Chapter VII: Part 7

“When a gentleman would rush into the practice of that which, in its mechanism, demands experience and instruction, he avails himself of the help of a craftsman, whose services are sought for painting-in the subordinate parts, and working out his rude beginnings. In the first rank of art, at this day, are others who, like the Count d’Orsay, have been unprepared, excepting by the possession of taste and genius, for the practice of art, and whose merits are in no way obscured by the assistance which they _also_ freely seek in the manipulation of their works; and it is no less easy to detect, in the pictures of the Count, the precise amount of mechanical aid which he has received from another hand, than the graces of character and feeling that are superadded by his own. I have seen a rough model, executed entirely by himself, of such extraordinary power and simplicity of design, that I begged him to have it _moulded_, and not to proceed to the details of the work, until he could first place this model side by side with the cast in clay, to be worked up. He took my advice, and his equestrian statue of the first Napoleon may fairly justify my opinion.

“In art, he had a heartfelt sympathy, a searching eye, and a critical taste, fostered by habitual intercourse with some of our first artists.”

This letter from D’Orsay to Lane shows the Count in an amiable light:—

“PARIS, _21st February 1850_.

“MY DEAR LANE,—I cannot really express to you the extent of my
sorrow about your dear and good family. You know that my heart
is quite open to sympathy with the sorrows of others. But judge
therefore, how it must be, when so great a calamity strikes a
family like yours, which family I always considered one of the
best I ever had the good fortune to know. What a trial for dear
Mrs Lane, after so many cares, losing a son like yours, just
at the moment that he was to derive the benefit of the good
education you gave him.… There is no consolation to offer. The
only one that I can imagine, is to think continually of the
person lost, and to make oneself more miserable by thinking. It
is, morally speaking, an homœopathic treatment, and the only
one which can give some relief.… Give my most affectionate
regards to your dear family, and believe me always—far or near.
Your sincere friend,

“D’ORSAY.”

In 1843 D’Orsay writes jestingly of himself: “I am poetising, modelling, etc., etc. In fact, I begin to believe that I am a Michael Angelo _manqué_.”

Concerning the Wellington statuette, D’Orsay writes to Madden: “You must have seen by the newspapers that I have completed a great work, which creates a revolution in the Duke of Wellington’s own mind, and that of his family. It is a statuette on horseback of himself, in the costume and at the age of the Peninsular war. They say that it will be a fortune for me, as every regiment in the service will have one, as the Duke says publicly, that it is the only work by which he desires to be known, physically, by portraits. They say that he is very popular in Portugal and Spain. I thought possibly that you could sell for me the copyright at Lisbon, to some speculator to whom I could send the mould.”

Shortly before his death he completed a smaller equestrian statuette of the Duke, an account of which was given in the _Morning Chronicle_ of 23rd December 1852:—

“One of the last of the late lamented Count d’Orsay’s studies was a statuette of the Duke on horseback, the first copy of which, in bronze, was carefully retouched and polished by the artist. The work is remarkable for its mingled grace and sprightliness. The Duke, sitting firmly back in his saddle, is reining in a pawing charger, charmingly modelled, and a peculiar effect is obtained by the rider dividing the reins, and stretching that on the left side completely back over the thigh. The portrait is good, particularly that of the full face, and very carefully finished, and the costume is a characteristic closely-fitting military undress, with hanging cavalry sabre. Altogether, indeed, the statuette forms a most agreeable memorial, not only of the Duke, but, in some degree, of the gifted artist.”

Henry Vizetelly roundly states that there was no secrecy about the help rendered to D’Orsay in his equestrian statuettes, etc., by T. H. Nicholson, a draughtsman of horses, and that the faces of these works of art were modelled by Behnes. He goes on to say: “The statuette of the Duke of Wellington on horseback was undoubtedly Nicholson’s, and that famous bust of the Iron Duke which was to make the fortune of the lucky manufacturer who reproduced it in porcelain, is said to have been his and Behnes’ joint work.”

Then follows this amusing story:—

“Sir Henry Cole—Old King Cole of the Brompton toilers,[22] and Felix Flummery of the art-manufacture craze—used to tell an amusing story of the high estimate, artistic and pecuniary, which D’Orsay set upon this production. The Count had written to ask him to call at Gore House, and on his proceeding there, after handing his card through the wicket, he was cautiously admitted to the grounds and safely piloted between two enormous mastiffs to the door of the house. He was then conducted to the Count, whom he found pacing up and down Lady Blessington’s drawing-room in a gorgeous dressing-gown.

“D’Orsay, Cole used to say, at once broke out with—‘You are a friend of Mr Minton’s! I can make his fortune for him!’ Then turning to his servant, ‘François,’ said he, ‘go to my studio and in the corner you will find a bust. Cover it over with your handkerchief and bring it carefully here.’ François soon returned carrying his burthen as tenderly as though it were a baby, and when he had deposited it on the table, the Count removed the handkerchief and posing before the bust with looks of rapt admiration, he promptly asked Cole—

“‘What do you think of that?’

“‘It’s a close likeness,’ Cole cautiously replied.

“‘Likeness! indeed it is a likeness!’ shouted the Count, ‘why, Douro when he saw it exclaimed: “D’Orsay, you quite appal me with the likeness to my father!”’

