WHAT MY LANDLORD BELIEVED.
My Bohemian landlord in Vienna told me a story of an English nobleman.
It may be worth relating, as showing what my landlord, quite in good
faith and earnest, believed.
You know, Lieber Herr, said Vater Bohm, there is nothing in the whole
Kaiserstadt so astonishing to strangers as our signboards. Those
beautiful paintings that you see--Am Graben and Hohe Markt,--real works
of art, with which the sign-boards of other countries are no more to be
compared, than your hum-drum English music is to the delicious waltzes of
Lanner, or the magic polkas of Strauss. Imagine an Englishman, who knows
nothing of painting, finding himself all at once in front of one of those
charming compositions--pictures that they would make a gallery of in
London, but which we can afford to put out of doors; he is fixed, he is
dumb with astonishment and delight--he goes mad. Well, Lieber Herr, this
is exactly what happened to one of your English nobility. Milor arrived
in Vienna; and as he had made a wager that he would see every notability
in the city and its environs in the course of three days, which was all
the time he could spare, he hired a fiaker at the Tabor-Linie, and drove
as fast as the police would let him from church to theatre; from museum
to wine-cellar; till chance and the fiaker brought him into the Graben.
Milor got out to stretch himself, and to see the wonderful shops, and
after a few turns came suddenly upon the house at the sign of the Joan of
Arc.
"Goddam!" exclaimed Milor, as his eye met the sign-board.
There he stood, this English nobleman, in his drab coat with pearl
buttons, his red neckcloth, blue pantaloons and white hat, transfixed for
at least five minutes. Then, swearing some hard oaths--a thing the
English always do when they are particularly pleased--Milor exclaimed,
"It is exquisite! Holy Lord Mayor, it is unbelievable!"
Mein Lieber, you have seen that painting of course, I mean Joan of Arc,
life-size, clad in steel, sword in hand, and with a wonderful serenity
expressed in her countenance, as she leads her flagging troops once more
to the attack upon the walls. It has all the softness of a Coreggio, and
the vigour of a Rubens. Milor gave three bounds, and was in the middle
of the shop in a moment.
"That picture!" he exclaimed.
"What picture--Eurer Gnaden?" inquired the shopkeeper, bowing in the most
elegant manner.
"It hangs at your door--Joan of Arc, I wish to buy it."
"It is not for sale, Eurer Gnaden."
"Bah!" ejaculated Milor, "I must have it. I will cover it with guineas."
"It is impossible."
"How impossible?" cried Milor, diving into the capacious pocket of the
drab coat with the pearl buttons, and drawing forth a heavy roll of
English bank-notes, "I'll bet you anything you like that it is possible."
You know, mein Lieber, that the English settle everything by a wager;
indeed, betting and swearing is about all their language is fit for. For
a fact, there were once two English noblemen, from Manchester or some
such ancient place, who journeyed down the Rhine on the steam-boat. They
looked neither to the right nor to the left; neither at the vine-fields
nor the old castles; but sat at a table, silent and occupied with nothing
before them but two lumps of sugar, and two heaps of guineas. A little
crowd gathered round them wondering what it might mean. Suddenly one of
them cried out, "Goddam, it's mine!" "What is yours?" inquired one who
stood by, gaping with curiosity. "Don't you see," replied the other, "I
bet twenty guineas level, that the first fly would alight upon my lump of
sugar, and by God, I've won it!"
To return to Milor. "I'll bet you anything you like that it is
possible," said he.
"Your grace," replied the shopkeeper, "my Joan of Arc is beyond price to
me. It draws all the town to my shop; not forgetting the foreigners."
"I will buy your shop," said the Englishman.
"Milor! Graf Schweinekopf von Pimplestein called only yesterday to see
it, and Le Comte de Barbebiche."
"A Frenchman!" shouted Milor.
"From Paris, your grace."
"Will you sell me your Joan of Arc?" was the furious demand. "I will
cover it with pounds sterling twice over."
"Le Comte de Barbebiche--"
"You have promised it to him?"
"Yes!" gasped Herr Wechsel, catching at the idea.
"Enough!" cried the English nobleman; and he strode into the street.
With one impassioned glance at the figure of La Pucelle, he threw himself
into his fiaker, and drove rapidly out of sight.
On reaching his hotel, he chose two pairs of boxing gloves, a set of
rapiers, and a case of duelling pistols; and, thus loaded, descended to
his fiaker, tossed them in, and started off in the direction of the
nearest hotel. "Le Comte de Barbebiche"--that was the pass-word; but
everywhere it failed to elicit the desired reply. He passed from street
to street--from gasthaus to gasthaus--everywhere the same dreary
negative; and the day waned, and his search was still unsuccessful. But
he never relaxed; the morning found him still pursuing his inquiries; and
midday saw him at the porte cochere of the Hotel of the Holy Ghost, in
the Rothenthurm Strasse, with his case of duelling pistols in his hand,
his set of rapiers under his arm, and his two pairs of boxing-gloves
slung round his neck.
