The woman took me on to her own miserable straw where we did our business, at the conclusion of which she complained that I was not as amorous as I had been.
I trudged home to Whitehall in low spirits. Pro tempore all desire for vengeance had fled. I vowed henceforth to lead a plain and continent life, though first to restore my spirits I called in at the Leg for a noggin. But no, it was not possible, there was Mr Pepys (he must have taken a hackney from Ludgate while I had walked). He was seated by the fire with Doll Powell and her sister and they called me over, crying: Come and join the Clerk of the Acts, for he will entertain us all.
And so he will it seems, I said to myself in great bitterness, Clerk of the Acts indeed, and there he was but four hours earlier nodding earnestly while the parson expounded the Three Persons of the Trinity.
On prattled Mr Pepys, of how the sun had shone so bright on the river that the boatman’s face had burned like a lobster’s; of how he had gone to see a carpenter about some Norway masts that would not stand in a gale, saying nothing of how his own standing mast had been dipped in pitch by the carpenter’s wife, for which I was sure he had paid the carpenter 5s, no more, for he was a byword for parsimony. Of how on his return he had passed by the booksellers of St Paul’s and purchased a book of curious tales – he said nothing of the other tails that were for sale in Fleet Alley.
Though we had ripened in the sunshine all day, the evening had turned chilly and disagreeable, and Clerke’s man (Thomas Clerke that kept the Leg) had stoked up a rare fire in the back hearth where we sat. While Mr Pepys ran the course of his day, Doll and her sister hoisted their skirts to feel the warmth of the blaze. Pepys sat between them and felt a fat white thigh on each side with his fat little brown hand. It was as though two slugs were crawling up their legs. But the women were so intoxicated that they scarcely seemed to notice his attentions. I perceived that this was not the moment to enlighten Mr Pepys about the true nature of my position in her Highness’s household.
Yet in truth, I had begun to chafe sorely under the burden of my duties. I was not brought into this world to count table-cloths or to scold serving men. But the heaviest of the crosses I had to bear was young Kit, now my lord of Torrington, a title upon which he was most insistent, as he was upon my waiting on him on every occasion.
Come, Jem, he would say, the dancing master is sick of the plague, you must play at tennis with me.
And so I would tumble out of bed and pull on my breeches and trot after Kit to the new-made tennis court next my old den in the Cockpit, where Monsieur Delatuile who was reputed the best player in Paris would be waiting with a dozen fresh newly sewn balls and racquets which he had strung himself.
I had little fancy for the game which seemed poor sport. I had rather watch a girl do up her garter than watch that ball rattle and roll along the penthouse and then drop dead in the nick from which no racquet could dig it out. Sometimes Kit’s cuts would slide along the gallery and die like a mouse in the corner. Sometimes they would whistle past my head in a cannonade and come to rest in the nets of the dedans as sailors do drop into their hammocks.
Forty-love and chase better than half a yard, Kit sang, aren’t you ever going to win a point, Jem?
Perhaps Your Lordship would do better to play with Monsieur Delatuile.
It’s more sport with you, he doesn’t fall about and go red in the face. Game and set, let’s try another set, the court is free.
Excuse moi, milord, said the little Frenchman who had the skin and the mouth of an Egyptian alligator, but I zink sa Majesté has the court.
No, no, Delatuile, came a voice from behind the first gallery, I am sure the ladies would prefer to watch a young master than an old tiro.
Oh but your Majesté is a joueur formidable.
Tush, Delatuile, play on, play on, boys.
To my horror, the King settled down upon the bench in the dedans and signalled to the ladies that they were to join him. I could not see through the netting whether La Castlemaine or La Gwyn were of the party, but the delicate aromas of perfume wafted through the netting and weakened my already failing senses.
Come on, Jem, you’re to serve.
That, I heard the King say behind me, is young Lord Torrington, Monck’s lad. Isn’t it strange that the General should have so young a son? He is scarce ten years old I think.
They say, sire – but I could not hear what they said, for the woman spoke in a whisper and then they all broke out laughing.
