LETTER XXII. KENNY DODD TO THOMAS PURCELL, ESQ., OF THE GRANGE, BRUFF
Eisenach.
My dear Tom,—You will be surprised at the address at the top of this letter, but not a whit more so than I am myself; how, when, and why I came here, being matters which require some explanation, nor am I quite certain of making them very intelligible to you even by that process. My only chance of success, however, lies in beginning at the very commencement, and so I shall start with my departure from Bonn, which took place eight days ago, on the morning of the 22nd.
My last letter informed you of our having formed a travelling alliance with a very attractive and charming person, Mrs. Gore Hampton. Lord George Tiverton, who introduced us to each other, represented her as being a fashionable of the first water, very highly connected, and very rich,—facts sufficiently apparent by her manners and appearance, as well as by the style in which she was travelling. He omitted, however, all mention of her immediate circumstances, so that we were profoundly ignorant as to whether she were a widow or had a husband living, and, if so, whether separated from him casually or by a permanent arrangement.
It may sound very strange that we should have formed such a close alliance while in ignorance of these circumstances, and doubtless in our own country the inquiry would have preceded the ratification of this compact, but the habits of the Continent, my dear Tom, teach very different lessons. All social transactions are carried on upon principles of unlimited credit, and you indorse every bill of passing acquaintanceship with a most reckless disregard to the day of presentation for payment Some would, perhaps, tell you that your scruples would only prove false terrors. My own notion, however, is less favorable, and my theory is this: you get so accustomed to "raffish" intimacies, you lose all taste or desire for discrimination; in fact, there's so much false money in circulation, it would be useless to "ring a particular rap on the counter."
Not that I have the very most distant notion of applying my theory to the case in hand. I adhere to all I said of Mrs. G. in my former epistle, and notwithstanding your quizzing about my "raptures," &c., I can only repeat everything I there said about her loveliness and fascination.
Perhaps one's heart becomes, like mutton, more tender by being old; but this I must say, I never remember to have met that kind of woman when I was young. Either I must have been a very inaccurate observer, or, what I suspect to be nearer the fact, they were not the peculiar productions of that age.
When the Continent was closed to us by war, there was a home stamp upon all our manufactures; our chairs and tables, our knives, and our candlesticks, were all made after native models, solid and substantial enough, but, I believe, neither very artistic nor graceful. We were used to them, however; and as we had never seen any other, we thought them the very perfection of their kind. The Peace of '15 opened our eyes, and we discovered, to our infinite chagrin and astonishment, that, in matters of elegance and taste, we were little better than barbarians; that shape and symmetry had their claims as well as utility, and that the happy combination of these qualities was a test of civilization.
I don't think we saw this all at once, nor, indeed, for a number of years, because, somehow, it's in the nature of a people to stand up for their shortcomings and deficiencies,—that very spirit being the bone and sinew of all patriotism; but I 'll tell you where we felt this discrepancy most remarkably,—in our women, Tom; the very point, of all others, that we ought never to have experienced it in.
There was a plastic elegance,—a species of soft, seductive way—about foreign women that took us wonderfully. They did not wait for our advances, but met us half-way in intimacy, and this without any boldness or effrontery; quite the reverse, but with a tact and delicacy that were perfectly captivating.
I don't doubt but that, for home purposes, we should have found that our own answered best, and, like our other manufactures, that they would last longer, and be less liable to damage; but, unfortunately, the spirit of imitation that stimulated us in hardware and jewelry, set in just as violently about our wives and daughters, and a pretty dance has it led us! From my heart and soul I wish we had limited the use of French polish to our mahogany!
I don't know how I got into this digression, Tom, nor have I the least notion where it would conduct me; but I feel that the Mrs. Gore Hamptons of this world took their origin in the time and from the spirit I speak of, and a more dangerous Invention the age never made.
When you read over your notes, and sum up what I 've been saying, you 'll perhaps discover the reason of what you are pleased in your last letter to call my "extreme sensibility to the widow's charms." But you wrong us both, for I'm not in love, nor is she a widow! And this brings me back to my narrative.
About ten days ago, as I was sitting in my own room, in the otium cum dig. of my old dressing-gown and slippers, I received a visit from Mrs. G. in a manner which at once proclaimed the strictest secrecy and confidence. She came, she said, to consult me, and, as a gentleman, I am bound to believe her; but if you want to make use of a man's faculties, you 'd certainly never begin by turning his brain. If you wished to send him of a message, you 'd surely not set out by spraining his ankle?
They say that the French Cuirassiers puzzled our Horse Guards greatly at Waterloo. There was no knowing where to get a stick at them. There 's a kind of dress just now the fashion among ladies, that confuses me fully as much,—a species of gauzy, filmy, floating costume that makes you always feel quite near, and yet keeps you a considerable distance off. It's a most bewitching, etherial style of costume, and especially invented, I think, for the bewilderment of elderly gentlemen.
More than half of the effect of a royal visit to a man's own house is in the contrast presented by an illustrious presence to the little commonplace objects of his daily life. Seeing a king in his own sphere, surrounded with all the attributes and insignia of his station, is not nearly so astounding as to see him sitting in your old leather armchair, with his feet upon your fender,—mayhap, stirring your fire with your own poker. Just the same kind of thing is the appearance of a pretty woman within the little den, sacred to your secret smokings and studies of the "Times" newspaper. An angel taking off her wings in the hall, and dropping in to take pot-luck with you, could scarcely realize a more charming vision!
