perception of the burden and heat of the day in the valley below; yet
the fresh breeze of the mountain drove us with a sense of hunger back
to the baths.
Having spoken of the scenery, let us now speak of the guests.
There were not many. Frau T----, ourselves and a young woman, a
sewing-machinist, occupied the available chambers of the chalet.
The rest were used as receptacles for hay and milk: the ground floor
contained the _stube_, the kitchen, the pigstye, or rather the room
set apart for the pig, and the cow-house. Several poor guests, men and
woman, hovered about the door of the barn. They slept in the various
lofts, divided into rooms, and cooked for themselves in a common
kitchen adjoining the bath-rooms. These were two long wooden sheds, in
which rows of large tubs were placed. The patients bathed twice a day,
being covered over with boards and a horse-rug, but the head was left
free. There was no doctor: each could doctor himself by lying in the
hot water and drinking more or fewer glasses of the iron water daily.
It poured from a spout into a wooden trough between the chalet and the
barn; and this explained old Nanni's mutterings after our arrival.
Although the peasant bathers as a class made no distinct impression on
us, the half dozen men looking like facsimiles of each other, and the
seven women appearing always to be one and the same, still there were
one or two figures which stand prominently forth, from the more direct
relations into which we came with them.
First, an old peasant-woman, whom we heard, as we descended from the
Kronplatz, singing to a crying baby as we approached the house:
Engeli, Bengeli, wilt thou go to America?
Rumelti, Pumelti, wilt thou go to England?
She instantly stopped her ditty when she saw us emerge from the wood.
Curious, was it not? and yet we had neither brought our passports with
us, nor had we followed the example of previous guests and proved our
learning by writing our names and birthplaces in the visitors' book--a
large volume for which every door-lintel and piece of wainscot in the
house acted as leaves. No, but some little bird had been whispering
about us on the mountain-side.
The next figure is another peasant-woman, tall and somewhat thin,
with a patient, beseeching look in her face. This I quietly perceived
whilst I sat busily writing near the house at a table which Moidel had
carried out for me, yet I would not look up, because she stood eyeing
me with an innocent stare, as if wishful to enter into conversation. A
few minutes later a buxom matron stepped forth from the passage of
the chalet. It acted as a convenient thoroughfare on the road between
Reischach and Geisselburg. Her daughter, a girl of sixteen, who was
with her, wore two beaver hats, the uppermost evidently bran-new and a
fresh purchase. The first peasant-woman addressed the newcomer with a
"God greet thee, Trina! Thou hast been shopping, I see."
"God greet thee, Gertraud! It is only a new hat for the moidel. We
were going down for Scapulary Sunday; so I thought I might go on to
town and sell thirty pounds of cow-hair, the savings of ten years;
for, now there's to be a railway, beds are wanted, and as I received
more than I expected, Moidel got her hat."
Then lowering her voice and pointing in my direction: "One of the
strange ladies? I saw the other in the wood gathering strawberries. I
heard she came from America, but she was quite pretty, without either
black skin or thick lips. There must be some mistake. But, Gertraud,
how's the sick little maid?"
"Very weak--cannot last long. The doctor was up yesterday, and he
said it was useless his coming again: however, he left it something
soothing. Adieu, Trina: greet all at home."
At first amused by the notions these fellow-creatures possessed of
us, then forgetting them in the trouble which I perceived occupied the
poor woman's mind, I lifted up my head when her friends were gone and
inquired if she had a sick child.
"Oh, na, na! not of my own. I'm nursing a little maid of five years
old: the father is a government postilion and the mother in service,
and so she brought her up here to see if the air and the water would
strengthen her. She is their only child. No, I myself live about an
hour from here: you can see my cottage amongst the cherry trees on
the slopes yonder. It looks nearer than it is, for there is a hidden
ravine between. Ah, Herr je! I've had children too, and have had to
give them all up. They are waiting for me with the dear God; but, Herr
je! it's long toiling and hoping to reach them. However, you'll oblige
me and tell me where you have really come from?"
"From Rome," was the reply.
"Mein Gott! as far off as heaven! The creation is frightfully big!
Well, I must not loiter. I came out to say a prayer, then to chop wood
for Moidel."
An hour later, while sitting at supper in the passage, the most
convenient and quiet place as we imagined, we found all the guests
marching past us, each saluting us with "A good appetite to you!" or
else "May you eat well!" They had been called together by Frau T----
and the sewing-machinist, Fraülein Magdalena, for Rosenkranz.
Hardly were they kneeling in the chapel, a small building at the
farther side of the chalet, when the pig marched also up the passage,
and grunting out his "Guten appetit," proposed taking his place at our
table. We drove him out of doors: he waited behind the house corner to
avoid detection until we were comfortably seated, when again he was
at our side, snuffing the dishes in the air and grunting his "Guten
appetit."
We were in despair. Moidel was not forthcoming, and we found that we
could not shut the door against our intruding visitor.
"_Was thust du? Na, na! Draus, draus, Kloane_!" ("What dost thou? No,
no! Out with thee, little one!"), said a voice in the passage; and
a short man, with a good-natured, half-foolish face, after releasing
himself from a heavily-laden basket which he carried on his back,
walked through the passage and out of the farther door, attended by
the pig, who lovingly rubbed his snout against him. The stranger knelt
down at one of the shattered windows of the chapel, his four-footed
companion standing patiently by him, until the orison was over and
the worshipers trooped out of the little chapel. Then the knowing pig
trotted off to his own quarters, whilst one voice exclaimed, "You are
back again, Seppl?"
"You've not forgotten my bread?" said a second.
"You've brought me the knitting needles?" said a third.
"You left the letter at the Lamb and Flag?" added a fourth.
This, then, was the master, evidently the common messenger of all,
who, whilst the guests called him behind his back "Headless Seppl,"
had managed to fulfill two dozen verbal commissions to everybody's
satisfaction. This was the landlord, whom we had pictured lying in a
drunken lethargy in some hay barn after the bout of the night before.
How we had maligned an evidently simple, honest soul, who had been
toiling from early morning, and who, having discharged the orders of
his different customers, started up the steep mountain-side, and we
heard him calling "_Koos, koos, koos_," lovingly to his cows! It was
only when he had milked them, patted them, called each by its name,
seen them comfortably housed for the night, that he had time to think
of resting or eating his dumplings for supper.
It was the fourth morning of our stay, and we were preparing to leave.
Seppl's basket was already packed with our belongings, and he, the
good beast of burden, had orders in half an hour to act as our guide,
when suddenly Moidel flew out of the kitchen, exclaiming, "He is
coming! he is coming!" and wiping her arms on her apron rushed down
the green meadows beyond the chapel. Fräulein Magdalena, dropping her
work, uttered a joyful cry. "Yes, it is he! it's Herr Pflersch!" she
said, turning to us. "The king of Bad Scharst. Ah! why don't you stay,
for glorious days will begin? I've been here eleven years at the same
time as Herr Pflersch, and we have none of us gone to bed for seven
days together. We play at cards and he tells us tales."
The excitement in the whole establishment became universal. Herr
Pflersch was our grocer, a burly, good-natured man, who bowed politely
to us when he arrived at the house, led by a troop of admiring and
rejoicing friends. He was attended by his cook, and had brought with
him a sackful of provisions and his feather bed, which came toiling up
the hill in a cart.
Fräulein Magdalena stood rapturously before the welcome guest,
offering him a quart glass of water: "No beer to offer you, Herr
Pflersch, but glorious water, Herr Pflersch."
Moidel apologized for not going a step of the way with us, "But Herr
Pflersch had come;" and whilst she said so she began putting one of
Herr Pflersch's own wax candles into a brass candlestick. "I have,
however, a favor to ask of you," she continued: "that is, if we ever
happen to meet on the high-road in the Pusterthal, you'll allow me to
recognize you." A humble request indeed, poor soul!
Gertraud came down from the barn to say good-bye to us. The "little
maid" was still lingering, but she added mysteriously, "She'll be
knocking thrice at her mother's door to-morrow."
Walking across the meadows, this time taking a different way from that
by which we had arrived, we met several groups of peasant-men carrying
bundles in their hands, who asked Seppl if the Herr had arrived, and
being answered in the affirmative, they hurried on, as if desirous to
act as Knights of the Round Table to King Pflersch.
CHAPTER VI.
In sending word to Anton to fetch us from the inn at Nieder Olang that
especial afternoon, we had not been aware that we had chosen a place
and hour when most of the pious male Catholics were gathered thither
to accord an unflinching, unequivocal assent to the Infallibility
dogma, as well as to condemn from the bottom of their clerical or
rustic souls the foul heresy of Old Catholicism, which was spreading
far and wide in the adjoining kingdom of Bavaria. Most of the farmers
and all the parish priests were assembled. The spacious _Widum_ or
parsonage, in festal array, kept open house, the large church was
full to overflowing, whilst the ample inn being still more crammed
we preferred waiting for Anton in a shady nook opposite. Here we had
ample leisure to observe the rows of clerical and bucolic backs ranged
against the open inn windows, and to listen to the hum of serious
voices, sounding as if a spiritual mass meeting were being held over
seitels of wine. It was a curious sight a quarter of an hour later,
the conclave being at an end, to watch the priests flocking forth,
some so old and shabby, in such stained, rusty frockcoats, that their
very assumption of dignity appeared painfully grotesque; others, more
scrupulously clean, displayed with pride a blue silk ribbon bound as
an order across their breasts; but whether shabby or decent, whether
singly or in groups, they were invariably received bareheaded by the
respectful villagers waiting outside, whilst a double salvo of homage
was awarded by priest and layman to a tall, elegant Italian monsignor
from Brixen, who, tucking up gracefully his rich violet garments,
walked with infinite care from the inn to the Widum, disappearing from
view under the gateway.
All the clergy now departing in various directions were complacently
chuckling over the security of their position, their quiet,
unquestioning sheep obediently following whithersoever they might lead
them. It was not always so in the Tyrol. In former ages, especially
at the time of the Reformation, the people had used their independent
judgment, allowing themselves neither to be oppressed nor led astray.
In these latter days, however, their freer, nobler instincts have
been overpowered by the marvelous, almost incredible, influence of
the Jesuits. In the last century, when this order was suppressed, the
Tyrolese gymnasiums were immediately improved, schools for the people
were opened, and such was the spirit of the age that the barons
Sternbach, Turn, Taxis and other noblemen became Freemasons--an act
which their descendants, now shackled with Jesuitical influences,
regard with the deepest horror. After the revolution of 1848 a spirit
of reaction arose in the Tyrol, which holds the people back, retards
progress and keeps the country far behind other European lands.
A very embodiment of this retrograding subordination stood before us
in the form of Seppl, who, dull, poor both in mind and pocket, still
lingered entranced with wonder and amazement at a power which appeared
to him capable of governing both earth and heaven.
Rich bauers and poor laborers in this peaceful, wealthy portion of the
Tyrol become daily more blindly attached to the priests. Should there
happen to be a thinker amongst them, he must keep his questionings to
himself: he will find no sympathy in his neighbors. In towns such as
Innsbruck, however, he will discover many fellows, for a feeling of
reaction has awakened there a more liberal, independent spirit.
