(It is early in the year 1761. Charles Hutchinson, in London to establish his inheritance of his aunt's property, has become the friend of Lord Staines, the son of the Earl of Teesdale)
As Lord Staines had indicated, it was not long before I received an invitation to dine with the Earl of Teesdale, at the great house he had recently built on Piccadilly. I donned my best clothes and around four o’clock walked the short distance there from my lodgings. I found a numerous party assembling, and was glad that I was in the company of other guests, for I was feeling extremely nervous as I crossed the broad courtyard.
It was much the grandest mansion I had ever
entered. The door was guarded by two giant footmen, immaculately dressed and exactly
matched in size as well as livery; even the colour of their eyes being a similar
brown. My hat and stick were taken by a hall porter in a red coat, after which
a page-boy conducted me across the hall and up a splendid marble staircase
where the walls were hung with paintings of immense size, to the saloon, where
the guests were greeted by Lord and Lady Teesdale.
Lord Staines introduced me to his father. The
Earl was taller and heavier in build than his son, and his suit was plain and
sober in colour, as befitting a gentleman of his age and dignity. He examined
me closely with his deep-set dark eyes, and asked me about my inheritance of
Mrs Andrew’s property in Bereton, of which he appeared well-informed. By his
side, the Countess, a tiny, birdlike lady said scarcely a word. I thought she
looked melancholy, though she returned my bow and nervous thanks for the
invitation with a smile. Lord Staines, I reflected, resembled his mother more
than he did his father, and their eyes were identical.
They
then turned to welcome another guest, and I followed Staines across the saloon.
The walls were a deep red, the better to show off the gold gesso frames of the
numerous paintings, which were being inspected and admired by the guests. Staines
pointed to his father’s portrait by Reynolds, and then to a Raphael Madonna,
telling an amusing story about how his father had obtained it in Florence. One lady
said it was so lovely that it could convert even the firmest Protestant to
Popery and idolatry. Further on we stopped to admire a painting, which I was
told was by Canaletto, of a view across the Thames towards Saint Paul’s. Feeling
that I should make a contribution to the discussion, I rashly intervened to say
that we were all familiar with that view, and that the artist had by no means portrayed
it accurately. Staines forthwith crushed me by saying that Canaletto was
striving to portray an epitome or ideal rather than an accurate representation
such as an inferior artist might have produced, and implied that my criticism
was childish in the extreme.
I felt
ashamed to have opened my mouth, but when the party had moved on an elderly
gentleman who had observed my distress took me aside and advised me not to take
the matter to heart.
“I have known the family all my life”, he
said, “And I can tell you that Lord Staines has always behaved like that; desiring
ever to be the centre of attention, even at the expense of someone else.”
I said that I could not understand why
Staines had procured my invitation to the dinner only to humiliate me, at which
the gentleman replied that I was quite wrong in assuming that the invitation
had come from Lord Staines: it would have come from the Earl himself.
“Lord Teesdale would have heard that you
were a friend of his son, and wished to examine you closely, and the fact that,
as I have heard, you have inherited property near some of his lands would be of
added interest. This is especially the case since a General Election will be
held in the spring, and his lordship would wish for someone well-disposed
towards him to be elected for Bereton. I trust that you have passed the initial
tests: if so, expect to be questioned further!”
Returning to the question of the paintings, he
then whispered that in his opinion the Madonna was no Raphael, but merely an
imitation; but that under no circumstances would he reveal this to Lord
Staines. I asked him then whether Lord Teesdale, whom I assumed to be a man of
great natural astuteness, had allowed himself to be cozened by a dishonest
Italian dealer.
“Such things are possible”, he told me,
“But, when all is said and done, who cares whether Raphael painted it? It is a
most delicate and beautiful picture, whether or not it came from the brush of
the master. Perhaps the Earl thought the same?”
I was
much cheered up by this, and then drifted to join the fringes of another group,
whose members all many years older than me, where I said nothing and was
ignored as they discussed the landscape paintings. Lady Teesdale, I found,
loved such pictures; and I listened to the talk of how to distinguish a
Poussin from a Claud Lorrain, and both from a Salvador Rosa. So the time passed
instructively until the hour for dinner.
As dinner-time
approached I feared that my lack of experience might betray me into doing
something foolish; but good fortune came to my rescue. We were to be seated in
what my parents would have considered a promiscuous fashion, with men and women
placed alternately; and I was asked to escort a lady named Mrs Newstead who had
come unaccompanied, her husband being at present abroad. I was apprehensive,
for she was undoubtedly several years older than me and her cheeks had been
well supplied with paint and powder; but anything that might have been
artificial in her appearance was quickly atoned for by her smile and her
alluring dark blue eyes, which suggested mischief. She was tall and slender,
with her height accentuated by her hair, powdered a delicate pale grey, being
stacked high on her head and crowned with a single ostrich plume.
Her manner was charming. She spoke to me in
the most friendly manner, telling me that her name was Elizabeth, and that her
husband was out in Madras. I asked whether he was an army officer, and she
replied no: he had been for several years high in the East India Company and
had acquired considerable wealth.
