tap-room are really extinguished at the appointed time. I hear the
drinkers oozing out grossly into the pure freshness of the summer
night. They all growl together; they all go together. All? Sinner and
sufferer that I am, I have been premature in arriving at that happy
conclusion! Six choice spirits, with a social horror in their souls of
going home to bed, prop themselves against the wall of the inn, and
continue the evening's conversazione in the darkness. I hear them
cursing at each other by name. We have Tom, Dick, and Sam, Jem, Bill,
and Bob to enliven us under our window, after we are in bed. They
begin improving each other's minds, as a matter of course, by
quarrelling. Music follows and soothes the strife, in the shape of a
local duet, sung by voices of vast compass, which soar in one note
from howling bass to cracked treble. Yawning follows the duet; long,
loud, weary yawning of all the company in chorus. This amusement over,
Tom asks Dick for "baccer," and Dick denies that he has got any, and
Tom tells him he lies, and Sam strikes in and says, "No, he doan't,"
and Jem tells Sam he lies, and Bill tells him that if he was Sam he
would punch Jem's head, and Bob, apparently snuffing the battle from
afar off and not liking the scent of it, shouts suddenly a pacific
good night in the distance. The farewell salutation seems to quiet the
gathering storm. They all roar responsive to the good-night roar of
Bob. A moment of silence, actually a moment, follows--then a
repetition of the long, loud, weary yawning in chorus--then another
moment of silence--then Jem suddenly shouts to the retiring Bob to
come back--Bob refuses, softened by distance--Jem insists, and his
four friends join him--Bob relents and returns. A shriek of
indignation, far down the village--Bob's wife has her window open, and
has heard him consent to go back to his friends. Hearty laughter from
Bob's five friends; screams from Bob's wife; articulate screams,
informing Bob that she will "cut his liver out," if he does not come
home directly. Answering curses from Bob; he will "mash" his wife, if
she does not hold her tongue. A song in chorus from Bob's five
friends. Outraged by this time past all endurance, I spring out of bed
and seize the water-jug. My wife, having the doctor's directions ever
present to her mind, implores me in heart-rending tones to remember
that I am under strict medical orders not to excite myself. I pay no
heed to her remonstrances, and advance to the window with the jug. I
pause before I empty the water on the heads of the assembly beneath; I
pause, and hear--O! most melodious, most welcome of sounds!--the
sudden fall of rain. The merciful sky has anticipated me; the "clerk
of the weather" has been struck by my idea of dispersing the Nag's
Head Night Club, by water. By the time I have put down the jug and
got back to bed, silence--primeval silence, the first, the foremost of
all earthly influences--falls sweetly over our tavern at last.
That night, before sinking wearily to rest, I have once more the
satisfaction of agreeing with my wife. Dear and admirable woman! she
proposes to leave this secluded village the first thing to-morrow
morning. Never did I share her opinion more cordially than I share it
now. Instead of keeping myself composed, I have been living in a
region of perpetual disturbance; and, as for doing nothing, my mind
has been so agitated and perturbed that I have not even had time to
think about it. We will go, love--as you so sensibly suggest--we will
go the first thing in the morning, to any place you like, so long as
it is large enough to swallow up small sounds. Where, over all the
surface of this noisy earth, the blessing of tranquillity may be
found, I know not; but this I do know: a secluded English village is
the very last place towards which any man should think of turning his
steps, if the main object of his walk through life is to discover
quiet.
NOTE THE SECOND. DISCOVERY OF--NOTHING.
The next morning we continue our journey in the direction of the
coast, and arrive at a large watering-place.
Observing that it is, in every respect, as unlike the secluded
village as possible, we resolve to take up our abode in this populous
and perfectly tranquil town. We get a lodging fronting the sea. There
are noises about us--various and loud noises, as I should have
thought, if I had not just come from a village; but everything is
comparative, and, after the past experience I have gone through, I
find our new place of abode quiet enough to suit the moderate
expectations which I have now learnt to form on the subject of getting
peace in this world. Here I can at least think almost uninterruptedly
of the doctor's orders. Here I may surely begin my new life, and enjoy
the luxury of doing Nothing.
