Merivel: A Man of His Time

by Rose Tremain

  Ambrose had fallen silent. Now, he rose and said: ‘I see I have come at a bad time, Robert. Messengers and Letters need all your attention. Let me trouble you no longer.’

  ‘No, no!’ I said. ‘Business can wait. These are trifling matters, but your visit is not trifling. You said you had some things to show me in your wagon. Why do we not go and look at these now?’

  Placing Louise’s letter in the pocket of my coat, already feeling a kind of warmth radiating from it into my hand, I followed Ambrose out into the drive.

  Here, he folded back the canvas flaps of his wagon and what I saw, standing shoulder to shoulder like little trees in the cart, was great quantity of Dovecotes, painted all in different colours and with different designs to their roofs and nesting holes.

  ‘My word, Ambrose!’ I said. ‘How did you come by so many Dovecotes?’

  Ambrose reached in, took down one of them and set it on the gravel. It was painted white and it was, I had to admit, an object of some beauty, and reminded me all at once of the white doves, which still came to settle on the roof of my precious West Tower at Bidnold.

  Ambrose’s hand caressed its roof, which was made of Reed thatch. ‘I make them,’ he said. ‘With my last farthing, when I had my shelter at Ely with my brother, I bought cheap wood and began to fashion small things from it: bowls and ladles and simple boxes, and these I sold in the Market.

  ‘And people told me my work was fair. So I began upon designs for other things, but what I longed to make was these; I cannot tell you why.’

  ‘You longed to make them because they are beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, they are. And they have saved me. I live upon these. I no longer try to bring Souls to God. I bring birds to a place of refuge. I suppose it is a very small thing.’

  21

  I BOUGHT THREE dovecotes from Ambrose. The white one I kept for myself. The other two were painted a sweet grey-green and I intended to make gifts of them, in due time, to Violet Bathurst and to the King.

  Before he left, I asked Ambrose to tell me a little of what had become of Eleanor, Hannah and Daniel.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ambrose. ‘Well, their hearts were locked into our work at Whittlesea. You remember how dedicated they were to our Cause. When that Cause failed, they could not find any other thing to do, and before ten years had gone by, both Daniel and Hannah passed away.’

  ‘They died? Even as young as they were?’

  ‘They did, alas.’

  ‘Died of what, Ambrose?’

  ‘Of nothing in particular. Nothing that I know of. Merely that they – even as devout Quakers – could not find in themselves the means to continue, for all their True Endeavour had been taken away.’

  ‘Ah. The terror of finding that life no longer has any Meaning! How much I fear that state. And Eleanor?’

  ‘She found a good man to marry – a Quaker farmer. And they live from the earth and have raised a beautiful child. That is all I know.’

  ‘I am happy for her. She would have made a good mother. She was a kindly “mother” to me often enough!’

  Ambrose made no comment upon this, but turned and began searching again in his wagon. He then put into my hands a leather bag, which I immediately recognised.

  It had belonged to Pearce. Indeed, it had been a gift from me to him, long ago when we were both medical students at Cambridge and he a poor Sizar (forced to wait upon the Master and Fellows at table, to pay his way) with no money to his name and nothing in which to carry around his Work. I remembered that he used to wear the bag hanging round his neck, as though it might have been a horse’s Nosebag and all the Learning in it so much Hay, and the sight of him thus draped about used to give me much mirth.

  ‘When we left Whittlesea,’ said Ambrose, ‘I found this at the bottom of an old cupboard in what was once Pearce’s room. His clothes, such as they were, we had given to our Charges, but this remained where it lay. There is a book in the pouch, by Hieronymus Fabricius—’

  ‘Ah, the Great Fabricius!’

  ‘Yes. But a strange work: De brutorum loquela, published in Padua. Perhaps you know it?’

  ‘I know of it. The subject is interesting. Aristotle says in the Politics that Man is the only animal with the gift of Speech, but this is at least open to Question, and I imagine Fabricius is questioning it here.’

  ‘My Latin is not good enough to read it. I said to Eleanor and Hannah, “It should be given to Robert. It is what John would have wanted.”’

