by Joan Smith
The question uppermost in the mind of Society was, naturally, which fortunate female would attract Lord Dammler. His behaviour was maddeningly provocative. He would partner some dashing heiress for one or two days—appear with her at the opera and the balls—then two nights later she would be replaced by another. Rumours were rampant as to his having a wild but secret affair with this married lady or that widow, but they were not credited by the knowing. No lady would remain silent if she had indeed made a conquest of such magnitude. She would shout it from the rooftops. Several did lay claim to having entrapped him, and he was too polite to deny their lies outright, but only smiled and said, “Possibly, I don’t seem to recall the name of the lady I was with last night.”
It soon became obvious that his affection centered on no lady, but a young female of quite a different sort. He was frequently seen in company with a lady of pleasure of exquisite beauty, whose outstanding attraction was her hair. By some alchemy it had achieved a shade somewhere between silver and gold. She appeared in the park in a phaeton pulled by a matched pair of horses from the royal stud at Hanover, of much the same colour as her hair. She also appeared in an enviable collection of gowns and jewels.
Cantos from Abroad was in every hand and on every lip, in every book shop window and on every polite table top, and Lord Dammler’s fame rose higher, till it seemed he must be giddy from such heights. He was amazed and amused, tolerant and good-humoured, but eventually bored with it all, and began retiring from the gay social round. He dispensed with his “Guardian Angels,” and to escape for a spell, he accepted an invitation to a house party at Finefields, the estate of Lord Malvern and his pretty young wife Constance. No daring friend ever inferred to the Countess of Malvern that she had been well-named. Her affairs were infamous throughout the land. It was generally assumed that she had added Dammler to her long list of admirers. Certainly the lady did nothing to deny the rumour.
Stories sped back to London of orgies and affairs of unprecedented decadence, of a duel between Dammler and Malvern over the Countess’s honour. “Dammler mustn’t have taken to her,” Princess Lieven quipped. Malvern is very piqued if his friends don’t make love to Constance.” The poet was more discussed in his absence than in his presence, and when he returned to town, there was a fresh arrow in his quiver. He brought with him another installment of his Cantos from Abroad—those stanzas completed during the last six months of his tour, now polished and ready for publication. They involved the last lap of his journey home, with a detour into South America and the sea voyage aboard a ship which contained an improbable school of nuns and a licentious crew. The cantos were an immediate success. Miss Mallow, like everyone else with a guinea to spare, dashed out and bought a copy to delight her idle hours.
Perusing them, she wondered that anyone could bother to read her own dull stuff, with characters no more interesting than her Uncle Clarence, whom she had converted into a lady who wrote bad music which she constantly compared to Bach, with that gentleman on the short end.
Prudence and the poet lived and wrote in the same city, worked for the same publisher and public; their lives travelled in parallel lines, never touching. Lord Dammler occupied a large part of Miss Mallow’s mind, but he did not know of her existence. She was, in fact, once drawn to his attention by their mutual editor, Mr. Murray.
“Have you had a look at this novel, Dammler?” Murray asked one day when Prudence’s latest work was on his desk.
“I don’t read novels, except for Scott’s,” Dammler drawled, without ever glancing at the three volumes, nicely bound in blue with gold lettering.
“Oh, well if you care for Scott, I daresay you wouldn’t like this. Tame stuff—domestic, but good. Scott likes it. While you’re here, I mean to give your arm a little twist. There’s a dinner in honour of Mr. Wordsworth next week at Pulteney’s Hotel. I’m enjoining my more illustrious writers to attend and pay him homage. Will you come?”
“No.”
Murray sighed. “Just for the dinner—put in an appearance, Dammler. Your absence will be remarked upon.”
“I am already promised to my aunt, Lady Melvine, that evening.”
“She’ll understand.”
“I trust Mr. Wordsworth also is capable of understanding—though one might be forgiven for doubting it from what he writes. Do give him my regards.”
