Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “If you keep climbing Vesuvius, Pliny, you may cut that time short.”

  “I think Sir Willum is the most juvenile gentleman I have ever met,” I said diplomatically. “Why do you call him Pliny?” I asked Greville.

  “Pliny the Elder, to be specific. An ancient historian, Emma, who, like my uncle, became fascinated with vulcanology, and specifically Vesuvius, which lies but a few miles from the present city of Naples. He lost his life when, on an attempt to reach the summit during an eruption, he was overcome by the onslaught of smoke and burning lava. It was left to his nephew Pliny the Younger, a kindred spirit—though not so much of a fool to play with fire—to record his uncle’s experiences.”

  “Not so much of an adventurer, I believe you mean to say, Charles. Mrs. Hart, I have been to the crater of Vesuvius over two dozen times, and have made at least four excursions to other parts of that grand laboratory of nature. Yet I am not ashamed to own that for all my observations, I comprehend very little of the wonders I have seen there.”

  “There’s many would consider you daft, Uncle, for imperiling your life so.”

  Sir William favored Greville with another of his wry smiles. “I see no reason for you to fret, Charles. For the sooner Vesuvius reduces my mortal coil to cinders, the sooner your inheritance will be in your hands.” Greville winced. Sir William had other nieces and nephews to consider when it came to naming his heir, but his intellectual bond with Greville gave my protector the edge. He stood to inherit his uncle’s vast and priceless art collections and his lands in Scotland and Wales. The late Lady Hamilton’s Pembrokeshire estate income alone was eight thousand pounds a year.

  “Besides,” continued Sir William coolly, “thanks to the knowledgeable offices of a half-blind Neapolitan guide named Bartolomeo, I can walk like Jesus of Nazareth over rivers of lava. It’s all a matter of how to step, you see. If you tread lightly on the cooling crusts of the scoriae, you’ll be home safe and sound and in time for tiffin.”

  “Your years among the heathen Neapolitans have turned you sybarite, Pliny.”

  The ambassador smiled. “You wouldn’t do too poorly to have a bit of the sybarite in you, Pliny.”

  “Not in England,” replied Greville curtly.

  As he desired to remain in Sir William’s good graces, Greville reluctantly agreed to his uncle’s invitation to attend the theatre that night. Since the Ranelagh disaster, he had kept me away from all public entertainments.

  I was over the moon at the prospect, and sailed even higher as soon as we set foot inside Drury Lane. For all eyes were upon us that evening! Owing to Sir William’s connexions with His Majesty, we were permitted the use of the royal box, and I fear my pen cannot adequately express my delirium at being looked upon as a personage of rank and distinction. Giddy with joy, I felt like a princess! My looks, my gown, my smiles, attracted the admiration of all and sundry, and Sir William could scarce contain his amusement at Greville’s struggles with his conscience over the public reaction to his “fair tea-maker,” as the ambassador now wryly called me.

  “You should be proud, Charles,” Sir William whispered to him as the curtain went up on Goldsmith’s much admired comedy She Stoops to Conquer. “I’ll warrant every man in London wishes he were the Honorable Charles Greville tonight.”

  Greville, his gaze fixed upon the stage, replied softly, “Do you?”

  I nearly bosted my stays applauding at my dear old friend Jane Powell’s performance as a clever young lady of quality who pretends to be a barmaid in order to induce her noble but shy admirer into a declaration of love. I wept tears of joy for Jane’s good fortune. So proud was I of her achievements that with the closing of each act, I was on my feet with cheers and huzzahs, despite the dignified comportment of my companions, and the reticence of the other spectators to give the actors their due. How could it be considered proper to titter politely when the comedy merited a guffaw? Smile tepidly where a broad grin was warranted? Perhaps there were things about “polite society” I would never apprehend.

  Greville laid his hand upon my arm and drew me back to my chair. “They are all looking at you, Emma.”

  “Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?!”

  “I agree with Mrs. Hart, Charles. It is wonderful. In my view, the whole art of going through life tolerably is achieved by keeping oneself eager about anything. The moment one is indifferent, on s’ennuye. Emma could have the world in the palm of her hand tonight. Look how the people admire her.”

