1879
BRET HARTE--LETTERS FROM HIM--VISITS US--STAY AT BOCKEN--
CONVERSATIONS--MRS. SENATOR SHERMAN--EVENINGS AT BOCKEN--WE
ALL GO TO THE RIGI--HOW WE GOT THE “PRINCE’S” ROOMS--HARTE
GOES WITH US TO OBSTALDEN IN THE ALPS--VERY SIMPLE LIFE--A
STRANGE FUNERAL--HARTE FINDS HIS STORIES IN A VILLAGE INN--
MORE LETTERS--WE VISIT THE MOSELLE RIVER--FINER THAN THE
RHINE--A WONDERFUL CASTLE OF THE MIDDLE AGES--ALL FURNISHED
AND FRESH AS WHEN NEW--THE FRENCH DID NOT FIND IT WHEN THEY
WERE DEMOLISHING GERMAN CASTLES--AN EXQUISITE GOTHIC CHURCH
FIVE HUNDRED YEARS OLD--WONDERFUL ROMAN RUINS AT TREVES--MORE
LETTERS FROM BRET HARTE--A HAPPY MAN.
_May 30._--One day I was wandering quite alone in the Jura Mountains.
I had little with me save my umbrella, my overcoat, and a pocket copy
of Bret Harte’s poems. When I rested, here and there, under a tree
at the roadside, I read the poems--all of them; but “John Burns of
Gettysburg,” “Dickens in Camp,” “The Reveille” and “Her Letter,” I read
often, and felt them to be the rarest verses any American had ever
written.
His “Heathen Chinee” had given him fame, while these other great things
were but little known.
I believe I had never asked a man for an autograph in my life, but I
did want Bret Harte’s own name at the foot of “Burns of Gettysburg;”
for I had read it with a thrill, and with tears. I sent him the very
same little book I had carried around with me.
He returned the copy with these words written on the margin:
“Phrases such as camps may teach,
Sabre cuts of Saxon speech.”
He also wrote me. He was now U. S. Consul at Crefeld, near the lower
Rhine.
“UNITED STATES CONSULATE, CREFELD, May 28, 1879.
“MY DEAR MR. BYERS:--I have written my name in your book, and
return it to you by to-day’s post. I beg you to believe that I
have never performed that simple act with more pleasure. I only
regret that the quality of the paper on page 91 rather limited
the legible expression of my good will, and that I could not show
as clearly as I would like my thanks to one who has written so
appreciatingly of my hero.
“I might have added ‘fellow soldier’ to the inscription, but I
fear that my year’s service against the Indians on the California
frontier, when the regular troops were withdrawn to Eastern
battlefields, would scarcely justify me in taking that title. But
I want you to believe that my knowledge of men and camps enabled
me to praise a hero understandingly.
“If you still feel under any obligation to me, you can discharge
it very easily. I am anxious to know something about your
vicinity, and the prices and quality of accommodations to
be found there this summer. My doctor has ordered me to the
mountains, for my neuralgia and dyspepsia, and I can procure
a leave of absence of three or four weeks. I have thought of
going to Switzerland with a member of my family who is studying
painting in Düsseldorf, and I should therefore prefer some
locality where she can sketch from nature. I want some quiet,
pretty place, away from the beaten track of tourists--some little
pension, not too expensive. Can you give me some information
regarding prices, localities, etc., etc., and how early in the
season it would be advisable to come?
“I shall look forward confidently to your telling me something as
soon as you can.
“Yours very truly,
BRET HARTE.”
This letter gratified me, as I now looked forward to the pleasure of
having Mr. Harte with us in Switzerland. He wished a quiet place. Where
in all the world was there so quiet and so lovely a spot as our own
“Bocken,” on the lake, with the green hills about it and its views of
snow mountains, and all close to beautiful Zurich. We were to spend our
third summer there. So I proposed “_Bocken_” and also “Obstalden,” a
hamlet we often went to in the higher Alps.
He took up with Bocken, however, and wrote:
“June 19, 1879.
“MY DEAR MR. BYERS:--Let me thank you for your two welcome
letters and your book on Switzerland. You could not have sent
me a volume more satisfactory to my present needs, nor one that
could give me so strong a desire to know more of the author. My
good genius evidently joined hands with the State Department in
sending you to Switzerland ten years before me.
