by Thomas Hardy
[It is a cloudless midsummer evening, and as the west fades the
stars beam down upon the city, the evening-star hanging like a
jonquil blossom. They are dimmed by the unwonted radiance which
spreads around and above Carlton House. As viewed from aloft the
glare rises through the skylights, floods the forecourt towards
Pall Mall, and kindles with a diaphanous glow the huge tents in
the gardens that overlook the Mall. The hour has arrived of the
Prince Regent's festivity.
A stream of carriages and sedan-chairs, moving slowly, stretches
from the building along Pall Mall into Piccadilly and Bond Street,
and crowds fill the pavements watching the bejewelled and feathered
occupants. In addition to the grand entrance inside the Pall Mall
colonnade there is a covert little "chair-door" in Warwick Street
for sedans only, by which arrivals are perceived to be slipping in
almost unobserved.]
SPIRIT IRONIC
What domiciles are those, of singular expression,
Whence no guest comes to join the gemmed procession;
That, west of Hyde, this, in the Park-side Lane,
Each front beclouded like a mask of pain?
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
Therein the princely host's two spouses dwell;
A wife in each. Let me inspect and tell.
[The walls of the two houses—one in Park Lane, the other at
Kensington—become transparent.]
I see within the first his latter wife—
That Caroline of Brunswick whose brave sire
Yielded his breath on Jena's reeking plain,
And of whose kindred other yet may fall
Ere long, if character indeed be fate.—
She idles feasting, and is full of jest
As each gay chariot rumbles to the rout.
"I rank like your Archbishops' wives," laughs she;
"Denied my husband's honours. Funny me!"
[Suddenly a Beau on his way to the Carlton House festival halts at
her house, calls, and is shown in.]
He brings her news that a fresh favourite rules
Her husband's ready heart; likewise of those
Obscure and unmissed courtiers late deceased,
Who have in name been bidden to the feast
By blundering scribes.
[The Princess is seen to jump up from table at some words from her
visitor, and clap her hands.]
These tidings, juxtaposed,
Have fired her hot with curiosity,
And lit her quick invention with a plan.
PRINCESS OF WALES
Mine God, I'll go disguised—in some dead name
And enter by the leetle, sly, chair-door
Designed for those not welcomed openly.
There unobserved I'll note mine new supplanter!
'Tis indiscreet? Let indiscretion rule,
Since caution pensions me so scurvily!
SPIRIT IRONIC
Good. Now for the other sweet and slighted spouse.
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
The second roof shades the Fitzherbert Fair;
Reserved, perverse. As coach and coach roll by
She mopes within her lattice; lampless, lone,
As if she grieved at her ungracious fate,
And yet were loth to kill the sting of it
By frankly forfeiting the Prince and town.
"Bidden," says she, "but as one low of rank,
And go I will not so unworthily,
To sit with common dames!"—A flippant friend
Writes then that a new planet sways to-night
The sense of her erratic lord; whereon
The fair Fitzherbert muses hankeringly.
MRS. FITZHERBERT [soliloquizing]
The guest-card which I publicly refused
Might, as a fancy, privately be used!...
Yes—one last look—a wordless, wan farewell
To this false life which glooms me like a knell,
And him, the cause; from some hid nook survey
His new magnificence;—then go for aye!
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
She cloaks and veils, and in her private chair
Passes the Princess also stealing there—
Two honest wives, and yet a differing pair!
SPIRIT IRONIC
With dames of strange repute, who bear a ticket
For screened admission by the private wicket.
CHORUS OF IRONIC SPIRITS [aerial music]
A wife of the body, a wife of the mind,
A wife somewhat frowsy, a wife too refined:
Could the twain but grow one, and no other dames be,
No husband in Europe more steadfast than he!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Cease fooling on weak waifs who love and wed
But as the unweeting Urger may bestead!—
See them withinside, douce and diamonded.
[The walls of Carlton House open, and the spectator finds himself
confronting the revel.]
SCENE VII
THE SAME. THE INTERIOR OF CARLTON HOUSE
[A central hall is disclosed, radiant with constellations of
candles, lamps, and lanterns, and decorated with flowering shrubs.
An opening on the left reveals the Grand Council-chamber prepared
for dancing, the floor being chalked with arabesques having in the
centre "G. III. R.," with a crown, arms, and supporters. Orange-
trees and rose-bushes in bloom stand against the walls. On the
right hand extends a glittering vista of the supper-rooms and
tables, now crowded with guests. This display reaches as far as
the conservatory westward, and branches into long tents on the
lawn.
On a dais at the chief table, laid with gold and silver plate, the
Prince Regent sits like a lay figure, in a state chair of crimson
and gold, with six servants at his back. He swelters in a gorgeous
uniform of scarlet and gold lace which represents him as Field
Marshal, and he is surrounded by a hundred-and-forty of his
particular friends.