If Seppl might be taken as an extreme type of the provincial mode
of thought, so might a young student with whom we shortly became
acquainted be regarded as representing that of the town. Pursuing a
long course of medical studies at the Innsbruck University, he implied
rather by his actions than by any outward expressions that he regarded
his worthy country relations as zealots, absented himself from
Rosenkranz and long family graces, and spoke compassionately of his
relatives as being "very naïve;" and these simple, unsophisticated
people in their turn, though staggered by this spirit of quiet
innovation and rebellion in their midst, made their minds easy on the
score that a man of the world, such as he was, and honorably providing
for himself, could not be expected to be such as they were. He had not
time for prayers and confessions: he must study, and then must enjoy
relaxation; but some of their extra petitions might be put to his
account. Not that this was ever expressed in so many words: it was
rather from our own quiet observations that we drew these inferences.
Nor did opportunities fail, seeing that our new acquaintance was in
fact no other than the "Herr Student," the saintly personage whom
we had imagined in long black Noah's Ark coat, wearing the orthodox
clerical stock embroidered with blue and white beads, leading
Rosenkranz, and, should we ever have the honor of his acquaintance,
saying three Ave Marias before conversing with heretics.
Instead of this, behold a good-looking, cheerful young man in gold
spectacles, wearing a suit the color of ripe chestnuts, who, whilst
we began impatiently to look for Anton, appeared before us like a good
genius from the inn, introduced himself and apologized that we should
have been kept waiting. "I regret," he added, "that I was not aware of
your arrival until the kellnerin pointed you out through the window;
otherwise I should have taken the liberty to explain to you that
my brother may be a little late. He brought me and two friends over
earlier in the day, and had then to attend to a little business. _Mein
compliment_;" and with a low bow he returned to the inn.
We no longer anxiously inquired of each other whether the ever-ready
Anton had received our message, rather whether we had not put him to
considerable inconvenience when there was business of the Hofbauer's
to be attended to. And next, how in the world, if the Herr Student,
who had so suddenly appeared on the scene, were here with two friends,
we could all return in the gig?
Nor did this dilemma seem likely to decrease when we spied in the
far distant windings of the road, dotted over with the receding black
groups of priests and their supporters, a moving object approaching
in our direction bearing unmistakable resemblance to the gig and
broad-backed horse, but with a female figure seated behind Anton--a
perplexity which grew greater when, the distance becoming less,
the figure assumed a still more elegant form, holding a fashionable
sunshade in her hand, which suddenly began to wave persistently in our
direction.
Who could it be? We imagined, we hoped, we doubted, until ten minutes
later our astonishment ended in a joyous reality as we clasped in our
arms our dear, friend E----. She had arrived in our absence on a visit
to us at the Hof, and the good family, desirous of affording us a
joyful surprise, had proposed that Anton should drive her over to meet
us at Nieder Olang. The Herr Student was in the secret. This had made
him prudently cut our conversation short and return to his friends in
the inn.
E---- brought bouquets of flowers for us from the aunt and Moidel,
but there was no reason for us to hurry back: there were still several
hours of daylight. The sturdy horse having already accomplished some
eighteen or twenty miles since morning, made no objection to a rest
and feed of hay in the stable, whilst Anton was content to sit with
his brother and his two friends in the _stube_ before the trio started
on foot for the Hof. It seemed rather a desire to show the strangers
the neighborhood than any inclination to attend the clerical meeting
which had brought the Herr Student to Nieder Olang this afternoon. And
we, glad of an hour's delay, started immediately with E----, the sunny
summer afternoon made brighter by this joyous meeting, to visit the
adjoining hamlet of Mitter Olang.
The three small adjacent villages of Upper, Middle and Lower Olang,
lying amongst monotonous fields and destitute themselves of any
picturesque beauty, would be passed over by the stranger as totally
devoid of interest; but, thanks to Dr. Staffler's topographical work,
_Das deutsche Tirol und Voralberg_, the mention of Peter Sigmair of
Mitter Olang had excited a strong desire in us to see the spot where
he had lived and died.
After the battle of Austerlitz, in 1805, the defeated emperor of
Austria signed a treaty with Napoleon ceding Venice to the French and
the Tyrol to their ally, Bavaria. The Tyrolese thus found themselves
suddenly separated from an empire the fortunes of which they had
shared for some five hundred years. If the country had outwardly
become Bavarian, the hearts of the people remained essentially
Austrian, and bitterly did they resent having to obey a government in
league with the French, the sworn foe of Austria. Thus they determined
on the first opportunity to throw off the hated yoke. The Bavarians
had promised by the treaty to leave intact the Tyrolese constitution.
They soon, however, forced the young men into the army to fight their
battles, dissolved the religious houses, and eventually dismissed
both bishops and parish priests. This was more than these extremely
religious people could brook. The Bavarians had broken faith in not
preserving the constitution: now they were free from their oath, they
declared. In this sentiment the emperor of Austria warmly seconded
them, and secret plots of rebellion began speedily to ferment through
the land. In 1809, the memorable, never-to-be-forgotten year _Nine_
of Tyrolese history, the earnestly longed-for opportunity arrived. In
April of this year the Austrians declared war against France, and on
the 8th of the same month the enthusiastic patriot Johann Maria von
Kolb appeared in the market-place of Innichen, where he issued written
proclamations, still preserved at Bruneck, bidding all the parish
priests and the inhabitants of the Upper Pusterthal instantly to rise,
throw off the Bavarian yoke and join the beloved Austrian troops,
which were now marching in that direction.
Incited by Von Kolb and other leaders, the people rose and welcomed
the Austrians. The Bavarian troops stationed at Bruneck hastily
retreated to Brixen, and the Austrians entered the chief town of the
Pusterthal on April 12. Peace now reigned in the district for several
months. The rest of the Tyrol, however, was in commotion. In May the
Bavarians were again back in the country, and the French coming to
their assistance. The people rose under the leadership of the brave
Hofer. They won a great victory at Iselberg, but in October the
French had taken possession of Innsbruck, and the treaty of Schonbrunn
immediately followed, in which the Tyrolese, again handed over to
Bavaria, were ordered to lay down their arms.
The people disobeyed: they were incredulous, believing the official
documents to be forged; and, although he knew better, Von Kolb
strengthened them in this belief. He, together with Peter Kemenater, a
wealthy wirth, and George Lantschner, the priest of Weitenthal, urged
the people to rise and fight for their country, setting at naught any
treaty of peace. Thus, though the French troops were allowed by the
town authorities to enter Bruneck on November 5, the people remained
in a state of turbulence, the men of Taufers immediately rising and
fighting the French at Gaisz, the first village in their valley,
and although defeated and driven back, the neighboring peasants
of Aufhofen took up the attack, having in their turn their village
plundered and some of the inhabitants killed by the enemy.
Von Kolb and his party next encouraged the Landsturm or people _en
masse_ to assail the French general Moreau in Brixen, causing his
friend, General Almeras, to leave Bruneck in charge of a small troop
and to hurry to his rescue. The very same afternoon (November 30)
the priest Lantschner, accompanied by the wirth of Mühlen in the
Taufersthal, Johann Hofer, marched at the head of an army of peasants
on Bruneck. In the mean time, Almeras, prevented by a general uprising
from reaching Brixen, turned back with his troops dressed as a
private, and made most of the way by mountain-paths on foot, fearing
to remain in his carriage, as immediately after starting his cook
had been shot dead on the coach-box. Approaching Bruneck, the general
discovered the concourse of the armed peasants to be far greater than
he had imagined, and a whole day elapsed before his entry into the
town could be effected. On December 2 the insurgents advanced nearer
and nearer, pouring down from the neighboring village of Percha, which
they had chosen as their head-quarters. At one o'clock they pushed
before them two sledges loaded with hay from Edelsheim, and one filled
with straw from Percha, and, forming by this means a barricade in
front of the Capuchin monastery, began firing, whilst troops of
peasants still marched forward from other villages. More used to
plough-shares than swords, however, the peasants, numbering ten
thousand men, instead of surrounding the town, as they might easily
have done, merely attacked it on the north side, thus enabling the
French general with a handful of cavalry and infantry to surprise
them in the rear. Confusion and a most ignominious defeat ensued, the
peasants fleeing across the meadows and fields, some being killed and
others taken prisoners. Although repulsed, they were not reduced,
and animated by the rash, vindictive Von Kolb, made several fresh
skirmishes. Standing up in the village street of Percha, this leader
animated them still to fresh attacks, and sent special messengers
north, south, east and west, vowing fire and vengeance to all who
succumbed; but on December 6, fresh French troops having come to the
aid of General Almeras, the peasants saw that their cause was lost and
refused to listen. Thus ceased the peasant war.
The town of Bruneck, which had suffered greatly from the double siege,
still venerates the memory of General Almeras, who exerted himself
on its behalf, whilst his liberality toward the peasants, whom
he regarded as ignorant and misguided, was equally praiseworthy,
mitigating in many instances the severity of the council of war.
Although the insurgents were dispersed, most of the French officers,
unlike General Almeras, condescended to the bitterest revenge against
the disarmed people. All the leaders who had not concealed themselves
were captured and summarily shot without trial. Von Kolb, however,
escaped with his life: disguised as a seller of lemons, he fled
over the Redensberg, and passing through Antholz managed to reach
Stiermark. Another still more remarkable man, Father Joachim, known
amongst the people as Red Beard, wading through deep snow managed to
hide himself for many months in the castle of Goldrain. In August
of 1810, disguised as an artisan, he reached Switzerland, Milan, and
finally Vienna, where the emperor, as a reward for his valiant deeds,
presented him with the living of Hietzing in the neighborhood of
Vienna.
Our long but necessary preamble now brings us to Peter Sigmair. He too
had a price set on his head, having acted as lieutenant in the popular
cause, and had accordingly sought a safe retreat in the mountains.
Soon, however, a friend brought him word that his old father, George
Sigmair, the Tharer-wirth of Mitter Olang, when attending to some
business in Bruneck on St. Thomas's Day, had been arrested by command
of General Broussier, with orders that he should be shot if his
son did not give himself up before three days. The son might have
comforted himself with the thought that it would be impossible for
the general to put so tyrannical a threat into execution, but the
consciousness of his father in such danger conquered all other
feelings. He immediately started for Bruneck, and gave himself up. His
father was instantly liberated, whilst he, bound in chains, was sent
to Bozen, but brought back to Bruneck at the beginning of
January, 1810, when in his cell in the castle he quietly heard his
sentence--that he should be shot before the door of his father's inn
at Mitter Olang, and that his body should then be hung on a gallows as
a solemn warning to refractory peasants. His young wife, maddened with
grief, penetrated to the presence of the French general, clasped his
knees and plead in vain for mercy. He remained perfectly impassive to
her entreaties, but granted a favor to a young priest, Franz von
Mörl, who accompanied the prisoner in his last moments--namely, that,
instead of before the window, the execution should take place at a
small wayside chapel on the confines of the village. And so Peter
Sigmair was shot at the age of thirty-six, honored for his valor, but
still more for his filial piety.
