Dr. Darling's 'assistance,' in the shape of some medicine, acting as a
febrifuge and preservative against the ague, arrived soon; after which
Clare felt strong enough to make another attempt towards finding work.
Having received no reply to his application to the steward of the Marquis
of Exeter, he resolved to address himself to his next greatest patron in
the neighbourhood, the Earl Fitzwilliam. The noble earl having been
always very kind to him, he summoned courage to obtain an interview with
his lordship. But it so happened, unfortunately, that neither the Earl,
nor his son, Viscount Milton, was at home at the time; and although Lady
Milton received him very graciously, Clare felt too much shyness to state
to her what he intended to say. By the commands of her ladyship, however,
Clare was entertained by the upper servants of the house, and finding
them to be a very well-educated class of men, quite unlike the domestics
of other lordly establishments, he renewed his visits frequently, and
after a while became a regular guest at Milton Park. The butler, Edward
Artis, was an enthusiastic antiquarian, possessing a large library,
always hunting for old coins, medals, and pottery, and an absolute
authority on all matters concerning Durobrivae and the works of the
ancient Romans in the neighbourhood. With Mr. Artis, Clare soon got very
intimate, and having become acquainted with the pursuits of his friend,
imbibed even a slight fondness for antiquarian lore. There were two other
servants, named Henderson and West, both distinguished in their way.
Henderson was an accomplished botanist, spending whole days in search
after plants and flowers, and West was a lover of poetry, as well as a
writer of rather indifferent verses. Henderson offered to teach Clare the
elements of botany, which proposal was eagerly accepted, though it did
not lead to great results. After various attempts to master the hard
words of the scientific handbook given to him, John Clare frankly stated
to his friend that he could not get on with it, and must continue to love
trees and flowers without knowing their Latin names. But eager of
knowledge, under whatever form it offered itself, he made, after
discarding botany, a new stride towards erudition. The head cook at
Milton Park, a Monsieur Grilliot, better known to the servants as
'Grill,' undertook to teach Clare French. He did so in the rational way,
not by stuffing his friend with rules and exceptions to rules, but
teaching him words and their pronunciation, by which means Clare made
rapid progress, and at once acquired a real liking for the study.
Nevertheless, he had to relinquish his attempts to learn French in a very
short time, being too poor to purchase the few books which Monsieur
'Grill' recommended him to read.
Clare's visits to Milton Park continued all through the autumn of 1824,
till late in the spring of 1825, without leading to any advantageous
result as far as the chief object was concerned. Having become intimately
acquainted with the upper servants, particularly with Artis, Clare
learned that there was no place suitable for him vacant in the
establishment, and the consequence was that, when the Earl returned,
nothing was said about the matter. Clare had an interview with his
lordship, and was received in the kindest manner, but not being asked as
to his worldly prospects, kept silent on the subject. The Earl probably
fancied, as did many others, that Clare made a good income from the sale
of his books, and it was not till years afterwards that he learnt the
real truth. To his friend Artis, Clare made a confession to some extent,
informing him that he was in want of work, and would be glad to get some
employment even as a thresher or ploughman. But Mr. Artis would not hear
of this, and strongly advised Clare to discard all ideas of hiring
himself out as a labourer, as it would stand in the way of his
appointment to a more honourable place. It was expected that the
managership of a small farm near Helpston Heath, belonging to Viscount
Milton, would become vacant before long, and Clare was told that there
was no doubt that he could get this post by merely biding his time. So
Clare waited; but, while waiting, got more and more melancholy, his mind
overwhelmed by family cares, amidst the incessant struggle of getting the
daily bread.
The temporary failure of his hopes to get employment in the fields made
Clare now think once more of turning his poetry to account. Though aware
that his 'Village Minstrel' had not proved a success, he still cherished
the belief that new productions might meet with a better fate, the more
so as he was fully conscious that through constant study his mind was
being greatly enlarged, leading to an improvement of his writings, in
conception as well as outward form. He accordingly wrote to Mr. Taylor,
sending specimens of some new poems, and offering sufficient to form a
small volume. But Mr. Taylor was unwilling to try another publication,
excusing his reluctance by the same arguments already impressed upon
Clare by Dr. Darling, namely, that the taste for poetry was on the wane,
and that the world was crying for prose. Reflecting on this subject,
Clare began thinking of a new scheme, which was to write a novel. He made
the proposition instantly, but was answered by a refusal, thinly veiled
under a heap of compliments. Clare felt somewhat offended, although Mr.
