London, 20_th January._
Another hero in a passion! Another lover threatens prosecution! No
less a personage than that most prolific Plenipo, the Hon. Frederick
Lamb, who yesterday called on Stockdale to threaten him, or us, with
prosecution, death and destruction, if his conduct towards me in times,
auld lang syne, was printed and published in any part of my _Memoirs_,
after Part I., which he acknowledged that his counsel had informed him
he could not lay hold of. No wonder that he is sore. I have certainly
told, as the Hon. Frederick Lamb was well aware must be the case, harsh
truths of him, I confess: but then it will disgust one to think that
a man would feel such violent passion for a girl without the heart to
save her from absolute want afterwards. Yet I never deceived him, and
I endeavoured to live on nothing, at my nurse's in Somers Town, _pour
ses beaux yeux_, as long as I possibly could. When I say nothing I mean
nothing, in the literal sense of the word. Frederick had never given
me a single shilling up to the time when hard necessity obliged me to
accept the Duke of Argyle for my lover.
As to Frederick Lamb's rage at my publishing these facts, he was fully
acquainted with my intention; and had he, now that he is in better
circumstances, only opened his heart, or even purse, to have given me
but a few hundreds, there would have been no book, to the infinite loss
of all persons of good taste and genuine morality, and who are judges
of real merit. But I hate harping on peoples' unkindness, and _vice
versâ,_ I cannot omit to acknowledge the generous condescension of Earl
Spencer, who, though I have not the honour to be in the least acquainted
with him, has very repeatedly assisted me. In short, his lordship has
promptly complied with every request for money I ever made to him,
merely as a matter of benevolence.
Lord Rivers, with whom I have but a bowing acquaintance, has not only
often permitted me to apply to him for money; but once, when I named
a certain sum to him, he liberally doubled it; because, as he kindly
stated in his letter, he was so truly sorry to think that one who
possessed such a generous heart as mine should not be in affluent
circumstances. Lord Palmerston also, one fine day, did me a pecuniary
service without my having applied to him for it. Neither can I express
half the gratitude I feel, and shall entertain to the end of my life,
for the steady, active friendship Mr. Brougham has invariably evinced
towards me, actuated, as he is, solely by a spirit of philanthropy. When
I see a man of such brilliant talents pleading the cause of almost all
those persons whose characters I have sketched in these pages, with such
honest warmth and benevolence of feeling, as Brougham did yesterday,
to say I look up to him and love him, is but a cold description of the
sentiments he inspires in my heart.
"A pretty list indeed," said Brougham, alluding to my characters, as
advertised in the newspapers by Stockdale. "Almost every one of my
particular friends is among them! The poor Duke of Argyle! What has he
done? I am very angry with you. I don't really think I can shake hands
with you."
"I have strictly adhered to the truth."
"Yes; but then, who wants to have their secrets exposed! Secrets, some
of them, sixteen years old."
"Who do you think would have entrusted me with their secrets fifteen
years ago? Besides, why don't my old friends keep me among them? They
are all rich. I have applied to them and they refuse me the bare means
of existence. Must I not strive to live by my wits? You say you have
not read even the first part of my book. How do you know that it is
severe?"
"Well! perhaps not! The Duke of Leinster tells me that it is not severe,
nor does it, he says, contain any libel."
"To be sure not! Why, as His Grace goes on, he will find that I give
him credit for a little more intellect than even a Newfoundland dog!
_Que voulez-vous?_ But I wish to explain the Duke of Beaufort's conduct,
certainly."
"Aye! true! The Duke of Beaufort treated you shamefully. You are very
welcome to tell the world that I am your counsel in that business; that
I said then, and repeat now, that he took a shameful advantage of your
generosity. There, you behaved only too well."
"Thus then, though many of you are angry with me, you all agree in
being disgusted with the heartless selfishness of the Duke of Beaufort.
The Duke of Portland says he cannot conceive or understand it. So say
Montagu, Fred Bentinck, Headfort, yourself: in short, if Beaufort means
to fight all those who call his treatment of me infamous, he may gain
the high-sounding epitaph of fighting Bob before he knows where he is:
so farewell Beaufort. I would not change hearts with you. May you meet
with all the respect you merit here, and forgiveness hereafter. I have
certainly deserved better from you."
