MARYLEBONE GARDENS--AND HOW THE COUNT DRIVES HER HOME IN HIS CARRIAGE.
About a month after the touching conversation above related, there was
given, at Marylebone Gardens, a grand concert and entertainment, at
which the celebrated Madame Amenaide, a dancer of the theatre at Paris,
was to perform, under the patronage of several English and foreign
noblemen; among whom was his Excellency the Bavarian Envoy. Madame
Amenaide was, in fact, no other than the maitresse en titre of the
Monsieur de Galgenstein, who had her a great bargain from the Duke de
Rohan-Chabot at Paris.
It is not our purpose to make a great and learned display here,
otherwise the costumes of the company assembled at this fete might
afford scope for at least half-a-dozen pages of fine writing; and we
might give, if need were, specimens of the very songs and music sung on
the occasion. Does not the Burney collection of music, at the British
Museum, afford one an ample store of songs from which to choose?
Are there not the memoirs of Colley Cibber? those of Mrs. Clark, the
daughter of Colley? Is there not Congreve, and Farquhar--nay, and at a
pinch, the “Dramatic Biography,” or even the Spectator, from which the
observant genius might borrow passages, and construct pretty antiquarian
figments? Leave we these trifles to meaner souls! Our business is not
with the breeches and periwigs, with the hoops and patches, but with the
divine hearts of men, and the passions which agitate them. What need,
therefore, have we to say that on this evening, after the dancing, the
music, and the fireworks, Monsieur de Galgenstein felt the strange and
welcome pangs of appetite, and was picking a cold chicken, along with
some other friends in an arbour--a cold chicken, with an accompaniment
of a bottle of champagne--when he was led to remark that a very handsome
plump little person, in a gorgeous stiff damask gown and petticoat, was
sauntering up and down the walk running opposite his supping-place, and
bestowing continual glances towards his Excellency. The lady, whoever
she was, was in a mask, such as ladies of high and low fashion wore at
public places in those days, and had a male companion. He was a lad of
only seventeen, marvellously well dressed--indeed, no other than the
Count's own son, Mr. Thomas Billings; who had at length received from
his mother the silver-hilted sword, and the wig, which that affectionate
parent had promised to him.
In the course of the month which had elapsed since the interview that
has been described in the former chapter, Mr. Billings had several times
had occasion to wait on his father; but though he had, according to her
wishes, frequently alluded to the existence of his mother, the Count had
never at any time expressed the slightest wish to renew his acquaintance
with that lady; who, if she had seen him, had only seen him by stealth.
The fact is, that after Billings had related to her the particulars of
his first meeting with his Excellency; which ended, like many of the
latter visits, in nothing at all; Mrs. Hayes had found some pressing
business, which continually took her to Whitehall, and had been prowling
from day to day about Monsieur de Galgenstein's lodgings. Four or five
times in the week, as his Excellency stepped into his coach, he might
have remarked, had he chosen, a woman in a black hood, who was looking
most eagerly into his eyes: but those eyes had long since left off the
practice of observing; and Madam Catherine's visits had so far gone for
nothing.
On this night, however, inspired by gaiety and drink, the Count had been
amazingly stricken by the gait and ogling of the lady in the mask. The
Reverend O'Flaherty, who was with him, and had observed the figure in
the black cloak, recognised, or thought he recognised, her. “It is the
woman who dogs your Excellency every day,” said he. “She is with that
tailor lad who loves to see people hanged--your Excellency's son, I
mean.” And he was just about to warn the Count of a conspiracy evidently
made against him, and that the son had brought, most likely, the mother
to play her arts upon him--he was just about, I say, to show to the
Count the folly and danger of renewing an old liaison with a woman such
as he had described Mrs. Cat to be, when his Excellency, starting
up, and interrupting his ghostly adviser at the very beginning of his
sentence, said, “Egad, l'Abbe, you are right--it IS my son, and a mighty
smart-looking creature with him. Hey! Mr. What's-your-name--Tom, you
rogue, don't you know your own father?” And so saying, and cocking his
beaver on one side, Monsieur de Galgenstein strutted jauntily after Mr.
