“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,Who dine at two, are ranged alongOn both sides of the way;With various views, these honest folkDescant on fashions, quiz and joke,Or march ashy cock[28]down;For many a star in fashion’s sphereCan only once a week appearIn public haunts of town,Lest those two everwatchfulfriends,Thestep-brothers, whom sheriff sends,John Doe and Richard Roe,Atakingpair should deign to borrow,To wit, untilAll Soulsthe morrow,The body of a beau;But Sunday sets the prisoner free,Heshowsthe Park, and laughs with glee,At creditors and Bum.”
“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,Who dine at two, are ranged alongOn both sides of the way;With various views, these honest folkDescant on fashions, quiz and joke,Or march ashy cock[28]down;For many a star in fashion’s sphereCan only once a week appearIn public haunts of town,Lest those two everwatchfulfriends,Thestep-brothers, whom sheriff sends,John Doe and Richard Roe,Atakingpair should deign to borrow,To wit, untilAll Soulsthe morrow,The body of a beau;But Sunday sets the prisoner free,Heshowsthe Park, and laughs with glee,At creditors and Bum.”
“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,Who dine at two, are ranged alongOn both sides of the way;With various views, these honest folkDescant on fashions, quiz and joke,Or march ashy cock[28]down;For many a star in fashion’s sphereCan only once a week appearIn public haunts of town,Lest those two everwatchfulfriends,Thestep-brothers, whom sheriff sends,John Doe and Richard Roe,Atakingpair should deign to borrow,To wit, untilAll Soulsthe morrow,The body of a beau;But Sunday sets the prisoner free,Heshowsthe Park, and laughs with glee,At creditors and Bum.”
“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,
Who dine at two, are ranged along
On both sides of the way;
With various views, these honest folk
Descant on fashions, quiz and joke,
Or march ashy cock[28]down;
For many a star in fashion’s sphere
Can only once a week appear
In public haunts of town,
Lest those two everwatchfulfriends,
Thestep-brothers, whom sheriff sends,
John Doe and Richard Roe,
Atakingpair should deign to borrow,
To wit, untilAll Soulsthe morrow,
The body of a beau;
But Sunday sets the prisoner free,
Heshowsthe Park, and laughs with glee,
At creditors and Bum.”
Henry Vizetelly used on occasion to make an early call upon Thackeray, and walk into town with him from Kensington. “On one of these journeys,” he says, “soon after Lady Blessington gave up Gore House to reside in Paris, I remember his taking me with him to look over the little crib, adjacent to the big mansion, where Count d’Orsay, Lady Blessington’s recognised lover, was understood to have resided, with the view of saving appearances. For years past the ringleted and white-kidded Count, although his tailor and other obliging tradespeople dressed him for nothing, or rather, in consideration of the advertisement that his equivocal patronage procured for them, had been a self-constituted prisoner through dread of arrest for debt. It was only on Sundays that he ventured outside the Gore House grounds, and for his protection on other days the greatest possible precaution was exercised when it was necessary for any of Lady Blessington’s many visitors to be admitted. D’Orsay’s friend, Thomas Slingsby Duncombe, who was mixed up with him in numerous bill transactions, used to say that the Count’s debts amounted to £120,000, and that before he retired to the safe asylum of Gore House, he was literally mobbed by duns.”
HYDE PARK CORNER IN 1824[TO FACE PAGE 250
HYDE PARK CORNER IN 1824
[TO FACE PAGE 250
Tom Duncombe describes Lady Blessington’s parties as gay, “where all the men about townassembled, and sunned themselves in her charms; and where, for certain reasons, she was secure from the intrusion of rivals. There Count d’Orsay, tied by the leg with 120,000l.of debt, was sure to welcome his ‘cher Tomie.’”
“Cher Tomie” saw and knew much of D’Orsay, and did his best to help him in his money troubles. The following letters tell a tale of woe:—
Saturday, 12th February 1842.“My Dear Tommy,—I know that you have been to C. Lewis, and that he told you it was settled. It is not so; he expected that I would have signed the renewals at sixty per cent. which he sent me, and which I delivered. Therefore, if you have a moment to lose, have the kindness to see him this morning and persuade him of the impossibility of my renewing at that rate; say anything you like on the subject, but that is the moral of the tale. You must come and dine with us soon again.—Yours faithfully,“D’Orsay.”
Saturday, 12th February 1842.
“My Dear Tommy,—I know that you have been to C. Lewis, and that he told you it was settled. It is not so; he expected that I would have signed the renewals at sixty per cent. which he sent me, and which I delivered. Therefore, if you have a moment to lose, have the kindness to see him this morning and persuade him of the impossibility of my renewing at that rate; say anything you like on the subject, but that is the moral of the tale. You must come and dine with us soon again.—Yours faithfully,
“D’Orsay.”
