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THE INITIALS
A Story of Modern Life
By
THE BARONESS TAUTPHŒUS
AUTHOR OF “QUITS,” “AT ODDS,” ETC.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA,
U.S.A.
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PREFACE.
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_Initial_, adj. [_Initial_, Fr.; _initialis_, from _initium_, Lat.]
1. Placed at the beginning.
2. Incipient; not complete.—JOHNSON’S _Dictionary_.
_Initial, ale._ adj. Il se dit des lettres, des syllables qui commencent
un mot. En termes de calligraphie et d’imprimerie, on appelle plus
particulièrement _lettre initiale_, la lettre qui commence un livre, un
chapitre, etc.
Il s’emploie aussi substantivement, au feminin, pour lettre initiale.
_Il n’a signé ce billet que de l’initiale de son nom, que de son
initiale. Dans ce manuscrit, les initiales sont en rouge._—_Dictionnaire
de l’Académie Française._
I THINK these quotations authorise me to call the following pages “THE
INITIALS.” According to Dr. Johnson, they would be intended to be
“placed at the beginning;” would be “incipient; not complete.” It is the
public who have now to decide whether what has been placed at the
beginning is to have a continuation, whether what is incipient, and not
complete, is to be formed and completed.
_Un billet signé d’une initiale_ gave rise to all the events here
related; proving the truth of the words of Bayley, in his _Essays on the
Formation and Publication of Opinions_, that, “In everything we do we
may be possibly laying a train of consequences, the operation of which
may terminate only with our existence.” Had those initials not excited
curiosity or interest, the so-signed _billet_ would have been thrown
aside and forgotten, or directed to the post-town from whence it came,
there to seek the writer, or to be consigned to the dead-letter office.
And so it will be with these “Initials,” should they awake no interest,
nor excite a wish to know more; they too will be thrown aside and
forgotten, or it may be that the manuscript will be redirected to the
place from whence it came, thence to be consigned to merited oblivion in
the dead-letter drawer of an old writing-table, among a number of truths
dressed in fiction, which had been intended for publication under the
names of Journals, Reminiscences, Tales, Novels, or whatever else they
may have been entitled.
My greatest consolation, in case of failure, will be that I have
neglected no business or duty for the purpose of scribbling; it has only
been with me the means of beguiling some idle hours, with no pretension
to any other object; the wish to give a slight sketch of German
characters and life, such as I have myself, in the course of many years,
been familiar with, or have heard them described by others, can scarcely
be considered a more serious occupation.
I have, perhaps, seen and heard enough to furnish me with ample
materials for something better. That I cannot use them for the benefit
of either myself or others, is my misfortune, not my fault. With this
excuse, (if it be one,) I commend myself to my publisher; and, supposing
so adventurous a person to be found, through him to the public.
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CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE LETTER 7
II. THE INITIALS 29
III. A. Z. 36
IV. A WALK OF NO COMMON DESCRIPTION 45
V. AN ALP 61
VI. SECULARISED CLOISTERS 71
VII. AN EXCURSION AND RETURN TO THE 89
SECULARISED CLOISTERS
VIII. AN ALPINE PARTY 108
IX. SALZBURG 129
X. THE RETURN TO MUNICH 139
XI. THE BETROTHAL 143
XII. DOMESTIC DETAILS 160
XIII. A TRUCE 176
XIV. A NEW WAY TO LEARN GERMAN 187
XV. THE OCTOBER FÊTE, AND A LESSON ON 195
PROPRIETY OF CONDUCT
XVI. THE AU FAIR, AND THE SUPPER AT THE 220
BREWERY
XVII. LOVERS’ QUARRELS 235
XVIII. THE CHURCHYARD 247
XIX. GERMAN SOUP 251
XX. THE WARNING 263
XXI. THE STRUGGLE 268
XXII. THE DEPARTURE 281
XXIII. THE LONG DAY 286
XXIV. THE CHRISTMAS-TREE, AND MIDNIGHT MASS 292
XXV. THE GARRET 310
XXVI. THE DISCUSSION 318
XXVII. THE SLEDGE 323
XXVIII. A BALL AT THE MUSEUM CLUB 339
XXIX. A DAY OF FREEDOM 353
XXX. THE MASQUERADE 362
XXXI. WHERE IS THE BRIDEGROOM? 374
XXXII. THE WEDDING AU TROISIÈME 381
XXXIII. A CHANGE 388
XXXIV. THE ARRANGEMENT 395
XXXV. THE DIFFICULTY REMOVED 403
XXXVI. THE IRON WORKS 407
XXXVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND ITS 414
CONSEQUENCES
XXXVIII. THE EXPERIMENT 423
XXXIX. THE RECALL 436
XL. HOHENFELS 442
XLI. THE SCHEIBEN-SCHIESSEN (TARGET SHOOTING 450
MATCH)
XLII. A DISCOURSE 459
XLIII. ANOTHER KIND OF DISCOURSE 464
XLIV. THE JOURNEY HOME COMMENCES 468
XLV. WHAT OCCURRED AT THE HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE 474
IN FRANKFORT
XLVI. HALT! 481
XLVII. CONCLUSION 495
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE INITIALS.
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I.
THE LETTER.
ABOUT twelve years ago (before the building of the Bayrischen Hof), the
Golden Stag, kept by an old and very corpulent Frenchman, of the name of
Havard, was considered the very best hotel in Munich. It was there that
all crowned heads and royal personages took up their abode; and many and
bitter were the complaints of English families obliged to turn out of
their apartments to admit of the turning in of an emperor, king, or
archduke! In the month of August, however, such guests were unusual;
and, accordingly, a young English traveller had remained for a week in
undisturbed possession of one of the most comfortable rooms in the
house. He seemed, however, thoroughly dissatisfied with it or with
himself, walked impatiently up and down, looked long and listlessly out
of the window, and then, with evident effort and stifled yawn, concluded
a letter which he had previously been writing. A few lines of this
letter I shall transcribe.
“I have continued to take notes most carefully of everything I have seen
or heard since I left you; but I fear, my dear sister, the travels or
wanderings, or sketches with which I intended to astonish the world on
my return home, must be given up; for in the present day one can travel
from London to Jericho without a chance of seeing anything not already
succinctly described in the guide-books! I thought I had discovered why
my brother John never met with any amusing adventures when my father
sent him abroad. He spoke wretched French, and no German. Poor fellow; I
did him great injustice. For even I, who, from not being the first-born,
have a sort of natural claim to intellect—even I, who have studied
German for six years, and can speak French fluently—even I must write
stupid, commonplace letters, and acknowledge that composing a book is
not so easy as I thought. I left home three weeks ago, and, excepting
that lucky explosion of the steam-engine after we left Cologne, nothing
has occurred worthy of notice. I must endeavour to get among these
Germans; for travelling through a country without becoming intimate with
some of the inhabitants, though it may enable me to judge of the beauty
of the scenery, will leave me perfectly unacquainted with the manners
and habits of the people. The Erskines are not here at present, so all
hopes from that quarter are at an end. I am told that the Munich world
is in the country, and I believe it; for nothing can be more
deserted-looking than the streets which represent the _west_ end. After
all, one cannot go on forever looking at pictures and statues, etc.”
The young man folded up and sealed his letter, with a look of infinite
vexation, and putting it in his pocket while he murmured something about
“taking it himself to the post-office, for want of other occupation,” he
slowly left the room and sauntered down the staircase, drawing his cane
along the iron stair-railing as he went.
