*
“It will mean advancement to a viscountcy at the least, I expect,” said Brother William, rejoicing—with his usual universal sympathy—in the welfare of another. “We must monogram the sheets.”
This was done, and very handsome they would look when eventually it proved possible to bring them out for an airing.
In London, the news went down less well and there was unusual emphasis upon the casualty lists. Public illuminations were forbidden, the money for them given to the bereaved, for preventive war prevents nothing and obliterates more than it saves. To fight Napoleon was one thing—for everyone dreams of being Napoleon, and yet has no desire to be one of his dreams—but to fight the Danes to help bottle up Napoleon was not popular.
However, 23 Piccadilly burned with lights. Old Q was there, Brother William danced the tarantella with Emma, a simple innocent dance in which a satyr chases a nymph rather than a title. But Sir William, at seventy-one, had been obliged to drop out.
“Your brother was more extraordinary than ever,” wrote Sir William to Nelson. “I have lived too long to have ecstasies, but with calm reflection I felt for my friend having got to the very summit of glory. God bless you and send you soon home to your friends.” He meant what he said, for women and what they do need not impinge upon what we are among ourselves; and if one has retired from the competition, one cannot very well feel defeated by a mere movement backstairs.
Emma, having exhausted William, the Duke of Noia, her own maid and finally Quasheebaw, was forced to dance alone.
“It would be difficult to convey any adequate idea of this dance, but it is certainly not of a nature to be performed, except before a select company,” said Wraxall, the historian, who had looked in and then as promptly popped out again. “The screams, attitudes, starts and embraces with which it is intermingled give it a peculiar character.”
*
In July, Nelson came home.
“I have sometimes a hope of receiving you once more surrounded not with public honors alone, but what must add pleasure to every other gratification, a return to domestic joys, the most durable and solid of all others. Be it so O God,” wrote the Reverend Edmund.
“You will at a proper time, and before my arrival in England, signify to Lady Nelson that I expect—and for which I have made such a very liberal allowance to her—to be left to myself, and without any inquiries from her; for sooner than live the unhappy life I did when I last came to England, I would stay abroad forever,” wrote Nelson to his man of business; since he was in the wrong, he intended to act with firmness from now on.
On the 27th, as Earl Nelson, he landed at Great Yarmouth, and he and the Hamiltons went to Staines, to fish.
*
“Would that he had the command over himself which he exerts over others,” said Lord Spencer. “And if Lady Nelson were half the woman Lady Hamilton is …”
“Lady Nelson is not a woman, but a reputation, though it is marvelous how she keeps up. She wishes to save her good name much more than she wishes to save him,” said Lady Spencer impatiently. “And since to her that name is Herbert of Nevis, not Nelson, there is nothing to be done either for or with her. She must go be glum at some provincial watering place, as she prefers.” Happy the woman who has at last found her grievance.
“But it is irregular, and the crowd loves him all the same,” said Spencer.
“If he were sent to sea again, the irregularities would be less and the public would love him the more,” said Lady Spencer, who had given the same advice before, for she was dependable. “You have only to move him about a bit.”
So that was settled; all that was needed was a new emergency.
Unfortunately the crowd loves an irregular liaison, given it may read about it in the papers rather than be scandalized by it next door. For what are the great for, if not to do the same as we, if we but dared?
*
At Staines, they stayed at the Bush Inn, the whole lot of them: William Nelson to guzzle and grope for favor; Emma to guttle; William’s wife, to be company; their daughter Charlotte, to clack; and Sir William and Nelson to fish at Shepperton, nearby.
It is pleasant to fish.
They were in one of those ideal landscapes which the English achieve by their usual combination of weeding and leaving well enough alone. The view had aplomb. Water spilled over a stone shelf into a still pool, and from there rippled clear and cool over small stones. The sky was blue, but flocculent with clouds, so that the light alternated, varied, and then came out again. The grass was green and sappy. Under a boulder grew a nibbled crop of violet flags. The nearest sound was a cowbell two fields over. The trees did not stir. It was one of those landscapes which transcend themselves—so exactly the symbol of what they are, that they enter the mind forever; eternal moments, every one of them.
