University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The mightiest changes which take place in the human
heart affect but little the outward world, and revolutions
of the affairs of an individual interrupts but
slightly the order of affairs. The societé of Berlin, as
well as a large part of the people, went to Spandow to
behold the mock seige of that fortress. Claude had

determined to take no notice of the late occurrence
which had so materially altered his condition, and not
to shrink from being seen from any false shame. He
determined to see this interesting military festival, and
to mount his horse for the last time before he sold him.
He therefore rode out with the crowd—carriages full
of ladies and gentlemen, royal equipages, and thousands
of equestrians and pedestrians: it was a general
fête. When he reached Spandow, he left his horse at
an inn and ascended the ramparts. The scene was already
beginning to be animated. Large bodies of troops
were disposed for defence upon the walls, and at the
windows of the houses overlooking the ramparts,
amounting to about twenty thousand; as many more
were also disposed before the walls preparatory to the
attack. For a long time crowds of spectators came
thronging into the town. Claude secured a very good
place on the ramparts, surrounded by troops, bombshells,
cannons, etc.

As he stood here, with a group of gentlemen, awaiting
the opening of the attack, a young man of genteel
address, but whom he had never met in society, addressed
him in French.

“This is a very pretty scene, sir. We shall have
a good view as we stand.”

Claude replied politely, and the stranger was pleased
to continue the conversation.

“Do you reside in Berlin?” inquired the young man.

“I am a traveller,” said Claude. “I have been in
Berlin during the winter.”

“I hope you like our metropolis.”

“Very much.”

“Have you been much in society?”

“Yes, a good deal.”

“It is very brilliant, I believe.”

“Very.”

“Pray, were you acquainted with the parties in the
late affair which has made so much noise?”

“What affair?” asked Claude.

“The duel and the poltroonerie of this Mr. Wyndham.”

“Yes, I know the parties.”

“Then, sir, you can perhaps give me some information
upon a subject which is so generally talked of
in all circles. Elkington, they say, castigated Wyndham,
who dared not take up the quarrel, and who had
been caught cheating at cards.”

“I heard no such report,” said Claude, quietly, but
shocked to find how little justice he could expect from
common fame.

“There was a dreadful fracas. Lord Elkington
caught Wyndham with marked cards, and horse whipped
him.”

“No, no,” said another gentleman, standing near,
“it wasn't cheating at cards, but the fellow was impertinent
to a young countess whom Lord Elkington
has come over here to marry, and Elkington challenged
him. He was a great coward, as any one must
be, sir, you know, to offer a rudeness to a lady; and,
finding no other means available, Elkington tweaked
his nose, kicked him down stairs, and afterward horsewhipped
him. Pray, sir, were you there?”

“I was.”

“Did you witness the affair?”

“I did.”

“Then do tell us something about it. They say
this Mr. Wyndham took as sound a drubbing as possible,
without the slightest resistance.”

“Why, what a sneaking rascal!” said the first.
“That Elkington is a fine fellow. He drives a splendid
turn-out. I've often seen him in the Park. He's
a capital fellow, and perfectly the gentleman.”

“He must be,” said the other. “I wish to goodness
I had been there. It must have been very amusing.
Pray tell us exactly how it was.”

“Why, I fear I shall have to spoil your story,” said
Claude, smiling. “But, if you wish, I will state the
circumstances as far as I can gather the truth.”

“Do—pray do. I've been these several days running
about trying to get an authentic statement. I do
like to see these explosions in high life. They're
capital. Do tell us—”

“Lord Elkington,” said Claude, “attacked a gentleman
who was from principle opposed to duelling,
and who had openly and often declared his determination
never to fight—”

“Well, that showed he was a coward at once,” said
the young man.

“To be sure it did,” said the other. “For what
reason could a man have for not fighting a duel but
cowardice?”

“Certainly,” said the other. “He must be a contemptible
rascal.”

“The gentleman had been guilty of no wrong,” continued
Claude, “but that of exposing a very dishonest
trick of Elkington, and the latter gentleman struck
him—”

“Struck him? Well, after that—he had to fight,
then?”