I suppose it _is_ a luxury; and yet so perverse is man, I hardly know
whether I am not beginning to find it something more like a hardship
at the very outset. Perhaps my busy and active life has unfitted me
for a due appreciation of the happiness of being idle. Perhaps I am
naturally of a restless, feverish constitution. However that may be,
it is certain that on the first day when I seriously determine to do
nothing, I fail to find in the execution of my resolution such supreme
comfort as I had anticipated. I try hard to fight against the
conviction (which will steal on me, nevertheless) that I have only
changed one kind of hard work for another that is harder. I try to
persuade myself that time does not hang at all heavily on my hands,
and that I am happier with nothing to do than ever I was with a long
day's work before me. Do I succeed or do I fail in this meritorious
attempt? Let me write down the results of my first day's experience of
the Art of doing Nothing, and let the reader settle the question for
me.
* * * * *
Breakfast at nine o'clock, so as not to make too long a day of it.
Among the other things on the table are shrimps. I find myself liking
shrimps for an entirely new reason--they take such a long time to eat.
Well, breakfast is over at last: I have had quite enough, and yet I am
gluttonously sorry when the table is cleared. If I were in health I
should now go to my desk, or take up a book. But I am out of health,
and I must do Nothing. Suppose I look out of window? I hope that is
idle enough to begin with.
The sea--yes, yes, the sea! Very large, very grey, very calm; very
calm, very grey, very large. Anything else about the sea? Nothing else
about the sea.
Yes--ships. One big ship in front, two little ships behind. (What time
shall we have dinner, my dear? At five? Certainly at five!) One big
ship in front, two little ships behind. Nothing more to see? Nothing.
Let me look back into the room, and study the subjects of these
prints on the walls. First print:--Death of the Earl of Chatham in the
House of Lords, after Copley, R.A. Just so. Curious idea this picture
suggests of the uniformity of personal appearance which must have
distinguished the Peers in the last century. Here is a house full of
noble lords, and each one of them is exactly like the other. Every
noble lord is tall, every noble lord is portly, every noble lord has a
long receding forehead, and a majestic Roman nose. Odd; and leading to
reflections on the physical changes that must have passed over the
peerage of the present day, in which I might respectfully indulge, if
the doctor had not ordered me to abstain from thinking.
Circumstanced as I am, I must mournfully dismiss the death of the Earl
of Chatham, and pass from the work of Copley, R.A., to the other
prints on the walls. Dear, dear me! Now I look again, there is nothing
to pass to. There are only two other prints, and they are both
classical landscapes. Deteriorated as the present condition of my
faculties may be, my mind has not sunk yet to the level of Classical
Landscape. I have still sense enough left to disbelieve in Claude and
Poussin as painters of Italian scenery. Let me turn from the classical
counterfeit to the modern reality. Let me look again at the sea.
Just as large, just as grey, just as calm as ever. Any more ships?
No; still the one big ship in front; still the two little ships
behind. They have not altered their relative positions the least in
the world. How long is it to dinner-time? Six hours and a quarter.
What on earth am I to do? Nothing.
Suppose I go and take a little walk? (No, dear, I will not tire
myself; I will come back quite fresh to take you out in the
afternoon.) Well, which way shall I go, now I am on the door-step?
There are two walks in this place. First walk, along the cliff
westward; second walk, along the cliff eastward. Which direction shall
I take? I am naturally one of the most decided men in the world; but
doing nothing seems to have deprived me already of my usual resolute
strength of will. I will toss up for it. Heads, westward; tails,
eastward. Heads! Ought this to be considered conclusive? or shall I
begin again, and try the best of three? I will try the best of three,
because it takes up more time. Heads, tails, heads! Westward still.
Surely this is destiny. Or can it be that doing nothing has made me
superstitious as well as irresolute? Never mind; I will go westward,
and see what happens.
I saunter along the path by the iron railings; then down a little dip,
at the bottom of which there is a seat overlooking a ship-builder's
yard. Close under me is a small coasting-vessel on the slips for
repair. Nobody on board, but one old man at work. At work, did I say?
Oh, happy chance! This aged repairer of ships is the very man, of all
others, whom I had most need of meeting, the very man to help me in my
present emergency. Before I have looked at him two minutes, I feel
that I am in the presence of a great professor of the art of doing
nothing. Towards this sage, to listen to his precepts and profit by
his example, did destiny gently urge me, when I tossed up to decide
between eastward and westward. Let me watch his proceedings; let me
learn how to idle systematically by observing the actions of this
venerable man.
He is sitting on the left side of the vessel when I first look at him.
