‘Never you mind, my dear,’ said the old gentleman, with whom Emily seemed to be a great favourite, and chuckling again, ‘but this I will tell you, that the late-comers will have to pay much more. I wouldn’t mind wagering that the price will go up to 50 guineas for some of the seats before the day itself.’
‘Lassy me!’ said Emily.
‘You are not the only good bargain-maker, sir,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, a satirical-looking young man. ‘What do you think Thady has done? Thady, I must tell you, Miss Harcourt, is the Irish servant of my brother-in-law Charles here. Miss Dacre knows him and his bulls very well.’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Emily laughing, ‘and the night that he and the French lady’s-maid went out to see the comet — the “rorybory alehouse” as he called it — and didn’t come in till late, saying they had been frightened by a ghost.’
‘Well,’ continued Mr. Tom, ‘Thady heard through his friends among the gentlemen’s gentlemen that a number of male and female servants were to be given admission to the Abbey to wait upon the Peers and Peeresses. So what did the fellow do but imitate his betters, and is buying a place from Lord D.’s valet for a guinea.’
We all laughed heartily at this amusing example of high life below stairs.
‘Now, Caroline,’ said Emily to Mrs. Seaforth, ‘do give us your advice. Both Fanny and I are great readers. Where shall we find the best circulating library? Books we must have, or we shall die.’
‘Why not try Ebers’s shop in Old Bond Street, as you are so near,’ said Mrs. Seaforth, who was pretty in a languishing sort of way. ‘It is a pleasant walk from Queen Street. We were going in that direction when we met you. Let us go there together.’
The proposal was accepted, and the gentlemen giving us their arms, we were soon at the bookseller’s shop. Here we took leave of the Ingoldsby family, engaging ourselves to visit them on the following evening but one.
While Emily spoke with the proprietor, I amused myself by glancing round the shop and examining the newest books. Novels by dear Mr. Dickens, Captain Marryat, Mr. G. P. R. James, Bulwer, Mrs. Gore, Mrs. Trollope, Miss Landon, and all the best writers stood on the shelves or lay about on tables. A life of the Wizard of the North attracted my notice, as did various magazines and books of verse. The Keepsakes and the Annuals presented a charming appearance, and I was interested to see the great historian Gibbon’s work on the Roman Empire made suitable for family reading by that Mr. Bowdler who has brought Shakespeare into repute again.
I was placing an order for several new books with an assistant, when a man entered the shop with a large parcel which he placed on the counter.
‘Now here, madam,’ said the assistant, ‘is a book, a fresh impression newly arrived from the printer’s, which you should certainly have; Jocelyn FitzFulke, by DeLacy Vavasour. His novels always sell very well. When his last book, Clarinda Dashbourne, or The Female Orphan’s Revenge, came out, I assure you we had such a crowd that Bond Street was quite blocked. Shall I have the pleasure of putting this up with your other books?’
I refused his offer civilly. Had not Mr. Vavasour promised to send me copies of his works himself? And I confided in his honour.
Emily having transacted our business, and the books having been promised by the same day, I asked that the account for my books might be sent to my father. He might storm, but he could not very well refuse to pay it, and in any case he throws all bills into the fire. When we got home I found a large parcel waiting for me. With trembling fingers I undid it. It contained a complete set of Mr. Vavasour’s novels. Enclosed was a gilt-edged card bearing the following inscription, which still brings a blush of pleasurable confusion to the matron’s cheek.
Oh, turn away those fawnlike eyes, and close the jalousie!
Thou canst not know how deep thou wound’st the heart till now so free.
The VAVASOUR, who in the fight was first among the brave,
Is now in silken fetters bound, FRANCESCA’S hapless slave.
This composition caused me acute emotion. Except that my name is not Francesca, nor indeed Fanny either, I having been christened Charlotte at my mother’s wish, but my father having had a whim to call me Fanny after a favourite pointer, a name that has clung to me, though this, of course, Mr. Vavasour could not be expected to know, the whole allusion to my appearance at the window seemed to me in the most romantic and poetic taste. I was torn between a desire to show Emily the stanza, and a fear that she might say something unpleasant about it, so I finally determined to leave it carelessly about. Candour would have been in this case the better course to pursue, but this I did not realize till too late.
