Chapter II.
Brussels, six p.m.—Such a day. Delicious sea—happy travellers—charming green fields, and that strange look of Ostend, the first foreign place I have ever seen. All red tiles and potsherds, it seemed to me, at a distance. The white quays and yellow houses. Then the trains through the pleasant Belgian country; the odd faces, and that singular custom of the guard coming in so mysteriously at the door, when the train is at full speed. What things I shall have to tell and amuse darling Dora, whose name makes my heart low, only this excitement prevents me thinking of anything dismal. I shall write a book of travels, make a little money, and give it all to her. But this amazing and delicious capital! It is awe-striking—so solid and splendid—and the glorious cathedral! Such wealth, such gorgeousness to be in the world, which we do not dream of even. The trees in the streets, the people sitting out and taking coffee, the splendid carriages, and all with such a grand and noble air of stateliness. I have noted a thousand things to tell Dora when I return. I feel getting stronger every moment, and a quarter of an hour ago read an English paper, without finding the words swimming, and the paper rising up to my eyes. I think I shall go on to-night.
Friday, Cologne.—A long night in the great roomy carriages, and very comfortable. A little curtain to draw over the lamp, and the whole left to myself: so I might have been in my own room, yet did not get to sleep till nearly one o'clock; not so much from noise or novelty, as from my own thoughts, so much was coming back on me. This was the first time I had been away from home, from Dora; and now that I was at a distance, she, and all that she had passed, began to rise before me like pictures. I could see now—like a man walking back to get a good view of a picture—her sweet face in the centre, and what a deal I had gone through to win it for myself! Though she never shall know it, much of what I suffer now is owing to that six years' feverish anxiety. And I saved her from him. For a time I did feel some remorse, yet now I do not. It was all for a good end.
Let me think now, as an entertainment, of the first bright day on which I saw her. Some wealthy people, who lived in tolerable state, had "filled their house," as it is called, and had asked me down. I was reluctant to go. In these days—and not unpleasant days were they—how I lived in the book world, and very pleasant friends I had among them. For as Richard of Bury says, in words that sound like old church bells, "These are the masters that instruct us without rods; if you chide them they do not answer, if you neglect or ill-treat them they bear no malice. They are always cheerful, sweet-tempered, ready to talk and comfort us at any hour of night or day." For them I felt an affection—they seemed to me beautiful, with charming faces, and shall I own it?—some of the prettiest faces of nature when shown to me, appeared to me, much as these pretty faces would look on mere money treasures. Do I not remember how I used to look out at the world, as from a window, and punctually as the clock struck twelve every night, would put away work, fetch out the best novel of the day, light the soothing cigar, and read for two hours? How enjoyable was this time, almost too exquisite! But the whole was about to collapse like a card house.
How curious this dark country looks "roaring by" the window with the glare and flash from a station. The dull "burr" of the train, and the lights from the windows dappling the ground. As I look out I see the small dark figure of the guard creeping along outside. In this situation, in my lonely blue chamber, there is a sort of vacuity for thought, the world is shut out and the pictures of the past pour in . . . .
Was it not a very stately place—a new castle, grand stabling, horses and carriages in profusion, as I was shown into the great drawing-room, and received with welcome by the hostess. The guests were all out, shooting, riding, walking, and—so unfortunate she says—lunch was over. The young ladies were in the garden, where we would go and look for them. Stay; no, here they were coming, and past the mullioned windows, which ran down to the ground, flitted two or three figures, led by a little scarlet cloak. In a second cheerful voices rang out like music; the door opened, and she came tripping in. I did not see the others. I do not know who they were to this moment; but was it not then, my dear foolish Austen, that everything fell in like a house of cards—that the glory passed away from the books and never returned?
Her name was Dora—a pretty and melodious one; she was small, elegantly made, and with dancing eyes, bright sloe black hair, and a look of refinement about her small features I have never seen in any one else. She was full of spirits, and laughter, and delight. I recollect to this moment how I was introduced, with what a coquettish solemnity she went through the ceremony, and how, as I bowed, I felt something whisper to me, "This is an important moment for you, sir . . ."
