Part 2

The business of an English dragon at a _table d’hôte_ in a German watering-place, is to occupy a seat on that flank of a lady which is threatened with a masculine invasion. As a further precaution, and a sort of second line of circumvallation, the seat next to the dragon is left unoccupied, because they expect a friend at dinner, who is always invited, but who never comes, and for whom no landlord dares to make a charge, be the table ever so crowded. Thus guarded and fortified, a young Englishwoman of family may defy siege or assault from any quarter; in a watering-place, however, it is best not to feel too secure, and to rely not altogether either on the beasts I have just named, or those which are conspicuously displayed on escutcheons.

While upon this chapter, I may as well allude to the fact, that there is no “match-making” at a German watering-place; and that gentlemen, from the extreme freedom of manners which is tolerated, are not expected to pay the debts of their gallantry. A gentleman, having danced or conversed with a lady, or been introduced to her in every form used in society, does not yet acquire a right to call on her; and having even been invited in the place, has not yet received the privilege of making his bow in town. So, then, society is left to its own good sense, and with no other but individual responsibilities. There is no shrewd distinction between elder sons and Tartars;[2] no forced attention to heiresses, and consequently, no arrogant neglect of “poor beauties.” Grace and loveliness enchant by their own charms, and wealth is courted only at the end of the season.

Such is a German watering-place for three months in the year—from the 1st of July to the end of September, though the latter part of that month the place begins to thin; and in the winter these places are nothing but pretty villages, with fine white houses and spacious hotels. A few calculating Englishmen, however, have discovered that living there all the year round would enable them to practice such economy that they might, in the season, cut a very great dash without spending much money in the aggregate. Accordingly, some twenty or thirty families—swallows whose pinions are clipped, and will not admit of yearly migrations—have made their nests there for the winter; and the most forlorn-looking creatures they are, if you get a chance to see them. The men affect to indulge in the chase, and the dowager ladies in a quiet rubber of whist, whilst the young women divide their time between novels and embroidery. No nightingale longs for the return of the seasons as they do; they become true lovers of nature, and prefer the cool evenings of summer to all the gayeties of the carnival.

But I have not yet enumerated all the advantages of German watering-places, and particularly of Baden-Baden. Not only are the drives about the town very handsome, but also those within a circumference of from ten to twenty miles. You may take a drive to the old and the new castle (a new castle in Germany is one which dates from the 16th century) to the Mercury—a sort of watch-tower perched on the summit of the highest mountain in the panorama which surrounds you—to Gernsbach, a delightful village, situated in a romantic valley, through whose apparently quiet bosom a mountain-torrent is rushing, like a wild passion, toward the father of the German streams, old Helvetian Rhine—or to the old chapel—or, if you are fond of wild scenery, to the craggy cliffs of the Black Forest. All these roads are built at an enormous expense, and with great skill through narrow defiles, over precipices, real and artificial, and in a serpentine manner so as to command a variety of views. The roads are as level as the floor of your parlor; a much more direct footpath, resembling the neatest gravel-walk in your garden, conducts pedestrians to the same places.

Wherever you find a beautiful spot, with a commanding sight, there you will find a bench and one or more oak chairs, where you may rest yourself and enjoy the landscape at your ease. Even on the road for carriages a space is left for turning or halting wherever a commanding view presents itself to the eye. In this careful treasuring up of the wealth of nature, the Germans have no equal in Europe. Theirs are the quiet enjoyment of contemplativeness—the dreams, called forth by an ardent love of the great fountains of inspiration. But who is there deriving happiness from bare realities, without reminiscences of the past, or hopes of the future?

The old castle is a ruin of very ancient date, but several rooms in it have been refitted, of course in the style of the middle ages, with huge massive oak tables and chairs, arched windows, with painted glass, and armorial _frescos_. The old dungeon has been, very properly, transformed into a wine-cellar, the only prisoners being huge casks of hock, and a corresponding number of long-necked bottles. On a writ of _habeas corpus_, any of these will be brought before you, and you may drink the health of the present Grand Duke—a poor devil of a fellow, whose place ought to have been occupied by _Caspar Hauser_—or the memory of his worthy ancestors, in the finest room that is left in their old residence. You will also find an excellent restaurant, and a _cafetier_, who, in the midst of the remnants of past ages, will present you with a _carte_, the very copy of which you may have seen at Mavart’s, or at the _Café Anglais_. After dinner you may climb up the old tower, and from the dilapidated loop-holes of the fourteenth century, contemplate the improvements of the nineteenth, as the cars from _Carlsruhe_ rattle over the rails.

