Volume I Part 16 (1/2)
When it rains and we can't go out, we have chemistry at home; but I 'm always in a fright about the combustibles, and I 'm sure one of these days we 'll pay for our curiosity. That man that comes to lecture has n't a bit of eyebrows, and only two fingers on one hand, and half a thumb on the other; not to say that he sat down one day on a pocketful of crackers, and blew himself up in a dreadful manner.
If the weather be fine,--and I was near saying, G.o.d grant it may n't--we are to have a course of astronomy every night next week. I can stand everything, however, better than ”moral philosophy and economics.” As to the first of the two, it's not even common-sense. It was only two evenings ago, they laughed at me for twenty minutes about a remark that's as true as the Bible.
”What relations does Locke say are least regarded?” says the professor to me.
”Faith! I know nothing about Locke,” says I; ”but I know well that the relations least regarded are poor relations.”
As to the economics, if they could enliven it a bit by experiments, as they do the chemistry, I could bear it well enough; but it's awfully dry to be always listening to what you can't understand.
This is the way we live at Bonn; and though it's very elevating, I find it's very depressing to the spirits. But I don't think we'll remain much longer here, for K. I. is beginning to find out that the sciences are just as dear as silks and satins; and, as he remarked the other day, ”it would be cheaper to have a dish of asparagus on the table than them dirty weeds that they are gathering only for the sake of their hard names.”
Of course, when all is settled about the legacy, I 'll not be obliged to submit to his humors, as I have been up to this. I'll have a voice, Molly, and I'll take care that it is heard too. I suppose it will come to a separation yet between us. I own to you, Molly, the ”impossibility”
of our tempers will do it at last. Well, when the time comes, I'll be, as Mrs. G. says, equal to the occasion. I can say, ”I brought you rank, name, and fortune, Kenny Dodd, and I leave you with my character unvarnished; and maybe both is more than you deserved!”
When I think of where and what I might be, Molly, and see what I am, I fret for a whole livelong day. And now a word about home before I conclude. Don't mention a syllable about the legacy to Mat, or he 'll be expecting a present at Candlemas, and I really can spare nothing.
You can say to Father John that Jones McCarthy is dead, but that n.o.body knows how the estate will go. He'll maybe say some ma.s.ses for him, in the hope of being paid hereafter by the heir. I'd advise you to keep the wool back, for they say prices will rise in Ireland, by reason of all the people leaving it, just as it's described in the Book of Genesis, Molly, only that Ireland is not Paradise,--that *s the difference.
Mary Anne unites in her affectionate love to you, and I am your attached
Jemima Dodd.
LETTER XVIII. MARY ANNE DODD TO MISS DOOLAN, OF BALLYDOOLAN
Grand Htel du Rhin, Bonn.
Dearest Catherine,--Forgive me if I subst.i.tute for the loved appellation of infancy the more softly sounding epithet which is consecrated to verse in every language of Europe. Yes, thou mayst be Kate of all Kates to the rest of Christendom, but to me thou art Catherine,--”Catrinella mia,” as thou wilt.
Here, dearest, as I sit embowered beside the wide and winding Rhine, the day-dream of my childhood is at length realized. I live, I breathe, in the land glorified by genius. Reflected in that stream is the castled crag of Drachenfels, mirrored as in my heart the image of my dearest Catherine. How shall I tell you of our existence here, fascinated by the charms of song and scenery, elevated by the strains of immortal verse?
We are living at the Grand Htel du Rhin, my sweet child; and having taken the entire first floor, are regarded as something like an imperial family travelling under the name of Dodd.
I told you in my last of our acquaintance with Mrs. Gore Hampton. It has, since then, ripened into friends.h.i.+p. It is now love. I feel the dangerous captivation of speaking of her, even pa.s.singly. Her name suggests all that can fascinate the heart and inthrall the imagination.
She is perfectly beautiful, and not less gifted than she is lovely.
Perhaps I cannot convey to my dearest Catherine a more accurate conception of this charming being than by mentioning some--a few--of the changes wrought by her influence on the habits of our daily life.
Our mornings are scientific,--entirely given up to botany, chemistry, natural history, and geology, with occasional readings in political economy and statistics. We all attend these except papa. Even James has become a most attentive student, and never takes his eyes off Mrs. G.
during the lecture. At three we lunch, and then mount our horses for a ride; since, thanks to Lord George's attentive politeness, seven saddle-horses have been sent down from Brussels for our use. Once mounted, we are like a school released from study, so full of gayety, so overflowing with spirits and animation.
Where shall we go? is then the question. Some are for G.o.desberg, where we dismount to eat ice and stroll through the gardens; others, of whom your Mary Anne is ever one, vote for Rolandseck, that being the very spot whence Roland the bravo--the brave Roland--sat to gaze upon those convent walls that enclosed all that he adored on earth.
