Post captain, page 33
from the Teapot! And even if it rains all the time, there is the Pavilion - how I long to see the Pavilion.’
‘Was not candour the soul of friendship, I should say, “Why Villiers, I am sure it will delight you,” affecting not to know that you were there last week.’
‘Who told you?’ she asked, her bread and butter poised.
‘Babbington was there with his parents.’
‘Well, I never said I had not been - it was just a flying visit - I did not see the Pavilion. That is what I meant. Do not be disagreeable, Maturin: we have been so pleasant all the way. Did he mention it in public?’
‘He did. Jack was much concerned. He thinks Brighton a very dissolute town, full of male and female rakes - a great deal of temptation. He does not like the Prince of Wales, either. There is an ill-looking smear of butter on your chin.’
‘Poor Jack,’ said Diana, wiping it off. ‘Do you remember- oh how long ago it seems - I told you he was little more than a huge boy? I was pretty severe about it: I preferred something more mature, a fully-grown man. But how I miss all that fun and laughter! What has happened to his gaiety? He is growing quite a bore. Preaching and moralizing. Maturin, could you not tell him to be less prosy? He would listen to you.’
‘I could not. Men are perhaps less free with such recommendations than you imagine. In any case I am very sorry to say we are no longer on such terms that I could venture anything of the kind - if indeed we ever were. Certainly not since last Sunday’s dinner. We still play a little music together now and then, but it is damnably out of tune.’
‘It was not a very successful dinner: though I took such care with the pudding. Did he say anything?’
‘In my direction? No. But he made some illiberal flings at Jews in general.’
‘That was why he was so glum, then. I see.’
‘Of course you see. You are not a fool, Villiers. The preference was very marked.’
‘Oh no, no, Stephen. It was only common civility. Canning was the stranger, and you two were old friends of the house; he had to sit beside me, and be attended to. Oh, what is that bird?’
‘It is a wheatear. We have seen between two and three hundred since we set out, and I have told your their name twice, nay, three times.’
The postillion reined in, twisted about and asked whether the gentleman would like to see another dew-pond? There was one not a furlong off.
‘I cannot make it out,’ said Stephen, climbing back into the chaise. ‘The dew, per se, is inconsiderable; and yet they are full. They are always full, as the frog bears witness. She does not spawn in your uncertain, fugitive ponds; her tadpoles do not reach maturity in your mere temporary puddle; and yet here they are -, holding out a perfect frog the size of his little finger nail - ‘by the hundred, after three weeks of drought.’
‘He is entrancing,’ said Diana. ‘Pray put him out, on the grass. Do you think I may ask what this delightful smell is, without being abused?’
‘Thyme,’ said Stephen absently. ‘Mother of thyme, crushed by our carriage-wheels.’
‘So Aubrey is bound for the Baltic,’ said Diana, after a while. ‘He will not have this charming weather. I hate the cold.’
‘The Baltic and northwards: just so,’ said Stephen, recollecting himself. ‘Lord, I wish I were going with him. The eider-duck, the phalarope, the narwhal! Ever since I was breeched I have pined to see a narwhal.’
‘What will happen to your patients when you are gone?’
‘Oh, they have sent me a cheerful brisk noisy good-natured foolish young man with scrofulous ears - a vicious habit of body - to be my assistant. Those who are not dead will survive him.’
‘And where are you going now? Lord, Stephen, how prying and inquisitive I am. Just like my aunt Williams. I trust I have not been indiscreet.’
‘Oh,’ cried Stephen, suddenly filled with a strong temptation to tell her that he was going to be landed on the Spanish coast at the dark of the moon - the classical temptation of the secret agent in his loneliness, but one that he had never felt before. ‘Oh, ’tis only a dismal piece of law-business. I shall go to town first, then to Plymouth, and so perhaps to Ireland for a while.’
‘To town? But Brighton is quite out of your way - I had imagined you had to go to Portsmouth, when you offered me a lift. Why have you come so far out of your way?’
‘The dew-ponds, the wheatears, the pleasure of driving over grass.’
‘What a dogged brute you are, Maturin, upon my honour,’ said Diana. ‘I shall lay out for no more compliments.’
