“By the time you have received this I shall have returned to Turriparva.

My visit to a certain gentleman was prolonged for one day. I never can

convey to you by words the sense I entertain of the value of your

friendship and of your services; I trust that time will afford me

opportunities of testifying it by my actions. I return home by the same

road by which we came; you remember how excellent the road was, as

indeed are all the roads in Reisenburg; that must be confessed by all. I

fear that the most partial admirers of the old régime cannot say as much

for the convenience of travelling in the time of our fathers. Good roads

are most excellent things, and one of the first marks of civilisation

and prosperity. The Emperor Napoleon, who, it must be confessed, had,

after all, no common mind, was celebrated for his roads. You have

doubtless admired the Route Napoleon on the Rhine, and if you travel

into Italy I am informed that you will be equally, and even more, struck

by the passage over the Simplon and the other Italian roads. Reisenburg

has certainly kept pace with the spirit of the time; nobody can deny

that; and I confess to you that the more I consider the subject it

appears to me that the happiness, prosperity, and content of a state are

the best evidences of the wisdom and beneficent rule of a government.

Many things are very excellent in theory, which are quite the reverse

in practice, and even ludicrous. And while we should do our most to

promote the cause and uphold the interests of rational liberty, still,

at the same time, we should ever be on our guard against the crude ideas

and revolutionary systems of those who are quite inexperienced in that

sort of particular knowledge which is necessary for all statesmen.

Nothing is so easy as to make things look fine on paper; we should never

forget that there is a great difference between high-sounding

generalities and laborious details. Is it reasonable to expect that men

who have passed their lives dreaming in colleges and old musty studies

should be at all calculated to take the head of affairs, or know what

measures those at the head of affairs ought to adopt? I think not. A

certain personage, who by-the-bye is one of the most clear-headed and

most perfect men of business that I ever had the pleasure of being

acquainted with; a real practical man, in short; he tells me that

Professor Skyrocket, whom you will most likely see at Reisenburg, wrote

an article in the Military Quarterly Review, which is published there,

on the probable expenses of a war between Austria and Prussia, and

forgot the commissariat altogether. Did you ever know anything so

ridiculous? What business have such fellows to meddle with affairs of

state? They should certainly be put down: that, I think, none can deny.

A liberal spirit in government is certainly a most excellent thing; but

we must always remember that liberty may degenerate into licentiousness.

Liberty is certainly an excellent thing, that all admit; but, as a

certain person very well observed, so is physic, and yet it is not to be

given at all times, but only when the frame is in a state to require it.

People may be as unprepared for a wise and discreet use of liberty, as a

vulgar person may be for the management of a great estate unexpectedly

inherited: there is a great deal in this, and, in my opinion, there are

cases in which to force liberty down a people’s throat is presenting

them, not with a blessing, but a curse. I shall send your luggage on

immediately; it is very probable that I may be in town at the end of the

week, for a short time. I wish much to see and to consult you, and

therefore hope that you will not leave Reisenburg before you see

“Your faithful and obliged friend,

“LITTLE LILLIPUT.”

Two days after the receipt of this letter Essper George ran into the

room with a much less solemn physiognomy than he had thought proper to

assume since his master’s arrival at Reisenburg.

“Lord, sir; whom do you think I have just met?”

“Whom?” asked Vivian, with eagerness, for, as is always the case when

such questions are asked us, he was thinking of every person in the

world except the right one. “It might be--”

“To think that I should see him!” continued Essper.

“It is a man, then,” thought Vivian; “who is it at once, Essper?”

“I thought you would not guess, sir! It will quite cure you to hear it;

Master Rodolph!”

“Master Rodolph!”

“Ay! and there’s great news in the wind.”

“Which of course you have confidentially extracted from him. Pray let us

have it.”

“The Prince of Little Lilliput is coming to Reisenburg,” said Essper.

“Well! I had some idea of that before,” said Vivian.

“Oh! then, you know it all, sir, I suppose,” said Essper, with a look of

great disappointment.

“I know nothing more than I have mentioned,” said his master.

“What! do you not know, sir, that the Prince has come over; that he is

going to live at Court; and be, Heaven knows what! That he is to carry a

staff every day before the Grand Duke at dinner; does not my master

know that?”

“I know nothing of all this; and so tell me in plain German what the

case is.”

“Well, then,” continued Essper, “I suppose you do not know that his

Highness the Prince is to be his Excellency the Grand Marshal, that

unfortunate but principal officer of state having received his dismissal

yesterday. They are coming up immediately. Not a moment is to be lost,

which seems to me very odd. Master Rodolph is arranging everything; and

he has this morning purchased from his master’s predecessor his palace,

furniture, wines, and pictures; in short, his whole establishment: the

late Grand Marshal consoling himself for his loss of office, and

revenging himself on his successor, by selling him his property at a

hundred per cent. profit. However, Master Rodolph seems quite contented

with his bargain; and your luggage is come, sir. His Highness, the

Prince, will be in town at the end of the week; and all the men are to

be put in new livery. Mr. Arnelm is to be his Highness’ chamberlain, and

Von Neuwied master of the horse. So you see, sir, you were right; and

that old puss in boots was no traitor, after all. Upon my soul, I did

not much believe you, sir, until I heard all this good news.”

CHAPTER II

About a week after his arrival at Reisenburg, as Vivian was at

breakfast, the door opened, and Mr. Sievers entered.

“I did not think that our next meeting would be in this city,” said Mr.

Sievers, smiling.

“His Highness, of course, informed me of your arrival,” said Vivian, as

he greeted him cordially.

“You, I understand, are the diplomatist whom I am to thank for finding

myself again at Reisenburg. Let me, at the same time, express my

gratitude for your kind offices to me, and congratulate you on the

brilliancy of your talents for negotiation. Little did I think, when I

was giving you, the other day, an account of Mr. Beckendorff, that the

information would have been of such service to you.

“I am afraid you have nothing to thank me for; though, certainly, had

the office of arranging the terms between the parties devolved on me, my

first thoughts would have been for a gentleman for whom I have so much

regard and respect as Mr. Sievers.”

“Sir! I feel honoured: you already speak like a finished courtier. Pray,

what is to be your office?”

“I fear Mr. Beckendorff will not resign in my favour; and my ambition is

so exalted that I cannot condescend to take anything under the

Premiership.”

“You are not to be tempted by a Grand Marshalship!” said Mr. Sievers.

“You hardly expected, when you were at Turriparva, to witness such a

rapid termination of the patriotism of our good friend. I think you said

you have seen him since your arrival: the interview must have

been piquant!”

“Not at all. I immediately congratulated him on the judicious

arrangements which had been concluded; and, to relieve his awkwardness,

took some credit to myself for having partially assisted in bringing

about the result. The subject was not again mentioned, and I dare say

never will be.”

“It is a curious business,” said Sievers. “The Prince is a man who,

rather than have given me up to the Grand Duke; me, with whom he was not

connected, and who, of my own accord, sought his hospitality; sooner, I

repeat, than have delivered me up, he would have had his castle razed to

the ground and fifty swords through his heart; and yet, without the

slightest compunction, has this same man deserted, with the greatest

coolness, the party of which, ten days ago, he was the zealous leader.

How can you account for this, except it be, as I have long suspected,

that in politics there positively is no feeling of honour? Every one is

conscious that not only himself, but his colleagues and his rivals, are

working for their own private purpose; and that however a party may

apparently be assisting in bringing about a result of common benefit,

that nevertheless, and in fact, each is conscious that he is the tool of

another. With such an understanding, treason is an expected affair; and

the only point to consider is, who shall be so unfortunate as to be the

deserted, instead of the deserter. It is only fair to his Highness to

state that Beckendorff gave him incontestable evidence that he had had a

private interview with every one of the mediatised Princes. They were

the dupes of the wily Minister. In these negotiations he became

acquainted with their plans and characters, and could estimate the

probability of their success. The golden bribe, which was in turn

dandled before the eyes of all, had been always reserved for the most

powerful, our friend. His secession and the consequent desertion of his

relatives destroy the party for ever; while, at the same time, that

party have not even the consolation of a good conscience to uphold them

in their adversity; but feel that in case of their clamour, or of any

attempt to stir up the people by their hollow patriotism, it is in the

power of the Minister to expose and crush them for ever.”

“All this,” said Vivian, “makes me the more rejoice that our friend has

got out of their clutches; he will make an excellent Grand Marshal; and

you must not forget, my dear sir, that he did not forget you. To tell

you the truth, although I did not flatter myself that I should benefit

during my stay at Reisenburg by his influence, I am not the least

surprised at the termination of our visit to Mr. Beckendorff. I have

seen too many of these affairs not to have been quite aware, the whole

time, that it would require very little trouble, and very few sacrifices

on the part of Mr. Beckendorff, to quash the whole cabal. By-the-bye,

our visit to him was highly amusing; he is a singular man.”

“He has had, nevertheless,” said Sievers, “a difficult part to play. Had

it not been for you, the Prince would have perhaps imagined that he was

only trifling with him again, and terminated the interview abruptly and

in disgust. Having brought the Grand Duke to terms, and having arranged

the interview, Beckendorff of course imagined that all was finished. The

very day that you arrived at his house he had received despatches from

his Royal Highness, recalling his promise, and revoking Beckendorff’s

authority to use his unlimited discretion in this business. The

difficulty then was to avoid discussion with the Prince, with whom he

was not prepared to negotiate; and, at the same time, without letting

his Highness out of his sight, to induce the Grand Duke to resume his

old view of the case. The first night that you were there Beckendorff

rode up to Reisenburg, saw the Grand Duke, was refused, through the

intrigues of Madame Carolina, the requested authority, and resigned his

power. When he was a mile on his return, he was summoned back to the

palace; and his Royal Highness asked, as a favour from his tutor,

four-and-twenty hours’ consideration. This Beckendorff granted, on the

condition that, in case the Grand Duke assented to the terms proposed,

his Royal Highness should himself be the bearer of the proposition; and

that there should be no more written promises to recall, and no more

written authorities to revoke. The terms were hard, but Beckendorff was

inflexible. On the second night of your visit a messenger arrived with a

despatch, advising Beckendorff of the intended arrival of his Royal

Highness on the next morning. The ludicrous intrusion of your amusing

servant prevented you from being present at the great interview, in

which I understand Beckendorff for the moment laid aside all his

caprices. Our friend acted with great firmness and energy. He would not

be satisfied even with the personal pledge and written promise of the

Grand Duke, but demanded that he should receive the seals of office

within a week; so that, had the Court not been sincere, his situation

with his former party would not have been injured. It is astonishing how

very acute even a dull man is when his own interests are at stake. Had

his Highness been the agent of another person, he would probably have

committed many blunders, have made disadvantageous terms, or perhaps

have been thoroughly duped. Self-interest is the finest eye-water.”

“And what says Madame Carolina to all this?”

“Oh! according to custom, she has changed already, and thinks the whole

business admirably arranged. His Highness is her grand favourite, and my

little pupil Max her pet. I think, however, on the whole, the boy is

fondest of the Grand Duke, whom, if you remember, he was always

informing you in confidence that he intended to assassinate. And as for

your obedient servant,” said Sievers, bowing, “here am I once more the

Aristarchus of her coterie. Her friends, by-the-bye, view the accession

of the Prince with no pleased eyes; and, anticipating that his juncture

with the Minister is only a prelude to their final dispersion, they are

compensating for the approaching termination of their career by unusual

violence and fresh fervour, stinging like mosquitoes before a storm,

conscious of their impending destruction from the clearance of the

atmosphere. As for myself, I have nothing more to do with them. Liberty

and philosophy are fine words; but until I find men are prepared to

cultivate them both in a wiser spirit I shall remain quiet. I have no

idea of being banished and imprisoned because a parcel of knaves are

making a vile use of the truths which I disseminate. In my opinion,

philosophers have said enough; now let men act. But all this time I have

forgotten to ask you how you like Reisenburg.”

“I can hardly say; with the exception of yesterday, when I rode Max

round the ramparts, I have not been once out of the hotel. But to-day I

feel so well that, if you are disposed for a lounge, I should like it

above all things.”

“I am quite at your service; but I must not forget that I am the bearer

of a missive to you from his Excellency the Grand Marshal. You are

invited to join the court dinner to-day, and be presented--”

“Really, my dear sir, an invalid--”

“Well! if you do not like it, you must make your excuses to him; but it

really is the pleasantest way of commencing your acquaintance at Court,

and only allowed to distingués; among which, as you are the friend of

the new Grand Marshal, you are of course considered. No one is petted so

much as a political apostate, except, perhaps, a religious one; so at

present we are all in high feather. You had better dine at the palace

to-day. Everything quite easy; and, by an agreeable relaxation of state,

neither swords, bags, nor trains are necessary. Have you seen the

palace? I suppose not. We will look at it, and then call on the Prince.”

The gentlemen accordingly left the hotel; and proceeding down the

principal street of the New Town, they came into a large square, or

Place d’Armes. A couple of regiments of infantry were exercising in it.

