CHAPTER V.
THE BEAU IN HIS DEN, AND A PHILOSOPHER DISCOVERED.
MR. FIELDING having twice favoured me with visits, which found me from
home, I thought it right to pay my respects to him; accordingly one
morning I repaired to his abode. It was situated in a street which had
been excessively the mode some thirty years back; and the house still
exhibited a stately and somewhat ostentatious exterior. I observed a
considerable cluster of infantine ragamuffins collected round the door,
and no sooner did the portal open to my summons than they pressed
forward in a manner infinitely more zealous than respectful. A servant
in the Austrian livery, with a broad belt round his middle, officiated
as porter. "Look, look!" cried one of the youthful gazers, "look at the
Beau's /keeper/!" This imputation on his own respectability and that of
his master, the domestic seemed by no means to relish; for, muttering
some maledictory menace, which I at first took to be German, but which I
afterwards found to be Irish, he banged the door in the faces of the
intrusive impertinents, and said, in an accent which suited very ill
with 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 the
megrims."
"Then you will favour me by giving this card to your master, and
expressing my sorrow at his indisposition."
Upon this the orange-coloured lacquey, very quietly reading the address
on 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's
Count 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 a
jontleman."
And with this assurance "the Beau's keeper" ushered me up a splendid
staircase into a large, dreary, faded apartment, and left me to amuse
myself with the curiosities within, while he went to perform a cure upon
his master's "megrims." The chamber, suiting with the house and the
owner, looked like a place in the other world set apart for the
reception of the ghosts of departed furniture. The hangings were wan
and colourless; the chairs and sofas were most spiritually
unsubstantial; the mirrors reflected all things in a sepulchral
sea-green; even a huge picture of Mr. Fielding himself, placed over the
chimney-piece, seemed like the apparition of a portrait, so dim, watery,
and indistinct had it been rendered by neglect and damp. On a huge
tomb-like table in the middle of the room, lay two pencilled profiles of
Mr. Fielding, a pawnbroker's ticket, a pair of ruffles, a very little
muff, an immense broadsword, a Wycherley comb, a jackboot, and an old
plumed hat; to these were added a cracked pomatum-pot containing ink,
and a scrap of paper, ornamented with sundry paintings of hearts and
torches, on which were scrawled several lines in a hand so large and
round that I could not avoid seeing the first verse, though I turned
away my eyes as quickly as possible; that verse, to the best of my
memory, ran thus: "Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy swain." Upon the ground
lay a box of patches, a periwig, and two or three well thumbed books of
songs. Such was the reception-room of Beau Fielding, one indifferently
well calculated to exhibit the propensities of a man, half bully, half
fribble; a poet, a fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walking museum of all odd
humours, and a living shadow of a past renown. "There are changes in
wit as in fashion," said Sir William Temple, and he proceeds to instance
a nobleman who was the greatest wit of the court of Charles I., and the
greatest dullard in that of Charles II.* But Heavens! how awful are the
revolutions 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 great man
made his appearance. He was attired in a dressing-gown of the most
gorgeous material and colour, but so old that it was difficult to
conceive any period of past time which it might not have been supposed
to have witnessed; a little velvet cap, with a tarnished gold tassel,
surmounted his head, and his nether limbs were sheathed in a pair of
military boots. In person he still retained the trace of that
extraordinary symmetry he had once possessed, and his features were yet
handsome, though the complexion had grown coarse and florid, and the
expression had settled into a broad, hardy, farcical mixture of
effrontery, humour, and conceit.
But how different his costume from that of old! Where was the long wig
with its myriad curls? the coat stiff with golden lace? the diamond
buttons,--"the pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war?" the
glorious war Beau Fielding had carried on throughout the female
world,--finding in every saloon a Blenheim, in every play-house a
Ramilies? Alas! to what abyss of fate will not the love of notoriety
bring men! to what but the lust of show do we owe the misanthropy of
Timon, or the ruin of Beau Fielding!
"By the Lord!" cried Mr. Fielding, approaching, and shaking me
familiarly by the hand, "by the Lord, I am delighted to see thee! As I
am 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 I
knew at least that thou wert not a spirit of Heaven, since thy door is
the very reverse of the doors above, which we are assured shall be
opened unto our knocking. But thou art early, Count; like the ghost in
"Hamlet," thou snuffest the morning air. Wilt thou not keep out the
rank atmosphere by a pint of wine and a toast?"
"Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding; but I have at least one property of a
ghost, and don't drink after daybreak."
"Nay, now, 'tis a bad rule! a villanous bad rule, fit /only for/ ghosts
and graybeards. We youngsters, Count, should have a more generous
policy. Come, now, where didst thou drink last night? has the bottle
bequeathed thee a qualm or a headache, which preaches repentance and
abstinence this morning?"
"No, but I visit my mistress this morning; would you have me smell of
strong potations, and seem a worshipper of the '/Glass/ of Fashion,'
rather than of 'the Mould of Form'? Confess, Mr. Fielding, that the
women love not an early tippler, and that they expect sober and sweet
kisses 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, not
substance, my noble Count. You know me, you know my experience with the
women: I would not boast, as I'm a soldier; but 'tis something! nine
hundred and fifty locks of hair have I got in my strong box, under
padlock and key; fifty within the last week,--true, on my soul,--so that
I may pretend to know a little of the dear creatures; well, I give thee
my honour, Count, that they like a royster; they love a fellow who can
carry his six bottles under a silken doublet; there's vigour and manhood
in it; and, then, too, what a power of toasts can a six-bottle man drink
to his mistress! Oh, 'tis your only chivalry now,--your modern
substitute for tilt and tournament; true, Count, as I am a soldier!"
"I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for she quarrelled with
me for supping with St. John three nights ago, and--"
"St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the beginning of a
witticism, "St. John, famous fellow, is he not? By the Lord, we will
drink 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 in
his lean visage.
"Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of Saint Patrick; why dost
thou not get fat? Thou shamest my good living, and thy belly is a
rascally minister to thee, devouring all things for itself, without
fattening 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 I
will! 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 with
expostulating innocence.
"Begone, rascal!" said Mr. Fielding, "begone; go to the Salop, and bring
us 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 loves
me 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'Carroll
again intruded.
"How now, sirrah!" exclaimed his master.
Mr. O'Carroll, without answering by voice, gave a grotesque sort of
signal between a wink and a beckon. Mr. Fielding rose muttering an
oath, and underwent a whisper. "By the Lord," cried he, seemingly in a
furious passion, "and thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though I
told thee twice to have it done last evening? Have I not my debts of
honour to discharge, and did I not give the last guinea I had about me
for a walking cane yesterday? Go down to the city immediately, sirrah,
and bring me the change."
The valet again whispered.
"Ah," resumed Fielding, "ah--so far, you say, 'tis true; 'tis a great
way, and perhaps the Count can't wait till you return. Prithee (turning
to me), prithee now, is it not vexatious,--no change about me, and my
fool 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 in
princes; '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
bourne whence no /such/ traveller e'er returned.
Mr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine and the chocolate soon
appeared. Mr. Fielding brightened up, recited his poetry, blessed his
good 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, he
would 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 had
paid this visit to the redoubted Mr. Fielding, that, on returning from a
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
was seated by the fire, with his head supported by his hands, and
intently poring over a huge folio. I had often observed that he
possessed a literary turn, and all the hours in which he was unemployed
by me he was wont to occupy with books. I felt now, as I stood still
and contemplated his absorbed attention in the contents of the book
before him, a strong curiosity to know the nature of his studies; and so
little did my taste second the routine of trifles in which I had been
lately engaged, that in looking upon the earnest features of the man on
which the solitary light streamed calm and full; and impressed with the
deep quiet and solitude of the chamber, together with the undisturbed
sanctity of comfort presiding over the small, bright hearth, and
contrasting what I saw with the brilliant scene--brilliant with gaudy,
wearing, wearisome frivolities--which I had just quitted, a sensation of
envy at the enjoyments of my dependant entered my breast, accompanied
with a sentiment resembling humiliation at the nature of my own
pursuits. I am generally thought a proud man; but I am never proud to
my inferiors; nor can I imagine pride where there is no competition. I
approached Desmarais, and said, in French,--
"How is this? why did you not, like your fellows, take advantage of my
absence to pursue your own amusements? They must be dull indeed if they
do not hold out to you more tempting inducements than that colossal
offspring of the press."
"Pardon me, Sir," said Desmarais, very respectfully, and closing the
book, "pardon me, I was not aware of your return. Will Monsieur doff
his cloak?"
"No; shut the door, wheel round that chair, and favour me with a sight
of your book."