“Make the best arrangements you can for me at Bocken for about
the 7th of July, the exact date you shall know later. You can, if
you think it better, keep some hold on Obstalden. Dr. Van K----
yields his favorite Rigi, and thinks I can get strong at Bocken
or Obstalden; such was the power of your letters on the highest
medical wisdom of Düsseldorf.
“Nothing could be kinder than your invitation, but I fear that
neither my cousin nor myself can permit you to add to our great
obligations this suggestion of coming to you as guests. Let us
come to Bocken like any other tourists, with the exception that
we know we have already friends there to welcome us. My cousin,
Miss C----, desires to thank your wife for her good intentions,
and hopes to have the pleasure of sketching with her.
“I sent you yesterday the only book of mine that I could lay my
hands on, a little volume in return for ‘Switzerland.’ There is
something about mountains in it, but I fear your book is the more
reliable and interesting.
“My cousin was greatly pleased with your suggestion of your
wife’s sketching and aiding her in pursuit of the picturesque.
“Very truly,
BRET HARTE.”
Delays set in, and he wrote again.
“July 23, 1879.
“MY DEAR BYERS:--Are you losing your patience and beginning to
believe that B. H. is ‘a light that never was on land or sea.’
“For the last week I have been trying to assist somebody, who has
come out from the Custom House in N. Y., duly certified to by the
State Department, and is ‘wanting to know, you know’ all about
‘market prices and prices current.’ But I think I should have
scarcely staid for him, if the weather had not been at its worst,
blowing a stiff gale for forty-eight hours at a time, and raining
in the intervals.
“My present intention is to leave here Saturday, or Sunday, the
26th, but of course will telegraph you exactly when and how.
“Yours hopefully,
BRET HARTE.”
At last, he and his cousin, Miss C----, a charming woman, who soon
joined my wife in sketching excursions, reached Bocken. Bocken has
enough big rooms for old knights of ye olden time to carouse in, but
very few bedrooms for real folks to sleep in. So Mr. Harte and I, for
a time, occupied a bedroom together in the annex. I was a gainer by
the arrangement, for we sometimes lay awake half the night and more,
whilst he related to me reminiscences of his early life in California
and his literary and other experiences. They would fill a book, but I
forbear. This much only I copy from my diary of the time.
_August 8, 1879._--Bret Harte and his cousin reached us some days ago.
He seems a sick man. He looks nothing like the pictures I had conjured
up of him. He is forty-one years old, of medium height, strongly built,
legs like an athlete, weighs about one hundred and seventy-five pounds,
has fine head, a big nose, clear-cut features, clear good eyes, hair
cropped short and perfectly gray, face full and fine; in short a very
handsome man, and an exquisite in dress. He is neatness personified,
and he seems to have brought a whole tailor’s shop of new clothes with
him to this simple place, as he appears in a different suit daily,
sometimes semi-daily.
There is little at the pension table that he can eat, for he has
dyspepsia. So, as we have our own cook and kitchen, we have of late
invited him and his cousin to dine with us. At noon, our table is set
under the chestnut trees out on the terrace overlooking the blue lake.
He can eat here. It is a wonderful spot to dine at with such a view
before us.
We have our breakfast in the corner room of the chateau, where the
famous tile stove stands, with its pictures of Swiss history. The walls
of the room have massive panels of old oak, and around them are low
seats that open like chest lids. From the big, leaded windows of the
room the view is as fine as on the terrace. Joining this corner is an
immense banquet room--the knights’ hall of the olden times.
While sitting at the old, old table, sipping our coffee, we see the
pretty steamers pass on the lake far below us, and towards Glarus we
see the snowy Alps reflecting the morning sun.
Plain old Chateau Bocken was built centuries ago as a country home for
the Burgomasters of Zurich. Those fellows of the olden time knew where
the beautiful spots of earth were. I often think Bocken, in summer, the
loveliest spot on earth. I am sure it is, for me. Evenings after supper
on the terrace, we sit out there at the table with the lamps burning
till bedtime. We have good times in talk and reminiscences. Harte is
as fine a conversationalist as I ever knew. He uses the most choice
and elegant language possible. This surprises one, on recalling that
his famous California stories are so often in the dialect of the gold
mines. His voice is fine, his speech extremely taking, and I think he
has a good heart. When feeling well, he is a delightful companion--an
interesting man--apart from his work and fame.