  “As one admires a circus performer, perhaps. They are in awe of the spectacle, but do not wish to dine with the acrobat.”

  “Come, come, nephew, don’t be so hard on the girl. She is fresh and unspoilt—unstintingly eager to please—and naive in so many respects, despite her past. Mrs. Hart is passionate, generous, and adores you as if you bestrode the heavens yourself. Can I not persuade you to regard her exuberance as just another jewel in her diadem?”

  With monstrous glee I watched my beloved Greville wrestle with an assent. “I’ve always said that such a woman, if she control her passions, might rule the roost and chuse her station.”

  “As long as you were by my side, Greville,” I added enthusiastically, kissing him full on the lips. I don’t think I had ever been more in love.

  After that auspicious night, Sir William became my champion; at his urging, Greville arranged for a singing master to come all the way to Edgware Row to give me lessons, for old Pliny thought my voice as sweet and natural as a nightingale’s; it only wanted training. Truth told, my singing then seemed so grand to people because I always stayed in a comfortable range. Had I performed in higher or lower keys, where I lacked confidence in my abilities, my flaws would have soon become apparent. Under a music master’s tutelage I learnt the harp and grew more proficient at the pianoforte. A drawing instructor was at my disposal as well, and although Sir William had departed London to inspect his estates, he had promised that upon his return my sittings with Romney (curtailed during the spring due to Greville’s economies) would be renewed, a glad event indeed.

  Yet for all his generosity, Sir William was no Croesus. While he madly collected virtu—a word explained to me by Greville to refer to sundry curios, paintings, and antiquities—he was on occasion compelled by his own constraints to part with some of his dearest treasures.

  Sir William returned to London in mid-August, intent on completing the business he had commenced during his earlier visit: that of divesting himself of one of his grandest assets—a rare Roman artifact known as the Barberini Vase—with an eye toward convincing the elderly Duchess of Portland, herself a rabid collector, to purchase it from him. Sir William had already sold off a priceless collection of ancient vases to the British Museum, which, in a gesture of gratitude, had then made him a trustee.

  By this time, Greville was in renewed spirits, having received a new appointment with the court. As Treasurer of the Royal Household, he moved back to the King’s Mews; therefore he did not object overmuch to an excursion into town, where we met up with Sir William at Nerot’s hotel in King Street.

  Pliny the Elder carefully uncrated his prized possession and placed it before us on a table near the window, the better to admire how the daylight illuminated the milky white figures besporting themselves in relief upon its surface of cobalt blue glass.

  “Quite an exceptional piece, Uncle,” murmured Greville, tracing a delicate fingertip over one of the figures.

  “A perfect first-century artifact, found by a farmer hundreds of years ago, completely intact, in a sarcophagus a few miles outside the old city wall in Rome.”

  “ ’Tis a very pretty joug indeed, Sir Willum!”

  Greville sighed. “Proper ladies pronounce the word ‘jug,’ Emma. Your U’s are deplorable. And how often have I reminded you that my uncle’s name has an I in it. Say it as though it had a Y in it if it’s the only way you can remember to say it properly: Will-yam .”

  “Oh, I’m sure Sir Will-um don’t mind,” I teased. “And it’s stil
l a pretty joug.”

  “You know, Mrs. Hart, the story narrated by the figures on the Barberini Vase is still in dispute. All the experts who have examined it cannot agree upon a single interpretation. Would you care to take a stab at it?” Sir William relaxed against the back of the sofa, languidly draping an arm along its crested rim. “Tell us, what do you think the figures represent?”

  “A parlor game, then!” I had learnt the rudiments of classical allegory from Dr. Graham when I performed nightly at his Temple of Aesculapius, and my adored Romney had increased my education in that subject. Yet even under Greville’s astute tutelage my store of knowledge was still sorely wanting. Would these two learned worldly gentlemen laugh at my tyro’s interpretation? I turned the vase in my hands and beheld the figures forever frozen in a single moment of their lives.