‘No, but in all sadness,’ said Stephen, ‘I like sitting in a chaise with you; above all when you are like this. I could wish this road might go on for ever.’
There was a pause; the chaise was filled with waiting, but he did not go on, and after a moment she said with a forced laugh, ‘Well done, Maturin. You are quite a courtier. But I am afraid I can see its end already. There is the sea, and this must be the beginning of the Devil’s Punchbowl. And will you really drive me up to the door in style? I thought I should have to arrive in a pair of pattens
- I brought them in that little basket with the flap. I am so grateful; and you shall certainly have your narwhal. Pray, where are they to be had? At the poulterer’s, I suppose.’
‘You are too good, my dear. Would you be prepared to reveal the address at which you are to be set down?’
‘Lady Jersey’s, in the Parade.’
‘Lady Jersey’s?’ She was the Prince of Wales’s mistress: and Canning was a member of that set.
‘She is a Villiers cousin by marriage, you know,’ said Diana quickly. ‘And there is nothing in those vulgar newspaper reports. They like one another: that is all. Why, Mrs Fitzherbert is devoted to her.’
‘Ay? Sure, I know nothing of these things. Will I tell you about poor Macdonald’s arm, now?’
‘Oh, do,’ cried Diana. ‘I have been longing to ask, ever since we left Dover.’
They parted at Lady Jersey’s door, having said nothing more, amidst the flurry of servants and baggage: tension, artificial smiles.
‘A gentlemen to see Miss Williams,’ said Admiral Haddock’s butler.
‘Who is it, Rowley?’ asked Sophia.
‘The gentleman did not mention his name, ma’am. A sea-officer, ma’am. He asked for my master, and then for Miss Williams, so I showed him into the library.’
‘Is he a tall, very good-looking midshipman?’ asked Cecilia. ‘Are you sure he did not ask for me?’
‘Is he a commander?’ asked Sophia, dropping her roses.
‘The gentleman is in a cloak, ma’am: I could not see his rank. He might be a commander, though - not a midshipman, oh no, dear me. He come in a four-horse shay.’
From the library window Stephen saw Sophia run-fling across the lawn, holding up her skirt and trailing rose-petals. She took the steps up to the terrace three at a time: ‘A deer might have taken them with such sweet grace,’ he observed. He saw her stop dead and close her eyes for a second when she understood that the gentleman in the library was Dr Maturin; but she opened the door with hardly a pause and cried, ‘What a delightful surprise! How kind to come to see us. Are you in Plymouth? I thought you were ordered for the Baltic.’
‘The Polychrest is in the Baltic,’ he said, kissing her heartily. ‘I am on leave of absence.’ He turned her to the light and observed, ‘You are looking well - very well
- quite a remarkable pink.’
‘Dear, dear Dr Maturin,’ she said, ‘you really must not salute young ladies like that. Not in England. Of course I am pink - scarlet, I dare say. You kissed me!’
‘Did I, my dear? Well, no great harm. Do you take your porter?’
‘Most religiously, in a silver tankard: I almost like it, now. What may I offer you? The admiral always takes his grog about this time. Are you in Plymouth for long? I do hope you will stay.’
‘If you could give me a cup of coffee, you would do me a most essential service. I lay at Exeter, and they gave me the vilest brew. . . No, I am on the wing - I sail with this tide - but I did not like to pass without paying my respects. I have been travelling since Friday, and to sit with my friends for half an hour is a charming respite.
‘Since Friday? Then perhaps you have not heard the splendid news?’
‘Never a word, at all.’
‘The Patriotic Fund have voted Captain Aubrey a sword of a hundred guineas, and the merchants a piece of plate, for destroying the Bellone. Is it not splendid news?
Though no more than he deserves, I am sure - indeed, not nearly enough. Will he be promoted, do you think?’
‘For a letter of marque, a privateer? No. And he does not look for it. Promotion is the very devil these days. There are not enough ships to go round. Old Jarvie did not build them, but he did make men post. So we have herds of unemployed captains; shoals of unpromoted commanders.’
‘But none so deserving as Captain Aubrey,’ said Sophia, dismissing the rest of the Navy List. ‘You have not told me how he is.’
‘Nor have you asked after your cousin Diana.’
