CHAPTER XIII.
THE SAGE OF SAYES COURT.
One of Angela's letters to her convent companion, the chosen friend andconfidante of childhood and girlhood, Leonie de Ville, now married to theBaron de Beaulieu, and established in a fine house in the Place Royale,will best depict her life and thoughts and feelings during her first Londonseason.
"You tell me, chere, that this London, which I have painted in somewhatbrilliant colours, must be a poor place compared with your exquisite city;but, indeed, despite all you say of the Cours la Reine, and your splendourof gilded coaches, fine ladies, and noble gentlemen, who ride at your coachwindows, talking to you as they rein in their spirited horses, I cannotthink that your fashionable promenade can so much surpass our Ring in HydePark, where the Court airs itself daily in the new glass coaches, or outviefor gaiety our Mall in St. James's Park, where all the world of beauty andwit is to be met walking up and down in the gayest, easiest way, everybodyfamiliar and acquainted, with the exception of a few women in masks, whoare never to be spoken to or spoken about. Indeed, my sister and I haveacquired the art of appearing neither to see nor to hear objectionablecompany, and pass close beside fine flaunting masks, rub shoulders withthem even--and all as if we saw them not. It is for this that Lord Farehamhates London. Here, he says, vice takes the highest place, and flaunts inthe sun, while virtue blushes, and steals by with averted head. But thoughI wonder at this Court of Whitehall, and the wicked woman who reignsempress there, and the neglected Queen, and the ladies of honour, whose badconduct is on every one's lips, I wonder more at the people and the lifeyou describe at the Louvre, and St. Germain, and Fontainebleau, and yournew palace of Versailles.
"Indeed, Leonie, the world must be in a strange way when vice can put onall the grace and dignity of virtue, and hold an honourable place amonggood and noble women. My sister says that Madame de Montausier is a womanof stainless character, and her husband the proudest of men; yet you tellme that both husband and wife are full of kindness and favours for thatunhappy Mlle. de la Valliere, whose position at Court is an open insult toyour Queen. Have Queens often been so unhappy, I wonder, as her Majestyhere, and your own royal mistress? One at least was not. The martyred Kingwas of all husbands the most constant and affectionate, and, in the opinionof many, lost his kingdom chiefly through his fatal indulgence of QueenHenrietta's caprices, and his willingness to be governed by her opinions incircumstances of difficulty, where only the wisest heads in the landshould have counselled him. But how I am wandering from my defence of thisbeautiful city against your assertion of its inferiority! I hope, chere,that you will cross the sea some day, and allow my sister to lodge you inthis house where I write; and when you look out upon our delightful river,with its gay traffic of boats and barges passing to and fro, and itspalaces, rising from gardens and Italian terraces on either side of thestream; when you see our ancient cathedral of St. Paul; and the Abbey ofSt. Peter, lying a little back from the water, grand and ancient, andsomewhat gloomy in its massive bulk; and eastward, the old fortress-prison,with its four towers; and the ships lying in the Pool; and fertileBermondsey with its gardens; and all the beauty of verdant shores andcitizens' houses between the bridge and Greenwich, you will own that Londonand its adjacent villages can compare favourably with any metropolis in theworld.
"The only complaint one hears is of its rapid growth, which is fastencroaching upon the pleasant fields and rustic lanes behind the LambsConduit and Southampton House; and on the western side spreading so rapidlythat there will soon be no country left between London and Knightsbridge.
"How I wish thou couldst see our river-terrace on my sister's visiting-day,when De Malfort is lolling on the marble balustrade, singing one of yourfavourite chansons to the guitar which he touches so exquisitely, and whenHyacinth's fine lady friends and foppish admirers are sitting about in thesunshine! Thou wouldst confess that even Renard's garden can show no gayerscene.
"It was only last Tuesday that I had the opportunity of seeing more of thecity than I had seen previously--and at its best advantage, as seen fromthe river. Mr. Evelyn, of Sayes Court, had invited my sister and herhusband to visit his house and gardens. He is a great gardener andarboriculturist, as you may have heard, for he has travelled much on theContinent, and acquired a world-wide reputation for his knowledge of treesand flowers.
"We were all invited--the Farehams, and my niece Henriette; and even I,whom Mr. Evelyn had seen but once, was included in the invitation. We wereto travel by water, in his lordship's barge, and Mr. Evelyn's coach was tomeet us at a landing-place not far from his house. We were to start in themorning, dine with him, and return to Fareham House before dark. Henriettewas enchanted, and I found her at prayers on Monday night praying St.Swithin, whom she believes to have care of the weather, to allow no rain onTuesday.