Hamilton, on his return, sprang lightly up the stairs, followed by a
waiter, who lit the candles and prepared to assist him in taking off his
rather tightly-fitting coat. The operation had proceeded about half-way,
when his eyes fell on a letter which was placed conspicuously on the
table. In a moment the coat was again on his shoulders and the letter in
his hand.
“When did this come?”
“To-day, sir. Mr. Havard desired me to say it was carried by mistake to
a gentleman’s room who left this morning early.”
Hamilton hastily opened the letter and read as follows:
“DEAR MR. HAMILTON,—I have this moment read your name among the
arrivals in Munich, and write to tell you that we are for the
present at Seon, a short journey distant from you. Our house is
not at present habitable, and we have made this old monastery
our headquarters. It was some years ago a tolerably frequented
bath, but being no longer so, I shall have no difficulty
whatever in procuring an apartment for you. We shall be
delighted to see you, and show you the beauties of our
neighbourhood. Perhaps, too, we can arrange a tour in the Tyrol
together. John, I know, has joined his regiment; therefore I do
not expect to see him. But probably Mrs. Hamilton is with you;
in which case I am quite sure you will not leave Germany without
having visited your sincere friend,
A. Z.”
“How far is Seon from Munich? What sort of a place is it?” asked
Hamilton.
“I am sorry I cannot give you any information, sir. Since I have been
here no traveller has left for Seon.”
“Is there no mail or stage-coach to any place near it? There must be a
post-town, or something of that sort.”
“I really do not know, sir.”
“Try and decipher the post-mark,” said Hamilton, impatiently handing him
the envelope.
“I think it is Altenmarkt, but I am not quite sure.”
“Give me my maps, if you please, and tell Mr. Havard I wish to speak to
him for a few minutes.”
When he had left the room, Hamilton turned the letter in every
possible direction, examined the seal, which was a small coronet with
the initials “A. Z.,” read it five or six times over, and in thought
mustered his tolerably numerous acquaintance. Not an “A. Z.” among
them all! How very provoking! “And yet the letter may be intended for
me,” he murmured, twisting it around his fingers: “It is not
impossible that the writer may have thought that I was travelling with
my aunt—why not? And John has actually joined his regiment very
lately!—or—or—it may be some friend of my father’s; in which case, as
I do not know the name, and cannot explain by letter, I consider it a
sort of duty to go to Seon, and in his name thank the good-natured
person for the invitation. But what if it were not intended either for
me or for my father? No matter. The letter is addressed to A.
Hamilton, Esq.; if the writer intended it for an Abraham, an Achilles,
or an Anthony, the fault is not mine. Alfred also begins with A.; the
address is to the Golden Stag; my correspondent has seen my name or my
father’s in the newspapers;—mentions my mother and my brother. What
more can I require?”
And Hamilton required nothing more, for on this occasion he was disposed
to be easily satisfied. Besides, he was not going to force himself upon
any person or persons unknown; he was merely going to Seon instead of
Kissingen. Seon was also a place of public resort, quite as desirable
for him as any other; nor could he see anything wrong in making some
inquiries about this A. Z. when he arrived there.
Mr. Havard entered his room just as he was resolved what course he
should pursue. “Pray, Mr. Havard, can you tell me how far Seon is from
here?”
“A day’s journey, if you travel with a _voiturier_; half a day with
post-horses.”
“If I engage a _voiturier_—are the carriages good?”
“Generally, especially if you don’t require much place for luggage. I
think I can procure a light carriage and tolerable horses for you.”
“Thank you. To-morrow morning, at six o’clock, I should like to be off,
if possible.”
An unpleasant idea just then occurred to him, and it required an effort
on his part to add, with affected indifference:
“By-the-by, Mr. Havard, perhaps you can tell me if there have been any
persons here lately whose names were the same as mine?”
Mr. Havard looked puzzled.
“My name is Hamilton.”
“Hameeltone—Hameeltone!” he repeated, thoughtfully. “We have a great
many Hameeltone in our book. You shall see directly. I will send it to
you.”
“So,” muttered Hamilton, as he walked up and down the room, “so, after
all, the letter was not intended for me or my father! This is in
consequence of having such a common name! And yet the name in itself is
good, but the Hamiltons have multiplied so unconscionably of late, that
I have no doubt we shall in time be quite as numerous as the Smiths!
Should, however, no Hamilton have been here for the last week or ten
days, I conceive that I have a right to appropriate this letter; for A.
Z. says distinctly that he or she had that moment seen my name among the
arrivals in Munich, and with every allowance for irregularity of post in
an out-of-the-way place, chance, or unexpected delays, reference at
least is made to some paper of a tolerably recent date. Oh! thank you,”
he exclaimed, hurrying towards the waiter, who at that moment entered
the room with the strangers’ book. “Before you go, show me the name of
the gentleman into whose room my letter was taken by mistake.”
He pointed to the name of “Alexander Hambledon, from London.”
Hamilton turned back the leaves, six, eight, ten days, and no Hamilton;
before that time, as Mr. Havard had said, “A great many Hamiltons.” He
wished them, their families, and suites very agreeable journeys, closed
the book, put A. Z.’s letter carefully into his writing-case, and, after
having desired the waiter to call him very early the next day, hurried
to bed.
The next morning proved fine, and Hamilton felt in better spirits than
he had done since he had left home, for he flattered himself he was now
about to diverge from the traveller’s beaten path, and had a chance of
seeing something new. The rather shabby carriage and sleepy-looking
horses had not power to discompose him, and the _voiturier_, with his
dark-blue linen blouse and short pipe, overshadowed by a bush of
mustache, he thought absolutely picturesque. Most careful he seemed,
too, of his horses, for they had scarcely left the suburbs of Munich
when he descended from his box to walk up a small acclivity, and
Hamilton then began to protest vehemently, but in vain, against the
carriage being closed. The coachman continued to walk leisurely on,
while he assured his impatient employer that he had purposely so
arranged it to prevent his being annoyed by the dust or sun, and that
from the open side he could see quite as much as would be agreeable of
the flat country through which they were to travel.
“Is, then, the country so very ugly?” asked Hamilton, anticipating
nothing less than an American prairie.
“Flat—very flat; but in the evening we shall have the mountains nearer.”
“You seem fond of the mountains!”
“I am a Tyrolean, and used to them. Life is not the same thing in these
plains,” he answered, cracking his whip, but not touching his horses.
“A Tyrolean!” exclaimed Hamilton; “oh, then you can sing your national
songs, of course. Do, pray, let me hear one of them.”
“What’s the use?” he said, shrugging his shoulders; “there’s no echo for
the _jodel_.”
“No matter; try it at all events, and you shall have an additional glass
of beer at dinner-time.”
On the strength of this promise he “lifted up his voice in song,” and
shouted out a melody which there was no manner of doubt would have been
“by distance made more sweet;” but which, as he leaned on the door of
the carriage, and poured the whole force of his stentorian lungs into
Hamilton’s face, almost made him vibrate on his seat.
“Thank you,” cried Hamilton, hastily, “thank you—that will do. I have
long wished to hear a Tyrolean _jodel_, and am sure it must sound very
well in the mountains!”
“There’s no music like it in the world,” said the man, as he seated
himself again on the box; and laying aside his pipe, he continued
singing for more than an hour, interrupted only by an occasional
“Ho—he—hot!” addressed to his horses.