Down the middle of this state-table runs a purling brook crossed
by quaint bridges, in which gold and silver fish frisk about
between banks of moss and flowers. The whole scene is lit with
wax candles in chandeliers, and in countless candelabra on the
tables.
The people at the upper tables include the Duchess of York, looking
tired from having just received as hostess most of the ladies
present, except those who have come informally, Louis XVIII. of
France, the Duchess of Angouleme, all the English Royal Dukes,
nearly all the ordinary Dukes and Duchesses; also the Lord
Chancellor of the Exchequer and other Ministers, the Lord Mayor
and Lady Mayoress, all the more fashionable of the other Peers,
Peeresses, and Members of Parliament, Generals, Admirals, and
Mayors, with their wives. The ladies of position wear, almost to
the extent of a uniform, a nodding head-dress of ostrich feathers
with diamonds, and gowns of white satin embroidered in gold or
silver, on which, owing to the heat, dribbles of wax from the
chandeliers occasionally fall.
The Guards' bands play, and attendants rush about in blue and gold
lace.]
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
The Queen, the Regent's mother, sits not here;
Wanting, too, are his sisters, I perceive;
And it is well. With the distempered King
Immured at Windsor, sore distraught or dying,
It borders
nigh on indecency
In their regard, that this loud feast is kept,
A thought not strange to many, as I read,
Even of those gathered here.
SPIRIT IRONIC
My dear phantom and crony, the gloom upon their faces is due rather
to their having borrowed those diamonds at eleven per cent than to
their loyalty to a suffering monarch! But let us test the feeling.
I'll spread a report.
[He calls up the SPIRIT OF RUMOUR, who scatters whispers through
the assemblage.]
A GUEST [to his neighbour]
Have you heard this report—that the King is dead?
ANOTHER GUEST
It has just reached me from the other side. Can it be true?
THIRD GUEST
I think it probable. He has been very ill all week.
PRINCE REGENT
Dead? Then my fete is spoilt, by God!
SHERIDAN
Long live the King! [He holds up his glass and bows to the Regent.]
MARCHIONESS OF HERTFORD [the new favourite, to the Regent]
The news is more natural than the moment of it! It is too cruel to
you that it should happen now!
PRINCE REGENT
Damn me, though; can it be true? [He provisionally throws a regal
air into his countenance.]
DUCHESS OF YORK [on the Regent's left]
I hardly can believe it. This forenoon
He was reported mending.
DUCHESS OF ANGOULEME [on the Regent's right]
On this side
They are asserting that the news is false—
That Buonaparte's child, the "King of Rome,"
Is dead, and not your royal father, sire.
PRINCE REGENT
That's mighty fortunate! Had it been true,
I should have been abused by all the world—
The Queen the keenest of the chorus, too—
Though I have been postponing this pledged feast
Through days and weeks, in hopes the King would mend,
Till expectation fusted with delay.
But give a dog a bad name—or a Prince!
So, then, it is new-come King of Rome
Who has passed or ever the world has welcomed him!...
Call him a king—that pompous upstart's son—
Beside us scions of the ancient lines!
DUKE OF BEDFORD
I think that rumour untrue also, sir. I heard it as I drove up from
Woburn this evening, and it was contradicted then.
PRINCE REGENT
Drove up this evening, did ye, Duke. Why did you cut it so close?
DUKE OF BEDFORD
Well, it so happened that my sheep-sheering dinner was fixed for
this very day, and I couldn't put it off. So I dined with them
there at one o'clock, discussed the sheep, rushed off, drove the
two-and-forty miles, jumped into my clothes at my house here, and
reached your Royal Highness's door in no very bad time.
PRINCE REGENT
Capital, capital. But, 'pon my soul, 'twas a close shave!
[Soon the babbling and glittering company rise from supper, and
begin promenading through the rooms and tents, the REGENT setting
the example, and mixing up and talking unceremoniously with his
guests of every degree. He and the group round him disappear into
the remoter chambers; but may concentrate in the Grecian Hall,
which forms the foreground of the scene, whence a glance can be
obtained into the ball-room, now filled with dancers.
The band is playing the tune of the season, "The Regency Hornpipe,"
which is danced as a country-dance by some thirty couples; so that
by the time the top couple have danced down the figure they are
quite breathless. Two young lords talk desultorily as they survey
the scene.]
FIRST LORD
Are the rumours of the King of Rome's death confirmed?
SECOND LORD
No. But they are probably true. He was a feeble brat from the
first. I believe they had to baptize him on the day he was born.
What can one expect after such presumption—calling him the New
Messiah, and God knows what all. Ours is the only country which
did not write fulsome poems about him. "Wise English!" the Tsar
Alexander said drily when he heard it.
FIRST LORD
Ay! The affection between that Pompey and Caesar has begun to cool.
