Breakfast over, I took a walk through the town. Though in a measure
prepared for a scene of unbustling quietude and tranquillity, I must
own that the air of repose around, far surpassed all I had imagined. The
streets through which I sauntered were grass-grown and untrodden; the
shops were but half open; not an equipage, nor even a horseman was to be
seen. In the Platz, where a sort of fruit-market was held, a few vendors
of grapes, peaches, and melons sat under large crimson umbrellas, but
there seemed few purchasers, except a passing schoolboy, carefully
scanning the temptations in which he was about to invest his kreutzer.
The most remarkable feature of the place, however, and it is one which,
through a certain significance, has always held its place in my memory,
was that, go where one would, the palace of the Grand-Duke was sure to
finish the view at one extremity of the street. In fact, every alley
converged to this one centre, and the royal residence stood like the
governor's chamber in a panopticon jail. There did my mind for many
a day picture him sitting like a huge spider watching the incautious
insects that permeated his web. I imagined him fat, indolent, and
apathetic, but yet, with a jailer's instincts, ever mindful of every
stir and movement of the prisoners below. With a very ordinary telescope
he must be master of everything that went on, and the humblest
incident could not escape his notice. Was it the consciousness of this
surveillance that made every one keep the house? Was it the feeling that
the “Gross Herzogliche” eye never left them, that prevented men being
abroad in the streets and about their affairs as in other places? I
half suspected this, and set to work imagining a state of society thus
scanned and scrutinized. But that the general aspect of the town so
palpably proclaimed the absence of all trade and industry, I might have
compared the whole to a glass hive; but they were all drones that dwelt
there, there was not one “busy bee” in the whole of them.
When I rambled thus carelessly along, I came in front of a sort of
garden fenced from the street by an iron railing. The laurel and
arbutus, and even the oleander, were there, gracefully blending a varied
foliage, and contrasting in their luxuriant liberty so pleasantly with
the dull uniformity outside. Finding a gate wide open, I strolled in,
and gave myself up to the delicious enjoyment of the spot. As I was
deliberating whether this was a public garden or not, I found myself
before a long, low, villa-like building, with a colonnade in front. Over
the entrance was a large shield, which on nearer approach I recognized
to contain the arms of England. This, therefore, was the legation, the
residence of our minister, Sir Shalley Doubleton. I felt a very British
pride and satisfaction to see our representative lodged so splendidly.
With all the taxpayer's sentiment in my heart, I rejoiced to think that
he who personated the nation should, in all his belongings, typify the
wealth, the style, and the grandeur of England, and in the ardor of this
enthusiasm, I hastened back to the inn for the despatch-bag.
Armed with this, and a card, I soon presented myself at the door. On the
card I had written, “Mr. Pottinger presents his respectful compliments,
and requests his Excellency will favor him with an audience of a few
minutes for an explanation.”
I had made up my mind to state that my servant, in removing my smaller
luggage from the train, had accidentally carried off this Foreign Office
bag, which, though at considerable inconvenience, I had travelled much
out of my way to restore in person. I had practised this explanation as
I dressed in the morning, I had twice rehearsed it to an orange-tree in
the garden, before which I had bowed till my back ached, and I fancied
myself perfect in my part. It would, I confess, have been a great relief
to me to have had only the slightest knowledge of the great personage
before whom I was about to present myself, to have known was he short or
tall, young or old, solemn or easy-mannered, had he a loud voice and an
imperious tone, or was he of the soft and silky order of his craft. I'd
have willingly entertained his “gentleman” at a moderate repast for some
information on these points, but there was no time for the inquiry, and
so I rang boldly at the bell. The door opened of itself at the summons,
and I found myself in a large hall with a plaster cast of the Laocoon,
and nothing else. I tried several of the doors on either side, but they
were all locked. A very handsome and spacious stair of white marble
led up from the middle of the hall; but I hesitated about venturing to
ascend this, and once more repaired to the bell outside, and repeated my
summons. The loud clang re-echoed through the arched hall, the open door
gave a responsive shake, and that was all. No one came; everything
was still as before. I was rather chagrined at this. The personal
inconvenience was less offensive than the feeling how foreigners would
comment on such want of propriety, what censures they would pass on such
an ill-arranged household. I rang again, this time with an energy that
made the door strike some of the plaster from the wall, and, with a
noise like cannon, “What the hangman”--I am translating--“is all this?”
