Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience

“With pleasure, sir;” and, as he spoke, he crossed the room, and, standing over the old man’s chair, whispered in his ear. I soon perceived, by the manner of each, that the negotiation was not as simple as he had fancied it. Remark, reply, and rejoinder seemed to follow each other quickly; and I could almost detect something like an insolent rejection of the landlord’s suit in the old man’s manner. Indeed, I had not long to remain in doubt on the subject; for, rising from his seat, the Count addressed some hurried words to those about him, to which they replied by expressions of anger and astonishment. In vain the landlord interposed, and tried to calm down their impatience; they grew more and more excited, and I could detect expressions of insulting meaning through what they uttered.

“What is the matter?” asked I of the landlord; but ere he could reply, a tall, dark man, with the marked physiognomy of a Pole, came up to me and said, —

“The Graf von Bildstein has received a grave provocation at your hands: are you prepared to justify it?”

“I must first of all learn how I may have offended him,” said I, calmly.

“We all of us heard it,” said he, impatiently; “you insulted every man in this room through him. Either, then, you leave it at once [and he pointed insolently to the door], or you give him satisfaction.”

The only reply I made to this speech was a haughty laugh, as I filled my glass with champagne. I had but done so when, with a blow of his cane, he swept my bottle and the glasses from the table; and then, stepping back and drawing a sword from the stick, threw himself into an attitude of defence. I drew my sword and rushed in on him. Either that he was not a skilful fencer, or unprepared for the suddenness of my attack, he defended himself badly; his guards were all wide, and his eyes unsteady. I felt my advantage in a moment, and, after a couple of passes, ran my point through his side, just close to the ribs. A loud cry from the bystanders, as the blood gushed forth, now stopped the encounter, and they speedily dashed forward to catch him as he reeled and fell.

“Away with you, for Heaven’s sake, or you are a murdered man,” cried the landlord to me, while he pushed me violently from the room and out into the street, barring and bolting the door within, at the same instant. The terrible clamor inside, and the efforts to force a passage, now warned me of my danger, and I fled at the very top of my speed, not knowing nor caring whither. I had gone considerably above a mile ere I ventured to halt and draw breath. I was in a part of the city with narrow streets and tall warehouses, dark, gloomy, and solitary; a small, mean-looking alley led me down to the river’s side, from which I could perceive the Tower quite close, and a crowd of shipping in the stream. A small schooner, with a foresail alone set, was just getting under way, and as she slowly moved along, boats came and went from the shore to her.

“Want to go aboard, sir?” asked a waterman, who observed me as I stood watching the movement of the craft. I nodded, and the next moment we were alongside. I asked for the skipper, and heard that he was to join us at Gravesend. The mate politely said I might go below; and, accepting the permission, I descended to the cabin, and lay down on a bench. A boy was cleaning plates and glasses in a little nook at one side, and from him I learned that the schooner was the “Martha,” of Hull, bound for Cherbourg; her captain was her owner, and usually traded between the English coast and the Channel Islands. At all events, thought I, I am safe out of England; and with that reflection I turned on my side and went off to sleep.

Just as day broke, the skipper came on board, and I could perceive, by the gushing noise beside my ear, that we were going fast through the water. The craft lay over, too, and seemed as if under a press of canvas. It was not for full an hour afterwards that the skipper descended to the cabin, and, shaking me roughly by the shoulder, asked how I came there.

I had gone asleep concocting a story to account for my presence; and so I told him in a few words that I had just been engaged in a duel wherein I had wounded my antagonist; that as the event had occurred suddenly, I had no time for any preparation, but just threw myself on board the first craft about to sail, ready and willing to pay liberally for the succor it afforded me.

Either he disbelieved my narrative, or fancied that it might involve himself in some trouble, for he doggedly said I had no right to come aboard of her without his leave, and that he should certainly put in at Ramsgate and hand me over to the authorities.

“Be it so,” said I, with an affected indifference. “The greater fool you not to earn fifty guineas for a kind office than go out of your way to do a churlish one.”

