by Neil McKenna
Vulgar rivals and cheap imitators had periodically attempted to usurp the position of the Gazette as the town’s social lodestar, as its finely calibrated chronometer of gentility. The Scarborough Advertiser and List of Visitors had lasted a mere four months, while the grandly named James Greasley’s Scarborough Times and Weekly List of Visitors survived just a matter of weeks. It was true that the Scarborough Herald and Weekly List of Visitors had mounted a more sustained siege, lasting, much to everyone’s surprise, for two years and two months, before withering on the vine. The Scarborough Gazette and Weekly List of Visitors sailed on, unperturbed and imperturbable, through rough seas, storm and tempest, as Scarborough’s ship of social state.
The entire purpose of the Gazette, its beginning, middle and end, was polite society and the social round. Week in, week out, the Gazette would appear at exactly the same time on a Thursday morning with two or three, and sometimes more, pages devoted to listing those visitors to Scarborough considered to fall within the pale of polite society. For ease of social gradation visitors were grouped together according to which hotel, apartment or other establishment they were residing in during their stay, and these selfsame hotels, apartments and other establishments would be listed in strictly descending order of gentility.
Scarborough’s long season stretched from March to almost the end of November, and every day of every week the train would shudder slowly to a halt alongside the railway station’s famously long platform, and from its first-class carriages would be disgorged and deposited, like the shining pebbles washed up on the Strand, a fresh batch of distinguished visitors to make new patternings in Scarborough’s endlessly shifting social sands.
And what pebbles, what patterns, what sands! When Royalty, in the ample figure of the Prince of Wales, graced the town with a visit in 1869, the news caused much fluttering in the breasts of the ladies of Scarborough. Some were propelled into a positive frenzy of excitement and gave themselves up to endlessly promenading the fashionable shopping streets, or genteelly loitering in the gardens and parades in their best bonnets, in the forlorn hope of dropping a curtsey to His Royal Highness.
The Peerage was well represented, with a fair sprinkling of Dukes and Duchesses and Dowagers, Lord This’s and Lady That’s, as well as a baker’s dozen of baronets or their relicts. There were any number of Honourables, and an even larger number of assorted, untitled relations: annuitarians of all shapes and sizes; cousins of multiple and dizzying removes; swathes of elderly maiden aunts and blustering port-nosed uncles; and plenty of plain – in the fullest sense of the word – Misses. Almost without exception these assorted relations were as poor as church mice – poorer even, if such a thing were possible – but they kept up appearances wonderfully well and never ceased bragging about and basking in the reflected glory of their wealthier kin.
Then there were those from the middle ranks of society: an abundance of elderly and wealthy widows; plenty of plump ladies of a certain age richly dressed in Macclesfield silks garnished with gold and diamonds; ruddy-faced gentleman farmers and their ruddy-faced lady wives, who always looked a little uncomfortable in their Sunday best; surgeons, lawyers and portly parsons and lean preachers with their wives and children, as well as the odd Collector or lesser-ranking official of the East India Company spending his six months’ home leave by the sea. Without any particular distinguished connexion but with plenty of money, they had managed to establish a precarious toehold in Scarborough society by dint of lavish hospitality and a willingness, bordering on the slavish, to flatter and praise and pander to their social betters.
Scarborough prided itself on not being narrow, on not being hidebound. The wealthy, as well as the well-born, all had their contribution to make and it would be foolish to make too many hard and fast rules. All were meticulously recorded in the hallowed pages of the Scarborough Gazette and Weekly List of Visitors as if it were the Book of Life itself.
Apart from those invalids – real and imagined – who came in search of a cure and assiduously drank the vinegary, brown chalybeate waters famed for their aperient properties – ‘it strengthens and exhilarates the bowel,’ according to Theakston’s Guide to Scarborough (author and publisher: Mr Solomon Wilkinson Theakston) – and discovered by the enterprising Mrs Thomasin Farrer in the reign of good King Charles, matrimony was the main purpose and preoccupation of Scarborough’s visiting gentlefolk. Like a vast flock of migratory birds that each year flew to the farthest shores to seek out a mate, so the distinguished and the not-so-distinguished, the rich and the poor, the plain and the beautiful, the old and the young, the hopeful and the hopeless, those with a past and those with a future, flocked to Scarborough for the annual mating season where rich and brilliant plumage, elaborate courtship rituals, dancing and singing, struttings, couplings, feints and sleights made it a sight to behold.
