Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

The dog-days in a Continental city are, every one knows, stupid and tiresome enough. Every one has taken his departure either to his château, if he has one, or to the watering-places; the theatre has no attraction, even if the heat permitted one to visit it; the streets are empty, parched, and grass-grown; and except the arrival and departure of that incessant locomotive, John Bull, there is no bustle or stir anywhere. Hapless, indeed, is the condition then of the man who is condemned from any accident to toil through this dreary season; to wander about in solitude the places he has seen filled by pleasant company; to behold the park and promenades given up to Flemish bonnes or Norman nurses, where he was wont to glad his eye with the sight of bright eyes and trim shapes, flitting past in all the tasty elegance of Parisian toilette; to see the lazy frotteur sleeping away his hours at the porte cochere, which a month before thundered with the deep roll of equipage coming and going. All this is very sad, and disposes one to be dull and discontented too.

For what reason I was detained at Brussels it is unnecessary to inquire. Some delay in remittances, if I remember aright, had its share in the cause. Who ever travelled without having cursed his banker or his agent or his uncle or his guardian, or somebody, in short, who had a deal of money belonging to him in his hands, and would not send it forward? In all my long experience of travelling and travellers, I don’t remember meeting with one person, who, if it were not for such mischances, would not have been amply supplied with cash. Some with a knowing wink throw the blame on the ‘Governor’; others, more openly indignant, confound Coutts and Drummond; a stray Irishman will now and then damn the ‘tenantry that haven’t paid up the last November’; but none, no matter how much their condition bespeaks that out-at-elbows habit which a ways-and-means style of life contracts, will ever confess to the fact that their expectations are as blank as their banker’s book, and that the only land they are ever to pretend to is a post-obit right in some six-feet-by-two in a churchyard. And yet the world is full of such people – well-informed, pleasant, good-looking folk, who inhabit first-rate hotels; drink, dine, and dress well; frequent theatres and promenades; spend their winters at Paris or Florence or Rome, their summers at Baden or Ems or Interlachen; have a strange half-intimacy with men in the higher circles, and occasionally dine with them; are never heard of in any dubious or unsafe affair; are reputed safe fellows to talk to; know every one, from the horse-dealer who will give credit to the Jew who will advance cash; and notwithstanding that they neither gamble nor bet nor speculate, yet contrive to live – ay, and well, too – without any known resources whatever. If English (and they are for the most part so), they usually are called by some well-known name of aristocratic reputation in England: they are thus Villiers or Paget or Seymour or Percy, which on the Continent is already a kind of half-nobility at once; and the question which seemingly needs no reply, ‘Ah, vous êtes parent de milord!’ is a receipt in full rank anywhere.

These men – and who that knows anything of the Continent has not met such everywhere – are the great riddles of our century; and I ‘d rather give a reward for their secret than all the discoveries about perpetual motion, or longitude, or North-west Passages, that ever were heard of. And strange it is, too, no one has ever blabbed. Some have emerged from this misty state to inherit large fortunes and live in the best style; yet I have never heard of a single man having turned king’s evidence on his fellows. And yet what a talent theirs must be, let any man confess who has waited three posts for a remittance without any tidings of its arrival! Think of the hundred-and-one petty annoyances and ironies to which he is subject! He fancies that the very waiters know he is à sec; that the landlord looks sour, and the landlady austere; the very clerk in the post-office appears to say, ‘No letter for you, sir,’ with a jibing and impertinent tone. From that moment, too, a dozen expensive tastes that he never dreamed of before enter his head: he wants to purchase a hack or give a dinner-party or bet at a racecourse, principally because he has not got a sou in his pocket, and he is afraid it may be guessed by others – such is the fatal tendency to strive or pretend to something which has no other value in our eyes than the effect it may have on our acquaintances, regardless of what sacrifices it may demand.

Forgive, I pray, this long digression, which although I hope not without its advantages would scarcely have been entered into were it not à propos to myself. And to go back – I began to feel excessively uncomfortable at the delay of my money. My first care every morning was to repair to the post-office; sometimes I arrived before it was open, and had to promenade up and down the gloomy Rue de l’Evecque till the clock struck; sometimes the mail would be late (a foreign mail is generally late when the weather is peculiarly fine and the roads good!); but always the same answer came, ‘Rien pour vous, Monsieur O’Leary’; and at last I imagined from the way the fellow spoke that he had set the response to a tune, and sang it.