In one hand he holds a crooked nail; in the other, a hammer. He coughs
slowly, and looks out to sea; he sighs slowly, and looks back towards
the land; he rises slowly, and surveys the deck of the vessel; he
stoops slowly, and picks up a flat bit of iron, and puts it on the
bulwark, and places the crooked nail upon it, and then sits down and
looks at the effect of the arrangement so far. When he has had enough
of the arrangement, he gives the sea a turn again, then the land.
After that, he steps back a little and looks at the hammer, weighs it
gently in his hand, moistens his hand, advances to the crooked nail on
the bit of iron, groans softly to himself and shakes his head as he
looks at it, administers three deliberate taps with the hammer, to
straighten it, finds that he does not succeed to his mind; again
groans softly, again shakes his head, again sits down and rests
himself on the left side of the vessel. Since I first looked at him I
have timed him by my watch: he has killed a quarter of an hour over
that one crooked nail, and he has not straightened it yet! Wonderful
man, can I ever hope to rival him? Will he condescend to talk to me?
Stay! I am not free to try him; the doctor has told me not to excite
myself with society; all communion of mind between me and this
finished and perfect idler is, I fear, prohibited. Better to walk on,
and come back, and look at him again.
I walk on and sit down; walk on a little farther and sit down again;
walk on for the third time, sit down for the third time, and still
there is always the cliff on one side of me, and the one big ship and
the two little ships on the other. I retrace my steps, occupying as
much time as I possibly can in getting back to the seat above the
coasting-vessel. Where is my old friend, my esteemed professor, my
bright and shining example in the difficult art of doing nothing?
Sitting on the right side of the vessel this time, with the bit of
flat iron on the right side also, with the hammer still in his hand,
and, as I live, with the crooked nail not straightened yet! I observe
this, and turn away quickly with despair in my heart. How can I, a
tyro Do-Nothing, expect to imitate that consummate old man? It is vain
to hope for success here--vain to hope for anything but dinner-time.
How many hours more? Four. If I return home now, how shall I go on
doing nothing? Lunch, perhaps, will help me a little. Quite so! Let us
say a glass of old ale and a biscuit. I should like to add shrimps--if
I were not afraid of my wife's disapprobation--merely for the purpose
of trying if I could not treat them, as my old friend of the
coasting-vessel treated the crooked nail.
Three hours and a half to dinner-time. I have had my biscuit and my
glass of old ale. Not being accustomed to malt liquor in the middle of
the day, my lunch has fuddled me. There is a faint singing in my ears,
an intense sleepiness in my eyelids, a genial warmth about my stomach,
and a sensation in my head as if the brains had oozed out of me and
the cavity of my skull was stuffed with cotton-wool steeped in
laudanum. Not an unpleasant feeling altogether. I am not anxious; I
think of nothing. I have a stolid power of staring immovably out of
window at the one big ship and the two little ships, which I had not
hitherto given myself credit for possessing. If my wife would only
push an easy-chair up close behind me, I could sink back in it and go
to sleep; but she will do nothing of the sort. She is putting on her
bonnet: it is the hour of the afternoon at which we are to take each
other out fondly, for our little walk.
The company at the watering-place is taking its little walk also at
this time. But for the genial influence of the strong ale, I should
now be making my observations and flying in the face of the doctor's
orders by allowing my mind to be occupied. As it is, I march along
slowly, lost in a solemn trance of beer.
One circumstance only, during our walk, is prominent enough to attract
my sleepy attention. I just contrive to observe, with as much surprise
and regret as I am capable of feeling at the present moment, that my
wife apparently hates all the women we meet, and that all the women we
meet, seem, judging by their looks, to return the compliment by hating
my wife. We pass an infinite number of girls, all more or less plump,
all more or less healthy, all more or less overshadowed by eccentric
sea-side hats; and my wife will not allow that any one of these young
creatures is even tolerably pretty. The young creatures on their side,
look so disparagingly at my wife's bonnet and gown, that I should feel
uneasy about the propriety of her costume, if I were not under the
comforting influence of the strong ale. What is the meaning of this
unpleasant want of harmony among the members of the fair sex? Does one
woman hate another woman for being a woman--is that it? How shocking
if it is! I have no inclination to disparage other men whom I meet on
my walk. Other men cast no disdainful looks on me. We lords of the
creation are quite content to be handsome and attractive in our
various ways, without snappishly contesting the palm of beauty with
one another. Why cannot the women follow our meritorious example? Will
any one solve this curious problem in social morals? Doctor's orders
forbid me from attempting the intellectual feat. The dire necessity of
doing nothing narrows me to one subject of mental contemplation--the
dinner-hour. How long is it--now we have returned from our walk--to
that time? Two hours and a quarter. I can't look out of window again,
for I know by instinct that the three ships and the calm grey sea are
still lying in wait for me. I can't heave a patriot's sigh once more
over the "Death of the Earl of Chatham." I am too tired to go out and
see how the old man of the coasting-vessel is getting on with the
crooked nail. In short, I am driven to my last refuge. I must take a
nap.
