Arthur O'Leary Part 6

"How many did you say?"

"Twelve, my dear--"

"Wait a bit, wait a bit," said the old gentleman; while, with outstretched finger, he began to count them, one, two, three, four, and so on till he reached eleven, when he came to a dead stop, and then dropping his voice to a tone of tremulous anxiety, he whispered, "There's one a-missing."

"You don't say so!" said the lady, "dearee me, try it again."

The old gentleman shook his head, frowned ominously, and recommenced the score.

"You missed the little one near the lime-kiln," interrupted the lady.

"No!" said he abruptly, "that's six, there's seven--eight--nine--ten--eleven--and see, not another."

Upon this, the old lady mounted beside him, and the enumeration began in duet fashion, but try it how they would, let them take them up hill, or down hill, along the Rhine first, or commence inland, it was no use, they could not make the dozen of them.

"It is shameful!" said the gentleman.

"Very disgraceful, indeed!" echoed the lady, as she closed the book, and crossed her hands before her; while her partner's indignation took a warmer turn, and he paced the deck in a state of violent agitation.

It was clear that no idea of questioning John Murray's accuracy had ever crossed their minds. Far from it--the "Handbook" had told them honestly what they were to have at Ander-nach--"twelve towers built by the Romans," was part of the bill of fare; and some rascally Duke of Hesse something, had evidently absconded with a stray castle; they were cheated, "bamboozled, and bit," inveigled out of their mother-country under false pretences, and they "wouldn't stand it for no one," and so they went about complaining to every pa.s.senger, and endeavouring, with all their eloquence, to make a national thing of it, and, determined to represent the case to the minister, the moment they reached Frankfort.

And now, as the _a propos_ reminds me, what a devil of a life an English minister has, in any part of the Continent, frequented by his countrymen.

Let John Bull, from his ignorance of the country, or its language, involve himself in a sc.r.a.pe with the authorities--let him lose his pa.s.sport or his purse--let him forget his penknife or his portmanteau; straightway he repairs to the amba.s.sador, who, in his eyes, is a cross between Lord Aberdeen and a Bow-street officer. The minister's functions are indeed multifarious--now, investigating the advantages of an international treaty; now, detecting the whereabouts of a missing cotton umbrella; now, a.s.signing the limits of a territory; now, giving instructions on the ceremony of presentation to court; now, estimating the fiscal relations of the navigation of a river; now, appraising the price of the bridge of a waiter's nose; as these pleasant and harmless pursuits, so popular in London, of breaking lamps, wrenching off knockers, and thrashing the police, when practised abroad, require explanation at the hands of the minister, who hesitates not to account for them as national predilections, like the taste for strong ale and underdone beef.

He is a proud man, indeed, who puts his foot upon the Continent with that Aladdin's lamp--a letter to the amba.s.sador. The credit of his banker is, in his eyes, very inferior to that all-powerful doc.u.ment, which opens to his excited imagination the salons of royalty, the dinner table of the emba.s.sy, a private box at the opera, and the attentions of the whole fashionable world; and he revels in the expectation of crosses, cordons, stars, and decorations--private interviews with royalty, ministerial audiences, and all the thousand and one flatteries, which are heaped upon the highest of the land. If he is single, he doesn't know but he may marry a princess; if he be married, he may have a daughter for some German archduke, with three hussars for an army, and three acres of barren mountain for a territory--whose subjects are not so numerous as the hairs of his moustache, but whose quarterings go back to Noah; and an ark on a "field azure" figures in his escutcheon. Well, well! of all the expectations of mankind these are about the vainest.

These foreign-office doc.u.ments are but Bellerophon letters,--born to betray. Let not their possession dissuade you from making a weekly score with your hotel-keeper, under the pleasant delusion that you are to dine out, four days, out of the seven. Alas and alack! the amba.s.sador doesn't keep open-house for his rapparee countrymen: his hotel is no shelter for females, dest.i.tute of any correct idea as to where they are going, and why; and however strange it may seem, he actually seems to think his dwelling as much his own, as though it stood in Belgrave-square, or Piccadilly.

Now, John Bull has no notion of this--he pays for these people--they figure in the budget, and for a good round sum, too--and what do they do for it? John knows little of the daily work of diplomacy. A treaty, a tariff, a question of war, he can understand; but the red-tapery of office, he can make nothing of. Court gossip, royal marriages--how his Majesty smiled at the French envoy, and only grinned at the Austrian _charge d'affaires_--how the queen spoke three minutes to the Danish minister's wife, and only said "_Bon jour, madame_," to the Neapolitan's--how plum-pudding figured at the royal table, thus showing that English policy was in the ascendant;---all these signs of the times, are a Chaldee MS. to him. But that the amba.s.sador should invite him and Mrs. Simpkins, and the three Misses and Master Gregory Simpkins, to take a bit of dinner in the family-way--should bully the landlord at the "Aigle," and make a hard bargain with the "Lohn-Kutcher" for him at the "Sechwan"--should take care that he saw the sights, and wasn't more laughed at than was absolutely necessary;--all that, is comprehensible, and John expects it, as naturally as though it was set forth in his pa.s.sport, and sworn to by the foreign secretary, before he left London.

