There is something very curious in the great difference of feeling
with which we contemplate scenes of sorrow and those of vice. It might
be naturally supposed, that in the grief of the good, the wise, and
the noble, we should find matter only for sympathy and regret--that
pain alone would be elicited in beholding it, and that their anguish
would communicate nothing but a share of their suffering to ourselves;
while the contempt that we feel for vice, by depriving us of all
feeling for the vicious, would leave us sorrowless, though abhorrent
of their faults.
Such is not the case, however; and to hear tales of the great and
generous touched by the hand of undeserved adversity, excites, as is
the case in deep tragedy, a certain degree of strange and almost
unaccountable pleasure, even while we grieve for their fate, and take
part in their sufferings. It is, perhaps, in some degree, that
sympathy is in itself a pleasurable emotion; but I do believe that a
great part of that which gives sweetness to the tears which we shed
over the history of the afflicted good, is the inherent conviction in
the mind of man, that there is a state of being, yet to come, where
all shall have its compensation,--where woes undeserved, and unmerited
pangs, received with resignation and borne with fortitude, shall be
repaid by infinite joy and eternal happiness.
On the contrary, when we gaze upon the progress of the vicious and the
criminal, however successful and prosperous in their brief space of
action, to contempt and indignation, to disgust and horror, are added
the same consciousness of a hereafter, and the certainty of an awful
retribution. Thus, in these instances, all our feelings are dark and
sad; there is nothing to alleviate; there is nothing to give light.
Nevertheless we must turn for a short space to the more criminal
personages of our tale, and trace them in that rapid down-hill road
where vice treads upon the steps of vice, and iniquity upon iniquity,
till they are hurried on into the yawning gulf of destruction and
despair.
It was in a splendid room, at the princely mansion then called
Northampton House, but which has since assumed the name of other
possessors, of a purer fame than his who built it, that the Countess
of Essex, who had left the Court at Greenwich the day before, sat
alone with Lord Rochester--her relation, the Earl of Northampton,
being then absent. Her face was all smiles and happiness. It seemed as
if fortune and success lived in her eyes; and she was laughing gaily,
with her weak and criminal lover, over the misfortunes of others more
virtuous than herself.
"And so," she said, "he wanted thee to wed this moon-sick girl, and, I
dare say, would have made thee a sonnetteer to match her."
"Faith, he must have written the sonnets himself, then," answered
Rochester; "for, I thank my stars, I never could jingle two rhymes
together in my life; and, to say truth, I hate the whole race of these
beggarly poets and authors. I have never liked Francis Bacon since he
wrote a book."
"I never liked him at all," replied the Countess, "and that would
certainly not make me like him more. One never knows how soon one may
be put into one of these volumes, which is what makes all great
statesmen hold aloof from authors, and keep them down."
"They are not all wise enough to do so," answered Rochester; "but
Salisbury himself is beginning to see the folly of giving him any
encouragement, though he be such a friend of Sir John Harrington's. I
was telling him, the other day, what a fool I thought Bacon for
degrading himself by composing that book; and he replied, that it was
well to be able to write it, but foolish to write it."
"But poems are even worse than that," said the Countess. "I dare say
this friend of thine is a poet, if one knew the truth."
"No, I think not," replied Rochester; "with all his faults, he has not
that vice."
"Well, and what did you say to him?" continued the Countess, bringing
the conversation back to a subject on which her curiosity was
excited--"What did you say when he pressed you so vehemently to this
fine alliance?"
"I said I would none of it," answered Rochester; "for the best of all
reasons, because I was going to marry you."
"Did you tell him so?" asked the Countess, eagerly.
"Yes, sweet one," replied her lover; "I wished him to know it. 'Tis
too fair a fortune, my love, to be concealed."
"Now," cried the Countess, "I will wager this diamond against a flint
stone that he strove to dissuade you. Was it not so, Rochester?"
"Yes, good sooth," answered her lover, laughing.
"Ay, but eagerly," said the Countess,--"vehemently?"
"Even so," rejoined Rochester; "but he might have spared his
eloquence, my fair Frances; for he moved me no more than a gust of
wind."
"Nay, but what did he say?" demanded Lady Essex.
"Oh, that matters not," answered the favourite; "a great deal I have
forgotten."
"But I will hear," exclaimed his mistress. "I will never love you
more, Rochester, if you do not tell me. Now, do not smile and look
deceitful; for I will hear, word for word, all that he said."
"Nay, nay," cried Rochester, "that is hardly fair. What two men will
say to one another often bears no repeating."
"The man that cannot confide in me, does not love me," rejoined the
Countess, withdrawing her hand, and moving further from him.
"Well, but you know I love you," answered Rochester.
