CHAPTER V.
THE BEAU IN HIS DEN, AND A PHILOSOPHER DISCOVERED.
MR. FIELDING having twice favoured me with visits, which found me fromhome, I thought it right to pay my respects to him; accordingly onemorning I repaired to his abode. It was situated in a street which hadbeen excessively the mode some thirty years back; and the house stillexhibited a stately and somewhat ostentatious exterior. I observed aconsiderable cluster of infantine ragamuffins collected round thedoor, and no sooner did the portal open to my summons than they pressedforward in a manner infinitely more zealous than respectful. A servantin the Austrian livery, with a broad belt round his middle, officiatedas porter. "Look, look!" cried one of the youthful gazers, "look at theBeau's _keeper_!" This imputation on his own respectability and that ofhis master, the domestic seemed by no means to relish; for, mutteringsome maledictory menace, which I at first took to be German, but whichI afterwards found to be Irish, he banged the door in the faces of theintrusive impertinents, and said, in an accent which suited very illwith his Continental attire,--
"And is it my master you're wanting, Sir?"
"It is."
"And you would be after seeing him immediately?"
"Rightly conjectured, my sagacious friend."
"Fait then, your honour, my master's in bed with a terrible fit of themegrims."
"Then you will favour me by giving this card to your master, andexpressing my sorrow at his indisposition."
Upon this the orange-coloured lacquey, very quietly reading the addresson the card, and spelling letter by letter in an audible mutter,rejoined,
"C--o--u (cou) n--t (unt) Count, D--e--v. Och, by my shoul, and it'sCount Devereux after all I'm thinking?"
"You think with equal profundity and truth."
"You may well say that, your honour. Stip in a bit: I'll tell my master;it is himself that will see you in a twinkling!"
"But you forget that your master is ill?" said I.
"Sorrow a bit for the matter o' that: my master is never ill to ajontleman."
And with this assurance "the Beau's keeper" ushered me up a splendidstaircase into a large, dreary, faded apartment, and left me to amusemyself with the curiosities within, while he went to perform a cureupon his master's "megrims." The chamber, suiting with the house andthe owner, looked like a place in the other world set apart for thereception of the ghosts of departed furniture. The hangings were wan andcolourless; the chairs and sofas were most spiritually unsubstantial;the mirrors reflected all things in a sepulchral sea-green; even a hugepicture of Mr. Fielding himself, placed over the chimney-piece, seemedlike the apparition of a portrait, so dim, watery, and indistinct hadit been rendered by neglect and damp. On a huge tomb-like table inthe middle of the room, lay two pencilled profiles of Mr. Fielding, apawnbroker's ticket, a pair of ruffles, a very little muff, an immensebroadsword, a Wycherley comb, a jackboot, and an old plumed hat; tothese were added a cracked pomatum-pot containing ink, and a scrap ofpaper, ornamented with sundry paintings of hearts and torches, on whichwere scrawled several lines in a hand so large and round that I couldnot avoid seeing the first verse, though I turned away my eyes asquickly as possible; that verse, to the best of my memory, ran thus:"Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy swain." Upon the ground lay a box ofpatches, a periwig, and two or three well thumbed books of songs.Such was the reception-room of Beau Fielding, one indifferently wellcalculated to exhibit the propensities of a man, half bully, halffribble; a poet, a fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walking museum of all oddhumours, and a living shadow of a past renown. "There are changes in witas in fashion," said Sir William Temple, and he proceeds to instance anobleman who was the greatest wit of the court of Charles I., and thegreatest dullard in that of Charles II.* But Heavens! how awful are therevolutions of coxcombry! what a change from Beau Fielding the Beauty,to Beau Fielding the Oddity!
* The Earl of Norwich.
After I had remained in this apartment about ten minutes, the greatman made his appearance. He was attired in a dressing-gown of themost gorgeous material and colour, but so old that it was difficult toconceive any period of past time which it might not have been supposedto have witnessed; a little velvet cap, with a tarnished gold tassel,surmounted his head, and his nether limbs were sheathed in a pairof military boots. In person he still retained the trace of thatextraordinary symmetry he had once possessed, and his features were yethandsome, though the complexion had grown coarse and florid, andthe expression had settled into a broad, hardy, farcical mixture ofeffrontery, humour, and conceit.
