Merivel: A Man of His Time

by Rose Tremain

  I felt very keenly the quietness of the room, disturbed only by the purring of the grey cat and my laboured breathing. I took up my Instrument case and selected a sharp needle, with which I made a quick stab into the Thing, causing Violet to scream with pain and the cat to fly from the room.

  ‘I am sorry to hurt you,’ I said. ‘If this is a Cyst, then the liquid will now begin flow out from it. Bear the pain for a moment longer and we shall see …’

  But no liquid came out when I withdrew the needle. What it had probed was a solid, fleshy thing. I hated the sight of it. I wanted to take up my Scalpel and cut it out there and then, but I knew that the agony of this would be too terrible to bear without a great quantity of Opium, and that I would need a Nurse to hold the patient down and to help stem the bleeding.

  Where the needle had entered a little Blood was let and I wished I had some of Louise’s Salve to soothe the wound I had made. I laid a square of muslin on it and kept my hand there, to hold it in place awhile.

  ‘Well, Doctor?’ said Violet. ‘Am I dying, or not?’

  ‘I will cut the Cancer out,’ I said. ‘It is not large. You will not die of so small a thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Violet, ‘and yet I feel that I am dying. Why should that be?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Will the King die, Merivel? He told me last night that he sometimes felt himself to be immortal.’

  ‘The King will die,’ said I. ‘But I do not wish to see it. I shall endeavour to die first.’

  Great agitation was still in my heart as I started for home. The idea Violet had put into my mind, that the King might seduce my daughter, had wounded me as fatally as any Cancer.

  As I travelled towards Bidnold, I felt a sickness rise in my stomach, so that I had to rein in my horse and dismount and vomit up my breakfast by the side of the road. I stood there, shivering and afraid. An image of my poor wife, Celia, in her attic room with her needlework and an old Crone for company, visited my mind and distressed it further. I leaned against my horse for a moment, to feel the warmth of it. Then I rode on.

  16

  TWO LETTERS CAME to me at this time.

  The first was from my Dutch friend, Hollers. He wrote to tell me that when he had quite used up all his provisions – including those few jars of peas I had left behind when I departed so suddenly for Paris – and had almost no money left and saw no way to live but to return to Holland, his clock had at last been returned to him.

  A Note, in Madame de Maintenon’s cultured hand, had informed him that his clock ‘will not serve, Monsieur Hollers, for that it advances by more than one minute per diem on the Time told by the Chapel clock. It is thus stealing Time from God, at the rate of eight or nine minutes per week, and God has much Work to do; He does not like Any Moment to be taken from Him.’

  So alas, Hollers wrote, all my endeavours at Versailles have come to nothing. All the Time (that capricious commodity!) which you and I spent imagining my Future was vainly wasted. I am back in my Shoppe in my own city, and when I look around me, I see, on the sudden, that this Shoppe is a poor place and all my Timepieces, made with such loving care, give me no pride nor pleasure at all. I do not even bother to dust them any more. I shall never be Famous, Merivel! My chance of Fame is gone! I shall moulder to nothing, here on the dull Canal-side. Oh, tell me, my friend, what I am to do! I am at pains to go on with my Life in any way at all.

  Sadness on Hollers’s account made me melancholy. Though I knew that being back in Amsterdam could not possibly be a more agonising Test of Endurance than our terrible habitation at Versailles, I could nevertheless imagine the Clockmaker grinding his molars in frustration and sorrow.

  When I recounted my friend’s story to the King he said: ‘Oh, I had often heard that Madame de Maintenon is a Pedant. And she is not even a beautiful Pedant. How unfortunate for my cousin Louis.’

  At this moment Bunting began a clamour to be taken out for a walk, so the King rose, ever obedient to her commands, and went out, and nothing more was said on the subject of Hollers. And I felt this to be a dereliction, too – that the King had seemed to give no thought to my friend’s pain.

  Yet I do not know why I should be surprised. The King is the King and cannot take into himself the burdens and sorrows of all his English Subjects – never mind the inhabitants of the Low Countries as well. And, now I come to think of it, he has no fondness for the Dutch. He finds their language unpronounceable and he has told me more than once that his Dutch Nephew, William of Orange, is a Prig.

