Nelson's Lady Hamilton (6 page)

' BACCHANTE"

GEOKGE KOMNEY

A BARGAIN AND ITS RESULTS 51

have a trial, and could invite her and tell her that I ought not to leave England, and that I cannot afford to go on; and state it as a kindness to me if she would accept your invitation, she would go with pleasure. She is to be six weeks at some bathing place ; and when you could write an answer to this, and inclose a letter to her, I could manage it ; and either by land, by the coach to Geneva, and from thence by Vettu-rino forward her, or else by sea. I must add that I could not manage it so well later; after a month, and absent from me, she would consider the whole more calmly. If there was in the world a person she loved so well as yourself after me, I could not arrange with so much sangfroid; and I am sure I would not let her go to you, if any risque of the usual coquetry of the sex [were] likely to give uneasiness."

Sir William Hamilton himself, when in London, had painted to Emma in vivid colours the advantages and charms of Italy; how her beauty and her voice would alike expand and glow in that sunny atmosphere, promising that with Italian cultivation she might well become the first singer of her day. The people of Italy, impulsive and ardent, the radiant climate, the gorgeous scenery of the Bay of Naples, the gay, dirty, fascinating city itself, all were exactly suited to her temperament and character. Paddington Green must have seemed a little dull to Emma

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as Sir William drew his skilful contrasts. But then London and Paddington Green meant Greville, and so her affectionate heart swung the balance even.

It was something over a year from the time of the British Ambassador's return to Naples before Greville considered his plans sufficiently well laid and the occasion ripe to bring about Emma's transplantation.

So, according to arrangement, one day at the end of 1785 a letter arrived from Sir William Hamilton inviting Emma and her mother to pay him a visit of several months' duration, so that Emma might cultivate her fine voice in a congenial atmosphere, and Greville rearrange his financial affairs in England. At the end of the time Greville was to come out to Naples and fetch them home. At first Emma was all tears and protestations ; she could not endure to be separated from Greville, " whom you know I love tenderly," as she told Sir William. She found that six weeks at a watering-place away from him made her quite wretched; how could she contemplate calmly a separation of six months or more ?

But when Greville made it plain to her that she would be serving his interests with his uncle by consenting to go, that in no other way could she so please him and show her devotion, her protests were at an end—though not her tears.

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The day before she arrived in Naples, Sir William had written to his nephew : " You may be assured I will comfort her for the loss of you as well as I am able, but I know, from the small specimens during your absence from London, that I shall have at times many tears to wipe from those charming eyes." He, at any rate, did not make the mistake of under-valuing the strength of her attachment to Greville.

The excitement of the journey through Europe under the care of her mother and Mr. Gavin Hamilton, the enchantments of the Bay of Naples spread beneath her windows, could not divert her thoughts from the man she had parted from so reluctantly and sadly, even though she thought the parting only temporary. The day of her arrival, the 26th of April, 1786, was also her birthday; and a few days later she wrote to Greville—

" I dreaded setting down to write, for I try to appear as chearful before Sir William as I could, and I am sure to cry the moment I think of you. For I feel more and more unhappy at being separated from you, and if my fatal ruin depends on seeing you, I will and must at the end of the sumer. For to live without you is impossible. I love you to that degree that at this time there is not a hardship upon hearth either of poverty, cold, death, or even to walk barefooted to Scotland to see you, but

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what I would undergo. Therefore my dear, dear Greville, if you do love me, for my sake, try all you can to come hear as soon as possible. ... I find it is not either a fine horse, or a fine coach, or a pack of servants, or plays, or operas, can make happy. It is you that as it in your power either to make me very happy or very miserable." Referring to the day of her arrival, she goes on, " It was my birthday, and I was very low-spirited. Oh God! that day that you used to smile on me and stay at home, and be kind to me—that that day I should be at such a distance from you! But my comfort is that I rely upon your promise, and September or October I shall see you/'

Sir William Hamilton had made all possible arrangements for her comfort and that of her mother, Mrs. Cadogan, who was to lend her easy chaperonage and throw a mantle of propriety over everything. The British Ambassador did not at first receive them in his own house, or lend them his carriages and liveried servants, so well known in Naples. To have done so would have exposed Emma Hart to misconstruction; so he fitted up for her an apartment of four rooms looking out on the Bay of Naples, he gave her a carriage and a boat of her own, and servants in her own livery. Besides these things, which she shared with her mother, he made her many personal gifts. She writes a

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delighted catalogue to Greville, diverted for the moment from her grief and dimly moving fears by the feminine pleasure in pretty things.

" Sir William as give me a camlet shawl, like my old one," she tells him. " I know you will be pleased to hear that, and he as given me a beautiful gown, cost 25 guineas (India painting on wite sattin) and several little things of Lady Hamilton's, and is going to by me some muslin dresses loose, to tye with a sash for the hot weather — made like the turkey dresses, the sleeves tyed in fowlds with ribban and trimd with lace. In short, he is always contriving what he shall get for me. The people admire my English dresses. But the blue hat, Greville, pleases most. Sir William is quite inchanted with it."

