THE DINNER.
When Lord Baskerville announced to Lady Baskerville the names of those
who composed Sir William Temple's dinner party, she was sufficiently
astonished; but felt there could be no compromise in being present, and
at once accepted his invitation. The affair being considered rather in
the light of a party to Richmond, or some similar gaiety, several of
the guests went together. Prince Luttermanne attended Lady Tilney; the
Boileaus joined Lady Hamlet Vernon; and Lord Baskerville engaged his
friend Lord Tonnerre to accompany himself and Lady Baskerville.
As the carriage of the latter proceeded down ---- street, they passed
the church at the moment when Lord Albert D'Esterre was leaving the
door, after evening service. Lady Baskerville's quick eye immediately
recognized him, although mingled in a crowd of those denominated the
common people; and pointing him out to Lord Tonnerre, the latter asked,
in his usual tone of command,
"What can _he_ be doing in that crowd?"
"Isn't it Sunday?" rejoined Lord Baskerville, yawning. "He has been, I
suppose, (hem!) to some conventicle. (hem!)"
"Yes, he looks like one of those d--d Methodists, who would ring people
to church from morning to night, by G--;" (Lord Tonnerre forgot that
swearing was no longer a fashionable vice) "they ought to be scouted
from society."
"True," replied Lord Baskerville, "I think (hem!) that it would do a
great deal of good to society, if (hem!) they were all run up, _à la
lanterne_."
"Ay, hang them--hang them as high as you can see," continued Lord
Tonnerre; "rid the land of them any how. There's my father--I wish _he_
had them for once in his hands; there's not a stricter person on earth
than my father; he'll suffer no immorality, he'll have no profligacy
in the family; but if one of these canting rascals was ever known to
cross his door, or to be found on his estates, he'd make short work
with him--he'd send him away with marks which the fellow would carry
to his grave,--by G-- would he. All this comes, however, from the
manner in which we pass our Sundays. I hate foreigners and all their
d--d ways; but they act more sensibly than we do in regard to Sunday:
they let the people amuse themselves after church. It's right to go to
church, and all that,--that I'll allow; but I am sure the common people
would be much better afterwards with what is fitting for them, quoits,
or nine-holes, or cricket, or something to busy them with, instead of
going to Methodist meetings, where they turn saints, merely because
they have no better amusement; unless, indeed, it be the alehouse."
"And there get drunk," remarked Lady Baskerville; "that would be
vastly better, vastly more moral. When you and Baskerville rule the
state, things will be much better managed, no doubt." This was said
half sneeringly; for Lady Baskerville for some reason was not in very
good humour.
"Hem!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "I must beg your Ladyship would limit
what you say to yourself. It is (hem!) a liberty I _never_ take _with
you_, to say what you _would_ or would _not_ do (hem!)" Upon this a
silence ensued in the trio; when a few minutes broke the awkwardness
occasioned by it, and they found themselves arrived at Sir William
Temple's door.
Lord Tonnerre offered his arm to Lady Baskerville as they alighted;
while Lord Baskerville, to avoid the unfashionable appearance of
entering the room with his wife, stopped, seemingly for the purpose of
giving orders to his servants, till such time as he imagined he could
walk in alone. There were arrived of the party only Lady Tilney and
Prince Luttermanne. Lord Baskerville, having made his bow, retired
to a sofa, discomposed at finding that the Comtesse Leinsengen, on
whose appearance he had staked the whole of his consequence, and the
excuse of his presence, was not yet come. Lord Tonnerre too, displeased
that Sir William Temple continued to occupy Lady Baskerville with the
profusion of his acknowledgments for the honour done him, and that Lady
Tilney appeared too much engaged to notice any one, stood for some
moments in gloomy silence, when at length Lord Somerton entered.
"How d'ye do, Somerton?--glad to see you," was Sir William's salutation
to his guest, as he held out a finger to him, and continued talking to
Lady Baskerville.
"Tonnerre," said Lord Somerton, turning away from this brief reception
with a degree of contempt; "come aside, I have something to tell
you;" when a deep discussion on matters interesting and intelligible
to the former seemed to ensue, since it was productive of a partial
relaxation of the scowl which generally characterized his face when he
felt himself, as in the present instance, overlooked, or when subjects
indifferent to him, or above his comprehension, were alluded to.
