[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 106.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JANUARY 9, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
TWO EVENINGS WITH BISMARCK.
IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.
The surprises that await the deputies and representatives of the North
German League, when, after a hard day’s work and a late supper, they
return, wearied in body and mind, to their Berlin penates, are not,
as a rule, of a very cheering description. They generally consist of
large unwieldy packets of printed matter, which contain the orders
for the next day’s imperial Diet, and a mass of amendments on the
coming motions, &c. Letters also, especially home ones, form no small
portion of the evening’s recreation. One may judge, therefore, of the
general surprise, when, amongst the pile of evening correspondence, a
short note appears from Prince Bismarck to the effect that he would be
‘greatly obliged if Deputy or Privy-councillor So-and-so will give him
the pleasure of his company every Saturday evening at nine o’clock,
commencing from the 24th April, as long as the session of the imperial
Diet lasts.’
What more natural than that the Chancellor should wish to assemble at
his own familiar hearth, all those representatives of the nation who
for the most part gladly accompany and support him on the rough and
stony paths of German politics that he is treading, and to want to
spend a few hours with them in pleasant social intercourse, after the
many weary hours of heavy parliamentary work?
This same need was equally felt by most of the deputies and councillors
and other members of the imperial Diet, who all equally looked forward
to the coming evening.
As everything connected with the Diet is carried out with military
precision, so here, also, the hour of nine had hardly finished
striking, ere the guests began to arrive at the well-known modest
two-storied building in the Wilhelmstrasse, which the Prussian
government assigns to its Minister for Foreign Affairs as his official
residence, and which Prince Bismarck inhabited in his threefold
capacity of Minister for Lauenburg, Prussian President Minister, and
Chancellor of the North German League. Here, on the ground-floor
of the long unadorned building, are the workrooms of the Prussian
ministerial officials. On the first floor are the work and reception
rooms of Bismarck, as well as his private family apartments. At the
back of the house, where the noise and turmoil of the great busy
city never penetrate, lies one of those beautiful shady old timbered
parks, such as the royal crown of Prussia possesses, between the
Wilhelmstrasse and the Königstrasse, and also between the latter and
the Leipzigerstrasse—in all about a hundred acres.
At the entrance are the inevitable constables, saluting the guests
as they arrive. Numerous lackeys in black and white livery hand the
visitor up the broad flight of stairs into an elegantly furnished
anteroom, where those who wait to see the Chancellor on business can,
while in the midst of the most harmonious surroundings of rich carpets,
silken hangings, and luxurious seats, speculate as to what possible
connection the stuffed hare, standing so prominently forward on the
sideboard, can have with the family of Bismarck.
A more interesting sight, however, now greeted us. The Chancellor’s
wife, a tall aristocratic-looking woman, with decided but pleasing
features, and in an elegant though simple toilet, received each guest
as he arrived with gracious affability. Standing close beside the open
portières, past which the eye glanced into the family living-rooms,
she was a true type of the position she holds both in home and public
life. A noble wife and mother, she has faithfully stood by her
husband’s side from the very commencement of his political career. A
Chicago paper declares that Bismarck’s wife is her husband’s private
secretary! How far this statement is true, we do not pretend to say;
but an old friend of the family has repeatedly told us that during the
saddest time that Germany has witnessed for the last fifty years, when
Bismarck, disheartened and dispirited, retired to his small property of
Schönhausen, there to vegetate as a small Prussian landowner, while
brooding moodily over all his grand political schemes, his wife never
for a moment lost heart, but was able to inspire her husband with ever
fresh courage and hope.
A number of old friends and acquaintances quickly surrounded the
noble hostess, while the remainder of the guests streamed on towards
the billiard-room to the right, the windows of which look out on the
street. In front of one of the sofas lies a handsome bearskin—the
animal was slain by Bismarck’s own hand; and on a bracket stands the
magnificent vase, with the king’s portrait and a view of his castle,
which King William presented to the Prince after the wars of 1866.
The crowd and the heat increased every moment. The Prince, we were
told, was in the big saloon. Hurrying thither, we saw our noble
host, standing just inside the door, in animated converse with some
earlier arrivals, yet, notwithstanding, quite ready to greet every
new-comer—sometimes even stretching out both hands to right and left
with hearty welcome. How well and bright he looked! That was always
the first thing that struck one on seeing this man. His face, from his
long country sojourn at Varzin, has regained its healthy colouring; the
eyes are no longer so deeply shadowed by the overhanging brows or the
furrowed forehead of last year; his hair is of that light Saxon hue
which defies both Time and impertinent curiosity; and the figure is as
firm and upright as the youngest man there present. On this evening he
also wore his favourite and most comfortable dress—that is, uniform,
but _not_ in strict accordance with Regulation.
Moltke’s fine thin lips are curved with an amused smile, as he observes
the Prince’s unmilitary get-up. The short smart tunic is worn open,
innocent of either sword or sword-belt, displaying an ordinary black
cloth evening waistcoat underneath. Only the most necessary orders are
worn; among them, some of those of the smaller states peep coquettishly
forth. Are these meant to fascinate the hearts of the minor invited
deputies?