We were now standing on the very spot, before the humble, whitewashed
chapel. Above the entrance, which was closed, a rude fresco, much
injured by weather, commemorated the deed. Some soldiers in very
high-waisted regimentals were taking aim at Peter Sigmair, who knelt
blindfolded, wearing the full peasant costume, which, more ordinary
in those days, is still used for marriages, and is consequently
represented even now on mortuary tablets as indicative of the heavenly
wedding-garment.
After seeing the now desolate, forsaken chapel, we bent our steps into
the village to visit the Wirth-haus. A friendly, quiet peasant-woman
met us in the dark passage, and showed us into a clean, comfortable
wainscoted room, the _zechstube_. We ordered some wine for the good of
the house, which was brought by an equally quiet peasant-man. Setting
it on the table, he hovered about the room in an uncertain way, but
confided to us eventually that he was the landlord. The woman then
came and introduced herself as his sister, and they both stood
silently before us in a house as silent as themselves, the great
festival at the neighboring hamlet having probably thinned their
custom. It was evident that they had plenty of leisure to answer any
questions, and we had soon learned from them that the old Tharer-wirth
was their grandfather.
"You must know," said the sister, "I have read in big printed letters
that Onkel Peter's little children, holding up their little hands,
prayed the cruel general with tears to spare their father. It is a
pity that what is put in print can never be altered, because he had no
children. He had only a young wife, who afterward married a bauer at
Antholz, where their son is the priest."
"Yes," said the wirth. "If there had been children, they would have
succeeded, not my mother. It was before either of us was born, but she
often told us of it--how cold it was, in the depth of winter, on the
Name of Jesus Day. Onkel Peter marched with a cross placed in his
hands, which were bound behind him, from Bruneck, being led to a house
near the inn at Nieder Olang, since burnt down, where he confessed.
At the wayside chapel he next received the sacrament, and then the
soldiers shot him."
Were there any mementoes of him in the house? we asked.
"Oh, not now. His belt used to lie about the house, but had been
either carried off or lost." And then one of the good souls intimated
that it was sad to have a relation publicly executed: he must pass as
a criminal. It did their hearts good to find that strangers from other
parts did not look upon him as such. It was natural that they and the
villagers should think well of him, but they were poor ignorant people
at the best. However, criminal or not, all the school-children in
Tyrol read about him now. He was stuck in their primers and called
a hero and a patriot; only, even in the lesson-book, the mistake had
again been made of giving him children. The wirth thought it must be
for effect--to make the tale more thrilling.
"We often puzzle ourselves about the rights and wrongs of Onkel
Peter's death," concluded the simple man; "but this will always be
clear to us, that three foreign ladies visiting the house out of
respect to his memory speaks well for him."
Thus we left the staid brother and sister quietly gratified by our
call, and returning to Nieder Olang found the kellnerin of the now
deserted inn awaiting us with a nosegay of stately white lilies. The
gig too was ready, and with our dear friend E---- at our side we drove
homeward in the silent summer evening. We passed Percha, a small group
of peaceful houses and a church, contrasting forcibly with the wild,
tumultuous scenes which it must have witnessed when the enthusiast Von
Kolb and his companions convulsed the peasantry;--and passed over the
upland plains where the ten thousand peasants had been repulsed and
scattered--a corn-giving land, affluent with myriad golden shocks,
like a perpetual Joseph's dream.
* * * * *
The Hof proved too quiet and healthful a resting-place, and its
inmates too genuinely good and honest, for us to bid it a lasting
farewell in '71. Behold us, therefore, in the following summer
again within its friendly walls, where we at first settled down to
a harmonious, industrious routine of several weeks: then an extreme
desire seizing upon some of us to see more of the glories of mountain
and valley around, we set out one and all for six days of pure holiday
enjoyment; part of the programme being for the more adventurous,
attended by Moidel, to climb to the Olm on a visit to Jakob.
MARGARET HOWITT.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
WITH THE AMERICAN AMBULANCE CORPS AT PARIS.
We were sitting under the trees in the Champs Élysées, in sight of the
ruined Tuileries, when my friend gave me the following reminiscences.
In repeating what I can recall of them, as nearly as I can in his own
language, I shall use names with almost as great freedom as he did--a
fact for which I think I owe no apology.
"Restore that wreck of the Tuileries," said my friend--but I shall
let him tell his story without quotation-marks, and without the
interruption of my urging and questionings, that finally got him
almost as much interested in his subject as I was myself--Restore that
wreck of the Tuileries, and these gay equipages and these loiterers
in the Avenue would repeat for you, very nearly, the scene of my first
service with the American ambulance. That was before I was a regular
member of the corps--in fact, before the corps which operated at the
siege of Paris had been properly formed. Dr. Sims, Dr. Tom Pratt,
Frank Hayden and others, with three ambulance-wagons, were going to
the front: we heard a great deal of _"à Berlin!"_ in the streets in
those days. I came down this way to the Palais d'Industrie to see
them off, and when I did see the American ladies raising the colors
to march through the crowd, I couldn't help taking part in the
procession. So I put on the _brassard_ of Geneva--a red cross on a
white band strapped on the arm, being the ambulance badge established
in 1864 by the International Convention of Geneva--and seized one
of the sticks with a sack on the end of it, and began asking
contributions for the wounded as the cortege moved on.
It was one of the most exciting scenes I ever witnessed, our march for
miles through the crowded boulevards to the station of the Northern
Railway. Dr. Sims walked behind his own horses, which headed the
procession, and the throng everywhere commented admiringly upon the
_chic_ of the fine animals. The American ladies--there were three
of them--marched beside the wagons, bearing the French and American
colors and the red cross of the International ambulance. We filled and
emptied and refilled our sacks with the Napoleons from the _monde_ in
their flash barouches and from the loungers of the clubs, and with
the greasy sous of the workingmen and grisettes. Many took out purses
containing five sous and gave three: many took out purses containing
silver and copper, and gave the silver. Old men with feeble sight
and hearing would hobble up to us through the crowd and ask, "What is
this?"
"For the wounded," we would say--"for France!"
And trembling hands would be thrust into pockets, and "God's blessing
on you!" would go with their silver or sous.
Well, well, it was a great day. It was, I believe, the largest
collection ever taken up in Paris for the wounded. We shouted
ourselves hoarse when the train bore the corps away for Mézières. They
served through the war, part of the time with the French, part of the
time with the Prussians. Many of them have since been decorated by
both governments.
It is to Dr. Evans that the American ambulance owes more perhaps than
to any one man. It supported itself, our corps did, and Dr. Evans
furnished the largest portion of the money. He had some American
ambulance-wagons and the material for a field hospital brought over
and exhibited at the Exposition of 1867, and these were still in
his possession. They were early offered to the American corps, but a
misunderstanding between Dr. Evans and Dr. Sims caused the latter
to go to the field with wagons, etc. furnished by the International
ambulance. So we who formed the American corps at Paris during the
siege had the use of Dr. Evans's wagons and material. The doctor
himself accompanied the empress in her flight; but from England he
sent money whenever he could get it into Paris, and did all in his
power for the ambulance.
Some time before the Prussians had closed in upon us it was ordered
that the useless mouths (_bouches inutiles_) should leave the city. Of
course thousands left. We who remained expected we should have to
go into the ranks. I liked the excitement of the thing, and stayed
through it all. Meanwhile, Dr. John Swinburne, who was formerly, I
believe, a health officer of New York, had been invited to take charge
of the American hospital at Paris. Dr. Evans's tents were pitched in
the Avenue de l'Impératrice, in the place where the dog-show used to
be. This was our headquarters all through the siege, though at last,
as winter came on, the tents were not large or comfortable enough to
hold the wounded, and so we built barracks there. George Kidder, Will
Dreyer and I joined the corps together. My first service was to beg
Bowles Brothers' American flag and hoist it over our tents. Then our
duties consisted for a while in loafing about the grounds, driving
tent pegs, greasing the wagons and drawing up rules for our own
government, for there was no fighting just then. Those were the
bright, sunny days of September. Montretout and Châtillon had been
taken, the Zouaves had disgraced themselves, and we were utterly
cut off from the world. We elected two captains. One was William B.
Bowles, and the other Joseph K. Riggs of Washington. They were to
serve on alternate days.
One morning we went down in our wagons, drawn by horses belonging to
members of our corps, and reported to the "International Society for
the Aid of the Wounded." We found them at the Palais d'Industrie. They
did not think much of us, as we could not help perceiving, but they
finally consented to let us go out at the first sortie--namely, that
of Villejuif, when the French tried to take the villages of Thiais and
L'Hay. We got upon the field just as the firing was over. The French
had taken one village at the point of the bayonet, but at last they
had retired so precipitately that they had left their wounded in the
Prussian lines. There the poor fellows lay, in among the yellow wheat,
with great well-fed Prussians prancing around them on horseback. It
was a terrible scene, especially to me, being the first of the kind
I had ever seen. But after a while I was so busy with the others,
picking up the wounded and burying the dead, that somehow I lost my
first overwhelming sense of the horror of the spectacle.
We smelt our first powder--that is, a few stray balls came among
us--at Châtillon. Returning from this latter fight, we saw the burning
of the palace of St. Cloud. It was a beautiful October sunset and
evening, and the sight was indescribably grand.
You will, however, get a better idea of our share in a sortie if I
tell you more particularly of the next one, that of Malmaison. It was
there, in fact, that we began to make our reputation. This was the
sortie fraught with most real danger to the Germans. They had not then
had time to establish their lines, and if the attack had been
followed up with more men, the French, it is thought, might have taken
Versailles and cut the enemy's line of communication. As it was, the
Prussians had everything packed and horses saddled, ready to leave
Versailles at a moment's notice. Ur. Sarazin, chief surgeon of
Ducrot's corps, had asked us to rendezvous at the Rond Point de
Courbevoie, just behind Mont Valérien, where the French had a battery.
On our way out there that beautiful October afternoon, as we were
driving up the hill from Porte Maillot, the American flag and the
colors of the International ambulance flying over our five wagons, we
were met by the whole provisional government of France. Jules Ferry
hailed us and asked a ride. They were going to see the fight. We
took them all in: we had in our wagon Rochefort, Ferry and Favre; the
others took seats as the wagons came up. We left them on a sort of
platform which had been built for them upon the pedestal of the famous
knee-breeches-and-cocked-hat statue of the First Napoleon, which
was replaced by the Roman-togaed one upon the Column Venôdme. The
first-mentioned statue had even then been toppled over and carted
away. We went on to the top of the hill of Courbevoie, whence,
however, we were promptly ordered back. From our station farther in
the rear, lying down in our wagons, we watched the bombs and the smoke
of the musketry rising over the hill. The French were beating the
Prussians back with great slaughter, as we heard from couriers
constantly sent in.
