“‘PREMIER SERVICE.“‘Potages.—Printanier: à la reine:turtle(two tureens).“‘Poissons.—Turbot (lobster and Dutch sauces): saumon à la Tartare: rougets à la cardinal: friture de morue:white-bait.“‘Relévés.—Filet de bœuf à la Napolitaine: dindon à la chipolate: timballe de macaroni:haunch of venison.“‘Entrées.—Croquettes de volaille: petits pâtés aux huîtres: côtelettes d’agneau: puréede champignons: côtelettes d’agneau aux pointes d’asperges: fricandeau de veau à l’oseille: ris de veau piqué aux tomates: côtelettes de pigeons à la Dusselle: chartreuse de légumes aux faisans: filets de cannetons à la Bigarrade: boudins à la Richelieu: sauté de volaille aux truffes: pâté de mouton monté.“‘Coté.—Bœuf rôti: jambon: salade.“‘SECOND SERVICE.“‘Rots.—Chapons, and quails, turkey poults,green goose.“‘Entremets.—Asperges: haricots à la Française: mayonnaise d’homard: gelée Macédoine: aspic d’œufs de pluvier: Charlotte Russe: gelée au Marasquin: crême marbre: corbeille de pâtisserie: vol-au-vent de rhubarb: tourte d’abricots: corbeille de meringues:dressed crab: salade à la gélantine.—Champignons aux fines herbes.“‘Relévés.—Soufflée à la vanille: Nesselrode pudding: Adelaide sandwiches: fondus. Pièces montées, etc., etc.’
“‘PREMIER SERVICE.
“‘Potages.—Printanier: à la reine:turtle(two tureens).
“‘Poissons.—Turbot (lobster and Dutch sauces): saumon à la Tartare: rougets à la cardinal: friture de morue:white-bait.
“‘Relévés.—Filet de bœuf à la Napolitaine: dindon à la chipolate: timballe de macaroni:haunch of venison.
“‘Entrées.—Croquettes de volaille: petits pâtés aux huîtres: côtelettes d’agneau: puréede champignons: côtelettes d’agneau aux pointes d’asperges: fricandeau de veau à l’oseille: ris de veau piqué aux tomates: côtelettes de pigeons à la Dusselle: chartreuse de légumes aux faisans: filets de cannetons à la Bigarrade: boudins à la Richelieu: sauté de volaille aux truffes: pâté de mouton monté.
“‘Coté.—Bœuf rôti: jambon: salade.
“‘SECOND SERVICE.
“‘Rots.—Chapons, and quails, turkey poults,green goose.
“‘Entremets.—Asperges: haricots à la Française: mayonnaise d’homard: gelée Macédoine: aspic d’œufs de pluvier: Charlotte Russe: gelée au Marasquin: crême marbre: corbeille de pâtisserie: vol-au-vent de rhubarb: tourte d’abricots: corbeille de meringues:dressed crab: salade à la gélantine.—Champignons aux fines herbes.
“‘Relévés.—Soufflée à la vanille: Nesselrode pudding: Adelaide sandwiches: fondus. Pièces montées, etc., etc.’
“The reader will not fail to observe how well the English dishes—turtle, white-bait, and venison—relieve the French in this dinner; and what a breadth, depth, solidity, and dignity they add to it. Green goose, also, may rank as English, the goose being held in little honour, with the exception of its liver, by the French; but we think Comte d’Orsay did quite right in inserting it.… The moderation of the price must strike everyone.”
The Clarendon Hotel was situated in BondStreet and Albemarle Street, and with Mivart’s in Brook Street shared the reputation of being the best hotel in town, holding the premier place for dining in luxury and elegance.
In the later Gore House days D’Orsay must have been sorely vexed, though he showed it not openly, at a mishap at a dinner given by Lady Blessington and himself. It is best told in the words of one who was present:—
“I well remember a dinner at Lady Blessington’s, when an event occurred that proved how ready theCupidon déchainé, as Byron called him, was to extricate himself from any difficulty. The party consisted of ten, and out of them there were about six who enjoyed what is called a glass of wine, meaning a bottle. Before dinner the Count had alluded to some splendid Clicquot champagne and claret of celebrated vintage. While we were waiting to sit down, D’Orsay was more than once called out of the room, and a quick-sighted individual hinted to me that he feared some unpleasant visitors of the dun family were importunate for some ‘small account.’ Still, there was nothing on the light-hearted Frenchman’s face to show that he was at all put out. Dinner was announced, and all promised to go well, as the soup and the fish were unexceptionable, when my quick-sighted friend, who was a greatgourmet, remarked that he saw no champagne. ‘Perhaps,’ I replied,sotto voce, ‘it is being kept in ice outside.’ The sherry was handed round, and repeated looks passed between the hostess and the Count, and between the same and the head servant. Theentréeswere handed round, and a thirsty soul, with rather bad tact, for he was too gentlemanlike to be deficient in taste, asked in an undertone for a glass of champagne. The servant looked confused; D’Orsay saw it, and exclaimed aloud: ‘No champagne to-day; my Lady and I have a treat for you—a royal treat. You know that the Queen has lately patronised what is called the Balmoral brose, and here is some.’ At this moment one of the servants entered with a large jug containing this Scotch delicacy, which, of course, following the example of our hostess, we all declared to be excellent. ‘Far better than wine,’ said the late Lord Pembroke, a sentiment, I need scarcely say, in which the rest did not agree. Balmoral brose did duty for champagne and claret, and the only wine upon that memorable occasion was sherry. Whether the butler was absent without leave, or the key of the cellar lost or mislaid, or, as was hinted by my neighbour at dinner, the wine merchant had been seized with a sudden fit of hard-heartedness, I know not. All I do know is, that a mixture of Highland whisky and honey was substituted for the foaming grape of eastern France.”
