I have read the first half of the first volume of M. de Custine's work on Russia.[ [89] The preface is too metaphysical, though there is a passage on Protestantism and the so-called national and political churches which is clever and striking; further there is a faithful portrait of the Hereditary Grand Duke of Russia. I was especially struck by two chapters composed of letters to the late Madame de Custine, the author's mother. A short account is given of this amiable woman's heroic life: she was one of my friends and I have deeply regretted her; in point of age she might have been my mother and retained very little of her beauty when I knew her, but she had great charm and every attractive quality. I have been constantly told that she was a great coquette and I daresay this statement is true; she was left a widow so young and was so pretty and so unguarded that such behaviour was natural and excusable. The same behaviour was attributed to her at the time when I knew her; the fact may have been true, but her manner was reserved and quiet, she spoke modestly and her appearance was absolutely respectable. I saw her die without a murmur; in consequence, I am favourably, even indulgently disposed towards M. de Custine and his books, which are always clever, sometimes talented, and are very true when he writes of Russia. I do not think, however, that he should publish so much truth when gratitude should order him to be silent, but men of letters will do anything. They are a class of whom I think very little.
Mannheim, May 24, 1843.—My slight indisposition makes me annoyed with everything I do. M. de Custine's book is the only thing which seems to suit me; in spite of the affectation of the style and the brilliancy which is obvious even where it rather diminishes than heightens the effect, and a constant attempt at display, the book amuses and interests me. I do not know enough of the places or the facts to check the accuracy of the narrative or descriptions, but by tradition or from my Russian acquaintances I am well enough informed to consider the resemblances perfect. His story, for instance of the thousands of workmen who were sacrificed in order to rebuild the Imperial Winter Palace at St. Petersburg with undue rapidity, was related to me at Berlin. The plague of vermin at St. Petersburg, especially of bugs, was also well known to me and the following instance was told me by the Prince of Prussia at the marriage of his niece:[ [90] he said that the newly built palace was dried by excessive artificial heat and was so infested with vermin that the bride was devoured the first night that she slept there and was obliged to appear at the entertainments covered with red marks. She changed her rooms the next day, but I am assured that the plague was very general, and that the best-kept houses are not exempt from it. This is to be explained by the superheating and the way in which houses are hermetically sealed for nine months in the year.
The following message reached me from the Grand Duchess Stephanie and is very characteristic of her. It was a kind and even tender note in which she told me that she would call at ten o'clock and bring me back to lunch with her at eleven, after a drive to take advantage of the fine weather; and this though she knew that since Metz I have been in the open air without a break. However, one must take people as they are and I should not care to show reluctance for the single day that I am here. Further, the weather is really very fine.
Mannheim, May 25, 1843.—The Grand Duchess came for me yesterday morning at ten o'clock. I found her much older and depressed. The same people are with her; old Walsch, clever and tactless, who appears in the evening, the Baroness Sturmfeder who gives a good appearance to the household, the excellent little Kageneck, the modest Schreckenstein and the old almoner. At dinner there were also Prince Charles of Solms, son-in-law of the Queen of Hanover and a Count Herding, of whom I have nothing to say. I was overwhelmed with questions but I also allowed myself to ask a few. Princess Marie, or rather the Marchioness of Douglas is travelling in Italy and is deeply in love with her handsome husband who appears to answer all her wishes. I had full details of the wedding, the presents, the splendour of it and the settlements, etc. It was all very magnificent. The couple are soon to come this way on their road to England and Scotland. Princess Marie is thought to be with child. Lord Douglas took her from Venice to Goritz, where she was very kindly received by the illustrious exiles: while there she wrote to her mother saying that the Duc de Bordeaux has a handsome face and is a pleasant talker, but his figure is terribly heavy and he limps a great deal. Mademoiselle, though very attractive, was too small and lacking in distinction. The Grand Duchess will shortly pay a visit to her daughter, Princess Wasa, who is living in the castle of Eichorn, two leagues from Brünn in Moravia. Prince Wasa insists upon a divorce: the Princess will not consent and the Grand Duchess, who has every reason to fear a trial, wishes to induce her daughter not to run the risk and to come back to Mannhein here, though she is not personally enchanted with the prospect, as she fears the unbalanced and troublesome character of her daughter Louise. Prince Wasa has behaved very rudely to his mother-in-law and is, moreover, almost ruined. All this is a great anxiety to the Grand Duchess. She has given up the castle of Baden to the Grand Duke and bought his town house which she proposes to enlarge, to decorate and to beautify generally.