The country was indeed flat, but highly cultivated, and thickly wooded
alternately—the absence of all walls or fences giving to German scenery
in general the appearance of a domain; they passed through, and saw in
the distance, many pretty villages, while the mountains were becoming
more distinct and the scenery more interesting every hour. Had not the
day been intensely sultry, Hamilton would have insisted on the head of
the carriage being thrown back, and the odious rattling windows opposite
to him being removed; as it was, however, the shade was agreeable, and
the almost imperceptible current of air, produced by the motion of the
carriage, as it blew on his face, had the somniferous effect attributed
to the vampire’s wing—he slept, and so soundly that until the carriage
stopped suddenly before a house on the roadside, not all the jolting and
consequent thumping of his head against the hard side of the carriage
could waken him; he then rubbed his eyes, stretched out his legs, and
was endeavouring once more to compose himself to sleep, when the
coachman informed him that they were to remain there two hours to rest
and dine. He looked at his watch—it was twelve o’clock; then at the inn;
it did not promise much; but near the door he caught a glimpse of a
carriage in form and colour exactly resembling his own, containing,
however, a number of packages which denoted female travellers. The blue
bandboxes and embroidered bags decided his movements. He sprang from the
carriage, and almost unconsciously ran his fingers through his hair as
he entered the house. Passing through a large room filled with peasants,
he reached a smaller apartment containing some narrow tables furnished
at each side with benches covered with black leather cushions. At one of
these tables sat three ladies, and an equal number of little boys.
Hamilton had learned to bow civilly on entering a room to any persons
who might be in it; after which he generally contrived to commence a
conversation, and let people know that he was an Englishman; having
ascertained that being one was a sort of recommendation, or at least an
excuse for all sorts of eccentricity. On the present occasion his bow
was returned, but no further notice taken; scarcely even a look bestowed
on him; this was, however, not at all what he wished, for two of the
party were young and remarkably pretty.
She who seemed to be the mother of the children, a tall, gaunt person,
had her head and chin bound up with a large pocket-handkerchief, and
seemed to be suffering from toothache, which rather puzzled Hamilton
when he had discovered that she had apparently lost all her teeth,
though by no means old, as appeared from her fresh-coloured features and
hair untinged with gray. The other two were very young and perfect
personifications of German beauty—blue eyes, blooming cheeks, red lips,
and a profusion of brown hair most classically braided and platted. That
they were sisters scarcely admitted of a doubt, so remarkable was their
resemblance to each other—a nearer inspection made it equally evident
that one was much handsomer than the other. They were both tall and very
slightly formed, and their dark cotton dresses were made and put on with
an exactness that proved they were not indifferent to the advantages
bestowed on them by nature.
Hamilton stood at the window, an object of interest, as it seemed, to no
one excepting the three little boys, who, with their mouths full of
roast chicken, turned round on their chairs to stare at him,
notwithstanding the repeated admonitions of their mother, enforced by an
occasional shake of the shoulder. The young ladies, to Hamilton’s
infinite astonishment, took the chicken-bones in their fingers and
detached the meat from them with their teeth! He felt at once convinced
that they were immeasurably vulgar, thereby forming an erroneous
conclusion very common on the part of his travelling countrymen, who are
not aware that the mode of eating is in Germany no such exact criterion
of manners as in England. His dinner was now ready, and as he seated
himself at the table one of his pretty neighbours glanced shyly towards
him in a manner that proved that he had not been so unobserved as he
imagined. With all the vanity of youth he determined in his turn to play
indifference, traced diligently his route on the map which he had placed
beside him, and made inquiries about Seon. The lady with the bound-up
head tapped at the window and asked her coachman if he were ready to put
to the horses; the answer was indistinct, but the words “late enough”
and “Seon” reached Hamilton’s ears. Bonnets, gloves, and handkerchiefs
were sought, and the children given in charge of their maid to be packed
into the carriage.
“I think we had better get in with the boys and arrange ourselves
comfortably,” observed the elder lady, following them out of the room.
“Comfort!” exclaimed one of the girls, in a melancholy voice, as she
tied on her bonnet; “comfort is quite out of the question. I wish with
all my heart we were at Seon! On such a day as this seven in a carriage
is anything but agreeable.”
“I should not mind,” answered the other, half-laughing, “if Peppy did
not insist on sitting on my knee; he kicks so incessantly that I
suffered tortures on my way here.”
Hamilton advanced towards the speakers, and observed that he was
travelling to the same place, and his carriage was quite at their
service. They blushed, and one of them seemed disposed to laugh, which
encouraged him to add that he would promise to be perfectly quiet, and
on no pretence whatever to kick! Either his words or manner, or both,
perhaps, displeased them, for, having exchanged looks, they murmured
something unintelligible, and hastily left the room. He followed, and
saw them get into their carriage, which was already more than
sufficiently filled with children and boxes; the maid endeavoured to
follow, but was obliged to remain long in the doorway while a place was
being prepared for her. Wishing to prove that he had made his
proposition with the intention of being civil, he now approached the
party and addressed the elder lady—told her he was going to Seon, was
travelling alone, had scarcely any luggage, and had places for as many
persons and parcels as she chose to transfer to his carriage. She
thanked him, and hesitatingly regretted that her boys were so
unmanageable—perhaps he would be so kind as to give her maid a place.
This was not exactly what Hamilton had intended; nevertheless he acceded
with a good grace, and assisted the spruce-looking servant-girl to
descend. One of the boys instantly commenced roaring, and declared he
must and would go with her. He was lifted out of the carriage, and, with
many apologies, Hamilton was asked to take charge of Peppy the kicker!
But Peppy was not yet satisfied; he insisted so vociferously on his
sister Crescenz accompanying him, that his mother was at length obliged
to consent; and when Hamilton looked at the pretty blushing face of this
new addition to his party, he thought her mother’s apologies not only
tiresome but quite unnecessary. He had to wait some time before his
coachman thought proper to depart, and made an attempt to express the
pleasure he felt at having obtained so desirable a travelling companion;
but the fair Crescenz seemed so overcome with _mauvaise honte_ that he
thought it advisable for the present to avoid all conversation. When
once fairly off, he rummaged out a couple of books, offered her one, and
took the other himself. This proceeding seemed to surprise her, but had
the effect he wished, of making her feel less embarrassed. She turned
over the leaves with a listlessness which at once convinced him that she
was no reader, and he ventured to make a few remarks. The answers were
at first merely monosyllables, but they required explanation, for he
purposely misunderstood her. One subject of conversation led to another,
and in about an hour they were talking as if they had been acquainted
for months. She informed him that her father had a situation which
scarcely ever admitted of his leaving Munich. That she and her sister
had lost their mother when they mere children, and they had been sent to
school when their father had married again. They had returned home but a
few weeks ago, and their step-mother, having been ordered change of air,
had chosen Seon, because the baths there had been of use to her on a
former occasion. They had been very happy to leave school, and were
equally happy to go to the country—especially to Seon.
“And why especially to Seon?” asked Hamilton.
“Oh, because I have heard so much of it from one of my school friends.”
“Perhaps, then, you can give me some information. I have not the least
idea what sort of a place it is.”
“I believe it is a great old monastery, with long corridors, where one
might expect to meet the ghosts of the monks stalking about—and the
windows look into dark courts—and on a moonlight night it is quite
romantic walking in the cloisters!”
“And did your friend wander about quite alone and by moonlight in such a
place?”
“Oh, she was not _alone_,” said Crescenz, smiling, and shaking her head
slyly.
“So I imagined—probably her mother or her sister walked with her.”
“Her mother was not there, and her brother-in-law would not allow her
sister to walk by moonlight.”
