Baden-Baden. It is like a dream to me now to think of that long, dusty
road from Paris, with its rattling pavement, its noisy postilions,
shouting ostlers, bowing landlords, dirty waiters, garlic diet, and hard
beds; and here I sit by my open window, with a bright river beneath
my feet, the song of birds on every side, a richly wooded mountain
in front, and at the foot a winding road, which ever and anon gives
glimpses of some passing equipage, bright in all the butterfly glitter
of female dress, or, mayhap, resounding with merry laughter and
sweet-voiced mirth. How brilliant is every thing!--the cloudless sky,
the sparkling water, the emerald grass, the foliage in every tint
of beauty, the orange-trees and the cactus along the terraces, where
lounging parties come and go; and then the measured step of princely
equipages, in all the panoply of tasteful wealth! Truly, Vice wears its
holiday suit in Baden, and the fairness of this lovely valley seems to
throw a softened light over a scene where, as in a sea, the stormy waves
of every bad passion are warring.
When, in all the buoyant glow of youth and health, I remembered feeling
shocked, as I strolled through the promenade at Carlsbad, at the sight
of so many painful objects of sickness and suffering; the eager, almost
agonising, expressions of hoping convalescence; the lustreless stare of
those past hope; the changeful looks of accompanying friends, who seemed
to read the fate of some dear one in the compassionate pity of those who
passed, were all sights that threw a chill, like death, over the warm
current of my blood. Yet never did this feeling convey the same intense
horror and disgust that I felt last night as I walked through the
Cursaal.
To pass from the mellow moonlight, dappling the pathway among the trees
and kissing the rippling stream, from the calm, mild air of a summer’s
night, when every leaf lay sleeping and none save the nightingale kept
watch, into the glare and glitter of a gilded saloon, is somewhat trying
to the jarred nerves of sickness. But what was it to the sight of
that dense crowd around the play-table, where avarice, greed of gain,
recklessness, and despair are mingled, giving, even to faces of manly
vigour and openness, expressions of low cunning and vulgar meaning?
There is a terrible sameness in the gambler’s look, a blending of
slavish terror with a resolution to brave the worst, almost demoniacal
in its fierceness. I knew most of the persons present; I need not
say, not personally, but from having seen them before at various other
similar places. Many were professed gamblers, men who starved and
suffered for the enjoyment of that one passion, living on the smallest
gain, and never venturing a stake beyond what daily life demanded;
haggard, sad, wretched-looking creatures they were, the abject poverty
of their dress and appearance vouching that this _métier_ was not a
prosperous one. Others farmed out their talents, and played for those
who were novices. These men have a singular existence; they exact a
mere per-centage on the winning, and are in great request among
elderly ladies, whose passion for play is modified by the fears of its
vicissitudes. Then there were the usual sprinkling of young men, not
habitually gamblers, but always glad to have the opportunity of tempting
Fortune, with here and there some old votary of the “table” satisfied to
witness the changeful temper of the game without risking a stake.
Into many vices men are led by observing the apparent happiness and
pleasure of others who indulge in them. Not so with regard to play.
No man ever became a gambler from this delusion, there being no such
terrible warning against the passion as the very looks of its votaries.
But it is not in such a low _tripot_ of vice I care to linger. It was
a ball-night, and I turned with a sense of relief from the aspect of
sordid, vulgar iniquity, to gaze on its more polished brother (_quore_,
sister?) in the _salle de danse_.
Here there was a large--I might almost call it a brilliant--company
assembled: a less exclusive assemblage cannot be conceived; five francs
and clean gloves being the only qualification needed. The guests were
as varied, too, in nation as in rank. About equal numbers of German and
French, several Russians, and a large proportion of English, with, here
and there, a bilious-looking American, or a very dubious Marquis from
beyond the Alps. Many of the men I knew to be swindlers and blacklegs
of the very lowest stamp; some others I recognised as persons of the
highest station in my own country. Of the lady part of the company the
disparities were even greater.
There was, it is true, a species of sifting process discernible, by
which the various individuals fell among those of their own order; but
though this was practicable enough where conversation and grouping were
concerned, it was scarcely attainable in other circumstances, and thus,
the Mazurka and the Polka assembled ingredients that should never have
been placed in close propinquity.
