as you may imagine. You will read the report of it to-morrow in the
_Morning Post_, but I shall probably be able to give you a more graphic
account of it. The ceremony was performed by the Bishop of St. Esau at
twelve o'clock, at St. George's, Hanover Square, assisted by other
prelates of more or less note in the ecclesiastical world. There was a
thick yellow fog that made several people arrive at the church after
everything was over, and prevented the crowd from congregating as it
would otherwise have done. Blanche and I had excellent seats, as we
arrived early; the bride was late owing to the fog, and Clandevil looked
awfully bored. Following the American custom, there had been a
full-dress rehearsal of the ceremony the day before, and the first five
rows of pews had been taken out, and the altar banked with plants. The
bridesmaids were all earls' daughters, and the best man was that
notorious rake, the Honourable Ralph Swift; everyone was remarking at
his cleverness in keeping out of jail. You will read all about the
costumes in the _Post_; the bride looked well; the lace on her dress
belonged to Marie Antoinette, and the dress itself was an exact
duplication of that worn by the Queen of Holland at her Coronation,
saving of course the royal mantle. Breakfast was served afterwards at
the Dowager Duchess of Clandevil's in Eton Place, where the wedding
presents were on show! Their value, apart from Mr. Parker's settlement
on the bride, of a square mile of New York with a rental of two million
dollars annually, is estimated at five hundred thousand dollars, the
more costly gifts coming from across the Atlantic. Mrs. Parker gave her
daughter a Holbein; Clandevil gave his bride a tiara of emeralds; the
Dowager Duchess gave a hot-water bottle; Royalty sent the bride a lace
handkerchief, and the bridegroom a horse-shoe scarf pin set with
brilliants; the Hon. Ralph Swift gave a solid silver napkin ring; Mr.
Sweetson gave a necklace of diamonds as big as walnuts; Mrs. Dot gave a
dessert set of Sèvres specially made with the Clandevil arms on it. The
Marchioness of Tuke, Clandevil's only sister, gave a solid silver
inkstand, and Lady Doreen Fitz Mortimer and the Countess of Warbeck gave
a bog-oak blotting-pad, with a tortoise-shell paper knife; the tenants
at Clandevil gave a gold loving-cup, and the servants an oak chest of
damask sheets; the clerks in Mr. Parker's office in New York sent five
pieces of twelfth-century tapestry, and from various people in America
there came many magnificent things. But Mr. Parker, Junior, the brother,
who is in Chicago, made a panic on the Stock Exchange, and sent his
profits; the cheque was put to the new Duchess's account at Coutts'. The
happy pair left for Clandevil Castle, Tipperary, where the honeymoon
will be spent. The Duchess will be presented on her marriage at the
first drawing-room.
Mr. Parker seemed delighted, and talked a good deal after the breakfast
of "my son the Duke;" Mrs. Parker seemed depressed, and when she kissed
her daughter good-bye, said, "My child, I hope you will be happy." Mr.
Sweetson talked to me for some time on triumphant democracy, and the
effete monarchies of the old world, his favourite subjects. He said it
was cheaper to buy dukes in America than in England, but admitted the
price fluctuated, and depended entirely on supply, which not
infrequently ran short of the demand. The atmosphere of wealth was
overpowering; Blanche said she felt as if she were trampling on
diamonds. Everybody thinks it will be a most happy match, for there is
no pretence at love on either side, and each has got what each most
desired. Flaxie Frizzle, the skirt-dancer, and her two children came to
the church: everybody remarked how much the boy looked like his father.
{_The Wedding_}
I should have mentioned that the food and drink were beyond cavil. Mr.
Parker told me he always got his "fizz" from the Russian Court, as the
best brands were sent there from France. I cannot think of any more to
tell you of the wedding; the crowd and the confusion were so great, I
found it difficult to take in all that happened.
Blanche and I returned to the Carlton at three o'clock, and went
straight to bed to sleep off the effects. When we went to dinner at
eight, we saw the Vicomte de Narjac at one of the tables; we had a long
chat with him afterwards. He came over to London to purchase an English
automobile, and returns to Paris in a couple of days. We told him of the
grand wedding we had been to, and he said he had seen a beautifully
dressed woman helped out of a hansom, and carried upstairs unconscious,
and when he enquired what had happened, the porter had told him in
French that she was one of the _invitées aux épousailles de M. le duc de
Clandevil avec une des plus grandes héritières du Nouveau Monde_.