She sensed my unease at the table and politely
enquired whether I had ever dined with such a
gathering. When I admitted that I was indeed a novice, and she discovered that
I did not even know the correct way to hold a wineglass, let alone how to order
wine or how to approach the different dishes, she did not mock me but at once
took me in charge. I followed her instructions gratefully; for after my
experience with the pictures I had no desire to expose myself to further
ridicule.
I was asked how I came to be at the dinner. I explained that I had only recently come to London when by chance I had encountered Lord Staines; that I had known him slightly at our college in Cambridge and was surprised that he remembered me.
"Ah, but Staines always likes handsome young men!" she replied, with a smile.
What can I say about the food? We were
served several courses, each having an enormous number of dishes with elaborate
sauces, for the Earl employed a French cook. There was lamb and beef and
venison, a fine turbot done in such a fashion that it was scarce recognisable
as a fish, a dish of sweetbreads, a side of veal, a goose pie, many ragouts of
vegetables and so on in vast profusion. I was much struck by a creation in the
shape of a hedgehog, manufactured of eggs and cream and stuck with quills of
almonds. As we ate, Elizabeth amused me with gossip a concerning the other
guests, all of whom she seemed to know well. I learnt that some men were of
substance; some were amusing but otherwise not to be relied upon, particularly
where money was concerned; others were rich but otherwise of little
significance. Throughout the meal, the gentleman seated the other side of my
companion, and whose name I have forgotten, held forth with the appearance of
great wit on books, and the theatre, and politics and everything else under the
sun. I could not compete with his genius, and contributed little to the
conversation. Elizabeth approved of my taciturnity, whispering that this man
was considered a figure of fun whose understanding was far less than he
thought.
“It is much better”, she said, to keep your
mouth closed and let people think you are a fool and to open it and prove that
you are!” Bearing in mind my blunder with the paintings, I thought this sound
advice.
“There are many others who are far worthier
of your attention,” she told me. “If you are serious about making your way in
the world, as I think you are, I can point out certain people whom you must
meet. Do you see the gentleman over there with the heavy eyebrows? He is Henry
Fox: a man of importance in the present ministry. He handles the money that pay for the war, and it is said that much of it contrives to stick
to his fingers. But he is learned, charming, and loyal to his friends. You
would be wise to cultivate him.”
She told me the story of how, years ago, Fox
caused a great scandal when he had eloped with Lady Caroline Lennox, the
daughter of the Duke of Richmond, who was only half his age.
“And is she here?” I asked.
“Yes: there she sits. It is said to be the
happiest of marriages. She is descended from one of King Charles the Second’s
many bastards, so their sons have royal blood in their veins”.
I did not mention that I had already heard of
Mr Fox’s reputation, but said I had encountered his sons, Stephen and Charles,
and now noticed how much the younger boy resembled his father.
“No doubt they would have been in some
gaming-house!” she laughed. "They lose vast sums, and their father pays it
all!”
I asked whether Mr William Pitt was ever
present at these dinners, since I greatly admired him and would dearly love to
meet him, but Elizabeth said he but rarely came to such functions.
“He works prodigiously hard planning the
war, the whole burden of which rests upon his shoulders, and must in the end
prove injurious to his wellbeing. All the world knows that in the past his
health has often been poor. When he is not at his desk he prefers to be at home
with his family. His wife presented him with another son just last year, and he
is said to dote on the child.
“And, indeed," she continued, “Should you
meet Pitt on such an occasion as this, you might find his manner disgusting,
for he is always cold and stiff in company, and it is only with his intimate
friends that he is relaxed and natural. It is best that you should wait until
you hear him speak in the Parliament, for then you will recognise his
greatness."
“And what of my host, the Earl of Teesdale?”
I asked. “Should I cultivate him?”
“Yes, of course. And not only him, but also
the Countess, who is a most delightful lady and a particular friend of mine.
But I would advise you not to stress too much your friendship with his son.
There is a certain coolness there.”
She would say no more on this subject, but I
observed Lord Teesdale carefully. He appeared a person of great natural
authority, to whom many others would look for leadership. He presided over the
dinner with dignity, making judicious interventions in the conversation, and
all his guests were most respectful towards him. I do not recall that his Countess ever opened
her mouth.
After some two hours of eating, the ladies
left us, snuff was passed around, pipes were lit and conversation around the
table grew more animated, often salacious, fuelled by immense quantities of
wine, brandy and port.
Mr Fox addressed himself to the company and praised our new young King, George III, who, he said, was proud of having been born and raised in England, unlike his father and grandfather, and was zealous for the good of his country. He, Fox, expected the new reign to be an age of peace both at home and abroad. One gentleman asked whether a Scotch nobleman, the Earl of Bute, who was said to be the King’s particular friend, should now be brought into the ministry. Mr Fox replied that it was natural that His Majesty should wish to have his friends close to him, but that he was certain that the present ministers would continue in office, and that reports of disputes between Lord Bute and Mr Pitt were without foundation. Mr Fox was without doubt a consummate politician, talking genially whilst revealing nothing of importance; but another face of him was seen when he gentleman who had been speaking so volubly near me intervened with, “People say that Lord Bute and the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta ….” Mr Fox turned on him and silenced him with no more than a raising of his dark eyebrows.
