“THE MARQUIS OF STEYNE”
Perhaps the most celebrated of suppressed book illustrations is the
wood-engraved portrait of the “Marquis of Steyne,” drawn by Thackeray
as an illustration to _Vanity Fair_, for which, if we are to believe
the statement of a well-known bookseller’s catalogue, “libellous
proceedings (_sic_) were threatened on account of its striking likeness
to a member of the aristocracy.” With the accuracy of this statement I
shall deal in due course.
Before, however, proceeding to the consideration of the suppressed
illustration itself, it will be as well to pause for a moment to
consider what antecedent probability there was that Thackeray would
pillory a well-known _roué_ of the period in terms that would make
the likeness undoubted and undeniable. And in pointing out what the
great {8} novelist’s practice was in this respect I would guard
myself against the charge of presuming to censure one who is not
here to answer for himself, and whose nobility of character was
sufficient guarantee of good faith and honourable intention. Let it
always be remembered that, if Thackeray flagellated others, he never
hesitated to taste the quality of his own whip first. Even in his book
illustrations, as I have pointed out elsewhere, he was as unsparing
of his own feelings as he was in his writings. And, in using himself
as a whipping-boy for our sins, he probably believed that he was
making himself as despicable as a Rousseau. Hence he came to the like
treatment of other real personages not with unclean hands.
Some of us may have seen, though very few of us can possess, a very
rare pamphlet, which was sold for as much as £39 on one of its
infrequent appearances in the auction-rooms, entitled _Mr. Thackeray,
Mr. Yates, and the Garrick Club_. In it was published a never-sent
reply to a letter written by Thackeray remonstrating with Yates on
the contents of a “pen-and-ink” sketch published by the latter in No.
6 of a periodical called _Town {9} Talk_, which resulted in Yates’s
expulsion from the Garrick Club.
In this unsent letter he charged Thackeray with having unjustifiably
introduced portraits both in his letterpress and illustrations. Mr.
Stephen Price appeared as Captain Shindy in the _Book of Snobs_. In
the same book Thackeray drew on a wood block what was practically a
portrait of Wyndham Smith, a fellow-clubman. This appeared amongst
“Sporting Snobs,” Mr. Smith being a well-known sporting man. In
_Pendennis_ he made a sketch of a former member of the Garrick Club,
Captain Granby Calcraft, under the name of Captain Granby Tiptoff. In
the same book, under the transparent guise of the unforgettable Foker,
he reproduced every characteristic, both in language, manner, and
gesture, of Mr. Andrew Arcedeckne, and even went so far as to give an
unmistakable portrait of him, to that gentleman’s great annoyance.
Besides the examples given by Yates, who was himself recognisable
as George Garbage in _The Virginians_, we know, too, that in the
same novel Theodore Hook appeared as Wagg, just as he did {10} as
Stanislaus Hoax in Disraeli’s _Vivian Grey_, and that Alfred Bunn
was the prototype of Mr. Dolphin. Archdeacon Allen was the original
of Dobbin, Lady Langford of Lady Kew; and last, but not least, we
have lately learned from Mrs. Ritchie that the inimitable Becky had
undoubtedly her incarnation.
So we see that the antecedent improbability is as the snakes in
Iceland; for the above examples, which no doubt could be largely added
to, prove that Thackeray did not hesitate to draw direct from the model
when it suited his purpose.
So far so good. Let us now proceed to inquire into the identity of the
“Marquis of Steyne.”
That his prototype was _a_ Marquis of Hertford is axiomatic with all
those who have ever taken any interest in the subject; but when we come
to inquire which marquis we find that opinions are astonishingly at
variance. It would seem almost as though any Marquis of Hertford would
serve, whereas in point of fact the portrait would be the grossest
libel upon each of that noble line save one; and so incidentally we
shall, by making the matter clear, rescue from calumny an honourable
{11} race, which has hitherto through heedlessness been tarred with
the same brush as its least honourable representative.
