SHORE.
At last they glided once more through the stony jaws of the harbor, as if
returning again to the earth from a sojourn in the land of the
disembodied. When Clementina's foot touched the shore she felt like one
waked out of a dream, from whom yet the dream has not departed, but keeps
floating about him, waved in thinner and yet thinner streams from the
wings of the vanishing sleep. It seemed almost as if her spirit, instead
of having come back to the world of its former abode, had been borne
across the parting waters and landed on the shore of the immortals. There
was the ghostlike harbor of the spirit-land, the water gleaming betwixt
its dark walls, one solitary boat motionless upon it, the men moving about
like shadows in the star twilight. Here stood three women and a man on the
shore, and save the stars no light shone, and from the land came no sound
of life. Was it the dead of the night or a day that had no sun? It was not
dark, but the light was rayless. Or rather it was as if she had gained
the power of seeing in the dark. Suppressed sleep wove the stuff of a
dream around her, and the stir at her heart kept it alive with
dream-forms. Even the voice of Peter's Annie, saying, "I s' bide for my
man.--Gude-nicht, my leddy," did not break the charm. Her heart shaped
that also into the dream. Turning away with Malcolm and Lizzy, she passed
along the front of the Seaton. How still, how dead, how empty like
cenotaphs, all the cottages looked! How the sea, which lay like a watcher
at their doors, murmured in its sleep! Arrived at the entrance to her own
close, Lizzy next bade them good-night, and Clementina and Malcolm were
left.
And now drew near the full power, the culmination of the mounting
enchantment, of the night for Malcolm. When once the Scaurnose people
should have passed them, they would be alone--alone as in the spaces
between the stars. There would not be a living soul on the shore for
hours. From the harbor the nearest way to the House was by the sea-gate,
but where was the haste with the lovely night around them, private as a
dream shared only by two? Besides, to get in by that they would have had
to rouse the cantankerous Bykes, and what a jar would not that bring into
the music of the silence! Instead, therefore, of turning up by the side of
the stream where it crossed the shore, he took Clementina once again in
his arms unforbidden and carried her over. Then the long sands lay open to
their feet. Presently they heard the Scaurnose party behind them, coming
audibly, merrily on. As by a common resolve they turned to the left, and
crossing the end of the Boar's Tail, resumed their former direction, with
the dune now between them and the sea. The voices passed on the other
side, and they heard them slowly merge into the inaudible. At length,
after an interval of silence, on the westerly air came one quiver of
laughter, by which Malcolm knew his friends were winding up the red path
to the top of the cliff. And now the shore was bare of presence, bare of
sound save the soft fitful rush of the rising tide. But behind the long
sandhill, for all they could see of the sea, they might have been in the
heart of a continent.
"Who would imagine the ocean so near us, my lady?" said Malcolm after they
had walked for some time without word spoken.
"Who can tell what may be near us?" she returned.
"True, my lady. Our future is near us, holding thousands of things
unknown. Hosts of thinking beings with endless myriads of thoughts may be
around us. What a joy to know that, of all things and all thoughts, God is
nearest to us--so near that we cannot see Him, but, far beyond seeing Him,
can know of Him infinitely!"
As he spoke they came opposite the tunnel, but he turned from it and they
ascended the dune. As their heads rose over the top, and the sky-night
above and the sea-night beneath rolled themselves out and rushed silently
together, Malcolm said, as if thinking aloud, "Thus shall we meet death
and the unknown, and the new that breaks from the bosom of the invisible
will be better than the old upon which the gates close behind us. The Son
of man is content with my future, and I am content."
There was a peace in the words that troubled Clementina: he wanted no more
than he had, this cold, imperturbable devout fisherman. She did not see
that it was the confidence of having all things that held his peace
rooted. From the platform of the swivel they looked abroad over the sea.
Far north in the east lurked a suspicion of dawn, which seemed, while they
gazed upon it, to "languish into life," and the sea was a shade less dark
than when they turned from it to go behind the dune. They descended a few
paces and halted again.
"Did your ladyship ever see the sun rise?" asked Malcolm.
"Never in open country," she answered.
"Then stay and see it now, my lady. He'll rise just over yonder, a little
nearer this way than that light from under his eyelids. A more glorious
chance you could not have. And when he rises, just observe, one minute
after he is up, how like a dream all you have been in to-night will look.
It is to me strange, even to awfulness, how many different phases of
things, and feelings about them, and moods of life and consciousness, God
can tie up in the bundle of one world, with one human soul to carry it."
Clementina slowly sank on the sand of the slope, and like lovely sphinx of
northern desert gazed in immovable silence out on the yet more northern
sea. Malcolm took his place a little below, leaning on his elbow--for the
slope was steep--and looking up at her. Thus they waited the sunrise.
Was it minutes or only moments passed in that silence, whose speech was
the soft ripple of the sea on the sand? Neither could have answered the
question. At length said Malcolm, "I think of changing my service, my
lady."
"Indeed, Malcolm!"
"Yes, my lady. My--mistress does not like to turn me away, but she is
tired of me, and does not want me any longer."
"But you would never think of finally forsaking a fisherman's life for
that of a servant, surely, Malcolm?"
"What would become of Kelpie, my lady?" rejoined Malcolm, smiling to
himself.
"Ah!" said Clementina bewildered, "I had not thought of her. But you
cannot take her with you," she added, coming a little to her senses.
"There is nobody about the place who could, or rather who would, do
anything with her. They would sell her. I have enough to buy her, and
perhaps somebody might not object to the encumbrance, but hire me and her
together. _Your_ groom wants a coachman's place, my lady."
"Oh, Malcolm! do you mean you would be _my_ groom?" cried Clementina,
pressing her palms together.
"If you would have me, my lady; but I have heard you say you would have
none but a married man."
"But, Malcolm, don't you know anybody that would--Could you not find some
one--some lady--that--I mean, why shouldn't you be a married man?"
"For a very good and to me rather sad reason, my lady: the only woman I
could marry or should ever be able to marry would not have me. She is very
kind and very noble, but--It is preposterous, the thing is too
preposterous: I dare not have the presumption to ask her."
Malcolm's voice trembled as he spoke, and a few moments' pause followed,
during which he could not lift his eyes. The whole heaven seemed pressing
down their lids. The breath which he modelled into words seemed to come in
little billows.
But his words had raised a storm in Clementina's bosom. A cry broke from
her as if driven forth by pain. She called up all the energy of her nature
and stilled herself to speak. The voice that came was little more than a
sob-scattered whisper, but to her it seemed as if all the world must hear.
"Oh, Malcolm," she panted, "I _will_ try to be good and wise. Don't marry
anybody else--_anybody_, I mean; but come with Kelpie and be my groom, and
wait and see if I don't grow better."
Malcolm leaped to his feet and threw himself at hers. He had heard, but in
part, and he _must_ know all. "My lady," he said with intense quiet,
"Kelpie and I will be your slaves. Take me for fisherman, groom, what you
will. I offer the whole sum of service that is in me." He kissed her feet.
"My lady, I would put your feet on my head," he went on, "only then what
should I do when I see my Lord and cast myself before _Him_?"
But Clementina, again her own to give, rose quickly, and said with all the
dignity born of her inward grandeur, "Rise, Malcolm: you misunderstand
me."