These evenings out on the terrace, we talk of the poets too. Each
expresses his preference. Harte said almost the finest poem in the
language is Browning’s “Bringing the Good News From Ghent to Aix.” He
recited it with splendid feeling.
To me, Browning’s “Napoleon at Ratisbon” seemed almost equally good--a
whole drama in a dozen lines or so.
I spoke of Harte’s own poem, the “Reveille.” His recital to us of how
it was produced in San Francisco was in itself a picture of old war
times, exciting in the extreme.
A great mass meeting was to be held in San Francisco one evening. Men
were wanted to enlist--to go out and _die_ for their country, in fact.
Somebody must write a poem, said the Committee, and Thomas Starr King,
the patriot orator, suggested the name of a young man employe at the
Government mint. It was Bret Harte. The day of the evening came, and,
with fear and doubting, Mr. Harte read his little poem to Mr. King. “I
am sure it won’t do--It is not good enough,” he added deprecatingly,
and with self-disappointment. “You don’t know,” answered Mr. King.
“Let _me_ read that poem aloud to you once.”
In his great, fine voice, he rendered the verses, till Harte himself
was astonished with his own lines. Still, the judgment of a friend
could be over partial.
Harte was almost afraid to go to the hall that night; but he went and
crept up into the gallery. All San Francisco seemed to be present. It
was a terribly exciting time. Would California rise up and be true to
the Union, or only half true?
“I will read a poem,” said the magnificent King, after a while. “It is
by Mr. Harte, a young man working in the Government mint.”
“Who’s Harte?” murmured half the audience. “Who’s he?”
The orator commenced, and ere he reached that great line, “For the
great heart of the Nation, throbbing, answered, ‘Lord, we come,’” the
entire audience were on their feet, cheering and in tears.
It was too much for the young poet to stay and witness. He thought he
would faint. He slipped down the back stairs and out into the dark
street, and walking there alone, wondered at the excitement over verses
he had that morning feared to be valueless.
One can imagine a young man out there alone in the dark, for the first
time hearing Fame’s trumpet sounding to him from the crowded theater.
_August 15._--The days were passing in delight at Bocken. I come out
from the consulate early in the afternoon. Occasionally I stay here all
day, and then with Harte and his cousin we have little excursions in
the vicinity.
Yesterday, I helped Mr. Harte read over the proof-sheets of his “Twins
of Table Mountain.” We lay in hammocks and read. I do not think it
approaches some of his former stories.
Miss C---- copies much for him, and he also occasionally dictates to
her. I wonder that any one can write in that way.
The other afternoon I took him in to consult Dr. Cloetta, a
distinguished professor and physician. The good doctor, who speaks but
little English, put him on a lounge, examined him carefully, and said,
“Mr. Harte, I think you got _extension_ of the stomach.” Coming back on
the boat, Harte laughed a good deal about this; cursed a little too.
_August 18._--Mrs. Senator Sherman, of Washington, and two of her
nieces, are stopping for a while in this part of Switzerland. A
lieutenant of the navy is also with them. The other day we all took a
notion to cross the country in a post diligence, and turn up at the
Rigi.
We started from Bocken early in the morning. The driver was jolly and
we had much fun. I only fear some of the peasants thought us tipsy, as
we passed through their villages singing “Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me,”
and like joyous American ditties. We had a big, red umbrella fastened
above the diligence, and when we came to a hamlet the driver put his
horses on the gallop and blew his bugle. Mrs. Sherman looked a bit
serious over it all, but the noisier ones of the party were in command.
The hotel on the Rigi had not a single bed for us that night. “May we
sleep on the hall floor?” innocently inquired Mr. Harte. “No,” answered
the landlord. “Perhaps out on the doorsteps then?” continued Mr. Harte.
“Just as you please,” said the keeper of the hostelry, crustily. “My
beds, I tell you, are taken. I can do nothing for you.” “Yes, but--”
went on Mr. Harte, with a knowing smile--“it is awfully cold and dark
out there--suppose our little party orders a good champagne supper,
with lots of chicken and etceteras, and sits at the table here all
night. You wouldn’t mind that would you?” The landlord coughed a little
cough.