‘How shocking of me; I beg your pardon. I hope she is quite well.’
‘Very well. In charming spirits. We drove from Dover to Brighton together some days ago: she is to spend a week with Lady Jersey.’
It was clear that Sophia had never heard of Lady Jersey. She said, ‘I am so glad. No one can be better company than Diana when she is in - ’she quickly changed ‘a good temper’ to a weak ‘in charming spirits.’
‘As for Jack, I am sorry to say I cannot congratulate him upon charming spirits; nor indeed upon any spirits at all. He is unhappy. His ship is a very miserable vessel; his admiral is a scrub; he has a great many worries ashore and afloat. And I tell you bluntly, my dear, he is jealous of me and I of him. I love him as much as I have loved any man, but often these last months I have wondered whether we can stay in the same ship without fighting. I am no longer what small comfort I was to him, but a present irritation and a constraint - our friendship is constrained. And the tension, cooped up in a little small ship day after day, is very great - covert words, the risk of misunderstanding, watching the things we say or even sing. It is well enough when we are far out in the ocean. But with Channel service, in and out of the Downs - no, it cannot last.’
‘Does he know of your feelings for Diana? Surely not. Surely, to his best friend, he would never. . . He loves you dearly.’
‘Oh, as to that - yes, I believe he does, in his own way; and I believe if he had never been led into this by a series of unhappy misunderstandings, he would never have “crossed my hawse”, as he would put it. As for his knowing the nature of my feelings, I like to think he does not. Certainly not with any sharp clarity, in the forefront of his mind. Jack is not quick in such matters; he is not in any way an analytical thinker, except aboard a ship in action: but light creeps in, from time to time.’
They were interrupted by the appearance of the coffee, and for some time they sat without speaking, each deep in thought.
‘You know, my dear,’ said Stephen, stirring his cup, ‘where women are concerned, a man is very helpless against direct attack. I do not mean in the nature of a challenge, which of course he is bound in honour to take up, but in the nature of a plain statement of affection.’
‘I could not, could not possibly write to him again.’
‘No. But if for example the Polychrest were to put in here, which is very likely in the course of the summer, you could perfectly well ask, or the Admiral could ask him to give you and your sister a lift to the Downs - nothing more usual - nothing more conducive to an understanding.’
‘Oh, I could never do so. Dear Dr Maturin, do but think how immodest, how pushing - and the risk of a refusal. I should die.’
‘Had you seen his tears over your kindness, your hampers, you would not speak of refusal. He was all a-swim.’
‘Yes, you told me in your dear letter. But no, really, it is quite impossible - unthinkable. A man might do so, but for a woman it is quite impossible.’
‘There is much to be said for directness.’
‘Oh, yes, yes! There is. Everything would be so much simpler if one only said what one thought, or felt. Tell me,’ she said shyly, after a pause, ‘may I say something to you, perhaps quite improper and wrong?’
‘I should take it very friendly in you, my dear.’
‘Then if you were perfectly direct with Diana, and proposed marriage to her, might not we all be perfectly happy? Depend upon it, that is what she expects.’
‘I? Make her an offer? My dearest Sophie, you know what kind of a match I am. A little ugly small man, with no name and no fortune. And you know her pride and ambition and connections.’
‘You think too little of yourself, indeed you do. Far, far too little. You are much too humble. In your own way you are quite as good looking as Captain Aubrey - everybody says so. Besides, you have your castle.’
‘Honey-love, a castle in Spain is not a castle in Kent. Mine is mostly ruin - the sheep shelter in the part with a roof. And the great part of my land is mere mountain; even in peace-time it hardly brings me in two or three hundred English pounds a year.’
‘But that is plenty to live on. If she loves you just a little, and I cannot see how any woman could not, she would be delighted with an offer.’
‘Your sweet partiality blinds you, my dear. And as for love - love, that amiable, unmeaning word - however you may define it, I do not believe she knows what it is, as you told me once yourself. Affection, kindness, friendship, good nature sometimes, yes: beyond that, nothing. No. I must wait. It may come, perhaps; and in any case, I am content to be a pis aller. I too know how to wait. I dare not risk a direct refusal - perhaps a contemptuous refusal.’