Malcolm rose abashed, but stood erect before her, save that his head was
bowed, for his heart was sunk in dismay. Then slowly, gently, Clementina
knelt before him. He was bewildered, and thought she was going to pray. In
sweet, clear, unshaken tones, for she feared nothing now, she said,
"Malcolm, I am not worthy of you. But take me--take my very soul if you
will, for it is yours."
Now Malcolm saw that he had no right to raise a kneeling lady: all he
could do was to kneel beside her. When people kneel, they lift up their
hearts; and the creating Heart of their joy was forgotten of neither. And
well for them, for the love where God is not, be the lady lovely as
Cordelia, the man gentle as Philip Sidney, will fare as the overkept
manna.
When the huge tidal wave from the ocean of infinite delight had broken at
last upon the shore of the finite, and withdrawn again into the deeps,
leaving every cistern brimming, every fountain overflowing, the two
entranced souls opened their bodily eyes, looked at each other, rose, and
stood hand in hand, speechless.
"Ah, my lady!" said Malcolm at length, "what is to become of this delicate
smoothness in my great rough hand? Will it not be hurt?"
"You don't know how strong it is, Malcolm. There!"
"I can scarcely feel it with my hand, my lady: it all goes through to my
heart. It shall lie in mine as the diamond in the rock."
"No, no, Malcolm! Now that I am going to be a fisherman's wife, it must be
a strong hand--it must work. What homage shall you require of me, Malcolm?
What will you have me do to rise a little nearer your level? Shall I give
away lands and money? And shall I live with you in the Seaton? or will you
come and fish at Wastbeach?"
"Forgive me, my lady: I can't think about things now--even with you in
them. There is neither past nor future to me now--only this one eternal
morning. Sit here, and look up, Lady Clementina: see all those worlds:
something in me constantly says that I shall know every one of them one
day--that they are all but rooms in the house of my spirit; that is, the
house of our Father. Let us not now, when your love makes me twice
eternal, talk of times and places. Come, let us fancy ourselves two
blessed spirits lying full in the sight and light of our God--as indeed
what else are we?--warming our hearts in His presence and peace, and that
we have but to rise and spread our wings to soar aloft and find--What
shall it be, my lady? Worlds upon worlds? No, no. What are worlds upon
worlds in infinite show until we have seen the face of the Son of man?"
A silence fell. But he resumed: "Let us imagine our earthly life behind
us, our hearts clean, love all in all. But that sends me back to the now.
My lady, I know I shall never love you aright until you have made me
perfect. When the face of the least lovely of my neighbors needs but
appear to rouse in my heart a divine tenderness, then it must be that I
shall love you better than now. Now, alas! I am so pervious to wrong! so
fertile of resentments and indignations! You must cure me, my divine
Clemency. Am I a poor lover to talk, this first glorious hour, of anything
but my lady and my love? Ah! but let it excuse me that this love is no new
thing to me. It is a very old love: I have loved you a thousand years. I
love every atom of your being, every thought that can harbor in your soul,
and I am jealous of hurting your blossoms with the over-jubilant winds of
that very love. I would therefore ever behold you folded in the atmosphere
of the Love eternal. My lady, if I were to talk of your beauty, I should
but offend you, for you would think I raved and spoke not the words of
truth and soberness. But how often have I not cried to the God who
breathed the beauty into you that it might shine out of you, to save my
soul from the tempest of its own delight therein! And now I am like one
that has caught an angel in his net, and fears to come too nigh, lest fire
should flash from the eyes of the startled splendor, and consume the net
and him who holds it. But I will not rave, because I would possess in
grand peace that which I lay at your feet. I am yours, and would be worthy
of your moonlight calm."
"Alas! I am beside you but a block of marble," said Clementina. "You are
so eloquent, my--"
"New groom," suggested Malcolm gently.
Clementina smiled. "But my heart is so full," she went on, "that I cannot
think the filmiest thought. I hardly know that I feel: I only know that I
want to weep."
"Weep, then, my word ineffable!" cried Malcolm, and laid himself again at
her feet, kissed them, and was silent.
He was but a fisher-poet--no courtier, no darling of society, no dealer in
fine speeches, no clerk of compliments. All the words he had were the
living blossoms of thought rooted in feeling. His pure clear heart was as
a crystal cup, through which shone the red wine of his love. To himself,
Malcolm stammered as a dumb man, the string of whose tongue has but just
been loosed: to Clementina his speech was as the song of the Lady to
Comus, "divine enchanting ravishment." The God of truth is surely present
at every such marriage-feast of two radiant spirits. Their joy was that
neither had foiled the hope of the other.
And so the herring-boat had indeed carried Clementina over into Paradise,
and this night of the world was to her a twilight of heaven. God alone can
tell what delights it is possible for Him to give to the pure in heart who
shall one day behold Him. Like two that had died and found each other,
they talked until speech rose into silence--they smiled until the dews
which the smiles had sublimed claimed their turn and descended in tears.
All at once they became aware that an eye was upon them. It was the sun.
He was ten degrees up the slope of the sky, and they had never seen him
rise. With the sun came a troublous thought, for with the sun came "a
world of men." Neither they nor the simple fisher-folk, their friends, had
thought of the thing, but now at length it occurred to Clementina that she
would rather not walk up to the door of Lossie House with Malcolm at this
hour of the morning. Yet neither could she well appear alone.
Ere she had spoken Malcolm rose. "You won't mind being left, my lady," he
said, "for a quarter of an hour or so, will you? I want to bring Lizzy to
walk home with you."
He went, and Clementina sat alone on the dune in a reposeful rapture, to
which the sleeplessness of the night gave a certain additional intensity
and richness and strangeness. She watched the great strides of her
fisherman as he walked along the sands, and she seemed not to be left
behind, but to go with him every step. The tide was again falling, and the
sea shone and sparkled and danced with life, and the wet sand gleamed, and
a soft air blew on her cheek, and the lordly sun was mounting higher and
higher, and a lark over her head was sacrificing all Nature in his song;
and it seemed as if Malcolm were still speaking strange,
half-intelligible, altogether lovely things in her ears. She felt a little
weary, and laid her head down upon her arm to listen more at her ease.
Now, the lark had seen and heard all, and was telling it again to the
universe, only in dark sayings which none but themselves could understand:
therefore it is no wonder that, as she listened, his song melted into a
dream, and she slept. And the dream was lovely as dream needs be, but not
lovelier than the wakeful night. She opened her eyes, calm as any cradled
child, and there stood her fisherman.
"I have been explaining to Lizzy, my lady," he said, "that your ladyship
would rather have her company up to the door than mine. Lizzy is to be
trusted, my lady."
"'Deed, my leddy," said Lizzy, "Ma'colm's been ower guid to me, no to gar
me du onything he wad hae o' me. I can haud my tongue whan I like, my
leddy. An' dinna doobt my thouchts, my leddy, for I ken Ma'colm as weel's
ye du yersel', my leddy."
While she was speaking Clementina rose, and they went straight to the door
in the bank. Through the tunnel and the young wood and the dew and the
morning odors, along the lovely paths, the three walked to the house
together. And oh, how the larks of the earth and the larks of the soul
sang for two of them! and how the burn ran with music, and the air
throbbed with sweetest life! while the breath of God made a little sound
as of a going now and then in the tops of the fir trees, and the sun shone
his brightest and best, and all Nature knew that the heart of God is the
home of his creatures.