“Foaming grape” is good! Not good, however, is the taste left by this anecdote; a party of well-to-do men dining with D’Orsay and Lady Blessington, and cracking jokes behind their backs at their impecuniosity.
D’Orsay was once dining with his brother dandy Disraeli, and was grieved by the undoubted fact that the dishes were served up distinctly cool.But the climax was reached when tepid ices were brought forward.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed D’Orsay, “at last we have got something hot!”
As a matter of course the circumstances in which he was so ostentatiously living and his general reputation kept D’Orsay outside the houses of those who did not open their doors to everybody, though most male folk were pleased enough to visit him and Lady Blessington at Seamore Place, where of womankind, however, none except relatives and exotics were to be met with. But even a dandy must find occasionally a crumpled rose-leaf in his bed. But what counted this exclusion against the having been spoken of by young Ben Dizzy as “the most delightful of men and best of friends,” and by Victor Prévost, Viscount d’Arlincourt, as “le roi de la grâce et du goût”?
It took much to disturb D’Orsay’s serenity and peace of mind; he was one of those blessed beings, whom all we poor miserable sinners must envy, who did not own to a conscience. Certainly the being head over ears in debt did not cause him a moment’s anxiety. He did not realise that money had any value; guineas to him were simply counters of which it was convenient to have a sufficient supply wherewith to pay gambling debts and to discharge the incidental ready-money expenditure of each day. As for other expenses, were not tradesmen honoured by his custom, were they not a race of slaves ordained to supply the necessities of noble men such as D’Orsay, was it not a scandal that they shoulddare to ask him to pay his bills? What pleasure is there in the bills we pay? D’Orsay never denied himself anything which he could obtain for love or by owing money. It has even been said of him—and what will not little men say of even the greatest?—that he was “unscrupulous and indelicate about money matters.” How poor-spirited the creature who could ask such a man as D’Orsay to pay back the money he had lent him or to render their due to the tailors and such like whom he had honoured with his patronage! The spirit of a D’Orsay cannot be appreciated rightly save by one of kindred genius. Who that was worthy to be his friend would not feel honoured by a request from him for a loan, and injured by even a hint at repayment? Of what value is a rich friend if he will not be your banker?
D’Orsay’s finances from now onward were in a state of hopeless chaos, from which the efforts of his friends signally failed to extricate him. Which failure, however, in the long run cannot have made any difference; to have hauled him out of his ocean of debt would only have landed him for a brief space upon dry land, whereon he would have gasped like a fish out of water; he was a born debtor. His marriage had replenished, or rather filled, his exchequer; then he proceeded with skill and rapidity to empty it. Why should not a colourless wife contribute to the support of a resplendent husband? Yet, marvellous, almost incredible, there were carping and jealous spirits who boggled over this and other transactions of Count d’Orsay.
As for instance Patmore, commenting on D’Orsay’s social difficulties, writes:—
“And yet it was in England, that Count d’Orsay while a mere boy, made the fatal mistake of marrying one beautiful woman, while he was, without daring to confess it even to himself, madly in love with another, still more beautiful, whom he could not marry—because, I say, under these circumstances, and discovering his fatal error when too late, he separated himself from his wife almost at the church door, he was, during the greatest part of his social career in England, cut off from the advantages of the more fastidious portion of female society, by the indignant fiat of its heads and leaders.”
There are quite a wonderful number of blunders in the above meandering sentences.
True as it was that he was cut by “the more fastidious portion of female society,” D’Orsay found consolation, sympathy and understanding—doubtless also advice and counsel—in the comradeship of Lady Blessington—and others. Grantley Berkeley tells us that D’Orsay “was as fickle as a French lover might be expected to be to a woman some years his senior.” In which sneer there is a smack of insular envy. On the other hand Dickens, the exponent of the middle-class conscience, wrote of him as one “whose gentle heart even a world of fashion left unspoiled!” How can history be written with any approach to truth when contemporary evidence differs so widely? Was D’Orsay a saint or a sinner? Who dare say?
Society gossiped evilly about him, as it willdo about anyone and everyone, telling tales that did not redound to his credit. The Duchesse de Dino retails this, under date February 20th, 1834:—
“A new and very ugly story is afloat concerning Count Alfred d’Orsay, which is as follows: Sir Willoughby Cotton, writing from Brighton at the same time to Count d’Orsay and to Lady Fitzroy Somerset, cross-directed the letters so that M. d’Orsay on opening the letter which he received, instead of seeing the mistake and stopping at the first line, which ran ‘Dear Lady Fitzroy,’ read it through and found, among other Brighton gossip, some pleasantries about Lady Tullemore and one of her lovers, and a sharp saying about himself. What did he do but go to the club, read out the letter before every one, and finally put it under cover and send it to Lord Tullemore! The result very nearly was a crop of duels. Lady Tullemore is very ill, and the guilty lover has fled to Paris. Friends intervened, however, and the thing was hushed up for the sake of the ladies, but M. d’Orsay cut (and cuts) an odious figure.”