Billings and the lady.
It was the first time that the Count had formally recognised his son.
“Tom, you rogue,” stopped at this, and the Count came up. He had a white
velvet suit, covered over with stars and orders, a neat modest wig and
bag, and peach-coloured silk-stockings with silver clasps. The lady
in the mask gave a start as his Excellency came forward. “Law, mother,
don't squeege so,” said Tom. The poor woman was trembling in every limb,
but she had presence of mind to “squeege” Tom a great deal harder; and
the latter took the hint, I suppose, and was silent.
The splendid Count came up. Ye gods, how his embroidery glittered in the
lamps! What a royal exhalation of musk and bergamot came from his wig,
his handkerchief, and his grand lace ruffles and frills! A broad yellow
riband passed across his breast, and ended at his hip in a shining
diamond cross--a diamond cross, and a diamond sword-hilt! Was anything
ever seen so beautiful? And might not a poor woman tremble when such
a noble creature drew near to her, and deigned, from the height of his
rank and splendour, to look down upon her? As Jove came down to Semele
in state, in his habits of ceremony, with all the grand cordons of his
orders blazing about his imperial person--thus dazzling, magnificent,
triumphant, the great Galgenstein descended towards Mrs. Catherine.
Her cheeks glowed red-hot under her coy velvet mask, her heart thumped
against the whalebone prison of her stays. What a delicious storm of
vanity was raging in her bosom! What a rush of long-pent recollections
burst forth at the sound of that enchanting voice!
As you wind up a hundred-guinea chronometer with a twopenny
watch-key--as by means of a dirty wooden plug you set all the waters of
Versailles a-raging, and splashing, and storming--in like manner, and by
like humble agents, were Mrs. Catherine's tumultuous passions set going.
The Count, we have said, slipped up to his son, and merely saying, “How
do, Tom?” cut the young gentleman altogether, and passing round to the
lady's side, said, “Madam, 'tis a charming evening--egad it is!” She
almost fainted: it was the old voice. There he was, after seventeen
years, once more at her side!
Now I know what I could have done. I can turn out a quotation from
Sophocles (by looking to the index) as well as another: I can throw off
a bit of fine writing too, with passion, similes, and a moral at the
end. What, pray, is the last sentence but one but the very finest
writing? Suppose, for example, I had made Maximilian, as he stood by the
side of Catherine, look up towards the clouds, and exclaim, in the words
of the voluptuous Cornelius Nepos,
'Aenaoi nephelai
'Arthoomen phanerai
Droseran phusin euageetoi, k.t.l. [*]
* Anglicised version of the author's original Greek text.
Or suppose, again, I had said, in a style still more popular:--
The Count advanced towards the maiden. They both were mute for a
while; and only the beating of her heart interrupted that thrilling and
passionate silence. Ah, what years of buried joys and fears, hopes and
disappointments, arose from their graves in the far past, and in those
brief moments flitted before the united ones! How sad was that delicious
retrospect, and oh, how sweet! The tears that rolled down the cheek of
each were bubbles from the choked and moss-grown wells of youth; the
sigh that heaved each bosom had some lurking odours in it--memories of
the fragrance of boyhood, echoes of the hymns of the young heart! Thus
is it ever--for these blessed recollections the soul always has a place;
and while crime perishes, and sorrow is forgotten, the beautiful alone
is eternal.
“O golden legends, written in the skies!” mused De Galgenstein, “ye
shine as ye did in the olden days! WE change, but YE speak ever the same
language. Gazing in your abysmal depths, the feeble ratioci--”
*****
There, now, are six columns[*] of the best writing to be found in this
or any other book. Galgenstein has quoted Euripides thrice, Plato once,
Lycophron nine times, besides extracts from the Latin syntax and the
minor Greek poets. Catherine's passionate embreathings are of the most
fashionable order; and I call upon the ingenious critic of the X----
newspaper to say whether they do not possess the real impress of the
giants of the olden time--the real Platonic smack, in a word? Not that I
want in the least to show off; but it is as well, every now and then, to
show the public what one CAN do.
