‘Let us allow the company to judge,’ said Mr. Darnley, picking up a book that lay on a table by him. ‘Here is the work in question. I will open at random and read.’
We all composed ourselves to listen and Mr. Darnley read aloud as follows:
The Dragon Fly
The Dragon Fly
Shoots spooming by,
No shape is seen
Except between
Those whirlwind-flights
Whose quickness smites
The sense with pain —
It leaves a train
Of pompous hues
That do suffuse
The chrystal air
With kindlings rare …
‘There are one hundred and thirty pages of this poem,’ said Mr. Darnley coolly, as he turned over the leaves, ‘so I will only read one more stanza:
Oh! Dragon Fly,
When thou dost die,
Depart from thee
All things that be.’
No one seemed quite to know how to take this.
‘But, Mr. Darnley,’ said I, ‘surely Mr. Dickens must have read that poem, for does not the last stanza bear a striking resemblance to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s Ode to an Expiring Frog?
‘Oh, Dickens,’ said Lady Almeria, ‘he is low, decidedly low. Besides Lady Emmeline’s poems are newly out, so he could not have seen them.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr. Darnley gravely, ‘her ladyship must have copied Mr. Dickens. There is such a thing as Nature copying Art.’
Several of the company laughed at this cutting remark, but I thought Lady Almeria looked offended.
‘Quite right to stand up for Boz, Darnley,’ said my father. ‘Pickwick made me laugh, I can tell you. Capital fun all that about Mr. Winkle trying to ride and shoot. As for all this namby-pamby, milk-and-water poetry, it’s quite above my head. Leave that to the Frenchies. Come, Fan, it’s time we were jogging.’
‘But, Papa,’ cried I in alarm, ‘the evening has scarcely begun, we cannot be so rude as to leave.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Harcourt, you must not think of leaving us so soon,’ said Mrs. Vavasour. ‘A young friend of ours, the Member for Maidstone, has just arrived, and has expressed a wish to meet such a representative of the English country gentleman as Mr. Harcourt. You cannot refuse.’
With an ill grace my father submitted to being led away.
‘Observe my aunt’s friend,’ said Mr. Vavasour to me. ‘Disraeli is his name, doubtless familiar to you through his father’s writings. Disraeli himself has written several brilliant if ephemeral novels, which is all very well for us poor scribblers, but hardly quite the thing for a serious politician. But I daresay he will give up Parliament, as there were some unpleasant passages over his election. Though he is a Jew there is something uncommonly fascinating about him, and you never know what he is really thinking.’
My father now reappeared in the company of a young man of striking person. He had a somewhat foreign air, with long black ringlets and dark eyes. He was remarkable for the brilliance of his costume and the number of chains, watches, and rings that he wore, but his address was easy — almost too easy I thought.
‘I am delighted to have the honour of meeting Miss Harcourt,’ he said, ‘and it is gratifying, though not surprising, to find so fair a flower grafted upon so fine and rugged a trunk. England is full of these anomalies; it is a part of her charm. In your father, Miss Harcourt, I find my ideal of the good old English squire. I can see his household in my mind’s eye. He dispenses justice, protects and cultivates the affection of a grateful and dependent peasantry, and exercises the open-handed hospitality which is our country’s pride, at a table where the wines of sunny Gascony mingle in harmony with dishes that might whet the jaded appetite of the epicure.’
My father, who had been listening with considerable astonishment to this portrait of his domestic life, here burst out:
‘Damn all French wines and French kickshaws, I say. Roast beef and ale was good enough for my father and it’s good enough for me. I’ll drink a bottle of port, or four or five for that matter, with any man, for the Portygees are old friends of ours. But as for your French vinegar, it gives a man the colic.’
Mr. Disraeli appeared not a whit abashed by this outburst, and indeed eyed my father with a species of approval as he continued:
‘Mrs. Harcourt, sir, is doubtless equally a queen in her own domain of jellies and elderflower water, tends the needy poor, and by teaching the children of a robust yeomanry the elements of the Christian faith, sheds universal benevolence.’