He left me at this to go up on deck, and came down again about half an hour later. I heard enough to convince me that the wind was freshening, and that a heavy sea, too, was getting up, so that in all likelihood he would hesitate ere he ‘d try to put in at Ramsgate. He did not speak to me this time, but sat with folded arms watching me as I lay pretending to be asleep. At length he said, —

“I say, friend, you ‘ve got no passport, I suppose? How do you mean to land in France? or, if there, how do you propose to travel?”

“These are matters I don’t mean to trouble you about, Captain,” said I, haughtily; and though I said the words boldly enough, it was exactly the very puzzle that was then working in my brain.

“Ay, sir; but they are exactly matters that concern me; for you are not on the schooner’s manifest, – you are not one of her crew, – and I don’t mean to get into trouble on your behalf.”

“Put me ashore at night, or leave me to reach it in any way,” said I, half angrily; for I was well-nigh out of patience at these everlasting difficulties.

He made no reply to this speech, but starting suddenly up, like a man who had hastily made up his mind on some particular course, he went up on deck. I overheard orders given, and immediately after a stir and bustle among the sailors, and in my anxiety at once connected myself with these movements. What project had they regarding me? In what way did they mean to treat me? – were the questions that rose to my mind. The heavy working of the craft showed me that her course had been altered, and I began to dread lest we should be turning again towards England.

From these thoughts my mind wandered back and back, reviewing the chief events of my life, and wondering whether I were ever destined to reach one spot that I could rest in, and where my weary spirit might find peace. To be the sport of Fortune in her most wilful of moods seemed, indeed, my lot; and to go on through life unattached to my fellows, appeared my fate. I remember once to have read in some French author that the attachment we feel to home, the sacred names of son and brother, are not more than the instincts of habit; that natural affection, as it is called, has no real existence; and that it is the mere force of repetition that forms the tie by which we love those whom we call father or mother. It is a cold and a cheerless theory, and yet now it struck me with a certain melancholy satisfaction to think that, save in the name of parentage, I was not worse off than others.

The hours glided on unnoticed as I lay thus dreaming, and night at last fell, dark and starless. I had almost attained to a kind of careless indifference as to my future, when the mate, coming up to me, said, —

“Wake up, master; we ‘re going to put you ashore here.”

I made no answer: half in recklessness, half in pride, I was silent.

“You ‘d better throw my boat-cloak over you. It’s blowing fresh, and a heavy sea running,” said he, in a kindly voice.

“Thanks,” said I, declining; “but I ‘m little used to care for my comforts. Can I see the skipper?”

“He told me that he preferred not to see you,” said the mate, hesitatingly, “and bade me arrange for putting you ashore myself.”

“It is a question of money – not of politeness – with me,” said I, producing my purse. “Tell me what I owe him.”

“Not a farthing, sir. He ‘d not touch a piece of money that belonged to you. He only wants you to go your way, and part company with him.”

“Why – what does he take me for? What means this dread of me?”

The man looked confusedly up and down, to either hand, and was silent. At last he said, —

“Come; all this is lost time. We ‘re close in now. Are you ready, sir?”

“Quite ready,” said I, rising, and following him.

The boat’s crew was already mustered, and, springing into the boat, she was lowered at once; and before I well knew of it, we were plunging through a heavy sea, by the force of four strong oars.

Through the darkness and the showering spray we went, – now rising on the crest of some swelling wave, now diving down between the foaming cataracts. I never asked whither we were bound. I scarcely wished for land. There was something so exciting in the sense of peril about, that I only desired it might continue. Such a relief is physical danger to the slow and cankering disease of a despairing heart!

CHAPTER XLI. LYS

A long, low line of coast loomed through the darkness, and towards this we now rowed through a heavy, breaking surf. More than once did they lie on their oars to consult as to the best landing-place, and again resume their labor as before. At last, seeing that neither creek nor inlet presented itself, they made straight for the shore, and when within about thirty paces of the strand, they dropped anchor and suffered the boat to drift into shallow water.