The demoralising influence of such _reunions_ upon the daughters of our
own land need not be insisted upon. Purity of mind and simplicity
of character are no safeguard against the scenes which, in all the
propriety of decorum, are ever occurring. And how terribly rapid are the
downward steps when the first bloom and blush of modesty have faded! It
demands but a very indifferent power of observation to distinguish the
English girl for the first time abroad from her who has made repeated
visits to foreign watering-places; while even among those who have been
habituated to the great world at home, and passed the ordeal of
London seasons, there is yet much to learn in the way of cool and
self-possessed effrontery, from the habits of Baden and its brethren.
I was dreadfully shocked last night by meeting one I had not seen
for many years before. How changed from what I knew her once!--what a
terrible change! When first I saw her, it was during a visit I made
to her mother’s house in Wales; her brother was an Oxford friend, and
brought me down with him for the shooting season to Merionethshire.
Poor fellow! he died of consumption at two-and-twenty, and left all he
possessed--a handsome estate--to his only sister. Hence all her misery!
Had she remained comparatively portionless, rich only in her beauty and
the graces of a manner that was fascination itself, she might now have
been the happy wife of some worthy Englishman--one whose station is a
trust held on the tenure of his rectitude and honour; for such is public
feeling in our country, and such is it never elsewhere.
She was then about eighteen or nineteen, and the very ideal of what an
English girl at that age should be. On a mind highly stored and amply
cultivated, no unworthy or depreciating influence had yet descended;
freedom of thought, freshness almost childish, had given her an
animation and buoyancy only subdued by the chastening modesty of coming
womanhood. Enthusiastic in all her pursuits, for they were graceful
and elevating, her mind had all the simplicity of the child with the
refinement of the highest culture; and, like those who are brought up
in narrow circles, her affections for a few spread themselves out in
the varied forms that are often scattered and diffused over the wider
surface of the world. Thus her brother was not merely the great object
of her affection and pride, but he was the companion of her rides and
walks, the confidant of all her secret feelings, the store in which she
laid up her newly acquired knowledge, or drew, at will, for more. With
him she read and studied; delighted by the same pursuits, their natures
blended into one harmonious _corde_, which no variance or dissonance
ever troubled.
His death, although long and gradually anticipated, nearly brought her
to the grave. The terrible nature of the malady, so often inherent in
the same family, gave cause for the most anxious fears on her account,
and her mother, herself almost brokenhearted, took her abroad, hoping
by the mildness of a southern climate and change of scene to arrest the
progress of the fell disease.
In this she was successful; bodily health was indeed secured. But might
it not have been better that she had wasted slowly away, to sleep at
last beneath the yews of her own ancient churchyard, than live and
become what she has done?
Some years after this event I was, although at the time only an
_attaché_ of the mission, acting as _Charge d’affaires_ at Naples,
during the absence of the minister and the secretary. I was sitting one
morning reading in my garden, when my servant announced the visit of an
Italian gentleman, il Signor Salvatori. The name was familiar to me, as
belonging to a man who had long been employed as a Spy of the Austrian
government, and, indeed, was formerly entrusted in a secret capacity
by Lord W. Bentinck in Sicily--a clever, designing, daring rascal, who
obtained his information no one knew how; and although we had always
our suspicions that he might be “selling” us, as well as the French,
we never actually traced any distinct act of treachery to his door. He
possessed a considerable skill in languages, was very highly informed
on many popular topics, and, I have been told, was a musician of no mean
powers of performance. These and similar social qualities were, however,
never displayed by him in any part of his intercourse with us, although
we had often heard of their existence.
As I never felt any peculiar pleasure in the relations which office
compels with men of his stamp, I received him somewhat coldly, and
asked, without much circumlocution, the reason of his visit.
He replied, with his habitual smile of self-possession, that his present
duty at “the Mission” was not a business-call, but concerned a matter
purely personal;--in fact, “with his Excellency’s permission, he desired
to get married.”
Not stopping him on the score of his investing me with a title to which,
no one knew better than himself, I had no pretensions, I quietly
assured him that his relation with “the Mission” did not, in any way,
necessitate his asking for such a permission--that, however secret and
mysterious the nature of his communications, they were still beyond the
pale of affairs personally private.
He suffered me to continue my explanation, somewhat scornful as it was,
to the end, and then calmly said,--
“Your Excellency will pardon my intrusion, when I inform you that the
marriage should take place here, at ‘the Mission,’ as the lady is an
English woman.”
Whether it was the fact itself, or his manner of delivering it, that
outraged me, I cannot now remember; but I do recollect giving expression
to a sentiment of surprise and anger not exactly suitable.