Blanche and I set Thérèse to find out who it could have been, and she
says it was the Marchioness of Portcullis; we noticed at the breakfast
that she and Mr. Sweetson were drinking neat brandy, and wondered at the
time what would be the result. The Vicomte was stupefied; he thought
she was a demi-mondaine.
{_The Lucerne Set_}
{_Mrs. Porter_}
We asked the Vicomte all about the Lucerne set. He says Mr. Wertzelmann
has been transferred to St. Petersburg, and that Madame Colorado has
gone to spend the winter at the American Embassy; she was such a dear
friend of Mrs. Wertzelmann's. The De Pivarts are in Paris; the Marquis
has a _procès_ running in the Courts against the Swiss Government, and
hopes he will make enough out of it to start a stud in the spring. It
seems the Marquise was arrested on a steamboat on Lake Geneva, being
mistaken for Mrs. Phineas Porter, the beautiful American, whose husband
shot Monsieur Dupont in the Hotel Beau Rivage. And the New York _Paris
Herald_ has been full of it. Mrs. Phineas Porter lives in Paris, and Mr.
Phineas Porter in Chicago; he comes over every year, and, on this
occasion, said good-bye to his wife and left for Havre, but returned
secretly, and found Mrs. Porter had disappeared. He traced her and
Dupont, who is a prominent member of the Jockey Club, to Geneva. He
arrived late at night, knocked on his wife's door at the Beau Rivage,
who thought he was the chamber-maid, and forced himself in. Mrs. Porter
shrieked, and Dupont, who had retired for the night, jumped out of bed,
and was chased by Mr. Porter with a loaded revolver through the whole
suite of apartments into the last room, and Dupont, caught in a _cul de
sac_ as it were, hid behind an arm-chair, where Mr. Porter killed him.
As you may imagine, the affair created a scandal, for the people are so
well known in Society. Mr. Porter was arrested by the police, and is now
on trial. In the confusion Mrs. Porter disappeared, and has up to the
present baffled all attempts to find her. The Marquise de Pivart is said
to be the image of her, and, as she was embarking about a week after the
affair on a steamboat, to spend the day at Chillon, she was arrested by
the stupid Swiss police. The Vicomte says the Swiss authorities
apologised most humbly when they discovered their mistake, but both the
Marquis and the Marquise would not be satisfied with anything less than
heavy damages. The _procès_ has added to the Porter-Dupont _esclandre_,
and the reputation of the Marquise has been torn to shreds. The Vicomte
says it is very amusing to read the accounts in the _Paris Herald_, and
everybody says the Marquis could get a divorce as well as the Marquise,
but they swore the deepest affection for one another in the courts, and
will swear anything for the chance of touching the pockets of the Swiss
Government. They are always seen together just like the _ouvriers_ on
Sundays at Nogent-sur-Marne. The Vicomte added that the sacrifices they
were making of their private feelings were well worth one hundred
thousand francs, the sum they claim as damages.
{_A Roman Prince_}
{_Elasticity of Conscience_}
{_A Prayer for Paquin_}
Old Mrs. Johnson has found a Roman Prince in the place of Count Albert
for Rosalie Isaacs. The Vicomte says he is all that can be desired. He
has a palazzo like a fortress at Rome, with a priceless collection of
Greek marbles which he can't sell, and was so poor that he spent one
winter on the Via Corniche, with a monkey and an organ that he borrowed
from his former steward, who had just returned from tramping in America
with enough to start himself in a small business. But the Prince is not
bogus; he has the right to stand in the presence of the King of Italy,
and best of all he is a Bourbon _sur la côté gauche_. The Vicomte thinks
he cost infinitely less than Clandevil cost the Parkers, and Rosalie's
wedding this winter in Rome will be much more magnificent, for the Pope
will marry her, and the Royal Family will be present. Mrs. Johnson must
be _très fière_ of her success. But, as Blanche remarked, the
extraordinary part of these American marriages is the elasticity of the
religious conscience. The Parkers are Baptists, yet Mr. Parker has been
restoring Gothic churches, and Miss Parker, who has been "dipped," was
married by the Bishop of St. Esau. And Mrs. Johnson, who told me in
Lucerne that she belonged to the Plymouth Brethren, after marrying her
daughter to a Jew and her granddaughter to a Roman Catholic, will
actually receive the Papal benediction! But of course, as I told
Blanche, one must be _à la mode_, and that I asked the Bishop of St.
