Madden tells us that D’Orsay’s sister “makes no concealment of her conviction that Count d’Orsay’s ignorance of the value of money—the profuse expenditure into which he was led by that ignorance, the temptation to play arising from it, the reckless extravagance into which he entered, not so much to minister to his own pleasure, as to gratify the feelings of an inordinate generosity of disposition, that prompted him to give whenever he was called on, and to forget the obligations he contracted for the sake of others, and the heavy penalties imposed on his friends by the frequent appeals for pecuniary assistance—were very grievous faults, and great defects in his character.”
Mice nibbling at the reputation of a lion! Faults and defects; it is so easy to see spots on the sun! The world is often cruel to its greatest men; and who can deny that D’Orsay was much ill-used? Who can realise the suffering inflicted on his generous heart by the lack of generosity in others? How absurd to insult his memory by calling “reckless extravagance” that which in ordinary men would be so, but which in him was the striving to fulfil his great destiny. If his spirit haunts the earth it must be torture, worse than any in the place to which he may have gone, to find that he should have been so greatly misunderstood. It is a lovable trait in a man that he should give to others of his superfluity; it is adorable in D’Orsay that he should have distributed with open hand and tender heart the spare cash of others. Petty questionings as to right and wrong, meum et tuum, to which commonplace men rightly pay attention, have no claim upon such a man as D’Orsay. To the good all things are good.
He had the tongue of the charmer. Mr Mitchell, to whom he owed much money, would in moments of despair, write and demand immediate payment. In all his glory D’Orsay would answer in person; would calm the tempest with fair words and would usually succeed in increasing his indebtedness.
XXIV
SUNDRY FESTIVITIES
There cannot, indeed, be any question but that D’Orsay possessed the gift of fascination; his personality was one that compelled both admiration and attention. It is impossible to define or describe wherein exactly lies this power of personality. Of two women equally beautiful and apparently equally attractive, one will fascinate and the other will not, but it surpasses the ability of even those who are fascinated to say wherein is the difference between the two charmers.
D’Orsay had charm, and for our part we believe that with him, at any rate, part of this charm lay in the fact that he did not grow old; those whom the gods love die young despite the passage of years. He was young and he was gay; and joyousness is singularly and strongly attractive in a world where the majority of men and women are apt to be unjoyous. Gaiety of spirits, and unconquerable, unquenchable joie de vivre, are treasures above all price because they cannot be purchased.
Especially with those who make pleasure a pursuit, and it was with such that D’Orsay chiefly forgathered, the amusements of life too frequently become “stale, flat and unprofitable”; such folk make pleasure the business of life, pleasure does not come to them naturally, spontaneously; they suffer from that most wearing of mental troubles, boredom. Far otherwise was it with D’Orsay. We have been with him now in many places and with many companies, and never once has there been a hint that he was either satiated with enjoyment or depressed when things went astray. He often said himself: “I have never known the meaning of the word ennui.”
Beneath all the tinsel and unreality of some of Disraeli’s novels, there is always a stratum of keen observation and shrewd knowledge of men and women. It will help us, therefore, in our understanding of D’Orsay to see how he appeared to his friend and fellow-dandy.