Thursday, 6th April 1842.“My Dear Tommy,—I see by the papers that Lord Campbell and Mr T. S. Duncombe received a petition against theImprisonment for Debt! It is the moment to immortalise yourself, and also thesweetestrevenge against all our gang of Jews, if you succeed in carrying this petition through. I have taken proper means to keep this proposal alive in the Press. Will you come and dine with us?—Yours affectionately,“D’Orsay.”
Thursday, 6th April 1842.
“My Dear Tommy,—I see by the papers that Lord Campbell and Mr T. S. Duncombe received a petition against theImprisonment for Debt! It is the moment to immortalise yourself, and also thesweetestrevenge against all our gang of Jews, if you succeed in carrying this petition through. I have taken proper means to keep this proposal alive in the Press. Will you come and dine with us?—Yours affectionately,
“D’Orsay.”
This lastmayrefer to the schedule above-mentioned:—
“My Dear Tommy,—I send you this precious document; the only one I could obtain. It is a flaring-up page of theHistory of the Nineteenth Century! God is great, and will be greater the day He will annihilate our persecutors.En attendant, I am always,—Your affectionate friend,“D’Orsay.”
“My Dear Tommy,—I send you this precious document; the only one I could obtain. It is a flaring-up page of theHistory of the Nineteenth Century! God is great, and will be greater the day He will annihilate our persecutors.En attendant, I am always,—Your affectionate friend,
“D’Orsay.”
The following refers again to the Imprisonment Abolition Bill:—
“Mon Cher Tommy,—I think that we ought to try to ascertain how far the humbugging system can go. As soon as I received your note this morning I wrote to Brougham, and explained all the unfructuous attempts of Mr Hawes.[29]I enclose the first answer.Now, he has just been here, after having had a long conversation with Lyndhurst, who is decided to spur the Solicitor-General, stating, as the Parliament will last until Thursday week, there will be time enough to pass the bill. See what you can do with Mr Hawes. I am sure that if he will strike the iron now, when it is hot, that we have still a chance. Lyndhurst, I assure you, is very anxious about it, and expressed it strongly to Brougham. Do not be discouraged.—Yours affectionately,“D’Orsay.”
“Mon Cher Tommy,—I think that we ought to try to ascertain how far the humbugging system can go. As soon as I received your note this morning I wrote to Brougham, and explained all the unfructuous attempts of Mr Hawes.[29]I enclose the first answer.Now, he has just been here, after having had a long conversation with Lyndhurst, who is decided to spur the Solicitor-General, stating, as the Parliament will last until Thursday week, there will be time enough to pass the bill. See what you can do with Mr Hawes. I am sure that if he will strike the iron now, when it is hot, that we have still a chance. Lyndhurst, I assure you, is very anxious about it, and expressed it strongly to Brougham. Do not be discouraged.—Yours affectionately,
“D’Orsay.”
The enclosed note from Brougham ran:—
“Mon Cher A.,—Je suiscoloréplutôt quedésespéré. Il faut que je mette ordre à tout cela. Je vais chez Lyndhurst dans l’instant, H. B.”
“Mon Cher A.,—Je suiscoloréplutôt quedésespéré. Il faut que je mette ordre à tout cela. Je vais chez Lyndhurst dans l’instant, H. B.”
Tom Duncombe was himself a capital hand at getting into debt; we read:—“Duncombe is playing good boy, having completely drawn in; he has given up his house and carriages, and taken his name out of the Clubs. He had become so involved that he could not carry on the war any longer. They say that he has committed himself to the amount of 120,000l.”
Readers ofVanity Fairwill recall “Mr Moss’s mansion in Cursitor Street,” “that dismal place of hospitality,” to which Colonel Crawdon was an unwilling visitor. It was such an ordeal, that D’Orsay was determined not to undergo. Shame upon those who threatened him with it.
Madden tells us that D’Orsay’s sister “makes no concealment of her conviction that Count d’Orsay’s ignorance of the value of money—the profuse expenditure into which he was led by that ignorance, the temptation to play arising from it, the reckless extravagance into which he entered, not so much to minister to his own pleasure, as to gratify the feelings of an inordinate generosity of disposition, that prompted him to give whenever he was called on, and to forget the obligations he contracted for the sake of others, and the heavy penalties imposed on his friends by the frequent appeals for pecuniary assistance—were very grievous faults, and great defects in his character.”
Mice nibbling at the reputation of a lion! Faults and defects; it is so easy to see spots on the sun! The world is often cruel to its greatest men; and who can deny that D’Orsay was much ill-used? Who can realise the suffering inflictedon his generous heart by the lack of generosity in others? How absurd to insult his memory by calling “reckless extravagance” that which in ordinary men would be so, but which in him was the striving to fulfil his great destiny. If his spirit haunts the earth it must be torture, worse than any in the place to which he may have gone, to find that he should have been so greatly misunderstood. It is a lovable trait in a man that he should give to others of his superfluity; it is adorable in D’Orsay that he should have distributed with open hand and tender heart the spare cash of others. Petty questionings as to right and wrong,meum et tuum, to which commonplace men rightly pay attention, have no claim upon such a man as D’Orsay. To the good all things are good.
