LETTER XLII. MARY ANNE DODD TO MISS DOOLAN, OF BALLYDOOLAN
Lake of Constance
My dearest Kittt,—True to my pledge, I sit down to continue the revelations, the first volume of which is already before you; and as I left off in a chapter of désagréables, let me finish the theme ere I proceed to pleasanter paths and greener pastures.
Betty Cobb has gone and taken to herself a husband; and such a husband as really I did not fancy could be found nearer us than the Waterkloof, if that be the correct spelling of the pleasant locality in Kaffirland where some of the something—Fifth or Eighth—are always getting surprised and cut to pieces. The creature is a swineherd,—one of those dreadful semi-savages that Germany rears out of respect to its ancient traditions about wood demons and kobolds. So terrific an object I never beheld, and his "get up," as James would call it, equals his natural advantages.
You may remember the wretches who are thrusting the page into the furnace in Retsch's illustrations of Schiller's poem, "Der Gang auf den Eisenhammer,"—one of these is a flattering likeness of him. Betty, however, whose taste in manly beauty is not formed on the Antinous model, believes him to be perfection. At all events, no promise of double wages, presents, or other seductions could warp her allegiance from this seductive object; and as mamma suddenly discovered that she was quite indispensable to her, the consequence is that we have to accept the company and companionship of the graceful "Taddy," who is now part of our legation as a swineherd unattached. You must know, Kitty, that these worthy people, who are brought up from infancy to regard pigs as the most important part of the creation, are impressed with a profound contempt for the human species; that all their habits are imbued with swinish tastes, modes, and prejudices,—that they love to live in woods, sleep on the ground, and grunt their sentiments, when they have any. Whether these be the characteristics of conjugalism, or the features which, as the book says, "make home happy," time and Betty alone can tell. I must say that fear and disgust are, for the present, the impressions his appearance suggests to me; but Betty is clearly of a different mind.
Meanwhile, as regards ourselves, he is really a most embarrassing element of the state. He is totally unacquainted with all laws, divine and human, and only sufficiently gifted with speech to convey his commonest wishes; and, from what I can learn, Caspar Hauser was a man of the world in comparison to him. Papa is, of course, frantic at the thought of his pertaining to us,—but what is to be done? Betty has declared that she will follow him to Jericho; by which she means to some fabulous land of unreal geography; and mamma will not part with Betty. To-morrow, or next day, I expect to hear that Taddy protests he can't live without his pigs, and that a legion of swine become part of our travelling equipment. Already has his presence on our staff called for the attention of the authorities, who are, very naturally, curious to know what we mean by such a functionary. Papa, on his side, thinks it part of an Englishman's birthright to resist, oppose, and torment the police; and, of course, will give no information whatever as to why he is here, but avows his determination to retain him in his service just on that account.
These complications—to give them a mild name—have so absorbed me that I have forgotten to tell you about our present place of sojourn. The Lake of Constance sounds pretty, dearest. It seems to address itself at once to our sense of the beautiful, and our moral attachment to the true. As we approached it, I looked eagerly from the carriage, at each turning of the mountain road, for some glimpses of the scenery; but night fell suddenly, and closed all in darkness. Early on the following morning I arose, and taking Augustine with my sketch-book, hurried down to the border of the lake; for our most quaint and ancient "hostelry" stands in the very centre of the town, and fully fifteen minutes' walk from the water. We reached it suddenly, on turning the angle of a narrow lane, and came out upon a small stone pier projecting into the water, and this was the lake,—the Lake of Constance! Only think, Kitty, of a great wide expanse of bleak water, with low shores; no glaciers, no Alps, no sublimity! I could have cried with disappointment The custom-house people—very nice-looking men, with a becoming uniform of green and gold—assured me that at the upper end of the lake I should see the mountains of the Vorarlberg, and also the range of the Swiss Alps, and have abundant material for my pencil. Meanwhile they made an old boatman sit while I sketched him; he was mending his net, and with his long blue nightcap, and scarf of the same color, his snow-white beard, and fine Rembrandt color, he really made a charming study. The chief officer of the customs—a remarkably handsome man, with the very blackest moustaches—was in downright enthusiasm at the success of my little sketch; and really, as it was utterly valueless, I could not resist Augustine's entreaty to tear it out of my book and give it to him.
