chapter 14.
close of the season
hussein pacha, ‘the favourite,’ not only of the marquess of mash, but of tattersall’s, unaccountably sickened and died. his noble master, full of chagrin took to his bed, and followed his steed’s example. the death of the marquess caused a vacancy in the stewardship of the approaching doncaster. sir lucius grafton was the other steward, and he proposed to the duke of st. james, as he was a yorkshireman, to become his colleague. his grace, who wished to pay a compliment to his county, closed with the proposition. sir lucius was a first-rate jockey; his colleague was quite ignorant of the noble science in all its details; but that was of slight importance. the baronet was to be the working partner, and do the business; the duke the show member of the concern, and do the magnificence; as one banker, you may observe, lives always in portland place, reads the court journal all the morning, and has an opera-box, while his partner lodges in lombard street, thumbs a price-current, and only has a box at clapham.
the young duke, however, was ambitious of making a good book; and, with all the calm impetuosity which characterises a youthful hauteville, determined to have a crack stud at once. so at ascot, where he spent a few pleasant hours, dined at the cottage, was caught in a shower, in return caught a cold, a slight influenza for a week, and all the world full of inquiries and anxiety; at ascot, i say, he bought up all the winning horses at an average of three thousand guineas for each pair of ears. sir lucius stared, remonstrated, and, as his remonstrances were in vain, assisted him.
as people at the point of death often make a desperate rally, so this, the most brilliant of seasons, was even more lively as it nearer approached its end. the déje?ner and the villa fête the water party and the rambling ride, followed each other with the bright rapidity of the final scenes in a pantomime. each dama seemed only inspired with the ambition of giving the last ball; and so numerous were the parties that the town really sometimes seemed illuminated. to breakfast at twickenham, and to dine in belgrave square; to hear,’ or rather to honour, half an act of an opera; to campaign through half a dozen private balls, and to finish with a romp at the rooms, as after our wine we take a glass of liqueur; all this surely required the courage of an alexander and the strength of a hercules, and, indeed, cannot be achieved without the miraculous powers of a joshua. so thought the young duke, as with an excited mind and a whirling head he threw himself at half-past six o’clock on a couch which brought him no sleep.
yet he recovered, and with the aid of the bath, the soda, and the coffee, and all the thousand remedies which a skilful valet has ever at hand, at three o’clock on the same day he rose and dressed, and in an hour was again at the illustrious bow-window, sneering with charles annesley, or laughing downright with lord squib.
the duke of st. james gave a water party, and the astounded thames swelled with pride as his broad breast bore on the ducal barges. st. maurice, who was in the guards, secured his band; and lord squib, who, though it was july, brought a furred great coat, secured himself. lady afy looked like amphitrite, and lady caroline looked in love. they wandered in gardens like calypso’s; they rambled over a villa which reminded them of baise; they partook of a banquet which should have been described by ariosto. all were delighted; they delivered themselves to the charms of an unrestrained gaiety. even charles annesley laughed and romped.
this is the only mode in which public eating is essentially agreeable. a banqueting-hall is often the scene of exquisite pleasure; but that is not so much excited by the gratification of a delicate palate as by the magnificent effect of light and shade; by the beautiful women, the radiant jewels, the graceful costume, the rainbow glass, the glowing wines, the glorious plate. for the rest, all is too hot, too crowded, and too noisy, to catch a flavour; to analyse a combination, to dwell upon a gust. to eat, really to eat, one must eat alone, with a soft light, with simple furniture, an easy dress, and a single dish, at a time. hours of bliss! hours of virtue! for what is more virtuous than to be conscious of the blessings of a bountiful nature? a good eater must be a good man; for a good eater must have a good digestion, and a good digestion depends upon a good conscience.
but to our tale. if we be dull, skip: time will fly, and beauty will fade, and wit grow dull, and even the season, although it seems, for the nonce, like the existence of olympus, will nevertheless steal away. it is the hour when trade grows dull and tradesmen grow duller; it is the hour that howell loveth not and stultz cannot abide; though the first may be consoled by the ghosts of his departed millions of mouchoirs, and the second by the vision of coming millions of shooting-jackets. oh, why that sigh, my gloomy mr. gunter? oh, why that frown, my gentle mrs. grange?
one by one the great houses shut; shoal by shoal the little people sail away. yet beauty lingers still. still the magnet of a straggling ball attracts the remaining brilliants; still a lagging dinner, like a sumpter-mule on a march, is a mark for plunder. the park, too, is not yet empty, and perhaps is even more fascinating; like a beauty in a consumption, who each day gets thinner and more fair. the young duke remained to the last; for we linger about our first season, as we do about our first mistress, rather wearied, yet full of delightful reminiscences.
