Part 7

“Would you _see more_ taste and splendour, Mark the notice I rehearse— Now at Kensington attend her— Farther on, you _may fare_ worse.”

Gout and rheumatism afflicted him sorely in his latter years, though his face retained its hale good looks. At Seamore Place—and on similar occasions—he was compelled to move about with the aid of a crutch, or in a wheel-chair, which he could manœuvre himself, his feet sometimes encased in india-rubber shoes. Despite his infirmities his smile was always bright and his tongue ready with a witticism.

When Jekyll asked him why he had never married, the response came in verse—

“Should I seek Hymen’s tie? As a poet I die, Ye Benedicts mourn my distresses. For what little fame Is annexed to my name, Is derived from _Rejected Addresses_.”

But we must return to the drawing-room in Seamore Place.

On the other side of the hostess, busily discussing a speech of Dan O’Connell, stood a dapper little man, rather languid in appearance, but with winning, prepossessing manners, and a playful, ready tongue; Henry Bulwer. There were others, such as a German prince and a French duke and a famous traveller. And—there was D’Orsay, a host in himself in both senses of the word, the best-looking, best-dressed, most fortunate man in the room; yet despite it all—there he sat in a careless attitude upon an ottoman.

It was nearly twelve o’clock, the witching hour, before Mr Lytton Bulwer (“Pelham”) was announced, who ran gaily up to his hostess, and was greeted with a cordial chorus of “How d’ye, Bulwer?” Gay, quick, partly satirical, his conversation was fresh and buoyant. A dandy, too!

Toward three o’clock i’ the morn James Smith made a move and Willis his exit.

In June 1834, Willis dined at Seamore Place, the hour appointed being the then unusually late one of eight o’clock. Again the company, who were awaiting the arrival of Tom Moore, was of mingled nationalities—a Russian count, an Italian banker, an English peer, Willis an American, and for host and hostess, a French count and an Irish peeress. Lady Blessington took the lead—so says Willis, and he should know for he was there, lucky dog—in the war of witty words that waged round the dinner-table, and we may be sure that D’Orsay was not among the hindmost.

The talk was turned by Moore upon duelling—

“They may say what they will of duelling; it is the great preserver of the decencies of society. The old school, which made a man responsible for his words, was the better. I must confess I think so.” He then told an amusing story of an Irishman—of all men on earth!—who “refused a challenge on account of the illness of his daughter,” and one of the Dublin wits made a good epigram on the two—

“Some men, with a horror of slaughter, Improve on the Scripture command; And ‘honour their’—wife and their daughter— ‘That their days may be long in the land.’”

The “two” being the gentleman above referred to, and O’Connell, who had pleaded his wife’s illness as an excuse upon a similar occasion.

“The great period of Ireland’s glory,” continued Moore, “was between ’82 and ’98, and it was a time when a man almost lived with a pistol in his hand. Grattan’s dying advice to his son was: ‘Be always ready with the pistol!’ He himself never hesitated a minute.”

This we must take as a mere spark from the coruscations of brilliancy that fell from the lips of the beautiful hostess and her clever guests, from whom she had the art of drawing their best.

Coffee was served in the drawing-room. Moore was persuaded to sing. Singing always to his own accompaniment and in a fashion that more nearly approached to recitation than to ordinary singing, Moore was possessed of peculiar gifts in the arousing of the emotions of his hearers, and accounted any performance a failure that did not receive the award of tears. On this occasion, after two or three songs chosen by Lady Blessington, his fingers wandered apparently aimlessly over the keys for a while, and then with poignant pathos he sang—

“When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, though false to all beside, From me thou could’st not wander. But go, deceiver! go— The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou should’st break it.”

Then when the last note had died away, he said “Good-night” to his hostess, and before the silence was otherwise broken—was gone.

Dizzy was party to a famous duel which did not come off, consequent on fiery language used by O’Connell, who courteously rated him thus: “He is the most degraded of his species and his kind, and England is degraded in tolerating and having on the face of her society a miscreant of his abominable, foul and atrocious nature. His name shows that he is by descent a Jew. They were once the chosen people of God. There were miscreants amongst them, however, also, and it must certainly have been from one of these that Disraeli descended. He possesses just the qualities of the impenitent thief that died upon the cross, whose name I verily believe must have been Disraeli.”

