Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  The Ambassadress

  1791-1800

  Twenty-three

  The Frenchies Give Us a Fright

  On September 8, 1791, two days after Sir William and I were wed, we arrived in Paris. Just five days earlier, King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette had been permitted their liberty, having been imprisoned in the Tuileries by the National Assembly, following their disastrous flight to Varennes in June. Despite remaining heavily guarded, Their Royal Majesties retained their dignity and maintained their hauteur, holding court three times a week as though nothing had changed.

  But in truth, there were many changes in the city’s perfumed winds. Shop windows displayed grotesque caricatures and political cartoons ridiculing the monarchy and the members of the royal family. As Sir William and I wandered the streets, we noticed many men with short, unpowdered hair, wearing the striped trousers or “sans culottes” popularized by the revolutionaries, who condemned any man in knee breeches as an aristocrat, though Robespierre himself wore them. Men and women alike sported the red Phrygian cap, which denoted their Jacobin sympathies, and the “tricolor” of the new republic was flown from windows and balconies in nearly every neighborhood we visited.

  Sir William’s friend Lord Palmerston, in Paris on some sort of official business, somehow managed to get us admitted to the meeting of the National Assembly on September 14, a most auspicious day for the new order. That afternoon, King Louis appeared before the governing body to publicly declare his acceptance of the new constitution. The king spoke only briefly; to me it sounded as if his words had been scripted, his unhappy demeanor unmasked by his native dignity. I found myself pitying him. Sir William, so customarily placid in every situation, was prodigiously agitated by the rude treatment His Majesty received from the President of the Assembly.

  “By gad, that ill-mannered upstart is acting like he’s the equal of a king!” Sir William muttered angrily. “Where is his deference? Where is his respect? If this is a taste of the fruit which their trees of liberty have yielded, I’ll have none of it!”

  On the following day, Sir William and I were presented at court. Having been prohibited from appearing at the Court of St. James and barred thus far from the Court of the Two Sicilies, I was unaccustomed to the magnitude of the preparation that went into such an event. I was up at dawn to begin my toilette. Both Sir William and Greville had always preferred me to leave my tresses natural, so I was also unprepared for the length of time it took to affect the expected coiffure without a wig. My hair was so long and heavy, I must have used up all the bear grease and bergamot in Paris in the making of my pomade, and enough powder to fill a miller’s flour sack.

  But how grand it was! I wore the diamonds Sir William had given me, and it took Mam over an hour to help me into my numerous underpinnings and petticoats and lace me into my court dress of mustard and rose-colored satin and brocade. Sir William had chosen my robe and underskirt, thinking the colors set off my complexion to perfection. Since I had grown accustomed to very light boning under my neoclassical gowns, the corset, fashioned in the old style, so constricted my movement that I felt like an exotic insect in a silken carapace.

  The king and queen were still holding their audiences in the Tuileries. To reach the twin thrones at the far end of the great hall, Sir William and I had to traverse the length of a pale blue runner accentuated with golden fleurs-de-lis, the Bourbon colors. The queen’s perfume—a concentrated essence of tuberose—invaded my nostrils long before I reached the dais. To my immense relief I managed my very first court curtsy without incident, sinking gracefully to the floor, lowering my head without losing a single hairpin, and then rising without a trace of a wobble. Only then did I gaze into Her Majesty’s eyes. They were a deeper color than her sister’s, and less watery, without the red lids that made her elder sibling too often resemble a bunny rabbit. On the whole, Marie Antoinette was a much prettier woman than Maria Carolina, more doll-like, with proportionate features, larger eyes—though not as keen as those of her elder sister—and a sweet mouth. By the grace of God she had escaped the Hapsburg forehead and jaw. Her artfully applied cosmetics enhanced her natural beauty, rather than obscured it, as it did to so many of the ladies of her court who slathered their faces with white lead. While the elaborateness of her coiffures was legendary, this one was modest by comparison, rising only some eight inches from her scalp and adorned with an enormous diamond aigrette and a pair of stuffed songbirds. She was by no means dull when she spoke, but was clearly without the intellect of Maria Carolina. In almost every family there is a “smart sister” and a “pretty one.” It did not take long for me to determine which was which of the two.