When they drew near the house Malcolm left them. After they had rung a
good many times the door was opened by the housekeeper, looking very
proper and just a little scandalized.
"Please, Mrs. Courthope," said Lady Clementina, "will you give orders that
when this young woman comes to see me to-day she shall be shown up to my
room?"
Then she turned to Lizzy and thanked her for her kindness, and they
parted--Lizzy to her baby, and Clementina to yet a dream or two. Long
before her dreams were sleeping ones, however, Malcolm was out in the bay
in the Psyche's dinghy catching mackerel: some should be for his
grandfather, some for Miss Horn, some for Mrs. Courthope, and some for
Mrs. Crathie.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
CHATEAU COURANCE.
During the earlier years of the reign of Napoleon III., Fontainebleau was
a favorite resort of the emperor and the court, and consequently was much
frequented by good republicans from this democratic land of freedom. When,
in the later time, De Morny's speculation at Biarritz called the court to
the seaside, the sightseeing fraternity followed. Fontainebleau was
deserted, and has since been almost unknown to Americans, few caring to
crowd into the little cabarets save the faithful community of artists, who
still go there to study the grand old trees of the finest forest in
France. But among the elder generation of our fellow-citizens who have
"done the Continent" there must be many who, in the palmy days of
Fontainebleau, have seen the imperial hunt winding through the greenwood
aisles in much magnificence of environment, and heard the blare of horn
and bay of hound dying away in the distance as the splendid assembly
pursued the gorgeous if somewhat theatrical and spiritless pleasures of
the chase. It may have happened on such an occasion that an early return
of the green-and-gold-clad cortege has indicated a failure of the day's
sport, and the word "Courance" has passed from lip to lip as explaining
the disappointment. And then, perhaps, Madame Busque, the polite mistress
of the Hotel du Sol, has communicated the information that the obstinate
pig of a stag had the stupidity to run toward Le Courance, and the chase
was therefore abandoned. Why? _Mais_, because Le Courance is an
impenetrable wilderness, and besides--this with significant shrug and
gesture--besides, one goes not there. Not His Majesty? No, not even His
Majesty.
Continued inquiry may have elicited the fact that Chateau Courance, with
its wide park, situated some three leagues south-west from Fontainebleau,
had once been a splendid feudal residence, but was now supposed to be in
ruins, having been abandoned and wholly closed to the world for the
greater part of a century. The resident artists, if appealed to, may have
told of legends heard among the foresters and peasantry of old-time
tragedies, and of supernatural appearances haunting the deserted place.
They may have repeated, too, the gossip of the studios touching rare and
curious works of art, paintings by great masters, plate by Cellini and
early Sevres porcelain lost to the world within the walls of the chateau.
But as rumor, while giving these details, also maintained that no human
creature except a few faithful descendants of the household had been even
within the limits of the park for nearly a hundred years, the practical
American mind may not have found much in these tales worth remembering.
Attempts, however, have not been wanting to penetrate the mysteries
surrounding Chateau Courance, but it is believed that none ever met with
success until a very recent period. The authorities always interfered by
virtue of a royal mandate, still on the statute-books of France, which
forbids any entry to the demesne of Courance without the express consent
of the count or his intendant. Furthermore, a superstitious dread of any
approach to the place prevails among the people, and this feeling has been
strong enough to defeat the several secret explorations known to have been
undertaken.
Courance, then, remained but a name and a shadow for many and many a year,
drifting slowly back to the sole dominion of Nature and out of the very
memory of mankind. But the late war, sweeping over the land and destroying
so much of old France, made a break at last in the barriers surrounding
the ancient demesne--not, indeed, by direct assault, as Fontainebleau and
its neighborhood were not in the line of the Prussian march, but by one of
those little eddies of reaction by which great movements affect distant
currents of event.
Among the first to fly from Paris when the gates opened at the end of the
war were the artists. More hungry to feast their eyes than to satisfy
physical cravings, many hastened to Fontainebleau, content with Madame
Busque's thin pottage if they could but spend their days among the trees.
Two American painters were of their number--Perry from Boston, and
Johnston from Baltimore. Belonging to the Can't-get-away Club, they had
stood the siege manfully, and been very helpful at our legation when the
whole establishment was turned into a hospital. On receipt of the fund
from the United States for the relief of sufferers from the war, Minister
Washburne appointed these gentlemen on the sub-commission of distribution
in the district of the Loiret. The active and enthusiastic young men were
instrumental in doing a vast amount of good, and were the recipients of
endless ovations of the gratitude which poured out in effusion at that
time toward all bearing the American name. It is impossible to overstate
the hearty good-will entertained by all classes and manifested on all
occasions, an opportunity to do a service or afford a pleasure being
looked upon as a piece of enviable fortune.
Johnston was a connoisseur in bric-a-brac and mediaeval art, his studio
being head-quarters for the students interested in such matters. He and
his coterie had persuaded themselves that a certain lost Velasquez could
be traced to the possession of the Courance family, and he was most
anxious to visit the chateau in search of the picture. This and the
natural curiosity common to both artists made up motives of appeal too
strong to be resisted, and they accordingly allowed their wishes to become
known in certain influential quarters. How the affair was managed they
never knew, and indeed never inquired, but in due time they received an
invitation to join a party coursing for hares in the wastes of La
Pontoise, and this they understood as an intimation that their desire to
visit Courance was about to be gratified.
The old royal post-road from Paris to Lyons, passing through
Fontainebleau, runs nearly due south until it strikes the high banks of a
small tributary of the Seine, when it turns south-west and climbs the
hills toward Nemours, the next post-town. These hills slope off westward
to the desert or waste of La Pontoise, one of those blister-scars, still
to be seen in France, left by the feudal system, which stripped the soil
of the last grain of fertility and gave nothing in return. La Pontoise was
aforetime a grand estate, possessed by a branch of the Foix family, the
great ducal house of Nemours. Its farms wasted by the improvidence of the
_ancien regime_, its park and chateau destroyed by desperate peasantry
during the frenzy of '93, there remains nothing now but pine-barrens and
furze-patches, with a pile of blackened ruins as a monument of former
glory and folly.
Between this sterile, uninhabitable solitude and the precipitous, broken
ridge forming the north-eastern boundary of the Loiret lies Courance. No
road leads thitherward, no path approaches its forgotten gate. The stream
which formerly flowed past the entrance-lodge is dammed up by the fallen
bridge and spreads out in a broad morass.
To this uninviting neighborhood came the coursing-party at the time
appointed. After a sufficiently successful day's sport the American guests
accepted an invitation to pass the night with the mayor of Mont Plesis,
the other gentlemen returning to Fontainebleau. Monsieur le Maire loitered
by the way until the last of the hunters had disappeared, and then struck
off across country toward Courance. Making such haste as the nature of the
ground permitted, he directed his course toward a tall chestnut tree, the
outlying sentinel of a host of its brethren in the park. Arriving beneath
the tree, he dismounted, and was immediately addressed by an old man in
peasant costume, whom he presented as Monsieur Gambeau, the intendant of
Courance. As the twilight was already falling, the mayor hastened to
depart, after cordially commending his charge to the care of the
intendant.
