The deterioration in his appearance was matched by increasingly erratic behaviour. He would embarrass himself and his friends and hosts at social occasions and the drink seemed to inflame an innate irascibility in him.
Along with women and drinking, Hugh had also fallen prey to another vice – gambling. Paying for a woman to satisfy his satyriasis or summoning strong drink to assuage his thirst required but a few pounds a day. However, the gambler’s arm of avarice needed bottomless pockets. With no internal voice to proscribe and discipline the baser desires, yielding to temptation was all too easy. And temptation was a hydra-headed monster.
Card playing was commonplace in his gentlemen’s clubs with many a sharpster keen to indulge him in Faro, Quadrille, Bassett and Whist. He had been proposed and accepted for membership at White’s who specialised in lightening a man’s wallet through rouge et noir and dice games. Hugh would chase his losses at the gaming table in The Cocoa Tree or Almack’s where he would gamble into the night and into the next morning. Punting opportunities were available at Newmarket, Goodwood and other horse racing tracks. If he could not summon the energy to travel then Tattersall’s in Hyde Park Corner provided a reputable outlet for transferring money into the pockets of the bookmakers.
There would also be bets with cronies at the club on a wide range of political and current events. Would the Duke of Queensberry outlive the Duke of Grafton? Who would become Bishop of Chichester?
Once, a poor old fellow collapsed at the club and Hugh laid 150 guineas to 100 that he would die. As his survival was the subject of a wager it would have been incorrect to call for medical assistance. And but one small step removed from gaming was stock-jobbing. Hugh indulged his whimsies through a man called Scrope, who would lay his bets, give him credit facilities if cash was not instantly available – particularly during a lean spell – and who would act as arbitrageur for a wide range of activities of chance.
Emboldened by drink and, when losing, convinced that his luck would turn or one more large bet would recoup his losses, Hugh quickly began to run through his fortune. Scrope was only too happy to help with loans and credit lines and within a year or two, Hugh’s bank began to cavil at the flight of funds from his account. Reassuring them that he was a man of considerable means in many forms of assets they agreed to extend his credit. Hugh knew that he was in control and that fortune favoured the brave. Another large bet would soon come in and all would be well.
Hugh’s decline was all too obvious. His appearance worsened and there was word that he might not be good for the money he now owed to Scrope, the bank, and sundry other creditors. His trio of evils meant that the early enthusiasm for his marriageability had dissipated.
“Drink, you know. In thrall to it. Never sober.”
“Base appetites that he exercises in undesirable places.”
“Apparently he has serious money troubles.”
Stationed almost permanently in Beauchamp Place, the invitations began to dry up. At the age of forty-five he had become a sorry character as the eighteenth century drew to its close.
Johnny had long since married the daughter of a country squire and landowner and had moved to a settled and happy life in Norfolk with his wife, pretty children, a manor house, and horses in the stables. On his infrequent visits to London he was increasingly shocked by the deterioration in his old friend.
“Come and stay in the country for a while, old boy. Good fresh air, a little exercise, some wholesome food. Fiona and I would love you to visit.”
But he always declined the invitations preferring to remain within his known circuit of drinking alone at home, drinking in his clubs, gambling, attending Beggar’s Benison meetings and also houses of ill repute. As with all excess, the appetite becomes jaded and stronger pleasures are sought, sending one further down the primrose path.
By the start of the nineteenth century, Hugh was almost unrecognisable and became careless of his appearance, and he was always accompanied by the sweet sickly smell of yesterday’s alcohol.
He received letters regularly from Cawthorne, the family lawyer. Exasperated he threw them across the breakfast table and complained often to Chandler.
“Damn fool. Says the money’s leaking away. Don’t see how it can be. Father’s fortune – not to mention William and Henry’s cash – should have set me up for life. House in Bath, another in London. Hardly a pauper am I?” he would complain with a harrumph.
But Cawthorne was right. An unwise investment in a joint stock company – secretly tipped by a fellow member of The Beggar’s Benison – had collapsed, taking a large amount of his accessible money with it. Hugh’s high living in London was also draining his legacy: the lease on the Beauchamp Place house; furnishings; servants; dinner parties; drinking; whoring; fine clothes; club duels; gambling losses; all of these were leeching his resources. And attempts to retrieve his loan from Alasdair Drew in Cromartyshire had been abandoned.
Another insidious leakage was further depleting his accounts. Chandler was making depredations from the household finances, selling jewellery and valuables that Hugh never noticed were missing in his drink-addled state. Chandler had also been given a power of attorney and was making merry use of it.
Hugh’s health began to decline swiftly. At the age of forty-five, he had already begun to look old. The face that had set female hearts racing and mothers scheming was now irretrievably sagging and leathery. His features had coarsened and his jowls sagged. The dewlap that he had so detested in Catherine de Neufville was now a permanent tremulous reminder that Nature bestows gifts, but Time takes them back.
Feeling permanently tired, he had visited a doctor who had enquired after his symptoms.