"Deliver my card immediately to the Comte," said he to the attendant;
"and tell him I am waiting." He had found him out. Luckily, the Comte
de Barbebiche happened to be in the best possible humour when this
message was conveyed to him, having just succeeded in dyeing his
moustache to his entire satisfaction. He glanced at the card--smiled at
himself complacently in the mirror before him, and answered in a gracious
voice, "Let Milor Mountpleasant come up."
Milor was soon heard upon the stairs; and, as he strode into the room, he
flung his set of rapiers with a clatter on the floor, dashed his case of
duelling pistols on the table, and with a dexterous twist sent one pair
of boxing-gloves rolling at the feet of the Comte, while, pulling on the
other, he stood in an attitude of defence before the astonished
Frenchman.
"What is this?" inquired the Comte de Barbebiche.
"This is the alternative," cried the Englishman. "Here are weapons; take
your choice--pistols, rapiers, or the gloves. Fight with one of them you
must and shall, or abandon your claim to Joan of Arc."
"Mon Dieu! What Joan of Arc? I do not have the felicity of knowing the
lady."
"You may see her, Am Graben," gravely replied Milor, "outside a shop
door, done in oil."
"Heh!" exclaimed the astonished Comte, "in oil--an Esquimaux, or a
Tartar, pray?"
"Monsieur le Comte, I want no trifling. Do you persist in the purchase
of this picture? I have set my heart upon it; I love it; I have sworn to
possess it. Make it a matter of money, and I will give you a thousand
pounds for your bargain; make it a matter of dispute, and I will fight
you for it to the death; make it a matter of friendship, and yield up
your right, and I will embrace you as a brother, and be your debtor for
the rest of my life."
The Comte de Barbebiche--seeing that he had to do with an Englishman a
degree, at least, more crazed than the rest of his countrymen--entered
into the spirit of the matter at once, and chose the easiest means of
extricating himself from a difficulty.
"Milor," he exclaimed, advancing towards him, "I am charmed with your
sentiments, your courage, and your integrity. Take her, Milor--take your
Joan of Arc; I would not attempt to deprive you of her if she were a real
flesh and blood Pucelle, and my own sister."
The Englishman, with a grand oath, seized the Comte's hand in both his
own, and shook it heartily; then scrambling up his paraphernalia of war,
spoke a hurried farewell, and disappeared down the stairs.
The grey of the morning saw Milor in full evening costume, pacing the
Graben with hurried steps, watching with anxious eyes the shop front
where his beloved was wont to hang. He saw her carried out like a
shutter from the house, and duly suspended on the appointed hook. She
had lost none of her charms, and he stood with arms folded upon his
breast, entranced for awhile before the figure of the valiant maiden.
"Herr Wechsel," said he abruptly, as he entered the shop; "Le Comte de
Barbebiche has ceded his claim to me. I repeat my offer for your Joan of
Arc--decide at once, for I am in a hurry."
It certainly does appear surprising that Herr Wechsel did not close in
with the offer at once; perhaps he really had an affection for his
picture; perhaps he thought to improve the bargain; or, more probably,
looking upon his strange customer as so undoubtedly mad, as to entertain
serious fears as to his ever receiving the money. Certain it is, that he
respectfully declined to sell.
"You refuse!" shouted Milor, striking his clenched fist upon the counter;
"then, by Jove! I'll--but never mind!" and he strode into the street.
The dusk of the evening saw Milor in the dress of a porter, pacing the
Graben with a steady step. He halted in front of his cherished Joan;
with the utmost coolness and deliberation unhooked the painting from its
nail, and placing it carefully, and with the air of a workman, upon his
shoulder, stalked away with his precious burden.
Imagine the consternation of Herr Wechsel upon the discovery of his loss.
His pride, his delight, the chief ornament of his shop was gone; and,
moreover, he had lost his money. But his sorrow was changed into
surprise, and his half-tearful eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he read
the following epistle, delivered into his hands within an hour after the
occurrence:--
"Sir,--You will find placed to your credit in the Imperial Bank of
Vienna the sum of five thousand pounds, the amount proffered for your
Joan of Arc. Your obstinacy has driven me into the commission of a
misdemeanour. God forgive you. But I have kept my word.
"I am already beyond your reach, and you will search in vain for my
trace. In consideration for your feelings, and to cause you as
little annoyance as possible, I have placed _my_ Joan of Arc into the
hands of a skilful artist; and I trust to forward you as accurate a
copy as can be made.
"Yours, MOUNTPLEASANT."
And Milor kept his word, mein Lieber, and the copy hangs Am Graben to
this day in the place of the original. The original shines among the
paintings in the splendid collection of Milor at Mountpleasant Castle.
I will not pretend to say, concluded Vater Bohm, reloading his pipe, that
the English have any taste, but they certainly have a strange passion for
pictures; and, let them once get an idea into their heads, they are the
most obstinate people in the world in the pursuit of it.