Due to his approachable disposition and chivalrous manner, Sam became quite a favourite among the higher orders of the sisterhood. He was, more than anything, a true friend to women such as Kitty Fisher and Lucy Cooper who, even at the height of their influence, experienced periods of utter loneliness. For his kindness, Sam was handsomely rewarded by his meretricious companions. Lucy Cooper took it upon herself to feed Derrick whenever he was in need of sustenance, which was quite a regular occurrence. After Sir Orlando Bridgeman installed her in a set of elegant lodgings, Sam became a feature at her table, indulging in Lucy’s hospitality and hobnobbing with the most fashionable profligates of the mid-eighteenth century. It was whispered that Derrick was repaid horizontally as well, which is not inconceivable when considering that the roles of male protector, friend and client were frequently defined as one and the same by most prostitutes.
In later years, once he had attained a degree of celebrity, Derrick looked back on his youthful days in Covent Garden with some trepidation. Perhaps he had been too ubiquitous in the taverns, too immoderate in his habits, too interested in the company of whores. With hindsight he admitted to indulging himself with ‘large draughts of pleasure’, supping too greedily on the available delights when he could have been cultivating his talents. By the time of this epiphany, however, it was too late. Although Sam had been networking his way around the Piazza even prior to his arrival, his subsequent behaviour had the effect of souring the faith of many of his contemporaries. Sam was friendly and entertaining, a jester and a wit, but he displayed a profusion of these qualities rather than any tangible proofs of his poetic skill. He was merely one of many, one more hack without a patron, one more among the legions of the mediocre, one more tempted by the lifestyle of Covent Garden. What lay in Sam’s favour, however, was that the more hours he spent around the tables of the Bedford and the Shakespear, the better known his name became and the better he came to know others. More than any aptitude for rhyme, these two advantages would be the making of his career.
It may have been Derrick’s constant presence at these locations that provided him with the few literary breaks he received. In 1755, after approximately eighteen years in the devising, and due to the generosity of his friends in Covent Garden, Sam was able to see his Collection of Original Poems in print. The list of subscribers prefacing it reads like a Who’s Who of eighteenth-century Britain. As well as gaining support from his friends Garrick, Johnson and Foote, Sam had collected subscriptions from Charles Macklin, John Cleland, Tobias Smollett, Ned Shuter, George Anne Bellamy and Peg Woffington. This roll call also included the noble support of the Earls of Chesterfield and Hillsborough, the Dean of Durham, Sir Francis Dashwood and several noted Covent Garden ‘ladies’. Through his minor successes, Sam was able to cultivate further relationships with a number of those mentioned as subscribers, including Dr Johnson, who hired Sam to assist him with his Life of Dryden. Unlike some, Johnson always claimed to have ‘a kindness for Derrick’, and was able to see beyond those characteristics that so irritated others. Tobias Smollett also championed Sam and provided him with employment writing for his Critical Review. Perhaps one of the most unlikely alliances to blossom from Sam’s endeavours was his collaboration with the poet Christopher Smart. The partnership, formed over a mutual interest in the bottle, appeared doomed to failure from its outset. Both men brought out the worst of each other’s excesses at the card tables and at the tailor’s shop. Matters were complicated further by the unpredictability of Smart’s mental disorder, which threw him into sudden fits of religious ranting. The coupling produced little in the way of memorable work besides inspiring the sniping of a punster:
Contradiction we find both Derrick and Smart,
Which manifests neither can write from the heart;
The latter, which readers may think somewhat odd,
Tho’ devoted to wine, sings the glories of God:
The former lives sober, altho’ no divine;
Yet merrily carrols the praises of wine.