He merely smiled, and said nothing.
“Very well, M. Salvatori,” said I, corrected by the quietude of his
manner; “what is your day?”
“Wednesday, if your Excellency pleases.”
“Wednesday be it, and at eight o’clock.”
“As your Excellency desires,” said he, bowing and retiring.
It had never occurred to me to ask for any information about the happy
fair one; indeed, if I had given a thought at all to the matter, it
would have been that she was of the rank of a _femme-de-chambre_, or, at
least, some unhappy children’s governess, glad to exchange one mode of
tyranny for another. As he was leaving the room, however, some sense of
remorse, perhaps, at the _brusquerie_ I had shewn towards him, suggested
the question, “Who might the lady be?”
“Mademoiselle Graham.”
“Ah! a very good name, indeed,” said I; and so, with a word or two of
common-place, I bade him good-by.
The Wednesday morning arrived, and two carriages drove into the court
of “the Mission:” out of one sprung Signor Salvatori and a very bearded
gentleman, who accompanied him as his friend; from the other alighted,
first, an elderly lady, whose dress was a mixture of wedding finery and
widow’s mourning; then came a very elegant-looking girl, veiled from
head to foot, followed by her maid; and, lastly, the chaplain to “the
Mission.”
They were some minutes too early, and I equally behind my time; but I
dressed hastily, and descended to the salon, where M. Salvatori received
me with a very gracious expression of his self-satisfaction. Passing
him by, I advanced to address a few words to the old lady, who had risen
from her seat; when, stepping back, I exclaimed,
“Mrs. Graham--my old friend, Mrs. Graham! Is this possible?”
“Oh, Caroline, it is Mr. Templeton!” said she; while her daughter,
drawing her veil still closer over her face, trembled dreadfully.
Meanwhile Mrs. Graham had seized my hand with cordial warmth, and
pressed it in all the earnestness of friendship. Her joy--and it was
very evident it was such--was little participated in by her son-in-law
elect, who stood, pale and conscience-stricken, in a distant part of the
room.
“I must entreat these gentlemen’s permission to speak a few words here
alone, as these ladies are very old friends I have not seen for some
years.”
“I would humbly suggest to your Excellency that, as the ceremony still
waits----”
“I wish it, Marquis,” said Mrs. Graham, in a tone half-command,
half-entreaty; and, with a deep bow of submission, Salvatori and his
friend withdrew, accompanied by the chaplain.
“The title by which you have just addressed that person, Mrs. Graham,”
said I, in a voice trembling from agitation, “shews me how you have been
duped and deceived by him, and in what total ignorance you are as to his
real character.”
“Oh, Mr. Templeton!” broke in her daughter, now speaking for the
first time, and in accents I shall never forget, such was their
heart-thrilling earnestness,--“Oh, sir, this does indeed exceed the
license of even old friendship! We are well aware how the Marquis of
Salvatori has suffered from persecution; but we little expected to have
found _you_ among the number of his enemies.”
“You do me great wrong, Miss Graham,” said I, eagerly; “in nothing
greater than supposing me capable of being the enemy of such a man
as this. Unworthy as the sentiment is, it at least implies a sense of
equality. Now, are you certain of what this person is? are you aware
in what capacity he has been employed by our government, and by that of
other countries?”
“We know that the Marquis has been engaged in secret missions,” said
Miss Graham, proudly.
“Your reply, brief as it is, conveys two errors, Miss Graham. He is not
a Marquis; little as the title often implies in Italy, he has no right
to it. He asked Lord William Bentinck to let him call himself Marquis,
and so to address him, as a means of frequenting circles where important
information was accessible. Lord William said, ‘Call yourself what
you please--Grand Duke, if you like it--I am no dispenser of such
designations.’ The gentleman was modest;--he stopped at Marquis. As
to his diplomatic functions, we have a short and expressive word for
them;--he was and is, a Spy!”
Not heeding the scornful reception of the daughter, I turned towards
Mrs. Graham, and, with all the power I possessed, urged her, at least,
to defer this fatal step;--that she was about to bestow her child upon a
man of notoriously degraded character, and one whose assumption of rank
and position was disregarded and despised in the very humblest circles.
The mother wept bitterly; at one moment, turning to dissuade her
daughter from her rashness, at the next, appealing to me against
what she called my unjust prejudices against the Marquis. Miss Graham
scornfully refused to vouchsafe me even a word.
