University of Virginia Library

TWO SCENES IN THE LIFE OF BEAU BRUMMELL.

I.
1810.

(Brummell's dressing-room, in Chapel Street, London. He is standing before a mirror. Lord Alvanley has just entered, ushered in by Pierre, the valet.)
BRUMMELL.
It's you, Alvanley? 'Gad, you're punctual, sir!
Pardon, my lord, but is it quite good taste
To show such damnable exactitude
In keeping one's appointments? .. Pierre, you dog,
Take these piled coats and waistcoats from the couch
Their villanous tailoring cumbers, that my lord
May sit a moment till my toilet's done.
'Faith, Heaven's a place, in my theology,
Where every tailor that cuts badly here
Finds himself badly cut on entering there...
Excuse me if I don't shake hands, my lord;
The tying of this cravat—my tenth to-night—
Trembles, I think, on coy perfection's verge...
Ah! one more turn o' the wrist .. I have it! Look!
Answer, Alvanley, as you love true speech:
Was ever neckerchief more eloquent
In silent praise of its creator?—Pierre,
How's this, you unctuous knave? A speck of dirt
Fouling my coat-sleeve? Zounds, I'd like to be
Sultan or caliph for as long a space
As it would take to see you bow-strung, sirrah!
Alas, Alvanley, these are piteous times
When suffering masters cannot strangle rogues
Like Pierre, without they call it murder! (Stop
Grinning, you dolt, and fetch my cane and gloves!)
There, now, Alvanley, see the style of man
You might have been if fortune had bestowed
Her favers equally on both of us!
Still, why should you or anyone repine?
Alvanleys are not common, I'll admit,
But the real Brummell comes not oftener
Than once a century. Nature saves herself
For these imperial efforts to produce
An unexceptionable gentleman!
Art does the rest, and kindly pedestals
The statue, frames the picture.
(Offers snuff-box.)
Neat, my lord?
A gift from our fat friend, the Regent. He
Slipped it within my hand, the other night,
At supper—rather vulgarly, I thought;
But I forgave his condescension, since
The silverwork's Venetian and most rare.
Besides, poor fellow, he was ripely drunk
On his own odious claret. Fox was there,
Pretentious, wordy, talking one to death;
And poor Dick Sheridan, that Grub Street wag
Whom George will tolerate, read verse on verse
Of pointless fustian, till I ceased to count
My yawns—their number scaled the infinite!
I lost a hundred guineas afterward
At Watier's, closing thus a dreary night
Of memorable boredom, and awoke
Next morning with this royal gift to lay
Balm on my spleen. 'Twas filled with that vile snuff
The Prince takes; I replenished it, of course,
With something less barbaric, as you'll note...
Well, now, the Duchess claims us at her ball;
I'd rather play at White's than go to her.
But then these Yorks are sensitive; Her Grace
Thinks, too, a ball no ball not led by me.
I met the Duke in Bond Street yesterday;
He took my arm, in his familiar style
(A style I don't approve of, yet endure),
And begged profusely I'd not disappoint.
Bah! how he smelt of brandy—and the hour
Scarce three o'clock! “Brummell, good friend,” he urged,
“Deny it as they may, none shines like you
The star of London fashion!” .. I confess,
Alvanley, that this bungling compliment
Disgusted me so sharply I let fall
The Duke's arm, feigning I'd a twinge of gout
In mine ... “Deny it as they may,” forsooth!
Pray, who denies it? Who, indeed, I ask?
Some countrified old dowager, with four
Unmarriageably freckled girls? Or some
Finsbury tradesman, with more brass than sense,
Who fancied I would see him in the Park
Because at one o' the clubs, when play ran high
And hours were small, I borrowed graciously
A five-pound note? ... Detractors, these, my lord!
Great personages cast great shadows. Fools
Never so loudly prate as when their theme
Trenches upon their betters. Who to-night
Will get so glad and warm a smile as I
From our magnificent Duchess? You shall mark!
Why, the whole company stands tip-toe now,
Waiting my entrance. We are early yet.
What say you if I let Pierre uncork
A bottle of my prime Burgundy—a gift
From Beaufort—smooth as velvet? .. You'll be late?
Why, then, Alvanley, you'll be late with me—
Which means, the Duchess will forgive us both...
You hear, Pierre, you rascal? Serve us, quick!