Emily and I spent the whole evening and most of the night devouring Jocelyn FitzFulke. Still can I feel the wild romantic passion, and can remember every word as if it were yesterday. The scene of the novel was laid in Rome, city of Caesar and Pope, prey of the Goth, yet conquering her conquerors! where a widow lady received lodgers in her palace, relic of former splendours. One evening, when the Angelus was ringing from a thousand convents, a gentleman, handsome though careworn, and his wife, arrived at a late hour. The gentleman, an Englishman by his speech and accent, inspected the rooms, engaged them, and went out, saying he would shortly return. Hardly had he left the house than the widow discovered that the young wife was about to become a mother! She gave birth to a lovely female infant and expired. The husband never returned, so the widow brought up the little girl in the strictest piety, treasuring for her the jewels that her unhappy and nameless mother had worn.
A few years earlier, in London, the young Darcy FitzFulke was tending his young wife on the wretched pallet bed in the garret which was their only home, his cruel father, Lord FitzFulke, having cast him off on his marriage to a lovely maiden of slightly lower rank. Too finely nurtured to work, too proud to beg, Darcy could but watch his wife dying day by day, and mingle his tears with hers. A lovely boy, Jocelyn, played about his dying mother’s couch, drawing from her wan lips an occasional smile. That night Jocelyn was doubly an orphan. Maddened by the death from starvation and consumption of his fair young wife, Darcy FitzFulke had sought repose in the rolling waters of the Thames!
The haughty Lord FitzFulke then took Jocelyn to his estate and educated him. When the young man was twenty he was sent to Rome to study law, and here he took rooms in the house of the widow. Jocelyn and Mignonne, which I forgot to say was the name of the child left almost an orphan by the death of her mother and the disappearance of her father, felt the dawnings of love, but neither dared avow them to the other. Ah, Youth! A mysterious being called Il Nero now appeared to Jocelyn, and after taking him to a dark and lonely house, magnificently furnished, among the marshes of the Campagna, let him go again. I must confess I could not quite understand this part, but my head was in a whirl and I wished to get to the end of the volume before Emily could get the next one.
Jocelyn, wooed by the shameless Lucrezia, had his faith to Mignonne so sorely tried that he fled to Paris. Here I must mention that I should have mentioned before that he had some years previously rescued a little orphan girl from the ill treatment of a brutal stepmother. On the journey to Paris a handsome stripling named Luigi attached himself to him and the two friends shared an attic in Paris where Jocelyn pursued his studies in law. I cannot clearly remember how it was, but an Englishman whom he met, and who had loved Lucrezia, somehow came to murder someone, which so horrified Jocelyn that he fell into a brain fever. When he recovered, he found that Luigi had been supporting them both by the fruits of his pencil, love having made him an accomplished artist, for he was no other than the orphan girl whom Jocelyn had befriended. I cannot quite recall the events which follow, but Mignonne goes as companion to an English lady of rank, niece to the Earl of Courtenaye, and here the jewels that she wears betray all, for the Earl is none other than her FATHER, who years ago had, under the name of Alphonzo, wooed and won the fair Zulmia, but feared to break the news to his stern father. Thus it was that he left the unhappy Zulmia a
t the widow’s house in Rome, where kindly death following on the pangs of accouchement ended her trials. The mysterious being called II Nero, who had once loved Jocelyn’s mother, and hence took so kindly an interest in him, is now poisoned, and the wicked lawyer who, I should have said earlier, had defrauded the widow of all her fortune, thus forcing Mignonne to seek a living as a companion, is justly punished by his son marrying the depraved Lucrezia, thinking that she is a poor but fascinating governess. So Jocelyn, now Earl of FitzFulke, takes Mignonne, now the Lady Flordeliza de Montgomery, to the ancestral home of his grandfather, who has since died of remorse, and the lovers are for ever united.
It was two o’clock in the morning before Emily and I, devouring each volume in turn, had finished the tale. I had the pleasure of reading straight through from the beginning to the end, but Emily had the unfair advantage of knowing what happened at the end before I did, as she began with the third volume, on condition that she would promise not to reveal the denouement to me.