“No, he declined; and, being of a peculiar mode
of thinking on the subject of duelling, he rather preferred
to bear even a blow than to deviate from what
he thought the path of right—”

“Ah, bah!” rejoined the other. “You may depend,
he is an infamous coward. A man who talks about
`principle,' and `virtue,' and `conscience,' and such
trash when he is struck, you may be sure is a sneaking
sort of fellow. What! take a blow? Why that's
what no gentleman would do, sir, under any circumstance,
right or wrong. If any one struck me, I would
shoot him, and never after feel sorrow for it. I would
—I would indeed. I would, sir, upon my honour.
Wouldn't you, Bob?”

“Certainly would I,” said Bob. “A man that
would stand a blow would stand a kick—and a man
that would stand a kick would stand having his nose
tweaked—and a man that would stand having his nose

tweaked must be a blackguard, and can't be a gentleman—for
what but cowardice could keep a man from
fighting when he had been struck and had his nose
tweaked?”

“Ah, there's the question. I agree with you exactly.”

Claude moved a little away. There were a number
of ladies and gentlemen standing around. Some of
them he knew. They bowed to him coolly, and regarded
him with curiosity. Once he heard a lady
whisper to a young companion, “There, that's he!”
and another lady touched her friend's shoulder, and
whispered, “The person that was horsewhipped the
other night by Lord Elkington.”

And several lovely faces were turned towards him
with curiosity and derision.

As he stood, some time after, with his back turned
to a group of young ladies, he heard them talking of
the affair, which he perceived had excited universal
attention.

“Oh, good Lord!” said one, little aware that they
were within hearing of the object of their remarks,
“what a strange person he must be!”

“Oh, Dieu! If I were a gentleman, I would rather
be killed!” said another.

“He will never be able to look any one in the face
again,” added a third.

“I was on the stairs the whole time,” said another.
“Papa had just called us down; and we were stopped
by the crowd, and then I stood and saw it all.”

“Oh, I wish I had seen it; it must have been very
interesting.”

“Oh, yes it was, very, I assure you. Lord Elkington
is so brave. He went up to Mr. Wyndham, and
called him all sorts of names. Why, if he had done so
to me, I couldn't have helped boxing his ears to save
my life. He said he was a rascal—a coward—and all
sorts of things.”

“And what did Mr. Wyndham do then? Didn't he
draw his sword?”

“No, poor man; he was so extremely afraid, he
didn't say a word.”

“Ah, poor fellow!” cried the rest.

And here was a general laugh.

“Well, that is exceedingly funny. Pray go on.”

“Then Mr. Wyndham said he couldn't fight a duel,
and Lord Elkington walked up to him and struck him.
I screamed right out. I thought I should have died
with fright.”

“Well, what then? I wish I had been there. It
must have been so exceedingly interesting.”

“Oh, it was, I assure you. It was as good as a play.”

“Go on—go on.”

“Well, then, after he had struck Mr. Wyndham, and
kicked him about a little, till he was out of breath,
poor Mr. Denham ran up, and called Lord Elkington
a villain, and then Elkington struck him too; and Mr.
Wyndham stood by all the time, and never said a word.”

“The horrid wretch!”

“Then poor Mr. Denham half drew his sword. He
was just going to kill Elkington, and I was just going
to faint, when out jumped little old General Le Beau,
and Mr. Denham went away. And the next morning
he was shot dead.”

“And Mr. Wyndham never did anything about it?”

“Never. Only think how horrid!”

“Didn't shoot him?”

“No.”

“Isn't it ridiculous? What a pity Mr. Wyndham
is such a coward?—he is such a handsome fellow.”

“Oh, I never could endure him.”

“How can you say so, Emily? He is the most beautiful
young man I ever saw; so tall—so noble—oh,
Heaven! what a pity he's such a coward.”

“Dear me,” said the first, “look behind you.”

There was a moment of deep silence, and then they
all tripped away to another place, with a very unsuccessful
attempt to suppress their laughter.

Claude quietly kept his position. Presently a group

of young men came by. He knew them all. Like
everybody else, they were talking of him.

“Well, I say,” said one, “no gentleman, whatever
may be his principles, has a right to go in the face of
society. If he's right, we're wrong. It's as much as
to say we're ruffians.”

“Certainly!” said another.

“I don't think so,” said a third. “I find something
noble in a man's adhering to his principles, whatever
they are. They say any religion is better than none;
and I say any principles are better than none.”

“Ah, bah!” cried a gruff voice, “it's all stuff; the
fellow's a coward, and takes this method to conceal it.
I've no respect for a man who will not fight. He's a
coward—and a blow, too! ah, bah!”