But how different his costume from that of old! Where was the long wigwith its myriad curls? the coat stiff with golden lace? the diamondbuttons,--"the pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war?" theglorious war Beau Fielding had carried on throughout the femaleworld,--finding in every saloon a Blenheim, in every play-house aRamilies? Alas! to what abyss of fate will not the love of notorietybring men! to what but the lust of show do we owe the misanthropy ofTimon, or the ruin of Beau Fielding!
"By the Lord!" cried Mr. Fielding, approaching, and shaking mefamiliarly by the hand, "by the Lord, I am delighted to see thee! As Iam a soldier, I thought thou wert a spirit, invisible and incorporeal;and as long as I was in that belief I trembled for thy salvation, for Iknew at least that thou wert not a spirit of Heaven, since thy dooris the very reverse of the doors above, which we are assured shall beopened unto our knocking. But thou art early, Count; like the ghost in'Hamlet,' thou snuffest the morning air. Wilt thou not keep out the rankatmosphere by a pint of wine and a toast?"
"Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding; but I have at least one property of aghost, and don't drink after daybreak."
"Nay, now, 'tis a bad rule! a villanous bad rule, fit _only for_ ghostsand graybeards. We youngsters, Count, should have a more generouspolicy. Come, now, where didst thou drink last night? has the bottlebequeathed thee a qualm or a headache, which preaches repentance andabstinence this morning?"
"No, but I visit my mistress this morning; would you have me smell ofstrong potations, and seem a worshipper of the '_Glass_ of Fashion,'rather than of 'the Mould of Form'? Confess, Mr. Fielding, that thewomen love not an early tippler, and that they expect sober and sweetkisses from a pair 'of youngsters' like us."
"By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking down his comely stomach,"there is a great show of reason in thy excuses, but only the show, notsubstance, my noble Count. You know me, you know my experience with thewomen: I would not boast, as I'm a soldier; but 'tis something! ninehundred and fifty locks of hair have I got in my strong box, underpadlock and key; fifty within the last week,--true, on my soul,--so thatI may pretend to know a little of the dear creatures; well, I give theemy honour, Count, that they like a royster; they love a fellow who cancarry his six bottles under a silken doublet; there's vigour and manhoodin it; and, then, too, what a power of toasts can a six-bottle mandrink to his mistress! Oh, 'tis your only chivalry now,--your modernsubstitute for tilt and tournament; true, Count, as I am a soldier!"
"I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for she quarrelled withme for supping with St. John three nights ago, and--"
"St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the beginning ofa witticism, "St. John, famous fellow, is he not? By the Lord, we willdrink to his administration, you in chocolate, I in Madeira. O'Carroll,you dog,--O'Carroll--rogue--rascal--ass--dolt!"
"The same, your honour," said the orange-coloured lacquey, thrusting inhis lean visage.
"Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of Saint Patrick; why dostthou not get fat? Thou shamest my good living, and thy belly is arascally minister to thee, devouring all things for itself, withoutfattening a single member of the body corporate. Look at _me_, you dog,am _I_ thin? Go and get fat, or I will discharge thee: by the Lord Iwill! the sun shines through thee like an empty wineglass."
"And is it upon your honour's lavings you would have me get fat?"rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, with an air of deferential inquiry.
"Now, as I live,
thou art the impudentest varlet!" cried Mr. Fielding,stamping his foot on the floor, with an angry frown.
"And is it for talking of your honour's lavings? an' sure that's_nothing_ at all, at all," said the valet, twirling his thumbs withexpostulating innocence.
"Begone, rascal!" said Mr. Fielding, "begone; go to the Salop, and bringus a pint of Madeira, a toast, and a dish of chocolate."
"Yes, your honour, in a twinkling," said the valet, disappearing.
"A sorry fellow," said Mr. Fielding, "but honest and faithful, and lovesme as well as a saint loves gold; 'tis his love makes him familiar."
Here the door was again opened, and the sharp face of Mr. O'Carrollagain intruded.