The supper was ordered, and before it was half over our host bethought
himself. He said he had just got a telegram from Prince ---- and his
suite, who had engaged the four finest rooms in the house. The Prince
could not come. We could have the Prince’s rooms, all of them. “Hurrah
for the Prince of----,” we all cried, clinking our glasses to him. The
fact was, and we knew it, the telegraph office had not been open since
6 o’clock. All the same, we had the finest rooms and a moderate bill.
And the next day one of the nieces was engaged to the young lieutenant.
So a good deed prospers.
“You will not mind telling us why you did not give us the rooms in the
first place, will you?” said Mr. Harte to the host next morning, as he
settled the bill for the party. “We know, you know, that you got no
telegram at all from the Prince.” “Frankly,” said the landlord, “it was
because Americans don’t often order wine. My _profit’s_ in my _wine_
and if none is ordered, better the rooms remain empty. But you folks
are not Americans, I know by the _many bottles_.” Nevertheless, it was
Mr. Harte’s good nature that won the day for us, or rather the night.
We were up too late for the “Sunrise on the Rigi” next morning; but the
splendid view of a dozen blue lakes and snow white mountains all around
us, repaid the party for the trip.
Mrs. Sherman liked the Rigi for its own lonesome heights. Mr. Harte
praised the whole wonderful scene; the Lieutenant looked into the blue
eyes of Miss----, and all were satisfied.
[Illustration: Obstalden.--_Page 178._]
_August 30, 1879._--When we got back from the Rigi to Bocken, Mr. Harte
proposed that we go for a week to Obstalden, that picturesque hamlet
hung above the Wallensee. We ourselves had spent parts of three summers
there. It is indeed a characteristic Alpine village. It is on the side
of a mountain. The wonderful little Wallensee, blue as a summer’s sky,
lies 2,000 feet below it. Behind it rise majestic mountains. It is all
green grass up there, even up to the very doors and windows of the
brown, hewn log houses. A little white highway winds up to the village
from the lake, while the rest of the roads are simple, narrow goat
paths. They lead about over the grass from house to house, and from the
village up to the higher Alps, where the village boys herd goats and
cows from sunrise till evening. The peasant women all weave silk, and
this necessitates the great number of long windows in their ham-brown
cabins. The men are almost as brown as their houses, and live to be a
hundred years old. I never saw so many _very_ old people in my life.
They live on bread and milk and cheese, with a little sour wine. Some
of these centenarians are Alpine guides, and I have had them carry
my overcoat and haversack and escort me up high mountains with the
nimbleness of a boy of twenty. I was ashamed to have them lug things
for me, a member of the Alpine Club, but they insisted.
American tourists don’t find Obstalden. The hamlet is kept a close
secret among a few Swiss and Germans, who want only picturesque scenes
and _very_ simple life. It was a great favor that a friend told me
about it, and got the little village inn to always give me the refusal
of a room or two.
I had learned Mr. Harte’s tastes, after his coming to Bocken. They were
not for the _utterly_ simple life of mountain villages, after all, and
my wife and I protested against his going to Obstalden. But go he would
and we had to accompany him.
When we got there, the little hotel was overflowing with people. It
held but a dozen guests. The keeper of the inn offered to sit up that
night, and let Miss C---- and my wife have his room. But at last he
thought of the village pastor’s wife, and she took in the two ladies.
He tried to get a room in a peasant’s house for Mr. Harte and me. It
was impossible. We could walk about all night, at the imminent risk of
falling off a couple of thousand feet or so, or we could sleep in a
peasant’s hayloft.
Many of Mark Twain’s famous “Chamois” were likely to be hopping around
in that little hayloft. Mr. Harte hesitated a little--wished he had
never heard of Obstalden. He wore one of his newest, swellest suits,
and the situation “gave him pause.” At last he nimbly climbed up the
ladder. I followed, and without much undressing in the dark, we were
soon under a big coverlet, where to me, for a novelty, the sweet hay
was better than any sheets ever made.
Mr. Harte found it all “mighty tough” and “mighty rough.” He had
wanted, he said in his letter “a little inexpensive simplicity,” but
this was too much for anything--a couple of representatives of the
_great_ United States, and one of them a New York exquisite, tucked
away in a hay mow above the goats and cattle. Obviously, he had not
been a mountaineer, fine as had been his tales of the rough life in
California.