“There now, master,” said the steersman to me, “you’ll have to wet your feet, for we can’t venture further in. Jump over, and you’ll soon touch land again.”

I obeyed without a word, and ere I reached the shore the boat was already on her way back to the schooner. As I stood gazing on the dark expanse of sea before me, and then turned to the gloomy outline of the land, I felt a sense of desolation no words can render. I had not the very vaguest notion where I was. So far as I could see, there were no traces of habitation near; and as I wandered inland, the same unbroken succession of sand hummocks surrounded me. How strange is it that in this old Europe of ours, so time-worn by civilization, so crossed and recrossed by man’s labors, how many spots there are which, in this wild solitude, might well be supposed to form parts of Africa or distant America! The day broke to find me still wandering along these dreary sand-hills; but to my great delight two church towers about a league off showed me that a village was near; and thither I now proceeded to bend my steps.

After walking about a mile I reached a high road which evidently led to the village; and now it became necessary to bethink me what account I should give of myself, and how explain my appearance when questioned, as I inevitably should be, by the authorities.

My drenched and shrunk-up clothes and my way-worn look might well have warranted the story of a shipwreck, and for some minutes I had almost resolved to give that version of my calamity; but I was so weary of the vicissitudes a false representation involved, so actually tired out by the labor of sustaining a part that was not my own, that I determined to take no heed of what was to follow, and leave myself to the chances of destiny, without a struggle against them.

Fortune, thought I, has never been over kind to me when I did my best to woo her; let me see if a little indifference on my part may not render her more graciously disposed. From some peasants on their way to market I learned that the village was called Lys, and was on the high road to Montreuil. At all events, then, I was in France, which was almost as much my country as England, and with even so much did I rally my spirits and encourage my hopes. The country-people, with their pack-mules, stared at my strange appearance, and evidently wondered what manner of man I might be, for I still wore my full-dress suit; and my lace ruffles and sabot, however discolored, showed undeniable signs of condition. Many, however, saluted me respectfully, and touched their hats as to one of rank above their own, and not one displayed anything approaching levity or a jest at my singular exterior. It might possibly have been the secluded character of the spot itself, or that the recent peace with England had brought about the change; but whatever the cause, neither police nor gendarmerie questioned me as to my passport, and I strolled into the first café that presented itself, to take my breakfast, without hindrance or impediment.

While I enjoyed my meal, I amused myself with the newspapers, at that time filled with descriptions of festivities and court receptions, at which the English were the honored guests. Instead of the accustomed allusions to insular eccentricity, awkwardness, and boorish unsociality, there were nothing but praises of English frankness and cordial simplicity. I saw that the Government, for doubtless good reasons of its own, had given the initiative to this new estimation of my countrymen; and resolved, if possible, to reap the benefit of it, I repaired to the Mairie and asked to see the “Maire.” In a few words, I told him that I had laid a heavy wager to travel up to Paris and back to England without a passport; that I had made this foolish bet at a dinner-party, which I quitted to accomplish my undertaking. My intention had been to have landed at Havre; but, by ill-luck, we were driven on shore to the north’ard, and narrowly escaped shipwreck; from which having saved myself, I reached Lys, destitute of everything save a small sum of money I carried about me. I told this story with the air of one who really felt that any impediment to so harmless a project must be impossible, and with such success that the Maire invited me into his drawing-room to repeat my tale to his family, as an excellent illustration of the length to which English eccentricity could go.

My manners, the facility with which I spoke French, my calm assurance of not requiring any other aid or assistance than the friendly offices of the authorities, so gained his favor that he promised to think over the matter, and give me his opinion in the morning. I asked for no more. I was not impatient to get forward; and at that moment the little grass-grown streets and alleys of Lys were as pleasing to me as the most fashionable thoroughfares of a great city.

He did not send for me, as he promised, on the following morning. A second day and a third passed over with the same results; and still I remained loitering about the village and making acquaintance with every notable monument, from its quaint old church to the little obelisk in the marketplace, commemorating the birthplace of its great citizen, the architect Mansard.

