Tracks of a Rolling Stone Part 9

_Prisoner_: 'At Dresden by this time, I hope.'

_General_ (receiving journal from aide-de-camp, who points to a certain page): 'You state here you were caught by the Austrians in a pretended escape from the Viennese insurgents; and add, "They evidently took me for a spy" [returning journal to aide]. What is your explanation of this?'

_Prisoner_ (shrugging shoulders disdainfully): 'In the first place, the word "pretended" is not in my journal. In the second, although of course it does not follow, if one takes another person for a man of sagacity or a gentleman-it does not follow that he is either-still, when-'

_General_ (with signs of impatience): 'I have here a _Pa.s.sierschein_, found amongst your papers and signed by the rebels. They would not have given you this, had you not been on friendly terms with them. You will be detained until I have further particulars.'

_Prisoner_ (angrily): 'I will a.s.sist you, through Her Britannic Majesty's Consul, with whom I claim the right to communicate. I beg to inform you that I am neither a spy nor a socialist, but the son of an English peer'

(heaven help the relevancy!). 'An Englishman has yet to learn that Lord Palmerston's signature is to be set at naught and treated with contumacy.'

The General beckoned to the inspector to put an end to the proceedings.

But the aide, who had been studying the journal, again placed it in his chief's hands. A colloquy ensued, in which I overheard the name of Lord Ponsonby. The enemy seemed to waver, so I charged with a renewed request to see the English Consul. A pause; then some remarks in Russian from the aide; then the _General_ (in suaver tones): 'The English Consul, I find, is absent on a month's leave. If what you state is true, you acted unadvisedly in not having your pa.s.sport altered and _revise_ when you parted with your servant. How long do you wish to remain here?'

Said I, 'Vous avez bien raison, Monsieur. Je suis evidemment dans mon tort. Ma visite a Varsovie etait une aberration. As to my stay, je suis deja tout ce qu'il y a de plus ennuye. I have seen enough of Warsaw to last for the rest of my days.'

Eventually my portmanteau and despatch-box were restored to me; and I took up my quarters in the filthiest inn (there was no better, I believe) that it was ever my misfortune to lodge at. It was ancient, dark, dirty, and dismal. My sitting-room (I had a cupboard besides to sleep in) had but one window, looking into a gloomy courtyard. The furniture consisted of two wooden chairs and a spavined horsehair sofa. The ceiling was low and lamp-blacked; the stained paper fell in strips from the sweating walls; fortunately there was no carpet; but if anything could have added to the occupier's depression it was the sight of his own distorted features in a shattered gla.s.s, which seemed to watch him like a detective and take notes of his movements-a real Russian mirror.

But the resources of one-and-twenty are not easily daunted, even by the presence of the _cimex lectularius_ or the _pulex irritans_. I inquired for a _laquais de place_,-some human being to consort with was the most pressing of immediate wants. As luck would have it, the very article was in the dreary courtyard, lurking spider-like for the innocent traveller just arrived. Elective affinity brought us at once to friendly intercourse. He was of the Hebrew race, as the larger half of the Warsaw population still are. He was a typical Jew (all Jews are typical), though all are not so thin as was Beninsky. His eyes were sunk in sockets deepened by the sharpness of his bird-of-prey beak; a single corkscrew ringlet dropped tearfully down each cheek; and his one front tooth seemed sometimes in his upper, sometimes in his lower jaw. His skull-cap and his gabardine might have been heirlooms from the Patriarch Jacob; and his poor hands seemed made for clawing. But there was a humble and contrite spirit in his sad eyes. The history of his race was written in them; but it was modern history that one read in their hopeless and appealing look.

His cringing manner and his soft voice (we conversed in German) touched my heart. I have always had a liking for the Jews. Who shall reckon how much some of us owe them! They have always interested me as a peculiar people-admitting sometimes, as in poor Beninsky's case, of purifying, no doubt; yet, if occasionally zealous (and who is not?) of interested works-cent. per cent. works, often-yes, more often than we Christians-zealous of good works, of open-handed, large-hearted munificence, of charity in its democratic and n.o.blest sense. Shame upon the nations which despise and persecute them for faults which they, the persecutors, have begotten! Shame on those who have extorted both their money and their teeth! I think if I were a Jew I should chuckle to see my shekels furnish all the wars in which Christians cut one another's Christian weasands.