cried a voice thick with passion; and, on looking up, I saw a rather
elderly man, with a quantity of curly yellow hair, frowning savagely on
me from the balcony over the stair. He made no sign of coming down, but
gazed sternly at me from his eminence.
“Can I see his Excellency, the Minister?” said I, with dignity.
“Not if you stop down there, not if you continue to ring the bell like
an alarm for fire, not if you won't take the trouble to come upstairs.”
I slowly began the ascent at these words, pondering what sort of a
master such a man must needs have. As I gained the top, I found myself
in front of a very short, very fat man, dressed in a suit of striped
gingham, like an over-plethoric zebra, and wheezing painfully, in part
from asthma, in part from agitation. He began again,--
“What the hangman do you mean by such a row? Have you no manners, no
education? Where were you brought up that you enter a dwelling-house
like a city in storm?”
“Who is this insolent creature that dares to address me in this
wise? What ignorant menial can have so far forgotten my rank and his
insignificance?”
“I'll tell you all that presently,” said he; “there 's his Excellency's
bell.” And he bustled away, as fast as his unwieldy size would permit,
to his master's room.
I was outraged and indignant There was I, Potts,--no,
Pottinger,--Algernon Sydney Pottinger,--on my way to Italy and Greece,
turning from my direct road to consign with safety a despatch-bag which
many a less conscientious man would have chucked out of his carriage
window and forgotten; there I stood to be insulted by a miserable
stone-polishing, floor-scrubbing, carpet-twigging Haus-knecht? Was this
to be borne? Was it to be endured? Was a man of station, family, and
attainments to be the object of such indignity?
Just as I had uttered this speech aloud, a very gentle voice addressed
me, saying,--
“Perhaps I can assist you? Will you be good enough to say what you
want?”
I started suddenly, looked up, and whom should I see before me but that
Miss Herbert, the beautiful girl in deep mourning that I had met at
Milford, and who now, in the same pale loveliness, turned on me a look
of kind and gentle meaning.
“Do you remember me?” said I, eagerly. “Do you remember the traveller--a
pale young man, with a Glengarry cap and a plaid overcoat--who met you
at Milford?”
“Perfectly,” said she, with a slight twitch about the mouth like a
struggle against a smile. “Will you allow me to repay you now for your
politeness then? Do you wish to see his Excellency?”
I 'm not very sure what it was I replied, but I know well what was
passing through my head. If my thoughts could have spoken, it would have
been in this wise,--
“Angel of loveliness, I don't care a brass farthing for his Excellency.
It is not a matter of the slightest moment to me if I never set eyes on
him. Let me but speak to you, tell you the deep impression you have
made upon my heart; how, in my ardor to serve you, I have already been
involved in an altercation that might have cost me my life; how I still
treasure up the few minutes I passed beside you as the Elysian dream of
all my life--”
“I am certain, sir,” broke she in while I spoke, I repeat, I know not
what,--“I am certain, sir, that you never came here to mention all this
to his Excellency.”
There was a severe gravity in the way that she said these words that
recalled me to myself, but not to any consciousness of what I had been
saying; and so, in my utter discomfiture, I blundered out something
about the lost despatches and the cause of my coming.
“If you 'll wait a moment here,” said she, opening a door into a neatly
furnished room, “his Excellency shall hear of your wish to see him.” And
before I could answer, she was gone.