  ‘I am not certain about that, Ambrose,’ I said. ‘I expect you will remember that all John gave me, when he knew he was about to depart this world, was his soup ladle.’

  ‘Which you put into his grave …’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So now you have a treatise on the Language of Beasts. And the leather bag, though it is old, has the Stamp of Austell’s of Cambridge, so it is surely well made.’

  ‘I know it is. I bought it for John.’

  ‘Ah. Well, now it returns to you. Generosity sometimes moves in a circular direction.’

  Ambrose departed in his wagon. He left me with regret in my heart that I had not been more hospitable nor made something more of the visit. And though I had paid him well for the dovecotes, I knew that he was disappointed too, and as he drove away he turned on me a look of Severity. His horse had been neither fed nor watered.

  *

  Louise’s letter, which I had been so impatient to read that I had rudely cut short my time with Ambrose, lies on the floor. My lunch of Boiled Tongue and Carrots, for which I have no appetite, lies on its tray, congealing.

  I close my eyes. I yearn for Oblivion. But certain sentences in the letter keep returning to my mind: ‘I can only conclude, from your Silence, that what passed between us was of no real consequence to you.’ ‘I therefore think it best to consign our fleeting Amours to History.’ ‘Though I suggested you might come to me here in Switzerland, I see now that this Invitation was too hastily made, and so I must withdraw it.’

  Now I lie in bed, sipping Laudanum, my only Consolation.

  Bitterly I reproach myself that I had not replied to Louise’s letter but, Captive as I was, first to Margaret’s illness and then to the King’s presence in my house, I had truly been unable to travel to Louise – even in my mind. I had foolishly assumed that she would somehow comprehend this from afar and wait out the months until I could come to her again. But I had been wrong. She had not comprehended it. How could she? She had known nothing of what was occurring. And so, being hurt by my neglect, she had decided to let me slip away.

  On being told that I have eaten no lunch, Will comes to my room and stares reproachfully at the Laudanum jar.

  ‘You will be sick again, Sir Robert,’ he says.

  ‘I do not care,’ I say. ‘Indeed, I care about nothing on this Earth. It is certainly time that I left it.’

  Will fusses with my coverlet, trying to straighten it. ‘I remember that you uttered some Foolery about dying long ago,’ he says, ‘but you were in the Dining Room and I said to you, “Do not die here, Sir. It is not seemly. If you are determined to die, pray go somewhere else.”’

  ‘I am not in the Dining Room now, Will. I am in my Bed. This is as good a place as any.’

  ‘Well, if you must, Sir,’ says the impudent Will and goes out at once, leaving me to my fate, without any attempt to cajole me from it. I am stung by his sudden and unexpected Indifference. Stung to my core. Awash with self-pity, I fall asleep at last.

  I slept for twenty hours and woke feeling much restored, despite some clumsy dreams of Giraffes rampaging about my park.

  After a hearty breakfast of Porridge, followed by Bacon and Muffins, washed down with a little Ale, I gathered up the pages of Louise’s letter, took them to the Library and began to write as follows:

  My dear Louise,

  Oh what a wretch I am! But how much more wretched is this wretch made by your harsh words!

  May you not forgive me?

  I pray you, list
en to what I shall relate. My life, through Winter and Spring, was thrown into bitter confusion by the Severe Illness of my daughter Margaret, whom I helped to nurse through many weeks of agony, before, at last, she returned to Health and Life. It was all I could do to live out each day without Despair, to come only to short nights, full of Agony and Terror and I had neither Time nor Space …

  I had got thus far, buoyant upon the notion that this letter might turn everything round in Louise’s heart, when my Footman announced the arrival of a servant from Bathurst Hall, who urgently requested to see me.

  I asked that he be shown into the Library. By his sombre face I could tell that he had bad news for me and he blurted out that Lady Bathurst had been ‘struck down with Pain in her side and terrible Vomiting, and all she can say is that you must go to her at once’.

  Reluctantly I set aside my letter. As I did so, I began to wonder whether the world was not, in some guise, conspiring against me, interrupting me at every turn to prevent me from seeing Louise ever again. But now I had no choice but to go to Violet.