I had by this time formed two or three slight acquaintanceships with the townsfolk, who, although living on a high road much traversed by travellers, were a simple-minded and maritime set of people. The little routine of this quaint old spot also pleased me; and I persuaded myself that I should ask nothing better from fortune than to be able to pass my life and end my days in Lys. Vast numbers of English poured daily into France at this time; and it was one of my chief amusements to sit at the little café in front of the “poste,” and watch them as they changed horses. I do not suppose that even yet our countrymen escape from what would appear to be the almost inevitable blunders of foreign travel; but at the time I speak of, these mistakes and misapprehensions were far greater. The Continent and its languages were alike new to them. National peculiarities were all more marked, and John Bull himself less compliant and more exacting than he now is.

As the temper and tone of the day were, however, favorable to England, and as Englishmen were remarkable for the liberality of their payments for all services rendered them, the nation was popular, and whatever errors or awkwardness they committed were speedily forgotten or forgiven. I was seated, as was my custom, one morning, watching the tide of travellers that rolled by unceasingly, when a large travelling carriage, with eight horses and a mounted courier in front, drew up at the “poste.” While the horses were being harnessed, two gentlemen descended, and, crossing the “Place,” entered the café. One was a large, full, and somewhat handsome man, with that florid look and air so characteristic of an English country squire; the other I had not time to remark ere he came up to me and said, —

“Happy to meet you again, Mr. Carew; I trust you don’t forget me.’”

It was Colonel Canthorpe, whom I had met at O’Kelly’s dinner-table.

“This chance meeting is a piece of good fortune,” continued he, “since it enables me to pay a debt I owe you. On looking over my memorandum-book, I discovered I had lost three hundred, and not two, to you. Am I correct?”

I professed, with truth, that I had no recollection of the matter, nor had anything to guide me to its memory.

“I’m quite positive that I’m right, however,” said he, “and you must allow me to acquit myself of the obligation. Who is your banker at Paris?”

I had to say that so many years had passed over since I was there, I really had not thought of selecting one.

“But you are going on thither?” asked he.

“Yes, in a day or two; that is, as soon as I have arranged a difficulty about my passport.”

“If that’s the only thing that detains you,” said he, “pray accept of mine. In travelling with my friend Mr. Fox, I need none.”

I turned at the sound of the name, and at once recognized, by the resemblance to the prints, the bluff and manly features of the great leader of the Opposition.

“This is our famous whist-player, Fox, Mr. Carew,” said Canthorpe, presenting me; and the other rose and received me most courteously, adding some little compliments on my reputed skill at the game.

While we were yet talking, their breakfast made its appearance, and I was invited to partake of the meal, – a politeness which I accepted of readily, while I congratulated myself by thinking that up to this time at least O’Kelly had not divulged the secret of my former station.

The conversation turned principally on France and its relations with England; and I was surprised to find the great parliamentary leader so little acquainted with either the character of the people or of those who ruled them. He seemed willing to accept all the present civil overtures as guarantees of lasting and cordial friendship, and to regard as antiquated and unworthy prejudices those expressions of distrust to which, in my more intimate knowledge of France, I occasionally gave utterance.

“Mr. Carew’s whist experiences, I perceive’,” said he, “are not his guides in politics. He will not trust his partner.”

“There is this difference,” said I, “that in whist you sit opposite to your ally: in politics, as in war, your vis-à-vis is your enemy.”

“For my part,” said he, good-humoredly, “I think, having fought against each other – bravely fought, as France and England have – is one of the very best elements towards a lasting peace. Each must by this time have attained to a proper estimate of the other; and from that source alone a degree of respect springs up, fit to become the foundation of true friendship.”

“Your theory excludes all notion of a rivalry, sir.”

“Rivalry can exist only between small states or individuals. Great countries have great ambitions, and these are usually above mere rivalries.”

I have quoted, word for word, the expressions he made use of, less for any importance of their own than for the sake of the man who spoke them. They were, as I afterwards came to know, specimens of that careless habit of talking in which he constantly indulged, and in which an indolent goodnature rather swayed him than the use of those fine faculties of judgment he so eminently possessed. My more intimate acquaintance with France and its language gave me certain advantages in our discussion which he soon perceived, and he questioned me closely about the people and their natural tendencies.

