Part 10

“Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this portrait and the lad, the new viscountess, who had still hold of the boy’s hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quickly, and walked down the gallery, followed by Mrs. Worksop.

“When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same spot and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his black coat.

“Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as much) at the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or small; for when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the further end of the gallery; and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and saying some words to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, and kissed the fair protecting hand, as he knelt on one knee. To the very last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lady as she then spoke and looked--the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair.”

The story now digresses, returning to Esmond’s early life, the vague recollections of his childhood abroad, his coming to Castlewood, his education by Father Holt, a Jesuit priest, the plots and intrigues of the family on behalf of King James, the seizure of the great house by King William’s troops, the arrest of the viscountess in her bed, and the death of the viscount at the battle of the Boyne.

The young page was warmly welcomed by the new viscount, as well as by Lady Castlewood, and he became the instructor of their children. There are exquisite descriptions of their domestic life in the earlier pages of the book.

“There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature, an angelical softness and bright pity--in motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It can not be called love that a lad of twelve years of age, little more than menial, felt for an exalted lady, his mistress; but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her errand, and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch, follow, adore her, became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admiration of her little pigmy adorer.

“My lady had on her side her three idols; first and foremost, Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry’s patron, the good Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache, she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled, and was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the window to see him ride away, her little son crowing on her arm, or on the watch till his return. She made dishes for his dinner; spiced his wine for him; made the toast for his tankard at breakfast; hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my lord was not a little proud of his beauty, my lady adored it. She clung to his arms as he paced the terrace, her two fair little hands clasped round his great one; her eyes were never tired of looking in his face and wondering at his perfection.”

But it was not long until my lord began to grow weary of the bonds in which his lady held him and at the jealousy which went hand and hand with her affection.

“Then perhaps, the pair reached that other stage, which is not uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives that the god of the honeymoon is a god no more; only a mortal like the rest of us; and so she looks into her heart, and lo! _vacua sedes et inania arcana!_”

One unhappy day Esmond brings the smallpox to Castlewood from an ale-house in the village, which he has visited, and where he has met Nancy Sievewright, the blacksmith’s pretty daughter. Lady Castlewood, on hearing this, breaks out into a strange fit of rage and jealousy; but when Esmond is taken ill she nurses him tenderly, contracting the disease herself, while the viscount with his little daughter Beatrix flees from the contagion. He returns to find his wife’s beauty marred a little for a time, whereupon his love for her grows weak and she betakes herself to the affection of her children. With a little legacy that comes into her possession, she sends Esmond to the University, whence he returns on vacation to find a skeleton in the household. His kind mistress is shedding tears in secret, while her husband drinks heavily, neglects her for an actress in a neighboring town, and brings home Lord Mohun, a notorious rake, with whom he spends his nights at play, and squanders his fortune. At last Mohun is suspected of designs against my lady, and in a drive with this unscrupulous man Esmond warns him to leave Castlewood. An accident occurs; Mohun is thrown out and injured. The viscount tells his wife that “Harry is killed” (Harry being the name both of Esmond and Mohun). She screams, and falls unconscious. A duel follows, and Lord Castlewood is slain by Mohun’s sword, but before his death confesses that he has learned from Father Holt that Esmond is the legitimate son of his predecessor, and the lawful heir to Castlewood. Esmond burns the confession and resolves not to profit by a claim which will bring sorrow upon his kind mistress and her children. He is sent to prison for participating in the duel, from which he had endeavored to dissuade his patron and afterwards to defend him. Here Lady Castlewood visits him. She brings no comfort, however, but upbraids him in her wild grief:

“‘I lost him through you--I lost him, the husband of my youth, I say. I worshiped him--you know I worshiped him--and he was changed to me. He was no more my Francis of old--my dear, dear soldier! He loved me before he saw you, and I loved him! Oh, God is my witness, how I loved him! Why did he not send you from among us? ’Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing then. And, young as you were--yes, and weak and alone--there was evil, I knew there was evil in keeping you. I read it in your face and eyes. I saw that they boded harm to us--and it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when you had the smallpox, and I came myself and watched you, and you didn’t know me in your delirium--and you called out for me, though I was there at your side. All that has happened since was a just judgment on my wicked heart--my wicked, jealous heart. Oh, I am punished, awfully punished! My husband lies in his blood--murdered for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord--and you were by, and you let him die, Henry!’”