He had the tongue of the charmer. Mr Mitchell, to whom he owed much money, would in moments of despair, write and demand immediate payment. In all his glory D’Orsay would answer in person; would calm the tempest with fair words and would usually succeed inincreasinghis indebtedness.
There cannot, indeed, be any question but that D’Orsay possessed the gift of fascination; his personality was one that compelled both admiration and attention. It is impossible to define or describe wherein exactly lies this power of personality. Of two women equally beautiful and apparently equally attractive, one will fascinate and the other will not, but it surpasses the ability of even those who are fascinated to say wherein is the difference between the two charmers.
D’Orsay had charm, and for our part we believe that with him, at any rate, part of this charm lay in the fact that he did not grow old; those whom the gods love die young despite the passage of years. He was young and he was gay; and joyousness is singularly and strongly attractive in a world where the majority of men and women are apt to be unjoyous. Gaiety of spirits, and unconquerable, unquenchablejoie de vivre, are treasures above all price because they cannot be purchased.
Especially with those who make pleasure a pursuit, and it was with such that D’Orsay chiefly forgathered, the amusements of life too frequently become “stale, flat and unprofitable”; such folk make pleasure the business of life, pleasure does not come to them naturally, spontaneously; theysuffer from that most wearing of mental troubles, boredom. Far otherwise was it with D’Orsay. We have been with him now in many places and with many companies, and never once has there been a hint that he was either satiated with enjoyment or depressed when things went astray. He often said himself: “I have never known the meaning of the wordennui.”
Beneath all the tinsel and unreality of some of Disraeli’s novels, there is always a stratum of keen observation and shrewd knowledge of men and women. It will help us, therefore, in our understanding of D’Orsay to see how he appeared to his friend and fellow-dandy.
Disraeli sketched D’Orsay’s portrait as Count Alcibiades de Mirabel inHenrietta Temple: “The satin-lined coat thrown open … and revealing a breastplate of starched cambric …,” the wristbands were turned up with “compact precision,” and were fastened by “jewelled studs.” “The Count Mirabel could talk at all times well.… Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act appropriate.… The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous.… It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing.…” Into Count Mirabel’s mouth is put this, which sounds very D’Orsayish: “Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,” said the Count. “He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes theinability of being amused.… Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.” Then this: “I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me.” And this: “Fancy a man ever being in low spirits. Life is too short for suchbêtises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all; every man can go to sleep; if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it, enjoy everything.Vive la bagatelle!”
Then further on:—
“The Count Mirabel was announced.…
“The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright withbonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recentmysteries of Mr Bond Sharpe;[30]and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed—that bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads. Care, he knew nothing about; Time, he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.
“Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery.”
Then to his friend, Armine, who isdistrait:—
“A melancholy man!Quelle bêtise!I will cure you; I will be your friend, and put you all right. Now we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner—a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!”
Could Armine resist a tempting invitation so irresistible? No, “so, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.”
We hold that portrait to be excellent not only as regards the outer but also the inner manD’Orsay. He was the “child of impulse,” not a cold, cynical, calculating voluptuary; he did not deliberately “feel slightly, think little”; it was not in him to suffer deep emotion or to think deeply. “Vive la bagatelle!” that was his motto, because for him there was not in life anything else than “bagatelle”; existence for him was compounded of “trifles light as air.” His good spirits, as Disraeli hints, were based upon his splendid physical vitality as infectious good spirits must ever be. The joy of life may be apparent to and partially enjoyed by those whose physical health is weak, but complete realisation of the joy of living, of merely being alive, is only for those whose vitality is abundant and superb. Further, he had the faculty of enjoying himself; it was not that he would not but that he could not be bored.
Even children felt his fascination. Madden writes:—
“One of the proofs of the effect on others of his insinuating manners and prepossessing appearance, was the extreme affection and confidence he inspired in children, of whom he was very fond, but who usually seemed as if they were irresistibly drawn towards him, even before he attempted to win them. The shyest and most reserved were no more proof against this influence than the most confiding. Children who in general would hardly venture to look at a stranger, would steal to his side, take his hand, and seem to be quite happy and at ease when they were near him.”
Nor, as we have learned, was it merely the butterflies who found pleasure in his sunny nature;he had a striking faculty of suiting himself to his company, an adaptability which is essential for success in general society. Landor loved him, so almost it may be said did the somewhat stern Macready. Indeed the actor was one of the most ardent of D’Orsay’s admirers; he wrote after his death:—
“No one who knew and had affections could help loving him. When he liked he was most fascinating and captivating. It was impossible to be insensible to his graceful, frank and most affectionate manner. I have reason to believe that he liked me, perhaps much, and I certainly entertained the most affectionate regard for him. He was the most brilliant, graceful, endearing man I ever saw—humorous, witty and clear-headed. But the name of D’Orsay alone had a charm; even in the most distant cities of the United States all inquired with interest about him.”
A few notes from Macready’s Diary, and from records kept by others, will serve to confirm the testimony already adduced of the great variety and interest of the friends with whom D’Orsay was surrounded in the Gore House days.
