Читать книгу The Old Chelsea Bun-House: A Tale of the Last Century - Anne Manning - Страница 9

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Ah! how sorry a Thing is it, when a Man's Absence from his own Home is felt by all the Household to be a Relief! My poor Father kept his Word, of not coming nigh us, for a good While; and, could we have been assured of his being well, and doing well, there would have been no Alloy to our Comfort under the Deprivation, however we might feel ashamed to acknowledge it.

The unfortunate Habit of buying Things he did not want, had become a Kind of Disease, that I verily think he could no longer controul; but it might have been checked in its first Beginnings in early Life, for it could not have been born with him. How careful should People be to shun the first Temptations to needless and lawless Expenditure! instead of putting themselves in the Way of it, as I am free to say many do, out of mere Wantonness. 'Tis they that keep up our Lace-Shops and Auctions, on whose Spoils unprincipled Dealers grow rich, while honester People cannot get their Bills paid by them, and so are ruined. Lady Betty's Man had scarce left us, when I went to my Father's Wardrobe, to put away some Linen I had been repairing; when, in one of the Drawers, I came upon five Pairs of red Silk Stockings, worth eight or ten Shillings the Pair, that had never been so much as put on! He had bought them, years ago, to wear with his Sad-coloured Coat and Scarlet Waistcoat; but the Fashion for them had already gone by, and one Pair would have sufficed a Man that needed 'em so seldom; whereas, I warrant, he took an Half-Dozen.

To return to the Matter in Hand. When I carried Mr. Fenwick his Chocolate and Rusks, I found him with Writing Implements and Papers all about, hurriedly affixing his fine Carnelion Seal to a somewhat bulky Packet. I said, "Dear Heart, Sir, are you prudent, do you think, in writing so much?"

"If you cut me off from writing, Mrs. Patty," says he, with his pleasant Smile, "pray what do you leave me? I am already forbidden to talk, I am unable to walk, and I cannot always be reading. Oblige me by porting this Packet by a safe Hand; or stay, here is a Shilling for a special Messenger, if you will find one."

I said, "I will, Sir," and happening to cast my Eye absently on the Superscription of the Packet as I withdrew, I saw that it was addressed to Mr. Paul Caryl, Will's Coffee-House, which struck me, as I knew not that he was any Acquaintance of Mr. Fenwick's.

Mrs. Gatty continued exceeding ill all that Day, her Tongue forked and crimson-red, her Eyes wandering, and her Deliration incessantly finding Vent in an incoherent Babble, of which few Words could be made out, so thick and quick was her Voice. When Dr. Elwes saw her next, he shook his Head, and laying his Hand kindly on my Shoulder, "You are in for it now, Mrs. Patty," says he. "I don't believe you will take Infection, but it may be as well to keep yourself to yourself, and not go below, especially to your younger Sister. This poor Thing's Fever will turn in a few Days; and in the mean Time, you must continue to be what you have begun, by being a good Samaritan." I dropped a few Tears to hear him talk thus, but he bade me by no Means to give Way to low Spirits, but take plenty of generous Nourishment; and he would set them on their Guard below, without frightening them. He also said somewhat of an hired Nurse, but I begged him not to think of it, unless indeed I should fall sick myself, and then I would rather have one than endanger Prue.

When he was gone, I kneeled down and prayed; then rose with much Composure and sat down to my Work, which was making a Net to keep the Flies from the Pastry, occasionally laying it aside to render the poor Sufferer what Attention she required.

By and by I heard the Tap of my dear Mother's Walking-Stick, coming up the Stairs; but I would by no Means let her in, only spoke to her through the Door, as cheerfully as I could, and bade her take Care of dear Prue and her dear Self.

The next few Days and Nights were very trying. I obtained a nearer Sight of the dark Valley we must all pass through soon or late than I had ever done before. It seemed to throw an entirely different Hue over the Face of natural and spiritual Things, and to shew the littleness of many Things that are commonly considered great, and the greatness of many that are considered little.

At length the Fever took a Turn, and poor Gatty opened her Eyes with a Look that had Sense and Recognition in it. She said, "Oh me, how weak I am! Are you still here, dear Mrs. Patty? How strange it seems to me to be lying a-bed without hearing my Lady pulling her Bell, and rapping the Floor with her Slipper!"

I bent over her and kissed her wan Lips, which she requited by a thankful Smile, and then dozed off into what I was ready to believe was a restoring Sleep. I was very desirous not to disturb it, so sat perfectly still at my Netting, close to the open Window, through which the warm Summer Air came refreshingly, without waving the white Curtains of the Bed. Mr. Fenwick's Window, which was also open, was immediately below; and through it I could hear Voices, and what they were saying. I should remark that I afterwards learnt from Prue, that, from the Time of my confining myself above Stairs, Mr. Fenwick, upon whom it had been her Portion to wait, had been uncommon restless and fidgetty.

He so seldom received a Visitor, that I was surprised to hear a Man's Voice in his Chamber. Nor did I at first think I had ever heard it before.

Prue had probably announced the Name without its reaching me; for the first Exclamation I heard was from Mr. Fenwick, who appeared to start from the Window-Seat, with, "Sir!—This Condescension confers both Honour and Pleasure!"

"Don't name it," said the other easily, "the Pleasure is mine. I came to see the ingenious Madman to whom I was indebted for the Letter and the Manuscript."

"Madman?" repeated Mr. Fenwick, deprecatingly.

