Coronation Summer

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘I really think those spots have entirely gone,’ cried Emily, looking at her dress in the sunlight.

  ‘I told you they would, my love,’ said I. ‘When we get back Upton shall press the breadth with a warm iron, and you will never know that the accident occurred.’

  Having thus exhausted the interest of Westminster, we took coach to our lodgings again, and parted from Mr. Vavasour, with many thanks, until the day of the Coronation, when we were to meet him at the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall.

  On talking over the events of the day, Emily and I agreed that Miss R. would make an admirable subject for our dear Boz. It is a tribute to his genius that whenever I meet a peculiar character his name rises unbidden to my mind. How I wish that he could see Miss R. and give her a page in one of his immortal works. Emily said that the Court of Chancery would also form an admirable subject for his glowing pen, but I pointed out to her that his genius for describing courts of law lies more in the comic, as in the inimitable scenes in Pickwick, and Emily saw the force of my argument. I am glad to say that the stains disappeared from Emily’s dress as if they had never been there, and after Upton had ironed it, it looked as good as new.

  As the Coronation day drew nigh, a general state of excitement prevailed. Workmen were beginning to put up barriers to prevent the traffic from entering Piccadilly and the other streets on the route, and every shop was selling Coronation bonnets, or tablecloths, or biscuits. Hearing that the Crown and the other jewels were on show at Messrs. Rundell and Bridges, we made up a party to go, but by the time we arrived at Ludgate Hill there was such a block that we decided to go the last few hundred yards on foot, and even so it was only with difficulty that we made our way into the shop, and I was too cross to enjoy the spectacle of glittering splendour. The state of the traffic is quite dreadful, and within a few years it will be impossible to move at all.

  On the evening of this day my father invited the Ingoldsbys and Seaforths, and Mrs. and Mr. Vavasour to visit us. A note had also been sent to Mr. Darnley’s club, but no answer had been received. However, my spirits were raised by Ned’s arrival, with a quantity of luggage and a fine pointer, who leapt upon us in a truly endearing way. We were afraid that Mrs. Bellows might object to her, but luckily she is one of those landladies in whose eyes young men can do no wrong, and at a word from Ned she expressed her entire willingness to allow the dog to sleep in Ned’s room and be fed in the kitchen.

  ‘And what is his name, sir?’ she inquired.

  ‘She’s a bitch,’ said Ned with a loud laugh, ‘and her name’s Emily.’

  ‘Really, sir,’ said Mrs. Bellows, ‘well now, if that isn’t, quite a squinstance, her having the same name as Miss Dacre, though it don’t seem natural for a dog to be a she.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mother B., don’t you poke your handsome nose into what isn’t your business,’ said Ned, at the same time clasping her round the ample waist and giving her a hearty kiss, at which she told him to give over, and with apologies to us went downstairs in high good humour.

  ‘I say, Emily,’ said Ned, ‘I hope you don’t think it infernal presumption to call the bitch Emily. She’s the dearest thing you ever knew, sits on my knees like a child and spends the night on my bed. Oh, I say, confound it, Emily, don’t be offended.’

  For Emily, divided between confusion and amusement, had risen and was preparing to leave the room.

  ‘Damn it all,’ continued poor Ned, ‘I meant no harm, and I know I’m not much good at speeches, but Em, you do forgive me, don’t you? I’ll blow my brains out if you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Ned,’ said I, ‘or Emily will pine away. She nearly fainted when she thought your boat was going to be overturned.’

  At this Ned hit himself and called himself a brute, and I considered it better to leave them alone, so I put on my hat and shawl and went round to Mivart’s, where I spent an hour with Mrs. Seaforth, who told me all about her elder children, Neddy, Mary Anne, and Julia. I hinted to her that there might be something between Emily and Ned, and she became quite animated.

  ‘I am quite pleased,’ said she in her gentle way, ‘because I thought Hal Darnley might be attached to Emily, but he would be quite unsuitable for her. She has been used to having her own way, and she and Mr. Darnley would not hit it off at all. Now I know exactly who would suit him, but wild horses would not drag it from me.’

  Though I am not a wild horse I teased her to tell me what she meant, but all in vain.

  ‘I will only tell you,’ said she, ‘that the sixth letter of the alphabet is Darnley’s favourite.’

  With this I was forced to be content, and went back to Queen Street to find Emily pensive but serene.

  After dinner the Vavasours arrived, shortly afterwards followed by the Ingoldsby party, among whom, to my great relief, was Mr. Darnley. Old Mr. Ingoldsby was in a state of great indignation.