“Oh, don't talk to me of principle. No one can be
a gentleman—”

“Yes, who can stand a blow?” demanded another.

“Sir Walter Raleigh had a fellow spit in his face,
and he did not return it,” said the advocate of Claude,
though rather feebly.

“Very well for Sir Walter Raleigh—” said the other.

“But why, why,” said the voice of Lavalle, who
now spoke up for the first time, “why is that magnanimous
in Sir Walter Raleigh which is the reverse in
Wyndham? I find him a noble fellow. In my opinion—no
offence to any one—he is the bravest man I
ever saw, and a man of high character and superior
genius. I never saw anything so splendidly done as
the manner he took the blow. I saw he did not really
believe that Elkington would go so far after what he
had said. He started aghast—and I thought he would
have torn him limb from limb. Elkington was no
coward, but he quailed himself before Wyndham's eye.
I believe he would have killed him on the first impulse
had he not been held. Talk of that man's being afraid,
indeed! How calmly—how nobly—how beautifully
his mind has quieted, and put down the fiery passions
in his breast. I love that man. He is too noble for

this age. I would rather have his friendship than that
of any one's I ever saw!”

“Well, well, perhaps so; he did look like the devil
when he caught it. I'll do him the justice to say that.”

“You may depend upon it, messieurs, he's a very
fine fellow,” said Lavalle.

“Well, I don't think so,” exclaimed another. “I
think, after all his cant about principle and religion, a
man who takes a blow is — must be a coward. A
blow, you see, gentlemen, is a devilish serious thing.
It's—a—a—d—d serious thing. It's, as one may say,
the devil.”

“So it is,” said another. “I would take anything
but a blow.”

“Or a kick,” cried one.

“Or a tweak by the nose,” said another.

“These are insults which ought to be paid for with
blood.”

“That is the creed among gentlemen,” said another.

“But,” said Lavalle, “these things depend upon
one's character and mode of thinking. Honour is in
the mind, and the disgrace of a blow is conditional.
If one receives it passively because one is afraid to
resent it, then certainly a blow is a disgrace of the last
extremity; but if one receives it, and refuses to seek
the ordinary redress from a pure principle, because he
believes that an intellectual man and a Christian ought
to suffer any outward indignity rather than violate the
law of God, I say that man is a character of the noblest
order; and, just in the proportion in which he
shocks the prejudices of mankind, and exposes himself
to ridicule, misinterpretation, and odium, just in that
proportion his abstaining from the vulgar mode of vengeance
is grand and brave; and, since we are created
in the image of our Maker, it should be our object to
think and act like him.”

There was a silence of a few moments; Claude
had already wished to escape the impropriety of listening,
but he was confined within a narrow compass

by the crowd and the troops, and it was impossible for
him to avoid it.

The conversation was resumed by Thomson, who
said,

“In my opinion, Mr. Wyndham is a good-for-nothing
fellow.”

“Yes, he's a fool,” said a gruff voice; “even if he's
not a coward, he is a fool for putting himself in a position
so awkward and equivocal. I am no coward
neither,” continued the gruff voice. “Egad, I'm not
afraid of either Elkington or the world; but, from mere
motives of policy, I wouldn't draw the eyes of all mankind
on me—as the moral person who was kicked—
as the religious gentleman who was knocked down—
as the man of principle who got his nose tweaked.”

There was here a general laugh.

“Now suppose I were as much of a wag as I chose
to be, and wanted some sport! Why, what would I
do, you see? Why, the first time I saw my moral
gentleman in a coffee house, I'd walk me up to him,
with a `Good-evening to you, sir,' and give him a kick.
I'd then take an ice or two, and, before I took my leave,
what would I do? Why, just walk me up to him
again, and fetch his nose a tweak, with, `Adieu, monsieur,
au revoir!' Well, what's he to do to this? Nothing;
he can't fight—he won't strike. Egad, every
mischievous schoolboy might give him a kicking on
their way to school—every garçon at a restaurant's
might cuff his ears—there's no living with such principles.”

“That's very true,” said Thomson.

“If we were in Heaven—ah!—why, very well; but
we aint.”

“No, certainly not,” said Thomson.

“Nor likely to be—some of us!” said Lavalle.

“No,” said Thomson; and here again there was a
general laugh.