(* There WERE six columns, as mentioned by the accurate Mr.
Solomons; but we have withdrawn two pages and three-
quarters, because, although our correspondent has been
excessively eloquent, according to custom, we were anxious
to come to the facts of the story.
Mr. Solomons, by sending to our office, may have the
cancelled passages.--O.Y.)
Instead, however, of all this rant and nonsense, how much finer is the
speech that the Count really did make! “It is a very fine evening,--egad
it is!” The “egad” did the whole business: Mrs. Cat was as much in love
with him now as ever she had been; and, gathering up all her energies,
she said, “It is dreadful hot too, I think;” and with this she made a
curtsey.
“Stifling, split me!” added his Excellency. “What do you say, madam, to
a rest in an arbour, and a drink of something cool?”
“Sir!” said the lady, drawing back.
“Oh, a drink--a drink by all means,” exclaimed Mr. Billings, who was
troubled with a perpetual thirst. “Come, mo--, Mrs. Jones, I mean.
you're fond of a glass of cold punch, you know; and the rum here is
prime, I can tell you.”
The lady in the mask consented with some difficulty to the proposal of
Mr. Billings, and was led by the two gentlemen into an arbour, where she
was seated between them; and some wax-candles being lighted, punch was
brought.
She drank one or two glasses very eagerly, and so did her two
companions; although it was evident to see, from the flushed looks of
both of them, that they had little need of any such stimulus. The Count,
in the midst of his champagne, it must be said, had been amazingly
stricken and scandalised by the appearance of such a youth as Billings
in a public place with a lady under his arm. He was, the reader will
therefore understand, in the moral stage of liquor; and when he issued
out, it was not merely with the intention of examining Mr. Billings's
female companion, but of administering to him some sound correction for
venturing, at his early period of life, to form any such acquaintances.
On joining Billings, his Excellency's first step was naturally to
examine the lady. After they had been sitting for a while over their
punch, he bethought him of his original purpose, and began to address a
number of moral remarks to his son.
We have already given some specimens of Monsieur de Galgenstein's sober
conversation; and it is hardly necessary to trouble the reader with any
further reports of his speeches. They were intolerably stupid and dull;
as egotistical as his morning lecture had been, and a hundred times
more rambling and prosy. If Cat had been in the possession of her sober
senses, she would have seen in five minutes that her ancient lover was a
ninny, and have left him with scorn; but she was under the charm of old
recollections, and the sound of that silly voice was to her magical.
As for Mr. Billings, he allowed his Excellency to continue his prattle;
only frowning, yawning, cursing occasionally, but drinking continually.
So the Count descanted at length upon the enormity of young Billings's
early liaisons; and then he told his own, in the year four, with a
burgomaster's daughter at Ratisbon, when he was in the Elector of
Bavaria's service--then, after Blenheim, when he had come over to the
Duke of Marlborough, when a physician's wife at Bonn poisoned herself
for him, etc. etc.; of a piece with the story of the canoness, which has
been recorded before. All the tales were true. A clever, ugly man every
now and then is successful with the ladies; but a handsome fool is
irresistible. Mrs. Cat listened and listened. Good heavens! she
had heard all these tales before, and recollected the place and the
time--how she was hemming a handkerchief for Max; who came round and
kissed her, vowing that the physician's wife was nothing compared
to her--how he was tired, and lying on the sofa, just come home from
shooting. How handsome he looked! Cat thought he was only the handsomer
now; and looked more grave and thoughtful, the dear fellow!
The garden was filled with a vast deal of company of all kinds, and
parties were passing every moment before the arbour where our trio sat.