Such a story disgraces those who tell it, not him of whom it is told. D’Orsay guilty of hurting a woman’s reputation, directly or indirectly? The idea is absurd! Of a man too who was a philanthropist and one of the founders of the Société de Bienfaisance in London!
What have been the causes of the decline and fall in London of thesalonas a social and sociable institution? It is a difficult question to answer. Our hostesses are as lovely, as charming, as cultured and as hospitable to-day as ever they were; our men as gallant and as fond of feminine society; where then lurked the seeds of decay?
A successfulsalondepended upon the brilliancy of the conversation of those who frequented it; asalonwithout wit would be as a pond without water, or a sky at night empty of stars. Conversation is a lost art. Talk we have in superabundance, also argument. But the light give and take, the prompt wit, the ready repartee, which form the mainstay of a conversation, are now all so rare that it would be impossible to gather together anything like a company of true masters and mistresses of conversation. The finest conversation to-day is heard among those who do not frequent the drawing-rooms of the leaders of fashion. Moreover, in those bygone days men of fashion were expected to be also men of wit and of culture; now-a-days men are rated at cheque-value not at brain-value, more’s the pity. D’Orsay would be hopelessly at sea in London society to-day, not on account of his morals, but because he would not be able tocontribute his share of unconsidered and platitudinous trifles at tea-fights, over-lengthy dinners and over-crowded dances.
In the London of D’Orsay’s prime thesalonwas still a power for pleasure, and he and Lady Blessington reigned over that which was perhaps the most brilliant that our country has ever seen. There were others. That at Holland House, for example, where Lady Holland reigned supreme and somewhat severe. To that select circle, from which he was now, alas, excluded, D’Orsay had been admitted when as a mere youth he first visited London. Dining there one day, he was honoured by a seat next his hostess, who apparently looked upon the young Frenchman as sure to be awe-stricken by her presence. She did not know her man. Time and again she allowed her napkin to slip down to the floor, on each occasion asking D’Orsay to recover it for her. This exercise at last exhausted his patience, and when the “accident” occurred again he startled her haughtiness by saying, “Ne ferais-je pas mieux, madame, de m’asseoir sous la table, afin de pouvoir vous passer la serviette plus rapidement?”
Lady Holland had been a wealthy Miss Vassall, and deserted her first husband, Sir Godfrey Webster, at the charming of Lord Holland. The latter has been described as “the last and the best of the Whigs of the old school,” and was a man of highly cultivated mind, of genial hospitality, of wit, and a master of the art of conversation. Among the frequenters of the Holland House circle were Tom Moore, Macaulay,Lord John Russell, to mention three men of very different character. D’Orsay, in what is perchance a stray relic of that famous Journal of his, gives this picture of Lord Holland:—“It is impossible to know Lord Holland without feeling for him a strong sentiment of affection; he has so much goodness of heart, that one forgets often the superior qualities of mind which distinguish him; and it is difficult to conceive that a man so simple, so natural and so good, should be one of the most distinguished senators of our days.” Lady Holland had not shown her best self to D’Orsay; she was a despot, but benevolent in the use of her power and full of the milk of human kindness.
That D’Orsay was fully equipped to king it over asalonfrequented by distinguished men is evident; no less was Lady Blessington endowed with all the requisites to reign as queen. The gift of all gifts to a woman, beauty, was hers in a high degree. Willis thus describes her:—
“Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is not pressed in a satin slipper for which a Cinderella might long be sought in vain; and her complexion (an unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows) is of even a girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress, of blue satin … was cut low, and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair, dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with arichferronierof turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault. Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fullness and freedom of play peculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good-humour. Add to all this, a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen.”
In these years her conversation was full of frank spontaneity; a smile always hovered round her lips, and there was not mingled with her wit any spite of malice. She expressed herself with felicity, though not in any studied manner, and accompanied her words with expressive looks and gestures. Above all, she understood that conversation is a game of give and take, “onebon motfollowed another, without pause or effort, for a minute or two, and then, while her wit and humour were producing their desired effect, she would take care, by an apt word or gesture, provocative of mirth and communicativeness, to draw out the persons who were best fitted to shine in company, and leave no intelligence, however humble, without affording it an opportunity and encouragement to make some display, even in a single trite remark, a telling observation in the course of conversation.”
The evening at Seamore Place often beganwith a dinner party; some of these it will be pleasant for us to attend, in a proper spirit.
Habituésnot only dined there, but when so disposed dropped in of an evening at almost any hour. Tom Moore records in his memoirs that he did so on 17th December 1833:—“Went to Lady Blessington’s, having heard that she is at home most evenings. Found her gay rooms splendidly lighted up, and herself in a similar state of illumination, sitting ‘alone in her glory,’ reading. It was like the solitude of some princess confined in a fairy palace. After I had been a few minutes with her, however, D’Orsay made his appearance. Stayed about three-quarters of an hour conversing.…”
Then on 11th August of the following year he “Dined at Lady Blessington’s: company, D’Orsay (as master of the house), John Ponsonby, Willis the American, Count Pahlen (whom I saw a good deal of when he was formerly in London, and liked), Fonblanque, the editor ofThe Examiner, and a foreigner, whose name I forget. Sat next to Fonblanque, and was glad of the opportunity of knowing him. A clever fellow certainly, and with great powers occasionally as a writer. Got on very well together.”