To show that this is not a reckless charge of inaccuracy, I quote from
four letters in my possession written by four persons most likely to
have special knowledge upon the subject.
The first, which is from a well-known printseller, informs me “that
the Marquis of Steyne in _Vanity Fair_ was Francis, second Marquis of
Hertford, who died in 1822.”
The second, which is from one more intimately acquainted with the
family than any other living person, says, “Unquestionably Francis,
third Marquis of Hertford, the intimate friend of George IV., was the
prototype of the Marquis of Steyne in Thackeray’s _Vanity Fair_.”
The third letter, which is from a well-known London editor, in general
the best-informed man I have ever met, says, “It was the fourth Lord,
who died in 1870.”
The last of the four letters supports this view and says: “It was the
fourth, not the third, Marquis of Hertford who was supposed to be the
prototype {12} of Thackeray’s Marquis of Steyne. . . . He was Richard
Seymour Conway, who was born in 1800 and died in 1870.”[3]
Now, considering that these are the only opinions for which I have
asked, and that they are so curiously divergent, it will, I think, be
clear that it is time an authoritative declaration were forthcoming,
based upon independent inquiries.
It may as well, then, be stated once for all that no one who has taken
the trouble to investigate the lives of the three marquises above
mentioned can hesitate for a moment in identifying the “Marquis of
Steyne” with the third Marquis of Hertford. To those who are curious
to know very full particulars about these noblemen I would recommend
the perusal of an interesting article entitled “Two Marquises” in
_Lippincott’s Magazine_ for February 1874. Nor should they fail to read
Disraeli’s _Coningsby_, and compare “Lord Monmouth” and his creature
“Rigby,” whose prototypes were the same Marquis of Hertford and _his_
creature Croker, with the {13} “Marquis of Steyne” and _his_ managing
man
[3] As I write, a great daily newspaper informs the world that it was
the _first_ Marquis. “
Wenham.”
And, whilst we are identifying the third Marquis in _Coningsby_ and
_Vanity Fair_, reference may be made to another most unflattering
portrait of that notorious nobleman in a book published anonymously in
1844, which was _immediately_ suppressed, but is now not infrequently
to be found in second-hand book catalogues. The book was (I believe)
written by John Mills, and had ten clever etched plates by George
Standfast (probably a _nom de plume_). Copies in the parts as
published are excessively rare. The title of the book is _D’Horsay;
or the Follies of the Day, by a Man of Fashion_.[4] It dealt with the
escapades, vices, and adventures of well-known men of the day under
the following transparent pseudonyms: Count d’Horsay, the Marquis of
Hereford, the Earl of Chesterlane, Mr. Pelham, General Reel, Lord
George Bentick, Mr. George Robbins, auctioneer, the Earl of Raspberry
Hill, Benjamin D——i, Lord Hunting-Castle, and others. The {14}
account of the “closing scene in the life of the greatest debauchee
the world has ever seen, the Marquis of Hereford,” is too horrible to
repeat.
[4] This scurrilous and poorly written book has lately been thought
worthy of resurrection and republication.
So much for the identity of the “Marquis of Steyne” as described in
Thackeray’s letterpress, which need not be dwelt upon here at greater
length, seeing that the immediate object of this chapter is to deal
with the accompanying engraving and its history. And in proceeding
to this examination it should not be forgotten, in fairness to the
novelist, that Thackeray has explained that his characters were made up
of little bits of various persons. This is no doubt true enough. At the
same time, we cannot but be aware that, although the details may have
been gathered, the outline has been drawn direct from the life.
[Illustration: The Suppressed Portrait of the Marquis of Steyne]
_Vanity Fair_ was issued originally in monthly parts. Its first title
was _Vanity Fair: Pen and Pencil Sketches of English Society_. Its
first number was dated “January 1847,” and had “illustrations on steel
and wood by the Author.” On p. 336 of the _earliest issue_ of this
first edition appeared the wood engraving of the Marquis of Steyne,
wanting which a first edition is, to the {15} bibliomaniac, _Hamlet_
with Hamlet left out. In the later issues, the engraving (which I
here reproduce) was omitted, as also was the “rustic type” in which
the title appeared on the first page.[5] The publishers were Messrs.