She was daughter to a great House in the neighbourhood. From that hour she unconsciously entered into my life. She little thought how her airy figure was to hover about my study, and of how many day dreams she was to be the centre. So do the years go by; yet that dull blue cloth before me seems to open and draw away, and show me that gay noonday and that "morning room" at——House as distinctly as if it were yesterday. In my pocket-book I have at this moment a picture of her, done, not by the fanciful touch of memory, but by, perhaps, the less enduring one of the camera. It is hard to see by this light. Yes, there she is, a cloud of white sweeping behind her, flowers in her hand, with a soft inquiring look, half serious, and that seems on the verge of breaking into a smile, and spoiling the operator's whole work. So I saw her then, so I see her now. What if I was never to see her again! But this is too lugubrious! . . . There, the blast again—a flashing and flaring of lamps, a screaming of the whistles, and we rumble into a blaze of light, with buffets and offices lit up, and sleepy passengers waiting. One fellow in a white hat invades my blue chamber—a gross Belgian, with a theatrical portmanteau pushed in before him, and an air as if he were performing some feat of distinction. Away flutters the little figure, and from that moment the charm is broken, clouds of tobacco-smoke begin, wherein, I suppose—fitting back-ground—he sees pictures of his own gross déjeuner à la fourchette, or dinner, at the Trois Frères. A true beast, that presently grunts and snores, lives but for the present hour, and never lifts up his soul in gratitude or humility. There, he has got out, and we have done with him. I know now the secret of this dislike; he reminded me so of Grainger, the only evil genius I ever encountered in my life, and the evil genius that I vanquished. Rather, grace and strength came to me from above, to aid me to vanquish him.
I see the very street in the little town on that gay morning. How well I remember our all rushing to the window of the bank the day the regiment came in—when we heard their music, and I must have seen him—Grainger—walk by, his sword drawn, at the head of his company, and looked at him, perhaps with admiration. I little dreamed what he was to be towards me, later. I thought of their coming with pleasure; it would vary the monotony. I thought of how they would amuse her, perhaps, for whom a country town must be dull indeed. Later, I see soldiers walking about the place, the officers rather fine and contemptuous, for which one could bear them no ill-will, as they had fought and bled for us, and might take little airs.
(A cold blast and rush of air, as the conductor has come in like a spirit, with a lantern, and wants to see tickets.)
Let me look back again, setting my head, now aching a good deal, against these comfortable cushions. It is not likely that I shall sleep under these strange conditions. I like dwelling on little pictures of that time, and it is an easy and pleasant amusement constructing them. I next see one of our country-town little parties, and he making his way—no, not making, he disdained that trouble, he took it. His way he chose fitfully; he selected anything at hazard, called it his way, and others cheerfully bowed and adopted it. There are a few such men in the world, and I have often envied them. Such a manner is worth money and place and estate. See how long one of us takes to carry out a little play, to get to know people, even. We hesitate, make timorous advances, lose days and weeks. He does all in a few minutes. Time, in this short life, is money, and more valuable.
I dare say all this time he heartily disliked me—I am sure he did—and had that instinctive dislike which one man often has to another from the very outset. His eyes seemed to challenge me, and he knew me for an adversary. How could I compete with him, with such advantages on his side? And he had a great one, for in those days, my dear Dora, you were a little, ever so little, of a coquette, and liked to have your amusement, which was very natural indeed.
I have had my trials. My father had speculated and lost a fine estate, which he had also encumbered. We had all then to work and do what we could. I was a gentleman, and, though not a rich one, quite as good as they. But they looked down on me, because we had lost our fortune. Dora's father had bitterly resented what she had done, and all her fortune and estate, too, was left away to a cousin—a drinking, hunting fellow—who was amazed at his good fortune. I never regretted it a moment.
Grainger cast his eyes on her just to fill up his idle time. For me he affected contempt, but from me he was to have a lesson. They wished to force her to marry him, and she was helpless in their hands. But when I heard that scandal about the innkeeper's daughter, where, too, he was lodging, was I not right to hunt it up? Could I have stood by and looked on? And though they said, and he protested, it was false, what of that? Did I not know him to be a man of a certain life? There were other cases as bad. He was not fit to be her husband, and if he did "go to the bad," later, it concerned himself, and merely proved my discernment. Thank God I saved her! and I can now lay my hand on my heart and feel no compunction whatever. . . . . O that happy first year! She changed the whole colour of my life, made me thoughtful, steady, and taught me even to pray, which I did little of before. Angel! She shall teach me much more yet.