There is, indeed, a peculiar pleasure in thus scanning, with a single glance, the vestiges of five successive centuries; to view the past and the present, and to lose oneself in the contemplation of the future. You can almost realize immortality in beholding the works of twenty generations, and the undying spirit that produced them, without having lost one atom of its pristine energy or vigor. The world spirit is ever young, though one generation after another dies in its embrace, each cherishing its own fond hope of everlasting life. The contemplation of the future steels men’s nerves to patient enterprise and heroic valor; but the retrospective is the true element of poetry. The future, from our limited perception, is necessarily shapeless; but the past, aided by distance, stands out in bold relief, and the colossal figures of history animate the scene. They stand on pedestals, animating or warning examples in all times to come. There is a peculiar species of romanticism connected with the remnants of the middle ages. They are nearer to us than the classical ruins of antiquity, and from their immediate connection create stronger sympathies. The spiritualism of the middle ages contrasts advantageously with the materialism of the Greeks and Romans, and has a stronger and more direct hold on our imagination. The ruins of Rome, Athens, and Carthage, lead to a train of reflections which leave you comparatively cold; while the turreted castle and time-defying walls of our own immediate ancestors strike us like reminiscences of our own childhood.

Descending the castled mountain, and taking the road toward the Hunter’s Lodge, the scenery becomes more and more wild; the habitations of men disappear, and pursuing your route some few hours, you find yourself at once transplanted to the most picturesque scenes of the Alleghanies. You are now in the Black Forest, one of the few spots in Europe where you behold primitive oaks, as yet undesecrated by the woodman’s axe, and land which has never been tilled by the ploughman. Here is a little miniature painting, beautifully set in diamond spires and emerald hills on the one side, and the pearly Rhine on the other. Some there are who think the setting more valuable than the picture; but diplomacy has a different opinion on the subject, and has always valued the Black Forest as one of the most important strategical positions of Germany.

There is no sea-bathing in Europe equal in natural grandeur to either Cape May, or Long Branch. The most frequented watering-place of that sort, on the Continent, is Ostende; but the Belgians are the most unpoetical, unamiable people of Europe. With more historic lore than almost any other modern people, their minds are as flat as their soil,[3] and their manners as unsociable as the Spanish hangman, _Alba_, could have made them. Their religion is petrified, their literature stale, and there is nothing of the ideal in them. It is in the bogs of Flanders where the home-sick Swiss mountaineer is most tempted to commit suicide. Ostende, independent of the beach, which does not compare to our own sea-shore, is extremely dreary. Nothing but sand, sand-hills, and morasses, surround it. It is true, these morasses have been cultivated by the extreme patience and industry of the Flemish peasant, but there is a monotony in their fields and parks, and even in their gardens, which can drive you mad. Every thing answers a useful purpose, but to the imagination it is a dreary waste.

Ostende, during the summer season, is nevertheless a picture of Europe in miniature. You can reach it from England in eight hours, from Brussels in six, from Paris in sixteen, from the Rhine (Cologne) in fifteen. Brighton, on the opposite side of the Channel, is nevertheless a paradise to it, if any thing can be called a paradise where, instead of the primitive manners of the first couple, you meet with the exclusive dampness of English society. But nature has blessed that little Island of Great Britain—the Japan of the European sea—with so many gifts, that the strange organization of its society appears to be less the offspring of that peculiar irony which runs through history, than a means of tempering “the envy of less happier lands,” and making them comparatively content with their fate. Every Continental watering-place is crowded with Englishmen, who come there to enjoy social freedom; those of England are nothing but epitomes of the concentric circles which mark the monotonous orbits of the different classes of English society. The elements do not mingle, form no harmonious groups, and have nothing cheering either for the imagination or the heart.

There is great danger that the society of our own watering-places is gradually copying the model, without having the same uniform, and on that account more endurable standard of division. The different coteries of a large city—the necessary consequence of the difference of refinement and education—need not necessarily conflict with each other; but they are intolerable in a small place, where the distinctions are constantly before your eyes, can hardly be kept up without rudeness. Fancy half a dozen coteries dining at the same table, meeting at least three times a day, and then spending the evening together in the same parlor. It must be a perfect little purgatory, from whose pains there is no respite, except by diving in the broad Atlantic.

[1] I purposely avoid the English dandyism “rail_way_.”

[2] Younger sons without fortune.—_Remark of the Editors._

[3] I, of course, except the people of Liege and the Ardennes, who are descended from the Gauls, and are only politically united with Flanders and Brabant.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR.