That must have been a pleasant gathering: a witty hostess, a witty host, and several other wits, Fonblanque among them, of whom Lytton speaks enthusiastically to Lady Blessington: “What a combination to reconcile one to mankind, andsuchhonour,suchwisdom andsuchgenius.” Albany Fonblanque, as so many others have done,deserted law for journalism, achieving a high degree of success as editor ofThe Examiner. He was a master of sarcasm. Before Dickens set out on his first trip to America, in 1842, Fonblanque cuttingly said: “Why, aren’t there disagreeable people enough to describe in Blackburn or Leeds?”
In the same year (1834) Benjamin Disraeli was one of a distinguished company entertained one night in May:—“On Monday I dined with Lady Blessington, the Prince of Moskowa, Charles Lafitte, Lords Castlereagh, Elphinstone, and Allen, Mr Talbot, myself.…” Disraeli in his thirtieth year was a man after D’Orsay’s heart, a fellow dandy and a brother wit. But there was a difference in kind: Disraeli was an amateur, D’Orsay a professional; to the former dandyism was a pose, of his life a thing apart, it was the latter’s whole existence; dandyism with Disraeli was part of a means to an end, with D’Orsay it was the end itself. The useful Willis gives a description of Disraeli at somewhere about this date, but Madden casts a doubt upon his accuracy. It was a strange scene, like pages torn fromVivian Grey, and from what we learn from other sources the “atmosphere” at any rate is correct and typical:—
“Disraeli had arrived before me at Lady Blessington’s,” Willis writes, “and sat in the deep window, looking out upon Hyde Park, with the last rays of daylight reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of an embroidered waistcoat. Patent leather pumps, a white stick, with a black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chainsabout his neck and pockets, served to make him, even in the dim light, rather a conspicuous object. Disraeli has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw. He is lividly pale, and, but for the energy of his action and the strength of his lungs, would seem a victim to consumption. His eye is black as Erebus, and has the most mocking and lying-in-wait sort of expression conceivable.… His hair is as extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats. A thick heavy mass of jet-black ringlets falls over his left cheek almost to his collarless stock; while on the right it is parted and put away with the smooth carefulness of a girl, and shines most unctuously,
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
Disraeli was the only one at table who knew Beckford, and the style in which he gave a sketch of his habits and manners was worthy of himself. I might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea, as to convey an idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description. There were, at least, five words in every sentence that must have been very much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others apparently could so well have conveyed his idea. He talked like a race-horse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in action, and the utmost energy of expression flung out in every burst. Victor Hugo and his extraordinary novels came next under discussion; and Disraeli, who was fired with his own eloquence, started offapropos de bottes, with along story of empalement he had seen in Upper Egypt. It was as good, and perhaps as authentic, as the description of the chow-chow-tow inVivian Grey. The circumstantiality of the account was equally horrible and amusing. Then followed the sufferer’s history, with a score of murders and barbarities heaped together like Martin’s feast of Belshazzar, with a mixture of horror and splendour that was unparalleled in my experience of improvisation. No mystic priest of the Corybantes could have worked himself up into a finer frenzy of language.”
Willis himself seems to have been bitten with this fine frenzy.
Madden says that it was Disraeli’s wont to be reserved and silent in company, but that when he was aroused “his command of language was truly wonderful, his power of sarcasm unsurpassed.”
Disraeli apparently met D’Orsay for the first time in February 1832, at aréunionat Bulwer’s house, and he describes him as “the famous Parisian dandy.” They quickly struck up a friendship. It is easy to understand what a fascinating study D’Orsay must have offered to Disraeli. We hear of the latter, a few months after his marriage, entertaining Lyndhurst, Bulwer, and D’Orsay. And in the spring of 1835 there was a party at Lyndhurst’s at 25 George Street, at which Disraeli and d’Orsay were present. One of the company was wearing a waistcoat of splendour exceptional even for those splendid days. Said Disraeli as he enteredthe room: “What a beautiful pattern! Where did you find it?” Then as the guests with one accord displayed their vests, the host exclaimed: “By the way, this brings to my mind a very curious suit I had about a waistcoat, in which I was counsel for a Jew, and won his case.” And the story? It is lost! As hopelessly as the story of “Ould Grouse in the Gun-room.”
After dinner some of the party went on to the Opera to hearLa Sonnambula, that rickety old piece of fireworks; in an opposite box sat Lady Blessington, “not very young, somewhat florid, but effectively arranged in a turban,à la Joséphine.”
Of the evening of 30th March 1835, Crabb Robinson notes: “At half-past seven went to Lady Blessington’s, where I dined. The amusing man of the party was a young Irishman—Lover—a miniature painter and an author. He sang and accompanied himself, and told some Irish tales with admirable effect.… Among other guests were Chorley and the American Willis. Count d’Orsay, of course, did the honours. Did not leave till near one.…”
Lord Lyndhurst was a frequent visitor to Seamore Place. Henry Fothergill Chorley was well-known and respected in his day as a musical critic, as a novelist neither respected nor famous; he was a close friend of D’Orsay. A rude journalist once spoke of “the Chorleys and thechawbaconsof literature.” An intimate friend describes him as “doing all sorts of good and generous deeds in a quiet, unostentatious way.” Samuel Lover is best represented by his balladof “Rory O’More,” andHandy Andystill finds a few readers.
