Kitabı oku: «The Dodd Family Abroad, Vol. I», sayfa 16

LETTER XVIII. MARY ANNE DODD TO MISS DOOLAN, OF BALLYDOOLAN

Grand Hôtel du Rhin, Bonn

Dearest Catherine, – Forgive me if I substitute for the loved appellation of infancy the more softly sounding epithet which is consecrated to verse in every language of Europe. Yes, thou mayst be Kate of all Kates to the rest of Christendom, but to me thou art Catherine, – "Catrinella mia," as thou wilt.

Here, dearest, as I sit embowered beside the wide and winding Rhine, the day-dream of my childhood is at length realized. I live, I breathe, in the land glorified by genius. Reflected in that stream is the castled crag of Drachenfels, mirrored as in my heart the image of my dearest Catherine. How shall I tell you of our existence here, fascinated by the charms of song and scenery, elevated by the strains of immortal verse? We are living at the Grand Hôtel du Rhin, my sweet child; and having taken the entire first floor, are regarded as something like an imperial family travelling under the name of Dodd.

I told you in my last of our acquaintance with Mrs. Gore Hampton. It has, since then, ripened into friendship. It is now love. I feel the dangerous captivation of speaking of her, even passingly. Her name suggests all that can fascinate the heart and inthrall the imagination. She is perfectly beautiful, and not less gifted than she is lovely. Perhaps I cannot convey to my dearest Catherine a more accurate conception of this charming being than by mentioning some – a few – of the changes wrought by her influence on the habits of our daily life.

Our mornings are scientific, – entirely given up to botany, chemistry, natural history, and geology, with occasional readings in political economy and statistics. We all attend these except papa. Even James has become a most attentive student, and never takes his eyes off Mrs. G. during the lecture. At three we lunch, and then mount our horses for a ride; since, thanks to Lord George's attentive politeness, seven saddle-horses have been sent down from Brussels for our use. Once mounted, we are like a school released from study, so full of gayety, so overflowing with spirits and animation.

Where shall we go? is then the question. Some are for Godesberg, where we dismount to eat ice and stroll through the gardens; others, of whom your Mary Anne is ever one, vote for Rolandseck, that being the very spot whence Roland the bravo – the brave Roland – sat to gaze upon those convent walls that enclosed all that he adored on earth.

And oh! Catherine dearest, is there amongst the very highest of those attributes which deify human nature any one that can compare with fidelity? Does it not comprise nearly all the virtues, heroic as well as humble? For my part, I think it should be the great theme of poets, blending as it does some of the tenderest with some of the grandest traits of the heart. From Petrarch to Paul – I mean Virginia's Paul – there is a fascination in these examples that no other quality ever evokes. My dearest Emily – I call Mrs. G. H. by her Christian name always – joined me the other evening in a discussion on this subject against Lord George James, and several others, our only cavalier being the Ritter von Wolfenschftfer, a young German noble, who is studying here, and a remarkable specimen of his class. He is tall, and what at first seems heavy-browed, but, on nearer acquaintance, displays one of those grand heads which are rarely met with save on the canvas of Titian; he wears a long beard and moustache of a reddish brown, which, accompanied by a certain solemnity of manner and a deep-toned voice, impress you with a kind of awe at first. His family is, I believe, the oldest in Germany, having been Barons of the Black Forest, in some very early century. "The first Hapsburg," he says, was a "knecht," or vassal, of one of his ancestors. His pride is, therefore, something indescribable.

Lord George met him, I fancy, first at some royal table, and they renewed their acquaintance here, shyly at the beginning, but after a while with more cordiality; and now he is here every day singing, sketching, reciting Schiller and Goethe, talking the most delightful rhapsodies, and raving about moonlights on the Brocken, and mysticism in the Hartzwald, till my very brain turns with distraction.

