The Book of the Dead (43 page)

Mother and daughter were very close, and although neither of them had ever been to school, they were both highly intelligent
and resourceful. Throughout Emma’s golden years, her mother was always there in the background, acting as her confidante and personal assistant. When she left the claustrophobia of Hawarden to follow her lover to London, she took Emy with her and found her a suitable position in the capital. Though only twelve, Emy began work as a nursemaid to the children of a respectable doctor’s family in Blackfriars. It was here that she met Jane Powell, an aspiring actress, and the two became close friends. Then as now, the lure of the West End was strong, and when Emy was sacked for staying out all night in Covent Garden, she turned her back on domestic service to pursue a career in the theater. Starting on the lowest rung, as a maid to a wardrobe mistress in Drury Lane, she soon found something altogether more to her liking.

Late eighteenth-century London was the largest sex resort in the world. In the square half mile of St. James’s alone there were 900 full-blown brothels and 850 lesser whorehouses providing “entertainment for gentlemen.” Even in this broad-minded neighborhood, Dr. James Graham’s Temple of Health caused something of a stir. He was an unqualified, charismatic Scottish con man who, though remarkably enlightened on social issues such as slavery and women’s education—and a vegetarian to boot—knew that the serious money was in sex. The centerpiece of his business was the Celestial Bed, a huge ornate couch raised up on eight brass pillars, which looked (and sounded) like an unholy cross between a Greek temple and the orgasm-inducing Excessive Machine in Roger Vadim’s 1968 film
Barbarella.
It was a giant conception device. James Graham believed having healthy children was a patriotic duty, and what he promised was not just bedsprings, but offspring. Under a dome swirling with fragrant vapors and live doves, customers were surrounded by forty
crystal pillars, mirrors offering a view from every possible angle, a frieze of erotic scenes, and pipes sparking with mysterious “electrical energy,” which were connected to five hundred magnets underneath the mattress. The bed, which could be tilted to reach the perfect angle for entry, delivered mild doses of “electrical fire” designed to promote “superior ecstasy” in a woman, which guaranteed conception. It also incorporated an organ whose tunes reached a crescendo in time to the occupant’s exertions. It cost £50 a night (about $5,250 in today’s money) and was patronized by some of the great men of the day, including the Prince of Wales and the noted parliamentarians Charles James Fox and John Wilkes. The whole experience kicked off with a seductive live show of scantily clad goddesses, who danced suggestively around the bed. One of them was young Emma Lyons, whose striking, straight-nosed classical profile was to make her a star.

Despite all the publicity, Graham proved to be a poor businessman. After running out of money he became a born-again Christian, convinced that human health (and God) were best served by fasting and “earth bathing.” He delivered public sermons in Charing Cross, buried up to his neck in a vat of soil. Emma moved on to Madame Kelly’s, the most prestigious whorehouse in St. James’s, where her erotic dancing bewitched the MP for Portsmouth and notorious brothel frequenter, Sir Harry Featherstonehaugh. Sir Harry bought her freedom and installed her as his mistress in a cottage near his huge country estate Uppark, in Sussex. Still only fifteen, Emma worked as a maid during the day and danced naked on the table for his friends in the evening. It was one of these friends, the Honorable Charles Greville, MP for Warwick, who stepped in after the oafish and
intolerant Featherstonehaugh threw her out when, to her horror, she found she was with child. Greville was mesmerized by Emma and offered to take her on as his permanent mistress, as long as she refused to see other men. Pregnant and destitute, she leaped at the chance. She moved into his London house in Paddington as “Emma Hart” and was joined by her mother, who now called herself Mrs. Cadogan. The baby—a girl, also called Emma—was hurriedly fostered and her existence kept a secret.

This domestic arrangement worked well for a while, but Greville couldn’t help showing off Emma’s beauty to others. A connoisseur of painting and sculpture, he arranged for her to pose as an artist’s model. Her loveliness and poise so enchanted his friend, the rising portrait painter George Romney, that he became obsessed, producing more than sixty paintings of her in various poses until her image was famous all over Britain. She is still, in fact, the most painted Englishwoman of all time. But Emma was not only pretty, she was spirited, bright, and altogether delightful. Greville’s plans to keep her as his private mistress were swept away by the arrival of a social sensation, whose exquisite good looks were matched by a direct and witty sensuality. Emma Hart was soon lusted over by gentlemen from London to Leeds.

