Six Weeks by the Sea, page 14
Our six weeks by the sea will never be forgotten. What happiness is mine – all around me. For the clock is fast wearing away at the minutes to the happy hour of twelve, when a well-known step will sound along the passages and a well-known voice will be heard at my door.
Nothing, my dear Frank, is more unlike a novel than real life. And perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common. Happiness is not something that happens to us, it is something we chose.
Yours affectionately, J A.
Postscript. Miss Lloyd joins us tomorrow for an extended stay.
* * *
It was another Indian summer morning. Jane and Martha rose early, put on their bonnets and stole quietly out of the house. They crossed the road and took a turn round Sydney Gardens, before walking through the city.
Bath was awaking to a cacophony of sounds.
As they strolled along Great Pulteney Street, a sooty chimney boy, with dingy face and tattered clothes, was shouting loudly to advertise his trade, waking up the sleepy housemaids. On Laura Place, a milkman rattled his pail and the dustman’s bell clanged. As they crossed the bridge over the river, the air filled with the din of hackney coaches, wagons, carts and tradesmen making their way to work. Along Milsom Street freshly sprinkled water cooled the feet of the early walkers. A ruddy maid twirled her mop, annoying a smartly clad apprentice.
The morning sun shone through shop windows, as canvas awnings were extended to provide shade for the inviting merchandise. Insects buzzed around the tempting pastries and a sticky trap waited to catch them. The lamplighter climbed a tall ladder to extinguish the lamps, while a pot boy yelled discordantly.
Rounding the Circus, they were eyed by an old-clothes man with a bag of half-worn dresses – no doubt pilfered by some dishonest maid – which he was hoping to sell for a fraction of their worth. A porter carried his heavy load along the Royal Crescent.
They walked briskly.
The air was crisp and fresh as Jane and Martha ascended Lansdown Hill, the soft light casting a gentle glow over the city below. Here, they were alone with their thoughts, the world at their feet and the future a murmur just beyond their grasp.
Martha, her bonnet slightly askew, was looking out with a wistful expression.
‘Martha,’ Jane began, her voice steady but laced with concern, ‘you have not said a word since we left the house. I would not intrude upon your thoughts, but I cannot bear to see you in such distress.’
Martha sighed. ‘It is only that I fear, Jane, that we may never see Frank again. The war, the sea, the uncertainty of his life.’
Jane reached out, gently taking her hand. ‘You must not think so, dear Martha. His duty to the Navy is indeed a heavy burden, but it is also his pride, his honour. He will return to us all. Of that, I am certain.’
‘But when?’ Martha’s voice was unsteady. ‘What if it is years, Jane? What if… what if it is never?’
Jane hesitated, her own heart heavy with the uncertainty that had plagued her since leaving Devonshire. She could not offer false comfort, but neither could she stand to see her friend in such despair. ‘If it is years, then years you will wait. If it is never… then… then you will still have loved him with a constancy that few can claim. But you must not let such thoughts consume you. He will return. He must.’
Martha’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You are too kind, Jane. You speak of constancy as if it were a virtue, and perhaps it is, but I cannot help but feel that it is a cruel one. To love someone so deeply and to be left in this endless waiting.’
Jane now understood all too well what it was to wait, to hope, to doubt. She gazed down on the city in silence.
‘And what of you, Jane?’ Martha asked suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You have spoken of my fears, but what of your own? Do you hear from Mr. Rose? Has he written?’
‘He was to return to Bath as soon as his case was concluded, but there has been no word. I do not know what to think.’
‘Perhaps he is merely delayed,’ Martha suggested, though her tone was halting, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as Jane. ‘The law is a demanding profession, is it not? Surely, there are matters that require his attention, matters that may have prevented him from writing.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He loves you, of that I am certain. He is a man of honour, of integrity. You wrote of how, once before, he left but returned. He would not abandon you.’
‘I have written to him, Martha, but there has been no reply. Not a single word.’
‘There must be some explanation, something that has prevented him from writing.’
‘And if there is not? I am not one to wait forever, Martha.’
‘But, Jane, to give up on love? Is that truly what you desire?’
‘It is not what I desire,’ she admitted. ‘But neither can I endure this uncertainty. If he does not return, if he does not make his intentions clear, then I must assume that his feelings have changed. I shall not repine. My tranquillity and peace stand a better chance.’
They fell silent again, until Jane spoke, her tone lighter.
‘Come, Martha, let us not dwell on these uncertainties. The day is too fine to be spent in melancholy. Tomorrow may bring better news. And we have each other. And Cassie. Perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of her own sex.’
THE TRIAL
Chichester, Sussex, England, September 1801.
On a fitfully wet autumnal day, the Reverend Dr. Youatt takes his place for the Assizes in the Chichester Guildhall. As court recorder, it is his duty to take a shorthand record of the proceedings. Six magistrates are presided over by the Duke of Richmond, who sits beneath a full-length portrait of King George III. The jurymen are to the side of the room.
