The Countess Ida a tale of Berlin |
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| 4. | CHAPTER IV. |
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 | CHAPTER IV. The Countess Ida |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The conversation of a stagecoach is apt to run
on at length into a more confidential character than
would be the case under other circumstances. Our
travellers beguiled their time agreeably enough till
the hour of dinner. The loquacity of Mrs. Digby,
which might have been tiresome, if not offensive
elsewhere, was here an efficient protection against
ennui, and a prolific source of amusement. Claude
found in these two people an ignorance of things
most generally known, which surprised as much as
it amused him. It was on the part, at least, of the
lady, accompanied with the boldness which is so
often its companion. It is only the intelligent who
learn to doubt, and have the modesty to avoid
coming to conclusions except on good grounds.
Mr. Digby continued throughout the day dull and
stupid, and Mary silent and blushing. Claude's
good-natured endeavours to draw her into conversation
elicited nothing more than a change of colour
and monosyllabic replies, till at length he gave up
the undertaking as impossible. Mrs. Digby, on the
contrary, rattled on in edifying carelessness, stumbling
every ten minutes into an outrageous error,
which, even when by chance she discovered it, did
not embarrass her or make her more cautious for
the future. She seemed indifferent to every consideration
but that of a grand plan of pushing herself
into a circle of society abroad, higher than she
had been able to get into at home. Both Madame
Wharton and Claude were puzzled to comprehend
how so much wealth, and the relationship, to which
she several times alluded, to the lately deceased
Lord Clew, could be reconciled with so little education,
and such a singular ignorance of the forms of
avoid being entertained by their mistakes. Travelling
through a country, with the language and customs
of which they were totally unacquainted, and
full of the prejudices which many English, even of
a superior condition, bring with them abroad, they
were always in trouble. Mr. Digby, who had
scraped together a few words of French, found it
impossible, as he said, to make those fools understand
him; and, at every new object which met
their eye, and of which they did not understand the
use, they were clamorous in their expression of
their surprise or indignation. On many occasions
Claude obligingly acted as their interpreter, the
more readily as the modest Mary looked her gratitude
in a very obvious manner, although she had
not yet found courage to put it in words. On stopping
for dinner, towards the close of that meal Digby
begged Claude to call for some beer, and the attention
of the strangers in the room was attracted by
his exclamation of, “Ho la, what the devil's the
fool at now?” called forth by the appearance of the
Prussian beerglass, which, without being greater in
circumference than a common tumbler, is about two
feet in height, for the purpose of affording room for
the superabundant foam of that pleasant beverage.
On tasting the beer, which is of the lightest kind,
more resembling ginger-pop than the solid drinks
which pass by the same name in London, he spit
it out with disgust, protesting that the idiots had
given him poison. He then insisted upon Claude's
calling for some “strong ale.” The waiter shook his
head in profound ignorance, though not without a
broad grin, and Digby swore he was more than ever
convinced that the “people of the Continent were
only half civilized.” In the midst of his expressions
of disappointment, the inevitable “Allons, messieurs,
en route!” called them to resume their journey before
he had half finished his dinner. Although he
of the money of the country, he was obliged to pay
more than any of his fellow-passengers, and he kept
the diligence waiting till the conducteur addressed
him with a loud protestation and an inflamed countenance.
Reseated in the carriage, he commenced
a tirade against Germany and the Germans, their
towns, inns, beds, manners, and customs, among
which their beer was not forgotten. Mrs. Digby,
at length, after telling John to hold his tongue, and
that he was an “awful fool,” appropriated Madame
Wharton to herself, and talked down that lady's few
polite efforts to keep up a conversation with an untiring
energy, which might have been annoying, had
not the good dame's loquacity been seasoned with
so much food for mirth. It was not long before,
warmed by exertion, she began to give an account
of her past life and future plans, which let her auditors
a little into the mystery which had so perplexed
them.
“I assure you, mem,” she continued, “our history
is very interesting, and, for want of better
amusement in a stagecoach, I'll tell it you. You
see, mem, Mr. D., though no one would think so to
look at him, poor man—”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Digby.
“You see, mem, Mr. D., as I have, I believe, told
you before, is a relation of the late Lord Clew. I
suppose you have heard of Lord Clew, mem?”
“No, I do not think I remember him.”
“Well, mem, by that means, a few years ago,
we came into possession of about £100,000.”
“A pretty affair!” said Claude.
“Wasn't it, sir! I assure you, however, as far as
want goes, I never did; for we were in an excellent
business—which is neither here nor there, mem.
We didn't even know that Mr. D. was related to
my Lord Clew, any more than the child unborn;
when, one day, as we were sitting down to dinner—
you, John?”
“To be sure I do!”
“A good dinner of mutton and turnips, with mint
sauce.”
“And a hearty tankard of foaming ale,” interrupted
Digby.
“Rap, rap, rap, rap, goes the knocker,” said Mrs.
Digby. “A little old gentleman was let in and taken
into the back parlour, wanting to see Mr. D.
