by Alan Gold
And for her part, Flora had met so many important and interesting people, that she eagerly anticipated Mr. Richardson’s arrival. He was expected at any moment, and so she rearranged her dress and sat staring at the door to her salon. She had barely been seated for more than ten minutes, when she heard footsteps in the corridor. There was a knock on the door, and her maid walked in, introducing Mr. Richardson. He was much older and portlier than she’d expected. The writers who had come to meet her on previous occasions were generally young and raffish, full of their own self-importance, and talking at her rather than listening to what she had to say.
She had no way of knowing whether or not this was part of the writers’ trade, for Flora had never before met with anyone who had written anything, and she found their way of talking particularly exciting, especially writers who imagined stories about events that hadn’t happened. So when Mr. Richardson walked into the salon, puffing from the exertion of climbing the stairs, he really wasn’t what she expected. Indeed, he was of a very much more mature tendency than she could have imagined.
She stood as he entered, and her maid introduced them. He bowed; she bowed. They sat opposite each other, and the maid brought both of them tea while Mr. Richardson tried to compose himself from the long climb to the top of the tower, wheezing like an elderly ailing dog and constantly mopping his brow with a very large green kerchief.
“Forgive me, ma’am, but I’m not as young as once I was, and the steps were really very steep. I am no longer a well man, and my exertions afflict me. I am suffering from the gout and also from phlegmatic congestion of the lungs.”
He struggled to a seat, waved around his large kerchief, and wiped his forehead and face before saying, “How do you do, Mistress Macdonald. I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. You may or may not know this, but although I am not by any means a Jacobite, I have followed your trials and tribulations with a great deal of sympathy and believe that your incarceration in this nether region of Hades is a national disgrace. I have said so in a letter I wrote to Mr. Pelham, and I have also sent a copy of this same letter to the editor of the Daily Courant. In time, I hope to write also to Mr. Benjamin Franklin who has just begun to publish magazines in America, for our colonies should be informed about what their king is doing in their name to his citizens.”
“I thank you, sir, for your consideration,” she said.
He waved his hand in the air, as though it was a mere trifle. “To think of a lady in a delicate condition being incarcerated in a prison is unconscionable. It will not do!” he said, sipping his tea.
“Mr. Richardson, I am very grateful for your concern, but my plight is as nothing compared with the plight of other Scottish men and women who are daily being butchered by the Duke of Cumberland.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know all about the damnable duke and his nefarious activities. I’m not sure whether you’re familiar with the greatest voice of the English language, Mr. Shakespeare, but in one of his marvelous and profound speeches from his play concerning a certain Merchant of Venice, the person who portrays a judge says that mercy becomes the throne’d monarch better than his crown, the attribute of awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But then, ma’am, he goes on to say that mercy is above the sceptre’d sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute of God himself, and earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.
“Do you understand the import of that, Mistress Macdonald? Mercy must season and temper justice for we cannot live in a land which is devoid of morality. Further, ma’am, in a land with no justice, there shall be no peace for its citizenry. And that’s precisely why so many of us in England detest the Duke of Cumberland and what he and the king are doing. For having won such a monumental victory over the Scots, mercy should have tempered their desire for revenge. The Jacobites had to be turned back at Derby. It was wrong for them to attempt to capture England. But the Duke of Cumberland, having killed so many, driven so many from their homes, salted their lands like some conquering Pharaoh from the Book of Exodus, should have shown your people mercy and beneficence. But what have he and his German father done? They have created hatred of the English people by the Scots, and more trouble will ensue. Mark my words, ma’am. More trouble will ensue.”
“But forgive me, sir, I don’t understand how you as an Englishman can oppose your king? Much as I’m gratified by your comments and appreciate them, surely that is as treasonous as the crime of which I’ve been accused? I’m only a simple woman, Mr. Richardson and even though I have met some wondrously clever people since my incarceration, it still mystifies me that so many are against the king, yet are still able to speak their minds freely.”
Richardson smiled. “A simple woman, perhaps, but an honorable woman. You fought valiantly for your ruler of the House of Stuart and you risked everything, including your life in an open rowboat around the islands of Scotland in a fierce storm. I shall write about you, just as I wrote some years ago about another woman of honor called Pamela.
“As to your question concerning treason and our opposition to the Crown, I’m delighted to say, ma’am, that we in England elect our leaders, if not our rulers. When our rulers become too autocratic, like Charles I, we chop off their heads. That soon brings aristocracy to its senses. Unfortunately, because Queen Anne died without live issue, we have had to import these Germans from Hanover and they’ve brought their Hanoverian habits with them, habits of brutality, ignorance, greed, mendacity, internecine hatreds, utter humorlessness, and distressing fecundity. With the number of children they seem to produce, there’ll be no getting rid of them.”
He burst out laughing at his own comments, mopped his face again, and continued, “That’s why you are such a celebrity among the intelligentsia and those of us who lead the movement to enlighten our nation. Because we view you as a courageous woman, honest and moral and honorable.”
