Coronation Summer

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘He will spend it all on toffy,’ said William. ‘This kind gift of yours, sir, will save your unworthy son’s honour, as I got confoundedly into debt over the Derby. By the way, sir, I hope you are going to give me a good sum for Leaving Money. Old Hawtrey pretends he don’t notice what you give, but that don’t prevent his taking it.’

  Without waiting for a reply he was off, and my father told the coachman to drive home. He was in a state of red-hot heat about railways, boys, and the degeneracy of modern times, but Mr. Tom, by his unfailing good humour and his jokes and puns, succeeded in making him unbend, and the journey home was very pleasant. As Mr. Tom said, it is comforting to see the regular observance of our old English institutions, and this custom of Montem is at least one which has stood the test of time and will continue to be observed while Eton flourishes!

  Chapter Seven — Leander versus Cambridge

  My brother Ned came down from Cambridge about a week before the rowing match, but did not stay with us, because he had to be in training with the others of his crew. Mr. Darnley was similarly occupied, so we saw very little of him. I noticed, however, that Ned inquired most particularly of me what Emily’s engagements were, and if she were at home it was almost a matter of course that Ned should visit us. Emily appeared to take the greatest interest in his accounts of his dog, the gig he drives at Cambridge, his play at billiards, his racing bets, his rowing exploits, and all the subjects which a sister’s partiality finds so excessively boring. I also observed that Emily had a liveliness, verging at times on forwardness, when Ned was present, and a languor when he was absent, upon which I placed an interpretation very favourable to Ned’s advances. Knowing how annoying the presence of a relation can be in our tenderer moments, and remembering well how very trying my dear father used to be when Colonel Sparker rode over from Norwich to see me, always coming into the room to ask the Colonel to look at a gun or a dog, as if there were nothing else worth looking at, I took care to leave the two soupirants alone, while in the seclusion of my bedroom I devoured the literature supplied by the library. I remember that about this time I read The Vicar of Wrexhill by Mrs. Trollope, and thought highly of it. The character of the sanctimonious Evangelical parson, Mr. Cartwright, is excellently drawn, and I shuddered at the way in which he enmeshes the unhappy and foolish widow in his toils till he persuades her to give him her hand and fortune. It is a striking representation of the way in which a false religion can alienate even a mother from her children. The sufferings of Charles and Helen as they see their mother becoming a prey to the designing Cartwright, and find her affection subtly withdrawn from them and given to persons with whom she would once have been too fastidious to associate, are almost unbearable. How I rejoiced when, after the poor mother’s death, the villain is foiled and virtue triumphs, and the Anglican persuasion reigns once more.

  One evening I mentioned the subject of religion to Mr. Vavasour.

  ‘Nature is my religion, Miss Harcourt,’ he said, ‘but that does not prevent me from recognizing other forms. For instance, I would readily dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, as indeed I am to do to-morrow. Living in society, one should live sociably.’

  ‘Do not listen to him, Miss Harcourt,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, for this conversation took place at a concert of the Royal Philharmonic Society at the Hanover Square Rooms, which Emily and I were attending in company with the two gentlemen. The Sinfonia in B flat by Beethoven had just ended amid applause, and at last we could talk. ‘He is attempting to impose on your ignorance. Any one, you must know, can go to the public dinners at Lambeth, if he is in society and puts his name down beforehand in a book provided for the purpose. I am willing to lay a guinea that Dr. Howley has not the pleasure of Vavasour’s acquaintance.’

  ‘Hooley, my dear fellow, Hooley,’ said Mr. Vavasour.

  ‘Howley or Hooley, you will not take my challenge,’ said Mr. Tom laughing. ‘I believe Howley, like you, was a sad Radical in his younger days and used to have a portrait of Tom Paine over his mantelpiece; but now we must be silent, for the next item is beginning, and we should listen to Cinti Damoreau. She is singing something of Rossini’s.’

  ‘Oh, I think Rossini is a doat,’ cried Emily, and was hushed by the listeners around her.

  The orchestra was under the direction of Mr. Moscheles, and I was prepared to find it in the first flight of taste, but both Mr. Vavasour and Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, who have pretensions to be connoisseurs of music, put me entirely in the wrong. I was seated between them, and they would talk across me between the numbers, a habit to which I find the sterner sex far too much addicted.

