A SURPRISE.
It was late upon the following day ere I awoke from the long deep sleep
that closed my labours in Strasbourg. In the confusion of my waking
thoughts, I imagined myself still before a crowded and enthusiastic
audience—the glare of the foot-lights—the crash of the orchestra—the
shouts of “l’Auteur,” “l’Auteur,” were all before me, and so completely
possessed me, that, as the waiter entered with hot water, I could not
resist the impulse to pull off my night-cap with one hand, and press
the other to my heart in the usual theatrical style of acknowledgments
for a most flattering reception. The startled look of the poor fellow
as he neared the door to escape, roused me from my hallucination, and
awakened me to the conviction that the suspicion of lunacy might be a
still heavier infliction than the personation of Monsieur Meerberger.
With thoughts of this nature, I assumed my steadiest demeanour—ordered
my breakfast in the most orthodox fashion—eat it like a man in his
senses; and when I threw myself back in the wicker conveniency they
call a caleche, and bid adieu to Kehl, the whole fraternity of the inn
would have given me a certificate of sanity before any court in Europe.
“Now for Munich,” said I, as we rattled along down the steep street of
the little town. “Now for Munich, with all the speed that first of
postmasters and slowest of men, the Prince of Tour and Taxis, will
afford us.”
The future engrossed all my thoughts; and puzzling as my late
adventures had been to account for, I never for a moment reverted to
the past. “Is she to be mine?” was the ever-rising question in my mind.
The thousand difficulties that had crossed my path might long since
have terminated a pursuit where there was so little of promise, did I
not cherish the idea in my heart, that I was fated to succeed. Sheridan
answered the ribald sneers of his first auditory, by saying, “Laugh on;
but I have it in me, and by —— it shall come out.” So I whispered to
myself:—Go on Harry. Luck has been hitherto against you, it is true;
but you have yet one throw of the dice, and something seems to say, a
fortunate one in store; and, if so——, but I cannot trust myself with
such anticipations. I am well aware how little the world sympathises
with the man whose fortunes are the sport of his temperament—that
April-day frame of mind is ever the jest and scoff of those hardier and
sterner natures, who, if never overjoyed by success, are never much
depressed by failure. That I have been cast in the former mould, these
Confessions have, alas! plainly proved; but that I regret it, I fear
also, for my character for sound judgment, I must answer “No.”
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying
Is, doubtless, very pretty poetry, but very poor philosophy. For
myself—and some glimpses of sunshine this fair world has afforded me,
fleeting and passing enough, in all conscience—and yet I am not so
ungrateful as to repine at my happiness, because it was not permanent,
as I am thankful for those bright hours of “Love’s young dream,” which,
if nothing more, are at least delightful souvenirs. They form the
golden thread in the tangled web of our existence, ever appearing amid
the darker surface around, and throwing a fair halo of brilliancy on
what, without it, were cold, bleak, and barren. No, no—
The light that lies
In woman’s eyes,
were it twice as fleeting—as it is ten times more brilliant—than the
forked lightning, irradiates the dark gloom within us for many a long
day after it has ceased to shine upon us. As in boyhood it is the
humanizing influence that tempers the fierce and unruly passions of our
nature, so in manhood it forms the goal to which all our better and
higher aspirations tend, telling us there is something more worthy than
gold, and a more lofty pinnacle of ambition than the praise and envy of
our fellow-men; and we may rest assured, that when this feeling dies
within us, that all the ideal of life dies with it, and nothing remains
save the dull reality of our daily cares and occupations. “I have lived
and have loved,” saith Schiller; and if it were not that there seems
some tautology in the phrase, I should say, such is my own motto. If
Lady Jane but prove true—if I have really succeeded—if, in a word—but
why speculate upon such chances?—what pretensions have I?—what reasons
to look for such a prize? Alas! and alas! were I to catechise myself
too closely, I fear that my horses’ heads would face towards Calais,
and that I should turn my back upon the only prospect of happiness I
can picture to myself in this world. In reflections such as these, the
hours rolled over, and it was already late at night when we reached the
little village of Merchem. While fresh horses were being got ready, I
seized the occasion to partake of the table d’hote supper of the inn,
at the door of which the diligence was drawn up. Around the long, and
not over-scrupulously clean table, sat the usual assemblage of a German
“Eilwagen”—smoking, dressing salad, knitting, and occasionally picking
their teeth with their forks, until the soup should make its
appearance. Taking my place amid this motley assemblage of mustachioed
shopkeepers and voluminously-petticoated frows, I sat calculating how
long human patience could endure such companionship, when my attention
was aroused by hearing a person near me narrate to his friend the
circumstances of my debut at Strasbourg, with certain marginal notes of
his own that not a little surprised me.