“Well, I'll answer to that,” said Lavalle, “that
the wag who should strike a man wantonly, merely because
he was secure against retaliation, and that man

one who refrained from taking personal vengeance out
of respect to the laws, society, and religion, would be
a scoundrel so despicable, that I, for one, would not
associate with him, nor frequent the company he keeps.
Against such a person the laws would interfere, and
probably he would find himself in a prison before long.
I begin to think with Wyndham, that men who grope
about for ages in darkness, till some superior being
shows the way out of it, only want a few resolute persons
of undoubted courage and honour to set their
faces against duelling, and to surrender to the laws
the charge of punishing personal assaults as well as
all kinds of insults, to render duelling unfashionable
and boxing vulgar. What a world of misery would
then be saved to society—what widows' and orphans'
tears and groans!”

“But society would become a pack of fellows without
chivalry, without honour, and men would spit in
each other's faces with impunity.”

“No. Where, among the leaders of society, and
particularly among women, the duellist was looked
upon as the thief now is, and he who had even dared—
stirred on by his vulgar and blind passions—to desecrate
God's holy image with a blow, would be considered
as base as the destroyer of female innocence, or
the blasphemer of God himself; then, instead of brute
force, mechanical steadiness of hand and practice of
the eye—instead of vile, undiscriminating vengeance
and beastly fury, all the differences of men would be
referred to tribunals, and the inevitable evils which
might be detected in such a state of things would be
only incidental to mortal affairs—”

“But such unresenting men would be trampled on
by some one.”

“No. Who strikes a woman?”

“Ah, but that's different thing—that's disgraceful.”

“But why? Because it is the custom—because she
does not fight.”

“But would you make women of us all?” said the
gruff voice.

“If you must be either women or brutes, yes,” said
Lavalle, quickly.

The booming cannon, which had for some time been
heard at times and in the distance, now approached and
shook the air at shorter intervals, and the besiegers
advancing, directed a heavy fire against the part of the
walls where Claude stood. It was immediately returned;
and cannon, musketry, bombs, and all the
dreadful machinery of war filled the air with fire and
smoke, and caused the earth to tremble. The tumult
and roar became at once so general as to cut short all
conversation.

In the confusion which reigned everywhere, he was
several times in contact with his old acquaintances, of
whom some were affable as usual, but by far the greater
part were cold, and many pretended not to recognise
him in the least. Among them he saw the Carolans.
None of their party perceived him but Ida. Her eyes
met his a moment as he passed. They were full of
gravity and sadness, but he made no attempt to offer
her any token of recognition, but followed the example
she had set, and they parted thus coldly and in silence.
A short time afterward he found himself nearly alone.
The crowd of soldiers had been repulsed by the assailants,
who had gained an entrance in the fort, but had
succeeded in rallying, and were driving them back in
their turn. Claude did not follow them. His heavy
heart took no share in this animated and beautiful spectacle,
which presented a perfect counterpart of a fierce
battle, every spot being crowded with combatants, and
even the very windows and house-tops pouring forth
their sheets of fire and smoke; whose heavy masses,
rolling slowly through the air, rendered the striking
scene only dimly visible here and there. He leaned
against a post which had been lifted at some distance
from the present scene of action, which was nearly
hidden from him by the volumes of smoke; and he was
conscious of the wish, that, instead of a mock battle,
the wild uproar raging around was a real conflict.

“Perhaps, then,” he thought, “some ball might end
a life which seems doomed to humiliation and sorrow,
or at least I should have an opportunity, by mingling
in its dangers, to forget the events that are pressing
me into the dust.”

It was one of those thoughts which sometimes come
across the most sensible mind in a moment of idleness
and despondency. As if for affording him an opportunity
to test its sincerity, a whizzing sound in the air
caught his ear, and, at the same instant, a sharp shock
struck the post within a few feet of his head. On examining
it, with surprise he perceived that a bullet had
lodged in it. Greatly startled at an occurrence which
he concluded to be purely accidental, he sprang back,
without any remnant of the desire which had just been
so inopportunely realized; but that the shot was not
the result of chance was immediately made manifest,
for another ball whizzed by his ear, and struck a large
stone on the bank beside which he was standing. Appalled
with a mysterious horror, he looked in the direction
from which this dark attempt had proceeded.
Through the smoke he could just see a line of houses,
the outskirts of the old town within the walls, from the
upper windows of each of which the troops were pouring
a rapid discharge of musketry, although not in the
direction in which he was standing.