On February 16th, 1839, there was a pleasant company there, of which Macready makes this record:—
“Went to Lady Blessington’s with Forster, who had called in the course of the day. Met there the Count de Vigny, with whom I had a most interesting conversation onRichelieu.… Met also with D’Orsay, Bulwer, Charles Buller, Lord Durham, who was very cordial and courteousto me, Captain Marryat, who wished to be reintroduced to me, Hall, Standish, Chorley, Greville, who wished to be introduced to me also, Dr Quin, etc. Passed a very agreeable two hours.”
With most of these we have already met on other occasions. On May 31st, 1840, Macready met at Gore House the Fonblanques, Lord Normanby, Lord Canterbury, Monckton Milnes, Chorley, Rubini and “Liszt, the most marvellous pianist I ever heard. I do not know when I have been so excited.” And in April 1846, we hear of him dining at Gore House in the company of, amongst others, Liston, Quin, Chesterfield, Edwin Landseer, Forster, Jerdan and Dickens.
And on the other hand many a time did D’Orsay dine with Macready to meet good company, but Lady Blessington was not and could not be included in the invitations. It is a feather in their caps for men to conquer beautiful ladies, butvæ victis. On the evening of May 6th, 1840, Planché “was present at a very large and brilliant gathering at Gore House. Amongst the company were the Marquis of Normanby and several other noblemen, and, memorably, Edwin Landseer. During the previous week there had been a serious disturbance at the Opera, known as ‘The Tamburini Row,’ and it naturally formed the chief subject of conversation in a party, nearly every one of whom had been present. Lord Normanby, Count d’Orsay, and Landseer were specially excited; there was some difference of opinion, but no quarrelling, and the great animal painter was in high spirits and exceedingly amusing till the small hours of the morning, when weall gaily separated, little dreaming of the horrible deed perhaps at that very moment perpetrating, the murder of Lord William Russell by his valet Courvoisier.”
Of James Robinson Planché, herald and writer of extravaganzas and student of the history of costume, Edmund Yates gives a thumbnail sketch in later years:—
“Such a pleasant little man, even in his extreme old age—he was over eighty at his death[31]—and always neatly dressed, showing his French origin in his vivacity and his constant gesticulation.”
The murder of Lord William Russell created an unpleasant sensation, though there was not anything mysterious in it, or particularly interesting to the amateur in crime. François Benjamin Courvoisier, a Swiss and Lord William’s valet, two maid-servants and Lord William, aged seventy-two, formed the household at the establishment in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. On the morning of 7th May, the housemaid found her master’s writing-room in a state of disarray, and in the hall a cloak, an opera-glass and other articles of wearing apparel done up together as if prepared to be taken away. The maid roused Courvoisier, who exclaimed, when he came upon the scene: “Some one has been robbing us; for God’s sake go and see where his lordship is!”
They went together to Lord William’s room, where a shocking sight presented itself, their master lying dead upon the bed, his head nearly severed from his body. The police were summoned, and money, banknotes, and somejewellery, believed to have been stolen from Lord William, being found concealed behind the skirting in the pantry, Courvoisier was arrested, tried, condemned, and then acknowledged his crime. He was executed on 6th July, before an immense mob of men, women and children.
Of another evening at Gore House Planché has this to relate of Lablache:—
“It was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunderstorm simply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, and twitchings of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face assured you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over.”
Another house to which D’Orsay frequently went was that of Charles Dickens, and we read of in 1845 an entertainment which no doubt was a festive jollification. In September of that year an amateur performance, with Dickens at the head of the troupe, was given ofEvery Man in His Humour, at Miss Kelly’s Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known as the Royalty. After the “show” it was decided to wind up with asupper, concerning which Dickens writes to Macready:—
“At No. 9 Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs Macready. The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves and D’Orsay and George Cattermole, ‘or so’—that sounds like Bobadil a little.”
In the company were included Douglas Jerrold, John Leech and Forster.
Referring to yet another dinner, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House, on 12th April 1848:—
“Count d’Orsay repeated to me this morning the kind things you said of him when proposing his health. He, I assure you, was touched when he repeated them, and his feelings were infectious, for mine responded. To be highly appreciated by those we most highly value, is, indeed, a source of heartfelt gratification. From the first year of our acquaintance with you, we had learned to admire your genius, to respect your principles, and to love your goodness of heart, and the honest warmth of your nature. These sentiments have never varied. Every year, by unfolding your noble qualities to us, has served to prove how true were our first impressions of you, and our sole regret has been that your occupations deprive us of enjoying half as much of your society as all who have once enjoyed it must desire. Count d’Orsay declares that yesterday was one of the happiest days of his life. He feels proudof having assisted at the triumph of a friend whose heart is as genial as his genius is great. Who can resist being delighted at the success of one who wins for himself thousands of friends (for all his readers become so), without ever creating an enemy, even among those most envious of another’s fame, and simply by the revelations of a mind and heart that excite only the best feelings of our—nature? I cannot resist telling you what is passing in my heart. You will understand this little outbreak of genuine feeling in the midst of the toil of a literary life.”