  ‘Why, whatever is the matter, sir?’ asked Emily, who as I have before mentioned is a great favourite with the old gentleman.

  ‘Matter, my dear?’ said he, ‘Matter enough. Brooks’s Club, my club you know, wished to show their loyalty by having a grand ball in honour of the Coronation. To make it more of an occasion our Committee was empowered to ask Boodle’s and White’s to join with us. And what d’ye think they answered?’

  ‘A ball, father? How charming!’ said Mrs. Seaforth. ‘I shall not of course dance,’ said she, looking tenderly upon Mr. Seaforth, who appeared to wish that she would not, ‘but I shall certainly be present.’

  ‘You’ll find it difficult, my girl, to be present at something that doesn’t exist,’ said her father. ‘Boodle’s and White’s declined the invitation, confound ’em for supercilious Tories!’

  ‘Quite right too,’ cried my father, slapping his leg in his annoying way, and how I wish I could persuade him to give up his breeches and boots and take to trousers as every one else has done these I don’t know how many years is only known to my Creator and myself. ‘Why should loyal clubs wait for the Whigs to give ’em a lead? If White’s wants a ball, it will have one. Confounded impertinence, I call it.’

  ‘I may mention,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘that the Reform was not even honoured by an invitation.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Mr. Ingoldsby. ‘If you Radicals can stomach a man like Fox, you need showing your place. Did you see Publicola’s last article on the Royal Touch, Harcourt?’

  Luckily my father had seen it. I say luckily, because it proved a bond of reunion between him and Mr. Ingoldsby, and in vilifying Publicola and the Radicals they forgot to feel indignant or exultant over the projected ball.

  ‘We do not give balls at the Athenaeum,’ said Mr. Vavasour to Emily, loftily, but Mr. Ingoldsby unfortunately heard the remark and said, loud enough to be heard, that a ball given by a set of literary puppies would indeed be a comical affair.

  ‘This is indeed a shocking business about the explosion on the steamship Victoria, Mr. Ingoldsby,’ said I, anxious to avert another explosion! ‘They say the poor fellows who were near the boiler were mutilated in a manner impossible to describe.’

  At this my father went off in one of his transports about steam, vowing that a few more explosions would convince people that they ought to stick to sails and roads instead of boilers and rails. He added that he hoped the same fate would attend Mr. Hancock’s steam cab which we had recently seen in Hyde Park, and dwelt with some pleasure upon the appalling accidents which had lately taken place upon the American steam-boats. It is useless to contradict my father when he is well launched upon his favourite subject, but Mrs. Vavasour, who seems to have a special penchant for him, suggested a game of cards, to which after some grumbling he consented to sit down with her, Mr. Ingoldsby, and Mr. Seaforth.

  Mr. Vavasour now remarked that he had been much shocked by an article in the Quarterly Magazine which he understood to be by Mr. Croker, a Tory writer, in which, on pretence of reviewing a book about the Peninsular War, he took occasion to traduce Marsh
al Soult, who was to be Ambassador from France at the coming festivities.

  ‘I understand,’ said he, ‘that the Duke did his best to get Croker to delay publishing this article till the next number, for fear that Soult might feel the intended insult, but Croker would not hear of it. I do not pretend to judge, I am merely a poor novelist, more concerned with the emotions of hearts and the trifles that make up our society than with wars or generals, but there is such a thing as Good Taste. An ancient enemy is to visit us in the garb of peace, accredited representative of a friendly government. All rancour should be laid aside, and to write as Croker has written is really not quite what a man would choose to do. Noblesse oblige.’

  I feared that my father would interpose with his usual statement that one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen, but the cards held his attention. We all agreed that Mr. Croker’s conduct was indeed shocking, irrespective of party feeling.

  ‘At least, by arriving on the 19th, Marshall Soult misses the Waterloo celebrations,’ said Mr. Vavasour. ‘For one of Napoleon’s marshals to witness the rejoicings on the anniversary of his former master’s defeat would indeed be mortifying.’

  ‘It isn’t all beer and skittles though, Vavasour,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, who had been cutting out my poor Ned with Emily, and tired of this pastime was looking for someone else to provoke. ‘Soult may have missed Waterloo on the 18th, but he falls into the anniversary of Vittoria on the 21st, and will have to hurry back to avoid the anniversaries of Talavera, Salamanca, and the Battle of the Nile.’