‘What is a pis aller?’
‘What one accepts when one can do no better. It is my only hope.’
‘You are too humble. Oh, you are. I am sure you are mistaken. Believe me, Stephen: I am a woman, after all.’
‘Besides, I am a Catholic, you know. A Papist.’
‘What does that matter, above all to her? Anyhow, the Howards are Catholics - Mrs Fitzherbert is a Catholic.’
‘Mrs Fitzherbert? How odd you should mention her. My dear, I must go. I thank you for your loving care of me. I may write again? There was no unkindness because of my letters?’
‘None. I do not mention them.’
‘Not for a month or so, however: and perhaps I may pass by Mapes. How is your Mama, your sisters? May I ask after Mr Bowles?’
‘They are very well, thank you. As for him,’ she said, with a flash of her eye, the calm grey growing fierce, ‘I sent him about his business. He became impertinent -“Can it be that your affections are engaged elsewhere?” says he. “Yes, sir, they are,” I replied. “Without your mother’s consent?” he cried, and I desired him to leave the room at once. It was the boldest thing done this age.’
‘Sophie, your very humble servant,’ said Stephen, standing up. ‘Pray make my compliments to the Admiral.’
‘Too humble, oh far too humble,’ said Sophie, offering her cheek.
Tides, tides, the Cove of Cork, the embarkation waiting on the moon, a tall swift-pacing mule in the bare torrid mountains quivering in the sun, palmetto-scrub, Señor don Esteban Maturin y Domanova kisses the feet of the very reverend Lord Abbot of Montserrat and begs the honour of an audience. The endless white road winding, the inhuman landscape of Aragon, cruel sun and weariness, dust, weariness to the heart, and doubt. What was independence but a word? What did any form of government matter? Freedom: to do what? Disgust, so strong that he leant against the saddle, hardly able to bring himself to mount. A shower on the Maladetta, and everywhere the scent of thyme: eagles wheeling under thunder-clouds, rising, rising. ‘My mind is too confused for anything
but direct action,’ he said. ‘The flight disguised as an advance.’
The lonely beach, lanterns flashing from the offing, an infinity of sea. Ireland again, with such memories at every turn. ‘If I could throw off some of this burden of memory,’ said Stephen to his second glass of laudanum, ‘I should be more nearly sane. Here’s to you, Villiers, my dear.’ The Holyhead mail and two hundred and seventy miles of rattling jerking, falling asleep, waking in another country: rain, rain, rain: Welsh voices in the night. London, and his report, trying to disentangle the strands of altruism, silliness, mere enthusiasm, self-seeking, love of violence, personal resentment; trying too to give the impossible plain answer to the question ‘Is Spain going to join France against us, and if so, when?’ And there he was in Deal once more, sitting alone in the snug of the Rose and Crown, watching the shipping in the Downs and drinking a pot of tea: he had an odd detachment from all this familiar scene - the uniforms that passed outside his bow-window were intimately well known, but it was as though they belonged to another world, a world at one or two removes, and as though their inhabitants, walking, laughing, talking out there on the other side of the pane were mute, devoid both of colour and real substance.
Yet the good tea (an unrivalled cholagogue), the muffin, the comfort of his chair, the ease and relaxation after these weeks and months of jading hurry and incessant motion
- tension, danger and suspicion too - insensibly eased him back into this frame, re-attached him to this life of which he had been an integral part. He had been much caressed at the Admiralty; a very civil, acute, intelligent old gentleman called in from the Foreign Office had said the most obliging things; and Lord Melville had repeatedly mentioned their sense of obligation, their desire to acknowledge it by some suitable expression of their esteem - any appointment, any request that Dr Maturin might choose to make would receive the most earnest and sympathetic consideration. He was recalling the scene and sipping his tea with little sounds of inward complacency when he saw Heneage Dundas stop on the pavement outside, shade his eyes, and peer in through the window, evidently looking for a friend. His nose came into contact with the glass, and its tip flattened into a pale disc. ‘Not unlike the foot of a gasteropod,’ observed Stephen, and when he had considered its loss of superficial circulation for a while he attracted Dundas’s attention, beckoning him in and offering him a cup of tea and a piece of muffin.