What a picture is conjured up by the artless little statement that "the blue hat pleases most"! One can almost see the pretty creature, with her English freshness of colouring, looking out from under the becoming brim of her blue hat— looking with young interest and pleasure at the Italians, who already frantically admired her; looking most of all, rather wistful and afraid under her smiles, at Sir William, whose manner already disturbed her. She liked admiration; she had enjoyed the ambassador's delight in her beauty when he was in London and Greville was at hand, but here in Naples alone it was not

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quite the same: he was less fatherly, more lover-like. She tells Greville, " He as never dined out since I came hear ; and endead, to speak the truth, he is never out of my sight. He breakfasts, dines, supes, and is constantly by me, looking in my face. . . . He thinks I am grown much more ansome then I was. He does nothing all day but look at me and sigh. 1 *

There are evidences of a tendency to panic in her letter; but she suppresses her fears as too bad for reality, and tells her distant and faithless "protector," "I respect Sir William, I have a very great regard for him, as the uncle and friend of you, Greville. But he can never be anything nearer to me than your uncle and my sincere friend."

The day following her alarm took more definite shape. Angry, puzzled, and panic-stricken, she adds this paragraph to her letter—

"I have only to say I enclose this I wrote yesterday, and I will not venture myself now to wright any more, for my mind and heart are torn by different passions, that I shall go mad. Only, Greville, remember your promise of October. Sir William says you never mentioned to him abbout coming to Naples at all. But you know the consequence of your not coming for me. Endead, my dear Greville, I live but in the hope of seeing you, and if you do not come hear, lett whatt will be the consequence, I will come

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to England. I have had a conversation this morning with Sir William, that has made me mad. He speaks—no, I do not know what to make of it. But, Greville, my dear Greville, wright some comfort to me. . . . Pray, for God's sake, wright to me and come to me, for Sir William shall not be anything to me but your friend."

Other letters followed this one, growing more passionate, more frightened, as the weeks of Greville's silence went on. She wrote to him fourteen times, entreating an explanation, advice, a word—anything but the blank negation of his silence. How strangely repeated was her situation when she wrote her seven despairing, unanswered letters to Sir Harry Fetherstone-haugh! And the old cry was yet on her lips— differently worded and better spelt, perhaps, but still the same at heart, " O, Grevell, what shall I dow? What shall I dow?"

She could not at first bring herself to believe the coldly treacherous part he had played to her —in spite of various "conversations" with Sir William Hamilton. She was too fond to be proud, and after many entreaties, many tears, she wrote to Greville at the end of July—

" I am now onely writing to beg of you for God's sake to send me one letter, if it is onely a farewell. Sure I have deserved this for the sake of the love you once had for me. Think, Greville,

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of our former connexion, and don't despise me. I have not used you ill in any one thing. I have been from you going of six months, and you have wrote one letter to me, enstead of which I have sent fourteen to you. So pray let me beg of you, my much loved Greville, only one line from your dear, dear hands. You don't know how thankful I shall be for it. For if you knew the misery I feel, oh! your heart wou'd not be intirely shut up against me ; for I love you with the truest affection. Don't let any body sett you against me. Some of your friends—your foes perhaps, I don't know what to stile them—have long wisht me ill. But, Greville, you never will meet with anybody that has a truer affection for you than I have, and I onely wish it was in my power to shew you what I cou'd do for you. As soon as I know your determination, I shall take my own measures. If I don't hear from you, and that you are coming according to promise, I shall be in England at Cristmas at farthest. Don't be unhappy at that, I will see you once more for the last time. I find life is insupportable without you. Oh! my heart is intirely broke. Then for God's sake, my ever dear Greville, do write to me some comfort. I don't know what to do. I am now in that state, I am incapable of anything. I have a language-master, a singing-master, musick, etc., but what is it for? If it was to amuse you, I shou'd be

LADY HAMILTON (EMMA HART)

GKORGE ROMNF.V

A BARGAIN AND ITS RESULTS 59

happy. But, Greville, what will it avail me ? I am poor, helpless, and forlorn. I have lived with you 5 years, [this is a mistake, it was four] and you have sent me to a strange place, and no one prospect but thinking you was coming to me. . . . Then what am I to do ? what is to become of me ?—But excuse me, my heart is ful, I tell you,—give me one guiney a week for everything, and live with me, and I will be contented."

At last Greville replied, but only to destroy her hopes and her faith in him utterly by telling her that he had handed her over to his uncle, and that she would best consult her own future and his pleasure by accommodating herself to Sir William's wishes. All Emma's scorned love and womanly feeling rose up enraged, she cried out upon him in bitter and furious words—surely at the moment a dagger would have come kinder to her outraged hand than a pen.

" As to what you write me to oblidge Sir William, I will not answer you. For oh, if you knew what pain I feel in reading those lines. . . . Nothing can express my rage! I am all madness! Greville, to advise me!— you that used to envy my smiles! . . . But I will not, no, I will not rage. If I was with you I wou'd murder you and myself booth. I will leave of and try to get more strength, for I am now very ill with a cold. . . . Nothing shall