Esau at the wedding if he would not put in a prayer for Paquin in the
Litany after "and all the nobility."
Well, my darling, I must say good-night; it is frightfully late, and the
champagne that came from the Russian Court that I had this morning, has
given me just a wee bit of a _migraine_.--Your dearest Mamma.
LETTER XXIX
THE CARLTON HOTEL
15th November
DARLING ELIZABETH:
{_A Rainy Day_}
{_At Lunch_}
Yesterday it rained as it only can rain in London in November, and when
it stopped for a few minutes there was such a nasty fog. We had
breakfast in bed, and didn't get up till quite twelve; it was such a
miserable day we didn't know what to do with ourselves, so we went
down-stairs and sat in that jolly place with the glass roof and the
palms, and there was quite a good band playing. There were very few
people there, as it isn't the season, but about one o'clock a great many
people began to come for lunch. Most of the men looked like Jews, and
they all wore gold rings with crests on their little fingers. I am sure
they were company-promoters, for presently Lord de Manton arrived with
poor, tottering Lord Ardath, and joined some of the Israelite people,
and they all went in to lunch together. Little Dolly Daydreams of the
Tivoli drove up in a hansom with that young simpleton, Percy Felton, of
the Scots Greys. We could see them through the glass doors as they got
out of the cab; she lifted her skirt up to her knee to keep it out of
the wet, and he kissed her on the ear right in front of the porter. Lady
Ann Fairfax, the war-special, had lunch with six khaki men, and they
made such a noise at their table we could hear them laughing where we
were. Medina, Viscountess Frogmore, and Mrs. Beverley Fruit came
together and sat down near us for a few minutes when they were joined by
the Bishop of St. Esau and the three had lunch together. The Viscountess
was in deep mourning, her crape veil trailed on the ground behind her,
and she looked very melancholy; you know her son fell at Magersfontein.
A smart-looking curate, evidently late, rushed up after they sat down.
Blanche says she thinks he is a protégé of the Bishop's, he paid the
greatest deference to both the Bishop and Lady Frogmore after lunch when
they were having coffee outside in the glass place where the band is. I
am sure we shall hear of him one of these days.
{_A Conversation_}
A lank man, with long hair and a flabby face, and a woman who looked the
wife of the editor of a newspaper, took the seats next us vacated by
Lady Frogmore and Mrs. Fruit. The man criticised Mrs. Fruit's books;
Blanche whispered to me that she thought he must be an unsuccessful
author, for he hadn't a good word to say for either Mrs. Fruit or her
works. The conversation turned on to "An Englishwoman's Love Letters."
The woman said she was dying to know who wrote them; the man became
quite mysterious, with a could-if-I-would air. She playfully tapped him
on the arm with the handle of her umbrella, and guessed _he_ was the
author. He looked very self-satisfied, and admitted he knew who the
author was, but was bound by frightful oaths never to divulge the
secret. But the woman wouldn't believe him; she declared if he hadn't
written the book, he didn't know who did, for she was constantly hearing
people say they knew the author and the reason he did not wish his
identity disclosed.
Then the conversation drifted on to Exeter Hall, and Labouchere and
Stead and the Society notes in the _Daily Sensation_, and the War in
South Africa, and the man talked of some poems he had written, and what
the critics had said of them, and the woman listened. When he had
exhausted himself, the woman began. She talked of high life just like a
pocket peerage; she told anecdotes of Royalty, which she said were
perfectly true; she knew what peers gambled, who married actresses, who
were divorced, who had a _ménage_ in St. John's Wood, and she knew what
peeresses dyed their hair, and where they did it, and what they said and
what they thought. She even mentioned Lady Beatrice's name, and said
that it was rumoured Tom Carterville had gone back to South Africa,
because he was displeased that his mother intended to marry a Low Church
curate. Poor Lady Beatrice! She also mentioned me, and that I was the
best dressed woman in Society (dear Paquin), and that it was considered
very improper of me to let you visit at the places you did. I am sure
she was the wife of a journalist, for she knew so much more about
Society than Society knew about itself or her.
