by Unknown
Everybody gossiped that Romney and Emma were lovers. They were half right: shy, emotional Romney was infatuated with his model, and she dominated his private thoughts as well as his public gallery. Emma had been schooled in encouraging men to talk about themselves, and he responded to her breathless interest in him. He liked to think that she, who comprehended his creative aims so well, might also understand him as a man. After twenty years living apart from his wife, he was lonely but still too conscious of his humble roots to flirt with the smart women he painted. However, unlike men like Sir Harry Fetherstonhaugh, he did not believe women existed only for his own pleasure, and he restrained himself, knowing that any attempt to seduce her would wreck her newfound security. He poured out his passion in agitated notes to Hayley Emma, in her turn, felt affectionate toward him and was deeply grateful for his interest in her. But the edgy workaholic painter was not her type, and she was well aware that her relationship with Greville and his willingness to care for her mother and child was conditional on her absolute fidelity. The relationship was an unrequited passion, predicated on her unavailability and his restraint; she was a natural exhibitionist and he was something of a voyeur. She was learning how to keep a man’s attentions by resisting him.
Romney’s obsession with Emma pervaded his paintings for the rest of his life. He filled dozens of sketchbooks with pictures of her—nude, clothed, and in various poses. Even when he painted other women, he made them look like her: dark hair, pale skin, pink cheeks, full mouth, oval face, tall, long-legged. He showed both her exuberant, sensual personality and her pleasure in life, and he never equaled the vibrancy and grace of his portraits of her in his other work. As he complimented her, “I have had a great number of ladies of fashion siting to me since you left England but they all fall short of The Spinstress, indeed, it is the Sun of my Hemisphere and they are but twinkling stars.”7
∗ Although ostensibly based on a simpler style, the dress, like the pastel suit for men, served the purpose of elite fashion: a long white dress in flimsy material was impractical and showed off the wearer as someone who did not have to work and could travel by carriage.
Many portraits were ruined. Some rotted away in the damp rooms of his Hampstead home, where he moved in 1798, and others have been destroyed. Lost are paintings of Emma as Iphigenia, Joan of Arc, a Pythian princess, and a picture of how he guessed she was in childhood. Hundreds more canvases of Emma were begun than ever completed.
As a result of Romney’s devotion, Emma became the most painted woman ever in Europe, and there are more portraits of her than Queen Victoria or any English or European actress or aristocrat. Thanks to Romney’s interest, other painters began to demand a sitting from her, including Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Lawrence, Alexander Day, Guy Head, and Gavin Hamilton, as well as European artists such as Angelica Kauffmann, Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, Johannes Schmidt, and Wilhelm Tischbein. If he had not painted her so often and with such skill, they would not have been so eager to capture her likeness. Even those who caricatured her borrow their vision from Romney by reworking the poses he used.
While paintings of Emma hung on the walls of expensive stately homes, cheap prints of the same portraits soon adorned poorer homes across the country. She became a commodity, and versions of portraits of her began to appear on consumer goods: cups, fans, screens, and sometimes even items of clothing. Like frequently photographed women today, her image was seared onto the public consciousness. She became a fantasy figure for thousands of men and a fashion leader for women. Even if she had never become as celebrated as she did, the loveliness of her portraits would have ensured her lasting fame. By 1783, Emma had become the most wanted model in London. She had no idea of the storm clouds gathering behind her.
Charles Greville detested his new role as the lover of an icon. He was making plans to be rid of her.
CHAPTER 16
Entertaining the Envoy
It was the summer of 1783, and Greville was jumpy. His uncle, the wealthy, newly widowed Sir William Hamilton, was about to arrive in England for the first time in more than five years. Greville was intent on monopolizing his attentions, for he was in dire need of a loan. Emma flurried around her lover, promising to use her every wile to charm the middle-aged visitor, confident that she would soon have him eating out of her hand. Dressing herself in her prettiest outfit and arranging herself in the parlor at Edgware Row, she rehearsed topics of conversation suitable for a deeply depressed old man. When handsome, fashionable Sir William sprang into her home, full of jokes, eager to touch her hand and give it a long, lingering kiss, she was surprised—and excited.