I was now alone, but in what wild perplexity and anxiety! How came
she here? What could be the meaning of her presence in this place? The
Minister was an unmarried man, so much my host had told me. How then
reconcile this fact with the presence of one who had left England but
a few days ago, as some said, to be a governess or a companion? Oh, the
agony of my doubts, the terrible agony of my dire misgivings! What
a world of iniquity do we live in, what vice and corruption are ever
around us! It was but a year or two ago, I remember, that the “Times”
newspaper had exposed the nefarious schemes of a wretch who had
deliberately invented a plan to entrap those most unprotected of all
females. The adventures of this villain had become part of the police
literature of Europe. Young and attractive creatures, induced to come
abroad by promises of the most seductive kind, had been robbed by this
man of all they possessed, and deserted here and there throughout
the Continent. I was so horror-stricken by the terrors my mind had so
suddenly conjured up, that I could not acquire the calm and coolness
requisite for a process of reasoning. My over-active imagination, as
usual, went off with me, clearing obstacles with a sweeping stride, and
steeplechasing through fact as though it were only a gallop over grass
land.
“Poor girl, well might you look confused and overwhelmed at meeting me!
well might the flush of shame have spread over your neck and shoulders,
and well might you have hurried away from the presence of one who had
known you in the days of your happy innocence!” I am not sure that I did
n't imagine I had been her playfellow in childhood, and that we had been
brought up from infancy together. My mind then addressed itself to
the practical question, What was to be done? Was I to turn my head away
while this iniquity was being enacted? was I to go on my way, forgetting
the seeds of that misery whose terrible fruits must one day be a shame
and an open ignominy? or was I to arraign this man, great and exalted as
he was, and say to him, “Is it thus you represent before the eyes of the
foreigner the virtues of that England we boast to be the model of all
morality? Is it thus you illustrate the habits of your order? Do you
dare to profane what, by the fiction of diplomacy, is called the soil of
your country, by a life that you dare not pursue at home? The Parliament
shall hear of it; the 'Times' shall ring with it; that magnificent
institution, the common sense of England, long sick of what is called
secret diplomacy, shall learn at last to what uses are applied the wiles
and snares of this deceitful craft, its extraordinary and its private
missions, its hurried messengers with their bags of corruption--”
I was well “into my work,” and was going along slappingly, when a very
trim footman, in a nankeen jacket, said,--
“If you will come this way, sir, his Excellency will see you.”
He led me through three or four _salons_ handsomely furnished and
ornamented with pictures, the most conspicuous of which, in each room,
was a life-sized portrait of the same gentleman, though in a different
costume,--now in the Windsor uniform, now as a Guardsman, and, lastly,
in the full dress of the diplomatic order. I had but time to guess that
this must be his Excellency, when the servant announced me and retired.
It is in deep shame that I own that the aspect of the princely
apartments, the silence, the implied awe of the footman's subdued
words as he spoke, had so routed all my intentions about calling his
Excellency to account that I stood in his presence timid and abashed.
It is an ignoble confession wrung out of the very heart of my snobbery,
that no sooner did I find myself before that thin, pale, gray-headed
man, who in a light silk dressing-gown and slippers sat writing away,
than I gave up my brief, and inwardly resigned my place as a counsel for
injured innocence.
He never raised his head as I entered, but continued his occupation
without noticing me, muttering below his breath the words as they fell
from his pen. “Take a seat,” said he, curtly, at last. Perceiving now
that he was fully aware of my presence, I sat down without reply. “This
bag is late, Mr. Paynter,” said he, blandly, as he laid down his pen and
looked me in the face.
“Your Excellency will permit me, _in limine_, to observe that my name is
not Paynter.”
“Possibly, sir,” said he, haughtily; “but you are evidently before me
for the first time, or you would know that, like my great colleague and
friend, Prince Metternich, I have made it a rule through life never to
burden my memory with whatever can be spared it, and of these are the
patronymics of all subordinate people; for this reason, sir, and to this
end, every cook in my establishment answers to the name of Honoré, my
valet is always Pierre, my coach-. man Jacob, my groom is Charles, and
all foreign messengers I call Paynter. The original of that appellation
is, I fancy, superannuated or dead, but he lives in some twenty
successors who carry canvas reticules as well as he.”
