_A Feminine Diplomatist_
THERE is nothing so remarkable as feminine influence. Although the
character of Tancred was not completely formed--for that result depends,
in some degree, upon the effect of circumstances at a certain time of
life, as well as on the impulse of a natural bent--still the temper of
his being was profound and steadfast. He had arrived, in solitude and
by the working of his own thought, at a certain resolution, which had
assumed to his strong and fervent imagination a sacred character, and
which he was determined to accomplish at all costs. He had brought
himself to the point that he would not conceive an obstacle that should
baulk him. He had acceded to the conditions which had been made by his
parents, for he was by nature dutiful, and wished to fulfil his-purpose,
if possible, with their sanction.
Yet he had entered society with repugnance, and found nothing in its
general tone with which his spirit harmonised. He was alone in the
crowd; silent, observing, and not charmed. There seemed to him generally
a want of simplicity and repose; too much flutter, not a little
affectation. People met in the thronged chambers, and interchanged brief
words, as if they were always in a hurry. ‘Have you been here long?
Where are you going next?’ These were the questions which seemed to form
the staple of the small talk of a fashionable multitude. Why, too,
was there a smile on every countenance, which often also assumed the
character of a grin? No error so common or so grievous as to suppose
that a smile is a necessary ingredient of the pleasing. There are few
faces that can afford to smile. A smile is sometimes bewitching, in
general vapid, often a contortion. But the bewitching smile usually
beams from the grave face. It is then irresistible. Tancred, though he
was unaware of it, was gifted with this rare spell. He had inherited
it from his mother; a woman naturally earnest and serious, and of a
singular simplicity, but whose heart when pleased spoke in the dimpling
sunshine of her cheek with exquisite beauty. The smiles of the Duchess
of Bellamont, however, were like her diamonds, brilliant, but rarely
worn.
Tancred had not mounted the staircase of Deloraine House with any
anticipation of pleasure. His thoughts were far away amid cities of the
desert, and by the palmy banks of ancient rivers. He often took refuge
in these exciting and ennobling visions, to maintain himself when he
underwent the ceremony of entering a great house. He was so shy in
little things, that to hear his name sounded from servant to servant,
echoing from landing-place to landing-place, was almost overwhelming.
Nothing but his pride, which was just equal to his reserve, prevented
him from often turning back on the stairs and precipitately retreating.
And yet he had not been ten minutes in Deloraine House, before he had
absolutely requested to be introduced to a lady. It was the first time
he had ever made such a request.
He returned home, softly musing. A tone lingered in his ear; he recalled
the countenance of one absent. In his dressing-room he lingered
before he retired, with his arm on the mantel-piece, and gazing with
abstraction on the fire.
When his servant called him, late in the morning, he delivered to him a
card from Mrs. Guy Flouncey, inviting him on that day to Craven Cottage,
at three o’clock: ‘déjeûner at four o’clock precisely.’ Tancred took the
card, looked at it, and the letters seemed to cluster together and form
the countenance of Lady Constance. ‘It will be a good thing to go,’ he
said, ‘because I want to know Lord Fitz-Heron; he will be of great use
to me about my yacht.’ So he ordered his carriage at three o’clock.
The reader must not for a moment suppose that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, though
she was quite as well dressed, and almost as pretty, as she was when at
Coningsby Castle in 1837, was by any means the same lady who then strove
to amuse and struggled to be noticed. By no means. In 1837, Mrs. Guy
Flouncey was nobody; in 1845, Mrs. Guy Flouncey was somebody, and
somebody of very great importance. Mrs. Guy Flouncey had invaded
society, and had conquered it, gradually, but completely, like the
English in India. Social invasions are not rare, but they are seldom
fortunate, or success, if achieved, is partial, and then only sustained
at immense cost, like the French in Algiers.
The Guy Flounceys were not people of great fortune. They had a good
fortune; seven or eight thousand a year. But then, with an air of great
expenditure, even profusion, there was a basis of good management. And a
good fortune with good management, and without that equivocal luxury, a
great country-house, is almost equal to the great fortune of a peer.
But they not only had no country-house, they had no children. And a good
fortune, with good management, no country-house, and no children, is
Aladdin’s lamp.
Mr. Guy Flouncey was a sporting character. His wife had impressed upon
him that it was the only way in which he could become fashionable and
acquainted with ‘the best men.’ He knew just enough of the affair not
to be ridiculous; and, for the rest, with a great deal of rattle and
apparent heedlessness of speech and deed, he was really an extremely
selfish and sufficiently shrewd person, who never compromised himself.
It is astonishing with what dexterity Guy Flouncey could extricate
himself from the jaws of a friend, who, captivated by his thoughtless
candour and ostentatiously good heart, might be induced to request Mr.
Flouncey to lend him a few hundreds, only for a few months, or, more
diplomatically, might beg his friend to become his security for a few
thousands, for a few years.