Fifty-five-year-old Sir William had arrived to organize his late wife’s estates and earn himself a few pounds by selling off the most precious vase from his collection of Greek and Roman antiquities, as well as to catch up with his dozens of friends. The fourth and youngest son of Lord Archibald Hamilton, Sir William became a diplomat after a stint in the army. Since 1764 he had been envoy plenipotentiary to Naples, fulfilling the role of an ambassador but denied the name and the salary because the British government considered the kingdom irrelevant to English trading and military interests and dismissed it as a close ally of Spain. Hamilton devoted himself to childish King Ferdinand and demanding Queen Maria Carolina in order to aggrandize his own position by developing closer ties between England and Naples. A natural hedonist, he flourished in the Neapolitan court, where decisions were made on the hunting field and in the ballroom. The only way to infiltrate the inner circle was by spending huge amounts of cash, and so it was fortunate that he had married a splendidly wealthy Welsh heiress, Catherine Barlow. Thanks to the peasants planting wheat on her Pembrokeshire estates, he spent unrestrainedly on sumptuous horses and carriages, hosted lavish dinners, and ordered fittingly grand outfits of gold, silver, and silk.1 As the fashion for the grand tour expanded, the English flocked to Naples, attracted by its party-mad reputation, and Sir William expended vast sums on their accommodation and entertainment. Since the recent discovery of the ruined classical city of Pompeii, he had also earned a reputation as one of the biggest collectors in Italy, spending thousands of Catherine’s pounds on statues, artifacts, vases, and art.
Emma’s new friend had grown up in the royal court with the future King George III. His mother, Lady Jane Hamilton, had been the mistress of Frederick, Prince of Wales, from about 1736 until 1745. Frederick appointed her his wife’s lady of the bedchamber. Then, dizzy with lust, he also made her the queen’s mistress of the robes—not even the poor queen’s clothes were free from her rival’s claws. Lady Jane possessed the highest position open to a woman in the royal household and held absolute sway over Frederick and his family throughout her son’s early life. Sir William called King George his foster brother, boasting that “my Mother reared us and the same nurse suckled us.“2 With this he hinted what many suspected: he was the Prince of Wales’s son. Archibald Hamilton, fifty-eight at his birth, was neglected by Jane and, according to the wickedly accurate Lord Hervey, long reduced to the “passive character his wife and the Prince had graciously allotted him.“3 It may have been that Lady Jane achieved such spectacular influence over Frederick because William was his child.
Sir William mixed with the highest aristocrats in England—and some of London’s most colorful men. He was a focal member of the Society of Dilettanti, a circle of genteel libertines fascinated by foreign sexual cults, led by Richard Payne Knight, a sensualist masquerading as a scholar. A more levelheaded friend was Sir Joseph Banks, celebrated naturalist and president of the Royal Society of Science. Sir William was attracted to wealthy eccentrics, and one of his closest friends was his second cousin William Beckford, novelist, collector, and the richest man in England, famous for his sybaritic lifestyle and profligate spending. Greville fitted in well with his uncle’s raffish, cultured set. When Greville had visited Naples at the age of twenty, Sir William had been pleasantly surprised to find he was a man after his own heart, interested in both art and dem
imondaines. They were immediately friends, and Greville was soon asking for money and favors.
Although he made extravagant use of her wealth, Sir William neglected Catherine. Quiet and accomplished, she reviled the shallow Neapolitans along with their boorish king and hypocritical queen. Sir William admired his wife’s musical talents and prized her spotless reputation, but he found her company insipid and he was irritated by her frequent bouts of low spirits and illness. Dejected by Hamilton’s boundless enthusiasm for everything but her, Catherine found comfort in a Neapolitan orphan she adopted as a daughter. After the child’s death, probably from malaria, in 1775, she suffered further depression and her health deteriorated. In May 1782, Sir William realized that the city he loved had wrecked “Lady H’s tatter’d constitution.” Catherine was dying. In his Villa Portici, at the foot of Vesuvius, she lingered painfully until August. She left him a letter chiding him for his “dissipated life,” writing that “you never have known half the tender affection I have borne you” and that she loved him “beyond the love of Woman.”