A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY LEONARD MYERS.

(_Concluded from page 167._)

I arrived at Montpellier, and was well received by my uncle, who informed me that he had obtained for me an honorable situation. A rich Englishman, very old, nervous and gouty, was desirous of having a doctor constantly beneath his roof, an intelligent young man, who might attend to his disease under the direction of another physician. I had been proposed and accepted. We immediately repaired to the residence of Lord James Kysington. We entered a large and handsome mansion, filled with servants, and having passed through a suite of rooms we were ushered into the cabinet of Lord James Kysington.

Lord Kysington was seated in a large arm-chair. He was a very old man, with a chilling and austere countenance. His hair, which was completely white, contrasted singularly with eye-brows that were still of the deepest black. He was tall and thin, at least as well as I could distinguish through the folds of a large linen surtout, fashioned like a dressing-gown. His hands were hidden in the sleeves, and a white bear’s fur covered his ailing feet. A table stood near him on which were placed several vials containing potions.

My uncle introduced me. “My lord, this is my nephew, Doctor Barnabé,” he said.

Lord Kysington bowed, that is to say, he made an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, as he looked at me.

“He is well instructed,” my uncle resumed, “and I doubt not will prove useful to your lordship.”

A second motion of the head was the only answer my uncle obtained.

“Besides,” added the latter, “having received a good education, he can read to your lordship, or write when you wish to dictate.”

“I shall be obliged to him for it,” Lord Kysington at last replied, and he instantly closed his eyes, either because he was fatigued or that he wished the conversation to cease there; and my uncle took his departure.

I now had time to look about me. Near the window sat a young woman, very elegantly dressed, who was working at a piece of embroidery without at all raising her eyes toward us, as though we were not worthy of her notice. On the carpet at her feet a little boy was playing with toys. At first the young woman did not appear to me pretty, because she had black hair and black eyes, and to be handsome, in my estimation, was to be fair, like Eva Meredith; and then, in my inexperienced judgment, I always associated beauty with a certain air of gentleness. That which I found pleasant to look upon was what I supposed to be a goodness of heart—and it was long before I could confess to myself the beauty of this female, whose bearing was so proud, and whose look so disdainful.

She was, like Lord Kysington, tall, thin, and somewhat pale, and there seemed to exist between them a family resemblance. Their dispositions were too much alike for them to agree well, and they lived together scarcely exchanging a word, certainly not loving each other. The child, too, had been taught to make as little noise as possible; he stepped on tiptoe, and at the least creaking of the floor a harsh look from his mother or Lord Kysington would change him into a statue.

It was too late now to return to my village, but there is always time to regret that which we have loved and lost, and my heart beat faster when I thought of my humble home, my native valley, and liberty.

The following was all I could learn relative to the family I was in.

Lord Kysington had come to Montpellier for the restoration of his health, which had been injured by the climate of the Indies. The second son of the Duke of Kysington, himself only lord by courtesy, he owed to his own talents, and not to birth, his fortune and political position in the House of Commons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youngest brother, and Lord Kysington had chosen her son, his nephew, for his heir. I now began to attend to this old man as zealously as I could, fully persuaded that the most likely method of bettering a bad position was to fulfill even a painful duty.

Lord Kysington always behaved to me with the strictest politeness. A nod would thank me for every care, for every action that relieved him. One day when he appeared to be asleep, and Lady Mary was busy with her work, little Harry climbed on my knees, and finding that we were in a distant corner of the room, he asked me some questions with the artless curiosity of his age, and I, in return, hardly aware of what I was saying, interrogated him as to his relations.

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

“I have a very pretty little sister.”

“And what is her name?”

“Oh, she has a charming name, guess it, doctor.”

I know not what I was thinking of. In my own village I had only heard the names of peasants, and they would not have been fit for the daughter of Lady Mary. Madame Meredith was the only well-bred lady I knew, and as the child kept repeating, guess, guess, I answered at random,

“Eva, perhaps.”

We were speaking in a very low tone, but the instant the name of Eva had passed my lips, Lord Kysington suddenly opened his eyes and sat upright in his chair, Lady Mary dropped her work and turned quickly toward me. I was stupefied at the effect I had produced, and gazed at them alternately, without daring to speak another word—some moments elapsed—Lord Kysington fell back in his arm-chair and closed his eyes again, Lady Mary resumed her work, and Harry and myself spoke no more.