She smiled and nodded in gratitude. “Like your Pamela?”
“Like my Pamela.”
She decided to be very wicked. Lord Milius told her that she must behave like a London lady, to smile and nod and acknowledge, but the Hebridean Flora was itching to get out. He’d told her, “People come to see you, m’dear, because you are a heroine, and not a philosopher. Let them walk away from your salon thinking of you as a woman driven to destitution by the cruelty of the king and his son. I don’t want them walking away regarding you as a free thinker or a radical.”
And she had played her part with consummate ease. In many cases, when men and women of great education had visited her, she had nodded and smiled and remained as silent and grateful as she could until they began to treat her as though she were a favorite lap dog. It was then that her Scottish upbringing wouldn’t be silenced, and she said those things that were in her heart. In other cases, when the gentlemen had talked to her of literature or philosophy, she had wanted to contribute and did so with gusto.
But Mr. Richardson was just too tempting a target for her wickedness. She said to him, “You know, Mr. Richardson, I was visited by a gentleman writer just the other week. He was a certain Mr. Henry Fielding. His book Shamela is said to be very popular. Did you write about your Pamela as a result of reading his?”
Richardson grew red-faced. “The contrary, ma’am. Mr. Fielding is a hypocrite and a satirist. My book Pamela, a Virtue Rewarded is as fine a work of morality as has ever been written and was printed a year before Fielding’s disgraceful work. My book is a sincere inquiry through the medium of letters of the woes of an honest and industrious young servant girl who fights for her honor against the immorality of her master. Fielding read it and accused me openly of hypocrisy and of pandering to base instincts.”
She showed that she was startled by his sudden vehemence but had to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from bursting out laughing. Mr. Richardson was so pompous and easy to mock.
Without pausing for breath, he continued, “Yet I tell you ma’am, it i
s his Shamela, not my Pamela, which is the work of utter depravity, for in it, he depicts a promiscuous servant girl using the pretense of coyness and mock modesty to ensnare some poor young man into marriage. I beg you, Mistress Macdonald, if you are to be my particular friend, not to mention that disgraceful book nor Mr. Fielding’s name in my presence, ever again.”
He took out his kerchief yet again and wiped his brow. She didn’t know whether to apologize or refute his argument but remembered Lord Milius’ instructions, and nodded sagely and remained quiet. But she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the wars between writers in London was of a severity with the war between armies on the battlefields of Scotland.
VERSAILLES, PARIS
FEBRUARY 17, 1747
The private secretary to Madame de Pompadour, M. Henri-Marie Chamblaine, sighed and said to his Mistress, “Madame, you cannot.”
Madame de Pompadour repeated, for the fifth time, “Why not?”
“Because Madame, he is a drunkard and a wastrel and filthy and a sot and lascivious and a womanizer. He was rude and imperious with your guest M. Denis Diderot, following which you banned him from your salon, yet now you are considering inviting him yet again, just so that he can make a fool of himself with his drunken revels and cause a sensation around your person.
“He is a disgrace to the House of Stuart, an embarrassment to your particular friend, Louis, the talk of the court, and a scandalizer. He has turned his back on the Holy Catholic Church, he walks the corridors and salons of the palace trying to seduce anything in a dress, from the lowest serving wench to the highest ranks of the nobility. The ladies of the court now send their servants on ahead to ensure that they don’t suddenly come upon the prince in a corridor. His behavior is both unpredictable and appalling. He is dishonorable, wicked, cruel. Madame, I could go on and on about his affairs, his fights with members of the Cabinet and the Ministry, but to do so would be to soil your ears. In short, Madame, you cannot receive him.”
Madame de Pompadour nodded and said softly, “He is a prince of the realm. He is a future king of England. Yes, he has been drunk and rude in my presence, but I believe he has become so because of the treatment he has received in our Court and that given the proper circumstances, his soul can be redeemed and then he will become again as he was. All he needs is some of Louis’ money and an army, and he will repeat the victories he enjoyed in Scotland and England, but this time, he will win. He will fight the Germans and he will oust them, and Charles will be crowned king of England. Of this, I’m certain.
“Don’t you remember him when he first came to our courts, Chamblaine? He was magnificent. He was a most impressive young man. The man you see today is a creation of the frustration of Louis’ refusal to assist him in winning back his throne. He is shunned by the entire court and spends night after night in his own chambers, alone with his one remaining servant, drinking himself into a stupor. So I ask again, why can I not invite a prince of the House of Stuart into my salon to meet with Voltaire and my other gentlemen. I’ve also invited M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau,”
Chamblaine looked at her in astonishment. “Rousseau? But Voltaire and Rousseau detest each other.”
Madame de Pompadour smiled. “Yes, I know. It’ll make a great scandal. It’ll keep the court occupied for days.”
Chamblaine shook his head. “Rousseau will never come if he knows Voltaire will be here.”
“We shall see. I have my ways.”
“I know, Madame, but even if he does come, do you really expect M. Voltaire and M. Rousseau to sit at the same table as the Prince Charles? The young man’s reputation has spread throughout France.”