After indulging his guilt among Catherine’s belongings, Sir William set off for England on his first visit since 1777. He hoped to release the money from Catherine’s estate and sell his best vase to the Duchess of Portland, a woman celebrated for being, like him, intoxicated only by empty vases. He owed £4,000 to antique dealers and he needed money. When he arrived, he stayed in the newly built and fashionable Nerot’s Hotel, close to the St. James shops and dealers, the Palace and the King’s Place brothels, all far too expensive for him. London welcomed him back: the April edition of the European Magazine began the fanfare early by opening with a full-page engraving of him and an admiring biographical sketch.4 The king teased him about remarrying, but William was in no hurry to scour London’s eligible aristocrats for a suitable wife.
Sir William was immediately enchanted by Emma and began visiting her almost daily, putting off his visit to his late wife’s estates in Wales and procrastinating about meeting the Duchess of Portland. Emma received himjoyfully: she had plenty of free time and had never had such an engaging guest. Tall, thin, and very fit from trekking up Mount Vesuvius, Sir William had a sharp nose and bright, inquisitive eye. A famously stylish dresser, he set off his good looks with sumptuous suits of pink, blue, and red silks and handsome shoes with large silver buckles. Intellectual and cultured, he had a charismatic personality and a true gift for friendship. The perfect diplomat, he shied away from saying anything that might offend or annoy, peppering his conversation with hilarious anecdotes about King Ferdinand and juicy morsels of gossip about the Neapolitan court.
Emma, cooped up in the country and pining for the gossip and glamour of high society, devoured Sir William’s stories and begged him for more. She was very lonely. Early in 1783, Greville had gained the position of treasurer to the royal household, and he was often away from Edgware Row. She threw her energies into pleasing Sir William and showing herself off as accomplished. He was utterly bowled over by her: young, beautiful, obliging, fond of music, and eager to show an interest in art. Still bruised by the death of his wife, he craved female attention. He adored wasting time, and here was a lovely young woman with seemingly nothing to do but sing to him, serve him tea and cakes, and entertain him. Soon, they were giggling together in corners, flirting incessantly, and teasing each other robustly. Emma could be as bold as she pleased, for Sir William was much less easily offended than Greville. He even snatched her away for spontaneous visits to town. She dubbed him “Pliny,” after the Roman scholar and vulcanologist. He called her the “Fair Tea Maker of Edgware Row.”
Emma told herself that her friendliness toward him was a dutiful effort to further the connection between her lover and his uncle. But she found herself looking forward to Sir William’s visits, hugging herself with pride about his admiration for her. Only a few years ago, she thought, she had been hopelessly poor, and now a wealthy envoy came all the way to Paddington simply to sing with her and listen to her jokes.
Sir William’s favorite niece, vibrant Mary Hamilton, had been looking forward to his visit, expecting to be spoiled rotten. Twenty-seven-year-old Mary had only just left her position at court as third companion to the princesses. After six years of deadly dull embroidery and early nights in threadbare Windsor Castle, alleviated only when the Prince of Wales (six years her junior) had fallen passionately in love with her when she was twenty-three, she was excited to be living with friends in Piccadilly. Not rich, she was no doubt hoping that she might be able to charm Sir William into giving her a big present toward a dowry. She was acutely annoyed to find she had a rival—and a woman of dubious reputation at that. She teased her uncle mercilessly about his fascination with “Greville’s mistress.“5 When he began to enquire about having his own portrait of Emma made to adorn his Naples home, it was the last straw. Her uncle, she declared, was neglecting his friends in London in his frenzy to put the city’s artists into competition, “painting this Woman’s picture for him to take to Naples.” Sir William foisted on her the job of negotiating the sale of his vase to the duchess. To her credit, she successfully sold the vase (now in the British Museum). Hopefully, her uncle rewarded her with a present for her efforts.
