HOW KITTY HAD LETTERS AND VERSES.
Everybody knows that a watering-place in summer is a nest of singing
birds. I do not mean the birds of the air, nor the ladies who sing at
the concerts, nor the virtuosos, male and female, who gather together
to talk of appogiatura, sonata, and--and the rest of the musical
jargon. I mean rather those epigrammatists, libellous imitators of
Pasquin, and love-verse writers who abound at such places. Mostly they
are anonymous, so that one cannot thank them as one would. The verses,
this year at Epsom, came down upon us in showers. They were stuck up
on the pillars of the porch of the Assembly Rooms, they were laid upon
the table of the book-shop, they were handed about on the Terrace. Also
they came to me at my lodgings, and to Nancy at hers, and very likely
to Peggy Baker at hers. Here, for instance, is one set which were shown
round at the Assembly--
"Epsom could boast no reigning Toast:
The Terrace wept for pity.
Kind Fortune said, 'Come, lift your head;
I send you stately Kitty.'
"She came, she reigned, but still disdained
The crowd's applause and fancy;
Quoth Fortune, 'Then, content ye, men,
With pretty, witty Nancy.'"
Every morning lovers were at our feet (on paper). They wrote letters
enjoining me "by those soft killing eyes" (which rhymed with "sighs")
to take pity on their misery, or to let them die. You would have
thought, to read their vows, that all the men in the town were in
profound wretchedness. They could not sleep: they could no longer go
abroad: they were wasting and pining away: they were the victims of
a passion which was rapidly devouring them: Death, they said, would
be welcomed as a Deliverer. Yet it will hardly be believed that, in
spite of so dreadful an epidemic of low fever, no outward signs of it
were visible in the town at all: the gentlemen were certainly fat and
in good case: their hearts seemed merry within them: they laughed,
made jokes, sang, and were jolly to outward show: their appetites
were good: they were making (apparently) no preparations for demise.
Their letters and verses were, however, anonymous, so that it was
impossible to point with accuracy to any sufferer who thus dissembled.
From information conveyed to me by Cicely Crump, I believe that the
verses and letters came in great measure from the apprentices and
shopmen employed by the mercers, haberdashers, hosiers, and drapers
of the town--young men whose employment brings them constantly into
the presence of ladies, but whose humble positions in the world forbid
them to do anything more than worship at a great distance: yet their
hearts are as inflammable as their betters, and their aspirations are
sometimes above their rank, as witness the gallant elopement of Joshua
Crump, Cicely's father, with Miss Jenny Medlicott, daughter of an
alderman: then they find relief and assume a temporary dignity--as they
fondly think--in writing anonymous love-letters. I think the letters
must have come from these foolish and conceited young men, because I
cannot understand how a gentleman who values his self-respect could so
far humiliate himself as to write letters which he would be ashamed
to sign, declaring himself the foolish victim of a foolish passion,
and addressing a fellow-creature, a being like himself, with all the
imperfections of humanity upon her, as an angel (which is blasphemous),
and a sun of glory (which is nonsense), or a bright particular star
(which is copied from the preface to the Bible). I confess that we
liked the open compliments and public attentions of the gentlemen:
they pleased us, and we took them in sober honesty for what they were
worth--the base coin of gallantry rings as pleasantly sometimes as the
guinea gold of love--but it is one thing to be called a goddess in the
accepted language of exaggeration and mock humility commonly used in
polite assemblies, and another to be addressed in a grovelling strain,
seriously and humbly, as if one were the Lama of Thibet, or the great
Bashaw, or the Pope himself. It is pleasant to see a young fellow
dancing along the walk with his hat under his arm, making reverence,
with his eyes full of admiration, his face lit with smiles, and
compliments upon his tongue, because one knows that it is the natural
homage paid by an honest fellow to a pretty girl, and that when years
have robbed the beauty, the homage will be paid to some one else. But
for these silly boys' letters----
And then we made the sad discovery, by comparing our letters, that
they were not even original. Many of them were, word for word, the
same, showing that they had been copied from the same model. If it be
true that passion makes the most tongue-tied lover eloquent, then this
discovery proved that the violence of the passion was as feigned as the
letters were false, unless Nancy's supposition was true.
"Fie!" cried she, "the wretch has written the same letters to both of
us. Can he be in love with two maids at the same time?"
Then she took both letters and showed them about among the company.
There was another kind of letter which I received: it was filled with
slander and abuse, and was written in disguised handwriting. Several of
them came to me, and I was foolish enough to be vexed over them, even
to shed tears of vexation. My anonymous correspondent gave me, in fact,
such information and advice as the following, which was not conveyed to
me all at once, but in several letters.
"Your Lord Chudleigh is very well known to be a gambler who hath
already dipped more than half his estate; do you think it possible that
he should marry the daughter of that poor thing--a country parson--with
no more fortune to her back than what a city madam may chance to give
her? Be not deceived. Your triumph is to walk the Terrace with him
at your elbow: your disgrace will be when he leaves you to lament
alone...."