“What a barbarian he must have been! Who, then, could have been her
companion? It could hardly have been her father?”
Crescenz laughed outright. “Oh, no; had it been her father, Lina would
not have been sent back to school again. They said she had done all
sorts of wild things at home; that her head was full of nonsense, and
she must be cured.”
“And was she cured?”
“I suppose so, for some time after she left us again she married an ugly
old doctor. Oh, he is so ugly! His chin sticks out _so_!” In explanation
she thrust out her full red underlip, forming thereby a better
personification of a pretty naughty child than an ugly old doctor. “I
was allowed to be her bridesmaid,” she continued, “and as I knew all
about Theodor, I asked her if she really were as happy as she seemed to
be. And—can you believe it?—she said that all the fine things she had
told me of Seon and first love was stuff and nonsense—that she had
invited Theodor to her wedding, and intended to dance with him in the
evening!”
“In fact, the affair with Theodor was merely a flirtation,” observed
Hamilton.
“I don’t know what that means,” she answered, looking inquiringly in his
face; “it is an English word, I suppose.”
“Quite English,” said Hamilton, laughing; “but your friend seems to have
understood the meaning perfectly.”
“And yet she did not take any lessons in English,” said Crescenz,
thoughtfully; “but I remember her saying to me at school that, if she
could not marry Theodor, she would go into a nunnery! And then to be
satisfied with ugly old Dr. Berger?”
“You would not have acted so?” inquired Hamilton.
She was about to answer, when her eyes caught that of the servant
opposite to them; she coloured and remained silent. Hamilton had long
thought this personage a bore, although she had been too much occupied
with little Master Peppy to have heard much of their conversation. It
suddenly, however, occurred to him to repeat his question in French, and
this removed all difficulties, for the young lady spoke so remarkably
fluently that the conversation proceeded more flowingly than before.
From the specimen given, it may be supposed that a sufficient quantity
of nonsense was talked; however, they contrived to amuse themselves so
well that they actually drove up to the _ci-devant_ monastery without
having seen a chimney to warn them that their journey was drawing to a
close. Crescenz’s step-mother was waiting to receive them, and
overwhelmed Hamilton with thanks, while he, taken completely by
surprise, had only time to whisper hurriedly to his travelling
companion—“I shall certainly see you again, even if I should decide on
leaving Seon to-morrow;” and, as he assisted her out of the carriage, he
added, “We positively must try the cloisters by moonlight.”
But no answering smile played round her coral lips. Crescenz seemed to
be metamorphosed. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than one
glided gently behind the other, and a profound curtsy, such as very
young ladies are taught to make by a dancing-master, was performed to
his infinite astonishment; a few neat and appropriate words of thanks
were added, which, had they not been accompanied by a burning blush, he
would have considered the most consummate piece of acting he had ever
witnessed. Hamilton bit his lip, and coloured deeply, as he mechanically
followed the landlady through a side-door into the monastery.
He was conducted up a back staircase to a long corridor, at the end of
which was a small passage leading into a tolerably large, cheerful room,
to his great disappointment not bearing any perceptible marks of
antiquity. On expressing some surprise, he was told that the monastery
had been twice almost burnt to the ground, and that only some parts of
the original building remained. His room was the most modern of all, and
had been the apartment of the abbot before the secularisation.
“Have you many people staying here at present?” asked Hamilton.
“Not many; several left this morning, but we expect others next week.”
“And the names of those who are still here?” asked Hamilton in
considerable alarm.
“Still here,” repeated the landlady; but at this instant the sounds of
wheels and horses’ hoofs made Hamilton rush to one of the windows. A
small open carriage and its dust-covered occupant attracted his
attention so completely that, without waiting for an answer to his
former question, he added, “Who is that?”
“Ah, the Herr Baron!” cried the landlady, looking out of the window, and
then quickly leaving the room.
The traveller started up in the carriage and looked around him. He was
dressed in a sort of loose shooting-jacket of gray cloth, which
completely concealed his figure; and his dark-green felt hat was
slouched over his face, leaving little visible excepting the mustache,
surmounted by a well-formed aquiline nose. “Is no one here?” he cried,
exhibiting some very unequivocal signs of impatience; and a servant in
plain livery came at full speed, followed by half a dozen men and women,
who were soon all employed unpacking the carriage. Carpet-bag,
meerschaum pipes of different forms and dimensions, newspapers,
cigar-cases, boots, powder-horn, umbrella, double-barrelled gun,
sketch-book, a very old pistol, a very new rifle, and some rolls of
bread, followed each other in odd confusion. Some one at a window not
distant from Hamilton laughed heartily; the traveller looked up, laughed
also, and flourished his hat in the air. “What a dusty figure!”
exclaimed the invisible. “Have you brought no trophy? No venison for our
landlady?”
“The chamois hunt was unsuccessful, although I remained out all night;
but my new rifle performed wonders at the _Scheiben schiessen_.”
Another laugh from the window made him seize his rifle, and jestingly
point it upwards—it was, however, directly thrown aside, while he
half-apologetically exclaimed, “It cannot go off, I assure you. Look
here, it is not even loaded,” and he grasped the ramrod to prove his
assertion; but some unexpected impediment in the barrel caused him to
grow suddenly red—he raised the offending weapon as if with the
intention of firing it off, but after a hasty glance towards the window,
he gave it to one of the bystanders, requesting him to draw out the
charge, and then ran quickly into the house.
In the meantime, Hamilton’s coachman had brought up his luggage, and a
chambermaid waited to know whether or not he intended to sup below
stairs. Supper would be in the little room through which he had passed
on his entrance, as there were too few people for the saloon. Perhaps he
wished to sup in his own room?
“By no means, I always prefer a _table-d’hôte_. Pray, can you tell me
the names of some of the people here? I may, perhaps, have an
acquaintance among them.”
“Major Stultz, from Munich. The family who have just arrived are the
Rosenbergs, from——”
“I know—I know,” cried Hamilton, nodding his head.
“Then there is Mr. Schmearer, landscape-painter, and Count Zedwitz—his
wife and daughter——”
“Who do you say?” said Hamilton, suddenly recollecting A. Z.
“Count Zedwitz and the Countess, and——”
“Can they speak English?”
“Oh, no doubt; and French, too, quite perfectly; they speak a great many
languages.”
“They are not, however, invalids? That is, they are not here on account
of the baths?”
“No; I believe they came to meet some friends whom they intended to have
visited. I heard the Count’s servants saying that their house, or the
Baron’s, was full of masons and painters.”
“Ah! exactly——”
“But the old Countess does take baths,” continued the chambermaid, “and
finds great benefit from them, too. The Count is a favourer of
Preissnitz and the Water Cure; and when he does not go to Graefenberg,
all places are alike to him where water is good and in abundance.”
“And his daughter?” asked Hamilton, now convinced that he had found A.
Z.
“Oh, his daughter springs from her bed every morning into a tub of cold
water with a great sponge in it, to please him; but I never heard of her
having sweated, or——”
“Her having what?”
“Sweated! The Count sent his bed and tubs here the day before he came,
and his servant Pepperl must tie him up every morning.”
“You never heard of mademoiselle’s being tied up by Pepperl?” asked
Hamilton, gravely.
“I believe she never had the rheumatism; but one day, when she had a
headache, I saw her sitting with her feet in a tub of cold water, and
wet towels around her head.”