That was something I always wondered at--how Bret Harte could write
such splendid touching tales of “hard cases,” being himself so much the
reverse of all the characters he depicted. It was the genius of his
character that had done it all. Some men take in at a glimpse, and can
perfectly describe what others must experience for a lifetime, to be
able to tell anything about.
We lay awake much of that summer night, in the hay mow, but the
“poetry” of the thing was all wasted on Mr. Harte. We heard the
solitary watchman of the village, who with his lantern walked about in
the darkness, cry to the sleepers: “Twelve o’clock, and all is well.”
That solitary watchman’s occupation did touch Mr. Harte. It is indeed
a singular life, going around there alone all the night, the towering
pinnacles of the rocks on one hand, the depths of the valley and the
lake below on the other, the flash of waterfalls close by, the thunder
of distant falling avalanches. Never a night in three hundred years but
some watchman has gone about the byways of Obstalden with his lantern,
calling aloud the hours.
A tin cup, and a little mountain rill that laughed its way through
the village, afforded Mr. Harte and myself our opportunities for
morning toilettes. Mr. Harte’s new clothes had been _pressed_ in the
hay-mow, but not always in the right direction. We met the ladies at
the breakfast table of the inn. Mr. Harte’s narrative to them of the
adventures of the night made a hearty laugh. Never did a breakfast of
brown bread and butter, with good coffee, hot milk and wild honey,
taste better. The table was set out on the terrace. The blue lake was
far, far below us. On its opposite shore, the perpendicular rocks, a
mile high, shut in the loveliest water in Switzerland.
Up on top of those walls of rock, on a little green plateau, we could
see the town of Amden. Nothing like it in the world. Not a horse nor a
carriage up there. It is reached by a stone stairway, zigzagging along
the face of the rocks. Everything the people buy or sell is lugged up
and down this wonderful stairway on peasants’ shoulders.
In the afternoon, Mr. Harte’s attention was riveted on a curious
procession of row boats, slowly crossing the lake in our direction. One
of the boats was entirely covered with garlands and white flowers. It
was a village funeral, said our landlord. They don’t have ground enough
for a graveyard up there in Amden; so they bury their people this side
of the lake.
“There is your story,” I said to Mr. Harte--“the wonderful
stairway--the lake funeral--the town on the high rocks.”
“Yes--all right,” he answered; “but, somehow, I never have luck with
material I don’t find out for myself. I must suggest it myself.” I
recalled Bayard Taylor’s saying, “there is no satisfaction in even a
pint of hot water which has been heated by somebody else.” I am afraid
I heated this water, not very hot. The story will never be written.
That evening we visited the “goat village,” not far away, and watched
hundreds and hundreds of goats, led by a young mountaineer, with a
great bunch of Alpine roses tied to his staff, and a wreath of roses on
his hat. He was coming down from the grassy slopes of a mountain. He
was whistling and singing all the way. It was a picturesque sight. The
“goat village” is composed of scores of little huts or pens, each one
big enough for a single goat. It was interesting to see how each goat
knew its own hut among the many, and hurried into it to be milked.
In a very few days Mr. Harte had had enough of Alpine simplicity,
though we had secured a room in the inn.
Far down below us on the lake lay pretty Wesen. It looked more
civilized, and he would try it there. When he was shown his room in
the Wesen inn, and strolled into the little drawing-room, what was his
surprise to notice lying among the books on the table, “the _Works of
Bret Harte_.”
This was fame--away off in an Alpine village of Switzerland to find his
name was known, his books read.
When he told me, I recalled that other first night in San
Francisco--the applauding assembly--the unknown poet out in the street
in the dark.
Mr. Harte soon came back to us at Bocken, and on the 26th we
accompanied him on his way to his home in Germany, as far as the Falls
of the Rhine.
But we stopped first in Zurich. As it was his birthday, we had a little
good-bye dinner together in the Tonhalle by the lake, and did all we
could for his “health” with a bottle of “Mumm’s extra dry.”
That he might be right over the Rhine Falls by moonlight, the host of
the Laufen Castle gave him the room with the balconies above the water.
It was beautiful, but the noise of the falls kept Harte awake all night.
In the morning we said good-bye and parted, he for Crefeld via the
Black Forest, and we for Bocken.