Suddenly, Dr. Sarazin rode into our midst and shouted, "Ambulance
Américaine, en avant!" Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped down
the road, we following at a brisk trot. Halfway to Rueil he drew up
and said, "Pass that windmill, turn to the right, and you will be on
the field." We plunged on through potato-patches and vineyards, our
hearts in our mouths. As we drew past the windmill, which was on
a knoll in the descent from Mont Valérien, we came upon the French
reserves, massed by regiments behind the artillery and mitrailleuses
which lined the crest of the hill we were on. Just behind them
were Trochu and his staff. An aide-de-camp galloped toward us as we
approached, and told us to take down our flags, shouting that we would
draw fire. He had to tell us that only once: our flags came down like
a shot. The fight was going on in the valley just beneath us. The sun
was setting, the windows of Mont Valérien shimmered with its slanting
rays, the green woods grew darker, and the blue smoke curled lazily
over the combatants. Away in the distance the aqueduct of Marly ran in
gray relief against the red of the evening sky. From this aqueduct,
as we learned afterward, King William, the crown prince, Moltke and
Bismarck were watching the struggle. Our little red-legged liners had
pushed the Germans across the open space and were pressing them in the
wood. We grew excited, and the boys began making for the crest of the
hill among the artillery, when one of our party, a well-known American
here in Paris, cried out, "Gentlemen, as a clergyman and father of a
family, I forbid you to go any farther forward and risk your lives."
Whereupon Mr. William Bowles, aroused, but in his usual manner in
moments of excitement--namely, with his hands in his vest pockets and
his eyes beaming through his gold spectacles--observed, "Gentlemen,
oh that be d----d! As an American and your captain, I command you to
follow me." And we followed him, singing at the tops of our voices,
"While we were marching through Georgia."
What would have become of us, carried away as we were, no one knows,
if we had not been marched back again by higher orders. We were
straightway sent down to the right, toward Malmaison, to gather the
wounded. We passed Trochu and staff, who saluted us, and we wound
down the hill, with the infantry before us, and the cannon and
mitrailleuses behind us bellowing over our heads. The French soldiery
sent up cheer after cheer for "les Américains" as we made our way,
still shouting, "While we were marching through Georgia." There were
twenty or twenty-five of us, and we made some noise. In the streets of
Rueil we found the dead and wounded very thick. We filled our wagons
with the wounded, and started back for our hospital at Paris. In our
wagon we had seven, so we had to walk along beside it. It was late in
the night when we reached the city gate. There we were confronted
by sentinels with glaring torches, challenged, asked the number of our
wounded, and then allowed to rattle and creak over the draw-bridge.
Just inside the walls we were met by a surging mass of anxious men,
women and children.
"What regiment have you?" they would shout. "Has the Hundred-and-fifth
been engaged? Have the Zouaves been in?"
"Yes," exclaimed one from our wagon, rising on his elbow, "they have
been in, and many haven't come out again." Then snatching his fez from
his head, he waved it in the glare of the torches, I and cried, "Vive
la France! vive la République!"
That poor fellow was shot in the hip. We so far cured him at the
hospital that I saw him hobbling into the fight upon a cane, his gun
strapped across his back, at the last sortie of the besieged. I got
very well acquainted with him, too, at the hospital, as I did
with many another gallant fellow on both sides. He was an educated
gentleman of Alsace: he had entered the Zouaves as a volunteer at the
outbreak of the war, and had fought it all through in the ranks. He
was sergeant when he was wounded. After the war and Commune were over
I was touched on the shoulder by some one sitting upon the seat back
of me at the Opéra Comique one night, and there was my brave friend
the sergeant, safe and almost sound through all.
At the hospital, the night after the sortie I have just been
telling you of, we worked with our wounded until nearly morning. Dr.
Swinburne, I think, did not go to bed at all. And right here I
ought to introduce you more particularly to the old doctor. Take the
portrait of General Grant, run a good many streaks of gray through
his hair and beard, a few more lines on his forehead and crows' feet
around his eyes, and you have an idea of the doctor's looks. He is a
man of great energy and few words--a surgical genius and a great
lover of horses. He could or would explain nothing. At last we got to
calling him "Old Compound Fracture," for he would say, when we were
starting for a fight likely to be serious, "Boys, don't mind those
slightly wounded fellows--let the Frenchmen pick them up: just bring
me along the compound fractures." These latter were his hobby. He
fairly doted on a man whom ordinary surgeons would have given up in
despair; and I believe he was the happiest man in Paris when the
first patient who had his leg shattered in a half dozen places began
hobbling about the camp on crutches. The soldiers got to hear of
him at last. More than one poor fellow lying on the field grievously
wounded swore he would be taken to no place but to the American
hospital.
Our next important sortie was at Champigny. That was the occasion
when Ducrot was surely going to push through the German lines. In his
proclamation he had announced that he would re-enter Paris victorious
or dead. Of course he did not keep his promise. We were all to
rendezvous at the Champs de Mars that morning at four o'clock. About
three of the same morning Mont Valérien opened fire, and then Issy,
then Vanves, then Mont Rouge, and so the flash and roar of cannon went
round the whole city. That was our reveille. It was cold, very cold,
that morning, and we waited at the rendezvous a long time in company
with the French, Italian, Swiss and other ambulance corps. The great
Doctor Ricord was there, and some of us heard then for the first time
that he is an American from Baltimore. Chenu, Nellaton and several
other famous surgeons were also there, shivering with us as we waited
and waited for the push through the lines, which never came. Well,
when at last the fight did occur, it made plenty of work for our
wagons. For the next two days they were constantly going to and fro
between the field and our hospital. Everywhere we went along the lines
now we were recognized and made way for. One night, as one of our
wagons was trying to cross the field, it was halted with the question,
"What ambulance is that?"
"Is it necessary to ask?" shouted a French soldier out of the
darkness. "It is the Americans', of course: they are everywhere."
At this sortie there rode with us a little French abbé, whom some of
the boys had picked up weeks before roaming about the outposts among
the trenches. He had won their hearts by his utter contempt of fire as
he prayed with and confessed everybody he could lay hands on. At the
sortie of Châtillon he had discovered one of our corps bringing in to
the wagons at the risk of his life a huge pumpkin. The abbé imagined
that Americans must set great value upon pumpkins if they were willing
to secure them at such hazard, and he described the whole incident in
_L'Univers_, the ultra-Catholic paper of Paris. In the course of a few
days the ambulance Américaine received two or three polite notes from
religious French maiden ladies, saying that they had a few pumpkins
which were at the service of the gentlemen of the corps. We received
the pumpkins, and skirmished for the ingredients of pumpkin-pie, which
the matron of our hospital baked for us. This was an unknown use for
pumpkins in France, and those pies cost about their weight in silver.
Sugar we had--it was the eggs that cost. Horsemeat and pumpkin-pie!
There was a wild extravagance in that dinner, but then it was
patriotic--at least the dessert was.
We nearly froze to death at Bourget, but I have not time to tell
you of it. I must pass on to the last sortie--toward Montretout and
Malmaison. That was a dark, foggy, leaden morning, with a drizzling
rain. We passed through the whole French army on our way out--line,
National Guards, Mobiles, artillery, cavalry: we passed through them
all, everywhere meeting with a grateful reception. Sometimes they
cheered us and our wagons (now increased to eight) and our immense
coffee-pot. This last was an institution: it consisted of three great
boilers mounted on wheels. Before the meat gave out we used sometimes
to put soup in our coffee-pot and take it to the field. Coffee by some
means we still had. Even on the desolate morning I am now telling you
of many a poor foot-soldier who had been upon the almost impassable
roads all night had been cheered by a sly tin cupful of the precious
liquid as we trudged on toward the field. Well, we were finally
ordered to halt at the little village of Rueil, within a stone's throw
of the church where Josephine and Hortense lie buried. I climbed a
hill on the left, and saw the French pushing toward Buzenval. They
could see nothing before them but a line of fire--not a Prussian above
the low wall in front of the thick mass of wood. Though I could see
these Frenchmen dropping down by hundreds, they went steadily on and
on. Some of them were National Guards who had never before been under
fire. It was here that young Henri Regnault fell, with many other
Parisians known in literature and art. After a while the Germans began
shelling the hill on which I was, and I scampered down to the open
square where the wagons were. It was not long, however, till another
German battery got to throwing shells into this square, each discharge
bringing them nearer and nearer to us. Suddenly a shell struck the
corner house in front of us. The door opened in a very deliberate
way, and out came a man in a blouse, smoking a pipe, and followed by
a woman with a baby in her arms. He leisurely locked the door behind
him, and put the key into his pocket. Then he started slowly across
the square, with his wife and baby still behind him. As he passed us I
exclaimed, "For Heaven's sake, what are you doing here with that baby?
Don't you see they are shelling all around us?"
"Yes, I see, I see: one of them struck our house just now. I've got
another one up here, and we're moving to it." And without taking his
hands out of his pockets or his pipe out of his mouth, he strolled on
across the open square, followed by his wife, who seemed absorbed
only in hushing the baby as it wailed in fright at the sound of the
bursting shells.
The French line was soon thrown back, and we filled our wagons
with wounded and started for the city, the shells still falling
unpleasantly thick and near. One of them struck right under our
coffee-pot, and, exploding, sent it in a hundred directions. The
horses which drew it did not happen to be hit, but they took fright
and dashed off, wrecking what was left of the coffee-pot wagon. We got
back to town as fast as we knew how that day. We tried to go out
again at night, but could make no headway against the crowd of wagons,
artillery and the retreating army on the roads. It was an utterly
demoralized mob. We barely escaped massacre by a regiment of
Belleville National Guards, who were mad, raving mad, accusing
everybody of incapacity and treason. The next day we went out with a
burying-party, and found members of this same National Guard thickly
strewn among the vines of Buzenval and Montretout, and we buried them.
In their new knap-sacks we found crested note-paper and many such
things, showing their owners' rank and want of military experience at
the same time. Some of these articles were stained with blood. We saw
out there the young lady who was soon to have married Henri Regnauit.
She was looking for his body among the dead, and found it during the
day. Young Regnault, it is claimed, was introducing a new school in
French painting. He had made some remarkable studies in Algiers, one
of the results of which was the well-known picture of Salomé in the
Salon of 1870. I have said we saw his betrothed searching for his body
among the dead; and the memory of that sweet, brave girl in that awful
scene has lent a pathos to the story of his life and death which I do
not get out of the writers and painters who have since dwelt so much
and so lovingly upon the subject.
George McFarland of New York and two other fellows got lost from our
wagons the night before, when we left the field. They took refuge in
a tomb, where half a dozen poor wounded had crawled before them. They
remained there for three long hours, hearing the shells burst around
them from a tremendous cross-fire of the Germans. These three fellows,
by the by, were the unlucky men of the ambulance. Whenever, by any
chance, any of us were missing late at night, it was always they. When
the wagons were full, the roads dusty or covered with sleet, it was
they too who failed to get a seat, and had to walk to town. When our
eatables had disappeared, or we had no wine or drink of any kind, they
were sure to come in hungry, thirsty and foot-sore from some distant
part of the field. At Champigny they slept on a billiard-table; upon
the Plateau d'Avron they just happened around when the Prussians began
the awful bombardment which obliged the French to scurry off, leaving
guns and stores. This, they said, was their worst day out, for they
half ran, half rolled down the hillside through a rain of shells,
about a hundred guns, they maintained, having been concentrated upon
that particular plateau. At Rueil one of them was just coming up to
get a cup of coffee when the shell struck our coffee-pot. I witnessed
the escape that time, and it did truly seem miraculous.