Those who have only seen Bismarck in pictures or heard him speak in the
Diet, or even met him in his walks, only know him from his official
side, and as the great statesman and dignitary. But here, inside his
own four walls, with ample leisure, and surrounded by celebrated and
patriotic men, who all, more or less, have helped to advise, combat, or
further his work, one learns to know and recognise in the Prince the
real man and intelligent companion whose mighty intellect wields the
affairs of nations. We have often heard visitors who were present at
the sittings of the Diet declare that nothing surprised them so much
as the intonation and pathos of Bismarck’s voice when speaking. His
height, his brows, his forehead, his chest, his speeches, were all far
greater and more powerful than they had imagined; but his voice, either
when giving utterance to the driest details, or when startling his
audience by some passionate appeal, had something marvellously soft and
winning in it. And they are not far wrong. One can always tell from the
Prince’s words, by the sound of his voice, what his feelings are at the
time, no matter how moderate his speech may be; and never was this more
distinct and vivid than on these Saturday evenings.
Now he approaches our circle. ‘I wished much to see you here,
gentlemen. It is so much easier to talk and understand one another
here, than in the Diet House!’—and he shook hands all round. ‘Besides,
now, if you want to interpellate me, or one of the deputies or
privy-councillors, you can do so quietly and at your ease in a corner,
and settle the whole affair in a few minutes.’
The Prince was right. Never before had the necessity of familiar and
friendly intercourse been more apparent than during this session. From
various untoward causes, the most crying discords had arisen between
the deputies and the Diet, chiefly owing to neither party thoroughly
understanding the other.
From amid the rows of deputies and councillors, emerged the portly
form of the brave ‘Red Becker,’ red in hair as well as in opinion, a
living proof that even an inborn democrat and agitator can attain a
very comfortable rotundity. Becker had surpassed himself that morning
in the Diet. He, as the permanent reporter of the Chamber of Deputies
and the Diet, on all postal, telegraphic, and railway matters, had
drastically described the frightful misuse, on the part of the princely
houses of Germany, of their right to free carriage and telegraph. He
had shown how the whole of the royal bill of fare had been telegraphed
free of charge; how endless telegraphic milliners’ and dressmakers’
orders had been sent free between the German courts and Paris; while
the citizen’s despatch, on which probably hangs both life and property,
must wait till the royal cook has ordered a dollar’s worth of parsley
by telegraph; how, after that, all these huge parcels have to be sent
carriage free to their destination; and finally, he had proved, to the
great amusement of the House, by the genealogical almanac, that in
Lippe alone, no fewer than sixty princes and princesses had this inborn
right to postal freedom.
He now placed himself directly in front of the Chancellor, in his
favourite attitude, with his hands behind his back, and looked up at
him with an expression which seemed to say: ‘Now, had you any idea
that this royal prerogative of free post and telegraph had been so
shamefully abused?’
But Bismarck only laughed heartily, saying: ‘My dear Becker, believe
me, I know of far worse things.’
‘Indeed! Pray, then, tell us some, Your Excellency!’ said ‘Red Becker’
with great animation.
‘Nay; that I cannot do,’ replied Bismarck. ‘My information comes from
the Postmaster-general at Phillipsborn; and he knows far worse things
than _I_ do.’
A group of people had now come in between us and the speakers.
A servant handed round tea; but, strange to say, there was no rum, so
little has Bismarck imbibed of Russian habits and tastes, in spite of
his long sojourn at St Petersburg.
Here, again, in front of one of the couches, lay the head and skin of
a splendid elk, another trophy of Bismarck’s prowess as a sportsman.
The walls of this room were hung with yellow Gobelins of ‘Chinese
patterns,’ and furniture to correspond. By degrees, all the guests had
gradually congregated in this room—deputies, councillors, ministers,
admirals, secretaries, all mingled together. There was none of that
reserve and strict etiquette with which ministers usually love to
surround themselves, like a wall of division between them and the
people’s representatives, none of that exclusiveness and national
party spirit which, as a rule, is always present in the Diet. Very
few uniforms were visible among the guests. The nooks and corners, in
which, according to Bismarck’s own words, the great affairs of the
state could be settled and arranged in five minutes, were now all
filled with eager talkative groups of deputies and councillors, or the
leaders of the different parties. The conversation in our neighbourhood
was carried on in a pretty loud and easy tone and without any reserve;
for there did not lurk here, as there does behind every door and in
every retiring-room of the imperial parliament, some insidious reporter
for the press.
‘Who is that stout gentleman yonder, with the very elaborate
shirt-front, blue coat with brass buttons, and a huge and perfectly new
order of the Eagle of the third class? He tries in vain to disguise his
eastern origin.’
‘Is it possible you do not know him?—this man, whom Bismarck’s son in
his last pamphlet described as the greatest man of his century!—this
father of millions of—railway shares! Do you really mean to say you
do not know him? Well, then, my dear sir, you see before you Dr
Strousberg, formerly Baruch Hirsch Strousberg, of the firm of Dr Ujest,
Strousberg & Company!—Shall I introduce you?’
But the subject of this discourse had already joined that
arch-satirist, Von Unruh Magdeburgh, the President of the
Constitutional Prussian National Assembly. Beside him appeared the
venerable head of Simson, the perpetual President of the German
parliament.
‘Do you know the best way of enforcing respect into our noisy
neighbours, the French?’ asked my _vis-à-vis_.—I thought of our
millions of soldiers; but he continued: ‘You need only tell them that
our three Presidents, Simson, Ujest, and Benningson, have twenty-seven
children between them—nine each.’