  ‘I should say,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘that this concert is the very worst that has been held these seven years, or for ought I know since the foundation of the society. The players appear to think of nothing but Maelzel’s metronome, and do not notice the conductor’s accelerando or ritardando.’

  ‘But what can you expect?’ asked Mr. Vavasour, ‘if Cipriani Potter is in command, or Moscheles? The Philharmonic needs a conductor, not a pianist. I yield to no one in admiration for the skill of these gentlemen at their own instrument, but they can hardly excel in conducting as they excel in playing. You may have observed, Miss Dacre, how Mr. Loder, the leader of the orchestra, is not at one with Mr Watts his next in command, and how Watts refuses to follow Loder’s lead. I am extremely sorry for Moscheles. He understands the work of Beethoven which we have just heard, and desires to give the music its full effect, by Varying the tempo. But the gentlemen of the orchestra seem to say, “Pray don’t trouble yourself; we are not going to break the time for you or Beethoven, or any one else. What do we care about the music? Are we not paid to play the notes and keep the time?”’

  We were now compelled to be silent while Mr. W. Stern-dale Bennett played the pianoforte part in a concerto of his own composition for that instrument. Emily was loud in her applause, for two seasons ago she had had lessons from the maestro, but as she tells me that she cried all the time from nervousness, they were of little benefit. A duet by Cinti Damoreau and Mademoiselle Placci from Rossini’s Semiramide, and an overture by Herr von Weber completed the first part.

  During the entr’acte Emily mentioned the concerts of Antient Music and expressed a desire to attend one, but Mr. Vavasour firmly dissuaded her.

  ‘The great disadvantage of these concerts,’ he said, ‘is that the programmes are drawn up by the directors in rotation, who are all persons of eminence, such as royal dukes, generals, and archbishops, but are not necessarily gifted with a taste for music. They have taken lately to performing airs by Bach, which are rather mechanical dialogues for the voice with some instrument than such airs of expression as made Handel immortal.’

  ‘There I cannot agree with you, Vavasour,’ said Mr. Tom. ‘There is a degree of sublimity in Bach rarely attained by Handel, whose choruses and arias are apt to degenerate into an almost meaningless jumble of noisy notes.’

  Mr. Vavasour, not deigning to reply, then asked me how I liked the concert.

  ‘I must confess,’ said I, ‘that for my part I find the orchestra a little dull and fatiguing, and would far rather see an opera, where the eye as well as the ear is entertained.’

  ‘Then we will go to the Italian Opera at Her Majesty’s before you leave town,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby. ‘We will make up a party and see Mozart’s enchanting Nozze. Even you, Vavasour, cannot deny its sweetness and power.’

  The music then beginning again, we heard a Sinfonia by Mendelssohn Bartholdy, an air from Mozart’s Flauto Magico sung by Signor Ivanoff, and several other pieces of merit, during which I had great difficulty in resisting a kind of drowsiness. Emily professed to have enjoyed every note: I say professed.

  I may say that though Emily and I had come to town fully determined to hear as much music as possible, for we are both violently attached to it; we nearly always found something else occupying our time. We did, however, attend Mr. Benedict’s concert at the Opera House, and were richly rewarded. It beg
an at half past seven and seemed never to end. Especially wearisome did I find a triple concerto by that Bach, in which Messrs. Benedict, Moscheles, and Doehler played three pianofortes simultaneously. Mr. Tom said that old Sebastian, as he calls him, would have turned in his grave to find himself thus rearranged and instrumented by Moscheles; but how can he tell? I did enjoy Rubini and Lablache in excerpts from Mr. Benedict’s opera The Gipsy’s Warning. M. Lablache teaches our beloved Queen, and this alone is sufficient to place him in the first flight.

  The day for Ned’s rowing match had now arrived. Emily and I had previously been down to the river, accompanied by Mr. Tom Ingoldsby and Mr. Seaforth, to see the crews practising in their cutters. Ned and his crew wore white jerseys with short sleeves, while Mr. Darnley and his crew had jerseys trimmed with scarlet, and no sleeves, so that Emily and I were really glad that he did not know we were looking at him. I heard the gentlemen laying bets of three to one against Leander, and Mr. Tom asked Emily if she would like to lay a pair of gloves again, but she laughingly declined.