“The Count then confided to Cole that the Duke had given him four sittings, after refusing, said he, a single sitting to ‘that fellow Landseer.’

“The Duke it seems came to inspect the bust after it was completed. In D’Orsay’s biassed eyes he was as great in art as he was in war, and he always went, the Count maintained, straight up to the finest thing in the room to look at it. Naturally, therefore, he at once marched up to the bust, paused, and shouted:—

“’”By God, D’Orsay, you have done what those damned busters never could do.“’

“The puff preliminary over, the Count next proceeded to business.

“‘The old Duke will not live for ever,’ he sagely remarked; ‘he must die one of these days. Now, what I want you to do is to advise your friend Minton to make ten thousand copies of that bust, to pack them up in his warehouse and on the day of the Duke’s death to flood the country with them, and heigh presto! his fortune is made.’

“The Count hinted that he expected a trifle of £10,000 for his copyright, but Cole’s friend, Minton, did not quite see this, and proposed a royalty upon every copy sold. D’Orsay, who was painfully hard up for ready cash, indignantly spurned the offer.…”

D’Orsay is most generally known as an artist by reason of his large portrait of the Duke of Wellington now in the National Portrait Gallery, upon the completion of which the Duke is said to have shaken hands with the painter, saying: “At last I have been painted like a gentleman! I’ll never sit to anyone else.” And he certainly did write to Lady Blessington:—“You are quite right. Count d’Orsay’s work is of a higher description of art than is described by the word portrait! But I described it by that word, because the likeness is so remarkably good, and so well executed as a painting, and that this is the truest of all artistic ability, truest of all in this country.” Which last sentence is rather enigmatical.

Anent the statuette of O’Connell, referred to already, may be quoted a letter written by D’Orsay on 16th March 1847 to John Forster:—

“Prince Napoleon told me to-night at the French play, that he read in an evening paper, the _Globe_, I think, an article copied from an Irish paper, stating that I had made a statuette of O’Connell, and praising it, etc. I suppose that it is from Osborne Bernal,[23] who is in Ireland. But I would be glad it were known that I have associated him in the composition with the Catholic Emancipation, and also that I intend to make a present of the copyright to Ireland, for the benefit of the subscription for the poor.”

Of other works from his hand we may name the bust of Emile de Girardin, a portrait of Sir Robert Peel, and the picture of which some details have already been given, showing a group in the garden of Gore House.

We have already quoted an account of one visit paid by D’Orsay to Haydon, here is that of a second, from an entry in the painter’s Diary, dated 31st June 1838:—

“About seven, D’Orsay called, whom I had not seen for long. He was much improved, and looking the glass of fashion and the mould of form; really a complete Adonis, not made up at all. He made some capital remarks, all of which must be attended to. They were sound impressions, and grand. He bounded into his cab, and drove off like a young Apollo, with a fiery Pegasus. I looked after him. I like to see such specimens.”

In conclusion on this subject, from the _New Monthly Magazine_ of August 1845, this:—

“Whatever Count d’Orsay undertakes, seems invariably to be well done. As the arbiter elegantiarum he has reigned supreme in matters of taste and fashion, confirming the attempts of others by his approbation, or gratifying them by his example. To dress, or drive, to shine in the gay world like Count d’Orsay was once the ambition of the youth of England, who then discovered in this model no higher attributes. But if time, who ‘steals our years away,’ steals also our pleasures, he replaces them with others, or substitutes a better thing; and thus it has befallen with Count d’Orsay.

“If the gay equipage, or the well-apparelled man be less frequently seen than formerly, that which causes more lasting satisfaction, and leaves an impression of a far more exalted nature, comes day by day into higher relief, awakening only the regret that it should have been concealed so long. When we see what Count d’Orsay’s productions are, we are tempted to ask, with Malvolio’s feigned correspondent, ‘Why were these things hid?’”

All things considered we may write down Count d’Orsay as a quite first-rate amateur, as skilful in the arts as any dandy has ever been. What more fitting than that his skill and accomplishment were best shown in his bust of Lady Blessington?

(_From the Bust by D’Orsay_)

[TO FACE PAGE 234]

XXII

LETTERS

D’Orsay, had he devoted his time and his mind to the matter, could doubtless have attained high eminence as a painter and sculptor, but he was wise and refused to be bitten by the temptation; he well knew that there are many artists, but few dandies. The gifts that other men would have cultivated exclusively, he used to heighten and perfect his genius as a master of dandyship. It is perhaps the highest attribute of genius to be able to recognise genius—in oneself; only mediocre men are modest. Modesty is a sign of incompetency or stupidity.

Could D’Orsay have achieved greatness as a writer? Byron thought very highly of the journal which, it will be remembered, D’Orsay wrote during his first visit to London, but we cannot accept this criticism as final, for the poet’s literary judgment was often faulty.

He is reputed to have been a contributor to some of the journals of the day and he was put forward as the “editor” of the translation published in London in 1847 of a French novel, _Marie, Histoire d’une Jeune Fille_. But other men have gained fame with as little regular literary baggage as the Count, literature in the form of familiar letters, written always, or almost always, without a thought that they would meet the public eye. Of casual letters we have a fair number of D’Orsay’s, and some of them make quite pleasant reading. At any rate they are as good as those which are not written by dandies, which is saying much, for dandies have many important affairs to fill their time. They are chatty epistles, serve to shed a light upon their writer’s character; by his letters to his friends you may know the man.