Béranger has celebrated in one of his very prettiest lyrics ‘how happy one is at twenty in a garret.’ I have no doubt, for my part, that the vicinity of the slates and the poverty of the apartment would have much contributed to my peace of mind at the time I speak of. The fact of a magnificently furnished salon, a splendid dinner every day, champagne and Seltzer promiscuously, cab fares and theatre tickets innumerable being all scored against me were sad dampers to my happiness; and from being one of the cheeriest and most light-hearted of fellows, I sank into a state of fidgety and restless impatience, the nearest thing I ever remember to low spirits.

Such was I one day when the post, which I had been watching anxiously from mid-day, had not arrived at five o’clock. Leaving word with the commissionaire to wait and report to me at the hotel, I turned back to the table d’hôte. By accident, the only guests were the count and madame. There they were, as accurately dressed as ever; so handsome and so happy-looking; so attached, too, in their manner towards each other – that nice balance between affection and courtesy which before the world is so captivating. Disturbed as were my thoughts, I could not help feeling struck by their bright and pleasant looks.

‘Ah, a family party!’ said the count gaily, as I entered, while madame bestowed on me one of her very sweetest smiles.

The restraint of strangers removed, they spoke as if I had been an old friend – chatting away about everything and everybody, in a tone of frank and easy confidence perfectly delightful; occasionally deigning to ask if I did not agree with them in their opinions, and seeming to enjoy the little I ventured to say, with a pleasure I felt to be most flattering. The count’s quiet and refined manner, the easy flow of his conversation, replete as it was with information and amusement, formed a most happy contrast with the brilliant sparkle of madame’s lively sallies; for she seemed rather disposed to indulge a vein of slight satire, but so tempered with good feeling and kindliness withal that you would not for the world forego the pleasure it afforded. Long, long before the dessert appeared I ceased to think of my letter or my money, and did not remember that such things as bankers, agents, or stockbrokers were in the universe. Apparently they had been great travellers: had seen every city in Europe, and visited every court; knew all the most distinguished people, and many of the sovereigns intimately; and little stories of Metternich, bons mots of Talleyrand, anecdotes of Goethe and Chateaubriand, seasoned the conversation with an interest which to a young man like myself was all-engrossing.

Suddenly the door opened, and the commissionaire called out, ‘No letter for Monsieur O’Leary!’ I immediately became pale and faint; and though the count was too well bred to take any direct notice of what he saw was caused by my disappointment, he contrived adroitly to direct some observation to madame, which relieved me from any burden of the conversation.

‘What hour did you order the carriage, Duischka?’ said he.

‘At half-past six. The forest is so cool that I like to go slowly through it.’

‘That will give us ample time for a walk, too,’ said he; ‘and if Monsieur O’Leary will join us, the pleasure will be all the greater.’

I hesitated, and stammered out an apology about a headache, or something of the sort.

‘The drive will be the best thing in the world for you,’ said madame; ‘and the strawberries and cream of Boitsfort will complete the cure.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the count, as I shook my head half sadly, ‘La comtesse is infallible as a doctor.’

‘And, like all the faculty, very angry when her skill is called in question,’ said she.

‘Go, then, and find your shawl, madame,’ said he, ‘and, meanwhile, monsieur and I will discuss our liqueur, and be ready for you.’

Madame smiled gaily, as if having carried her point, and left the room.

The door was scarcely closed when the count drew his chair closer to mine, and, with a look of kindliness and good-nature I cannot convey, said, ‘I am going, Monsieur O’Leary, to take a liberty – a very great liberty indeed – with you, and perhaps you may not forgive it.’ He paused for a minute or two, as if waiting some intimation on my part. I merely muttered something intended to express my willingness to accept of what he hinted, and he resumed: ‘You are a very young man; I not a very old, but a very experienced one. There are occasions in life in which such knowledge as I possess of the world and its ways may be of great service. Now, without for an instant obtruding myself on your confidence, or inquiring into affairs which are strictly your own, I wish to say that my advice and counsel, if you need either, are completely at your service. A few minutes ago I perceived that you were distressed at hearing there was no letter for you – ’

‘I know not how to thank you,’ said I, ‘for such kindness as this; and the best proof of my sincerity is to tell you the position in which I am placed.’