Of all the strange anomalies of English character, I don't know one so thoroughly inexplicable as the mystery by which so really independent a fellow as John Bull ought to be--and as he, in nineteen cases out of twenty, is, should be a tuft hunter. The man who would scorn any pecuniary obligation, who would travel a hundred miles back, on his journey, to acquit a forgotten debt--who has not a thought that is not high-souled, lofty, and honourable, will stoop to any thing, to be where he has no pretension to be--to figure in a society, where he is any thing but at his ease--unnoticed, save by ridicule. Any one who has much experience of the Continent, must have been struck by this. There is no trouble too great, no expense too lavish, no intrigue too difficult, to obtain an invitation to court, or an emba.s.sy _soiree_.

These emba.s.sy _soirees_, too, are good things in their way--a kind of terrestrial _inferno_, where all ranks and conditions of men enter--stately Prussians, wily Frenchmen, roguish-looking Austrians, stupid Danes, haughty English, swarthy, mean-looking Spaniards, and here and there some "eternal swaggerer" from the States, with his hair "_en Kentuck_," and "a very pretty considerable d.a.m.ned loud smell" of tobacco about him. Then there are the "_grandes dames_," glittering in diamonds, and sitting in divan, and the ministers' ladies of every gradation, from plenipos' wives to _charge d'afaires_, with their _cordons_ of whiskered _attaches_ about them--maids of honour, _aides-de-camp du roi_, Poles, _savans_, newspaper editors, and a Turk. Every rank has its place in the attention of the host: and he poises his civilities, as though a ray the more, one shade the less, would upset the balance of nations, and compromise the peace of Europe. In that respect, nothing ever surpa.s.sed the old Dutch emba.s.sy, at Dresden, where the _maitre d'hotel_ had strict orders to serve, coffee, to the ministers, _eau sucree_, to the secretaries, and, nothing, to the _attaches_. No plea of heat, fatigue, or exhaustion, was ever suffered to infringe a rule, founded on the broadest views of diplomatic rank. A cup of coffee thus became, like a cordon or a star, an honourable and a proud distinction; and the enviable possessor sipped his Mocha, and coquetted with the spoon, with a sense of dignity, ordinary men know nothing of in such circ.u.mstances; while the secretary's _eau sucree_ became a goal to the young aspirant in the career; which must have stirred his early ambition, and stimulated his ardour for success.

If, as some folk say, human intellect is never more conspicuous, than where a high order of mind can descend to some paltry, insignificant circ.u.mstance, and bring to its consideration all the force it possesses; certes diplomatic people must be of a no mean order of capacity.

From the question of a disputed frontier, to that of a place at dinner, there is but one spring from the course of a river towards the sea, and a procession to table, the practised mind bounds as naturally, as though it were a hop, and a step. A case in point occurred some short time since at Frankfort.

The etiquette in this city gives the president of the diet precedence of the different members of the _corps diplomatique_, who, however, all take rank before the rest of the diet.

The Austrian minister, who occupied the post of president, being absent, the Prussian envoy held the office _ad interim_, and believed that, with the duties, its privileges became his.

M. Anstett, the Russian envoy, having invited his colleagues to dinner, the grave question arose who was to go first? On one hand the dowager, was the Minister of France, who always preceded the others; on the other was the Prussian, a _pro tempore_ president, and who showed no disposition to concede his pretensions.

The important moment arrived--the door was flung wide; and an imposing voice proclaimed--"_Madame la Baronne est servie_." Scarce were the words spoken, when the Prussian sprang forward, and, offering his arm gallantly to Madame d'Anstett, led the way, before the Frenchman had time to look around him.

When the party were seated at table, M. d'Anstett looked about him in a state of embarra.s.sment and uneasiness: then, suddenly rallying, he called out in a voice audible throughout the whole room--"Serve the soup to the Minister of France first!" The order was obeyed, and the French minister had lifted his third spoonful to his lips before the humbled Prussian had tasted his.

The next day saw couriers flying, extra post through all Europe, conveying the important intelligence; that when all other precedence failed, soup, might be resorted to, to test rank and supremacy.

And now enough for the present of ministers ordinary and extraordinary, envoys and plenipos; though I intend to come back to them at another opportunity.

CHAPTER V. ANTWERP--"THE FISCHER'S HAUS."

It was through no veneration for the memory of Van Hoogen-dorp's adventure, that I found myself one morning at Antwerp. I like the old town: I like its quaint, irregular streets, its glorious cathedral, the old "Place," with its alleys of trees; I like the Flemish women, and their long-eared caps; and I like the _table d'hote_ at the "St.

Antoine"--among other reasons, because, being at one o'clock, it affords a capital argument for a hot supper, at nine.

I do not know how other people may feel, but to me, I must confess, much of the pleasure the Continent affords me, is destroyed by the jargon of the "_Commissionnaires_," and the cant of guidebooks. Why is not a man permitted to sit down before that great picture, "The Descent from the Cross," and "gaze his fill" on it? Why may he not look till the whole scene becomes, as it were, acting before him, and all those faces of grief, of care, of horror, and despair, are graven in his memory, never to be erased again? Why, I say, may he not study this in tranquillity and peace, without some coa.r.s.e, tobacco-reeking fellow, at his elbow, in a dirty blouse and wooden shoes, explaining, in _patois_ French, the merits of a work, which he is as well fitted to paint, as to appreciate.