And the other fellow, said the King. He must be of Monck’s household.
I felt it incumbent upon me to turn round and bow and inform my sovereign that I was indeed Her Highness’s gentleman-usher. But Kit had not observed my manoeuvre and sent down a volley of balls, of which several battered at my posteriors, causing much mirth amongst the royal party.
He has a look of you, sire, said one of the ladies, I could not see which, for it was murky in the dedans.
A look of me, you say, that fellow? The King rose from the bench and took the netting aside (which was loose on the penthouse side), so that he might inspect me.
I don’t see it, he said.
He is nothing like so fine in the face, said a female voice.
We are not alike, the King said. He is too black.
The company in the dedans fell silent.
There was no sound in the court but the rattle of the ball on the penthouse and the noise of Monsieur Delatuile calling out the score in his shrill popinjay’s screech.
Five games to love, bien joué, milord.
Etc., etc.
Behind me the King was now laughing with the ladies, but I could not tell whether it was at my play or on some fancy matter, scilicet the parentage of my lord Torrington upon which subject the wits of the town discoursed frequently, some still insisting he was not Albemarle’s, others that he was Albemarle’s but not gotten legitimately.
Nettled by my ill-success in the first set, I began to play with more address and took the lead, which mightily annoyed little Kit, so that he began to bang the balls past my head into the dedans, causing the nets to belly forth like so many sails with the wind in them, and so to scrape against the faces of the ladies, which they did not care for, crying out with maidenly shrieks.
You thrash the ball too much, boy, I want no thrashing in my court, said the King. It is a game of finesse. Ladies, let us quit this battle-ground.
With dread, I heard the rustle of their silks and the door opening at the back of the gallery. I made a low bow, but there was none to bow to, for the royal party had gone. One more chance missed to advance my fortune. If I had cut a better figure on the court, if I had spoken winningly to my charge and demonstrated to him the delicate arts of the game (with which in truth I was scarce acquainted myself), how I might have shown myself a serviceable man. The King would have borne me in mind, spoken kindly to me on our next meeting, advanced my credit with my lord General who would have considered me for a great place.
Kit, you shouldn’t have banged those balls into the dedans.
You mustn’t speak to me like that. I shall tell my father.
This was no idle threat, for the General doted upon the boy. Indeed Christopher could charm away his ill humour, he being a lively frolicsome lad, and the General needing some distraction from affairs of state which weighed all the heavier upon him because his humour was naturally heavy and his health was growing worse. He suffered from distemper, from afflictions of the kidneys and from old wounds got on land and sea which troubled him when it was cold or wet or blowing a gale. At such times he would sit by the fire and grunt his way through his state papers, until either Nan or Kit came to tease him. For Nan loved him still in her peculiar way, and was not frightened of him, except that she feared he would discover our amour. Yet I wonder that he did not know, for his eye was quick. Perhaps he did guess in his heart but chose not to inquire for the hurt the knowledge would do him if he brought it to the surface. He was a deep man and in his deepness lay the secre
t of his genius. If he were so taciturn in public matters, why then should he not be more silent still in private matters and carry into the chamber of the heart his habitual practice of saying nothing that would do harm unless he intended harm?
It came to me that his was an example that might be imitated. This taciturnity was an art that could be studied and brought to perfection. I resolved therefore to play the Stoic myself and not to complain sans cesse of my situation, for it was not manly. I would bear all and be impassive, so that people should say: Did you mark that gentleman with my lady Albemarle? He is the power behind the throne, the éminence noire. I was much pleased with the effect I made as I stood at table, silent and erect, in a new black suit I had had made, for my revenues were now much improved, Nan having sold a dozen licences to clamorous monopolists (to sell playing-cards, silk-worms, ink, etc.) and deposited a share of the proceeds upon her faithful gentleman-usher.
I had followed this modus vivendi for two months, or perhaps three, when Nan said to me (we were in her chamber at Whitehall tête-à-tête):
Jem, we must have this out. Why are you so down in the mouth? It isn’t like you. You used to be such a merry fellow. Aren’t you well?
