Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience

With all the secret plotting and political intrigue of the day he appeared quite conversant, and found it difficult to believe in my ignorance or apathy.

“I conceive,” said he, at last, “that you are one of those who feel ashamed of your position, and dislike the word ‘spy.’ Be it so; it is not a flattering name. But have we not within ourselves the power to extort by force the degree of consideration we would be held in? Any act of insubordination from one or two, or even three of us, would be sure to meet its penalty. That price has been paid before.” [Here he made a significant sign, by rapidly drawing his hand across his throat.] “But if we combined, met at some appointed spot, discussed our rights, and agreed upon the means of asserting them, do you believe that there exists the king or kaiser who could refuse the demand? It is not enough for me that I can pass a frontier by a secret signal, enter a minister’s cabinet while others wait in the antechamber, or even ascend the back stairs of a palace. I want a place and a recognition in society; I want that standing in the world to which my habits and manners entitle me, and for which now my hand is ever on the hilt of a rapier or the trigger of a pistol to secure. It is an outrage on us that this has been delayed so long; but if it be deferred a little longer, the remedy will have passed from our hands. Already some of the governments of the Continent begin to suspect that the system works badly.”

“My astonishment is only that it ever could have been permitted,” broke I in; “for it is plain that to know the secrets of others, each country has had to sacrifice its own.”

He gave a smile of supreme contempt, and replied, —

“You are but an apprentice of the trade, after all, Monsieur Gervois, though I have often heard you called a man of tact and shrewdness. Do you not know that we are not the agents of governments or of cabinets, but of those who rule cabinets, dread them, and betray them? The half-dozen crowned heads who rule Europe form a little fraternity apart from all the world. The interests, the passions, the jealousies, and the ambition of the several nations may involve them in wars, compel them to stand in hostility against each other and be what is called great enemies; but while their cannon are thundering and their cavalry charging, while squadrons are crashing and squares are breaking, they for whose sake the blood is shed and life poured forth are calmly considering whether they should gain most by victory or defeat, and how far the great cause – the subjugation of the niasses to the will of one – can be benefited or retarded by any policy they would pursue.”

I need not follow him in his reasonings, – indeed, they were more ingenious and astute than I should be able to convey by repetition. His theory was, that the rulers of states maintained a secret understanding with each other; that however the casualties of fortune should fall heavily on their countries, they themselves should be exempted from such consequences; and that the people might fall, but dynasties should be spared. As long as the Bourbons sat on the throne of France, the compact was a safe and a sure one. The Revolution, however, has broken up the sacred league, and none can tell now what people are next ripe for revolt. As Bonaparte for the moment represents power in France, every effort has been made by the sovereign to draw him into this alliance, – not, of course, to found a dynasty, but to serve the cause of the rightful one. I abstain from entering more fully into his views, or citing the mass of proofs by which he endeavored to sustain them. If not convinced by his arguments, I am free to own that they made a deep impression upon me; rendered more so, perhaps, from the number of circumstances I could myself call to mind which in my own secret service tended to corroborate them.

I asked him whither he was then going, and he told me to Moscow.

“Russia and England meditate a war,” said he, “the two cabinets are embroiled; and I am hastening with an autograph letter from one great personage to another to say with what regret he countersigns a policy so distasteful, and how sincerely he preserves the tie of personal friendship. Believe me,” said he, laughing, “we are the professed traitors of the world; but we are simple-hearted and honest, if weighed in the scale with those who employ us!”

If I was amused by much of what he said, I was also piqued at the tone of superiority he assumed towards me, as he very frankly intimated that by the low estimation in which I held my walk in life I had contrived to make it still meaner and lower.

“It rests with ourselves,” said he, “to be the diplomatists of Europe. Your men who pore over treaties and maps and protocols may plan and scheme to their hearts’ content; but we can act. If I choose to change the destination of this letter, and deliver it at Berlin or Vienna; or if I go forward now to Moscow, and convey the answer to Paris, instead of London, do you not suppose that the world would feel it, and to its very centre, too?”