“The method may be convenient, sir, but it is scarcely complimentary,”
said I, stiffly.
“Very convenient,” said he, complacently. “All consuls I address as Mr.
Sloper. You can't fail to perceive how it saves time, and I rather think
that in the end they like it themselves. When did you leave town?”
“I left on Saturday last. I arrived at Dover by the express train, and
it was there that the incident befell me by which I have now the honor
to stand before your Excellency.”
Instead of bestowing the slightest attention on this exordium of mine,
he had resumed his pen and was writing away glibly as before. “Nothing
new stirring, when you left?” said he, carelessly.
“Nothing, sir. But to resume my narrative of explanation--”
“Come to dinner, Paynter; we dine at six,” said he, rising hastily; and,
opening a glass door into a conservatory, walked away, leaving me in
a mingled state of shame, anger, humiliation, and, I will state, of
ludicrous embarrassment, which I have no words to express.
“Dinner! No,” exclaimed I, “if the alternative were a hard crust and a
glass of spring water I not if I were to fast till this time to-morrow!
Dine with a man who will not condescend to acknowledge even my identity,
who will not deign to call me by my name, but only consents to regard
me as a pebble on the seashore, a blade of grass in a wide meadow! Dine
with him, to be addressed as Mr. Paynter, and to see Pierre, and
Jacob, and the rest of them looking on me as one of themselves! By what
prescriptive right does this man dare to insult those who, for aught he
can tell, are more than his equals in ability? Does the accident--and
what other can it be than accident?--of his station confer this
privilege? How would he look if one were to retort with his own
impertinence? What, for instance, if I were to say, 'I always call small
diplomatists Bluebottles! You 'll not be offended if, just for memory's
sake, I address you as Bluebottle,--Mr. Bluebottle, of course'?”
I was in ecstasies at this thought. It seemed to vindicate all my
insulted personality, all my outraged and injured identity. “Yes,”
said I, “I will dine with him; six o'clock shall see me punctual to
the minute, and determined to avenge the whole insulted family of the
Paynters. I defy him to assert that the provocation came not from _his_
side. I dare him to show cause why I should be the butt of his humor,
any more than he of _mine_, I will be prepared to make use of his
own exact words in repelling my impertinence, and say, 'Sir, you have
exactly embodied _my_ meaning; you have to the letter expressed what
this morning I felt on being called Mr. Paynter; you have, besides
this, had the opportunity of experiencing the sort of pain such an
impertinence inflicts, and you are now in a position to guide you as to
how far you will persist in it for the future.'”
I actually revelled in the thought of this reprisal, and longed for the
moment to come in which, indolently thrown back in my chair, I should
say, “Bluebottle, pass the Madeira,” with some comment on the advantage
all the Bluebottles have in getting their wine duty free. Then, with
what sarcastic irony I should condole with him over his wearisome, dull
career, eternally writing home platitudes for blue-books, making Grotius
into bad grammar, and vamping up old Puffendorf for popular reading.
“Ain't you sick of it all, B. B.?” I should say, familiarly; “is not the
unreality of the whole thing offensive? Don't you feel that a despatch
is a sort of formula in which Madrid might be inserted for Moscow, and
what was said of Naples might be predicated for Norway?” I disputed
a long time with myself at what precise period of the entertainment
I should unmask my battery and open fire. Should it be in the
drawing-room, before dinner? Should it be immediately after the soup,
with the first glass of sherry? Ought I to wait till the dessert, and
that time when a sort of easy intimacy had been established which might
be supposed to prompt candor and frankness? Would it not be in better
taste to defer it till the servants had left the room? To expose him to
his household seemed scarcely fair.
These were all knotty points, and I revolved them long and carefully, as
I came back to my hotel, through the same silent street.