At times, it may have seemed to Sam Derrick that he was the only person who truly believed in his merits as an author. Neither Johnson nor Smollett nor any other leading figure in England thought his calibre of writing exceptional. His critics saw in him something absurd, a dissipated, puffed-up Irishman with assumptions that outshone his abilities. The antiquary and friend of Johnson, Dr William Oldys, found Derrick and his ‘familiar conversation’ offensive. ‘Oldys thought him a flippant fellow and never spoke to Derrick when he was in the room’, and if addressed, the Doctor gave him only ‘short discouraging answers’. James Boswell was far more treacherous towards a man he once considered a friend. After successfully ingratiating himself into Johnson’s circle, Boswell promptly discarded Derrick and then began to ridicule him. Johnson would have none of it, but Boswell found a willing conspirator in the poet John Home who, after a dinner at Eglingtoune Castle, mocked the lines of Derrick’s ‘Eblana’ with something he believed more apt:
Unless my deeds protract my fame,
And he who passes sadly sings,
I knew him! Derrick was his name,
On yonder tree his carcase swings!
While Boswell and Home may have sniggered at their mean-spirited ditty, sadly even a number of Sam’s more sympathetic contemporaries would have been inclined to agree with the assessment of his future prospects. Unless he changed direction, Sam Derrick was heading towards the rapids.
7
THE COMPLEXITIES OF Love
OF THE MANY bad influences within Sam Derrick’s circle, not every character leading him down the path of temptation was either a prostitute or a bohemian reprobate. Sam’s popularity, his willingness to gamble and whore, made him a choice companion of high-born rakes, with whom, as an heir, he felt an affinity. But what Derrick neglected to consider when sitting down for a game of cards or making purchases from his tailor was that the lives of his associates, men like the debauched Sir Francis Dashwood, were supported by a deep well of family funds. After the bottles were emptied, the games of whist lost, the cold suppers ordered and the whores paid for, carousing with the eighteenth century’s young bucks was a costly business. During the period of some of his worst excesses both in expenditure and judgement, Derrick had by his side a man considered to be ‘one of the most dissipated men of his age’: Robert Tracy. As the grandson of the esteemed judge, also called Robert Tracy, his origins lay not with the established Tracys of Stanway Park but with a more recently created limb, fairly new to the amphitheatre of conspicuous wealth. Due to the untimely death of his father, his grandfather’s fortune as well as his Gloucestershire estate of Coscombe (or ‘Coxscombe’ as his friends later dubbed it) were passed to him as a child. Tracy had grown up as an heir, denied nothing and, as the only surviving son, spoilt rotten. Blessed with all of life’s advantages, ‘Beau’ Tracy, as he was known, was not only rich but strikingly handsome and unbearably self-obsessed. By his early twenties, he had emerged into society ready to hone his full set of degenerate traits on every temptation available.
By the time that Sam had made his acquaintance, Tracy’s bulging purse had already gained a reputation for leaking money all across London. He had established a trail, which ran from his set of chambers in the Middle Temple through the doors of Covent Garden’s watering holes and brothels and into the boxes of both theatres. Needless to say, a devil-may-care approach to spending, when combined with his devastatingly fine features, earned the Beau many friends of both sexes. Actors and writers were especially keen acquaintances and Tracy, who one suspects concealed a desire to go upon the stage himself, whiled away much of his time at the Bedford Coffee House in the company of the thespian set. He counted among his closest friends the theatrical celebrity Arthur Murphy, in addition to Sam Derrick, who benefited from his generosity on a number of occasions.
As much as it would have suited moralists to paint such a wastrel as an empty-headed ninny, Tracy was nothing of the sort. Like his grandfather before hi
m, he had been trained as a barrister and received the classical education of a gentleman. Contemporaries thought him to be ‘a man far above mediocrity with regard to sense and learning’ and commented upon his sharp scholastic ability and ‘very pretty library’. Tracy also subscribed to the tenets of self-improvement and made a point of never succumbing to idleness; even ‘whilst he was under the hair-dresser’s hands’ he took the opportunity to ‘peruse some favourite author’, later remarking that ‘whilst the outside of his head was embellishing, the interior region of it should be polishing; or else the powdered fop could be considered in no better predicament than a barber’s block’. But in spite of feeding his mind on literature and the rhetorical quandaries of the law, Tracy still suffered from the unavoidable affliction of those who have everything. The Beau was bored. There was nothing he couldn’t buy, no one he couldn’t charm, and with his father long in his grave, no one of any consequence to reprimand him for his reckless behaviour. In fact, as far as his mother’s relations were concerned, if the Beau managed to ‘destroy himself by his vices before he had attained his thirtieth year’, all the better. His maternal cousin and sole heir, Robert Pratt, was poised in the wings, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his fortune.