William Archer Shee met Lover under somewhat similar circumstances at another house:—“He is a man who shines much in a small circle. There is a brilliancy of thought, a general versatility of talent about him that makes his society very charming … he is one of the bestraconteursthat ever kept an audience in a roar. He told two Irish stories with the most racy humour.”
The Blessington of course often showed herself at the Opera, which then as now was a fashionable lounge for musical and unmusical folk. Writing to the Countess Guiccioli in August 1833, she says:—“Our Opera has been brilliant, and offered a galaxy of talent, such as we never had before. Pasta, Malibran, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, and a host of minor stars, with acorps de ballet, with Taglioni at their head, who more than redeemed their want of excellency. I did not miss a single night.…”
D’Orsay was able to be almost anything to any man, or any woman. He was highly accomplished in every art of pleasing, and endowed with the ability not only to enjoy himself but to be the cause of enjoyment in others. He was popular undoubtedly, wonderfully so, and with a wide and varied range of men and women. But there were also many who despised him, looking askance at one who so openly defied the most sacred conventions of society, and who, in many ways, was accounted a mere adventurer. His money transactions with his friends will not bear scrutiny. Yet when all is said, he counted among the multitude of his friends and admirers such men as Bulwer, Landor, Lamartine, Dickens, Byron, Disraeli and Lyndhurst. John Forster warmed to him, and said that his “pleasantry, wit and kindliness gave him a wonderful fascination.”
What did life mean to D’Orsay? Being a wise man he looked upon the world as a place of pleasant sojourning, of which it was the whole duty of man to make the very best. That there was, or might be, “another and a better world” was no sort of excuse for being miserable in this one. “Vive la joie!” was his motto, and he lived up to it gloriously. Life was meant to be lived; money was made for spending; credit wasa device for obtaining good things for which the obtainer had not any means or intention of paying. No one but a fool would lift the cup of pleasure to his lips and then set it down before he had drained it dry. D’Orsay looked upon the externals of a luxurious life, and found them very pleasant. The Spartans pointed out the drunken helot to their children, as a warning against tippling. So we may hold out to our young men the life of D’Orsay as an example of what they should all endeavour to be, and as a warning against the sheer foolishness of taking life seriously. This is a degenerate age.
Exceptional as he was in so many ways, D’Orsay was not unique. He had his doleful dumps and his hours of bitterness; he was, after all, a greatman, not a petty god. He plucked the roses of life so recklessly that he experienced the sharpness of the thorns, which must often have pierced deep. The conqueror as he tosses uneasily in his sleep is assailed by dreams that terrify. D’Orsay in his hours of greatest triumph must sometimes have asked what would be the end of his career; when would come his Waterloo and St Helena? His thoughts must have sometimes turned toward the young girl he had married so light-heartedly, whose fortune he had squandered, and whose life he had shadowed. Success has its hours of remorse. Life is a riddle; but D’Orsay was not often so foolish as to bother his brains or break his heart over the solution of it; let it solve itself as far as he was concerned. If to-morrow were destined to beovercast let not that possible mischance darken the sunshine of to-day. Sufficient for the day are the pleasures thereof.
There was not a pleasure or extravagance to which he did not indulge himself to the full; wine, women and song were all at his command; he sported with love, and gambled with fortunes. It was his ambition and his attainment to set the pace in all pursuits of folly. Did a dancer take the fancy of the town, D’Orsay must catch her fancy and be her lover, in gossipings always and when he so desired it in fact also.
There is not much doubt that D’Orsay followed irreligiously the following directions for sowing wild oats and cultivating exotics:—
“Rake discreetly beds ofcoryphées—plant out chorus-singers in park villas and Montpelier cottages—refreshpremières danseuseswith champagne and chicken at the Star and Garter, Richmond, varied with cold punch and white-bait at the Crown and Sceptre, Blackwall—airprima donnasin new broughams up and down Rotten Row—carefully bind up rising actresses with diamond rings and pearl tiaras, from Hancock’s—pot ballet-dancers in dog-carts—trail slips of columbines to box-seat in four-horse drag—support fairies running to seed by props from Fortnum & Mason’s—leave to dry Apollos that have done blooming, and cut Don Giovannis that throw out too many suckers.”
Another famous tavern at Blackwall was Lovegrove’s “The Brunswick,” where the white-bait was a famous dish. Of this excellent fish asserved there in 1850, Peter Cunningham says:—“The white-bait is a small fish caught in the River Thames, and long considered, but erroneously, peculiar to this river; in no other place, however, is it obtained in such perfection. The fish should be cooked within an hour after being caught, or they are apt to cling together. They are cooked in water in a pan, from which they are removed, as required by a skimmer. They are then thrown on a stratum of flour, contained in a large napkin, until completely enveloped in flour. In this state, they are placed in a cullender and all the superfluous flour removed by sifting. They are next thrown into hot melted lard, contained in a copper cauldron, or stew vessel, and placed over a charcoal fire. A kind of ebullition immediately commences, and in about ten minutes, they are removed by a fine skimmer, thrown into a cullender to drain, and then served up quite hot. At table they are flavoured with cayenne and lemon juice, and eaten with brown bread and butter; iced punch being the favourite accompanying beverage.” A dish fit to place even before apremière danseuse!
In the company of the wealthy he gambled as though he were one of themselves. Whence he obtained the money to pay his losses must remain a mystery. At the Cocoa Tree he won £35,000 in two nights off an unfortunate Mr Welsh.