  “Well, ’ere you’ve got a serpent between a maiden’s legs—there’s your phallus—and right above the maiden, you’ve got a cupid with ’is bow and arrow, which to my mind is saying something about the temptations of love. The old man with the beard is probably ’er husband, or at least ’er lover. The young man that’s coming through the archway is a visitor. And see, ’im and the maiden’s got their arms entwined even before ’e reaches ’er, like they’ve made a special connexion even before they’ve ’ad the chance to make love. I think the young man’s ’er new lover, see? And the bearded man, leaning ’is foot on a rock like a proper philosopher, don’t know whether to be upset about it all or whether to acknowledge that it’s the way of the world when you’re an old man what ’as got a beautiful woman ’oo is tempted away from ’im by a young and ’and-some ’ero. Besides, I doubt the young folks can ’elp themselves, as Cupid is aiming ’is bow at them; and the old man can’t ’elp it, either, because everyone knows that mortals are powerless when Cupid takes it upon ’imself to loose his arrows. What’s not to comprehend?”

  “Bravissima, Mrs. Hart.” Sir William applauded. “I daresay the antiquarians could learn a thing or two from you! But what do you make of the figures on the other side of the vase?”

  “Oh.” I examined the rest of the jug. “Well . . . ’ere you’ve got a pretty lady, all in ’er dishabille, sitting on a pile of rocks—or maybe it’s a stack of books. And she’s outdoors, because she’s reclining under a tree ’alf-dressed and all, so the climate can’t be England!” I received a laugh, even from Greville. “And the men are sitting on the same rocks or books, excepting one of ’em looks a bit like ’e’s on a throne, but they’re both looking at the ’alf-naked lady, so she must be very important as well as very beautiful, or why would a man on a throne be looking at ’er for centuries? And the man ’oo’s not sitting on the throne, ’e’s got a staff in ’is ’and, so maybe ’e’s a shepherd. Or a mountain climber, seeing as the staff ain’t got a crook in it.” I suddenly grew uncomfortable, with Greville and Sir William watching me so intently. “Oh . . . my ’ead is too full to bosting to tell you any more. Can’t we just go to the theatre again?”

  Twelve

  Indeed I Truly Am a Mother

  Sir William was as good as his word, not only arranging for me to sit to Romney again, but I once more sat to Sir Joshua Reynolds, who, at Sir William’s commission, depicted me as a bacchante. Poor Sir Joshua was no longer the man he had been when we first met several months earlier. A paralytic stroke had left him ailing, and his left arm now dangled like a useless appendage. Sir William had Romney paint me as a bacchante as well, and ordered the finished canvas crated and shipped to the Palazzo Sessa, his home in Naples.

  When Greville announced that he and Sir William intended to inspect the ambassador’s property in Pembrokeshire and Scotland that summer, he made it clear to me that in all propriety, I could not accompany them. Perhaps I might use the time to visit my relations in Hawarden. I knew he was referring to little Emma. My anxiety over her welfare (though I knew she was in good hands with my gammer), and my renewed fears of losing Greville, had manifested themselves in a rash on my elbows and knees, an ailment that recurred whenever I found myself a victim of my anxieties.

  “A bit of sea bathing would be quite restorative as well,” added Greville.

  I confess I had no choice in the matter. A decision undertaken by the Honorable Charles Greville might just as well be law. Thus, on the sixth of June 1784, although I was inconsolable with weeping at the thought of being parted from him for so many weeks, Mam and I set out for Hawarden. Dear Gammer was overjoyed to see us, insisting on hearing every detail of our life among the upper crust, for I had often mentioned the ambassador in my letters to her, not failing to remark upon Sir William’s urbanity, his lively wit, and his gentlemanly ways.

  She tried to push the money away when I repaid her the five guineas she had laid out for little Emma’s care. “Husht thee! ’Tis a pittance, gal. Save it for a new frock or bonnet; you’ll ’ave more use for such a sum than your poor old gammer, y’nau?”

  “If Greville ’as instilled nothing else in my daughter’s lovely ’ead—and mind you, ’e ’as ’er learning music and drawing like a proper lady—it’s the importance of keeping accounts and repaying one’s debts,” my mother said. “Take it, Mam, so’s you can put some meat in the pot with the ponsh meip.”