This was a disaster for Greville. He was not a wealthy man—he had started hiring Emma out as a model for pocket money—and he needed to find a wife with a substantial dowry. That wasn’t going to happen with Emma hogging the limelight on every social occasion. She had become particularly matey with Greville’s uncle, Sir William Hamilton, the British ambassador to Naples, whom she called Pliny because of his passion for antiquities, and he called her the fair tea-maker of Edgware Row in return. Greville hatched
a plan to transfer his mistress to his uncle in return for his wiping out a considerable debt. Telling Emma she was to visit Sir William for a holiday, he packed her off to Naples and several months later wrote, making it clear he didn’t want her back. She was devastated, writing him a stream of angry and imploring letters until, once more, she succumbed to pragmatism. Life in Naples, after all, was civilized and glamorous and she was feted for her beauty wherever she went. Sir William was sweet natured and devoted; his household was renowned for its lavish hospitality and aristocratic good taste. She soon became his mistress and then in 1791, much to the surprise of his friends, his wife.

“Am I Emma Hamilton? It seems nearly impossible!” The pauper-turned-prostitute, who still spoke with a pronounced northern accent, was now the wife of an ambassador. Hamilton, thirty-four years her senior, was delighted. “It has often been remarked that a reformed rake makes a good husband. Why not vice versa?” Emma became both a favorite of Queen Maria Carolina of Naples (the sister of Marie Antoinette) and a fixture in the highest echelons of Neapolitan society. She had reached the very top of the social ladder, mixing with royalty and many of the great artists and thinkers of the day. This stirred Emma’s ambition: She wasn’t content merely to fulfill her role as hostess and dutiful wife. She was a performer at heart and wanted to create something new, something only she could do. She succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Calling on her experience as a model for George Romney and Sir Joshua Reynolds, she developed what she called her “Attitudes,” a series of evolving tableaux in which she transformed herself into great women from history. With Sir William providing a narrative and accompanied by music, she began her performances draped in Indian shawls,
gradually divesting herself till she was revealed in only a figure-hugging “chemise of white muslin, her fine black hair flowing in ringlets over her shoulders.” Ariadne would merge into Medea, Medea into Cleopatra, and so on. For some it was little more than a classy striptease; for others, it was as if the history of Western painting had come to life. In his
Italian Journey
, Goethe writes of being captivated by this “young English girl … with a beautiful face and perfect figure.”

The spectator can hardly believe his eyes. He sees what thousands of artists would have liked to express realized before him in movements and surprising transformations, standing, kneeling, sitting, reclining, serious, sad, playful, ecstatic, contrite, alluring, threatening, anxious, one pose follows another without a break…. As a performance it’s like nothing you ever saw before in your life.

Lady Hamilton’s “Attitudes” caused a sensation. The grace and presence that had distinguished her from the other tarts capering around the Celestial Bed in London’s red-light district propelled her to international stardom. She became one of Europe’s most popular tourist attractions, inspiring copycat performances all over the Continent. Even her critics were impressed: The society diarist Mrs. St. George noted how “graceful and beautiful” Emma’s costumes were, though she couldn’t help adding caustically, “her usual dress is tasteless, loaded, vulgar and unbecoming.” Vulgar or not, back in London, Lady Hamilton fever took hold. Her trademark white crepe and satin dresses were all the rage. The
Times
bemoaned the padded bosoms that went with them, blustering that they had “lowered the character of many young ladies.” People were at once
fascinated and appalled, and the gossipmongers and caricaturists had a field day. But for Emma Hamilton, it had only just begun.

She met Horatio Nelson by chance in 1793. He was forty, already renowned for his leadership and tactical flair, but not yet a commander of the fleet. Europe, still reeling from the shock of the French Revolution, was on the brink of war. Captain Nelson had been sent to recruit troops from King Ferdinand IV of Naples to reinforce the port of Toulon, then held by the British but threatened by a French force that included a young artilleryman called Napoleon Bonaparte. Nelson hit it off splendidly with the Hamiltons and Emma flirted with him as she did with everyone else. But a definite impression was made on both sides.

They weren’t to meet again for five years. By then, Emma had grown seriously porky. In 1796 Sir Gilbert Elliott, the Viceroy of Corsica, remarked: “Her person is nothing short of monstrous for its enormity, and is growing every day.” The famous hostess Lady Elgin was crisper: “She is indeed a Whapper!” A Swedish diplomat was distinctly undiplomatic: “She is the fattest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, but with the most beautiful head.”