He is crushed by her injustice, but does not waver in his devotion. After his imprisonment is over he procures an ensign’s commission and participates in the destruction of the French fleet in Vigo Bay. On his return he hears that his mistress is about to marry the chaplain of Castlewood, and he hastens to prevent the match. The rumor is unfounded, but it furnishes the opportunity for reconciliation. They meet in Winchester Cathedral after the service:

“She gave him her hand--her little fair hand; there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been out of his head all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison, nor in the camp, nor on shore before the enemy, nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight, nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn; not even at the table where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theater yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses, and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery?”

And then when Esmond gently reproaches her that she had never told him of her sorrow for her cruel words, and that the knowledge would have spared him many a bitter night:

“‘I know it, I know it,’ she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. ‘I know how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. I confessed to Mr. Atterbury--I must not tell any more. He--I said I would not write to you or go to you; and it was better, even, that, having parted, we should part. But I knew you would come back--I own that. That is no one’s fault. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, “When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,” I thought, yes, like them that dream--them that dream. And then it went, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth forth and weepeth shall doubtless come home again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;” I looked up from the book, and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head.’”

* * * * *

“‘If--if ’tis so, dear lady,’ Mr. Esmond said, ‘why should I ever leave you? If God hath given me this great boon--and near or far from me, as I know now, the heart of my dearest mistress follows me--let me have that blessing near me, nor ever part with it till death separate us. Come away--leave this Europe, this place which has so many sad recollections for you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good lord often talked of visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave us--gave his ancestor. Frank will give that. No man there will ask if there is a blot on my name, or inquire in the woods what my title is.’

“‘And my children--and my duty--and my good father, Henry?’ she broke out. ‘He has none but me now; for soon my sister will leave him, and the old man will be alone. He has conformed since the new Queen’s reign; and there in Winchester, where they love him, they have found a church for him. When the children leave me I will stay with him. I cannot follow them into the great world, where their way lies--it scares me. They will come and visit me; and you will, sometimes, Henry--yes, sometimes, as now, in the Holy Advent season, when I have seen and blessed you once more.’

“‘I would leave all to follow you,’ said Mr. Esmond; ‘and can you not be as generous for me, dear Lady?’

“‘Hush, boy!’ she said, and it was with a mother’s sweet, plaintive tone and look that she spoke. ‘The world is beginning for you. For me, I have been so weak and sinful that I must leave it, and pray out an expiation, dear Henry. Had we houses of religion as there were once, and many divines of our church would have them again, I often think I would retire to one and pass my life in penance. But I would love you still--yes, there is no sin in such a love as mine now; and my dear lord in heaven may see my heart; and knows the tears that have washed my sin away--and now--now my duty is here, by my children while they need me, and by my poor old father, and--’

“‘And not by me?’ Henry said.

“‘Hush!’ she said again, and raised her hand to his lip. ‘I have been your nurse. You could not see me, Henry, when you were in the smallpox, and I came and sat by you. Ah, I prayed that I might die, but it would have been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to that time. It is over now and past, and it has been forgiven me. When you need me again I will come ever so far. When your heart is wounded then come to me, my dear. Be silent! Let me say all. You never loved me, dear Henry--no, you do not now, and I thank Heaven for it. I used to watch you, and knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember how glad you were to go away to College? ’Twas I sent you. I told my papa that, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London. And they both gave me absolution--both--and they are godly men, having authority to bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as my dear lord forgave me before he went to heaven.’

“‘I think the angels are not all in heaven,’ Mr. Esmond said. And as a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves to her son’s breast--so for a few moments Esmond’s beloved mistress came to him and blessed him.”

After this wonderful chapter there comes another of almost equal beauty, if it stood alone, but the two together make a strange discord. For when they reach Walcote, which is now the family home, Beatrix, the daughter of Lady Castlewood, comes down the stairs to greet him.

“Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown beyond the common height, and arrived at such a dazzling completeness of beauty that his eyes might well show surprise and delight at beholding her. In hers there was a brightness so lustrous and melting that I have seen a whole assembly follow her as if by an attraction irresistible; and that night the great Duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned and looked (she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the theater at the same moment) at her, and not at him. She was a brown beauty--that is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes were dark; her hair curling with rich undulations, and waving over her shoulders. But her complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full, and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot, as it planted itself on the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace--agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen--now melting, now imperious, now sarcastic--there was no single movement of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon.”

Esmond falls instantly in love with the dazzling beauty, and the rest of the book, down to nearly the end of the last chapter, has for its theme his fruitless devotion to this brilliant, volatile, imperious, and capricious girl, and her mother’s sympathy with him in his vain suit!