Of the many “hells” of those days, Crockford’s was the most famous and the most sumptuous; there D’Orsay played for enormous stakes.Bernal Osborne speaking through the mouth of Hyde Park Achilles, utters this:—
“Patting the crest of his well-managed steed,Proud of his action, D’Orsay vaunts the breed;A coat of chocolate, a vest of snow,Well brush’d his whiskers, as his boots below;A short-napp’d beaver, prodigal in brim,With trousers tighten’d to a well-turn’d limb;O’er play, o’er dress, extends his wide domain,And Crockford trembles when he calls a main.”
“Patting the crest of his well-managed steed,Proud of his action, D’Orsay vaunts the breed;A coat of chocolate, a vest of snow,Well brush’d his whiskers, as his boots below;A short-napp’d beaver, prodigal in brim,With trousers tighten’d to a well-turn’d limb;O’er play, o’er dress, extends his wide domain,And Crockford trembles when he calls a main.”
“Patting the crest of his well-managed steed,Proud of his action, D’Orsay vaunts the breed;A coat of chocolate, a vest of snow,Well brush’d his whiskers, as his boots below;A short-napp’d beaver, prodigal in brim,With trousers tighten’d to a well-turn’d limb;O’er play, o’er dress, extends his wide domain,And Crockford trembles when he calls a main.”
“Patting the crest of his well-managed steed,
Proud of his action, D’Orsay vaunts the breed;
A coat of chocolate, a vest of snow,
Well brush’d his whiskers, as his boots below;
A short-napp’d beaver, prodigal in brim,
With trousers tighten’d to a well-turn’d limb;
O’er play, o’er dress, extends his wide domain,
And Crockford trembles when he calls a main.”
Crockford’s “Palace of Fortune”—of misfortune to many—was in St James’ Street, upon a site and in a building now partly occupied by the Devonshire Club. The house was designed by and built in 1827 under the direction of Sir Jeffrey Wayatville, or Wyatt, the transformer of Windsor Castle, and its proprietor was John Crockford, who it is reputed died worth some £700,000; one authority indeed states that he made over £1,000,000 in a few years out of his famous club. The place was “palatial”; a splendid vestibule and staircase; a state drawing-room, a state dining-room; and—the play-room. The number of members was between 1000 and 1200, the annual subscription being £25; the number of candidates were out of all proportion to the vacancies. Supper was the great institution, but as a matter of honour it was “no play, no supper”; no payment was asked for, so members who did not desire to play in earnest would, after supper, throw a £10-note upon the play-table and leave it there. The cooking was of the finest, Ude being thechef; the cellar admirable.
Of Ude, the following pleasing little tale is told:—
Colonel Damer going into the club one evening met his highness thecheftearing up and down in a terrible passion.
“What’s the matter?” asked Damer.
“The matter, Monsieur le Colonel! Did you see that man who has just gone out? Well, he ordered a red mullet for his dinner. I made him a delicious little sauce with my own hands. The price of the mullet marked on thecartewas two shillings; I added sixpence for the sauce. He refuses to pay the sixpence. Theimbécileapparently believes that the red mullets come out of the sea, with my sauce in their pockets!”
Major Chambre in his amusingRecollections of West-End Life, tells us that these free suppers “were on so grand a scale, and so excellent, that the Club became the refuge of all the undinnered members andgourmets, who flocked in after midnight from White’s, Brookes’, and the Opera, to partake of the good cheer, and try their fortunes at the hazard-table afterwards. The wines were of first-rate quality, and champagne and hock of the best growths peeped out of ice-pails, to cool the agitated nerves of those who had lost their money. Some who had begun cautiously, and risked but little, by degrees acquired a taste for the excitement of play, and ended by staking large sums.”
Crockford’s[TO FACE PAGE 150
Crockford’s
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During the Parliamentary Session, supper was served from twelve to five, and the fare was such as to satisfy the most refinedgourmet, and themost experienced “kernoozer.” Crockford started the business of life by keeping a fish-stall hard by Temple Bar.
“In the play-room might be heard the clear ringing voice of that agreeable reprobate, Tom Duncombe, as he cheerfully called ‘Seven,’ and the powerful hand of the vigorous Sefton in throwing for a ten. There might be noted the scientific dribbling of a four by ‘King’ Allen, the tremendous backing of nines and fives by Ball Hughes and Auriol, the enormous stakes played for by Lords Lichfield and Chesterfield, George Payne, Sir St Vincent Cotton, D’Orsay, and George Anson, and, above all, the gentlemanly bearing and calm and unmoved demeanour, under losses or gains, of all the men of that generation.”
The English Spyspeaks quite disrespectfully of Crocky’s: “We can sup in Crockford’spandemoniumamong parliamentary pigeons, unfledged ensigns of the Guards, broken-down titled legs, andci-devantbankers, fishmongers and lightermen.…” Apparently unkindly wags spoke of the Club as “Fishmongers’ Hall.”
“Seven’s the main! Eleven’s a nick!”
It was the hazard of the die! Dice at £1, 1s. 0d. a pair cost the Club exchequer some £2000 per annum.