"Do not think that any other gentleman will stoop to pick up the
cast-off fancy of Lord Chudleigh. When he leaves you, expect nothing
but general desertion and contempt. This advice comes from a
well-wisher."
"Lord Chudleigh is, as is very well known, the falsest and the most
fickle of men. When he hath added you to the list of women whom he hath
deceived, he will go away to Bath or town, there to boast of what he
hath done. He belongs to the Seven Devils' Club, whose boast it is to
spare no man in play and no woman in love. Be warned in time."
"Poor Kitty Pleydell! Your reputation is now, indeed, cracked, if not
broken altogether. Better retire to the obscurity of your town lodging,
where, with Mrs. Pimpernel, you may weep over the chances that you
think to have lost, but have never really possessed. Better take up,
while is yet time, with Harry Temple. All the Wells is talking of your
infatuation about Lord Chudleigh. He, for his part, is amused. With his
friends he laughs and makes sport."
And so on, and so on: words which, like the buzzing of a fly or the
sting of a gnat, annoy for a while and are then forgotten. For the
moment one is angry: then one remembers things and words which show
how false are these charges: one reflects that the writer is more
to be pitied than the receiver: and one forgives. Perhaps I was the
readier to forgive because I saw a letter written by no other (from the
similarity of the _t_'s and _k_'s) than Miss Peggy Baker, and was fully
persuaded that the writer of these unsigned letters was that angry
nymph herself.
As for the verses which were left at the door, and brought by boys who
delivered them and ran away--Nancy said they had no clothes on except
a quiver and a pair of wings, and so ran away for shame lest Cicely
should see them--they bore a marvellous resemblance to those which the
ingenious Mr. Stallabras was wont to manufacture; they spoke of nymphs
and doves and bosky groves; of kids and swains on verdant plains; of
shepherds' reeds and flowery meads, of rustic flutes and rural fruits.
"The fashion of verses," said Mrs. Esther, "seems little changed since
we were here in 1720. Doubtless the English language has never been
able to achieve a greater excellence than that arrived at by Dryden,
Pope, Addison, and Steele."
Perhaps the language of love is always the same, and when a man feels
that tender emotion he naturally desires to quit the garish town and
the artificial restraints of society, and with his _inamorata_ to seek
the simple delights of the meadows and the fields, there to be together:
"Come, live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove----"
So that to every lover the old language, with its musty tropes
and rusty figures, is new and fresh, just as any other delight in
life when first tasted. I say nothing for that poor weakling, that
hothouse plant, the passion affected by beaux at a watering-place for
fashionable beauties, which may use the strong language of real love,
and yet is so fragile as to be in danger of perishing with every cold
blast and frosty air.
I would not laugh at these simple poets, because I have learned since
then that there are youths who, too bashful to speak, may yet conceive
such a pure and noble passion for a woman--who certainly does not
deserve it--as may serve for them as a stimulus and goad to great
actions. For no creature, whether man or woman, can do fit suit and
service to another, whether in thought or action, without endeavouring
to make himself fit and worthy to be her servant. And if he be but one
of a hundred following in a crowd of worshippers, it is good for him
to mark and obey the laws of gallantry and knightly service, and to
lay aside for a while the talk of barrack, stable, coffee-house, and
gaming-room.
"Pretty moralist," said Nancy, "you would like the young fellows at
your heel, doing suit and service; and you would like to feel that
their attendance is doing good to their innocent souls. Now, for my
part, I think only how they may be doing good to myself, and when I see
them figuring and capering, hat under arm, one foot valiantly stuck
out--so--the ties of their wigs wagging behind them, and their canes
bobbing at their wrists. I feel, my dear, as if I was not born in vain.
All this posturing, all this capering, like a French dancing-master or
a bear with a hurdy-gurdy, is meant for me--that is, except what is
meant for you, which is the larger half. It may do good to the men:
I am sure I wish from my heart it does, because the poor profligates
want so much good done to them; but I rather love to think of the
honour it confers upon us women, and the envy, hatred, and malice it
awakens in the breast of our sisters. My dear Peggy Baker is turning
positively green with this hateful passion of jealousy. To be a Toast,
even a second Toast, like me, when your superior charms--I am not a
bit jealous, Kitty, my dear--have had their due acknowledgment, is a
very great honour. In years to come, say about the beginning of the
nineteenth century, if I live so long, I shall say to my grandchildren,
who will then be about eighteen or nineteen, and as beautiful as the
day, 'My dears,' I shall say, 'your grandmother, though you will find
it difficult to believe, was not always toothless, nor did her hands
always shake, nor were her cheeks wrinkled, nor were her chin and nose
close together. Look in the glass, girls, and you may guess what your
poor old grandmother once was, in the days when she was pretty Nancy
Levett, a Toast when the beautiful Kitty Pleydell was Queen of the
Wells. Kitty Pleydell, who married----,' no, my dear, I will not say
it, because it might bring you bad luck."