Taylor was certainly right in this case, there being no doubt whatever of
the absolute incapacity of his client to write prose. However, in order
to soften the hardship of his refusal, he asked him to contribute
occasional poems to the 'London Magazine,' which offer was accepted, but
proved of little advantage to Clare, the remuneration being uncertain and
of the slenderest kind. In his feverish anxiety to work and to gain some
additional means of subsistence, Clare committed the mistake of writing
too many poems at a time, which naturally lowered the value of the
article in the eyes of his publisher. A letter to Mr. Taylor, dated
February, 1825, shows the excited state of the poet at this period. 'I
fear,' wrote Clare, 'I shall get nothing ready for you this month; at
least I fear so now, but may have fifty subjects ready tomorrow. The muse
is a fickle hussy with me; she sometimes stirs me up to madness, and then
leaves me as a beggar by the wayside, with no more life than what's
mortal, and that nearly extinguished by melancholy forebodings.' Further
on he breaks out into the exclamation: 'I wish I could live nearer you;
at least I wish London could be within twenty miles of Helpston. I live
here among the ignorant like a lost man; in fact, like one whom the rest
seem unwilling to have anything to do with. They hardly dare talk in my
company, for fear I should mention them in my writings, and I feel more
pleasure in wandering the fields than in musing among my silent
neighbours, who are insensible to anything but toiling and talking of it,
and that to no purpose.' This 'living among the ignorant like a lost man'
came to be the deep key-note sounding through all the subsequent letters
of Clare.
In the summer of 1825, Clare's pecuniary embarrassments grew to a climax.
He could not refuse anything to his family; and though living personally
worse than a beggar, eating little else than dry bread and potatoes, and
drinking nothing but water, his expenditure, including medical attendance
and many articles of comfort for his aged parents, averaged considerably
more than a pound a-week, while the income from his annuity, on which he
now solely depended, was very much less. Repeated new efforts to find
employment as a labourer proved fruitless; while his visits to Milton
Park had ceased by this time, his stock of clothes being so scanty, and
patched all over, that he was ashamed to show himself in the company of
his friends, always elegantly dressed. With Artis alone he kept up an
acquaintance, the learned butler having a soul above dress, and showing
himself on all occasions utterly careless whether the companion with whom
he was searching for old medals and pottery was dressed in purple or in
rags. For many a day, the two went roaming through the environs of Castor
and Helpston Heath, digging for the remains of the ancient inhabitants of
Durobrivae. One afternoon, when thus employed, Clare fainted, to the
great consternation of his friend. The latter, fortunately, had a small
flask of wine in his pocket, a few drops of which were sufficient to
restore Clare to consciousness. He was gently led home by Edward Artis,
who was told, in answer to his inquiries, that the illness had been
brought on by the sudden heat. This was not true, or, at the best, only
partially true. The fainting was caused by hunger.
When Dr. Darling advised Clare to drink no more ale or spirits, he
probably was not aware of the nature of his patient's diet, or of that of
Helpston labourers generally. Very likely, had he known that dry bread
and potatoes, both in limited quantities, were the staple food, the able
Scotch physician would have recommended an occasional glass of port wine,
or even of stout--if obtainable. As it was, Clare's promise of
abstinence, which he kept religiously for several years, was very
detrimental to his health. His naturally delicate frame sank under the
coarse diet, as soon as the accustomed stimulants were withdrawn, and his
stomach getting gradually weakened, he at last began to feel a sort of
abhorrence for his daily food. He now took to eating fruit, which still
more debilitated his digestive organs, so that finally there took place a
process of slow starvation. When fainting at the side of his friend
Artis, he had eaten nothing but a few potatoes with milk for twenty-four
hours, having left his home in the morning without taking any food
whatever. In this case, it was not merely want of appetite, but actual
want of bread. Being greatly indebted to the baker, the latter thought
fit to withhold the regular supply of bread, and although there were
plenty of vegetables for his wife and children, Clare quitted the house
without tasting anything, for fear they might want. It thus happened
that, while exploring the ruins of the old Roman city, he sank to the
ground from sheer want of food.
