The evening at Seamore Place often began with a dinner party; some of these it will be pleasant for us to attend, in a proper spirit.
Habitués not only dined there, but when so disposed dropped in of an evening at almost any hour. Tom Moore records in his memoirs that he did so on 17th December 1833:—“Went to Lady Blessington’s, having heard that she is at home most evenings. Found her gay rooms splendidly lighted up, and herself in a similar state of illumination, sitting ‘alone in her glory,’ reading. It was like the solitude of some princess confined in a fairy palace. After I had been a few minutes with her, however, D’Orsay made his appearance. Stayed about three-quarters of an hour conversing.…”
Then on 11th August of the following year he “Dined at Lady Blessington’s: company, D’Orsay (as master of the house), John Ponsonby, Willis the American, Count Pahlen (whom I saw a good deal of when he was formerly in London, and liked), Fonblanque, the editor of The Examiner, and a foreigner, whose name I forget. Sat next to Fonblanque, and was glad of the opportunity of knowing him. A clever fellow certainly, and with great powers occasionally as a writer. Got on very well together.”
That must have been a pleasant gathering: a witty hostess, a witty host, and several other wits, Fonblanque among them, of whom Lytton speaks enthusiastically to Lady Blessington: “What a combination to reconcile one to mankind, and such honour, such wisdom and such genius.” Albany Fonblanque, as so many others have done, deserted law for journalism, achieving a high degree of success as editor of The Examiner. He was a master of sarcasm. Before Dickens set out on his first trip to America, in 1842, Fonblanque cuttingly said: “Why, aren’t there disagreeable people enough to describe in Blackburn or Leeds?”
In the same year (1834) Benjamin Disraeli was one of a distinguished company entertained one night in May:—“On Monday I dined with Lady Blessington, the Prince of Moskowa, Charles Lafitte, Lords Castlereagh, Elphinstone, and Allen, Mr Talbot, myself.…” Disraeli in his thirtieth year was a man after D’Orsay’s heart, a fellow dandy and a brother wit. But there was a difference in kind: Disraeli was an amateur, D’Orsay a professional; to the former dandyism was a pose, of his life a thing apart, it was the latter’s whole existence; dandyism with Disraeli was part of a means to an end, with D’Orsay it was the end itself. The useful Willis gives a description of Disraeli at somewhere about this date, but Madden casts a doubt upon his accuracy. It was a strange scene, like pages torn from Vivian Grey, and from what we learn from other sources the “atmosphere” at any rate is correct and typical:—
“Disraeli had arrived before me at Lady Blessington’s,” Willis writes, “and sat in the deep window, looking out upon Hyde Park, with the last rays of daylight reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of an embroidered waistcoat. Patent leather pumps, a white stick, with a black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chains about his neck and pockets, served to make him, even in the dim light, rather a conspicuous object. Disraeli has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw. He is lividly pale, and, but for the energy of his action and the strength of his lungs, would seem a victim to consumption. His eye is black as Erebus, and has the most mocking and lying-in-wait sort of expression conceivable.… His hair is as extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats. A thick heavy mass of jet-black ringlets falls over his left cheek almost to his collarless stock; while on the right it is parted and put away with the smooth carefulness of a girl, and shines most unctuously,
‘With thy incomparable oil, Macassar.’
Disraeli was the only one at table who knew Beckford, and the style in which he gave a sketch of his habits and manners was worthy of himself. I might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea, as to convey an idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description. There were, at least, five words in every sentence that must have been very much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others apparently could so well have conveyed his idea. He talked like a race-horse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in action, and the utmost energy of expression flung out in every burst. Victor Hugo and his extraordinary novels came next under discussion; and Disraeli, who was fired with his own eloquence, started off apropos de bottes, with a long story of empalement he had seen in Upper Egypt. It was as good, and perhaps as authentic, as the description of the chow-chow-tow in Vivian Grey. The circumstantiality of the account was equally horrible and amusing. Then followed the sufferer’s history, with a score of murders and barbarities heaped together like Martin’s feast of Belshazzar, with a mixture of horror and splendour that was unparalleled in my experience of improvisation. No mystic priest of the Corybantes could have worked himself up into a finer frenzy of language.”
Willis himself seems to have been bitten with this fine frenzy.
Madden says that it was Disraeli’s wont to be reserved and silent in company, but that when he was aroused “his command of language was truly wonderful, his power of sarcasm unsurpassed.”