University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Few pleasures are more agreeable than the first
arrival in a foreign city in good health and bright
weather; the change of toilet, the leisurely breakfast
at a comfortable hotel, after the hurry and fatigue
of a journey; and “last, but not least,” the
ramble through the town, amid things strange, fantastic,
and hallowed by historical associations.

After an excellent breakfast and a change of toilet,
which much improved the appearance of our
young traveller, he prepared to sally forth and see

the town. As he intended a considerable stay in
Berlin, he required a servant; and, ignorant of its
localities, he concluded to procure one, if possible,
at once. Accordingly, he made inquiries of the
waiters, and was informed that there was then in
the house a valuable domestic, just by chance out
of place, and who would immediately present himself.
Claude decided to employ him for the day,
and, if he liked him, to keep him. A modest knock
at the door presently announced a young man of
agreeable countenance and altogether prepossessing
appearance. He was well furnished with recommendations
from a host of counts, barons, and ambassadors,
with whom he had lived different periods
of time, and who pronounced him everything that
was honest, zealous, active, and faithful. His manners
were engaging, and even what Mrs. Digby
would have called “genteel.” He was obviously
modest and intelligent, and Claude liked him at a
glance.

“You are a Berlinian?”

“Yes, your excellency!”

“Do you understand English?”

“No, your excellency!”

“You are, of course, well acquainted with the
town?”

“Perfectly, your excellency!”

“I will employ you to-day,” said Claude; “leave
your certificates. I will look them over, and perhaps
I will take you permanently into my service.”

“Monseigneur is very good.”

“Get ready to go out with me: I wish to walk
through the town. If you do not already know the
address of Count Carolan, find it. And—don't call
me `excellency,' or `monseigneur,' but plain monsieur.”

“Pardon, monsieur—milles pardons.”

“Your name?”

“Carl, monseign—monsieur.”

Claude was pleased with the simplicity of this
young man. There was about him an air of artlessness
and good-nature which promised well. Accompanied
by him, he commenced his first ramble
through the town, then peculiarly interesting to
strangers from the brilliant and recently-closed career
of the great military genius who had rendered
the Prussian army formidable to Europe. Claude's
first care was to leave his letter of introduction at
Carolan's. The count resided in an imposing mansion,
which had a palace-like and almost royal appearance.
It was covered with sculpture. The
large court in front was adorned with vases and
statues, of which also a row looked down from the
ridges of the roof. An open archway revealed the
vista of a garden in the rear, extending back indefinitely,
and thickly planted with trees and shrubbery
in the English style. Several serving-men in
livery were lounging by the broad door. It was at
once recognised as the residence of one of those
grands seigneurs who live in the midst of royal
splendour without the grave cares and heavy responsibilities
of a throne.

“And so, then,” thought Claude, as the tout-ensemble
of this princely residence rose upon his eye,
and he caught through the windows indistinct views
of the interior magnificence—angles of large paintings
hung against the walls, snowy statues, golden
ceilings and shutters, and gorgeous curtains—“this
is the home of her whom Madame Wharton describes
as so beautiful and superior.”

“Where will monsieur go next?” said Carl, who
had been standing some time with his hat in his
hand, and who had concluded at length to interrupt
a revery which did not seem likely to have any particular
termination.

“Show me the town,” said Claude. “I wish to
see only its exterior to-day. Whatever there is
most attractive to a stranger.”

Carl led the way through streets celebrated for
their architectural magnificence, the principal objects
of which the guide-books will give more in detail
than it would be possible for us to do. Suffice it
to say, that he was struck with the magnificence of
everything around him. Fountains which threw
their sparkling waters high into the air; ample
squares; level streets; long lines of sculptured facades,
temples, palaces, churches, statues, columns,
porticoes, and bridges, in a stately order, which recalled
the imperial splendours of old Rome, when
Augustus and Vespasian delighted to adorn the
capital. Among the rest, the large royal palace or
Schloss, a vast edifice, imposing from its size and
position, lifted its towering walls against the sky.
Carl pointed out each edifice and object worthy of
remark, and gave the necessary information respecting
them with respectful attention. While they
were thus employed, several elegant equipages,
each drawn by four horses, with outriders and postillions,
and all the pomp of royalty, drove by, their
occupants receiving the universal salutations of
the crowd, and returning them with great affability.
Among others, that of the king, the father of the
present beneficent sovereign, was announced by a
low-toned expression of Carl's, “Monsieur—sa
majesté!” and a yet more reverential salutation.