All this preliminary discourse of mine, Tom, looks as if I were skulking the explanation that I promised. I know well what is passing in your mind this minute, and I fancy that I hear you mutter, "Why not tell us what she came about,—what brought her there?" It's not so easy as you think, Tom Purcell. When a very pretty woman, in the most becoming imaginable toilette, comes and tells you a long story of personal sufferings, and invokes your sympathy against the cruel treatment of a barbarous husband and his hard-hearted family; when the narrative alternates between traits of shocking tyranny on one side, and angelic submission on the other; when you listen to wrongs that make your blood boil, recounted by accents that make your heart vibrate; when the imploring looks and tones and gesture that failed to excite pity in her "monster of a husband" are all rehearsed before you yourself,—to you directed those tearful glances of melting tenderness,—to you raised up those beautiful hands of more than sculptured symmetry,—I say, again, that your reason is never consulted on the whole process. Your sensibility is aroused, your sympathy is evoked, and all your tenderest emotions excited, pretty much as in hearing an Italian opera, where, without knowing one word of the language, the tones, the gestures, the play of feature, and the signs of passion move and melt you into alternate horror at cruelty, and compassionate sorrow for suffering.
Make the place, instead of the stage, your own study, and the personage no prima donna, but a very charming creature of the real world, and the illusion is ten times more complete.
I have no more notion of Mrs. Gore Hampton's history than I should have of the plot of a novel from reading a newspaper notice of it. She was married at sixteen. She was very beautiful, very rich,—a petted, spoilt child. She thought the world a fairy tale, she said. I was going to ask, was it "Beauty and the Beast" that was in her mind? At first all was happiness and bliss; then came jealousy, not on her part, but his; disagreements and disputes followed. They went abroad to visit some royal personage,—a duchess, a grand-duchess, an archduchess of something, who figures through the whole history in a mysterious and wonderful manner, coming in at all times and places, and apparently never for any other purpose than wickedness, like Zamiel in the "Freyschutz;" but, notwithstanding, she is always called the dear, good, kind Princess,—an apparent contradiction that also assists the mystification. Then, there are letters from the husband,—reproach and condemnation; from the wife,—love, tenderness, and fidelity.
The Duchess happily writes French, so I am spared the pains of following her correspondence. Chancery was nothing to the confusion that comes of all this letter-writing, but I come out with the one strong fact, that the dear Princess stands by Mrs. G. through thick and thin, and takes a bold part against the husband. A shipwrecked sailor never clung to a hencoop with greater tenacity than did I grasp this one solitary fact, floating at large upon the wide ocean of uncertainty.
I assure you I almost began to feel an affection for the Duchess, from the mere feeling of relief this thought afforded. She was like a sanctuary to my poor, persecuted, hunted-down imagination!
Have you ever, in reading a three-volume novel, Tom, been on the eve of abandoning the task from pure inability to trace out the story, when suddenly, and as it were by chance, some little trait or incident gives, if not a clew to the mystery, at least that small flickering of light that acts as a guide-star to speculation?
This was what I experienced here, and I said to myself, "I know the sentiments of the Duchess, at least, and that's something."
Do you know that I did n't like proceeding any farther with the story; like a tired swimmer, who had reached a rock far out at sea, I did n't fancy trusting myself once more to the waves. However, I was not allowed the option. Away went the narrative again,—like an express train in a dark tunnel. If we now and then did emerge upon a bit of open country where we could see about us, it was to dive the next minute into some deep cutting, or some gloomy cavern, without light or intelligence.
It appeared to me that Mr. Gore Hampton would be a very proper case for private assassination; but I did n't like the notion of doing it myself, and I was considerably comforted by finding that the course she had decided on, and for which she was now asking my assistance, was more pacific in character, and less dangerous. We were to seek out the dear Princess; she was to be at Ems on the 24th, and we were at once to throw ourselves, figuratively, into her hands, and implore protection. The "monster"—the word is shorter than his name, and serves equally well—had written innumerable letters to prejudice her against his wife, recounting the most infamous calumnies and the most incredible accusations. These we were to refute: how I did n't exactly know, but we were to do it. With the dear Princess on our side, the monster would be quite powerless for further mischief; for, by some mysterious agency, it appeared that this wonderful Duchess could restore a damaged reputation, just as formerly kings used to cure the evil.
It was a great load off my mind, Tom, to know that nothing more was expected of me. She might have wanted me to go to England, where there are two writs out against me, or to advance a sum of money for law when I have n't a sixpence for living, or maybe to bully somebody that would n't be bullied; in fact, I did n't know what impossibilities mightn't be passing through her brain, or what difficult tasks she might be inventing, as we read of in those stories where people make compacts with the devil, and always try to pose him by the terms of the bargain.
In the present instance, I certainly got off easier than I should have done with the "Black Gentleman." All that was required of me was to accompany a very charming and most agreeable woman on an excursion of about two or three days' duration through one of the most picturesque parts of the Rhine country, in a comfortable town-built britschka, with every appliance of ease and luxury about it. We have an adage in Ireland, "There's worse than this in the North," and faith, Tom, I couldn't help saying so. Mrs. G.'s motive in asking my companionship was to show her dear Duchess that she was domesticated, and living with a most respectable family, of which I was the head. You may laugh at the notion, Tom, but I was to be brought forward as a model "paterfamilias," who could harbor nothing wrong.