“A specimen of our standing army,” said Sievers. “In the war time, this

little State brought thirty thousand highly-disciplined and

well-appointed troops into the field. This efficient contingent was, at

the same time, the origin of our national prosperity and our national

debt. For we have a national debt, sir! I assure you we are proud of it,

and consider it the most decided sign of being a great people. Our force

in times of peace is, of course, much reduced. We have, however, still

eight thousand men, who are perfectly unnecessary. The most curious

thing is, that, to keep up the patronage of the Court and please the

nobility, though we have cut down our army two-thirds, we have never

reduced the number of our generals; and so, at this moment, among our

eight thousand men, we count about forty general officers, being one to

every two hundred privates. We have, however, which perhaps you would

not suspect, one military genius among our multitude of heroes. The

Count von Sohnspeer is worthy of being one of Napoleon’s marshals. Who

he is no one exactly knows; some say an illegitimate son of Beckendorff.

Certain it is that he owes his nobility to his sword; and as certain it

is that he is to be counted among the very few who share the Minister’s

confidence. Von Sohnspeer has certainly performed a thousand brilliant

exploits; yet, in my opinion, the not least splendid day of his life was

that of the battle of Leipsic. He was on the side of the French, and

fought against the Allies with desperate fury. When he saw that all was

over, and the Allies triumphant, calling out ‘Germany for ever!’ he

dashed against his former friends, and captured from the flying Gauls a

hundred pieces of cannon. He hastened to the tent of the Emperors with

his blood-red sword in his hand, and at the same time congratulated them

on the triumph of their cause, and presented them with his hard-earned

trophies. The manoeuvre was perfectly successful; and the troops of

Reisenburg, complimented as true Germans, were pitied for their former

unhappy fate in being forced to fight against their fatherland, and were

immediately enrolled in the allied army; as such, they received a due

share of all the plunder. He is a grand genius, young Master von

Sohnspeer?”

“Decidedly! Worthy of being a companion of the fighting bastards of the

middle ages. This is a fine square.”

“Very grand indeed! Precedents for some of the architectural

combinations could hardly be found at Athens or Rome; nevertheless the

general effect is magnificent. Do you admire this plan of making every

elevation of an order consonant with the purpose of the building? See,

for instance, on the opposite side of the square is the palace. The

Corinthian order, which is evident in all its details, suits well the

character of the structure. It accords with royal pomp and elegance,

with fêtes and banquets, and interior magnificence. On the other hand,

what a happy contrast is afforded to this gorgeous structure by the

severe simplicity of this Tuscan Palace of Justice. The School of Arts,

in the farthest corner of the square, is properly entered through an

Ionic portico. Let us go into the palace. Here not only does our monarch

reside, but (an arrangement which I much admire) here are deposited, in

a gallery worthy of the treasures it contains, our superb collection of

pictures. They are the private property of his Royal Highness; but, as

is usually the case under despotic Princes, the people, equally his

property, are flattered by the collection being styled the ‘Public

Gallery.’”

The hour of the court dinner at Reisenburg was two o’clock, about which

time, in England, a man first remembers the fatal necessity of shaving;

though, by-the-bye, this allusion is not a very happy one, for in this

country shaving is a ceremony at present somewhat obsolete. At two

o’clock, however, our hero, accompanying the Grand Marshal and Mr.

Sievers, reached the palace. In the saloon were assembled various

guests, chiefly attached to the Court. Immediately after the arrival of

our party, the Grand Duke and Madame Carolina, followed by their

chamberlains and ladies in waiting, entered. The little Prince

Maximilian strutted in between his Royal Highness and his fair Consort,

having hold of a hand of each. The urchin was much changed in appearance

since Vivian first saw him; he was dressed in the complete uniform of a

captain of the Royal Guards, having been presented with a commission on

the day of his arrival at Court. A brilliant star glittered on his

scarlet coat, and paled the splendour of his golden epaulettes. The

duties, however, of the princely captain were at present confined to the

pleasing exertion of carrying the bon-bon box of Madame Carolina, the

contents of which were chiefly reserved for his own gratification. In

the Grand Duke Vivian was not surprised to recognise the horseman whom

he had met in the private road on the morning of his departure from Mr.

Beckendorff’s; his conversation with Sievers had prepared him for this.

Madame Carolina was in appearance Parisian of the highest order: that is

to say, an exquisite figure and an indescribable tournure, an invisible

foot, a countenance full of esprit and intelligence, without a single

regular feature, and large and very bright black eyes. Madame’s hair was

of the same colour, and arranged in the most effective manner. Her

cashmere would have graced the Feast of Roses, and so engrossed your

attention that it was long before you observed the rest of her costume,

in which, however, traces of a creative genius were immediately visible;

in short, Madame Carolina was not fashionable, but fashion herself. In a

subsequent chapter, at a ball which we have in preparation, we will make

up for this brief notice of her costume by publishing her court dress.

For the sake of our fair readers, however, we will not pass over the

ornament in her hair. The comb which supported her elaborate curls was

invisible, except at each end, whence it threw out a large Psyche’s wing

of golden web, the eyes of which were formed of rubies encircled with

turquoises.

The Royal party made a progress round the circle. Madame Carolina first

presented her delicate and faintly-rouged cheek to the hump-backed Crown

Prince, who scarcely raised his eyes from the ground as he performed the

accustomed courtesy. One or two Royal relatives, who were on a visit at

the palace, were honoured by the same compliment. The Grand Duke bowed

graciously and gracefully to every individual; and his lady accompanied

the bow by a speech, which was at the same time personal and piquant.

The first great duty of a monarch is to know how to bow skilfully!

nothing is more difficult, and nothing more important. A Royal bow may

often quell a rebellion, and sometimes crush a conspiracy. It should at

the same time be both general and individual; equally addressed to the

company assembled, and to every single person in the assembly. Our own

sovereign bows to perfection. His bow is eloquent, and will always

render an oration on his part unnecessary; which is a great point, for

harangues are not regal. Nothing is more undignified than to make a

speech. It is from the first an acknowledgment that you are under the

necessity of explaining, or conciliating, or convincing, or confuting;

in short, that you are not omnipotent, but opposed.

The bow of the Grand Duke of Reisenburg was a first-rate bow, and always

produced a great sensation with the people, particularly if it were

followed up by a proclamation for a public fête or fireworks; then his

Royal Highness’ popularity was at its height. But Madame Carolina, after

having by a few magic sentences persuaded the whole room that she took a

peculiar interest in the happiness of every individual present, has

reached Vivian, who stood next to his friend the Grand Marshal. He was

presented by that great officer, and received most graciously. For a

moment the room thought that his Royal Highness was about to speak; but

he only smiled. Madame Carolina, however, said a great deal; and stood

not less than sixty seconds complimenting the English nation, and

particularly the specimen of that celebrated people who now had the

honour of being presented to her. No one spoke more in a given time than

Madame Carolina; and as, while the eloquent words fell from her deep red

lips, her bright eyes were invariably fixed on those of the person she

addressed, what she did say, as invariably, was very effective. Vivian

had only time to give a nod of recognition to his friend Max, for the

company, arm-in-arm, now formed into a procession to the dining saloon.

Vivian was parted from the Grand Marshal, who, as the highest officer of

state present, followed immediately after the Grand Duke. Our hero’s

companion was Mr. Sievers. Although it was not a state dinner, the

party, from being swelled by the suites of the royal visitors, was

numerous; and as the Court occupied the centre of the table, Vivian was

too distant to listen to the conversation of Madame, who, however, he

well perceived, from the animation of her countenance, was delighted and

delighting. The Grand Duke spoke little, but listened, like a lover of

three days, to the accents of his accomplished consort. The arrangement

of a German dinner promotes conversation. The numerous dishes are at

once placed upon the table; and when the curious eye has well examined

their contents, the whole dinner, untouched, disappears. Although this

circumstance is rather alarming to a novice, his terror soon gives

place to self-congratulation when he finds the banquet re-appear, each

dish completely carved and cut up.

“Not being Sunday,” said Mr. Sievers, “there is no opera to-night. We

are to meet again, I believe, at the palace, in a few hours, at Madame

Carolina’s soirée. In the meantime, you had better accompany his

Excellency to the public gardens; that is the fashionable drive. I shall

go home and smoke a pipe.”

The circle of the public gardens of Reisenburg exhibited exactly,

although upon a smaller scale, the same fashions and the same

frivolities, the same characters and the same affectations, as the Hyde

Park of London, or the Champs Elysées of Paris, the Prater of Vienna,

the Corso of Rome or Milan, or the Cascine of Florence. There was the

female leader of ton, hated by her own sex and adored by the other, and

ruling both; ruling both by the same principle of action, and by the

influence of the same quality which creates the arbitress of fashion in

all countries, by courage to break through the conventional customs of

an artificial class, and by talents to ridicule all those who dare

follow her innovating example; attracting universal notice by her own

singularity, and at the same time conciliating the support of those from

whom she dares to differ, by employing her influence in preventing

others from violating their laws. The arbitress of fashion is one who is

allowed to be singular, in order that she may suppress singularity; she

is exempted from all laws; but, by receiving the dictatorship, she

ensures the despotism. Then there was that mysterious being whose

influence is perhaps even more surprising than the dominion of the

female despot of manners, for she wields a power which can be analysed

and comprehended; I mean the male authority in coats, cravats, and

chargers; who, without fortune and without rank, and sometimes merely

through the bold obtrusion of a fantastic taste, becomes the glass of

fashion in which even royal dukes and the most aristocratic nobles

hasten to adjust themselves, and the mould by which the ingenious youth

of a whole nation is enthusiastically formed. There is a Brummell in

every country.

Vivian, who, after a round or two with the Grand Marshal, had mounted

Max, was presented by the young Count von Bernstorff, the son of the

Grand Chamberlain, to whose care he had been specially commended by the

Prince, to the lovely Countess von S----. The examination of this high

authority was rigid and her report satisfactory. When Vivian quitted

the side of her britzska half a dozen dandies immediately rode up to

learn the result, and, on being informed, they simultaneously cantered

up to young von Bernstorff, and requested to have the honour of being

introduced to his highly-interesting friend. All these exquisites wore

white hats lined with crimson, in consequence of the head of the

all-influential Emilius von Aslingen having, on the preceding day, been

kept sacred from the profaning air by that most tasteful covering. The

young lords were loud in their commendations of this latest evidence of

von Aslingen’s happy genius, and rallied with unmerciful spirit the

unfortunate von Bernstorff for not having yet mounted the all-perfect

chapeau. Like all von Aslingen’s introductions, it was as remarkable for

good taste as for striking singularity; they had no doubt it would have

a great run, exactly the style of thing for a hot autumn, and it suited

so admirably with the claret-coloured riding coat which Madame

considered von Aslingen’s chef-d’oeuvre. Inimitable von Aslingen! As

they were in these raptures, to Vivian’s delight and to their dismay,

the object of their admiration appeared. Our hero was, of course,

anxious to see so interesting a character; but he could scarcely believe

that he, in fact, beheld the ingenious introducer of white and crimson

hats, and the still happier inventor of those chef-d’oeuvres,

claret-coloured riding coats, when his attention was directed to a

horseman who wore a peculiarly high heavy black hat and a frogged and

furred frock, buttoned up, although it was a most sultry day, to his

very nose. How singular is the slavery of fashion! Notwithstanding their

mortification, the unexpected costume of von Aslingen appeared only to

increase the young lords’ admiration of his character and

accomplishments; and instead of feeling that he was an insolent

pretender, whose fame originated in his insulting their tastes, and

existed only by their sufferance, all cantered away with the

determination of wearing on the next day, even if it were to cost them

each a calenture, furs enough to keep a man warm during a winter party

at St. Petersburg, not that winter parties ever take place there; on the

contrary, before the winter sets in, the Court moves on to Moscow,

which, from its situation and its climate, will always, in fact,

continue the real capital of Russia.

The royal carriage, drawn by six horses and backed by three men

servants, who would not have disgraced the fairy equipage of Cinderella,

has now left the gardens.

CHAPTER III

Madame Carolina held her soirée in her own private apartments, the Grand

Duke himself appearing in the capacity of a visitor. The company was

numerous and brilliant. His Royal Highness, surrounded by a select

circle, dignified one corner of the saloon; Madame Carolina at the other

end of the room, in the midst of poets, philosophers, and politicians,

in turn decided upon the most interesting and important topics of

poetry, philosophy, and politics. Boston, and Zwicken, and whist

interested some, and puzzles and other ingenious games others. A few

were above conversing, or gambling, or guessing; superior intelligences,

who would neither be interested nor amused, among these Emilius von

Aslingen was most prominent. He leant against a door in full uniform,

with his vacant eyes fixed on no object. The others were only awkward

copies of an easy original; and among these, stiff or stretching,

lounging on a chaise-lounge, or posted against the wall, Vivian’s quick

eye recognised more than one of the unhappy votaries of white hats lined

with crimson.