Don't you detest the "positif," – the dreary, tiresome, tame, sad-colored robe of reality? and do you not adore the prismatic-tinted drapery, that envelops the dream-creatures of imagination? I know, dearest Catherine, that you do. I feel by myself how you shrink from the stern aspect of reality, and love to shroud yourself in the graceful tissues of fancy! How, then, would you long to be here, – to discuss with us themes that have no possible relation to anything actually existing, – to talk of those visionary essences which form the creatures of the unreal world? The "Ritter" is perfectly charming on these subjects; there is a vein of love through his metaphysics, and of metaphysics through his love, that elevates while it subdues. You will say it is a strange transition that makes me flit from these things to thoughts of home and Ireland; but in the wilful wandering of my fancy a vision of the past rises before me, and I must seize it ere it depart. I wish, in fact, to speak to you about a passage in your last letter which has given me equal astonishment and suffering. What, dearest Kitty, do you mean by talking of a certain person's "long-tried and devoted affection," – "his hopes, and his steadfast reliance on my truthfulness"? Have I ever given any one the right to make such an appeal to me? I do really believe that no one is less exposed to such a reproach than I am! I have the right, if I please, to misconstrue your meaning, and assume a total ignorance as to whom you are referring. But I will not avail myself of the privilege, Kitty, – I will accept your allusion. You mean Dr. Belton. Now, I own that I write this name with considerable reluctance and regret. His many valuable qualities, and the natural goodness of his disposition, have endeared him to all of that humble circle in which his lot is cast, and it would grieve me to write one single word which should pain him to hear. But I ask you, Kitty, what is there in our relative stations in society which should embolden him to offer me attentions? Do we move in the same sphere? have we either thoughts, ideas, or ambitions – have we even acquaintances – in common? I do not want to magnify the position I hold. Heaven knows that the great world is not a sea devoid of rocks and quicksands. No one feels its perils more acutely than myself. But I repeat it: Is there not a wide gulf between us? Could he live, and move, think, act, or plan, in the circle that I associate with? Could I exist, even for a day, in his? No, dearest, impossible, – utterly impossible. The great world has its requirements, – exactions, if you will; they are imperative, often tyrannical: but their sweet recompense comes back in that delicious tranquillity of soul, that bland imperturbability that springs from good breeding, – the calm equanimity that no accident can shake, from which no sudden shock can elicit a vibration. I do not pretend, dearest friend, that I have yet attained to this. I know well that I am still far distant from that great goal; but I am on the road, Kitty, – my progress has commenced, and not for the wealth of worlds would I turn back from it.

With thoughts like these in my heart, – instincts I should perhaps call them. – how unsuited should I be to the humble monotony of a provincial existence! Were I even to sacrifice my own happiness, should I secure his? My heart responds, No, certainly not.

As to what you remark of the past, I feel it is easily replied to. The little chapel at Bruff once struck me as a miracle of architectural beauty. I really fancied that the doorway was in the highest taste of florid Gothic, and that the east window was positively gorgeous in tracery. As to the altar, I can only say that it appeared a mass of gold, silver, and embroidery, such as we read of in the "Arabian Nights." Am I to blame, Kitty, that, after having seen the real splendors of St. Gudule, and the dome of Cologne, I can recant my former belief, and acknowledge that the little edifice at Bruff is poor, mean, and insignificant; its architecture a sham, and its splendor all tinsel? and yet it is precisely what I left it.

You will then retort, that it is I am changed! I own it, Kitty. I am so. But can you make this a matter of reproach?

If so, is not every step in intellectual progress, every stage of development, a stigma? Your theory, if carried out, would soar beyond the limits of this life, and dare to assail the angelic existences of the next!