‘I’ll be d—d if she does,’ said my father. ‘We have a housekeeper to make the jellies and a parson to teach the children their catechism, and if they don’t, that’s their lookout. I don’t hold with all this meddling. Damn all Bible Societies!’
Of course, as might have been foreseen, my dear father had been partaking liberally of the refreshments that were in an adjoining room. Much mortified I went in search of Mrs. Vavasour, who with genuine kindness assured me that she was not in the least offended.
‘My own father was rarely in a state to appear after dinner,’ said she, ‘and though it is no longer fashionable, I know Mr. Harcourt is a follower of the old ways, and I can make every allowance. Dear Fanny, pray do not distress yourself. Mr. Disraeli has a great admiration for character, and will take a lively interest in your father’s prejudices. Forget this incident.’
So speaking she led me to another room where I found Emily with a party of younger people of both sexes. Here I spent an hour very pleasantly, at the end of which time my father came up, now in high good humour, to bid us make our adieus.
‘Good-bye, young man,’ said he, wringing Mr. Disraeli’s hand, ‘you’re a rum ’un, but you’re a deep ’un.’
Mr. Disraeli looked flattered at these words, and replied that he was delighted at Mr. Harcourt’s approbation, and at the similarity of their opinions about the Radicals.
‘Radicals? Damned French, smugglers, I call ’em,’ said my father. ‘Come on, girls.’
As we bade farewell to our hostess I heard Mr. Vavasour say to Mr. Disraeli:
‘Nature copying art again, my dear fellow. Were you not flattered to meet a character from Vivian Grey in the flesh?’
‘Oh, Sir Christopher Mowbray,’ said Mr. Disraeli laughing. ‘But talking of books, I have not yet had time to read Jocelyn FitzFulke, but I hear on all hands that it is to be the success of the season. I shall hear your name so praised at Gore House, to which I am now on my way, that I shall perish of envy.’
‘The author of Henrietta Temple need not feel envy of any man alive,’ said Mr. Vavasour.
‘Ah, my dear Vavasour, you flatter me. Your works will be read when mine are forgotten,’ said Mr. Disraeli with a smile that made me think of Mr. Vavasour’s saying that one never knew what he was thinking.
‘And when will you next delight us by some product of your pen?’ asked Mr. Vavasour.
‘Who knows? Writing is a bore. Politics are a bore. I may go to the East again. Farewell, my dear fellow.’
Lady Almeria, in an exquisite pink wrap trimmed with swansdown was standing in the hall.
‘I wish I could take you on to Almack’s, Darnley,’ said she, ‘I am just on my way there with the Marchioness of E. It is a monstrous shame that you are not on the list. I must positively see to it that your name is included. And, Darnley, do not forget to read The Sorrows of Rosalie.’
‘I shall remember your recommendation,’ said Mr. Darnley. ‘You were about to tell me the author’s name when we were interrupted upstairs.’
‘Mrs. Norton. You must meet her, Darnley. She is quite a protégée of mine.’
‘I am surprised, your ladyship,’ said Mr. Darnley in a serious tone, ‘that you should know Mrs. Norton. She does not live with her husband.’
I should have thought that the gravity of this rebuke would have abashed her, but she replied:
‘Lord! Of course she doesn’t. How could she af
ter that crim. con. affair? Besides, he is so stingy. He has actually put a notice kin the papers to say he will not pay her debts. She is already in debt for her carriage and horses, and you know, Darnley, one cannot go through a season without an equipage. The man from whom she hires is suing Norton for the amount and I hope he will get it. I certainly would not live with Norton were he my husband. But I must be gone. You know the magic doors of Almack’s close at midnight, and my chaperone is waiting.’
So saying she glided from the hall and entered her carriage.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr. Darnley, as if to himself. ‘How can one so lovely be so lost to all delicacy!’
I was very sorry that Mr. Darnley was so deeply affected, though I could not but be glad that his opinion of Lady Almeria had been lowered, and I determined for the future to think all the ill I could of Mrs. Norton.
My father wished to finish, the evening at White’s, but Mr. Darnley, for whom my father had taken a great liking, assisted us to persuade him to go home. Mr. Darnley told me privately that he heard my father had been gambling heavily at White’s, so an evening which had begun with pleasurable anticipation ended with gloomy presentiments.