"Well! never mind Beaufort," said Brougham, "tell all the truth of him;
but, as to the others, pray don't be severe. Write something from your
fancy, I cannot endure the idea of all this. You perhaps do not address
your letters correctly when you want money. You are so careless. I was
once desired to send you some in a great hurry, and there was no date to
your letter! I am sure these old friends of yours would provide for you,
if applied to civilly."
"I tell you, you judge of them by your own excellent heart: you, who
have never refused me any assistance I asked you for, nor any act of
friendship in your power, while I have not nor never had any claim upon
you. There is the Duke of Argyle, who used to write thus:
"'If at any future time you are in trouble and will condescend to apply
to me, you shall be as welcome as my sister; for indeed, I am afraid, I
love you.'
"Well, I have, at His Grace's request, condescended to apply civilly,
stating my distress, and humbly entreating for anything he could
conveniently afford, at least fifty times: and I have never received one
single shilling, nor any proof of friendship since it pleased him to
become _le beau papa_. Everybody who knows me will admit that I have all
my life been disposed to like Argyle, to pardon all his sins against me,
and inspire others with a favourable opinion of his heart and character;
but the invariable excessive selfishness and want of feeling which His
Grace evinces towards me has, at length, I confess, disgusted me."
I have a few more high characters in reserve to sketch for the benefit
of my readers; but they are too noble and brilliant to come in at the
fag-end of a work. I mean therefore to conclude these _Memoirs,_ and
take my rest for a month or so, in order to collect my ideas for a new
work in two volumes, which ought to be printed on the most expensive
hot-pressed vellum, wholly and solely for the express purpose of
immortalising His Grace of Richmond, the Marquis of Londonderry, Lord
Maryborough, Grand Master of the Mint, and of the Art of Love, and Mr.
Arthur Chichester, contrary to their particular wishes; and at his own
earnest, urgent and especial desire expressed in a letter now in my
possession, the Earl of Clanricarde.
Oh muse, &c. &c. &c., grant me eloquence to do justice to my subjects
on that great and mighty occasion! In the meantime let me conclude, or
rather let us proceed to draw these anecdotes into something like the
form of a conclusion, because I their writer am tired of them, if you
the reader of them are not.
My friend Rosabella permitted her interesting son to pass a week with my
impudent nephew, George Woodcock, on our return to Paris.
"What would you give to be as clever as Carlo?" said I, on the day after
he had left us to return to his college.
"Clever!" repeated George, in a tone of infinite contempt. "Clever! He
is the greatest ass in the world. Why he plays at cricket in gloves!
Clever indeed! Only come and see him swim!"
My sister Fanny never came to the continent, and, when I again joined
her in London some months afterwards, I found her in very indifferent
spirits.
"In vain do I strive," said Fanny to me, "I cannot get the better of
Parker's marriage, and I never shall."
One day, while I was dressing to drive out in my carriage, my
servant informed me that Fanny had just called on me, and was in the
drawing-room. I was surprised that she did not come up to my bedroom,
that being her constant habit whenever I happened to be at my toilette.
I hurried on my pelisse, and went down to join her. She was sitting near
the window, with her head reclined on her hand, and appeared more than
usually pensive.
"My dear Fanny," said I, "what is the matter? Why did not you come
upstairs?"
"I feel a weight here," said she, laying her hand on her heart. "It is
not a weight of spirits only; but there is something not right here. I
am sick and faint."
"A drive in Hyde Park will do you good," said I, and we were soon seated
in the carriage. Turning down Baker Street we saw Colonel Parker. Fanny
was greatly agitated. He did not seem to have observed us.
"I dare say he is only just come to town, and means to call and see
his child," said I, hoping to enliven her. We then drove twice up the
Park, and Fanny made an effort to answer the beaux who flocked around
the carriage, with cheerfulness. Suddenly she complained to me again of
sickness, occasioned by some pressure or tightness about the heart.