  While the King was gone on his walk, I wrote a reply to Hollers, begging him to bear up and to rediscover his joy in his own endeavours and in his own city, and to dream no longer of Fame.

  As I wrote, I reflected how astonishing it is that Man attempts any Thing of Significance – any Thing that might alter his life – when part of him knows, that if he fails, all his former contentment will be lost. He cannot go back to a Time Before the game began. He has, as it were, the chains of the imprisoned debtor dragging down his spirits and his body. He wishes himself unborn of his strivings. He accounts himself a fool for having ever attempted them, but can do nothing about it.

  None of this did I write to Hollers. I mentioned only that I knew him to be a fine Clockmaker and strenuously wished that I myself were capable of manufacturing with my own hands any comparable wonder. In my whole life, I wrote, I have never made an object of perfect beauty. You have made many.

  I then turned my attention to my second letter, which was from Louise de Flamanville.

  Though, in my waking hours, I had had little leisure to think of her, she had very often crept into my dreams and these dreams had had a strange, repetitive beauty to them. In them, Louise and I were to be found sitting side by side in her Laboratory, boiling Herbs and Mineral Compounds, which gave to the air a wondrously sweet Perfume, and which we then alchemised into medicines of startling efficacy. We saw blind men regain their sight and barren women delivered of children. Magic attended all our work. Louise said to me: ‘It is because there are two of us. Alone, we could do little. Together, we work miracles.’

  Now, with the arrival of her letter, a great longing for Louise was woken in me again and my hours with her in Paris returned to me in all their sweetness.

  I thought ardently of the summer, when I might visit her in Switzerland, and this distant promise was given greater substance by her News.

  She informed me that Jacques-Adolphe had taken a new lover, a young soldier of Russian origin, named Petrov.

  This Petrov, she wrote, who is really a mere Boy and apparently blushes exquisitely when anybody speaks to him, has so captivated my husband that he has become Careless with his behaviour. He takes note of almost nothing but of how, when and where he can come to Petrov and do those Things with him that the Fraternité yearn for above all other Experiences on earth. So it is, dear Merivel, that when I mentioned idly to Jacques-Adolphe that I would go to Switzerland to see my Father once the warm weather arrived, he said merely: ‘Do what you will. Only do not ask me to come with you, for I must stay close to Petrov. If I am taken away from him, I will die.’

  ‘I hope therefore, to travel to Switzerland at the beginning of June. And how very pleasant my visit there would be if you could be persuaded to join me at my Father’s Château. Does such a journey tempt you? Or have you quite forgotten me? Shall we walk together in the high meadows? The scent of cut hay, you may remember, is very potent and sweet.

  I sat with this letter for a long time, imagining the hay. Above the sloping field I conjured a setting sun, burning red, as it tilted towards the Swiss mountain top. Louise lay on the grass and the sun lit up her face, and my hands caressed her smooth neck and the tops of her breasts. Somewhere nearabouts a brown-eyed cow feasted on a bank of buttercups in scented shade.

  Then, I put the letter away. I knew what reply I longed to make to Madame de Flamanville, but for the time, I was unable to make any plans or promises whatsoever. I was captive at
Bidnold. And now my Captivity was to be made unbearable by the Surveillance that I felt compelled to keep upon Margaret and the King.

  I began the wretched habit, when the King, Margaret and I were in company together – which was very frequently – of looking from one to the other, back and forth, as though I were at a Tennis game. It was as if I believed this vigilance would entrap any amorous glance that might pass between them – catch it like a Butterfly in a net and stifle it.

  This was, of course, a stupid notion: it stifled nothing. Glances of this nature will always find some clever escape, at the edge of vision. And one evening, as we played Rummy, the King burst out: ‘Why do you keep looking at our faces and not at your cards, Merivel? You will not be able to tell from us whether either of us has the Jack or Ace of Spades you would like to put with the King and Queen you have already picked up.’