Some one just then knocked gently at the door. “Come in!” cried
Hamilton, and, to his no small surprise, Crescenz appeared in the
doorway. She blushed, and so did he, and then he blushed because he had
blushed; and to conceal his annoyance he had assumed a cold, haughty
manner, and waited for her to speak. She stammered something about a
reticule and pocket-handkerchief, as, with the assistance of the
chambermaid, she moved his carpet-bag, and shook his cloak in every
possible direction. Nothing was to be found, and she was just about to
leave the room when Hamilton perceived the lost property under his
dressing-case. As he restored it, and held the door open for her to
pass, he took advantage of the opportunity, and returned her former
curtsy with an obeisance so profound that it amounted to mockery; and as
such she felt it, too, for the colour mounted through the roots of her
hair, suffusing with deep red both neck and ears as she bent down her
head, and hurried out of the room, followed by the chambermaid. Hamilton
was so shocked at his rudeness that he felt greatly inclined to run
after her and apologise; and had she been alone he would certainly have
done so, for it directly occurred to him that she had come herself to
seek her handkerchief in order to have an opportunity of explaining to
him the cause of her sudden and extraordinary change of manner. This
made him still more repent of his puerile conduct, and wish he had
spoken to her. He looked out of the window to see if he were likely to
meet her should he perambulate the much-talked-of cloister, but instead
of the rising moon, angry thunderclouds were rapidly converting the
remaining twilight into darkest night. His hopes of a romantic interview
and explanation were at an end; there was no chance of moonlight, and
the acquaintance was much too new to think of a meeting in thunder and
lightning! The supper-table seemed a more eligible place, and, spurred
both by contrition and hunger, he determined to repair to it with all
possible expedition.
On leaving the small passage conducting to his room, he entered the long
corridor which he had traversed with the landlady; on turning, however,
as he thought, to the staircase by which he had ascended, he suddenly
found himself in a small but lofty chapel. It was too dark to see
distinctly the decorations of the altar, but it seemed as if gilding had
not been spared; two small adjoining apartments he next examined, and
then completely forgetting whether he had entered from the right or left
hand, he walked inquisitively forward until a broad gloomy passage
brought him to a corridor, which he instinctively felt to be the place
where on moonlight nights one might perchance be disposed to romance.
The doors opposite to him, placed close to each other, had probably
belonged to cells; over each was a black-looking picture, portraits of
the abbots, the faces and hands looking most ghastly in their
indistinctness. A broad staircase was near, but fearing to lose his way
completely, he contented himself for the present with reconnoitring the
garden and a lake from a sort of lobby window. Woods and mountains were
in the distance, but every moment becoming less distinct; the oppressive
calm had been succeeded by a wild wind which bent the trees in all
directions, and ruffled the surface of the water. Interested in the
approaching thunder-storm, he stood at the window until his revery was
interrupted by the sound of footsteps, voices, and the clapping of
doors. He turned quickly from the window, walked to the end of the
corridor, turned to the left, and entered a very narrow passage looking
into a small quadrangular court, which seemed once to have been a
garden; it still possessed a few trees, a fountain, and a luxuriant
growth of rank grass. He mounted a flight of stone steps, which brought
him into the organ loft, whence he had a full view of the monastery
church. The lamp which hung suspended before the altar threw fitful
gleams of light on the objects in its immediate vicinity—all the rest
was in shadow; behind the organ was a sort of vaulted, unfinished room,
containing nothing but a most clumsy apparatus for filling the bellows.
Just as he was about to leave this uninteresting place, two persons
entered the adjoining loft; recognising the voice of his travelling
companion, and perceiving she was accompanied by her sister, he
commenced a precipitate retreat by another entrance than that next the
organ; in his haste, however, he entangled his foot in the rope
communicating with the belfry, so that his slightest movement might
alarm the whole household. While endeavouring, as well as the darkness
would permit, to extricate himself, he was compelled to become auditor
to a conversation certainly not intended for his ears.
“And you don’t think him at all good-looking?” asked Crescenz.
“I cannot say that his appearance particularly pleased me, but you know
I only saw him eating his dinner; he seemed, however, to have an
uncommonly good opinion of himself!”
“At all events,” said Crescenz, “it was very obliging of him to take us
in his carriage. I am sure if _you_ had travelled with him instead of
me, you would think quite differently.”
“Dear Crescenz! I have no doubt that he was agreeable, as you say so;
and I agree with you in thinking him very civil, and all that sort of
thing, but you cannot force me to think him handsome.”
“I did not say that I thought him handsome,” cried Crescenz,
deprecatingly.
“No! Something very like it, then. Let me see, hum—a—most interesting
person you ever saw; brilliant dark eyes, with long eyelashes;
magnificent teeth, beautiful mouth, refined manners, and ever so much
more! Now, I think him an effeminate-looking, supercilious boy, and——”
“Oh, I might have foreseen,” cried Crescenz, interrupting her sister, “I
might have foreseen that he would find no favour in your eyes, as he is
not an officer with a long sword clattering at his side.”
“Sword or no sword,” answered the other, laughing, “he would not look
like anything but an overgrown schoolboy, perhaps a student, or—an
embryo _attaché_ to an embassy.”
Hamilton’s blush of annoyance was concealed by the darkness.
“I intended,” began Crescenz, hesitatingly, “I intended to have told you
something, but you seem to be so prejudiced against him that——”
“Prejudiced! Not in the least. I do not think him particularly handsome,
that’s all!”
“Well, you know I told you we talked a great deal during our journey,
and—and a—in short, just as we reached Seon he said something about
meeting me in the corridor by moonlight.”
“Just what I should have expected from him!” cried the other, angrily.
“How presuming on so short an acquaintance?”
“He is an Englishman,” said Crescenz, apologetically; “and certainly did
not mean anything wrong, for his manner did not change in the least when
he saw mamma, while I was so dreadfully afraid that she might
observe—Oh! Hildegarde! What is that? Did you not hear something
moving?”
“I think I did; let us listen.” A pause ensued. “It’s only the
thunder-storm, and”—taking a long breath—“the ticking of the great
clock.”
“How like someone breathing heavily,” exclaimed Crescenz, anxiously.
“And how dark it is! We can hardly find our way out,” said Hildegarde.
Hamilton did not venture to move; they were so near him that he heard
the hands feeling the way on the wall close to where he stood. One
reached the narrow passage in safety, the other stumbled on the stairs;
and, as Hamilton unconsciously made a movement to assist her, the
lightning, which had once or twice enabled him to distinguish their
figures, now rendered him for a moment visible. It was in vain he again
drew back into his hiding-place. With a cry of terror, Crescenz raised
herself from the ground, and rushed into her sister’s arms, exclaiming,
“I have seen him! I have seen him! He is here!”
“What! Who is here?”
“The Englishman! the Englishman!”
“Impossible! How can you be so foolish? Come, come, let us leave this
place.”
“I saw him, and the lightning played upon his face, and he looked as if
he were dead. I saw him, indeed I saw him!” cried Crescenz, sobbing
frantically.
“Crescenz—dear Crescenz!” said her sister, vainly endeavouring to calm
her.
Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked, and conceiving his actual presence
would relieve her mind from the fear of having seen something
supernatural, he came forward and explained, as well as he could, the
cause of his being there. In the excess of his anxiety he seized her
hand, called her Crescenz, and talked he knew not what nonsense. Her
efforts to control her emotions were desperate. She forced a laugh, but
the attempt ended in a scream, which echoed wildly through the building.
“Crescenz! Crescenz! have you lost your senses?” cried her sister. “You
will bring the whole house about us!”
Her words seemed likely to be verified, for lights began to glimmer in
all directions.
