"MABEL GREY AT HOME."
The salon was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, and the ceiling was probably fifteen feet from the velvet carpet. Velvet decorated the walls, hanging in crimson folds somewhat like the arras hangings that I had seen in some of the mildewed chateaux of the French nobles. There was, in the front of the salon, an immense mirror framed in gold, and inside of the golden frame was a sub-frame of crimson velvet. The lounges, chairs, ottomans, and buffets, were trimmed with velvet of the same warm color. The carpet on the floor was a Gobelin, in which was worked a pictured design of the port of Marseilles, at a cost of two thousand pounds. There were richly carved statues of Parian, bronzes, antique and richly-painted vases, shells standing on golden tripods, caricatures of dogs' heads, tigers' heads, and the bodies of serpents, with glistening eyes—all of which articles had more or less of the precious metals in their composition. Pictures of Diana of Poictiers, Margaruite de Valois, Theroigne de Mericourt, Anna Boleyn, Louisa de Valliere, and a supposed mistress of John Wilkes Booth, of whom I had never before heard, adorned the walls of the salon.
These were all done in oil, well painted, and magnificently framed. The place of honor, however, was reserved for Ninon de l'Enclos, the mistress of one of the Bourbon Kings. This picture was a beautiful work of art, and represented the famous beauty of the old French Court, reclining opposite a mirror. There was a small figure piece by Meissonier, and a statue of Minerva of pure marble, from whose spear head depended a small but richly chased gas-chandelier, of six burners, that spread a flood of light all over the salon. A hundred thousand dollars would not have purchased the furniture, carpets, statues, paintings, and ornaments, in this gorgeous apartment, to say nothing of the diamonds which covered the neck and arms of the beautiful but frail mistress of the mansion.
And now for Mabel herself. This distinguished personage, as she lounged on the tiger-skin, looked to me a little above the medium height of women; her hair, of a rich, silky brown, full and lustrous, was looped in coils at the top of the back of her head a la Grecque, and was trimmed with small red flowers. From her ears were pendant long, oval, diamond ear-rings, and from her snowy neck was hung a necklace, of pearl shells interwoven with diamonds, worth a monarch's ransom. Her arms were bare and rounded, and her shoulders were decollete. She was attired in a loosely flowing robe of pink velvet—the only thing pink I saw in the apartment—and at her waist was a plain thin cincture of gold. She wore her dress without hoops, which allowed the folds of her costly robe to fall over her shapely limbs in studied yet artistic confusion. On the different fingers of both hands were rings of topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald, amethyst, and opal, fastened by golden keepers. She had crimson slippers, embroidered in gold, and in her right hand she waved lazily, to and fro, a fan of costly feathers. The woman herself was a magnificent animal to look at, with a spice of the tiger shining out of her clear, lustrous eyes.
PERSONNEL.
The neck was well poised and finely cut, as were the face and shoulders. The mouth was large and full of good, white, regular teeth, which she displayed often during the conversation to advantage. The nose was irregular, pert, and snubbish, and her chin was like the cone of a ripe peach. Something there was brazen in this woman's face, despite the magnificence reigning in the apartment. Her voice was loud and sharp, and her gestures were unladylike, though she endeavored to atone for these defects by a studied ease which occasionally lapsed into a masculine freedom. She was continually showing her rings, her fan, and her slippers—and seemed careless of the little prudential details that go to make up the manner of a virtuous woman.
"Anonyma" is, in many respects, a different woman from Mabel Grey. This celebrated Lorette, unlike her frail sisters, has a taste, or perhaps affects to have a taste, for literature. Originally a clergyman's daughter, and born and bred in Sussex, she had, when she came first to London, all the charms of a fresh country girl, and, although exposed for a long time to temptation in her station as a governess in the family of a rich commoner, whose name is now often before the public, she held on her way firmly as she could, and would have succeeded had not she met a man who outraged her by a false or mock marriage.
The poor girl, whose real name is Brandling, when she found that she was deserted with a few pounds in her pocket, went almost mad. But she had to starve or else become what she is now. Her father, overworked in his curacy at £150 a year, and having a family of five children, refused to admit her to his home, and gave as a reason that it would be setting a bad example to his parishioners, which he, as a minister of the Gospel could not do. Driven from her birthplace, with despair in her heart, she fled to London, and, sinking at once into the slough of iniquity, was not heard of for a year, when she emerged in grandeur at the opera in the company of a wealthy banker, who has since failed and fled the country.
The girl, from her reticent disposition, her lady-like manner, and the mystery attending her appearance in the world—no one being able to tell her exact position—received the name of "Anonyma" from the Saturday Review. Unlike the other women of her sex, this girl was never formerly seen in the company of any woman whose position was affected by the slightest breath of reproach. In the Park she never made acquaintances, and all notes sent to her were sent back to the writers. To become acquainted with "Anonyma," though the seeker after her intimacy were a prince, it was necessary to have a formal introduction to the lady.
The "Kitten" is a young lady well known at the Cremorne Gardens for her expensive suppers, loud voice, and magnificent pony carriage, before which she drives sometimes a brace of Shetland ponies, three in a tandem. At the Cremorne she always puts ice-cream in her champagne, and never drinks any light or thin wines, as she says that they do not agree with her constitution. I saw her at the Ascot Races in company with Mabel Grey, the "Kitten" being mounted on a splendid roan, which she managed with the skill of an old army officer, and a dozen men belonging to the best known clubs in London were clustering about her, and assisting her to luncheon, looking after the wine, or doing a hundred little errands which women of her character always find for men to do in a public place. The "Kitten" is a blonde, with black eyes, a pretty, babyish face, a dimpled chin, a profusion of golden hair which is not dyed, and a capital seat in the saddle. She is always gloved to a nicety, and her ensemble is of the best kind. She has a pert fashion of saying sharp or impudent things, and this seems to be the chief accomplishment of all this class of shameless women. They know the stable-talk and the slang of the betting ring, and of the hunt, but nothing more. The "Kitten," five years ago—she is now 22—was a coryphee in the ballet of a London theatre, at the magnificent salary of fifteen shillings a week, and now she has an annuity of £2,000 settled upon her by a young fool of a lord, who has no better use for his money.