  I gathered together my Medical Instruments and such as remained of the Opium grains after my quaffings of Laudanum, and followed Violet’s servant to his coach, telling the Coachman to stop in Bidnold Village at the house of Mrs McKinley to collect her on our way.

  Thankful for my long sleep, which had left my mind clear, I now attempted to deduce, from the scant information that I had, what might be happening to Violet. I knew from my studies that a Cancer, though cut out from one part of the body, may sometimes mysteriously recur in another part, and that this second coming of Cancer may be more fatal than the first. When Mrs McKinley climbed into the coach I said to her: ‘We must pray this is but some slight infection and not a return of any Tumour.’

  To my dismay, Mrs McKinley said: ‘If you ask me, Sir Rabbit, ’tis a likely Return, or rather a Spreading, for to tell the truth, Lady Bathurst has never truly rallied since we took the Breast tumours out of her.’

  And then I thought, it is not only Louise I have neglected; I have been so occupied with Margaret’s going away to Court, and then with the loss of my Bear, that I have neglected everything and everyone else. I should have visited Violet many times, but I did not. And I thought how, whatever is neglected by man soon enough sickens or departs, and I said to Mrs McKinley: ‘I see what these times are: they are a Time of Leaving.’

  ‘Pray ’tis not so,’ said the kindly Irishwoman. ‘Pray to Our Lady, Sir Rabbit.’

  The moment I saw Violet I knew that she was dying.

  Her eyes, once so very beautiful, seemed to have retreated into her skull, as though trying to escape from seeing what was before them. Her cheeks were sunken, blueish in colour from the shadow of the cheekbone upon their poor cavity. Her thin hands clawed at the sheet.

  ‘Lord-a-Mercy,’ whispered Mrs McKinley, when we came into the room. ‘You were right, Sir. See how she claws …’

  I went to the bedside and sat down. The grey cat was in the room, but had retreated to one of the window seats, as though it knew that some Catastrophe had befallen its Mistress. Mrs McKinley stood a little apart, at the bed’s end. Violet looked up at me ardently, like one who is praying, and said in a faint, beleaguered voice: ‘Merivel, now all is sorrow.’

  I took her hand in mine and caressed it. For the moment I could find no words of consolation. After a little while I said: ‘Where is the pain?’

  ‘Entire,’ said Violet.

  ‘You mean that it is everywhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs McKinley now began to unpack my instrument bag. She took out the small glass Beakers I use for Cupping – burning the skin with their heated edges, so as to raise blisters on it, through which much poison may sometimes come out. I do not like performing this Cupping, for that it causes yet more suffering to the Patient, but I have also noted its beneficial qualities of Distraction, as well as of Evacuation. While the pain of the burning lasts, other symptoms may be masked by this.

  ‘We shall do a Cupping,’ I said to Violet and nodded to Mrs McKinley to make a flame to heat the glasses.

  While she did this, I persuaded Violet to let me examine the breast wound. When I unwound the Bandages I saw that this was healing well, with no sign of any new Tumour. But then I noted that Violet’s stomach was strangely swollen and lumped up, and when I put my hand there Violet screamed with pain.

  I stroked her hair. The thinness of her features troubled me so much, I wanted to put some veil or piece of Gauze over them, so that her skull would not be so visible to me. I found myself wishing that Violet Bathurst might have died on the night when the King made love to her. This, I thought, would have been a fitting end for her: a surfeit of delirium stopping her heart – not this wasting and falling in of the flesh.

  When the cups were readied, I gently turned Violet and unlaced her nightgown. Her back now lay before me, pale and thin, with each nub of Vertebra pressing up, as though yearning to break free of the skin.

  I laid my hand softly on her neck, to hold her still, while Mrs McKinley set down the Cups. When they began their terrible blistering, Violet reached out for me and clutched my knee.

  She began babbling to me of her old passion for me. I grew hot in the face with embarrassment when she reminded me of our Fornications on the staircase and how, at that time, nobody but I could give her the satisfaction she craved.

  I did not dare glance at Mrs McKinley, but only saw, at the corner of my eye, her deft hands continuing their work. And she uttered not a word.