He paused for a minute or two, and then added, —

“You are wondering all this while within yourself why one who knows so well the price of treason has not earned it; and shall I tell you? I am not always aware of the value of my tidings. I may be charged with a secret treaty. It may be a piece of court gossip, the mishap of an archduchess, or the portrait of a court favorite. This very letter – whose contents I believe I know – I am perhaps deceived in. Who can tell, till it be opened, if my treachery be worth a farthing?”

If there was anything wanting to the measure of abhorrence with which I regarded my career, it was amply supplied by such doctrines as these; but probably much of the disgust they were calculated to inspire was lost in the amusement the narrator afforded me. Everything about him bespoke levity rather than systematic rascality; and yet he was one who appeared to have thought profoundly on men and the world.

“I ‘ll wager a crown,” said he, as we jumped into the boat that was to row us on shore, “that you are fully bent on hiding yourself and your shame in the ‘Golden Plover,’ or the ‘Pilot’s Rest,’ or some such obscure hotel; but this you shall not for the present. You are my guest while we stay at Hamburg. Unfortunately, the time must needs be brief to both of us. To-morrow we shall be on the road; but to-day is our own.”

I did not consent without reluctance; but he would not take a refusal, and so I yielded; and away we went together to the “Schleswicker Hof,” a magnificent hotel in the finest quarter of the town.

“No need to show your passport to any one,” said he to me, in a whisper, as we entered the house; “I ‘ll arrange all.”

By the time I had refreshed myself with a bath and dressed, the waiter came to say that Count Ysaffich was waiting dinner for me; and though I gladly would have asked a few particulars of one with whose name and person he seemed evidently acquainted, there was no time allowed me, as he led the way to a splendid apartment, where the table was already spread.

It was not without an effort that I recognized my friend the Count in his change of costume; for, though good-looking and even handsome before, he might now strike the beholder with admiration. He wore a blue military pelisse, richly braided with gold, and fastened with large Brandenburg buttons. It was sufficiently open in front to display a vest of scarlet cloth, all slashed with gold. His trousers were black, with a broad gold band along the sides, while a richly embossed belt of Russia leather supported a sabre of most costly and gorgeous make. He wore several handsome decorations, and around the throat, by a broad blue ribbon, a splendid diamond cross, with the letters “P. C.” in the centre.

“I have not dressed for dinner,” said he, as I entered, “since we must take a stroll under the linden-trees when it grows cool, and have our cigar there. After that, we ‘ll look in at the opera; and if not very attractive, I ‘ll present you at one or two houses where they receive of an evening, and where, when you come again, you will be always welcome.”

Since I had gone so far, I resolved to abide by all his arrangements, and suffer him to dispose of my time just as he pleased.

Our dinner was excellent. The Count had bestowed pains in ordering it, and all was of that perfection in cookery for which Hamburg was, and is, so justly famed. Nor was the wine inferior to the rest of the entertainment. Of this the Count appeared to be a connoisseur, and pressed me to taste a dozen different kinds, the very names of which were unknown to me. His conversation, too, was so amusing, so full of strange incidents and adventures, such curious anecdotes, such shrewd remarks, that I was by no means impatient to rise from table.

“I see,” said he, at last, “we are too late for the opera. Hanserlist’s reception is also nearly over by this time. Shall we just drop in, then, at Madame von Geysiger’s? It is the latest house here, and every one goes there to finish the evening.”

“They are all strangers to me,” I replied, “and I am entirely under your orders.”

“Then Madame von Geysiger’s be it,” said he, rising.

As we went along, he told me that the lady to whose house we were going had been, some thirty-five or forty years ago, the great prima donna of Europe. She was also the most celebrated beauty of her time; and by these combined attractions had so captivated a rich merchant of Hamburg that he married her, bequeathing to her on his death-bed the largest fortune of that wealthy city.