“Ah, well!” thought Claude, as everything wore
a bright aspect through the atmosphere of an unusually
clear day, “I have got here into a very pretty
town, and I will not leave it till I have laid out
for myself a plan of future conduct. I will no longer
sigh over the sad mystery of the past. I will adopt
some certain and honourable employment; and, if
nothing better presents itself, I will even make my
way into France, and aid that rising people in the
pursuit of national happiness. In the mean time I
am young, in health, my own master, and, at all
events, for the present, independent. Let me improve

my time while I can. Why should I suffer
one secret misfortune to overbalance all these advantages?
He is the true philosopher who enjoys
life while he can, and quaffs the foaming drink before
the sparkle leaves the brim.”

While passing through a street on their way
home, they were interrupted by a group of several
persons around a print-shop window, where a number
of engravings and pretty paintings were the objects
of attention.

“Will monsieur pass in?” said Carl. “There
are often very pretty things here. All the Berlin
societé visit this shop.”

Casting his eyes through the door, he was struck
with some soft landscapes, and, stepping across the
threshold, he became too much interested to retire
without seeing the whole collection. Leaving Carl,
therefore, at the door, he entered; and perceiving—
by the little attention his appearance occasioned, and
the three or four other persons, apparently strangers
like himself, also engaged in their examination
—that it was a kind of public exhibition, he yielded
to the charm which he always found in works of
art. Paintings to him were another, a newer
world, created by the mind of the artist out of the
wide materials of this. There, all is either grand,
or soft, or wonderful. The yearnings which the
mortal has after something above the rude masses
amid which even the fairest things lie half buried,
are there unobscured. He who feels art finds an
enchanted world in a picture gallery. The homeliest
commonplaces there have a beauty not seen
before; it unlocks the secret sweetness of things;
opens their hidden meaning, draws aside the veil,
and makes the narrowest mind behold how beautiful
are even the homely ground and rough rocks—
the every-day trodden shore—the river that, in our
business hours, flows unregarded at our feet—the
rain-washed angles of old houses—the sky—the

clouds—the very air. Claude gazed around him
with these reflections. Suddenly he found himself
by an open door, which led into a smaller apartment
or little cabinet, also filled with pieces, apparently
of a more valuable kind. At the end of this
room, in a conspicuous place, and where the light
fell across it with the best effect, was the portrait
of a young girl, so beautiful, that he paused before
it, and became presently unconscious of everything
else. It equalled, and went beyond his idea of complete
female loveliness. Nothing could be more simple.
A light but modest drapery fell around the
form. There was no ornament about it. He could
not tell whether it was a princess or a cottage maiden.
There was nothing on the canvass but youth,
innocence, happiness, and beauty.

His reveries were interrupted by a sigh. On
turning, he observed at his side a young man who
had before escaped his attention, and who, possibly,
also supposed himself alone. He was about the
middle height, slenderly formed, with a pale, melancholy
face. His hair and brows were black, and he
wore a large mustache. There was nothing remarkable
in his physiognomy except his eyes,
which were dark and large, and uncommonly brilliant.
His hat was worn low over them. His
clothes were old and faded. He was evidently very
poor.

“This is quite pretty!” said Claude, with a desire
to relieve the embarrassment which the stranger
appeared to feel on perceiving that his sigh had
been overheard.

“Yes, monsieur, quite.”

“Can you tell me who it is?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Do you know the artist?”

“Yes, monsieur—no, monsieur.”

“Can it be from nature?” continued Claude.

“No, monsieur,” said the stranger, “I believe it
is a fancy piece.”

“Ah, very probably—and yet—it is a great pity
—for—”

He turned, and with some surprise observed that
his companion had disappeared.

Carl, with his usual bow, now approached, and
reminded him that the dinner-hour was four, and
that it had already arrived. Tired with his long
ramble, for there are few kinds of toil more laborious
than sight-seeing, the calls of appetite began to
counteract the claims of imagination, and he left the
pair of tender eyes to be gazed upon by some less
hungry admirer. As he approached the hotel, all minor
considerations were merged in the more important
one of dinner. The fumes of the fragrant dishes
already drove less substantial enjoyments from
his mind; and it may be recorded of our hero, without
the fear of contradiction (should any curious
reader choose to examine the manuscripts deposited
in “la Bibliothèque du Roi,” from which we have
drawn the materials of this history), that, notwithstanding
his habit of sentimentalizing before palaces,
paintings, &c., which might lower his reputation
with our more practical readers, he did nevertheless
partake, with as little delay as the ordinary
usages of polite life permitted, of a hearty meal,
during the whole period of which he was in a state
of beatitude as lively as when melting before the
art of the cunning painter. It is farther set down,
that a half bottle of “chateau la Rose,” or some
beverage equivalent (for here there is a blot in the
manuscript), which the waiter brought full, and
placed by his napkin at the commencement of the
dinner, was, in the course of an hour, so altered in
its condition, that the said waiter, on carrying it to
the kitchen and turning the same up-side-down,
with the neck slightly resting between his lips,
found nothing there sufficient to repay him for his
trouble.