Lady Tilney, hitherto absorbed in her conversation with Prince
Luttermanne, now looked up, and addressing Lady Baskerville with an air
of protection, invited her to come and take the seat next to her. "What
a vastly pretty cap you have on!--do tell me where you got it; and, my
dear Lady Baskerville, if you have nothing better to do, pray don't
forget to come to me to-morrow night. Have you seen any thing of Lord
Albert D'Esterre to-day? What do _you_ think of him? _I_ can hardly
understand him yet; sometimes I think one thing, sometimes another.
They say he is a Methodist--how extraordinary! if he was not young, or
not handsome, or not _d'une bonne tournure_, one might suppose such a
thing; but as it is I don't believe it--do you?"
"I have not seen enough of him to judge," was the cautious reply
(for Lady Baskerville could be cautious where so deep a stake was at
hazard as fashionable consideration); "but I think he rather affects
singularity."
"Perhaps so; but then you know he will soon correct that fault when he
has lived a little longer amongst us. I have heard that he is engaged
to be married;--do you know if it is true?"
"I did hear," said Lady Baskerville, "something about a Lady Adeline
Seymour, a cousin of his who has been brought up in the shades, and is
said to be a world's wonder of beauty, and purity, and perfection; but
the engagement was an affair of the papa's and mamma's, and probably
the parties themselves will hate each other in consequence."
At this moment the Comtesse Leinsengen was announced, and then
followed Lord and Lady Boileau, Lady Hamlet Vernon, Mr. Spencer
Newcombe, and Lord Gascoigne, each received with that portion and kind
of welcome which marked a well-studied knowledge of Debrett on the part
of Sir William Temple, who felt himself the deity of the day, and who,
complimentary, facetious, pompous, _affairé_, and familiar by turns,
according to the _calibre_ of the person he addressed, moved about
the apartments like some presiding Joss or Amsterdam Cupid. The whole
party were at length assembled, the dinner announced, and the company
withdrew to enjoy the very best _artiste's_ best efforts, put forth on
an occasion so replete with honour and distinction to his _employé_.
Lord Baskerville contrived to place himself next to the Comtesse
Leinsengen, whose hand, in her _qualité d'ambassadrice_, the master of
the feast had shewn his skill in precedence by soliciting, as he led
the way to the dining-room; a circumstance, by the way, fortunate for
him on his _début_, for although Lord Baskerville's arm would have been
far more agreeable, yet the Comtesse would never have pardoned such a
neglect of her grade in favour of her dear friend Lady Tilney.
Of the other arrangements of the party it would be unnecessary to
speak, and equally useless to catalogue the dinner itself. It is
known to all that in London, after the first few weeks of the season,
every one's table who gives a dinner is covered in exactly the same
way--there may be degrees of excellence in the flavour and science of
the dishes; but the things themselves are, as the Geneva traveller said
of travelling, "_toujours la même chose, toutes les villes sont les
mêmes, vous avez des maisons à droite et des maisons à gauche--et la
rue au milieu--c'est toujours la même chose_."
It is true there are certain critical periods in a spring season,
in which nature's fruits, still immatured, are brought to perfection
by the fostering hand of man; and on these the deep and skilful in
gastronomy will seize as apt occasions for a display of superior taste
and refinement; then, and then only is it, as is well known, that
cucumbers are lawful, green peas to be suffered, and strawberries and
peaches tolerated; but beyond this there is even yet another point--"a
grace beyond the reach of art"--the very North Pole of elegance--the
paradox, it may be called, of the gastronomic system--it is to display
these productions when positively they are not to be got. Happy the man
who so succeeds--thrice happy Sir William, that on this day the stars
so ordered it, that while London was yet innocent of cucumbers or peas,
you should be profuse of both;--that when peaches and strawberries had
not so much as crossed the thoughts of the most refined, they too in
abundance graced your board. Oh! happy consummation of those honours,
which from the last evening seemed about to centre round your head, and
raise you to the pinnacle of gastronomy and of _ton_. During the first
moments of all dinners a very few monosyllables are uttered--a sort of
murmuring conversation then ensues between the parties nearest each
other,--till at last one individual more gifted or more hardy than the
rest hazards a remark across the table, and the talking becomes general.
It was Lady Tilney who on the present occasion broke the monotony
of those half-audible sounds that whispered round the table. "Lord
Gascoigne," she said aloud, "I hope you are really going to put down
that vile newspaper, The ----, it is a disgrace to London."
"I should have thought that you, Lady Tilney, would rather have upheld
a paper of its principles, and which affords such a proof of what you
always profess to have so much at heart--the liberty of the press."
"You must pardon me, it has nothing to do with the liberty of the
press,--but a great deal with its abuse,--besides, the liberty of the
press applies only to politics--not to private affairs."