  Mam and I brought little Emma with us to Parkgate, a bathing resort in Chester. Creating the fiction that I was a widow left with a young child to care for alone, we let rooms from Mrs. Darnwood, whose husband was away at sea and who dwelt with her mother, taking in guests to make ends meet. A guinea and a half a week covered our room and board.

  During the day, I took the cures for my rash, drinking Peruvian bark that was boiled down into a liquid called tang, and also applied it to the affected areas of my limbs. I drank the salt water as well as dipping in it, donning a bathing dress and entering a bathing house—which rather resembled a privy—rolled by an attendant down to the sea. It was a treatment that I was scarce able to afford on the meager allowance Greville had given me.

  My heart was so torn apart during those long weeks. For the first time, I was afforded the opportunity to form a bond with my little daughter, but how I missed my Greville! He had left me with a number of franked sheets of paper so that I might save money on correspondence. On June 15, as soon as we reached Parkgate, I penned him a letter. But then a week passed and I received no response. Heart aching, I wrote to him again, telling him how dearly I missed him, and how the society of my little daughter had released all my maternal affections, though the tot was as giddy and guileless and wild as I had been as a girl:My ever dear Greville,

  Whether you will like it or no, there is no telling, but one comfort is she is a little afraid of me. Would you believe on satturday whe had a little quarel, I mean Emma & me & I did slap her on her hands & when she came to kiss me & make it up I took her on my lap & cried. Oh, Greville, you don’t know how I love her, endead I do. When she comes & looks in my face & calls me “mother,” endead I then truly am a mother, for all the mother’s feelings rise at once and tels me I am or ought to be a mother, for she has a wright to my protection & she shall have it as long as I can & I will do all in my power to prevent her falling into the errors her poor once miserable mother fell into.

  Emma is crying because I won’t come & bathe, so Greville adue tell after I have dipt. May God bless you, my dearest Greville & believe me faithfully, affectionatly & truly yours only.

  Emma Ht.

  “ ’Ow many letters ’ave you written to him now?” my mother asked on June 26.

  “Three times this week alone,” I sobbed. “Why does not Greville write to me?” I was desperate for a kind word and even the merest show of affection.

  “Now, what kind of example are you setting for the little one with your weeping like a baby yourself?” my mother soothed. “Sure there’s a good reason your Greville ’asn’t been able to scratch out a letter. You ’ave to acknowledge, Emy, gal, that ’e may have more on ’is mind at the moment than your lovesickness. My advice to you is to sto
p being so moonish and turn your attentions instead to your daughter.”

  I acknowledged the truth of Mam’s wisdom, allowing little Emma to grow dearer to me by the day, and when a letter finally came from my beloved Charles, I replied immediately, expressing the hope that he would allow me to bring little Emma back to live with us in Edgware Road. This request was met with such a violent letter of reproach that my rash returned with a vengeance. My lover even reprimanded me for my dreadful orthography and my poor penmanship. And what a choice he left me with: himself and his continued protection, or the companionship of my daughter! I daresay even Solomon would have been devastated by such a decision!

  Panicked, I scribbled a reply, accepting with the heaviest of hearts Greville’s demand that little Emma be sent away to receive a proper education and a better upbringing than my poor relations could ever have afforded her.

  You shall take her, put her there where you propose. Lett what will happen; I give her up to you to act as you think proper by her. Take her Greville & may God reward you tho her mother can’t.

  Greville’s offer to provide for little Emma’s schooling was one that a woman in my position—barely nineteen years old with nothing to call my own—was scarcely able to decline, despite being compelled to leave all of the particulars in his hands. To provide for his lover’s child, when the tyke’s parentage was clearly so uncertain, was an act of angelic generosity. But the cost—to me—was enormous in every way. Propriety—bienséance, as Greville termed it—made it an absolute necessity that little Emma be raised elsewhere.

  Although I genuinely believed I was capable of abiding by these terms for the sake of my prodigious love for him, I confess that in a corner of my heart, a mother’s devoted heart, still dwelt the hope that once he made my daughter’s acquaintance, Greville would find a way to honor his pledge to provide for the girl . . . and still keep her close to home.