II
Society—Conversation and the lack of it—Miss Gordon Cumming and Munro of Novar—The Duke of Wellington’s hatred of publicity—Sir Robert Peel’s wedding at Apsley House—Mr. Delane—An eccentric patron—A curate’s wit—The Stock Exchange and the West End—Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar’s drive home—American influence—Lions—Mr. Watts and the crinolette—Matchmaking—Lady Beaconsfield—Some anecdotes—Lord Henry Lennox and the Duchess of Cleveland—Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury—Frances, Lady Waldegrave.
Society in old days cannot in any way be compared with the motley crowd which calls itself society to-day. A witty Frenchman of the eighteenth century once said that in perusing the memoirs of the time of Louis XIV. one discovered, even in the bad company of that age, something which was lacking in the good of his own day—a remark which with but slight alteration might, with justice, I think, be applied to the society of to-day as compared with that of fifty or sixty years ago. To-day it would be difficult to discover accurately who is in or who out of society, or, for the matter of that, whether society itself exists—though, of course, many little coteries of people think that they, and they only, are the leaders of the fashionable world.
DECAY OF CONVERSATION
In old days society was led by certain recognised rulers who framed its ordinances, against which there was no appeal; whilst it was entertained by men whose capacity for wit and brilliant conversation was universally admitted—individuals, indeed, who ruled with almost undisputed sway and retained their power even when age had somewhat dulled their wits. Society was quite content to listen, and it was not considered good manners to resent being told things one knew perfectly well even by people who did not sometimes know them at all. Now, however, everybody chatters; it is not talkers that are wanted, far from it; but listening is almost a lost art. The general tone of modern conversation is, without doubt, much lower than it was in the days of the great talkers of the past—inane flippancy being treated in much too lenient a manner. The general impression given by those who habitually indulge in it always seems to me to be that they are not quite sure that they are ladies and gentlemen, and are therefore perpetually engaged in trying to laugh it off.
On the other hand, the conversational autocrats of other days were far too dictatorial, and, in many cases, undoubtedly checked general conversation owing to a secret fear of incurring their displeasure and evoking some verbal castigation not at all conducive to social enjoyment.
The professional conversationalist, who in former days did really exist, has now long since passed away. To-day he would be voted a bore, for his social qualifications were not such as would render him popular in the modern world, in which every one likes to share in the conversation, which for the most part deals with trivialities.
The great talkers of old days, bold of speech and ruthlessly outspoken at times, were especially deft in making use of banter, a weapon of which, when necessary, they availed themselves with terrible effect. This banter, let it be understood, was quite a different thing from the chaff of to-day, which in most cases is little more than silly comment on personal peculiarities, or criticism of a very primitive and obvious kind which sometimes sinks to the level of childish teasing. A good maxim which should never be forgotten is that to chaff any one up to such a point that the victim loses his temper, places the assailant in a very awkward and uncomfortable position, whilst demonstrating his complete mental inefficiency in that particular line in which he has been attempting to indulge.
It should never be forgotten that one angry or even irritated individual will completely spoil a dinner-party. The difference between a clever talker and one who delights in saying things which embarrass and annoy is much the same as that which exists between a first-class fencer and a bungling assassin.
MUNRO OF NOVAR
In these days, when the art of conversation is little understood, it is no infrequent thing to encounter hosts and hostesses who wilfully check conversation by remarks, in many cases well meant, such as, “Now we will talk of something else,” “Don’t you think we have heard enough about that?” and other verbal stupidities which affect the good talker like an icy blast.
The necessity for such crude methods can never really exist, for it is perfectly easy to lead a conversation away from one topic to another by almost imperceptible gradations which do not entail that awful silence which is the solemn requiem of social enjoyment. After a pause of this kind general conversation is difficult to revive, and then it is that a bold and even an assertive talker is especially valuable in order to put every one at their ease. In connection with this subject I cannot help telling a little story which will exemplify what I mean.