When Nelson returned to Naples in 1798, he was a hero. His victory at the Battle of the Nile had saved the city from a French invasion. Emma wrote to him in breathless anticipation:

I walk and tread in the air with pride, feeling I was born in the same land with the victor Nelson…. For God’s sake come to Naples soon…. My dress from head to foot is alla Nelson…. Even my shawl is in Blue with gold anchors all over. My earrings are Nelson’s anchors; in short, we are be-Nelsoned all over.

The “be-Nelsoning” grew ever more fervent as the victor approached, and the outpouring of joy as his ship entered harbor
was close to hysterical. Nelson’s travails had aged him visibly; one eye was damaged beyond repair and he was suffering from the effects of a head injury. If Nelson noticed that Emma was plumper than he remembered, he never mentioned it. She assumed the role of his nurse, Sir William threw him parties, and the three of them quickly became inseparable. So began a ménage à trois (they preferred the more sophisticated Latin,
tria juncta in uno)
that would last until Sir William’s death in 1803.

By the end of 1798 King Ferdinand’s Neapolitan army had disintegrated in the face of French aggression, and Nelson was charged with escorting the royal family and their friends to safety in Sicily. On the way, they sailed into the worst storm Nelson could remember. He was amazed by Emma’s courage, in contrast to the complete panic of his other distinguished passengers. As Sir William prepared to shoot himself rather than drown, Emma gently tended the king’s young son, who had gone into convulsions and later died in her arms. By the time they reached Palermo, the flirtation had become a torrid affair. Emma and Nelson dropped all pretense of decorum, entering into a nonstop round of drinking, gambling, and late-night partying that only ended with Nelson’s recall to London.

By early 1800 Emma was pregnant with his child and Nelson had formally separated from his wife, Fanny, leaving her to fend for herself in Norfolk. He bought Merton Place, a ramshackle property on the outskirts of Wimbledon, and Emma started doing it up. She designed it as a home fit for a hero—as well as a hero’s mistress, a hero’s mistress’s husband, and a hero’s mistress’s mother. Emma’s taste wouldn’t have looked out of place in
People
magazine. The effect was a queasy cross between a celebrity mansion in Beverly Hills and a maritime museum:

The whole house, staircase and all, are covered with nothing but pictures of her and him, of all sizes and sorts, and representations of his naval actions, coats of arms, pieces of plate in his honour.

The vulgarity and brazenness of it all provided an unprecedented feast for the popular press. Everything was avidly dissected in minute detail. In January 1801, Emma gave birth to twins, but only one survived. To avoid any doubt over the girl’s origins, the proud parents named her Horatia. Then, in a halfhearted attempt at discretion, they added the surname Thompson, the nom de plume used by Nelson in his secret correspondence with Emma. Polite society was shocked: “She leads him about like a keeper with a bear,” commented one affronted hostess. Even Nelson’s closest friends were traumatized. Sir Gilbert Elliot, now Lord Minto, wrote angrily:

Nothing shall ever induce me to give the smallest countenance to Lady Hamilton…. She is high in looks, but more immense than ever. She goes on cramming Nelson with trowelfuls of flattery, which he goes on taking as quietly as a child does pap. The love she makes to him is not only ridiculous, but disgusting.

Nelson and Emma were oblivious, busy making the most of their brief moments together. As she wrote to a friend:

I love him, I adore him, my mind and soul is now transported with the thought of that blessed ecstatic moment when I shall see him, embrace him…. I must sin on and love him more than ever. It is a crime worth going to Hell for.

Eventually, even the gentle, indulgent Sir William lost patience. By the end of 1802, he was warning Emma that he might have to consider a separation if things continued as they were. But in the spring of the following year, he died, much as he had recently lived, in his wife’s arms, holding Nelson’s hand. More or less at once, the war with France demanded Nelson’s attention again and he was on the high seas when little Emma, his second daughter, was born. She lived only a few days and her grief-stricken mother had to pay double for the undertaker to keep the details out of the press. The loneliness and the long separations from Nelson began to tell on Emma. She took to drinking heavily again, and gambling, and the debts soon mounted up. Nelson knew nothing of all this. He was fired by his love for her. “If there were more Emmas,” he wrote, “there would be more Nelsons.”