When Vivian made his bow to the Grand Duke he was surprised by his Royal

Highness coming forward a few steps from the surrounding circle and

extending to him his hand. His Royal Highness continued conversing with

him for upwards of a quarter of an hour; expressed the great pleasure he

felt at seeing at his Court a gentleman of whose abilities he had the

highest opinion; and, after a variety of agreeable compliments

(compliments are doubly agreeable from crowned heads), the Grand Duke

retired to a game of Boston with his royal visitors. Vivian’s reception

made a sensation through the room. Various rumours were

immediately afloat.

“Who can he be?”

“Don’t you know? Oh! most curious story. Killed a boar as big as a

bonasus, which was ravaging half Reisenburg, and saved the lives of his

Excellency the Grand Marshal and his whole suite.”

“What is that about the Grand Marshal and a boar as big as a bonasus?

Quite wrong; natural son of Beckendorff; know it for a fact. Don’t you

see he is being introduced to von Sohnspeer! brothers, you know, managed

the whole business about the leagued Princes; not a son of Beckendorff,

only a particular friend; the son of the late General--, I forget his

name exactly. Killed at Leipsic, you know; that famous general; what was

his name? that very famous general; don’t you remember? Never mind;

well! he is his son; father particular friend of Beckendorff; college

friend; brought up the orphan; very handsome of him! They say he does

handsome things sometimes.”

“Ah! well, I’ve heard so too; and so this young man is to be the new

under-secretary! very much approved by the Countess von S----.”

“No, it can’t be! your story is quite wrong. He is an Englishman.”

“An Englishman! no!”

“Yes he is. I had it from Madame; high rank incog.; going to Vienna;

secret mission.”

“Something to do with Greece, of course; independence recognised?”

“Oh! certainly; pay a tribute to the Porte, and governed by a hospodar.

Admirable arrangement! have to support their own government and a

foreign one besides!”

It was with pleasure that Vivian at length observed Mr. Sievers enter

the room, and extricating himself from the enlightened and enthusiastic

crowd who were disserting round the tribunal of Madame, he hastened to

his amusing friend.

“Ah! my dear sir, how glad I am to see you! I have, since we met last,

been introduced to your fashionable ruler, and some of her most

fashionable slaves. I have been honoured by a long conversation with his

Royal Highness, and have listened to some of the most eloquent of the

Carolina coterie. What a Babel! there all are, at the same time, talkers

and listeners. To what a pitch of perfection may the ‘science’ of

conversation be carried! My mind teems with original ideas, to which I

can annex no definite meaning. What a variety of contradictory theories,

which are all apparently sound! I begin to suspect that there is a great

difference between reasoning and reason!”

“Your suspicion is well founded, my dear sir,” said Mr. Sievers; “and I

know no circumstance which would sooner prove it than listening for a

few minutes to this little man in a snuff-coloured coat near me. But I

will save you from so terrible a demonstration. He has been endeavouring

to catch my eye these last ten minutes, and I have as studiously avoided

seeing him. Let us move.”

“Willingly; who may this fear-inspiring monster be?”

“A philosopher,” said Mr. Sievers, “as most of us call ourselves here;

that is to say, his profession is to observe the course of Nature; and

if by chance he can discover any slight deviation of the good dame from

the path which our ignorance has marked out as her only track, he claps

his hands, cries [Greek: euraeka]! and is dubbed ‘illustrious’ on the

spot. Such is the world’s reward for a great discovery, which generally,

in a twelvemonth’s time, is found out to be a blunder of the

philosopher, and not an eccentricity of Nature. I am not underrating

those great men who, by deep study, or rather by some mysterious

inspiration, have produced combinations and effected results which have

materially assisted the progress of civilisation and the security of our

happiness. No, no! to them be due adoration. Would that the reverence of

posterity could be some consolation to these great spirits for neglect

and persecution when they lived! I have invariably observed of great

natural philosophers, that if they lived in former ages they were

persecuted as magicians, and in periods which profess to be more

enlightened they have always been ridiculed as quacks. The succeeding

century the real quack arises. He adopts and develops the suppressed,

and despised, and forgotten discovery of his unfortunate predecessor!

and Fame trumpets this resurrection-man of science with as loud a blast

of rapture as if, instead of being merely the accidental animator of the

corpse, he were the cunning artist himself who had devised and executed

the miraculous machinery which the other had only wound up.”

“But in this country,” said Vivian, “surely you have no reason to

complain of the want of moral philosophers, or of the respect paid to

them. The country of Kant--, of ----”

“Yes, yes! we have plenty of metaphysicians, if you mean them. Watch

that lively-looking gentleman, who is stuffing kalte schale so

voraciously in the corner. The leader of the Idealists, a pupil of the

celebrated Fichte! To gain an idea of his character, know that he

out-Herods his master; and Fichte is to Kant what Kant is to the

unenlightened vulgar. You can now form a slight conception of the

spiritual nature of our friend who is stuffing kalte schale. The first

principle of his school is to reject all expressions which incline in

the slightest degree to substantiality. Existence is, in his opinion, a

word too absolute. Being, principle, essence, are terms scarcely

sufficiently ethereal even to indicate the subtile shadowings of his

opinions. Some say that he dreads the contact of all real things, and

that he makes it the study of his life to avoid them. Matter is his

great enemy. When you converse with him you lose all consciousness of

this world. My dear sir,” continued Mr. Sievers, “observe how

exquisitely Nature revenges herself upon these capricious and fantastic

children. Believe me, Nature is the most brilliant of wits; and that no

repartees that were ever inspired by hate, or wine, or beauty, ever

equalled the calm effects of her indomitable power upon those who are

rejecting her authority. You understand me? Methinks that the best

answer to the idealism of M. Fichte is to see his pupil devouring

kalte schale!”

“And this is really one of your great lights?”

“Verily! His works are the most famous and the most unreadable in all

Germany. Surely you have heard of his ‘Treatise on Man?’ A treatise on a

subject in which everyone is interested, written in a style which no one

can understand.”

“You think, then,” said Vivian, “that posterity may rank the German

metaphysicians with the later Platonists?”

“I hardly know; they are a body of men not less acute, but I doubt

whether they will be as celebrated. In this age of print, notoriety is

more attainable than in the age of manuscript; but lasting fame

certainly is not. That tall thin man in black that just bowed to me is

the editor of one of our great Reisenburg reviews. The journal he edits

is one of the most successful periodical publications ever set afloat.

Among its contributors, may assuredly be classed many men of eminent

talents; yet to their abilities the surprising success and influence of

this work is scarcely to be ascribed. It is the result rather of the

consistent spirit which has always inspired its masterly critiques. One

principle has ever regulated its management; it is a simple rule, but an

effective one: every author is reviewed by his personal enemy. You may

imagine the point of the critique; but you would hardly credit, if I

were to inform you, the circulation of the review. You will tell me that

you are not surprised, and talk of the natural appetite of our species

for malice and slander. Be not too quick. The rival of this review, both

in influence and in sale, is conducted on as simple a principle, but not

a similar one. In this journal every author is reviewed by his personal

friend; of course, perfect panegyric. Each number is flattering as a

lover’s tale; every article an eloge. What say you to this? These are

the influential literary and political journals of Reisenburg. There

was yet another; it was edited by an eloquent scholar; all its

contributors were, at the same time, brilliant and profound. It numbered

among its writers some of the most celebrated names in Germany; its

critiques and articles were as impartial as they were able, as sincere

as they were sound; it never paid the expense of the first number. As

philanthropists and admirers of our species, my dear sir, these are

gratifying results; they satisfactorily demonstrate that mankind have no

innate desire for scandal, calumny, and backbiting; it only proves that

they have an innate desire to be gulled and deceived.”

“And who is that?” said Vivian.

“That is von Chronicle, our great historical novelist. When I first came

to Reisenburg, now eight years ago, the popular writer of fiction was a

man, the most probable of whose numerous romances was one in which the

hero sold his shadow to a demon over the dice-box; then married an

unknown woman in a churchyard; afterwards wedded a river nymph; and,

having committed bigamy, finally stabbed himself, to enable his first

wife to marry his own father. He and his works are quite obsolete; and

the star of his genius, with those of many others, has paled before the

superior brilliancy of that literary comet, Mr. von Chronicle. According

to von Chronicle, we have all, for a long time, been under a mistake. We

have ever considered that the first point to be studied in novel writing

is character: miserable error! It is costume. Variety of incident,

novelty, and nice discrimination of character; interest of story, and

all those points which we have hitherto looked upon as necessary

qualities of a fine novel, vanish before the superior attractions of

variety of dresses, exquisite descriptions of the cloak of a signer, or

the trunk-hose of a serving man.

“Amuse yourself while you are at Reisenburg by turning over some volumes

which every one is reading; von Chronicle’s last great historical novel.

The subject is a magnificent one, Rienzi; yet it is strange that the

hero only appears in the first and the last scenes. You look astonished.

Ah! I see you are not a great historical novelist. You forget the effect

which is produced by the contrast of the costume of Master Nicholas, the

notary in the quarter of the Jews, and that of Rienzi, the tribune, in

his robe of purple, at his coronation in the Capitol. Conceive the

effect, the contrast. With that coronation von Chronicle’s novel

terminates; for, as he well observes, after that, what is there in the

career of Rienzi which would afford matter for the novelist? Nothing!

All that afterwards occurs is a mere contest of passions and a

development of character; but where is a procession, a triumph, or

a marriage?

“One of von Chronicle’s great characters in this novel is a Cardinal. It

was only last night that I was fortunate enough to have the beauties of

the work pointed out to me by the author himself. He entreated, and

gained my permission to read to me what he himself considered ‘the great

scene.’ I settled myself in my chair, took out my handkerchief, and

prepared my mind for the worst. While I was anticipating the terrors of

a heroine he introduced me to his Cardinal. Thirty pages were devoted to

the description of the prelate’s costume. Although clothed in purple,

still, by a skilful adjustment of the drapery, von Chronicle managed to

bring in six other petticoats. I thought this beginning would never

finish, but to my surprise, when he had got to the seventh petticoat, he

shut his book, and leaning over the table, asked me what I thought of

his ‘great scene.’ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘you are not only the greatest

historical novelist that ever lived, but that ever will live.’”

“I shall certainly get Rienzi,” said Vivian; “it seems to me to be an

original work.”

“Von Chronicle tells me that he looks upon it as his masterpiece, and

that it may be considered as the highest point of perfection to which

his system of novel-writing can be carried. Not a single name is given

in the work, down even to the rabble, for which he has not contemporary

authority; but what he is particularly proud of are his oaths. Nothing,

he tells me, has cost him more trouble than the management of the

swearing: and the Romans, you know, are a most profane nation. The great

difficulty to be avoided was using the ejaculations of two different

ages. The ‘sblood’ of the sixteenth century must not be confounded with

the ‘zounds’ of the seventeenth. Enough of von Chronicle! The most

amusing thing,” continued Mr. Sievers, “is to contrast this mode of

writing works of fiction with the prevalent and fashionable method of

writing works of history. Contrast the ‘Rienzi’ of von Chronicle with

the ‘Haroun Al Raschid’ of Madame Carolina. Here we write novels like

history, and history like novels: all our facts are fancy, and all our

imagination reality.” So saying, Mr. Sievers rose, and, wishing Vivian

good night, quitted the room. He was one of those prudent geniuses who

always leave off with a point.

Mr. Sievers had not left Vivian more than a minute when the little

Prince Maximilian came up and bowed to him in a condescending manner.

Our hero, who had not yet had an opportunity of speaking with him,

thanked him cordially for his handsome present, and asked him how he

liked the Court.

“Oh, delightful! I pass all my time with the Grand Duke and Madame:” and

here the young apostate settled his military stock and arranged the

girdle of his sword. “Madame Carolina,” continued he, “has commanded me

to inform you that she desires the pleasure of your attendance.”

The summons was immediately obeyed, and Vivian had the honour of a long

conversation with the interesting Consort of the Grand Duke. He was, for

a considerable time, complimented by her enthusiastic panegyric of

England, her original ideas of the character and genius of Lord Byron,

her veneration for Sir Humphry Davy, and her admiration of Sir Walter

Scott. Not remiss was Vivian in paying, in his happiest manner, due

compliments to the fair and royal authoress of the Court of Charlemagne.

While she spoke his native tongue, he admired her accurate English; and

while she professed to have derived her imperfect knowledge of his

perfect language from a study of its best authors, she avowed her belief

of the impossibility of ever speaking it correctly without the

assistance of a native. Conversation became more interesting.

When Vivian left the palace he was not unmindful of an engagement to

return there the next day, to give a first lesson in English

pronunciation to Madame Carolina.