But I must not myself commit the very error I am reprobating. I will not attempt any description of a picture, which, to those who have seen it, could realize not one of the impressions the work itself afforded, and to those who have not, would convey nothing at all. I will not bore my reader with the tiresome cant of "effect." "expression," "force,"

"depth," and "relief," but, instead of all this, will tell him a short story about the painting, which, if it has no other merit, has at least that of authenticity.

Rubens--who, among his other tastes, was a great florist--was very desirous to enlarge his garden, by adding to it a patch of ground adjoining. It chanced unfortunately, that this piece of land did not belong to an individual who could be tempted by a large price, but to a society or club called the "Arquebussiers," one of those old Flemish guilds, which date their origin several centuries back. Insensible to every temptation of money, they resisted all the painter's offers, and at length only consented to relinquish the land on condition that he would paint a picture for them, representing their patron saint, St.

Christopher. To this, Rubens readily acceded, his only difficulty being to find out some incident in the good saint's life, which might serve as a subject. What St. Christopher had to do with cross-bows or sharp-shooters, no one could tell him; and for many a long day he puzzled his mind, without ever being able to hit upon a solution of the difficulty. At last, in despair, the etymology of the word suggested a plan; and "christopheros," or cross-bearer, afforded the hint on which he began his great picture of "The Descent." For months long, he worked industriously at the painting, taking an interest in its details, such as he confesses never to have felt in any of his previous works. He knew it to be his _chef-d'oeuvre_, and looked forward, with a natural eagerness, to the moment when he should display it before its future possessors, and receive their congratulations on his success.

The day came; the "Arquebuss" men a.s.sembled, and repaired in a body to Rubens' house; the large folding shutters which concealed the painting were opened, and the triumph of the painter's genius was displayed before them: but not a word was spoken; no exclamation of admiration, or wonder, broke from the a.s.sembled throng; not a murmur of pleasure, or even surprise was there: on the contrary, the artist beheld nothing but faces expressive of disappointment, and dissatisfaction; and at length, after a considerable-pause, one question burst from every lip--"Where is St. Christopher?"

It was to no purpose he explained the object of his work: in vain he a.s.sured them, that the picture was the greatest he had ever painted, and far superior to what he had contracted to give them. They stood obdurate, and motionless: it was St. Christopher they wished for; it was for him they bargained, and him, they would have.

The altercation continued long, and earnest. Some of them, more moderate, hoping to conciliate both parties, suggested that, as there was a small s.p.a.ce unemployed in the left of the painting, St. Christopher could be introduced, there, by making him somewhat diminutive. Rubens rejected the proposal with disgust: his great work was not to be destroyed by such an anomaly as this: and so, breaking off the negotiation at once, he dismissed the "Arquebuss" men, and relinquished all pretension to the "promised land."

Matters remained for some months thus, when the burgomaster, who was an ardent admirer of Rubens' genius, came to hear the entire transaction; and, waiting on the painter, suggested an expedient by which every difficulty might be avoided, and both parties rest content. "Why not,"

said he, "make a St. Christopher on the outside of the shutter? You have surely s.p.a.ce enough there, and can make him of any size you like." The artist caught at the proposal, seized his chalk, and in a few minutes sketched out, a gigantic saint, which the burgomaster at once p.r.o.nounced suited to the occasion.

The "Arquebuss" men were again introduced; and, immediately on beholding their patron, professed themselves perfectly satisfied. The bargain was concluded, the land ceded, and the picture hung up in the great cathedral of Antwerp, where, with the exception of the short period that French spoliation carried it to the Louvre, it has remained ever since, a monument of the artist's genius, the greatest and most finished of all his works. And now that I have done my story, I'll try and find out that little quaint hotel they call the "Fischer's Haus."

Fifteen years ago, I remember losing my way one night in the streets of Antwerp. I couldn't speak a word of Flemish: the few people I met couldn't understand a word of French. I wandered about, for full two hours, and heard the old cathedral clock play a psalm tune, and the St.

Joseph tried its hand on another. A watchman cried the hour through a cow's horn, and set all the dogs a-barking; and then all was still again, and I plodded along, without the faintest idea of the points of the compa.s.s.

In this moody frame of mind I was, when the heavy clank of a pair of sabots, behind, apprised me that some one was following. I turned sharply about, and accosted him in French.

"English?" said he, in a thick, guttural tone.

"Yes, thank heaven" said I, "do you speak English?"

"Ja, Mynheer," answered he. Though this reply didn't promise very favourably, I immediately asked him to guide me to my hotel, upon which he shook his head gravely, and said nothing.

"Don't you speak English?" said I.

"Ja!" said he once more.

"I've lost my way," cried I; "I am a stranger."

He looked at me doggedly for a minute or two, and then, with a stern gravity of manner, and a phlegm, I cannot attempt to convey, he said--

"D----n _my_ eyes!"