"She looked so pretty next morning, dressed for the journey, in a lightblue cloth cloak embroidered with silver, and a hood of the same; but shebrought me bad news--my sister had a feverish headache, and begged us to gowithout her. I went to Hyacinth's room to try to persuade her to go withus, in the hope that the fresh air along the river would cure her headache;but she had been at a dance overnight, and was tired, and would do nothingbut rest in a dark room all day--at least, that was her resolve in themorning; but later she remembered that it was Lady Lucretia Topham'svisiting-day, and, feeling better, ordered her chair and went off toBloomsbury Square, where she met all the wits, full of a new play which hadbeen acted at Whitehall, the public theatres being still closed on accountof the late contagion.
"They do not act their plays here as often as Moliere is acted at theHotel de Bourgogne. The town is constant in nothing but wanting perpetualvariety, and the stir and bustle of a new play, which gives something forthe wits to dispute about. I think we must have three play-wrights to oneof yours; but I doubt if there is wit enough in a dozen of our writers toequal your Moliere, whose last comedy seems to surpass all that has gonebefore. His lordship had a copy from Paris last week, and read the play tous in the evening. He has no accent, and reads French beautifully, withspirit and fire, and in the passionate scenes his great deep voice has afine effect.
"We left Fareham House at nine o'clock on a lovely morning, worthy thismonth of May. The lessening of fires in the city since the warmer weatherhas freed our skies from sea-coal smoke, and the sky last Tuesday was bluerthan the river.
"The cream-coloured and gold barge, with twelve rowers in the Farehamgreen velvet liveries, would have pleased your eyes, which have ever lovedsplendour; but you might have thought the master of this splendid barge toosombre in dress and aspect to become a scene which recalled Cleopatra'sgalley. To me there is much that is interesting in that severe and seriousface, with its olive complexion and dark eyes, shadowed by the strong,thoughtful brow. People who knew Lord Stafford say that my brother-in-lawhas a look of that great, unfortunate man--sacrificed to stem the risingflood of rebellion, and sacrificed in vain. Fareham is his kinsman onthe mother's side, and may have perhaps something of his powerful mind,together with the rugged grandeur of his features and the bent carriage ofhis shoulders, which some one the other day called the Stratford stoop.
"I have been reading some of Lord Stafford's letters, and the accountof his trial. Indeed he was an ill-used man, and the victim of privatehatred--from the Vanes and others--as much as of public faction. His trialand condemnation were scarce less unfair--though the form and tribunal mayhave been legal--than his master's, and indeed did but forecast that mostunwarrantable judgment. Is it not strange, Leonie, to consider how much oftragical history you and I have lived through that are yet so young? Butto me it is strangest of all to see the people in this city, who abandonthemselves as freely to a life of idle pleasures and sinful folly--atleast, the majority of them--as if England had never seen the tragedy ofthe late monarch's murder, or been visited by death in his most horribleaspect, only the year last past. My sister tells every one, smiling, thatshe misses no one from the circle of her fr
iends. She never saw the redcross on almost every door, the coffins, and the uncoffined dead, as I sawthem one stifling summer day, nor heard the shrieks of the mourners inhouses where death was master. Nor does she suspect how near she was tomissing her husband, who was hanging between life and death when I foundhim, forsaken and alone. He never talks to me of those days of sickness andslow recovery; yet I think the memory of them must be in his mind as it isin mine, and that this serves as a link to draw us nearer than many a realbrother and sister. I am sending you a little picture which I made of himfrom memory, for he has one of those striking faces that paint themselveseasily upon the mind. Tell me how you, who are clever at reading faces,interpret this one.
"Helas, how I wander from our excursion! My pen winds like the river whichcarried us to Deptford. Pardon, cherie, sije m'oublie trop; mais c'est sidoux de causer avec une amie d'enfance.