CHAPTER IV

Vivian duly kept his appointment with Madame Carolina. The chamberlain

ushered him into a library, where Madame Carolina was seated at a large

table covered with books and manuscripts. Her costume and her

countenance were equally engaging. Fascination was alike in her smile,

and her sash, her bow, and her buckle. What a delightful pupil to

perfect in English pronunciation! Madame pointed, with a pride pleasing

to Vivian’s feelings as an Englishman, to her shelves, graced with the

most eminent of English writers. Madame Carolina was not like one of

those admirers of English literature whom you often meet on the

Continent: people who think that Beattie’s Minstrel is our most modern

and fashionable poem; that the Night Thoughts is the masterpiece of our

literature; and that Richardson is our only novelist. Oh, no! Madame

Carolina would not have disgraced May Fair. She knew Childe Harold by

rote, and had even peeped into Don Juan. Her admiration of the Edinburgh

and Quarterly Reviews was great and similar. To a Continental liberal,

indeed, even the Toryism of the Quarterly is philosophy; and not an

Under-Secretary ever yet massacred a radical innovator without giving

loose to some sentiments and sentences which are considered rank treason

in the meridian of Vienna.

After some conversation, in which Madame evinced eagerness to gain

details about the persons and manners of our most eminent literary

characters, she naturally began to speak of the literary productions of

other countries; and in short, ere an hour was passed, Vivian Grey,

instead of giving a lesson in English pronunciation to the Consort of

the Grand Duke of Reisenburg, found himself listening, in an easy-chair,

and with folded arms, to a long treatise by that lady de l’Esprit de

Conversation. It was a most brilliant dissertation. Her kindness in

reading it to him was most particular; nevertheless, for unexpected

blessings we are not always sufficiently grateful.

Another hour was consumed by the treatise. How she refined! what

unexpected distinctions! what exquisite discrimination of national

character! what skilful eulogium of her own! Nothing could be more

splendid than her elaborate character of a repartee; it would have

sufficed for an epic poem. At length Madame Carolina ceased de l’Esprit

de Conversation, and Vivian was successful in concealing his weariness

and in testifying his admiration. “The evil is over,” thought he; “I may

as well gain credit for my good taste.” The lesson in English

pronunciation, however, was not yet terminated. Madame was charmed with

our hero’s uncommon discrimination and extraordinary talents. He was the

most skilful and the most agreeable critic with whom she had ever been

acquainted. How invaluable must the opinion of such a person be to her

on her great work! No one had yet seen a line of it; but there are

moments when we are irresistibly impelled to seek a confidant; that

confidant was before her. The morocco case was unlocked, and the

manuscript of Haroun Al Raschid revealed to the enraptured eye of

Vivian Grey.

“I flatter myself,” said Madame Carolina, “that this work will create a

great sensation; not only in Germany. It abounds, I think, with

interesting story, engaging incidents, and animated and effective

descriptions. I have not, of course, been able to obtain any new matter

respecting his Sublimity the Caliph. Between ourselves, I do not think

this very important. So far as I have observed, we have matter enough in

this world on every possible subject already. It is manner in which the

literature of all nations is deficient. It appears to me that the great

point for persons of genius now to direct their attention to is the

expansion of matter. This I conceive to be the great secret; and this

must be effected by the art of picturesque writing. For instance, my

dear Mr. Grey, I will open the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, merely

for an exemplification, at the one hundred and eighty-fifth night; good!

Let us attend to the following passage:--

“‘In the reign of the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, there was at Bagdad a

druggist, called Alboussan Ebn Thaher, a very rich, handsome man. He had

more wit and politeness than people of his profession ordinarily have.

His integrity, sincerity, and jovial humour made him beloved and sought

after by all sorts of people. The Caliph, who knew his merit, had entire

confidence in him. He had so great an esteem for him that he entrusted

him with the care to provide his favourite ladies with all the things

they stood in need of. He chose for them their clothes, furniture, and

jewels, with admirable taste. His good qualities and the favour of the

Caliph made the sons of Emirs and other officers of the first rank be

always about him. His house was the rendezvous of all the nobility of

the Court.’

“What capabilities lurk in this dry passage!” exclaimed Madame Carolina;

“I touch it with my pen, and transform it into a chapter. It shall be

one of those that I will read to you. The description of Alboussan alone

demands ten pages. There is no doubt that his countenance was oriental.

The tale says that he was handsome: I paint him with his eastern eye,

his thin arched brow, his fragrant beard, his graceful mustachio. The

tale says he was rich: I have authorities for the costume of men of his

dignity in contemporary writers. In my history he appears in an upper

garment of green velvet, and loose trousers of pink satin; a jewelled

dagger lies in his golden girdle; his slippers are of the richest

embroidery; and he never omits the bath of roses daily. On this system,

which in my opinion elicits truth, for by it you are enabled to form a

conception of the manners of the age; on this system I proceed

throughout the paragraph. Conceive my account of his house being the

‘rendezvous of all the nobility of the Court.’ What a brilliant scene!

what variety of dress and character! what splendour! what luxury! what

magnificence! Imagine the detail of the banquet; which, by the bye,

gives me an opportunity of inserting, after the manner of your own

Gibbon, ‘a dissertation on sherbet.’ What think you of the art of

picturesque writing?”

“Admirable!” said Vivian; “von Chronicle himself--”

“How can you mention the name of that odious man!” almost shrieked

Madame Carolina, forgetting the dignity of her semi-regal character in

the jealous feelings of the author. “How can you mention him! A

scribbler without a spark, not only of genius, but even of common

invention. A miserable fellow, who seems to do nothing but clothe and

amplify, in his own fantastic style, the details of a parcel of old

chronicles!”

Madame’s indignation reminded Vivian of a true but rather vulgar proverb

of his own country; and he extricated himself from his very awkward

situation with a dexterity worthy of his former years.

“Von Chronicle himself,” said Vivian; “von Chronicle himself, as I was

going to observe, will be the most mortified of all on the appearance of

your work. He cannot be so blinded by self-conceit as to fail to observe

that your history is a thousand times more interesting than his fiction.

Ah! Madame, if you can thus spread enchantment over the hitherto weary

page of history, what must be your work of imagination!”

CHAPTER V

Vivian met Emilius von Aslingen in his ride through the gardens. As that

distinguished personage at present patronised the English nation, and

astounded the Reisenburg natives by driving an English mail, riding

English horses, and ruling English grooms, he deigned to be exceedingly

courteous to our hero, whom he had publicly declared at the soirée of

the preceding night to be “very good style.” Such a character from such

a man raised Vivian even more in the estimation of the Reisenburg world

than his flattering reception by the Grand Duke and his cordial greeting

by Madame Carolina.

“Shall you be at the Grand Marshal’s to-night?” asked Vivian.

“Ah! that is the new man, the man who was mediatised, is not it?”

“The Prince of Little Lilliput.”

“Yes!” drawled out Mr. von Aslingen. “I shall go if I have courage

enough; but they say his servants wear skins, and he has got a tail.”

The ball-room was splendidly illuminated. The whole of the Royal Family

was present, and did honour to their new officer of state; his Royal

Highness all smiles, and his Consort all diamonds. Stars and uniforms,

ribbons and orders, abounded. The diplomatic body wore the dresses of

their respective Courts. Emilius von Aslingen, having given out in the

morning that he should appear as a captain in the Royal Guards, the

young lords and fops of fashion were consequently ultra military. They

were not a little annoyed when, late in the evening, their model lounged

in, wearing the rich scarlet uniform of a Knight of Malta, of which

newly-revived order von Aslingen, who had served half a campaign against

the Turks, was a member.

The Royal Family had arrived only a few minutes: dancing had not yet

commenced. Vivian was at the top of the room, honoured by the notice of

Madame Carolina, who complained of his yesterday’s absence from the

palace. Suddenly the universal hum and buzz which are always sounding in

a crowded room were stilled; and all present, arrested in their

conversation and pursuits, stood with their heads turned towards the

great door. Thither also Vivian looked, and, wonderstruck, beheld--Mr.

Beckendorff. His singular appearance, for, with the exception of his

cavalry boots, he presented the same figure as when he first came

forward to receive the Prince of Little Lilliput and Vivian on the lawn,

immediately attracted universal attention; but in this crowded room

there were few who, either from actual experience or accurate

information, were not ignorant that this personage was the Prime

Minister. The report spread like wildfire. Even the etiquette of a

German ball-room, honoured as it was by the presence of the Court, was

no restraint to the curiosity and wonder of all present. Yes! even

Emilius von Aslingen raised his glass to his eye. But great as was

Vivian’s astonishment, it was not only occasioned by this unexpected

appearance of his former host. Mr. Beckendorff was not alone: a woman

was leaning on his left arm. A quick glance in a moment convinced Vivian

that she was not the original of the mysterious picture. The companion

of Beckendorff was very young. Her full voluptuous growth gave you, for

a moment, the impression that she was somewhat low in stature; but it

was only for a moment, for the lady was by no means short. Her beauty it

is impossible to describe. It was of a kind that baffles all phrases,

nor have I a single simile at command to make it more clearer more

confused. Her luxurious form, her blonde complexion, her silken hair,

would have all become the languishing Sultana; but then her eyes, they

banished all idea of the Seraglio, and were the most decidedly European,

though the most brilliant that ever glanced; eagles might have proved

their young at them. To a countenance which otherwise would have been

calm, and perhaps pensive, they gave an expression of extreme vivacity

and unusual animation, and perhaps of restlessness and arrogance: it

might have been courage. The lady was dressed in the costume of a

Chanoinesse of a Couvent des dames nobles; an institution to which

Protestant and Catholic ladles are alike admitted. The orange-coloured

cordon of her canonry was slung gracefully over her plain black silk

dress, and a diamond cross hung below her waist.

Mr. Beckendorff and his fair companion were instantly welcomed by the

Grand Marshal; and Arnelm and half-a-dozen Chamberlains, all in new

uniforms, and extremely agitated, did their utmost, by their exertions

in clearing the way, to prevent the Prime Minister of Reisenburg from

paying his respects to his Sovereign. At length, however, Mr.

Beckendorff reached the top of the room, and presented the young lady to

his Royal Highness, and also to Madame Carolina. Vivian had retired on

their approach, and now found himself among a set of young officers,

idolators of von Aslingen, and of white hats lined with crimson. “Who

can she be?” was the universal question. Though all by the query

acknowledged their ignorance, yet it is singular that, at the same time,

every one was prepared with a response to it. Such are the sources of

accurate information!

“And that is Beckendorff, is it?” exclaimed the young Count of

Eberstein; “and his daughter, of course! Well; there is nothing like

being a plebeian and a Prime Minister! I suppose Beckendorff will bring

an anonymous friend to Court next.”

“She cannot be his daughter,” said Bernstorff. “To be a Chanoinesse of

that order, remember, she must be noble.”

“Then she must be his niece,” answered the young Count of Eberstein. “I

think I do remember some confused story about a sister of Beckendorff

who ran away with some Wirtemberg Baron. What was that story,

Gernsbach?”

“No, it was not his sister,” said the Baron of Gernsbach; “it was his

aunt, I think.”

“Beckendorff’s aunt; what an idea! As if he ever had an aunt! Men of his

calibre make themselves out of mud. They have no relations. Well, never

mind; there was some story, I am sure, about some woman or other. Depend

upon it that this girl is the child of that woman, whether she be aunt,

niece, or daughter. I shall go and tell every one that I know the whole

business; this girl is the daughter of some woman or other.” So saying,

away walked the young Count of Eberstein, to disseminate in all

directions the important conclusion to which his logical head had

allowed him to arrive.

“Von Weinbren,” said the Baron of Gernsbach, “how can you account for

this mysterious appearance of the Premier?”

“Oh! when men are on the decline they do desperate things. I suppose it

is to please the renegado.”

“Hush! there’s the Englishman behind you.”

“On dit, another child of Beckendorff.”

“Oh no! secret mission.”

“Ah! indeed.”

“Here comes von Aslingen! Well, great Emilius! how solve you this

mystery?”

“What mystery? Is there one?”

“I allude to this wonderful appearance of Beckendorff.”

“Beckendorff! what a name! Who is he?”

“Nonsense! the Premier.”

“Well!”

“You have seen him, of course; he is here. Have you just come in?”

“Beckendorff here!” said von Aslingen, in a tone of affected horror; “I

did not know that the fellow was to be visited. It is all over with

Reisenburg. I shall go to Vienna to-morrow.”

But hark! the sprightly music calls to the dance; and first the stately

Polonaise, in easy gradation between walking and dancing. To the

surprise of the whole room and the indignation of main of the high

nobles, the Crown Prince of Reisenburg led off the Polonaise with the

unknown fair one. Such an attention to Beckendorff was a distressing

proof of present power and favour. The Polonaise is a dignified

promenade, with which German balls invariably commence. The cavaliers,

with an air of studied grace, offer their right hands to their fair

partners; and the whole party, in a long file, accurately follow the

leading couple through all their scientific evolutions, as they wind

through every part of the room. Waltzes in sets speedily followed the

Polonaise; and the unknown, who was now an object of universal

attention, danced with Count von Sohnspeer, another of Beckendorff’s

numerous progeny, if the reader remember. How scurvily are poor single

gentlemen who live alone treated by the candid tongues of their

fellow-creatures! The commander-in-chief of the Reisenburg troops was

certainly a partner of a different complexion from the young lady’s

previous one. The crown Prince had undertaken his duty with reluctance,

and had performed it without grace; not a single word had he exchanged

with his partner during the promenade, and his genuine listlessness was

even more offensive than affected apathy. Von Sohnspeer, on the

contrary, danced in the true Vienna style, and whirled like a Dervish.

