Jack, Knave and Fool (2 page)

But as the year 1770 drew to a close and I continued with Annie our journey through the works of the Great Poet, she got it in her head one day to dispense with my services. Here is how she put it to me:

“Jeremy,” said she, “if I’m to be an actress, it will not be enough to know the plays from having heard them read, now will it?”

“I suppose not.”

“I must know how to read them myself.” Then did she give me a hard look. “I want you to teach me how to read.”

Thinking upon that, I had not the slightest notion of how to go about it. I myself had no memory of how I had come by that knowledge; it seemed to me that I had simply begun to read—and at quite an early age. I could recall going to my mother or my father and asking what this word meant, or that, but as to when or how any sort of fundamental instruction had taken place, that was simply lost to me. All this I explained to her, yet she was not to be so easily denied.

“An idea has come to me,” said she. “Here we sit face-to-face at the kitchen table. You read, and I listen. What if I sat next you, and you were to point to the words as you read them? Then I would remember them and soon be able to read them myself. How does that strike you?”

Absent any better method, I thought hers worth a try. And so we rearranged ourselves at the table and began. With what play we made the experiment I cannot recall. Yet I do well remember the tediousness of working through it line by line and word by word. She would often stop me and demand to know why a word —oh, such as “bear” or “will”—would mean something in one place and something quite different in another, or “the” was written thus most of the time, but sometimes expressed simply as “th" Because she had a quick mind and a good memory, she interrupted constantly and quite drove me to distraction. She asked questions that I couldn’t properly answer, and that made her distrust my abilities as a teacher; I distrusted them myself. Gone was the considerable pleasure I had derived from reading the plays aloud. Each day with her became a struggle and a torment. We were often cross with each other.

Finally, Christmas put an end to it. I received a gift from Sir John and Lady Fielding of the four volumes of Sir Edward Coke’s Institutes of the Law of England. This was to be the beginning of my education in the law. I started at once to read through it, using those hours which I had previously devoted to Annie’s lessons. When she protested, I reminded her rather priggishly that I, too, had an ambition, and that mine was as dear to me as hers to her. We argued. She sulked. She attempted to push forward on her own, but would come often to me to ascertain pronunciation or meaning. I would then often become short with her, and again she would sulk and sometimes we would quarrel. So is it often with brother and sister in proper families. So was it early in the year 1771 with our own.

Sir John and Lady Fielding could not but notice that some ill feeling had arisen between Annie and me. He, being the just and gentle ruler I have named him, thought to cheer us and bring peace between us by offering a treat. As it happened, Shakespeare was unavailable (and since he was indirectly the cause of our falling-out, might only have complicated the matter between us), and so Sir John looked elsewhere for our diversion. He turned his attention to the Crown and Anchor. It was then, as it is now, a tavern of great dimension in the Strand; in those days it was the site of the Sunday concerts sponsored by the Academy of Ancient Music under the direct patronage of Lord Laningham. If Shakespeare would not do for us, surely a dose of Handel would serve as well. Annie, who had lately turned snappish and glum, would surely be cheered by the mighty choral strains of that late, great master. We knew her, after all, to be the best musician of us all; as a singer of ballads and old songs learned in Covent Garden she knew no peer.

And so it was set: we would be off to the Crown and Anchor for an early dinner with Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith, to be followed by a musical entertainment the equal of any in London. It would be an evening to remember, Sir John assured us. And so it was, reader, though not for reasons that any one of us could have foreseen.

Because of the limited capacity of the Bow Street Court’s strong room, it was necessary for Sir John, as magistrate, to hold a short session on Sunday. Saturday night brought him always a rich harvest of drunks. He dealt with them swiftly so that he and Mr. Marsden, his court clerk, might be on their way to enjoy the rest of the day. This usually meant that he dealt with them leniently. There were sometimes complications, of course. And as I remember, one such arose whilst I sat taking my ease on one of the back benches of the Bow Street Court, listening as the magistrate heard one case after another of public drunkenness. Having had part of the night and all the morning to return to themselves, they were now sober and repentant, though they appeared much the worse for their experience. The last of them, tall and thin and dressed in brown linsey-woolsey —but with a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style —could not pay the fine often shillings which Sir John imposed, for as he explained, he’d “drunk up” all he had in his pocket. His name he gave as Thomas Roundtree, and he claimed to be gainfully employed as a journeyman carpenter, one of a gang working on improvements to one of the great houses on Bloomsbury Square.