Miss Gordon Cumming, a lady noted for her independence of speech, would at times make very apposite and amusing remarks. Years ago there was a certain Scotch gentleman, Munro of Novar, who was well known for his carelessness as to dress, which indeed amounted almost to eccentricity. He was, by the way, the possessor of a very fine collection of pictures, which were sold in order to help the Turks in their struggle against Russia in 1878, by his successor and heir, Mr. Butler Johnston, M.P., who was a warm and generous supporter of the Ottoman Empire. This gentleman, I remember, created a great sensation by making a most admirable speech in the House of Commons, which at the time caused people to predict a great political future for him. His health, however, broke down and nothing more was heard of him, for, becoming an invalid, he withdrew from public life and died not very long afterwards of consumption. Munro of Novar was, as I have said, very unconventional in his attire, and usually managed to display a considerable amount of shirt between the ending of his waistcoat and the beginning of his trousers. This snowy space was one evening especially noticeable. During dinner, for some reason or other, an awful pause in the conversation, amounting practically to a dead silence, occurred, when Miss Gordon Cumming, raising her voice, suddenly remarked, “I beg to call the attention of the company to the very lucid interval between Novar’s waistcoat and his trousers.” This utterance, naturally provoking uproarious laughter, caused the chieftain in question to make the necessary adjustment in his dress, and put every one into a good humour.
The general level of conversation in the so-called society of modern days must, of necessity, be low, for society, or what passes for it, is now very large, whilst wealth is more welcome than intellect. Good conversation, therefore, is practically non-existent. The majority of people, indeed, would, I think, quite frankly admit their incompetence in this respect, perhaps adding that serious conversation is a bore, which is true enough when an attempt is made to indulge in it by those who have never learned anything and never wish to learn. To such the world appears much as it does to that species of lizard which, from having lived for ages in dark caves, has no power of sight.
SOCIETY AND THE PRESS
In former days the love of publicity, which is such a conspicuous feature of modern life, had little or no existence, and people, for the most part, disliked the chronicling of their doings by the Press—an aversion which can hardly be said to flourish at the present time. The second Duke of Wellington, in particular, was especially averse to attracting public notice of this kind, and was once very angry at a full account of a social function which had taken place at Apsley House appearing in a daily newspaper—one, I may add, of the very highest class.
When the late Sir Robert Peel was married to Lady Emily Hay (the Duchess’s sister), the wedding breakfast took place at Apsley House, to which, as usual, no Press representatives had been invited. What was the Duke’s horror, therefore, to read the next day in his morning newspaper, a full account of the proceedings, together with a report of such speeches as had been delivered! He was absolutely furious, and knowing that I was a friend of the proprietor of the paper, came round to see me, in a towering rage, to try to get me to discover the culprit. “I am sure,” said he, “one of these newspaper fellows smuggled himself in and lay under the table whilst the breakfast was going on.” In spite, however, of my strenuous efforts, the miscreant was never discovered, much to the annoyance of the Duke, who for years would never speak to the owner of the paper—a dear friend of mine, who happily is still alive.
Some time after this the latter told me that, to avoid any other incident of this kind occurring, he had given strict orders that no report of any social festivities whatever should appear unless accompanied by the written permission of the hosts, and I rather fancy that the rule in question still holds good.
At that time, of course, the Press was not regarded quite in the same light as it is to-day, and the majority of its representatives were viewed with a good deal of suspicion. Mr. Delane, however, was an exception to this, and was everywhere warmly welcomed in society. I often went down to parties which he gave for Ascot races at a house which I believe is now tenanted by the Jockey Club, and also used to see a certain amount of him in London. Well do I remember his once saying to me in connection with some troubles which he was describing: “Ah! you have no worries; your path is strewn with rose-leaves, and those carefully ironed out.”
AN ECCENTRIC PATRON
The fear of public opinion which now exists had little influence upon certain people in old days. There were many who held very tenaciously to the doctrine that with their own they could do absolutely what they liked. Such a one was the peer who, when thwarted, would occasionally display an almost injudicious independence of action which gave rise to many stories, of which the following is one. He had several livings in his gift, but having become a Catholic found that owing to his change of faith the law prohibited him from presenting any one to them. This, for some reason or other, particularly annoyed him, and he determined to have the matter thoroughly investigated, when he found that this prohibition only applied to Catholics: a Buddhist, Mahometan, or even an avowed Agnostic could present—a Catholic patron alone could not do so. More angry than ever at this discovery, he then conceived the idea of advertising these livings for sale, giving especial instructions that a proviso should be inserted that “no Christian need apply,” the consequence of which was that, as he used gleefully to narrate, he eventually sold the rights of presentation to a Jew.