Madam, I am well, very well.
Then you love me no longer, you wish to be away from me, you are plotting your escape from us, you will run away to sea or to the Americas.
Nothing could be further from my thoughts, I love you as well as ever I did, I promise you.
I don’t believe you, your promise does not come from the heart. You have a sidelong, slippery aspect.
No, nothing of the sort. If I sound different, it is because . . . well, because a man grows more serious as he grows older. One can’t be a winsome pageboy all one’s life.
You were never that, Jem, you were always older than your years.
Nan, I shall be thirty next birthday. I don’t wish to be counting forks for ever.
Haven’t I said a dozen times that we’re looking out for a high place that will suit your talents? As you know, the General is much occupied at the moment, but as soon as he returns from his business with the Fleet I will speak to him and we shall see what we can do. In the meantime, there’s no need to look so solemn. A woman must be amused, Jem. I’d swear you were studying to play Malvolio.
But as the months limped past in a tedious procession of dinners and levees and ceremonies, I had another part in mind, viz. that boy in the fairytale who was imprisoned by an ogress who promised that on the morrow he would be free if only she could suck a thimbleful of his blood, but on the morrow she said the same thing again and so on until he was a pale and bloodless wraith.
I knew that I must put some other irons in the fire and not rely upon my mistress alone. No sooner did I begin to reflect upon the matter than I saw that, if I was to explore every avenue to advancement, it would be folly to neglect the Navy Office, for it seemed that we were to be at war with the Dutch until the crack of doom, and that therefore there was an infinitude of business to be done in the commissioning of ships, their building and provisioning, the repair of harbours, the purchase of timber and sails and ropes and shot and powder, the getting of officers and men, not to mention the apportionment of prize money and a dozen other matters from which an abundance of juice might be squeezed. And there was no help for it. If I was to make a sally upon the Navy Office, my first port of call must be Samuel Pepys esquire.
Up by 5 a-clock and to my office – where hard at work till towards noon, and home and eat a bit; and so going out, met with Mr Mount, my old acquaintance, and took him in and drunk a glass of wine or two with him and so parted, having not time to talk together; and I with Sir W. Batten to the Stylyard and there eat a Lobster together; and Wyne the King’s fishmonger coming in, we were very merry half an hour; and so by water to Whitehall, and by and by, being all met, we went in to the Duke and there did our business.
Diary of Samuel Pepys, 13 April 1663
I had been free upon the Sunday, but I recalled my former Pepys-chase on the Lord’s Day and decided that he would be more of a mind to hear my business at his office. Thus it was on Monday a half-hour after noon that I presented myself at the Navy Office and finding my quarry absent walked on a few yards to his house where I chanced to meet with him going out in his low-crowned beaver and velvet cloak, a busy bustling fellow in a new wig that was too big for his head (though that were swollen enough):
Ha, Jem. It’s a long time since we met.
Sam, it is indeed, you look well.
What brings you to my doorstep?
The hope of seeing you, what else?
Ha (again, disgruntled somewhat, as a man will say Ha when he is in haste and finds a barred gate in his way). Well then, come in and take a glass of wine. I have some Haut-Brion. You will never have tasted the like. I took a glass with Sir John Cutler in Lombard Street on Friday. It is a rare Bordeaux wine, and not cheap. Sir John fancies it tastes of blackcurrants.
So I followed him inside thanking him for his kindness at every step, asking after Mrs Pepys’s health (which was indifferent for she has the toothache and other troubles beside which he would not tell me of), admiring his books and his hangings. Then I must admire his wig.
It’s so long since we met that I haven’t seen you in a wig before. That’s a fine periwig, I haven’t seen a finer.
Ah yes, I haven’t worn it more than a month (and here he touched it with both hands as though to prevent some wind from blowing it off). I had it of Chapman, my wife thinks it becomes me and so do the maids. It’s a strange thing, but the day before Chapman cut off my hair, I heard the Duke say that he was going to wear a periwig and they say the King also will.