"At the Tower stairs we stopped to take on board a gentleman in a very finepeach-blossom suit, and with a huge periwig, at which Papillon began tolaugh, and had to be chid somewhat harshly. He was a very civil-spoken,friendly person, and he brought with him a lad carrying a viol. He is anofficer of the Admiralty, called Pepys, and, Fareham tells me, a useful,indefatigable person. My sister met him at Clarendon House two years ago,and wrote to me about him somewhat scornfully; but my brother respects himas shrewd and capable, and more honest than such persons usually are. Wewere to fetch him to Sayes Court, where he also was invited by Mr. Evelyn;and in talking to Henriette and me, he expressed great regret that his wifehad not been included, and he paid my niece compliments upon her grace andbeauty which I could but think very fulsome and showing want of judgment inaddressing a child. And then, seeing me vexed, he hoped I was not jealous;at which I could hardly command my anger, and rose in a huff and left him.But he was a person not easy to keep at a distance, and was following me tothe prow of the boat, when Fareham took hold of him by his cannon sleeveand led him to a seat, where he kept him talking of the navy and the greatships now a-building to replace those that have been lost in the Dutch War.
"When we had passed the Pool, and the busy trading ships, and all the noiseof sailors and labourers shipping or unloading cargo, and the traffic ofsmall boats hastening to and fro, and were out on a broad reach of theriver with the green country on either side, the lad tuned his viol, andplayed a pretty, pensive air, and he and Mr. Pepys sang some verses byHerrick, one of our favourite English poets, set for two voices--
"'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time still is a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying."
The boy had a voice like Mere Ursule's lovely soprano, and Mr. Pepys apretty tenor; and you can imagine nothing more silvery sweet than the unionof the two voices to the staccato notes of the viol, dropping in here andthere like music whispered. The setting was Mr. Pepys' own, and he seemedovercome with pride when we praised it. When the song was over, Farehamcame to the bench where Papillon and I were sitting, and asked me what Ithought of this fine Admiralty gentleman, whereupon I confessed I liked thesong better than the singer, who at that moment was strutting on the decklike a peacock, looking at every vessel we passed as if he were Neptune,and could sink navies with a nod.
"Misericorde! how my letter grows! But I love to prattle to you. My sisteris all goodness to me; but she has her ideas and I have mine; and though Ilove her none the less because our fancies pull us in opposite directions,I cannot talk to her as I can write to you; and if I plague you with toomuch of my own history you must not fear to tell me so. Yet if I dare judgeby my own feelings, who am never weary of your letters--nay, can neverhear enough of your thoughts and doings--I think you will bear with myexpatiations, and not deem them too impertinent.
"Mr. Evelyn's coach was waiting at the landing-stage; and that goodgentleman received us at his hall door. He is not young, and has gonethrough much affliction in the loss of his dear children--one, who diedof a fever during that wicked reign of the Usurper Cromwell, was a boyof gifts and capacities that seemed almost miraculous, and had morescholarship at five years old than my poor woman's mind could compass wereI to live till fifty. Mr. Evelyn took a kind of sad delight in talking toHenriette and me of this gifted child, asking her what she knew of thisand that subject, and comparing her extensive ignorance at eleven with hislamented son's vast knowledge at five. I was more sorry for him than Idared to say; for I could but think this dear overtaught child might havedied from a perpetual fever of the brain as likely as from a four days'fever of the body; and afterwards when Mr. Evelyn talked to us of a mannerof forcing fruits to grow in strange shapes--a process in which he wasgreatly interested--I thought that this dear infant's mind had beenconstrained and directed, like the fruits, into a form unnatural tochildhood. Picture to yourself, Leonie, at an age when he should have beenchasing butterflies or making himself a garden of cut-flowers stuck in theground, this child was labouring over Greek and Latin, and all his dreamsmust have been filled with the toilsome perplexities of his daily tasks. Itis happy for the bereaved father that he takes a different view, and thathis pride in the child's learning is even greater than his grief at havinglost him.
"At dinner the conversation was chiefly of public affairs--the navy, thewar, the King, the Duke, and the General. Mr. Evelyn told Fareham much ofhis embarrassments last year, when he had the Dutch prisoners, and the sickand wounded from the fleet, in his charge; and when there was so terriblea scarcity of provision for these poor wretches that he was constrained todraw largely on his own private means in order to keep them from starving.
"Later, during the long dinner, Mr. Pepys made allusions to an unhappypassion of his master and patron, Lord Sandwich, that had diverted his mindfrom public business, and was likely to bring him to disgrace. Nothing wassaid plainly about this matter, but rather in hints and innuendoes, and mybrother's brow darkened as the conversation went on; and then, at last,after sitting silent for some time while Mr. Evelyn and Mr. Pepysconversed, he broke up their discourse in a rough, abrupt way he has whengreatly moved.