About half-an-hour after his Excellency had quitted his own box and
party, the Rev. Mr. O'Flaherty came discreetly round, to examine the
proceedings of his diplomatical chef. The lady in the mask was listening
with all her might; Mr. Billings was drawing figures on the table with
punch; and the Count talking incessantly. The Father Confessor listened
for a moment; and then, with something resembling an oath, walked away
to the entry of the gardens, where his Excellency's gilt coach, with
three footmen, was waiting to carry him back to London. “Get me a chair,
Joseph,” said his Reverence, who infinitely preferred a seat gratis in
the coach. “That fool,” muttered he, “will not move for this hour.” The
reverend gentleman knew that, when the Count was on the subject of the
physician's wife, his discourses were intolerably long; and took upon
himself, therefore, to disappear, along with the rest of the Count's
party; who procured other conveyances, and returned to their homes.
After this quiet shadow had passed before the Count's box, many groups
of persons passed and repassed; and among them was no other than Mrs.
Polly Briggs, to whom we have been already introduced. Mrs. Polly was
in company with one or two other ladies, and leaning on the arm of a
gentleman with large shoulders and calves, a fierce cock to his hat,
and a shabby genteel air. His name was Mr. Moffat, and his present
occupation was that of doorkeeper at a gambling-house in Covent Garden;
where, though he saw many thousands pass daily under his eyes, his own
salary amounted to no more than four-and-sixpence weekly,--a sum quite
insufficient to maintain him in the rank which he held.
Mr. Moffat had, however, received some funds--amounting indeed, to a
matter of twelve guineas--within the last month, and was treating Mrs.
Briggs very generously to the concert. It may be as well to say that
every one of the twelve guineas had come out of Mrs. Polly's own pocket;
who, in return, had received them from Mr. Billings. And as the reader
may remember that, on the day of Tommy's first interview with his
father, he had previously paid a visit to Mrs. Briggs, having under
his arm a pair of breeches, which Mrs. Briggs coveted--he should now be
informed that she desired these breeches, not for pincushions, but for
Mr. Moffat, who had long been in want of a pair.
Having thus episodically narrated Mr. Moffat's history, let us state
that he, his lady, and their friends, passed before the Count's arbour,
joining in a melodious chorus to a song which one of the society, an
actor of Betterton's, was singing:
“'Tis my will, when I'm dead, that no tear shall be shed,
No 'Hic jacet' be graved on my stone;
But pour o'er my ashes a bottle of red,
And say a good fellow is gone,
My brave boys!
And say a good fellow is gone.”
“My brave boys” was given with vast emphasis by the party; Mr. Moffat
growling it in a rich bass, and Mrs. Briggs in a soaring treble. As to
the notes, when quavering up to the skies, they excited various emotions
among the people in the gardens. “Silence them blackguards!” shouted a
barber, who was taking a pint of small beer along with his lady. “Stop
that there infernal screeching!” said a couple of ladies, who were
sipping ratafia in company with two pretty fellows.
“Dang it, it's Polly!” said Mr. Tom Billings, bolting out of the box,
and rushing towards the sweet-voiced Mrs. Briggs. When he reached her,
which he did quickly, and made his arrival known by tipping Mrs. Briggs
slightly on the waist, and suddenly bouncing down before her and her
friend, both of the latter drew back somewhat startled.
“Law, Mr. Billings!” says Mrs. Polly, rather coolly, “is it you? Who
thought of seeing you here?”
“Who's this here young feller?” says towering Mr. Moffat, with his bass
voice.
“It's Mr. Billings, cousin, a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Polly,
beseechingly.
“Oh, cousin, if it's a friend of yours, he should know better how to
conduct himself, that's all. Har you a dancing-master, young feller,
that you cut them there capers before gentlemen?” growled Mr. Moffat;
who hated Mr. Billings, for the excellent reason that he lived upon him.
“Dancing-master be hanged!” said Mr. Billings, with becoming spirit: “if
you call me dancing-master, I'll pull your nose.”
“What!” roared Mr. Moffat, “pull my nose? MY NOSE! I'll tell you what,
my lad, if you durst move me, I'll cut your throat, curse me!”