Their new host brought out a stout cob from the furze near by, and led the
way south-westward. After a silent ride of half a mile or more he
dismounted, and, producing a lantern, carefully piloted the horses over a
heap of stones overgrown with briers, probably a fallen section of wall
giving entrance to the park. Then turning more to the west, they followed
a sort of bridle-path leading directly into dense forest, where the fading
twilight was wholly obscured and the swinging lantern afforded the only
beacon to steer by. The close-growing trees impinged sharply on shins and
elbows, and overhanging boughs frequently occasioned still more serious
encounters. Patience and temper were nearly exhausted when a sudden glare
shot out of the darkness, and the intendant pulled up before an open door
whence issued a blaze of light.
A man came from within to take the horses, and was introduced by the
intendant as his son Emile and the heir to his office. Emile had the same
serious and reserved manner as his father, but he showed more cordiality.
He apologized for the poor appearance of the place, saying it had never
been more than a keeper's lodge, but that he had endeavored to make it
comfortable for them.
The door opened immediately into a good-sized square room, with a wide
fireplace occupying half the farther side, having a great fire of logs and
branches burning on the hearth. In the middle of the floor stood a solid
old oak table, whereon smoked a most inviting supper, served in an
incongruous array of quaint and curious dishes and antique vessels--fine
glass, splendid silver, broken delft, and translucent porcelain that drew
a cry of admiration from the delighted artists.
The intendant thawed out rapidly, warmed by the generous supper and
perhaps an extra sip or two of rare old Beaujolais. Allowing himself to be
prompted by M. Gambeau junior, he entertained his guests with many a
tradition of the Courance family--their heroism in war, their wisdom in
peace, their conspicuous splendor at court, their kindness and liberality
at home. As to the chateau and its contents, he knew very little. It stood
just as it had been left, with all the appointments of a noble household
and a full retinue, but he had never been through the rooms to examine
them, and now only entered the place twice a year to go through the form
of putting in order the private apartments of the last count, who had
given orders that his rooms should be kept ready for his return. There
were pictures--yes, a great many pictures--but all black, and some falling
from the frames: those in the count's rooms were kept clean, however, and
were very pretty--truly, very fine.
The explorers were called early next morning by agreement, and after a
breakfast corresponding with the evening meal they were supplied with
peasant costume--blue blouse, knit cap and cotton trousers; and being
further equipped with a lantern, hatchet and substantial lunch, they set
out for the chateau. The walk was a delightful scramble through the
neglected old woods for perhaps half a mile, when a seemingly impenetrable
thicket barred the way. M. Gambeau said this was the line of the ancient
moat, and they must cut their way through or make a long detour to the
rear of the chateau, the side on which he usually approached. The hatchet
was plied vigorously, hands were scratched, clothes torn, many a fall
taken and many a fight had with the clinging vines, as they crawled and
clambered through, and came out at a fallen wicket in the wall of the
courtyard, passing which Chateau Courance stood close before them.
With exclamations of surprise and pleasure they found, instead of the gray
and mouldering ruin they had pictured in expectation, a stately and
beautiful mansion of white marble shining in the morning sun, with every
outline perfect and clear cut against the blue sky. It seemed for a moment
as if the life-scenes of a noble household might be called to animation
there if the awakening signal could but be given. But a second glance
revealed the assaults of decay and the work of Nature reclaiming that
dominion which she concedes to man only for a time.
The artists subsequently described the place, as they then saw it, nearly
as follows: "The main building is of Pyrenean marble, of composite
architecture, the openings of the first story being square, while those of
the second are pointed. It is perhaps two hundred feet deep, with a front
of one hundred feet, flanked by pointed towers and approached by a broad
flight of steps leading to a massive square pavilion. It is very rich in
ornamented detail of cut stone, all remaining in place and perfectly
preserved. This M. Gambeau calls distinctively 'the new house,' as it is
supposed to be less than two hundred years old. It is connected by curtain
walls with the chapel on one side, and on the other with the old chateau,
some of whose great square towers, built of the red stone of the country,
must be very ancient indeed. The facade of 'the new house' fronts on a
broad terrace, which descends ten or twelve feet to stone-paved
courtyards, the whole enclosed by moat and wall. This facade and terrace,
as also the broad steps leading to the paved courts, are decorated with
statuary in profusion. The windows of the second story have light,
graceful balconies, hung up like festoons of flowers. Grotesque gargoyles
cling to every corner, and each projection and angle is turned to ornament
in fine designs of cut stone.
"All the sky-lines of this beautiful building are perfect, and the entire
upper part looks indeed like a 'new house,' so bright and fair does it
remain. But the lower stories and the adjoining grounds tell the story of
desertion and decay. Over, around and through the entire demesne climbs
and twines and trails the veiling vegetation of a hundred years, filling
the arched doorways, screening the windows, hanging from the parapets, and
covering the pavements with a disguise of greenery, like a masque half
hiding the face of a court beauty."
Finishing his sketch, Perry was about to run up the marble steps, but the
intendant detained him, politely but decidedly stating that this could not
be permitted. "When M. le Comte descended those steps he commanded that
human creature should rest not the foot there until his return. And no
person has ever passed there, unless, possibly, himself."
"How himself? Has he ever returned, then?"
"Who knows? I have never seen him, at least; and I have no envy for that,
comprehend well. When one sees him 'tis time to make one's peace; and I
hope my time has not yet come."
"This becomes interesting. There is a tradition, is there not?"
"One says it. When I was a child my grandfather came home from here one
day very sad, very silent, gave his keys to my father, sent for the cure.
Behold, the end! What one said was that he had seen M. le Comte. Also, my
father. It is twenty-two years last day of Our Lady since he returned home
from here, cold, white and trembling, and put himself to arrange his
affairs. He said he was not ill, but the terrible whisper again agitated
itself--'He has seen M. le Comte!' He went to rest as usual, and rose not
again. Bah! this is not agreeable, all this. Let us go to the house."
Skirting the courtyards, the intendant led the way to the rear of the
chateau, passing between the moat and the grim old walls of the mediaeval
towers. Here the work of time was found to be more noticeable: the gardens
showed a strange confusion of fine and rare vegetation run wild, mingled
with intruding native growths; many of the wooden buildings, formerly the
offices of the household, had fallen to the ground; and the chapel, an
offset from the "new house," was partly in ruins.
Lighting his lantern, M. Gambeau descended a narrow passage leading to the
cellars. The exploration of the interior may be narrated in the words of
the adventurers:
"It was very dark, and at first we could see nothing, but presently the
glimmer of the dim lantern disclosed vast pillars and low arches of rough,
unhewn stone, and in the aisles rows of casks shrouded with cobwebs and
half buried in dust.
"'These are the wine-vaults,' said M. Gambeau, endeavoring to throw light
into the black recesses of the crypts on either hand.