"'He is a wretch--a guilty wretch--to love where he should not, to hazardthe world's esteem, to grieve his wife, and to dishonour his name! And yet,I wonder, is he happier in his sinful indulgence than if he had played aRoman part, or, like the Spartan lad we read of, had let the wild-beastpassion gnaw his heart out, and yet made no sign? To suffer and die, thatis virtue, I take it, Mr. Evelyn; and you Christian sages assure us thatvirtue is happiness. A strange kind of happiness!'
"'The Christian's law is a law of sacrifice,' Mr. Evelyn said, in hismelancholic way. 'The harvest of surrender here is to be garnered in abetter world.'
"'But if Sandwich does not believe in the everlasting joys of the heavenlyJerusalem--and prefers to anticipate his harvest of joy!' said Fareham.
"'Then he is the more to be pitied,' interrupted Mr. Evelyn.
"'He is as God made him. Nothing can come out of a man but what hisMaker put in him. Your gold vase there will not turn vicious and producecopper--nor can all your alchemy turn copper to gold. There are some of uswho believe that a man can live only once, and love only once, and be happyonly once in that pitiful span of infirmities which we call life; and thathe is wisest who gathers his roses while he may--as Mr. Pepys sang to usthis morning.'
"Mr. Evelyn sighed, and looked at my brother with mild reproof.
"'If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men mostmiserable,' he said. 'My lord, when those you love people the HeavenlyCity, you will begin to believe and hope as I do.'
"I have transcribed this conversation at full length, Leonie, because itgives you the keynote to Fareham's character, and accounts for much that isstrange in his conduct. Alas, that I must say it of so noble a man! He isan infidel! Bred in our Church, he has faith neither in the Church norin its Divine Founder. His favourite books are metaphysical works byDescartes, Hobbes, Spinoza. I have discovered him reading those perniciouswritings whose chief tendency is to make us question th
e most blessedtruths our Church has taught us, or to confuse the mind by leading us todoubt even of our own existence. I was curious to know what there couldbe in books that so interested a man of his intelligence, and asked to beallowed to read them; but the perusal only served to make me unhappy. Thisdaring attempt to reduce all the mysteries of life to a simple sum inarithmetic, and to make God a mere attribute in the mind of man, disturbedand depressed me. Indeed, there can be no more unhappy moment in any lifethan that in which for the first time a terrible 'if' flashes upon themind. _If_ God is not the God I have worshipped, and in whose goodness Irest all my hopes of future bliss; _if_ in the place of an all-powerfulCreator, who gave me my life and governs it, and will renew it after thegrave, there is nothing but a quality of my mind, which makes it necessaryto me to invent a Superior Being, and to worship the product of my ownimagination! Oh, Leonie, beware of these modern thinkers, who assail thecreed that has been the stronghold and comfort of humanity for sixteenhundred years, and who employ the reason which God has given them todisprove the existence of their Maker. Fareham insists that Spinoza is areligious man--and has beautiful ideas about God; but I found only doubtand despair in his pages; and I ascribe my poor brother's melancholicdisposition in some part to his study of such philosophers.
"I wonder what you would think of Fareham, did you see him daily andhourly, almost, as I do. Would you like or dislike, admire or scorn him?I cannot tell. His manners have none of the velvet softness which is thefashion in London--where all the fine gentlemen shape themselves upon theParisian model; yet he is courteous, after his graver mode, to allwomen, and kind and thoughtful of our happiness. To my sister he is allbeneficence; and if he has a fault it is over-much indulgence of her whimsand extravagances--though Hyacinth, poor soul, thinks him a tyrant becausehe forbids her some places of amusement to which other women of qualityresort freely. Were he my husband, I should honour him for his desire tospare me all evil sounds and profligate company; and so would Hyacinth,perhaps, had she leisure for reflection. But in her London life, surroundedever with a bevy of friends, moving like a star amidst a galaxy of greatladies, there is little time for the free exercise of a sound judgment,and she can but think as others bid her, who swear that her husband is adespot.