The learned butler was much absorbed by his antiquarian speculations, and
little given to reflections about his fellow-men; nevertheless, Clare's
case struck him as very peculiar. Getting back to Milton Park, he told
the particulars to Earl Fitzwilliam, suggesting that a little help might
be welcome to the poor poet. The noble earl, however, thought otherwise.
It was not that he was unwilling to give; on the contrary, his hand was
always open to those in distress, and his previous liberal present of a
hundred pounds showed that he was particularly well disposed towards
Clare. In all likelihood, had he known the real position of the poet, he
would have further extended his liberality, or come to his assistance in
some other way. But he knew very little of Clare, and looked upon him as
any ordinary earl would look upon an ordinary farm-labourer. From the few
interviews with the poet, his lordship had come to the conclusion, true
in the main, that Clare was a proud man, and having a strong feeling that
Northamptonshire farm-labourers had no business to be proud, he did not
think himself justified in giving any further assistance unless specially
asked to do so. The earl told this to his learned butler, who acquiesced,
as in duty bound, in his master's decision. However, Artis mentioned the
subject at the dinner table, where it was attentively listened to by all
assembled, especially the worthy head-cook. Monsieur Grill had a secret
liking for Clare, based on the fact that the poet was almost the only one
of all the people with whom he came into contact who did not torment him
with sneers and mocking speeches. Monsieur was endowed with a most
extraordinary visage, much like a full moon, put into a dripping-pan, and
baked before a slow fire; and the aspect of which was not improved by a
pair of ears of very unusual length, and a total absence of hair at the
top. To make matters worse, Monsieur Grill was very susceptible of
criticism concerning his face, having done his best to improve it, by
painting the nose white, the cheeks rosy, and the eyebrows dark. But,
whether he liked it or not, the members of the establishment at Milton
Park, together with their friends, would laugh at him, and, what was
almost as bad, would insist upon calling him 'Mounsear.' Clare alone
never laughed, and, after two lessons, pronounced the word 'Monsieur' to
Grill's entire satisfaction. At the end of three, he said 'Mon chèr ami,'
in the best Parisian accent, to the delight of the head-cook, and the
astonishment of the whole company in the servants' hall. All this went
straight to the heart of Monsieur Grill. When he heard, therefore, that
Clare was unwell, he said nothing, but went quietly down into his
laboratory, put his saucepan on the fire, and began mixing together a
wonderful quantity of groceries, spices, and other ingredients. Being a
conscientious man withal, he next despatched the valet to Lady Milton,
asking permission to give some strengthening broth to John Clare of
Helpston. 'Give as much as you like,' was the immediate reply of her
ladyship. This was satisfactory, and after an hour's simmering of his
saucepans, Monsieur Grill put on his coat, poured his broth into a stone
bottle, took his stick, and went out at the back of the mansion, and
through the park towards Helpston. Not long, and he stood before Clare.
The latter was amazed on beholding Grill, with the jar in his hand;
having always held Monsieur to be the vainest of mortals, quite incapable
of carrying a stone bottle across the country. 'Ah, mon chèr ami, voilà
quelque chose pour vous!' exclaimed Monsieur, evidently delighted to see
Clare. And without further ado, he grasped some sticks, made a fire in an
instant, laid hold of an ancient earthen vessel, and in a few minutes
presented, with graceful bow, a basin of broth to his astonished friend.
Clare tasted it, and found it delicious. He fancied he had not partaken
of anything so nice for months; all the faintness and languor under which
he was suffering seemed to disappear as by enchantment. 'This is much
better than medicine,' he said, with a look of gratitude to the clever
head-cook. 'Medicine? parbleu!' exclaimed Grill; 'do not speak of
medicine, mon chèr ami, or I leave alone my batterie de cuisine.'
Monsieur Grill felt deep contempt, approaching hatred, for all drugs and
doctors, labouring under the impression of having lost his beautiful head
of hair through some ill-applied medicines. Clare saw the passing cloud,
and, with much tact, renewed his praises of the delicious broth, asking
his friend to show him the making of it. There was no objection on the
part of Monsieur Grill; nevertheless, an hour's teaching was attended
with but little success. Though having the manipulation explained to him
in the most lucid manner, in terms half French and half English, Clare
got more confused the more he listened, till at last his friend told him,
with some severity, that his mind seemed incapable of comprehending
'l'art du cuisinier.' Which was true enough. Heaven certainly had not
gifted John Clare with a genius for cookery, any more than with the
higher faculty of money-making.