Alexander's soreness at having his sister thrown over so cavalierly
is not salved yet.
SECOND LORD
There is much beside. I'd lay a guinea there will be war between
Russia and France before another year has flown.
FIRST LORD
Prinny looks a little worried to-night.
SECOND LORD
Yes. The Queen don't like the fete being held, considering the
King's condition. She and her friends say it should have been put
off altogether. But the Princess of Wales is not troubled that way.
Though she was not asked herself she went wildly off and bought her
people new gowns to come in. Poor maladroit woman!....
[Another new dance of the year is started, and another long line
of couples begin to foot it.]
That's a pretty thing they are doing now. What d'ye call it?
FIRST LORD
"Speed the Plough." It is just out. They are having it everywhere.
The next is to be one of those foreign things in three-eight time
they call Waltzes. I question if anybody is up to dancing 'em here
yet.
["Speed the Plough" is danced to its conclusion, and the band
strikes up "The Copenhagen Waltz."]
SPIRIT IRONIC
Now for the wives. They both were tearing hither,
Unless reflection sped them back again;
But dignity that nothing else may bend
Succumbs to woman's curiosity,
So deem them here. Messengers, call them nigh!
[The PRINCE REGENT, having gone the round of the other rooms, now
appears at the ball-room door, and stands looking at the dancers.
Suddenly he turns, and gazes about with a ruffled face. He sees
a tall, red-faced man near him—LORD MOIRA, one of his friends.]
PRINCE REGENT
Damned hot here, Moira. Hottest of all for me!
MOIRA
Yes, it is warm, sir. Hence I do not dance.
PRINCE REGENT
H'm. What I meant was of another order;
I spoke figuratively.
MOIRA
O indeed, sir?
PRINCE REGENT
She's here. I heard her voice. I'll swear I did!
MOIRA
Who, sir?
PRINCE REGENT
Why, the Princess of Wales. Do you think I could mistake those
beastly German Ps and Bs of hers?—She asked to come, and was
denied; but she's got here, I'll wager ye, through the chair-door
in Warwick Street, which I arranged for a few ladies whom I wished
to come privately. [He looks about again, and moves till he is by
a door which affords a peep up the grand staircase.] By God, Moira,
I see TWO figures up there who shouldn't be here—leaning over the
balustrade of the gallery!
MOIRA
Two figures, sir. Whose are they?
PRINCE REGENT
She is one. The Fitzherbert in t'other! O I am almost sure it is!
I would have welcomed her, but she bridled and said she wouldn't sit
down at my table as a plain "Mrs." to
please anybody. As I had sworn
that on this occasion people should sit strictly according to their
rank, I wouldn't give way. Why the devil did she come like this?
'Pon my soul, these women will be the death o' me!
MOIRA [looking cautiously up the stairs]
I can see nothing of her, sir, nor of the Princess either. There is
a crowd of idlers up there leaning over the bannisters, and you may
have mistaken some others for them.
PRINCE REGENT
O no. They have drawn back their heads. There have been such damned
mistakes made in sending out the cards that the biggest w—- in London
might be here. She's watching Lady Hertford, that's what she's doing.
For all their indifference, both of them are as jealous as two cats
over the tom.
[Somebody whispers that a lady has fainted up-stairs.]
That's Maria, I'll swear! She's always doing it. Whenever I hear
of some lady fainting about upon the furniture at my presence, and
sending for a glass of water, I say to myself, There's Maria at it
again, by God!
SPIRIT IRONIC
Now let him hear their voices once again.
[The REGENT starts as he seems to hear from the stairs the tongues
of the two ladies growing louder and nearer, the PRINCESS pouring
reproaches into one ear, and MRS. FITZHERBERT into the other.]
PRINCE REGENT
'Od seize 'em, Moira; this will drive me mad!
If men of blood must mate with only one
Of those dear damned deluders called the Sex,
Why has Heaven teased us with the taste for change?—
God, I begin to loathe the whole curst show!
How hot it is! Get me a glass of brandy,
Or I shall swoon off too. Now let's go out,
And find some fresher air upon the lawn.
[Exit the PRINCE REGENT, with LORDS MOIRA and YARMOUTH. The band
strikes up "La Belle Catarina" and a new figure is formed.]
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Phantoms, ye strain your powers unduly here,
Making faint fancies as they were indeed
The Mighty Will's firm work.
SPIRIT IRONIC
Nay, Father, nay;
The wives prepared to hasten hitherward
Under the names of some gone down to death,
Who yet were bidden. Must they not by here?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
There lie long leagues between a woman's word—
"She will, indeed she will!"—and acting on't.
Whether those came or no, thy antics cease,
And let the revel wear it out in peace.
[Enter SPENCER PERCEVAL the Prime Minister, a small, pale, grave-