I believe I smiled myself at the character assigned. But "isn't life a stage?" and in nothing more so than the fact that no man can choose his part, but must just take what the great stage-manager—Fate—assigns him; and it is just as cruel to ridicule the failures and shortcomings we often witness in public men as to shout, in gallery-fashion, at some poor devil actor obliged to play a gentleman with broken boots and patched pantaloons.
There were, indeed, two difficulties, neither of them inconsiderable, in the matter. One was money. The journey would needs be costly. Posting abroad is to the full as expensive as at home. The other was as to Mrs. Dodd. How would she take it? I was bound over in the very heaviest recognizances to secrecy. Mrs. G. insisted that I alone should be the depositary of her secret; and she was wise there, for Mrs. D. would have revealed it to Betty Cobb before she slept. What if she should take a jealous turn? It was true the Mary Jane affair had made her rather ashamed of herself, but time was wearing off the effect. Mrs. Gore Hampton was a handsome woman, and there would be a kind of éclat in such a rivalry! I knew well, Tom, that if she once mounted this hobby, there was nothing could stop her. All her visions of fashionable introductions, all the bright charms of high society, to which Mrs. G.'s intimacy was to lead, would melt away, like a mirage, before the high wind of her angry indignation.
She would have put Mrs. G. in the dock, and arraigned her like any common offender. It was not without reason, then, that I dreaded such a catastrophe; and in a kind of semi-serious, semi-jocose way, I told Mrs. Gore of my misgivings.
She took it beautifully, Tom. She did n't laugh as if the thing was ridiculous, and as if the idea of Kenny Dodd performing "Amoroso" was a glaring absurdity. "Not at all," she gravely said; "I have been thinking over that, and, as you remark, it is a difficulty." Shall I own to you, Tom, that the confession sent a strange thrill through me; and like a man selected to lead a forlorn hope, I still felt that the choice redounded to my credit?
"I think, however," said she, after a pause, "if you confided the matter to my management, if you leave me to explain to Mrs. Dodd, I shall be able, without revealing more than I wish, to satisfy her as to the object of our journey."
I heartily assented to an arrangement so agreeable; I even promised not to see Mrs. D. before we started, lest any unfortunate combination of circumstances might interfere with our project.
The pecuniary embarrassment I communicated to Lord George. He quite agreed with me that I could n't possibly allude to it to Mrs. G. "In all likelihood," said he, "she will just hand you a book of blank checks, or Herries's circulars, and say, 'Pray do me the favor to take the trouble off my hands.' It is what she usually does with any of her friends with whom she is sufficiently intimate; for, as I told you, she is a 'perfect child about money.'" I might have told him that, so far as having very little of it, so was I too.
"But supposing," said I, "that, in the bustle of departure, and in the preoccupation of other thoughts, she should n't remember to do this; such is likely enough, you know?"
"Oh, nothing more so," said he, laughing. "She is the most absent creature in the world."
"In that case," said I, "one ought to be, in a measure, prepared."
"To a certain extent, assuredly," said he, coolly. "You might as well take something with you,—a hundred pounds or so."
You can imagine the choking gulp in my throat as I heard these words. Why, I had n't twenty—no, not ten; I doubt, greatly, if I had fully five pounds in my possession. I was living in the daily hope of that remittance from you, which, by the way, seems always tardier in coming in proportion as Ireland grows more prosperous.
Tiverton, however, does not limit his services to good counsel; he can act as well as think. For a bill of three thousand francs, at thirty-one days, I received, from the landlord of the hotel, something short of a hundred Napoleons,—a trifle under six hundred per cent per annum, but, of course, not meant to run for that time. Lord George said, "Everything considered, it was reasonable enough;" and if that implied that I 'd never repay a farthing of it, perhaps he was correct. "I 'm sorry," said he, "that the 'bit of stiff,'" meaning the bill, "was n't for five thousand francs, for I want a trifle of cash myself, at this moment." In this regret I did not share, Tom, for I clearly saw that the additional eighty pounds would have been out of my pocket!
I have now, as briefly as I am able, but, perhaps, tediously enough, told you of all the preliminary arrangements of our journey, save one, which was three lines that I left for Mrs. D. before starting,—not very explanatory, perhaps, but written in "great haste."
It was a splendid morning when we started. The sun was just topping the Drachenfels, and sending a perfect flood of golden glory over the Rhine, and that rich tract of yellow corn country along its left bank, the right being still in deep shadow. From the Kreutzberg to the Seven Mountains it was one gorgeous panorama, with mountain and crag, and ruined castles, vine-clad cliffs, and plains of waving wheat, all seen in the calm splendor of a still summer's morning.
I never saw anything as beautiful; perhaps I never shall again. Of my rapturous enjoyment of the scene, as we whirled along with four posters at a gallop, the best criterion I can give you is that I totally forgot everything but the enchanting vision around me. Ireland, home, Dodsborough, petty sessions, police and poor-rates, county cess, Chancery, all my difficulties, down even to Mrs. D. herself, faded away, and left me in undisturbed and unbounded enjoyment.
I have often had to tell you of my disappointment with the Continent; how little it responded to my previous expectations, and how short came every trait of nationality of that striking effect I had once foreshadowed. The distinctive features of race, from which I had anticipated so much amusement, all the peculiarities of dress, custom, and manner which I had speculated on as sources of interest, had either no existence whatever, or demanded a far shrewder and nicer observation than mine to detect. These have I more than once complained of to you in my letters; and I was fast lapsing into the deep conviction that, except in being the rear-guard of civilization, and adhering to habits which have long since been superseded by improved and better modes with us, the Continent differs wonderfully little from England.