All our good English prejudices against the soft, the swimming, the

sentimental, melting, undulating, dangerous waltz would quickly

disappear, if we only executed the dreaded manoeuvres in the true

Austrian style. One might as soon expect our daughters to get

sentimental in a swing.

Vivian did not choose to presume upon his late acquaintance with Mr.

Beckendorff, as it had not been sought by that gentleman, and he

consequently did not pay his respects to the Minister. Mr. Beckendorff

continued at the top of the room, standing between the State chairs of

his Royal Highness and Madame Carolina, and occasionally addressing an

observation to his Sovereign and answering one of the lady’s. Had Mr.

Beckendorff been in the habit of attending balls nightly he could not

have exhibited more perfect nonchalance. There he stood, with his arms

crossed behind him, his chin resting on his breast, and his raised

eyes glancing!

“My dear Prince,” said Vivian to the Grand Marshal, “you are just the

person I wanted to speak to. How came you to invite Beckendorff, and how

came he to accept the invitation?”

“My dear friend,” said his Highness, shrugging his shoulders, “wonders

will never cease. I never invited him; I should just as soon have

thought of inviting old Johannisberger.”

“Were you not aware, then, of his intention?”

“Not in the least! you should rather say attention; for, I assure you, I

consider it a most particular one. It is quite astonishing, my dear

friend, how I mistook that man’s character. He really is one of the most

gentlemanlike, polite, and excellent persons I know; no more mad than

you are! And as for his power being on the decline, we know the

nonsense of that!”

“Better than most persons, I suspect. Sievers, of course, is not here?”

“No! you have heard about him, I suppose?”

“Heard! heard what?”

“Not heard! well, he told me yesterday, and said he was going to call

upon you directly to let you know.”

“Know what?”

“He is a very sensible man, Sievers; and I am very glad at last that he

is likely to succeed in the world. All men have their little

imprudences, and he was a little too hot once. What of that? He has come

to his senses, so have I; and I hope you will never lose yours.”

“But, pray, my dear Prince, tell me what has happened to Sievers.”

“He is going to Vienna immediately, and will be very useful there, I

have no doubt. He has got a good place, and I am sure he will do his

duty. They cannot have an abler man.”

“Vienna! that is the last city in the world in which I should expect to

find Mr. Sievers. What place can he have? and what services can he

perform there?”

“Many! he is to be Editor of the Austrian Observer, and Censor of the

Austrian Press. I thought he would do well at last. All men have their

imprudent day. I had. I cannot stop now. I must go and speak to the

Countess von S----.”

As Vivian was doubting whether he should most grieve or laugh at this

singular termination of Mr. Sievers’ career, his arm was suddenly

touched, and on turning round he found it was by Mr. Beckendorff.

“There is another strong argument, sir,” said the Minister, without any

of the usual phrases of recognition; “there is another strong argument

against your doctrine of Destiny.” And then Mr. Beckendorff, taking

Vivian by the arm, began walking up and down part of the saloon with

him; and in a few minutes, quite forgetting the scene of the discussion,

he was involved in metaphysics. This incident created another great

sensation, and whispers of “secret mission, Secretary of State,

decidedly a son,” &c. &c. &c. were in an instant afloat in all parts

of the room.

The approach of his Royal Highness extricated Vivian from an argument

which was as profound as it was interminable; and as Mr. Beckendorff

retired with the Grand Duke into a recess in the ball-room, Vivian was

requested by von Neuwied to attend his Excellency the Grand Marshal.

“My dear friend,” said the Prince, “I saw you talking with a certain

person, I did not say anything to you when I passed you before; but, to

tell you the truth now, I was a little annoyed that he had not spoken to

you. I knew you were as proud as Lucifer, and would not salute him

yourself; and between ourselves I had no great wish you should, for, not

to conceal it, he did not even mention your name. But the reason of this

is now quite evident, and you must confess he is remarkably courteous.

You know, if you remember, we thought that incognito was a little

affected; rather annoying, if you recollect. I remember in the green

lane you gave him a gentle cut about it. It was spirited, and I dare say

did good. Well! what I was going to say about that is this; I dare say

now, after all,” continued his Excellency, with a knowing look, “a

certain person had very good reasons for that; not that he ever told

them to me, nor that I have the slightest idea of them; but when a

person is really so exceedingly polite and attentive I always think he

would never do anything disagreeable without a cause; and it was

exceedingly disagreeable, if you remember, my dear friend. I never knew

to whom he was speaking. Von Philipson indeed! Well! we did not think,

the day we were floundering down that turf road, that it would end in

this. Rather a more brilliant scene than the Giants’ Hall at Turriparva,

I think, eh? But all men have their imprudent days; the best way is to

forget them. There was poor Sievers; who ever did more imprudent things

than he? and now it is likely he will do very well in the world, eh?

What I want of you, my dear friend, is this. There is that girl who

came with Beckendorff; who the deuce she is, I don’t know: let us hope

the best! We must pay her every attention. I dare say she is his

daughter. You have not forgotten the portrait. Well! we all were gay

once. All men have their imprudent day; why should not Beckendorff?

Speaks rather in his favour, I think. Well, this girl; his Royal

Highness very kindly made the Crown Prince walk the Polonaise with her;

very kind of him, and very proper. What attention can be too great for

the daughter or friend of such a man! a man who, in two words, may be

said to have made Reisenburg. For what was Reisenburg before

Beckendorff? Ah! what? Perhaps we were happier then, after all; and then

there was no Royal Highness to bow to; no person to be condescending,

except ourselves. But never mind! we will forget. After all, this life

has its charms. What a brilliant scene! but this girl, every attention

should be paid her. The Crown Prince was so kind as to walk the

Polonaise with her. And von Sohnspeer; he is a brute, to be sure; but

then he is a Field Marshal. Now, I think, considering what has taken

place between Beckendorff and yourself, and the very distinguished

manner in which he recognised you; I think, that after all this, and

considering everything, the etiquette is for you, particularly as you

are a foreigner, and my personal friend; indeed, my most particular

friend, for in fact I owe everything to you, my life, and more than my

life; I think, I repeat, considering all this, that the least you can do

is to ask her to dance with you; and I, as the host, will introduce you.

I am sorry, my dear friend,” continued his Excellency, with a look of

great regret, “to introduce you to--; but we will not speak about it. We

have no right to complain of Mr. Beckendorff. No person could possibly

behave to us in a manner more gentlemanlike.”

After an introductory speech in his Excellency’s happiest manner, and in

which an eulogium of Vivian and a compliment to the fair unknown got

almost as completely entangled as the origin of slavery and the history

of the feudal system in his more celebrated harangue, Vivian found

himself waltzing with the anonymous beauty. The Grand Marshal, during

the process of introduction, had given the young lady every opportunity

of declaring her name; but every opportunity was thrown away. “She must

be incog.,” whispered his Excellency; “Miss von Philipson, I suppose?”

Vivian was not a little desirous of discovering the nature of the

relationship or connection between Beckendorff and his partner. The

rapid waltz allowed no pause for conversation; but after the dance

Vivian seated himself at her side, with the determination of not quickly

deserting it The lady did not even allow him the satisfaction of

commencing the conversation; for no sooner was she seated than she

begged to know who the person was with whom she had previously waltzed.

The history of Count von Sohnspeer amused her; and no sooner had Vivian

finished his anecdote than the lady said, “Ah! so: you are an amusing

person. Now tell me the history of everybody in the room.”

“Really,” said Vivian, “I fear I shall forfeit my reputation of being

amusing very speedily, for I am almost as great a stranger at this Court

as you appear to be yourself. Count von Sohnspeer is too celebrated a

personage at Reisenburg to have allowed even me to be long ignorant of

his history; and as for the rest, as far as I can judge, they are most

of them as obscure as myself, and not nearly as interesting as you are!”

“Are you an Englishman?” asked the lady.

“I am.”

“I supposed so, both from your travelling and your appearance: I think

the English countenance very peculiar.”

“Indeed! we do not flatter ourselves so at home.”

“Yes! it is peculiar.” said the lady, in a tone which seemed to imply

that contradiction was unusual; “and I think that you are all handsome!

I admire the English, which in this part of the world is singular: the

South, you know, is generally francisé.”

“I am aware of that,” said Vivian. “There, for instance,” pointing to a

pompous-looking personage who at that moment strutted by; “there, for

instance, is the most francisé person in all Reisenburg! that is our

Grand Chamberlain. He considers himself a felicitous copy of Louis the

Fourteenth! He allows nothing in his opinions and phrases but what is

orthodox. As it generally happens in such cases, his orthodoxy is rather

obsolete.”

“Who is that Knight of Malta?” asked the lady.

“The most powerful individual in the room,” answered Vivian.

“Who can he be?” asked the lady, with eagerness.

“Behold him, and tremble!” rejoined Vivian: “for with him it rests to

decide whether you are civilised or a savage; whether you are to be

abhorred or admired: idolised or despised. Nay, do not be alarmed! there

are a few heretics, even in Reisenburg, who, like myself, value from

conviction, and not from fashion, and who will be ever ready, in spite

of a von Aslingen anathema, to evince our admiration where it is due.”

The lady pleaded fatigue as an excuse for not again dancing; and Vivian

did not quit her side. Her lively remarks, piquant observations, and

singular questions highly amused him; and he was flattered by the

evident gratification which his conversation afforded her. It was

chiefly of the principal members of the Court that she spoke: she was

delighted with Vivian’s glowing character of Madame Carolina, whom she

said she had this evening seen for the first time. Who this unknown

could be was a question which often occurred to him; and the singularity

of a man like Beckendorff suddenly breaking through his habits and

outraging the whole system of his existence, to please a daughter, or

niece, or female cousin, did not fail to strike him.

“I have the honour of being acquainted with Mr. Beckendorff,” said

Vivian. This was the first time that the Minister’s name had been

mentioned.

“I perceived you talking with him,” was the answer.

“You are staying, I suppose, at Mr. Beckendorff’s?”

“Not at present.”

“You have, of course, been at his retreat; delightful place!”

“Yes!”

“Are you an ornithologist?” asked Vivian, smiling.

“Not at all scientific; but I, of course, can now tell a lory from a

Java sparrow, and a bullfinch from a canary. The first day I was there,

I never shall forget the surprise I experienced, when, after the noon

meal being finished, the aviary door was opened. After that I always let

the creatures out myself; and one day I opened all the cages at once. If

you could but have witnessed the scene! I am sure you would have been

quite delighted with it. As for poor Mr. Beckendorff, I thought even he

would have gone out of his mind; and when I brought in the white peacock

he actually left the room in despair. Pray how do you like Madame Clara

and Owlface too? Which do you think the most beautiful? I am no great

favourite with the old lady. Indeed, it was very kind of Mr. Beckendorff

to bear with everything as he did: I am sure he is not much used to lady

visitors.”

“I trust that your visit to him will not be very short?”

“My stay at Reisenburg will not be very long,” said the young lady,

with rather a grave countenance, “Have you been here any time?”

“About a fortnight; it was a mere chance my coming at all. I was going

on straight to Vienna.”

“To Vienna, indeed! Well, I am glad you did not miss Reisenburg; you

must not quit it now. You know that this is not the Vienna season?”

“I am aware of it; but I am such a restless person that I never regulate

my movements by those of other people.”

“But surely you find Reisenburg agreeable?”

“Very much so; but I am a confirmed wanderer.’

“Why are you?” asked the lady, with great naïveté.

Vivian looked grave; and the lady, as if she were sensible of having

unintentionally occasioned him a painful recollection, again expressed

her wish that he should not immediately quit the Court, and trusted that

circumstances would not prevent him from acceding to her desire.

“It does not even depend upon circumstances,” said Vivian; “the whim of

the moment is my only principle of action, and therefore I may be off

to-night, or be here a month hence.”

“Oh! pray stay then,” said his companion eagerly; “I expect you to stay

now. If you could only have an idea what a relief conversing with you

is, after having been dragged by the Crown Prince and whirled by that

von Sohnspeer! Heigho! I could almost sigh at the very remembrance of

that doleful Polonaise.”

The lady ended with a faint laugh a sentence which apparently had been

commenced in no light vein. She did not cease speaking, but continued to

request Vivian to remain at Reisenburg at least as long as herself. Her

frequent requests were perfectly unnecessary, for the promise had been

pledged at the first hint of her wish; but this was not the only time

during the evening that Vivian had remarked that his interesting

companion occasionally talked without apparently being sensible that she

was conversing.