The following day found us languid and heavy, and I altered a head-dress of blonde, adding some green and pink ribbons, while Emily tried a composition of the Polish musician, M. Chopin, on the pianoforte. We both wished that we had been in London during his visit last year, but consoled ourselves with the reflection that we should be able to go to one of the Concerts of Antient Music, or a performance of the Philharmonic Society. Norwich is famous for its music, and I have twice attended a festival there, besides hearing the Oratorio of St. Paul by the German composer Mendelssohn at Birmingham the previous year. I am therefore qualified to judge on questions of musical taste, and I venture to say that Mr. Mendelssohn’s works will live. Of M. Chopin’s works I cannot so well judge, for Emily has not the brilliance required for their execution. My father had also promised that we should go to Her Majesty’s Theatre to see the Italian Opera.
Emily and I discussed at some length the form of a letter of thanks to Mr. Vavasour, but so many copies did we blot or scratch out, that we decided to wait till I could thank him in person. A note from Mrs. Vavasour, requesting us to visit the Exhibition of the Royal Academy in Trafalgar Square with her, slightly roused our drooping spirits, and Emily sewed two feathers into her green hat and placed a small wreath of flowers under the brim. Mrs. Bellows, who had occasion to come into the room, was greatly struck by the improvement effected by this change, so that we ended the day in a more resigned frame of mind.
The day appointed for our visit to the Royal Academy dawned fair and bright and Mrs. Vavasour called for us in her carriage.
‘I am sorry,’ she said as we drove down Piccadilly, ‘that you did not come to town in time to see Benjamin West’s great religious picture of ‘Christ Rejected’ at the Egyptian Hall. There can only be one opinion about a work of art of so elevating a character. My nephew found some fault in the chiaroscuro, but when I gravely pointed out to him that the moral lesson to be drawn from it was of more importance than its artistic merit, great though that is acknowledged to be, he felt the truth of my remark. I hope, my dears, that you will not consider my nephew’s company an intrusion at the Royal Academy. DeLacy is the most delightful cicerone, and can show you which pictures to admire and which to pass over.’
This was indeed good news, and Emily nudged me in a way that caused me to give her a look of rebuke.
Our tour round the galleries was interesting and instructive. Before entering the stately portico Mr. Vavasour pointed out to us the various improvements, the laying out of a regular terrace, the paving of the space beyond it and the fine vista towards Westminster.
‘A lover of the picturesque,’ he said, ‘may regret the demolition of the houses which formerly stood on this site in romantic disarray, but there are times when the Useful and the Beautiful become One; and such, I consider, has been the case here. Where medieval houses once stood in Gothic confusion, we now have a forum which would not disgrace Ancient Rome; while the King’s Stables are replaced by this noble building which houses the art treasures of a nation.’
He continued thus to address us as we went into the picture galleries, and presently Mrs. Vavasour, complaining of fatigue, sat down for a while, and Emily remained with her and discussed the fashions, an act of friendship on Emily’s part which made my heart sensibly warm to her. I need not say that the picture I was of all most anxious to see was Wilkie’s representation of our Young Queen holding her first Council. It was not altogether like his Blind Fiddler, engravings of which have deeply affected me, but its effect was most striking. Mr. Vavasour obligingly pointed out to me the principal personages there depicted and told me an amusing story about some person, a Lord Mayor I think, who had got into the Council Chamber under some misapprehension and whose head had been transferred to canvas before he was discovered and removed. Whether the painter subsequently painted out the offending magistrate I do not know.
Another composition which Mr. Vavasour recommended to my judgement was Maclise’s Salvator Rosa painting his friend Masianello, but as I did not like to expose my ignorance by asking who they were, I preferred to linger on Mr. Landseer’s admirable pictures of deer fighting, and Newfoundland dogs, whose expressions are almost human, a quality, as Mr. Vavasour cuttingly remarked, which he denies to his portraits. I find that Mr. Vavasour is a great admirer of Mr. Turner’s work, but I confess I preferred Mr. Mulready, whose Seven Ages of Man struck me with admiration. Here, indeed, is true imagination! Every detail mentioned by Shakespeare is faithfully rendered, thus constituting a chef d’œuvre.