II.
1836.

(A shabby room in the Hotel d' Angleterre, Caen, France. Beau Brummell, decrepit and haggard, stands clad in an old, faded dressing-gown, near a table lit with one sputtering tallow candle. A man who serves him for the sake of charity, has just appeared.)
BRUMMELL.
So, François—Pierre—no, François—here at last?
I've waited you a small eternity.
What's o'clock. Nine? Why, then we should begin
Our entertainment. .. Come, man—come! Don't stand
Staring like such a dullard .. Who's first guest?

FRANÇOIS
(mechanically).
His Grace of Devonshire .. Ah, no! Her Grace,
The Duchess. (Il me gêne, ce vieux galant!)

(No one enters.)
BRUMMELL
(with his old famous bow).
Duchess, believe me, I am overwhelmed!
How exquisitely good of you! .. Not there!
Nay, I forbid that you shall sit save here,
In this, the especial chair reserved for you.
Dear Lady Hester Stanhope broidered it
With her fair hands,—but not so fair by half
As yours .. The Duke comes with you? .. Ah, dear Duke,
What artful service have you done grim time
That he rewards you with such hey-dey youth?

FRANÇOIS.
My Lord Alvanley.

BRUMMELL.
I am charmed, my lord!

FRANÇOIS.
The Earl of Westmoreland .. Lord Delamere.

BRUMMELL.
This equals Almack's on a gala night!

FRANÇOIS.
The Lady Stormont and Sir Watkyn Wynne.

BRUMMELL.
Europe's no happier man than Brummell .. Nay,
He'll throw in all the other continents!
For here are both their Royal Highnesses
Of York, to make my gathering past compare!
Now, ladies, gentlemen, your host implores
That for a few sweet jovial hours you'll cast
Remembrance of your rank and privilege
Clear to the breezes of to-morrow's dawn.
I've cards and dice; I've wine and edibles;
I've all resource wherewith to make it seem
Other than strange the loftiest in our land
Should deign acceptance from the lowliest there...
Alvanley smiles; he has heard me speak so oft
In different strain. But then a gentleman
Should never be so grand a hypocrite
As when he is a gentleman at home!
You laugh .. and how your laughter rings! Well, well,
Laugh and be merry .. I—
(His demeanor changes; he sinks into arm-chair.)
Pageant made of ghosts,
How swift you vanish with my altering mood!
O, Brummell, bald and toothless maunderer,
Juggler with shadows, driveller, harlequin
Tumbling in tattered motley! Once I reigned
A kind of king among that spectral throng!—
A king, but with how brittle and brief a crown!
Ah, me! if those dead years of mine could raise
A million taunting voices, each would cry
“Fool” at me in my ruin and shame this hour!
And they whose favoring smiles were vital warmth
To my poor gorgeous and ephemeral day—
What cared they if I throve or lamely fell?
They had their pedigrees, their rent-rolls, their
Clarion patrician names, their palaces
In Surrey or Kent or Warwickshire, their droves
Of servants,—and their dainty ennui, that sought
Diversion from the first apt mountebank
Whose trickeries could allure its light caprice.
They watched me strut and preen my plumes a while,
Fostered my peacock arrogance, beset
With ironies of flattery my least whim,
And then—why, then came Calais, flight from debt,
Exile, awakening after giddy dream,
Struggle, dependence, pity as pitiless
As though 'twere scorn a school-boy had spelt ill,
And last, this penury, with frail health to lend
Its tooth a hardier venom. .. So the tale
Of Brummell's glory is ended! .. And I knew,
I knew when my most dazzling tinsels blazed,
That life at worthiest might have meant for me
Love, peace, joy, home, immeasurably far
From all that fever, mockery and pretense!..
Ah, well! 'tis given most men with souls and brains
To let the boats they sail in strike bleak rocks
Or steer them by the undeceptive stars!..
I chose my own mad pilotage, and now
Whom dare I blame but self for wreck like this?

(His head droops very low.)
FRANÇOIS
(touching his shoulder).
Pardon, monsieur .. I think your fête is done..
The dukes and duchesses are all partis;
'Tis time monsieur should sleep.

BRUMMELL
(lifting head).
I wish it were!