She was about to answer him, when he spoke over her and continued, “And it also concerns me that you are inviting M. Voltaire to the palace when he is living in a certain situation with the Marquise du Chatelet in Luneville? It’s a scandal, Madame, and the friend of the king of France should not become involved.”
Madame de Pompadour struck him on the arm with her fan and laughed. “You’re such a prig, Chamblaine. The Court eats and breathes scandals. It’s the blood which flows through the body of Versailles. Nobody cares about M. Voltaire’s romance with a certain lady. Not today, anyway. And as to the prince, his servant assures my maid that Charles will be completely sober and that he will bathe, shave, wear clean and fresh garments and a powdered wig, and appear respectable. Don’t you see, my dear, if I offer him this lifeline, it might turn him around and make him respectable again. Surely it’s the very least I can offer to a man of royal blood?”
Her secretary sighed and said, “And what will your particular friend think if he knows you’re entertaining Prince Charles? It’s well known that the king is horrified by the way in which the prince has become a drunkard in so short a space of time. If there was little chance of French help for his plans to conquer England when he first returned from Scotland, when he was sober and respectable, then surely you must appreciate that there’s no chance at all of any help being given today to a man who sleeps the entire day and drinks the entire night.
“Madame, I know you think I’m old fashioned and conventional, but be assured of my love and devotion to you, and my fear for your reputation should this young man be invited into your salon.”
As the evening drew on, Henri-Marie Chamblaine felt an increased sense of trepidation. He could cope with a verbal tussle between two philosophers of the intellectual standing of the middle-aged colossus Voltaire and the young and zealous Rousseau; but to have the mistress to the king of France involved in an ugly scene with a rake and philanderer and drunkard was too dangerous. The French court relished a scandal, but not one involving either the king or his particular friend. If Madame suddenly found herself excluded from the king’s bedroom because she was the epicenter of too-great a scandal for the king to ignore, then he too would find himself excluded from the highest echelons of power, and the position of power he now held courtesy of the Marquise de Pompadour was something for which he’d worked and connived all his grown life.
There was enough scandal already because of the king of France having an affair with a commoner. But a scandal involving the commoner was too dangerous and her position in the king’s boudoir still too precarious.
She had to remain the king’s favorite for the next several years if his plans were to come to fruition. The chateau on the Loire was almost his, but he still had to earn enough to purchase a noble title. Then he had to guarantee that his money would last his own and his children’s lifetimes—following that Madame de Pompadour could do whatever she wanted.
His family had, except for the interruption of his father, tied their fortunes to the kings of France. His grandfather had been secretary to the Sun King’s mistress, Madame de Maintenon, and had acquired great wealth and status. His father had drunk and gambled away the fortune, but when the Sun King’s great grandson became Louis XV, M. Chamblaine seized his chance and petitioned for a position in the court.
He had first worked as undersecretary to a minor functionary and minister and had been a drudge and amanuensis, but his chance came when he met and befriended Madame de Pompadour. Lowborn as Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, nonetheless, she was blessed with a father who was steward to the most powerful moneymen in France. Somehow, the adorable woman had connived to meet Voltaire, who was fascinated and entranced by her. And when Voltaire brought her to Court, it was Henri-Marie Chamblaine, a man who stood at the back of the room, who instantly recognized a beauty that would capture the heart of the king.
Connivance was everything in France, and so he contrived to have her positioned in the most visible place possible for the engagement ceremony of the Dauphin. His scheme had worked, and Jeanne-Antoinette began her meteoric rise into the French court’s firmament. And as promised, she took him with her. Yes, he was merely a secretary, but he had the ear of the woman who had the ear of the king, and he was earning a fortune from those who wanted access.
But one false move on Madame de Pomp
adour’s part, one whiff of scandal, one momentary cause for the king to look at her and question her motives or judgment, and the entire edifice he’d created would come tumbling down on their heads. And Prince Charles Edward Stuart was just such a cause.
But there was no changing her mind, and so he was forced to accept the dangers of the evening and determine ways of limiting its damage.
In the beginning, the evening was relatively pleasant. To Chamblaine’s surprise, the Prince Charles Edward Stuart had arrived looking smart, confident, clean, and most importantly, sober. Whoever had whispered words into his ear had obviously had a good effect. The prince arrived first, ten minutes too early at just past a quarter to ten o’clock. The Madam was still entertaining the king in his suite of rooms, and so the prince sat alone drinking a light Chablis that Chamblaine didn’t think could do him much harm. He picked delicately at the petit fours for several minutes, but when the waiters entered carrying trays of poached fish, capons, duck, chicken legs, foie gras, canapés, and veal stuffed with herbs and spices, he took a dinner plate over to the buffet without waiting for any other guests to arrive, and most rudely, without waiting for the hostess’ permission, filled it to capacity. The prince saw no reason why he should offer an explanation for his hunger to a mere secretary, and so he sat in a corner of the salon and ate.