Disraeli sketched D’Orsay’s portrait as Count Alcibiades de Mirabel in Henrietta Temple: “The satin-lined coat thrown open … and revealing a breastplate of starched cambric …,” the wristbands were turned up with “compact precision,” and were fastened by “jewelled studs.” “The Count Mirabel could talk at all times well.… Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act appropriate.… The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous.… It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing.…” Into Count Mirabel’s mouth is put this, which sounds very D’Orsayish: “Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,” said the Count. “He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused.… Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.” Then this: “I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me.” And this: “Fancy a man ever being in low spirits. Life is too short for such bêtises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all; every man can go to sleep; if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it, enjoy everything. Vive la bagatelle!”
Then further on:—
“The Count Mirabel was announced.…
“The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with bonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr Bond Sharpe;[30] and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed—that bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads. Care, he knew nothing about; Time, he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.
“Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery.”
Then to his friend, Armine, who is distrait:—
“A melancholy man! Quelle bêtise! I will cure you; I will be your friend, and put you all right. Now we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner—a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!”
Could Armine resist a tempting invitation so irresistible? No, “so, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.”
We hold that portrait to be excellent not only as regards the outer but also the inner man D’Orsay. He was the “child of impulse,” not a cold, cynical, calculating voluptuary; he did not deliberately “feel slightly, think little”; it was not in him to suffer deep emotion or to think deeply. “Vive la bagatelle!” that was his motto, because for him there was not in life anything else than “bagatelle”; existence for him was compounded of “trifles light as air.” His good spirits, as Disraeli hints, were based upon his splendid physical vitality as infectious good spirits must ever be. The joy of life may be apparent to and partially enjoyed by those whose physical health is weak, but complete realisation of the joy of living, of merely being alive, is only for those whose vitality is abundant and superb. Further, he had the faculty of enjoying himself; it was not that he would not but that he could not be bored.
Even children felt his fascination. Madden writes:—
“One of the proofs of the effect on others of his insinuating manners and prepossessing appearance, was the extreme affection and confidence he inspired in children, of whom he was very fond, but who usually seemed as if they were irresistibly drawn towards him, even before he attempted to win them. The shyest and most reserved were no more proof against this influence than the most confiding. Children who in general would hardly venture to look at a stranger, would steal to his side, take his hand, and seem to be quite happy and at ease when they were near him.”
Nor, as we have learned, was it merely the butterflies who found pleasure in his sunny nature; he had a striking faculty of suiting himself to his company, an adaptability which is essential for success in general society. Landor loved him, so almost it may be said did the somewhat stern Macready. Indeed the actor was one of the most ardent of D’Orsay’s admirers; he wrote after his death:—
“No one who knew and had affections could help loving him. When he liked he was most fascinating and captivating. It was impossible to be insensible to his graceful, frank and most affectionate manner. I have reason to believe that he liked me, perhaps much, and I certainly entertained the most affectionate regard for him. He was the most brilliant, graceful, endearing man I ever saw—humorous, witty and clear-headed. But the name of D’Orsay alone had a charm; even in the most distant cities of the United States all inquired with interest about him.”
A few notes from Macready’s Diary, and from records kept by others, will serve to confirm the testimony already adduced of the great variety and interest of the friends with whom D’Orsay was surrounded in the Gore House days.
On February 16th, 1839, there was a pleasant company there, of which Macready makes this record:—
“Went to Lady Blessington’s with Forster, who had called in the course of the day. Met there the Count de Vigny, with whom I had a most interesting conversation on Richelieu.… Met also with D’Orsay, Bulwer, Charles Buller, Lord Durham, who was very cordial and courteous to me, Captain Marryat, who wished to be reintroduced to me, Hall, Standish, Chorley, Greville, who wished to be introduced to me also, Dr Quin, etc. Passed a very agreeable two hours.”
With most of these we have already met on other occasions. On May 31st, 1840, Macready met at Gore House the Fonblanques, Lord Normanby, Lord Canterbury, Monckton Milnes, Chorley, Rubini and “Liszt, the most marvellous pianist I ever heard. I do not know when I have been so excited.” And in April 1846, we hear of him dining at Gore House in the company of, amongst others, Liston, Quin, Chesterfield, Edwin Landseer, Forster, Jerdan and Dickens.
