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 of The 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, and such honour, such wisdom and such genius.” Albany Fonblanque, as so many others have done, deserted law for journalism, achieving a high degree of success as editor of The 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 from Vivian 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 chains about 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.’
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 off apropos de bottes, with a long 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 in Vivian 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 a réunion at 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 entered the 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 hear La 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 the chawbacons of 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 ballad of “Rory O’More,” and Handy Andy still 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 best raconteurs that 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 a corps de ballet, with Taglioni at their head, who more than redeemed their want of excellency. I did not miss a single night.…”
* * *
XIV
ROUND THE TOWN
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 fascinatio
n.”
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 was a 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 great man, 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 be overcast 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 of coryphées—plant out chorus-singers in park villas and Montpelier cottages—refresh premières danseuses with champagne and chicken at the Star and Garter, Richmond, varied with cold punch and white-bait at the Crown and Sceptre, Blackwall—air prima donnas in 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 as served 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 a première 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.”
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 the chef; the cellar admirable.
Of Ude, the following pleasing little tale is told:—
Colonel Damer going into the club one evening met his highness the chef tearing 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 the carte was two shillings; I added sixpence for the sauce. He refuses to pay the sixpence. The imbécile apparently believes that the red mullets come out of the sea, with my sauce in their pockets!”
Major Chambre in his amusing Recollections 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 and gourmets, 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
During the Parliamentary Session, supper was served from twelve to five, and the fare was such as to satisfy the most refined gourmet, and the most 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 Spy speaks quite disrespectfully of Crocky’s: “We can sup in Crockford’s pandemonium among parliamentary pigeons, unfledged ensigns of the Guards, broken-down titled legs, and ci-devant bankers, 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.”
D'Orsay / or, The complete dandy Page 11