{_Lunch with the Vicomte_}
Just as Blanche and I were about to go to lunch, the Vicomte arrived. He
looked immaculate and quite good-looking for a Frenchman; he had been
inspecting automobiles the whole morning, and he was as hungry as a
lion. We had lunch together in a corner, where we could see everybody;
after lunch, the Vicomte had an engagement at the French Embassy, but he
said he would be back to dine with us, and take us to a music hall. As
the weather had mended, I said I would go to Alice Hughes to have my
photograph taken, as I should have to pay if I did not keep the
appointment; Blanche went to Marshall & Snelgrove to spend the
afternoon. While I was waiting at the "studio," old Lady Blubber came
in; she showed me her proofs, and was delighted with them. They didn't
look the least bit like her; all the flabby rings under her eyes were
smoothed out, and her mouth was made straight and the lump taken off
the bridge of her nose. She said she should order three dozen, that
they were the best likeness she had ever had taken! After that I went to
a tea-shop in Bond Street, and came back to the Carlton to find that
Thérèse had taken the afternoon out. As I can't, as you know, do the
slightest thing for myself, I was absolutely helpless, so I just got
into a wrapper, and read "Gyp" in front of the fire. By and bye Thérèse
came; she was spattered with mud as if she had been spending the day in
Fleet Street, and she brought with her a strong odour of malt.
{_Thérèse Takes an Afternoon out_}
When I scolded her, ever so gently, for going out without leave, she
flew into a rage, and wanted to know if I wished a month's notice. Then
she began to weep and pity herself, and her cheeks were the colour of
lobsters, and she behaved very strangely. I told her to get my bath
ready, and she fell asleep while it was filling, and the water
overflowed and did no end of damage. I got very angry, and accused her
of being drunk, which she indignantly denied, saying she had only been
to see her mother who lives in Soho. I sent her to bed after that, and
Blanche laced me up and did my hair, but I felt like a fright for the
rest of the night.
{_Goes to the Theatre_}
Dinner was rather tame, as there were so few people in the room, but of
course one can't expect the season to last all the year round. The
Vicomte had, after great difficulty, managed to get seats for "Mr. and
Mrs. Daventry." Between the acts we heard people discussing who wrote
it, and in fact, it is as much of an enigma as the authorship of "An
Englishwoman's Love Letters." Blanche thinks the same person wrote both.
The Vicomte thought the play very "polite," and was astonished that it
had created such a sensation. He said we ought to see "La Dame aux
Maximes" and "Demie-Vierge," both now running in Paris. We all agreed
that the play was thoroughly representative of Society, but the
unnatural parts were Daventry's suicide and the elopement of his wife
with Ashurst. People don't do these things in our set. The company was
excellent, and Blanche and I both wished we were Mrs. Pat Campbell to
have love made to us so delightfully every night by young Du Maurier.
Even the Vicomte said they didn't do it better in France, and he is sure
Du Maurier did it so well, because he was half French.
{_Supper at the Savoy_}
We had supper at the Savoy. The usual sight. At a table near us was an
actress _très décolletée_; six of our _jeunesse frivole_ were squabbling
for her smiles. We left before the lights were turned out, because the
people behave so badly in the corridor. The Vicomte leaves for Paris
to-morrow; he is so much nicer in England than abroad.--Your dearest
Mamma.