  ‘’Tis the role of a Nurse,’ she had once said to me, ‘that she sometimes be deaf.’

  After reminding me of yet more violent Amours we had contrived together Violet said: ‘There was affection, too, Merivel. Very deep. I shall not call it love, yet love it almost was. And how many people can one veritably love in the world? Those we hate or despise far outnumber those we adore. Our souls are similar, yours and mine: always hungry, always frail. ’Tis quite miraculous we have both endured so long. I am content with that.’

  ‘This is not the end, Violet,’ I said to her. ‘We shall play more games of Shuttlecock … in the autumn …’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We shall not, Merivel. A Shuttlecock is light and I am heavy. I am falling to earth.’

  After the cupping we gave her the Opium, very strong and raw, made her as comfortable as we could and kept watch by her side. She soon enough slept.

  Mrs McKinley took out her Knitting and, as the day became evening, the clicking of her needles was the only sound.

  ‘What are you making?’ I asked her.

  ‘Merely a square, Sir Rabbit,’ she said softly. ‘See? Made of fine string, not wool. A square may become any Thing in the world you wish it to be.’

  Towards five o’clock, food was brought up to us from Chef Chinery: a plate of Cutlets in Gravy, a dish of Cabbage and Potatoes, and a flask of Cider.

  Both of us were hungry, so we set upon this meat and drink with great Attack, seated at a little table near the window. But I blush to relate that we ate so greedily, filling the air of the room with our slurpings and munchings, that we did not hear the constricted sounds of dying that Violet Bathurst began to make. The cat heard them and fled from the room. But I paid this no heed. I thought it was we who had chased the animal away.

  Only when I had scraped my plate clean and wiped my mouth with the fine Damask napkin did I look over at the bed, and see Violet’s eyes wide and staring and her jaw gaping. ‘She is gone,’ I said. ‘She is gone.’

  We went to her, and I closed her eyes and kissed her forehead, then Mrs McKinley bound her jaw with Buckram. After this binding, her work done, she got stiffly to her knees and took into her hands the wooden cross she wears ever about her neck.

  ‘Our Lady of Heaven,’ she said, ‘I pray you receive the soul of Lady Bathurst in your gentle heart. Forgive her all her trespasses. Let her rest in peace. And, if it please you, in your infinite mercy, look kindly on good Sir Rabbit wh
o is but a mortal man.’

  The evening was coming upon us, very soft and luminous, with all the white roses of the garden shining in the descending light.

  I walked to the lake and tried to picture the row boat, painted red, in which I had once ravished Violet, before falling into the water. I now remembered that when I fell, my Breeks were all a-tangle round my calves, preventing me from kicking out in a proper swimming stroke, and for a moment, in the icy lake, I thought that I would sink and drown.

  Then I saw an Oar come down to me, and I grabbed at this and felt the boat tilting above me, and expected Violet to come plunging in, with her skirts billowing out above the waterweed, but she did not. She held manfully to the Oar and I held to it too, and my head bobbed up and it was at this moment that I felt my Breeks slide off my legs and fall away.

  ‘Violet,’ I shouted, half choking and spouting water like a Whale, ‘I am naked below!’

  ‘So are we all!’ she cried, and her laughter sounded loud in the warm air.

  22

  THE SUMMER IS slowly passing.

  I languish in my bed, slave to fevers and dreams. To Will, who urges me to get up, I say: ‘I cannot. I have seen too much of Death. I must preserve my life by remaining here, to think my thoughts. Please make sure that I am left alone.’

  The August weather is fine and warm, and the trees I can see from my window have not yet turned to any autumn colour, nevertheless I note, from the way the leaves move and clatter, that all the Freshness is gone from them. They have had their season and will soon fall. And I reflect upon the way my mind and body have always longed for summer and warmth, and how, in this year 1684, I am letting these go by without taking any pleasure or comfort from them. And part of me recognises how stupid a thing this is; I should be walking in my garden to catch the last scent of the roses, or riding at an easy canter along the Chestnut allées, or hosting Picnic parties. But for none of these can I summon the necessary joy.

  I say to Will: ‘I am a leaf, Will, doomed to fall.’