Colonel Canthorpe came twice to announce that the horses were ready, and yet still Mr. Fox stood, inquiring eagerly into points of which he confessed himself quite uninformed.

“How glad I should be,” said he, “to have an opportunity of continuing this conversation. Is there any chance of our meeting at Paris?”

I owned that the expression of his wish on the subject quite decided me to go there.

“On what day, then, may I expect you? Shall we say Saturday, and at dinner?”

“Most willingly,” said I, “if I can accomplish it.”

“As to the passport, nothing easier,” said Canthorpe. “This is mine – it is perfectly regular – requires no visé; and once in Paris, my friend here will obtain one for you in your own name.”

“Just so,” said Fox, shaking my hand cordially; and repeating “Saturday – Quillac’s Hotel,” away he went, leaving me almost incredulous of all I had seen and been saying.

CHAPTER XLII. THE COMING SHADOW

I arrived in Paris a few days after, and took up my abode at the Hôtel Quillac, then one of the most splendid in the capital. Mr. Fox and Colonel Canthorpe received me most courteously, willingly accepting my guidance in their visits to the various objects of interest that this glorious city contains. Such a knowledge of the language as I possessed was a rarer gift at that time than it now is, when education and foreign travel are so widely enjoyed; and I could plainly see that they regarded their chance acquaintanceship with me as quite a piece of good fortune. This did not, however, prevent their feeling – as I could perceive they felt – a most lively curiosity as to what might have been my former life, where it had been passed, and how. Too well bred to suffer this anxiety of theirs to appear, except by a mere accident, yet it was evident to me, by a hundred little circumstances, how it formed a constant subject of conversation between them.

I am far from implying that their intercourse with me was marked by anything like distrust or suspicion; on the contrary, they talked freely in my presence on every subject, and upon politics Mr. Fox especially spoke with a degree of openness that, had he been less distinguished, I should have presumed to call indiscreet. He made almost daily visits at the Tuileries, and never hesitated, on his return, to recount to us what had passed between the First Consul and himself.

The manly character of the English statesman contributed to give the interviews many very interesting traits, to which also his imperfect knowledge of French lent several amusing features. Were I not afraid of repeating well-known anecdotes, I should avail myself of this opportunity to recall some instances of these. At all events, I am happy to have the occasion of saying that the veriest Tory that ever inveighed against France never had a more thoroughly English heart and spirit than Charles Fox. I have seen it imputed to him that in his partisanship he would willingly have accepted a dishonorable peace, and made common cause with the First Consul on any terms; and I affirm that I am in a position to refute this foul charge, and prove it a calumny.

Neither, as was asserted at the time, did the unquestionable fascination of Bonaparte’s manner gain a complete ascendancy over the Englishman’s less-cultivated tact. It is true he came back – as who would not? – from these meetings amazed at the extensive knowledge, the vast acquirements, and the profound sagacity of that great man; nor did he hesitate to own that even these were thrown into the shade by the charms of his manner and the captivation of an address which I believe at that period had reached its very point of perfection.

An attack of gout confined Mr. Fox for some time to his room, and thus interfered with the progress of an intimacy that might be fairly called friendship. Who can say now how far the highest interests of mankind, the fortunes of the whole world, may not have been influenced by that casual indisposition! It is certain that Fox had already been able to disabuse Bonaparte’s mind with regard to a variety of things in which he judged erroneously. He had succeeded in setting him right on several points of our national spirit and the spirit of our constitution. He had even done much towards convincing him that England was not inspired with an insane hatred to France, and would willingly live at peace with her, only asking that a peace should have guarantees for its duration, and not be, as it but too often is, but the interval of preparation for war. I say then again what a change might there have been to the destinies of mankind, had this intercourse gone on uninterruptedly! How differently might Bonaparte have learned to regard and consider Englishmen, and what allowances might he not have come to make for peculiarities purely national!