"Mrs. Evelyn was absent from home on a visit; so after dinner Henriette andI, having no hostess to entertain us, walked with our host, who showedus all the curiosities and beauties of his garden, and condescended toinstruct us upon many interesting particulars relating to trees andflowers, and the methods of cultivation pursued in various countries. Hisfig trees are as fine as those in the convent garden at Louvain; and,indeed, walking with him in a long alley, shut in by holly hedges of whichhe is especially proud, and with orchard trees on either side, I was takenback in fancy to the old pathway along which you and I have paced so oftenwith Mother Agnes, talking of the time when we should go out into theworld. You have been more than three years in that world of which you thenknew so little, but it lacks still a quarter of one year since I left thatquiet and so monotonous life; and already I look back and wonder if I everreally lived there. I cannot picture myself within those walls. I cannotcall back my own feelings or my own image at the time when I had never seenLondon, when my sister was almost a stranger to me, and my sister's husbandonly a name. Yet a day of sorrow might come when I should be fain to finda tranquil retreat in that sober place, and to spend my declining years inprayer and meditation, as my dear aunt did spend nearly all her life. MayGod maintain us in the true faith, sweet friend, so that we may ever havethat sanctuary of holy seclusion and prayer to fly to--and, oh, howdeep should be our pity for a soul like Fareham's, which knows not theconsolations nor the strength of religion, for whom there is no armouragainst the arrows of death, no City of Refuge in the day of mourning!
"Indeed he is not happy. I question and perplex myself to find a reason forhis melancholy. He is rich in money and in powerful friends; has a wifewhom all the world admires; houses which might lodge Royalty. Perhaps it isbecause his life has been over prosperous that he sickens of it, like onewho flings away from a banquet table, satiated by feasting. Life to him maybe like the weariness of our English dinners, where one mountain of food iscarried away to make room on the board for another; and where after peoplehave sat eating and drinking for over an hour comes a roasted swan, or apeacock, or some other fantastical dish, which the company praise as apretty surprise. Often, in the midst of such a dinner, I recall our sparingmeals in the convent; our soup maigre and snow eggs, our cool salads andblack bread--and regret that simple food, while the reeking joints andhecatombs of fowl nauseate my senses.
"It was late in the afternoon when we returned to the barge, for Mr. Pepyshad business to transact with our host, and spent an hour with him in hisstudy, signing papers, and looking at accounts, while Papillon and I roamedabout the garden with his lordship, conversing upon various subjects, andabout Mr. Evelyn, and his opinions and politics.
"'The good man has a pretty trivial taste that will keep him amused andhappy till he drops into the grave--but, lord! what insipid trash it allseems to the heart on fire with passion!' Fareham said in his impetuousway, as if he despised Mr. Evelyn for taking pleasure in bagatelles.
"The sun was setting as we passed Greenwich, and I thought of those who hadlived and made history in the old palace--Queen Elizabeth, so great, solonely; Shakespeare, whom his lordship honours; Bacon, said to be one ofthe wisest men who have lived since the Seven of Greece; Raleigh, so brave,so adventurous, so unhappy! Surely men and women must have been made ofanother stuff a century ago; for what will those who come after us rememberof the wits and beauties of Whitehall, except that they lived and died?
"Mr. Pepys was somewhat noisy on the evening voyage, and I was very gladwhen he left the barge. He paid me ridiculous compliments mixed with scrapsof French and Spanish, and, finding his conversation distasteful, heinsisted upon attempting several songs--not one of which he was able tofinish, and at last began one which for some reason made his lordshipangry, who gave him a cuff on his head that scattered all the scentedpowder in his wig; on which, instead of starting up furious to return theblow, as I feared to see him, Mr. Pepys gave a little whimpering laugh,muttered something to the effect that his lordship was vastly nice, andsank down in a corner of the cushioned seat, where he almost instantly fellasleep.
"Henriette and I were spectators of this scene at some distance, I am gladto say, for all the length of the barge divided us from the noisy singer.
"The sun went down, and the stars stole out of the deep blue vault, andtrembled between us and those vast fields of heaven. Papillon watched theirreflection in the river, or looked at the houses along the shore, few andfar apart, where a solitary candle showed here and there. Fareham came andseated himself near us, but talked little. We drew our cloaks closer, forthe air was cold, and Papillon nestled beside me and dropped asleep. Eventhe dipping of the oars had a ghostly sound in the night stillness; and weseemed so melancholy in this silence, and so far away from one another,that I could but think of Charon's boat laden with the souls of the dead.
"Write to me soon, dearest, and as long a letter as I have written to you.
"A toi de coeur,
"ANGELA."