"Yes, Madman," reiterated the other, "for who, in his Senses, would address a Poem to a Patron almost as penniless as himself?"

"Sir, there are other Claims to Reverence," replied Mr. Fenwick, "besides those of Wealth."

"Truly I hope so," replied his Visitor, "but I don't know that they are germane to the present Question. You write a Poem; you want a Mecænas; and instead of addressing a laudatory Dedication to some Peer of Mark and Magnitude, you light upon a poor Brother Witling and Authorling like myself."

"Your Courtesy lessens not the Distance between us," said Mr. Fenwick; "you are a recognised Wit and successful Man of Letters; I only a poor Aspirant."

"Aye, Man, but Wits don't make one another's Fortunes. Shakspeare, Spenser, and Jonson, did not dedicate to one another. Shakspeare had his Southampton; Spenser his Raleigh, Sidney, Hatton, Burleigh, a whole Cloud or Galaxy of Sponsors."

"There's something wrong and humiliating in the System," said Mr. Fenwick.

"Something rotten in the State of Denmark?" said the other. "Truly there is! Shakspeare may have unfeignedly admired Southampton and Spenser Sidney; but the relation between Patron and Client has degenerated into Something unworthy of free, upright Minds. Does my Thought jump with yours?"

"It does, I confess to you. I am poor; most of our Fraternity are. I am cut off from my professional Duties, and have employed a Season of Leisure, and cheated some Hours of Languor, by what, it must be owned, I composed for downright Pleasure rather than for Gain. Yet a Man does not willingly let his cherished Thoughts die."

"Certainly not."

"Therefore I aspired to see mine in Print; inscribed not to some bloated Peer, more competent to decide on the Merits of a Pipe of Bordeaux than of an Ode by Horace, but to some one whose Genius and turn of Thought I sincerely admired."

"Mr. Fenwick, have you a private Fortune?"

"Oh no, Sir ... only a poor Curacy of fifty Pounds a Year."

"Your Tastes are expensive, let me tell you, for a poor Man. Had you writ your Dedication to my Lord Earlstoke instead of to me, he might have given you twenty Pounds!"

"I would rather have burned my Poem."

"Sir Charles Sefton might have given you thirty."

"But had I said to him what I have said to you, it would have been a Lie."

"Pooh! you are too nice. Why, Man, I have writ Dedications myself. I know the Market-Value of these Things. Moreover, the Booksellers will laugh at you, and probably will refuse to print."

"Well, Sir, no great Harm done; I shall be disappointed, but not heartbroken. Happy for me, I am not writing for Bread."

"Hark ye, Mr. Fenwick—"

And I could not catch the Sense nor Connexion of what followed. Mr. Caryl seemed to lead away quite from the Subject in Hand to College Matters, and asking Mr. Fenwick's Opinion about this and t'other Poet; for such I took 'em to be, because they got upon such Names as Lucretius and Catullus, and others ending in us, the which I had seen tagged to the Mottoes of the Tatler and Spectator. And they seemed to talk over their Merits, and declare their own Opinions of them, which did not agree, because I heard Mr. Caryl laugh at Mr. Fenwick for battling so stoutly with his Patron. Then they got on to Greek Play-Writers, I think, and seemed more of a Mind, and to warm mightily and spout favourite Passages, each inciting and kindling the other, so that 'twas quite pleasant to hear 'em, even without understanding a Word of what they were saying; and I was glad Mr. Fenwick had Company so much to his Mind, that would make the Morning fly away so fast; and only hoped he might not over-exert himself, and suffer for it afterwards. Then I fell to thinking that if such were his Tastes and Capacities, what a wide, wide Barrier there must be between his cultivated Mind and our uncultivated Minds, and how trite and poor must seem to him the very best Remarks that we could offer! And while I was pursuing this Thought, and forgetting to hearken to their Discourse, I was recalled to it all at once by hearing Mr. Caryl say,

"This won't do; I must be off. Good Day, Sir!"

And, in shaking Hands with Mr. Fenwick, I suppose he endeavoured to leave a Purse in his Hand; for I heard Mr. Fenwick quite energetically say:

"Oh no! No indeed! I cannot think of it for a Moment! It must not be so!"

And the other; "Nay, but it must be so! For once, you must flatter my Vanity by letting me fancy myself a Lord Earlstoke."

"That would, on the contrary, be to humble your Vanity. In a Word, Sir, I cannot! you must grant me my Pride, instead of pretending to gratify your Vanity; and my Pride is to be a free Man, and speak the Truth unpaid."

"Well, you are an Eccentricity. I'm afraid you won't find it answer in the long Run. I'll tell you what I'll do; for I must do Something. Cave will flout at the very idea of publishing Poems with such a Dedication as yours; permit me the Use of your Manuscript for a Day or two. I'll read a Passage of it here and there at my Coffee-House, and ditto at Dodsley's, sing its Praises, and make a Mystery of its Author; instead of offering it him for Publication, I'll wait till he makes Advances to me. See if that won't do!"

"Mr. Caryl, you are making me your Slave—I mean, your Debtor, for Life!"

"Why, a Debtor is a sort of Slave to his Creditor, you free Man! See how soon you are chained! However, don't let us reckon our Chickens before they are hatched. The Plan may take, or may fail. Farewell."

And I heard him lightly run down Stairs; and looking softly out of my Window, I could see Mr. Fenwick leaning on his Window-Sill, his Cheek resting on his Hand, in profound and, I doubt not, blissful Reverie. Perhaps a Man more peacefully happy than he was at that Moment did not exist.