Of all of Tracy’s vices, none cost him as much as ‘his weakness with regard to the fair sex’. Dominion over the objects of his attention was straightforward enough, as the generality of women found it rather difficult to resist his appearance. ‘He was’, as the author of the Nocturnal Revels writes, ‘about 5 foot 9 inches high, of a Herculean form with a remarkably agreeable countenance’. Many gave their hearts as willingly as their bodies, a grievous mistake for any lady of pleasure, as the Beau tended to weary quickly of his conquests and cast them off as readily as the unwanted items of his enormous wardrobe. As an inveterate philanderer, his ego dictated that he was entitled to the choicest ‘pieces’ as they arrived on the market, so that by the time of his premature death in 1756, he could lay claim to having loved his way through the bedchambers of virtually every fashionable Thais in London. For most of 1750 he had been seen dangling Covent Garden’s current reigning lovely, Fanny Murray, off his arm, but by the early part of the following year ennui had begun to get the better of him. His lusts had already strayed in the direction of another Impure de jour.
How long the Beau had designs on Charlotte Hayes no one can say. While he was parading Fanny Murray through the boxes of Drury Lane and Vauxhall Gardens, Charlotte was being maintained in her elegant Pall Mall residence at the expense of her keeper, Edward Strode. Strode, like Tracy, was a restless lover, but without a fortune of his own to squander he had little reservation about raiding his wife’s. As his divorce proceedings later state, in order to fund his exploits he beat Lucy Strode until she yielded her jewellery, valuables which he then pawned to pay his debts and keep Charlotte in comfort. Just as Robert Tracy’s interest in Fanny Murray had gone into decline, Strode had also entered the market in search of another mistress. As it happened, whether by accident or intention, Strode ended up with Fanny and Tracy with Charlotte. For whatever havoc he had wrought upon ladies’ affections in the course of his womanising progress, Charlotte was about to reap the ultimate revenge. Fickle by nature, Tracy was not in the habit of falling in love with his meretricious companions, but Charlotte had seemed to work her magic on his senses and, by employing her renowned charms, ensured that Tracy became enthralled to her. Consumed by his adoration, Charlotte would become the last woman he ever pursued, and his great love, a conspirator in his ruin.
Only several years earlier, the Beau had found himself in a similarly compromising situation. Alcohol had combined with urgent passion and induced him to make a quick ‘Fleet marriage’ to Susannah Owen, the daughter of a washerwoman. Before the union was annulled, the debacle had made Tracy the laughing stock of his more experienced rakish set. Any gentleman of his standing should have known better than to let one’s emotions prevail over reason in such circumstances. Male commentators could never comprehend how a man far from being ‘devoid of parts and understanding’ could possibly allow himself to become the fool of women. After this embarrassing incident, Tracy took pains to evade the snares of love, although he found himself incapable of avoiding those laid by Charlotte. Young, and with more money than sense, Mrs Ward could not have invented a better keeper for her daughter. His susceptibility made him an ideal lover, one who spared no expense on a mistress he adored and who was too absorbed in his own vanity to concern himself as to whether his affections were reciprocated. Although she may have flattered Tracy, and did her best to convince him that her pulse raced at his sight, for Charlotte this was yet another straightforward mercenary arrangement. Not even Tracy’s handsome face could sway her passions, and his famous allure left her cold.
Every lady of the town would have wished for a lover a pliable as Tracy. As Charlotte soon learned, a smitten keeper tipped a relationship’s balance in his mistress’s favour. With her basic needs addressed and no real ties of affection to her paramour, a small window might be opened through which she could manoeuvre just enough follow her own desires. However, in order for the scheme to work, the business of intimacy could never be confused with that of love. Charlotte’s duty did not lie in loving Tracy but in convincing him that her devotion was felt as deeply as his, a skill for which the most renowned courtesans were famed. After a number of years of experience in the field, Charlotte had tuned her repertoire of coquettish expressions finely enough to lead any of her patrons in a merry dance. As might be expected, the Beau followed along willingly and allowed his mistress absurdly extravagant liberties at the expense of his purse and his reputation. According to Nocturnal Revels, ‘she had him so much at her command that she could fleece him at will’. Furthermore, Tracy openly permitted it ‘without upbraiding her’.