He again betakes himself to the army to win a rank and a name so as to lay them at her feet. He takes part in the great campaigns of Marlborough in Flanders--at Donauwörth, Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, Wynendael, Malplaquet. He is wounded at Blenheim, and again (near the close of the war) at Mons, and he is promoted until he reaches the rank of colonel. He returns to England from time to time, meets the brilliant girl (now maid of honor to the Queen) to whom his life is devoted, only to have his heart torn by her coldness and her caprices. Once for a moment she relents, but the mood passes and she pursues her schemes of ambition. First she is betrothed to Lord Ashburnham, then to the Duke of Hamilton, and when that nobleman falls in a duel with Lord Mohun, it is Esmond who has to bring her the news of this crushing blow to her ambition.

And now he will attempt one brilliant feat to win her. Queen Anne is near her end. Esmond will bring back to England the Pretender, the exiled King (to whose cause the family are deeply devoted) to take the vacant throne. Here follow the details of this scheme, and a description of the king’s dissolute and fickle character. He is brought to the house of Lady Castlewood, where he shows too plainly his fancy for Beatrix, who on her part is far too compliant. She is sent away to Castlewood, and becomes furious at the suspicions of her family. When the plot of the king’s friends is ripe the Pretender can not be found. A letter from Beatrix informing him that she is a prisoner is intercepted, and Esmond and her brother Frank ride all night to Castlewood, where they find the young king, and although they are in time to save her honor, yet this crowning infidelity has crushed out the last spark of Esmond’s love. On their return to London the Queen is dead and George is proclaimed King.

Let the concluding scenes of the story be told in Esmond’s own words:

“Ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us, and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son’s house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by women.... ’Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank’s wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had connected himself) that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one who by God’s help would never forsake her. And then the tender matron, as beautiful in her autumn, and as pure as virgins in their spring, with blushes of love and eyes of meek surrender yielded to my respectful importunity, and consented to share my home.”

If Esmond had shot himself, or turned monk, or spent his last days alone, or lived with Lady Castlewood as her son, the artistic harmony of the book would have been preserved, but to marry one who had been in the place of a mother to him all these years--Faugh! not even the genius of Thackeray can make such a match attractive. This dreadful anticlimax mars what would otherwise be beyond all question (and what may be still in spite of it) the most beautiful work of fiction ever written.

Thackeray knows better than any other novelist, except perhaps Cervantes, how to describe a gentleman. That peculiar aggregation of qualities so unmistakable, yet so elusive of definition, which go to make up this character, appear more clearly in his novels than anywhere else in English fiction. Henry Esmond, Colonel Newcome and Major Dobbin are almost as perfect examples of this as the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance himself. And Thackeray (in another work) thus speaks to us of gentlemen:

“Perhaps these are rarer personages than some of us think for. Which of us can point out many such in his circle, men whose aims are generous, whose truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind but elevated in its degree; whose want of meanness makes them simple; who can look the world honestly in the face with an equal manly sympathy for the great and small? We all know a hundred whose coats are very well made, and a score who have excellent manners, and one or two happy beings who are what they call in the inner circles, and have shot into the very centre and bull’s eye of the fashion; but of gentlemen how many? Let us take a little scrap of paper and each make out his list.”

The diction of Thackeray is exquisite beyond all comparison with that of any other author. There are some repetitions, and many marks of carelessness, but Thackeray does not suffer because he is careless, he seems rather to gain by it. Henry Esmond is full of digressions; for example, the historical accounts of the campaigns in Flanders have little to do with the main purpose of the story. But where else can we find history written with such a charm? You seem to be in the midst of the events it chronicles, beholding its great scenes and listening to contemporary gossip and criticism. Where else is any such description of a hero like that of Marlborough:

“Our chief, whom England and all Europe, saving only the Frenchmen, worshiped almost, had this of the godlike in him, that he was impassible before victory, before danger, before defeat. Before the greatest obstacle or the most trivial ceremony; before a hundred thousand men drawn in battalia, or a peasant slaughtered at the door of his burning hovel; before a carouse of drunken German lords, or a monarch’s court, a cottage-table, where his plans were laid, or an enemy’s battery, vomiting flame and death, and strewing corpses round about him--he was always cold, calm, resolute, like fate. He performed a treason or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as Styx, as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He took a mistress and left her, he betrayed his benefactor and supported him, or would have murdered him, with the same calmness always, and having no more remorse than Clotho when she weaves the thread, or Lachesis when she cuts it....