Here is a note from him to Landor, written in September 1828:—

“I have received, dear Mr Landor, your letter. It has given
us great pleasure. You ought to feel sure that we should
particularly appreciate a letter from you, and it will appear
that our intimacy in Florence counted for nothing with you if
you doubt the pleasure that your news arouses in us. As soon as
I have received the pictures I will carry out your commission
carefully. I do wish you would come to Paris, for we have some
fine things to show you, particularly pictures. Apropos, I am
sending you herewith the portrait of Prince Borghese, which I
hope you will find to be a good likeness.… We talk and think
often of you. It is really strange that you are in the odour of
sanctity in this family, for it seems to me it is not exactly
this sort of reputation you pique yourself on possessing.

“Lady B. and all our ladies send you a thousand good wishes
and I renew the assurance of the sincerity of mine.—Yours very
affectionately,

“D’ORSAY.”

“All our ladies,” included Lady d’Orsay.

Then of a much later date, probably 1842 or 1843:—

“I think that Henry the Eighth was at Richmond-on-the-Hill when
Anne Boleyn was beheaded. They say that he saw the flag which
was erected in London as soon as her head fell. Therefore, as
you make him staying at Epping Forest at that time, and as I
am sure you have some good reasons for it, I will thank you to
give them to me.

“We regretted much not to have seen you at Bath, and I was on
the moment to write to you, like Henry the Fourth did to the
brave Crillon after the battle!

“‘Pends toi, brave Landor, nous avons été à Bath, et tu n’y
étois pas—’

“You will be glad to hear that the second son of my sister
has been received at the Ecole of St Cyr, after a ticklish
examination. Hoping to see you soon, believe me, yours most
affectionately,

“D’ORSAY.”

There is not very much of distinction, perhaps, in these two letters, but they serve to show the familiar friendship of the two men and also that the dandy studied his English History, at any rate as far as concerns the disposal of wives.

With John Forster he kept up a fairly lively correspondence, some of the letters containing points of interest:—

“GORE HOUSE, _25th October 1844_.

“It is really an age since you’ve been here. It’s a poor joke!
Where _have_ you been?… Macready has sent me a Boston paper, in
which I have read with great interest of his success.… I have
not seen ‘De la Roche’ Maclise. Give him a thousand good wishes.

“Eugene Sue gets better and better; he leads you to his
moral by somewhat perilous roads, but once you get there you
find it pure and beautiful. The fecundity of his imagination
surpasses all previous works; the Jesuits are smashed up, the
convents broken down and the workman raised upon their debris.
Amen.—Yours ever,

“D’ORSAY.”

Was it not to this practical Forster that D’Orsay wrote upon his project for establishing a means of communication between the guard and the engine-driver of a train? But the “sacrés directeurs de rail road” would not adopt his idea because of their own ideas of economy.

“P.M., _4th August 1845_.

“I am determined to follow up the directors until they take up
my scheme, and if you will assist me” (_i.e._ by writing in the
papers), “these continual accidents will establish a ‘raw,’
which we will tickle continually with cayenne pepper, and in
the end they will take real steps to heal the wound. My idea is
this, that they shall have a seat behind the last carriage of
every train, just like the coachman’s of a hansom cab. It would
be in communication with the engine by a long cord passing
along the whole length of the roof of the carriages; on pulling
the cord a hammer would strike a gong by the engine and would
indicate that a halt must be made.…”

There was also to be an arrangement of lamps and a cord—very similar to that now in use—for the benefit of travellers in trouble. Quite sufficient in all this to prove that a dandy need not be a fool.

“GORE HOUSE, _25th September 1845_.

“I am sorry to tell you that Lady Blessington a reçu des
nouvelles” (from here the letter is in French); “very alarming
concerning the health of Lady Canterbury. There is no doubt she
is gradually sinking, surrounded by those who choose to blind
themselves to her condition.… It will be best, I think, for you
to tell our dear Dickens why for the moment we must abandon our
plans. I should most willingly have gone with you to Knebworth,
we will arrange to go there together when I can manage a day.…”
Knebworth was Lord Lytton’s country seat.

The letter continues, throwing a light upon the dark side of our comedy:—

“Think of poor Lady Blessington losing in so short a time her
niece, her little niece, her nephew, her brother-in-law, and
her sister dying.…”

Then again he returns to his railway scheme:—

“I was just going to write to you from the country, where I
have been some time, to tell you that Lady C⸺ and Lady Sophie
de V⸺ went to Derby by rail; they were in the last carriage
of the train. One of the connections is broken, the carriage
is tossed from right to left and left to right so violently,
that the two unhappy people think they are lost, and wave their
handkerchiefs out of the window. They call out; no one sees
them; no one hears them, and happily they reach the station,
not a moment too soon—the carriage could not have held out.
You will see that a guard in such a case would have saved this?
Do you think we had better drop the subject or take it up
again? _Au revoir_, brave Forster.”

* * * * *

“BOURNEMOUTH, HANTS, _9th September 1848_.