But you could not intend this; no, Kitty, I acquit you at once of such a notion; even the defence of your friend could not make you so unjust. Dr. Belton must, surely, be in error as to any supposed pledges or promises on my part. I have taxed my memory to the utmost, and cannot recall any such. If, in the volatile gayety of a childish heart, – remember, sweetest, I was only eighteen when I left home, – I may have said some silly speech, surely it is not worth remembering, still less recording, to make me blush for it. Lastly, Kitty, I have learned to know that all real happiness is based upon filial obedience; and whatever sentiments it would be possible for me to entertain for Dr. B. would be diametrically opposed to the wishes of my papa and mamma.

I have now gone over this question in every direction I could think of, because I hope that it may nevermore recur between us. It is a theme which I advert to with sorrow, for really I am unable to acquit of presumption one whose general character is conspicuous for a modest and retiring humility. You will acquaint him with as much of the sentiments I here express as you deem fitting. I leave everything to your excellent delicacy and discretion. I only beg that I may not be again asked for explanations on a matter so excessively disagreeable to discuss, and that I may be spared alluding to those peculiar circumstances which separate us forever. If the time should come when he will take a more reasonable and just view of our respective conditions, nothing will be more agreeable to me than to renew those relations of friendship which we so long cultivated as neighbors; and if, in any future state I may occupy, I can be of the least service to him, I beg you to believe that it will be both a pride and a pleasure to me to know it.

It is needless, after this, to answer the question of your postscript. Of course he must not write to me. Nothing could induce me to read his letter. That he should ever have thought of such a thing is a proof – and no slight one – of his utter ignorance of all the conventional rules which regulate social intercourse. But a truce to a theme so painful.

I answer your brief question of the turn-down of your letter as curtly as it is put. No; I am not in love with Lord George, nor is he with me. We regard each other as brother and sister; we talk in the most unreserved confidence; we say things which, in the narrower prejudices of England, would be infallibly condemned. In fact, Kitty, the sway of a conscientious sense of right, the inward feeling of purity, admit of many liberties here, which are denied to us at home. Here I tell you, in one word, what it is that constitutes the superiority in tone of the Continent over our own country, – I should say it was this very same freedom of thought and action.

The language is full of a thousand graceful courtesies that mean so much or so little. The literature abounding in analysis of emotions, – that secret anatomy of the heart, so fascinating and so instructive; the habits of society so easy and so natural; and then that chivalrous homage paid to the sex, – all contribute to extend the realms of conversational topics, and at the same time to admit of various ways of treating them, such as may suit the temper, the talent, or the caprice of each. How often does it happen from this that one hears the gravest themes of religion and politics debated in a spirit of the most sparkling wit and levity, while subjects of the most trivial kind are discussed with a degree of seriousness and a display of learning actually astounding! This wonderful versatility is very remarkable in another respect; for, strange enough, it is the young people abroad who are the gravest in manner, the most reserved and most saturnine.

The high-spirited, the buoyant, and most daring talkers are the elderly. In a word, Kitty, everything here is the reverse of that at home; and, I am forced to confess, possesses a great superiority over our own notions.

I am dying to tell you more of the Ritter, which, I must explain to you, is the German for "Chevalier." If you want a confession, too, I will make one; and that is that he is desperately in love with a poor friend of yours, who feels herself quite unworthy of the devotion of this scion of thirty-two quarterings.

In a worldly point of view, Kitty, the possibility of such an event would be brilliant beyond conception. His estates are a principality, and his Schloss von Wölfenberg one of the wonders of the Black Forest. Does not your heart swell and bound, dearest, at the thought of a real castle, in a real forest, with a real baron, Kitty? – one of those cruel creatures, perhaps, who lived in feudal times, and always killed a child, to warm their feet in his heart's blood? Not that our Ritter looks this. On the contrary, he is gentle, low-voiced, and dreamy, – a little too dreamy, – if I must say it, and not sufficiently alive to the rattling drolleries of Lord George and James, who torment him unceasingly.