Forgetting his debts, Sir William commissioned Joshua Reynolds to paint her as a bacchante, hoping that the great artist would produce a portrait that outshone Romney’s. Sir Joshua’s Bacchante was, however, a failure. Although he captured some of her infectious gaiety and replicated the exquisite detail of her gold-trimmed cashmere shawl, the fussy drapery and hair confused the lines, the face was too wide, and the finger in the mouth—a familiar erotic posture used for courtesans and actresses such as Frances Abington—made her look simpering. Sir William paid the price of thirty guineas and then in the spring of 1784 commissioned Romney to paint her as another bacchante, a more daring full-length image in which the viewer gains a side view of Emma’s bosom. She wears a peach-pink dress that sets off her complexion, and he captures her from the same side as Sensibility, but she is running with a dog. Slim and vibrant, she smiles with delight at the viewer, her hair and dress streaming behind her. Bacchantes, according to a contemporary bestseller on music history, participated at orgies nearly naked, dancing wildly, their hair disheveled.6 No respectable woman would consent to be portrayed as a nymph in the throes of desire. Emma allowed Sir William to commission a painting of her in the most scandalous pose because she desperately desired his good opinion.
Sir William was utterly infatuated with Emma, but he considered his flirtation with her to be no more than a fun interlude, a mere holiday romance. Predicting that Greville would soon grow bored and cast her off, he did not expect to see her again after he left England.
“If I was the greatest laidy in the world I should not be happy from you,” Emma wrote to Greville in 1784. Although they were often bickering, she blamed the strains in the relationship on his job at the Treasury and his uncertainty about Sir William’s plans. Finally, after delaying it for a year, Sir William and Greville set off to survey the Welsh estates. Greville did not trust Emma alone in London, and he dispatched her to Cheshire with her mother to collect little Emma and then travel on to spend the summer by the sea at Abergele.
Emma met up with her daughter, now age one, at her grandmother’s house in Hawarden. Mother and daughter began to build a relationship. She also decided Abergele was too far away and “uncumfortable” and set off instead for the glamorous sea resort of Parkgate, on the west coast of England. Only a few miles from Emma’s birthplace, Parkgate was a world away from grimy Ness. Visitors admired the handsome promenade of white and red houses and flocked to the elegant entertainments. More than thirty hotels graced the long seafront, and small alleys were named after roads such as Drury Lane in London to attract the urban rich. Perched on the promenade were a theater, a billiard room, several coffee shops and restaurants, a racecourse, and assembly rooms for dancing, tea drinking, and card parties. Since it was the main port for passeng
er boats to Ireland, most of the actors and aristocrats traveling there spent a couple of days in the town. England’s elite partied in Parkgate, most recently Mrs. Fitzherbert, new wife of the Prince of Wales. The visit of sweet-natured Maria, a Catholic widow and the most controversial woman in England after the secret marriage that had so infuriated the king that he swore she would never be Princess of Wales, meant one thing: the hoteliers put up their prices.
Engraving by Charles Knight of Romney’s own copy of Lady Hamilton as a Bacchante—the painting commissioned by an admiring Sir William in 1784. Greville made his friend paint the portrait repeatedly until he judged it beautiful enough for his discerning uncle. When it was finally finished, Bacchante became one of Romney’s most popular paintings and prints of the engraving were soon bestsellers.
Emma claimed she had found a cheap apartment at Mrs. Darnwood’s boardinghouse, now Dover House, 16 Station Road, but its pleasant position right by the sea came at a cost. Little Emma played with Mrs. Cadogan by the sea while her mother embarked on a stringent detoxifying and beautifying regime that was, as she confessed, a “great expense”: “a shilling a day for the bathing horse and whoman and twopence a day for the dress.” Bathing machines were liberally advertised in the local papers: a carriage driven by a liveried man and a horse, which had at the back a long covered tunnel so that the lady could bathe in (dark) privacy.7 It seems as if Emma had developed eczema at Edgware Row, and it was particularly painful on her knees and elbows. Greville had been repulsed by her peeling skin, so she was anxious to prove it was improving, declaring she washed her knees and elbows at least twice a day in seawater and massaged them with moisturizing cream, as well as hiring a maid to slather seaweed all over her before she went to bed.