  Mr. Tom’s droll way of saying this raised a general laugh.

  ‘By the way, Miss Harcourt,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘you remember my pointing out to you at Epsom M. de Melcy, the husband of Grisi the singer?’

  I signified my recollection of the fact.

  ‘I suppose you have heard of his duel with Lord Castlereagh,’ said Mr. Tom.

  ‘Oh, pray tell us about it,’ said Emily, Mrs. Seaforth, and I in chorus.

  ‘Well, it seems,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘that his lordship has been sweet on the Grisi for a long time, and he used to hang about the house and send her notes. One of these fell into M. de Melcy’s hand so what could he do but challenge the innamorato? Castlereagh, to do him justice, seems to have behaved with coolness and spirit. He took up the challenge, and the duel came off at the Wormwood Scrubs. His lordship had a ball through his arm which grazed his chest, and honour was satisfied.’

  ‘Well, I say Lord Castlereagh was acting very wrongly,’ said Mrs. Seaforth, ‘to send notes to a married woman, even if she were a singer. Charles would challenge any one who sent a note to me, would you not, Charles?’

  ‘No, my dear,’ said Mr. Seaforth, looking up from his game, ‘In the first place I am — or was — a soldier, and don’t care to risk my life when I needn’t. In the second place I have every confidence in your virtue, and in the third place I believe you would be too lazy to read a billet doux and would make it into paper boats or cocked hats for the children.’

  ‘Bravo, Charles!’ cried Mr. Tom. ‘That is Caroline to a T!’

  ‘For my part,’ said Mr. Vavasour, ‘I consider the whole affair a put-up job. De Melcy is an adventurer and out to make what he can.’

  ‘At least, Vavasour, you must admit,’ said Mr. Darnley, who had hitherto been silent, ‘that the Grisi’s conduct is generally considered as unexceptionable, and I have it on the best authority that Lord Castlereagh left a letter, to be opened in case of his death, stating that she never gave him the slightest encouragement.’

  ‘Did you see the poem in Bell’s Life?’ asked Ned, from the corner where he was now comfortably ensconced with Emily.

  ‘Pray tell us,’ said Mrs. Seaforth.

  ‘It’s a long affair,’ said Ned, ‘and some of it’s a bit h’m, h’m. But the end is good. It runs:

  Young lordships scorched by Cupid’s flames,

  Let foreigners alone,

  And don’t be sweet on married dames,

  Unless they are your own.

  Famous, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Emily, just as if Ned had written it himself.

  Music was now called for and Emily played the Telegraphe Musicale, a Grand Pot-Pourri of Waltzes by Strauss, to which she had given much study of late. Mr. Tom Ingoldsby sang some very amusing comic songs with much spirit, and Mr. Seaforth, who had luckily brought his flute, played some airs from Donizetti’s Parisina, which made us wish we could see that chef d’oeuvre. I then, though unwillingly, and not till Mr. Vavasour had repeatedly pressed me, sang Haydn’s tuneful canzonetta, ‘She never told her love’. I did not quite know to whom I addressed the palpitating words, but Emily told me afterwards that I had never sung with such expression. We terminated the soiree musicale by Bishop’s glee, ‘Sleep, Gentle Lady’, during which I distinctly heard Mr. Darnley singing the words, ‘Weep, Zegri Ladye’, accompanied by a glance in my direction which caused my cheeks to burn. My father, having been diverted from his purpose of singing ‘A frog he would a-wooing go!’, our party made their farewells and retired. I wish Mr. Darnley were a member of the Athenaeum club.

  Emily and I did several daring deeds while in London, such as going in a sixpenny bus to Battersea, just for the fun of it, and accompanying Mrs. Bellows to Mr. Kipling’s Warehouse where Emily bought six dozen pairs of stockings for the parish at a very reasonable rate. We also made up a party with Mr. Tom Ingoldsby and Ned to see the Parisina with whose notes Mr. Seaforth’s flute had charmed us. We were partly actuated by a wish to see Grisi, the heroine of the late duel, and partly by hearing that the Queen would be present. Emily had been to Her Majesty’s Theatre on previous occasions, but the Theatre Royal, Norwich, was my highest dramatic flight, so I was delighted to see a metropolitan opera house. The opera of Parisina was musical in the extreme, though we thought Grisi labouring under a sense of her embarrassing position, and our chief applause was reserved for the ballet. Between the acts Teresa and Fanny Elsler appeared amid hurricanes of applause. The way in which Fanny slides across the stage on her toes is unprecedented, and we were enraptured. I must say though that their costumes, though elegant, were light to a degree that was almost objectionable, and we gathered from the snouts and calls in our neighbourhood that the sentiment was general. Luckily I could not make out what the noisier members of the audience were saying, and the word ‘Cherubim’, which seemed to raise a laugh, appeared to me meaningless. After the opera the great dancer Taglioni appeared in a pas de deux with Guerra, and this was followed by another ballet, The Brigand of Terracina, in which the two Elslers appeared. Mr. Ingoldsby said he had preferred Duvernay in the elegant waltz scene in the robbers’ cavern. We did not exactly see the Queen, but we heard the tumultuous applause which greeted her and were gratified to feel ourselves so near.