There was a mild flutter of anticipation among the readers of the Gazette of Thursday, 15th October 1868 when that august organ, struggling gallantly with the spelling of Stella’s given name, announced that ‘Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton, M.P. and Mr Earnest Boulton, Esquire’ would be appearing next Tuesday and Wednesday at the Spa Saloon, Scarborough in a dramatic double bill, A Morning Call and Love and Rain.
The subsequent sudden and dramatic postponement of the entertainment at the Spa Saloon took everybody by surprise. Mr George Reeve Smith, the manager, took the unusual step of publishing the text of the terse telegram he had received from Lord Arthur:
Oct. 20, 1868. – Clinton, London, to Smith, Spar.
Ernest Boulton very unwell. Cannot leave London to-day. Will start by nine train to-night. Pray postpone entertainment until Wednesday.
It was felt by everyone to be a most gentlemanly telegram, and there was widespread speculation as to what the sudden indisposition of Mr Ernest Boulton might be. It was to be hoped that it was neither serious nor contagious (especially not the latter, in case Lord Arthur contracted the contagion, and then who knew what might happen). But the anxious matrons of Scarborough were reassured by the fact that Mr Boulton would clearly be well enough to travel later the same day, though everyone knew that travelling through the night was ruinous to health. Indeed, there was such a wave of sympathetic interest in the wellbeing of these two young men that when they arrived in Scarborough bleary-eyed and half-asleep early on the Wednesday morning, both performances were completely sold out.
In its edition of Thursday, 22nd October 1868, the Gazette recorded, erroneously, the names of the two distinguished visitors who had arrived the day before: ‘Pelham-Clinton, Lord Arthur M.P.’ and ‘Belton, Ernest Esq.’ They were staying at the Royal Hotel, where the startlingly named ‘Mr D. Anus’ was also listed as residing. Though considerably less expensive than the newly built Grand Hotel with its 365 bedrooms (one for every day of the year), the Royal was nevertheless highly regarded by Crosby’s Guide as ‘the oldest and most aristocratic’ of the Scarborough hotels.
The more enthusiastic readers of the Gazette were curious, more than a little curious, to see Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton in the flesh. Apart from being the third son of a very distinguished Duke, he had been, it was said, quite a hero during the dreadful Indian Uprising, though no one could remember the exact details of his gallantry. More to the point, he was the Member for Newark (and quite a rising Member, it was said, with the patronage of Mr Gladstone assured by virtue of being his godson).
It was a trifle unusual, Scarborough conceded, for a rising Member to tread the boards so enthusiastically; such theatrical propensities seemed more than a little odd, especially as the interests of most gentlemen from similar stock began and ended with blood sports. But whether there was any impropriety in it was quite another matter. Scarborough noted that Lord Arthur had appeared on the professional stage alongside the Marquis Townshend’s troupe of ‘Noble Amateurs’, and so as far as society was concerned that was the end of it. Any endeavour, theatrical or otherwise, which numbered in its ranks at least one Marquis must be a highly
respectable, if not positively praiseworthy, pastime.
There was one aspect of Lord Arthur’s life in which Scarborough took a particular and kindly interest. He was known to be unmarried at the present time, and in the eyes of Scarborough society an unmarried Lord was an unmarried Lord and therefore an extremely desirable commodity for their many unmarried daughters. Though there had been rumours of engagements, indeed of several engagements, none of them had fruited into matrimony. It could well be that Lord Arthur was currently engaged. Scarborough would cross that bridge when – and if – it came to it. But a man was innocent until proven guilty. Scarborough would therefore treat Lord Arthur as not engaged to be married – and go on treating him as such until proof positive was offered to the contrary.