There were almost as many writers of genius then as now!
Forster and Dickens were together at Gore House early in 1848, when Madden tells us “there was a remarkable display of D’Orsay’s peculiar ingenuity and successful tact in drawing out the oddities or absurdities of eccentric or ridiculous personages—mystifying them with a grave aspect, and imposing on their vanity by apparently accidental references of a gratulatory description to some favourite hobby or exploit, exaggerated merit or importance of the individual to be made sport of for the Philistines of the fashionable circle.” Bear-baiting was succeeded in those polite days by bore-baiting. Anent this particular evening, one of those present wrote to Lady Blessington:—
“Count d’Orsay may well speak of our evening being a happy one, to whose happiness he contributed so largely. It would be absurd, if one did not know it to be true, to hear D⸺ (Dickens?) talk as he has done ever since ofCount d’Orsay’s power of drawing out always the best elements around him, and of miraculously putting out the worst. Certainly I never saw it so marvellously exhibited as on the night in question. I shall think of him hereafter unceasingly, with the two guests that sat on either side of him that night.”
It was but fitting that the Prince of Dandies and the future Poet Laureate should come together. Tennyson writes:—“Count d’Orsay is a friend of mine, co-godfather to Dickens’ child with me.” This was Dickens’ sixth child and fourth son, christened Alfred Tennyson after his godfathers.
D’Orsay was not so unkind as to neglect his native country entirely, and we find him now and again running over to Paris.
As pendants to the Disraeli portrait of D’Orsay, here are two others, one from a man’s hand, the other from a woman’s.
Chesterfield House was the headquarters of a racing set, and was gossiped about as also the centre of some heavy gambling, probably untruly so.
The Honourable F. Leveson Gore inBygone Yearsexpresses himself bluntly: “I used to wonder that Lady Chesterfield admitted into her house that good-for-nothing fellow, Count d’Orsay. He was handsome, clever and amusing, and I am aware that in the eyes of some people such qualities cover a multitude of sins. But his record was a bad one. No Frenchman would speak to him because he had left the French army at the breaking out of the war between his owncountry and Spain, in order to go to Italy with Lord and Lady Blessington, and his conduct with regard to his marriage was infamous.” How uncharitable is the judgment of a virtuous world. Reading on we find that the writer holds that Lady Blessington induced D’Orsay “entirely to neglect his young wife. She, moreover, endeavoured to undermine her faith and her morals by getting her to read books calculated to do so, and what was still worse, she promoted the advances of other men, who made up to this inexperienced and beautiful young woman. Her life at Gore House[32]became at last so intolerable that she fled from it never to return.”
Mr Leveson Gore also calls Lady Harriet the only daughter of Lord Blessington, which is really not doing his lordship justice.
It is much more helpful, however, to have the opinion of a keen, shrewd woman; one who cannot have been disposed to like D’Orsay, yet who seems, as did her husband, to have a soft place in her heart for him.
Jane Welsh Carlyle was a capital hand at a pen portrait; here is what she has to say of D’Orsay:—
“April 13, 1845.—To-day, oddly enough, while I was engaged in re-reading Carlyle’sPhilosophy of Clothes, Count d’Orsay walked in. I had not seen him for four or five years. Last time he was as gay in his colours as a humming-bird—blue satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat, cream-coloured coat, lined with velvet of the same hue, trousers also of a bright colour, I forget what;white French gloves, two glorious breastpins attached by a chain, and length enough of gold watch-guard to have hanged himself in. To-day, in compliment to his five more years, he was all in black and brown—a black satin cravat, a brown velvet waistcoat, a brown coat some shades darker than the waistcoat, lined with velvet of its own shade, and almost black trousers, one breast-pin, a large pear-shaped pearl set into a little cup of diamonds, and only one fold of gold chain round his neck, tucked together right on the centre of his spacious breast with one magnificent turquoise. Well! that man understood his trade; if it be but that of dandy, nobody can deny that he is a perfect master of it, that he dresses himself with consummate skill! A bungler would have made no allowance for five more years at his time of life, but he had the fine sense to perceive how much better his dress of to-day sets off his slightly enlarged figure and slightly worn complexion, than the humming-bird colours of five years back would have done. Poor D’Orsay! he was born to have been something better than even the king of dandies. He did not say nearly so many clever things this time as on the last occasion. His wit, I suppose, is of the sort that belongs more to animal spirits than to real genius, and his animal spirits seem to have fallen many degrees. The only thing that fell from him to-day worth remembering was his account of a mask he had seen of Charles Fox, ‘all punched and flattened as if he had slept in a book.’
“Lord Jeffrey came, unexpected, while the Count was here. What a difference! the princeof critics and the prince of dandies. How washed out the beautiful dandiacal face looked beside that little clever old man’s! The large blue dandiacal eyes, you would have said, had never contemplated anything more interesting than the reflection of the handsome personage they pertained to in a looking-glass; while the dark penetrating ones of the other had been taking note of most things in God’s universe, even seeing a good way into millstones.”