Dizzy put himself in D’Orsay’s hands, but the latter thought that it would scarcely be becoming for a foreigner to be mixed up in a political duel, though he consented to “stage-manage” the affair, which never came off, owing to O’Connell’s oath never again to fight a duel.

D’Orsay was exceedingly ingenious in drawing out the peculiarities of any eccentric with whom he came in contact, among his principal butts being M. Julien le Jeune de Paris, as he dubbed himself; he had played his small part in the French Revolution and had been employed by Robespierre. This queer old gentleman had perpetrated a considerable quantity of fearful poetry, portions of which it was his delight to recite. These effusions he called “_Mes Chagrins_,” and carried about with him written out upon sheets of foolscap, which peeped out modestly from the breast-pocket of his coat. It was D’Orsay’s delight when M. Julien visited Seamore Place to induce him to recite a “_Chagrin_,” the doing of which reduced the old man to tears of sorrow and the listeners to tears of laughter. One evening a large party was assembled, among whom were M. Julien, James Smith, Madden, and Dr Quin, a physician whom young Mathews describes as “The ever genial Dr Quin … inexhaustible flow of fun and good-humour.” D’Orsay gravely begged Julien to oblige the company, and overcame his assumed reluctance, by the appeal—

“N’est ce pas Madden vous n’avez jamais entendu les Chagrins politiques de notre cher ami, Monsieur Julien?”

“Jamais,” Madden stammered out, stifling a laugh.

“Allons, mon ami,” D’Orsay continued, turning again to his victim, “ce pauvre Madden a bien besoin d’entendre vos Chagrins politiques—il a les siens aussi—il a souffert—lui—il a des sympathies pour les blessés, il faut lui donner ce triste plaisir—n’est ce pas, Madden?”

“Oui,” gurgled Madden.

Then the funereal fun began. Julien planted himself at the upper end of the room, near to a table upon which some wax candles were burning, and drew forth his “_Chagrins_” from his breast. Lady Blessington seated herself at his left hand, gazing solicitously into his face; at his other hand stood D’Orsay, ever and anon pressing his handkerchief to his eyes, and turning at one of the saddest moments to Madden, and whispering, “Pleurez donc!”

Quin, looking amazingly youthful, made his appearance during a particularly melting “_Chagrin_,” wherein the author, supposed to be in chase of capricious happiness, exclaimed:—

“Le bonheur! le voilà! Ici! Ici! La! La! En haut, en bas! En bas!”

The doctor entered into the spirit of the affair, and whenever D’Orsay acclaimed any passage, would chime in with “Magnifique!” “Superbe!” “Vraiment beau!”

The recital ended as usual in a flood of tears.

But D’Orsay was not yet contented, but must be further plaguing the tearful old gentleman. He whispered mysteriously to him, drawing his attention to Quin and James Smith.

“Ah! Que c’est touchant!” exclaimed Julien. “Ah! mon Dieu! Ce tendre amour filial comme c’est beau! comme c’est touchant!”

Then D’Orsay went up to Quin, and to his amazement said—

“Allez, mon ami, embrassez votre père! Embrassez le, mon pauvre enfant,” then added, pointing to Smith, who was holding out his arms, “C’est toujours comme ça, toujours comme ça, ce pauvre garçon—avant le monde il a honte d’embrasser son père.”

Quin took the cue; jumped from his chair, and flung himself violently in Smith’s arms, nearly upsetting the gouty old gentleman. Locked in each other’s arms, they exclaimed—“Oh, fortunate meeting! Oh, happy reconciliation! Oh, fond father! Oh, affectionate son!” while D’Orsay stood beside them overwhelmed with emotion, Julien equally and really affected, sobbing, gasping, and exclaiming—

“Ah! Mon Dieu! Que c’est touchant! Pauvre jeune homme! Pauvre père!”

Lord William Pitt Lennox first met Louis Napoleon at Seamore Place, also the Countess Guiccioli:—

“My first acquaintance with Napoleon,” he says, “was at an evening party at the Countess of Blessington’s, in Seymour Place. On arriving there my attention was attracted to two individuals, whom I had never previously seen. The one was a lady, who appeared to have numbered nearly forty years, with the most luxuriant gold-coloured hair, blue eyes and fresh complexion, that I ever saw. The other a gentleman, who, from the deference paid him, was evidently a distinguished foreigner. Before I had time to ascertain the name of the latter, a friend remarked: ‘How handsome the Guiccioli is looking this evening!’