  I shall not easily forget the scene when we got back. My dear father had also, though unknown to us, been at the opera, and had seen us. It was certainly not our fault that the Elslers were insufficiently or inappropriately clad, but my father behaved as if it were, threatening to take me home and pack Emily back to Tapton if we went to a ballet again without his permission. I do not pretend to be a philosopher, but I know my dear father well enough to take his moods as they come, and merely answered, ‘Yes, Papa,’ and ‘No, Papa,’ to his scoldings, till he grew tired. I mentioned the presence of Her Majesty, but this he averred, with an oath, to be a piece of Whiggish intrigue and told me to hold my tongue. Emily and I decided as we undressed that we would get married as soon as possible, though merely as an abstract idea and naming no names.

  It was a night or two after that, my father being out of town for two or three days, that Mr. Tom Ingoldsby carried out his promise of taking Emily and me to Mozart’s None. This work is one which appeals to the intellectual as well as the sensual organs, and in consequence the press of people anxious to see it was terrifying. Mr. Tom had taken the precaution of buying tickets beforehand from Mitchell’s Library in Bond Street, but even so
we were almost swept off our feet, in spite of the protection of Mr. Vavasour, Mr. Tom, and Mr. Darnley. The rush to gain admission was quite appalling, partly I fear from a vulgar sentiment of curiosity to see Grisi. Before the performance commenced the house and the space behind the scenes was densely packed with people. Women shrieked, ruffianly men elbowed and shoved, the manager was forced to make an appeal for quiet, announcing that admission money would be refunded to those who could not find accommodation. Never have I beheld such disgusting violence and un-called-for brutality as among those so-called music-lovers.

  The opera itself ravished me, though Mr. Tom said it was insufficiently rehearsed. Grisi in the role of Susanna was naïve and vivacious, Persiani as the Countess ladylike and dignified, and their duet, Sull’aria, brought tears to my eyes. Mr. Tom remarked that Albertazzi as Cherubino was not unlike Boz’s Fat Boy, which made Emily and me give way to unseemly mirth. Tamburini as the Count had taste and spirit, but what can I say of Lablache? His Non più andrai electrified me, and in the concerted music he was imbued with the true Promethean fire. Fanny Elsler, suitably attired, danced a Cachucha in the opera, and afterwards we were given the last scene from Donizetti’s Lucia, and were delighted by the elegant evolutions of Taglioni in a Tyrolienne, which closed the proceedings at a very late hour.

  We chose to walk home, the night being fine. Mr. Vavasour hummed as we walked, ‘Crudel, perchѐ’, in a meaning way, and I, carried away by the music we had heard, went so far as to join in a few notes of the duet. I would not have done this if Mr. Darnley had been there, but as he had chosen to go back to his club, I felt at liberty to please myself. Oh, Music! Daughter of Jove!

  Chapter Nine — Coronation Day

  The day before the Coronation we strolled through the streets with the Ingoldsbys to view the last preparations. The town had a gay and festive air. Stands were erected in front of many of the clubs and shops, and workmen were putting the finishing touches to the illuminations. Even by daylight the hundreds of coloured lamps were a very pretty spectacle, and if the gas jets were not so gay by day, they filled me with the liveliest anticipations for the night. We were told that the Ordnance Office in Pall Mall alone had sixty thousand lamps, so what the total number in town must have been, I cannot conceive. I saw from an advertisement in The Times that coloured lamps were to be had for half a crown a dozen, so the expense may be partially guessed. We walked along Piccadilly as far as Hyde Park Corner and saw the stands erected outside St. George’s Hospital, from the proceeds of which it is to be hoped that the patients will benefit. I had had half a thought of procuring tickets there and sending Matthew’s and Upton, but reflecting that they could see just as well from the street, I refrained.