_The Sun, New York, May, 1879._
It may or may not be remembered that in 1878 General Ignatieff spent
several weeks of July at the Badischer Hof in Baden. The public
journals gave out that he visited the watering-place for the benefit
of his health, said to be much broken by protracted anxiety and
responsibility in the service of the Czar. But everybody knew that
Ignatieff was just then out of favor at St. Petersburg, and that his
absence from the centres of active statecraft at a time when the peace
of Europe fluttered like a shuttlecock in the air, between Salisbury
and Shouvaloff, was nothing more or less than politely disguised
exile.
I am indebted for the following facts to my friend Fisher, of New
York, who arrived at Baden on the day after Ignatieff, and was duly
announced in the official list of strangers as "Herr Doctor Professor
Fischer, mit Frau Gattin und Bed. Nordamerika."
The scarcity of titles among the travelling aristocracy of North
America is a standing grievance with the ingenious person who
compiles the official list. Professional pride and the instincts of
hospitality alike impel him to supply the lack whenever he can.
He distributes Governor, Major-General, and Doctor Professor with
tolerable impartiality, according as the arriving Americans wear a
distinguished, a martial, or a studious air. Fisher owed his title
to his spectacles.
It was still early in the season. The theatre had not yet opened.
The hotels were hardly half full, the concerts in the kiosk at
vhe Conversationshaus were heard by scattering audiences, and the
shop-keepers of the Bazaar had no better business than to spend their
time in bewailing the degeneracy of Baden Baden since an end was put
to the play. Few excursionists disturbed the meditations of the
shrivelled old custodian of the tower on the Mercuriusberg. Fisher
found the place very stupid--as stupid as Saratoga in June or Long
Branch in September. He was impatient to get to Switzerland, but his
wife had contracted a table d'hote intimacy with a Polish countess,
and she positively refused to take any step that would sever so
advantageous a connection.
One afternoon Fisher was standing on one of the little bridges that
span the gutterwide Oosbach, idly gazing into the water and wondering
whether a good sized Rangely trout could swim the stream without
personal inconvenience, when the porter of the Badischer Hof came to
him on the run.
"Herr Doctor Professor!" cried the porter, touching his cap. "I pray
you pardon, but the highborn the Baron Savitch out of Moscow, of the
General Ignatieff's suite, suffers himself in a terrible fit, and
appears to die."
In vain Fisher assured the porter that it was a mistake to consider
him a medical expert; that he professed no science save that of draw
poker; that if a false impression prevailed in the hotel it was
through a blunder for which he was in no way responsible; and that,
much as he regretted the unfortunate condition of the highborn the
Baron out of Moscow, he did not feel that his presence in the chamber
of sickness would be of the slightest benefit. It was impossible to
eradicate the idea that possessed the porter's mind. Finding himself
fairly dragged toward the hotel, Fisher at length concluded to make a
virtue of necessity and to render his explanations to the Baron's
friends.
The Russian's apartments were upon the second floor, not far from
those occupied by Fisher. A French valet, almost beside himself with
terror, came hurrying out of the room to meet the porter and the
Doctor Professor. Fisher again attempted to explain, but to no
purpose. The valet also had explanations to make, and the superior
fluency of his French enabled him to monopolize the conversation. No,
there was nobody there--nobody but himself, the faithful Auguste of
the Baron. His Excellency, the General Ignatieff, his Highness, the
Prince Koloff, Dr. Rapperschwyll, all the suite, all the world, had
driven out that morning to Gernsbach. The Baron, meanwhile, had been
seized by an effraying malady, and he, Auguste, was desolate with
apprehension. He entreated Monsieur to lose no time in parley, but to
hasten to the bedside of the Baron, who was already in the agonies of
dissolution.
Fisher followed Auguste into the inner room. The Baron, in his boots,
lay upon the bed, his body bent almost double by the unrelenting gripe
of a distressful pain. His teeth were tightly clenched, and the rigid
muscles around the mouth distorted the natural expression of his face.
Every few seconds a prolonged groan escaped him. His fine eyes rolled
piteously. Anon, he would press both hands upon his abdomen and shiver
in every limb in the intensity of his suffering.
Fisher forgot his explanations. Had he been a Doctor Professor in
fact, he could not have watched the symptoms of the Baron's malady
with greater interest.
"Can Monsieur preserve him?" whispered the terrified Auguste.