Meanwhile, the servants again came round with refreshments for the
guests; this time it was _Maitrank_,[1] in long Venetian glasses, and
magnificent silver tankards filled with sparkling ale.
But the heat still continued to increase, and became almost unbearable.
Lasker was the first to move an amendment, to dispense with kid gloves;
and like most of Lasker’s motions, this proposition found plenty of
support among the deputies, and in this instance, even among the
councillors.
And now the intimate friends and relations of the Chancellor invite the
guests to adjourn to the dining saloon, which is the last of the long
row of apartments we had up till now passed through. This saloon, an
oblong square, joins the apartment last described, at the right-hand
corner; only its narrow side faces the street. The decorations and
fittings-up of this dining saloon differ entirely from all the rest
of the suite. It has been kept exactly the same as when Bismarck took
it over from his predecessor; in fact, for fifty years this apartment
has remained unchanged. There still hangs the same massive chandelier
with its forty-eight candles; the same white panels with golden borders
still cover the walls; the same shell-shaped mirrors, the same yellow
marble mantel-pieces that were there under Hardenberg, Mannteuffel, and
Schleichnitz, all remain unchanged.
‘The last time I was here I was under Mannteuffel,’ says old Count
Schwerin, the head of the Liberal party, to me, standing in his
favourite position with both his hands in his trousers’ pockets.
The first feeling of shyness having worn away, the various dainties, in
the shape of cold game, saddle of venison, mayonnaises, Italian salads,
&c., with which the long centre table was laden, were speedily done
justice to. Even the modest Saxon privy-councillor, who three minutes
before had retreated from the table and refused the invitation with a
polite wave of the hand and a, ‘No, no; thank you!’ now followed in the
war-path of the pioneers for food. There was no time or space to think
of sitting down; each one helped himself to a plate from the piles,
placed in readiness on the table, together with the necessary table
requisites, and hastened to partake of the delicacies that had been
prepared for his delectation. A party of Saxon and Rhenish gentlemen
had succeeded in getting possession of a side-table, and there, seated
at their ease, they intrenched themselves against the annexation
tendencies of the North German League appetites; getting all their
provisions through the proper constitutional channel of the Bismarckian
domestics.
Meanwhile, as I have so often observed before, a saddle of venison is a
most fruitful source for starting hunting adventures, and so it proved
in this case. My old friend, worthy Dr Neubronner from Nassau, whom no
one would have accused of being a bloodthirsty huntsman by nature, was
no sooner presented to Bismarck, than he reminded the minister how, in
former days, when he, Bismarck, was representative at Frankfort, they
had hunted together in the neighbourhood of that town.
‘Of course I remember it; and very pleasant days they were,’ replied
Bismarck; and he forthwith proceeded to describe, greatly to the
amusement of the _present_ deputies of the annexed province of Nassau,
the celebrities and oddities of the Nassau and Frankfort of _that_
day, with so much life and humour, that the merriment of this South
German group attracted general attention. The account of ‘_dicke_
(portly) Daumer’s’ intense fear of death, or anything connected
therewith, specially amused the sons of the now Prussianised district
of Wiesbaden. Bismarck continued: ‘One fine autumn morning, I was out
hunting with “dicke Daumer” in the neighbourhood of Frankfort. After
a long and tiring climb among the mountains, we sat down to rest on
the edge of the forest, when, to my horror, I found I had brought no
luncheon with me. “Dicke Daumer,” however, drew forth a mighty sausage,
and, in the most noble and magnanimous manner, offered me half of it.
Now, gentlemen, I frankly confess to having a very good appetite,
which this morning excursion in the keen mountain air had by no means
lessened. The whole sausage would barely have sufficed to satisfy
my hunger. Our meal commenced; I saw the end of my piece of sausage
approaching; I was getting desperate! Then suddenly turning to “dicke
Daumer,” I ask in the most innocent manner possible: “Can you tell me,
Herr Daumer, what that white thing down there among the plum-trees is?”
“Good gracious, Your Excellency, you quite take away one’s appetite!”
said Daumer, who so dreaded his latter end. “Why, that is the
churchyard!”
“Is it really, now? Why, Herr Daumer, it looks so pretty! let us
go down and choose out some nice secluded shady nook! How calm and
peaceful it must be to rest in so sweet a spot!”
“Oh, Your Excellency!—there—there,” and he put down the sausage: “I
cannot touch another mouthful!”
‘And old Daumer remained firm in this. So you see, gentlemen, I had a
good luncheon after all.’
Universal laughter greeted this anecdote.
‘How is it one never sees you now in the House?’ I ask a young
Thuringian who has made a name for himself both as a government lawyer
and a wit.
‘Oh, I am busy all day now in the European “Lint Congress,”’ he replied.
‘And pray, what may that be?’ I ask.
‘Why, my dear sir, did you not know that is the name the Berliner wits
have given to the International Association for the care and nursing of
wounded soldiers?’
Two of the greatest lawyers in the world stand close beside me deep in
conversation. Every ten minutes, a fresh word is added to a paragraph
for the future North German penal code. Braun-Wiesbaden approaches and
joins the conclave, which is just discussing that much vexed question,
the abolition of capital punishment.
‘You may make your minds easy, gentlemen, and settle to abolish capital
punishment,’ he said.
‘Indeed! Have you, then, found a surrogate?’
‘I have.’
‘Well?’ ask the expectant lawyers with unbelieving curiosity.
