Possessing a mind which was essentially of a very high and elevated
type, Mr. Watts could not bear the thought of a lady being, as he
thought, “trotted out” as a curiosity, which I fancy my letter had led
him to believe was the object of the lunch, though, of course, such was
not really the case. The reference to the crinolette—that monstrosity
which seemed to be designed in emulation of the Hottentot form—sounds
strange to modern ears. It is to be hoped that this artificial
protuberance—hideous, uncomfortable, and supremely ridiculous—has now
for ever disappeared.
The crinoline, a much worse monstrosity, once nearly cost me my life
owing to the one I wore catching fire. It was, of course, nothing but a
revival of the hooped petticoat of the eighteenth century, and was
introduced, as far as I remember, by the Empress Eugénie. The name
originated, I think, from the _crin_ or horsehair of which the crinoline
was made; though it is also said to have arisen from a milliner who
invented it and was called Madame Crinoline; but such a story is, I
think, based upon no solid foundation.
Matchmaking mammas, perhaps, existed in greater numbers formerly than
to-day, when young ladies are so advanced that they are well able to do
their own matchmaking.
Many were the stories told of a certain lady who, clever, shrewd, and
good-natured withal, yet made little secret of her intense desire to
marry off her daughters, a feat which she duly succeeded in performing.
Once at a ball given in a very beautiful mansion, at which, however, the
decorations were more select than the company, a gentleman whom she knew
came up to her and said, “Ah, Lady ——, what a beautiful house this
is.” “It is, indeed,” was her reply; “but remember my daughters don’t
dance with the house.” On one occasion, however, it was declared her
matchmaking schemes had been thoroughly baffled by a certain young peer
who, rich and extremely nervous, seemed likely to succumb easily before
her attacks. His very nervousness, however, proved his salvation. The
lady one evening met him at a party, and, dragging the unfortunate youth
into an adjoining boudoir, opened fire with, “I must tell you that I
have frequently remarked your attentions to . . .”; but she was not
allowed to proceed further, for, breaking into her speech with a sudden
and extremely nervous rush, her would-be victim, with the words “Pardon
me, but I promised my dear mother never to flirt with a married woman,”
made for the door, and thus unwittingly escaped from confirming the
proposal which he had never made.
In after-years, when all her daughters were satisfactorily married, this
lady used to say, “Only give a sensible woman three wet days in a
country house, and she’ll marry her daughters to any one.”
Formerly, of course, English society was not nearly so cosmopolitan as
it is to-day, and there were many people quite ignorant of foreign
manners and customs, which were looked upon with a certain amount of
contempt.
The late Lord Clarendon used to tell a story about Lady Beaconsfield.
Her husband had introduced her to a distinguished Frenchman, and the
latter, wishing to be very civil to the Prime Minister’s wife, made an
attempt to kiss her hand as she advanced to shake hands with him, upon
which, not caring for this foreign mode of salutation, she drew her hand
away, at the same time saying, “Monsieur, ce n’est pas propre.”
This rather amusing incident has, I fancy, been more than once described
as having happened to other ladies, but as a matter of fact Lady
Beaconsfield was really the perpetrator of the blunder in question.
In former days there was generally some one person in London society who
was credited with saying the most ridiculous things and making absurd
mistakes in conversation. Mrs. Hudson, the wife of the famous railway
king, was, I believe, the Mrs. Malaprop of her day, but I never met her.
Another lady, however, who flourished during the ’seventies and
’eighties, when she entertained very largely, undoubtedly did
occasionally say things which were ludicrous in the extreme, and in
consequence caused other similar things which she had not said to be
attributed to her. It was positively asserted, for instance (and perhaps
with truth), that at the beginning of one season she had made the
somewhat startling announcement that she was going to give two big
balls—one for the _beau-monde_, the other for the _demi-monde_, by
which somewhat doubtful appellation she merely meant to indicate the
people who were not quite at the very top of the social tree. Many
stories also used to be told of what this poor lady had said at a dinner
at the British Embassy in Paris. Seated next to a Frenchman, who was
freely talking in his own language on a subject which she deemed better
unheard by the footman behind her chair, she is supposed to have pointed
at the servant, who she knew understood French, whilst she murmured in a
low voice, “Prenez garde, le derrière de ma chaise comprend le
français.”
Another lady, newly admitted into society, having sent a card to Lord
Cassillis (whose name is pronounced “Cassells”) for a ball she was
giving, was afterwards very indignant at some one remarking, “Cassillis
seems getting on very well with your daughter,” and at once went round
the ballroom saying, “I never asked that publisher to come at all.”
Then there was the gushing lady who, after a dinner-party where the
Chinese Ambassador and his wife were amongst the guests, found herself,
as she thought, sitting next the Ambassadress, over whose gorgeous robes
she went into an ecstasy of admiration, at first evoking nothing but a
mysterious smile from the object of her praise. When, however, she
proceeded to even greater lengths in the way of caressing gush, the
supposed Ambassadress at last significantly placed a finger upon her
lips, and, pointing with the other hand to where another quaint Chinese
figure was sitting, quietly murmured, “Takee care, my wife velly
jealous.”
The old Duchess of Cleveland—not the one who lived at Battle Abbey; she
had been Lady William Paulet—was a great character in her way, very
stiff and precise in her manner of talking, as well as abominating all
familiarity, such as calling people by their Christian names. Lord Henry
Lennox, I recollect, used to delight in irritating the old Duchess by
making use of slang expressions, which never failed to call forth from
her the remark, “May I inquire, Lord Henry, whether, when you have
completely mastered the language of the servants’ hall, you mean to
adopt its manners as well?”
Another lady, whose straight upstanding figure, deep voice, and striking
appearance can never be forgotten by those who knew her, was Maria,
Marchioness of Ailesbury, who, to the end of her life, sported a mass of
corkscrew ringlets, which fell in abundant masses around her somewhat
aquiline and commanding profile. In great request in society, she
frankly declared that she would go to no country house unless she could
stay a fortnight, as otherwise “it would not pay her.” She lunched and
dined out to such an extent that it was currently, and, I believe,
truthfully, reported that she herself kept no cook. Her only
extravagance was engaging tall footmen—any man about six feet high who
attracted her attention being promptly engaged, no matter what his
character might be. These footmen she herself used to put through a sort
of military drill, with a view to imparting to their actions that grace
and dignity to which she attached so much importance.
Frances, Lady Waldegrave, who was the daughter of old Braham, the
singer, was a woman of very determined character, and not a bit ashamed
of her origin. She would often jokingly say, when present at a party at
which any curious or unknown people were amongst the guests, “I am sure
every one will say they are some of my vulgar relatives.” It is rather a
strange thing that in days when society was still somewhat aristocratic
and exclusive. Lady Waldegrave and Lady Molesworth, both with no
pretensions to good birth, should have been rivals in leading it.
Lady Waldegrave expended huge sums on the decoration, or rather
destruction, of Strawberry Hill, which she filled with heavy gilt
furniture literally crowned with coronets. She also employed a very
indifferent painter to paint pictures of her friends. These works of art
were totally out of place at Strawberry Hill, where they produced the
worst effect imaginable. Art indeed was not at a very high level during
the Victorian era, for though there were some good artists, there were
many very bad ones as well.