The reason of this impression was manifestly because I was always in intercourse with foreigners who live and trade upon English travellers, who make a livelihood of ministering to John Bull's national leanings in dress, cookery, and furniture; and who, so to say, get up a kind of artificial England abroad, where the Englishman is painfully reminded of all the comforts he has left behind him, without one single opportunity for remembering the compensations he is receiving in return. To this cause is attributable, mainly, the vulgar impression conveyed by a first glance at the Continent It is a bad travesty of a homely original.
What a sudden change came over me now, as we swept along through this enchanting country, where every sight and every sound were novel and interesting! The little villages, almost escarped from the tall precipice that skirted the river, were often of Roman origin; old towers of brick, and battlemented walls, displaying the S. P. Q. R.,—those wonderful letters which, from school days to old age, call up such conceptions of this mighty people. A great wagon would draw aside to let us pass; and its giant oxen, with their massive beams of timber on their necks, remind one of the old pictures in some illustrated edition of the "Georgics." The splash of oars, and the loud shouts of men, turn your eyes to the Rhine, and it is a raft, whole acres of timber, slowly floating along, the evidence of some primeval pine forest hundreds of miles away, where the night winds used to sigh in the days of the Cæsars. And now every head is bare, and every knee is bowed, for a procession moves past, on its way to some holy shrine, the zigzag path to which, up the mountain, is traceable by the white line of peasant girls, whose voices are floating down in mellow chorus. Oh, Tom! the whole scene was full of enchantment, and didn't require the consciousness that would haunt me to make it a vision of perfect enjoyment. You ask what was that same consciousness I allude to? Neither more nor less, my dear friend, than the little whisper within me, that said, "Kenny Dodd, where are you going, and for what? Is it Mrs. D. is sitting beside you? or are you quite sure it's not some other man's wife?"
You 'll say, perhaps, these were rather disturbing reflections, and so they would have been had they ever got that far; but as mere flitting fancies, as passing shadows over the mind, they heightened the enjoyment of the moment by some strange and mysterious agency, which I am quite unable to explain, but which, I believe, is referable to the same category as the French Duchess's regret "that iced water was n't a sin, or it would be the greatest delight of existence."
If my conscience had been unmannerly enough to say, "Ain't you doing wrong, Kenny Dodd?" I 'm afraid I 'd have said "Yes," with a chuckle of satisfaction. I'm afraid, my dear Tom, that the human heart, at least in the Irish version, is a very incomprehensible volume.
Let us strive to be good as much as we may, there is a secret sense of pleasure in doing wrong that shows what a hold wickedness has of us. I believe we flatter ourselves that we are cheating the devil all the while, because we intend to do right at last; but the danger is that the game comes to an end before we suspect, and there we are, "cleaned out," and our hand full of trumps.
You'll say, "What has all this to say to the Rhine, or Mrs. Gore Hampton?" Nothing whatever. It only shows that, like the Reflections on a Broomstick, your point of departure bears no relation to the goal of your voyage.
"What's the name of this village, Mr. Dodd?" whispers a soft voice from the deep recesses of the britschka.
"This is Andernach, Madam," said I, opening my "John," for I find there's no doing without him. "It is one of the most ancient cities of the Rhine. It was called by the Romans—"
"Never mind what it was called by the Romans; isn't there a legend about this ancient castle? To be sure there is; pray find it."
And I go on mumbling about Drusus, and Roman camps, and vaulted portals.
"Oh, it's not that," cries she, laughing.
"There are two articles of traffic peculiar to this spot Millstones—" She puts her hand on my lips here, and I am unable to continue my reading, while she goes on: "I remember the legend now. It was a certain Siegfried, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, who, on his return from the Crusades, was persuaded by slanderous tongues to believe his wife had been faithless to him."
"The wretch!—the Count, I mean."
"So he was. He drove her out a wanderer upon the wide world, and she fled across the Rhine into that mountain country you see yonder, which then, as now, was all impenetrable forest There she passed years and years of solitary existence, unknown and friendless. There were no Mr. Dodds in those days, or, at least, she had not the good fortune to meet with them."
I sigh deeply under the influence of such a glance, Tom, and she resumes,—
"At last, one day, when fatigued with the chase, and separated from his companions, the cruel Count throws himself down to rest beside a fountain; a lovely creature, attired gracefully but strangely in the skins of wild beasts—"
"She did n't kill them herself?" said I, interrupting.
"How absurd you are! Of course she did n't;" and she draws her own ermine mantle across her as she speaks, smoothing the soft fur with her softer hand. "The Count starts to his feet, and recognizes her in a moment, and at the same instant, too, he is so struck by the manifest protection Providence has vouchsafed her, that he listens to her tale of justification, and conducts her in triumph home,—his injured but adored wife. I think, really, people were better formerly than they are now,—more forgiving, or rather, I mean, more open to truth and its generous impulses."
"Faith, I can't say," replied I, pondering; "the skins may have had something to say to it." Here she bursts into such a fit of laughter that I join from sheer sympathy with the sound, but not guessing in the least why or at what.
We soon left Andernach behind us, and rolled along beside the rapid Rhine, on a beautiful road almost level with the river, which now for some miles becomes less bold and picturesque.