And oh! Catherine dearest, is there amongst the very highest of those attributes which deify human nature any one that can compare with fidelity? Does it not comprise nearly all the virtues, heroic as well as humble? For my part, I think it should be the great theme of poets, blending as it does some of the tenderest with some of the grandest traits of the heart. From Petrarch to Paul--I mean Virginia's Paul--there is a fascination in these examples that no other quality ever evokes. My dearest Emily--I call Mrs. G. H. by her Christian name always--joined me the other evening in a discussion on this subject against Lord George James, and several others, our only cavalier being the Ritter von Wolfenschftfer, a young German n.o.ble, who is studying here, and a remarkable specimen of his cla.s.s. He is tall, and what at first seems heavy-browed, but, on nearer acquaintance, displays one of those grand heads which are rarely met with save on the canvas of t.i.tian; he wears a long beard and moustache of a reddish brown, which, accompanied by a certain solemnity of manner and a deep-toned voice, impress you with a kind of awe at first. His family is, I believe, the oldest in Germany, having been Barons of the Black Forest, in some very early century. ”The first Hapsburg,” he says, was a ”knecht,” or va.s.sal, of one of his ancestors. His pride is, therefore, something indescribable.
Lord George met him, I fancy, first at some royal table, and they renewed their acquaintance here, shyly at the beginning, but after a while with more cordiality; and now he is here every day singing, sketching, reciting Schiller and Goethe, talking the most delightful rhapsodies, and raving about moonlights on the Brocken, and mysticism in the Hartzwald, till my very brain turns with distraction.
Don't you detest the ”positif,”--the dreary, tiresome, tame, sad-colored robe of reality? and do you not adore the prismatic-tinted drapery, that envelops the dream-creatures of imagination? I know, dearest Catherine, that you do. I feel by myself how you shrink from the stern aspect of reality, and love to shroud yourself in the graceful tissues of fancy!
How, then, would you long to be here,--to discuss with us themes that have no possible relation to anything actually existing,--to talk of those visionary essences which form the creatures of the unreal world?
The ”Ritter” is perfectly charming on these subjects; there is a vein of love through his metaphysics, and of metaphysics through his love, that elevates while it subdues. You will say it is a strange transition that makes me flit from these things to thoughts of home and Ireland; but in the wilful wandering of my fancy a vision of the past rises before me, and I must seize it ere it depart. I wish, in fact, to speak to you about a pa.s.sage in your last letter which has given me equal astonishment and suffering. What, dearest Kitty, do you mean by talking of a certain person's ”long-tried and devoted affection,”--”his hopes, and his steadfast reliance on my truthfulness”? Have I ever given any one the right to make such an appeal to me? I do really believe that no one is less exposed to such a reproach than I am! I have the right, if I please, to misconstrue your meaning, and a.s.sume a total ignorance as to whom you are referring. But I will not avail myself of the privilege, Kitty,--I will accept your allusion. You mean Dr. Belton. Now, I own that I write this name with considerable reluctance and regret. His many valuable qualities, and the natural goodness of his disposition, have endeared him to all of that humble circle in which his lot is cast, and it would grieve me to write one single word which should pain him to hear. But I ask you, Kitty, what is there in our relative stations in society which should embolden him to offer me attentions? Do we move in the same sphere? have we either thoughts, ideas, or ambitions--have we even acquaintances--in common? I do not want to magnify the position I hold. Heaven knows that the great world is not a sea devoid of rocks and quicksands. No one feels its perils more acutely than myself. But I repeat it: Is there not a wide gulf between us? Could _he_ live, and move, think, act, or plan, in the circle that I a.s.sociate with? Could _I_ exist, even for a day, in _his?_ No, dearest, impossible,--utterly impossible. The great world has its requirements,--exactions, if you will; they are imperative, often tyrannical: but their sweet recompense comes back in that delicious tranquillity of soul, that bland imperturbability that springs from good breeding,--the calm equanimity that no accident can shake, from which no sudden shock can elicit a vibration. I do not pretend, dearest friend, that I have yet attained to this. I know well that I am still far distant from that great goal; but I am on the road, Kitty,--my progress has commenced, and not for the wealth of worlds would I turn back from it.
With thoughts like these in my heart,--instincts I should perhaps call them.--how unsuited should I be to the humble monotony of a provincial existence! Were I even to sacrifice my own happiness, should I secure his? My heart responds, No, certainly not.
As to what you remark of the past, I feel it is easily replied to. The little chapel at Bruff once struck me as a miracle of architectural beauty. I really fancied that the doorway was in the highest taste of florid Gothic, and that the east window was positively gorgeous in tracery. As to the altar, I can only say that it appeared a ma.s.s of gold, silver, and embroidery, such as we read of in the ”Arabian Nights.” Am I to blame, Kitty, that, after having seen the real splendors of St. Gudule, and the dome of Cologne, I can recant my former belief, and acknowledge that the little edifice at Bruff is poor, mean, and insignificant; its architecture a sham, and its splendor all tinsel?