Fanny and Stella (20 page)

The most popular photographs were those of Stella alone, and were purchased, in the main, by admiring and incredulous gentlemen. Lord Arthur may have been the most sought-after bachelor by the matrons of Scarborough, but it was Stella who caused the greatest excitement among the gentlemen of the place. Encouraged by the warmth of her reception, which seemed to verge on adulation, Stella determined to venture out in full drag in the town, where her presence created a most extraordinary commotion – especially among the gentlemen. Hats were doffed. Bows were made. Introductions were effected. Arms were proffered and eager invitations to luncheon, to tea and to dinner fell like confetti at her feet. Scarborough had never seen anything quite like it. She was the toast of the town, and seemingly all eyes were upon her.

They were not always friendly eyes. Despite her conquering the hearts of most of the gentlemen in Scarborough, there were a few who obstinately refused to succumb to Stella’s many and various charms, a few who manifested hostility towards her, towards the very idea of her, who brindled and bridled at the very mention of her name. One such was Mr Wybert Reeve, ‘lessee and manager’ of the long-established Theatre Royal in Scarborough, a sworn and bitter rival of the Spa Saloon and the Spa Theatre, which had in recent years leeched his audiences away.

When Lord Arthur and Stella decided to attend a performance at the Theatre Royal, Mr Wybert Reeve felt compelled to call the police.

Lord Arthur had the impertinence to introduce Ernest Boulton
in female attire
, and sit with him in a prominent place among the Ladies and Gentlemen assembled in the dress circle in my theatre.

On hearing of it I at once desired the police, if possible, to take them into custody. They, however, contrived to leave the theatre with the crowd.

The next morning I wrote to Lord Arthur Clinton, expressing in strong terms my annoyance, and explaining the order I had given to the police if he dared to repeat the offence.

Notwithstanding this, and my refusal to accept an apology, he afterwards applied to me to allow them both to appear in a piece entitled
A Morning Call
on the stage of this theatre, which I at once decidedly refused.

It was a narrow escape for Lord Arthur and Stella. Mr Wybert Reeve’s visceral anger and animosity towards them was a stark reminder, a warning, that not all gentlemen could be beguiled, dazzled and seduced by Stella’s beauty and by Stella’s charms. Burlesque on stage was one thing: acceptable to some, offensive to others. But it was quite another thing when men dressed as women walked the streets; when they dared to take their places – their
prominent
places – among the serried ranks of ladies and gentlemen in the Dress Circle; when they smirked and simpered and giggled and flirted with gentlemen as if they were real women. It was all wrong. It was more than wrong. It was unnatural and it was criminal, and (in the opinion of Mr Wybert Reeve and many other gentlemen with whom he had discussed the matter with much huffing and puffing) if there was not a law against such goings-on, there ought to be. Lord Arthur and his catamite may have evaded capture for now. But such creatures should take heed, they said. They will get their comeuppance. It was only a matter of time.

15

‘Yr Affectionate Fanny’

Don’t be too particular

When you come to woo;

Lay aside your spectacles

Worthy bachelors, do!

When wives are young and dutiful

Honeymoon’s pleasures abound;

But who would wish for a beautiful

Honeymoon all the year round?

Then don’t be too particular!

John Orlando Parry, 1843

E 
veryone was agreed. Stella was impossible. Quite impossible. Completely, absolutely and utterly impossible.

Not just annoying. Not just irritating. But infuriating, exasperating, maddening. She was entirely selfish and entirely self-absorbed. She was easily bored and took no pains to conceal her boredom. She was frequently rude and often offensive, especially when she was in her cups, a condition which was the rule rather than the exception.

Stella never listened and she never learned. She was impatient and intolerant. She was dismissive of the feelings of others, belittling and humiliating them as and when the mood took her.

Stella demanded everything as her right and as her due. She took, took and took again. But she gave nothing in return. There were rarely any pleases, and even fewer thank-yous, no gratitude, no recognition of a service rendered, of a gift given or a compliment bestowed. Nothing, not even a smile.

And she was quick to take umbrage over the slightest slight, real or imagined. She could sulk for days or weeks. She was even quicker to anger. Her tempers and her tantrums were things frightening to behold: sudden and violent sea tempests that wrought a terrible havoc and then blew themselves out as swiftly and as bewilderingly as they had blown up. Afterwards, Stella would in some mysterious fashion be calmed and cleansed, drained and purified of the poison within her, while Arthur and all those around her were left clinging to the flotsam and jetsam of their wrecked lives and emotions.

Stella was a prolific writer of letters, though notes might be a better word to describe the shower of missives that assailed Arthur by every post. She was not much given to writing love letters (though of course she delighted in receiving them). Her letters tended to be short and to the point, ranging in tone from the firm and instructive to the impatient and irritable, with only very occasional oases of affection and regard in between.

Arthur could usually tell what sort of mood Stella was in from the way she signed her letters. ‘Stell’ was a rare and good augury. It was her comfortable name, her familiar name. It meant that she was at one with the world, at her ease, in her wrapper, with her stays loosened, her stockings rolled down and her curling papers in.

‘Stella’ was almost as good. Stella was a great and formal beauty. Stella was the cold light of the moon and the stars in the sky, and her love burned with the hard, clear flame of eternity. Stella was poetic and soulful, the dark and mysterious muse of Spenser or of Swift. Stella’s love was pure and untainted. An alabaster love, smooth and icily beautiful.

‘Ernest’ or ‘Ernest Boulton’, ‘E’ or ‘E.B.’ were admirably brisk and determinedly businesslike. They were commonsensical, down-to-earth, feet-on-the-ground names and they spoke of wanting to get things organised, of wanting to get things done. Ernest and Ernest Boulton, E and E.B., were often exasperated and irritated, angry and annoyed, and sometimes driven to distraction or to drink, or both, by Arthur’s enduring and ever-expanding catalogue of failings and inadequacies.