  Ned came in to see us the evening before the race, and was as usual unable to talk of anything but his own concerns. I listened as long as I could to his talk of boats and oars, but at last I was fairly driven from the room. When I returned, Ned had gone, and Emily was sitting pensively by the window.

  ‘Tell me, my love,’ said I, ‘what had Ned to say?’

  ‘He says they are using the Jesus eight,’ said Emily, ‘and that Searle has built a new cutter for the Leander.’

  ‘I think,’ said I, ‘that it is the letter N that has been too much for you, dear Emily.’

  At any other time Emily would have shown some spirit at being thus rallied, but she merely replied in an abstracted manner:

  ‘Leander are having oars shorter and lighter than those generally used, and they have chartered a fast steamer named the Primrose for their friends to follow the race, but I am sure that Cambridge will win.’

  So judging that there was nothing to be made of her, I occupied myself in writing to my dear mother, till it was time to go to bed. Emily was still very absent, and I observed a blue favour in her corsage that certainly had not been there before Ned’s visit.

  On the following day Mrs. Vavasour called for Emily and me about four o’clock and drove us to the river. As it was impossible for a cutter with a party to keep up with the race, she had ordered her boat to be in readiness a little above Vauxhall Bridge, where we were to pick the crews up and row a short distance with them. We found a small party on board, none of whom except Mr. Vavasour were known to us. Mrs. Vavasour presented one or two gentlemen to Emily, but she was not in her usual spirits and preferred to sit gazing over the rail. The scene was a remarkable one, as the bridge and the banks were black with spectators, and the excitement was universal.

  ‘It is curious to reflect,’ said Mr. Vavasour, ‘that of all the poor fellows who are come to witness the match, perhaps not twenty have any connexion with Cambridge, or any interest in the Leander. I confess I am surprised at the multitude of spectators, even if they have money on the match.’

  A sound of cheering was now wafted to us, and the rival crews came into view. Mr. Vavasour had glasses, and described the progress of the race to me.

  ‘I take it, Miss Harcourt,’ he said, ‘that your sympathies are entirely with the boat in which your brother rows.’

  ‘Yes, indeed — that is, I suppose so,’ said I.

  ‘Do not let me bias you against the Cambridge crew,’ said Mr. Vavasour. ‘They belong after all to a sister University whose shortcomings one may pity, but should not despise.’

  ‘Oh no, indeed,’ I replied, but he had misunderstood my hesitation. Ned was my brother and as such his success must be dear to me, but there was ONE in the Leander crew, his manly form set off by a white and scarlet jersey, whose fate was not of entire indifference to me.

  ‘Leander do not leave Cambridge room to pass between them and the barges,’ cried Mr. Vavasour gazing through his glass, ‘and the Cambridge coxswain has driven his boat full on to Leander’s starboard quarter. Now the Cantabs have backed water and their stern has hit the Leander at Number 7. I wager the blow nearly carried his chock away. Now they are passing the Penitentiary, now Leander are away, now Cambridge overhaul them, Leander give them no room to pass — Good God! another foul!’

  Here our watermen bent to their oars and Mr. Vavasour resumed his seat with a discomposing suddenness.

  ‘Who is fouling?’ I inquired, ‘Mr. Darnley would never be guilty of so base an action.’

  ‘Nor would Mr. Ned Harcourt,’ sighed Emily.

  ‘I can only conclude,’ said Mr. Vavasour, his lip curling scornfully, ‘that the match is being rowed under watermen’s rules, which are somewhat like Cornish wrestling — every man for his own hand.’

  Steadying himself against the side of the boat he resumed his watch.

  ‘Leander are in trouble,’ he observed. ‘Number 4’s oar has broken, and by heaven! his stopper must have gone. Now a friend from a cutter that accompanies the crews has thrown him another oar.’

  ‘See,’ cried Emily, ‘Mr. Harcourt’s crew are all lifting their oars in the air. What does it mean?’

  ‘I presume they are claiming the race,’ said Mr. Vavasour, ‘and indeed Leander’s conduct has been of such a description that I consider Cambridge justified in stopping the race.’

  For a short distance our watermen kept within sight of the crews, but the pace of the rival boats, the immense concourse on the river, and the wash caused by the Primrose as she gallantly steamed up Father Thames, caused us to fall behind before we got to the Red House in Battersea Fields.

