THE PARK AT VARZIN.
If one turn south on the Cöslin-Danzig road, by the large village of Carwitz—recently marked as a station on the railway from Cöslin to Danzig—after a short drive on a good road, some three German miles, one reaches the Bismarck estates with great ease. It is a very pleasant neighborhood, alternating with wooded hillocks, meadows and waters, wood and plough-land. There is nothing very magnificent about it, nothing very pretentious; but it is a pleasant spot, and the Countess Bismarck once merrily called it, very appropriately, “a pretty little humpy countrykin.”
Varzin can not be seen from the distance; it is hidden by woods. The descending road divides the mansion, to the right, from the farm-buildings on the left, forming a long parallelogram.
Varzin does not look nearly so aristocratic as Schönhausen, which Bismarck calls his “old stone-heap.” A building of one story, with two wings, all painted pale yellow, surrounds a somewhat roomy courtyard, open to the road. On the principal building, on the gable, are the arms of Blumenthal. The steps of the stairway are occupied by orange-trees, myrtles, and laurels. We saw a young donkey running about, who was eating the fallen laurel-leaves with a very good appetite. The possessor of Varzin must feel very much flattered that laurels abound so much in his house that there are enough to feed donkeys!
On this open staircase, or rather verandah, Bismarck receives his guests, like a simple country nobleman, in a green coat, white waistcoat, and yellow neckcloth, and with a hearty shake of the hand makes them free of the hospitality of his house. On this verandah the Countess stands with her daughter, and looks with beaming eyes and happy face after the three sportsmen who are proceeding towards the forest and wave their hands in greeting back to her. And for others—for every one—it is a pleasant sight to see Count Bismarck walking between his sons, his rifle over his shoulder, or riding on horseback. On this verandah also the last farewell takes place between mother and sons. After the longest possible holiday, they return to school at Berlin, while Bismarck himself orders the postillion to make haste, that he may not lose the mid-day train at Cöslin. The honest Pomeranian, with the well-fed face above his orange collar, has no idea that there exists an intimate bond between himself and the great Minister—that in his capacity, as Chancellor of the North German Confederation, he is his highest representative.
The interior of the mansion of Varzin is habitable and comfortable, but there is nothing otherwise remarkable about it. To the right of the hall on which you enter, is the dining-room, which is connected with the kitchen and servants’ rooms in the left wing; to the left is the Count’s room, the large centre-table of which is covered with maps. Maps, especially those of a minute kind, are an old hobby of Bismarck’s; if a trip is projected, or guests are departing, the road is accurately measured off beforehand on the map. This zealous study of maps has always seemed to us very characteristic of Bismarck’s whole nature; he always desires to know the road he is travelling in the most accurate manner; he considers the advantages, and weighs them against the annoyance. The windows of this apartment look out on the courtyard. To the right again is the Countess’s room, the windows opening on the park, and thence there is a really magnificent view: in the bright summer moonlight nights, one would think that one had, by enchantment, some fragment of early French court life, from Meudon or Rambouillet. On the other side of a prattling little brook, crossed by a pretty little bridge, the park, with its fine old trees—oaks and beeches—rises in terraces up the hill-side, and the white statues contrast well with the green foliage. At such a sight, one thinks of the “Enchanted Night” of Tieck; and indeed there is somewhat of the “wondrous world of faërie” in the whole aspect of the scene—in its antique but eternally youthful splendor.
Our readers know, from the letters we have given, how passionately Bismarck loves such scenery. There is a great deal more of the romantic poet and sentimental German in the great statesman, than would appear at first sight. He sometimes recognizes this himself with a smile.
The park of Varzin by moonlight has indeed a peculiar old-fashioned appearance; very little imagination is necessary to people it with gentlemen in court uniforms and swords, hats under their arms, and ladies with towering head-dresses, hoops, and high shoes. On these terraces, over the pretty flower-banks, and round the white statues, there breathes the whole inspiration of a life which, for a long time, was unjustly contemned, and afterwards was properly derided, when fashion became its distinguishing trait, after the petit maître style—a life we can not wish back again, but which we can not but love, it having been that of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers, and containing in it, with many traits of insignificance, some great and admirable features. We may laugh at it, but it contains some pretty ideas!