“Mamma will come, and we may make up our minds to return to Munich
to-morrow,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently.
Hamilton’s situation now became uncomfortable; it was, to say the least,
not favourable for a first appearance among strangers; and the thought
that “A. Z.” might be among them was so overpowering that he stood
perfectly petrified, and still unconsciously holding Crescenz’s hand.
“As to you, the Englishman,” continued Hildegarde, angrily, “your
standing there can only increase our embarrassment. Begone! It is still
possible for you to escape observation.”
He turned mechanically towards the organ-loft.
“Not there! Not there!” she cried vehemently. “One would really think
you a fool!”
Roused by this somewhat uncivil observation, Hamilton asked, in about as
gentle a tone of voice as her own, “Where the d—l shall I go, then,
mademoiselle? You don’t wish me to face all those lights, do you?”
“Go! go! go!” she cried, with increased violence, and stamping the
ground with her feet. “You can cross the corridor before they reach the
entrance to this passage.”
He ran, crossed the passage, stumbled up some two or three steps to a
door, which charitably yielded to his hand, and afforded him a retreat
into—the church—for there he was again! Now completely confused, and
feeling as if under the influence of nightmare, he threw himself into a
seat, and covered his face with his hands. Steps and inquiring voices
came nearer and nearer. He heard scolding, wondering, expostulating;
then all was quiet, and only Crescenz’s subdued sobs reached his ear.
All at once, to his no small dismay, the church became lighted; some
persons with candles were in the organ-loft opposite to him; he could
see them, however, in tolerable security, for his place of refuge proved
to be the enclosed gallery formerly occupied by the monks. In the
meantime the storm had increased; one flash of lightning was followed so
immediately by thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the very
foundations of the monastery. It served to disperse the assembly, for
Hamilton heard soon after the retreating steps passing the door of the
gallery, the opening and shutting of several doors, voices lost in the
distance, and all was again still. He waited merely to assure himself
that no one was in the way, and then cautiously commenced his retreat. A
juvenile reminiscence made him smile as he now moved from his
hiding-place; he remembered the time when he had hoped his “new boots
would creak,” and had even tampered with the boot-maker’s apprentice
when he had been so lucky as to have his measure taken without
witnesses. And now, what would he not have given for a pair of slippers,
or anything but creaking boots! He had scarcely made six strides on
tiptoe when a door opened, and a head protruded itself. He trusted to
the darkness for concealment, and leaned against the wall; the head had
no sooner disappeared, than, seizing the favourable moment, he rushed
into a dark passage, and ran, unconscious whether he turned right or
left, until he reached a large open window. He looked out, and saw the
traveller’s little green carriage being pushed towards the coach-house.
Here was a sort of compass to steer by; his windows had the same aspect,
_ergo_, that door must lead to his room. Before, however, he undertook
another expedition, he thought it prudent to get a light. This caused a
few minutes’ delay; and when he again sallied forth he seemed destined
to be more fortunate. Hildegarde and her step-mother walked before him,
as if to point the way. They disappeared at the end of the passage, and
he quickened his steps in order to overtake them on the stairs. The
latter was speaking loudly, it seemed in continuation of a previous
discourse. “You may rest assured that your father shall have a full
account of the whole affair! Such a disgraceful scene! Count Zedwitz
sent his servant to inquire what was the matter, and recommended
immersion in cold water. A good ducking would have most effectually
quieted Crescenz’s nerves, and I shall certainly try it next time. My
health is not likely to be much benefited by a residence here, if I have
to act duenna to you and your sister! Remember, I strictly forbid your
walking in these passages after sunset in future. Do you hear?”
“Yes, madame.”
“As to Crescenz being so afraid of lightning, that’s all nonsense! I
should like to know if all the young ladies at school scream in that
manner whenever they see a flash of lightning!”
“The thunder was very loud,” began Hildegarde; “and, besides, you have
not heard that she saw——”
“Well, well,” cried her mother, interrupting her, to Hamilton’s great
satisfaction, “thunder or lightning—or both—there was no occasion for
such a noise, and I give you warning that the very first time I have
cause to be dissatisfied with you or your sister, back you shall go to
school. Health is my object at present, and every irritation of the
nerves has been expressly forbidden by my medical adviser.”
To this speech no answer was made, and Hamilton followed them at a
distance into the supper-room. He had lost so much time in the
organ-loft that almost all of the guests were already gone. The
traveller, whose arrival he had witnessed, was in the act of lighting a
cigar, with which he immediately left the room. An elderly, red-faced,
stout gentleman, with a tankard of beer beside him, he soon discovered
to be Major Stultz; nor did it require much penetration to recognise Mr.
Schmearer, the painter, in the emaciated, sentimental-looking young man
beside whom he seated himself. Hildegarde and her step-mother were
nearly opposite; the former, after bestowing on Hamilton a look which
might appropriately have accompanied a box on the ear, fixed her eyes on
the table; the latter bowed most graciously, and commenced an
interesting conversation about the weather, the barometer, and her
dislike to thunder-storms in general. When these topics had been
completely exhausted, Hamilton hoped something might be said of the
present inmates of Seon; but a long and tiresome discussion on the
merits of summer and winter beer followed. Strauss’s beer was
delicious—bock had been particularly good this year. “Bock!” cried Major
Stultz, enthusiastically, “bock is better than champagne! Bock is——”
Here he looked up with an impassioned air to the ceiling, and kissed the
first two fingers of his right hand, flourishing them in the air
afterwards. Words, it seems, were inadequate to express the merits of
this beverage.
“Did you see that picture at the Kunstverein[1] in Munich, representing
a glass of foaming bock, with the usual accessories of bread and
radishes?” asked Mr. Schmearer. “It was exquisitely painted! I believe
his majesty purchased it.”
Footnote 1:
Society of Arts.
“There is some sense in such a picture as that,” answered Major Stultz.
“I went two or three times to see it, and could scarcely avoid
stretching out my hand to feel if it were not some deception.”
“A judicious management of reflected lights produces extraordinary
effect in the representation of fluids,” observed Mr. Schmearer.
A pause ensued. Major Stultz did not seem disposed to discuss reflected
lights; the picture had evidently had no value for him excepting as a
good representation of a glass of bock; and his attention was now
directed towards Hildegarde, whose flushed cheeks and pouting lips
rather heightened than detracted from her beauty.
“Perhaps you would like to see the newspapers, madame?” he asked,
politely offering the latest arrived to her step-mother.
“Thank you; I never read newspapers, though I join some acquaintances in
taking the _Eilbote_, on condition that it comes to us last of all, and
then we can keep the paper for cleaning the looking-glasses and
windows.”
“There are, however, sometimes very pretty stories and charades in the
_Eilbote_. Young ladies like such things,” he observed, glancing
significantly towards Hildegarde.
“My daughters must read nothing but French, and I have subscribed to a
library for them. Their French has occupied more than half their lives
at school, and now I intend them to teach the boys.”
“_I_ should have no sort of objection to learn French from such an
instructress,” said the Major, gallantly.
“Indeed, I don’t think anyone will ever learn much from her,” said
Madame Rosenberg, severely; “but her sister Crescenz is a good girl, and
the children are very fond of her.”
“You have two daughters!” exclaimed the Major.
“_Step-daughters_,” she replied, dryly.
“That I took for granted,” he said, bowing, as if he intended to be very
civil. “The young ladies will be of great use to you in the
housekeeping.”