Yesterday I got this letter from him:
“CREFELD, Aug. 27, 1879.
“MY DEAR MR. BYERS:--We arrived here safely last night. _Of
course_, the railways did not connect as you said they would, and
_of course_, we did not go where you promised we should, but we
got to Düsseldorf within twelve hours of the schedule time set
and are thankful. Only let me beg you to post yourself a little
on Swiss railroads before you travel _yourself_. Your knowledge
does well enough for a guide to old experienced travelers _like
us_!!! but it won’t do for a simple, guileless, believing nature
like your own. And don’t let the landlord of the Chateau ‘Laufen’
cook up a route for you.
“Our ride through the Black Forest was a delicious revelation.
I should say it was an overture to Switzerland, had I entered
Switzerland from its borders, but coming _from_ Switzerland,
I could not but think it was really _finer_ than the Alps in
everything that makes the picturesque, and that Switzerland
would have been a disappointment afterwards. It was very like
the California ‘foothills’ in the mountain ranges, and the long
dashes of red soil and red road--so unlike the glare and dazzle
of the white Swiss turnpikes--were very effective. I wanted much
to stop at Freiberg, still more at a certain ruined castle and
‘pension’ called Hombeck, which was as picturesque as Castle
Laufen, minus the noise of ‘factory wheels and fulling mills’
from these awful rapids. Heidelberg was a sensation, with its
castle that quite dwarfs the Rhine River (as all these things do
by comparison when one travels) and we could have stayed here two
or three days and enjoyed ourselves.
“The weather has changed back to the old wet season that we
thought we had left behind us when we turned our faces Southward.
It is dull and rainy. Nevertheless as soon as I get some work off
my hands that has accumulated here I shall try the seaside for my
hoped-for rehabilitation.
“My cousin sends her regards. I suppose she will write or
has written to Mrs. Byers. I hope you will not give up your
Rhine trip (with a suitable guide) and that we may see you in
Düsseldorf soon.
“With my best regards to Mrs. Byers,
“Very truly yours,
BRET HARTE.”
_September 29, 1879._--We are just home from a ten days’ trip up and
down the Moselle River, that neglected Cinderella sister of the Rhine.
It is more beautiful than the Rhine itself. It has more pretty hills
and mountains on its shores; its villages are more picturesque; its
ruins of castles more numerous; its wines as good. Parts of our journey
we went in a row boat, often we walked along the shores. At Cochem, we
visited friends and had a good time. We also went to the magnificent
“Elz,” the only German castle Louis XIV’s invaders failed to find and
destroy. It is among the dark wooded hills, miles back from the Moselle
River. Nothing like it to-day in Germany. Heidelberg is a ruin. Elz is
a perfect castle of the Middle Ages. Portcullis, gate, tower, moat,
walls and halls, stone floors, fireplaces, tapestries and furniture, as
they were centuries ago. Everything has been left, and the owner of Elz
keeps all the surroundings in the spirit of the olden time, even to the
troops of hounds.
To wander through this castle is like reading Scott’s novels, only
here all is old German. No wonder the French never found the castle.
Even we, with a guide, blundered right on to it, before we knew we
were within miles of it. We heard dogs baying, looked, and there among
the rocks and woods saw the lofty walls and towers. We had no passes
allowing us to enter, but our guide had a brother among the men in
charge, and we were shown across the bridge and moat.
I know no spot, castle, or ruin, in Europe, where one feels himself so
absolutely back in the Middle Ages. While in there, I forgot there were
such things as gunpowder, railways, gas and cannon. The walls were hung
with spears, swords, bows and battle clubs.
Another of the perfect works of olden times visited by us on the
Moselle was the ancient gateway at the City of Treves. This “Porta
Nigra” impressed me much. I think there is nothing to equal it, even
in Rome. Many of the works of the Romans, built in this German town,
are in better preservation than anything in the “Eternal City.” Some
of them are just as grand. The town itself is only a feeble reminder
of the great, old times, when seven different Roman Emperors made this
town their residence.
There is one church here, the “Liebfrauen Kirche,” exquisite in its
beauty, that stands as the most perfect specimen of Gothic architecture
remaining in the world. It is indeed “a thing of beauty” and a “joy;”
if not forever, for at least five hundred years, and it may last a
thousand years to come. The “Holy Coat of Christ” is kept here in the
Cathedral. It is claimed to have been brought here by Helena, the
mother of Constantine. I can see no reason why this may not be true.