"Then prove it, by telling me what he said," cried the Countess. "If
you do not, I shall think you are false and forsworn, and are inclined
to follow his counsel and marry some one else.--Yes, yes, I see it
very well.--He has succeeded with thee, Rochester, and thou art
inclined to seek another bride.--Well, it matters not; I should soon
learn to forget the man who would not trust me."
"Nonsense, nonsense, sweet girl!" he replied; "you are jealous without
cause. I am all your own--your slave--your captive."
"Then tell me what he said," exclaimed the Countess, suffering a
portion of her natural vehemence to appear, even to him.
"But you will be angry," rejoined Rochester. "Why should I tell you
what will only pain, grieve, and offend you, and which had no more
effect upon me than the idle wind?"
"Because I wish to know," she exclaimed. "Because I must know, if I am
to have peace or rest. I will not be angry; and I will try to be as
little grieved as possible; for if I find men speak ill of me, and
bark at me with their foul tongue, I will recollect that it is all for
Rochester, and that shall be my consolation."
"Well, then," said Rochester, "if you will not be angry, he did oppose
my marriage with you in vehement and rough terms,"--and her lover went
on weakly to tell her almost all that his friend had said.
He strove to soften it, 'tis true--to put it in general terms, and to
conceal the harsh epithets that Overbury had used; but the Countess
would hear all, and with instant perception discovered whenever he
tried to deceive her in a word. She kept her temper, too, to the end,
sometimes urging him playfully, and affecting to laugh at the rude
terms which Overbury had used towards her--sometimes pressing him
gravely to deal fairly by her, and to speak the truth--sometimes
suggesting the words herself in a gay tone, as if she were sure that
those were the epithets he had given her, and cared little for them.
But when the whole story was told, her fierce indignation burst forth.
"The villain!" she exclaimed--"the base villain! Can you consider this
man as your friend, Rochester, after such words as those to your
affianced wife? Can you believe that he sought to serve you? Can you
suppose that anything but his own interest injured, and his schemes
for his own benefit defeated, could have induced him to speak thus of
a lady whom you love?--No, no, the man betrays himself!--It is evident
that he spoke with the rage of disappointment. It was for his own
advancement that he sought to marry you to the Lady Arabella, not for
your benefit. If it had been merely out of regard for you, would he
have thus abused her who has sacrificed all for you? If he really
loved you, would he have thus condemned her love? For whom have I made
myself all that he calls me?--for whom have I risked everything,
resigned everything? Did I ever give a thought to any other man on
earth? With all his hatred and malice, he dare not say that; and had
he possessed towards you one particle of true attachment, he would
have learned to estimate that, which flings every other consideration
but its love away,"--and, bursting into tears, she cast herself,
sobbing passionately, upon Rochester's bosom.
He had gazed at her with admiration, not unmixed with wonder, as he
beheld her lustrous eyes flashing, and all her beautiful features
lighted up with indignation; and when the shower followed the thunder,
he held her tenderly to his heart, and tried to soothe her with words
of love and promises of everlasting affection.
"No, Rochester, no!" she cried, at length, raising herself, and wiping
away the drops from her cheeks; "it is not for myself I care. Of me he
may say what he likes, but he must not deceive and betray you any
longer. He seeks but to make a tool of you for his own advancement;
and to it he will not fail to sacrifice you as soon as the opportunity
occurs. Your fortune and high favour, your noble qualities and
distinction, have, as they always do, created many enemies, all eager
to pull you down; and, in such circumstances, it needs but a faithless
friend to bring about a man's destruction."
"I do not think he would betray me," replied Rochester.
"Not, perhaps, exactly betray you," replied the Countess, "for
traitors are always despised even by those they serve; and he is too
cunning for that. But, step by step, he will undermine you with the
King, if he be not removed. He will first begin by opposing our
marriage----"
"If he do that, I will cut his throat," cried Rochester.
"Perhaps he will not do so openly," continued the Countess, "but he
will speak of me to James as he has to you, and will beseech him all
the time not to betray his words. He will teach the King to think you
weak, foolish, and intemperate, because you persevere in loving one
who has devoted herself to you. Let this Overbury,--let him, if he
can, or if he dare, make such sacrifices for you as I have made;
and then I will believe he is your friend. As it is, he must be
removed.--Yes, if you love me, if you would wed me, if you would be
safe yourself, if you would consult my peace, he must be removed."
"Not slain," said Rochester, in a low tone, "not slain--that I cannot
consent to."