“We are in the most charming neighbourhood in the world, a
kind of Wheemby Hill with the sea: it is three hours from
Southampton. Come and see us! You will be delighted, it is
perfection for bathing, and the weather is superb; it is the
climax of summer.…”

Of Mathews’ friendship with D’Orsay in Italy, an account has already been given; the following letters show that it was continued on paper:—

“_17th November 1831._

“MY DEAR CHARLES … I have lost my poor friend Blessington and
my mother within two months; they died in my arms, and when I
think of them it is always their last moments that come to my
mind. I would it were in other times, but that is difficult.…”

The following from London:—

“_1st September._

“MY DEAR CHARLES … I was the other day at Goodwood.… Since
I learnt that you had taken the Adelphi I agreed with Lord
Worcester that we would do all we could to interest society in
your favour by thinking and talking about it. I understand that
the first idea of Y(ates)[24] is to put you at a disadvantage,
he himself will leave you, in order to make you feel that he
is indispensable; this season is a trial that he gives you,
hoping that in case of a failure you will give everything up
into his hands. No matter what happens you must remedy this.
Reeves, also, goes to America. Mrs Honey is engaged elsewhere;
in short, most of the old names connected with the theatre
are going. I therefore recommend you to make an arrangement
with the proprietor of the Queen’s Theatre, who would join his
company with yours; union gives strength, and thanks to your
talents you will triumph completely over the trap which Y(ates)
has set for you. The Queen’s Theatre has been very successful
this season; to-day they have taken £90; it is wonderful for
the time of year. Chesterfield, Worcester and myself have a
box there and we wish to have one at the Adelphi, and speaking
this evening on the matter to Bond, he told me that he would be
delighted to join his company with yours and then to close the
Queen’s Theatre. Think it over, see if you would not find it to
your advantage, and let me know.—Your sincere friend, etc.

“D’ORSAY.”

The Adelphi was opened by Yates and Mathews on 28th September 1835; the house was full, but the season was not satisfactory.

The details of acting and stage production were not beneath D’Orsay’s notice:—

“MY DEAR CHARLES,—I like your new piece very much, and you
acted very well. You must ask the orchestra to accompany you a
little less noisily, for the noise they made made it impossible
to follow a quarter of your Aria. You would do well, also,
in my opinion, to cut out two verses of the Welsh song. Your
Frenchwoman is perfect; it is the best that I have yet seen
presented in an English theatre. Use your influence to make
Oxberry wear a black wig, he will be the image of George
Wombwell,[25] he has the dress and the manner to perfection,
and it will be a hit. Wombwell won’t be annoyed, on the
_contrary_.… _Au revoir_, dear Charles.—Your affectionate,

“D’ORSAY.”

The bright vivacity of the following letter to Dr Quin had best be left in its native French:—

“_8th Août 1831_,
“SEAMORE PLACE, MAYFAIR.

CHER ET ESTIMATE QUIN,—Régénérateur de l’humanité souffrante!
Nouveau Prophète dont les disciples s’essoufflent à chanter les
louanges, et qui finira par triompher comme la civilisation
régnante; comment se fait il que vous oubliez entièrement
votre disciple Alfred, n’attendez pas en vain l’arrivée d’un
ange du ciel pour m’éclairer mais déroulez vos Papyrus pour y
graver les progrès de la marche gigantesque de cette _methodus
medendi_, qui jointe à votre intelligence vous assure pour
votre vieillesse un outrage de Lauriers dont l’épaisseur
permettroit à peine que vous soyez encore plus eclairé par le
rayon de gloire que le Ciel dirigera sur vous—Maintenant que je
vous ai dit ma façon de penser à votre égard, parlons de moi
dans un style _moins laconique_.

“Depuis mon arrivée dans ce pays il étoit difficile de pouvoir
donner un _Fair Trial_, à la méthode, étant toujours obligé à
diner et boire un verre de vin, avec tous ceux qui ont soif.
Ainsi je l’ai abandonné trop tôt pour me guérir, mais toujours
à temps pour me pénétrer que jusqu’à ce jour le genre de humain
a vegeté au lieu de vivre—Il faut donc que je recommence malgré
que je souffre moins; repénêtrez vous de ma santé, consultez
vos oracles, et voyez à me reprendre en main comme vous l’aviez
fait. Je suivrai ponctuellement vos airs, et vous aurez au
moins la gloire d’avoir guéri une des trompettes de la renommée
de la méthode, et un ami sincère. Détaillez bien la manière de
prendre, les remèdes, et prescrivez non pas en _paraboles_,
mais dans votre style persuasif.… Adieu, brave Quin. Je vous
serre la main non pas de toutes mes forces, mais de tout mon
cœur.—Votre devoué et sincère ami,

“ALFRED D’ORSAY.”

Dr Quin was the first homœopathic practitioner in England, and in his early days was denounced as a quack. He was endowed with an inexhaustible fund of good humour, was a wit and a master of repartee. In a postscript to another letter D’Orsay writes:—

“You have, my friend, an unbearable mania, that of always defending the absent. Don’t you know that there is a French proverb which says, ‘Les absens ont toujours tort?’ This fashion never goes out, and, the devil, you who are the ‘pink of fashion,’ you must be in the mode.”

Jekyll declared to Lady Blessington that he “was asked gravely if quinine was invented by Doctor Quin!”