At last we arrived at Coblentz to dinner, stopping at a capital inn called the "Giant," after which we strolled through the town to stare at the shops and the quaintly dressed peasant girls, whose embroidered head-gear, a kind of velvet cap worked in gold or silver, so pleased Mrs. G. that we bought three or four of them, as well as several of those curiously wrought silver daggers which they wear stuck through their black hair.
I soon discovered that my fair friend was a "child" about other things besides "money." Jewelry was one of these, and for which she seemed to have the most insatiable desire, combined with a most juvenile indifference as to cost. The country girls wear massive gold earrings of the strangest fashion, and nothing would content her but buying several sets of these. Then she took a fancy to their gold chains and rosaries, and, lastly, to their uncouth shoe-buckles, all of which she assured me would be priceless in a fancy dress.
In fact, my dear Tom, these minor preparations of hers, to resemble a Rhine-land peasant, came to a little over seventeen pounds sterling, and suggested to me, more than once, the secret wish that our excursion had been through Ireland, where the habits of the natives could have been counterfeited at considerably less cost.
As "we were in for it," however, I bore myself as gallantly as might be, and pressed several trifling articles on her acceptance, but she tossed them over contemptuously, and merely said, "Oh, we shall find all these things so much better at Ems. They have such a bazaar there!" an announcement that gave me a cold shudder from head to foot. After taking our coffee, we resumed our journey, Ems being only distant some eleven or twelve miles, and, I must say, a drive of unequalled beauty.
Once more on the road, Mrs. G. became more charming and delightful than ever. The romantic glen, through which we journeyed, suggested much material for conversation, and she was legendary and lyrical, plaintive and merry by turns, now recounting some story of tragic history, now remembering some little incident of modern fashionable life, but all, no matter what the theme, touched with a grace and delicacy quite her own. In a little silence that followed one of these charming sallies, I noticed that she smiled as if at something passing in her own thoughts.
"Shall I tell you what I was thinking of?" said she, smiling.
"By all means," said I; "it is a pleasant thought, so pray let me share in it."
"I'm not quite so certain of that," said she. "It is rather puzzling than pleasant. It is simply this: 'Here we are now within a mile of Ems. It is one of the most gossiping places in Europe. How shall we announce ourselves in the Strangers' List?"
The difficulty had never occurred to me before, Tom; nor indeed, did I very clearly appreciate it even now. I thought that the name of Kenny Dodd would have sufficed for me, and I saw no reason why Mrs. Gore Hampton should not have been satisfied with her own appellation.
"I knew," said she, laughing, "that you never gave this a thought. Isn't that so?" I had to confess that she was quite correct, and she went on: "Adolphus "—this was the familiar for Mr. Gore Hampton—"is so well known that you could n't possibly pass for him; besides, he is very tall, and wears large moustaches,—the largest, I think, in the Blues."
"That's clean out of the question, then," said I, stroking my smooth chin in utter despair.
"You 're very like Lord Harvey Bruce, could n't you be him?"
"I'm afraid not; my passport calls me Kenny James Dodd."
"But Lord Harvey is a kind of relative of mine; his mother was a Gore; I 'm sure you could be him."
I shook my head despondently; but somehow, whenever a sudden fancy strikes her, the impulse to yield to it seems perfectly irresistible.
"It's an excellent idea," continued she, "and all you have to do is to write the name boldly in the Travellers' Book, and say your passport is coming with one of your people."
"But he might be here?"
"Oh, he's not here; he could n't be here! I should have heard of it if he were here."
"There may be several who may know him personally here."
"There need be no difficulty about that," replied she; "you have only to feign illness, and keep your room. I 'll take every precaution to sustain the deception. You shall have everything in the way of comfort, but no visitors,—not one.".
I was thunderstruck, Tom! the notion of coming away from home, leaving my family, and braving Mrs. D., all that I might go to bed at Ems, and partake of low diet under a fictitious title, actually overwhelmed me. I thought to myself, "This is a hazardous exploit of mine; it may be a costly one too: at the rate we are travelling, money flies like chaff, but at least I shall have something for it. I shall see fashionable life under the most favorable auspices. I shall dine in public with my beautiful travelling-companion. I shall accompany her to the Cursaal, to the Promenade, to the play-tables. I shall eat ice with her under the 'Lindens,' in the 'Allée.' I shall be envied and hated by all the puppy population of the Baths, and feel myself glorious, conquering, and triumphant." These, and similar, had been my sustaining reflections, under all the adverse pressure of home thoughts. These had been my compensation for the terrors that assuredly loomed in the distance. But now, instead of the realization, I was to seek my consolation in a darkened room, with old newspapers and water gruel!
Anger and indignation rendered me almost speechless. "Was it for this?" I exclaimed twice or thrice, without being able to finish my sentence; and she gently drew her hand within my arm, and, in the tenderest of accents, stopped me, and said, "No; not for this!"
Ah, Tom! you know what we used to hear in the "Beggar's Opera," long ago. "'Tis women that seduces all mankind." I suppose it's true. I suppose that if nature has made us physically strong, she has made us morally weak.
I wanted to be resolute; injured and indignant, I did my best to feel outraged, but it wouldn't do. The touch of three taper fingers of an ungloved hand, the silvery sounds of a soft voice, and the tenderly reproachful glance of a pair of dark blue eyes routed all my resolves, and I was half ashamed of myself for needing even such gentle reproof.