I think I may state it as a fact that if it had not been for the loss
of that coffee-pot we should never have eaten the cook's dog. It came
about in this natural--or perhaps I should say unnatural--way. In the
early days of the siege, you see, some poor wretch who lived near
our hospital possessed, as is almost always the case with a Frenchman
removed a quarter of a degree, say, above abject poverty, a favorite
dog. One day his beast and house were made glad by the appearance
of two pups. They were tawny, bright-eyed little fellows, and the
Frenchman loved them with a love that the Anglo-Saxon knows not of,
especially in the matter of dogs. Well, provisions got scarcer
and scarcer, and finally, with an anguish that I have no right to
ridicule, and as the only thing left for him to do, the poor Frenchman
brought his pups around and presented them to the cook of our
hospital. Here the little fellows waxed fat and strong, and were soon
great favorites, not only of the good-natured cook, but of all the
fellows of the ambulance. Perhaps you never saw a pot of horse-soup
boiling: if you have, you will never forget the great blotches of fat
that float upon the surface of it. Many skimmings of this did John
Cook, as we used to call our _chef_, put aside for the pups. In the
course of time, however, famine began to invade the ambulance. The
canned meat and the hams had long since disappeared; a horse belonging
to one of our corps, found overtaken by mysterious death in his stall,
had been devoured; but the two pups, fat and tender, no one ventured
to attack. And they had the powerful protection of the cook. Still, it
made our mouths water to see them gambol in their sleekness. At length
came the memorable morning of the last sortie at Montretout. Then for
the first time we mounted the cook upon our coffee-pot wagon, with an
extra large _brassard_ around his arm, allowing him about three times
the ordinary amount of linen to show how peacefully and culinarily he
was neutral. Poor fellow! I am sorry to say he was soon demoralized
that day. The coffee he had brewed was a success, but he could not
stand Krupp shells. Long before one of them had exploded under
his coffee-pot he had wanted to go home. At that fearful moment he
completely lost his head and--his white cap. How he got back to the
hospital not even himself ever knew. It was long after nightfall when
he wandered in, weary, listless, sorrowful. One of the pups came up to
greet him as he crossed the threshold of the kitchen. The _chef_ met
that welcome with an unfeeling kick, he was so demoralized. The fate
of the pup was sealed. Scarce had the cook found his way to a bed in
one of the tents when the scullions made for the pup, and had his fat
frizzing on the gridiron and his bones dancing in a seething soup-pot.
We all had a feast that night. Even the cook himself had a greasy
morsel brought to his bedside. But somehow thenceforth the name of
that dog was never mentioned, and his brother led a more luxurious,
a sleeker life than ever. We had learned, I think, the old moral of
being moved by sorrow for the dead to be kinder to the living.
As I have said before, we became very well acquainted with many of the
wounded men at our hospital. With some, indeed, we contracted strong
friendships. We buried many by subscription, thus rescuing them from
the _fosse commune_ to which soldiers, French or German, were as a
rule consigned within the French lines. Among others was a fair-haired
Saxon by the name of Bruno, almost a boy in years, who was brought in
from Champigny. He won our hearts from the very first by asking that
a suffering Frenchman who lay beside him might have his wounds dressed
before his own. He was dangerously and painfully wounded himself,
yet no one ever heard him complain. I shall never hear the "Wacht am
Rhein" without thinking of him, for he was the first one that I ever
heard sing it. He sang it to me one night in return for some old
German songs I had tried to cheer him with; that is, he sang some
of it: his voice was so feeble that I had to stop him. He seemed to
expect death, and was prepared for it. His long, wavy blonde hair and
his beardless boy face were always beautiful, but imagine them when
his blue eyes were lit up by the sentiment of that song!
The next night, when I came to visit Bruno, a French National Guard
was dying not far from him, with wife and family kneeling around the
bed. The tent was hushed, and I hesitated a moment at the door. One or
two American ladies, volunteer nurses of the ambulance, were grouped
near the dying man back of the family. Suddenly, Lisette, an Alsatian
nurse who worked devotedly night and day for friend or foe alike, and
who in her neat white cap had been standing in a corner wiping her
eyes, approached me and said in her broad German French, _"Partonn_,
but I will pray for this poor unfortunate." And she dropped on her
knees beside the bed and commenced aloud in German a simple, earnest,
honest prayer to which the scene and the language gave an effect
utterly indescribable. There were few dry eyes in the tent. Soon
after that I could tell by the movements about the bed that the poor
National Guard was dead. I turned to the bedside of the wounded Saxon,
and found his hands clasped upon his breast and his lips muttering a
prayer for his enemy.
It was near Christmas then, and to cheer Bruno after the foregoing
scene I spoke to him of the merry Christmas-times in the Fatherland.
He shook his head mournfully: "Ach Gott! die werd' ich nie
wiedersehen" ("I shall never see them again"). The only thing which he
seemed very much to regret was that he should not live long enough to
get the cross he had won, so that it might be sent to his father
at his little village on the Elbe. Well, the next afternoon we were
gathered in the same mournful and hushed way about his bedside. The
dying Saxon alone broke the silence. There is no way of reproducing
in English the wonderful pathos of his speech, mellow even in its
faintness. I suppose I ought to say that his mind was wandering, but
at the time it did not seem so to me. He spoke first of the green
fields approaching his native village, then of the flowers; and
then finally he exclaimed, "There gleams the Elbe, and there comes
father!--Father!" And in the joy of that meeting, real or imaginary, a
smile parting his lips, he died.
We gave the gentle Saxon the poor honor of a separate grave, and
as soon after the siege as I could get a letter out I wrote to his
father, sending the few little trinkets that had been trusted to my
keeping. In the answer and thanks of the lonely old man--for he was
now widowed and childless--there was something almost as sad as the
death I have been telling you of. He could not hear enough of his
son's last days, and our correspondence ceased only when my minutest
details had been given.
I have already told you of our last sortie, and really of our last
service as a corps. A few days after the loss of our coffee-pot the
armistice was declared. Those were sad times. I can't tell you of the
despair of that whole city. It makes me dizzy even to remember it.
When the people saw that their endurance, suffering, starvation for
those long months had been unavailing, there were no bounds to their
speech or acts. The two words, "Treason!" and "Bread!" were heard
everywhere. Men wept like children. Many actually lay down and died,
half starved, half heartbroken. These things will never be written
up--they never can be written up. It needed hope with the scant food
so many had lived on. The city at the mercy of the conquerors--But
there is no use in trying to recall those wild, miserable days. The
air was charged with the common despair. I saw the burning of the
Tuileries and all the horrors of the Commune, but nothing ever had
such an effect upon me as that.
I must, however, before I draw these reminiscences to a close, tell
you about Major O'Flynn, of Her Majesty's Indian army. It was he who
brought the pumpkin into camp at Châtillon. That he should have risked
his life most recklessly in doing it was nothing odd, as you will soon
learn. It was only a little droll that he should have taken just that
time and place to gratify his curiosity. He had heard Americans talk
a great deal about pumpkin-pies, and he wanted to know if they were
as good as their reputation; so he took the first chance and the first
pumpkin that came in his way. Major Thomas Vincent O'Flynn, of Her
Majesty's Indian army, was of course an Irishman. He was tall, tawny,
impassive as any Englishman; modest and mild-mannered in camp, and in
the field utterly unconscious of bullets or shell. He had married a
Hindoo lady, whom we called the Begum. She was just as excitable as
he was impassive. He owned a pair of splendid black horses, which he
generally drove himself in one of our wagons. Sometimes, however, he
rode, as _estafette_ or orderly, a splendid sorrel stallion, also his
property; and this stallion, "Garryowen" by name, was the pride and
delight of our hearts, the pet of our camp. The major had a poodle
dog too, distinct from the Begum's. It was generosity rather than
effeminacy on his part to have this dog, for he bought it to save its
life: the former owners were about to eat it when the major came to
the rescue. The dog was white, and our Indian warrior used to spend
much time washing it on the eve of a fight. The dog would ride
stretched across its master's feet on the front of the wagon; and
upon the field, if the major was capable of the sense of fear--which-I
doubt--it was exercised solely for his horses and dog. When away from
these he was always getting to the front. The only provision he
made against any possible danger was to fill his pocket with silver
five-franc pieces. A man didn't know, he said, when he might be taken
prisoner by those "thaves" of Prussians, and he'd better have his
money with him till he could get his remittances from across the
Channel. He had enough of living upon next to nothing--which was
horse-flesh--and he didn't want to live on nothing among the Germans.
Those five-franc pieces, however, he always put to the drollest uses.
He would find his way in among the artillerymen, and, pointing to a
given spot, he would tell them in the worst imaginable French to throw
a shell in there: "Ploo haut, ploo haut, mon bong ami: aim at the
chimney, the chimney." Then he would step aside, with hands in his
pockets, and watch results. If it was a good shot, he would give the
gunner a five-franc piece. Thus he would pass along the line until he
had exhausted the money with which he had fortified himself against
starvation among the Prussians. And this was all for pure love
of fighting, for the major saw so much of the French officers'
incompetency that he soon had precious little sympathy for their
cause.
At the second assault on Bourget, O'Flynn grew tired of waiting for
the attack, and, what is more, terribly hungry. "I've lived long
enough on horse-mate," exclaimed the major, "especially when I've
none of it at all!" So he unhitched one of his black horses from the
ambulance-wagon, and, taking a saddle from an orderly, tore off his
_brassard_ and other ambulance insignia, threw away his cap, so as not
to compromise us, and rode bareheaded down to the very frontest of
the front. The advance were lying crouched down in the rifle-pits,
awaiting the signal to storm the village. Motioning to the amazed
soldiery, he cried, still in his horrible French, "Now or never!
_Voilà_ Bourget! Follow me! See, there's Bourget. Sooivez moi!" All
this to the rattle of German musketry. Seeing that he got no response
in one place, he rode madly to the other rifle-pits and repeated the
invitation, the officers shouting to him as he passed that he was
riding into certain death, and conjuring him to save himself. But the
major could not or would not understand them. Finally, some officers
ran out, and, taking him forcibly from his horse, led him away.
The major often went on commissions from our camp on the Avenue de
l'Impératrice down into the city. In those days many of the young
French swells, to keep from going into the field, had donned the
ambulance uniform and passed their time loafing about the cafés in the
Boulevards. This became so great a scandal that Trochu was obliged
to issue an order forbidding the uniform to be worn except on active
duty. One day, as the major, bound on some errand in the interest of
a Frenchman lying wounded in our hospital, was majestically riding
his superb stallion Garryowen down the Champs Élysées, his long tawny
side-whiskers waving gently in the breeze, his wiry frame erect as
a ramrod, the blue regulation-coat buttoned close to his throat with
American buttons, the International _brassard_ on his arm and the
ambulance shield on his cap,--as the major, I say, sailed down in this
state, he was hailed by one of the chiefs of the French ambulance,
which just then was all powerful in Paris. The major pulled up
Garryowen leisurely, and the little Frenchman, who spoke tolerable
English, demanded brusquely, "Don't you know General Trochu has
forbidden to wear ambulance uniform when off duty? And we want this
thing stopped."
