by Allan Massie
Casting back over what I wrote concerning the King’s visit to Edinburgh, I see I all but omitted everything concerning poor Londonderry, whom, I fancy, posterity may recognize more easily as Viscount Castlereagh. I never knew him well, as I did his rival Canning, and on the few occasions I met him found him awkward and shy in conversation. But his achievements in the guidance of our foreign policy were notable, and the thought of his end gars me shiver. It seems that he approached His Majesty a few days or weeks earlier in a state of mental perturbation. Indeed he burst into the Monarch’s study unheralded, seized him by the arm and exclaimed ‘Have you heard the terrible news? I am a fugitive from justice, accused of the same crime as the Bishop of Clogher. I’ve ordered my saddle-horses, and intend to make for Portsmouth and take ship to some remote quarter of the world . . .’ He remained with the King some half-an-hour refusing all comfort, but – which is the more remarkable – occasionally breaking off from his mad recital of his fears to talk rationally about his forthcoming mission to Vienna. At last they got him away, back to his own house, where they summoned the Duke of Wellington, to whom Castlereagh poured out the same story. The Duke told him it was a delusion; then, thinking that blunt methods might shock the wretched man into sense, told him he could not be in his right mind. He was put to bed and bled, which eased his agitation somewhat, and they took his pistols, knives, and razors into safe keeping. But a few days later he got hold of a pen-knife and cut his carotid artery.
His Majesty received the news during his voyage to Scotland, and since he had come to revere and rely on poor Londonderry, I believe his distress was considerable. From a hint he subsequently dropped to me – though only a hint, for one cannot expect kings to make confession to their subjects – I believe he blamed himself for not having taken firmer methods to secure Castlereagh’s safety. But when a man is of a mind to be rid of this life – whether he is out of his mind or not – it is hard to thwart him. Desperate suicides will aye find a desperate way.
It is inconceivable that there could have been substance in Castlereagh’s fears. The wretched Bishop of Clogher –son of an Irish peer, I think – had been taken in the act of sodomy with a private in the Grenadier Guards in a London public-house. No one who knew Castlereagh’s proud self-control could suppose him guilty of such a crime. And yet the thing preyed on his mind. It was on such an act that his disordered fancy fastened. Strange, strange it seemed to me – then.
Now – when I have learned to know better the wayward motions of my own mind, when that energy which formerly surged forth and led me into the realms of imaginative creation seems turned in on itself, when I work with difficulty and dream dreams that disturb me, I have a better understanding of poor Castlereagh’s terrors. For it seems likely to me now that they were the expression of that duality of which I have written; that in his disordered terror he gave vent to that Double whose existence he had denied, suppressed, drowned in a flood of activity, and which now revenged itself on him in his weakness. For in my weakness, between waking and sleeping, I have been afflicted by like fancies and images – though taking a different form from his, equally horrible and alarming.
I kept away from Hastie’s Close for several months after my third visit, though often tempted to return there in a questing spirit, yet always resisting, for fear of what I should learn, for fear too of being dragged, not then unwillingly, into some degradation. I told myself that the temptation was unworthy of me; and turned back to labour. Yet the thought was ever with me, like a nagging tooth, not so painful that extraction is necessary, yet always a lurking and unwelcome presence.
Eventually I succumbed, about some three weeks ago, I cannot remember. I made my way there eager-reluctant; yet as I drew near, and expectation quickened, my self-reproach was stilled.
I do not know, of course, what I sought, for each of my visits had been inconclusive, like a book which has been printed without its final chapters.
The night was thick and gloomy, and the haar hid the rooftops. I leaned as formerly against the wall of the close, my chest tight, and my senses – so often dull nowadays – alert as a young man’s. But nothing happened. The magic – whatever it might be – was absent. I remained there for an hour by the striking of the Tron clock, and then limped away, sorely cheated of I knew not what. In the morning I felt strangely heavy, dull of eye and of brain, and had to drive myself to my desk where, as I recall, I made little progress.
This mood of lassitude remained with me. In company I attempted to disguise it, but I believe it was remarked on. My memory too began to show signs of rapid deterioration, which grieved me, for should it fail, then the last vestiges of my power will have been stripped from me. Often in the late afternoon, at the dying of the winter light, I would find myself sitting, blank of mind and of eye, in my chair, as if in the grip of a paralysis, bereft of will, inspiration, everything.
For a fortnight, when sleep at last came upon me, I was awakened in the middle of a dream which grew more horrible nightly. Yet there was nothing, it seemed, to it. In my dream I found myself in a Gothic mansion, or rather castle, perched on a high rock, with the sound of water flowing below. The castle seemed empty of humanity, and the only evidence of other life was provided by fluttering bats, and the croaking of ravens on the battlements aloft. I was in a dimly lit room, and having felt my way around the walls which were covered with some soft but damp hangings, I came on a heavy door which I opened and which allowed me to advance into a long passage. In this lobby, as in the room, though there was no other presence, I was sensible of invisible watchers, and I believed, though I could not hear them, that they commented scornfully on my movements. I advanced along the passage, and opened a door at the end, and found myself in another room, identical, it seemed, to the first. At this point a sentence was spoken in a language I did not understand, and which I knew I had never heard before. Then, as the words died away in whisper, I woke up, sweating. That was all, except that each night I believed that I had started in the room where I had finished the previous night, and was therefore advancing towards something which could only be terrible.