Mamma likes him immensely, though their intercourse is limited to mere bows and greetings; and even papa, whose prejudice against foreigners increases with every day, acknowledges that he is very amiable and good-tempered. Cary appears to me to be greatly taken with him, but he never notices her, nor pays her the slightest attention. I 'm sure I wish he would, and I should be delighted to contribute towards such a conjuncture. Who knows what may happen later, for he has invited us all to the Schloss for the shooting-season, – some time, I believe, in autumn, – and papa has said "Yes."

I now come to another secret, dearest Kitty, depending on all your discretion not to divulge it, at least for the present. Mamma has received a confidential note from Waters, the attorney, informing her that she is to succeed to the McCarthy estates and property of the late Jones M'Carthy, of M'Carthy's Folly. The amount is not yet known to us, and we are surrounded by such difficulties, from our desire to keep the matter secret, that we cannot expect to know the particulars for some time. The estates were considerable; but, like those of all the Irish aristocracy, greatly encumbered. The personal property, mamma thinks, could not have been burdened, so that this alone may turn out handsomely.

By some deed of settlement, or something of the kind, executed at papa's marriage with mamma, he voluntarily abandoned all right over any property that should descend to her, so that she will possess the unlimited control over this bequest. Mr. Waters mentions that the testator desired – I am not certain that he did not require as a condition – that we should take the name of McCarthy. I hope so with all my heart I do not believe that anything could offer such obstacles to us abroad as this terrible and emphatic monosyllable; now, Dodd M'Carthy has a rhythm in it, and a resonance also.

It sounds territorially, too; like the de of French nobility. We should figure in fashionable "Arrivals and Departures" with a certain air of distinction that is denied to us at present; and I really do not see why we should not be "The M'Carthy." You know, dearest, that the Herald's office never interferes about Celtic nobility, inasmuch as its origin utterly defies investigation; and there are, consequently, no pains nor penalties attached to the assumption of a native title. How I should be delighted to hear us announced as "The M'Carthy, family and suite," with an explanatory paragraph about papa being the blue or the black knight. The English are always impressed with these things, and foreigners regard them with immense devotion. There is another incalculable advantage, Kitty, not to be overlooked. All little eccentricities of manner, little peculiarities of accent, voice, and intonation, of which neither pa nor ma are totally exempt, instead of being criticised, as some short-sighted folk might criticise them, as vulgar, low, and commonplace, rise at once to the dignity of a national trait.

They are like Breton French, or certain Provençal expressions in use amongst the ancient "Seigneurie" of the land. They actually dignify station, instead of disgracing it, so that a "brogue" seems to seal the very patent of your nobility, and the mutilations of your parts of speech stand for quarterings on your escutcheon.

It might seem invidious were I to quote the instances which support my theory; but I assure you, seriously, that social success, to be rapid, requires aids like these. There was a time when being a Villiers, a Stanley, or a Seymour gave you a kind of illusory nobility. You were a species of human shot-silk, that turned blue in one light, and brown in another; but now that Burke is read in the national schools, and the "Almanach de Gotha" in the godless colleges, deception on this head is impossible. They take you "to book" at once. You can't be one of the Howards of Ettinham, for Lady Mary died childless; nor one of the Worseley branch, for the present Marquis, who married Lady Alice de Courtenaye, had only two children, – one, British envoy at the Court of Prince of Salms und Schweinigen; the other, &c. In fact, Kitty, you are voted nobody. They will not allow you father nor mother, uncle nor aunt, nor even any good friends. Better be Popkins, or Perkins, Snooks, or even Smith, than this! The Celtic noblesse, however, is a safe refuge against all impertinent curiosity. Tracing the Dodd M'Carthy to his parent stem would be like keeping count of the sheep in Sancho's story. Besides, matters of succession are made matters of faith in the Church, and why shouldn't they be in the M'Carthy family? I don't suppose we want to be more infallible than the Pope?