The young Count of Eberstein, who, to use his own phrase, was “sadly

involved,” and consequently desirous of being appointed a forest

Councillor, thought that he should secure his appointment by

condescending to notice the person whom he delicately styled “the

Minister’s female relative.” To his great mortification and surprise,

the honour was declined; and “the female relative,” being unwilling to

dance again, but perhaps feeling it necessary to break off her

conversation with her late partner, it having already lasted an unusual

time, highly gratified his Excellency the Grand Marshal by declaring

that she would dance with Prince Maximilian. “This, to say the least,

was very attentive of Miss von Philipson.”

Little Max, who had just tact enough to discover that to be the partner

of the fair incognita was the place of honour of the evening, now

considered himself by much the most important personage in the room. In

fact, he was only second to Emilius von Aslingen. The evident contest

which was ever taking place between his natural feelings as a boy and

his acquired habits as a courtier made him an amusing companion. He

talked of the Gardens and the Opera in a style not unworthy of the young

Count of Eberstein. He thought that Madame Carolina was as charming as

usual to-night; but, on the contrary, that the Countess von S---- was

looking rather ill, and this put him in mind of her ladyship’s new

equipage; and then, apropos to equipages, what did his companion think

of the new fashion of the Hungarian harness? His lively and kind

companion encouraged the boy’s tattle; and, emboldened by her good

nature, he soon forgot his artificial speeches, and was quickly rattling

on about Turriparva, and his horses, and his dogs, and his park, and his

guns, and his grooms. Soon after the waltz, the lady, taking the arm of

the young Prince, walked up to Mr. Beckendorff. He received her with

great attention, and led her to Madame Carolina, who rose, seated Mr.

Beckendorff’s “female relative” by her side, and evidently said

something extremely agreeable.

CHAPTER VI

Vivian had promised Madame Carolina a second English lesson on the day

after the Grand Marshal’s fete. The progress which the lady had made,

and the talent which the gentleman had evinced during the first, had

rendered Madame the most enthusiastic of pupils, and Vivian, in her

estimation, the ablest of instructors. Madame Carolina’s passion was

patronage: to discover concealed merit, to encourage neglected genius,

to reveal the mysteries of the world to a novice in mankind, or, in

short, to make herself very agreeable to any one whom she fancied to be

very interesting, was the great business and the great delight of her

existence. No sooner had her eyes lighted on Vivian Grey than she

determined to patronise. His country, his appearance, the romantic

manner in which he had become connected with the Court, all pleased her

lively imagination. She was intuitively acquainted with his whole

history, and in an instant he was the hero of a romance, of which the

presence of the principal character compensated, we may suppose, for the

somewhat indefinite details. His taste and literary acquirements

completed the spell by which Madame Carolina was willingly enchanted. A

low Dutch professor, whose luminous genius rendered unnecessary the

ceremony of shaving; and a dumb dwarf, in whose interesting appearance

was forgotten its perfect idiocy, prosy improvisatore, and a South

American savage, were all superseded by the appearance of Vivian Grey.

As Madame Carolina was, in fact, a charming woman, our hero had no

objection to humour her harmless foibles; and not contented with making

notes in an interleaved copy of her Charlemagne, he even promised to

read Haroun Al Raschid in manuscript. The consequence of his courtesy

and the reward of his taste was unbounded favour. Apartments in the

palace were offered him, and declined; and when Madame Carolina had

become acquainted with sufficient of his real history to know that, on

his part, neither wish nor necessity existed to return immediately to

his own country, she tempted him to remain at Reisenburg by an offer of

a place at Court; and doubtless, had he been willing, Vivian might in

time have become a Lord Chamberlain, or perhaps even a Field Marshal.

On entering the room the morning in question he found Madame Carolina

writing. At the end of the apartment a lady ceased, on his appearance,

humming an air to which she was dancing, and at the same time imitating

castanets. Madame received Vivian with expressions of delight, saying

also, in a peculiar and confidential manner, that she was just sealing

up a packet for him, the preface of Haroun; and then she presented him

to “the Baroness!” The lady who was lately dancing came forward. It was

his unknown partner of the preceding night. “The Baroness” extended her

hand to Vivian, and unaffectedly expressed her great pleasure at seeing

him again. Vivian trusted that she was not fatigued by the fête, and

asked after Mr. Beckendorff. Madame Carolina was busily engaged at the

moment in duly securing the precious preface. The Baroness said that Mr.

Beckendorff had returned home, but that Madame Carolina had kindly

insisted upon her staying at the palace. She was not the least wearied.

Last night had been one of the most agreeable she had ever spent; at

least she supposed she ought to say so: for if she had experienced a

tedious or mournful feeling for a moment, it was hardly for what was

then passing so much as for--”

“Pray, Mr. Grey,” said Madame Carolina, interrupting them, “have you

heard about our new ballet?”

“No.”

“I do not think you have ever been to our Opera. To-morrow is Opera

night, and you must not be again away. We pride ourselves here very much

upon our Opera.”

“We estimate it even in England,” said Vivian, “as possessing perhaps

the most perfect orchestra now organised.”

“The orchestra is perfect. His Royal Highness is such an excellent

musician, and he has spared no trouble or expense in forming it: he has

always superintended it himself. But I confess I admire our ballet

department still more. I expect you to be delighted with it. You will

perhaps be gratified to know that the subject of our new splendid

ballet, which is to be produced to-morrow, is from a great work of your

illustrious poet, my Lord Byron.”

“From which?”

“The Corsair. Ah! what a sublime work! what passion! what energy! what

knowledge of feminine feeling! what contrast of character! what

sentiments! what situations! I wish this were Opera night; Gulnare! my

favourite character; beautiful! How do you think they will dress her?”

“Are you an admirer of our Byron?” asked Vivian, of the Baroness.

“I think he is a very handsome man. I once saw him at the carnival at

Venice.”

“But his works; his grand works! ma chère petite,” said Madame Carolina,

in her sweetest tone: “you have read his works?”

“Not a line,” answered the Baroness, with great naïveté; “I never saw

them.”

“Pauvre enfant!” said Madame Carolina; “I will employ you, then, while

you are here.”

“I never read,” said the Baroness; “I cannot bear it. I like poetry and

romances, but I like somebody to read to me.”

“Very just,” said Madame Carolina; “we can judge with greater accuracy

of the merit of a composition when it reaches our mind merely through

the medium of the human voice. The soul is an essence, invisible and

indivisible. In this respect the voice of man resembles the principle of

his existence; since few will deny, though there are some materialists

who will deny everything, that the human voice is both impalpable and

audible only in one place at the same time. Hence, I ask, is it

illogical to infer its indivisibility? The soul and the voice, then, are

similar in two great attributes: there is a secret harmony in their

spiritual construction. In the early ages of mankind a beautiful

tradition was afloat that the soul and the voice were one and the same.

We may perhaps recognise in this fanciful belief the effect of the

fascinating and imaginative philosophy of the East; that mysterious

portion of the globe,” continued Madame Carolina, “from which we should

frankly confess that we derive everything; for the South is but the

pupil of the East, through the mediation of Egypt. Of this opinion,”

said Madame with fervour, “I have no doubt: of this opinion,” continued

the lady with enthusiasm, “I have boldly avowed myself a votary in a

dissertation appended to the second volume of Haroun: for this opinion I

would die at the stake! Oh, lovely East! why was I not oriental! Land

where the voice of the nightingale is never mute! Land of the cedar and

the citron, the turtle and the myrtle, of ever-blooming flowers and

ever-shining skies! Illustrious East! Cradle of Philosophy! My dearest

Baroness, why do not you feel as I do? From the East we obtain

everything!”

“Indeed!” said the Baroness, with simplicity; “I thought we only got

shawls.”

This puzzling answer was only noticed by Vivian; for the truth is,

Madame Carolina was one of those individuals who never attend to any

person’s answers. Always thinking of herself, she only asked questions

that she herself might supply the responses. And now having made, as she

flattered herself, a splendid display to her favourite critic, she began

to consider what had given rise to her oration. Lord Byron and the

ballet again occurred to her; and as the Baroness, at least, was not

unwilling to listen, and as she herself had no manuscript of her own

which she particularly wished to be perused, she proposed that Vivian

should read to them part of the Corsair, and in the original tongue.

Madame Carolina opened the volume at the first prison scene between

Gulnare and Conrad. It was her favourite. Vivian read with care and

feeling. Madame was in raptures, and the Baroness, although she did not

understand a single syllable, seemed almost equally delighted. At length

Vivian came to this passage:

My love stern Seyd’s! Oh, no, no, not my love!

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

To meet his passion; but it would not be.

I felt, I feel, love dwells with, with the free.

I am a slave, a favour’d slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of, “Dost thou love?” and burn to answer, “No!”

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear,

And hide from one, perhaps another there;

He takes the hand I give not nor withhold,

Its pulse nor checked nor quickened, calmly cold:

And when resign’d, it drops a lifeless weight

From one I never loved enough to hate.

No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

And chill’d remembrance shudders o’er the rest.

Yes, had I ever prov’d that passion’s zeal,

The change to hatred were at least to feel:

But still, he goes unmourn’d, returns unsought,

And oft when present, absent from my thought.

Or when reflection comes, and come it must,

I fear that henceforth ‘twill but bring disgust:

I am his slave; but, in despite of pride,

‘Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.

“Superb!” said Madame, in a voice of enthusiasm; “how true! what

passion! what energy! what sentiments! what knowledge of feminine

feeling! Read it again, I pray: it is my favourite passage.”

“What is this passage about?” asked the Baroness, with some anxiety;

“tell me.”

“I have a French translation, ma mignonne,” said Madame; “you shall have

it afterwards.”

“No! I detest reading,” said the young lady, with an imperious air;

“translate it to me at once.”

“You are rather a self-willed beauty!” thought Vivian; “but your eyes

are so brilliant that nothing must be refused you!” and so he

translated it.

On its conclusion Madame was again in raptures. The Baroness was not

less affected, but she said nothing. She appeared agitated; she changed

colour, raised her beautiful eyes with an expression of sorrow, looked

at Vivian earnestly, and then walked to the other end of the room. In a

few moments she returned to her seat.

“I wish you would tell me the story,” she said, with earnestness.

“I have a French translation, ma belle!” said Madame Carolina; “at

present I wish to trouble Mr. Grey with a few questions.” Madame

Carolina led Vivian into a recess.

“I am sorry we are troubled with this sweet little savage; but I think

she has talent, though evidently quite uneducated. We must do what we

can for her. Her ignorance of all breeding is amusing, but then I think

she has a natural elegance. We shall soon polish her. His Royal Highness

is so anxious that every attention should be paid to her. Beckendorff,

you know, is a man of the greatest genius.” (Madame Carolina had lowered

her tone about the Minister since the Prince of Little Lilliput’s

apostasy.) “The country is greatly indebted to him. This, between

ourselves, is his daughter. At least I have no doubt of it. Beckendorff

was once married, to a lady of great rank, died early, beautiful woman,

very interesting! His Royal Highness had a great regard for her. The

Premier, in his bereavement, turned humorist, and has brought up this

lovely girl in the oddest possible manner; nobody knows where. Now that

he finds it necessary to bring her forward, he, of course, is quite at a

loss. His Royal Highness has applied to me. There was a little coldness

before between the Minister and myself. It is now quite removed. I must

do what I can for her I think she must marry von Sohnspeer, who is no

more Beckendorff’s son than you are: or young Eberstein, or young

Bernstorff, or young Gernsbach. We must do something for her. I offered

her last night to Emilius von Aslingen; but he said that, unfortunately,

he was just importing a savage or two of his own from the Brazils, and

consequently was not in want of her.”

A chamberlain now entered, to announce the speedy arrival of his Royal

Highness. The Baroness, without ceremony, expressed her great regret

that he was coming, as now she should not hear the wished-for story.

Madame Carolina reproved her, and the reproof was endured rather than

submitted to.

His Royal Highness entered, and was accompanied by the Crown Prince. He

greeted the young lady with great kindness; and even the Crown Prince,

inspired by his father’s unusual warmth, made a shuffling kind of bow

and a stuttering kind of speech. Vivian was about to retire on the

entrance of the Grand Duke, but Madame Carolina prevented him from

going, and his Royal Highness, turning round, very graciously seconded

her desire, and added that Mr. Grey was the very gentleman with whom he

was desirous of meeting.

“I am anxious,” said he to Vivian, in rather a low tone, “to make

Reisenburg agreeable to Mr. Beckendorff’s fair friend. As you are one of

the few who are honoured by his intimacy, and are familiar with some of

our state secrets,” added the Grand Duke with a smile, “I am sure it

will give you pleasure to assist me in the execution of my wishes.”

His Royal Highness proposed that the ladies should ride; and he himself,

with the Crown Prince and Mr. Grey, would attend them. Madame Carolina

expressed her willingness; but the Baroness, like all forward girls

unused to the world, suddenly grew at the same time both timid and

disobliging. She looked sullen and discontented, and coolly said that

she did not feel in the humour to ride for at least these two hours. To

Vivian’s surprise, even the Grand Duke humoured her fancy, and declared

that he should then be happy to attend them after the Court dinner.