The play-room was richly decorated and furnished, and the centre of attraction was an oval table covered with green baize. This board of green cloth was marked out in white lines, and at the corners, if there can be such to an oval,were inscribed the mystic words “In” and “Out.” In the centre was a space divided into squares in each of which was inscribed a number. At the middle of one side of the board stood two croupiers with a box before them containing the “bank” and with rakes in hand ready to gather in or to pay out as luck would have it. Crockford himself would be hovering around; here is a sketch of him:—
“A little in arrear of the players a tall and rather spare man stood, with a pale and strongly-marked face, light grey eyes, and frosted hair. His dress was common in the extreme, and his appearance generally might be denominated of that order. The only peculiarity, if, peculiarity it can be called, was a white cravat folded so thickly round his neck that there seemed to be quite a superfluity of cambric in that quarter. A smile—it might be of triumph, it might be of good-nature, of satisfaction, of benevolence, of good-will—no, it could not be either of these, save the former, and yet a smile was there … there he stood, turning a pleasant—it almost amounted to a benevolent look—upon the progress of the hazard, and at each countenance of the players.”
From the same vivacious work, a curious account of life about town by John Mills, we now extract an account of an imaginary gamble by D’Orsay, called herein the Marquis d’Horsay, and his friend Lord Chesterlane, otherwise the Earl of Chesterfield:—
“Among the group, sitting and standing about the table, were the Marquis d’Horsay andLord Chesterlane. The former bore a disconsolate mood; while the latter evinced thorough satisfaction and confidence in his thoughts, or want of them, for good-humour shone in his face, and he now and then snapped his fingers in very good imitation of castanets, accompanied by a whistle both merry and loud. Large piles of red and white counters were before him, showing that Fortune had favoured his designs upon her benefits.
“‘You’re in luck to-night, Tom,’ observed the Marquis.
“‘Yes,’ replied his lordship, ‘I have the pull. But what are you doing?’
“‘Doing!’ repeated the Marquis, ‘I’m done; sown up; drawn as fine as spun glass; eased of all anxiety from having my pockets picked on my way home; and entertain, as you may see, a lively satisfaction in the pleasant carelessness of my situation.’
“‘By the nectar, honied look of the sweetest girl that ever pointed her glass to the omnibus box!’ swore his lordship, ‘your looks and tone carry poor conviction to the sincerity of the axiom. Help yourself,’ continued he, pushing a heap of counters towards his friend, ‘and stick it on thick.…’
“In a heap—yes, in one uncounted, promiscuous heap—the Marquis gathered the ivory checks on to the division in which the monosyllable ‘In’ was legible, and in a standing posture called ‘Five.’
“‘Five’s the main,’ cried one of the croupiers,looking with as much indifference at the dice as they were sent spinning across the table from the hand of the caster as if they had been a couple of marbles shot from the bent knuckle of a schoolboy.
“‘A nick, by Love’s sugar-candy kiss!’ said the Earl.
“In a trice the counters were examined by one of the attendants, and an addition made to their numbers in the sum gained.
“With a flushed cheek and flashing eye the Marquis scraped the whole again upon the ‘In.’”
Again the Marquis—that is to say D’Orsay—wins; he wins again, and again! Again—again—again; never withdrawing his original stake or his winnings, but letting them lie there, growing and growing. Then—the bank was broken!
“‘By my coach and ’osses!’ exclaimed Sir Vincent Twist, a tall, well-made, strongly-marked, premature wrinkled, toothless—or, in the phraseology of the ring, all the front rails gone—badly-dressed individual.… ‘By my coach and ’osses! Fishey’s bank must be replenished!’”
This frankly unveracious history from which we have quoted is doubtless as near to truthfulness as many a ponderous volume based upon documentary evidence of undoubted authenticity—but that is not saying much.
At Crockford’s Lord Lamington, who wrote so understandingly of the dandies, will have met D’Orsay, with whom he was upon excellent terms: “Men did not slouch through life”; he writes,“and it was remarkable how highly they were appreciated by the crowd, not only of the upper but of the lower classes. I have frequently ridden down to Richmond with Count d’Orsay. A striking figure he was in his blue coat with gilt buttons, thrown well back to show the wide expanse of snowy shirt-front and buff waistcoat; his tight leathers and polished boots; his well-curled whiskers and handsome countenance; a wide-brimmed, glossy hat, spotless white gloves.”
Doubtless it was to the famous old Star and Garter that they rode down, the scene of many a high jink and of much merriment by night. A famous house with a history dating back to the dim age of the year 1738. A very unpretentious place at first, it was rebuilt upon a fairly fine scale in 1780, but did not prosper. It was a certain Christopher Crean, ex-chefto his Royal Highness the Duke of York, and after him his widow, who brought good luck to the house. In D’Orsay’s days it was owned by a Mr Joseph Ellis. The old building vanished in flames in 1870.
It must have been a delightful place at which to dine and spend the evening in those far-away D’Orsay days, and very pleasant the ride or drive down there through the country now covered with suburbia. Dukes and dandies, pretty women of some repute and of no repute, bright young bucks and hoary-headed old stagers, hawks and pigeons, thecrême de la Bohême, all the world and other people’s wives, would be there; immense the popping of corks from bottles ofchampagne and claret and burgundy—the monarch of wines. Uproarious the joviality! They were gay dogs in those gay days!
Though, speaking of a somewhat later date, Serjeant Ballantine’s account of the place may be quoted:—
“Many also were the pleasant parties at the Star and Garter at Richmond, not then the great ugly staring barrack of a place that occupies the site where Mr Ellis, the picture of a host, used to receive the guests. The old house was burnt down. In itself it had not much pretension, but the garden behind was a perfect picture of loveliness; the small garden-rooms, with honeysuckles, jasmine and roses twining themselves up the sides, with a lovely sweep of lawn, on which were scattered trees that had flourished there for many a long day, affording shade as well as beauty; one magnificent spreading beech, itself a sight, and an avenue of limes forming the prettiest of walks at the bottom of the garden.”