Here is a quaint little note to the Doctor:—

“GORE HOUSE, _Saturday_.

“MY DEAR DR QUIN,—M. Pipelet (D’Orsay) requests that you will
send him the letter about Mr ⸺ you promised he should have. I
suppose it is in vain to tell you we are going to the Opera
to-night. Of course you have 999 impatient patients who _must_
see you every five minutes throughout the course of the day
and night, and as many more friends who expect you to dinner.
However, _en passant_, I venture to hint that we go with Mdme.
Calabrella, so if you manage to kill off the maladies, and put
the friends under the table in turn, we shall be delighted to
see you ready and waiting, as Homer says in the fifth book of
the _Iliad_, line forty-nine. Farewell, may you be happy whilst
I—Sobs choke my utterance. Adieu.”

XXIII

EXCHEQUER BONDS

D’Orsay might have been a great artist and a great man of letters; of his genius as a financier there is no doubt. He solved the question of how to obtain unlimited credit; he paid such debts as he did cancel with money which legally was his, but which almost any other man would not have cared to touch.

Lord Blessington is said, when he persuaded D’Orsay to abandon his career in the French army, to have undertaken to provide for the Count’s future, and he fulfilled his promise at the expense of his daughter’s happiness and of the family estates.

In the return made of “The Annuities, Mortgages, Judgments and other Debts, Legacies, Sums of Money, and Incumbrances, charged upon or affecting the Estates of the said Charles John, Earl of Blessington, at the Time of his Decease,” we find that the mortgages and sums of money charged on D’Orsay’s account from 1837 to 1845, amounted to the quite respectable sum of £20,184. In Blessington’s will all his estates in Dublin, bringing in a rental of £13,322, 18s. 8d. were left to whichever of his daughters married D’Orsay.

By the marriage settlement £20,000 was to be paid to trustees, the Duc de Guiche, and Robert Power, within twelve months of the solemnisation, and a further £20,000 on Blessington’s decease; the money to be invested in the funds, and the interest thereupon to be paid to D’Orsay during his life.

As we have seen, the happy couple separated actually in 1831, legally in 1838.

In 1834 an order was made by the Court of Chancery in Ireland, upon which was thrown the task of clearing up the mess made of his property by Blessington, granting D’Orsay an income of £500, and to his wife £450.

How great that mess was, for which D’Orsay and his wife were partly to blame, will be seen from the following facts. The Countess had run up debts to the tune of £10,000, which sum, however, is scarcely worth mentioning beside that incurred by her husband. By the deed of separation between them, D’Orsay relinquished all his claims on the Blessington estates, in consideration—

i. Of £2467 of annuities granted by him being redeemed, which
cost £23,500.

ii. In consideration of the sum of £55,000 being paid to him,
£13,000 of which was to be raised as soon as possible, and
£42,000 within ten years.

A grand total of money which all went in one way or another to pay off D’Orsay’s debts.

As to the estate: the trustees were empowered by Act of Parliament to make sales to the amount of £350,000 to pay off all encumbrances and claims. Thus ended the glory of the Blessington fortune; thus often has it been in Ireland.

D’Orsay found fortune and lost it; he could not even retain the wife with which it was encumbered.

Over £100,000 of debts we know he paid, and still he owed very much. For at least two years previous to his final departure from England he went in constant dread of arrest at the instigation of sordid persons, who had not sufficient understanding of the fact that it was an honour to them to help in the support of a great man. There are too many petty-minded people in the world! Just heavens! That a man of D’Orsay’s calibre should be confined to his house and grounds all the days of the week save Sunday, excepting that he could creep forth under cover of darkness! That the Prince of the Dandies should go in danger of the vile clutch of a sinister myrmidon of the law and of the degradation of a sponging-house.

In 1845 D’Orsay apparently realised that his pecuniary condition was irreparable, and sought in vain for means of escape. He prepared a schedule of his liabilities, the total sum of his indebtedness amounting to £107,000, not including a number of debts to private friends, which made an additional sum of £13,000. It was even contemplated that he should go through the Court of Bankruptcy, but a difficulty was found in the fact that it could not be proved that he was a commercial man or an agriculturalist. He only sowed wild oats.

The situation so pressed upon him, that he allowed himself for a time to become the prey of impostors, who declared that they had achieved what the alchemists of old had so long looked for in vain, the conversion of the baser metals into gold!

From an unveracious chronicle we quote a passage which is veracious:—

“Now, among the shyest birds that ever ducked from a missile of the law was, without an exception the Marquis d’Horsay (D’Orsay). His maxim had long been ‘catch me who can;’ at the same time, acting up to the patent-safety rule of ‘prevention being so much better than cure,’ he afforded no facilities whatever of being hobbled in the chase. At bay he kept the yelping pack, and within the good, stout, rich walls of his covert he maintained both a pleasant and a secure retreat from the dangers besetting him. He now no longer ventured to frame himself, as it were, in his cab, and exhibit his colours and attractions to the curious crowds, except on that privileged day—when even the debtor is at liberty to rest—the seventh of the week.[26] Then, indeed, he issued forth, decked as of old, and, like a bird free from the confines of his cage, made the most of the brief hours of his freedom.