I could speak to no one of this dream, which seemed like a reversion to childhood, though I had no recollection of nightmares then; I found that I was afraid to retire to bed.
It was that fear which drove me last night to go back to the Cowgate and Hastie’s Close. Nothing I encountered there could be more horrible than the terror that awaited me in bed, for that had increased with every step along that dark corridor.
Again, for a time it seemed that the magic had departed. I knew a hollowness of feeling. Then, as if a stage curtain had been drawn, a thin light flooded the close and the music struck up. At the top of the steps the girl appeared, and held out her hand, but not to me. A figure emerged from the shadows, a boy with long hair, a torn shirt and breeches that ended in rags about his knees. He was barefoot, and his hair and cheek were streaked with what I knew to be blood. They held my gaze, and at first I could not recognize him. And then I saw that he was Green-breeks, and called out to him, asking whether he did not know me. He looked as he had in the days of our ‘bickers’, indeed as if the sword-blow which had felled him then had proved mortal. He danced with the girl, a measure that began in grave fashion and grew faster and faster and more lively as the music quickened.
The fiddler, whom I could not see, broke off, and then resumed in a slow languorous tune, that was sweet and sad at the same time. The graceful movements of the boy and the girl held my gaze. I stretched out my hand to touch them, but they slipped away. This happened three times, and I knew that they were either incorporeal or that it was not intended that I should lay hand on them. And yet I wanted to, so much.
The golden lad and silver lass,
The auld wife dour as lead;
The fiddler wi his merry dance,
That summons up the dead.
The mune ahint the dusky clouds,
Denies the world its light;
The west
ern hills roll far away,
Like years, into the night.
Now, Walter, tak dead Michael’s hand,
That cleft the hills in three,
Now, Walter, tak dead Michael’s hand,
For you twae maun agree.
Thin-flanked from nether regions, he
Has come to speak with you,
And gin you list not to his words,
This night now shalt thou rue.
Sae, poet, tak dead Michael’s hand,
And feel the bones of death;
Sae, poet, touch dead Michael’s lips,
And taste his icy breath.
The golden lad kens silver lass,
And auld wife dour as lead;
The fiddler leads a merry dance,
That aye delights the dead.
Oh, he has touched dead Michael’s lips,
That drank the bitter wine,
And round and round the sacred tree,
The baith o them maun twine.
The baith of them maun twine, my dear,
The dance maun hae its way;
The dancer yields his will, and he
The music maun obey.
Down in the glen where fairies are dancing,
Down in the hollow where all is entrancing.
There in the milk-white field that is moonlit,
Rest for the weary, and freedom from all guilt.
Cease from battle,
Let war’s rattle,
Fade away,
Fade away.
Come to the land where the asphodel blows,
Where its sweet musky scent is preferred to the rose;
The dancers, the dance, and the music are one,
And the race that is prized is the race never run.
Where golden lad and silver lass,
And auld wife light as lead,
Follow the fiddler in his dance,
That quickens up the dead . . .
And as I listened a great desire came over me, and I advanced up the steps, my legs lighter at every stride I took. I attained the top, and stretched out my hand and laid it on Green-breeks’s blood-encrusted hair, and he did not flinch, but smiled at me, a smile of an infinite sweetness and regret. I let my hand drop, and the mists closed round him and the girl, and the music died away; and I looked down, and in my left hand, I was still holding something which I found to be a rickle of bones as if once it had been a hand. I raised my eyes, and I said, ‘In the name of God, no,’ and the bones crumbled to dust, and when I laid my hand to my lips the dust stained them and tasted dry and sour.
I limped home through the empty streets, a prey to conflicting emotions, for sometimes it seemed that I had won a great victory and survived a trial, and at others that I had been deprived of what I most deeply desired, though I could not put a name to that. I put my left hand to my lips again, and the smell of death was still upon it. I could not believe that I had really held the skeletal hand of Michael Scott, astrologer, philosopher, and tutor to the Emperor Frederick II, known as stupor mundi, the wonder of the world – Scott around whose name so many legends have attached themselves in his native Borderland, whom Dante, calling him ‘thin-flanked’, had consigned to the eighth circle of the Inferno, and of whom I myself had written in the Lay; but then I could not believe either than I had not done so. And I did not know whether I had been threatened with something fearful, or whether a promise of delight had been extended to me.
I found Anne in our lodgings, in a dressing-gown.
‘Where have you been, Papa? I heard you go out, and then not return, and I grew anxious.’
