Loe raamatut: «A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance», lehekülg 26

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE DUEL WITH PRINCE MAX

I had no writing-materials, but I had just composed a long letter to the “Times” on “the outrageous treatment and false imprisonment of a British subject in Austria,” when my door was opened by a thin, lank-jawed, fierce-eyed man in uniform, who announced himself as the Rittmeister von Mahony, of the Keyser Hussars.

“A countryman – an Irishman,” said I, eagerly, clasping his hand with warmth.

“That is to say, two generations back,” replied he; “my grandfather Terence was a lieutenant in Trenck’s Horse, but since that none of us have ever been out of Austria.”

If these tidings fell coldly on my heart, just beginning to glow with the ardor of home and country, I soon saw that it takes more than two generations to wash out the Irishman from a man’s nature. The honest Rittmeister, with scarcely a word of English in his vocabulary, was as hearty a countryman as if he had never journeyed out of the land of Bog.

He had beard “all about it,” he said, by way of arresting the eloquent indignation that filled me; and he added, “And the more fool myself to notice the matter;” asking me, quaintly, if I had never heard of our native maxim that says, “One man ought never to fall upon forty.” “Well,” said he, with a sigh, “what’s done can’t be undone; and let us see what’s to come next? I see you are a gentleman, and the worse luck yours.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked I.

“Just this: you’ll have to fight; and if you were a ‘Gemeiner’ – a plebeian – you’d get off.”

I turned away to the window to wipe a tear out of my eye; it had come there without my knowing it, and, as I did so, I devoted myself to the death of a hero.

“Yes,” said I, “she is in this incident – she has her part in this scene of my life’s drama, and I will not disgrace her presence. I will die like a man of honor rather than that her name should be disparaged.”

He went on to tell me of my opponent, who was brother to a reigning sovereign, and himself a royal highness, – Prince Max of Swabia. “He was not,” he added, “by any means a bad fellow, though not reputed to be perfectly sane on certain topics.” However, as his eccentricities were very harmless ones, merely offshoots of an exaggerated personal vanity, it was supposed that some active service, and a little more intercourse with the world, would cure him. “Not,” added he, “that one can say he has shown many signs of amendment up to this, for he never makes an excursion of half-a-dozen days from home without coming back filled with the resistless passion of some young queen or archduchess for him. As he forgets these as fast as he imagines them, there is usually nothing to lament on the subject. Now you are in possession of all that you need know about him. Tell me something of yourself; and first, have you served?”

“Never.”

“Was your father a soldier, or your grandfather?”

“Neither.”

“Have you any connections on the mother’s side in the army?”

“I am not aware of one.”

He gave a short, hasty cough, and walked the room twice with his hands clasped at his back, and then, coming straight in front of me, said, “And your name? What’s your name?”

“Potts! Potts!” said I, with a firm energy.

“Potztausend!” cried he, with a grim laugh: “what a strange name!”

“I said Potts, Herr Rittmeister, and not Potztausend,” rejoined I, haughtily.

“And I heard you,” said he; “it was involuntarily on my part to add the termination. And who are the Pottses? Are they noble?”

“Nothing of the kind, – respectable middle-class folk; some in trade, some clerks in mercantile houses, some holding small government employments, one, perhaps the chief of the family, an eminent apothecary!”

As if I had uttered the most irresistible joke, at this word he held his hands over his face and shook with laughter.

“Heilge Joseph!” cried he, at last, “this is too good! The Prince Max going out with an apothecary’s nephew, or, maybe, his son!”

“His son upon this occasion,” said I, gravely.

He, did not reply for some minutes, and then, leaning over the back of a chair, and regarding me very fixedly, he said, —

“You have only to say who you are, and what your belongings, and nothing will come of this affair. In fact, what with your little knowledge of German, your imperfect comprehension of what the Prince said, and your own station in life, I’ll engage to arrange everything and get you off clear!”

“In a word,” said I, “I am to plead in forma, inferioris, – isn’t that it?”

“Just so,” said he, puffing out a long cloud from his pipe.

“I ‘d rather die first!” cried I, with an energy that actually startled him.

“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I think it is very probable that will come of it; but, if it be your choice, I have nothing to say.”

“Go back, Herr Rittmeister,” cried I, “and arrange the meeting for the very earliest moment.”

I said this with a strong purpose, for I felt if the event were to come off at once I could behave well.