LETTER XXX
THE CARLTON HOTEL
17th November
DARLING ELIZABETH:
{_Elizabeth's Engagement_}
Hail, Marchioness of Valmond, all hail! Your letter gave me the greatest
possible pleasure. You have made the match I desired for you, and I do
not know who deserves the greatest credit for it--you who hooked this
fine fish, Octavia who helped you to land it, or I who taught you how to
fish, and then sent you to the pool where my lord trout disported
himself. But apart from chaffing, Elizabeth, I am sincerely glad for
you, because Valmond really seems to love you, and as men go, he will
make you a good husband. As soon as your visit to Octavia is over, you
must come straight to me; we will go to Paris for the trousseau and to
Rome for the winter; a little delay and absence will do Valmond good,
and then, darling, we will come to England and start the season with
your _noces_, which shall be done as befits a Marquis and Marchioness
of Valmond.
He wrote me to-day, as did Octavia; I am replying by this same post to
both. Assure them both of my unfaltering affection.
I had intended going back to Monk's Folly, but, since the news in your
letter, I have decided to stop in town till you come in a day or two.
Blanche sends her congratulations; she has gone home, as Daisy wanted a
rest. Mrs. Blaine is on the high road to recovery, and they will most
likely go to Rome with us.
{_The Bazaar_}
Blanche left last night, after going with me to the Bazaar for
Distressed Gentlewomen. It was held at Mauve House, lent by the Duke of
Mauve, and was under the patronage of the Duke and Duchess, but
organised by Mr. Albert D. Beake, editor and proprietor of "White Lies,"
said to be the most successful of all the Society papers. The Bazaar was
opened by Royalty, and Mr. Beake must have cleared a large sum for the
Distressed Gentlewomen as well as advertised his paper and juggled
himself and wife into Society for once at any rate. His wife is the
woman I wrote you about the other day, who came to the Carlton to lunch,
and talked so much about Society. I said at the time she was an editor's
wife. Mr. Beake was everywhere, but his wife had a stall with the
Duchess of Mauve, who looked awfully bored.
{_Lady Hildegarde_}
One of the features of the bazaar was the Stage Stall. Mr. Beake had got
most of the best known actors and actresses to take part. It was a huge
success; the people were three deep round the stall, crushing to see the
professionals; they sold everything. It was rather odd to observe the
stall immediately next to the stage one. Lady Hildegarde Merrioneath
presided, and was assisted by some young and pretty girls. The crowd did
not know who they were, and they hardly sold a thing. Lady Hildegarde,
who is the most refined and aristocratic woman I know, with that mixture
of Vere de Vere and sweetness which so often marks our best born women,
stood in the back of her stall, looking rather amused at the complete
desertion of it. Here was the type of the real aristocrat, the real
great lady, and the _parvenus_ couldn't see it! I felt like telling the
people that they were blind and fools, that if they had any taste, any
appreciation, any refinement, all the other stalls would be deserted to
overwhelm Lady Hildegarde's. Mr. Beake, running about with a china pig
in his hands, which he was trying to raffle, noticed that Lady
Hildegarde was not a success, and he actually had the impudence to
patronise her. I suppose his vulgar commercial head was turned with the
thought that the bazaar was his work, and that his wife was side by side
with a real live duchess. Lady Hildegarde replied with some conventional
remark, and her smile seemed to me more amused than ever, as if it were
all very funny and not worth being angry about. For, after all, she was
Lady Hildegarde Merrioneath, and Mr. Beake was only Mr. Beake, and his
actors and actresses stars whose lights went out. I shall never forget
the picture Lady Hildegarde made in her deserted stall, side by side
with the crowded booth of the actors. It made me think of the French
Revolution, and the noblesse going to the guillotine in the tumbrils,
so far above her surroundings, was Lady Hildegarde.
{_The Existing Régime_}
A little more pushing and shoving and playing the "Charity trick," and
Mr. and Mrs. Beake will be like the Vane-Corduroys, if, for all I know,
they are not already _rangé_. But, as Blanche said, the sentiments that
pervade the mind of Mr. Beake and his kidney are the mainstay of our
national life and the existing régime, and it doesn't do to guard the
portals to the high born too closely. As a future marchioness, I pray
you shudder when you read the Sunday papers at Chevenix Castle with the
detailed account of Mr. Beake's bazaar.
Blanche and I bought nothing, nor did the few of our set who were there,
which as usual left the charity to the crowd.