“They count it by millions and tens of millions,” said he; “but what matter to us? – at least to me? – for I have been refused by her some half-dozen times; and indeed now am under the heaviest recognizance never to repeat my proposal. If you, however, should like to adventure – ”

“Oh, excuse me,” said I, laughing. “Not even all the marcobrunner and champagne I have been drinking could give hardihood for such a piece of impudence.”

“Why not?” cried he. “You are young, good-looking, and of a fashionable exterior. You are a stranger, besides, – and that is a great point; for she is well weary of Hamburg and Hamburgers.”

I stopped him at once by saying that I was by far too conscious of the indignity attached to my career to aspire to the eminence he spoke of.

“And too proud to marry an old woman for her money! Can’t you add that?” said he, laughing. “Well, there we differ. I am neither ashamed of the ‘espionage,’ nor should I be averse to the marriage. To say truth, my dear Gervois, when I have dined in a splendid salon hung round with the best pieces of Cuyp, Wouvermans, and Jansens; when I have seen the dessert set forth in a golden service, of which the great Schnyders over the fireplace was but a faint copy; when I have supped my Mocha out of a Sèvres cup worth more than its full of gold louis, and rested myself on the fairest tapestries of France, with every sense entranced by luxury, – I do find it excessively hard to throw my mantle over my shoulders, and trudge home through the rain and mud to resume the sorry existence that for an hour I had abandoned.”

“There lies the whole question,” said I; “since, for my part, I could not throw off the identity, even under such captivations as you speak of.”

He looked at me very fixedly as I said this, – so fixedly, indeed, that he seemed to feel some apology necessary for it.

“Forgive me,” cried he; “but I could not help staring at the prodigy of a man content to be himself.”

“I have not said that,” replied I. “I only said I was incapable of feeling myself to be any other.”

“You plume yourself upon your birth then, doubtless,” added he; “and so should I, if I knew how to get rid of my father. What were your people: you said they were not French?”

Had the question been put to me half an hour before, as we sat over our wine, I have little doubt that, in the expansiveness of such a situation, I should have told him all that I knew or suspected of my family. The season of confidence, however, had passed. We were walking along a crowded thoroughfare; our talk was desultory, as the objects about were various; and so I coined some history of my family for the occasion, ascribing my birth to a very humble source, and my rank as one of the meanest.

“Your father was, however, English,” said he; “so much you know?”

“Yes,” said I, “that point there is no doubt about.”

“Is he alive?”

“No, he is dead a great many years back.”

“How did he die, or where? Excuse these questions, which I have only to say are not out of idle importunity.”

I own that I did not feel easy under this cross-examination. It might mean more than I liked to avow even to myself. At all events, I resolved, whatever his object, to evade it; and at once gave him some absurd narrative of my father having served in the war of the Low Countries, where he married a Frenchwoman or a Fleming; that he died, of some fever of the country, at a small fishing town on the Dutch coast, leaving me an orphan, since my mother survived him but a few months.

“All this is excellent,” cried he, enthusiastically. “It could not be better by any possibility. Forgive me, Gervois, till I can explain my meaning to you more fully; but what you have just told me has filled my heart with delight. You ‘ll see how Madame von Geysiger will receive you when she hears this.”

I started back with astonishment. Could it possibly be the case that my stupid story might chime in with the facts of some real history; and should I thus be involved in the web of some tangled incidents in which I had rightfully no share? There was shame and falsehood both in such a situation, and I shrank from it with disgust.

“I will not go to this house, Count,” said I, resolutely. “I foresee that somehow or other an interest would attach to me to which I can lay no claim. Neither Madame von Geysiger, nor any belonging to her, could have known my parents. Their walk in life was of the very humblest.”

“I have not said she did, my dear friend,” said he, soothingly, “nor is it exactly generous to be so suspectful of one whose only feeling towards you is that of kindness and good will. Once for all, if you desire it, I will allude no further to this subject here or elsewhere.”

“On that condition I will accompany you,” said I.

He pressed my hand as if in recognition of the compact, and we entered the house.

