“Then he shan’t have me; but he’s good, he’ll understand. Would I not be with my friend that happy day? Dear sir, you shall paint the Ambassadress, and it shall be—oh, better than Circe, than Cassandra, than them all!”
She caught him up in her own joy and whirled him away, leaving not a moment for thought or grief. All centred on the picture. And so it remains—immortal, for he threw his great heart, his great brain into it, and the colours were mingled with his life-blood in that most noble portrait. She sits, little hands with the new wedding ring clasped upon the arm of her chair. Some one has disturbed her meditation—her Excellency the Ambassadress is needed; she turns her face, the lovely oval chin and curved lips upon the happy beholder. The eyes under the long arched brows are full of gentle reserves and soft dignity. Not any Circe nor Cassandra now, but Emma Hamilton, herself at last. We may believe that Hamilton loved that picture, for it represented her as all he wished and believed her—worthy indeed of the great gifts he had given.
But the world went on its way, and from that day onward the fribbles of fashion crowded about her. She swept them away also in the strong current of her marvellous vitality. Mr. Horace Walpole wrote wittily enough that the Nymph of the Attitudes had conquered—“Sir William Hamilton’s pantomime mistress, who acts all the antique statues in an Indian shawl.” So he said, burning to see the sight like the rest of them. He favoured the Duke of Queensberry’s reception that night at Richmond with a chosen few that he might see her with Sir William glowing with pride to display his conquering Beauty. Let us hear the Arbiter of Fashion and of Taste.
“On Saturday evening I was at the Duke of Queensberry’s (at Richmond s’entend) with a small company, and there were Sir W. Hamilton and Mrs. Hart, who on the 3rd of next month, previous to their departure, is to be made Madame l’Envoyeé à Naples, the Neapolitan Queen having promised to receive her in that quality. Here she cannot be presented, where only such over-virtuous wives as the Duchess of Kingston and Mrs. Hastings, who could go with a husband in each hand, are admitted. I had only heard of her Attitudes, and those, in dumb show, I have not yet seen. Oh, but she sings admirably; has a very fine strong voice; is an excellent buffa and an astonishing tragedian. She sung ‘Nina’ in the highest perfection, and there her attitudes were a whole theatre of grace and various expressions.”
So Mr. Walpole’s world was conquered (with reservations) and she thought it conquered wholly.
They were married at Marylebone church on the 6th September, 1790, in the twenty-fifth year of her age, and the witnesses were my Lord Abercorn, Sir William’s cousin, and Mr. Dutens, and fashion laughed at Sir William as it had never laughed yet. Indeed, it had believed he might escape the adventuress at the last moment—the dotard! And Mr. Walpole wrote again to his Miss Berrys that “Apropos, Sir W. Hamilton has married his Gallery of Statues, and they are set out on their return to Naples.”
And Emma spent that eventful day with her friend and gave him the last sitting of so many; the last forever.
That friendship and Sir William’s true affection stand out as the sole and touching realities of the unreal froth and laughter and slighting jest with Mr. Walpole’s aged cynicism leading the rabble rout. He may have been right in his valuation—he would have declared that after years proved him immaculately so, had he lived to jest when that time came—but his light cruelties hover, a malarial glitter of corruption, above the Lethe where all dead things roll to their doom in the sullen flood; and Romney’s adoration and her husband’s fidelity shine like fixed stars in every memory of her fair face, and will illuminate her with tenderness until her beauty is forgotten.
Her gratitude to her husband! She could never make him amends for his goodness. What did it matter that the cold Queen of England refused to receive her? He had restored her to all a woman could value. She wrote to her faithful Romney:
“I am the happiest woman in the world. Sir William is fonder of me every day, and I hope he will have no corse to repent of his goodness to me. But why do I tell you this? You know me enough. You was the first dear friend I opened my heart to. You ought to know me, for you have seen and discoursed with me in my poorer days. How grateful then do I feel to my dear, dear husband, that as restored peace to my mind, that as given me honours, rank, and what is more, innocence and happiness. Rejoice with me, my dear sir, my friend, my more than father. Believe me, I am still that same Emma you knew me. Tell Hayley I am always reading his ‘Triumphs of Temper,’ it was that that made me Lady H. for God knows I had for five years enough to try my temper and I am afraid if it had not been for the good example Serena taught me, my girdle would have burst, and if it had I had been undone for Sir W. minds more temper than beauty. He therefore wishes Mr. Hayley would come that he might thank him for his sweet-tempered wife. I swear to you I have never once been out of humour since the 6th of last September. God bless you.”