Mr. Guy Flouncey never refused these applications; they were exactly
those to which it delighted his heart to respond, because nothing
pleased him more than serving a friend. But then he always had to write
a preliminary letter of preparation to his banker, or his steward, or
his confidential solicitor; and, by some contrivance or other,
without offending any one, rather with the appearance of conferring an
obligation, it ended always by Mr. Guy Flouncey neither advancing the
hundreds, nor guaranteeing the thousands. He had, indeed, managed,
like many others, to get the reputation of being what is called ‘a good
fellow;’ though it would have puzzled his panegyrists to allege a single
act of his that evinced a good heart. This sort of pseudo reputation,
whether for good or for evil, is not uncommon in the world. Man is
mimetic; judges of character are rare; we repeat without thought the
opinions of some third person, who has adopted them without inquiry;
and thus it often happens that a proud, generous man obtains in time the
reputation of being ‘a screw,’ because he has refused to lend money
to some impudent spendthrift, who from that moment abuses him; and a
cold-hearted, civil-spoken personage, profuse in costless services, with
a spice of the parasite in him, or perhaps hospitable out of vanity,
is invested with all the thoughtless sympathies of society, and passes
current as that most popular of characters, ‘a good fellow.’
Guy Flouncey’s dinners began to be talked of among men: it became a
sort of fashion, especially among sporting men, to dine with Mr. Guy
Flouncey, and there they met Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Not an opening ever
escaped her. If a man had a wife, and that wife was a personage, sooner
or later, much as she might toss her head at first, she was sure to
visit Mrs. Guy Flouncey, and, when she knew her, she was sure to like
her. The Guy Flounceys never lost a moment; the instant the season was
over, they were at Cowes, then at a German bath, then at Paris, then at
an English country-house, then in London.
Seven years, to such people, was half a century of social experience.
They had half a dozen seasons in every year. Still, it was hard work,
and not rapid. At a certain point they stuck, as all do. Most people,
then, give it up; but patience, Buffon tells us, is genius, and Mrs.
Guy Flouncey was, in her way, a woman of genius. Their dinners were, in
a certain sense, established: these in return brought them to a certain
degree into the dinner world; but balls, at least balls of a high
calibre, were few, and as for giving a ball herself, Mrs. Guy Flouncey
could no more presume to think of that than of attempting to prorogue
Parliament. The house, however, got really celebrated for ‘the best
men.’ Mrs. Guy Flouncey invited all the young dancing lords to dinner.
Mothers will bring their daughters where there are young lords. Mrs. Guy
Flouncey had an opera-box in the best tier, which she took only to lend
to her friends; and a box at the French play, which she took only to
bribe her foes. They were both at everybody’s service, like Mr. Guy
Flouncey’s yacht, provided the persons who required them were members
of that great world in which Mrs. Guy Flouncey had resolved to plant
herself.
Mrs. Guy Flouncey was pretty; she was a flirt on principle; thus she had
caught the Marquess of Beaumanoir, who, if they chanced to meet,
always spoke to her, which gave Mrs. Guy Flouncey fashion. But Mrs. Guy
Flouncey was nothing more than a flirt. She never made a mistake; she
was born with strong social instincts. She knew that the fine ladies
among whom, from the first, she had determined to place herself, were
moral martinets with respect to any one not born among themselves.
That which is not observed, or, if noticed, playfully alluded to in
the conduct of a patrician dame, is visited with scorn and contumely if
committed by some ‘shocking woman,’ who has deprived perhaps a countess
of the affections of a husband who has not spoken to her for years.
But if the countess is to lose her husband, she ought to lose him to a
viscountess, at least. In this way the earl is not lost to ‘society.’
A great nobleman met Mrs. Guy Flouncey at a country-house, and was
fairly captivated by her. Her pretty looks, her coquettish manner, her
vivacity, her charming costume, above all, perhaps, her imperturbable
good temper, pierced him to the heart. The great nobleman’s wife had the
weakness to be annoyed. Mrs. Guy Flouncey saw her opportunity. She threw
over the earl, and became the friend of the countess, who could never
sufficiently evince her gratitude to the woman who would not make love
to her husband. This friendship was the incident for which Mrs. Guy
Flouncey had been cruising for years. Men she had vanquished; they had
given her a sort of _ton_ which she had prudently managed. She had not
destroyed herself by any fatal preference. Still, her fashion among men
necessarily made her unfashionable among women, who, if they did not
absolutely hate her, which they would have done had she had a noble
lover, were determined not to help her up the social ladder. Now she had
a great friend, and one of the greatest of ladies. The moment she had
pondered over for years had arrived. Mrs. Guy Flouncey determined at
once to test her position. Mrs. Guy Flouncey resolved on giving a ball.
But some of our friends in the country will say, ‘Is that all? Surely
it required no very great resolution, no very protracted pondering, to
determine on giving a ball! Where is the difficulty? The lady has but to
light up her house, hire the fiddlers, line her staircase with American
plants, perhaps enclose her balcony, order Mr. Gunter to provide plenty
of the best refreshments, and at one o’clock a superb supper, and, with
the company of your friends, you have as good a ball as can be desired
by the young, or endured by the old.’