And who has not a tenderness for the 'beautiful and well-favoured'

Rachels, and the 'tender-eyed' Leahs, and the tricksy little Zilpahs, and the Rebekahs, from the wife of Isaac of Gerar to the daughter of Isaac of York? Who would not love to sit with Jessica where moonlight sleeps, and watch the patines of bright gold reflected in her heavenly orbs? I once knew a Jessica, a Polish Jessica, who-but that was in Vienna, more than half a century ago.

Beninsky's...o...b.. brightened visibly when I bade him break his fast at my high tea. I ordered everything they had in the house I think,-a cold Pomeranian _Gansebrust_, a garlicky _Wurst_, and _geraucherte Lachs_. I had a packet of my own Fortnum and Mason's Souchong; and when the stove gave out its glow, and the samovar its music, Beninsky's grat.i.tude and his hunger pa.s.sed the limits of restraint. Late into the night we smoked our meerschaums.

When I spoke of the Russians, he got up nervously to see the door was shut, and whispered with bated breath. What a relief it was to him to meet a man to whom he could pour out his griefs, his double griefs, as Pole and Israelite. Before we parted I made him put the remains of the sausage (!) and the goose-breast under his petticoats. I bade him come to me in the morning and show me all that was worth seeing in Warsaw.

When he left, with tears in his eyes, I was consoled to think that for one night at any rate he and his _Gansebrust_ and sausage would rest peacefully in Abraham's bosom. What Abraham would say to the sausage I did not ask; nor perhaps did my poor Beninsky.

CHAPTER XV

THE remainder of the year '49 has left me nothing to tell. For me, it was the inane life of that draff of Society-the young man-about-town: the tailor's, the haberdasher's, the bootmaker's, and trinket-maker's, young man; the dancing and 'h.e.l.l'-frequenting young man; the young man of the 'Cider Cellars' and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, the park-lounger, the young lady's young man-who puts his hat into mourning, and turns up his trousers because-because the other young man does ditto, ditto.

I had a share in the Guards' omnibus box at Covent Garden, with the privilege attached of going behind the scenes. Ah! that was a real pleasure. To listen night after night to Grisi and Mario, Alboni and Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi, Persiani and Tamburini,-and Jenny Lind too, though she was at the other house. And what an orchestra was Costa's-with Sainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who together but alone, accompanied the _recitative_ with their harmonious chords on 'cello and double-ba.s.s. Is singing a lost art? Or is that but a _temporis acti_ question? We who heard those now silent voices fancy there are none to match them nowadays. Certainly there are no dancers like Taglioni, and Cerito, and f.a.n.n.y Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.

After the opera and the ball, one finished the night at Vauxhall or Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, as they were when Miss Becky Sharpe and fat Jos supped there only five-and-thirty years before.

Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall, one rarely heard good music. Monsieur Jullien, that prince of musical mountebanks-the 'Prince of Waterloo,' as John Ella called him, was the first to popularise cla.s.sical music at his promenade concerts, by tentatively introducing a single movement of a symphony here and there in the programme of his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.

Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Union and quartett parties at Willis's Rooms, where Sainton and Cooper led alternately, and the incomparable Piatti and Hill made up the four. Here Ernst, Sivori, Vieuxtemps, and Bottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella G.o.ddard, and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.

Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella's energy and enthusiasm. As a proof of what he had to contend with, and what he triumphed over, Halle's 'Life' may be quoted, where it says: 'When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in 1848] what I wished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven's pianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed "Impossible!" and endeavoured to demonstrate that they were not works to be played in public.' What seven-league boots the world has stridden in within the memory of living men!

John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa's band, and had begun life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook. I knew both him and the wonderful little Frenchman 'at home.' According to both, in their different ways, Beethoven and Mozart would have been lost to fame but for their heroic efforts to save them.