Sunset of the glories of Gore House came in the year 1849, a cold, bitter sunset, presaging a stormy morrow. Lady Blessington was nearly sixty years old, well-preserved indeed, but Time’s footsteps are crow’s-feet. D’Orsay was nearing fifty. Darby and Joan; only the former at fifty is more than ten years younger than the latter at sixty.
Behind all the gaiety of Gore House there had long been a dark background, ever growing more sinister. Without the harassment of any cares it would have been difficult for a woman of Lady Blessington’s age to maintain a sovereignty which depended almost entirely upon her beauty. Troubles met her at every turn, and the last few years at Gore House must have been to her years of torment and despair. She heard her doom approaching with sure foot, and knew that she was unable to stay the advance.
Her jointure of £2000 was entirely inadequate to maintain the expenses of either Seamore Place or Gore House, to the exchequers of which D’Orsay cannot have contributed; any capital that came into his hands was rapidly dispersed by them among hungry debtors, and his income of £500 was probably hypothecated in the same way. It was essential for her, therefore, to add to her revenue, for the reduction of expenditure does notseem to have occurred to this luxury-loving soul. She does indeed seem to have been careful to see that she obtained her money’s worth, and kept a tight hand on the household expenses and accounts. One habit of hers was to keep a “book of dinners,” noting down the names of the guests at each entertainment.
When no other way of securing an income suggests itself to the needy or hard-up, they invariably take up their pens and write. Lady Blessington, if it had not been for her beauty and notoriety, could scarcely have earned a livelihood as a hack writer for the lesser journals, but her name gave to her writings a market value which their intrinsic merit did not. HerConversations with Byronhave already been mentioned, and sufficiently dealt with; she also wrote books of travel, novels, verses, edited such periodicals asThe KeepsakeandThe Book of Beauty, to which the eminent authors who fluttered round her at Gore House contributed, and in the end when these enterprises were failing became a contributor to theDaily Newsof “exclusive intelligence,” that is to say of “any sort of intelligence she might like to communicate, of the sayings, doings, memoirs or movements in the fashionable world,” for which she received payment at the rate of £400 a year; Dickens and Forster were her editors.
The death in 1848 of Heath, the publisher, in insolvency brought a loss to Lady Blessington of about £700. Her earnings have been placed at a thousand a year, but William Jerdan in hisAutobiographydeclares them to have been muchhigher. “I have known her to enjoy from her pen an amount somewhere midway between £2000 and £3000 per annum, and her title, as well as talents, had considerable influence in ‘ruling high prices’ as they say in Mark Lane and other markets. To this, also, her well-arranged parties with a publisher now and then, to meet folks of a style unusual to men in business, contributed their attractions; and the same society was in reality of solid value towards the production of such publications as the Annuals, the contents of which were provided by the editor almost entirely from the pens of private friends.”
In 1833 by a robbery of jewellery and plate at Seamore Place, Lady Blessington lost something like £1000.
These losses, the continual strain of working to obtain the funds necessary for her luxurious mode of life and the difficulties in which D’Orsay was involved told heavily upon her health and spirits. As she herself writes in her commonplace book:—
“Great trials demand great courage, and all our energy is called up to enable us to bear them. But it is the minor cares of life that wear out the body, because, singly, and in detail, they do not appear sufficiently important to engage us to rally our force and spirits to support them.… Many minds that have withstood the most severe trials, have been broken down by a succession of ignoble cares;” and there is a touch of sorrowful bitterness in this: “Friends are the thermometers by which we may judge the temperature of our fortunes.”
Not that she was ill-served by her friends,rather the contrary; few women have had so many or so faithful.
The following letter paints the situation better than can any words of ours; it was written to Lady Blessington in or about 1848:—
“My Dearest Friend,—You do not do me more than justice in the belief that I most fully sympathise with all your troubles, and I shall be only too happy if my advice can in any way assist you.“First. As to your jointure, nothing in law is so indisputable—as that a widow’s jointure takes precedence of every other claim on an estate. The very first money the agent or steward receives from the property should go to the discharge of this claim. No subsequent mortgages, annuities, encumbrances, law-suits, expenses of management, etc., can be permitted to interfere with the payment of jointure; and as, whatever the distress of the tenants, or the embarrassments of the estate, it is clear that some rents must have come in half-yearly; so, on those rents you have an indisputable right; and, I think, on consulting your lawyer, he will put you in a way, either by a memorial to Chancery, or otherwise, to secure in future the regular payment of this life-charge. Indeed, as property charged with a jointure, although the rents are not paid for months after the proper dates, the jointure must be paid on the regular days, and if not, the proprietor would become liable to immediate litigation. I am here presuming that you but ask for the jointure, due quarterly, or half-yearly, and not in advance, which, if the affairs are in Chancery, it would be illegal to grant.“Secondly. With respect to the diamonds, would it be possible or expedient, to select a certain portion (say half), which you least value on their own account; and if a jeweller himself falls too short in his offer, to get him to sell them on commission? You must remember, that every year, by paying interest on them,[33]you are losing money on them, so that in a few years you may thus lose more than by taking at once less than their true value. There are diamond merchants, who, I believe, give more for those articles than jewellers, and if you know Anthony Rothschild, and would not object to speak to him, he might help you.…“I know well how, to those accustomed to punctual payments, and with a horror of debt, pecuniary embarrassments prey upon the mind, but I think they may be borne, not only with ease, but some degree of complacency, when connected with such generous devotions and affectionate services as those which must console you amidst all your cares. In emptying your purse you have at least filled your heart with consolations, which will long outlast what I trust will be but the troubles of a season.”