Great minds think alike, I said.
Yes, yes, well I must to Sir William’s and then to the Tangier Committee, heigh-ho these are busy times. What think you of the Haut-Brion, excellent isn’t it? I wish we had leisure to sip it, for it’s an old wine that exhales its fragrances slowly. (Where had he acquired this manner of discourse? When we had first been acquainted, all he minded about a bottle was that it should be full.)
But before I knew it, I was out in the street again and Mr Pepys was bidding me farewell in that brisk fashion with which a man may dismiss a tailor that has come to take his measure.
Thereafter I returned to my trusted and true companions, viz. Will Symons and little Peter Llewelyn, men that had not been corrupted by excess of fortune and in an age of dull dogs yet possessed the art of enjoying life. Will had lost his place when the King came in. He now earned his living as best he could, running errands on behalf of country merchants and gentlemen that lived far removed from the hubbub and had no friends in high places: thus a merchant of soap from Yorkshire that wished to advertise the merits of his wares to the court ladies might despatch Will as his agent to persuade their keepers of the wardrobe. For such public relations as Will supplied to these bumpkins, he would charge 5 or 10 per cent of any moneys that might be earned. It was a dismal trade, but Will made as light of it as he could. He was also much troubled by his wife who had discovered a cancer in her breast and although the surgeon had cut off the lump (which was in truth no larger than a grape) she continued on the wane and had lost nigh on two stones of her weight.
Peter Llewelyn had also been turned out at the Restoration, but had found a place as clerk to Mr Edward Dering (he was later to work for his younger brother, Red Ned) and had gone with him into Ireland to execute the Act of Settlement but was now returned to London on his master’s behalf to keep an eye on his timber business, in which capacity he had dealings with Mr Pepys. I intend that literally, for he wished Mr Pepys to intercede with the King to buy his Norway deals.
And what a comedy Mr Pepys made out of it, Peter told me in the Leg one evening. He would say to me, Mr Llewelyn (he always calls me Mr Llewelyn now, I know not why, we’re old comrades from O.C.’s time), there’s no service I would not render you, but this is a hard thing you ask of me. I have a duty to His Majest
y and to the Navy Office which I take most solemnly, to procure only the finest deals, I must buy where the wood is soundest, the cut is straightest and the price is best.
Then you must buy from my master, say I, the reputation of Dering’s deals is unequalled in Kent.
That may be, says old Sam, that may be (and he settles his wig on his head like a hen settling on her nest), but there are many fine merchants of deals and it is an onerous task to choose among them.
Mr Dering has full cognisance of the heavy burden that your office lays upon you, say I (I was proud of that ‘cognisance’, for I know he has a fancy to long words), he would be happy to take that into account. I believe he has in mind a sum of fifty pounds as what we might call a cognisance fee.
My aim is primus and solus to serve the King, says Sam, that is my only end. I do not take bribes as do Sir William Batten and some other illustrious gents I could mention – but I can see the spark in his eye. Not five minutes earlier there had been tears in that same eye when I had told him that Will Symons’s wife was dead. He had admired her greatly when we went to Will’s house. And I told him that pretty story: how I had gone with my friend Mr Blurton to the Fleece Tavern by Guildhall and by my calling him Doctor Blurton, the mistress of the house a very pretty woman did think he was in truth a physician and disclose to him privately some infirmity belonging to women and he proffered her physic and she desired him to bring it to her some day and examine her which he did and had sight of her thing below and handled it – all of which much diverted Mr Pepys. But that is by the by, said Peter Llewelyn (for he is a roundabout fabulist and must be led back to the starting point). To return to the cognisance fee: I think he is well hooked, but to land the fish, we must go and dine there tomorrow which will be no hardship, for if the dinner is bad our eyes may yet feast upon Mrs Pepys.
So home to dinner; and thither came to me Mr Mount and Llewelyn, I think almost foxed, and there dined with me: and very merry as I could be, my mind being troubled to see things so ordered at the Board – though with no disparagement to me at all.
Jem (and Sam) Page 13