"Perry stepped aside and struck one of the casks with his stick, when,
stumbling over the skid on the floor, he brought the whole pile of tierces
tumbling down in a heap of mould, rust and dirt. Escaping from the smudge
and smell of dead wood, we went up a few steps to another level in the
foundations, and came into the kitchens of the 'new house.' The main
kitchen is a vaulted chamber, divided by rows of pillars, the ceiling
being perhaps twenty feet in the clear, and the area of the entire floor
thirty feet by fifty. At either end are stone platforms, something like a
blacksmith's forge, only much larger, and over these smoke-hoods are
suspended, connected with the cavernous chimneys. At each corner of these
hearths are iron cranes hung with chains, and between two of these cranes
the intendant pointed out an indescribable mass of something supposed to
be a stag roasted whole--not at present a very toothsome-looking morsel.
Dozens of pots and kettles hang from the chains, and scores of pans and
ovens stand in rows underneath. Thickly scattered over the floor near
these fireplaces are the bones of game and poultry, probably dragged there
by rats, though we did not encounter rat or mouse or any living thing
within the walls, and our friend tells us there has been no form of life
in the chateau during his memory.
"The ascent from the kitchens is by an inclined plane, a broad roadway, up
which the mammoth triumphs of last-century culinary skill were hauled on
trucks, several of which vehicles stand near the foot of the way. The
banquet-hall occupies nearly one-half the entire first floor of the 'new
house.' We entered this magnificent apartment at the lower end from a dark
lobby, and it seemed ablaze with light and color, though we presently
noticed that only the ceiling and upper half of the room were illuminated,
the floor and furniture being in shadow and covered with dust. On one side
are six large windows opening on the terrace, the lower sashes overgrown
with vines and blocked up with accumulated rubbish, while the upper panes
are comparatively clean and clear. The ceiling is divided into panels by
heavy carved and gilded mouldings, the panels painted with mythological
designs in the style of the seventeenth century. The early morning sun lit
up these splendors, making the white and gold and thousand bright tints
shine like the array of Solomon, while from the height of our heads to the
tiles under foot the entire area was covered with one monotonous coating
of dark-gray dust.
"The other side of the room is nearly filled by the great fireplace and
two doors, united in one design of carved woodwork extending to the
ceiling. At the upper end are also two doors, and between these a raised
dais overhung by a canopy of purple Utrecht velvet. Two tables extend the
whole length of the hall, while on the dais is a smaller table, with but
six chairs. Two of these chairs are very rich and curious, and stand in
the centre facing the room--evidently seats of honor. They are of ebony,
wrought in the most intricate and bewildering patterns, while each
convolution and entanglement is followed and almost covered by a running
vine of inlaid gold wire.
"The other seats about the room are mostly tabourets, covered with Cordova
leather, embossed in gold and colors and tooled by hand in free arabesque
designs. Two long tables extend through the room, and a smaller one
occupies the dais: these tables are literally 'boards'--heavy planks
jointed together resting on solid, richly-carved trestles, all black with
age. They are apparently covered with a full service for a grand banquet,
and the intendant said they had never been disturbed since they were
prepared for a marriage-feast on the day when the chateau was deserted.
"Perry's quick eye first rested on a large piece of quaint and uncouth
form in the centre of the dais-table, which he at once said must be the
masterpiece of the collection. Imagine my surprise and disappointment on
wiping off some of the dirt to find it nothing but coarse crockery,
somewhat resembling queensware, ornamented with blue enameled figures such
as decorate old preserve-jars at home. I said it looked to me like a
foot-bath, but Perry insisted on examining it, and, removing the cover,
found the bottom was a silver plate with this inscription: 'Presented by
His Most Christian Majesty, Louis XIV., king of France and Navarre, to his
devoted vassal and servitor, Melun du Guesclin, Sieur de Courance, Dec.
25, 1714.' Perry declared he recognized it as a veritable piece of that
rare faience made by Pierre Clerissy for the Grand Monarch when he coined
all his plate to pay the army in Flanders. The king subsequently gave most
of the set to Villars and his officers after the Peace of Utrecht. Perry
has seen almost every collection in Europe, and he says there are not
fifty pieces of this ware in existence.
"For my part, I was more interested in the zephyr-glasses I found on this
table of the early Venetian manufacture, delicate and graceful as the
flacons of Fairyland. There are imitations of this exquisite glass now
made, but there were none a hundred years ago, and these are
unquestionably genuine. A remarkable chalice also attracted our notice,
and we decided it to be either the bridal or the christening-cup of the
Courance family. It is a mass of solid silver, about fourteen inches high,
on a base of ebony and pearl: it is wrought out of block silver in the
Genoese method, and is designed in deep panels divided by wreathed
columns: these panels are covered with inscriptions, seemingly of names
and dates, most of them illegible--'Robillard Puyraveau du Guesclin,
1602,' being the earliest we could make out. We found several varieties,
or, as Perry says, 'classes,' of porcelain--beautiful plates of Sevres,
painted in the most charming designs by masters to us unknown--and of the
different sorts of this ware there must be several hundred pieces, each a
gem of price to-day.
"Of course we flew from one thing to another, and did not wait upon any
order of our going about, nor did we examine a tenth part of the treasures
on the tables: but it strikes me now that the wealth in silver alone there
must be simply enormous. The intendant could tell us nothing positive, and
everything is so black and encrusted with dust that we could not see with
certainty: but it is probable that what appears to be family plate,
literally covering these tables, is the Courance heirloom silver. Much of
it is very old, as shown by the antique designs and the marks of wear.
Near the centre of one of the long tables we cleared up eighteen or twenty
beautiful pieces of the Italian school established in Paris under the
patronage of Francis I., and on the dais-table a full set, the exquisite
work of the Antwerp smiths, dated 1598.
"We had no means for brushing off the pictures, and M. Gambeau was not in
the least inclined to help us, being not at all pleased with our
disturbing the dust of ages so freely. However, the walls are in a good
state, and we could see very well that between the windows they are
decorated by Boucher with the elaborate and formal panels of Paris in his
time. At the lower end of the room is a very large and magnificent
fruit-and flower-piece by Jan van Huysum of Amsterdam. On each side of the
dais are grand entrances from the main hall of the 'new house,' but the
floor is broken up at this end of the salon, probably by rats, and rather
than risk a fall we returned by the kitchen passage.
"Crossing under the grand stairway, we tumbled through a wood-closet into
the drawing-room, a splendid apartment on the first floor of the 'new
house,' corresponding to the banquet-salon, only that the side wall,
instead of having windows, is penetrated by three wide arches opening into
a suite of state apartments extending through the old chateau. The most
noticeable things in these rooms are the hangings, arranged apparently in
chronological series, beginning with the quaint and curious needlework
covering the bare stone walls of the red tower, and continuing in regular
order through the several rooms, to the masterpieces of Lebrun and
Mignard. Some of them have fallen, and lie in mouldering heaps on the
floor, but most of them are still in place, and in none of the royal
palaces I have visited is the progress of the art of tapestry so fully
illustrated as here. We could have spent the day with delight in comparing
the different specimens, but our half-suffocated guide protested so
decidedly against our dust-raising that we had to desist long before we
wanted to. The furniture of these rooms is also arranged in historic
order, but of course the succession is not so marked as in the case of the
tapestries; still, between the rude black wooden settles of the earliest
period and the gilded and brocaded fauteuils of the Louis Quatorze salon
the contrast is sufficiently striking. The splendors of the great
drawing-room are still fresh: the white enamel is brilliant, the ormolu
untarnished, and the rich upholstery gorgeous as when first received from
Paris. A good American 'spring cleaning' would put this, and indeed most
of the apartments, in condition for immediate occupancy.