"_C'est selon_," replied Lord Gascoigne with provoking suavity of
manner; "if we publish ourselves what we do, we court public remark."
"She cannot forget or forgive," whispered Spencer Newcombe to Lord
Baskerville, "that she herself was once the target at which some of the
severest shots of this paper were sent."
"How?" asked the latter.
"Why, when, for party's sake, she was once about to take a step.... I
cannot tell you about it now--some other time," he added, as he turned
to Lady Boileau, who had asked the same question of him thrice.
"Publish ourselves! my dear Lord," continued Lady Tilney to Lord
Gascoigne, "why we never do that if our actions attract notice from our
situation."
"They should be more looked to," was the reply of the latter,
interrupting her; "if there is nothing to censure, the satirist's
occupation is gone."
"Vraiment Milor treats de subject en moraliste, and as if himself vas
a paragon of excellence dat could not err. Pray, Milor, do you always
tink so wisely on vat you do, dat you never do nothing wrong yourself?"
"Oh, do wrong--yes a thousand times a day, Comtesse,--but when I do,
I do not quarrel with the world because it will not think me right,
nor if it call me a fool or a knave, am I angry--for perhaps it is a
truth--at any rate, other and better men than I have been called the
same."
"It is an execrable paper," said Lady Tilney; "and ought to be burnt by
the hangman."
"It is an abominable ting," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and would
not be suffered in any country but England."--Lady Tilney would have
interrupted her, but the Comtesse was bent on proceeding: "I repeat,
as I have often had de honor to tell you, dat de English are a people
of contradictions; dey talk always of dere great _purité_,--dere
_virtue_--and den suffer so quietly all dose vile tings to be said of
dem in de public prints." Lord Gascoigne, who did not care one straw
what was said either of himself or any one else, perceiving he had
sufficiently fanned the growing indignation of Lady Tilney by his
apparent callousness to public attack, for a moment remained silent,
amused to hear the topic discussed in other hands. Lady Tilney loved
argument, and for its sake often adopted opinions which at other times
she would as strongly have opposed.
"If the things alluded to _are done_," she continued, addressing
herself to the Comtesse Leinsengen, "they are _better told_--I always
like every thing to be told."
"Vid de exception always, ma chere amie, of vat concerns one's-self,"
replied the Comtesse sharply.
"But I deny that there is any truth," rejoined Lady Tilney, not
appearing to notice this last remark; "I deny that there is any truth
in any thing that comes through such an abominable channel as that
paper; all its remarks are the offspring of impertinent malice or
envious vulgarity, and all its facts, falsehoods."
"Hem!" said Lord Baskerville, in his slowest and most imposing tone,
"these things have always been, Lady Tilney, and always will be. Some
satirist or other, (hem!) has always lived since the Flood, from
Lycophron down to our own day, to lash the vice and follies of the
age, as _they_ say; but in fact to indulge that spleen which is common
to the canaille at all periods. And after all, what does it signify?
Nobody thinks about any thing that is said of any body--hem!--nine days
after it is said--hem!"
"If I ever saw _my_ name in that d--d paper," exclaimed Lord Tonnerre,
while his brow was knit in tremendous frowns, "if ever allusion were
made to me--the writer should eat his words."
"My dear Tonnerre," rejoined Lord Gascoigne, once more taking up the
conversation, "you would find he has an ostrich's stomach. But why
should such a toy trouble you?"
"By G----, the writer shall suffer," replied Lord Tonnerre, furiously,
"he shall suffer--he shall pay--"
"Who," asked Lady Boileau quietly, "who shall pay?"
"The scoundrel--the ---- who has dared to use my name," answered Lord
Tonnerre, after several efforts at utterance, which his passion for
some moments impeded.
"But you must discover _who_ is the _who_," replied Lord Gascoigne,
with provoking calmness of manner.--"Junius himself was never hid so
successfully as is this writer. You will find it fencing in the dark,
Tonnerre, if you meddle with him.--But I see you are angry; now take my
advice, when you are so use this antidote--it is an excellent rule I
learned from my grandfather--repeat your alphabet; and that being done,
your anger will be over too." Lord Tonnerre's face moved convulsively
in every muscle, and his whole frame seemed to writhe under the words
of Lord Gascoigne.
"He boils like a pot," whispered Spencer Newcombe.
"Oh, do not vex him, pray," said Lady Baskerville; "he is _only
nervous_."