And on the other hand many a time did D’Orsay dine with Macready to meet good company, but Lady Blessington was not and could not be included in the invitations. It is a feather in their caps for men to conquer beautiful ladies, but væ victis. On the evening of May 6th, 1840, Planché “was present at a very large and brilliant gathering at Gore House. Amongst the company were the Marquis of Normanby and several other noblemen, and, memorably, Edwin Landseer. During the previous week there had been a serious disturbance at the Opera, known as ‘The Tamburini Row,’ and it naturally formed the chief subject of conversation in a party, nearly every one of whom had been present. Lord Normanby, Count d’Orsay, and Landseer were specially excited; there was some difference of opinion, but no quarrelling, and the great animal painter was in high spirits and exceedingly amusing till the small hours of the morning, when we all gaily separated, little dreaming of the horrible deed perhaps at that very mom
ent perpetrating, the murder of Lord William Russell by his valet Courvoisier.”
Of James Robinson Planché, herald and writer of extravaganzas and student of the history of costume, Edmund Yates gives a thumbnail sketch in later years:—
“Such a pleasant little man, even in his extreme old age—he was over eighty at his death[31]—and always neatly dressed, showing his French origin in his vivacity and his constant gesticulation.”
The murder of Lord William Russell created an unpleasant sensation, though there was not anything mysterious in it, or particularly interesting to the amateur in crime. François Benjamin Courvoisier, a Swiss and Lord William’s valet, two maid-servants and Lord William, aged seventy-two, formed the household at the establishment in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. On the morning of 7th May, the housemaid found her master’s writing-room in a state of disarray, and in the hall a cloak, an opera-glass and other articles of wearing apparel done up together as if prepared to be taken away. The maid roused Courvoisier, who exclaimed, when he came upon the scene: “Some one has been robbing us; for God’s sake go and see where his lordship is!”
They went together to Lord William’s room, where a shocking sight presented itself, their master lying dead upon the bed, his head nearly severed from his body. The police were summoned, and money, banknotes, and some jewellery, believed to have been stolen from Lord William, being found concealed behind the skirting in the pantry, Courvoisier was arrested, tried, condemned, and then acknowledged his crime. He was executed on 6th July, before an immense mob of men, women and children.
Of another evening at Gore House Planché has this to relate of Lablache:—
“It was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunderstorm simply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, and twitchings of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face assured you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over.”
Another house to which D’Orsay frequently went was that of Charles Dickens, and we read of in 1845 an entertainment which no doubt was a festive jollification. In September of that year an amateur performance, with Dickens at the head of the troupe, was given of Every Man in His Humour, at Miss Kelly’s Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known as the Royalty. After the “show” it was decided to wind up with a supper, concerning which Dickens writes to Macready:—
“At No. 9 Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs Macready. The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves and D’Orsay and George Cattermole, ‘or so’—that sounds like Bobadil a little.”
In the company were included Douglas Jerrold, John Leech and Forster.
Referring to yet another dinner, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House, on 12th April 1848:—
“Count d’Orsay repeated to me this morning the kind things you said of him when proposing his health. He, I assure you, was touched when he repeated them, and his feelings were infectious, for mine responded. To be highly appreciated by those we most highly value, is, indeed, a source of heartfelt gratification. From the first year of our acquaintance with you, we had learned to admire your genius, to respect your principles, and to love your goodness of heart, and the honest warmth of your nature. These sentiments have never varied. Every year, by unfolding your noble qualities to us, has served to prove how true were our first impressions of you, and our sole regret has been that your occupations deprive us of enjoying half as much of your society as all who have once enjoyed it must desire. Count d’Orsay declares that yesterday was one of the happiest days of his life. He feels proud of having assisted at the triumph of a friend whose heart is as genial as his genius is great. Who can resist being delighted at the success of one who wins for himself thousands of friends (for all his readers become so), without ever creating an enemy, even among those most envious of another’s fame, and simply by the revelations of a mind and heart that excite only the best feelings of our—nature? I cannot resist telling you what is passing in my heart. You will understand this little outbreak of genuine feeling in the midst of the toil of a literary life.”
There were almost as many writers of genius then as now!