In this dingle, he was far from wishing his uncle dead, for Uncle had disappeared, as so had he. They were merely two men fishing—Sir William, the older; and Horatio, the favorite and favored friend.
In the evening they were together at the inn, which had a garden down to the Thames. Since it was a benevolent summer that year, this meant that they had supper outdoors in the long northern twilight, with lanterns in the shadows and such a scent from the bushes as would make you believe yourself in some better, well-managed, genteel Italy. Other men have wives who shut you out. Sir William, who had only Emma, let you in. Nelson found the party congenial. Brother William might be a timeserver, his wife a rattle, and their daughter a clack, but at least they were all together, which they would not have been had Fanny been there, for Fanny would never have countenanced the informality of supper on the lawn of a public inn, and was both too shy and too proud to put guests at their ease until she left them, while the port went around. With Sir William as a counterweight, the world regulated itself.
And yet Nelson felt sad. It was the twilight, perhaps. Or the fact that they did not live here; that it was only an inn; that there was not much time left—for he felt this these days; that life passes like that white swan out there, floating along the river, in this dim light no more than a blur and a beak. A thought more suitable to Sir William than to him.
I would rather be nibbled by sharks than by time, he thought. Had Emma not persisted to go at such a gallop, they could have jogged along quite well.
*
He was ordered to Deal, to prepare against the rumored French invasion being mounted at Boulogne. It was the worst scare the English had had since the Dutch sailed up the Medway a hundred and fifty years before, though he suspected it was no more than a ruse whereby Troubridge, Hardy and the rest of the Admiralty Board planned to keep him away from Emma. Well-wishers have no private lives; that is what makes them so concerned for the public good.
“I came on board,” he wrote, “but no Emma. I have 4 pictures, but I have lost the original. Will you come down? It might grieve me to see Sir William without you, but if you approve, I will ask. Send to some good wine merchant for three dozen of the very best champagne and order to the Downs by waggon, or I shall have nothing to give you.”
It was an inducement. Sir William and Emma went. But what was the use of that, if the old man was always there?
“Emma,” said Nelson, “I want you to find me a house. Any house.”
“But what about Sir William?” asked Emma, alarmed and astonished, and just as everything was going so smoothly, too.
“You and Sir William will, of course, come on visits. We will always have a room for him. But I want nothing of his in the house except him. For this is to be our house.”
“But we are going away!” wailed Emma. “Sir William with Greville, and I to the seashore.”
Nelson had not been told. “Very well, then, when you return.”
*
“Recollecting that Sir William and Lady Hamilton seemed to be gratified by the flavour of a cream cheese, I have taken the liberty of sending 2 or 3 of Bath manufacture,” wrote the Reverend Edmund.
“I have a letter from Troubridge, recommending me to wear flannel shirts. Does he care for me? No.”
“Here we are, my dear Emma, after a pleasant day’s journey. No extraordinary occurrence. Our chaise is good and would have held the famous Tria juncta in uno very well, but we must submit to the circumstances of the times!”
“Sir Joseph Banks we found in bed with gout and last night his hothouse was robbed of its choicest fruit, peaches and nectarines …”
And that exhausted the day’s letter bag, thought Emma, who while Sir William went to Wales, had come to Margate with Horatia, and now sat upon the sands, or rather in a wicker bath chair, sheltered from the wind, in quite her old Ariadne attitude—the one Romney had drawn, though styles in hats had changed. Emma Carew was settled for life, thank goodness, and besides, Emma herself was here by choice. Horatia was a favored child, so it was safe to encourage her. Her parentage held no ambiguities, she was an adopted daughter, the child of the poor defunct Thompsons. And on the whole it was warm; the day was fine. If I cannot hold him, the child can; it is all over, so no more scheming, and so I can at last be myself again.