"I am sorry to take you from this gay scene," said poor Fanny, "but I
am too unwell to remain." I immediately pulled the check-string, and
desired my coachman to drive to Hertford Street, Mayfair, where Fanny
was then residing. After remaining with her half an hour she begged me
to leave her, while she endeavoured to obtain a little sleep. She made
light of the sickness, and told me to call and take her into the park
on the following day. I did so, and, just as I was stepping out of my
carriage in Hertford Street for that purpose, Lord Hertford came running
downstairs to join me, from Fanny's apartment.
"Don't get out, Harriette," said he, "as you will only lose time; but go
directly for a surgeon. I was going myself. Fanny is very ill, and her
physician has prescribed bleeding, without loss of time."
In the most extreme agitation I hurried after the surgeon and brought
him with me in my carriage. Fanny was now affected with such a violent
palpitation of the heart that its pulsations might be distinctly seen at
the opposite side of the room through her handkerchief.
"I am very ill, Harriette," said the dear sufferer, with encouraging
firmness, holding out her hand to me; "but don't frighten yourself.
I shall soon get better: indeed I shall. Bleeding will do me good
directly," continued she, observing, with affectionate anxiety, the fast
gathering tears in my eyes.
I called Lord Hertford aside, and addressed him: "Tell me, I earnestly
implore you, most candidly and truly, do you think Fanny will recover?"
"I do not think she ever will," answered Hertford.
"Nonsense!" said I, forcing my mind by an effort to disagree with him.
"Fanny was so perfectly well the day before yesterday, so fresh, and
her lips so red and beautiful; and then many people are afflicted with
these palpitations of the heart, and recover perfectly."
"If her pulse beat with her heart, I should have hopes; but her pulse is
calm, and I have none. Disorders of the heart are incurable."
Instead of wishing to display feeling, Lord Hertford seemed ashamed, and
afraid of feeling too much.
For another fortnight, Fanny's sufferings were dreadfully severe and,
being quite aware of her danger, she requested that her body might be
examined after her death for the benefit of others. My readers will, I
hope, do me the justice to acquit me of affectation, when I say that
this subject still affects me so deeply, I cannot dwell upon it. All the
world were anxiously, and almost hourly, inquiring if there were hope:
Sir William Knighton and Sir John Millman, her medical attendants, gave
us none, or very slight hopes, even from the first hour.
Fanny never slept, nor enjoyed a single interval of repose. Her courage
and patient firmness exceeded all I had imagined possible, even in a
man. Once, and once only, she spoke of Colonel Parker; for it was the
study of every moment of her life to avoid giving us pain. Fanny called
me to her bedside: it was midnight.
"Harriette, remember, for my sake, not to be very angry with poor
Parker. It is true, you have written to say I am ill, and he refuses to
come and shake hands with me; but then, believe me, he does not think me
so ill as I really am, or he would come. Oblige me by forgiving him! Now
talk to me of something else: no more of this pray!"
I pressed her hand and immediately changed the subject. She begged, when
we told her of Lord Hertford having had straw put down by her door, and
of all his constant, steady attentions, that, when he came next, she
might see him and thank him. In consequence of this request, he was
admitted on the following morning. Fanny was not able to talk much; but
she seemed gratified and happy to see him. When his lordship was about
to depart, she held out her hand to him. Hertford said, in a tone of
much real feeling, "God bless you, poor thing," and then left the room.
A monster, in the shape of a nurse to Colonel Parker's child, Louisa,
took this opportunity to remain out with the infant the whole of the
night! I will no longer dwell on this subject; for, indeed, I cannot.
Fanny was my only friend on earth. I had no sister but her. She was my
hope, and my consoler in affliction, ever eloquent in my defence, and
would not have forsaken me to have become the wife of an emperor, but
God willed Fanny's Death.
I saw her laid low in her kindred vaults,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
Only three weeks had elapsed since Fanny's lovely, laughing countenance,
as she drove round the ring in Hyde Park, excited the admiration of all
who beheld her. Her life was ebbing fast, when her friends acceded to
her earnest desire to be removed to a more airy situation.