Tuesday the fifth of June was Whitsun Tuesday, the day of the Eton Montem. I had previously attended this ceremony three years ago, when my brother William was in the Lower School, but Emily had never seen it, so my father and I were to drive with her to Eton, Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, formerly a scion of that illustrious seat of learning and the birch, being also of our party. William was now in the Sixth Form and to leave school at the end of the half, and he was to be one of the salt-bearers. Indeed I had forgotten to say that he had written to my father asking for twenty guineas to get a fancy dress, upon which my father had very injudiciously sent him thirty. We shall see later to what purpose William had been putting this munificence.
On the journey Emily inquired of my father what Montem exactly was.
‘Montem? Why, we always went Ad Montem,’ said my father. ‘I was dressed as a Wallachian, it was in Dr. Davies’s time, with red leather boots and a scarlet sash and a helmet and a great wig, and a fine sight I must have looked. Old Davies, that was our headmaster then, you know, was a fine old fellow, but he quarrelled with the masters and couldn’t manage the boys. We had a fine riot, I remember, and pelted him out of Upper School with books and ink-pots and anything we could lay hands on. But he made it up with the masters, and we had to stand to attention again.’
‘But you were to tell Emily about Montem, sir,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby.
‘Quite right; where was I? Well, d’ye see, the day after Montem the older boys used to wear their Montem coats, a kind of custom among us, so the Doctor flogged us all. So we got his cat and stole one of his wigs and tied it on to his cat’s head. Lord, how it squalled and scratched till we cut its claws, and then we fastened squibs to its tail and let it loose in the School Yard, and though the Doctor flogged the whole form, no one gave the joke away.’
‘I take it, sir,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, ‘that the floggings made a man of you.’
‘By Gad, young man, you are right,’ said my father, ‘they did. And if I was a boy I’d say the same again.’
Mr. Tom gave Emily and me a most comical look.
‘But pray,’ said Emily, ‘what is Montem?’
‘The first provost of Eton was a monk, who sold his soul to the devil on condition that his black majesty would build the college in a night,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘and every three years the boys have to wave a flag and go in a procession, or the school will all disappear in a clap of thunder and the devil will fly away with the present provost. It is called Ad Montem by a piece of what is called euphemism, that is they go up a hill in honour of the devil, to avoid mentioning the place below.’
‘No, Mr. Tom,’ said I, ‘you shall not so tease poor Emily. Montem, my dear Emily, is a ceremony which takes place every three years, its origin being lost in the mists of antiquity. It commences by a number of boys, of whom William will be one, in fancy dress, taking their places on the roads round Windsor and Eton. They collect money which they call ‘salt’, and this money is given to the Captain of Montem to enable him to proceed to King’s College and there continue his education. Then there is a fine procession to Salt Hill and the standard bearer weaves the flag, and after that they all dine at the inns, and are very merry. Last Montem William was in the Lower School and was only a pole-man. He wore a blue jacket and white trousers and carried a long white wand, which other boys with swords had to try to cut in two, I do not know why, but it was all very delightful.’
‘Admirably described, Miss Harcourt,’ said Mr. Tom. ‘May I add for Miss Dacre’s benefit that the unfortunate Captain has to defray all expenses for the day, besides making good any damage that the boys have done, so that he rarely gets more than a small part of the money collected.’
As we drew near Eton four carriages passed us at a rapid pace and we heard shouts of ‘The Queen’. Just as we came to the bridge two boys stopped the carriages, demanding ‘Salt’. Our barouche drew up just behind the last carriage, in which was seated the Queen herself! Emily and I clutched each other, Mr. Tom stood up and bowed, while my father, waving his hat in the air, shouted: ‘God bless your Majesty and down with the French!’
Her Majesty looked smilingly in our direction and graciously bowed. One of her attendants gave a purse to the saltbearer, who then approached our carriage. What was my joy to perceive that it was William! He was richly and tastefully attired as a Cavalier, in a plum-coloured suit trimmed with blue lace. He wore high leather boots, a large hat with drooping plumes, and a handsome wig with long curls.
‘Dearest William,’ I cried, ‘how you have grown! How handsome you look in your dress!’