“Which great house is that?” asked Sir John.

“It’s that of the Lord Chief Justice,” said Mr. Roundtree.

“And what sort of improvements are you making?”

“We’re puttin’ in a new water closet, sir, makin’ it nice lor the ladies of the house, we are. I’m a good worker, sir, I am truly”

” Ah, well, I suppose in that case you would prefer not to spend thirty days in the Fleet Prison in lieu of fine. That is customary in this court.”

“No sir, indeed I would not, for I am a workingman and would have no job of work when I came out.”

“You put that quite reasonably, Mr. Roundtree. What, then, do you suggest?”

“Ah, well, I could pay it to you bit by bit, p’rhaps.”

“I have a better idea. Why not remain as our guest here at Bow Street for one more night? Then in the morning you may go to your place of work in the company of one of our constables and ask the master carpenter for whom you work for the loan of the ten shillings. If you are as good a worker as you say, then he should not hesitate to advance it to you. Him you can pay back bit by bit, as you proposed to do with me.”

Thomas Roundtree stood, hesitant, rubbing his chin. “Well, sir …”

“Have you family? ” asked Sir John.

“Nooo,” said he, though he hesitated a bit.

“Then you’ve no one to remark your absence one more night.” Sir John at last became impatient: “Come now, sir, it’s either that or the Fleet Prison.”

“Well, when you puts it so, I accept your invitation. I do hope for a better dinner than I got a breakfast, howsomever.”

“We’ll feed you. That is our obligation.” Sir John slammed down his gavel upon the table. “Mr. Fuller, conduct the prisoner back to the strong room. And Mr. Marsden, are there more?”

“None, sir,” said the clerk of the Bow Street Court.

“Then this Sunday session is done.” He beat down his gavel once more, stood, and stretched. “I’m for a nap before dinner,” he declared. “It will be a long evening ahead, and I wish to be fit for it.”

Fit for it we were and dressed for the occasion as we set off by foot for the Crown and Anchor a little before five. It being January, the day was all but gone; sunset had gone to twilight and twilight to dusk. But the lamplighter had been out upon his rounds, and our way —Russell Street to Drury Lane, Drury Lane to the Strand—was well lit and filled with London folk enjoying the last of their day of rest. Sir John, well refreshed by his afternoon nap, led the way with Lady Fielding upon his arm. As long as he was here in the Covent Garden district that he knew so well, there was little chance that he would make a misstep, but should he perchance do so, his good wife was there to put him back on course. Annie and I followed at a near distance.

“What of this Handel music we go now to hear, Jeremy? What do you think of it?” Annie asked her question as we marched along Russell Street.

“Well,” said I, “from what I’ve heard, I think it quite fine. Gives you a sense of the grandness of nature, it does. Raises your spirits.”

“All that? To me it just seems terrible loud. I can’t make out the words.”

“Sir John certainly loves his Handel,” I said, making a mild reproof of a neutral comment.

“Oh, indeed he does. Me, I like a good ballad, a street song.”

“You know them all.”

“I know many,” she agreed. Then, with a sigh: “Still, be it good or foul, I look forward to eating any meal cooked by another. Sir John and the good lady wish us to be well entertained this evening, and I, for one, am determined to be so.”

So saying, she lapsed into a silence which lasted until the hanging sign of the Crown and Anchor was in sight. There was, in any case, no mistaking our destination. Closed carriages, coaches, and hackneys crowded the entrance of the place, discharging their passengers, ladies and gentlemen, onto the walkway. There was a bustle of excitement to the scene before us which seemed to bespeak our entrance into the great life of our great city.

“Oh, Jeremy,” said Annie beside me, “this is indeed exciting. Just look at them all, how fine they are dressed! How they seem to glide, like they was walking on air, you might say. Damn me, but I must work on my walk if I’m to look the part of a lady.”