“That is exactly what has been neglected in their education; if they
could keep a house as well as they can speak French, I should be
satisfied. When we return to Munich, they must both learn cookery. I
intend afterwards to give the children to one and the housekeeping to
the other, alternately.”
“You will prepare the young ladies so well for their destination that I
suspect they will not remain long unmarried!”
“There’s not much chance of that! Husbands are not so easily found for
portionless daughters!” replied Madame Rosenberg, facetiously; “however,
I am quite ready to give my consent, should anything good offer.”
Hamilton looked at Hildegarde to see what impression this conversation
had made on her. She had turned away as much as possible from the
speakers, and with her head bent down seemed to watch intently the
bursting of the bubbles in a glass of beer. Had it been her sister, he
would have thought she had chosen the occupation to conceal her
embarrassment—but embarrassment was not Hildegarde’s predominant
feeling; her compressed lips and quick breathing denoted suppressed
anger, which amounted to rage, as her step-mother in direct terms asked
Major Stultz if he were married, and received for answer that he was “a
bachelor, at her service.” With a sudden jerk, the glass was prostrated
on the table, and before Hamilton could raise his arm its contents were
deposited in the sleeve of his coat.
“_Pardon mille-fois!_” cried Hildegarde, looking really sorry for what
had occurred.
“You irritable, awkward girl!” commenced her mother; but for some
undoubtedly excellent reason, she suddenly changed her manner, and
added—“You had better go to bed, child; I see you have not yet recovered
from the recent alarm in the church.”
Hildegarde rose quickly from her chair, and with a slight and somewhat
haughty obeisance to the company, left the room in silence. Madame
Rosenberg continued volubly to excuse her to Hamilton, and, what he
thought quite unnecessary, to Major Stultz also!
The Major listened with complacence; but Hamilton’s wet shirt-sleeve
induced him to finish his supper as quickly as possible and wish the
company good-night.
---------------------
CHAPTER II.
THE INITIALS.
HAMILTON thought there were few things so disagreeable as going to bed,
excepting, perhaps, getting up again. He was incorrigibly indolent in
this respect, and nothing but the most fresh and beautiful of mornings,
aided perhaps by the transparent muslin curtains, which had admitted
every ray of light from daybreak, could have induced him to get up and
be dressed at six o’clock; and that, too, without any immediate object
in view, for three or four hours at least must elapse before he could
venture to intrude on “A. Z.” He was not a little surprised to find
Crescenz and her sister already in the garden; but having no inclination
for a renewal of the organ-loft scene, he turned towards a row of
clumsy, flat-bottomed boats, sprung into one of them, and in a few
minutes was far out in the lake, where he quietly leaned on his oars,
and began to look about him.
Seon was originally built upon an island and received its name from this
circumstance, as is quaintly enough recorded in the _Introductio ad
Annales Monasterii Seonentis_, of Benonne Feichtmaejr, Ejusdem
Monasterii Professor—“When God saw that the wickedness of man was great
in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart
was only evil continually, he threatened the earth with destruction; and
said unto Noah, ‘Make thee an ark,’ etc., etc., etc. So our blessed
founder, _Aribo_, seeing in what unrighteousness mankind had again
fallen, resolved also to build an ark, and to receive into it not only
his own household, but all others who were willing to quit the
wickedness of the world and save themselves from the deluge of sin.
Accordingly he changed his castle called Buergel into a monastery under
the seal of the holy patriarch Benedictus, and recommended the same to
the protection of the holy martyr Lambertus. The monastery was then
named Seon, as the letters composing this word being reversed form the
name of _Noes_ (Noah); and the monastery representing the ark appeared
to float in the midst of the lake, a place of refuge for all willing to
seek it.”
Of the original building of 994 nothing remains but the church, now
converted into a cellar, and the cloisters,—the other parts having been
consumed by fire in the year 1561. In the course of time, however, and
even before the secularisation of the monastery, it had been found
convenient to connect Seon with the mainland by means of a road, over
which Hamilton must have driven the evening before. And now, when viewed
from the outside, Seon much more resembled a middle-aged German castle
than a monastery. This impression it made on Hamilton, too, as he
watched the numerous groups of people who had begun to enliven with
their presence the pretty garden extending from it to the lake.
Crescenz and her sister continued to walk up and down, talking
earnestly, and so often bestowing a look on the “overgrown schoolboy,”
that he felt convinced he was the subject of discourse. Their brothers
soon after joined them, and a very outrageous game of romps ensued
between them and Crescenz. Hildegarde still turned towards the lake, her
eyes fixed on him and his boat. “Perhaps,” he thought, with the vanity
inherent to very young men—“perhaps she regrets her rudeness to me last
night. I like her all the better for not playing with those unmannerly
boys; and at supper, too, I observed that, although strongly resembling
her sister, she is infinitely handsomer!” He rowed to the landing-place,
moored the boat, and approached her quietly; but it did not require long
to convince him that he had not been in the least degree an object of
interest to her, for she still gazed on the lake, though his bark no
longer floated on its surface, and not even the sound of his voice when
he spoke to her sister could induce her to turn round. He looked at his
watch, and found that by the time he had breakfasted he might prepare to
visit A. Z.—that is, learn what chance he had of making a useful or
agreeable acquaintance. He inquired for the landlady, and found her in
the kitchen sending forth detachments of coffee and rolls to the garden.
To his great surprise and pleasure, she ordered his breakfast to be
carried to the arbour, where the Countess Zedwitz and her daughter were
breakfasting, saying it was the only place unengaged in the whole
garden. With mixed feelings of anxiety and curiosity he followed. While
it was being deposited on the table, he observed that a question was
asked by a comfortable-looking dowager, and the answer seemed
satisfactory, for she nodded her head and then looked towards him. He
bowed, and was received with a good-humoured smile. “She knows me,” he
thought, “and this is A. Z.” It did not, in fact, signify—but—he would
have preferred the daughter, who, although not in the least pretty, had
a merry expression of countenance, and looked so fresh that he
involuntarily thought of the tub of cold water out of which she had
probably sprung half an hour before.
“I fear, madame, you will think me an intruder,” he began, with an
affection of diffidence which he was far from feeling.
“Oh, by no mean,” cried the elder lady, in English, nodding her head two
or three times; “by no mean! You are an Englishman; I am very glad to
have occasion to spick English. Man lose all practice in both! I
estimate me very happy to make acquaintance with you.”
Hamilton assured her he felt extremely obliged—hoped, however, to prove
that he had a better claim to her notice than his being an Englishman.
This she did not comprehend, for, like most Germans who are learning
English, she seldom understood when spoken to, and preferred continuing
to talk herself to waiting or asking for an answer in a language which
she knew by sight but not by sound. Accordingly, “We have a very fine
nature here!” was the reply he received to an observation which he had
intended to have led to an interesting discovery of his being the son of
her Munich correspondent. “We have a very fine nature here!”
Hamilton looked puzzled, or she thought him a little deaf, for she spoke
louder as she said, “A very beautiful nature!”
He bowed, and coloured slightly.
“Mamma will say, our prospects are very good,” said the younger lady, in
explanation.
“Ha!—prospects!” he repeated.
“What you call lanskip—_paysage_? Is not good English? No?”
“Oh, very good English,” he answered, looking round him, prepared to
admire anything or everything he could see. Now, they were in an arbour
thickly covered with foliage in order to render it impervious to the
sun’s rays, and the entrance being from the garden, there was no view
whatever deserving the name of prospect. Hamilton knew not what to say,
and was beginning to feel embarrassed, when the Rosenbergs luckily
appeared and made a diversion in his favour. Crescenz and her sister
advanced to meet their step-mother, who now entered the garden dressed
in a most unbecoming dark-coloured cotton morning-gown partly covered by
an old shawl thrown negligently over her shoulders, and her hair still
twisted round those odious leather things used for curling refractory
ringlets.