"Mad, mad!" rejoined Lord Gascoigne, "pray take heed." With many hems
and ha's, Sir William Temple remarked, that for his part he thought it
cruel to delight in mischief; that to him it always appeared a most
uncharitable practice to wound another's feelings--and somewhat rude
too; fit only for the vulgar.
"The pleasure or amusement," he continued, "of saying ill-natured
things is quite beyond my comprehension--quite inconceivable. I
remember, when I used to live a good deal at D---- House, there was a
rule established that no one should notice, remark, or seem to observe
what was passing;--it was considered so very vulgar to interfere
with other people's affairs--all were left at large without account
or question--and the consequence was, there never was any thing so
enchanting since the world began as that society--so _suave_, so
equal, so gentle, so serene;--not a voice ever heard louder than a
whisper--every one so well amused, every one so well employed, that
_ennui_ was unknown. There never was any thing to compare to that
society."
"_De graces!_" exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as Sir William
concluded this effusion of his reminiscences, "_de graces!_ do not tell
us, Sir Villiam, of _vat_ VAS: to talk of _tings_ gone being delightful
is like telling a woman who is _passée_, 'I remember when you were so
admired.' De ting to talk of is _to-day_."
"Oh, of course," rejoined Sir William, taking the Comtesse's last words
_au pied de la lettre_, "of course the society of to-day--the society
_here_--is _par excellence_, the most delightful in the world." A nod
here passed between Spencer Newcombe and Lord Gascoigne, indicative of
Sir William having escaped from his blunders with more adroitness than
they had given him credit for; and at the same moment the ladies rose
to depart.
"_Vraiment_," exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she entered the
drawing-rooms, "I do tink, as we are de deities of dis fête, ces
messieurs might for once have broken through dere abominable customs,
and accompanied us; but dat terrible Lord Somerton and dat young milor
Tonnerre would tink, I suppose, de constitution in danger, if dey did
not remain at de table after de ladies.--I vonder, Miladi Baskerville,
comme Milor est votre éléve, dat you do not teach him better."
"Dear Comtesse, not I, I assure you--it is quite enough to take care
of one's-self; I never interfere with other people's affairs--nothing
would induce me to undertake any body's education."
"I believe you are very wise," said Lady Boileau; "the _laissez faire_
and the _laissez aller_ is the best rule."
"I do not quite agree with you in that," said Lady Tilney; "how could
we have a pleasant or a distinguished society if that system was
allowed to prevail? how could we--"
"La! what sinifies dat?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she arranged
her _bérin_ at the glass; "_Vos milliners ne valent rien_--I have just
sent to Paris, and then I shall have a _coiffure_ that will not be so
hideous."
"Did you observe the Duchesse D'Hermanton's last dress?" asked Lady
Baskerville; "she did think it was perfection; one feather on the top
of another, flower upon flower, flounce upon flounce, jewel upon jewel,
till she was one mass of moving millinery--I never saw such a figure
since the days of Lady Aveling's ambassadress' glory."
"Vat sinifie vat dose women do? D'ailleurs les Angloises ont toujours
singé les modes." In this, and similar conversation, passed the hour of
separation in the drawing-rooms, while at the dinner-table the subject
of discussion possessed as little interest as is generally found in
society so constituted.
"Baskerville, Boileau, Gascoigne," said Sir William Temple, as he
resumed his chair after the departure of the ladies, "will you not come
up, and in the short absence we are doomed to suffer from our fair
companions, let us find comfort in this poor earthly Nectar?" (Sir
William believed his wines to be the best in creation.) "Baskerville,
what wine do you take?"
"Claret," was the reply of the latter, accompanied by a look of
surprise which seemed to say, "of course."--"Did you ever hear such a
question!" he added in an under-tone to Lord Boileau.
"Never--he might as well have asked if one would try Chambertin
after _Truites à l'Aurore_, or _Clos de Voguet_ after _Bécasses à la
Luculle_!" rejoined Lord Baskerville.
"Fools were made for jests to men of sense," whispered Spencer Newcomb,
"and I know of no one who affords more amusement than my friend there,
Sir William."
"How officious and _affairé_ he was in contriving this party," said
Lord Gascoigne.
"And how puzzled, lame, and lost in prosecuting it!" rejoined the other.
"He is a most substantial ass," said Lord Baskerville.
"Tonnerre," asked Sir William at the moment, and affecting to vary the
theme, according to the taste of the person, "Do you know which is the
favourite for the Derby?"
"Gad, he turns his words as many ways as a lathe," whispered Lord
Gascoigne again--"understands all subjects alike, and is as learned as
the occult philosopher of Hudibras."