He was a gray-haired, hard-looking old gentleman,
of about three or four-and-fifty or so—says he, `I
want to see Mr. Digby—Mr. John Digby!' `That's
your man,' says I. Now anybody else might have
been afraid that he was a sheriff's officer, or something
of that sort, but not so I; for, as I told you,
we were in good circumstances, and I didn't care
the tip of my finger for any sheriff's officer of them
all. `I want to see Mr. John Digby,' says he.
`That's your man,' says I. `My name is Abraham
Hand,' says he. `Is it, sir?' says I. `Then
maybe you'll take a seat?' says I. `Mr. Digby's
father's name was Samuel?' says he. `It was so,'
says I. `And he came from Birmingham?' says
he. `That's as true as if you'd read it out of a
book,' says I. `And you, I take it, are Mrs. Digby,'
says he. `At your service,' says I. `Well—”'
“And this was Lord Clew?” said Madame Wharton,
when her companion paused a moment to take
breath.
“I beg your pardon, mem,” continued Mrs. Digby,
with some dignity. “I beg your pardon; it
was not my Lord Clew, by no manner of means—
for he was dead and buried, poor man—but it was
one of the most curious characters in the known
world. It was a person who, although no lawyer,
has spent his life in courts of justice and such places,
and who keeps one eye on all the great families
in the kingdom, and the other on all the wills—
of everybody's fortune, they say, better than they
do themselves; and where it came from, and where
it is to go, particularly everything that has been tergiversated
in courts of justice—or chancery I think
they call it, mem.”
“This is singular,” said Madame Wharton.
“I think I have heard of some such person,” said
Claude.
“Very probably, sir. Now you'll observe, mem,
in such a stupendious place as London, there are
some people who don't know their own rights, or
who they really are; and I'm told this individual not
only often has the pleasure of being the first to inform
people that they have fallen heirs to large estates,
but that, in the course of his explorations amid
old wills and other parchments, he frequently lights
upon property bequeathed or reverted to people who
neither court, nor jury, nor chancellor, nor anybody
else knows the least thing about, and whether
they are alive or dead, or in the country or in foreign
parts, mem.”
“This is really remarkable,” said Madame Wharton.
“Isn't it, mem? It turned out that Mr. Digby,
poor creature, was a distant relation of Lord Clew's,
without any one's knowing anything about it. My
lord himself knew there was such a relation living,
but had never taken the pains to ferret him out, and
died suddenly without a will. I'm afraid I don't
give a very clear account of it, but it all fell out
right, and we left it entirely to our solicitor, who
soon found matters to be just as Mr. Hand had said.
Mr. D. gave Mr. Hand £1000 like a great fool,
when, as I told him at the time, £100 would have
done just as well; but we received our £100,000,
and a very agreeable thing it was, I can assure you,
mem.”
“Your story is like one of the Arabian Nights,”
said Claude.
“Night or day, sir, so it was; and we were much
obliged to Mr. Hand, who has been a great friend
to us ever since, and is, in fact, even now a sort of
agent of ours; for he knows more about law and
such things, I believe, than all the lawyers put together.
Now, mem, my passion is society. Mr.
D. isn't fond of it, but I am never easy unless I'm
in the bong-tong. This is one of my objects in
coming to Berlin; and, if you can make us acquainted
with a few genteel families—the Carolans, and
such kind of persons—in case of your coming to
London, I'll promise to return the compliment. I
have been told that we should enjoy more facilities
in the society abroad than at home. I don't know
how it is, but the London society is very difficult.
They're a proud set, and go in clusters like swarms
of bees. We never could git acquainted with our
own countrymen, even when they lived next door to
us. We have brot letters to Mounseer Godeau—
you know them, doubtless. They are very high
people in Berlin, I'm told, mem, and will introduce
us also everywhere into the ho-tong. Pray, how
do they stand there, mem?”
This long harangue being at length brought to a
conclusion, she paused a moment, partly for breath,
and partly for an answer to one of the various questions
contained in it; but, by a slight sound from
Madame Wharton, she perceived that that lady had
fallen asleep.
The second night in a diligence is generally more
easily got through with than the first. Fatigue of
body and mind produces an inevitable disposition
to sleep, and one becomes so accustomed to the
usual incidents and interruptions that they no longer
form any obstacle to repose. At length Mrs.
Digby's everlasting tongue stopped, and all sank to
sleep. The night rolled away, and the travellers
respective dreams. Those of Mrs. Digby were of
sweeping trains, nodding feathers, and long robes of
satin and velvet, with a magnificent young lord at
the feet of the ever-blushing Mary. The fancy of
Mr. Digby reverted back to less prosperous, but,
alas! more happy days, before fortune had elevated
him to the troublesome necessity of being “genteel.”