I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a lady who gave musical parties. He was always attuned to the highest pitch,-most good-natured, but most excitable where music was to the fore. We were rehearsing a quintett, the pianoforte part of which was played by the young lady of the house-a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, but nervous to the point of hysteria. Ella himself was in a hypercritical state; nothing would go smoothly; and the piano was always (according to him) the peccant instrument. Again and again he made us restart the movement. There were a good many friends of the family invited to this last rehearsal, which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously on the brink of a breakdown. Presently Ella again jumped off his chair, and shouted: 'Not E flat! There's no E flat there; E natural! E natural! I never in my life knew a young lady so prolific of flats as you.' There was a pause, then a giggle, then an explosion; and then the poor girl, bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.

It was at Ella's house that I first heard Joachim, then about sixteen, I suppose. He had not yet performed in London. All the musical celebrities were present to hear the youthful prodigy. Two quartetts were played, Ernst leading one and Joachim the other. After it was over, everyone was enraptured, but no one more so than Ernst, who unhesitatingly predicted the fame which the great artist has so eminently achieved.

One more amusing little story belongs to my experiences of these days.

Having two brothers and a brother-in-law in the Guards, I used to dine often at the Tower, or the Bank, or St. James's. At the Bank of England there is always at night an officer's guard. There is no mess, as the officer is alone. But the Bank provides dinner for two, in case the officer should invite a friend. On the occasion I speak of, my brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Macdonald, was on duty. The soup and fish were excellent, but we were young and hungry, and the usual leg of mutton was always a dish to be looked forward to.

When its cover was removed by the waiter we looked in vain; there was plenty of gravy, but no mutton. Our surprise was even greater than our dismay, for the waiter swore 'So 'elp his gawd' that he saw the cook put the leg on the dish, and that he himself put the cover on the leg. 'And what did you do with it then?' questioned my host. 'Nothing, S'Archibald. Brought it straight in 'ere.' 'Do you mean to tell me it was never out of your hands between this and the kitchen?' 'Never, but for the moment I put it down outside the door to change the plates.'

'And was there n.o.body in the pa.s.sage?' 'Not a soul, except the sentry.'

'I see,' said my host, who was a quick-witted man. 'Send the sergeant here.' The sergeant came. The facts were related, and the order given to parade the entire guard, sentry included, in the pa.s.sage.

The sentry was interrogated first. 'No, he had not seen n.o.body in the pa.s.sage.' 'No one had touched the dish?' 'n.o.body as ever he seed.'

Then came the orders: 'Attention. Ground arms. Take off your bear-skins.' And the truth-_i.e._, the missing leg-was at once revealed; the sentry had popped it into his shako. For long after that day, when the guard either for the Tower or Bank marched through the streets, the little blackguard boys used to run beside it and cry, 'Who stole the leg o' mutton?'

CHAPTER XVI

PROBABLY the most important historical event of the year '49 was the discovery of gold in California, or rather, the great Western Exodus in pursuit of it. A restless desire possessed me to see something of America, especially of the Far West. I had an hereditary love of sport, and had read and heard wonderful tales of bison, and grisly bears, and wapitis. No books had so fascinated me, when a boy, as the 'Deer-slayer,' the 'Pathfinder,' and the beloved 'Last of the Mohicans.'

Here then was a new field for adventure. I would go to California, and hunt my way across the continent. Ruxton's 'Life in the Far West'

inspired a belief in self-reliance and independence only rivalled by Robinson Crusoe. If I could not find a companion, I would go alone.

Little did I dream of the fortune which was in store for me, or how nearly I missed carrying out the scheme so wildly contemplated, or indeed, any scheme at all.

The only friend I could meet with both willing and able to join me was the last Lord Durham. He could not undertake to go to California; but he had been to New York during his father's reign in Canada, and liked the idea of revisiting the States. He proposed that we should spend the winter in the West Indies, and after some buffalo-shooting on the plains, return to England in the autumn.