"How now, sirrah!" exclaimed his master.
Mr. O'Carroll, without answering by voice, gave a grotesque sort ofsignal between a wink and a beckon. Mr. Fielding rose muttering an oath,and underwent a whisper. "By the Lord," cried he, seemingly in a furiouspassion, "and thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though I told theetwice to have it done last evening? Have I not my debts of honour todischarge, and did I not give the last guinea I had about me for awalking cane yesterday? Go down to the city immediately, sirrah, andbring me the change."
The valet again whispered.
"Ah," resumed Fielding, "ah--so far, you say, 'tis true; 'tis a greatway, and perhaps the Count can't wait till you return. Prithee (turningto me), prithee now, is it not vexatious,--no change about me, and myfool has not cashed a trifling bill I have, for a thousand or so,on Messrs. Child! and the cursed Salop puts not its _trust_ even inprinces; 'tis its way; 'Gad now, you have not a guinea about you?"
What could I say? My guinea joined Tarleton's, in a visit to that bournewhence no _such_ traveller e'er returned.
Mr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine and the chocolate soonappeared. Mr. Fielding brightened up, recited his poetry, blessed hisgood fortune, promised to call on me in a day or two; and assured me,with a round oath, that the next time he had the honour of seeing me, hewould treat me with another pint of Madeira, exactly of the same sort.
I remember well that it was the evening of the same day in which I hadpaid this visit to the redoubted Mr. Fielding, that, on returning froma drum at Lady Hasselton's, I entered my anteroom with so silent a step,that I did not arouse even the keen senses of Monsieur Desmarais. He wasseated by the fire, with his head supported by his hands, and intentlyporing over a huge folio. I had often observed that he possessed aliterary turn, and all the hours in which he was unemployed by me he waswont to occupy with books. I felt now, as I stood still and contemplatedhis absorbed attention in the contents of the book before him, a strongcuriosity to know the nature of his studies; and so little did my tastesecond the routine of trifles in which I had been lately engaged, thatin looking upon the earnest features of the man on which the solitarylight streamed calm and full; and impressed with the deep quiet andsolitude of the chamber, together with the undisturbed sanctity ofcomfort presiding over the small, bright hearth, and contrasting what Isaw with the brilliant scene--brilliant with gaudy, wearing, wearisomefrivolities--which I had just quitted, a sensation of envy at theenjoyments of my dependant entered my breast, accompanied with asentiment resembling humiliation at the nature of my own pursuits. I amgenerally thought a proud man; but I am never proud to my inferiors;nor can I imagine pride where there is no competition. I approachedDesmarais, and said, in French,--
"How is this? why did you not, like your fellows, take advantage of myabsence to pursue your own amusements? They must be dull indeed if theydo not hold out to you more tempting inducements than that colossaloffspring of the press."
"Pardon me, Sir," said Desmarais, very respectfully, and closing thebook, "pardon me, I was not aware of your return. Will Monsieur doff hiscloak?"
"No; shut the door, wheel round that chair, and favour me with a sightof your book."
"Monsieur will be angry, I fear," said the valet (obeying the first twoorders, but hesitating about the third), "with my course of reading: Iconfess it is not very compatible with my station."
"Ah, some long romance, the 'Clelia,' I suppose,--nay, bring it hither;that is to say, if it be movable by the strength of a single man."
Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book. Judge of my surprisewhen I found it was a volume of Leibnitz, a philosopher then very muchthe rage,--because one might talk of him very safely, without havingread him.* Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my eyeturned from the book to the student. It is impossible to conceive anappearance less like a philosopher's than that of Jean Desmarais. Hiswig was of a nicety that would not have brooked the irregularity ofa single hair; his dress was not preposterous, for I do not remember,among gentles or valets, a more really exquisite taste than that ofDesmarais; but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of the toilet.A perpetual smile sat upon his lips,--sometimes it deepened into asneer, but that was the only change it ever experienced; an irresistibleair of self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, marked features, smallglittering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a delicate and soft bloomexcited suspicion of artificial embellishment. A very fit frame of bodythis for a valet; but I humbly opine a very unseemly one for a studentof Leibnitz.
* Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of Kantat the present moment.--ED.