“Onyour speech, as well,” said I. “Ladies don’t say ‘damn.’”

She stopped and turned upon me, looking as if she was about to give me a sharp retort. But then she softened and said most seriously: “Right you are to correct me. I know I speak like a slut more often than not. I must learn better. I will learn better.”

Having halted even so briefly, we had fallen somewhat behind Sir John and Lady Fielding. They now stood at the entrance to the tavern. They waited, I supposed on us, yet our lady seemed to be staring ever so intently at a coach which four matched horses had just drawn up to the walk.

It was indeed a remarkable coach. It rode upon carved, gilt wheels, and as we drew nigh I saw that it had upon its door panels scenes of the countryside in winter and spring most beautifully painted, clearly the work of an artist of great skill. Somehow, without running round to make sure of it, I knew that the two panels on the far side of the coach would display similar scenes depicting summer and autumn. When the footman jumped down to open the coach door and assist the occupants to the walk, I saw that he (as well as the driver) was dressed in a remarkable silver livery which glittered and shone even in the dim light of the streetlamp.

Lady Fielding was whispering a description of this garish vehicle to Sir John as Annie and I came up to them. I could tell from the amused expression upon his face that he recognized it from the likeness she sketched with her words.

“That coach,” said he, full-voiced, “can only belong to one man. Let US linger here a moment and greet him.”

I should not have been surprised had the Prince of Wales himself emerged from the coach with a party of his royal siblings. Yet one man only descended from the interior of the coach; and though richly dressed, he did not appear to me a prince—though perhaps a duke. Nevertheless, he was well acquainted with the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.

“Sir John!” cried he. “You’re looking well, I must say.”

“Though I can’t, alas, say the same to you due to this fault of my eyes, I will say your voice, Sir Joshua, has never sounded heartier.”

“Well said, well said, and you may take that as an outward sign of my inward health.”

The two shook hands warmly, and Sir John presented us to Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of portraits. Annie and me he introduced as “members of his household.” A few pleasantries passed between them as we moved toward the door of the Crown and Anchor. Once inside, we proceeded at a good pace, yet Lady Fielding kept a good, tight hold on her husband’s arm, guiding him gently through the uneven row of empty tables toward the inner doorway which led to the site of the evening’s festivities. Annie and I kept very close so as not to miss any titbit of interest that might pass between them. We were not left unrewarded.

“When, pray tell,” asked Sir Joshua Reynolds, “will you allow me to paint your portrait, Sir John?”

At that Sir John let forth a booming laugh. “Never, I fear. The modest budget I am given by the Lord Mayor’s office includes no allowance for personal vanity.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. Vanity’s got little to do with it. A good likeness is a gift to posterity.”

“He’s right, Jack,” put in Lady Fielding.

“I doubt posterity will have reason to remember me,” said Sir John.

“Not so, sir. And putting all that aside, you’ve a face whose strength I should like to capture. It appeals to me as an artist.”

“Be willing to put aside your fee, would you?” Sir John said it in a teasing manner.

“Jack!” scolded his lady.

“Ah, now there you have me. I am an artist, true, but I am also a man of business. Yet an adjustment of some sort would not be out of the question.”

The three stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Before them was a great multitude seated at tables and milling about.

“Ah, but here we are,” said Sir Joshua. “My table is at the far side with some of my colleagues of the Royal Academy, and so I shall leave you here. Delighted to meet you, Lady Fielding, and you two young people, as well. Always a pleasure to see you, Sir John.”

He danced down the three stairs leading into the ballroom, and at the last he turned. “Do give some thought to what I suggested,” he called back.

“Oh, we shall, sir,” Lady Fielding replied. “Indeed we shall.”

Then with a wave, he was away, weaving through the crowd.

“Kate, please,” grumbled Sir John. “Don’t encourage the fellow. Have you any idea what he would ask? A hundred and fifty guineas, or so I have heard.”

“Oh dear,” said she. “Well, we may speak of it later.”

“But not a word of it at table.”

“Agreed.”