Getting up somewhat heavily, Emma laughed like a girl and turned her face, cast her eyes down in quite the old Romney manner—even if nowadays the loose flesh on her neck made wrinkles—and skipped a stone across the surface of the sea, secure to play the mother now, since it was only play.
Horatia was such a pretty child, flaxen haired, well dressed, and very like a pet rabbit with a pink nose. Emma looked down at her fondly, and then, sensing something, rose to her feet.
“Winklewoman, go away!” she snapped.
But there was nobody there. It was just that sometimes, in the twilight, things hover so.
*
“I do not understand it,” said Sir Joseph, very decrepit, very gouty, his foot done up in bandages and propped upon a gout stool, but delighted to see a friend still portable. “My exotica do well enough in the winter, in the glasshouse, but they do not seem able to grow accustomed to the summers here. They seldom bud.”
The servant finished fussing with the grate and retired. They heard her pause to listen outside the door and then, discouraged that she had been detected, squeak across the hall floorboards and so away.
“William, I am concerned,” said Sir Joseph. “The Jerboa has swelled to Jeroboam size.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I speak only as a friend. A Jerboa is a sort of little rat that gets along by leaps and bounds. Do you understand me? Not only is your family concerned, families are always concerned with what does not concern them, but your friends take it very much to heart.”
Unfortunately Sir Joseph really was a friend; he would have to have an explication.
“I have the consolation,” said Sir William, “that those invisible horns you are at this moment endeavoring not to admire as they sprout from my forehead, though inevitable, were at least placed there by a friend. They are the laurels I look to.”
“A curious sort of friend.”
“Yes, quite curious. I will grant that that he has seduced my wife does not altogether seduce me. But he is a fine fellow, it is not his fault, and at seventy-two one gets a little lonely, particularly if one prefers the company of the young.”
“Yes,” said Sir Joseph, “I know.”
“It is the very phrase I use myself,” agreed Sir William. “And since we both so clearly mean the same thing by it, then since we both know, discussion is unnecessary.”
“But—”
“No but. The things that make us happy at one age are not the same as those which make us happy at another. If she makes him happy—which I doubt, for he seems in the torments half the time, poor fellow—then I feel he is amply repaid for so far forgetting himself as to be affectionate toward and considerate of the feelings of a very old man. He is to be pitied, not censured; it seems he can still feel passion.”
“Seventy-two is not so old as all that. That’s merely seasoned timber,” said Sir Joseph, and added an ouch! for he himself had remained flesh.
“Perhaps, but I need glue.”
“And Charles?”
“My nephew can always be depended upon to look after his own, whether it is his yet or not,” said Sir William shortly.
*
Two days later he was at Milford Haven, sailing a boat on the bay, as he had done in his youth, and listening to Charles’ eternal explanations about money and the lack of it and his own poverty; and how, though there was no income, yet in time there would be some, of that he was sure, but at the moment not, for he was out of pocket himself.
“‘Great worth, by poverty oppressed, is slow to rise,’” said Sir William, who greatly enjoyed to tease Charles. “As Johnson says. But could you not try?”
“I am trying.”
“You must remember, my body is not dead yet,” said Sir William impersonally. “No doubt you will succeed in time, but I have not much time.” And since this was true, he dragged Charles off to the Newmarket races, and enjoyed himself hugely, borrowing fifty pounds from the boy and losing it rapidly.
Though an admirer of horseflesh and pretty women, as became his station, Greville did not gamble.
*
Emma thought Nelson’s unexpected suggestion of a house, though it had taken a hint here and there, an excellent idea, for who knew where she would live if Sir William were to die? He could not leave her much, and what woman of the world would want to sit on an obscure chicken farm, for so she had heard Bronte described, out of favor at court (the dear Queen had never written), out of office, and one’s sole companion a retired one-armed Admiral? Besides, Nelson must have some place to entertain his friends.