Mr. William Blake, miniature painter, resident of nearby Felpham, is in attendance to answer the charge of Sedition against His Majesty, his treasonous acts being assault and battery on the person of Private John Scholfield of the Royal Dragoon Guards. It is alleged that he dragged the private through the village, holding him by the collar and throwing him bodily into his barracks, while vehemently uttering the seditious expressions ‘Damn the King’, ‘You Soldiers are all Slaves’ and ‘If Bonaparte should come he would be master of Europe in an Hour’s Time.’ There is one witness for the prosecution, Private John Cock, also of the Dragoons. Several witnesses are to be called by counsel for the defence, Mr. Samuel Rose.
In the light of a local rumour that Bonaparte has assembled fleets of flatboats in every creek and harbour on the French side of the Channel, there will be terrible consequences – transportation or worse – in the event of a guilty verdict in a crime against the person of a Dragoon stationed by the coast for the express purpose of defending the nation from this direst of threats.
After the prosecution has presented its case, entirely reliant upon the testimony of Scholfield and Cock, Mr. Samuel Rose rises to put the case for the defence. The Reverend Dr. Youatt sharpens his pen and transcribes. The eloquence of the speech tests his art of shorthand to the full.
‘Gentlemen of the Jury,’ Rose begins, in a quiet, measured and authoritative voice.
‘I perfectly agree with my learned friend for the prosecution, with regard to the atrocity and malignity of the charge of high treason now laid before you. My task is to show that my client is not guilty of the words imputed to him. It is not to show that they are capable of any mitigated sense. We stand here not merely in form, but in sincerity and truth, to declare that we are not guilty.’
One of the jurymen nudges his drowsing neighbour. These were words worth listening to.
‘Mr. Blake is as loyal a subject as any man in this court: as you have heard, he feels as much indignation at the idea of exposing to contempt or injury the sacred person of his sovereign as any man. Gentlemen, this is a very uncommon accusation. It is foreign to our natures and opposite to our habits. Do you not hear every day from the mouths of thousands in the streets the exclamation of God Save the King? That is the language on every Englishman’s lip, the effusion of every Englishman’s heart. Gentlemen, the greater the offence charged, the greater the improbability of its being true. I will state to you the situation of Mr. Blake and it will be for you to judge whether it is probable he should be guilty of the crime alleged.’
By now the room is hushed.
‘He is an artist, who, though not a native here, has lived in your part of the country for some time. He was brought into this country by Mr. Hayley, a gentleman well known to you, and whose patriotism and loyalty have never been impeached. Blake was previously known to Mr. Hayley. I think I need not state that Mr. Hayley would never have brought Mr. Blake into this part of the country, and given him encouragement, if he conceived it possible that he could have uttered these sentiments. Mr. Hayley from his previous knowledge of him was certain that he was not the seditious character here represented.’
There are murmurs of approval from the public gallery. Eyes turn towards Mr. Hayley, nodding with pleasure in the front row, a most respected member of the community.
‘Gentlemen, the story is very improbable, if we further consider Mr. Blake’s situation. Mr. Blake is engaged as an engraver. He has a wife to support: that wife and himself he has supported by his art – an art which has a tendency, like all the other fine arts, to soften every asperity of feeling and of character, and to secure the bosom from the influence of those tumultuous and discordant passions which destroy the happiness of mankind. If any men are likely to be exempt from angry passions it is such a one as Mr. Blake.’
One of the jurors, who considers himself an artist, places his hand on his heart.
‘The witness Scholfield is in a different situation from what he has been. This man was once a serjeant – he is now a private. He says he was degraded on account of drunkenness. He is degraded, be it from what cause it may – he certainly does not stand before you under the most favourable circumstances, nor is he entitled to that credit which you would have given him, if by his good conduct he had continued in his former situation, or raised himself to a higher.’
Samuel Rose is in full stride, but he feels a weakness in his knees.
‘He tells you a story, which to be sure requires a great deal of faith in order to believe it – because it is an unaccountable story. He was in Blake’s garden talking to the ostler, that he had but few words to say, and no time to spare, yet we find him lounging about leaning against the garden wall. That Mr. Blake came out, and without any provocation, without one word being spoken on either side, began to utter the words in the indictment. The witness at one time asserted that these words were spoken to him, then he was doubting whether they were addressed to Mrs. Blake – but now he asserts again that they were spoken to him.’
From the corner of his eye, the Reverend Dr. Youatt observes the full rank of jurymen nodding. He has little doubt that the supreme eloquence, patriotism, principle and humanity of Mr. Samuel Rose is winning them over.
‘Gentlemen, you will take notice that the ostler was all this time working in the garden – this garden I shall be able to prove to you did not contain above ten yards square – no words consequently could have been uttered without every person in the garden hearing them, especially when Scholfield acknowledged that they were talking rather high. The ostler is allowed to have been in the garden, he was in a situation to hear all that passed, and he will prove to you by and by that he heard no such expressions uttered by Mr. Blake.’
Beads of perspiration are breaking out on Samuel Rose’s forehead. I can’t go on, I must go on, I shall go on, he says to himself.