Until that time Vivian was amused by Madame, and the Grand Duke

exclusively devoted himself to the Baroness. His Royal Highness was in

his happiest mood, and his winning manners and elegant conversation soon

chased away the cloud which, for a moment, had settled on the young

lady’s fair brow.

CHAPTER VII

The Grand Duke of Reisenburg was an enthusiastic lover of music, and his

people were consequently music mad. The whole city were fiddling day and

night, or blowing trumpets, oboes, and bassoons. Sunday, however, was

the most harmonious day in the week. The Opera amused the Court and the

wealthiest citizens, and few private houses could not boast their family

concert or small party of performers. In the tea-gardens, of which there

were many in the suburbs of the city, bearing the euphonious, romantic,

and fashionable titles of Tivoli, Arcadia, and Vauxhall, a strong and

amateur orchestra was never wanting. Strolling through the city on a

Sunday afternoon, many a pleasing picture of innocent domestic enjoyment

might be observed. In the arbour of a garden a very stout man, with a

fair, broad, good-natured, solid German face, may be seen perspiring

under the scientific exertion of the French horn; himself wisely

disembarrassed of the needless incumbrance of his pea-green coat and

showy waistcoat, which lay neatly folded by his side; while his large

and sleepy blue eyes actually gleam with enthusiasm. His daughter, a

soft and delicate girl, touches the light guitar: catching the notes of

the music from the opened opera, which is placed before the father on a

massy music-stand. Her voice joins in melody with her mother, who, like

all German mothers, seems only her daughter’s self, subdued by an

additional twenty years. The bow of one violin is handled with the air

of a master by an elder brother; while a younger one, an university

student, grows sentimental over the flute. The same instrument is also

played by a tall and tender-looking young man in black, who stands

behind the parents, next to the daughter, and occasionally looks off his

music-book to gaze on his young mistress’s eyes. He is a clerk in a

public office; and on next Michaelmas day, if he succeed, as he hopes,

in gaining a small addition to his salary, he will be still more

entitled to join in the Sunday family concert. Such is one of the

numerous groups, the sight of which must, assuredly, give pleasure to

every man who delights in seeing his fellow-creatures refreshed after

their weekly labours by such calm and rational enjoyment. We would

gladly linger among such scenes; and, moreover, the humours of a

guinguette are not unworthy of our attention: but we must introduce the

reader to a more important party.

The Court chapel and the Court dinner are over. We are in the

Opera-house of Reisenburg; and, of course, rise as the Royal party

enters. The house, which is of moderate size, was fitted up with

splendour: we hardly know whether we should say with great taste; for,

although not merely the scenery, but indeed every part of the house, was

painted by eminent artists, the style of the ornaments was rather

patriotic than tasteful. The house had been built immediately after the

war, at a period when Reisenburg, flushed with the success of its thirty

thousand men, imagined itself to be a great military nation. Trophies,

standards, cannon, eagles, consequently appeared in every corner of the

Opera-house; and quite superseded lyres, and timbrels, and tragic

daggers, and comic masks. The royal box was constructed in the form of a

tent, and held nearly fifty persons. It was exactly in the centre of the

house, its floor over the back of the pit, and its roof reaching to the

top of the second circle; its crimson hangings were restrained by ropes

of gold, and the whole was surmounted by a large and radiant crown. The

house was merely lighted by a chandelier from the centre.

The Opera for the evening was Rossini’s Otello. As soon as the Grand

Duke entered the overture commenced, his Royal Highness coming forward

to the front of the box and himself directing the musicians, keeping

time earnestly with his right hand, in which was a long black

opera-glass. This he occasionally used, but merely to look at the

orchestra, not, assuredly, to detect a negligent or inefficient

performer; for in the schooled orchestra of Reisenburg it would have

been impossible even for the eagle eye of his Royal Highness, assisted

as it was by his long black opera-glass, or for his fine ear, matured as

it was by the most complete study, to discover there either inattention

or feebleness. The house was perfectly silent; for when the Monarch

directs the orchestra the world goes to the Opera to listen. Perfect

silence at Reisenburg, then, was etiquette and the fashion. Between the

acts of the Opera, however, the Ballet was performed; and then everybody

might talk, and laugh, and remark as much as they chose.

The Grand Duke prided himself as much upon the accuracy of his scenery

and dresses and decorations as upon the exquisite skill of his

performers. In truth, an Opera at Reisenburg was a spectacle which could

not fail to be interesting to a man of taste. When the curtain drew up

the first scene presented a view of old Brabantio’s house. It was

accurately copied from one of the sumptuous structures of Scamozzi, or

Sansovino, or Palladio, which adorn the Grand Canal of Venice. In the

distance rose the domes of St. Mark and the lofty Campanile. Vivian

could not fail to be delighted with this beautiful work of art, for such

indeed it should be styled. He was more surprised, however, but not less

pleased, on the entrance of Othello himself. In England we are

accustomed to deck this adventurous Moor in the costume of his native

country; but is this correct? The Grand Duke of Reisenburg thought not.

Othello was an adventurer; at an early age he entered, as many

foreigners did, into the service of Venice. In that service be rose to

the highest dignities, became General of her armies and of her fleets,

and finally the Viceroy of her favourite kingdom. Is it natural to

suppose that such a man should have retained, during his successful

career, the manners and dress of his original country? Ought we not

rather to admit that, had he done so his career would, in fact, not have

been successful? In all probability, he imitated to affectation the

manners of the country which he had adopted. It is not probable that in

such or in any age the turbaned Moor would have been treated with great

deference by the common Christian soldier of Venice; or, indeed, that

the scandal of a heathen leading the armies of one of the most powerful

of European States would have been tolerated for an instant by indignant

Christendom. If Shylock even, the Jew merchant, confined to his quarter,

and herding with his own sect, were bearded on the Rialto, in what

spirit would the Venetians have witnessed their doge and nobles, whom

they ranked above kings, holding equal converse, and loading with the

most splendid honours of the Republic a follower of Mahound? Such were

the sentiments of the Grand Duke of Reisenburg on this subject, a

subject interesting to Englishmen; and I confess I think that they are

worthy of attention. In accordance with his opinions, the actor who

performed Othello appeared in the full dress of a Venetian magnifico of

the middle ages; a fit companion for Cornaro, or Grimani, or Barberigo,

or Foscari.

The first act of the Opera was finished. The Baroness expressed to

Vivian her great delight at its being over, as she was extremely

desirous of learning the story of the ballet, which she had not yet been

able to acquire. His translation of yesterday had greatly interested

her. Vivian shortly gave her the outline of the story of Conrad. She

listened with much attention, but made no remark.

The ballet at Reisenburg was not merely a vehicle for the display of

dancing. It professed by gesture and action, aided by music, to

influence the minds of the spectators not less than the regular drama.

Of this exhibition dancing was a casual ornament, as it is of life. It

took place therefore only on fitting occasions, and grew out, in a

natural manner, from some event in the history represented. For

instance, suppose the story of Othello the subject of the ballet. The

dancing, in all probability, would be introduced at a grand

entertainment given in celebration of the Moor’s arrival at Cyprus. All

this would be in character. Our feelings would not be outraged by a

husband chassezing forward to murder his wife, or by seeing the pillow

pressed over the innocent Desdemona by the impulse of a pirouette. In

most cases, therefore, the chief performers in this species of spectacle

are not even dancers. This, however, may not always be the case. If

Diana be the heroine, poetical probability will not be offended by the

goddess joining in the chaste dance with her huntress nymphs; and were

the Baiadere of Goethe made the subject of a ballet, the Indian dancing

girl would naturally be the heroine both of the drama and the poem.

There are few performances more affecting than the serious pantomime of

a master. In some of the most interesting situations it is in fact even

more natural than the oral drama, logically it is more perfect; for the

soliloquy is actually thought before us, and the magic of the

representation not destroyed by the sound of the human voice at a moment

when we all know man never speaks.

The curtain again rises. Sounds of revelry and triumph are heard from

the Pirate Isle. They celebrate recent success. Various groups,

accurately attired in the costume of the Greek islands, are seated on

the rocky foreground. On the left rises Medora’s tower, on a craggy

steep; and on the right gleams the blue Aegean. A procession of women

enters. It heralds the presence of Conrad and Medora; they honour the

festivity of their rude subjects. The pirates and the women join in the

national dance; and afterwards eight warriors, completely armed, move in

a warlike measure, keeping time to the music with their bucklers and

clattering sabres. Suddenly the dance ceases; a sail is in sight. The

nearest pirates rush to the strand, and assist the disembarkation of

their welcome comrades. The commander of the vessel comes forward with

an agitated step and gloomy countenance. He kneels to Conrad and

delivers him a scroll, which the chieftain reads with suppressed

agitation. In a moment the faithful Juan is at his side, the contents of

the scroll revealed, the dance broken up, and preparations made to sail

in an hour’s time to the city of the Pacha. The stage is cleared, and

Conrad and Medora are alone. The mysterious leader is wrapt in the

deepest abstraction. He stands with folded arms, and eyes fixed on the

yellow sand. A gentle pressure on his arm calls him back to

recollection; he starts, and turns to the intruder with a gloomy brow.

He sees Medora, and his frown sinks into a sad smile. “And must we part

again! this hour, this very hour; it cannot be!” She clings to him with

agony, and kneels to him with adoration. No hope, no hope! a quick

return promised with an air of foreboding fate. His stern arm encircles

her waist. He chases the heavy tear from her fair cheek, and while he

bids her be glad in his absence with her handmaids peals the sad thunder

of the signal gun. She throws herself upon him. The frantic quickness of

her motion strikingly contrasts with the former stupor of her

appearance. She will not part. Her face is buried in his breast; her

long fair hair floats over his shoulders. He is almost unnerved; but at

this moment the ship sails on; the crew and their afflicted wives enter;

the page brings to Lord Conrad his cloak, his carbine, and his bugle. He

tears himself from her embrace, and without daring to look behind him

bounds over the rocks, and is in the ship. The vessel moves, the wives

of the pirates continue on the beach, waving their scarfs to their

desolate husbands. In the foreground Medora, motionless, stands rooted

to the strand, and might have inspired Phidias with a personification

of Despair.

In a hall of unparalleled splendour stern Seyd reclines on innumerable

pillows, placed on a carpet of golden cloth. His bearded chiefs are

ranged around. The chambers are brilliantly illuminated, and an opening

at the farther end of the apartments exhibits a portion of the shining

city and the glittering galleys. Gulnare, covered with a silver veil,

which reaches even to her feet, is ushered into the presence of the

Pacha. Even the haughty Seyd rises to honour his beautiful favourite. He

draws the precious veil from her blushing features and places her on his

right hand. The dancing girls now appear, and then are introduced the

principal artists. Now takes place the scientific part of the ballet;

and here might Bias, or Noblet, or Ronzi Vestris, or her graceful

husband, or the classical Albert, or the bounding Paul, vault without

stint, and attitudinise without restraint, and not in the least impair

the effect of the tragic tale. The Dervise, of course, appears; the

galleys, of course, are fired; and Seyd, of course, retreats. A change

in the scenery gives us the blazing Harem, the rescue of its inmates,

the deliverance of Gulnare, the capture of Conrad.

It is the prison scene. On a mat, covered with irons, lies the forlorn

Conrad. The flitting flame of a solitary lamp hardly reveals the heavy

bars of the huge grate that forms the entrance to its cell. For some

minutes nothing stirs. The mind of the spectator is allowed to become

fully aware of the hopeless misery of the hero. His career is ended,

secure is his dungeon, trusty his guards, overpowering his chains.

To-morrow he wakes to be impaled. A gentle noise, so gentle that the

spectator almost deems it unintentional, is now heard. A white figure

appears behind the dusky gate; is it a guard or a torturer? The gate

softly opens, and a female comes forward. Gulnare was represented by a

girl with the body of a Peri and the soul of a poetess. The Harem Queen

advances with an agitated step; she holds in her left hand a lamp, and

in the girdle of her light dress is a dagger. She reaches with a

soundless step the captive. He is asleep! Ay! he sleeps, while thousands

are weeping over his ravage or his ruin; and she, in restlessness, is

wandering here! A thousand thoughts are seen coursing over her flushed

brow; she looks to the audience, and her dark eye asks why this Corsair

is so dear to her. She turns again, and raises the lamp with her long

white arm, that the light may fall on the captive’s countenance. She

gazes, without moving, on the sleeper, touches the dagger with a slow

and tremulous hand, and starts from the contact with terror. She again

touches it; it is drawn from her vest; it falls to the ground. He wakes;

he stares with wonder; he sees a female not less fair than Medora.