"The greater number of the pictures are family portraits, like those of
any other gallery of the same sort, but in the modern rooms are several
examples of Flemish masters of great interest and value. A treck-schuyt,
with market-women, by Albert Cuyp, quite characteristic of that artist and
his school, a tavern fireside by Ostade, and two of Quintin Matsys'
studies of single figures, are the most important.
"I must not omit to mention a remarkable old cabinet in one of these state
rooms, which Perry recognized as a specimen of Bruges carving of the
fifteenth century. It is a very curious and wonderfully ingenious piece of
work, the ornamentation appearing at first like a rather confused grouping
of flowers and fruit cut in high relief, but seen at the proper angle rich
and beautiful compositions are discovered of the most intricate and
difficult character--processions of cupids, leading leopards or tugging at
great wains; children at play, chasing each other through mazes of vines;
juvenile lovers, sentimentalizing; and a hundred pretty conceits, all
formed by the outlines of the fruit and flowers first seen. Each figure is
perfectly represented, and each graceful and delicate fancy is carried out
with marvellous skill.
"The grand drawing-room opens in the main hall, which occupies the entire
central part of the 'new house.' It is about forty feet in width by two
hundred in depth, and has the roof of the chateau for its ceiling. At one
end is the great portal, with a high-arched window over it: at the other
is the wide and beautiful staircase, leading to a gallery which on either
side of the hall gives access to the second floor of the building. The
walls are divided into panels by the columns and brackets supporting the
gallery, and these panels are ornamented alternately by trophies of arms
and entire suits of armor, all rusted. A few tattered banners still depend
from the gallery, but most that was perishable in the hall has succumbed
to time and the weather. The intendant said that within his time a violent
hailstorm had broken some of the panes in the arched window, since when
the birds, the rains and the snows have come in and done much damage in
the old hall.
"On the second floor, over the banquet-room, are the private apartments of
the last count, and over the drawing-room are the state chambers. Of these
the suites in the front of the house have the royal arms of France over
the entrance--an indication that they were once occupied by royalty. These
rooms are the only ones in the chateau furnished with carpets. The
hangings and upholstery were originally white velvet and white silk
throughout. They are no longer white, though comparatively clean and well
preserved; but the effect when these abundant draperies were fresh and
bright must have been superb. We surmised that these were intended for the
bridal apartments, but M. Gambeau could not support our conjectures with
any positive information. The bed is really a work of art, canopied and
covered with white satin, over which is the dower of a princess in
exquisite point lace. The pillow-slips and centre-piece of the coverlet
are perfect gems--the richest and most lovely lace I ever saw.
"Before entering the count's rooms M. Gambeau produced a brush and removed
some of the dust with which we were thickly covered, and on opening the
door we were surprised at the brilliant cleanliness of the place. The old
man took much credit to himself, informing us that the rooms were always
kept in order, the late count's instructions having been that they should
be maintained just as he had left them, ready for occupancy when he
returned. The furniture is plain, the only valuable things in the rooms
being a collection of French pictures of the last century, selected with
good taste and judgment. There are several battle-pieces by Gerard
Lairesse, in one of which, a dashing cavalry-charge, the Courance banner
leads the van. Boucher has two landscapes, scenes in the park according to
M. Gambeau--very careful, faithful works; and there are several large
pictures by Vien, similar to his suburban studies in the Louvre. At the
foot of the bed is an older painting, probably by Joseph Imbert, the
subject being the Virgin and Child, treated quite in his manner.
"On a table in the dressing-room are nearly a dozen swords, some of them
very rich and splendid. One in particular, an elegant, dainty
dress-rapier, is fairly encrusted with gems and jewelry. On the chairs,
scattered about the room, a courtier's wardrobe of the utmost magnificence
lies as if thrown down in confusion--silks, velvets, laces and
embroideries, collars and chains set with precious stones, orders and
decorations blazing with diamonds--a piled-up profusion indeed of all the
luxurious and costly appointments of a favorite at the most gorgeous and
extravagant court in Europe.
"We took an _al-fresco_ lunch in the court, provided beforehand by the
intendant, and then returned through the entire range of buildings to the
chapel. Our old friend failed us here. He had never been in the chapel,
and declined to accompany us farther than the entrance. We had reserved
the chapel until the afternoon, thinking it would prove the richest
treasury of the chateau, studio-rumors placing here a collection of
original old masters. But we were grievously disappointed, finding nothing
but black ruin and decay. The roof over the chancel is entirely open to
the sky, and a wide-yawning crack extends down the rear wall to the
ground, as if a lightning-stroke had riven it asunder. The canvas of the
altar-piece has fallen like a covering over the altar, screening and
preserving it, so that its beautiful marble and alabaster sculptures still
retain their integrity; but the picture itself crumbled to pieces as we
touched it, and the other paintings, of which there are a great number,
are all in much the same state--black, defaced and destroyed beyond
recognition or hope of restoration. If there are originals of Salvator
Rosa, Rubens or Rembrandt here, they are lost to the world for ever."
* * * * *
The foregoing description has been summarized from letters and statements
of the artist visitors. The following sketch is from the same sources,
collated with popular tradition and hints obtained from historic
researches. Partly narrative, partly legend and partly surmise, it gives
the story of Chateau Courance as nearly as it will probably ever be known.
Early in the eighteenth century the estates of Courance came into the
possession of Raoul Boismonard du Guesclin, a minor, probably then very
young. He apparently resided in Paris, and may have seen the sunset
glories of the court of Louis the Great. At all events, not long after the
death of the Grand Monarch the youthful Du Guesclin accompanied the
equally youthful Louis XV. on that journey to Lorraine which was
terminated so abruptly at Metz by the almost fatal illness of the king.
Later, he was in personal attendance on his royal friend during Marshal
Saxe's splendid campaign, and at Fontenoy proved himself a worthy
descendant of his ancestor, the great constable of France. The idle life
of a luxurious court, growing more and more effeminate in the long years
of peace that followed Fontenoy, seems to have ill suited this scion of
the Courance family, ever in history a race of soldiers, men of high
spirit and stirring temper. With many other gentlemen of France he
espoused as a volunteer the cause of Maria Theresa. It is probable that
most of his active life was passed in the Austrian service, as he won
distinguished honors and was a chief of cavalry in the Seven Years' War.
Home interests were not neglected, however, as the Courance estates were
improved under his management, while the neighboring domains were drifting
to ruin. It appears also that during his last campaigns he adopted into
his military family the younger son of an old Courance neighbor, Henri
d'Armagnac de Foix, a cadet of the house of Pontoise.
After the Peace of Hubertsburg the count returned to France, entrusted, it
is supposed, with a mission respecting a matrimonial alliance between
France and Austria, which was afterward accomplished in the marriage of
the archduchess Marie Antoinette and the dauphin. Louis XV. received the
companion of his youth with great cordiality and honor. At a court
audience the sovereign distinguished the soldier by removing the royal
sword and scarf and with his own hands hanging the splendid guerdon over
the shoulders of his subject and friend.