“Every art, every manœuvre within the subtle and almost inexhaustible resources of those apt functionaries of the law who are ever on the alert to deprive the subject of his liberty, let him be never so chary of the preservation of it, had been put in force to trap our hero; but hitherto in vain. Mr Sloughman,[27] truly, arrived within a short journey of accomplishing this much-desired end; still he was frustrated, and now among the ranks of bums there was a cloud which damped their hopes and mildewed their energies. The Marquis was not to be grabbed, and they knew it. With flagging spirits the attempts were renewed over and over again. Bribes and offers of rewards were extended liberally to his menials for their traitorous assistance in obtaining the design, but they had been too well selected, and knew their own interests depended on no such frail or fleeting benefits. False messengers in all garbs and disguises, upon all kinds of errands and excuses, applied for admission and interviews. Even—yes, even the fair sex were at last made not bearers of Love’s despatches, but conveyancers of stern writs, notices of declarations, trials, and suchlike means to the end and breaking up of a man of fashion. Still the Marquis was proof against all these attacks, let them come in what shape they would.”

That may be fancy, but it is close akin to fact.

In _The English Spy_ we read of the crowd in Hyde Park of a Sunday afternoon at the fashionable hour:—

“The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,
Who dine at two, are ranged along
On both sides of the way;
With various views, these honest folk
Descant on fashions, quiz and joke,
Or march a _shy cock_[28] down;
For many a star in fashion’s sphere
Can only once a week appear
In public haunts of town,
Lest those two ever _watchful_ friends,
The _step_-brothers, whom sheriff sends,
John Doe and Richard Roe,
A _taking_ pair should deign to borrow,
To wit, until _All Souls_ the morrow,
The body of a beau;
But Sunday sets the prisoner free,
He _shows_ the Park, and laughs with glee,
At creditors and Bum.”

Henry Vizetelly used on occasion to make an early call upon Thackeray, and walk into town with him from Kensington. “On one of these journeys,” he says, “soon after Lady Blessington gave up Gore House to reside in Paris, I remember his taking me with him to look over the little crib, adjacent to the big mansion, where Count d’Orsay, Lady Blessington’s recognised lover, was understood to have resided, with the view of saving appearances. For years past the ringleted and white-kidded Count, although his tailor and other obliging tradespeople dressed him for nothing, or rather, in consideration of the advertisement that his equivocal patronage procured for them, had been a self-constituted prisoner through dread of arrest for debt. It was only on Sundays that he ventured outside the Gore House grounds, and for his protection on other days the greatest possible precaution was exercised when it was necessary for any of Lady Blessington’s many visitors to be admitted. D’Orsay’s friend, Thomas Slingsby Duncombe, who was mixed up with him in numerous bill transactions, used to say that the Count’s debts amounted to £120,000, and that before he retired to the safe asylum of Gore House, he was literally mobbed by duns.”

[TO FACE PAGE 250]

Tom Duncombe describes Lady Blessington’s parties as gay, “where all the men about town assembled, and sunned themselves in her charms; and where, for certain reasons, she was secure from the intrusion of rivals. There Count d’Orsay, tied by the leg with 120,000_l._ of debt, was sure to welcome his ‘_cher Tomie_.’”

“_Cher Tomie_” saw and knew much of D’Orsay, and did his best to help him in his money troubles. The following letters tell a tale of woe:—

_Saturday, 12th February 1842._

“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I know that you have been to C. Lewis, and
that he told you it was settled. It is not so; he expected
that I would have signed the renewals at sixty per cent. which
he sent me, and which I delivered. Therefore, if you have a
moment to lose, have the kindness to see him this morning and
persuade him of the impossibility of my renewing at that rate;
say anything you like on the subject, but that is the moral
of the tale. You must come and dine with us soon again.—Yours
faithfully,

“D’ORSAY.”

* * * * *

_Thursday, 6th April 1842._

“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I see by the papers that Lord Campbell and Mr
T. S. Duncombe received a petition against the _Imprisonment
for Debt_! It is the moment to immortalise yourself, and also
the _sweetest_ revenge against all our gang of Jews, if you
succeed in carrying this petition through. I have taken proper
means to keep this proposal alive in the Press. Will you come
and dine with us?—Yours affectionately,

“D’ORSAY.”

This last _may_ refer to the schedule above-mentioned:—

“MY DEAR TOMMY,—I send you this precious document; the only
one I could obtain. It is a flaring-up page of the _History of
the Nineteenth Century_! God is great, and will be greater the
day He will annihilate our persecutors. _En attendant_, I am
always,—Your affectionate friend,

“D’ORSAY.”

The following refers again to the Imprisonment Abolition Bill:—

“MON CHER TOMMY,—I think that we ought to try to ascertain
how far the humbugging system can go. As soon as I received
your note this morning I wrote to Brougham, and explained
all the unfructuous attempts of Mr Hawes.[29] I enclose the
first answer. _Now_, he has just been here, after having had
a long conversation with Lyndhurst, who is decided to spur
the Solicitor-General, stating, as the Parliament will last
until Thursday week, there will be time enough to pass the
bill. See what you can do with Mr Hawes. I am sure that if he
will strike the iron now, when it is hot, that we have still a
chance. Lyndhurst, I assure you, is very anxious about it, and
expressed it strongly to Brougham. Do not be discouraged.—Yours
affectionately,

“D’ORSAY.”