  I apologised. I gave my attention to my Hand, which was by no means promising, and I predicted myself coming last again in the score – for the third time that evening. And I knew that I deserved at least this punishment, or one far worse. For I had begun to feel an intense dislike for myself, behaving as a Spy and an Inquisitor. I cursed Violet. I vowed that from the following day I would end my pitiful Vigil.

  I did not seem able to end it.

  Margaret had grown very fond of Bunting and it was sometimes the case, in the warm May weather, that she accompanied the King and Bunting on their walks about the park. When these had first begun I had only rejoiced to see Margaret out in the air once more, walking with a firm step and throwing sticks for the dog, and sometimes skipping along with the sheer joy of finding herself alive again. I had stood at my Library window and watched them – the two people I cherished most in my heart – and understood myself to be the most Fortunate of men to have them here, living and breathing by my side.

  But now, when they announced a walk, I heard myself stammering out futile utterances (what Pearce once dubbed ‘the freakish piffle that you sometimes spout, Merivel’) such as: ‘Ah, a walk! An excellent idea! I am much in need of exercise myself. I shall come with you.’

  And so the three of us would set out, I mired in shame at my own ridiculousness and even blushing at it. And then, to compound it, I would either keep up a perpetual prattle about the weather and the wild flowers and the shapes of clouds and I know not what other Subject, to prevent them from talking to each other, or else I would let myself fall a little behind my beloved companions, to try to gauge, from the way they held themselves and the frequency with which they turned their heads towards each other, whether any Understanding was brewing up between them.

  One morning, when the walk had taken us towards the Bear’s compound and we were standing in a line regarding poor Clarendon, who sat motionless beneath a ragged ash tree in a heap of Sadness, Bunting suddenly took it upon herself to slither under the stockade fence and began to scamper towards him.

  Margaret screamed. The King began calling urgently to the dog, but she only turned for a moment at the sound of His Majesty’s voice, then went forward again, drawn on by the scent of the animal, wagging her feathery tail and stopping a mere few paces from the place where Clarendon sat.

  Clarendon looked at Bunting. As I tried to fathom what might be running in the Bear’s mind, he hauled his great weight onto his four feet and let out an angry roar.

  I then realised that the King was attempting to climb up the heavy posts of the fence, which was designed precisely so that it cannot be climbed – by bear or man. Calling to him to desist, I began to run to where I knew the gate of the Compound to be. As I ran, I heard another roar come from the Bear and, not for the first time, cursed myself for bringing Clarendon to England, and saw some terrible Ruin falling upon me – all for some sentimental idea about the sorrows of a wild animal. The next noise I expected to hear was the snapping of Bunting’s bones.

  I reached the gate and put all my strength into drawing back the bolts. I could hear Bunting barking. Slowly I pushed open the heavy door. As I went in, I saw the Bear advance upon Bunting. I picked up a fallen branch of ash and agitated it madly, while shouting the dog’s name. Bunting was low on her haunches, growling. Clarendon was three or four feet from her. In the midst of terror I admired the little dog’s courage.

  Then Bunting raised herself up and sped towards me. I dropped the ash twig and held out my arms. These little Spaniels can run fast and, almost before Clarendon could decide whether to follow her or not, I gathered Bunting to me. As I turned, I saw the Bear come lumbering forward. Holding the dog so close to my breast that I almost suffocated her, I panted back to the gate. I could smell the Bear now and hear its laboured breath. I knew that all could yet be lost, including my life, for the heaviness of the gate made it impossible to close with one hand.

  But as I reached it and slipped out of the compound, other hands took hold of the bolts and began wrenching and pulling. I tripped and fell backwards on a tuft of grass, and saw Margaret and the King straining to draw the bolts into their housings. And when the task was complete and they knew that we were all safe, they fell into each other’s arms and Margaret laid her head on the King’s breast and wept.

  He stroked her hair and comforted her. Then he turned to me, perching breathless on my grassy tuffet, with my bottom a little bruised and Bunting still clasped to my heart.

  ‘Well done, Merivel,’ he said. ‘You saved the life of a Royal Dog once more. I believe I owe you some Reward.’