“Just need a pick-me-up. Something to sharpen me wits again. There was a time when I could beat any man – drink, eat, ride, love the maidens. I was a gay old dog. I could drink all day, play all night and be up and doing first thing next day. Now I find it wearisome to get out of bed of a morning. A glass of port will restore my spirits for a while but I weary now where once I raced. I must find the man I was.”
The doctor examined him, confirming his diagnoses as he went.
“Well,” he said with a direct gaze, “you drink too much, you exercise too little and you have begun to run to fat. Unless you administer the remedy yourself, I’m afraid that the spiral is ever downwards. But, more important,” this being said with a portentous pause, “is that you appear to be a victim of the French disease.”
Hugh looked aghast.
“Yes, one night with Venus, a lifetime with Mercury. You have the pox. See here these signs. You have ulcers, the skin is scaly in parts, skin eruptions, chancres. The skin is pallid. You complain of lethargy. These are all the classic signs. I assume you are no stranger to ladies of the night? One of them, or perhaps more depending on your consumption, has done for you.”
Hugh looked terrified.
“Then surely you can cure me? What will the cost be? I am a rich man. I can pay what is necessary.”
The doctor shook his head.
“You are at the first steps of the illness and once it has taken root I am afraid all I can offer you is mercuric chloride and opiates to dull the pain and mask the symptoms. You may resist the disease for some time but it will… in the end…”
Hugh held on to a slim hope.
“You say the first stage. How does the illness progress?”
“I am afraid I have little encouragement for you. It may be some years but its grip will tighten. There will be changes to your eyes, liver, bones. Paralysis, blindness and insanity are seen in some cases. Of course,” he tried to soften the news, “if you live a clean and sober life and take suitable curatives you can keep the beast at bay. Perhaps in time there may also be a remedy. I hear there is work to find a restorative…” he tailed off.
Hugh returned to his quarters at Beauchamp Place. He called for Chandler
. He needed strong drink. The housekeeper responded to the bell.
“Mr Chandler seems to have gone, sir. His room is cleared and his trunk packed into a carriage this morning without a word from him.”
“Damn his eyes,” said Hugh before angrily instructing the hapless housekeeper to bring him a bottle of brandy and a glass.
After a week, the worse for liquor, Hugh had a visitor. It was Cawthorne. Fortunately, he called early before Hugh had sunk into his customary stupor. Cawthorne was of a Jesuitical bent and was curt.
“Mr Wortley! Your father would be ashamed to see you in this state. And you are a pale imitation of your brother who died a hero in the army. And even your eminent brother who languishes in a home for idiots is not there through any fault of his own. This is your own downfall. I have come to see you because you have not responded to my letters. I have written to you numerous times detailing the sorry decline of your finances.”
Hugh waved airily.
“Those are matters I leave to you, Cawthorne. Is it not your duty to see that my money is well husbanded?”
Cawthorne continued, seething.
“That I can do but there is only so much baling out of a sinking boat.”
“Meaning?” said Hugh.
“Meaning, sir, that all the money is gone. Your outgoings on rental, tailoring, clubs, parties, drink and – I assume – ‘courtesans’,” he uttered the word distastefully, “have far exceeded your income and the capital is now also gone.”
“King’s Circus!” said Hugh, with what was meant to be his trump card.
“Mortgaged long since. Apparently you signed away the rights as part of an arrangement you made with your brother’s father-in-law.”
“But that was—” he frantically tried to recall, “only a few thousand pounds?”
“The contract you signed assigned your house in King’s Circus as unlimited surety. It now belongs to the bank,” he spat. “I informed you of all this in my many letters to you.”
Hugh waved this away as he would a troublesome fly.
“I left all that to Chandler.”
“Ah yes. Mr Chandler. He has had your power of signature this last year, has he not? His actions seem to have been – shall we say – unconventional. Can we summon him?”
“Gone, long gone,” said Hugh. “But look, Cawthorne, you were charged with keeping all in order. I pay you a pretty penny, do I not? Where is your part in all of this?”
Cawthorne spoke now in a low, even tone as though to an erring child.
“My responsibilities are discharged. You are the author of your own downfall. If you had read my letter of 21st ultimo,” he brandished a paper, “you would have seen that in view of the impossibility of sensibly managing your affairs and the lack of any payment this last year, I have stood down as your lawyer. I thought it appropriate, in view of your apparent inability to read and respond to my letters, that I see you in person and advise you of everything formally.”
Hugh thought for a while.
“So what am I left with?”
“Almost nothing but many debts. You have a few artefacts, furnishings and pictures from King’s Circus, now in store in Bristol. May I suggest that the time has now come for you to consider what work you might be suited to in order to support yourself.”
And with that, leaving a small pile of documents on the table, Cawthorne bade him farewell.
*
After a few more drink-fuelled days the germ of an idea began to form in Hugh’s mind.
Employment was naturally out of the question, he told himself. No, he must find someone suitable to marry. Someone with funds. He could, with a little care, turn himself out in good order again. Didn’t he know how to attract and seduce a woman? Why, his conquests were legendary were they not? He was the Dog of Bath.