“Come after dinner for the speeches.”
Dammler stared, the brilliance from his one visible eye conveying worlds of astonishment. “What—purposely commit myself to sit for hours on a hard chair to listen to undeserved praise being heaped on Mr. Wordsworth. You are run mad, John. Mad as a hatter.”
“Well after the speeches then. Come in about ten o’clock, just to meet Wordsworth and say how do you do.”
“Oh, very well, if I happen to be in the vicinity. Pulteney’s you say?”
“Yes,” Murray smiled, taking this, as indeed it was meant to be taken, as a promise.
An invitation to the same party was extended by letter to Miss Mallow as a special treat. Murray had a good notion of the dull existence the poor girl led and wished to do her a favour. She was thrown into transports of delight, and for five days was in a fever of happy activity having a new gown made up, and dreaming of the famous people she would meet. This was her first foray into public literary life, and she looked forward to at last meeting other authors. Murray told her Fanny Burney would be there and had expressed a particular desire to meet her. Miss Burney was the most famous female writer of the period. Prudence felt she had reached the pinnacle of fame. It never occurred to her Lord Dammler might attend.
He might as well not have for all the effect her presence had on him. Murray introduced them just as Dammler was about to slip out the door fifteen minutes after his arrival. Neither Murray nor Wordsworth regretted his hasty departure. Once he had ambled in attention had been pretty well diverted from the guest of honour. It had taken a team of six strong men to get Wordsworth through the crowd surrounding the young poet. They shook hands and exchanged compliments unheard due to the general noise.
“Oh, Dammler, here is someone you ought to know,” Murray said as Dammler headed for the door. Prudence had managed to sidle up to get a better look at him without being discovered. “Miss Prudence Mallow, one of my rising writers.”
“Charmed, Miss Mallow,” the poet said in his drawling voice, with a formal bow from the waist and a smile that kept Prudence from work for two days.
She nearly forgot to curtsy, but stood staring at Dammler with an awestruck expression, taking in every detail of his face and form. She hadn’t known such perfection existed on earth. In fact, she had to step up her idea of heaven upon seeing him.
Familiar with this reaction on the part of young ladies, Dammler shouldered the burden of conversation and asked, “What Is it you write, Miss Mallow, novels or poetry?”
“Poetry,” she answered, with no intention of deceiving him, but not aware of what she said.
“I shall look forward to reading it,” he told her, and bowed himself away.
Prudence’s daydreaming rose to a higher pitch as a result of this encounter. The hero she had envisioned from the prints and cartoons in magazines and shop windows was filled out, improved, born anew upon a vision of the real man. Around three o’clock that morning as she lay wide awake reliving the evening, she recalled that she had not offered a word of praise to the poet on his work, nor offered to give him a copy of hers, which was surely hinted at by saying he looked forward to reading it. She arose from her bed, lit her taper, and inscribed her own copy to him that instant. The top corner of the first volume was a little dented from having been dropped, but the damage was not very noticeable. She pondered over what message to inscribe, and decided on the formal “Best wishes to Lord Dammler from Miss Mallow.” This book handled by herself would soon rest in his hands. Words and ideas culled from her brain would be transmitted through his eye to his brain. It was an intimacy never looked for. She fell asleep wo
ndering what he would think of her book, and awoke with a headache to send it off to Mr. Murray to deliver to Lord Dammler.
Next morning when Dammler stepped into Murray’s office for a business meeting, the publisher gave him the three volumes of Miss Mallow’s first book.
“How extremely kind of her,” he said with a sort of sneering smile. “I am now expected to call in person and thank her, I collect.”
“A note will suffice.”
“I shan’t encourage her advances. You will kindly thank her on my behalf, John.”
John smiled, used to Dammler’s offhand ways. A half hour later Dammler was sitting in Lady Melvine’s saloon being scolded for leaving early the evening before.
“I have brought you a gift to make it up,” he said, giving her the volumes from Miss Mallow. “By a new writer Murray is encouraging. Very good he tells me.”