Cologne, May 26, 1843.—I embarked this morning at Mayence where I arrived yesterday morning in fine sun-light but also in a violent wind. Rain and hail soon alternated with the hurricane and the waves of the Rhine rose and became unpleasantly maritime in character. The Grand Duchess Stephanie told me that she thought the reputation of the Rhine scenery exaggerated, and I am inclined to agree with her. The river is beautiful and magnificently framed: the villages, the churches, and the ruins surround it with historical recollections, it is true, but the lack of vegetation gives an unpleasant aridity to the country; however, the journey is interesting and even poetical if anybody is so minded. The castle of Stolzenfels, as seen from the boat, is pretty but by no means grandiose; this is a castle which the King of Prussia has just restored and enlarged so that he was able to stay there with sixty people on his last visit; the interior is said to be charming and to command an excellent view. As for Rheinstein which Prince Frederick has laid out, it is quite a small place: it can only be approached on horseback, whereas it is possible to drive up to Stolzenfels. The several communes which owned old ruined castles on the Rhine have presented them to different princes of the house of Prussia: thus, apart from Stolzenfels, which belongs to the King, and Rheinstein, which belongs to Prince Frederick, the Prince of Prussia has received a castle, as also has Prince Charles, and even the Queen has her own. They are all on the left bank and the King has ordered the new owners to restore them and make them habitable. The castle of Hornbach, where Young Germany held its revolutionary meetings, before the establishment of the Commission of Mayence, is on the right bank and in the Bavarian states: the King of Bavaria has just presented it to his son, the Prince Royal; he has changed its name and it is now called Maxburg.
I made some progress to-day with the second volume of M. de Custine. He reports conversations which he had with the Emperor and Empress, which are graceful and lively, but were inspired by the idea that they would be printed. As I read all these I wondered if a traveller who owes his magnificent entertainment to the fear of his judgment as an author, to the desire that he may show his hosts kindness in his book, and avoid any partiality in his descriptions, is bound by the same degree of gratitude as the traveller who is well treated from disinterested motives, merely because his character happens to please. I admit that my judgment in this respect wavers a little and though in any case I should think a delicate discretion preferable, I cannot help finding some excuse for a man who thinks himself less entirely bound by interested politeness than he would be by spontaneous kindness. In any case the imperial conversations are described in a sufficiently laudatory style: the most unfettered and critical mind is always more or less influenced by marks of condescension from a crown. None the less this work will cause profound dissatisfaction in Russia and the welcome given to travellers will certainly be colder and more reserved.
Iserlohn, May 27, 1843.—I left Cologne this morning without regretting the inn of Rheinsberg. All these inns on the banks of the Rhine are nicely situated. They contain furniture of inlaid wood, and stuffed sofas with pretty coverings; but their proximity to the water and their exposed position make them very cold. The want of fireplaces is displeasing, as wind and damp have an easier entrance owing to the lack of shutters and blinds. In the month of May the double windows have been removed, and I really regret them. Daylight, which arrives before four o'clock, and cannot be excluded, leads to untimely waking, and is an inconvenience at which I grumbled the more as the noise of forty-five steamboats, the bells which announced their departure and the clatter of the stokers, make an uproar which lasts for nearly twenty-four hours; then there is the noise made by people coming and going in the inn, and the combination is enough to make one ill. Had it not been for the rain, I should have gone this morning to the Cathedral to see how far our subscriptions—for I have also subscribed—have advanced the work upon this fine monument during the last three years; but the weather was so bad, and I felt so worn out by the most execrable little German bed in all its Teutonic purity, that I had no courage to get wet in order to satisfy my curiosity, and re-entered my carriage in a bad temper.
Cassel, May 28, 1843.—It rained hard all last night, and is raining still. The outlook is melancholy and depressing. To-day I am going to Göttingen, to-morrow to Brunswick, and the day after to-morrow to Harbke. I shall be interested to see Brunswick, which I do not know, and Göttingen, whose turbulent students and liberal professors have so often roused the wrath of the King of Hanover.
I am still immersed in M. de Custine. In the third volume there is a letter concerning Princess Trubetzkoi,[ [91] who followed her husband to the mines of Siberia with noble devotion. The effects are so striking that no rhetoric is required to make them impressive. Conscious of this fact, the author has increased the impressiveness of this terrible drama in its last phase by simplifying his style. The scene which concludes this unusual story of misfortune moved me deeply. In my youth I heard many stories of Siberia from my father, and for that reason, I suppose, I feel a keen sympathy with the unfortunate wretches who are there buried alive.
Brunswick, May 29, 1843.—Nothing but rain with occasional bursts of hail, and by way of diversion a miserable ray of sunlight which steals shamefully forth to announce a new storm. Brunswick is an old and rather ugly town, with large and gloomy houses, an old church in full Gothic style, and a town hall even more Gothic. It is a great relief to find something really old after a succession of little capitals rebuilt without character or historical memory, with their tawdry modern ornamentation. I noticed a magnificent breed of post horses and draught and military horses; they are splendid, strong and vigorous animals; I do not know whether the district produces them or if they are brought from Mecklenburg.