From that moment I was her slave; she might have sent me to a plantation, or sold me in a market-place, resistance, on my part, was out of the question; and is n't this a pretty confession for the father of a family, and the husband of Mrs. D.? Not but, if I had time, I could explain the problem, in a non-natural sense, as the fashionable phrase has it, or even go farther, and justify my divided allegiance, like one of our own bishops, showing the difference between submission to constituted authority, and fidelity to matters of faith,—Mrs. D. standing to represent Queen Victoria, and Mrs. Gore Hampton Pope Pius the Ninth!
These thoughts didn't occur to me at once, Tom; they were the fruit of many a long hour of self-examination and reflection as I lay alone in my silent chamber, thinking over all the singular things that have occurred to me in life, the strange situations I have occupied, and of this, I own, the very strangest of all.
It must be a dreadful thing to be really sick in one of these places. There seems to be no such thing as night, at least as a season of repose. The same clatter of plates, knives, and glasses goes on; the same ringing of bells, and scuffling sounds of running feet; waltzes and polkas; wagons and mule-carts; donkeys and hurdy-gurdies; whistling waiters and small puppies, with a weak falsetto, infest the air, and make up a din that would addle the spirit of Pandemonium.
Hour after hour had I to lie listening to these, taking out my wrath in curses upon Strauss and late suppers, and anathematizing the whole family of opera writers, who have unquestionably originated the bleating performances of every late bed-goer. Not a wretch toiled upstairs, at four in the morning, without yelling out "Casta Diva," or "Gib, mir wein." The half-tipsy ones were usually sentimental, and hiccuped the "Tu che al cielo," out of the "Lucia."
To these succeeded the late sitters at the play-tables,—a race who, to their honor be it recorded, never sing. Gambling is a grave passion, and, whether a man win or lose, it takes all fun out of him. A deep-muttered malediction upon bad luck, a false oath to play no more, a hearty curse against Fortune were the only soliloquies of these the last votaries of Pleasure that now sought their beds as day was breaking.
Have you ever stopped your ears, Tom, and looked at a room full of people dancing? The effect is very curious. What was so graceful but a moment back is now only grotesque. The plastic elegance of gesture becomes downright absurdity. She who tripped with such fairy-like lightness, or that other who floated with swan-like dignity, now seems to move without purpose, and, stranger still, without grace. It was the measure which gave the soul to the performance,—it was that mystic accord, like what binds mind to matter, that gave the wondrous charm to the whole; divested of this it was like motion without vitality,—abrupt, mechanical, convulsive. Exactly the same kind of effect is produced by witnessing fashionable amusements, with a spirit untuned to pleasure. You know nothing of their motives, nor incentives to enjoyment; you are not admitted to any participation in their plan or their object, and to your eyes it is all "dancing without music."
I need not dwell on a tiresome theme, for such would be any description of my life at Ems. Of my lovely companion I saw but little. About midday her maid would bring me a few lines, written in pencil, with kind inquiries after me. Later on I could detect the silvery music of her voice, as she issued forth to her afternoon drive. Later again I could hear her, as she passed along the corridor to her room; and then, as night wore on, she would sometimes come to my door to say a few words,—very kind ones, and in her own softest manner, but of which I could recall nothing, so occupied was I with observing her in all the splendor of evening dress.
When a bright object of this kind passes from your presence, there still lingers for a second or so a species of twilight, after which comes the black and starless night of deep despondency. Out of these dreamy delusive fits of low spirits I used to start with the sudden question, "What are you doing here, Kenny Dodd? Is it the father of a family ought to be living in this fashion? What tomfoolery is this? Is this kind of life instructive, intellectual, or even amusing? Is it respectable? I am not certain it is any one of the four. How long is it to continue, or where is it to end? Am I to go down to the grave under a false name, and are the Dodd family to put on mourning for Lord Harvey Bruce?"
One night that these thoughts had carried me to a high pitch of excitement, I was walking hurriedly to and fro in my room inveighing against the absurd folly which originally had embarked me on this journey. Anger had so far mastered my reason that I began to doubt everything and everybody. I grew sceptical that there were such people in the world as Mr. Gore Hampton or Lord Harvey Bruce, and in my heart I utterly rejected the existence of the "Princess." Up to this moment I had contented myself with hating her, as the first cause of all my calamities, but now I denied her a reality and a being. I did n't at first perceive what would come of my thus disturbing a great foundation-stone, and how inevitably the whole edifice would come tumbling down about my ears in consequence.
This terrible truth, however, now stared me in the face, and I sat down to consider it with a trembling spirit.
"May I come in?" whispered a low but well-known voice,—"may I come in?"
My first thoughts were to affect sleep and not answer, but I saw that there was an eagerness in the manner that would not brook denial, and answered, "Who 's there?"
"It is I, my dear friend," said Mrs. Gore Hampton, entering, and closing the door behind her. She came forward to where I was sitting despondingly on the side of the bed, and took a chair in front of me.
"What's the matter; you are surely not ill in reality?" asked she, tenderly.
"I believe I am," replied I. "They say in Ireland 'mocking is catching,' and, faith, I half suspect I 'm going to pay the price of my own deceitfulness."
"Oh, no, no! you only say that to alarm me. You will be perfectly well when you leave this; the confinement disagrees with you."
"I think it does," said I; "but when are we to go?"
"Immediately; to-night, if possible. I have just received a few lines from the dear Princess—"
"Oh, the Princess!" ejaculated I, with a faint groan.