The Beau had fallen prey to the protocol of the day, which demanded that a modish gentleman keep his mistress fitted out in suitable luxury. In a vain, consumption-driven society, even the appearance of a man’s lover spoke volumes about his own status and wealth. The agreement to retain Charlotte in a state of high-keeping would have therefore involved the provision of a number of requisite ‘extras’. Like all Thaises of the highest order, Charlotte jolted over the cobbled streets in her own ‘chariot’, driven by her own horses. Whether these were purchased for her by Tracy or some other admirer, these extravagances required maintenance and upgrading where necessary, as did Charlotte’s personal appearance. Her position as a ‘nymph of the highest order’ demanded a constant supply of new clothing: stylish gowns for the theatre, for strolling in the park or for entertaining her lovers at home. Each carefully planned ensemble was the sum total of numerous equally expensive parts. It was not simply her variety of frocks that displayed her radiance but her aprons, underskirts, decorated stomachers, ruffles, ribbons, gloves, stockings, shoes, buckles, capes, hats and muffs. This was before her jewels, snuff boxes and dainty fob watches were considered, most of which she would have expected to receive as gifts. Anything else Charlotte required for her extravagant lodgings, the vast amount of food consumed at her table, the bottles of port and wine, the servants to commandeer her kitchen, a hairdresser to fix her coiffure, maids to light the fires in her grills, to squeeze her into her stays and sew her into her bodice, were to be paid with virtually unlimited credit drawn on her lover’s name. The Beau’s mistress could match his profligacy, purchase for purchase. She took advantage of his generosity to run up enormous bills all over town for silks, tableware, and haberdashery. After shopping to her heart’s content, if the rare event arose that she found herself without immediate funds, Tracy again made himself her pliant poodle. According to the Nocturnal Revels, Charlotte was frequently seen ‘calling upon Bob at his chambers in the Temple, dressed to the greatest advantage’. Her ploy was to:
pretend to be in a violent hurry to go to the play or some other public diversion; when having by these artifices … influenced his passions she would not stay
a moment unless he would toss up with her for a guinea each time. To this he readily yielded, for the sake of her company. Whenever she won, she always took it; when she lost she did not pay. By these means, in about a quarter of an hour, she would ease him of all his ready money then bounce away and laugh at him.
If Mrs. Ward had warned her daughter against growing too complacent in the arms of an indulgent keeper, Charlotte had failed to listen. During the years of her youthful bloom, she chose to live only for herself and her pleasures. While she harboured no love for the man who had purchased for her her freedom, her heart was not entirely devoid of affection for others. Although it may not have been advisable for a woman of Charlotte’s occupation to fall in love, this did not mean she was not susceptible to it. The undiscerning heart was the curse of ladies of pleasure, as it was liable to fix its sights upon the wrong sort of man. If she was foolish enough to allow it to interfere with her judgement, she could find herself thrust into poverty or an abyss of heartbreak. Unfortunately for most prostitutes with ambition, their lives were peppered with unsuitable candidates who often proved too great a temptation to avoid. These were usually men who, not unlike them, had little claim to any fortune. As younger sons with no inheritance, struggling half-pay officers, clergymen with insubstantial livings and members of the precarious middle classes, wealth and its acquisition governed their lives. For many, their only hope of leading a comfortable existence relied on making a good marriage to a sufficiently financed woman. They would never be adequate keepers for expensive cyprians. The most enticing beauties, the Kitty Fishers and Fanny Murrays, were simply out of their league. This, however, was no deterrent to genuine affection taking root where it shouldn’t. Impecuniousness did not make them any less physically attractive or kind or humorous or irresistible to professional ladies who should have known better.
The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List Page 10