For a long time I sat reflecting on this singular incident; afterward, all things having sunk into their usual calm, and silence reigning around me, I rose gently, and was about to leave the room. Lady Mary laid aside her embroidery, passed out before me, and motioned with her hand for me to follow her. As soon as we reached the parlor, she shut the door, and standing before me, her head erect, and her whole countenance wearing the imperious air which was the most natural expression of her features. “Dr. Barnabé,” said she, “will you be so kind as never again to pronounce the name you just now uttered; it is one that Lord Kysington should not hear;” and with a slight inclination she returned to the cabinet and shut the door.

A thousand ideas beset me; this Eva, whose name it was forbidden to mention, was she not Eva Meredith? Was she, then, the daughter-in-law of Lord Kysington? And was I living with the father of William? I hoped, yet doubted, for, in a word, although this name of Eva designated but one person to me, to others it might only be a name, perhaps, common in England.

I did not dare to question, but the thought that I was in the family of Eva Meredith, near the woman who was robbing the mother and orphan of their paternal inheritance, engrossed my mind constantly, both day and night. Often in fancy did I picture the return of Eva and her son to this dwelling, and saw myself asking and obtaining forgiveness for them; but when I raised my eyes, the cold, impassible face of Lord Kysington froze all the hopes of my heart I began to examine that face as if I had never seen it; I endeavored to find in those features some motions, some traces, which might disclose a little feeling. I sought for the soul I wished to move; alas! I found it not. But, thought I, what signifies the expression of the countenance, it is but the exterior cover which is seen with the eye—the meanest chest may be filled with gold! All that is within us cannot be guessed at first sight; and whoever has lived, has also learned to separate his soul and his thoughts from the common expression of his features.

I resolved to clear up my doubts—but what method was I to take? To interrogate Lady Mary, or Lord Kysington, was out of the question. To ask the domestics?—they were French, and but newly engaged. An English valet-de-chambre, the only servant who had accompanied his master, had just been sent to London on a confidential mission. It was to Lord Kysington that I must direct my inquiries. From him would I learn all—from him obtain pardon for Eva. The severe expression of his face had ceased to terrify me. I said to myself, “when in the forest we find a tree to all appearance dead, we make an incision in it to ascertain whether the sap does not still flow beneath the dead bark; so will I test his heart, and try if some feeling be not still within it.” I waited for an opportunity. To await patiently will not bring to pass that which we look for; instead of depending entirely on circumstances, we should avail ourselves of them as they occur.

One night Lord Kysington sent for me; he was in pain. After giving him the attentions requisite, I remained by him to watch the result of my prescriptions. The chamber was gloomy. A wax light shone dimly on the objects in the room; the pale and noble form of Lord Kysington was reclining on his pillow. His eyes were closed; it was his custom, when about to suffer, to collect his moral courage; he never complained, but lay stretched on his couch, straight and motionless as the effigy of a king on his tomb. He usually asked me to read to him, perhaps because the thoughts of the book would occupy his mind, or the monotony of a voice might put him to sleep.

That evening he made a sign to me with his bony hand to take a book and read to him; but I looked for one in vain, for the books and papers had been taken down into the parlor, and all the doors leading to it were fastened, so that I could not obtain one without ringing for it and disturbing the family. Lord Kysington made a gesture of impatience, but he resigned himself, and pointed to a chair for me to take a seat near him. We sat thus for a long while without speaking, almost in darkness, the clock alone breaking the silence with the regular ticking of its pendulum. But sleep came not. Of a sudden Lord Kysington unclosed his eyes, and turning to me, said,

“Speak to me; relate something, I care not what.”

He shut his eyes again, and lay waiting.

My heart beat violently—the time was come.

“My lord,” I said, “I fear I know of nothing that would interest your lordship. I can only speak of myself and the events of my life; and you would wish to hear the history of some great man, or some great event, that might claim your attention. What can a peasant have to descant upon, who has lived content with little, in obscurity and repose? I have scarcely ever been absent from my native village. It is a pretty hamlet in the mountains. Not far off there is a country residence, where I have seen those who were rich, and might have left, and who, nevertheless, stayed there because the woods are thick, the paths covered with flowers, the rivulets clear and dashing over the rocks. Alas! there were two in that house—and soon but one poor, solitary woman remained until the birth of her child. My Lord, this lady spoke the same language as yourself. She was beautiful, as seldom may be seen in England or France; good, as only the angels in heaven can be. She was but eighteen years of age when I left her, fatherless, motherless, and already bereaved of an adored husband; she is weak, delicate, almost sickly, and yet she has need to live—who else will protect her little child?