Bradbury and Evans, {16} as was natural, Thackeray being at this time
on the staff of _Punch_. In later editions of the novel, published by
Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., the engraving reappears—viz. on p. 22
of vol. ii. in the standard edition, and on p. 158, vol. ii., of the
twenty-six-volume edition.[6]
[5] To the rabid bibliophile I here present another variation, which
has hitherto escaped the bookseller. In the first edition, on p. 453,
will be found the misprint “Mr.” (for “Sir”) Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley.
[6] It does not appear amongst the illustrations to the biographical
edition, which are restricted to the full-page plates.
What was the reason for its sudden removal immediately after
publication? As I have said above, it is commonly stated to have been
in consequence of a threatened action for libel, of course on account
of the undoubted likeness of the “Marquis of Steyne” to the third
Marquis of Hertford. But how does this tally with facts? Lord Hertford
had died in 1842, whilst the first number of _Vanity Fair_ did not
appear until 1847. Now every lawyer knows that you cannot libel a dead
man. This was made clear some few years ago (I think) in the case
of the Duke of Vallombrosa against a well-known English journalist.
Therefore it is quite certain that, although legal proceedings might
have been threatened, they would certainly have collapsed. {17}
Further than that, those who knew the fourth Marquis are aware that
he was the last man in the world to embark upon a lawsuit or court
publicity in any way. And if any doubt upon the matter should still
remain, I am able to state positively that no trace is to be discovered
amongst the Hertford family papers of any action threatened or brought
against Thackeray on any grounds whatsoever. I think, then, that we may
dismiss once for all this aspect of the case.
At the same time it is not impossible that some hint may have reached
the novelist’s ears that the illustration gave pain to persons then
living, and that he promptly had it removed. But against this view
there is a very strong presumption. If we turn the leaves of our
original issue of _Vanity Fair_, we shall, on p. 421, find another
wood engraving, and opposite p. 458 a full-page steel engraving, “The
Triumph of Clytemnestra,” both containing portraits of “The Marquis
of Steyne.” Now, considering that that nobleman’s august features are
as recognisable in these as in the suppressed engraving, it seems
unreasonable to suppose that the one would have been removed {18}
without the others, in consequence of family representations.
Possibly the real truth of the matter is a very much simpler one. It
may have been either that Thackeray was himself disgusted with the
brutal frankness of the picture when he saw it printed, and insisted
on its removal, or that the block met with some accident. Indeed, I
am inclined to think, judging from my memory of the subject, that the
idea of an action for libel is one that has only found expression in
more modern booksellers’ catalogues. If I am not mistaken, the older
booksellers used to speak of the engraving not as “suppressed,” but as
“extremely rare,” and that it was supposed to have disappeared from
later issues because it was broken before many impressions were taken.
Of course, a threatened action for libel, on account of its striking
likeness to a member of the aristocracy, added piquancy to the affair,
and so redounded to the benefit of the vendor of the earliest issue of
a first edition; and the identification of Lord Steyne’s prototype, in
the letterpress, gave colour to the idea. Once set going, we may be
certain that {19} the legend would not be allowed to lapse for lack of
advertisement. To adapt what Dr. Johnson said of the “Countess,” “Sir,”
said he to Boswell, “in the case of a (marquis) the imagination is more
excited.”