‘Why, you have only to send the delinquents to the “North German
Commission for the better Regulation of Trade”—that will settle them!’
But I hear Bismarck’s voice again close behind me. ‘Let us drink to
the welfare of the old blue red and gold colours of the Hannovera of
Göttingen!’ he called out to his old fellow-student, the Burgomaster
Fromme of Lüneburg. And the two ‘old collegians,’ while emptying their
glasses of sparkling Rhine wine, chat over the pleasant days of their
youth.
Even as far back as that time, whenever Bismarck was asked what
he was studying, his answer invariably was: ‘Diplomacy.’ He was
then a very slight overgrown young student, with a fair sprouting
moustache—known everywhere by his magnificent Newfoundland dog, and
much feared on account of his skill with the sword, having, while still
an undergraduate, come off victor in several duels with members of
opposition corps; though the scar on his left cheek bears testimony to
the uncertainty attending the fate of even the most skilful of fencers.
The antagonist who inflicted this ‘quart’ now enjoys the confidence of
a great part of the North German population, so much so, that he was
elected representative for the Diet.
When he was first presented to Bismarck, the latter, pointing to the
scar, asked: ‘Are you _the_ one?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
‘Well, you certainly _did_ give it me rather hot.’
‘Yes, Your Excellency—that was what you said at the time; but the
“duel-book” did not concur in it, and decided you gave as good as you
got.’
But those diplomatic studies at Göttingen have borne visible fruits. It
is only a pity that the multifarious duties of his threefold office of
minister, Chancellor, and brandy-distiller—for he has been a distiller
for over twenty years—prevent the Prince from coming forward as the
advocate of practical diplomacy. Many a professor’s chair would be open
to him.
The theme of the Prince’s diplomatic lecture this evening was ‘the
blue-books,’ a subject he had already ventilated the day before in the
Diet, urged thereto by Lasker.
‘Well, gentlemen, if you absolutely wish to have a “blue-book,” I will
endeavour next year to provide one that will at least be harmless,’ he
had said amid the laughter of the House.
Now he gave us an example of the doubtful value of these collective
despatches. ‘Say, for example, Lord Augustus Loftus comes to me and
asks me whether I am disposed to hear a private letter from his
minister, Lord Clarendon. He then reads me a short epistle in the noble
lord’s own handwriting, and we talk the matter over quietly for about
an hour. Five days after, he is again announced. This time he comes
armed with a huge official despatch from the English Foreign Office. He
commences to read. “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency!” I interrupt
him, “but you told me all that last Monday.”
“Yes, so I did; but now the despatch has to go into the blue-book.”
“Then I suppose I must now repeat my answer all over again, for the
benefit of your blue-book?”
“Certainly, if Your Excellency sees no reason against it—that is what
is required.”
“Well, I suppose I must let you have it;” and so I have to give up
another hour to him just for the sake of the blue-book, and have in
addition constantly to explain to the English ambassador: “_This_
sentence is _not_ meant for your blue-book,” as, for instance, that
I look upon the blue-book as an essentially wordy and superfluous
institution.’
But it is past eleven. Gradually the numerous guests take their leave
of the Chancellor. He bids them all ‘Adieu, au revoir.’ Then passing
through the apartment where his wife and daughters were seated,
surrounded by a large circle of friends, we salute our noble hostess;
and a quarter of an hour later sees us back at the _Petersburger Hof_,
comfortably ensconced in the saloon of our hotel, and discussing the
events of the evening under the soothing influence of the peaceful pipe.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A cool summer drink or cup, made of Rhine wine, in which the herb
_Waldmeister_ plays a prominent part.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER III.
‘O Marian, do you know, I’ve met Mr Hawthorn; and what a delightful man
he is! I quite fell in love with him myself, I assure you! Wasn’t it
absurd? He came down the other morning to the boatrace; and he and a
friend of his positively jumped over the wall, without an invitation,
into old Colonel Boddington’s front garden.’
Marian took Nora’s hand warmly. ‘I’m so glad you like Edward,’ she
said, kissing her cheek and smoothing her forehead. ‘I was sure you’d
like him. I’ve been longing for you to come to town ever since we got
engaged, so that you might manage to see him.—Well, dear, and do you
think him handsome?’
‘Handsome! O Marian, awfully handsome; and so nice, too. Such a sweet
voice and manner, so grave and cultivated, somehow. I always do like
Oxford and Cambridge men—ever so much better than army men, Marian.’
‘Who had he with him at the boatrace?’ Marian asked.
‘Oh, my dear, such a funny man—a Mr Noel, whom I met last week down
at the Buckleburies. Colonel Boddington says his father’s one of the
greatest swells in all Lincolnshire—a Sir Somebody Noel, or something.
And do you know, Marian, he simply jumped over the wall, without
knowing the Boddingtons one bit, just because he saw me there—wasn’t it
dreadful of him, after only meeting me once, too?—and then apologised
to the old colonel, who was looking daggers. But the moment Mr Noel
said something or other incidentally about his father Sir Somebody,
the colonel became as mild as a lamb, and asked him to lunch at once,
and tried to put him sitting right between Minnie and Adela. And Mr
Noel managed to shuffle out of it somehow, and got on one side of me,
with Mr Hawthorn on the other side; and he talked so that he kept me
laughing right through the whole of lunch-time.’