The major very deliberately leaned over and caught the little French
official by the button of the coat, and in an undertone asked, "And,
sure, who are you?"
"I am Mr. So-and-so," mentioning the name of one of the chiefs of the
French International corps.
"Oh, ye are, are ye?" rejoined the major, retaining his hold of the
little man's button. "Then, Mr. So-and-so, give my compliments--Major
O'Flynn's compliments, if ye loike it better--to General Trochu, and
tell him, if you plase, that the gentlemen of the American ambulance
and meself buy our own clothes and pay for them, ride our own horses
and fade them; and when we want or have time to parade aither the one
or the other, we will ask permission from the general himself."
Releasing his hold of the Frenchman's button, the major saluted
and rode gracefully away upon his errand of mercy. 'And after this
specimen of his politeness none of us was ever interfered with.
I have heard from others that the major and the Begum are still alive
and thriving. One day in the times of the Commune I had crept up
behind the Arc de Triomphe, during a lull in the fire, to take a look
at the Communist batteries at Porte Maillot. Now, the major
lived halfway between the Arc and the batteries. Suddenly from my
concealment I saw the gateway of his house open, and the major sally
forth on Garryowen. He gave merely a glance at the batteries, and
slowly rode up toward the Arc. There was not a soul else visible on
the highway, and it must have been he who drew the attention of
the Versaillais, for their guns opened at once and the shells came
spinning around in the neighborhood. Garryowen, the grand, the
beautiful, was as accustomed to fire as his rider was: neither was
shaken from his equilibrium. With the same easy pace they gradually
wound their way up to and around the Arc de Triomphe, and thus calmly
down the Champs Élysées. The droll, gallant fellow waved me a graceful
good-day as he passed me peeping from behind my hiding-place; and that
was my last sight, and a characteristic one, of Major Thomas Vincent
O'Flynn, of Her Majesty's Indian army.
RALPH KEELER.
THE HUMMING-BIRD.
Poised in a sheeny mist
Of the dust of bloom,
Clasped to the poppy's breast and kissed,
Baptized in pools of violet perfume
From foot to plume!
Zephyr loves thy wings
Above all lovable things,
And brings them gifts with rapturous murmurings:
Thine is the golden reach of blooming hours,
Spirit of flowers!
Music follows thee,
And, continually,
Thy life is changed and sweetened happily,
Having no more than rose-leaf shade of gloom,
O bird of Bloom!
Thou art a winged thought
Of tropical hours,
With all the tropic's rare bloom-splendor fraught,
Surcharged with Beauty's indefinable powers,
Angel of flowers!
JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
A PRINCESS OF THULE.
By William Black, Author of "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON."
CHAPTER X.
FAIRY--LAND.
"Welcome to London--!"
He was about to add "Sheila," but suddenly stopped. The girl, who had
hastily come forward to meet him with a glad look in her eyes and with
both hands outstretched, doubtless perceived the brief embarrassment
of the moment, and was perhaps a little amused by it. But she took no
notice of it: she merely advanced to him and caught both his hands,
and said, "And are you very well?"
It was the old and familiar salutation, uttered in the same odd,
gentle, insinuating fashion, and in the same low and sweet voice.
Sheila's stay in Oban and the few days she had already spent in London
had not taught her the difference between "very" and "ferry."
"It is so strange to hear you speak in London--Mrs. Lavender," he
said, with rather a wry face as he pronounced her full and proper
title.
And now it was Sheila's turn to look a bit embarrassed and color,
and appear uncertain whether to be vexed or pleased, when her husband
himself broke in in his usual impetuous fashion: "I say, Ingram, don't
be a fool! Of course you must call her Sheila--unless when there are
people here, and then you must please yourself. Why, the poor girl has
enough of strange things and names about her already. I don't know how
she keeps her head. It would bewilder me, I know; but I can see that,
after she has stood at the window for a time, and begun to get dazed
by all the wonderful sights and sounds outside, she suddenly withdraws
and fixes all her attention on some little domestic duty, just as if
she were hanging on to the practical things of life to assure herself
it isn't all a dream. Isn't that so, Sheila?" he said, putting his
hand on her shoulder.
"You ought not to watch me like that," she said with a smile. "But it
is the noise that is most bewildering. There are many places I will
know already when I see them, many places and things I have known in
pictures; but now the size of them, and the noise of carriages, and
the people always passing, and always different, always strangers,
so that you never see the same people any more--But I am getting very
much accustomed to it."
"You are trying very hard to get accustomed to it, any way, my good
girl," said her husband.
"You need not be in a hurry: you may begin to regret some day that you
have not a little of that feeling of wonder left," said Ingram. "But
you have not told me anything of what you think about London, and of
how you like it, and how you like your house, and what you have done
with Bras, and a thousand other things."
"I will tell you all that directly, when I have got for you some wine
and some biscuits."
"Sheila, you can ring for them," said her husband, but she had by that
time departed on her mission. Presently she returned, and waited upon
Ingram just as if she had been in her father's house in Borva, with
the gentlemen in a hurry to go out to the fishing, and herself the
only one who could serve them.
She put a small table close by the French window; she drew back the
curtains as far as they would go, to show the sunshine of a bright
forenoon in May lighting up the trees in the square and gleaming on
the pale and tall fronts of the houses beyond; and she wheeled in
three low easy-chairs, so as to front this comparatively cheerful
prospect.
Somehow or other, it seemed quite natural that Sheila should wheel in
those chairs. It was certainly no disrespect on the part of either her
husband or her visitor which caused both of them to sit still and give
her her own way about such things. Indeed, Lavender had not as yet
ever attempted to impress upon Sheila the necessity of cultivating
the art of helplessness. That, with other social graces, would perhaps
come in good time. She would soon acquire the habits and ways of her
friends and acquaintances, without his trying to force upon her a
series of affectations, which would only embarrass her and cloud the
perfect frankness and spontaneity of her nature. Of one thing he was
quite assured--that whatever mistakes Sheila might make in society
they would never render her ridiculous. Strangers might not know the
absolute sincerity of her every word and act, which gave her a courage
that had no fear of criticism, but they could at least see the simple
grace and dignity of the girl, and that natural ease of manner which
is beyond the reach of cultivation, being mainly the result of a
thorough consciousness of honesty. To burden her with rules and
regulations of conduct would be to produce the very catastrophes he
wished to avoid. Where no attempt is made, failure is impossible;
and he was meanwhile well content that Sheila should simply appear as
Sheila, even although she might draw in a chair for a guest or so far
forget her dignity as to pour out some wine for her husband.
"After all, Sheila," said Lavender, "hadn't I better begin and tell
Ingram about your surprise and delight when you came near Oban and saw
the tall hotels and the trees? It was the trees, I think, that
struck you most, because, you know, those in Lewis--well, to tell the
truth--the fact is, the trees of Lewis--as I was saying, the trees of
Lewis are not just--they cannot be said to be--"
"You bad boy, to say anything against the Lewis!" exclaimed Sheila;
and Ingram held that she was right, and that there were certain sorts
of ingratitude more disgraceful than others, and that this was just
about the worst.
"Oh, I have brought all the good away from Lewis," said Lavender with
a careless impertinence.
"No," said Sheila proudly. "You have not brought away my papa, and
there is not any one in this country I have seen as good as he is."
"My dear, your experience of the thirty millions of folks in these
islands is quite convincing. I was wholly in the wrong; and if you
forgive me we shall celebrate our reconciliation in a cigarette--that
is to say, Ingram and I will perform the rites, and you can look on."
So Sheila went away to get the cigarettes also.
"You don't say you smoke in your drawing-room, Lavender?" said
Ingram, mindful of the fastidious ways of his friend even when he had
bachelor's rooms in King street.
"Don't I, though? I smoke everywhere--all over the place. Don't you
see, we have no visitors yet. No one is supposed to know we have
come South. Sheila must get all sorts of things before she can be
introduced to my friends and my aunt's friends, and the house must be
put to rights, too. You wouldn't have her go to see my aunt in that
sailor's costume she used to rush about in up in Lewis?"
"That is precisely what I would have," said Ingram: "she cannot look
more handsome in any other dress."
"Why, my aunt would fancy I had married a savage: I believe she fears
something of the sort now."
"And you haven't told even her that you are in London?"
"No."
"Well, Lavender, that is a precious silly performance. Suppose she
hears of your being in town, what will you say to her?"
"I should tell her I wanted a few days to get my wife properly dressed
before taking her about."
Ingram shrugged his shoulders: "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps,
indeed, it would be better if you waited six months before you
introduced Sheila to your friends. At present you seem to be keeping
the footlights turned down until everything is ready for the first
scene, and then Sheila is to burst upon society in a blaze of light
and color. Well, that is harmless enough; but look here! You don't
know much about her yet: you will be mainly anxious to hear what the
audience, as it were, say of her; and there is just a chance of your
adopting their impressions and opinions of Sheila, seeing that you
have no very fixed ones of your own. Now, what your social circle may
think about her is a difficult thing to decide; and I confess I would
rather have seen you remain six months in Lewis before bringing her up
here."
Ingram was at least a candid friend. It was not the first nor the
hundredth time that Frank Lavender had to endure small lectures,
uttered in a slow, deliberate voice, and yet with an indifference
of manner which showed that Ingram cared very little how sharply his
words struck home. He rarely even apologized for his bluntness. These
were his opinions: Lavender could take them or leave them, as he
liked. And the younger man, after finding his face flush a bit on
being accused of wishing to make a dramatic impression with Sheila's
entrance into London society, laughed in an embarrassed way, and said,
"It is impossible to be angry with you, Ingram, and yet you do talk so
absurdly. I wonder who is likely to know more about the character of a
girl than her own husband?"
"You may in time: you don't now," said Ingram, carefully balancing a
biscuit on the point of his finger.
"The fact is," said Lavender with good-natured impatience, "you are
the most romantic card I know, and there is no pleasing you. You
have all sorts of exalted notions about things--about sentiments and
duties, and so forth. Well, all that is true enough, and would
be right enough if the world were filled with men and women like
yourself; but then it isn't, you see, and one has to give in to
conventionalities of dress and living and ceremonies, if one wants
to retain one's friends. Now, I like to see you going about with that
wide-awake--it suits your brown complexion and beard--and that stick
that would do for herding sheep; and the costume looks well and is
business-like and excellent when you're off for a walk over the Surrey
downs or lying on the river-banks about Henley or Cookham; but it
isn't, you know, the sort of costume for a stroll in the Park."
"Whenever God withdraws from me my small share of common sense,"
said Ingram slowly, "so far that I shall begin to think of having my
clothes made for the purpose of walking in Hyde Park, well--"
"But don't you see," said Lavender, "that one must meet one's friends,
especially when one is married; and when you know that at a certain
hour in the forenoon they are all to be found in a particular place,
and that a very pleasant place, and that you will do yourself good
by having a walk in the fresh air, and so forth, I really don't see
anything very immoral in going down for an hour or so to the Park!"
"Don't you think the pleasure of seeing one's friends might be
postponed till one had done some sort of good day's work?"