He thought of suitable possibilities. After some while he chanced on an ideal candidate! He had heard that Alice Winfrey was now a widow, her husband having been lost at sea. Had she not always found him amusing and very companionable and… rewarding? Indeed, had she not professed her love for him? She would be keen to renew their acquaintance. She would also now be a woman of property and means.
He wrote to Alice advising her that he would shortly be in Bath on business. He had heard of her sad loss and wished to come and pay his respects and offer his condolences.
Alice, who had a picture in her mind of the handsome beau with whom she had spent many a pleasurable afternoon, perhaps now even looking a little distinguished, responded by letter immediately and enthusiastically. She recounted her life over the past twenty years and recalled their encounters with breathless girlish excitement, even though she was now a woman of late middle years.
It was early autumn in 1803 that Hugh tapped his ivory-topped cane on the door of Alice Winfrey’s house in Lansdown. He was shown up to the fine room overlooking the city. As he was announced with a curtsey by the maid, Alice rose and turned to greet him.
“Well, sir, it has been too—” She stopped mid-sentence. He registered the shock on her face. The handsome young man who had been Hugh was no longer present. She saw an old man, heavy-lidded, pock-marked, corpulent. Her initial thought that she might embrace him evaporated in sad disappointment. She could not hide a look of revulsion.
There was a short, strained conversation. When Hugh attempted to turn the conversation to their previous amour, the subject was deftly deflected by Alice who instead tittle-tattled about domestic trivialities and spurious news. When she felt a conscionable time had passed she had him shown into the street with a tissue of niceties about possible future visits. As the door was closed, she shuddered.
*
With all money, hope, friends, family and resolve gone, he took rooms over The Prince of Wales Feathers in Bristol. In fairly short order he drank himself to an early death and was found in a pool of blood after a haemorrhage whilst asleep in his bed, at least sparing himself the ravages of the pox.
In the apparent absence of a single relative his few remaining possessions – including the Italianate violin – were declared bona vacantia and were sent for disposal by the state.
Hugh was buried in the pauper’s corner in Bristol. There was no one at the graveside to mourn his passing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As Hugh Wortley’s decline in London became inexorable, Marie Renard’s simultaneous rise in Paris became irresistible. With the security of the financial backing from the Comte, and with her talent flourishing in combination with her ravishing looks, she was able to embark on a solo career – of course rendering the agreed tithe to a happy Madame de Poignant.
Her mother chaperoned her to play for an impresario in Courbevoie who was impressed by her masterly technique and passionate interpretation of the set pieces. Work flowed in. Marie would play in churches, concert halls, at weddings, birthdays, soirees, always to a widely appreciative audience, who recognised the depth and fervour of her interpretations and the not unhelpful fact that she was young, beautiful and bewitching. Often, flowers would fill her dressing room and well-born young men would seek to attract her favours. Although she dealt courteously with the compliments, blandishments and offers, she did not feel ready to complicate her life further at the age of sixteen.
One weekend she was invited by the Comte and Comtesse to their chateau at Angers in the Loire to play for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They had assembled a large party of friends and relations for the celebration and had promised them the discovery of a new star in the musical firmament.
Marie arrived by carriage and was shown to her room overlooking the grounds leading down to the sunlit river, which shone like a silver ribbon in the distance. The Comtesse had a surprise for her. Marie gasped as she took a new sparkling dress, designed by Emilie de la Tour in Paris, from a box on the bed, along with a new pair of diamante shoes. The Comtesse smiled at such unall
oyed pleasure.
The old Comte also had a surprise and asked her to see him in his study. She was shown in. The Comte stood with a benevolent smile holding a violin case open for her. She delicately took the instrument out and turned it wonderingly in her hands noting the tiger stripes of the maple base.
“But… it’s, it’s perfect! Oh I love its colours. Such a delicate thing. Where did you find it? Are you sure it’s for me?”
“I have looked carefully into the provenance of the best instrument for you to last you throughout your career. It is called the Italianate because it was modelled on the fine violins from Cremona. However, it was constructed as a single special model by a maker in London. The dealer showed me his mark and certifies that it was the only violin to have been made in this style. I spent many hours in his shop in Paris, a man called Charot. He had bought it from a dealer in the Haymarket in London called Hill and they both testify to its authenticity. It is unique. I heard it played and it was mellifluous. But it is waiting for you to play it as I am sure it will be golden-toned and magical in your hands.”
“Monsieur le Comte, I must thank you with all my being. Never did I think that I would play something so special. I love it and will treasure it. Now may I play its first notes for you and Madame la Comtesse?”
“Nothing would delight us more. And see, here is a bow from the workshop of Francois Tourte which I am told will enhance the tone.”
Marie looked from the violin to the Comte, then, putting it down carefully on the desk, threw her arms around the old man’s neck. When she finally pulled away there were tears in his eyes.
The Violin Page 13