There were not above half-a-dozen carriages at the door; but still I could perceive, as we passed through the salons, that a very numerous company was assembled. It was exactly what the Count said, – a rendezvous where all came to wind up the evening; and here were some in all the blaze of diamonds, and in the splendor of full dress; others less magnificently attired, and some again in their walking costume. The suite of rooms then open were not the state ones in use for great occasions, but a ground floor, opening by several doors upon a handsome pleasure ground, that blending of copse and “bosquet,” of terrace and shady alley, which foreigners call an English garden.

Here and there through this, many of the Company lounged and loitered, enjoying the cool of a summer night in preference to the heated and crowded rooms within. We were not long in search of our hostess when she came towards us, – a large, full, but still handsome person, magnificently attired, and with somewhat of what I, at least, fancied the assured air and bearing of the stage.

To the Count she was most cordial; while to me her manner was courteous in the extreme. She regretted that we had not come earlier, and mentioned the names of some one or two distinguished visitors who had just left. After some little conversation on commonplace matters, I joined a party at ombre, a game of which I was fond, and where, fortunately, I found the players satisfied to contend for stakes humble enough for my means. The Count had, meanwhile, given his arm to the hostess, and was making a tour of the company. He appeared to have acquaintance with every one. Indeed, with most it was an easy intimacy; and all saluted him as one they were glad to welcome. I watched him with considerable curiosity, for I own the man was a puzzle to me. At times I half persuaded myself that he was something very much above the condition he assumed; and at other moments I suspected him to be below even that. If he be an impostor, thought I, assuredly there are more dupes than me, and in this very room too. My game soon absorbed my attention, and I ceased to think of or look after him. I know not how long this may have lasted; but I remember, when lifting my head from my cards, I saw straight in front of me Madame von Geysiger steadily contemplating me through her glass, and standing, to do so, in an attitude that implied profound scrutiny. The moment she caught my eye she dropped her “lorgnette,” and hurried away, in what was clear to see was an air of confusion.

It immediately struck me that the Count had broken faith with me, and, whatever his secret scheme, had revealed it to the lady; and, indignant at the treachery, I would have risen at once from the table if I could; as it was, I took the very first opportunity that presented itself, and, by feigning the fatigue of a long journey, I made my excuses and withdrew.

My next care was to leave the house without attracting any notice; and so I mingled with the crowd, and held on my way towards the room by which we had entered. The dense throng interrupted my progress; and in order to make my escape more rapidly, I passed out into the garden, intending to enter the house again by some door lower down. To do so more secretly, I moved into one of the dark alleys, which, after following some time, brought me out upon a little open space, with a small marble fountain spouting its tiny jet in the midst of a clear and starlit pond. Though so near to the house, the spot was still and noiseless, for the thick copse on every side effectually excluded sound. The calming influence of the silence and the delicious freshness of the night air induced me to linger here for a while; and even longer, too, I should have stayed, had not the sound of voices warned me that some persons were approaching. That they might pass without observing me, I stepped hastily into the bosquet, and concealed myself in the thick and leafy cover. My misery and terror may be imagined when I heard my own name uttered, and then perceived that it was the Count and Madame von Geysiger, who now stood within a few feet of where I was, in deep and secret conference.

Not all my training in my odious mode of life had reconciled me to the part of an eavesdropper. Yet what could I do? Should I discover myself, no explanation could possibly account for my situation, nor would any assurances on my part have satisfied them of my ignorance. I will not presume to say that if these were my first thoughts, my second, with some tinge of sophistry, suggested that if treachery were intended me, it would be unpardonable in me to neglect the means of defeating it. There is assuredly a stronger impulse in curiosity, united with fear, than exists in most other incentives; for, reason how I would, it was impossible for me to resist the temptation thus presented to me.

“You mistake him, Anatole,” said the lady; “believe me, you mistake him. I have watched his countenance, and read it carefully as he sat at cards, and my interpretation of him is, that he would never consent.”