Saturday.—Homburg at last. Delightful and most easy journey. I have written my letter to her from this sweet and pastoral place. I write in the daintiest of little rooms, the yellow jalousies drawn close to keep out the sun. Outside the window is a balcony, Venetian-like in its breadth, filled up with a whole garden of flowers, where there is a table, and where one can walk about. It recals an old and lost place in the country, before we were ruined, as they say. Overhead is an awning, and when the sun is less strong, I can go out, and walk up and down, and look into the street. If only Dora were here! No matter; one of these days she shall be, and better times will come; "one colour cannot always be turning up," as the maid said this morning. And here comes the post—a fellow like a soldier, with a very grim moustache, who hands in a letter. It is from her, I could guess at her writing from the very balcony. I run down to take it from the landlady's hands and tear it open. It seems a whole year since I have seen her. Dear characters! sweet writing! I fasten it in here, at this page of my little diary.
"Dearest,—Oh, how I miss and long for you. How I long to learn that you have borne the journey well; not that you are better already, for that I am not so unreasonable as to expect. But soon you will tell me so. Our two little darlings only know that you have gone away. They think it is to the nearest town, and that you will be back to-morrow. Don't fatigue yourself writing, think only of your dear health. Keep out of the dreadful sun, and amuse yourself. I hope this will find you on your arrival.
The underlined words, how delicate, how like her sweet soul! She has a faint notion, but she dares not let it appear, that I am a little better. I shall write this moment—what joyful news for her! . . . There, I have told her all, everything. Four closely written pages, a little swimming of the head, but I could almost work at the ledger this moment. I have told her how I was out betimes this morning, at six o'clock; how I walked up the bright street lined with fairy looking houses, all with their short broad balconies loaded with flowers, past the gay festive pavilions, more than hotels, the Four Seasons, the Victoria, with the cool shady courts and porches, past that turn to the right, down another sweet alley where are more fairy-like houses with balconies, and where the great ones live. The Kisseleff-street they call it, which gives a grand and inspiring Russian association. All this time in front of me, as I ascend, and seemingly far away, yet very close, are the rich, cool, heavily laden Taunus hills, covered with trees and verdure, rising slowly and grandly, and filling up the gap between the houses at the far end of the town. Then I walk on upwards, and see lovers of pleasure in white coats and straw Panama hats, sitting out in front of the hotels and smoking in the shade. Then I pass the great red building, the Kursaal, the Temple of Play, which looks like a king's palace. Then I turn down to the right, past the most inviting villas, all colours and shapes, now a Swiss châlet, now a true Italian house, but overgrown with the most exquisite foliage, the metal of their balconies all embroidered with leaves, behind which you see white dresses, and from behind which comes the clink of breakfast china. Other windows, windows lower down, are thrown wide open, and there the morning meal goes on, even in the gardens; fat men in white coats and no waistcoats, with four double chins at least, are enjoying pipe and coffee. Then the houses stop short, and the dense greenery begins, groves upon groves, forest mounting over forest, walks winding here and winding there. Along the path, honest Homburgers have their little table with an awning, under which is the cool melon, the grape, the delicious honey, and mountain butter, most inviting. If Dora were but on my arm how she would enjoy all this, as, indeed, I must stop in this description to tell her.
Well, I walk on through this greenery, through the most charming alleys, cut in the groves, and, through the trees, see afar the glitter of company, the sheen of curious figures flitting to and fro among the leaves, the glimpse of a Swiss châlet. Such crowds, it seems like a Watteau feast! Down through the avenues float the balmiest breezes, health restoring as I feel when they touch me. Then I emerge on the open space, and see the most animated scene, bright colours, bright dresses, white coats, grey coats, hats white and grey, fluttering veils, pink and cream coloured parasols, flowers, "costumes," of every pattern, actually like the opening scene of the chorus at an opera seen long, long ago. From a pagoda, came strains of rich music with the clash of cymbals, and soft stroke of drum. How new, how delicious all this to me! In the centre was the well deep below, with spacious steps leading down, and girls giving out the water, and crowds pressing forward to receive it. The chinking of glass everywhere. Beyond, again, rows of little shops for jewellery and trifles, charming and most exhilarating scene, as I look on. The animation and gaiety drive away all the sinking and weakness, and I seem to grow strong and hopeful every moment. Down the steps do they troop, the loveliest of women, French, English, and American, as I know by the curious chatter of the voices, and with them lords, and friends, and admirers.