“Miss Mallow,” Lady Melvine read the name. “I am not familiar with her writing. Is she pretty?”
“No.”
“What is she like?”
“I have no recollection, but she cannot have been pretty or I would have. I seem to recall she wore a cap.”
“Ah, an older lady.”
He nodded, and began to quiz his aunt about some foolishness or other.
Chapter Three
“You are looking pulled today, Prudence,” Clarence said in a jolly mood as a result of her glorious evening just past. How Sir Alfred, currently posing for his portrait, would stare when he mentioned casually that his niece had met Dammler, and thought him a pretty good sort of a fellow. Prudence was his niece when she was good, and Wilma’s daughter when she was not. “It is a result of gallivanting with all the smarts and swells. So you saw Lord Dammler, eh? I daresay you will be taking off your caps and legging it after him, like all the other girls.”
Prudence smiled wanly but said nothing.
“Prudence is too prudent for that,” her mother countered gaily with the stale old joke.
“I have been thinking, Prue,” Clarence continued, “now that you are famous and hobnobbing with all the elite, you will want your portrait taken.”
“No indeed, there is no need for another. You have done three or four of me already, Uncle,” Prue reminded him.
“Don’t be shy. I would like to do it. Sitting three-quarters profile, like Mona Lisa, with a pen in your hand or a book in your lap to show your calling.” Here was a daring departure from the usual pose. A pen in the hand would be a new challenge for Uncle Clarence, and as to adding a book, this use of symbols was a whole new career for him. “I shall have Sir Alfred stick a flower in his lapel,” he added, beaming with anticipation as the full possibilities of this ploy washed over him. “He is a horticulturalist, you see. Raises flowers in that little box he calls a conservatory. Well, well. I don’t see Sir Thomas Lawrence using this idea. I daresay he will snap it up when he hears what I am up to. Don’t mention it if you happen to be talking to Lawrence,” he warned Prudence, apparently under the misapprehension that henceforth her days would be spent gadding about from one gathering of celebrities to another.
She did not bother to mention it to Sir Thomas Lawrence or anyone else, though Clarence certainly imparted his secret to everyone he met. Mrs. Hering was to return her portrait to have a feather painted into her hand, symbolic of her passion for her “wee feathered friends,” as she called them. Clarence was desirous of adding a symbol to the three-quarters profile of Mr. Arnprior, still drying against the studio wall, but did not like to put a fish into his hand, although fishing was his sole enjoyment. The day was saved by remembering Prue’s book. He would paint a copy of Walton’s Compleat Angler and hang it cunningly in mid-air beside the sitter, there being no table or other object in the picture to hold it. Clarence’s backgrounds were filled in with a wide brush in one solid colour, blue if the model was a blond, pink for a brunette, and yellow for those aged persons with blue or purple hair.
Prudence was not required to chaperone Sir Alfred’s sitting, so she was free to pursue her own interests for the next three days. She was pleasantly surprised and highly gratified to receive a visit from Miss Burney a day after the dinner party, and elated to be invited the next day to ride out in her carriage. It seemed the walls of social London were at last beginning to tumble down and let her enter. During the ride, Miss Burney took her to call on “a dear friend,” Lady Melvine, one of the leading hostesses of society.
Imagine Prue’s joy to discover, when she entered Lady Melvine’s saloon, a copy of her novel lying on the side table. Lady Melvine was a tall, handsome woman in her middle years, with a sharp tongue and a ready wit. She liked to discover new personalities and to be the first to have them at a party. Prudence found her interesting, but not particularly likable.
“So you are Miss Mallow,” she said, examining Prudence closely. Not at all fashionable, she observed. “I thought you’d be older. There’s a good deal of discernment in your books, my dear. You’ve a sharp tongue. I like that. Too mealy-mouthed, most of our female writers. Oh, not you, Fanny. Don’t poker up on me. And certainly not Madame de Staël—au contraire in her case. I have been reading The Composition all afternoon—a strange title you have chosen, Miss Mallow. Not very catching, if you will pardon my saying so.”
