Part 30 (1/2)
”Sir,” said Carlyle, speaking for the first time during dinner, ”the French n.o.bility of a hundred years ago said they could afford to laugh at theories. Then came a man and wrote a book called the _Social Contract_. The man was called Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and his book was a theory, and nothing but a theory. The n.o.bles could laugh at his theory; _but their skins went to bind the second edition of his book_[1].”
[Footnote 1: There was a tannery of human skins at Meudon during the Revolution.]
Look to your skin, world, lest it be dressed to morocco and cunningly tooled with gold. There is much binding yet to be done.
Claudius thought neither of the world nor of Mr. Carlyle as he walked back to the hotel; for he was thinking of the Countess Margaret, to the exclusion of every other earthly or unearthly consideration. But his thoughts were sad, for he knew that he was to leave her, and he knew also that he must tell her so. It was no easy matter, and his walk slackened, till, at the corner of the great thoroughfare, he stood still, looking at a poor woman who ground a tuneless hand-organ. The instrument of tympanum torture was on wheels, and to the back of it was attached a cradle. In the cradle was a dirty little baby, licking its fist and listening with conscientious attention to the perpetual trangle-tringle-jangle of the maternal music. In truth the little thing could not well listen to anything else, considering the position in which it was placed. Claudius stood staring at the little caravan, halted at the corner of the most aristocratic street in New York, and his attention was gradually roused to comprehend what he saw. He reflected that next to being bound on the back of a wild horse, like Mazeppa, the most horrible fate conceivable must be that of this dirty baby, put to bed in perpetuity on the back of a crazy grind-organ. He smiled at the idea, and the woman held out a battered tin dish with one hand, while the other in its revolution ground out the final palpitating squeaks of ”_Ah, che la morte ognora_.” Claudius put his hand into his pocket and gave the poor creature a coin.
”You are encouraging a public nuisance,” said a thin gentlemanly voice at his elbow. Claudius looked down and saw Mr. Barker.
”Yes,” said the Doctor, ”I remember a remark you once made to me about the deserving poor in New York--it was the day before yesterday, I think. You said they went to the West.”
”Talking of the West, I suppose you will be going there yourself one of these days to take a look at our 'park'--eh?”
”No, I am going East.”
”To Boston, I suppose?” inquired the inquisitive Barker. ”You will be very much amused with Boston. It is the largest village in the United States.”
”I am not going to Boston,” said Claudius calmly.
”Oh! I thought when you said you were going East you meant--”
”I am going to sail for Europe on Wednesday,” said the Doctor, who had had time to reflect that he might as well inform Barker of his intention. Mr. Barker smiled grimly under his moustache.
”You don't mean that?” he said, trying to feign astonishment and disguise his satisfaction. It seemed too good to be true. ”Going so soon? Why, I thought you meant to spend some time.”
”Yes, I am going immediately,” and Claudius looked Barker straight in the face. ”I find it is necessary that I should procure certain papers connected with my inheritance.”
”Well,” said Barker turning his eyes another way, for he did not like the Doctor's look, ”I am very sorry, any way. I suppose you mean to come back soon?”
”Very soon,” answered Claudius. ”Good-morning, Barker.”
”Good morning. I will call and see you before you sail. You have quite taken my breath away with this news.” Mr. Barker walked quickly away in the direction of Elevated Road. He was evidently going down town.
”Strange,” thought Claudius, ”that Barker should take the news so quietly. I think it ought to have astonished him more.” Leaving the organ-grinder, the dirty baby, and the horse-cars to their fate, Claudius entered the hotel. He found the Duke over a late breakfast, eating cantelopes voraciously. Cantelopes are American melons, small and of sickly appearance, but of good vitality and unearthly freshness within, a joy to the hot-stomached foreigner. Behold also, his Grace eateth the cantelope and hath a cheerful countenance. Claudius sat down at the table, looking rather gloomy.
”I want you to give me an introduction to the English Amba.s.sador in Petersburg. Lord Fitzd.o.g.g.i.n, I believe he is.”
”Good gracious!” exclaimed the peer; ”what for?”
”I am going there,” answered Claudius with his habitual calm, ”and I want to know somebody in power.”
”Oh! are _you_ going?” asked the Duke, suddenly grasping the situation.
He afterwards took some credit to himself for having been so quick to catch Claudius's meaning.
”Yes. I sail on Wednesday.”
”Tell me all about it,” said the Duke, who recovered his equanimity, and plunged a knife into a fresh cantelope at the same moment.
”Very well. I saw your friend, Mr. Horace Bellingham, this morning, and he told me all about the Countess's troubles. In fact, they are in the newspapers by this time, but I had not read about them. He suggested that some personal friend of the Countess had better proceed to headquarters at once, and see about it; so I said I would go; and he gave me some introductions. They are probably good ones; but he advised me to come to you and get one for your amba.s.sador.”
”Anything Uncle Horace advises is right, you know,” said his Grace, speaking with his mouth full. ”He knows no end of people everywhere,” he added pensively, when he had swallowed.
”Very well, I will go; but I am glad you approve.”