"Monsieur will be angry, I fear," said the valet (obeying the first two
orders, but hesitating about the third), "with my course of reading: I
confess 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
surprise when I found it was a volume of Leibnitz, a philosopher then
very much the rage,--because one might talk of him very safely, without
having read him.* Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when
my eye turned from the book to the student. It is impossible to
conceive an appearance less like a philosopher's than that of Jean
Desmarais. His wig was of a nicety that would not have brooked the
irregularity of a single hair; his dress was not preposterous, for I do
not remember, among gentles or valets, a more really exquisite taste
than that of Desmarais; but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of
the toilet. A perpetual smile sat upon his lips,--sometimes it deepened
into a sneer, but that was the only change it ever experienced; an
irresistible air of self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, marked
features, small glittering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a delicate
and soft bloom excited suspicion of artificial embellishment. A very
fit frame of body this for a valet; but I humbly opine a very unseemly
one for a student of Leibnitz.
* Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of Kant
at the present moment.--ED.
"And what," said I, after a short pause, "is your opinion of this
philosopher? I understand that he has just written a work* above all
praise and comprehension."
* The "Theodicaea."
"It is true, Monsieur, that it is above his own understanding. He knows
not what sly conclusions may be drawn from his premises; but I beg
Monsieur's pardon, I shall be tedious and intrusive."
"Not a whit! speak out, and at length. So you conceive that Leibnitz
makes ropes which /others/ will make into ladders?"
"Exactly so," said Desmarais; "all his arguments go to swell the sails
of the great philosophical truth,--'Necessity!' We are the things and
toys of Fate, and its everlasting chain compels even the Power that
creates as well as the things created."
"Ha!" said I, who, though little versed at that time in these
metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak of the strange
doctrine to which Desmarais referred, "you are, then, a believer in the
fatalism of Spinoza?"
"No, Monsieur," said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, "my system is
my own: it is composed of the thoughts of others; but my thoughts are
the cords which bind the various sticks into a fagot."
"Well," said I, smiling at the man's conceited air, "and what is your
main 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, but
because we are compelled and preordained to it."
Desmarais' smile withered into the grim sneer with which, as I have
said, it was sometimes varied.
"Monsieur's penetration is extreme; but shall I not prepare his nightly
draught?"
"No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference between good and
ill, if we are compelled by Necessity to either."
Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his caution, the coxcomb loved
to hear himself talk, and he talked, therefore, to the following
purpose:
"Liberty is a thing impossible! Can you /will/ a single action, however
simple, independent of your organization,--independent of the
organization of others,--independent of the order of things
past,--independent of the order of things to come? You cannot. But if
not independent, you are dependent; if dependent, where is your liberty?
where your freedom of will? Education disposes our characters: can you
control your own education, begun at the hour of birth? You cannot.
Our character, 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 of others,--others perhaps whom you have never seen, but who may
ruin you at a word; a despot, for instance, or a warrior? You cannot.
What remains? that if we cannot choose our characters, nor our fates, we
cannot be accountable for either. If you are a good man, you are a
lucky man; but you are not to be praised for what you could not help.
If you are a bad man, you are an unfortunate one; but you are not to be
execrated 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 my hat,
you are only an unlucky man, not a guilty one, and worthy of my
sympathy, not anger?"
"Exactly so; but you must hang me for it. You cannot control events,
but you can modify man. Education, law, adversity, prosperity,
correction, praise, modify him,--without his choice, and sometimes
without his perception. But once acknowledge Necessity, and evil
passions cease; you may punish, you may destroy others, if for the
safety and good of the commonwealth; but motives for doing so cease to
be private: you can have no personal hatred to men for committing
actions which they were irresistibly compelled to commit."
I felt that, however I might listen to and dislike these sentiments, it
would not do for the master to argue with the domestic, especially when
there was a chance that he might have the worst of it. And so I was
suddenly seized with a fit of sleepiness, which broke off our
conversation. Meanwhile I inly resolved, in my own mind, to take the
first opportunity of discharging a valet who saw no difference between
good and evil, but that of luck; and who, by the irresistible compulsion
of Necessity, might some day or other have the involuntary misfortune to
cut 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 he had
made on me, redoubled so zealously his efforts to please me in the
science of his profession that I could not determine upon relinquishing
such a treasure for a speculative opinion, and I was too much accustomed
to laugh at my Sosia to believe there could be any reason to fear him.