"There now!" cried Lavender, "that is another of your delusions. You
are always against superstitions, and yet you make work a fetish. You
do with work just as women do with duty: they carry about with them
a convenient little god, and they are always worshiping it with
small sacrifices, and complimenting themselves on a series of little
martyrdoms that are of no good to anybody. Of course, duty wouldn't be
duty if it wasn't disagreeable, and when they go nursing the sick--and
they could get it better done for fifteen shillings a week by somebody
else--they don't mind coming back to their families with the seeds of
typhus about their gowns; and when they crush the affections in order
to worship at the shrine of duty, they don't consider that they may be
making martyr of other folks, who don't want martyrdom and get no sort
of pleasure out of it. Now, what in all the world is the good of work
as work? I believe that work is an unmistakable evil, but when it is
a necessity I suppose you get some sort of selfish satisfaction in
over-coming it; and doubtless if there was any immediate necessity in
my case--I don't deny the necessity may arise, and that I should like
nothing better than to work for Sheila's sake--"
"Now you are coming to the point," said Ingram, who had been listening
with his usual patience to his friend's somewhat chaotic speculations.
"Perhaps you may have to work for your wife's sake and your own; and
I confess I am surprised to see you so content with your present
circumstances. If your aunt's property legally reverted to you, if
you had any sort of family claim on it, that would make some little
difference; but you know that any sudden quarrel between you might
leave you penniless to-morrow."
"In which case I should begin to work to-morrow, and I should come to
you for my first commission."
"And you shouldn't have it. I would leave you to go and fight the
world for yourself; without which a man knows nothing of himself or of
his relations with those around him."
"Frank, dear, here are the cigarettes," said Sheila at this point; and
as she came and sat down the discussion ceased.
For Sheila began to tell her friend of all the strange adventures that
had befallen her since she left the far island of Lewis--how she had
seen with fear the great mountains of Skye lit up by the wild glare
of a stormy sunrise; how she had seen with astonishment the great
fir-woods of Armadale; and how green and beautiful were the shores of
the Sound of Mull. And then Oban, with its shining houses, its
blue bay and its magnificent trees, all lit up by a fair and still
sunshine! She had not imagined there was anywhere in the world so
beautiful a place, and could scarcely believe that London itself was
more rich and noble and impressive; for there were beautiful ladies
walking along the broad pavements, and there were shops with large
windows that seemed to contain everything that the mind could desire,
and there was a whole fleet of yachts in the bay. But it was the
trees, above all, that captivated her; and she asked if they were
lords who owned those beautiful houses built up on the hill and half
smothered among lilacs and ash trees and rowan trees and ivy.
"My darling," Lavender had said to her, "if your papa were to come and
live here, he could buy half a dozen of those cottages, gardens and
all. They are mostly the property of well-to-do shopkeepers. If
this little place takes your fancy, what will you say when you go
South--when you see Wimbledon and Richmond and Kew, with their
grand old commons and trees? Why, you could hide Oban in a corner of
Richmond Park!"
"And my papa has seen all those places?"
"Yes. Don't you think it strange he should have seen them all, and
known he could live in any one of them, and then gone away back to
Borva?"
"But what would the poor people have done if he had never gone back?"
"Oh, some one else would have taken his place."
"And then, if he were living here or in London, he might have got
tired, and he might have wished to go back to the Lewis and see all
the people he knew; and then he would come among them like a stranger,
and have no house to go to."
Then Lavender said, quite gently, "Do you think, Sheila, you will ever
tire of living in the South?"
The girl looked up quickly, and said, with a sort of surprised
questioning in her eyes, "No, not with you. But then we shall often go
to the Lewis?"
"Oh yes," her husband said, "as often as we can conveniently. But it
will take some time at first, you know, before you get to know all my
friends who are to be your friends, and before you get properly fitted
into our social circle. That will take you a long time, Sheila, and
you may have many annoyances or embarrassments to encounter; but you
won't be very much afraid, my girl?"
Sheila merely looked up to him: there was no fear in the frank, brave
eyes.
The first large town she saw struck a cold chill to her heart. On a
wet and dismal afternoon they sailed into Greenock. A heavy smoke hung
about the black building-yards and the dirty quays; the narrow and
squalid streets were filled with mud, and only the poorer sections of
the population waded through the mire or hung disconsolately about
the corners of the thoroughfares. A gloomier picture could not well
be conceived; and Sheila, chilled with the long and wet sail and
bewildered by the noise and bustle of the harbor, was driven to the
hotel with a sore heart and a downcast face.
"This is not like London, Frank?" she said, pretty nearly ready to cry
with disappointment.
"This? No. Well, it is like a part of London, certainly, but not the
part you will live in."
"But how can we live in the one place without passing the other and
being made miserable by it? There was no part of Oban like this."
"Why, you will live miles away from the docks and quays of London.
You might live for a lifetime in London without ever knowing it had a
harbor. Don't you be afraid, Sheila. You will live in a district where
there are far finer houses than any you saw in Oban, and far finer
trees; and within a few minutes' walk you will find great gardens and
parks, with lakes in them and wild-fowl, and you will be able to
teach the boys about how to set the helm and the sails when they are
launching their small boats."
"I should like that," said Sheila, with her face brightening.
"Perhaps you would like a boat yourself?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "If there were not many people there, we
might go out sometimes in the evening--"
Her husband laughed and took her hand: "You don't understand, Sheila.
The boats the boys have are little things a foot or two long--like the
one in your papa's bed-room in Borva. But many of the boys would be
greatly obliged to you if you would teach them how to manage the sails
properly, for sometimes dreadful shipwrecks occur."
"You must bring them to our house. I am very fond of little boys, when
they begin to forget to be shy, and let you become acquainted with
them."
"Well," said Lavender, "I don't know many of the boys who sail boats
in the Serpentine: you will have to make their acquaintance yourself.
But I know one boy whom I must bring to the house. He is a German-Jew
boy, who is going to be another Mendelssohn, his friends say. He is a
pretty boy, with ruddy-brown hair, big black eyes and a fine forehead;
and he really sings and plays delightfully. But you know, Sheila, you
must not treat him as a boy, for he is over fourteen, I should think;
and if you were to kiss him--"
"He might be angry," said Sheila with perfect simplicity.
"I might," said Lavender; and then, noticing that she seemed a little
surprised, he merely patted her head and bade her go and get ready for
dinner.
Then came the great climax of Sheila's southward journey--her arrival
in London. She was all anxiety to see her future home; and, as luck
would have it, there was a fair spring morning shining over the
city. For a couple of hours before she had sat and looked out of
the carriage-window as the train whirled rapidly through the
scarcely-awakened country, and she had seen the soft and beautiful
landscapes of the South lit up by the early sunlight. How the
bright little villages shone, with here and there a gilt weathercock
glittering on the spire of some small gray church, while as yet in
many valleys a pale gray mist lay along the bed of the level streams
or clung to the dense woods on the upland heights! Which was the more
beautiful--the sharp, clear picture, with its brilliant colors and
its awakening life, or the more mystic landscape over which was still
drawn the tender veil of the morning haze? She could not tell. She
only knew that England, as she then saw it, seemed a great country
that was very beautiful, that had few inhabitants, and that was still
and sleepy, and bathed in sunshine. How happy must the people be who
lived in those quiet green valleys by the side of slow and smooth
rivers, and amid great woods and avenues of stately trees, the like of
which she had not imagined even in her dreams!
But from the moment that they got out at Euston Square she seemed a
trifle bewildered, and could only do implicitly as her husband bade
her--clinging to his hand, for the most part, as if to make sure of
guidance. She did indeed glance somewhat nervously at the hansom into
which Lavender put her, apparently asking how such a tall and narrow
two-wheeled vehicle could be prevented toppling over. But when he,
having sent on all their luggage by a respectable old four-wheeler,
got into the hansom beside her, and put his hand inside her arm, and
bade her be of good cheer that she should have such a pleasant morning
to welcome her to London, she said "Yes" mechanically, and only looked
out in a wistful fashion at the great houses and trees of Euston
Square, the mighty and roaring stream of omnibuses, the droves of
strangers, mostly clad in black, as if they were going to church, and
the pale blue smoke that seemed to mix with the sunshine and make it
cold and distant.
They were in no hurry, these two, on that still morning, and so, to
impress Sheila all at once with a sense of the greatness and grandeur
of London, he made the cabman cut down by Park Crescent and Portland
Place to Regent Circus. Then they went along Oxford street; and there
were crowded omnibuses taking young men into the city, while all
the pavements were busy with hurrying passers-by. What multitudes of
unknown faces, unknown to her and unknown to each other! These people
did not speak: they only hurried on, each intent upon his own affairs,
caring nothing, apparently, for the din around them, and looking so
strange and sad in their black clothes in the pale and misty sunlight.
"You are in a trance, Sheila," he said.
She did not answer. Surely she had wandered into some magical city,
for now the houses on one side of the way suddenly ceased, and she saw
before her a great and undulating extent of green, with a border of
beautiful flowers, and with groups of trees that met the sky all along
the southern horizon. Did the green and beautiful country she had seen
shoot in thus into the heart of the town, or was there another city
far away on the other side of the trees? The place was almost as
deserted as those still valleys she had passed by in the morning.
Here, in the street, there was the roar of a passing crowd, but there
was a long and almost deserted stretch of park, with winding roads and
umbrageous trees, on which the wan sunlight fell from between loose
masses of half-golden cloud.
Then they passed Kensington Gardens, and there were more people
walking down the broad highways between the elms.
"You are getting nearly home now, Sheila," he said. "And you will be
able to come and walk in these avenues whenever you please."
Was this, then, her home?--this section of a barrack-row of dwellings,
all alike in steps, pillars, doors and windows? When she got inside
the servant who had opened the door bobbed a curtsey to her: should
she shake hands with her and say, "And are you ferry well?" But at
this moment Lavender came running up the steps, playfully hurried
her into the house and up the stairs, and led her into her own
drawing-room. "Well, darling, what do you think of your home, now that
you see it?"
Sheila looked round timidly. It was not a big room, but it was a
palace in height and grandeur and color compared with that little
museum in Borva in which Sheila's piano stood. It was all so strange
and beautiful--the split pomegranates and quaint leaves on the
upper part of the walls, and underneath a dull slate color where the
pictures hung; the curious painting on the frames of the mirrors; the
brilliant curtains, with their stiff and formal patterns. It was not
very much like a home as yet; it was more like a picture that had been
carefully planned and executed; but she knew how he had thought of
pleasing her in choosing these things, and without saying a word she
took his hand and kissed it. And then she went to one of the three
tall French windows and looked out on the square. There, between the
trees, was a space of beautiful soft green, and some children dressed
in bright dresses, and attended by a governess in sober black, had
just begun to play croquet. An elderly lady with a small white dog was
walking along one of the graveled paths. An old man was pruning some
bushes.
"It is very still and quiet here," said Sheila. "I was afraid we
should have to live in that terrible noise always."
"I hope you won't find it dull, my darling," he said.
"Dull, when you are here?"
"But I cannot always be here, you know?"
She looked up.