"Perhaps," said Monsieur, dryly.
Fisher scribbled a note to his wife on the back of a card and
dispatched it in the care of the hotel porter. That functionary
returned with great promptness, bringing a black bottle and a glass.
The bottle had come in Fisher's trunk to Baden all the way from
Liverpool, had crossed the sea to Liverpool from New York, and had
journeyed to New York direct from Bourbon County, Kentucky. Fisher
seized it eagerly but reverently, and held it up against the light.
There were still three inches or three inches and a half in the
bottom. He uttered a grunt of pleasure.
"There is some hope of saving the Baron," he remarked to Auguste.
Fully one-half of the precious liquid was poured into the glass and
administered without delay to the groaning, writhing patient. In a few
minutes Fisher had the satisfaction of seeing the Baron sit up in bed.
The muscles around his mouth relaxed, and the agonized expression was
superseded by a look of placid contentment.
Fisher now had an opportunity to observe the personal characteristics
of the Russian Baron. He was a young man of about thirty-five, with
exceedingly handsome and clear-cut features, but a peculiar head. The
peculiarity of his head was that it seemed to be perfectly round on
top--that is, its diameter from ear to ear appeared quite equal to its
anterior and posterior diameter. The curious effect of this unusual
conformation was rendered more striking by the absence of all hair.
There was nothing on the Baron's head but a tightly fitting skull cap
of black silk. A very deceptive wig hung upon one of the bed posts.
Being sufficiently recovered to recognize the presence of a stranger,
Savitch made a courteous bow.
"How do you find yourself now?" inquired Fisher, in bad French.
"Very much better, thanks to Monsieur," replied the Baron, in
excellent English, spoken in a charming voice. "Very much better,
though I feel a certain dizziness here." And he pressed his hand to
his forehead.
The valet withdrew at a sign from his master, and was followed by the
porter. Fisher advanced to the bedside and took the Baron's wrist.
Even his unpractised touch told him that the pulse was alarmingly
high. He was much puzzled, and not a little uneasy at the turn which
the affair had taken. "Have I got myself and the Russian into an
infernal scrape?" he thought. "But no--he's well out of his teens, and
half a tumbler of such whiskey as that ought not to go to a baby's
head."
Nevertheless, the new symptoms developed themselves with a rapidity
and poignancy that made Fisher feel uncommonly anxious. Savitch's face
became as white as marble--its paleness rendered startling by the
sharp contrast of the black skull cap. His form reeled as he sat on
the bed, and he clasped his head convulsively with both hands, as if
in terror lest it burst.
"I had better call your valet," said Fisher, nervously.
"No, no!" gasped the Baron. "You are a medical man, and I shall have
to trust you. There is something--wrong--here." With a spasmodic
gesture he vaguely indicated the top of his head.
"But I am not--" stammered Fisher.
"No words!" exclaimed the Russian, imperiously. "Act at once--there
must be no delay. Unscrew the top of my head!"
Savitch tore off his skull cap and flung it aside. Fisher has no words
to describe the bewilderment with which he beheld the actual fabric of
the Baron's cranium. The skull cap had concealed the fact that the
entire top of Savitch's head was a dome of polished silver.
"Unscrew it!" said Savitch again.
Fisher reluctantly placed both hands upon the silver skull and exerted
a gentle pressure toward the left. The top yielded, turning easily and
truly in its threads.
"Faster!" said the Baron, faintly. "I tell you no time must be lost."
Then he swooned.
At this instant there was a sound of voices in the outer room, and the
door leading into the Baron's bed-chamber was violently flung open and
as violently closed. The new-comer was a short, spare man of middle
age, with a keen visage and piercing, deep-set little gray eyes. He
stood for a few seconds scrutinizing Fisher with a sharp, almost
fiercely jealous regard.
The Baron recovered his consciousness and opened his eyes.
"Dr. Rapperschwyll!" he exclaimed.
Dr. Rapperschwyll, with a few rapid strides, approached the bed and
confronted Fisher and Fisher's patient. "What is all this?" he angrily
demanded.
Without waiting for a reply he laid his hand rudely upon Fisher's arm
and pulled him away from the Baron. Fisher, more and more astonished,
made no resistance, but suffered himself to be led, or pushed, toward
the door. Dr. Rapperschwyll opened the door wide enough to give the
American exit, and then closed it with a vicious slam. A quick click
informed Fisher that the key had been turned in the lock.