University of Virginia Library

LETTER III.
MADAME VON WALLDORFF TO COUNTESS
PAPPENHEIM.

I have sent you the music—Walldorff is in the country
at present, but soon after his return he will probably
visit you at Vienna. It is possible that I may accompany
him You know, dearest Ida, how sincerely I
hope it may be so How is Pappenheim? and how do
you like the duties of an ambassadress? I am afraid
you will learn to despise our humdrum ways in Bohemia;
but no matter, I have made up my mind not to let
you off from your visit to Walldorff in the summer.

Among the music you will find a pretty little waltz
composed by your dear old uncle, Baron Kinski. He is as
lively and eccentric as ever. You will see that he has
dedicated it to me, which I consider a great honour.

Apropos of music—Do you know that our barrel-organ
(as you are good-natured enough to denominate our

Prague Opera-house) has become one of the wonders of
the world; not for any merit of its own, to be sure, for
the boxes are as dingy, the stage as dark, and the decorations
as faded as ever. But, my dear Ida, you have no
idea what a wonderful creature this new singer has
proved to be. Till I attend one of St. Cecilia's own
private concerts I never expect to hear a voice like hers.
She is a contralto. Such sweetness! such compass and
depth, and such execution! Really, some of her tones
appeared not to be human. Moreover she acts divinely,
and is as beautiful as an angel.

Of course Kinski was full of “furore” at the first
note. They have become great friends, for who could
resist the kindness and bonhomie of the excellent old
gentleman? She appears now at almost all his musical
parties, and usually sings once or twice. Of course they
are more the rage now than ever. She is agreeable in
conversation, very accomplished, speaks all the known
languages I believe, ancient and modern; and Kinski
says she composes Latin serenades. She is full of life and
spirits, very young, very beautiful, as I said before, and
moreover of character pure beyond the reach of detraction.
What a paragon! But she shall not come to Vienna,
we are determined. So if you wish to see her you must
come to Prague.

There is a young Bohemian shepherd who has lately
made his appearance as a poet. He has published a small
volume, and has placed himself under my protection.
His verses have really much merit but they have one
defect, nobody can read them. They are written in the
Bohemian dialect which of course I understand, having
passed all my childhood in the heart of my native country,
but which is a dead letter to most readers of poetry.

As the young man is needy, and really very meritorious,
I have done what I could for him Finding that the
book was lying on hand and not likely to find a purchaser,
I sent to the publishers and bought up the whole edition.
This was of course kept a secret from the author, who is
delighted with the rapid sale of his production. Your
friend Morton, whom you inquire for, is still here, and
likely to be. Accident made me acquainted with him
a long time ago, and since his return we have been great
friends. He is much altered from the singular person
whom you describe as one of the principal heroes of your
Göttingen adventures. He is never moody or misanthropical—on
the contrary, he is the most good-natured
sort of person in the world; but he is very distrait and
very studious. He and old Kinski are the most intimate
friends. He is the old gentleman's prime favourite.
They lodge very near each other, and hardly ever
separate. Kinski, as you know of old, is a man of great
learning; he is a profound student of all the natural
sciences, and, as far as I can learn, has elected himself
a professor on these subjects for the exclusive benefit of
Morton. The latter lives, I believe in a laboratory, and
sometimes, both are seen to disappear into his lodgings, and
are not heard of again for whole days. These freaks, to be
sure, are rare for Kinski, who still keeps up his love of
music and society; but as for Mein Herr Morton, he has
been known not to leave his lair for two months together.
It is said that horrible detonations are sometimes heard
in his apartments, and blue smoke and flames are seen
issuing from the windows. His neighbours take him, I
believe, for a necromancer; but I believe he is only a chemist.
Perhaps he is searching for the philosopher's stone.

In these long seclusions of his he keeps his door inexorably

fastened, and is never to be seen. All visitors
are turned away by his servant, an uncouth barbarian
with red hair and demoniac aspect, whom he brought
from Göttingen, and who has accompanied him on all
his wanderings for the last six years. This worthy
defends the privacy of his master by force of arms if
necessary; but a sight of him is usually enough, and
all intruders go away convinced that Morton must be
the devil, and Gottlob (his servant) his principal imp.

We see him, however, sometimes in society. When
questioned about the rebellion in the American provinces,
which seems creating such excitement even in the heart
of our despotism, he answers confusedly, and hastens to
change the subject. He at least is evidently no rebel,
and I suspect is as indifferent an Englishman as
American. Although we are so old acquaintances he
will never converse with me on political subjects. Upon
other subjects he is fluent enough, but on this, his only
answer is that he knows nothing about them. Is
not this odd for a man whose country is in such a
state? It is weak at least, not to say imbecile.

So much for Mr. Morton, to whom I should not have
devoted so large a portion of this letter, but that I know
he is an old friend of yours, and that you take much
interest in him. So do I; for to say the truth he is
a most entertaining savage.

Adieu, dearest Ida, and remember your promise
next summer.