  King Louis had something in him of the Bourbon physiognomy: the nose that began high on the forehead, the small eyes, the cheekbones that appeared more long than wide. Yet he possessed more regality in his little finger than did King Ferdinand in his entire loutish person. Where the King of Naples gloried in being a man of the people, anyone could tell from his demeanor that the King of France detested the common citizen—and with reason.

  “Approchez, ma chère,” commanded the queen. “Non, non, rapprochez-vous.” She motioned for me to come even closer. A bit nervous, I came as near as I could without climbing the steps that led to her throne. Marie Antoinette rose and looked at me curiously. “Lady Hamilton, je crois que vous êtes une vrai amie de la couronne. De temps en temps, ma soeur bien-aimée avait évoqué votre gentillesse. Je dois vous confier quelque chose d’importance.”

  “I am honored by both you and your sister, for your generous compliments of my person. What is it you wish to give me?”

  The queen withdrew a folded paper from her busk. It was already doubly sealed; in addition to the wafer, the Bourbon royal crest was boldly embossed upon the scarlet wax.

  “Une lettre pour ma soeur, la reine la plus puissante de Naples. Donnez-la cet papier en toute confidentialité. Vous n’oubliez pas?”

  “I won’t forget to give it to ’er, mum. I promise.”

  Marie Antoinette kissed the letter before handing it to me. As I slipped it in my own busk, her eyes misted over with tears. “N’oubliez jamais,” she said, trying not to cry.

  Was she reminding me not to forget to give her letter to Queen Maria Carolina, or exhorting me never to forget her? I would have made a dreadful faux pas if I had sought clarification.

  To celebrate the fraternité that formed the third pillar of the new republic (the other two being liberté and égalité, of course), September 18 was declared by the Assembly to be a gala day. No carriages were permitted in any of the Parisian streets; all citizens and visitors promenaded about on equal footing. Throughout the entire day and well into the night, everyone in Paris was treated to breathtaking balloon ascensions, spectacular displays of fireworks, and grand illuminations of all the public buildings, gardens, and widest thoroughfares. The Palais du Louvre, the Tuileries, the Champs-Élysées, all glittered with firelight, and everywhere you turned, there was dancing in the streets. Surrounded by such glorious excess, the unfamiliar suddenly felt like home. “Lud, Sir Willum, it’s almost like Naples!” I breathed.

  Sir William shook his head. “If only it were, my love.”

  We arrived at the Palazzo Sessa on the first of November, exhausted, but happy to be home. Sir William enfolded me in his arms and fixed me with a tender gaze. “You cannot begin to imagine how much I am anticipating introducing you to Neapolitan society as Lady Hamilton.”

  “Can you imagine ’ow much I am already enjoying being ’er ladyship?”

  “Then why the frown, my dear?”

  “The French queen’s letter. Do you think ’Er Majesty knew I’d have to bring it to ’er sister through the back door of the Palazzo Reale? Will the King and Queen of Naples accept me at court now that I’m your wife?”

  In fact, the queen did allow me to be presented, though as Lady Hamilton and not as Sua Eccellenza l’Ambasciatrice. But the difference mattered little, for upon my re
turn to Naples as an honest woman, she showed me all sorts of affectionate attentions, and I cannot imagine her being any kinder or more gracious to me had I been officially recognized as the ambassadress. The common Neapolitans did not split hairs; they conferred the distinction upon me themselves, and cries of “Eccellenza!” greeted me wherever I went. My new life was all I had ever wished for and more.

  Just after the New Year, the king embarked on another one of his lengthy boar-hunting sorties, commanding Sir William to join him. My husband had been showing signs of exhaustion since our return from England and France, and I feared for his health during those terribly long days, which King Ferdinand refused to account a success unless he had sent hundreds of beasts to their bloody demise. Sir William entrusted me to handle his correspondence while he was “pigsticking,” as he liked to call it. Thus, I opened a letter from Greville, enclosing a bill to Sir William’s bankers at Ross & Ogilvie in the sum of thirty-two pounds, eleven shillings, for little Emma’s most recent care.