"Nay," answered the Countess, with one of her bright and beaming
smiles again, at seeing that his apprehension of her meaning had so
far outrun the reality, that any minor act of vengeance or precaution
would seem moderate, "I meant not to slay him. You men are so vehement
and violent in all your passions, that the death of your adversary is
the only thing you think of. I am not so bloodthirsty, nor do I speak
from anger, Rochester. I could pardon him all that he has said of me,
did it not show me that he is dangerous to you, and that, if he be not
removed, his presence near the King will be the great stumbling-block
which will throw down our hopes and wishes. He must be sent to the
Tower, or into banishment."
"But there must be some pretext," said Rochester. "He cannot be
punished without a cause."
"Oh! fear not," cried the Countess; "a reason will not be wanting.
Shrewd must that man be, and virtuous beyond this earth, who, in the
courts of kings, can walk so scrupulously as not to give, each day,
pretexts for accusation. The wise and the good have fallen beneath the
axe, and the best that ever lived was crucified; there is no fear that
fair Sir Thomas Overbury has not abundance of such vices in his
composition as may well move a monarch's indignation, with a good word
to help."
"No," said Rochester, who had been thinking deeply, and was not yet
brought fully to that utter shamelessness at which his partner in evil
had arrived--"No, a means may be devised for attaining our object,
without bringing on my own head the charge of ingratitude. Let us give
him the embassy to some foreign court, where he may wear out his days
in peace and honour, neither obstructing our views, nor lost
altogether to his own."
"But I will not have him sent," exclaimed the Countess, "to some high
and honourable mission, which the best nobles of the land might strive
for. I will not have him so honoured, that men may say, 'See, what is
the reward of calumniating Frances Howard; the man who called her
harlot to her promised husband, makes that husband's favour the
stepping-stone to his own advancement. Lo! he is ambassador to France,
or to the great Spaniards, and goes to carry the tales of her love
for Rochester to the gay Court of France, or the graver one of
Spain.'--Stay, Rochester, you shall send him to Russia! Let him freeze
amongst the Muscovites, since his cold blood can never comprehend the
fire that burns in ours."
"He will refuse to go," said Rochester; "'tis but another name for
banishment."
"Let him refuse!" exclaimed Lady Essex; "and send him to the Tower.
The King will be ready enough so to deal with one who rejects his
offers.--Nay, Rochester, I will have it so," she continued, in a
caressing tone. "You must not refuse me, if you love me. I vow you
shall not see me more unless you consent. This shall be the price of
our next interview. I might well ask you, as a gallant knight and
true, to put that man to death who spoke against your lady's name; but
I forbear, you see; and in this you must obey my behest. Offer him
Russia. If he refuses, the offence is to the King, not to you, and
leave the King to deal with him. But be sure, unless he be far removed
from the English Court, he will so machinate as to separate you and
me, as he has parted those two unhappy lovers."
"It was, in truth, all his doing, I find," answered Rochester. "He
never left the affair alone, till he had discovered their marriage;
and he then incensed the King, against them."
"And they are really married?" said the Countess, in a tenderer tone
than she had used; "then they are happy; for though they may be
separate, they can yet think that there is that sweet bond between
them which no King's word can break.--That is a blessing that nothing
can take from them. Do you not hate the man who could step in, and
blast their happiness, Rochester?"
"I certainly do not love him for so doing," replied the Viscount, "and
thank him but little for mingling my name in the affair."
"As he has done by them, so will he do by you and me," said Lady
Essex, in a grave and sad tone, "unless you stop him, Rochester. We
stand in his way; our marriage is the obstacle to his ambitious views;
he will not cease till he has frustrated our hopes, or ruined us both.
There can be no terms with such an enemy; and till I hear that he is
gone, I shall never see you without apprehension."
"Well," answered Rochester; "well, it shall be done. I will ask the
King for the embassy to Russia on his behalf. I know he aims at much
higher things, indeed; and nothing less than a seat in the Council,
with some high office in the state or household, would satisfy his
ambition. But he shall be offered this embassy. If he refuse it, the
consequences be on his own head.
"What! then you do see he is ambitious?" cried the Countess. "I
wronged my Rochester's good judgment. I thought he had deceived you,
and that you did not perceive the tool that he would make of you."
"Oh, I have known his ambition long," replied Rochester, "and was
prepared to give it a check in due time. Perhaps as well now as
hereafter."
"Better, better far," replied the Countess. "Those who defend a
breach, fire on the men who begin to climb the ladder, lest when they
are at the top it be too late. Away then, Rochester, away! see that
thing done; and, when you can tell me that the embassy is offered him,
you may come back, and shall have smiles for your reward."
After those words they parted, Rochester hurrying to take that new
step in the wrong course which was to carry him forward to many
others; and the Countess of Essex remaining to brood over her hatred
and vengeance, till she worked herself into regret that she had not
exacted more of her weak and guilty paramour.