“The rabble say a great many wild and
foolish things, sir!” he pronounced severely, “A man of sense ignores them.”
Many gentlemen exclaimed “Hear, hear!” and
the other shrank back in his seat, muttering to himself. Lord Teesdale eased
the awkward moment by jesting that it should now be the prime duty of all the
ministers to find our young King a wife. Mr Fox replied with a smile that this
vital matter was indeed in hand, and that without doubt we would soon see a
Protestant princess who was worthy of our new monarch and our great country. The
company all rose to drink a toast to that.
The Earl was kind enough to introduce me to
Mr Fox, who spoke to me in a most obliging manner; enquiring as to my prospects
and my hopes for the future. Lord Teesdale commended the manner in which my
aunt had used her influence in Bereton at the last election in 1754, as a
result of which his friend Mr Bailey, a firm supporter of the ministry, had
been returned as one of the two Members of Parliament for the borough. Mr Fox
trusted that I would maintain the same course at the General Election that
would shortly be called. I made some modest reply and silently hoped that I
made a good impression on the great man: there were questions I would have
liked to ask him, but remembering Elizabeth’s advice, thought it best to hold
my peace. The discovery that I might now be a person of political influence was
a circumstance that had not previously occurred to me.
Eventually we retired to another room, where we
joined the ladies. I was reunited with Elizabeth, who chided me teasingly for
keeping her waiting so long. This room had painted Chinese wallpaper and was
furnished with delicate chairs and small tables in the Chinese style. A quartet
of musicians played softly at the end of the room. Tea and coffee were served
and cards played, the game being called Ombre. I was obliged to confess that I
did not know how to play, for unlike Faro, which was an extremely simple game, this
appeared absurdly complicated. Elizabeth, adopting a mockingly censorious tone,
said she was shocked that I was not familiar with the description of the game
in Pope’s celebrated poem “The Rape of the Lock”, and that she could see that
my education had been sadly neglected. I protested that I had read the poem, but
had never imagined that I would be called upon to play the game in such exalted
company. She laughed and said I would soon learn.
She led me to a table where a gentleman in a
suit of grey silk was at play. “His name is Geoffrey Fortran,” she told me, “And
you must watch what he does, for he is a most excellent player, and has won
considerable sums at cards. But do not play with him under any other
circumstances, for he is also a most notorious cheat! But even he would not
dare practice his deceptions under Lord Teesdale’s roof.”
“I fancy I might have seen him before,” I
said, “For I am sure he was one of the men who, that night at the club where I
saw the Fox boys, begged me to play cards with him; a request that I declined.”
Elizabeth laughed again and said that was very wise of me.
So we sat behind Mr Fortran’s chair, with
Elizabeth leaning very close to me and laying her hand on my sleeve as she commented
on which cards he played. “Now he will lead Pam!” she whispered in my ear, meaning
the knave of clubs, which was indeed the case. After a while she considered I was
able to cope with the demands of the game, and led me to another table where
there was a vacant seat. It did not take me long to discover that my
fellow-guests there either knew little more about the game than I did or were
notably careless in their play, so in the end I won a small quantity of money.
We left the card tables to drink coffee and
eat little cakes, and Elizabeth and I talked some more. She asked me how I
liked London. I replied that at first I had found it strange and overwhelming
and there was much that I still found shocking: the noise, the smells, the vast
crowds and the poverty I saw on all sides, but with the help of Lord Staines and
his friends I was becoming more accustomed to town life. She said that she had
once felt the same herself, for she had been born a country girl, but now she
could not imagine herself living anywhere other than in London.
It was well after midnight that the party
broke up. Carriages and sedan chairs came to the door, and I prepared to leave.
Elizabeth professed to be deeply shocked when I told her I had walked from my
lodgings, and now I proposed to walk back there.
“No person of quality ever walks at night!”
she chided me. “You must take a carriage or a chair! You would be fortunate if
the mob did not find you, and throw filth over your best clothes, or worse!” If
I was determined to walk, then at the very least, she said, I must tell a
servant to find a boy with a torch to light me home. Wishing to appear brave, I
thanked her but said it would not be necessary. I kissed her hand most
gallantly, saying that I greatly hoped to see more of her in the future, at
which she smiled and said it would be delightful. I then strode out into the
night, thinking that, apart from the playing of cards, there was much she could
teach me that was likely to prove vastly more entertaining.
It was no great distance to my lodgings, but
I quickly understood the value of a carriage or chair, for it was raining hard.
I was soon very cold, and my best hat and coat had sustained considerable
damage, but at least the bad weather kept the footpads away.
It was
only after I had safely negotiated the dark streets and was resting in bed for
what remained of the night, that I realised that I had neglected to obtain Elizabeth’s
address.
The next time I met Lord Staines, he did not apologise for his unkind remarks about the pictures; indeed, it is possible that he had entirely forgotten them. I reflected that the consoling comments of the old gentleman were probably correct, but for the first time a shadow was cast over my friendship with Staines.
No comments:
Post a Comment