  Now that you have taken possession of Emma under the eyes of God and according to English law, I trust that you will assume responsibility for any expenses in that connexion, whether close or remote. I therefore submit the enclosed for the past several months of maintenance of the child. As bienséance demands that she continue in her present circumstances, & I am certain you will agree, there is no longer any reason it should continue to fall to me to shoulder the burden, I trust you will be happy to acquit the responsibility from now on.

  Yours, &c Charles Greville

  Sir William had insisted that I write to him every day whilst he was away. But so angry was I when I told him of Greville’s missive, that I misspelt several words and Sir William chided me for my inattention, after so much marked improvement in my orthography. But what was I to do when I was looking at such a petty-minded thing? I was tampin’! Little Emma’s board was enumerated, her washing, her staying the Christmas holiday, her teacher and servants, music and copybooks, shoes, use of a pianoforte, haircutting, a seat at church, Evans’ worm powders, and the drawing of two teeth—my poor little dear—all understandable expenses, but how small-minded to list a charge for pins, needles, tape, and thread amid the child’s expenses? And why the reference to a guinea spent for “one dozen of port red wine”? The child was a whisper shy of her tenth birthday! Who was consuming the spirits?

  It was an unpleasant way to begin my first calendar year as a married lady.

  Throughout the autumn and winter, and even in the spring, though the French Republic had declared war on Austria, we found ourselves entertaining so many intrepid English visitors that Sir William and I nicknamed the palazzo “the Hamilton Arms.”

  “Evidently education in England does not improve, for upwards of one hundred British travelers have been here this winter, and I can scarcely name three who have reaped the least profit, for they have lived together and led exactly the same life they would have done in London,” Sir William groaned.

  So he took a quietly perverse delight in exposing some of our British visitors to the more unusual Neapolitan rituals, such as I Morti, the native celebration of All Souls’ Day. Every November 2, the Neapolitans would disinter those who had died in the past year. They would dress the decomposing corpses in their finest gala attire and display them in the churches and streets as though they had come back to life. Friends and family of the dear departed, as well as complete strangers, would come either to venerate the bodies or to mock them—perhaps taking the chance to taunt the deceased—an opportunity that they had been deprived of whilst the person lived. Even the hardiest constitution did not fare well when exposed to the bizarre spectacle of I Morti.

  But while they dined sumptuously at our table and drained our cellars, I knew that behind their snuffboxes and their fans our British guests were sneering at me. My laugh was too loud and came too easily; my countrified accent still redolent of manure; and my broad gestures and frank speech—devoid of nuance, such a dreadfully popular affectation among their circle—were deemed vulgar and coarse.

  Sir William always endeavored to cheer me. “I am sorrier for them that they have missed your goodness, my sweet girl. So jealous are they of your beauty that they refuse to admit your generosity and devotion as well as your own brand of wit, and acknowledge that you are ten times more virtuous than any of ’em.”

  I rested my head against his chest and felt the beating of his heart against my cheek. “It don’t make it any easier to play the ’appy ’ostess, my love.”

  Seventeen ninety-two was a ghastly year for the French aristocracy, and, by extension, my dear new confidante, Queen Maria Carolina, who despaired for her sister’s safety. On August 10, the mob stormed the Tuileries, igniting the Second French Revolution. They massacred the Swiss Guards and incarcerated Marie Antoinette and Louis in the Temple. Although the Assembly called it a “Convention,” to our view, constitutional monarchy had been replaced with anarchy.

  In early September, jailed prisoners, including priests, were slaughtered by the hundreds. Reports reached our ears in Naples of the shocking butchery practiced upon their fellow Frenchmen by the inflamed mob—beheadings and hacked limbs—behavior one might have encountered on King Ferdinand’s hunting parties.

  The new republic sent its own minister, Armand de Mackau, to Naples, but the queen treated him coldly. Enraged by the Jacobins, Maria Carolina was little inclined to countenance the niceties of diplomacy under the circumstances. How could she respect the representative of the terrorists who had toppled her sister from her rightful throne and tossed her in prison like a common criminal?