‘One word, first,’ added he, laying his hand gently on my arm – ‘one word. Do you promise to accept of my advice and assistance when you have revealed the circumstances you allude to? If not, I beg I may not hear it.’

‘Your advice I am most anxious for,’ said I hastily.

‘The other was an awkward word, and I see that your delicacy has taken the alarm. But come, it is spoken now, and can’t be recalled. I must have my way; so go on.’

I seized his hand with enthusiasm, and shook it heartily. ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘you shall have your way. I have neither shame nor concealment before you.’ And then, in as few words as I could explain such tangled and knotted webs as envelop all matters where legacies and lawyers and settlements and securities and mortgages enter, I put him in possession of the fact that I had come abroad with the assurance from my man of business of a handsome yearly income, to be increased after a time to something very considerable; that I was now two months in expectation of remittances, which certain forms in Chancery had delayed and deferred; and that I watched the post each day with an anxious heart for means to relieve me from certain trifling debts I had incurred, and enable me to proceed on my journey.

The count listened with the most patient attention to my story, only interfering once or twice when some difficulty demanded explanation, and then suffering me to proceed to the end. Then leisurely withdrawing a pocket-book from the breast of his frock, he opened it slowly.

‘My dear young friend,’ said he, in a measured and almost solemn tone, ‘every hour that a man is in debt is a year spent in slavery. Your creditor is your master; it matters not whether a kind or a severe one, the sense of obligation you incur saps the feeling of manly independence which is the first charm of youth – and, believe me, it is always through the rents in moral feeling that our happiness oozes out quickest. Here are five thousand francs; take as much as you want. With a friend, and I insist upon you believing me to be such, these things have no character of obligation: I accommodate you to-day; you do the same for me to-morrow. And now put these notes in your pocket; I see madame is waiting for us.’

For a second or two I felt so overpowered I could not speak. The generous confidence and friendly interest of one so thoroughly a stranger were too much for my astonished and gratified mind. At last I recovered myself enough to reply, and assuring my worthy friend that when I spoke of my debts they were in reality merely trifling ones; that I had still ample funds in my banker’s hands for all necessary outlay, and that by the next post, perhaps, my long-wished-for letter might arrive.

‘And if it should not?’ interposed he, smiling.

‘Why then the next day – ’

‘And if not then?’ continued he, with a half-quizzing look at my embarrassment.

‘Then your five thousand francs shall tremble for it.’

‘That’s a hearty fellow!’ cried he, grasping my hand in both of his; ‘and now I feel I was not deceived in you. My first meeting with Metternich was very like this. I was at Presburg in the year 1804, just before the campaign of Austerlitz opened – ’

‘You are indeed most gallant, messieurs,’ said the countess, opening the door, and peeping in. ‘Am I to suppose that cigars and maraschino are better company than mine?’

We rose at once to make our excuses; and thus I lost the story of Prince Metternich, in which I already felt an uncommon interest from the similarity of the adventure to my own, though whether I was to represent the prince or the count I could not even guess.

I was soon seated beside the countess in the luxurious britzka; the count took his place on the box, and away we rattled over the stones through the Porte de Namur, and along the pretty suburbs of Etterbech, where we left the highroad, and entered the Bois de Cambre by that long and beautiful allée which runs on for miles, like some vast aisle in a Gothic cathedral – the branches above bending into an arched roof, and the tall beech-stems standing like the pillars.

The pleasant odour of the forest, the tempered light, the noiseless roll of the carriage, gave a sense of luxury to the drive I can remember vividly to this hour. Not that my enjoyment of these things was my only one; far from it. The pretty countess talked away about everything that came uppermost, in that strain of spirited and lively chit-chat which needs not the sweetest voice and the most fascinating look to make it most captivating. I felt like one in a dream; the whole thing was fairy-land; and whether I looked into the depths of the leafy wood, where some horsemen might now and then be seen to pass at a gallop, or my eyes fell upon that small and faultless foot that rested on the velvet cushion in the carriage, I could not trust the reality of the scene, and could only mutter to myself, ‘What hast thou ever done, Arthur O’Leary, or thy father before thee, to deserve happiness like this?’