‘I say,’ said William, taking no notice of my greeting except by a scowl, ‘can’t some one tell the governor not to make a show of himself? I shall be finely roasted by the fellows for having a father who shouts Down with the French.’
‘Well, William my boy,’ said my father, who luckily had not heard these unfilial words, ‘you look mighty fine. What are you eh? Not a Frenchy, I hope?’
‘No sir,’ said William. ‘I am one of Charles I’s noblemen.’
‘Quite right,’ said my father, ‘Always support the Throne. How is everything, William? No floggings, eh?’
William looked extremely sulky, but replied as civilly as is possible when a parent exasperates one to the verge of frenzy, ‘Nothing to speak of, sir. I hope you are ready with your salt. Her Majesty has given us a hundred pounds.’
My father put ten guineas into the silk bag and William, raising his plumed hat, walked quickly away, not, however, before he had given Papa the ticket which frees all who have paid their salt from further importunities.
On our arrival we proceeded to the Great Quadrangle to see the procession of the boys, which is a pretty sight. While the flag was being waved we caught a glimpse of the Queen at a window in the Provost’s house. She appeared to be smiling, and delighted with everything she saw. We then drove as near to Salt Hill as possible and had some luncheon in the carriage, after which a loud cheering announced the arrival of Her Majesty, whose carriage was driven up to the foot of Salt Hill. The lady sitting next to her was, we gathered, the Duchess of Kent, and a lady-in-waiting sat opposite them. The long procession ascended the hill, where the flag was again waved, while the crowd loudly applauded. The fancy dresses were truly superb. Here we saw a Grecian warrior of antiquity, there a voluptuous turbaned Ottoman. A Highland Chief in full martial garb jostled a Spanish Hidalgo; a Crusader talked with an Albanian in crimson and gold with snowy tunic. The Sixth and Fifth Form boys, except those acting as salt bearers, were in their usual military uniform, some in red coats, some in blue, with cocked hats and feathers, while the pages attending them were in rich medieval attire.
William, his duties being now over, came up to us.
‘Well, Emily,’ said he, ‘how did you like it all?’
‘I never saw anything so fine,’ said Emily. ‘And such crowds, and the cheering!’
‘We’ll have far more crowd next Montem unless old Hawtrey and the Provost can stop the railways,’ said William. ‘Why, several train loads came down to Slough yesterday, when the new line from the Paddington Station to Maidenhead was opened, and there will be many more to-day.’
At the word railway my father, who was dozing, woke up.
‘What’s that? A railway at Eton?’ he ejaculated.
‘No, sir, hardly as bad as that,’ said William laughing, ‘but there is a sort of station at Slough. Dr. Goodall, the Provost, is half mad about it, and says the fellows will be off to town without permission, and he and Hawtrey are determined to fight the railway companies tooth and nail.’
‘Quite right too,’ said my father, now thoroughly roused by the mention of the hated locomotives. ‘We never had a railway at Eton in my time. Dr. Davies would have seen to that. If I had my way I’d deliver all the railway contractors to Dr. Keate to be flogged. Damned smuggling Frenchmen!’
‘Have you been in the railway, sir?’ asked William of Mr. Tom.
Mr. Tom then obligingly gave William an account of his experiences on the London and Southampton Railway, and his difficulties in getting to Epsom. A Lower School boy who had come up with some message for William stood listening open-mouthed. When Mr. Tom had finished, the boy gave a long whistle.
‘By Jove,’ said he, ‘I’ll be an engine-driver when I leave school! I say, Harcourt, you are wanted at the Christopher.’
‘Good-bye then, Fanny and Emily,’ said William. ‘I am very grateful for the money you gave me for my dress, sir. I suppose you haven’t any more of the ready about you?’
I really thought my father would explode, so taken aback was he by the Lower Boy’s monstrous choice of a profession and William’s cool demand. However, he recovered himself sufficiently to let loose a volley of hearty oaths, which were doubtless treasured by the Lower School boy, after which he gave William five guineas and a guinea to the little boy, who went into transports of joy and rushed off crying ‘Sock, sock!’
Coronation Summer Page 9