1857: Lord Alban Fitzartur
Private papers
I have this evening returned from what society persists in calling “an honour”, and what I persist in regarding as an ordeal: appearance at Court, commanded—or rather, blackmailed—by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales himself. The whole affair would have been intolerable had it not been so exquisitely absurd.
The invitation (or summons) arrived yesterday, sealed and smug. I was to attend the next drawing‑room, recite something gentlemanly, smile dutifully, and lend the Prince the illusion he was adored. Since I had expressed more than once my distaste for these brocaded bear‑bazaars, His Highness employed a cunning diplomacy: “If you come, Alban”, wrote he, “I’ll place my yacht Seraphine at your disposal for the summer.”
Blackmail in its silkiest form! I laughed aloud when I read it, for really there is nothing more diverting than a royal attempt at bribery dressed as benevolence. When we met this morning, he repeated the offer with that half‑serious twinkle of his—half‑schoolboy, half‑tempter. I replied that whilst Seraphine is doubtless a capable vessel, the Mallard yachts are not merely superior in rigging but in reputation, being morally unsinkable. I added, with all humility, that what I truly desired was no gift in kind but in kindliness: his gratitude, a bow, and a kiss upon the cheek.
A pause—delicious, comic, dangerous—then the Prince, trying not to smirk, said something about “the limits of royal patronage.” I assured him all nations are safest when their princes know where to draw such lines… and slightly cross them. He blushed—charmingly—and I consider that a victory.
The Court itself was as it must ever be: miles of velvet, mirrors, and polite yawnings arranged to music. The ladies shimmered; the gentlemen perspired in their uniforms of boredom. I recited my little verse with professional grace, bowed to the Queen (as custom demands), and survived without catastrophe. His Highness stood behind her chair, smiling like a cat who has just stolen the cream only to discover that it was milk less sweet than advertised.
I left promptly thereafter, pleading an engagement that did not exist. One must be seen to have purpose, and I had accomplished mine—to amuse myself at royalty’s expense without losing a friend. He shall recover; princes always do. And if, come summer, a letter arrives inviting me to join Seraphine for a voyage, I may yet forgive him his attempted coercion.
Still, between the company of courtiers and the company of gulls, I prefer the latter: they at least scream honestly. As for the Prince—charming scoundrel—he may blackmail me again, if only he remembers the exchange rate: one recitation equals one kiss.
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