‘He’s awfully amusing,’ Marian said with a slight smile.—‘And I suppose
you rather liked Mr Noel, too, didn’t you, Nora?’
Nora shook her head energetically. ‘No, my dear; not my sort of man at
all, really. I certainly wasn’t in the least taken with him.’
‘Not a little bit even, Nora?’
‘Not even a little bit, dear,’ she answered decidedly. ‘He isn’t at
all the sort of man I should ever care for. Too dark for me, by several
shades, for one thing, Marian. You know, we West Indians never can
endure these very dark people.’
‘But I’m dark, Nora, and you like me, you know, don’t you?’
‘Oh, you. Yes; that’s quite another thing, Marian. That’s nothing, to
be dark as you are. Your hair and eyes and complexion are just perfect,
darling. But Mr Noel—well, he’s a shade or two too dark for me, anyhow;
and I don’t mind saying so to you candidly.—Mr Hawthorn’s a great deal
more my ideal of what a handsome man ought to be. I think his eyes, his
hair, and his moustache are just simply lovely, Marian.’
‘Why, of course, you and he ought to be friends,’ Marian said, a
natural thought flashing suddenly across her. ‘He comes from Trinidad,
just the same as you do. How funny that the two people I’ve liked best
in all the world should both come from the very same little bit of an
island. I daresay you used to know some of his people.’
‘That’s the very funniest part of it all, Marian. I can’t recollect
anything at all about his family; I don’t even remember ever to have
heard of them from any Trinidad people.’
Marian looked up quickly from the needlework on which she was employed,
and said simply: ‘I daresay they didn’t happen to know your family.’
‘Well, that’s just what’s odd about it, dear,’ Nora continued, pulling
out her crochet. ‘Everybody in Trinidad knows my family. And Mr
Hawthorn’s father’s in the Legislative Council, too, just like papa;
and Mr Hawthorn has been to Cambridge, you know, and is a barrister,
and knows Arabic, and is unusually clever, Mr Noel tells me. I can’t
imagine how on earth it is I’ve never even heard of him before.’
‘Well, at anyrate, I’m so awfully glad you really like him, now that
you’ve actually seen him, Nora. One’s always so afraid that all one’s
friends won’t like one’s future husband.’
‘Like him, dear; how on earth could one help liking him? Why, I
think he’s simply delightful And that’s so surprising, too, because
generally, you know, one’s friends _will_ go and marry such regular
horrid sticks of men. I think he’s the nicest man I’ve ever met
anywhere, almost.’
‘And the exception is——?’
‘Put in for propriety’s sake, dear, for fear you should think I was
quite too enthusiastic. And do you know, he tells me he’s going in
for a judgeship in Trinidad; and won’t it be splendid, Marian, if he
happens to get it, and you both go out there with me, darling? I shall
be just too delighted.’
Marian gave a little sigh. ‘I shall be very glad if he gets it in
one way,’ she said, ‘because then, of course, Edward and I will be
able to marry immediately; and papa’s so very much opposed to a long
engagement.’
‘Besides which,’ Nora put in frankly, ‘you’d naturally yourself, too,
be glad to get married as soon as possible.’
‘But then, on the other hand,’ Marian went on, smiling quietly, ‘it
would be a dreadful thing going so far away from all one’s friends and
relations and so forth. Though, of course, with Edward to take care of
me, I wouldn’t be afraid to go anywhere.’
‘Of course not,’ said Nora confidently. ‘And I shall be there, too,
Marian; and we shall have such lovely times together. People have
no end of fun in the West Indies, you know. Everybody says it’s the
most delightful place in the world in the cool season. The floors
are kept polished all the year round, without any carpets, just like
the continent, and so you can have a dance at any moment, whenever
people enough happen to drop in together accidentally of an evening.
Mamma used to say there was no end of gaiety; and that she never could
endure the stiffness and unsociability of English society, after the
hospitable habits of dear old Trinidad.’
‘I hope we shall like it,’ Marian said, ‘if Edward really succeeds in
getting this appointment. It’ll be a great alleviation to the pain of
parting with one’s friends here, if you’re going to be there too, Nora.’
‘Yes, my dear, you must get married at once, and we must arrange
somehow to go out to Trinidad together in the same steamer. I mean to
have no end of fun going out. And when you get there, of course papa’ll
be able to introduce you and Mr Hawthorn to all the society in the
island. I call it just delightful.’
At that moment, the servant entered and announced Mr Hawthorn.
Marian rose from her seat and went forward to meet him. Edward had a
long official envelope in his hands, with a large broken seal in red
sealing-wax on the back, and the important words, ‘On Her Majesty’s
Service,’ printed in very big letters at the lower left-hand corner.
Marian trembled a little with excitement, not unmixed with fear, as
soon as she saw it.
‘Well, my darling,’ cried Edward joyously, in spite of Nora’s presence,
‘it’s all right; I’ve got the judgeship. And now, Marian, we shall be
able to get married immediately.’
A woman always succeeds in doing the most incomprehensible and
unexpected thing under all circumstances; and Marian, hearing now for
the first time that their hearts’ desire was at last in a fair way
to be accomplished, did not exhibit those emotions Edward might have
imagined she would do, but fell back upon the sofa, half faint, and
burst out suddenly crying.