Forster and Dickens were together at Gore House early in 1848, when Madden tells us “there was a remarkable display of D’Orsay’s peculiar ingenuity and successful tact in drawing out the oddities or absurdities of eccentric or ridiculous personages—mystifying them with a grave aspect, and imposing on their vanity by apparently accidental references of a gratulatory description to some favourite hobby or exploit, exaggerated merit or importance of the individual to be made sport of for the Philistines of the fashionable circle.” Bear-baiting was succeeded in those polite days by bore-baiting. Anent this particular evening, one of those present wrote to Lady Blessington:—
“Count d’Orsay may well speak of our evening being a happy one, to whose happiness he contributed so largely. It would be absurd, if one did not know it to be true, to hear D⸺ (Dickens?) talk as he has done ever since of Count d’Orsay’s power of drawing out always the best elements around him, and of miraculously putting out the worst. Certainly I never saw it so marvellously exhibited as on the night in question. I shall think of him hereafter unceasingly, with the two guests that sat on either side of him that night.”
It was but fitting that the Prince of Dandies and the future Poet Laureate should come together. Tennyson writes:—“Count d’Orsay is a friend of mine, co-godfather to Dickens’ child with me.” This was Dickens’ sixth child and fourth son, christened Alfred Tennyson after his godfathers.
D’Orsay was not so unkind as to neglect his native country entirely, and we find him now and again running over to Paris.
As pendants to the Disraeli portrait of D’Orsay, here are two others, one from a man’s hand, the other from a woman’s.
Chesterfield House was the headquarters of a racing set, and was gossiped about as also the centre of some heavy gambling, probably untruly so.
The Honourable F. Leveson Gore in Bygone Years expresses himself bluntly: “I used to wonder that Lady Chesterfield admitted into her house that good-for-nothing fellow, Count d’Orsay. He was handsome, clever and amusing, and I am aware that in the eyes of some people such qualities cover a multitude of sins. But his record was a bad one. No Frenchman would speak to him because he had left the French army at the breaking out of the war between his own country and Spain, in order to go to Italy with Lord and Lady Blessington, and his conduct with regard to his marriage was infamous.” How uncharitable is the judgment of a virtuous world. Reading on we find that the writer holds that Lady Blessington induced D’Orsay “entirely to neglect his young wife. She, moreover, endeavoured to undermine her faith and her morals by getting her to read books calculated to do so, and what was still worse, she promoted the advances of other men, who made up to this inexperienced and beautiful young woman. Her life at Gore House[32] became at last so intolerable that she fled from it never to return.”
Mr Leveson Gore also calls Lady Harriet the only daughter of Lord Blessington, which is really not doing his lordship justice.
It is much more helpful, however, to have the opinion of a keen, shrewd woman; one who cannot have been disposed to like D’Orsay, yet who seems, as did her husband, to have a soft place in her heart for him.
Jane Welsh Carlyle was a capital hand at a pen portrait; here is what she has to say of D’Orsay:�
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“April 13, 1845.—To-day, oddly enough, while I was engaged in re-reading Carlyle’s Philosophy of Clothes, Count d’Orsay walked in. I had not seen him for four or five years. Last time he was as gay in his colours as a humming-bird—blue satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat, cream-coloured coat, lined with velvet of the same hue, trousers also of a bright colour, I forget what; white French gloves, two glorious breastpins attached by a chain, and length enough of gold watch-guard to have hanged himself in. To-day, in compliment to his five more years, he was all in black and brown—a black satin cravat, a brown velvet waistcoat, a brown coat some shades darker than the waistcoat, lined with velvet of its own shade, and almost black trousers, one breast-pin, a large pear-shaped pearl set into a little cup of diamonds, and only one fold of gold chain round his neck, tucked together right on the centre of his spacious breast with one magnificent turquoise. Well! that man understood his trade; if it be but that of dandy, nobody can deny that he is a perfect master of it, that he dresses himself with consummate skill! A bungler would have made no allowance for five more years at his time of life, but he had the fine sense to perceive how much better his dress of to-day sets off his slightly enlarged figure and slightly worn complexion, than the humming-bird colours of five years back would have done. Poor D’Orsay! he was born to have been something better than even the king of dandies. He did not say nearly so many clever things this time as on the last occasion. His wit, I suppose, is of the sort that belongs more to animal spirits than to real genius, and his animal spirits seem to have fallen many degrees. The only thing that fell from him to-day worth remembering was his account of a mask he had seen of Charles Fox, ‘all punched and flattened as if he had slept in a book.’
D'Orsay / or, The complete dandy Page 20