"And as much renowned for profound and solid stupidity," rejoined the
latter. A laugh escaped at these words; and as their "ha! ha! ha!"
passed round, Sir William laughed louder.
"Very good that, Spencer, I just caught the end of it--the point is
always in the tail you know."
"He caught it," said Lord Gascoigne, repeating the words, and looking
at Spencer Newcomb; "do you think he did?"
"If it was with his mouth, he might certainly--for it is large enough
to catch any thing--and he is welcome; I give him my jest for his
dinner, it is the only return I ever make."
"And you thrive on your bargain generally, Spencer, I should suppose."
"How long do you think I took from Penzance to town?" said Lord
Tonnerre aloud; and without waiting for any reply added,--"Eighteen
hours by ----, in hack chaises too, changing every stage."
"_I_ do not conceive it much to do," rejoined Lord Baskerville. "I
remember, (hem!) once leaving town seven hours after the mail; and
though I had rips of horses, I arrived, (hem!) at twenty minutes before
his Majesty's stage coach, (hem!)"
"Well," said Lord Gascoigne, "well, Basky, that is excellent,--ha! ha!
ha! that is excellent,--ha! ha! ha!" The abbreviation of his patronymic
was always distasteful to Lord Baskerville, and on this occasion he not
only felt his dignity compromised by the license of Lord Gascoigne's
address, but was himself offended by the covert suspicion conveyed
of the substantiality of the fact he had related; turning therefore
away with an air of contempt, he addressed himself to another of the
party. Lord Gascoigne, however, was not so easily to be silenced, and
exchanging looks with those who had watched the scene, added, with very
provoking calmness,
"Basky, you were not offended, I hope, with any thing I said, I meant
only--"
"Not at all," replied Lord Baskerville, the corners of his mouth
dropping in the exact angle of scorn by which, as a mathematical man of
_ton_, he would have described his contempt of the speaker,--"not at
all, Gascoigne; I beg you won't think of it;"--and he turned again to
the party with whom he was conversing.
"Beat--beat, Gascoigne," exclaimed Spencer Newcomb.--Lord Baskerville
looked around with a dignified air, and for a moment silence ensued,
not however without a wink passing from Spencer Newcomb, implying that
they had gone as far as was advisable. But Lord Gascoigne was not to be
stopped without a farewell shot, as he added, "Well, Baskerville, we
start at eight, and breakfast at nine, is it not so?" The latter again
tried to look grave, but obliged at length in self-defence to join in
the laugh which followed these words, he let fall for an instant the
mask that too often covered his most trivial actions, and appeared the
good-hearted good-humoured creature nature had made him.
"Somerton," said Sir William Temple, breaking the subject of
conversation, "do you remember when you were at my chateau in the
north?"
"Yes," was the dry reply he received from one who, though he eat
his dinners, held him in the most sovereign disdain, and this "yes"
sounded harshly on the ears of Sir William, living as he did in the
praises bestowed on his establishments, and never losing an opportunity
of referring to the subject of them; nor was he less annoyed, as he
observed a whisper pass between his northern guest and Lord Tonnerre,
to whom Lord Somerton had turned after his very short and laconic
reply, and added,
"The fellow had one covey of partridges, two dozen of Burgundy, and a
mistress; I made love to the one, drank the other, killed the third,
and then quitted."
"Good," said Spencer Newcomb, who had overheard what passed; "he would
have pardoned you, however, the first, if you had praised the others."
"No doubt he would," replied Lord Somerton, "but on my conscience I
could not do it, and I presume he feels this as well as myself, for
I shall make him give me a dinner the first day in the week I am
disengaged." Thus fared Sir William Temple in the hands of those for
whom he had lavished, and _incessantly_ lavished, an expense which, if
properly directed, would have rendered him an amiable, respectable, and
happy individual. As it was, he spent his money on objects despicable
in themselves, and for persons absolutely turning him into ridicule
while enjoying his bounty.
The party from the dining-table soon after arose, some having
attained the object for which alone they came, the enjoyment of
a dinner; others who had yet a further motive, ascended to the
drawing-rooms, and after passing there sufficient time to complete
arrangements, arrange departures, and fix dry points that needed
discussion for the morrow's amusement or occupation, took their
departure also, leaving Sir William Temple to feed on the empty
honour which remained to him, of having entertained in his house in
May-fair so distinguished a party; none of whom, however, beyond the
dinner-living Lord Somerton, Spencer Newcomb, and one or two lordlings,
ever intended to think more of him for the future.