Innocent friends in the country! You might have all these things. Your
house might be decorated like a Russian palace, blazing with the most
brilliant lights and breathing the richest odours; you might have
Jullien presiding over your orchestra, and a banquet worthy of the
Romans. As for your friends, they might dance until daybreak, and agree
that there never was an entertainment more tasteful, more sumptuous,
and, what would seem of the first importance, more merry. But, having
all these things, suppose you have not a list? You have given a ball,
you have not a list. The reason is obvious: you are ashamed of your
guests. You are not in ‘society.’
But even a list is not sufficient for success. You must also get a
day: the most difficult thing in the world. After inquiring among your
friends, and studying the columns of the _Morning Post_, you discover
that, five weeks hence, a day is disengaged. You send out your cards;
your house is dismantled; your lights are arranged; the American plants
have arrived; the band, perhaps two bands, are engaged. Mr. Gunter has
half dressed your supper, and made all your ice, when suddenly, within
eight-and-forty hours of the festival which you have been five weeks
preparing, the Marchioness of Deloraine sends out cards for a ball in
honour of some European sovereign who has just alighted on our isle, and
means to stay only a week, and at whose court, twenty years ago, Lord
Deloraine was ambassador. Instead of receiving your list, you are
obliged to send messengers in all directions to announce that your
ball is postponed, although you are perfectly aware that not a single
individual would have been present whom you would have cared to welcome.
The ball is postponed; and next day the _Morning Post_ informs us it is
postponed to that day week; and the day after you have circulated this
interesting intelligence, you yourself, perhaps, have the gratification
of receiving an invitation, for the same day, to Lady St. Julians’: with
‘dancing’ neatly engraved in the corner. You yield in despair; and
there are some ladies who, with every qualification for an excellent
ball-guests, Gunter, American plants, pretty daughters have been
watching and waiting for years for an opportunity of giving it; and at
last, quite hopeless, at the end of the season, expend their funds in
a series of Greenwich banquets, which sometimes fortunately produce the
results expected from the more imposing festivity.
You see, therefore, that giving a ball is not that matter-of-course
affair you imagined; and that for Mrs. Guy Flouncey to give a ball and
succeed, completely, triumphantly to succeed, was a feat worthy of that
fine social general. Yet she did it. The means, like everything that is
great, were simple. She induced her noble friend to ask her guests. Her
noble friend canvassed for her as if it were a county election of the
good old days, when the representation of a shire was the certain
avenue to a peerage, instead of being, as it is now, the high road to a
poor-law commissionership.
Many were very glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey; many
only wanted an excuse to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey;
they went to her party because they were asked by their dear friend,
Lady Kingcastle. As for the potentates, there is no disguise on these
subjects among them. They went to Mrs. Guy Flouncey’s ball because one
who was their equal, not only in rank, but in social influence, had
requested it as a personal favour, she herself, when the occasion
offered, being equally ready to advance their wishes. The fact was, that
affairs were ripe for the recognition of Mrs. Guy Flouncey as a member
of the social body. Circumstances had been long maturing. The Guy
Flounceys, who, in the course of their preparatory career, had hopped
from Park Crescent to Portman Square, had now perched upon their
‘splendid mansion’ in Belgrave Square. Their dinners were renowned. Mrs.
Guy Flouncey was seen at all the ‘best balls,’ and was always surrounded
by the ‘best men.’ Though a flirt and a pretty woman, she was a discreet
parvenue, who did not entrap the affections of noble husbands. Above
all, she was the friend of Lady Kingcastle, who called her and her
husband ‘those good Guy Flounceys.’
The ball was given; you could not pass through Belgrave Square that
night. The list was published; it formed two columns of the Morning
Post. Lady Kingcastle was honoured by the friendship of a royal duchess.
She put the friendship to the proof, and her royal highness was seen at
Mrs. Guy Flouncey’s ball. Imagine the reception, the canopy, the scarlet
cloth, the ‘God save the King’ from the band of the first guards,
bivouacked in the hall, Mrs. Guy Flouncey herself performing her part
as if she had received princesses of the blood all her life; so reverent
and yet so dignified, so very calm and yet with a sort of winning,
sunny innocence. Her royal highness was quite charmed with her hostess,
praised her much to Lady Kingcastle, told her that she was glad that she
had come, and even stayed half an hour longer than Mrs. Guy Flouncey
had dared to hope. As for the other guests, the peerage was gutted.
The Dictator himself was there, and, the moment her royal highness had
retired, Mrs. Guy Flouncey devoted herself to the hero. All the great
ladies, all the ambassadors, all the beauties, a full chapter of the
Garter, a chorus among the ‘best men’ that it was without doubt the
‘best ball’ of the year, happy Mrs. Guy Flouncey! She threw a glance at
her swing-glass while Mr. Guy Flouncey, who ‘had not had time to get
anything the whole evening,’ was eating some supper on a tray in her
dressing-room at five o’clock in the morning, and said, ‘We have done it
at last, my love!’
She was right; and from that moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey was asked to all
the great houses, and became a lady of the most unexceptionable _ton_.
But all this time we are forgetting her _déjeûner_, and that Tancred
is winding his way through the garden lanes of Fulham to reach Craven
Cottage.