Edward looked at her tenderly with a mingled look of surprise and
sorrow. ‘Why, Marian,’ he said, a little reproachfully, ‘I thought you
would be so delighted and rejoiced to hear the news, that I almost ran
the whole way to tell you.’
‘So I am, Edward,’ answered Marian, sobbing; ‘but it’s so sudden, so
very sudden.’
‘She’ll be all right in a minute or two, Mr Hawthorn,’ Nora said,
looking up at him with an arch smile as she held Marian’s hand in hers
and bent over her to kiss her forehead. ‘She’s only taken aback a
little at the suddenness of the surprise.—And now, Marian, we shall all
be able actually to go out to Trinidad together in the same steamer.’
Edward’s heart smote him rather at the strange way Marian had received
the news that so greatly delighted him. It was very natural, after all,
no doubt. Every girl feels the wrench of having to leave her father’s
house and her mother and her familiar surroundings. But still, he
somehow felt vaguely within himself that it seemed like an evil omen
for their future happiness in the Trinidad judgeship; and it dashed his
joy not a little at the moment when his dearest hopes appeared just
about to be so happily and successfully realised.
A WHALE-HUNT IN THE VARANGER FJORD.
BY A NORWEGIAN.
There seems, indeed, to be no limit to the part science is destined to
play in the pursuits of man of late; but that it should lend a hand
in killing the leviathans of the sea, would hardly have been credited
a few years ago. This is, however, now a fact. Along the shores of
Arctic Norway, in latitudes seventy to seventy-one degrees north,
whale-hunting takes place annually by means of steamers and a cleverly
contrived piece of ordnance. The steamers are seventy or eighty feet
long, with very powerful engines, the number of vessels at present
engaged in this pursuit being about thirty, most of which belong to
the indefatigable hunter, Sven Foyn, of Tönsberg, the inventor of the
gun, and originator of this important industry. The gun, which plays
the leading part in the pursuit, is mounted on a platform in the prow
of the vessel, so as to have an all-round range. A shaft is passed
into the muzzle, leaving a small portion outside the nozzle, carrying
four movable hooks pointing to the gun, and placed crosswise, each of
the hooks being about eight inches long. In front of these, a large
iron ball, or shell, with a steel point, is affixed, filled with an
explosive substance. On the shaft runs an iron ring, to which a cable
is attached about the thickness of a man’s arm, which, when the shaft
is inserted in the gun, is run up to the nozzle, and secured by a
cord. When this terrible projectile is launched into the animal, the
jerk of the rope is diminished by the cord holding the ring breaking,
which latter thereby runs up to the top of the shaft. As soon as the
animal feels the wound, it makes a sudden bound, whereby the hooks on
the shaft spring into a horizontal position; by which action, again,
through an ingenious piece of mechanism, the explosive in the shell is
fired, and the latter bursts with such a force that death is almost
instantaneous. This is Foyn’s invention, on which he has spent large
sums of money and many years of his life. It need hardly be said that
the gun was, when first invented, not so perfect as at present; but
Sven Foyn has gradually improved it.
The kinds of whales hunted in Finmarken belong to the family of
‘fin’-whales, the largest of them all being the ‘blue’-whale. The
colour is bluish gray, lighter on the under side, with long white
furrows or folds, the use of which to the animal, zoologists have not
yet discovered. This whale lives, as far as we know, solely on ‘krill,’
a tiny crustacean, which also serves as food for the cod. It comes
inshore in Finmarken towards the end of May, and again goes to sea in
the latter half of August, whence it is also called ‘summer’-whale.
It is generally this kind of whale which is seen by travellers to the
North Cape. The next variety is the common fin-whale, which attains
a length of sixty to seventy feet, is more slender in build than the
other, black on the back, and light below. It moves very swiftly, and
is probably found off the Norwegian coast all the year round. Its food
is tiny fish and ‘krill.’ There are, besides these, two other varieties
in the same seas, of which the largest is caught. Finally, there is
the ‘trold’-whale or ‘humpback,’ forty to fifty feet in length. It is
exceedingly lively, and, when hotly pursued, _shrieks_ and lashes the
sea to froth with its tail. It is, however, not very common on the
Norwegian coast.
It is generally believed that the whale, in spite of its enormous size,
is timid and easily put to flight; but that this is not always the
case, will be seen from some stories I was told of its stupidity or
viciousness by the fishermen last summer. Several boats, they stated,
have been struck or run down by whales, sometimes resulting in loss
of life, in consequence of which they are not loved by these toilers
of the deep. On one occasion, in May last, a whale was shot from one
of the steamers, which, by taking refuge right under the stern of the
vessel, succeeded in breaking the rope, as the captain was afraid of
losing his screw, if moving. The whale, feeling free, took a few turns
round the vessel, and then ran full tilt at the stern, with such a
force, that the keel was bent for several yards, and screw and rudder
carried away. Having thus satisfied its revenge, it made leisurely for
the ocean.
With these preliminary observations, I will proceed to describe a
whale-hunt on the shores of the Land of the Midnight Sun, according to
my own experiences of this summer.