“The greater fool he, then,” replied the other. “Take my word for it, his splendid abilities will not stand him in such stead as his mongrel parentage and mongrel tongue. But I do not, cannot, agree with you. It is just possible that so long as the world goes smoothly with him, and no immediate pressure of any kind exists, that he might refuse. But why need that continue? If fortune will deal him bad cards, don’t you think we might contrive to shuffle the pack ourselves?”

She muttered something I could not hear, and he quickly rejoined, —

“Even for that I am not unprepared; no, no. Be assured of one thing, he may decline, but will not defy us.”

“I know where your confidence is, Count,” said she; “but that rapier of yours has got you into more trouble than it has ever worked you good.”

“Parbleu, I have no reason to be ungrateful to it!” replied he, laughing; “and, perhaps, with all its rust, it may do some service yet.”

“At all events,” said she, “bethink you well of the consequences before you admit him to any confidence. Remember that when once he is intrusted with our plan, he is the master of our secret, and we are without a remedy. – Pshaw!” said she, scornfully, as if in reply to some gesture on his part; “that remedy may be applied once too often.”

My heart beat fast and full as I heard these words, whose significance there could not be a doubt of, as the same curiosity to discover some clew to the scheme by which I was to be snared was superior to all my fears, and I half resolved, at whatever risk it might cost, to suffer myself to be drawn into the intrigue. They now moved on, and though I could hear their voices stop in low discourse, I could not detect the words they uttered. It was evident that some proposition was to be made to me, the rejection of which on my part might involve me in the greatest peril. With what straining ingenuity did I endeavor to divine what this might be! In all likelihood, it referred to some political intrigue, for which my character as a “secret agent” might seem to adapt me. Yet some of the expressions they had let drop by no means favored this interpretation. What could my “mongrel nationality,” as the Count styled it, avail me in such a conjuncture?

As these thoughts were chasing each other through my mind, I was threading my way through the salons, and at length, to my sincere satisfaction, found myself in the open street. By the time I reached the hotel I had made up my mind to start at once on my mission, without waiting for the Count’s arrival. I hastily scratched a few lines of commonplace acknowledgment for his attentions to me, and half-significantly adding that I hoped to express them personally when we met again, wished him a “good journey,” and then set out on my own.

During the rest of that night, and, indeed, for a great part of the following day, I did not feel satisfied with myself for what I had done. It was, indeed, an inglorious mode of escaping from a difficulty, and argued more of fear than resolution. As time wore on, however, I reasoned myself into the notion that against secret treachery, courage and firmness avail little, and if a well-planned scheme was about to environ me, I had done the wisest thing in the emergency.

I suppose the experience of others will bear me out in saying that the actual positive ills of life are more easily endured than the vague and shadowy dangers which seem to hover over the future, and darken the road before us. The calamities that lie in ambush for us are ever present to our thoughts. The hour of our misfortune may be to-day, to-morrow, or the day after. Every chance incident of untoward aspect may herald the bad tidings, and we live in unceasing expectancy of evil. Do what I would, a dreary and despondent gloom now settled on me; I felt as if I were predestined to some grievous misfortune, against which I was utterly powerless, and the hour of which I could neither hasten nor retard. How bitterly I reproached myself for making an acquaintance with the Count! For years I had lived a life of solitary seclusion, avoiding even the commonest forms of acquaintanceship. The shame my calling inspired me with made me reluctant to know those who, perhaps, when they discovered me to be the spy, would have regarded me with aversion! Not that in reality the odious epithet could, with any fairness, be applied to me. My “secret agency” had not risen beyond the mere functions of a messenger; and though at times I was intrusted with verbal communications, they were delivered in confidence of my trustworthiness, and not imparted in any reliance on my skill to improve them; but I cannot stoop to apologize for a condition to which bitter necessity reduced me, and which I clung to as offering the last remnant of hope to find out those who, of all the world, were the only ones who bore me affection.

I have already said that this hope was now fast dying out; repeated disappointment had all but extinguished it; and it was only when the name “Reichenau” had again stirred its almost cold embers that I determined on this last chance ere I abandoned my career forever.