  ‘Cambridge are trying to drive Leander athwart the bridge, but Parish is manoeuvring Leander in fine style,’ said Mr. Vavasour. ‘By God, if Leander back water now, Cambridge will go broadside on to the piers and be broken up. No; they get away! Bravo, the Cantabs!’

  At this instance of noble impartiality my heart warmed to Mr. Vavasour, and I bestowed a grateful glance on him. A slight shriek caused me to look round, and I saw Emily in an almost unconscious condition.

  ‘Heavens!’ I cried, ‘what is the matter? Mrs. Vavasour, pray come here.’

  Mrs. Vavasour gave orders to the watermen to return as quickly as possible to the place where the carriage was waiting, and while I supported Emily, our hostess held salts to her nose, and she began to revive.

  ‘Where is Mr. Harcourt?’ she cried faintly.

  ‘Why, my dear, Fanny’s father did not accompany us today,’ said Mrs. Vavasour. ‘You are still confused.’

  A blush of deepest hue overspread Emily’s face and bosom, and she was unable to say a word. I alone understood the cause of her emotion, and under the pretence of adjusting her bonnet I whispered,

  ‘The Cambridge boat got safely through the bridge, and has by now doubtless won the race.’

  Emily gave me a grateful look and pressed my hand. We had now arrived at the steps, and as Mr. Vavasour handed us to the carriage he observed to me,

  ‘When Beauty and Compassion go hand in hand, Admiration can but be silent.’

  This was gratifying, showing me as it did that my sisterly attentions to Emily had not passed unnoticed. But I daresay if Mr. Darnley had been there he would have been equally struck, though he does not express himself in so lofty a style as Mr. Vavasour. Mrs. Vavasour drove us to our lodgings, and her nephew asked permission to call upon us next morning and inquire after Emily’s health, and assure himself that my exertions on her behalf had not fatigued me.

  I persuaded Emily to go early to bed, and read aloud to her from Bulwer’s Ernest Maltravers. When I came to the description of the hero’s father, I paused.

  ‘“Handsome Hal Maltravers, the darling of the clubs,”’ I repeated aloud. ‘Emily, of whom docs that remind you?’

  ‘Your brother is indeed handsome,’ said she, ‘and very like you. But he is hardly a clubman yet.’

  ‘Ned?’ I exclaimed,
‘you are joking, Emily. Ned is a dear fellow, but no beauty.’

  ‘Then, it is Mr. Darnley you mean! He is Hal,’ said Emily.

  ‘But not to me,’ I faltered.

  ‘Fanny, I declare you are blushing,’ said Emily. ‘Does the thought of Mr. Darnley cause you such emotion?’

  It was dusk, the candles were not lighted, and the hour was favourable for confidence. Emily and I spoke freely. I confessed to her that though Mr. Vavasour exercised a deep attraction on me, yet with Mr. Darnley I felt an ease that compensated for his less romantic appearance.

  ‘I could elope with Vavasour,’ said I, ‘but I could live with Darnley!’

  ‘And I could do both with your brother,’ said Emily, covering her face with her hands. But these confidences are sacred.

  Next day our two aquatic heroes came to see us. Ned looked sadly done up, and I offered them some wine and refreshments.

  ‘Oh, good God, Fanny, not wine,’ said Ned with a groan. ‘Soda-water by the gallon, if you love me.’

  I rang the bell. Matthews, bringing the soda-water, also announced Mr. Vavasour.

  ‘Good morning ladies,’ said he, and then addressing himself to Ned and Mr. Darnley, added, ‘Well, I hear all bets are off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Emily. ‘Did not Mr. Harcourt — did not Cambridge win?’

  ‘Surely Leander won,’ said I, looking to Mr. Darnley.

  There was a silence. Mr. Darnley and Ned looked at one another and then burst out laughing.

  ‘We may as well confess,’ said Mr. Darnley. ‘Our boat was a length ahead at Putney bridge, but somehow Searle, the umpire, did not consider this enough, and after a long argument gave it as no race.’

  ‘No more it was,’ said Ned, who was drinking soda-water to an alarming extent, ‘because when you Leanders challenged us, we accepted on condition that the race should be rowed under the same rules as it was last year, when we whopped you, that is with no fouling. Oh, Lord, how my throat sizzles!’