“And so it turned out not to be Meerberger, after all,”: said the
listener.
“Of course not,” replied the other. “Meerberger’s passport was stolen
from him in the diligence by this English escroc, and the consequence
was, that our poor countryman was arrested, the other passport being
found upon him; while the Englishman, proceeding to Strasbourg, took
his benefit at the opera, and walked away with above twelve thousand
florins.
“Sappermint” said the other, tossing off his beer. “He must have been a
clever fellow, though, to lead the orchestra in the Franc Macons.”
“That is the most astonishing part of all; for they say in Strasbourg
that his performance upon the violin was far finer than Paganini’s; but
there seems some secret in it, after all: for Madame Baptiste swears
that he is Meerberger; and in fact the matter is far from being cleared
up—nor can it be till he is apprehended.”
“Which shall not be for some time to come,” said I to myself, as,
slipping noiselessly from the room, I regained my “caleche,” and in ten
minutes more was proceeding on my journey. So much for correct
information, thought I. One thing, however, is certain—to the chance
interchange of passports I owe my safety, with the additional
satisfaction that my little German acquaintance is reaping a pleasant
retribution for all his worry and annoyance of me in the coupé.
Only he who has toiled over the weary miles of a long
journey—exclusively occupied with one thought—one overpowering
feeling—can adequately commiserate my impatient anxiety as the days
rolled slowly over on the long tiresome road that leads from the Rhine
to the south of Germany.
The morning was breaking on the fourth day of my journey as the tall
spires of Munich rose to my view, amid the dull and arid desert of sand
that city is placed in. At last! was my exclamation as the postilion
tapped at the window with his whip, and then pointed towards the city.
At last! Oh! what would be the extacy of my feelings now could I
exchange the torturing anxieties of suspense for the glorious certainty
my heart throbs for; now my journey is nearing its end to see me claim
as my own what I now barely aspire to in the sanguine hope of a heart
that will not despair. But cheer up, Harry. It is a noble stake you
play for; and it is ever the bold gambler that wins. Scarcely was this
reflection made half aloud, when a sudden shock threw me from my seat.
I fell towards the door, which, bursting open, launched me out upon the
road, at the same moment that the broken axletree of the caleche had
upset it on the opposite side, carrying one horse along with it, and
leaving the other with the postillion on his back, kicking and plunging
with all his might. After assisting the frightened fellow to dismount,
and having cut the traces of the restive animal, I then perceived that
in the melee I had not escaped scatheless. I could barely stand; and,
on passing my hand upon my instep, perceived I had sprained my ancle in
the fall. The day was only breaking, no one was in sight, so that after
a few minutes’ consideration, the best thing to do, appeared to get the
other horse upon his legs, and despatching the postillion to Munich,
then about three leagues distant, for a carriage, wait patiently on the
road-side for his return. No sooner was the resolve made than carried
into execution; and in less than a quarter of an hour from the moment
of the accident, I was seated upon the bank, watching the retiring
figure of the postillion, as he disappeared down a hill, on his way to
Munich. When the momentary burst of impatience was over, I could not
help congratulating myself, that I was so far fortunate in reaching the
end of my journey ere the mischance befell me. Had it occurred at
Stuttgard I really think that it would have half driven me distracted.
I was not long in my present situation till a number of peasants, with
broad-brimmed hats, and many-buttoned coats, passed on their way to
work; they all saluted me respectfully; but although they saw the
broken carriage, and might well guess at the nature of my accident, yet
not one ever thought of proffering his services, or even indulging
curiosity, by way of inquiry. “How thoroughly German,” thought I;
“these people are the Turks of Europe, stupified with tobacco and
‘starkes bier.’ They have no thought for any thing but themselves, and
their own immediate occupations.” Perceiving at length one whose better
dress and more intelligent look bespoke a rank above the common, I made
the effort with such “platt deutsch,” as I could muster, to ask if
there were any house near, where I could remain till the postillion’s
return? and learned greatly to my gratification, that by taking the
path which led through a grove of pine trees near me, I should find a
chateau; but who was the proprietor he knew not; indeed the people were
only newly come, and he believed were foreigners. English he thought.