Dear and kind reader, it may be your fortune to visit Brussels; and although not exactly under such circumstances as I have mentioned here, let me advise you, even without a beautiful Polonaise for your companion, to make a trip to Boitsfort, a small village in the wood of Soignies. Of course your nationality will lead you to Waterloo; and equally of course, if you have any tact (which far be it from me not to suppose you gifted with), you’ll not dine there, the little miserable cabarets that are called restaurants being wretched beyond description; you may have a glass of wine – and if so, take champagne, for they cannot adulterate it – but don’t venture on a dinner, if you hope to enjoy one again for a week after. Well, then, ‘having done your Waterloo,’ as the Cockneys say, seen Sergeant Cotton and the church, La Haye Sainte, Hougomont, and Lord Anglesey’s boot – take your road back, not by that eternal and noisy chaussée you have come by, but turn off to the right, as if going to Wavre, and enter the forest by an earth road, where you’ll neither meet waggons nor postillions nor even a ‘’pike.’ Your coachman will say, ‘Where to?’ Reply, ‘Boitsfort’ – which, for safety, pronounce ‘Boshfort’ – and lie back and enjoy yourself. About six miles of a delightful drive, all through forest, will bring you to a small village beside a little lake surrounded by hills, not mountains, but still waving and broken in outline, and shaded with wood. The red-tiled roofs, the pointed gables, the green jalousies, and the background of dark foliage will all remind you of one of Berghem’s pictures; and if a lazy Fleming or so are seen lounging over the little parapet next the water, they ‘ll not injure the effect. Passing over the little bridge, you arrive in front of a long, low, two-storeyed house, perforated by an arched doorway leading into the court; over the door is an inscription, which at once denotes the object of the establishment, and you read, ‘Monsieur Dubos fait noces et festins.’ Not that the worthy individual officiates in any capacity resembling the famed Vulcan of the North: as far be it from him to invade the prerogative of others as for any to rival him in his own peculiar walk. No; Monsieur D.‘s functions are limited to those delicate devices which are deemed the suitable diet of newly-married couples – those petits plats which are, like the orange-flower, only to be employed on great occasions. And as such he is unrivalled; for notwithstanding the simple and unpretending exterior, this little rural tavern can boast the most perfect cook and the best-stored cellar. Here may be found the earliest turkey of the year, with a dowry of truffles; here, the first peas of spring, the newest strawberries and the richest cream, iced champagne and grapy Hermitage, Steinberger and Johannisberg, are all at your orders. You may dine in the long salon, en cabinet; in the garden, or in the summer-house over the lake, where the carp is flapping his tail in the clear water, the twin-brother of him at table. The garden beneath sends up its delicious odours from beds of every brilliant hue; the sheep are moving homeward along the distant hills to the tinkle of the faint bell; the plash of an oar disturbs the calm water as the fisherman skims along the lake, and the subdued murmurs of the little village all come floating in the air – pleasant sounds, and full of home thoughts. Well, well! to be sure I am a bachelor, and know nothing of such matters; but it strikes me I should like to be married now and then, and go eat my wedding-dinners at Boitsfort! And now once more let me come back to my narrative – for leaving which I should ask your pardon, were it not that the digression is the best part of the whole, and I should never forgive myself if I had not told you not to stop at Brussels without dining at Boitsfort.

When we reached Boitsfort, a waiter conducted us at once to a little table in the garden where the strawberries and the iced champagne were in waiting. Here and there, at some distance, were parties of the Brussels bourgeoisie enjoying themselves at their coffee, or with ice; while a large salon that occupied one wing of the building was given up to some English travellers, whose loud speech and boisterous merriment bespoke them of that class one is always ashamed to meet with out of England.

‘Your countrymen are very merry yonder,’ said the countess, as a more uproarious burst than ever broke from the party.