The accompanying portraits of the third and fourth Marquises of
Hertford give the reader an opportunity of forming his own opinion in
the matter of identity. That of the third Marquis is from the engraving
by William Holl of the painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and certainly
seems to suggest, in the prime of life, the features and expression
which Thackeray has portrayed in old age. The bald head, and the
arrangement of the whiskers—which are allowed to approach the corners
of the mouth—are incontestable points of resemblance; and if the old
voluptuary is somewhat more battered than Lawrence’s rather spruce
model, we must remember that his portrait was painted by the courtly
President of the Royal Academy many years before the period of life at
which he is introduced to us by the novelist. Certainly he is not an
attractive object; and I was amused to receive a letter from a member
of the family to whom I first showed the wood {20} engraving in which
these words occur: “I find we have no portrait whatever of the Lord
Hertford in question, and am not surprised at it if he at all resembled
that of the Marquis in _Vanity Fair_!”[7]
As regards the fourth Marquis, it is a curious fact that,
notwithstanding his vast wealth, and his tastes as an artist and
connoisseur, no painted or engraved portrait of him is known. The
photograph here reproduced is the only counterfeit presentment extant,
and is enough, if further evidence were needed, to dispose for ever
of the idea that he was the prototype of the Marquis of Steyne. It is
hardly necessary to remind the reader that it is to him, through Sir
Richard and Lady Wallace, that the nation owes a debt of gratitude for
the splendid collection now housed in perpetuity in Hertford House.[8]
[7] This is the description of the Marquis in _Coningsby_: “Lord
Monmouth was in height above the middle size, but somewhat portly
and corpulent; his countenance was strongly marked: sagacity on the
brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw; his head was bald, but there
were remains of the rich brown hair on which he once prided himself.
His large, deep blue eye, madid, and yet piercing, showed that the
secretions of his brain were apportioned half to voluptuousness,
half to common sense.” This might well pass as a description of the
Thackeray drawing.
[8] Just before Lady Wallace’s death, an examination of the Hertford
House library failed to discover a first edition of _Vanity Fair_, in
which I fancied some note might possibly have been found. This was
probably due to the fact that a large number of the Hertford books were
destroyed in the Pantechnicon fire.
[Illustration: The Third Marquis of Hertford. (_From the engraving by
W. Holl, of the painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence_)]
[Illustration: The Fourth Marquis of Hertford. (_From a photograph_)]
{21}
It will be noticed that in this photograph Lord Hertford wears his Star
of the Order of the Garter, to obtain which he made the “tremendous
sacrifice” of which an amusing account is given in the _Lippincott_
article mentioned above. Of him the _Speaker_ wrote at the time of his
death:
Living in Paris a quiet and rather solitary life—in habits
more a Frenchman than an Englishman; in tastes an artist and a
connoisseur; in purse and opportunity unlimited by any niggard need
of self-control—the fourth Marquis of Hertford busied himself in
gathering together from the treasure-houses of Europe innumerable
precious specimens of the painter’s, the goldsmith’s, and the
cabinetmaker’s art. Year after year, with tranquil perseverance, he
heaped up on every side of him all the beautiful objects on which
he could lay hands—pictures, miniatures, furniture, enamels, china
and plate, bronzes, and coats of armour—until his storehouses were
full to overflowing of treasures which, except for the pleasure of
procuring them, he could hardly ever have enjoyed. In this congenial
task he was assisted by a young Englishman, the secret of whose
connection with the Hertford family, if any such there was, the public
has never penetrated yet. To this young Englishman, who was well
known and liked in Parisian society in the tawdry splendour of the
Second Empire, and whose active generosity {22} won him wide esteem
in that desolated capital amid the terrible events of the winter of
1870–71, Lord Hertford bequeathed the wonderful possessions which
he had accumulated in a lifetime of discriminating labour. When the
Franco-German War and the Commune were over, Richard Wallace brought
his spoils safely home, and exhibited them for a time at the Bethnal
Green Museum while he built the great galleries to hold them in
Manchester Square. But even here they were not destined to bring much
happiness to their possessor. After a short time Sir Richard Wallace
was left heirless—like Lord Hertford—by a cruel stroke of fate; and
now, by his widow’s gift, the splendid inheritance, which has passed
so quickly from the keeping of the hands that laid it up, goes to
enrich a public which will not be ungrateful for the donor’s rare
munificence, or unmindful of the sad and curious story it recalls.[9]
[9] A footnote on p. 229, vol. iv. of G. E. C.’s _Complete Peerage_
says: “[The fourth Marquis] is said never to have been in England.