According to the well-thumbed copy of Dod’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage of Great Britain and Ireland in Mr Theakston’s Library (founder and proprietor: Mr Solomon Wilkinson Theakston), Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton was twenty-eight years of age – the perfect age, in the opinion of many, for a man to marry; an age when the impetuosity of youth gives way to manly maturity, when wild oats have been sown (and sometimes unfortunately reaped), and when most men are soberly considering taking a well-brought-up wife with a comfortable fortune.
Then, of course, Lord Arthur was a bankrupt and his name had been in the newspapers. Though the shame and stigma of bankruptcy might well damage the chances of other, lesser, men in the matrimonial market, the wealthy matrons of Scarborough with spinster daughters on their hands saw it as a positive advantage. It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man not in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a rich wife. And the same could surely be said for Lord Arthur’s theatrical consort, Mr Boulton or Mr Belton (the Gazette, puzzlingly, had it both ways), who was very likely a most superior sort of young man, although rigorous interrogations of the pages of Dod’s Peerage had not, as yet, borne fruit.
S tella played the roles of Fanny Chillingtone and Lady Jane Desmond to the hilt, with plenty of stage whispers and alouds and asides, managing half a dozen lightning-quick costume changes which delighted the audience and brought forth storms of applause. She was beautiful and she was fascinating, and the audience could not keep their eyes off her. She effortlessly ran through the gamut of emotions, being, by turns, thrillingly bitter and bitingly sarcastic, aristocratically haughty, foot-stampingly impatient and curl-tossingly petulant. She was mischievous, worldly, calculating, but could switch in a flash to vulnerable, fearful and tearful. She simpered, she flirted, she smiled and she was coy. She was compelling and she was dazzling. She sparkled and she shone like the diamonds she wore on stage, reflecting and refracting all the wonderful, the multifarious, the flashing and the fleeting moods of Woman Incarnate. The audience loved her.
Unsurprisingly, the Gazette was positively fawning in its praise of the actors. The Spa was ‘honoured’ and its frequenters ‘delighted’ by the ‘two charming little drawing-room pieces’. The Gazette was especially in awe of ‘the very easy “at home” character of the acting’ which quite obviously reflected ‘the au fait acquired by the social position of the actors’.
Lord Arthur and his companion were invited to attend the sumptuous studios of Mr Oliver Sarony in order that a series of photographic likenesses might be taken. In the commodious dressing rooms of Sarony’s studios (‘an establishment with every convenience for carrying out Photography to perfection’, his advertisements in the Gazette proclaimed), they were to dress themselves as Sir Edward Ardent and Mrs Chillingtone. Mr Sarony took no fewer than thirty-four different negatives for a sequence entitled ‘Man and Wife’. In a long and exhausting session, Stella was also prevailed upon to pose in other attitudes and costumes, including as a nun at prayer, which made a most striking and soulful image.
The photographs sold like hot cakes, and Mr Oliver Sarony struggled to keep up.
‘Was there a popular demand for these photographs?’ Stella’s barrister asked him in court nearly three years later.
‘Yes,’ the photographer replied. ‘There was a great demand.’
‘They sold freely to the Gentlemen and visitors in Scarborough?’
‘Very fast, as fast as we could print them.’
The most popular photographs were those of Stella alone, and were purchased, in the main, by admiring and incredulous gentlemen. Lord Arthur may have been the most sought-after bachelor by the matrons of Scarborough, but it was Stella who caused the greatest excitement among the gentlemen of the place. Encouraged by the warmth of her reception, which seemed to verge on adulation, Stella determined to venture out in full drag in the town, where her presence created a most extraordinary commotion – especially among the gentlemen. Hats were doffed. Bows were made. Introductions were effected. Arms were proffered and eager invitations to luncheon, to tea and to dinner fell like confetti at her feet. Scarborough had never seen anything quite like it. She was the toast of the town, and seemingly all eyes were upon her.
They were not always friendly eyes. Despite her conquering the hearts of most of the gentlemen in Scarborough, there were a few who obstinately refused to succumb to Stella’s many and various charms, a few who manifested hostility towards her, towards the very idea of her, who brindled and bridled at the very mention of her name. One such was Mr Wybert Reeve, ‘lessee and manager’ of the long-established Theatre Royal in Scarborough, a sworn and bitter rival of the Spa Saloon and the Spa Theatre, which had in recent years leeched his audiences away.