‘Walking, my dear. I could not sleep, and thought I might tire my body to rest my mind.’
‘But you look so pale and agitated.’
‘It is nothing, my dear. I am ready for rest now.’
‘And strange, as if . . .’
‘As if what?’
‘As if you had struggled with devils.’
‘Come,’ I said, ‘that is fanciful. A Romantic, Mrs Radcliffeish notion, purely Gothic. There are no devils, I sometimes think, save in our own mind. It is all right, child. Come, let’s away to bed.’
17
Of George IV and Prince Charles Edward
News came last week of the King’s death. My correspondent reports that his last words were: ‘So this is death! Oh God! They have deceived me.’ Se non è vero, è ben trovato, as the Italian proverb has it. Death, the great leveller, destroying consequence, and all earthly pretension, must aye make mock of monarchy. The radical papers have been scurrilous in their notices of his obituary, none more so than that detestable rag The Times. But the Tory Press has scarcely used him more kindly. Yet I believe that, self-indulgent and alternately obstinate and vacillating as he was, he tried to do his duty. No man can say more for himself than that. And he could play the part of the monarch to perfection, for he had natural grace and charm of manner; and perhaps playing the part is as much as is now required of kings.
I knew him – but only socially – for near a quarter of a century. He was always kind and courteous, even admiring, towards me; and thoughtful too. He offered to make me Poet Laureate, an honour I declined because I had no wish to be seen as a sort of retained hack, and also because I think the position a futile one. Then, when I retired from the Clerkship of the Court of Session, he conveyed to me the desire that I should become a member of his Privy Council. I declined that honour, too, for I did not think it became me, especially in my sadly altered circumstances; the invitation was honour enough, I said.
Of his intelligence I cannot judge, for it is impossible to estimate the intelligence of one who has the power to dictate the terms of conversation, and who may leave off a topic when he pleases, and deny his interlocutor the right to return to it. In society a Prince must be like the conductor of an orchestra. Yet, with this reservation, he had a refinement of taste and sensibility of intelligence not commonly found in Princes. He was a great patron of painters and architects, and I believe has done more to beautify London than any previous monarch. His restoration of Windsor Castle is also said to be beyond praise. Of the Pavilion at Brighton I am not qualified to speak, except to say that he talked of it in terms which recalled my own feeling for Abbotsford.
I was naturally gratified that he found something to admire in my work, though I consider that his admiration for Miss Austen’s novels offers better evidence of his discriminatory ability. When Byron talked with him, he reported that ‘he spoke of Homer and of yourself with equal fervour, and, to do him justice, appeared equally well acquainted with the writings of both’.
He had no doubt that I was the author of the Waverley novels, though he was too well-bred to inquire directly of me. Once, when I dined with him – an intimate little supper in Carlton House – he offered a toast to ‘the Author of Waverley’. I drank happily and retorted that ‘I shall be delighted to convey Your Royal Highness’s compliments to the gentleman in question if ever I should be so fortunate as to meet with him’. He enjoyed that sort of jest, and had indeed a ready wit and a warm, sometimes broad, humour. He excelled, and delighted, in conversation, having talents of mimicry that, had he been born in another walk of life, could have made his fortune on the stage; he had a fund of anecdote which he recounted very well and with considerable art. There was indeed something – and splendidly – theatrical about him, in both his private and public life, for he was always extremely conscious of the impression he made; and therefore his largely undeserved, but extreme, unpopularity in London grieved him more than it would have done a more robust and less sensitive man. This was a great tragedy, for, had he managed his private life more decorously, he had talents which could have ensured great popularity, which would have been to the benefit of his kingdoms by promoting stability. As to his private life, it is not for me to judge. I shall say only this: we who are fortunate enough to be able to marry where we choose, and do so in the certainty of there being at least affection between husband and wife, sh
ould not rush to condemn Princes who are compelled to make marriages which are not of their choosing. I believe also that, for all their private virtues, both George III and Queen Charlotte were unsympathetic, even harsh, parents.
George IV had a great reverence for courage, and military achievement. He had Lawrence paint him portraits of his great Captains and Admirals, which he hung in his favourite drawing-room at Windsor. His deference to the Duke of Wellington was wonderful to see – even though in relaxed mood he would ‘take off the Duke to perfection. He was a Whig in his youth, partly as an expression of revolt from his father – it is wonderful how the heads of the House of Hanover hate their elder sons, in every generation-partly because he fell victim to the charm, which was formidable, of Charles James Fox. Then his other great friend was Sheridan, a man who made his way in the world supported by no consequence but his genius. Though my politics were clean opposed to those of Fox and Sheridan, I would be a fool if I did not recognize their great qualities. If it is true that a man’s quality may be judged by his choice of friends – and I think it is – then George IV emerges better from such a test than most men, certainly most kings; for kings tend to prefer their inferiors, while as Prince and King, George sought out those who were his intellectual, and moral, superiors or equals.