  ‘You owe me nothing, Sir,’ said I. ‘You saved Margaret’s life.’

  I sit alone with the King.

  Will has struggled along to my Withdrawing Room with a jug of Mead, causing the King to remark, upon the entrance of my decayed old Servant: ‘Good evening, Gates. We see too little of you. May you not be more with us in the Dining Room?’

  Will bows as he sets down the Mead, which almost topples and spills. He looks anxiously at me as he replies: ‘Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but Sir Robert, and I too, feel I am not fit to serve there.’

  ‘Not fit?’ says the King, choosing, it seems, to become blind, all of a sudden, to Will’s many infirmities. ‘Have you not, for as long as I can remember, been the Master of this Household?’

  Will smiles his foxy, sidelong smile. ‘I am not the “Master”, Your Majesty. I am the Servant.’

  ‘In French you are the “Master”: Maître. Maître d’hôtel, you see? And we would like to have you by us at mealtimes. It would remind us of the Old Days.’

  ‘Oh, Sir, I know not what to say. I do fear spillage and muddle.’

  ‘Well, never mind a little of that. It might be amusing. But let us suggest a simple role for you, so that we may avoid too much Calamity. You shall stand behind our chair, Gates. When a Plate arrives for us, you will move a little to the side and take it from the Footman’s hands and set it before us. When we have finished with the Plate, you will take it up again and pass it to the Footman – and so on through the meal. How does this simple task appear to you?’

  Again, Will looks at me, as if for guidance. I nod encouragingly, wondering nevertheless whether Will is capable of remaining Upright in one position for the long duration of a meal, but hold out my hand, gesturing for him to make his own reply.

  He bows very low, so that I notice, for the first time, the top of his periwig is almost bald and find myself suddenly distressed by this, revealing as it does my stinginess and lack of vigilance towards the well-being of my servants.

  ‘From tomorrow, Your Majesty,’ says Will, empressing his arthritic right hand into an approximation of a Military Salute, ‘I will take up my post. I shall not move from behind Your Majesty’s chair, except to turn little sideways to take Your Majesty’s Plate from the Footman, and to return it to him again.’

  ‘Voilà,’ says the King. ‘An admirable Arrangement.’

  We both attack the Mead. I know that the night is going to be long. I ask Will to bring from the kitchen some Caraway Cake and a dish of cherries.

&nbs
p; The King produces for my perusal a letter from his brother the Duke of York, which berates him, albeit in a tolerant, brotherly way, for his ‘too-long absence from urgent matters of State’ and urges him to return to London without delay. The document further mentions ‘tumultuous Petitions for the Recall of a Parliament, which, I remind you, Your Majesty has not entertained since that which attempted to sit at Oxford in 1681’.

  ‘Parliament!’ says the King. ‘I am too old for parliaments, Merivel. For they must always be up and doing things, and suggesting Remedies for those Matters which go on perfectly well and so need none. And they are too fond of wars. I know that the people like to be left alone. They do not want False Remedies and they do not want any more wars. They want what I want: food in their bellies, comfortable nights, a little profitable Trade, a drop of Mead from time to time, a few inspiring sermons, a good death. Is this not so?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I believe it is.’

  I do not mention that Poverty is still a great scourge across the land, for I know that it is the King’s opinion that Parliaments, crammed with Ambitious souls seeking their fortunes, do very little for Poverty and that he himself, by employing so many in his service and by his dispensation of Alms, and by his sheer love for his People, does more. Yet it has seemed to me, from riding about Norfolk to see my Patients, that the Poor have grown in number in recent times, for that they are more visible in the villages or on the roadside, begging or stealing, and I have heard it said that all the Workhouses round about are full to breaking. And in time, men will surely blame the King and look to him for some remedy.

  I glance at the King who, by long Royal habit, sits very straight in a chair, but who is now slumped down in an attitude of great Dejection. I am about to suggest that we talk no more about Parliaments, when the King says: ‘Guilt, Merivel. Now it claws me. Sometimes, even here at Bidnold, I wake in the night and think of all my transgressions and my betrayals, and then I cannot breathe …’