When Lord Arthur and Stella decided to attend a performance at the Theatre Royal, Mr Wybert Reeve felt compelled to call the police.
Lord Arthur had the impertinence to introduce Ernest Boulton in female attire, and sit with him in a prominent place among the Ladies and Gentlemen assembled in the dress circle in my theatre.
On hearing of it I at once desired the police, if possible, to take them into custody. They, however, contrived to leave the theatre with the crowd.
The next morning I wrote to Lord Arthur Clinton, expressing in strong terms my annoyance, and explaining the order I had given to the police if he dared to repeat the offence.
Notwithstanding this, and my refusal to accept an apology, he afterwards applied to me to allow them both to appear in a piece entitled A Morning Call on the stage of this theatre, which I at once decidedly refused.
It was a narrow escape for Lord Arthur and Stella. Mr Wybert Reeve’s visceral anger and animosity towards them was a stark reminder, a warning, that not all gentlemen could be beguiled, dazzled and seduced by Stella’s beauty and by Stella’s charms. Burlesque on stage was one thing: acceptable to some, offensive to others. But it was quite another thing when men dressed as women walked the streets; when they dared to take their places – their prominent places – among the serried ranks of ladies and gentlemen in the Dress Circle; when they smirked and simpered and giggled and flirted with gentlemen as if they were real women. It was all wrong. It was more than wrong. It was unnatural and it was criminal, and (in the opinion of Mr Wybert Reeve and many other gentlemen with whom he had discussed the matter with much huffing and puffing) if there was not a law against such goings-on, there ought to be. Lord Arthur and his catamite may have evaded capture for now. But such creatures should take heed, they said. They will get their comeuppance. It was only a matter of time.
15
‘Yr Affectionate Fanny’
Don’t be too particular
When you come to woo;
Lay aside your spectacles
Worthy bachelors, do!
When wives are young and dutiful
Honeymoon’s pleasures abound;
But who would wish for a beautiful
Honeymoon all the year round?
Then don’t be too particular!
John Orlando Parry, 1843
E veryone was agreed. Stella was impossible. Quite impossible. Completely, absolutely and utterly impossible.
Not just annoying. Not just irritating. But infuria
ting, exasperating, maddening. She was entirely selfish and entirely self-absorbed. She was easily bored and took no pains to conceal her boredom. She was frequently rude and often offensive, especially when she was in her cups, a condition which was the rule rather than the exception.
Stella never listened and she never learned. She was impatient and intolerant. She was dismissive of the feelings of others, belittling and humiliating them as and when the mood took her.
Stella demanded everything as her right and as her due. She took, took and took again. But she gave nothing in return. There were rarely any pleases, and even fewer thank-yous, no gratitude, no recognition of a service rendered, of a gift given or a compliment bestowed. Nothing, not even a smile.
And she was quick to take umbrage over the slightest slight, real or imagined. She could sulk for days or weeks. She was even quicker to anger. Her tempers and her tantrums were things frightening to behold: sudden and violent sea tempests that wrought a terrible havoc and then blew themselves out as swiftly and as bewilderingly as they had blown up. Afterwards, Stella would in some mysterious fashion be calmed and cleansed, drained and purified of the poison within her, while Arthur and all those around her were left clinging to the flotsam and jetsam of their wrecked lives and emotions.
Stella was a prolific writer of letters, though notes might be a better word to describe the shower of missives that assailed Arthur by every post. She was not much given to writing love letters (though of course she delighted in receiving them). Her letters tended to be short and to the point, ranging in tone from the firm and instructive to the impatient and irritable, with only very occasional oases of affection and regard in between.
Arthur could usually tell what sort of mood Stella was in from the way she signed her letters. ‘Stell’ was a rare and good augury. It was her comfortable name, her familiar name. It meant that she was at one with the world, at her ease, in her wrapper, with her stays loosened, her stockings rolled down and her curling papers in.