He left his Irish estates (worth £50,000 a year) and most of his
personalty (which included the well-known Hertford collection of
pictures) to Sir Richard Wallace, Bart. (so _cr._ 1866), who is
supposed to have been an illegit. son, either of himself (when aged
18), or of his father, or even (not improbably) of his mother; which
Richard (_b._ in London, 26th July 1818) _d._ s.p. at Paris, 20th
July 1890, in his 72nd year, and was _bur._ in the family vault at
Père-la-Chaise. Sir Richard’s ‘art treasures’ (derived as above stated)
were valued at his death in 1890 at above two millions.”
To return again to the suppressed wood engraving itself, it is curious
to notice that old “Lady Kew” of _The Newcomes_ was sister to Lord
Steyne. Now the name “Kew” at once suggests {23} to those conversant
with the early doings of the century the nickname of the notorious
Duke of Queensberry, known to all and sundry as “Old Q,” and sets
us considering why the name should suggest itself to Thackeray in
connection with Lord Hertford. And what do we find?
When the third Marquis was but twenty-one, he married a young lady
named Marie Fagniani. She was believed to be the daughter of the Duke
of Queensberry and an opera dancer of that name. Nothing would be more
natural, therefore, than that Thackeray, having saturated himself with
the surroundings of the prototypes of his characters, should, probably
half unconsciously, have seized upon a capital name suggested to him
in the course of preparing for his novel, and so adapted it to his
requirements. This suggestion I only make for what it is worth. It
may, of course, merely be that a search through the suburban directory
suggested the name, as was no doubt the case in apportioning to her
ladyship’s husband his second title of Lord Walham. At any rate, the
coincidence seems worth recording.
In conclusion, there can be no possible doubt {24} that so far as
Thackeray’s letterpress is concerned, the prototype of the Marquis
of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet, etc. etc.) was Francis Charles
Seymour Conway (third Marquis of Hertford) of his branch; Earl of
Hertford and Yarmouth, Viscount Beauchamp, Baron Conway, and Baron of
Ragley in England; and Baron Conway and Kilultagh in the peerage of
Ireland; and as regards the suppressed wood engraving, there will, I
think, be little question that Thackeray the artist dotted his i’s
by an intentional representation of the noble lord’s not altogether
attractive features.
[Illustration: The Third Marquis of Hertford when Lord Yarmouth. (_From
the coloured caricature by Richard Dighton_)]
It is, however, only fair to state that Lord Hertford was probably
by no means the unmitigated scoundrel that those familiar with the
“Marquis of Steyne” might be led to suppose. That he participated in
all the amusements and most of the follies of a notorious society there
can be little doubt. At the same time, we have it on record (in the
somewhat pompous diction of the period) that he was extensively read in
ancient and modern literature, that his judgment was remarkable for its
solidity and sagacity, and that his {25} conversation was enlivened
by much of that refined and quaint pleasantry which distinguished his
near relative, Horace Walpole. He was a distinguished patron of all the
arts; and those who were more intimately acquainted with his private
life gave him the still higher praise of being a warm, generous, and
unalterable friend. “It is but justice to add,” to quote the final
words of the notice referred to, “that the writer has accidentally
become acquainted with instances of his Lordship’s benevolence, the
liberality of which was equalled only by the delicacy with which it was
conferred, and the scrupulous care with which he endeavoured to conceal
it.”
The caricature portrait of the third Marquis here reproduced was
etched, as will be seen, by Richard Dighton in 1818, when this
Marquis’s father was alive, and he was only the Earl of Yarmouth. The
watermark on the paper is 1826, which explains the inscription “Marquis
of Hertford,” evidently a later addition—an _ex post facto_ puzzle
which proved insoluble until it occurred to me to hold the portrait up
to the light.
{26}