I told Nancy about Harry Temple's strange mistake; she grew very
serious over it, and reflected what was best to be done. I warned
her to say nothing herself, but to leave him to his own reflections.
First he sulked, that is to say, he avoided me in public, and did not
even pay his respects to Mrs. Pimpernel in private; then he implored
me to give him another hearing. I gave him what he asked, I heard him
tell his story over again, then I assured him once more that it was
impossible. He behaved very strangely, refused to take my answer as
final, and vexed us by betraying in public the discontent and anger
which, had he possessed any real regard for me, he ought to have kept
a secret in his own breast. Some of the backbiters, as Lord Chudleigh
told me, put it about that I had thrown over my former lover. Allusion
to this calumny was made, as has already been shown, in the anonymous
letters.
Lord Chudleigh paid me no compliments and wrote me no verses, nor did
he often join in our train upon the Terrace. But he distinguished us
by frequently paying a visit to our lodgings in the morning, when he
would sit and read, or talk, and sometimes share our simple dinner.
"We who belong to the great City houses," said Mrs. Esther after one
of these visits, "are accustomed from infancy to familiarity with
Nobility. My father, when Worshipful Master of the Scourers' Company,
or in his year of office as Lord Mayor, would sometimes have a peer
on one side and a bishop on the other. Baronets and simple knights we
hardly valued. Therefore these visits of his lordship, which are no
doubt a great distinction for both of us, seem like a return of my
childhood."
We learned from Lord Chudleigh that it was his intention (afterwards
fully carried out) to take that active part in the administration of
state affairs to which his exalted rank naturally called him.
"I am ever of opinion," he said, "that a gentleman in this country owes
it to his birth and position to do his utmost for the preservation of
our liberties and the maintenance of sound government."
And he once told us, to our astonishment, that had he lived in the days
of Charles the First, he should have joined the party of the Parliament.
It seemed to me, who watched him narrowly and with trembling, that
he was desirous, in these visits, to find out what manner of person
I was, and whether I possessed any virtues, to illustrate that
external comeliness which had already taken his fancy. Alas! I thought
continually with shame of the time when I should have to throw myself
at his feet and implore his mercy and forgiveness.
Then he encouraged me to talk about my childhood and my father, taking
pleasure, I thought, in the contemplation of a life given up to heaven
and learning, and smiling at the picture of Lady Levett, who ruled us
all, the two boys who came home to tease the girls, and little Nancy,
so fond and so pretty. I wondered then that he should care to hear
about the way I lived, the books I read, the death of my honoured
father, and the little things which make up a country maid's life,
wherein the ripples and the gentle breezes are as important to her as
great storms and gales to men and women of the world. I know, now,
that when a man loves a girl there is nothing concerned with her that
he does not want to know, so that her image may be present to him from
the beginning, and that he may feel that there has been no year of her
life, no action of hers at all, that he does not know, with what she
thought, what she did, who were her friends, and what she was like.
Thus he told me about his own country house, which was a very fine
place indeed, and his gardens, stables, library, pictures, and all the
splendid things which he had inherited.
Two things we hid from each other, the one that I was the girl whom he
had married: the other, that he was already married.
"Child," said Nancy, "the young lord hath plainly bewitched thee.
Remember, my dear, that a woman must not be won too easily. Can we not
break his heart a little?"
Lady Levett took occasion to speak to me to the same effect.
"Kitty," she said, "I have eyes in my head and can see. Do not
encourage the man too much. Yet it would be a grand match, and I should
be well content to see a coronet on that pretty head. Still, be not too
ready. But he is a handsome fellow, and I believe as good as we can
expect of any man in this profligate age. Nay, child, do not change
colour: I know nothing against his character, except that he has a town
house and that he has lived much in London. But make him feel a little
the pangs of love. Listen, or pretend to listen, to the addresses of
another man. When my husband came courting me, do you think I said yes
all at once? Not so. There were other suitors in the field, let me
tell thee, Kitty, as young and as rich as Sir Robert, and of as good a
family. To be sure, there was none so good in my eyes. As for one, he
rode to hounds all day, and in the evening slept in his chair. He broke
his neck jumping a brook when he was but thirty. Another, he drank
October all day long, and at night was carried to bed like a log. When
he was forty he was taken with a seizure, being still a bachelor, all
for love of me and his brown jug, which I think he loved still more.
And a third, he was choleric, and used to beat his grooms. Now, my
dear, a man who beats his grooms is just as likely to beat his wife.
Wherefore, beware of strikers. And a fourth, he was a gambler, and all
night over his cards, so that I would have none of him. He lost his
estate and went into the Austrian service. There he was run through the
body and killed in a duel by a French chevalier, who had first robbed
him at faro. But do not think I let my true love know my resolution. I
plagued him first, and teased him until he was humble. Then I bade him
be happy, and the good man hath been happy ever since."
Alas! I could not tease my lord or plague him: I could not coquet with
other men, even though Peggy went about saying--
"The silly wretch is in love with him: she shows it in her eyes. Oh the
impudence!"