Leaving his protege, D'Armagnac de Foix, in charge of affairs in Paris,
the count hastened to Courance, where his neighbors hailed his arrival
with every demonstration of welcome. Fetes, hunting-parties, excursions,
balls and banquets were given for his entertainment, and all the families
of the Loiret joined in lionizing the brilliant _chef d'escadron_, heroes
being a rarity in France during those piping times of peace.
Among these old and new friends the count met Madame Chiron de la
Peyronie, relict of Admiral Chiron of the Grand Monarch's navy. This lady
resided with her son and daughter near what was then the pretty village of
La Pontoise. Her children were making their debut in the informal society
of the country-side, and their grace, beauty and guileless charms were
heralded to the general before they were permitted to take part in the
festivities incident to his return. A fox-hunt in the Forest of
Fontainebleau was the occasion of their first meeting. Mademoiselle de la
Peyronie and her brother, magnificently mounted, dashed up to the
rendezvous at a gallop, making it the goal of a merry race. With glowing
cheeks and sparkling eyes the young equestrian presented a very charming
picture of maidenly loveliness. From the moment of her first appearance
the count was fascinated, and during a long day's chase he scarcely left
her bridle-rein. The next day he visited the family, and thereafter sought
the young lady's presence with the frankest disregard of propriety. When
remonstrated with for such inconsiderate devotion, the straightforward
soldier settled the matter by immediately galloping over to La Pontoise
and demanding of Madame de la Peyronie the hand of her daughter in
marriage.
How far the widow should be held responsible for the events which
followed can never be known. She was doubtless flattered by the brilliant
offer, and perhaps overborne by the impetuous ardor of a suitor accustomed
to regard obstacles and opposition only as something to be conquered. But
she knew her daughter's heart was already engaged, and although marriage
alliances were usually made by parents without reference to the bride's
inclinations or opinions, the custom can hardly be held to exculpate the
mother in this case.
The Pontoise family having fallen into poverty, Henri d'Armagnac de Foix
had been educated by the parish cure, and when tutors came from Nemours to
the children of Madame de la Peyronie the young Henri had shared their
studies, passing parts of several days in each week with them at their
house. Growing up together, the three became inseparable friends until, in
course of years, Chiron began to find his part in the companionship
somewhat _de trop_. That Henri and Therese should become lovers was so
natural that the families on each side tacitly sanctioned the relation
without any formal recognition. The old admiral had left a fair dot for
his daughter, and on the other hand the De Foix, though impoverished,
belonged to the ducal house of Nemours and ranked among the highest of the
noblesse; so the match was not unsuitable, and all friends were probably
satisfied. But there was no contract or ceremony of betrothal, as the
lovers were still very young when Henri went away to the wars, he being at
the time scarce twenty years of age. When, therefore, Therese's hand was
demanded by the count de Courance, her mother was not deterred from giving
her consent by any implied obligation to the youthful heir of La Pontoise.
Who could deny the suit of the distinguished soldier, holder of the
largest and richest estates in the Loiret, the personal friend of the
king? Certainly not Madame de la Peyronie. She surrendered at discretion,
the betrothal took place at once, and the marriage was appointed for the
earliest possible day, the magnificent preparations for the event being
the only occasion for delay.
Artists and artisans were brought from Paris, Chateau Courance was
converted for the time into a busy workshop, the neighborhood thrown into
a fever of excitement, and the work of making ready for the wedding was
urged forward with the vigor of a military campaign. The general spent his
days between Courance, where he directed the rehabilitation of the
chateau, and La Pontoise, where he became the most devoted of cavaliers.
Mademoiselle de la Peyronie must have been dazzled by her brilliant
conquest, and the sincere love of the truly noble man, the modest hero and
splendid gentleman, lavished upon her every hour, could not fail to move
at least her gratitude and esteem. But as the days flew by the young girl
paled and drooped, and when the brief period of betrothal drew toward a
close the mother's ingenuity must have been taxed to find excuses for the
wayward moods and manifest misery of her unhappy child. She fell into
melancholy, and sought in solitude opportunity for constant tears. Her
favorite resort was a hill overlooking the road to Fontainebleau and
Paris, and here she would sit for hours, gazing steadily toward the north,
as if expecting some one who never came.
All too soon the wedding-day arrived. From every direction came to
Courance, where the ceremony was to be performed in the chapel, the great
families of the Loiret--a more distinguished assembly of the aristocracy
of France than could have been gathered elsewhere beyond the limits of
Paris and the court. Throngs of lovely dames and gallant gentlemen greeted
the arrival of the bridal-party from La Pontoise, and if the shrinking
bride attracted attention, her emotion was attributed to maiden shyness,
none dreaming that a desperate terror was shaking that harassed heart.
At noon the preliminary observances were concluded, the assembly moved to
the chapel, and the bishop of Nemours advanced to the altar to unite Raoul
Boismonard du Guesclin and Therese Chiron de la Peyronie in the holy
bonds of wedlock. The bridal pair knelt before him, the solemn office of
the Church began, when the sharp ring of a horse's hoof struck the stones
of the courtyard, and the breathless hush of the sacred place was broken
as the betrayed lover burst into the chapel.
With an agonizing cry the bride flew to his arms, and, moved by an
instinctive impulse, he turned to bear his beloved away. One instant the
count stood fast, clutching the hilt of a dainty rapier at his side, the
gift of the king. The next that delicate blade flashed from its jewelled
sheath, drove through the body of Henri de Foix, and pierced to the heart
the unhappy girl clinging to his breast.
The wedding-guests scattered in consternation; the friends of the murdered
lovers took up their dead and departed; the master of Courance summarily
dismissed every living creature from the place, instructed the intendant
to close the chateau, and at nightfall he too left his home, to return no
more. His final command, made imperative and solemn, was that no human
being should ever be permitted to come within the walls of the park.
From Paris he sent back an express bearing a royal mandate repeating and
confirming his injunction prohibiting entry to Courance. Then passed into
oblivion Raoul Boismonard du Guesclin, count de Courance. The last
descendant of the warlike constable, the only representative of a long
line of soldiers and statesmen, closed his life in impenetrable obscurity,
and with him one of the great historic families of the realm disappears
from the annals of France.
JOHN V. SEARS.
THE MARSH.
Safely moored on the dappled water,
The broad green lily-pads dip and sway,
While like a skipper a gray frog rides
The biggest leaf in the tiny bay.
Merrily leap the brown-cheeked waves
To seize the sunlight's liberal gold,
Which strays and wanders among the reeds,
And on the stones of the beach is rolled.
O'er marish meadows, and far beyond,
Silken and green or velvety gray,
Tufted grasses with shifting colors
In the wholesome north wind toss and play.
Lonely and sad, on the sea of green
The cardinal-flower a lighthouse stands,
A scarlet blaze in the morning sun
To guide the honey-bees' toiling bands.
What was it for, this flower's beauty,
Its royal color's marvellous glow,
Not, like a good deed, still rejoicing
The soul that grew it, though no one know?
All unconscious, only a flower,
Life without zest, and death without thought,
Lost as a stone to the sweet deep pleasure
Its scarlet wonder to me has brought.
Has it, I ponder, no sense of pleasing,
No least estate in the world of joy?
Have the leaf and the grasses no conscious sense
Of what they give us--no want or cloy?