“‘Splendidly,’ I replied, as the idea flashed across my mind that the _incognita_ must be Byron’s ‘fair-haired daughter of Italia,’ Teresa Gamba, Countess Guiccioli. ‘Do you know Madame Guiccioli?’ I asked.

“‘Yes,’ responded my companion; ‘I met her at Venice, and shall be delighted to present you.…’”

“While conversing with the Guiccioli, Count d’Orsay approached us, and, apologising for his intrusion, said that Prince Louis Napoleon was anxious to be introduced to me, with a view to thanking me for my kind advice. Accordingly, I took leave of madame, but not before I had received her permission to call upon her at Sablonière’s Hotel, in what the ordinary frequenters of Leicester Square call ‘_le plus beau quartier de Londres_.’”

The advice referred to had come in a round-about way to Louis Napoleon, and had reference to the projected duel with Léon.[10]

XII

HANDSOME IS—

What manner of man was D’Orsay at this period of his life, when he was treading so gaily the primrose way of pleasure as a man about London town? What were his claims to the reputation he gained as a dandy and a wit? How did he appear to his contemporaries?

That he was generally liked and by many looked on with something approaching to affection there is ample evidence to prove. Was ever a social sinner so beloved? Was dandy ever so trusted?

He was strikingly handsome in face and figure, of that his portraits assure us. One enthusiast tells us: “He was incomparably the handsomest man of his time … uniting to a figure scarcely inferior in the perfection of its form to that of Apollo, a head and face that blended the grace and dignity of the Antinous with the beaming intellect of the younger Bacchus, and the almost feminine softness and beauty of the Ganymede.”

He was an adept in the mysteries of the toilet, as careful of his complexion as a professional _belle_; revelling in perfumed baths; equipped with an enormous dressing-case fitted in gold, as became the prince of dandies, which he carried everywhere, though it took two men to lift it.

As to clothes, he led the fashion by the nose, and led it whithersoever he wished. He indulged in extravagances, which he knew his reputation and his figure could carry off, and then laughed to see his satellites and toadies making themselves ridiculous by adopting them. His tailor, Herr Stultz, is reported to have proudly described himself as “Tailor to M. le Comte d’Orsay,” full well knowing that the recommendation of mere royalty could carry no such weight. Where D’Orsay led the way all men of fashion must follow. Indeed, it was said that D’Orsay was fully aware of the value of his patronage, and that he expected his tailors to express substantial gratitude for it. When clothes arrived at Seamore Place, in the most mysterious manner banknotes had found their way into their pockets. Once when this accident had not happened, D’Orsay bade his valet return the garment with the message that “the lining of the pockets had been forgotten.”

The ordinary man, as regards his costume, takes care about the main points and permits the details to take care of themselves. Not so your true dandy. Thus we find D’Orsay writing to Banker Moritz Feist at Frankfort: “Will you send me a dozen pair of gloves colour ‘feuille-morte,’ such as they have on sale at the Tyrolean glove shops? They ought to fit your hand (that’s a compliment!), and (this is a fib!) I’ll send along the cash.”

D’Orsay was sometimes quite unkind when friends spoke to him on the subject of some new garment he was sporting.

Gronow meeting D’Orsay one day arrayed in a vest of supreme originality, exclaimed: “My dear Count, you really must give me that waistcoat.”

“Wiz pleasure, Nogrow,”—the Count’s comical misrendering of Gronow’s name—“but what shall you do wiz him? Aha! he shall make you an dressing-gown.”

What the Count could carry off would have extinguished the less-distinguished Gronow.

In Hyde Park, at the happy hour when all “the world” assembled there, some driving, some riding, some strolling, some leaning on the railings and quizzing the passers-by, D’Orsay was to be seen in all his glory. An afternoon lounge in the Park was as delightful then as it is nowadays.