“My Dearest Friend,—You do not do me more than justice in the belief that I most fully sympathise with all your troubles, and I shall be only too happy if my advice can in any way assist you.
“First. As to your jointure, nothing in law is so indisputable—as that a widow’s jointure takes precedence of every other claim on an estate. The very first money the agent or steward receives from the property should go to the discharge of this claim. No subsequent mortgages, annuities, encumbrances, law-suits, expenses of management, etc., can be permitted to interfere with the payment of jointure; and as, whatever the distress of the tenants, or the embarrassments of the estate, it is clear that some rents must have come in half-yearly; so, on those rents you have an indisputable right; and, I think, on consulting your lawyer, he will put you in a way, either by a memorial to Chancery, or otherwise, to secure in future the regular payment of this life-charge. Indeed, as property charged with a jointure, although the rents are not paid for months after the proper dates, the jointure must be paid on the regular days, and if not, the proprietor would become liable to immediate litigation. I am here presuming that you but ask for the jointure, due quarterly, or half-yearly, and not in advance, which, if the affairs are in Chancery, it would be illegal to grant.
“Secondly. With respect to the diamonds, would it be possible or expedient, to select a certain portion (say half), which you least value on their own account; and if a jeweller himself falls too short in his offer, to get him to sell them on commission? You must remember, that every year, by paying interest on them,[33]you are losing money on them, so that in a few years you may thus lose more than by taking at once less than their true value. There are diamond merchants, who, I believe, give more for those articles than jewellers, and if you know Anthony Rothschild, and would not object to speak to him, he might help you.…
“I know well how, to those accustomed to punctual payments, and with a horror of debt, pecuniary embarrassments prey upon the mind, but I think they may be borne, not only with ease, but some degree of complacency, when connected with such generous devotions and affectionate services as those which must console you amidst all your cares. In emptying your purse you have at least filled your heart with consolations, which will long outlast what I trust will be but the troubles of a season.”
The last sentences refer to the generous charity which was one of Lady Blessington’s saving graces: parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lover, all benefited by her aid. Two very pleasing letters from Mrs S. C. Hall may be quoted on this and other points:—
“I have never had occasion to appeal to Lady Blessington for aid for any kind or charitablepurpose, that she did notat once, with a grace peculiarly her own, come forward cheerfully and ‘help’ to the extent of her power.”
And:—
“When Lady Blessington left London, she did not forget the necessities of several of her poor dependants, who received regular aid from her after her arrival, and while she resided in Paris.[34]She found time, despite her literary labours, her anxieties and the claims which she permitted society to make upon her time, not only to do acts of kindness now and then for those in whom she felt an interest, but to give what seemed perpetual thought to their well-doing: and she never missed an opportunity of doing a gracious act or saying a gracious word.…
“I have no means of knowing whether what the world said of this beautiful woman was true or false, but I am sure God intended her to be good, and there was a deep-seated good intent in whatever she did that came under my observation.
“Her sympathies were quick and cordial, and independent of worldiness; her taste in art and literature womanly and refined; I say ‘womanly,’ because she had a perfectly feminine appreciation of whatever was delicate and beautiful.… Her manners were singularly simple and graceful; it was to me an intense delight to look at beauty, which though I never saw in its full bloom, was charming in its autumn time; and the Irish accent, and soft, sweet, Irish laugh, used to make my heart beat with the pleasures of memory.… Her conversation was not witty nor wise, but itwas in good tune and good taste, mingled with a great deal of humour, which escaped everything bordering on vulgarity. It was surprising how a tale of distress or a touching anecdote would at once suffuse her clear intelligent eyes with tears, and her beautiful mouth would break into smiles and dimples at even the echo of wit or jest.”
This is singularly interesting as the evidence of a woman, one of the few who were intimate with Lady Blessington. Of an Irish woman too, who could perceive and appreciate the womanly side of Lady Blessington’s simple nature. Simple, yes; she was just a simple, emotional, luxury-loving, laughter-loving sympathetic Irish woman, who under favourable circumstances might have been a true and adorable wife and helpmate; who under the circumstances that did rule her life, became—Lady Blessington.