The view was of better quality than the viands.
There was not a fashionable haunt of virtue or of vice in which D’Orsay was not quite at home. There was not any fashionable folly or accomplishment in which he was unskilled; a complete man-about-town, gambler, rake and dandy. We need not pursue him in all his pastimes; dead and gone revelries cannot be resurrected with any satisfaction; they smell musty. Let them lie.
Early in 1836 Lady Blessington moved from Mayfair out to Kensington, or—as it then practically was—from the centre of the town to a suburb, from Seamore Place to Gore House, which in Grantley Berkeley’s blunt phrase became “the headquarters of thedemi-monde, with the Countess of Blessington as their queen.” She wrote to Landor, describing her change of home, that she had “taken up her residence in the country, being a mile from London.”
The house stood close down to the roadway, occupying part of the site upon which now stands the Albert Hall—whynotnamed after Alfred, Count d’Orsay? It was secluded from the traffic by a high wall and a sparse row of trees, two large double gates surmounted by old-fashioned lanterns giving access to the short drive. The building was low and quite common-place, painted white, its only external claim to charm being the beautiful gardens at the back. William Wilberforce, a previous tenant, writes:—
“We are just one mile from the turnpike at Hyde Park Corner, having about three acres of pleasure-ground around our house, or rather behind it, and several old trees, walnut and mulberry, of thick foliage. I can sit and read under their shade with as much admiration of thebeauties of Nature as if I were down in Yorkshire, or anywhere else 200 miles from the great city.”
Under those shady trees far other folk now sat, and we doubt not their meditations were of the town rather than of the beauties of Nature. Of such an assemblage D’Orsay painted a picture, which to a certain extent gives the keynote to the history of Gore House for the next fourteen years. It is a view of the garden side of the house and among those portrayed in the groups that occupy the foreground are in addition to D’Orsay and Lady Blessington, the Duke of Wellington and his son, Lord Douro, of which latter Greville says: “Une lune bien pâle auprès de son père, but far from a dull man, and not deficient in information”; Sir Edwin Landseer, sketching a cow, Lord Chesterfield, Lord Brougham, and Lady Blessington’s fair nieces, the two Misses Power.
Of course D’Orsay also moved out to Kensington, at first living next door to Gore House at No. 4 Kensington Gore.
Bulwer writing to Lord Durham on many matters, notes the move from Seamore Place:—
“Lady Blessington has moved into Wilberforce’s old house at Knightsbridge.… She has got Gore House for ten years. It cost her a thousand pounds in repairs, about another thousand in new furniture, entails two gardeners, two cows, and another housemaid; but she declares with the gravest of all possible faces she only does it for—economy! D’Orsay is installed in a cottageornénext door, and has set up an aviary of the best-dressed birds in allOrnithology. He could not turn naturalist in anything else but Dandies. The very pigeons have trousers down to their claws and have the habit of looking over their left shoulder,” of course to see that no evil-minded man-of-law was approaching with a writ.
Afterward, doubtless realising that any further pretence at propriety was mere waste of energy and money, he lived in Gore House itself, in the grounds of which he erected his studio. Charles Greville, who so often dipped his pen in gall, speaking of D’Orsay’s art work, declares that he “constantly got helped, and his works retouched by eminent artists, whose society he cultivated, and many of whom were his intimate friends.” Yet we find Benjamin Robert Haydon recording on 10th July 1839, while he was painting his portrait of Wellington:—
“D’Orsay called, and pointed out several things to correct in the horse.… I did them, and he took my brush in his dandy gloves, which made my heart ache, and lowered his hindquarters by bringing over a bit of the sky. Such a dress! white great-coat, blue satin cravat, hair oiled and curling, hat of the primest curve and purest water, gloves scented witheau de Cologne, oreau de jasmin, primrose in tint, skin in tightness. In this prime of dandyism he took up a nasty, oily, dirty hog-tool, and immortalised Copenhagen by touching the sky. I thought, after he was gone, this won’t do—a Frenchman touch Copenhagen! So out I rubbed all he had touched, and modified his hints myself.”
So strange that Haydon should not have recognised that the touch of the dandy’s handiwork would immortalise the picture! There are many historical painters, but only a few great dandies. So little do great men appreciate greater men! D’Orsay was from now onward to the day of his fall at the top of his fame.
At Gore House thesalonpresided over by D’Orsay and Lady Blessington was even more brilliant than that at Seamore Place, though time was beginning to play his unkindly tricks at the lady’s expense, and debt was dogging the footsteps of the gentleman.
Of the former William Archer Shee gives a description too glowing to be true:—
“Gore House last night was unusually brilliant. Lady Blessington has the art of collecting around her all that is best worth knowing in themalesociety of London. There were Cabinet Ministers, diplomats, poets, painters, and politicians, all assembled together.… She has the peculiar and most unusual talent of keeping the conversation in a numerous circlegeneral, and of preventing her guests from dividing into little selfishpelotons. With a tact unsurpassed, she contrives to draw out even the most modest tyro from his shell of reserve, and, by appearing to take an interest in his opinion, gives him the courage to express it. All her visitors seem, by some hidden influence, to find their level, yet they leave her house satisfied with themselves.”