“Oh, Moffy--cousin, I mean--'tis a shame to treat the poor boy so. Go
away, Tommy; do go away; my cousin's in liquor,” whimpered Madam Briggs,
who really thought that the great doorkeeper would put his threat into
execution.
“Tommy!” said Mr. Moffat, frowning horribly; “Tommy to me too? Dog,
get out of my ssss---” SIGHT was the word which Mr. Moffat intended to
utter; but he was interrupted; for, to the astonishment of his friends
and himself, Mr. Billings did actually make a spring at the monster's
nose, and caught it so firmly, that the latter could not finish his
sentence.
The operation was performed with amazing celerity; and, having concluded
it, Mr. Billings sprang back, and whisked from out its sheath that new
silver-hilted sword which his mamma had given him. “Now,” said he, with
a fierce kind of calmness, “now for the throat-cutting, cousin: I'm your
man!”
How the brawl might have ended, no one can say, had the two gentlemen
actually crossed swords; but Mrs. Polly, with a wonderful presence of
mind, restored peace by exclaiming, “Hush, hush! the beaks, the beaks!”
Upon which, with one common instinct, the whole party made a rush for
the garden gates, and disappeared into the fields. Mrs. Briggs knew her
company: there was something in the very name of a constable which sent
them all a-flying.
After running a reasonable time, Mr. Billings stopped. But the great
Moffat was nowhere to be seen, and Polly Briggs had likewise vanished.
Then Tom bethought him that he would go back to his mother; but,
arriving at the gate of the gardens, was refused admittance, as he had
not a shilling in his pocket. “I've left,” says Tommy, giving himself
the airs of a gentleman, “some friends in the gardens. I'm with his
Excellency the Bavarian henvy.”
“Then you had better go away with him,” said the gate people.
“But I tell you I left him there, in the grand circle, with a lady; and,
what's more, in the dark walk, I have left a silver-hilted sword.”
“Oh, my Lord, I'll go and tell him then,” cried one of the porters, “if
you will wait.”
Mr. Billings seated himself on a post near the gate, and there consented
to remain until the return of his messenger. The latter went straight
to the dark walk, and found the sword, sure enough. But, instead of
returning it to its owner this discourteous knight broke the trenchant
blade at the hilt; and flinging the steel away, pocketed the baser
silver metal, and lurked off by the private door consecrated to the
waiters and fiddlers.
In the meantime, Mr. Billings waited and waited. And what was the
conversation of his worthy parents inside the garden? I cannot say; but
one of the waiters declared that he had served the great foreign Count
with two bowls of rack-punch, and some biscuits, in No. 3: that in the
box with him were first a young gentleman, who went away, and a lady,
splendidly dressed and masked: that when the lady and his Lordship were
alone, she edged away to the further end of the table, and they had much
talk: that at last, when his Grace had pressed her very much, she took
off her mask and said, “Don't you know me now, Max?” that he cried out,
“My own Catherine, thou art more beautiful than ever!” and wanted to
kneel down and vow eternal love to her; but she begged him not to do so
in a place where all the world would see: that then his Highness paid,
and they left the gardens, the lady putting on her mask again.
When they issued from the gardens, “Ho! Joseph la Rose, my coach!”
shouted his Excellency, in rather a husky voice; and the men who had
been waiting came up with the carriage. A young gentleman, who was
dosing on one of the posts at the entry, woke up suddenly at the blaze
of the torches and the noise of the footmen. The Count gave his arm to
the lady in the mask, who slipped in; and he was whispering La Rose,
when the lad who had been sleeping hit his Excellency on the shoulder,
and said, “I say, Count, you can give ME a cast home too,” and jumped
into the coach.
When Catherine saw her son, she threw herself into his arms, and kissed
him with a burst of hysterical tears; of which Mr. Billings was at a
loss to understand the meaning. The Count joined them, looking not a
little disconcerted; and the pair were landed at their own door, where
stood Mr. Hayes, in his nightcap, ready to receive them, and astounded
at the splendour of the equipage in which his wife returned to him.