I have not forgotten what you mentioned about your brother Robert; nor was it at all necessary, my dear Kitty, for you to speak of his talents and acquirements, which I well know are first-rate. I took an opportunity the other day of alluding to the master to Lord George, who has influence in every quarter. I told him pretty much in the words of your letter, that he was equally distinguished in science as in classics, had taken honors in both, and was in all other respects fully qualified to be a tutor. That, being a gentleman by birth, though of small fortune, his desire was to obtain the advantages of foreign travel, and the opportunity of acquiring modern languages, for which he was quite willing to assume all the labor and fatigue of a teacher. He stopped me short here by saying, "I 'm afraid it 's no go. They 've made a farce, and a devilish good one, too, of the 'Irish Tutor;' and I half suspect that Dr. O'Toole, as he is called, has spoiled the trade."

I tried to introduce a word about Robert's attainments, but he broke in with, – "That 's all very well; I 'm quite sure of everything you say. But who takes a 'coach'?" – That's the slang for tutor, Kitty! – "No one takes a 'coach' for his learning nowadays. What's wanted – particularly when travelling – is a sharp, wide-awake fellow, that knows all the dodges of the Continent as well as a courier, can bully the police, quiz the custom-house, and slang the waiters. He ought to be up to the opera and the ballet; be a dead hand at écarté, and a capital judge of cigars. After these, his great requisites are never ceasing good-humor, and a general flow of high spirits, to stand all the bad jokes and vapid fun of young college men; a yielding disposition to go anywhere, with any one, and for anything that may be proposed; and, finally, a ready tact never to suppose himself included in any invitation with his 'Bear,' who, however well he may treat him, will always prefer leaving him at home when he dines at an 'Embassy.'"

This is a rapid sketch of a tutor's life and habits, as practised abroad, Kitty; and I more than suspect Robert would not like it. Should I be in error, however, and that such would suit his views, I'm sure I can reckon on Lord George's kindness to find him an appointment. Meanwhile let him "accustom himself to much smoking and occasional brandy-and-water, lay in a good stock of droll anecdotes, and if he can acquire any conjuring knowledge, or tricks on the cards, it will aid him greatly." These hints are Lord G. 's, and, I am sure, invaluable.

A thunderstorm has just broken over the valley of the Rhine, and the dread artillery of heaven comes pealing down from the "Lurlie" like a chorus of demons in a mod-era opera. Our excursion being impossible, I once more resume my task, and again seat myself to hold communion with my dearest Kitty.

I find, besides, innumerable questions still unanswered in your last dear letter. You ask me if, on the whole, I am happier than I was at Dodsborough? How could you ever have penned such a quaere? The tone of seriousness which you tell me of, in my letters, admits perhaps of a softer epithet May it not be that soul-kindled elevation that comes of daily association with high intelligences? If I were but to tell you the names of the illustrious writers and great thinkers whom we meet here almost every evening, Kitty, you would no longer be amazed at the soaring flight my faculties have taken. Not that they appear to us, my dearest friend, in the mystic robes of science, but in the humble garb of common life, playing "groschen" whist, or a game of tric-trac. Just fancy, if you can, Professor Faraday playing "petits jeux," or Wollaston engaged at "hunt the slipper."

These are the intimacies, this the kind of intercourse, which imperceptibly cultivate the mind, and enlarge the understanding; for, as Mrs. Gore Hampton beautifully observes, "The charm of high-bred manner is not to be acquired by attendance on a 'levee' or a 'drawing-room,' it is imbibed in the atmosphere that pervades a court, in the daily, hourly association with that harmonious elegance that surrounds a sovereign." So, dearest Kitty, from intercourse with great minds is there a perpetual gain to our stock of knowledge. "They are," as Mrs. G. says, "the charged machines from which the electric sparks of genius are eternally disengaging themselves." What a privilege to be the receivers!