"Why, what do you mean?" asked she, eagerly.
"Oh, nothing; go on."
"But, first tell me, what made you sigh so when I spoke of the Princess?"
"God knows," said I; "I believe my head was wandering."
"Poor, dear head!" said she, patting me as if I was a small King Charles's spaniel, "it will be better in the fresh air. The Princess writes to say that we must meet her at Eisenach, since she finds herself too ill to come on here. She urges us to lose no time about it, because the Empress Sophia will be on a visit with her in a few days, which of course would interfere with our seeing her frequently. The letter should have been here yesterday, but she gave it to the Archduke Nicholas, and he only remembered it when he was walking with me this evening."
These high and mighty names only made me sigh heartily, and she seemed at once to read all that was passing within me.
"I see what it is," said she, with deep emotion; "you are growing weary of me. You are beginning to regret the noble chivalry, the generous devotion you had shown me. You are asking yourself, 'What am I to her? Why should she cling to me?' Cruel question—of a still more cruel answer! But go, sir, return to your family, and leave me if you will to those heartless courtiers who mete out their sympathies by a sovereign's smiles, and only bestow their pity when royalty commands it; and yet, before we part forever, let me here, on my bended knees, thank and bless—" I can't do it, Tom; I can't write it. I find I am blubbering away just as badly as when the scene occurred. Blue eyes half swimming in tears, silky-brown ringlets, and a voice broken by sobs, are shamefully unfair odds against an Irish gentleman on the shady side of fifty-two or three.
It 's all very well for you—sitting quietly at your turf fire—with an old sleepy spaniel snoring on the hearth-rug, and nothing younger in the house than Mrs. Shea, your late wife's aunt—to talk about "My time of life"—"Grownup daughters"—and so on. "He scoffs at wounds who never felt a scar." The fact is, I 'm not a bit more susceptible than other people; I even think I am less yielding—less open to soft influences than many of my acquaintances. I can answer for it, I never found that the strongest persuasions of a tax-gatherer disposed me to look favorably on "county cess, or a rate-in-aid." Even the priest acknowledges me a tough subject on the score of Easter dues and offerings. If I know anything about my own nature, it is that I have rather a casuistic, hair-splitting kind of way with me,—the very reverse of your soft, submissive, easily seduced fellows. I was always known as the obstinate juryman at our assizes, that preferred starvation and a cart to a glib verdict like the others. I am not sure that anybody ever found it an easy task to convince me about anything, except, perhaps, Mrs. D., and then, Tom, it was not precisely "conviction,"—that was something else.
I think I have now made out a sufficient defence of myself, and I'll not make the lawyer's blunder of proving too much. Give me the same latitude that is always conceded to great men when their actions will not square with their previous sentiments. Think of the Duke and Sir Robert, and be merciful to Kenny Dodd.
We left Ems, like a thief, in the night; the robbery, however, was performed by the landlord, whose bill for five days amounted to upwards of twenty-seven pounds sterling. Whether Grégoire and Mademoiselle Virginie drank all the champagne set down in it I cannot say; but if so, they could never have been sober since their arrival. There are some other curious items, too, such as maraschino and eau de Dantzic, and a large assessment for "real Havannahs"! Who sipped and smoked the above is more than I know.
With regard to out-of-door amusements, Mrs. G. must have ridden, at the least, four donkeys daily, not to speak of carriages, and a sort of sedan-chair for the evening.
I assure you I left the place with a heart even lighter than my purse. I was failing into a very alarming kind of melancholy, and couldn't much longer have answered for my actions.
If we loitered inactively at Ems, we certainly suffered no grass to grow under our feet now. Four horses on the level, six when the road was heavy or newly gravelled; bulls at all the hills.
It's the truth I 'm telling you, Tom, for a light London britschka, the usual team on a rising ground was six horses and three oxen, with about two men per quadruped,—boys and beggars ad libitum, I laughed heartily at it, till it came to paying for them, after which it became one of the worst jokes you can imagine. Onward we went, however, in one fashion or another, walking to "blow the cattle" when the road was level and smooth, and keeping a very pretty hunting-pace when the ruts were deep, and the rocks rugged.
It seemed, to judge from our speed, that our haste was most imminent, for we changed horses at every station with an attempt at despatch that greatly disconcerted the post functionaries, and probably suggested to them grievous doubts about our respectability. After twenty-four hours of this jolting process, I was, as you may suppose, well wearied,—the more so, since my late confinement to bed had made me weak and irritable. Mrs. G., however, seemed to think nothing of it, so that for very shame' sake I could not complain. There is either a greater fund of endurance about women than in men, or else they have a stronger and more impulsive will, overcoming all obstacles in its way, or regarding them as nothing. I assure you, Tom, I'd have pulled up short at any of the villages we passed through and booked myself for a ten-hours' sleep, in that horizontal position that nature intended, but she wouldn't hear of it. "We must get on, dear Mr. Dodd;" "You know how important time is to us;" "Do our best, and we shall be late enough." These and such like were the propositions which I had to assent to, without the very vaguest conception why.
