University of Virginia Library

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!