Whilst on the subject of presentations to livings, I remember an old story of a bishop and his chaplain which may possibly bear repetition.
A bishop was once having a discussion with his chaplain as to the exact nature of wit, and defied him to explain it. The chaplain in reply said, “Your Lordship will see that I can easily do that. The rectory of —— is vacant, give it to me. That will be wit.” “If you can prove it,” answered the bishop, “the living shall be yours.” “It would be a good thing well applied,” rejoined the chaplain, and by his nimbleness of mind gained the coveted appointment.
NEW FORCES IN SOCIETY
It was in the ’seventies that two new and powerful forces began to make their influence felt in society, for about that time Americans—of whom formerly comparatively little had been seen—began to come to London in considerable numbers, and then began those Anglo-American marriages which are now quite common. About this time also the Stock Exchange began to make itself felt as a social power outside the City, whilst several young men—pioneers of that vast body who now every morning migrate from the West End to their various offices—declared their intention of adopting the City as a regular career. Before that time hardly any one in the West End of London understood anything about stocks and shares. Whether, on the whole, London society has gained much by this departure seems a somewhat doubtful question. Many younger sons, it is true, have found a means of making a livelihood; but, on the other hand, many elder ones have, in consequence of unsuccessful speculations, been compelled to look about for one. Directly the City mania obtained a firm grip upon what was practically virgin soil, people began to make much of every one whom they thought capable of pointing out an easy path to wealth; and many shrewd business men, who hitherto had never dreamt of forcing the strongly guarded portals of society, were not slow in taking advantage of such a state of affairs. In almost every case they obtained more than they gave, and the ample hospitality which they dispensed brought in a rich harvest of speculators, who, with childlike confidence, eagerly rushed into any and every venture. They fondly dreamt that with the advice of their new-found advisers wealth beyond the dreams of avarice was now really within their grasp; but the hopes of only a very few were realised, and the large majority burnt their fingers very severely by over-indulgence in speculation.
At the time when rich aliens were first beginning to be admitted into society a little incident was the cause of much amusement to the late Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar. One wet evening during the season Prince Edward, coming out from the opera and just about to step into his carriage, spied a foreigner of very humble extraction, who had amassed a considerable fortune in the City and was noted for his hospitality, vainly searching for his brougham. The poor man was in a state of despair bordering on distraction, and as the financier in question lived, like Prince Edward, in Portland Place, the latter, who was the kindest of men, very courteously offered him a lift home.
The offer was accepted with many expressions of the most profuse thanks; but as the carriage rolled on Prince Edward gradually began to be somewhat alarmed at the behaviour of his companion, who began carrying on a long conversation with himself of a solemn and prayer-like nature. Listening more attentively, the Prince at last was able to make some meaning out of the broken sentences, which, uttered in a sort of Dutch-English, produced a sort of weird, wailing effect.
“A broud tay indeed,” the man was saying, “a broud tay for me and mine. Oh dat my boor mother had been sbared to see me dis night, triving side by side with a Brince of the blood!”
Now, I fancy, Anglicised foreign financiers take these sort of things more or less as a matter of course. No one, indeed, is at all surprised at meeting people of uncertain nationality, one or two at least being certain to be included in every fashionable party. To do these individuals justice, most of them, after a mysterious process of Anglicisation, become public-spirited men, whilst the great majority yield to no one in vaunting the superiority of the Englishman over the foreigner.
At the same time, with the influx of the rich foreign element into English society has come a new conception of life altogether, and wealth as the ultimate end of existence has been placed upon a pinnacle which it never occupied before. In one respect, however, there can be no doubt but that the new English have deserved well of their newly adopted country: this is in their magnificent gifts and bequests to hospitals and charities, acts of generosity which must silence much criticism.
AMERICAN INFLUENCE
On the whole, I think the influx of the American element into English society has done good rather than harm, whilst there are many old families which, both in mind and pocket, have been completely revivified by prudent marriages with American brides. At the present day, so close has the union between ourselves and the United States become that Americans are hardly looked upon as foreigners at all, so many people having American relatives; but in old days things were quite different, and we rather dreaded the social influence of a people whom we did not know. Bright and vivacious, it may with justice be said that it is by the American girl that we have been conquered, for she it is in reality who has brought about the excellent understanding which now exists with the great people beyond the Atlantic.