Claude, so much had they talked of the celebrated
town they were approaching, glided in imagination
through its streets, with temples, columns, and domes
everywhere around him; while Madame Wharton
herself was once more young and lovely—the admired
and observed of all—treading through scenes
which Time, that ruthless and ever-busy robber,
had long borne with him into his own dark realm
of the past. What had recalled to her those longforgotten
times? What had awakened in her imagination
the images of a reality which she had ever
wished to turn away from, or to regard as empty
dreams? By some strange and subtle association,
the phantoms of vanished years had started up once
more around her, and encircled her with the happy
and long-faded hours of youth, and hope, and joy.
At length the morning broke, and the idea of being
so near their journey's end aroused the sleepers
at an early hour. Claude turned his eyes towards
the dim, indistinct scenes flying past the carriage
window, and, letting down the glass, admitted the
cool, refreshing air. He began already to experience
that pleasing sensation with which one enters,
for the first time, a great foreign city. His mind
was stored with historical associations of the great
men who had lived and who still live there. The
approach to the capital, after his long travel over
the desert and apparently endless plains in which
northern Germany inclines towards the Baltic,
seemed like nearing land after a sea-voyage. Traces
of a neighbouring population began already to
gardens, thicker and more regular avenues of
trees, higher walls, and various other tokens, not
only of the proximity of a large town, but of royalty
itself. As the Schnellpost entered the little village
of Charlottenburg, these indications grew more
numerous and striking, till the chateau and its beautiful
grounds broke upon his eyes, looking in that
early light like a scene of enchantment.
“This is very pretty and striking!” said Claude.
“The chateau is, of course, a royal residence?”
“It was built by his late majesty,” said Madame
Wharton.
“What late majesty, mem?” demanded Mr.
Digby.
“Frederic the Great!”
“Dear me, how new it looks,” said Mrs. Digby.
“New?”
“Certainly, mem. I did not know that any
houses built by Frederic the Great could yet have
as new an appearance as that.”
“And why not?”
“Why, I thought he lived a long time ago—in
the time of Brutus, and those fellows!”
The carriage now entered the Thiergarten, or
Berlin's Park, a beautiful and thick wood about
three miles in circumference, lying immediately
outside the city walls and the principal gate. The
pretty river Spree, a branch of the majestic Elbe,
after meandering through the city, comes bending
into the Thiergarten, bearing its cool breezes in
summer into the sylvan recesses of the wood, and
then stealing in to bathe the terraces of the Charlottenburg
chateau. From this river, by the taste
and care of royalty, streams are led in many devious
ways through the grounds, winding by and beneath
what the stranger thinks the prettiest banks
and bridges he ever saw. Carriage roads, lanes for
equestrians, and footpaths lead the eye and tempt
the great road, as straight as an arrow, runs directly
through the forest to the Brandenburg gate, one of
the chief architectural ornaments of the city, and,
perhaps, the most magnificent portal in Europe.
Our travellers at length approached the walls, and
caught the scenic view through the tall columns of
this gate. The rising sun sent its beams through
the forest arcades (which, even at this season, from
the brightness and clearness of the day and the
number of evergreen trees, preserved something of
the effects of summer), and tipped with gold the
colossal bronze figure of Victory and her four horses
on the top, which has since witnessed such remarkable
changes, and even acted its part in the vicissitudes
of this interesting country. The city population
were now fairly forth in moving crowds. Peasants,
labourers, milkwomen with their little dogcarts,
soldiers, officers, sentinels, and droskies appeared
on every side. Suddenly a band of martial
music burst upon them, and a large company of infantry
were marched out of the gate; while a troop
of cavalry, their helmets, swords, and cuirassiers
glittering in the sun, dashed rapidly off in another
direction. This great military government, ever
destined to support a brilliant army, was now animated
by the prospect of a war with France; a war
whose interminable duration and eventful consequences,
how few of all then living could foresee!
The carriage, in passing the gate, entered a large
square, through which double rows of trees seemed
to continue the wood into the bosom of the town.
While the custom-house officers were examining
the passports, Madame Wharton informed them that
the street they were entering was called the “Linden,”
and pointed out the residences of several distinguished
people. They had time, however, for
few observations. The diligence almost immediately
dashed on once more, and, after a considerable
views caught of it, the vistas of long streets, and
glimpses of churches, statues, bridges, and columns,
seemed a city of palaces and temples—they reached
the poste.
It was Claude's intention to attend Madame
Wharton home in a public coach; but, as he was
about making the offer, she saw Count Carolan's
carriage waiting for her, and a chasseur, in rich livery,
advanced to take charge of her. They therefore
bade each other adieu, and with a warmth
which showed to both the mutual sentiments of esteem
and friendship which had arisen between
them.
“Remember,” said Madame Wharton, “you have
already half chosen me for your Mentor; and really,
in the scenes through which you are about to pass,
you may find such a companion, although sometimes
troublesome perhaps, not altogether useless.”
Claude promised to take the earliest occasion to
see her; and then, at their earnest request, accompanied
the Digbys to the Hôtel du Roi de Prusse.
| CHAPTER IV. The Countess Ida | |