“As you are resolved on this course,” said he, “do not make any such confidences to others as you have made to me; nothing about those Pottses in haberdashery and dry goods, but just simply you are the high and well-born Potts of Pottsheim. Not a word more.”

I bowed an assent, but so anxious was he to impress this upon me that he went over it all once more.

“As it will be for me to receive the Prince’s message, the choice of weapons will be yours. What are you most expert with? I mean, after the pistol?” said he, grinning.

“I am about equally skilled in all. Rapier, pistol, or sabre are all alike to me.”

“Der Teufel!” cried he: “I was not counting upon this; and as the sabre is the Prince’s weakest arm, we ‘ll select it.”

I bowed again, and more blandly.

“There is but one thing more,” said he, turning about just as he was leaving the room. “Don’t forget that in this case the gross provocation came from you and, therefore, be satisfied with self-defence, or, at most, a mere flesh wound. Remember that the Prince is a near connection of the Royal Family of England, and it would be irreparable ruin to you were he to fall by your hand.” And with this he went out.

Now, had he gravely bound me over not to strangle the lions in the Tower, it could not have appeared more ridiculous to me than this injunction, and if there had been in my heart the smallest fund of humor, I could have laughed at it; but, Heaven knows, none of my impulses took a mirthful turn at that moment, and there never was invented the drollery that could wring a smile from me.

I was sitting in a sort of stupor – I know not how long – when the door opened, and the Rittmeister’s head peered in.

“To-morrow morning at five!” cried he. “I will fetch you half an hour before.” The door closed, and he was off.

It was now a few minutes past eight o’clock, and there were, therefore, something short of nine hours of life left to me. I have heard that Victor Hugo is an amiable and kindly disposed man, and I feel assured, if he ever could have known the tortures he would have inflicted, he would never have designed the terrible record entitled “Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné.” I conclude it was designed as a sort of appeal against death punishments. I doubt much of its efficacy in altering legislation, while I feel assured, that if ever it fall in the way of one whose hours are numbered, it must add indescribably to his misery.

When, how, or by whom my supper was served, I never knew. I can only remember that a very sleepy waiter roused me out of a half-drowsy revery about midnight, by asking if he were to remove the dishes, or let them remain till morning. I bade him leave them, and me also, and when the door was closed I sat down to my meal. It was cold and unappetizing. I would have deemed it unwholesome, too, but I remembered that the poor stomach it was destined for would never be called on to digest it, and that for once I might transgress without the fear of dyspepsia. My case was precisely that of the purseless traveller, who, we are told, can sing before the robber, just as if want ever suggested melody, or that being poor was a reason for song. So with me any excess was open to me just because it was impossible!

“Still,” thought I, “great criminals – and surely I am not as bad as they – eat very heartily.” And so I cut the tough fowl vigorously in two, and placed half of it on my plate. I filled myself out a whole goblet of wine, and drank it off. I repeated this, and felt better. I fell to now with a will, and really made an excellent supper. There were some potted sardines that I secretly resolved to have for my breakfast, when the sudden thought flashed across me that I was never to breakfast any more. I verily believe that I tasted in that one instant a whole life long of agony and bitterness.

There was in my friendless, lone condition, my youth, the mild and gentle traits of my nature, and my guileless simplicity, just that combination of circumstances which would make my fate peculiarly pathetic, and I imagined my countrymen standing beside the gravestone and muttering “Poor Potts!” till I felt my heart almost bursting with sorrow over myself.

“Cut off at three-and-twenty!” sobbed I; “in the very opening bud of his promise!”

“Misfortune is a pebble with many facets,” says the Chinese adage, “and wise is he who turns it around till he find the smooth one.”

“Is there such here?” thought I. “And where can it be?” With all my ingenuity I could not discover it, when at last there crossed my mind how the event would figure in the daily papers, and be handed down to remote posterity. I imagined the combat itself described in the language almost of a lion-hunt “Potts, who had never till that moment had a sword in his hand, – Potts, though at this time severely wounded, and bleeding profusely, nothing dismayed by the ferocious attack of his opponent, – Potts maintained his guard with all the coolness of a consummate swordsman.” How I wished my life might be spared just to let me write the narrative of the combat I would like, besides, to show the world how generously I could treat an adversary, with what delicacy I could respect his motives, and how nobly deal even with his injustice.