The nap lasts more than an hour. Its results may be all summed up in
one significant and dreadful word--Fidgets. I start from the sofa
convulsively, and sit down bolt upright in a chair. My wife is
opposite to me, calmly engaged over her work. It is an hour and five
minutes to dinner-time. What am I to do? Shall I soothe the fidgets
and soften my rugged nature by looking at my wife, to see how she
gets on with her work?
She has got a strip of calico, or something of that sort, punched all
over with little holes, and she is sewing round each little hole with
her needle and thread. Monotonous, to a masculine mind. Surely the
punching of the holes must be the pleasantest part of this sort of
work? And that is done at the shop, is it, dear? How curious!
Does my wife lace too tight? I have never had leisure before to look
at her so long and so attentively as I am looking now; I have been
uncritically contented hitherto, to take her waist for granted. Now I
have my doubts about it. I think the wife of my bosom is a little too
much like an hour-glass. Does she digest? Good Heavens! In the
existing state of her stays, how do I know whether she digests?
Then, as to her hair: I do not object to the dressing of it, but I
think--strangely enough, for the first time since our marriage--that
she uses too much bear's grease and bandoline. I see a thin rim of
bandoline, shining just outside the line of hair against her temples,
like varnish on a picture. This won't do--oh, dear, no--this won't do
at all. Will her hands do? Certainly not! I discover, for the first
time, that her hands won't do, either. I am mercifully ready to put up
with their not being quite white enough, but what does the woman mean
by having such round tips to her fingers? Why don't they taper? I
always thought they did taper until this moment. I begin to be
dissatisfied with her; I begin to think my wife is not the charming
woman I took her for. What is the matter with me? Am I looking at her
with perceptions made morbid already by excessive idleness? Is this
dreadful necessity of doing nothing, to end by sapping the foundations
of my matrimonial tranquillity, and letting down my whole connubial
edifice into the bottomless abyss of Doctors' Commons? Horrible!
The door of the room opens, and wakes me, as it were, from the hideous
dream in which my wife's individuality has been entirely altered to my
eyes. It is only half an hour to dinner; and the servant has come in
to lay the cloth. In the presence of the great event of the day I feel
myself again. Once more I believe in the natural slimness of my wife's
waist; once more I am contented with the tops of her fingers. Now at
last, I see my way to bed-time. Assuming that we can make the dinner
last two hours; assuming that I can get another nap after it;
assuming----
* * * * *
No! I can assume nothing more, for I am really ashamed to complete the
degrading picture of myself which my pen has been painting up to this
time. Enough has been written--more than enough, I fear--to show how
completely I have failed in my first day's attempt at doing Nothing.
The hardest labour I ever had to get through, was not so difficult to
contend with as this enforced idleness. Never again will I murmur
under the wholesome necessities of work. Never again--if I can only
succeed in getting well--will a day of doing nothing be counted as
pleasant holiday-time by me. I have stolen away at the dead of the
night, in flat defiance of the doctor's directions, to relieve my
unspeakable weariness by writing these lines. I cast them on the world
as the brief personal narrative of a most unfortunate man. If I
systematically disregard medical advice, I shall make myself ill. If I
conscientiously obey it, how am I to get through to-morrow? I mustn't
work, and I can't idle. Will anybody kindly tell me what I am to do?
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.
I.
A QUEEN'S REVENGE.
The name of Gustavus Adolphus, the faithful Protestant, the great
general, and the good king of Sweden, has been long since rendered
familiar to English readers of history. We all know how this renowned
warrior and monarch was beloved by his soldiers and subjects, how
successfully he fought through a long and terrible war, and how nobly
he died on the field of battle. With his death, however, the interest
of the English reader in Swedish affairs seems to terminate. Those who
have followed the narrative of his life carefully to the end, may
remember that he left behind him an only child--a daughter named
Christina. But of the character of this child, and of her
extraordinary adventures after she grew to womanhood, the public in
England is, for the most part, entirely ignorant. In the popular
historical and romantic literature of France, Queen Christina is a
notorious character. In the literature of this country, she has,
hitherto, been allowed but little chance of making her way to the
notice of the world at large.