A juryman is heard muttering to his neighbour that this Scholfield is manifestly a rogue, whose word cannot be trusted. The Duke of Richmond reprimands him and calls for silence in court. Unflustered without but dizzy within, Rose continues:
‘The second witness, Private Cock, states that he saw Mr. Blake and Scholfield in the act of collaring each other. He states that without any further provocation or hearing any words from Scholfield or Blake, Blake uttered these words, damn the King, damn the country, you soldiers are all slaves. I shall call a further witness who will state that she was as near Mr. Blake as Cock was, and heard no such words. You shall hear her account – you will then agree with me that it totally overthrows the testimony of these soldiers.’
The Reverend Dr. Youatt senses that there is not a man in the courtroom who could fail to be impressed by Mr. Samuel Rose’s forensic evisceration of the case for the prosecution.
But at this moment there is a commotion.
Seemingly overcome by a sudden illness, Rose falls to the floor in a faint.
Fading away.
The proceedings are halted while he is revived with smelling salts and removed to the fresh air of the street.
The Duke of Richmond spends several minutes in conclave with the six magistrates. What is to be done? In the absence of counsel, the witnesses for the defence cannot be called. But such has been the strength of the case presented by Rose that to rule for adjournment and a retrial will be a waste of time during the busy Assize season. The jury is accordingly instructed to retire and consider their verdict on the basis of all that they have heard.
They do not deliberate for long.
The Dragoons are not popular. The public gallery erupts in cheers of approval upon the delivery of a unanimous verdict. Not guilty.
Hayley, meanwhile, has rushed from the Guildhall and engaged a private carriage to return Samuel Rose to London for an immediate consultation with his doctor.
As he helps him into the post chaise, which is to be pulled by a pair of sturdy black Percherons, he is able to say, ‘My dear, dear friend, such was the power of your words that we have gained our cause. Blake is acquitted. Posterity will remember you for this.’
THE SECOND SHOCK
4 Sydney Place, Bath, England, 1 October 1801.
Autumn had arrived, and there was still no word from Mr. Rose. Nor had he visited at his appointed date. Her letters had gone unanswered. Nor had she heard a word about the outcome of the trial. All was silent. She missed the companionship of Martha, who had returned to Hampshire.
One chilly morning, a parcel arrived. Jane tore it open and saw a letter written in a stranger’s hand. She read the opening line:
To Miss Jane Austen,
I write with the most melancholy of news…
She could read no more without Cassie by her side. She called out for her and thrust the package into her sister’s hands.
‘Pray, my dear, read it to me. I am composed.’
Cassie was all astonishment and scoured the letter for the writer’s name.
‘It is Mr. Hayley, Jane. Are you acquainted with the gentleman?’
‘No, not at all – though, as you know, I admire his works.’
As Cassie read on, Jane was only half-conscious of the words spoken.
Prospects of a brilliant future were only dashed by wavering health. On that sunken rock, how many struggling in the same arduous career – often those of brightest promise, of finest nature – have been wrecked, almost at the outset; not great and famous, but nameless and unremembered.
‘Sit down, my dear. I shall fetch my mother and father.’
‘Read on.’
As you know only too well, madam, in the course of the summer he tried the air of the Devonshire coast, where he was so invigorated by both the benefits of sea bathing and the elegant, conducive society of other sojourners that he appeared to recover his health entirely. It is, alas, the nature of the subtle disease with which he was afflicted, to elude the observation of its victim in a very marvellous manner, and Rose is a remarkable example of this consolatory truth.
Jane held her breath.
When he visited us at Felpham to meet Mr. Blake and prepare his brief, I was so shocked by his emaciated appearance that I earnestly entreated him to suspend his hazardous intention of continuing to take every worthy case that was offered him; but impaired as he was in bodily strength, his mind retained all its energy without a particle of apprehension. He had established it as a law, never to shrink from any professional duty, and he fell an early victim to that magnanimous resolution. Even as his disorder assumed new shapes and gradually occasioned a great variety of sufferings, he had no perception of his own danger.
Jane’s eyes were filling with tears, but she held them back, forcing herself to think only of his fortitude.
Indeed, he confided in me that he was forming very cheerful plans of future occupation and, he intimated, even of matrimonial prospects. In despite of his failing health, he exercised his faculties to the full in the dispatch of the business of defending Mr. Blake against that malicious and unfounded charge of Sedition. His opening speech was a masterpiece of advocacy, though in a moment of high drama, causing much consternation in the courtroom, he collapsed with exhaustion before its conclusion.
‘Is he dead?’ said Jane. ‘Of what cause?’
Cassie continued to read.
As a result of this great increase of debility, through my offices he was instantly returned to London, where he drew from his physician, Dr. Farr, a perfect avowal of his imminent danger. He heard it with surprise, but without any emotions of terror or dismay. His decline, we fear, was so rapid that he was not able even to inform his nearest and dearest of his imminent demise. Aware that he must now, in all probability, have very few days to live, with serene magnanimity he exclusively deployed them in the most earnest yet tranquil attention to all the duties of a departing Christian. The death of Addison himself, so distinguished by Christian serenity, and so feelingly recorded by the poet Young, affords not a scene of more instruction than the departure of Rose; of whom, though his life had the grace of the most becoming benevolence, it may be truly said, in the words of Shakespeare,
