The soirée was indeed in jeopardy; but in revenge I had the gratification of receiving from every guest invited a polite note, worded thus: “General, Colonel, or Captain So-and-so, will be very happy to spend the evening at Monsieur Soyer’s villarette.” General Wyndham, who was at one time uncertain whether he could come or not, sent his aide-de-camp to inform me that he should be able to attend, and to know the hour. Everything, in fact, tended to render my position more unpleasant; and the proverb, “Plus on est de fous, plus on rit,” was anything but clear to my mind. It would be clear enough if a good supper and good entertainment were provided; but if the contrary, I should say, “Plus on est de fous, moins on rit.” It was three o’clock, P.M., and nine was the hour on the invitation cards. There remained but six hours for success or failure.
O Vatel! my noble master in the science of curée, I then for the first time understood the true extent of your devotion to your art. Humiliation and dishonour awaited you; and Death—yes, Death! god of Starvation, with his frail, bony limbs—was grinning at you. Fortunately you lived in an era of gastronomic grandeur, when a chef de cuisine bore a high rank, and had your own aristocratic weapon wherewith to do the noble deed which gilds your name.
The gallant Colonel de Bathe was the first to arrive, with plenty of musical support. The programme was settled. Each noble general, as he arrived, was received à la militaire, not, as the song says, “sans tambour ni trompette,” but sans cérémonie. Every one being acquainted, introductions were not necessary.
At half-past nine the band, which had performed all the while, ceased playing, and the grand madrigal concert commenced, followed by glees, &c., and at intervals the band played lively quadrilles, polkas, &c., till eleven o’clock, when the supper took place. The band melodiously accompanied the knife-and-fork chorus, the champagne galop, and pop, pop of the confined corks. Shortly after, the amiable Lord Rokeby, who had kindly undertaken the office of chairman, made a most affable and, to me, interesting speech, dilating in high and flattering terms upon my mission to the East.
After supper, the band again ceased, and, while they enjoyed their nocturnal repast, madrigals, glees, duets, solos, &c., followed in rapid succession. All of a sudden (I happened at the time to be in the back room) an alarm was given by General Wyndham, who called out, “Soyer, Soyer, your hut is on fire!” The general was getting up, when a young officer sprang from beam to beam till he reached the top of the hut, where a large paper lantern had taken fire and ignited the roof. My principal fear was for my picture, painted by the late Madame Soyer, called the “Young Bavarian;” which was the admiration of all my Crimean visitors, and well known in London amongst the connoisseurs, having repurchased it at the sale of the great Saltmarsh collection, at Messrs. Christie and Mason’s, in the year 1846—(subsequently, when travelling in the South of France, I met on my route the illustrious Horace Vernet, and in Paris, had the honour of showing him this painting in his study at the Institute, when he expressed his opinion in the following words:—“That no female artist had ever painted in such a bold style, nor with such a truthfulness of colour and design.” He added, it was worthy of the pencil of Murillo). It hung directly under the conflagration. But, thanks to the gymnastic agility of our unknown fireman, calm was soon restored; the band recommenced playing, and the punch à la Marmora circulated freely, for everything was abandoned for that exciting mixture, even grogs and champagne. At about two o’clock Lord Rokeby and General Craufurd left. I then introduced a comic song, in which all joined, including between two or three hundred spectators who had collected round the hut. As the hour advanced, the company diminished; but at five in the morning there were still a few guests inquiring for their horses. And thus ended the last party on Cathcart’s Hill previous to the breaking up of the Fourth Division and its return to England.
The following is an account, from the Times, of the banquet, and of the names of some of my noble visitors:—
This evening, a number of distinguished guests honoured M. Soyer with their presence at supper at his villarette near Cathcart’s Hill. The exterior of the hut was illuminated with lamps fed with ration fat; the interior was embellished with numerous wreaths and festoons of the beautiful natural plants and flowers now so abundant over the less-trodden parts of the plateau. Some glees of Kücken, Mendelssohn, Fleming, &c., very well executed by Mr. Clarke Dalby, Major Colville, R.B., Colonel de Bathe, Scots Fusilier Guards, and others, formed an agreeable introduction to an excellent supper—a triumph of culinary art over Crimean resources, which was, however, soon subjugated in its turn by the ferocity and unconquerable steadiness of the British appetite. Lord Rokeby proposed M. Soyer’s health, and passed a high eulogium on the services he had rendered to the army by his exertions to promote good cooking and the use of palatable food; and M. Soyer returned thanks with propriety and feeling, acknowledging the aid and support he had received from generals, officers, and privates in the introduction of his improvements.
Among the guests were General Wyndham, Chief of the Staff; General Lord Rokeby, General Lord W. Paulet, Colonel Lord Alexander Russell, Lord Sefton, Sir Henry Barnard, General Garrett, General Craufurd, Colonel Blane, Colonel Hardinge, Colonel P. Fielding, Colonel Drummond, Colonel Ponsonby, Major Dallas, Lieutenant-Colonel Hugh Smith, and about thirty other officers. About this time twelve months the long rangers, of which we wisely held our tongues for fear the Russians would find out how unpleasant they were, and redouble their attentions, might have interrupted the proceedings very abruptly.