In the late ’seventies and early ’eighties society was very fond of “lions”—a taste which, I fancy, has rather decreased during recent years. People vied with one another in getting celebrities of different kinds to come to their lunches, dinners, and parties, and I fear that I must plead guilty to having joined in the prevailing craze, which, as a matter of fact, was no new one as regards myself, for I have always liked to meet out-of-the-way or remarkable people. On one occasion, however, I received what I must confess was a well-merited reproof. I had arranged a luncheon-party, one of the guests being a well-known lady—well-known on account of her beauty,—and it suddenly struck me that my old friend Mr. Watts, a great admirer of perfection in the human form divine, might like to meet her. So I sent him an invitation, to which the following was the reply:—
Little Holland House,
28th March 1884.
Dear Lady Dorothy—Many thousand thanks. I am pleased to meet remarkable people, especially those from whom I can profit, and I delight in beauty, but I have little interest in those who become famous from accident, so I should prefer to come and see you and a few old (or new) friends such as I had the pleasure of finding at your house the day when I enjoyed myself very much. The amusement you so kindly offer me in this case would be in the indulgence of curiosity, not a nice feeling to be encouraged towards any one who wears a crinolette; so please give me another opportunity of so pleasantly paying my respects to you,—And believe me to be, dear Lady Dorothy, yours sincerely,
G. F. Watts.
Possessing a mind which was essentially of a very high and elevated type, Mr. Watts could not bear the thought of a lady being, as he thought, “trotted out” as a curiosity, which I fancy my letter had led him to believe was the object of the lunch, though, of course, such was not really the case. The reference to the crinolette—that monstrosity which seemed to be designed in emulation of the Hottentot form—sounds strange to modern ears. It is to be hoped that this artificial protuberance—hideous, uncomfortable, and supremely ridiculous—has now for ever disappeared.
MATCHMAKING MAMMAS
The crinoline, a much worse monstrosity, once nearly cost me my life owing to the one I wore catching fire. It was, of course, nothing but a revival of the hooped petticoat of the eighteenth century, and was introduced, as far as I remember, by the Empress Eugénie. The name originated, I think, from the crin or horsehair of which the crinoline was made; though it is also said to have arisen from a milliner who invented it and was called Madame Crinoline; but such a story is, I think, based upon no solid foundation.
Matchmaking mammas, perhaps, existed in greater numbers formerly than to-day, when young ladies are so advanced that they are well able to do their own matchmaking.
Many were the stories told of a certain lady who, clever, shrewd, and good-natured withal, yet made little secret of her intense desire to marry off her daughters, a feat which she duly succeeded in performing. Once at a ball given in a very beautiful mansion, at which, however, the decorations were more select than the company, a gentleman whom she knew came up to her and said, “Ah, Lady ——, what a beautiful house this is.” “It is, indeed,” was her reply; “but remember my daughters don’t dance with the house.” On one occasion, however, it was declared her matchmaking schemes had been thoroughly baffled by a certain young peer who, rich and extremely nervous, seemed likely to succumb easily before her attacks. His very nervousness, however, proved his salvation. The lady one evening met him at a party, and, dragging the unfortunate youth into an adjoining boudoir, opened fire with, “I must tell you that I have frequently remarked your attentions to . . .”; but she was not allowed to proceed further, for, breaking into her speech with a sudden and extremely nervous rush, her would-be victim, with the words “Pardon me, but I promised my dear mother never to flirt with a married woman,” made for the door, and thus unwittingly escaped from confirming the proposal which he had never made.
In after-years, when all her daughters were satisfactorily married, this lady used to say, “Only give a sensible woman three wet days in a country house, and she’ll marry her daughters to any one.”
Formerly, of course, English society was not nearly so cosmopolitan as it is to-day, and there were many people quite ignorant of foreign manners and customs, which were looked upon with a certain amount of contempt.
The late Lord Clarendon used to tell a story about Lady Beaconsfield. Her husband had introduced her to a distinguished Frenchman, and the latter, wishing to be very civil to the Prime Minister’s wife, made an attempt to kiss her hand as she advanced to shake hands with him, upon which, not caring for this foreign mode of salutation, she drew her hand away, at the same time saying, “Monsieur, ce n’est pas propre.”