"And what," said I, after a short pause, "is your opinion of thisphilosopher? I understand that he has just written a work* above allpraise and comprehension."
* The "Theodicaea."
"It is true, Monsieur, that it is above his own understanding. He knowsnot what sly conclusions may be drawn from his premises; but I begMonsieur's pardon, I shall be tedious and intrusive."
"Not a whit! speak out, and at length. So you conceive that Leibnitzmakes ropes which _others_ will make into ladders?"
"Exactly so," said Desmarais; "all his arguments go to swell the sailsof the great philosophical truth,--'Necessity!' We are the things andtoys of Fate, and its everlasting chain compels even the Power thatcreates as well as the things created."
"Ha!" said I, who, though little versed at that time in thesemetaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak of the strangedoctrine to which Desmarais referred, "you are, then, a believer in thefatalism of Spinoza?"
"No, Monsieur," said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, "my system ismy own: it is composed of the thoughts of others; but my thoughts arethe cords which bind the various sticks into a fagot."
"Well," said I, smiling at the man's conceited air, "and what is yourmain dogma?"
"Our utter impotence."
"Pleasing! Mean you that we have no free will?"
"None."
"Why, then, you take away the very existence of vice and virtue; and,according to you, we sin or act well, not from our own accord, butbecause we are compelled and preordained to it."
Desmarais' smile withered into the grim sneer with which, as I havesaid, it was sometimes varied.
"Monsieur's penetration is extreme; but shall I not prepare his nightlydraught?"
"No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference between good andill, if we are compelled by Necessity to either."
Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his caution, the coxcombloved to hear himself talk, and he talked, therefore, to the followingpurpose:
"Liberty is a thing impossible! Can you _will_ a single action,however simple, independent of your organization,--independent ofthe organization of others,--independent of the order of thingspast,--independent of the order of things to come? You cannot. But ifnot independent, you are dependent; if dependent, where is your liberty?where your freedom of will? Education disposes our characters: can youcontrol your own education, begun at the hour of birth? You cannot. Ourcharacter, joined to the conduct of others, disposes of our happiness,our sorrow, our crime, our virtue. Can you control your character?We have already seen that you cannot. Can you control the conduct ofothers,--others perhaps whom you have never seen, but who may
ruinyou at a word; a despot, for instance, or a warrior? You cannot. Whatremains? that if we cannot choose our characters, nor our fates, wecannot be accountable for either. If you are a good man, you are a luckyman; but you are not to be praised for what you could not help. Ifyou are a bad man, you are an unfortunate one; but you are not to beexecrated for what you could not prevent."*
* Whatever pretensions Monsieur Desmarais may have had to originality,this tissue of opinions is as old as philosophy itself.--ED.
"Then, most wise Desmarais, if you steal this diamond loop from myhat, you are only an unlucky man, not a guilty one, and worthy of mysympathy, not anger?"
"Exactly so; but you must hang me for it. You cannot control events, butyou can modify man. Education, law, adversity, prosperity, correction,praise, modify him,--without his choice, and sometimes without hisperception. But once acknowledge Necessity, and evil passions cease; youmay punish, you may destroy others, if for the safety and good of thecommonwealth; but motives for doing so cease to be private: you canhave no personal hatred to men for committing actions which they wereirresistibly compelled to commit."
I felt that, however I might listen to and dislike these sentiments, itwould not do for the master to argue with the domestic, especially whenthere was a chance that he might have the worst of it. And so Iwas suddenly seized with a fit of sleepiness, which broke off ourconversation. Meanwhile I inly resolved, in my own mind, to take thefirst opportunity of discharging a valet who saw no difference betweengood and evil, but that of luck; and who, by the irresistible compulsionof Necessity, might some day or other have the involuntary misfortune tocut the throat of his master!
I did not, however, carry this unphilosophical resolution into effect.Indeed, the rogue, doubting perhaps the nature of the impression hehad made on me, redoubled so zealously his efforts to please me in thescience of his profession that I could not determine upon relinquishingsuch a treasure for a speculative opinion, and I was too much accustomedto laugh at my Sosia to believe there could be any reason to fear him.