"You see, a man is so much in the way if he is dawdling about a house
all day long. You would begin to regard me as a nuisance, Sheila,
and would be for sending me out to play croquet with those young
Carruthers, merely that you might get the rooms dusted. Besides, you
know I couldn't work here: I must have a studio of some sort--in the
neighborhood, of course. And then you will give me your orders in the
morning as to when I am to come round for luncheon or dinner."
"And you will be alone all day at your work?"
"Yes."
"Then I will come and sit with you, my poor boy," she said.
"Much work I should do in that case!" he said. "But we'll see. In
the mean time go up stairs and get your things off: that young person
below has breakfast ready, I dare say."
"But you have not shown me yet where Mr. Ingram lives," said Sheila
before she went to the door.
"Oh, that is miles away. You have only seen a little bit of London
yet. Ingram lives about as far away from here as the distance you have
just come, but in another direction."
"It is like a world made of houses," said Sheila, "and all filled with
strangers. But you will take me to see Mr. Ingram?"
"By and by, yes. But he is sure to drop in on you as soon as he
fancies you are settled in your new home."
And here, at last, was Mr. Ingram come; and the mere sound of his
voice seemed to carry her back to Borva, so that in talking to him and
waiting on him as of old she would scarcely have been surprised if her
father had walked in to say that a coaster was making for the harbor,
or that Duncan was going over to Stornoway, and Sheila would have to
give him commissions. Her husband did not take the same interest
in the social and political affairs of Borva that Mr. Ingram did.
Lavender had made a pretence of assisting Sheila in her work among
the poor people, but the effort was a hopeless failure. He could
not remember the name of the family that wanted a new boat, and was
visibly impatient when Sheila would sit down to write out for some
aged crone a letter to her grandson in Canada. Now, Ingram, for the
mere sake of occupation, had qualified himself during his various
visits to Lewis, so that he might have become the home minister of the
King of Borva; and Sheila was glad to have one attentive listener as
she described all the wonderful things that had happened in the island
since the previous summer.
But Ingram had got a full and complete holiday on which to come up
and see Sheila; and he had brought with him the wild and startling
proposal that in order that she should take her first plunge into the
pleasures of civilized life, her husband and herself should drive down
to Richmond and dine at the Star and Garter.
"What is that?" said Sheila.
"My dear girl," said her husband seriously, "your ignorance is
something fearful to contemplate. It is quite bewildering. How can a
person who does not know what the Star and Garter is be told what the
Star and Garter is?"
"But I am willing to go and see," said Sheila.
"Then I must look after getting a brougham," said Lavender, rising.
"A brougham on such a day as this?" exclaimed Ingram. "Nonsense! Get
an open trap of some sort; and Sheila, just to please me, will put on
that very blue dress she used to wear in Borva, and the hat and the
white feather, if she has got them."
"Perhaps you would like me to put on a sealskin cap and a red
handkerchief instead of a collar," observed Lavender calmly.
"You may do as you please. Sheila and I are going to dine at the Star
and Garter."
"May I put on that blue dress?" said the girl, going up to her
husband.
"Yes, of course, if you like," said Lavender meekly, going off to
order the carriage, and wondering by what route he could drive those
two maniacs down to Richmond so that none of his friends should see
them.
When he came back again, bringing with him a landau which could be
shut up for the homeward journey at night, he had to confess that no
costume seemed to suit Sheila so well as the rough sailor-dress; and
he was so pleased with her appearance that he consented at once to let
Bras go with them in the carriage, on condition that Sheila should be
responsible for him. Indeed, after the first shiver of driving away
from the square was over, he forgot that there was much unusual about
the look of this odd pleasure-party. If you had told him eighteen
months before that on a bright day in May, just as people were going
home from the Park for luncheon, he would go for a drive in a
hired trap with one horse, his companions being a man with a brown
wide-awake, a girl dressed as though she were the owner of a yacht,
and an immense deerhound, and that in this fashion he would dare to
drive up to the Star and Garter and order dinner, he would have bet
five hundred to one that such a thing would never occur so long as he
preserved his senses. But somehow he did not mind much. He was very
much at home with those two people beside him; the day was bright and
fresh; the horse went a good pace; and once they were over Hammersmith
Bridge and out among fields and trees, the country looked exceedingly
pretty, and all the beauty of it was mirrored in Sheila's eyes.
"All can't quite make you out in that dress, Sheila," he said. "I am
not sure whether it is real and business-like or a theatrical costume.
I have seen girls on Ryde Pier with something of the same sort on,
only a good deal more pronounced, you know, and they looked like sham
yachtsmen; and I have seen stewardesses wearing that color and texture
of cloth--"
"But why not leave it as it is," said Ingram--"a solitary costume
produced by certain conditions of climate and duties, acting in
conjunction with a natural taste for harmonious coloring and simple
form? That dress, I will maintain, sprang as naturally from the salt
sea as Aphrodite did; and the man who suspects artifice in it or
invention has had his mind perverted by the skepticism of modern
society."
"Is my dress so very wonderful?" said Sheila with a grave
complaisance. "I am pleased that the Lewis has produced such a fine
thing, and perhaps you would like me to tell you its history. It
was my papa bought a piece of blue serge in Stornoway: it cost three
shillings sixpence a yard, and a dressmaker in Stornoway cut it for
me, and I made it myself. That is all the history of the wonderful
dress."
Suddenly Sheila seized her husband's arm. They had got down to the
river by Mortlake; and there, on the broad bosom of the stream, a long
and slender boat was shooting by, pulled by four oarsmen clad in white
flannel.
"How can they go out in such a boat?" said Sheila, with a great alarm
visible in her eyes. "It is scarcely a boat at all; and if they touch
a rock or if the wind catches them--"
"Don't be frightened, Sheila," said her husband. "They are quite
safe. There are no rocks in our rivers, and the wind does not give us
squalls here like those on Loch Roag. You will see hundreds of those
boats by and by, and perhaps you yourself will go out in one."
"Oh, never, never!" she said, almost with a shudder.
"Why, if the people here heard you they would not know how brave a
sailor you are. You are not afraid to go out at night by yourself on
the sea, and you won't go on a smooth inland river--"
"But those boats: if you touch them they must go over."
She seemed glad to get away from the river. She could not be persuaded
of the safety of the slender craft of the Thames; and indeed for some
time after seemed so strangely depressed that Lavender begged and
prayed of her to tell him what was the matter. It was simple enough.
She had heard him speak of his boating adventures. Was it in such
boats as that she had just seen? and might he not be some day going
out in one of them, and an accident--the breaking of an oar, a gust of
wind--
There was nothing for it but to reassure her by a solemn promise
that in no circumstances whatever would he, Lavender, go into a boat
without her express permission; whereupon Sheila was as grateful to
him as though he had dowered her with a kingdom.
This was not the Richmond Hill of her fancy--this spacious height,
with its great mansions, its magnificent elms, and its view of all the
westward and wooded country, with the blue-white streak of the river
winding through the green foliage. Where was the farm? The famous Lass
of Richmond Hill must have lived on a farm, but here surely were the
houses of great lords and nobles, which had apparently been there
for years and years. And was this really a hotel that they stopped
at--this great building that she could only compare to Stornoway
Castle?
"Now, Sheila," said Lavender after they had ordered dinner and gone
out, "mind you keep a tight hold on that leash, for Bras will see
strange things in the Park."
"It is I who will see strange things," she said; and the prophecy
was amply fulfilled. For as they went along the broad path, and came
better into view of the splendid undulations of woodland and pasture
and fern, when on the one hand they saw the Thames, far below them,
flowing through the green and spacious valley, and on the other hand
caught some dusky glimpse of the far white houses of London, it seemed
to her that she had got into a new world, and that this world was far
more beautiful than the great city she had left. She did not care so
much for the famous view from the hill. She had cast one quick look
to the horizon, with one throb of expectation that the sea might be
there. There was no sea there--only the faint blue of long lines of
country apparently without limit. Moreover, over the western landscape
a faint haze prevailed, that increased in the distance and softened
down the more distant woods into a sober gray. That great extent of
wooded plain, lying sleepily in its pale mists, was not so cheerful as
the scene around her, where the sunlight was sharp and clear, the air
fresh, the trees flooded with a pure and bright color. Here, indeed,
was a cheerful and beautiful world, and she was full of curiosity to
know all about it and its strange features. What was the name of this
tree? and how did it differ from that? Were not these rabbits over by
the fence? and did rabbits live in the midst of trees and bushes? What
sort of wood was the fence made of? and was it not terribly expensive
to have such a protection? Could not he tell the cost of a wooden
fence? Why did they not use wire netting? Was not that a loch away
down there? and what was its name? A loch without a name! Did the
salmon come up to it? and did any sea-birds ever come inland and build
their nests on its margin?
"Oh, Bras, you must come and look at the loch. It is a long time since
you will see a loch."
And away she went through the thick breckan, holding on to the swaying
leash that held the galloping greyhound, and running swiftly as though
she had been making down for the shore to get out the Maighdean-mhara.
"Sheila," called her husband, "don't be foolish!"
"Sheila," called Ingram, "have pity on an old man!"
Suddenly she stopped. A brace of partridges had sprung up at some
little distance, and with a wild whirr of their wings were now
directing their low and rapid flight toward the bottom of the valley.
"What birds are those?" she said peremptorily.
She took no notice of the fact that her companions were pretty nearly
too blown to speak. There was a brisk life and color in her face, and
all her attention was absorbed in watching the flight of the birds.
Lavender fancied he saw in the fixed and keen look something of old
Mackenzie's gray eye: it was the first trace of a likeness to her
father he had seen.
"You bad girl!" he said, "they are partridges."
She paid no heed to this reproach, for what were those other things
over there underneath the trees? Bras had pricked up his ears, and
there was a strange excitement in his look and in his trembling frame.
"Deer!" she cried, with her eyes as fixed as were those of the dog
beside her.
"Well," said her husband calmly, "what although they are deer?"
"But Bras--" she said; and with that she caught the leash with both
her hands.
"Bras won't mind them if you keep him quiet. I suppose you can manage
him better than I can. I wish we had brought a whip."
"I would rather let him kill every deer in the Park than touch him
with a whip," said Sheila proudly.
"You fearful creature, you don't know what you say. That is high
treason. If George Ranger heard you, he would have you hanged in front
of the Star and Garter."
"Who is George Ranger?" said Sheila with an air, as if she had said,
"Do you know that I am the daughter of the King of Borva, and whoever
touches me will have to answer to my papa, who is not afraid of any
George Ranger?"
"He is a great lord who hangs all persons who disturb the deer in this
Park."
"But why do they not go away?" said Sheila impatiently. "I have never
seen any deer so stupid. It is their own fault if they are disturbed:
why do they remain so near to people and to houses?"
"My dear child, if Bras wasn't here you would probably find some of
those deer coming up to see if you had any bits of sugar or pieces of
bread about your pockets."
"Then they are like sheep--they are not like deer," she said with
some contempt. "If I could only tell Bras that it is sheep he will be
looking at, he would not look any more. And so small they are! They
are as small as the roe, but they have horns as big as many of the
red-deer. Do people eat them?"
"I suppose so."