To quote Patmore:—

“See! what is this vision of the age of chivalry, that comes careering towards us on horseback, in the form of a stately cavalier, than whom nothing has been witnessed in modern times more noble in air and bearing, more splendid in person, more _distingué_ in dress, more consummate in equestrian skill, more radiant in intellectual expression, and altogether more worthy and fitting to represent one of those knights of the olden time, who warred for truth and beauty, beneath the banner of Cœur de Lion. It is Count D’Orsay.”

This language is as dazzling as the vision itself must have been!

Writing of various fashions in horsemanship, Sidney says:—

“As late as 1835 it was the fashion for the swells or dandies of the period—Count d’Orsay, the Earl of Chesterfield, and their imitators—to tittup along the streets and in the Park with their toes just touching the stirrups, which hung three inches lower than in the hunting-field.”

Abraham Hayward rode in the Park with D’Orsay in March 1838, “to the admiration of all beholders, for every eye is sure to be fixed upon him, and the whole world was out, so that I began to tremble for my character.”

Here is another contemporary account, which deals rather with the outer habit than with knight-like man:—

“From the colour and tie of the kerchief which adorned his neck, to the spurs ornamenting the heels of his patent boots, he was the original for countless copyists, particularly and collectively. The hue and cut of his many faultless coats, the turn of his closely-fitting inexpressibles, the shade of his gloves, the knot of his scarf, were studied by the motley multitude with greater interest and avidity than objects more profitable and worthy of their regard, perchance, could possibly hope to obtain. Nor did the beard that flourished luxuriantly upon the delicate and nicely-chiselled features of the Marquis (Count) escape the universal imitation. Those who could not cultivate their scanty crops into the desirable arrangement, had recourse to art and stratagem to supply the natural deficiency.”

D’Orsay was indeed the Prince of the Dandies, it might be more truthfully said, the Tyrant. What he did and wore, they must do and wear; the cut of his coat and the cut of his hair, the arrangement of his tie—the Prince could do no wrong. Of this sincere form of flattery a comical tale is told. Riding back to town one day, as usual capitally mounted, D’Orsay was overtaken by a downpour of rain. The groom, who usually carried an overcoat for his master, had this day forgotten to bring it. D’Orsay was equal to this as to most occasions. He spied a sailor who wore a long, heavy waistcoat which kept him snug.

“Hullo, friend,” called out D’Orsay, pulling up, “would you like to go into that inn and drink to my health until the rain’s over?”

The sailor was naturally enough somewhat surprised, and asked D’Orsay why he was chaffing him.

“I’m not,” said D’Orsay, dismounting and going into the inn, followed by the sailor, “but I want your vest, sell it me.”

He took out and offered the poor devil ten guineas, assuring him at the same time that he “could buy another after the rain was over.”

D’Orsay put on the vest over his coat, buttoned it from top to bottom, remounted and rode on to town.

The rain passed over, the sun came out again, and as it was the proper hour to show himself in Hyde Park, D’Orsay showed himself.

“How original! How charming! How delicious!” cried the elegant dandies, astonished by D’Orsay’s new garment, “only a D’Orsay could have thought of such a creation!”

The next day dandies similarly enveloped were “the thing,” and thus the paletot was invented.

An anecdote is told, with what authority or want of it we do not know, by the Comtesse de Basanville, bearing upon D’Orsay’s good nature. One day out riding he stopped at an inn, took out a cigar, and was going to call out for a light, when a lad who came out of the tavern, offered him the match with which he had been going to light his own pipe. D’Orsay, who was struck by the boy’s politeness and good looks, began to chat with him.

“From what country do you come?”

“From Wales, my lord.”

“And you don’t mind leaving your mountains for the smoky streets of London?”

“I’d go back without minding at all,” answered the boy, “but poor folk can’t do what they want, and God knows when I’ll be going back to my old mother who’s crying and waiting for me.”

“You’re ambitious then?”

“I want to get bread. I’m young and strong, and work’s better paid in London than at home. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Well,” said D’Orsay, “I’d like to help you make your fortune. Here’s a guinea for your match. To-morrow, come to Hyde Park when the promenade is full; bring with you a box of matches, and when you see me with a lot of people round me, come up and offer me your ware.”

Naturally enough the boy turned up at the right hour and the right place.

“Who’ll buy my matches,” he called out.