There is a wondrous charm, too, in their simplicity, as well as in that habit they have of mystically connecting the most trivial topics with the most astounding speculations. A fairy tale becomes to them a metaphysical allegory. You would scarcely credit what curious doctrines of socialism lie veiled under "Jack the Giant Killer," or that the Marquis of Carabas, in the tale of "Puss in Boots," is meant to illustrate the oppression of the landed aristocracy. Nor is this all, Kitty; but they go further, and they are always speculating on something beyond the actual catastrophe of a story; as, the other evening, I heard a learned argument to show that had Bluebeard not been killed, he would have inevitably formed an alliance with "Sister Anne," just for the sake of supporting the cause of "marriage with a deceased wife's sister." I only mention these as passing instances of that rich Imaginative fertility which is as much their characteristic as is their wonderful power of argumentation.

Lord George and James worry me greatly for my admiration of Germany and the Germans. They talk, in slang, on themes that require a high strain of intelligence to comprehend or even appreciate. No wonder, then, if their frivolity offend and annoy me! The Bitter von Wolfenschäfer is an unspeakable relief to me, after this tiresome quizzing. Shall I own that Cary is their ally in the same ignoble warfare? Indeed, nothing surprises, and at the same time depresses me more than to remark the little benefit derived by Caroline from foreign travel. She would seem to sit down perfectly contented with the information derived from books, as though the really substantial advantages of a residence abroad were not all dependent on direct intercourse with the people. "Why not read Uhland and Tieck at home at Dodsborough?" say I to her. "To what end do you come hundreds of miles away from your country, to do what might so easily have been accomplished at home?" What do you think was her reply? It was this: "That is exactly what I should like to do. Having seen some parts of the Continent, having enjoyed the spectacle of those wonderful things of nature and of art which a tour abroad would display, and having acquired that facility in languages which comes so rapidly by their daily use, I should like to go home again, adding to the pleasures my own country supplies, stores of knowledge and resources from other lands. I neither want to think that Frenchmen and Germans are better bred than my own countrymen, nor that the rigid decorum of English manners is only a flimsy veil of hypocrisy thrown over the coarse vices of a coarse people."

Now, my dear Kitty, be as national and patriotic as one will; play "Rule Britannia" every morning, with variations, on the piano; wear a Paisley shawl and a Dunstable bonnet; make yourself as hideous and absurd as the habits of your native country will admit of, – and that is a wide latitude, – you will be obliged to own the startling fact, the Continent is more civilized than England. Daily life is surrounded with more of elegance and of refinement, for the simple reason that there is more leisure for both. There is none of that vulgarity of incessant occupation so observable with us. Men do not live here to be Poor-law guardians and Quarter Sessions chairmen, directors of railroads, or members of select committees. They choose the nobler ambition of mental cultivation and intellectual polish. They study the arts which adorn social intercourse, and acquire those graceful accomplishments which fascinate in the great world, and, in the phrase of the newspapers, "make home happy."

I have now come to the end of my paper, and perhaps of your patience, but not of my arguments on this theme, nor the wish to impress them upon my dearest Kitty. Adieu! Adieu!

I can understand your astonishment at reading this, Kitty; but is it not another proof that Ireland is far behind the rest of the world in civilization? The systems exploded everywhere are still pursued there, and the unprofitable learning that all other countries have abandoned is precisely the object of hardest study and ambition.

There are twenty other things that I wished to consult my dearest Kitty about, but I must conclude. It is now nigh eleven o'clock, the moon is rising, and we are off on our excursion to the Drachenfels, – for you must know that one of the stereotyped amusements of the Continent is to ascend mountains for the sake of seeing daybreak from the "summit" It is frequently a failure as regards the picturesque; but never so with respect to the pleasure of the trip. Think of a mountain path by moonlight, Kitty; your mule slowly toiling up the steep ascent, while some one near murmurs "Childe Harold" in your ear, the perils of the way permitting a hundred little devotional attentions so suggestive of dependence and protection. I must break off, – they are calling for me; and I have but time to write myself my dearest Kitty's dearest friend,

Mart Anne Dodd.