It is a lovely sunlit evening at the end of July, when we steam out
from one of the pretty little fjords in the South Varanger. The air
is clear and balmy, and the sea lies before us transparent as a
mirror, dark green in colour. The mountains in the south stand out as
though carved on the dark background, while their shapely cones are
reflected in the mirror at their foot. Not a patch of snow or ice is
seen anywhere. By degrees, the copse-covered hills and birch groves
at the bottom of the fjord are lost in the distance, and through
its mouth we behold the broad mighty Varanger fjord, the greatest
in Northern Norway. To the north, the view is arrested by lofty
mountains, enveloped in an azure veil; the sun is still high in the
sky, though it is past eight o’clock; and to the west we look down
into the Varanger fjord, where giant chains of sombre cones stand out
in picturesque contrast to the view before us. To the east, there is
but one view—sky and sea. We are on the confines of the great Arctic
Ocean. Under these promising auspices, we anticipated a good and quick
catch, as the whale has that feeling in common with man, that he loves
sunshine and a calm sea. In such weather he comes inshore, gamboling
in the sun’s rays, whilst from time to time leisurely disposing of a
few bushels of ‘krill’ for supper, before proceeding to sea for the
night. (By-the-bye, when travelling for pleasure in Arctic Norway, the
period July-August should be chosen. True, one runs the risk of not
seeing the midnight sun, which disappears in the latter half of July;
but by way of recompense, there is no time of the year when nature in
these regions stands forth in such colours as just then.) However,
just now the Varanger seems rather out of temper; the weather thickens
a little, and it begins to blow. No whale is in sight. A little while
ago, there were a few ‘puffs’ down in the eastern horizon; but they are
gone now; perhaps the supper has not been dainty or plentiful enough
about us; there is neither whale nor bait to be seen. From time to
time, a solitary seabird flits rapidly by, towards shore; he has been
fetching his supper. Night slowly casts her veil over the ocean. We are
soon far enough out; so the engines are ordered ‘slow,’ and everybody
turns in who is not on the watch. We (officers and the writer) go aft
to the captain’s cabin, where we make ourselves as comfortable as
circumstances will permit, in order to snatch a few moments of rest, in
which we soon succeed, lulled to sleep by the gentle rippling of the
icy arctic waves as they lick the sides of the vessel.
At first streak of dawn in the east we are called. There are whales
about. The boilers are fired under; we turn out, and see at a great
distance some ‘puffs;’ but the captain remarks that they are only
a few making for the fjord. They are soon out of sight; it is no
use attempting to follow them. We again lie down to rest, but in
vain—sleep has fled. We dress, and breakfast is served. The steward
appears with a steaming pot of coffee and fresh bread—a true luxury.
On this occasion, there being a guest on board, we are also treated
to real cream; but otherwise a substitute of preserved milk and
sugar, of home manufacture, is served. The demands of the body being
satisfied, the mind also craves sustenance, and a pipe soon makes it
contented. The captain offers, indeed, a cigar; but a pipe is far
preferable, and looks more ‘ship-shape’ too. Towards noon we are off
Rybatschi-Polostrow (the fisherman’s peninsula). The peninsula is
very low and sandy; inland, we see a ridge of mountains; around us,
thousands of seabirds whirl with plaintive cries; but no whale is seen.
They are, however, generally plentiful here; at times, there are even
enormous shoals of them, particularly when the fishing draws eastwards,
as the bait is then found here, which is what the whale likes. But
now, during the summer months, they are more scattered. It is already
past the mid-day meal, and still we have seen nothing. We go below a
little disappointed, whilst the steamer’s course is shaped for Vardö.
Since last night there has been blowing a stiff breeze, and the sea is
in foam in some places. The waves increase in size, and the steamer
begins to roll. The smoke and the rest below are of short duration,
so we go again on deck to look for ‘puffs.’ Now and then, the ship
heels over; a hogshead or two of water comes swishing over the port
bow, but does no harm, as we are dressed in sailor’s boots, a thick
coat, and sou’-wester. I stare till I am tired at the green sea and
the foam-crested waves, as they come rolling towards the vessel. My
face becomes coated with a layer of salt, which settles there, when
the foam of the waves is swept on board, as the ship plunges into the
trough of the sea. If not accustomed to the arctic sea-air, one soon
gets frightfully tired, and is obliged to rest, so, after being on the
watch for a while, I went below and lay down. Soon sleep irresistibly
overpowers me, thoughts become dreams, while the rolling of the ship
feels like the gentle swing in a hammock; in fact, I am fast asleep,
when a voice thunders down the companion: ‘Turn out—whales in sight!’ I
jump up with a start, unable at first to remember where I am; but soon
the consciousness of being on a whale-hunt becomes clear, and I rush on
deck, fearing to lose any part of the grand spectacle.
What a change! Now, every wave has a snow-white cap; they tower high on
all sides, and the vessel is tossed to and fro like a toy. Gulls and
teistes sweep rapidly along the furrows between the waves, rise nearly
perpendicularly as the wave breaks, and, just clearing the comb, dive
into the next watery valley. ‘Look, look, what a tremendous puff!’
‘That’s a big one.’ ‘Look, look—puff, puff!’ ‘There are a good many
here.’
We are in the middle of a flock of the giants of the sea. The enormous
brown and blue bodies rise out of the sea; the back is bent upwards—it
looks like the bottom of a capsized ship; it disappears; but the sea
becomes almost calm where the whale went down, and several minutes
elapse before the waves are able to conquer the calm. From time to
time, deep dull snorts are heard, thundering and trembling, as if
the deepest strings of a dozen double-basses were being played down
below; and at others, a sharp swishing sound like an enormous fountain
suddenly set to play, and a column of crystal spray ascends some
thirty feet into the air. The gigantic, glistening body appears on the
surface; the back is bent upwards a second, and it again disappears.
