But even while he walked and considered himself and his position in his country, a sardonic smile curved his lips as he remembered that when he went into the streets the people still cheered him. He was their King and, because he was tall and commanding in appearance, because the women at the balconies who waved to him as he passed recognized that overwhelming charm in him, because the men, in their way, recognized it no less and were compensated for all the hardships they suffered when the King addressed them in the easy familiar way he had towards his subjects, rich or poor, they were satisfied and well content.
Such was human nature, thought Charles wryly; and why should I wish to change it when it is so beneficial to myself?
He had made peace with the French, Danes, and Dutch at Breda in the summer, and soon he hoped to conclude the triple alliance by which England, Sweden, and Holland bound themselves to assist Spain against the French. The French had recently proved themselves no friends of his and although it had been deplorable that there should be open strife between them, Charles knew that the one man he must watch more carefully than any other was Louis XIV of France.
There were times when he was excited by the game of politics, but he tired quickly. Then he would want the witty gentlemen of his Court about him—and most of all the beautiful women—for during his years of exile he had grown so cynical that he found it difficult to have much faith in anything, or any man. Pleasure never failed him. It always gave what he asked and expected. So many times he had seen plans come to nothing through no fault of the planners; he had seen men work diligently towards an ideal, only to be cheated of it by a trick of fate. He could not forget the years of bitterness and exile, the heartbreak of Worcester. Then he had given all his youthful idealism to regaining his kingdom; the result—dismal failure and humiliation. He had changed after Worcester. He had gone back to his life of wandering exile, the excitement of his days being not the plans he made for the regaining of his kingdom but those for the conquest of a new woman; and then suddenly Fortune had smiled on him. Through little effort of his own, without conflict and bloodshed, he was called back to his kingdom. He was welcomed with flowers and music and shouts of joy. England welcomed the debauchee, the careless cynic; almost ten years before, after disastrous Worcester, they had hounded the idealist from their shores. Such experiences made a deep impression on a pleasure-loving nature.
So now, as he walked through his garden, his cynical smile expanded. He must keep disaster at bay and enjoy life.
But even in this matter of enjoyment life had changed. He was heartily tired of Barbara Castlemaine. In the first years of their relationship he had found her tantrums amusing; he no longer did so. Why did he not banish her from the kingdom? Her amours were notorious. He could not bring himself to do it. She would storm and rage; and he had formed a habit, long ago, of avoiding Barbara’s storms and rages. It was simpler to let her alone, to avoid her, to let her continue with her love affairs. They said of him, in the language of the card tables: “His Majesty never discards; he adds to his hand.” It was true. Discarding was such an unpleasant affair; you could keep the uninteresting cards in your hands even though you rarely used them. It was much the more peaceable method.
Frances Stuart had bitterly disappointed him. Silly little Frances, with her child’s mind and her incomparably beautiful face and figure. In spite of her simplicity, he would have married Frances if he had been free to do so, for her beauty had been such that it haunted him day and night. But Frances had run away and married that sot Richmond. Much good had this done her. Now poor Frances was a victim of the smallpox, and had lost her beauty and with it her power to torment the King.
Then there was Catherine, his wife—poor Catherine, with her dusky looks and her rabbits’ teeth and her overwhelming desire to please him. Why had his own wife to fall in love with him? It was a situation which the wits of his Court regarded as extremely piquant. Piquant it might have been, but he was a man of some sensibility and if there was one thing he hated more than having to refuse something that was asked, it was to see a woman distressed. He must live continually with Catherine’s distress. She had been brought up in the strict Court of Portugal. He hated hurting her, yet he could no more help doing so than he could help being himself. He must saunter with his mistresses; his mistresses were more important to him than his crown. He was a deeply sensual man and his sexual appetite was voracious so that the desire to appease it surmounted all other desires.
Therefore with his countless mistresses he must displease his queen who had had the childish folly to fall in love with him.
He was beset by women. By far the more satisfactory mistresses were those who could be called upon when desired and made few demands. It was small wonder that the Dutch had made cartoons of him, clinging to his crown as he ran, pursued by women.
He it was who had brought change to England. Less than ten years ago there had been strict puritanism everywhere; he liked to think that he had brought back laughter to England; but it was often laughter of a satirical kind.
The conversation of the people had changed; they now openly discussed subjects which, ten years ago, they would have blushed to speak of and would have pretended did not even exist. Throughout the country the King’s example was followed, and men took mistresses as naturally as previously they had taken walks in the sunshine. The poets jeered at chastity. Maidens were warned of flying time, of the churlishness of holding out against their lovers; the plays were frankly bawdy and concerned mainly with one subject—sexual adventure.
The King had brought French manners to England, and in France a King’s mistress—not the Queen whom he had married for expedience—ruled with him in his Court.
The men of letters who surrounded him—and his greatest friends, and those who received his favors, were the witty men of letters—were, almost every one of them, rakes and libertines. Buckingham had recently been involved in a brawl with Henry Killigrew in the Duke’s Theater, where they had bounded from their boxes to fight in the pit while the play was in progress; and the cause of this was Lady Shrewsbury, that lady whose reputation for taking a string of lovers matched that of the King’s own mistress, Castlemaine. Killigrew, himself a rake and a notorious liar, had fled to France.
Henry Bulkeley had fought a duel with Lord Ossory and had been involved in a tavern brawl with George Etherege. Lord Buckhurst had recently been making merry at Epsom in the company of Sedley and an actress from the King’s own theater. Rochester, the best of the poets and the greatest wit and libertine, possessed of the most handsome face at Court, had abducted a young heiress, Elizabeth Malet. It had been deemed necessary to imprison him in the Tower for a spell—though not for long, as Charles liked to have the gay fellow at his side. There was not another who could write a lampoon to compare with his; and if they were most scurrilous and that scurrility was often directed against the King himself, they were the most pointed, the most witty to be found in the kingdom. Rochester, the most impudent and arrogant of men, had since married the very willing Elizabeth Malet, confounded her family, and taken charge of her great fortune.
All these happenings were characteristic of life at the Court.
As the King walked through his gardens he saw coming towards him a young man; and as he gazed at the tall and handsome figure, the cynicism dropped from his face. For this young man, who was by no means possessed of the wit the King loved, had the King’s love as no other had at Court.
“Why, Jemmy!” he called. “You’re early abroad.”