  In retaliation for this snub, the republic sent a fleet of thirteen ships to Naples, ostensibly to attack and pillage us like a band of pirates if the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies refused to formally recognize the French Republic. The royal family were beside themselves with fear. “You must help us,” the queen insisted, relying on me to take an active part in the supervision of their decampment to the fortress of Castel Sant’Elmo. Terrified that they would be caused to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and recognizing that they would need as much currency as possible in that unlucky event, the panicked queen began to sell off the treasures of the royal household. Everything from chandeliers to plate, even coffeepots, was exchanged for gold. The king, anxious that the Frenchies might enrich themselves off his stables, gave away three hundred of his dogs and nearly four hundred of his horses. Even Sir William was urged to take advantage of the situation and accept a matched pair of bays. How my heart cracked when Ferdinand commanded that all of the wild animals in his menagerie be slaughtered so as not to fall into the hands of his enemies.

  But too fearful to stand their ground, the Two Sicilies soon acknowledged the French Republic—and the mood shifted markedly. Those who had secretly harbored Jacobin sensibilities felt free to openly express their beliefs, going so far as to clothe themselves in “Citizen” fashions (or the appalling lack thereof), sporting the silly red Phrygian caps. Naples, city of sultry breezes and gay parties, of music and merriment, had suddenly gone from a climate of volupté to one of dread.

  As 1792 drew to a close, I breathed a sigh of relief, in the hope that the coming year would be a better one, for things could not possibly get worse. Or so I thought. We was at Caserta in December when Sir William was overtaken by an attack of bilious fever. I was overcome with fear and fatigue and could not bring myself to leave his side for an instant, not even to sleep.

  I had believed myself unloved by the fine Neapolitan ladies, but their generosity in this unhappy circumstance reduced me to tears, for they, as well as the English travelers, were tender and solicitous, driving out to Caserta to visit me—for I had no other society there—and generously offering to help me care for Sir William, even if it was only to permit me to steal a few hours of precious slumber. Their Sicilian Majesties sent messages to our capannina twice daily, so eager were they for news of Sir William’s recovery.

  I knew he w
as not a young man, despite his athleticism. In fact, he passed his sixty-second birthday in the clutches of the illness. As he lay abed for days, feverish and wet with sweat, I despaired of losing him. What would I do if he left me? Was it God’s dreadful design that I should finally be granted my dearest wish only to have it snatched away from me so quickly?

  We live but for one another, I wrote to Greville when Sir William finally pulled through and commenced his unhurried convalescence. Every moment I feel what I felt when I thought I was losing him forever.

  Twenty-four

  A Savior Arrives

  One morning at the end of January, a servant arrived from the Palazzo Reale with an urgent message from the queen: Come at once!

  I did not know how to dress for such a summons. Protocol must be observed at all costs, and to properly attire myself to appear before Her Majesty, even if I was meeting her in her boudoir, took time. I could not very well simply throw on a dressing gown and race through the subterranean passageway like some thief in the night.

  I found her in her private sitting room pacing like a tigress, her eyes more red-rimmed than usual. Shreds of silk littered the floor. With nothing else immediately at hand, she had rent her petticoats.

  “They have done it!” she shrieked. “Nous sommes revenus—we come back from the fortress thinking all is safe in Naples, yes—but we may never be safe anymore!” She thrust an official report into my hands. “My brother-in-law has been executed by the animals in Paris who dare to refer to themselves as a new civilization. Like a criminal, they kill him. Explain to me, ma chère amie, how is this fraternité? Frenchmen killing Frenchmen! Where does it end? We are going to rid the house of pests,” she told me, gathering strength from her tears. Almost immediately, the queen asked her subjects to send their French servants home. No more lavish dinners prepared by French-born chefs, no French bonnes to properly launder their linens and dust the Capodimonte figurines. In an attempt to curb meetings of Jacobin societies, she issued a decree making it illegal for more than ten people to gather. A few Neapolitan Jacobins were jailed, and at the opera house one night, the Banti was nabbed backstage by two of the queen’s secret police just as she made an exit. She was whisked off under armed guard to the Papal States, permanently expelled from Neapolitan territory. Her Majesty ordered priests to openly call for death to the French from their pulpits and replaced elected government officials with men under her own control. In this climate of fear and mistrust, she even hired denouncers and informers to spy upon their neighbors for any signs of Jacobinism.