After some hunting about, she found Merton, “Paradise Merton” as she called it, a small estate in Surrey, an hour’s drive from the Piccadilly house, for of course that could not be given up. It was too important to Sir William to retain a house in town. The house and all its contents, said Nelson, were to be hers by deed of gift. So truly, with a light heart, she could set about to make him a home.
Sir William, of course, would be equally welcome there. “I assure you every study of mine shall be to make you happy in it. I shall buy fish out of the Thames to stock the water, but I bar barbel. I shall never forget the one you cooked at Staines.”
*
Emma and Sir William were about to go down to Merton for the first time.
“What is that plant doing in the hall?” demanded Sir William.
“Lilac,” said Emma, who was excited. “I thought it would look pretty peeping over the wall, and I like the scent so. Both white and mauve.”
But though she fussed over it and watered it and even asked the gardener what to do, the lilac was one of her failures. It would not grow.
Sir Joseph sent exotica, the zinnias from Mexico in particular successful, though a little strange. It was a plant the Bishop of Derry (released from French captivity at last, thank goodness) had once admired.
The house and grounds had been a bargain at £9,000, complete with furnishings and a private stream. The duck close and field needed to complete the prospect could be bought later. Nelson was helping support some fifteen people, what with Charlotte’s singing lessons, Fanny’s allowance, pin money for Emma, a loan to Sir William, an annuity to his brother Maurice’s widow, another to Graffer’s widow in Italy, Josiah to look after, his sister Bolton’s children in need of a boost up, and a few more. Duck Close would have to wait.
As so would he, for he could not come ashore just yet. “You will make us rich with your economy,” he wrote Emma. As so she would, but there were initial expenses of course. It was necessary to have the carpenters in.
The house was actually two cottages side by side, joined Siamese-twin fashion in the middle. A new eating room and a kitchen had to be added; the south wing had to be revamped for the accommodation of the servants (with a pleasant big bow-windowed downstairs sitting room for Mrs. Cadogan, who would be hous
ekeeper).
When the alterations were complete, the result was a pleasant two-storied red brick house with a white woodwork entrance capped by urns—of the sort that Anthony Devis had enjoyed to paint fifty years earlier—with bedrooms in each wing, a gallery between, and auxiliary staircases so that everyone could be private.
As Beckford—who had dropped by, for gossip must be gathered if it is to be dispensed—had said, it had five bedrooms, most conveniently arranged, a strong room, a dining room for guttling. In short, it was like the Halls of Eblis, cottage-ornée style; “there was a room for every vice.” Vanity and pride were scattered indiscriminately throughout in the form of portraits of Emma interspersed with Nelson’s souvenirs and trophies. The house was to be a shrine, not only to the Hero of the Nile, but also to his inspiratrix, his presiding genius, his goddess, she—as he said these days himself—who made his victories possible. The Angelica Kauffmann went in the eating room, the Vigée-Lebrun in the withdrawing room, the Romney of “The Ambassadress” in the front hall—as was only proper—and in the breakfast room, sketches only, but twenty or thirty of those. It was a pity Sir William had never had her sculpted, for a few busts in Nelson’s library would have done no harm. However, a Sophocles, a George III, a Homer, a Voltaire and a Burke did quite well. Since perhaps women do not belong in a library—except for an “Alope with Child,” by Romney (a graceful allusion to Horatia) to balance the Hoppner of Nelson wearing everything—she left the library alone. Sloth was represented by a sofa, elegantly upholstered in gold and white sateen.
“To be sure, we shall employ the tradespeople of our village in preference to any others in what we want for common use, and give them every encouragement to be kind and attentive to us,” advised Nelson. “I expect that all animals will increase where you are.” She was a Circe, too. “Have we a nice church at Merton? We will set an example of goodness to the under-parishioners.” He thought to have Horatia christened there, but gave the idea up, since the rector would want the parents’ names for the register, which would be awkward.
“You are to be Lady Paramont of all the territories and waters of Merton, and we are all to be your guests and to obey all lawful commands.” He wanted all his family and naval friends made welcome. It was to be a home. He dreamed of it incessantly.
Sir William Page 33