Confused, she tells him her station; she tells him that her pity is as

certain as his doom. He avows his readiness to die; he appears

undaunted, he thinks of Medora, he buries his face in his hands. She

grows pale as he avows he loves--another. She cannot conceal her own

passion. He, wondering, confesses that he supposed her love was his

enemy’s, was Seyd’s. Gulnare shudders at the name; she draws herself up

to her full stature, she smiles in bitterness:

My love stern Seyd’s! Oh, no, no, not my love!

The acting was perfect. The house burst into unusual shouts of

admiration. Madame Carolina applauded with her little finger on her fan.

The Grand Duke himself gave the signal for applause. Vivian never felt

before that words were useless. His hand was suddenly pressed. He turned

round; it was the Baroness. She was leaning back in her chair; and

though she did her utmost to conceal her agitated countenance, a tear

coursed down her cheek big as the miserable Medora’s!

CHAPTER VIII

On the evening of the Opera arrived at Court part of the suite of the

young Archduchess, the betrothed of the Crown Prince of Reisenburg.

These consisted of an old grey-headed General, who had taught her

Imperial Highness the manual exercise; and her tutor and confessor, an

ancient and toothless Bishop. Their youthful mistress was to follow them

in a few days; and this arrival of such a distinguished portion of her

suite was the signal for the commencement of a long series of sumptuous

festivities. After interchanging a number of compliments and a few

snuff-boxes, the new guests were invited by his Royal Highness to attend

a Review, which was to take place the next morning, of five thousand

troops and fifty Generals.

The Reisenburg army was the best appointed in Europe. Never were men

seen with breasts more plumply padded, mustachios better trained, or

such spotless gaiters. The Grand Duke himself was a military genius, and

had invented a new cut for the collars of the Cavalry. His Royal

Highness was particularly desirous of astonishing the old grey-headed

governor of his future daughter by the skilful evolutions and imposing

appearance of his legions. The affair was to be of the most refined

nature, and the whole was to be concluded by a mock battle, in which the

spectators were to be treated by a display of the most exquisite

evolutions and complicated movements which human beings ever yet

invented to destroy others or to escape destruction. Field Marshal Count

von Sohnspeer, the Commander-in-Chief of all the Forces of his Royal

Highness the Grand Duke of Reisenburg, condescended, at the particular

request of his Sovereign, to conduct the whole affair himself.

At first it was rather difficult to distinguish between the army and the

staff; for Darius, in the Straits of Issus, was not more sumptuously and

numerously attended than Count von Sohnspeer. Wherever he moved he was

followed by a train of waving plumes and radiant epaulettes, and foaming

chargers and shining steel. In fact, he looked like a large military

comet. Had the fate of Reisenburg depended on the result of the day, the

Field Marshal, and his Generals, and Aides-de-camp, and Orderlies,

could not have looked more agitated and more in earnest. Von Sohnspeer

had not less than four horses in the field, on every one of which he

seemed to appear in the space of five minutes. Now he was dashing along

the line of the Lancers on a black charger, and now round the column of

the Cuirassiers on a white one. He exhorted the Tirailleurs on a

chestnut, and added fresh courage to the ardour of the Artillery on

a bay.

It was a splendid day. The bands of the respective regiments played

triumphant tunes as each marched on the field. The gradual arrival of

the troops was picturesque. Distant music was heard, and a corps of

Infantry soon made its appearance. A light bugle sounded, and a body of

Tirailleurs issued from the shade of a neighbouring wood. The

kettle-drums and clarions heralded the presence of a troop of Cavalry;

and an advanced guard of Light Horse told that the Artillery were about

to follow. The arms and standards of the troops shone in the sun;

military music sounded in all parts of the field; unceasing was the

bellow of the martial drum and the blast of the blood-stirring trumpet.

Clouds of dust ever and anon excited in the distance denoted the arrival

of a regiment of Cavalry. Even now one approaches; it is the Red

Lancers. How gracefully their Colonel, the young Count of Eberstein,

bounds on his barb! Has Theseus turned Centaur? His spur and bridle seem

rather the emblems of sovereignty than the instruments of government: he

neither chastises nor directs. The rider moves without motion, and the

horse judges without guidance. It would seem that the man had borrowed

the beast’s body, and the beast the man’s mind. His regiment has formed

upon the field, their stout lances erected like a young and leafless

grove; but although now in line, it is with difficulty that they can

subject the spirit of their warlike steeds. The trumpet has caught the

ear of the horses; they stand with open nostrils, already breathing war

ere they can see an enemy; and now dashing up one leg, and now the

other, they seem to complain of Nature that she has made them of

anything earthly.

The troops have all arrived; there is an unusual bustle in the field.

Von Sohnspeer is again changing his horse, giving directions while he is

mounting to at least a dozen Aides-de-camp. Orderlies are scampering

over every part of the field. Another flag, quite new, and of large

size, is unfurled by the Field-Marshal’s pavilion. A signal gun! the

music in the whole field is hushed: a short silence of agitating

suspense, another gun, and another! All the bands of all the regiments

burst forth at the same moment into the national air: the Court dash

into the field!

Madame Carolina, the Baroness, the Countess von S----, and some other

ladies, wore habits of the uniform of the Royal Guards. Both Madame and

the Baroness were perfect horsewomen; and the excited spirits of Mr.

Beckendorff’s female relative, both during her ride and her dashing run

over the field, amidst the firing of cannon and the crash of drums and

trumpets, strikingly contrasted with her agitation and depression of the

preceding night.

“Your Excellency loves the tented field, I think!” said Vivian, who was

at her side.

“I love war! it is a diversion for kings!” was the answer. “How fine the

breast-plates and helmets of those Cuirassiers glisten in the sun!”

continued the lady. “Do you see von Sohnspeer? I wonder if the Crown

Prince be with him!”

“I think he is.”

“Indeed! Ah! can he interest himself in anything? He seemed Apathy

itself at the Opera last night. I never saw him smile, or move, and have

scarcely heard his voice! but if he love war, if he be a soldier, if he

be thinking of other things than a pantomime and a ball, ‘tis well! very

well for his country! Perhaps he is a hero?”

At this moment the Crown Prince, who was of von Sohnspeer’s staff,

slowly rode up to the Royal party.

“Rudolph!” said the Grand Duke, “do you head your regiment to-day?”

“No,” was the muttered answer.

The Grand Duke moved his horse to his son, and spoke to him in a low

tone, evidently with earnestness. Apparently he was expostulating with

him; but the effect of the royal exhortation was only to render the

Prince’s brow more gloomy, and the expression of his withered features

more sullen and more sad. The Baroness watched the father and son as

they were conversing with keen attention. When the Crown Prince, in

violation of his father’s wishes, fell into the party, and allowed his

regiment to be headed by the Lieutenant-colonel, the young lady raised

her lustrous eyes to heaven with that same expression of sorrow or

resignation which had so much interested Vivian on the morning that he

had translated to her the moving passage in the Corsair.

But the field is nearly cleared, and the mimic war has commenced. On

the right appears a large body of Cavalry, consisting of Cuirassiers and

Dragoons. A vanguard of Light Cavalry and Lancers, under the command of

the Count of Eberstein, is ordered out, from this body, to harass the

enemy, a strong body of Infantry supposed to be advancing. Several

squadrons of Light Horse immediately spring forward; they form

themselves into line, they wheel into column, and endeavour, by

well-directed manoeuvres, to outflank the strong wing of the advancing

enemy. After succeeding in executing all that was committed to them, and

after having skirmished in the van of their own army, so as to give time

for all necessary dispositions of the line of battle, the vanguard

suddenly retreats between the brigades of the Cavalry of the line; the

prepared battery of cannon is unmasked; and a tremendous concentric fire

opened on the line of the advancing foe. Taking advantage of the

confusion created by this unexpected salute of his artillery, von

Sohnspeer, who commands the Cavalry, gives the word to “Charge!”

The whole body of Cavalry immediately charge in masses; the extended

line of the enemy is as immediately broken. But the Infantry, who are

commanded by one of the royal relatives and visitors, the Prince of Pike

and Powdren, dexterously form into squares, and commence a masterly

retreat in square battalions. At length they take up a more favourable

position than the former one. They are again galled by the Artillery,

who have proportionately advanced, and again charged by the Cavalry in

their huge masses. And now the squares of Infantry partially give way.

They admit the Cavalry, but the exulting Horse find, to their dismay,

that the enemy are not routed, but that there are yet inner squares

formed at salient angles. The Cavalry for a moment retire, but it is

only to give opportunity to their Artillery to rake the obstinate foes.

The execution of the battery is fearful. Headed by their Commander, the

whole body of Cuirassiers and Dragoons again charge with renewed energy

and concentrated force. The Infantry are thrown into the greatest

confusion, and commence a rout, increased and rendered irremediable by

the Lancers and Hussars, the former vanguard, who now, seizing on the

favourable moment, again rush forward, increasing the effect of the

charge of the whole army, overtaking the fugitives with their lances,

and securing the prisoners.

The victorious von Sohnspeer, followed by his staff, now galloped up to

receive the congratulations of his Sovereign.

“Where are your prisoners, Field Marshal?” asked his Royal Highness,

with a flattering smile.

“What is the ransom of our unfortunate guest?” asked Madame Carolina.

“I hope we shall have another affair,” said the Baroness, with a flushed

face and glowing eyes.

But the Commander-in-Chief must not tarry to bandy compliments. He is

again wanted in the field. The whole troops have formed in line. Some

most scientific evolutions are now executed. With them we will not weary

the reader, nor dilate on the comparative advantages of forming en

cremaillière and en echiquier; nor upon the duties of tirailleurs, nor

upon concentric fires and eccentric movements, nor upon deploying, nor

upon enfilading, nor upon oblique fronts, nor upon échellons. The day

finished by the whole of the troops again forming in line and passing in

order before the Commander-in-Chief, to give him an opportunity of

observing their discipline and inspecting their equipments.

The review being finished, Count von Sohnspeer and his staff joined the

royal party; and after walking their horses round the field, they

proceeded to his pavilion, where refreshments were prepared for them.

The Field Marshal, flattered by the interest which the young Baroness

had taken in the business of the day, and the acquaintance which she

evidently possessed of the more obvious details of military tactics, was

inclined to be particularly courteous to her; but the object of his

admiration did not encourage attentions by which half the ladies of the

Court would have thought themselves as highly honoured as by those of

the Grand Duke himself; so powerful a person was the Field Marshal, and

so little inclined by temper to cultivate the graces of the fair sex!

“In the tent keep by my side,” said the Baroness to Vivian. “Although I

am fond of heroes, von Sohnspeer is not to my taste. I know not why I

flatter you so by my notice, for I suppose, like all Englishmen, you are

not a soldier? I thought so. Never mind! you ride well enough for a

field marshal. I really think I could give you a commission without much

stickling of my conscience. No, no! I should like you nearer me. I have

a good mind to make you my master of the horse; that is to say, when I

am entitled to have one.”

As Vivian acknowledged the young Baroness’ compliment by becoming

emotion, and vowed that an office near her person would be the

consummation of all his wishes, his eye caught the lady’s: she blushed

deeply, looked down upon her horse’s neck, and then turned away

her head.

Von Sohnspeer’s pavilion excellently became the successful leader of the

army of Reisenburg. Trophies taken from all sides decked its interior.

The black eagle of Austria formed part of its roof, and the brazen

eagle of Gaul supported part of the side. The grey-headed General looked

rather grim when he saw a flag belonging to a troop which perhaps he had

himself once commanded. He vented his indignation to the toothless

Bishop, who crossed his breast with his fingers, covered with diamonds,

and preached temperance and moderation in inarticulate sounds.

During the collation the conversation was principally military. Madame

Carolina, who was entirely ignorant of the subject of discourse,

enchanted all the officers present by appearing to be the most

interested person in the tent. Nothing could exceed the elegance of her

eulogium of “petit guerre.” The old grey General talked much about the

“good old times,” by which he meant the thirty years of plunder,

bloodshed, and destruction, which were occasioned by the French

Revolution. He gloated on the recollections of horror, which he feared

would never occur again. The Archduke Charles and Prince Schwartzenburg

were the gods of his idolatry, and Nadasti’s hussars and Wurmser’s

dragoons the inferior divinities of his bloody heaven. One evolution of

the morning, a discovery made by von Sohnspeer himself, in the deploying

of cavalry, created a great sensation; and it was settled that it would

have been of great use to Desaix and Clairfait in the Netherlands affair

of some eight-and-twenty years ago, and was not equalled even by

Seidlitz’ cavalry in the affair with the Russians at Zorndorff. In

short, every “affair” of any character during the late war was fought

over again in the tent of Field Marshal von Sohnspeer. At length from

the Archduke Charles and Prince Schwartzenburg, the old grey-headed

General got to Polybius and Monsieur Folard; and the Grand Duke now

thinking that the “affair” was taking too serious a turn, broke up the

party. Madame Carolina and most of the ladies used their carriages on

their return. They were nearly fifteen miles from the city; but the

Baroness, in spite of the most earnest solicitations, would remount

her charger.