Sir David Wilkie had so far forgotten what is due to the public as to exhibit a portrait of that dreadful O’Connell, who seems to be the cause of most of the unrest in the country. Rather timidly, for one never quite knows what gentlemen’s political views are, I asked Mr. Vavasour what he thought of it. His striking answer was:
‘The portrait, Miss Harcourt, conveys a very accurate idea of that blustering, burly Hibernian, and is painted with an appropriate coarseness which renders it as disagreeable to look on as the Agitator himself.’
Could Mr. Darnley but hear him, he must be convinced that no party which even dallies with O’Connell can hope to govern in peace.
When we rejoined Mrs. Vavasour she suggested that if not too fatigued we should also visit the British Institution in Pall Mall.
‘I would like,’ she said, ‘to have taken you to the Society of Painters in Water-Colours, where Mr. Cattermole is exhibiting his Scenes from the life of Salvator Rosa, but we must not attempt too much.’
I was relieved to hear this, for I had somehow taken the greatest dislike to this Salvator Rosa, who seemed to meet me at every turn, and I would not like Mr. Vavasour to despise me as an ignorant country girl.
At the British Institution we were greatly struck by Mr. Turner’s drawings. Mrs. Vavasour expressed the opinion that Turner is much deteriorated by the introduction of such crude and gaudy colours as he now uses. I saw Mr. Vavasour’s lip curl, but with admirable temper he said nothing, merely inviting us all to look at some compositions of Mr. Landseer’s. Luckily his aunt was enraptured by them, which restored harmony.
‘I must say,’ she remarked, putting up her glass to examine a picture of some fallow deer, ‘that the noble bearing and bounding freedom of these beautiful tenants of the forest were never more truly depicted. And do you not think, DeLacy, that in The Two Dogs there is a grandeur of composition rarely to be met with in subjects of this description?’ Mr. Vavasour appeared gratified by his aunt’s enthusiasm. Emily, who has not the true gusto for painting, now loudly admired a picture entitled The Match Boy, representing a beggar boy offering matches for sale. His pale, emaciated face and ragged garments appeared to me to be faultlessly rendered, but Mr. Vavasour remarked with that air of lofty disdain that sits on him so well:
‘The work, Miss Dacre, is indeed well studied and harmoniously coloured, qualities which may well recommend it to you as a work of art; but as a subject, its pauper character and the associations connected with
it cannot be regarded as favourable.’
‘Lassy me!’ was all Emily’s comment. Emily has no soul. Mrs. Vavasour left us at our door, asking us to visit her on a day when she would be receiving some literary friends, an invitation which we gladly accepted. She therefore promised to send us cards, and hoped that my father would accompany us.
That evening we passed very pleasantly with the Ingoldsbys, who were at Mivart’s Hotel in Grosvenor Square, only a short distance from our lodgings. My father was in an excellent humour because the new gas lighting has not yet been introduced into Grosvenor Square, and he said the oil lamps were like the good old days when he first visited London. Mr. Darnley was also present, and though he has not the romantic appearance, nor the lofty eloquence of Mr. Vavasour, there is something about him which renders intercourse more free and unrestrained. He and Mr. Tom Ingoldsby were discussing the new railways when we arrived. They had both attended the opening of the London and Southampton Railway at Nine Elms, and had been much struck by the faultless and well-sustained pace of the engine, which drew the coaches at the rate of twenty-three miles in forty-five minutes.
‘Are you going to the Epsom races by the railway, sir?’ asked Mr. Darnley of my father.
‘No, sir,’ answered my father, ‘I have just bought to-day a barouche; it is second-hand but has hardly had any use and is in excellent condition. It cost me forty-five guineas, and I intend to see the Derby from my own carriage, drawn by my own horses. Have you anything to say against that, sir? Do you think I want to have my hair singed and my face blacked, and let Fanny and Emily here sit next to any impudent Radical fellow that chooses to pay for a ticket?’
He growled several more very uncomplimentary remarks about Agitators and Radicals, qualifying each with an epithet, but the Ingoldsby family, a delightful good-humoured set, merely laughed at his vehemence, and Mr. Darnley, who seems determined to find no provocation in anything my father says, changed the subject with a smile.
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