Oh, how my heart jumped as I said, “can they be the Callonbys; are they
many in family; are there ladies—young ladies, among them?”—he knew
not. Having hastily arranged with my new friend to watch the carriage
till my return, I took the path he showed me, and smarting with pain at
every step, hurried along as best I could towards the chateau. I had
not walked many minutes, when a break in the wood gave me a view of the
old mansion, and at once dispelled the illusion that was momentarily
gaining upon me. “They could not be the Callonbys.” The house was old;
and though it had once been a fine and handsome structure, exhibited
now abundant traces of decay; the rich cornices which supported the
roof had fallen in many places, and lay in fragments upon the terrace
beneath; the portico of the door was half tumbling; and the architraves
of the windows were broken and dismantled; the tall and once richly
ornamented chimnies, were bereft of all their tracery, and stood bolt
upright in all their nakedness above the high pitched roof. A
straggling “jet d’eau” was vigorously fighting its way amid a mass of
creeping shrubs and luxuriant lichens that had grown around and above a
richly carved fountain, and fell in a shower of sparkling dew upon the
rank grass and tall weeds around. The gentle murmur was the only sound
that broke the stillness of the morning.
A few deities in lead and stone, mutilated and broken, stood like the
Genii loci, guarding the desolation about them, where an old,
superannuated peacock, with dropping, ragged tail was the only living
thing to be seen. All bespoke the wreck of what once was great and
noble, and all plainly told me that such could not be the abode of the
Callonbys.
Half doubting that the house were inhabited, and half scrupling if so
to disturb its inmates from their rest, I sat down upon the terrace
steps and fell into a fit of musing on the objects about. That strange
propensity of my countrymen to settle down in remote and unfrequented
spots upon the continent, had never struck me so forcibly; for although
unquestionably there were evident traces of the former grandeur of the
place, yet it was a long past greatness; and in the dilapidated walls,
broken statues, weed grown walls, and dark and tangled pine grove,
there were more hints for sadness than I should willingly surround
myself by in a residence. The harsh grating of a heavy door behind
roused me; I turned and beheld an old man in a species of tarnished and
worm-eaten livery, who, holding the door, again gazed at me with a
mingled expression of fear and curiosity. Having briefly explained the
circumstances which had befallen me, and appealed to the broken caleche
upon the road to corroborate a testimony that I perceived needed such
aid, the old man invited me to enter, saying that his master and
mistress were not risen, but that he would himself give me some
breakfast, of which by this time I stood much in want. The room into
which I was ushered, corresponded well with the exterior of the house.
It was large, bleak, and ill furnished; the ample, uncurtained windows;
the cold, white pannelled walls; the uncarpeted floor; all giving it an
air of uninhabitable misery. A few chairs of the Louis-quatorze taste,
with blue velvet linings, faded and worn, a cracked marble table upon
legs that once had been gilt; two scarcely detectable portraits of a
mail-clad hero and a scarcely less formidable fair, with a dove upon
her wrist, formed the principal articles of furniture in the dismal
abode, where so “triste” and depressing did every thing appear, that I
half regretted the curiosity that had tempted me from the balmy air,
and cheerful morning without, to the gloom and solitude around me.
The old man soon re-appeared with a not despicable cup of “Cafe noir,”
and a piece of bread as large as a teaspoon, and used by the Germans
pretty much in the same way. As the adage of the “gift horse” is of
tolerably general acceptation, I eat and was thankful, mingling my
acknowledgments from time to time with some questions about the owners
of the mansion, concerning whom I could not help feeling curious. The
ancient servitor, however, knew little or nothing of those he served;
his master was the honourable baron; but of his name he was ignorant;
his mistress was young; they had not been many months there; they knew
no one—had no visitors—he had heard they were English, but did not know
it himself; they were “Gute leute,” “good people,” and that was enough
for him. How strange did all this seem, that two people, young, too,
should separate themselves from all the attractions and pleasures of
the world, and settle down in the dark and dreary solitude, where every
association was of melancholy, every object a text for sad reflections.