Not so unlike us. The words that weight us
With keenest sorrow and longest pain
Fall oft from lips that rest unconscious
If that they give us be loss or gain.
Do I only have power to fill me
From sun and flower with joy intense?
Has yon cold frog on his lonely leaf
No lower share through a duller sense?
Think you the ladies he woos are sought
For form or color or beauty's sake?--
That, touched with sorrow, he mourns to-day
Some mottled Helen beneath the lake?
Why should fret us this constant riddle,
To know if Nature be kind or harsh
To the pensive frog on his green-ribbed raft,
The scarlet queen of the lonely marsh?
Haply, in thought-spheres far above us
Some may watch us with doubts like ours,
Asking if we have wit or reason,
Asking if pain or joy be ours.
But _does_ it vex me, this endless riddle
I toss about in my helpless brain,
To know if life be worth the having,
If just mere being be any gain?
Scarce can I answer. Something surely
The thought has brought me this summer morn--
Something for me in life were missing
If frog and flower had ne'er been born.
S. WEIR MITCHELL.
IN A RUSSIAN "TRAKTEER."
We have it on the authority of no less a personage than Charles the Bold
of Burgundy (the Charles of _Quentin Durward_, at least) that "never was
Englishman who loved a dry-lipped bargain;" and the same thing may safely
be said of the modern Russian. But although the _trakteer_ (or
coffee-house, as we should call it) undoubtedly witnesses many keen trials
of commercial fence, this is very far from being its only use. What the
Agora was to the Athenian, what the Forum was to the Roman, what the
"tea-house" still is to the "heathen Chinee" and the "ice-house" to the
West Indian,--all this, and more, the trakteer is to the Russian. It is
his dining-saloon, his drinking-bar, his news-room (when he happens to be
able to read), his place of meeting with his friends; and, in a word, his
place of resort for any and every purpose.
In such a place the groups of figures are diverse enough to satisfy the
most exacting "painter from life," and the dialogue is often far more
entertaining (which is not saying much) than that of many a popular
vaudeville. Indeed, a dramatist on the lookout for a bit of "comic
business" _not_ "adapted from the French" could not do better than drop
into a trakteer in Moscow--or, better still, Kazan--and make good use of
his eyes and his notebook for twenty minutes or half an hour.
Let us suppose our explorer to be strolling along the narrow, tortuous
streets of the Kitai-Gorod (Chinese Town) at Moscow on a fine winter day,
with the crisp snow crackling under foot, and the clear, bright, frosty
sky over head. Away he goes, past painted houses and staring signs and
gilded church-towers--past dark, narrow shop-doors like exaggerated
rat-traps, with a keen, well-whiskered tenant peering watchfully out of
each--past clamorous groups of blue-frocked, red-girdled cabmen--past
sheepskin-clad beggars, each with his little tablet stamped with a gilt
cross to show that the alms bestowed are to be devoted to the building of
some apocryphal church, probably of the same kind as that spoken of by
Petroleum V. Nasby: "The proceeds air to be devoted entirely to the
'church'--which is _me_."
At length, after many turnings and windings, he comes out upon the vast
open space of the Krasnaya Ploshtchad (Red Plain), with the statues of
Minin and Pojarski on his right, and on his left the cluster of
many-colored domes that crown the fantastic church of Vasili the Blessed,
while right in front of him rise the red-turreted wall of the Kremlin and
the tall spear-pointed tower of the "Gate of Salvation." And now, being by
this time somewhat fatigued by the exertion of a prolonged tramp in a
heavy fur overcoat and felt-lined goloshes, he makes for a doorway above
which appears, in crabbed Slavonian characters, the familiar word
"[Cyrillic: TRAKTIR]."
Pushing open the heavy swing-door (through which issues a whiff of hot air
charged with a combination of greasy smells that might knock down a
rhinoceros), our hero enters the long, low, dingy room, and is instantly
relieved of his coat and cap by half a dozen ready hands, while as many
voices greet him with the stereotyped formula, "Be happy,[B] barin! What
are you pleased to command?"
The "barin" is pleased to command a glass of tea, the customary order with
trakteer-frequenters, and it is obeyed almost as soon as given. Off skips
one of the shirt-sleeved brotherhood, and returns in a twinkling with a
small tray, on which stand a large teapot full of hot water, a smaller one
filled with strong, rich, aromatic tea, a big tumbler (the Russian
substitute for a tea-cup), and several lumps of sugar in a tiny saucer.
[B] This is the literal meaning of the Russian _Zdravstvuite!_ which
answers to our "Good-morning!"
He proceeds to fill the glass, with scientific nicety of proportion, from
both pots at once, launches into it a thin slice of lemon, and then
pronounces the talismanic word "Gotovo!" (ready).
While sipping his tea the inquirer after truth allows his eye to wander
over the room, and sees in every feature the "interior" displayed by every
Russian trakteer from the White Sea to the Black--bare whitewashed walls,
toned down to a dull gray by smoke and steam and grease; plank floor;
double windows, with sand strewn thickly between them; rough,
battered-looking chairs and tables, literally on their last legs; and
close-cropped waiters in dingy shirt-sleeves, with flat, wide-mouthed
faces that look very much like a penny with a hole through it.
And the _habitues_ of the place are as queer as the place itself. Were
Asmodeus at our explorer's elbow, he would whisper that these two gaunt,
sallow men opposite him, whose flat heads and long lithe frames remind one
irresistibly of a brace of Indian snakes, and whose conversation seems to
consist entirely of criticisms upon the weather or good-humored personal
"chaff," are in reality concluding a bargain which involves many thousands
of roubles; that this chubby little man near the door, the very picture of
artless simplicity, is one of the keenest and most skilful speculators on
the Moscow Exchange; and that yonder couple of greasy, unkempt,
lumpish-looking men in shabby brown coats, who are devouring salted
cucumbers in the farther corner, can put down half a million dollars
apiece any day they like.
Suddenly the attention of the taker of notes is attracted by the mention
of a familiar subject, the Franco-German war, and, turning round, he sees
at the table next his own two men in earnest conversation--the one a big,
florid, red-bearded fellow with a huge crimson comforter round his bull
neck, who is laying down the law in the most _ex-cathedra_ fashion to his
neighbor, a meek-looking little man with gray hair and bright, restless
eyes, not unlike those of a squirrel. At first, the surrounding buzz of
conversation and the clatter of plates and glasses allow him to catch
only a stray word of the dialogue every here and there; but after a time a
temporary lull in the hub-bub brings out in strong relief the following
words, spoken with all the confidence of a man accustomed to be listened
to:
"Every one has his turn, Yakov Andreievitch (James the son of Andrew), and
no man can escape what is ordained for him. The Nyemtzi (Germans) have
beaten the French. Well, what then? By and by, please God, the French will
beat the Nyemtzi. 'To live a lifetime is not to cross a field,' and
everything must change sooner or later."
The little man, who is listening to his big neighbor's philosophizings
with an air of timid admiration, remains silent for a moment, as if
digesting the profound wisdom contained in the last remark, and then
ventures to observe, "You speak truly, Pavel Petrovitch (Paul the son of
Peter), but, in the mean time, what if these godless Germans fall upon
Holy Russia?"