That night seemed to me as if it would never end. I never could close my eyes without dreaming of bailiffs, writs, judges' warrants, and Mrs. D. Then I got the notion into my head that I had been sentenced for some crime or other to everlasting travelling,—an impression, doubtless, suggested by my hearing through my sleep how we were constantly crossing some frontier, and entering a new territory. Now it was Hesse Cassel would pry into our portmanteaus; now it was Bavaria wanted to peep at our passports. Sigmaringen insisted on seeing that we had no concealed fire-arms. Hoch Heckingen searched us for smuggled tobacco. From a deep doze, which to my ineffable shame I discovered I had been taking on my fair companion's shoulder, I was suddenly awakened at daybreak by the roll of a drum, and the clatter of presenting arms. This was a place called Heinfeld, in the Duchy of Saxe-Weimar, where the commandant, supposing us to be royal personages, from our six horses and mounted courier, turned out the guard to salute us. I gave him briefly to understand that we were incog., and we passed on without further molestation.
By noon we reached Eisenach, where, descending at the "Rautenkranz," the head inn, I bolted my door, and, throwing myself on my bed, slept far into the night. When I awoke, the house was all at rest, every one had retired, and in this solitude did I begin the recital of the singular page in my history which is now before you. I felt like one of those storm-tossed mariners who, on some unknown and distant ocean, commit their sorrows to paper, and then enclosing it in a bottle, leave the address to Fortune. I know not if these lines are ever to reach you. I know not who may read them. Perhaps, like Perouse, my fate may be a mystery for future ages. I feel altogether very low about myself.
I was obliged to break off suddenly above, but I am now better. We have been two days here, and I like the place greatly. It lies in the midst of a fine mountain range—the Thuringians—with a deep forest on every side. Up to this we have had no tidings of the Princess, but we pass our time agreeably enough in visiting the remarkable objects in the neighborhood, one of which is the Wartburg, where Luther passed a year of imprisonment.
I have collected some curious materials about the life of this Protestant champion for Father Maher, which will make a considerable sensation at home. There is an armory, too, in the castle of the most interesting kind; but, as usual, all the remarkable warriors were little fellows. The robbers of antiquity were big, but the great characters of chivalry, I remark, were small. The Constable dc Bourbon's armor wouldn't fit Kenny Dodd.
I intend to send off this package to-day, by a "gentleman of the Jewish persuasion," so he styles himself, who is travelling "in the interest of soft soap," and will be in England within a fortnight. Where I shall be myself, by that time, Tom, Heaven alone can tell!
My cash is running very low. I don't think that, above my lawful debts in this place, I could muster twelve pounds, and, after a careful exploration of the locality, I see no spot at all likely to "advance money on good personal security." You must immediately remit me a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, for present emergencies. My humiliation will be terrible if I have to speak about pecuniary matters in a certain quarter; and, as I said before, how long we may remain here, or where proceed when we leave this, I know as much as you do!
I have begun four letters to Mrs. D., but have not satisfied myself that I am on the right tack in any of them. Writing home when you have not heard from it, is like legislation for a distant colony without any clew to the state of public opinion. You may be trying rigorous measures with a people ripe for rebellion, or perhaps refusing some concession that they have just wrested by force. When I think of domestic matters, I am strongly reminded of the Caffre war, for somehow affairs never look so badly as when they seem to promise a peace; and, like Sandilla, Mrs. D. is great at an ambush.
You must write to her, Tom; say that I am greatly distressed at not getting any answers to my letters; that I wrote four,—which is true, though I never sent off any of them. Make a plausible case for my absence out of the present materials, and speak alarmingly about my health, for she knows I have sold my policy of insurance at the Phoenix, and is really uneasy when I look ill.
If I was n't in such a mess, I should be distressed about the family, for I left them at Bonn with a mere trifle. When a man has got an incurable malady, he spends little money on doctoring, and so there is nothing saves fretting so much as being irretrievably ruined. Besides, it is in the world as in the water, it is struggling that drowns you; lie quietly down on your back, don't stir hand or limb, and somebody will be sure to pull you out, though it may chance to be by the hair.
I have often thought, Tom, that life is like the game of chess. It's a fine thing to have the "move," if you play well, but if you don't, take my word for it, it's better to stay quiet, and not budge. This will give you the key to my system; and if I ever get into public life, this, I assure you, shall be "Dodd's Parliamentary Guide."
I have now done, and you 'll say it's time too; but let me tell you, Tom, that when I seal and send off this, I 'll feel myself very lonely and miserable. It was a comfort to me some days back to go every now and then and dot down a line or two-, it kept me from thinking, which was a great blessing. You know how Gibbon felt when he wrote the last sentence of his great history; and although the Rise and Fall of Kenny Dodd be a small matter to posterity, it has a great hold upon his own affections.
I see my pony at the door, and Mrs. G. is already mounted. We are going to some old abbey in the forest, where she is to sketch, and I am to smoke for an hour or two; so good-bye, and remember that my escape from this must depend upon your assistance. This Princess has not yet made her appearance, nor have I the slightest guide as to her future intentions.
There are a quantity of home questions I am anxious to speak about, but must defer the discussion till my next. I have not seen a newspaper since I started on this excursion. I know not who is "in" or "out." I shall learn all these things later on; so, once more, good-bye. Address me at the "Rue Garland," and believe me, faithfully, your friend,
Kenny I. Dodd.
P. S. When you mention to the neighbors having heard from me, it would be as well to say nothing of this little adventure of mine. Say that the Dodds are all well, and enjoying themselves, or something like that. If Mrs. D. has written to old Molly, try and get hold of the epistle, or otherwise I might as well be in the "Hue and Cry." Indeed, I don't see why you could n't stop her letters at the post-office in Bruff.