“Who is that?” asked the Countess, to his great relief speaking German.
“Who is that person?”
“I believe her name is Rosenberg,” he answered; “she came from Munich
yesterday.”
“Ah, I know. That is the person who screamed in the gallery last night.”
“No, mamma, it was one of her daughters who screamed.”
“Oh, one of her daughters! They are very pretty,” said the Countess,
raising her double _lorgnette_ to her eyes—“really very pretty! and I
think I have seen them somewhere before, but where I cannot recollect——”
“Oh, mamma, I know where you have seen them; they were in the same
school with my cousin Thérèse, and we saw them at the examinations last
year. Don’t you remember the two sisters who were so like each other?
And as we drove home with the Princess N——, she said that one of them
was the handsomest creature she had ever seen! I think, too, she said
she had known their mother!”
“Not that person in the odious dishabille! You are dreaming, child!”
“No, no—_their_ mother was _noble_—she was a Raimund, had no fortune,
and married a nobody, when she was old enough to have been wiser; her
relations never forgave her, but after her death they offered to educate
these two girls for governesses; their father would not part with them;
but when he afterwards married a rich goldsmith’s daughter, she
immediately insisted on his sending them to school.”
“I believe I do remember something of this—most probably a sister of our
friend Count Raimund, Agnes?”
“Mademoiselle’s name is Agnes,” said Hamilton, quickly. “Then, perhaps,
you are the person who was so kind as to write me the letter which—” and
he searched in his pocket for A. Z.’s letter.
“What!—what is that about a letter?” asked the old lady, hastily.
“Some mistake, mamma.”
“But he says you wrote to him, my dear.”
“No, mamma, I did not write to him; but I think it extremely probable
that papa did. I know he wrote lately to an Englishman in Munich. He
will be glad to see you, I am sure,” she added, turning to Hamilton;
“for although he speaks English very tolerably, he finds writing it
extremely difficult; and the little note in question occupied him nearly
an hour. When you have breakfasted, I can go with you to his room.”
Hamilton pushed away his coffee-cup, and stood up directly.
“Agnes, Agnes!” cried her mother gravely, “you know your father is
sweating!”
“Yes, mamma, I know; but papa wishes very much to see his English
correspondent. You have, probably, just returned from Graefenberg?” she
said, addressing Hamilton. “Have you no letter from Preissnitz?”
“Letters from Preissnitz! I have no letter except that which I received
the day before yesterday from Count Zedwitz.”
“You wish, perhaps, to speak to papa before you decide on going to
Graefenberg?”
“I—I have no intention whatever of going there, mademoiselle,” said
Hamilton, who did not exactly know who Preissnitz was, or where
Graefenberg might be situated; for ten years ago, Preissnitz’s name was
little known in Germany, and scarcely at all in England.
“Well, at all events, you had better speak to papa: I know he expects to
see you.”
“If that be the case,” said Hamilton, “I am sure I shall be very happy
to make his acquaintance—I only feared the letter might have been
intended for my father, as he has foreign acquaintances, and I have as
yet none.”
“It is quite the same thing, I should think,” said the young Countess,
as she led the way out of the garden. “You can let your father know that
you have seen us here. Papa was only sorry that he could not receive you
at home; but our house is not at present habitable, and——”
“Ah!” cried Hamilton, springing up the stairs after her, “that is
exactly what he said in his letter.”
“Wait here until I have told him that you have arrived,” she said,
tapping gently at one of the doors, which closed upon her immediately
afterwards.
She did not return, but a tall, gaunt servant appeared to conduct him to
Count Zedwitz’s apartment. On entering, he perceived that a figure lay
on a bed, but so wrapped in blankets and covered with down beds, that
nothing was visible but the face, down which the perspiration rolled
copiously. A reading-desk was placed on the breast, and a long quill,
tightly pressed between the teeth, served to turn over the leaves of his
book. Hamilton would have required some time to discover the use of the
quill, had it not been performing its office as he entered.
“I am rejoice to see you—very glad you have become my letter, and seem
to profit by it. You are good on the feet again?”
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, rather puzzled by this address, and
half-disposed to refuse the chair placed for him by the servant.
“You have been to Graefenberg?—No?”
“No.”
“You have recover without Preissnitz?”
“Recover!” repeated Hamilton; “I have never been seriously ill in my
life, colds and all that sort of thing excepted—mere trifles, after
all!”
“Trifles! well, you Englishmen have odd idea!—Rheumatism is trifle!”
“Gout is more common with us,” observed Hamilton, somewhat amused.
“Well, gout, chicagra, podagra, rheumatism, what you will, is no trifle
at all! You have had the gout?”
“No; but I suppose I shall in time: it is hereditary in our family—my
father has two or three attacks every year.”
“Your father! is it your father who has had the gout?”
“Yes, and I suspect my father is your correspondent, too. I really fear
I am not the person you suppose me to be.”
“What! what, what do you mean?” he cried, endeavouring to raise himself
in his bed, and looking precisely like a writhing caddice-worm.
“I mean that I received a letter the day before yesterday, inviting me
to come here; the seal was a coronet, and it was signed A. Z. I arrived;
made inquiries, and too hastily, it seems, concluded that Count Zedwitz,
or one of his family, had written to me. Your daughter confirmed me in
my error by saying that you had lately written to an Englishman in
Munich, and wished very much to see him.”
“Hum, ha!—very odd!” murmured the Count, fixing his eyes sharply on
Hamilton. “May I ask your name?”
“Hamilton,” replied the Englishman, with an ill-concealed attempt to
repress an inclination to laugh.
“I have not the honour of knowing any one of that name,” said the Count,
endeavouring, as well as his blankets would permit him, to look
dignified. “I am surprised, sir, you did not perceive the mistake
sooner!”
“So am I,” replied Hamilton, his rising colour betraying the
embarrassment he endeavoured to conceal; “but every moment some remark
of yours made me doubt again; besides,” he added, moving towards the
door, “I must confess, I wished to hear something of this water-cure,
which is quite new to me; I never heard of it until yesterday. However,
I am extremely sorry for having forced myself upon your acquaintance,
and can only regret that my correspondent had not written his name in
full; from these initials, it seems, I have but a small chance of
discovering the writer!”
“I don’t know that,” cried Count Zedwitz, suddenly changing his manner;
“it is by no means improbable that the letter is from Baron Z—; his wife
is an Englishwoman. I should recommend your seeing them before you give
up your search. And—and,” he added—hesitatingly—“as you seem interested
on the subject of hydropathy, I shall have great pleasure in lending you
some books and giving you every information in my power about Preissnitz
and Graefenberg. In the mean time, look over this little work—it is not
necessary to be a physician to understand it. You will find here a
description of Graefenberg, the establishment of Preissnitz, who
discovered this most rational mode of curing all diseases; and, I doubt
not, you will soon be convinced of the uselessness of physicians and
apothecaries, and place, as I do, all your reliance on cold water. Read
what is said about perspiration, cold water drinking, and bathing; read
and judge for yourself. I shall see you at dinner-time.”
Hamilton received the book with expressions of gratitude which were
really sincere. The happy termination of this interview made him feel
that he had gained an acquaintance, who might, perhaps, turn into a
friend, if he submitted to the ordeal by water.
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