It looks as if the whale was warm and comfortable enough; the
sea-water, to us looking so cold, plays pleasantly around it; hot steam
issues from its dilated nostrils, and it seems like a man enjoying a
refreshing morning dip.
During the last quarter of an hour we have seen some forty whales;
but none has come within range. The gun has no certainty much beyond
thirty yards, so that the whale must be nearly under the ship’s bow
when firing. As we stand looking at this magnificent spectacle, the
water close round the ship suddenly becomes light green in colour and
somewhat calm. Then a deep heavy thunder; the ship trembles from stem
to stern; a great column of dampness is shot into the air, drenching us
all, a dull snort, and an enormous blue-whale rises out of the sea a
few yards on our starboard side. Now the captain will fire, we think,
involuntarily holding on to the wire-rigging; but Foyn stands by his
gun without making the least movement, and the next second the whale
again descends into its watery home. The range was probably not a good
one. A few minutes after, the same thunder, the same sensation, the
same column, and the same snort—another whale appears close on the port
side. The captain turns the gun, whilst we watch with beating hearts
the movements of the animal as well as his own. Every second seems
an eternity. He raises the gun, aims. Alas! a heavy sea strikes the
vessel, heels her over; the gun is lowered, but the whale is gone. They
seem all to have disappeared now, not a puff to be seen. We stand and
talk about the incident, and somebody suggests to go aft and ‘have a
smoke;’ when suddenly two whales are seen some distance off, now going
side by side, now behind each other. The helm is turned, and we follow
them in hot haste through wind and waves. A complete silence reigns on
board during the pursuit, only now and then broken by the captain’s
short words of command, who stands calmly watching the animals. Now the
vessel heels over—the whales are within range. ‘Stop,’ sounds in the
engine-room. But the speed was too great, and we shoot past them. ‘Full
speed ahead,’ sounds again. ‘Two men at the helm!’ The vessel turns
swiftly, and we separate the couple. The whales disappear. We follow
the direction they are taking, and look!—a little before us the sea
becomes emerald green. ‘Slow,’ again. The vessel moves slowly forward,
and the whale reappears twenty yards off. ‘Stop,’ shouts the captain.
The gun is turned, raised, and again lowered—not a sound is heard on
board—the whale has puffed—the back is bending; the captain aims—and a
thundering report rends the air, and makes the vessel tremble in every
section. We have watched all this with every nerve strained, and hardly
feel the icy foam of the sea which bedews the cheek and benumbs the
hands.
‘Did you hit him?’ we shout to the captain.
‘Don’t know,’ is the laconic answer. ‘Almost absurd to attempt it in
such a sea; one risks losing the gear and frightening the whale.’
In the meantime all the crew are busy clearing the line of the harpoon,
and we are still in doubt whether we have hit him; but the suspense
does not last long, as immediately a ‘Look out!’ is shouted by the
captain, and the line runs out with terrific speed and a great noise.
‘Full speed ahead,’ is shouted below; but the ship is running double
her highest speed, such is the strength of the whale which has her in
tow. The animal is fleeing at the top of its speed, and we follow right
through the breaking seas. Ten minutes pass by—they seem ten hours—when
suddenly a blood-streaked column of water is seen on the horizon.
It is our whale! Another moment, and a clear one is seen. It is his
companion, which follows her wounded mate. Both go down; the line does
not run out so fast; the wounded whale appears once or twice more, when
he sinks. The whale is dead. After a while, the hauling-in begins very
carefully, and finally the great body rises to the surface, the ship
heeling over. After a few hours’ hard work in securing the monster to
the vessel with chains and ropes, the course is shaped for home.
‘What do you think of it, captain?’ I ask.
‘Not bad,’ he answers simply.—‘Steward, give the crew a drink all
round! And let us have something to eat.’
The whale measured more than eighty feet in length.
Once more his widowed mate takes a turn round the ship, when she
stands out to sea; whilst we, with our noble spoil in tow, slowly make
for the whale-station in South Varanger.
A GOLDEN ARGOSY.
_A NOVELETTE._
CHAPTER III.
Mr Carver of Bedford Row, in the county of Middlesex, was exercised
in his mind; and the most annoying part of it was that he was so
exercised at his own trouble and expense; that is to say, he was not
elucidating some knotty legal point at the charge of a client, but he
was speculating over one of the most extraordinary events that had
ever happened to him in the whole course of his long and honourable
career. The matter stood briefly thus: His client, Charles Morton, of
Eastwood, Somersetshire, died on the 9th of April in the year of grace
1882. On the 1st of May 1880, Mr Carver had made the gentleman’s will,
which left all his possessions, to the amount of some forty thousand
pounds, to his niece, Eleanor Attewood. Six months later, Mr Morton’s
half-sister, Miss Wakefield, took up her residence at Eastwood, and
from that time everything had changed. Eleanor had married the son
of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, and at the instigation of his
half-sister, Mr Morton had disinherited his niece; and one year before
he died, had made a fresh will, leaving everything to Miss Wakefield.
Mr Carver, be it remarked, strongly objected to this injustice, seeing
the baleful influence which had brought it about; and had he been able
to find Eleanor, he hoped to alter the unjust state of things. But she
disappeared with her husband, and left no trace behind her; so the
obnoxious will was proved.