The enclosed note from Brougham ran:—

“MON CHER A.,—Je suis _coloré_ plutôt que _désespéré_. Il faut
que je mette ordre à tout cela. Je vais chez Lyndhurst dans
l’instant, H. B.”

Tom Duncombe was himself a capital hand at getting into debt; we read:—“Duncombe is playing good boy, having completely drawn in; he has given up his house and carriages, and taken his name out of the Clubs. He had become so involved that he could not carry on the war any longer. They say that he has committed himself to the amount of 120,000_l._”

Readers of _Vanity Fair_ will recall “Mr Moss’s mansion in Cursitor Street,” “that dismal place of hospitality,” to which Colonel Crawdon was an unwilling visitor. It was such an ordeal, that D’Orsay was determined not to undergo. Shame upon those who threatened him with it.

Madden tells us that D’Orsay’s sister “makes no concealment of her conviction that Count d’Orsay’s ignorance of the value of money—the profuse expenditure into which he was led by that ignorance, the temptation to play arising from it, the reckless extravagance into which he entered, not so much to minister to his own pleasure, as to gratify the feelings of an inordinate generosity of disposition, that prompted him to give whenever he was called on, and to forget the obligations he contracted for the sake of others, and the heavy penalties imposed on his friends by the frequent appeals for pecuniary assistance—were very grievous faults, and great defects in his character.”

Mice nibbling at the reputation of a lion! Faults and defects; it is so easy to see spots on the sun! The world is often cruel to its greatest men; and who can deny that D’Orsay was much ill-used? Who can realise the suffering inflicted on his generous heart by the lack of generosity in others? How absurd to insult his memory by calling “reckless extravagance” that which in ordinary men would be so, but which in him was the striving to fulfil his great destiny. If his spirit haunts the earth it must be torture, worse than any in the place to which he may have gone, to find that he should have been so greatly misunderstood. It is a lovable trait in a man that he should give to others of his superfluity; it is adorable in D’Orsay that he should have distributed with open hand and tender heart the spare cash of others. Petty questionings as to right and wrong, _meum et tuum_, to which commonplace men rightly pay attention, have no claim upon such a man as D’Orsay. To the good all things are good.

He had the tongue of the charmer. Mr Mitchell, to whom he owed much money, would in moments of despair, write and demand immediate payment. In all his glory D’Orsay would answer in person; would calm the tempest with fair words and would usually succeed in _increasing_ his indebtedness.

XXIV

SUNDRY FESTIVITIES

There cannot, indeed, be any question but that D’Orsay possessed the gift of fascination; his personality was one that compelled both admiration and attention. It is impossible to define or describe wherein exactly lies this power of personality. Of two women equally beautiful and apparently equally attractive, one will fascinate and the other will not, but it surpasses the ability of even those who are fascinated to say wherein is the difference between the two charmers.

D’Orsay had charm, and for our part we believe that with him, at any rate, part of this charm lay in the fact that he did not grow old; those whom the gods love die young despite the passage of years. He was young and he was gay; and joyousness is singularly and strongly attractive in a world where the majority of men and women are apt to be unjoyous. Gaiety of spirits, and unconquerable, unquenchable _joie de vivre_, are treasures above all price because they cannot be purchased.

Especially with those who make pleasure a pursuit, and it was with such that D’Orsay chiefly forgathered, the amusements of life too frequently become “stale, flat and unprofitable”; such folk make pleasure the business of life, pleasure does not come to them naturally, spontaneously; they suffer from that most wearing of mental troubles, boredom. Far otherwise was it with D’Orsay. We have been with him now in many places and with many companies, and never once has there been a hint that he was either satiated with enjoyment or depressed when things went astray. He often said himself: “I have never known the meaning of the word _ennui_.”

Beneath all the tinsel and unreality of some of Disraeli’s novels, there is always a stratum of keen observation and shrewd knowledge of men and women. It will help us, therefore, in our understanding of D’Orsay to see how he appeared to his friend and fellow-dandy.

Disraeli sketched D’Orsay’s portrait as Count Alcibiades de Mirabel in _Henrietta Temple_: “The satin-lined coat thrown open … and revealing a breastplate of starched cambric …,” the wristbands were turned up with “compact precision,” and were fastened by “jewelled studs.” “The Count Mirabel could talk at all times well.… Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act appropriate.… The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous.… It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing.…” Into Count Mirabel’s mouth is put this, which sounds very D’Orsayish: “Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,” said the Count. “He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused.… Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.” Then this: “I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me.” And this: “Fancy a man ever being in low spirits. Life is too short for such _bêtises_. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all; every man can go to sleep; if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it, enjoy everything. _Vive la bagatelle!_”

Then further on:—

“The Count Mirabel was announced.…

“The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr Bond Sharpe;[30] and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed—that bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads. Care, he knew nothing about; Time, he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.

“Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery.”

Then to his friend, Armine, who is _distrait_:—

“A melancholy man! _Quelle bêtise!_ I will cure you; I will be your friend, and put you all right. Now we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner—a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!”

Could Armine resist a tempting invitation so irresistible? No, “so, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.”