This rather amusing incident has, I fancy, been more than once described as having happened to other ladies, but as a matter of fact Lady Beaconsfield was really the perpetrator of the blunder in question.
MRS. MALAPROPS
In former days there was generally some one person in London society who was credited with saying the most ridiculous things and making absurd mistakes in conversation. Mrs. Hudson, the wife of the famous railway king, was, I believe, the Mrs. Malaprop of her day, but I never met her. Another lady, however, who flourished during the ’seventies and ’eighties, when she entertained very largely, undoubtedly did occasionally say things which were ludicrous in the extreme, and in consequence caused other similar things which she had not said to be attributed to her. It was positively asserted, for instance (and perhaps with truth), that at the beginning of one season she had made the somewhat startling announcement that she was going to give two big balls—one for the beau-monde, the other for the demi-monde, by which somewhat doubtful appellation she merely meant to indicate the people who were not quite at the very top of the social tree. Many stories also used to be told of what this poor lady had said at a dinner at the British Embassy in Paris. Seated next to a Frenchman, who was freely talking in his own language on a subject which she deemed better unheard by the footman behind her chair, she is supposed to have pointed at the servant, who she knew understood French, whilst she murmured in a low voice, “Prenez garde, le derrière de ma chaise comprend le français.”
Another lady, newly admitted into society, having sent a card to Lord Cassillis (whose name is pronounced “Cassells”) for a ball she was giving, was afterwards very indignant at some one remarking, “Cassillis seems getting on very well with your daughter,” and at once went round the ballroom saying, “I never asked that publisher to come at all.”
Then there was the gushing lady who, after a dinner-party where the Chinese Ambassador and his wife were amongst the guests, found herself, as she thought, sitting next the Ambassadress, over whose gorgeous robes she went into an ecstasy of admiration, at first evoking nothing but a mysterious smile from the object of her praise. When, however, she proceeded to even greater lengths in the way of caressing gush, the supposed Ambassadress at last significantly placed a finger upon her lips, and, pointing with the other hand to where another quaint Chinese figure was sitting, quietly murmured, “Takee care, my wife velly jealous.”
The old Duchess of Cleveland—not the one who lived at Battle Abbey; she had been Lady William Paulet—was a great character in her way, very stiff and precise in her manner of talking, as well as abominating all familiarity, such as calling people by their Christian names. Lord Henry Lennox, I recollect, used to delight in irritating the old Duchess by making use of slang expressions, which never failed to call forth from her the remark, “May I inquire, Lord Henry, whether, when you have completely mastered the language of the servants’ hall, you mean to adopt its manners as well?”
MARCHIONESS OF AILESBURY
Another lady, whose straight upstanding figure, deep voice, and striking appearance can never be forgotten by those who knew her, was Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury, who, to the end of her life, sported a mass of corkscrew ringlets, which fell in abundant masses around her somewhat aquiline and commanding profile. In great request in society, she frankly declared that she would go to no country house unless she could stay a fortnight, as otherwise “it would not pay her.” She lunched and dined out to such an extent that it was currently, and, I believe, truthfully, reported that she herself kept no cook. Her only extravagance was engaging tall footmen—any man about six feet high who attracted her attention being promptly engaged, no matter what his character might be. These footmen she herself used to put through a sort of military drill, with a view to imparting to their actions that grace and dignity to which she attached so much importance.
Frances, Lady Waldegrave, who was the daughter of old Braham, the singer, was a woman of very determined character, and not a bit ashamed of her origin. She would often jokingly say, when present at a party at which any curious or unknown people were amongst the guests, “I am sure every one will say they are some of my vulgar relatives.” It is rather a strange thing that in days when society was still somewhat aristocratic and exclusive. Lady Waldegrave and Lady Molesworth, both with no pretensions to good birth, should have been rivals in leading it.
Lady Waldegrave expended huge sums on the decoration, or rather destruction, of Strawberry Hill, which she filled with heavy gilt furniture literally crowned with coronets. She also employed a very indifferent painter to paint pictures of her friends. These works of art were totally out of place at Strawberry Hill, where they produced the worst effect imaginable. Art indeed was not at a very high level during the Victorian era, for though there were some good artists, there were many very bad ones as well.