulgence in speculation.
At the time when rich aliens were first beginning to be admitted into
society a little incident was the cause of much amusement to the late
Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar. One wet evening during the season Prince
Edward, coming out from the opera and just about to step into his
carriage, spied a foreigner of very humble extraction, who had amassed a
considerable fortune in the City and was noted for his hospitality,
vainly searching for his brougham. The poor man was in a state of
despair bordering on distraction, and as the financier in question
lived, like Prince Edward, in Portland Place, the latter, who was the
kindest of men, very courteously offered him a lift home.
The offer was accepted with many expressions of the most profuse thanks;
but as the carriage rolled on Prince Edward gradually began to be
somewhat alarmed at the behaviour of his companion, who began carrying
on a long conversation with himself of a solemn and prayer-like nature.
Listening more attentively, the Prince at last was able to make some
meaning out of the broken sentences, which, uttered in a sort of
Dutch-English, produced a sort of weird, wailing effect.
“A broud tay indeed,” the man was saying, “a broud tay for me and mine.
Oh dat my boor mother had been sbared to see me dis night, triving side
by side with a Brince of the blood!”
Now, I fancy, Anglicised foreign financiers take these sort of things
more or less as a matter of course. No one, indeed, is at all surprised
at meeting people of uncertain nationality, one or two at least being
certain to be included in every fashionable party. To do these
individuals justice, most of them, after a mysterious process of
Anglicisation, become public-spirited men, whilst the great majority
yield to no one in vaunting the superiority of the Englishman over the
foreigner.
At the same time, with the influx of the rich foreign element into
English society has come a new conception of life altogether, and wealth
as the ultimate end of existence has been placed upon a pinnacle which
it never occupied before. In one respect, however, there can be no doubt
but that the new English have deserved well of their newly adopted
country: this is in their magnificent gifts and bequests to hospitals
and charities, acts of generosity which must silence much criticism.
On the whole, I think the influx of the American element into English
society has done good rather than harm, whilst there are many old
families which, both in mind and pocket, have been completely revivified
by prudent marriages with American brides. At the present day, so close
has the union between ourselves and the United States become that
Americans are hardly looked upon as foreigners at all, so many people
having American relatives; but in old days things were quite different,
and we rather dreaded the social influence of a people whom we did not
know. Bright and vivacious, it may with justice be said that it is by
the American girl that we have been conquered, for she it is in reality
who has brought about the excellent understanding which now exists with
the great people beyond the Atlantic.
In the late ’seventies and early ’eighties society was very fond of
“lions”—a taste which, I fancy, has rather decreased during recent
years. People vied with one another in getting celebrities of different
kinds to come to their lunches, dinners, and parties, and I fear that I
must plead guilty to having joined in the prevailing craze, which, as a
matter of fact, was no new one as regards myself, for I have always
liked to meet out-of-the-way or remarkable people. On one occasion,
however, I received what I must confess was a well-merited reproof. I
had arranged a luncheon-party, one of the guests being a well-known
lady—well-known on account of her beauty,—and it suddenly struck me
that my old friend Mr. Watts, a great admirer of perfection in the human
form divine, might like to meet her. So I sent him an invitation, to
which the following was the reply:—
LITTLE HOLLAND HOUSE,
_28th March 1884_.
DEAR LADY DOROTHY—Many thousand thanks. I am pleased to meet
remarkable people, especially those from whom I can profit, and
I delight in beauty, but I have little interest in those who
become famous from accident, so I should prefer to come and _see
you_ and a few old (or new) friends such as I had the pleasure
of finding at your house the day when I enjoyed myself very
much. The amusement you so kindly offer me in this case would be
in the indulgence of curiosity, not a nice feeling to be
encouraged towards any one who wears a crinolette; so please
give me another opportunity of so pleasantly paying my respects
to you,—And believe me to be, dear Lady Dorothy, yours
sincerely,