“Aha! It’s you,” said D’Orsay. “Give me one quick to light my cigar.”

Another guinea—and the Count said carelessly to those grouped around him—

“Just imagine, that I couldn’t smoke a cigar which is not lit with one of this boy’s matches—others seem to me horrible.”

No sooner hinted than done; off went the matches and down came the guineas, and addresses even were given for delivery of a further supply.

Even if this story be not true, it is characteristic.

One other story of his power.

A certain peer quarrelled violently with him; result, a duel. It was pointed out to the unfortunate gentleman that if D’Orsay fought with him it would become the fashion to do so! When D’Orsay heard of his adversary’s urgent reason for wishing not to meet him, he agreed readily that it was reasonable, and the affair was arranged. D’Orsay laughingly added: “It’s lucky I’m a Frenchman and don’t suffer from the dumps. If I cut my throat, to-morrow there’d be three hundred suicides in London, and for a time at any rate the race of dandies would disappear.”

By Greville we are informed that D’Orsay was “tolerably well-informed,” which surely must be the judgment of jealousy.

In manner and habits D’Orsay grew to be thoroughly English, no small feat, while retaining all the vivacity, _joie de vivre_, and “little arts” of the Frenchman. But he does not seem ever to have acquired a perfect English accent; Willis in 1835 says of him, he “still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind.” The language and the waistcoats of those dandy days were alike flowery.

It is difficult to decide, the evidence being scanty, whether or not D’Orsay was a wit of eminence, or a mere humorist. Chorley the musical critic, or rather the critic of music, said that his wit “was more quaint than anything I have heard from Frenchmen (there are touches of like quality in Rabelais), more airy than the brightest London wit of my time, those of Sydney Smith and Mr Fonblanque not excepted.” It was a kindly wit, too, which counts for grace. It is not unlikely that the broken English which he knew well how to use to the best advantage helped to add a sense of comicality to remarks otherwise not particularly amusing; just as Lamb found his stammer of assistance.

A little wit carried off with a radiant manner goes a long way, and we are inclined to believe that D’Orsay on account of his good-humoured chaff and laughing impertinences gained a reputation for a higher wit than he really possessed. True wit raises only a smile, sometimes a rather wry one; humour forces us to break out into laughter such as apparently usually accompanied D’Orsay’s sallies. The following is preserved for us by Gronow, who held that D’Orsay’s conversation was original and amusing, but “more humour and _à propos_ than actual wit.” Tom Raikes, whose face was badly marked by small-pox, for some reason or other, wrote D’Orsay an anonymous letter, and sealed it, using something like the top of a thimble for the purpose. D’Orsay found out who was the writer of the epistle, and accosted him with—“Ha! ha! my good Raikes, the next time you write an anonymous letter, you must not seal it with your nose!”—looking at that pock-pitted organ. Which is more facetious than witty.

Here is another story of a somewhat similar character, kindly provided me by Mr Charles Brookfield:—“My father once met D’Orsay at breakfast. After the meal was over and the company were lounging about the fireplace, a singularly tactless gentleman of the name of Powell crept up behind the Count, and twitching suddenly a hair out of the back of his head exclaimed: ‘Excuse me, Count, one solitary white hair!’ D’Orsay contrived to conceal his annoyance, but bided his time. Very soon he found his chance and approaching Mr Powell he deliberately plucked a hair from his head, exclaiming, ‘Parrdon, Pow-ail, one solitary _black_ ’air.’”

Gronow also tells this. “Lord Allen, none the better for drink, was indulging in some rough rather than ready chaff at D’Orsay’s expense. When John Bush came in, d’Orsay greeted him cordially, exclaiming: ‘_Voilà la différence entre une bonne bouche et une mauvaise haleine_.’”

D’Orsay, Lord William Pitt Lennox and “King” Allen were invited to dinner at the house of a Jewish millionaire, and the first-named promised to call for the other two.

“We shall be late,” grumbled Allen. “You’re never in time, D’Orsay.”

“You shall see,” answered D’Orsay, unruffled, and drove off at a fine pace.

Even though they arrived in time Allen was not appeased, and grumbled at everything and everybody, and the cup of his wrath hopelessly overflowed when he overheard one of the servants saying to another:

“The gents are come.”