We hold that portrait to be excellent not only as regards the outer but also the inner man D’Orsay. He was the “child of impulse,” not a cold, cynical, calculating voluptuary; he did not deliberately “feel slightly, think little”; it was not in him to suffer deep emotion or to think deeply. “_Vive la bagatelle!_” that was his motto, because for him there was not in life anything else than “_bagatelle_”; existence for him was compounded of “trifles light as air.” His good spirits, as Disraeli hints, were based upon his splendid physical vitality as infectious good spirits must ever be. The joy of life may be apparent to and partially enjoyed by those whose physical health is weak, but complete realisation of the joy of living, of merely being alive, is only for those whose vitality is abundant and superb. Further, he had the faculty of enjoying himself; it was not that he would not but that he could not be bored.

Even children felt his fascination. Madden writes:—

“One of the proofs of the effect on others of his insinuating manners and prepossessing appearance, was the extreme affection and confidence he inspired in children, of whom he was very fond, but who usually seemed as if they were irresistibly drawn towards him, even before he attempted to win them. The shyest and most reserved were no more proof against this influence than the most confiding. Children who in general would hardly venture to look at a stranger, would steal to his side, take his hand, and seem to be quite happy and at ease when they were near him.”

Nor, as we have learned, was it merely the butterflies who found pleasure in his sunny nature; he had a striking faculty of suiting himself to his company, an adaptability which is essential for success in general society. Landor loved him, so almost it may be said did the somewhat stern Macready. Indeed the actor was one of the most ardent of D’Orsay’s admirers; he wrote after his death:—

“No one who knew and had affections could help loving him. When he liked he was most fascinating and captivating. It was impossible to be insensible to his graceful, frank and most affectionate manner. I have reason to believe that he liked me, perhaps much, and I certainly entertained the most affectionate regard for him. He was the most brilliant, graceful, endearing man I ever saw—humorous, witty and clear-headed. But the name of D’Orsay alone had a charm; even in the most distant cities of the United States all inquired with interest about him.”

A few notes from Macready’s Diary, and from records kept by others, will serve to confirm the testimony already adduced of the great variety and interest of the friends with whom D’Orsay was surrounded in the Gore House days.

On February 16th, 1839, there was a pleasant company there, of which Macready makes this record:—

“Went to Lady Blessington’s with Forster, who had called in the course of the day. Met there the Count de Vigny, with whom I had a most interesting conversation on _Richelieu_.… Met also with D’Orsay, Bulwer, Charles Buller, Lord Durham, who was very cordial and courteous to me, Captain Marryat, who wished to be reintroduced to me, Hall, Standish, Chorley, Greville, who wished to be introduced to me also, Dr Quin, etc. Passed a very agreeable two hours.”

With most of these we have already met on other occasions. On May 31st, 1840, Macready met at Gore House the Fonblanques, Lord Normanby, Lord Canterbury, Monckton Milnes, Chorley, Rubini and “Liszt, the most marvellous pianist I ever heard. I do not know when I have been so excited.” And in April 1846, we hear of him dining at Gore House in the company of, amongst others, Liston, Quin, Chesterfield, Edwin Landseer, Forster, Jerdan and Dickens.

And on the other hand many a time did D’Orsay dine with Macready to meet good company, but Lady Blessington was not and could not be included in the invitations. It is a feather in their caps for men to conquer beautiful ladies, but _væ victis_. On the evening of May 6th, 1840, Planché “was present at a very large and brilliant gathering at Gore House. Amongst the company were the Marquis of Normanby and several other noblemen, and, memorably, Edwin Landseer. During the previous week there had been a serious disturbance at the Opera, known as ‘The Tamburini Row,’ and it naturally formed the chief subject of conversation in a party, nearly every one of whom had been present. Lord Normanby, Count d’Orsay, and Landseer were specially excited; there was some difference of opinion, but no quarrelling, and the great animal painter was in high spirits and exceedingly amusing till the small hours of the morning, when we all gaily separated, little dreaming of the horrible deed perhaps at that very moment perpetrating, the murder of Lord William Russell by his valet Courvoisier.”

Of James Robinson Planché, herald and writer of extravaganzas and student of the history of costume, Edmund Yates gives a thumbnail sketch in later years:—

“Such a pleasant little man, even in his extreme old age—he was over eighty at his death[31]—and always neatly dressed, showing his French origin in his vivacity and his constant gesticulation.”

The murder of Lord William Russell created an unpleasant sensation, though there was not anything mysterious in it, or particularly interesting to the amateur in crime. François Benjamin Courvoisier, a Swiss and Lord William’s valet, two maid-servants and Lord William, aged seventy-two, formed the household at the establishment in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. On the morning of 7th May, the housemaid found her master’s writing-room in a state of disarray, and in the hall a cloak, an opera-glass and other articles of wearing apparel done up together as if prepared to be taken away. The maid roused Courvoisier, who exclaimed, when he came upon the scene: “Some one has been robbing us; for God’s sake go and see where his lordship is!”

They went together to Lord William’s room, where a shocking sight presented itself, their master lying dead upon the bed, his head nearly severed from his body. The police were summoned, and money, banknotes, and some jewellery, believed to have been stolen from Lord William, being found concealed behind the skirting in the pantry, Courvoisier was arrested, tried, condemned, and then acknowledged his crime. He was executed on 6th July, before an immense mob of men, women and children.

Of another evening at Gore House Planché has this to relate of Lablache:—