The notion of the West Indies gave rise to an off-shoot. Both Durham and I were members of the old Garrick, then but a small club in Covent Garden. Amongst our mutual friends was Andrew Arcedeckne-p.r.o.nounced Archdeacon-a character to whom attaches a peculiar literary interest, of which anon. Arcedeckne-Archy, as he was commonly called-was about a couple of years older than we were. He was the owner of Glevering Hall, Suffolk, and nephew of Lord Huntingfield. These particulars, as well as those of his person, are note-worthy, as it will soon appear.

Archy-'Merry Andrew,' as I used to call him,-owned one of the finest estates in Jamaica-Golden Grove. When he heard of our intended trip, he at once volunteered to go with us. He had never seen Golden Grove, but had often wished to visit it. Thus it came to pa.s.s that we three secured our cabins in one of the West India mailers, and left England in December 1849.

To return to our little Suffolk squire. The description of his figure, as before said, is all-important, though the world is familiar with it, as drawn by the pencil of a master caricaturist. Arcedeckne was about five feet three inches, round as a cask, with a small singularly round face and head, closely cropped hair, and large soft eyes,-in a word, so like a seal, that he was as often called 'Phoca' as Archy.

Do you recognise the portrait? Do you need the help of 'Glevering Hall'

(how curious the suggestion!). And would you not like to hear him talk?

Here is a specimen in his best manner. Surely it must have been taken down by a shorthand writer, or a phonograph:

_Mr. Harry Foker loquitur_: 'He inquired for Rincer and the cold in his nose, told Mrs. Rincer a riddle, asked Miss Rincer when she would be prepared to marry him, and paid his compliments to Miss Brett, another young lady in the bar, all in a minute of time, and with a liveliness and facetiousness which set all these young ladies in a giggle. "Have a drop, Pen: it's recommended by the faculty, &c. Give the young one a gla.s.s, R., and score it up to yours truly."'

I fancy the great man who recorded these words was more afraid of Mr.

Harry _Phoca_ than of any other man in the Garrick Club-possibly for the reason that honest Harry was not the least bit afraid of him. The shy, the proud, the sensitive satirist would steal quietly into the room, avoiding notice as though he wished himself invisible. Phoca would be warming his back at the fire, and calling for a gla.s.s of 'Foker's own.'

Seeing the giant enter, he would advance a step or two, with a couple of extended fingers, and exclaim, quite affably, 'Ha! Mr. Thackry! litary cove! Glad to see you, sir. How's Major Dobbings?' and likely enough would turn to the waiter, and bid him, 'Give this gent a gla.s.s of the same, and score it up to yours truly!' We have his biographer's word for it, that he would have winked at the Duke of Wellington, with just as little scruple.

Yes, Andrew Arcedeckne was the original of Harry Foker; and, from the cut of his clothes to his family connection, and to the comicality, the simplicity, the sweetness of temper (though hardly doing justice to the loveableness of the little man), the famous caricature fits him to a T.

The night before we left London we had a convivial dinner at the Garrick-we three travellers, with Albert Smith, his brother, and John Leech. It was a merry party, to which all contributed good fellowship and innocent jokes. The latest arrival at the Zoo was the first hippopotamus that had reached England,-a present from the Khedive.

Someone wondered how it had been caught. I suggested a trout-fly; which so tickled John Leech's fancy that he promised to draw it for next week's 'Punch.' Albert Smith went with us to Southampton to see us off.

On our way to Jamaica we stopped a night at Barbadoes to coal. Here I had the honour of making the acquaintance of the renowned Caroline Lee!-Miss Car'line, as the negroes called her. She was so pleased at the a.s.surance that her friend Mr. Peter Simple had spread her fame all the world over, that she made us a bowl of the most delicious iced sangaree; and speedily got up a 'dignity ball' for our entertainment. She was rather too much of an armful to dance with herself, but there was no lack of dark beauties, (not a white woman or white man except ourselves in the room.) We danced pretty nearly from daylight to daylight. The blending of rigid propriety, of the severest 'dignity,' with the sudden guffaw and outburst of wildest spirits and comic humour, is beyond description, and is only to be met with amongst these ebullient children of the sun.