Relics of a million times’ less significance have been preserved by men
for ages. Nothing would be so easily traced and cared for, from century
to century, as a relic that half mankind revered as holy.
_November, 1879._--We are again at our home in Zurich, 7 Centralhof. We
are anxious for a long visit to Italy, and I have asked for a leave.
Mr. Harte thinks to go along with us.
“November 9, 1879.
“MY DEAR MR. BYERS:--I have your welcome letter of the 7th, and
hasten to say that two words by telegraph from Mr. Seward give me
my leave of absence. With this in my pocket, I am in no hurry,
knowing that I can rush off at any moment, when Crefeld becomes
unbearable. When the Rhine fog gathers thickest, and the office
lights are lit at 3 P. M. and neuralgia becomes lively, I clutch
the telegram and smile a ghostly smile.
“And we may meet, after all, where the sun shines. The doctor
here tells me I must go to upper Italy, say Bellagio on the Lake
of Como. But there is a time to think of that. Let me know _when_
you get your leave. You will get it _of course_.
“My cousin had a dismal voyage home, tempestuous weather and
seasickness nearly all the time. She writes rather sadly from New
York, where she has found her brother-in-law hopelessly ill, and
her sister in great distress. Her quiet life in Düsseldorf makes
that busy city seem strange to her, and I hope when she gets to
Washington she may shake off her sadness. I have written to her
urging her, if she have the slightest feeling of ‘homesickness’
for Europe again, to start off with her sister Jessie and come
back to me at once. I hope she certainly will in the spring, for
it is terribly lonely here.
“Tell Mrs. Byers to stop this shooting of Parthian arrows from
Obstalden. I am not so very particular, but if we travel in Italy
together, we must certainly have more than _one_ bedroom for us
_three_. I know I am fastidious as to location, but I’d let that
go. I’d stick out for _two_ bedrooms, if we had to telegraph a
week ahead. If Mrs. Byers and myself are to quarrel in this way
we must all have separate apartments, and two wash bowls.
“I forgot to ask you to procure me a book of Swiss photographic
views for about eight or ten francs. It is for a child’s present
and I leave the selection entirely to yourself. Will you charge
your soul with it, and credit me with the enclosed.
“Yours ever,
B. H.”
And later he writes:
“November 23, 1879.
“MY DEAR MR. BYERS:--A line to thank you for the album. It was a
great bargain at 10 R. M. And yet people talk of the impractical,
unbusiness-like character of the literary mind.
“I am still here, but knowing that I can go when I can stand
things no longer, I put up with an india-ink washed sky, a dismal
twilight that lasts eight hours, and stands for ‘day’ to the
Rhenish perception, and find some work. I have just ‘turned off’
a story longer than the ‘Twins,’ and did it in spite of neuralgia
and _’extension_.’
“I see by a telegram to the Daily London News that Mr. Seward
has resigned, and Colonel John Hay takes his place as Assistant
Secretary of State. Hay is a good fellow, was in the diplomatic
service once, is an accomplished, well-mannered gentleman of whom
any American might be proud, and only a few years ago earned his
bread by literary labors as editorial writer on the Tribune,
besides being the author of ‘Jim Bludsoe’ and ‘Little Breeches,’
as you, of course, know. He married a rich wife and is quite
independent of the office.
“All this ought to presage some _intellectual discrimination_
of the deserts and needs of _certain other literary men in the
service_. But we shall see. Certainly you will get your leave of
absence now.
“When you have made up your mind to go, let me know. Meantime
give my best regards to your wife.
“Yours ever,
BRET HARTE.”
* * * * *
_July 1, 1879._--The business of the Consulate goes smoothly on. I have
good assistants and no little leisure. Besides, Zurich is so centrally
located that in a few hours I can travel to the most interesting
spots of Europe. Germany, France, Italy are only a little journey
off, the first but a couple of hours’ ride away. The scenery here is
delightful, the climate moderate.
“What would you like if you could choose,” said a Swiss to me at my
tea table the other night. “Nothing,” I replied, “only to stay here
forever.” “You are content,” he answered. “I envy you--you are a happy
man--the first one I ever saw!”