Such first-hand testimony as that of Mrs S. C. Hall is worth a wilderness of commentary; to it we will add this from Lady Blessington’s maid, Anne Cooper:—
“My lady’s spirits were naturally good: before she was overpowered with difficulties, and troubles on account of them, she was very cheerful, droll, and particularly amusing. This was natural to her. Her general health was usually good; she often told me she had never been confined to her bed one whole day in her life. And her spirits would have continued good, but that she got so overwhelmed with care and expenses of all kinds. The calls for her assistance were from all quarters. Some depended wholly on her (and had a regular pension,quarterly paid)—her father and mother, for many years before they died; the education of children of friends fell upon her.… Constant assistance had to be given to others—(to the family, in particular, of one poor lady, now dead some years, whom she loved very dearly). She did a great many charities; for instance, she gave very largely to poor literary people, poor artists; something yearly to old servants … and from some, whom she served, to add to all her other miseries, she met with shameful ingratitude.
“Labouring night and day at literary work, all her anxiety was to be clear of debt. She was latterly constantly trying to curtail all her expenses in her own establishment, and constantly toiling to get money. Worried and harassed at not being able to pay bills when they were sent in; at seeing large expenses still going on, and knowing the want of means to meet them, she got no sleep at night. She long wished to give up Gore House, to have a sale of her furniture, and to pay off her debts. She wished this for two years before she left England; but when the famine in Ireland rendered the payment of her jointure irregular, and every succeeding year more and more so, her difficulties increased, and, at last, Howell & James put an execution in the house.… Poor soul! her heart was too large for her means.”
Still Lady Blessington fought on, and faced the footlights without outward faltering; she played her part in the comedy and received the applause of her friends, few of whom realised that the comedy was a tragedy. “Passion! Possession!Indifference!” she writes, “what a history is comprised in these three words! What hopes and fears succeeded by a felicity as brief as intoxicating—followed in its turn by the old consequence of possession—indifference! What burning tears, what bitter pangs, rending the very heartstrings—what sleepless nights and watchful days form part of this everyday story of life, whose termination leaves the actors to search again for new illusions to finish like the last.” But what new illusions can be looked for by a tried, sad woman of sixty?
D’Orsay was locked up in Gore House during these last two years of sunset for six days out of each seven; debt hung like a millstone round his neck also. These two, who had sailed over happy seas with favourable winds, were now together drifting on the rocks.
One day in April a sheriff’s officer, effectually disguised, managed to enter the house, and then the end of this second act of our play came rapidly. Lady Blessington informed of the mishap, realising that once it was known that an execution was laid upon her property there would no more be any safety for the Count’s person, sent to D’Orsay’s room to warn him of his danger.
“Bah!” exclaimed D’Orsay, unable or unwilling to believe that the hour for flight had at last come upon him; and again and again “Bah!” Not until Lady Blessington herself added her personal persuasion did he grasp the situation.
De Contades gives a somewhat different account. Just before the dinner hour, a pastry-cook’s boy presented himself at Gore House witha dish, sent in, so he said, by the confectioner. Having left this in the kitchen, he deliberately walked upstairs to the Count’s dressing-room.
“Well, who’s that?” asked D’Orsay.
It was a sheriff’s officer!
“Really!” exclaimed D’Orsay, and demanded that he should be permitted to complete the tying of his tie—salonor prison—his tie must be perfect.
“But, Count—”
“Bah, bah! All in good time.”
The officer was quite interested in the tying of that tie; few men had been so honoured as to be allowed to see how D’Orsay tied his tie—and, lo! by the time the tiewastied, the sun had sunk to rest and D’Orsay was free till sunrise!
“John,” said D’Orsay, calmly walking off to the drawing-room, “kick this chap out of the door.”
The which was executed and the writ was not.
In the grey of the morning, however, D’Orsay, taking every precaution against capture on the way, set out for Paris with a valet, a valise, and an umbrella. The words of a great man at any moment of crisis in his affairs are worth recording; one of D’Orsay’s last remarks in London was: “Well, at least, if I have nothing else, I will have the best umbrella!”
That was the bravado of a brave man. What really was in his mind? What were Napoleon’s thoughts as he turned his back upon Moscow? What were D’Orsay’s as he fled that morning, conquered, from the town he had captured and enslaved so long?
Before following D’Orsay to Paris, we will witness the end of the Blessingtonrégimeat Gore House. The harassed lady’s creditors swarmed round her; she had given bills and bonds in anticipation of her jointure for something like £1500; Howell & James’ account seems to have amounted to £4000!! Money-lenders, bill-discounters, tax-collectors, tradesmen of every kind, all rushed in to see what could be saved. In the event it was found impossible to avoid a sale of her goods and effects.
On April 9th, 1849, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House:
“As I purpose leaving England in a few days, it will pain me very much to depart without personally wishing you farewell; and though I am in all the fever of packing up, I will make time to receive a visit from you, if you can call any day this week between eleven o’clock in the fore-noon, or after nine in the evening. Count d’Orsay was called to Paris so suddenly, that he had not time to take leave of any of his friends, but he charged me to say a thousand kind things to you.”