I confess more than once my temper prompted me to abandon the
enterprise, and suffer wilfulness to reap its own bitter harvest; but
then, my better feelings prevailed, and old memories of my poor friend
Graham again enlisted me in defence of his sister.
Of no avail was it that I followed these worthier promptings. It seemed
as if the man had thrown a spell over these two unhappy women, one,
being perfectly enthralled, the other, nearly so, by the artful
fascinations of his manner; and yet he was neither young, handsome,
rich, nor of high lineage. On the contrary, the man was at least
fifty-three or four, a perfect monster of ugliness, with an ex-pression
of sardonic sycophancy actually demoniac.
If I were not relating “a fact”--one of which I can answer, that many
now living can entirely corroborate--I would hesitate about dwelling on
a case where improbabilities are so strong, and where I have nothing to
offer like an explanation of them. Wilkes has long since convinced the
world how little good looks are concerned in winning a woman’s
heart, and how, indeed, a very considerable share of ugliness can be
counterbalanced by captivations of manner and personal agreeability.
But, judging from the portraits--even Hogarth’s fearful sketch--Wilkes
was handsome compared to Salvatori; and in point of reputation, low as
it was, the Libeller and the Satirist was still better than the Spy.
To go back again: I argued, I entreated, begged, threatened, and
denounced. I went further;--I actually transgressed the limits of
official authority, and refused to sanction the ceremony--a threat
which, I soon remembered, I dare not sustain. But, do what, say what, I
would, they were equally resolute and determined; and nothing was left
for me but to recall M. Salvatori and his friend, and suffer the affair
to proceed.
I do not remember, among the varied incidents of my life, one
whose effect weighed more heavily upon me. Although acquitted by my
conscience, I felt at moments horror-struck at even my share in this
infamy, and would have given any thing that it had never occurred. It
may be believed I was happy to hear that they all left Naples the same
day.
Years rolled over, and I never even heard of them, till one morning,
when waiting along with a diplomatic friend for an interview with the
French Minister for Foreign Affairs, a person hastily passed through the
room, saluting us as he went.
“I have seen that face before,” said I to my friend; “do you know him?”
“To be sure!” said he, smiling; “one must be young in diplomacy not to
know the Mephistophiles of the craft; and I guess why he is here, too:
that fellow is in the pay of the Prince de Capua, but has sold him to
Louis Philippe. The reconciliation with Naples would have been long
since effected but for the King of the French.”
“And his name--this man’s name--what is it?”
“Salvatori.”
“What! the same who married an English girl at Naples?”
“And sold her to the Marquis Brandini for ten thousand sequini. The very
man. But here comes the messenger to say his Excellency will receive
us.”
My friend quitted Paris the moment his interview ended, and I heard no
more.
Last night I saw her in the Cursaal--beautiful, perhaps more beautiful
than ever! At least there was a lofty elegance and a splendour about her
that I never remember in her girlish days; nor was it till she smiled
that I could now believe that the queen-like beauty before me was the
timid, delicate girl I first saw tripping along the narrow path of a
Welsh mountain.
Even from the gossip of Baden I could learn no more about her than that
she was a Sicilian Countess of great wealth, and a widow; that she was
intimately received into the very highest circles--even of royalty--and
constantly was seen driving in the carriage of the Archduchess. It was,
then, possible that I might be mistaken, after all! Great people are not
accessible so easily.
I tried in various quarters to get presented to her--for she shewed not
the slightest sign of having ever met me--but failed every where: they
who knew her did not do so intimately enough to introduce me.
The reminiscences I have just jotted down have made me miserably
feverish and ill; for although I now begin to doubt that I ever saw this
Countess before, the sad story of Caroline Graham is ever present to my
mind--a terrible type of the fortune of many a fair English girl left to
the merciless caprice of a foreign husband!
I am not bigot enough to fancy that happy, eminently happy, marriages do
not exist abroad as well as with us; but I am fully minded to say that
the individuals should be of the same nation, reared in the midst of the
same traditions, imbued with feelings that a common country, language,
and religion bestow.
I know of nothing that presents so pitiable a picture of unhappy
destiny, as a fair and delicately minded English girl the wife of a
foreigner! How I wish to resolve my doubts in this case! for although I
began this memorandum fully persuaded it was Caroline Graham that I had
seen, every line I write increases my uncertainty.