Reclined at length on a couch, in her new apartment, Fanny's spirits
appeared so much improved as to encourage hopes which had become extinct.
"Do you not breathe with rather less pain?" I asked, while I pressed her
cold damp hand between my own.
"At all events," answered poor Fanny, "I would rather die here, than in
the close apartment I have just quitted. How sweet and refreshing the
flowers smelt, as I was carried along the garden! I did not see them,
for I could not endure the light. I wish I could," continued Fanny,
fixing her clear, still lovely blue eyes on my face beseechingly. "The
prospect, I understand, is most beautiful, from the room above us; but I
shall never see it."
"Do, dearest Fanny," said I, making a violent effort to conceal my
tears, lest they should agitate my suffering sister, "let me open one of
the shutters a very little. The air is mild and delicious, and the heat
no longer oppressive, as it was when you passed through the garden."
The last ray of the setting sun fell on poor Fanny's pale, beautiful
features, as I drew back the curtains. It was one of those lovely
evenings in the month of June, which often succeed a thunder-storm, and
the honeysuckles, which clustered round the windows, emitted a rich and
fragrant perfume.
I asked her if the fresh air did not enliven her a little.
She requested to have her head raised, and I rested it on my bosom.
"Alas!" said poor Fanny, "gloriously as the sun is setting, I may now
behold it for the last time!"
Cold drops hung on her fair, lovely forehead. I feared that the
slightest agitation would destroy at once the fragile being I held
in my arms, and yet, mastered by the strong impulse of irresistible
tenderness, I suddenly imprinted a kiss on my sister's dying lips.
The last tear poor Fanny ever shed trembled in her eyes. Forcing
a smile, I now endeavoured to address her with cheerfulness, and
administered her last draught of goat's milk, which she held firmly in
her hand without requiring my assistance.
"I did not believe I should shed another tear," said Fanny, brushing
away the drops which were stealing slowly down her fair, wan cheeks.
"Pray for me, Harriette! Pray that my sufferings may soon cease."
"I do pray for you, my poor sister, and God knows how earnestly. Be
assured, dearest, that your sufferings will very soon cease. You will
recover, or you will be at rest for ever. Remember my love, that we have
all committed many faults, and you may be called upon to suffer yet a
few more hours, as your only punishment, before you are permitted to
rest eternally with your God. Yet a little fortitude, my dearest Fanny.
It is all that will be required of you."
Fanny seemed deeply impressed with what I had said. Her agony was at
that moment dreadfully severe. She crossed her hands on her breast,
and there was something sublime in the stern expression her features
assumed, while she suppressed the cries which nature would almost have
wrung from her. She compressed her lips, and her brow was contracted. In
this attitude, with her eyes raised to heaven, she appeared a martyr,
severe in virtue and almost masculine fortitude.
"I am better," said Fanny, half an hour after having made this strong
effort.
"Thank God!" I ejaculated, taking hold of her hand.
"What o'clock is it?" she inquired.
"Near seven."
"I am very sleepy. I could sleep, if you would promise to continue
holding my hand, and would not leave me."
I placed myself close to my sister, with her cold damp hand clasped
between both of mine.
"I am near you, always, dearest," said I. "Sleeping or waking, I shall
never leave you more." Fanny threw her arms once more round my neck, and
with a convulsive last effort pressed me to her heart.
"May the Almighty for ever bless you!" said she, and, sinking back on
her pillow, a gentle sleep stole on her senses. I watched her lovely
countenance with breathless anxiety.
In less than an hour poor Fanny opened her eyes and fixed them on me
with a bright smile, expressive of the purest happiness.
"I am quite well," said Fanny, in a tone of great animation.
Again her eyes closed and her breathing became shorter.
Suddenly, a slight convulsion of the upper lip induced me to place my
trembling hand on my sister's heart.
I felt it beat!
Joy flushed my face with a momentary hectic----
And then, hope fled for ever!
Fanny's cheek, still warm and lovely, rested on her arm. The expression
of pain and agony was exchanged for the calm, still, innocent smile of a
sleeping infant.
I had felt the last faint vibration of poor Fanny's heart.