“Was that two o’clock?” said I, starting up, while the humming sound of the gong bell filled the room. “Is it possible that but three hours now stand between me and – ” I gave a shudder that made me feel as if I was standing in a fearful thorough draught, and actually looked up to see if the window were not open; but no, it was closed, the night calm, and the sky full of stars. “Oh!” exclaimed I, “if there are Pottses up amongst you yonder, I hope destiny may deal more kindly by them than down here. I trust that in those glorious regions a higher and purer intelligence prevails, and, above all things, that duelling is proclaimed the greatest of crimes.” Remnant of barbarism! it is worse ten thousand times; it is the whole suit, costume, and investure of an uncivilized age. “Poor Potts!” said I; “you went out upon your life-voyage with very generous intentions towards posterity. I wonder how it will treat you? Will it vindicate your memory, uphold your fame, and dignify your motives? Will it be said in history, ‘Amongst the memorable events of the period was the duel between the Prince Max of Swabia and an Irish gentleman named Potts. To understand fully the circumstance of this remarkable conflict, it is necessary to premise that Potts was not what is vulgarly called constitutionally brave; but he was more. He was – ‘? Ah! there was the puzzle. How was that miserable biographer ever to arrive at the secret of an organization fine and subtle as mine? If I could but leave it on record – if I could but transmit to the ages that will come after me the invaluable key to the mystery of my being – a few days would suffice – a week certainly would do it – and why should I not have time given me for this? I will certainly propose this to the Rittmeister when he comes. There can be little doubt but he will see the matter with my own eyes.”

As if I had summoned him by enchantment, there he stood at the door, wrapped in his great white cavalry cloak, and looking gigantic and ominous together.

“There is no carriage-road,” said he, “to the place we are going, and I have come thus early that we may stroll along leisurely, and enjoy the fresh air of the morning.”

Until that moment I had never believed how heartless human nature could be! To talk of enjoyment, to recall the world and its pleasures, in any way, to one situated like I, was a bold and scarcely credible cruelty; but the words did me good service; they armed me with a sardonic contempt for life and mankind; and so I protested that I was charmed with the project, and out we set.

My companion was not talkative; he was a quiet, almost depressed man, who had led a very monotonous existence, with little society among his comrades; so that he did not offer me the occasion I sought for, of saying saucy and sneering things of the world at large. Indeed, the first observation he made was, that we were in a locality that ought to be interesting to Irishmen, since an ancient shrine of St. Patrick marked the spot of the convent to which we were approaching. No remark could have been more ill-timed! to look back into the past, one ought to have some vista of the future. Who can sympathize with bygones when he is counting the minutes that are to make him one of them?

What a bore that old Rittmeister was with his antiquities, and how I hated him as he said, “If your time was not so limited I ‘d have taken you over to St. Gallen to inspect the manuscripts.” I felt choking as he uttered these words. How was my time so limited? I did not dare to ask. Was he barbarous enough to mean that if I had another day to live I might have passed it pleasantly in turning over musty missals in a monastery?

At last we came to a halt in a little grove of pines, and he said, “Have you any address to give me of friends or relatives, or have you any peculiar directions on any subject?”

“You made a remark last night, Herr Rittmeister,” said I, “which did not at the moment produce the profound impression upon me that subsequent reflection has enforced. You said that if his Royal Highness were fully aware that his antagonist was the son of a practising chemist and apothecary – ”

“That I could have, put off this event; true enough, but when you refused that alternative, and insisted on satisfaction, I myself, as your countryman, gave the guarantee for your rank, which nothing now will make me retract Understand me well, – nothing will make me retract.”

“You are pleased to be precipitate,” said I, with an attempt to sneer; “my remark had but one object, and that was my personal disinclination to obtain a meeting under a false pretext.”

“Make your mind easy on that score. It will be all precisely the same in about an hour hence.”

I nearly fainted as I heard this; it seemed as though a cold stream of water ran through my spine and paralyzed the very marrow inside.

“You have your choice of weapons,” said he, curtly; “which are you best at?”

I was going to say the “javelin,” but I was ashamed; and yet should a man sacrifice life for a false modesty? While I reasoned thus, he pointed to a group of officers close to the garden wall of the convent, and said, —

“They are all waiting yonder; let us hasten on.”

If I had been mortally wounded, and was dragging my feeble limbs along to rest them forever on some particular spot, I might have, probably, effected my progress as easily as I now did. The slightest inequality of ground tripped me, and I stumbled at every step.

“You are cold,” said my companion, “and probably unused to early rising, – taste this.”