Lost in these thoughts I sat down beside the window, and heeded not the
old man as he noiselessly left the room. My thoughts ran on over the
strange phases in which life presents itself, and how little after all
external influences have to do with that peace of mind whose origin is
within. The Indian, whose wigwam is beside the cataract, heeds not its
thunders, nor feels its sprays as they fall in everlasting dews upon
him; the Arab of the desert sees no bleakness in those never ending
plains, upon whose horizon his eye has rested from childhood to age.
Who knows but he who inhabits this lonely dwelling may have once shone
in the gay world, mixing in its follies, tasting of its fascination;
and to think that now—the low murmurs of the pine tops, the gentle
rustle of the water through the rank grass, and my own thoughts
combining, overcame me at length, and I slept—how long I know not; but
when I awoke, certain changes about showed me that some length of time
had elapsed; a gay wood fire was burning on the hearth; an ample
breakfast covered the table; and the broadsheet of the “Times”
newspaper was negligently reposing in the deep hollow of an arm chair.
Before I had well thought how to apologize for the cool insouciance of
my intrusion, the door opened, and a tall, well built man entered; his
shooting jacket and gaiters were evidence of his English origin, while
a bushy moustache and most ample “Henri quatre” nearly concealed
features, that still were not quite unknown to me; he stopped, looked
steadily at me, placed a hand on either shoulder, and calling out,
“Harry—Harry Lorrequer, by all that’s glorious!” rushed from the room
in a transport of laughter.
If my escape from the gallows depended upon my guessing my friend, I
should have submitted to the last penalty of the law; never was I so
completely nonplussed. Confound him what does he mean by running away
in that fashion. It would serve him right were I to decamp by one of
the windows before he comes back; but hark! some one is approaching.
“I tell you I cannot be mistaken,” said the man’s voice from without.
“Oh, impossible!” said a lady-like accent that seemed not heard by me
for the first time.
“Judge for yourself; though certainly the last time you saw him may
confuse your memory a little.”
“What the devil does he mean by that?” said I, as the door opened, and
a very beautiful young woman came forward, who, after a moment’s
hesitation, called out—
“True, indeed, it is Mr. Lorrequer, but he seems to have forgotten me.”
The eyes, the lips, the tone of the voice, were all familiar. What! can
it be possible? Her companion who had now entered, stood behind her,
holding his sides with ill-suppressed mirth; and at length called out—
“Harry, my boy, you scarcely were more discomposed the last morning we
parted, when the yellow plush—”
“By Jove it is,” said I, as I sprang forward, and seizing my fair
friend in my arms, saluted upon both cheeks my quondam flame, Miss
Kamworth, now the wife of my old friend Jack Waller, of whom I have
made due mention in an early chapter of these Confessions.
Were I given a muster roll of my acquaintance to say which of them
might inhabit this deserted mansion, Jack Waller would certainly have
been the last I should have selected—the gay, lively, dashing,
high-spirited Jack, fond of society, dress, equipage, living greatly in
the world, known to and liked by every body, of universal reputation.
Did you want a cavalier to see your wife through a crush at the opera,
a friend in a duel, a rider for your kicking horse in a stiff steeple
chase, a bow oar for your boat at a rowing match, Jack was your man.
Such then was my surprise at finding him here, that although there were
many things I longed to inquire about, my first question was—
“And how came you here?”
“Life has its vicissitudes,” replied Jack, laughing; “many stranger
things have come to pass than my reformation. But first of all let us
think of breakfast; you shall have ample satisfaction for all your
curiosity afterwards.”
“Not now, I fear; I am hurrying on to Munich.”
“Oh, I perceive; but you are aware that—your friends are not there.”
“The Callonbys not at Munich!” said I, with a start.
“No; they have been at Saltzburgh, in the Tyrol, for some weeks; but
don’t fret yourself, they are expected to-morrow in time for the court
masquerade; so that until then at least you are my guest.”
Overjoyed at this information, I turned my attention towards madame,
whom I found much improved; the embonpoint of womanhood had still
farther increased the charms of one who had always been handsome; and I
could not help acknowledging that my friend Jack was warrantable in any
scheme for securing such a prize.