I saw Blanche off at Paddington, and wished I had decided to go with
her; you need not be surprised if you get a telegram from me to-morrow
to say I have gone home. It is wretchedly dull by myself, and I can't
take Thérèse with me everywhere; besides I have to come up to my room
early, as it is not proper for me to sit in the public rooms by myself
at night.
{_Talks of Marrying again_}
Thérèse, in brushing out my hair to-night, asked me why I didn't marry
again; she said that she knew men admired me, for one of the
Vane-Corduroys' footmen at Shotover had told her I was a woman to drive
men mad. Thérèse of course gauges the value of men's admiration from the
footman class, but I think I have not yet got to the shady side of
beauty, and that perhaps it is just as well Valmond saw you before he
met me. As money will never be a consideration, and I have social
position, and as I am not yet forty-five, I shall not marry for love, so
I shall keep my freedom, which I enjoy so much.
Once again, my darling, I congratulate you, and wish you all happiness.
Good-night.--Your dearest Mamma.
LETTER XXXI
MONK'S FOLLY, 19th November
DARLING ELIZABETH:
{_Home again_}
Simply couldn't endure it in town in November by myself, so came home
to-day. Yesterday, after Blanche left, I counted up the things I could
do by myself in order to kill time. In spite of London being so big,
there are so few things one can do by oneself to amuse oneself. The
early post brought me the proofs from Alice Hughes; Paquin comes out
splendidly, but I look silly in the one in which I am standing near a
balustrade, holding a sheaf of wheat. I have ordered a dozen of myself
in a garden, under a lovely old tree, with a stuffed greyhound at my
side. It looks awfully natural, and you would never dream I was more
than twenty. I thought the proofs had been sent me by mistake, till I
recognised my frock, and then when you look at them a long time, you see
how really like you they are. They are just the thing to send one's
acquaintances.
{_Lady Sophia Dashton's Novel_}
The morning was so foggy that I couldn't go out, so I put on a very
_chic_ costume, and sat in the glass-roof place which they call a
"garden," and read Lady Sophia Dashton's novel. It is all about the
Roman Emperors and the catacombs, and the love of a princess and a
slave. The language is so beautiful, and the descriptions are wonderful:
they seem as if they would never end, and you forget all about the
story. The book has been well reviewed, and Lady Sophia has taken up
literature seriously. I have heard she is making a great deal of money
out of it. Mr. Beake will publish anything she writes--all the
illustrated papers have got her portrait this week--and there are
stories of hers now running in two of the leading Society papers. She
began to write for pleasure, but has received such encouragement that
she decided to win the laurel. Everybody in Society has bought her book.
The whole family are talented. Her father's speeches in the House of
Lords on the London drains have been edited at 7s. 6d., with the family
arms on the cover; the _Times_ said they had the "ring of Burke in
them," and Lady Sophia's brother's "Poems in odd Moments," which have
appeared in the "Temple of Folly," are to be brought out in book form. I
forget the name of Lady Sophia's novel; Mrs. Jack Strawe, in
recommending it to me the day of Miss Parker's wedding, said she didn't
know the name, and that very few people did, but when ordering it, it
was only necessary to mention Lady Sophia Dashton's name, and the
bookseller would know what you meant.
I sent Thérèse to Mudie's for it, and told her to ask for any other
books that were being widely read, as I like to be posted on what is
being talked of. She brought back somebody's work on Aristotle, with an
introduction by the Duke of Mauve, and Mrs. Katurah P. Glob's "There is
no Death." Mrs. Glob is a Christian Scientist, and states in her preface
that she is the seventh daughter of a seventh son. I could only get as
far as what she had to say on vaccination; I make out that she preferred
to "render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's," rather than to incur
the penalty of the law.
{_Dry Books_}
After struggling the whole morning with Glob and Aristotle and Lady
Sophia, and wondering how learned people were, and how they found time
to acquire so much knowledge, I had lunch. Crême velours, sole
princesse, noisettes Souvaroff, pommes nouvelles, etc., with Félix
Boubel, carte d'or, took the dry taste of the books completely out of my
mouth.
Having spent such a morning improving my mind at the Carlton, I thought
I deserved some relaxation in the afternoon.
{_At the Aquarium_}