‘Stella Clinton’, on the other hand, was decidedly inauspicious. Stella Clinton was a stormy-petrel sort of a name, a name presaging destruction and disaster; a threatening, lowering, darkening sky of a name. Stella Clinton was a shot across the bows, or the rumour and rumble of approaching cannon. Stella Clinton was regal and haughty, imperious and imperial, a Roman matron, a Boadicea, a Bess of Hardwick, a Virgin Queen. Stella Clinton was glorious, and Stella Clinton was magnificent. But woe betide those who dared to cross her, for there was no escape from her vengeance, no escape from her cold fury.

On rare occasions there was no signature at all, just an angry full stop jabbed and stabbed onto the page. When in receipt of one of these anonymous missives, Arthur knew that a terrible storm was about to break above his head and that if he had any sense he would run for cover.

Stella bombarded Arthur with letters and notes. At the time of leaving Mrs Peck’s establishment in Southampton Street – and it was a moot point as to whether they left of their own accord or whether they were evicted by that good lady – things between himself and Stella went from bad to worse, and in the course of a week, or even less, he received not so much a flurry as an avalanche of letters by almost every post.

Arthur staggered under the weight of these letters instructing him to do this, ordering him to do that. Peremptory and insolent notes, reproaching him and rebuking him, telling him he was good for nothing and interrogating him about actual and alleged infractions. And these said instructions, injunctions and orders, once executed, were immediately and abruptly countermanded, usually without explanation or apology. No wonder Arthur sometimes did not know whether he was coming or going.

‘My dear Arthur,’ Stella’s missives invariably began:

‘I am just off to Chelmsford with Fanny where I shall stay till Monday. We are going to a party there tomorrow night . . .’ ‘We were very drunk last night, consequently I forgot to write to you . . .’ ‘I am very tired and seedy.’

‘How
can
you be so absurd?’ . . . ‘I must of course trust to you about the things you promised . . .’ ‘Now no promises please, as this is
no
joke.’

‘A game pie or two might be nice as a little present to me . . .’ ‘If you have any coin I could do with a little . . .’ ‘Send me some money, Wretch . . .’ ‘I wanted the money so it’s rather a bore.’

‘I shall leave here by the 10.40 train. Meet me . . .’ ‘Why
cannot
you tell me the truth for once and say you did not come to the station at all? . . . ’ ‘It is now five o’clock and no letter for me, of course, not that I expected them, but your everlasting promises are
sickening
. . .’ ‘When you write let it be a very proper letter.’

‘I have waited in for you just two hours and a half. I need not tell you I am extremely put out about it . . .’ ‘I do not like to be treated with such rudeness and if you had any feelings of a gentleman you would know that to be impunctual shows great ill breeding.’

‘I am quite tired of waiting and shall not return tonight, nor at all if I am to be treated in this way. I will call tomorrow at one o’clock and shall expect you to be in . . .’ ‘We cannot go on in this way . . .’ ‘I am most annoyed.’

‘I am consoling myself for your absence by getting screwed . . .’ ‘And now, dear, I must shut up.’

‘
W 
e cannot go on in this way,’ Stella had written. Arthur entirely agreed. He was exhausted. He yearned for some respite and some repose from the terrible strain of living with Stella. Never had he stood in greater need of a confidential friend, and it was with some relief that he turned to Fanny for guidance and support. Fanny, the older, wiser, calmer sister. Fanny, who knew Stella inside-out and upside-down. Fanny the diplomat, smoother of passages and privy counsellor to the secrets of Stella’s heart.

After one particularly epic and exhausting confrontation, which ended as usual with Stella flouncing out, he wrote despairingly to Fanny, who replied by return. ‘My Dearest Arthur,’ she began on her familiar blue notepaper, emblazoned with the monogram ‘F.W.P’ in gilt lettering (so very clever and so very economical a device, used with equal facility by Frederick William Park
and
by Fanny Winifred Park).

‘My Dearest Arthur,’ she wrote, ‘You must really excuse me from interfering in matrimonial squabbles (for I am sure the present is no more than that) and tho’ I am as you say Stella’s
confidante
in most things, that which you wish to know she keeps locked in her own breast.

‘My own opinion on the subject varies fifty times a day when I see you together,’ Fanny continued.

She may sometimes treat you brusquely, but on the other hand see how she stands up for your dignity and position, so that really I cannot form an opinion on the subject.

As to all the things she said to you the other night, she may have been tight and she did not know what she was saying, so that by the time you get my answer you will both be laughing over the whole affair – as Stella and I did when we quarrelled and fought down here. Don’t you remember when I slapped her face?

Arthur of course remembered that day very clearly. As he understood it, it was not the first time that Fanny had slapped Stella’s face (or indeed, the first time that Stella had slapped Fanny’s).

‘Do not think me unkind, Dear, as really I have told you all I know and have not an opinion worth having to offer you,’ Fanny concluded. ‘Goodbye Dear, Ever yrs, Fan.’

Arthur’s correspondence with Fanny was not all gloom and agonisings over Stella. He wrote her a charming letter offering his congratulations on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday and promising a suitably handsome gift – funds permitting. It prompted a gushing reply:

‘My dearest Arthur,’ Fanny wrote:

How
very
kind of you to think of me on my birthday.
I
require
no
remembrance of my Sister’s husband as the many
kindnesses
he has bestowed upon me will make me remember him for many a year and the Birthday present he is so kind as to promise me will only be one addition to the heap of little favours I already treasure up.