‘Yes,’ said the count, perceiving that I felt uncomfortable at the allusion, ‘Englishmen always carry London about with them wherever they go. Meet them in the Caucasus, and you’ll find that they’ll have some imitation of a Blackwall dinner or a Greenwich party.’

‘How comes it,’ said I, amazed at the observation, ‘that you know these places you mention?’

‘Oh, my dear sir, I have been very much about the world in my time, and have always made it my business to see each people in their own peculiar haunts. If at Vienna, I dine not at the “Wilde Man,” but at the “Puchs” in the Leopoldstadt. If in Dresden, I spend my evening in the Grün-Garten, beyond the Elbe. The bourgeoisie alone of any nation preserve traits marked enough for a stranger’s appreciation; the higher classes are pretty much alike everywhere, and the nationality of the peasant takes a narrow range, and offers little to amuse.’

‘The count is a quick observer,’ remarked madame, with a look of pleasure sparkling in her eyes.

‘I flatter myself,’ rejoined he, ‘I seldom err in my guesses. I knew my friend here tolerably accurately without an introduction.’

There was something so kind in the tone he spoke in that I could have no doubt of his desire to compliment me.

‘Independently, too, of speaking most of the languages of Europe, I possess a kind of knack for learning a patois,’ continued he. ‘At this instant, I’ll wager a cigar with you that I ‘ll join that little knot of sober Belgians yonder, and by the magic of a few words of genuine Brussels French, I’ll pass muster as a Boss.’

The countess laughed heartily at the thought, and I joined in her mirth most readily.

‘I take the wager,’ cried I – ‘and hope sincerely to lose it.’

‘Done!’ said he, springing up and putting on his hat, while he made a short circuit in the garden, and soon afterwards appeared at the table with the Flemings, asking permission, as it seemed, to light a cigar from a lantern attached to the tree under which they sat.

If we were to judge from the merriment of the little group, his success was perfect, and we soon saw him seated amongst them, busily occupied in concocting a bowl of flaming ponche, of which it was clear by his manner he had invited the party to partake.

‘Now Gustav is in his delight,’ said the countess, in a tone of almost pique; ‘he is a strange creature, and never satisfied if not doing something other people never think of. In half an hour he’ll be back here, with the whole history of Mynheer van Houdendrochen and his wife and their fourteen “mannikins”; all their little absurdities and prejudices he ‘ll catch up, and for a week to come we shall hear nothing but Flemish French, and the habitudes of the Montagne de la Cour.’

For a few seconds I was vastly uncomfortable; a thought glanced across me, what if it were for some absurd feature in me, in my manner or my conversation, that he had deigned to make my acquaintance. Then came the recollection of his generous proposal, and I saw at once that I was putting a somewhat high price on my originality, if I valued it at five thousand francs.

‘What ails you?’ said the countess, in a low, soft voice, as she lifted her eyes and let them fall upon me with a most bewitching expression of interest. ‘I fear you are ill, or in low spirits.’ I endeavoured to rally and reply, when she went on —

‘We must see you oftener. Gustav is so pleasant and so gay, he will be of great use to you. When he really takes a liking, he is delightful; and he has in your case, I assure you.’

I knew not what to say, nor how to look my gratitude for such a speech, and could only accomplish some few and broken words of thanks.

‘Besides, you are about to be a traveller,’ continued she; ‘and who can give you such valuable information of every country and people as the count? Do you intend to make a long absence from England?’

‘Yes, at least some years. I wish to visit the East.’ ‘You ‘ll go into Poland?’ said she quickly, without noticing my reply.

‘Yes, I trust so; Hungary and Poland have both great interest for me.’

‘You know that we are Poles, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We are both from beyond Varsovie. Gustav was there ten years ago. I have never seen my native country since I was a child.

At the last words her voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned her head upon her hand, and seemed lost in thought. I did not dare to break in upon the current of recollections I saw were crowding upon her, and was silent. She looked up at length, and by the faint light of the moon, just risen, I saw that her eyes were tearful and her cheeks still wet.

‘What,’ said I to myself, ‘and has sorrow come even here – here, where I imagined if ever the sunny path of life existed, it was to be found?’