“The Composition assumes more interest as the story progresses,” Prudence pointed out. “I believe you must still be on Volume One.” This volume lay open, face down, on the table.
“So I am. I am a slow reader, but I like it immensely.” She picked the book up and pointed out to Prudence how far she had got. “I'm just here where the niece Is being driven mad by her aunt’s eternal playing of the pianoforte.”
With the book in her hands now, Prudence noticed little indentation in the upper corner, exactly where the copy she had given Dammler had been marred. Curious, she opened the cover and examined the fly leaf. Her surprise was great to see it was the same copy, with her own words inscribed. Lady Melvine noticed her expression and explained, “Dammler gave it to me yesterday. He particularly recommended it to me.”
“Did he indeed?” Prudence asked. “He enjoyed it then?” He hadn’t read a word—she only sent it to Murray yesterday. It was a slap in the face.
"I'm sure he did.”
“That’s odd. He must be a remarkably fast reader, ma’am. He hadn’t read it Monday evening, and I sent it to Murray Tuesday, the same day he passed it to you."
“Well, there now, we are found out!” Lady Melvine laughed. “It never does to lie, does it? The fact is, Miss Mallow, Dammler seldom reads a novel. He likes philosophy and history and that serious sort of thing. Novels are for us ladies.”
“His poetry would not indicate a taste for philosophy or history or anything so serious,” Prudence was goaded by her hurt into saying. “In fact his Cantos from Abroad are nothing but a totally incredible novel in rhyme. Mine is at least believable.”
Lady Melvine was delighted to hear this. She had been looking for a needle to annoy Dammler and hoped she had found one. “You dislike the book then?”
The fact was that Prudence adored the cantos, so swashbuckling and splendidly told, but it was the hero, and the knowledge of his alter ego that made them so enjoyable. She equivocated, “I liked it well enough—something different you know.”
“Damning with faint praise!” Lady Melvine encouraged her. “What did you find particularly incredible?”
“It was a strain to credit that he had single-handedly rescued three Indian maidens while being pursued by a band of marauding scalp-hunters, and on the very same evening got out of the wilderness in time to attend a ball in some large city or other, and be seduced by the governor’s wife.”
“Oh, but the matter of being chased by Indians is true—it is how he injured his eye,” Lady Melvine assured her.
"I'm sure it is true he attended a ball as well, and even made love to the governor’s lady, but it is unlikely so much excitement occurred in one day.”
Fanny Burne
y, with her usual tact, refused to criticize a popular writer. “It is a matter of pacing, Miss Mallow. The events naturally did not occur one on top of the other, but for the sake of maintaining excitement, Dammler plunges us on from one adventure to another without describing the duller portions of the trip. And what are you planning to write next? My next is to be set in Rome.”
“Since Dammler is taking the world for his background, ma’am, I mean to send my next heroine into the cosmos, and confront her with planetary creatures to give a little excitement, which seems to be what is craved today. She will fly up from Plymouth in a balloon in the morning, land on the moon for a quick battle with twenty thousand or so strange creatures, free a prison full of hostages before lunch, be initiated into the secret of longevity, and bounce back to London for tea with the Prince of Wales. I don’t want the thing to drag.”
Lady Melvine chuckled in glee, but Fanny Burney said, “How droll you are, Miss Mallow,” and determined to drop the quaint creature before she became an embarrassment. The two ladies later took their leave, and Miss Mallow realized from the manner of her new friend that she had displeased. There was no mention made of their going out together again. That evening Prudence reread Cantos from Abroad and found an inconsistency in every line. The story was ridiculous, the happenings so farfetched as to be absurd. The whole could hardly have been compressed into a lifetime, let alone a couple of years. As she read, a smile lingered on her face at the charm of the account.