And yet, the life of Christina is in itself a romance. At six years
old she was Queen of Sweden, with the famous Oxenstiern for guardian.
This great and good man governed the kingdom in her name until she had
lived through her minority. Four years after her coronation she, of
her own accord, abdicated her rights in favour of her cousin, Charles
Gustavus. Young and beautiful, the most learned and most accomplished
woman of her time, she resolutely turned her back on the throne of her
inheritance, and set forth to wander through civilised Europe in the
character of an independent traveller who was resolved to see all
varieties of men and manners, to collect all the knowledge which the
widest experience could give her, and to measure her mind boldly
against the greatest minds of the age.
So far, the interest excited by her character and her adventures is of
the most picturesquely-attractive kind. There is something strikingly
new in the spectacle of a young queen who prefers the pursuit of
knowledge to the possession of a throne, and who barters a royal
birthright for the privilege of being free. Unhappily, the portrait of
Christina cannot be painted throughout in bright colours only. It
must be recorded to her disgrace that, when her travels brought her to
Rome, she abandoned the religion for which her father fought and died.
And it must be admitted in the interests of truth, that she freed
herself from other restraints besides the restraint of royalty.
Mentally distinguished by her capacities, she was morally degraded by
her vices and her crimes.
The events in the strange life of Christina--especially those
connected with her actions in the character of a Queen-Errant--present
ample materials for a biography, which might be regarded in England as
a new contribution to our historical literature. One among the many
extraordinary adventures which marked the Queen's wandering career,
may be related in these pages as an episode in the history of her life
which is complete in itself. The events of which the narrative is
composed, throw light, in many ways, on the manners, habits, and
opinions of a past age; and they can, moreover, be presented in the
remarkable words of an eye-witness who beheld them two centuries ago.
* * * * *
The scene is the Palace of Fontainebleau, the time is the close of the
year sixteen hundred and fifty-seven, the persons are the wandering
Queen Christina; her grand equerry, the Marquis Monaldeschi; and
Father Le Bel of the Convent of Fontainebleau, the witness whose
testimony we are shortly about to cite.
Monaldeschi, as his name implies, was an Italian by birth. He was a
handsome, accomplished man, refined in his manners, supple in his
disposition, and possessed of the art of making himself eminently
agreeable in the society of women. With these personal recommendations,
he soon won his way to the favour of Queen Christina. Out of the long
list of her lovers, not one of the many whom she encouraged caught so
long and firm a hold of her capricious fancy as Monaldeschi. The
intimacy between them probably took its rise, on her side at least, in
as deep a sincerity of affection as it was in Christina's nature to
feel. On the side of the Italian, the connection was prompted solely
by ambition. As soon as he had reaped all the advantages of the
position of chief favourite in the queen's court, he wearied of his
royal mistress, and addressed his attentions secretly to a young Roman
lady, whose youth and beauty powerfully attracted him, and whose fatal
influence over his actions ultimately led to his ruin and his death.
After endeavouring to ingratiate himself with the Roman lady, in
various ways, Monaldeschi found that the surest means of winning her
favour lay in satisfying her malicious curiosity on the subject of
the secret frailties of Queen Christina. He was not a man to be
troubled by any scrupulous feelings of honour when the interests of
his own intrigues happened to be concerned; and he shamelessly took
advantage of the position that he held towards Christina, to commit
breaches of confidence of the most meanly infamous kind. Not contented
with placing in the possession of the Roman lady the series of the
queen's letters to himself, containing secrets that she had revealed
to him in the fullest confidence of his worthiness to be trusted, he
wrote letters of his own to the new object of his addresses, in which
he ridiculed Christina's fondness for him, and sarcastically described
her smallest personal defects with a heartless effrontery which the
most patient of women would have found it impossible to forgive. While
he was thus privately betraying the confidence that had been reposed
in him, he was publicly affecting the most unalterable attachment and
the most sincere respect for the queen.
For some time this disgraceful deception proceeded successfully. But
the hour of discovery was at hand, and the instrument of effecting it
was a certain cardinal who was desirous of supplanting Monaldeschi in
the queen's favour. The priest contrived to get possession of the
whole correspondence which had been privately confided to the Roman
lady, including, besides Christina's letters, the letters which
Monaldeschi had written in ridicule of his royal mistress. The whole
collection of documents was enclosed by the cardinal in one packet,
and was presented by him, at a private audience, to the queen.