He gave me his brandy-flask, and I finished it off at a draught. Blessings be on the man who invented alcohol!

All the ethics that ever were written cannot work the same miracle in a man’s nature as a glass of whiskey. Talk of all the wonders of chemistry, and what are they to the simple fact that twopennyworth of cognac can convert a coward into a hero?

I was not quite sure that my antagonist had not resorted to a similar sort of aid, for he seemed as light-hearted and as jolly as though he was out for a picnic. There was a jauntiness, too, in the way he took out his cigar, and scraped his lucifer-match on a beech-tree, that quite struck me, and I should like to have imitated it if I could.

“If it’s the same to you, take the sabre, it’s his weakest weapon,” whispered the Rittmeister in my ear; and I agreed. And now there was a sort of commotion about the choice of the ground and the places, in which my friend seemed to stand by me most manfully. Then there followed a general measurement of swords, and a fierce comparison of weapons. I don’t know how many were not thrust into my hand, one saying, “Take this, it is well balanced in the wrist; or if you like a heavy guard, here’s your arm!”

“To me, it is a matter of perfect indifference,” said I, jauntily. “All weapons are alike.”

“He will attack fiercely, and the moment the word is given,” whispered the Rittmeister, “so be on your guard; keep your hilt full before you, or he 'll slice off your nose before you are aware of it.”

“Be not so sure of that till you have seen my sword play,” said I, fiercely; and my heart swelled with a fierce sentiment that must have been courage, for I never remember to have felt the like before. I know I was brave at that moment, for if, by one word, I could have averted the combat, I would not have uttered it.

“To your places,” cried the umpire, “and on your guard! Are you ready?”

“Ready!” re-echoed I, wildly, while I gave a mad flourish of my weapon round my head that threw the whole company into a roar of laughter; and, at the same instant, two figures, screaming fearfully, rushed from the beech copse, and, bursting their way through the crowd, fell upon me with the most frantic embraces, amidst the louder laughter of the others. O shame and ineffable disgrace! O misery never to be forgotten! It was Vaterchen who now grasped my knees, and Tintefleck who clung round my neck and kissed me repeatedly. From the time of the Laocoon, no one ever struggled to free himself as I did, but all in vain; my efforts, impeded by the sword, lest I might unwillingly wound them, were all fruitless, and we rolled upon the ground inextricably commingled and struggling.

“Was I right?” cried the Prince. “Was I right in calling this fellow a saltimbanque? See him now with his comrades around him, and say if I was mistaken.”

“How is this?” whispered the Rittmeister. “Have you dared to deceive me?”

“I have deceived no one,” said I, trying to rise; and I poured forth a torrent of not very coherent eloquence, as the mirth of my audience seemed to imply; but, fortunately, Vaterchen had now obtained a hearing, and was detailing in very fluent language the nature of the relations between us. Poor old fellow, in his boundless gratitude I seemed more than human; and his praises actually shamed me to hear them. How I had first met them, he recounted in the strain of one assisted by the gods in classic times; his description made me a sort of Jove coming down on a rosy cloud to succor suffering humanity; and then came in Tintefleck with her broken words, marvellously aided by “action,” as she poured forth the heap of gold upon the grass, and said it was all mine!

Wonderful metal, to be sure, for enforcing conviction on the mind of man; there is a sincerity about it far more impressive than any vocal persuasion. The very clink of it implies that the real and the positive are in question, not the imaginary and the delusive. “This is all his!” cried she, pointing to the treasure with the air of one showing Aladdin’s cave; and though her speech was not very intelligible, Vaterchen’s “vulgate” ran underneath and explained the text.

“I hope you will forgive me. I trust you will be satisfied with my apologies, made thus openly,” said the Prince, in the most courteous of manners. “One who can behave with such magnanimity can scarcely be wanting in another species of generosity.” And ere I could well reply, I found myself shaking hands with every one, and every one with me; nor was the least pleasurable part of this recognition the satisfaction displayed by the Rittmeister at the good issue of this event. I had great difficulty in resisting their resolution to carry me back with them to Bregenz. Innumerable were the plans and projects devised for my entertainment. Field sports, sham fights, rifle-shooting, all were displayed attractively before me; and it was clear that, if I accepted their invitations, I should be treated like the most favored guest. But I was firm in my refusal; and, pleading a pretended necessity to be at a particular place by a particular day, I started once more, taking the road with the “vagabonds,” who now seemed bound to me by an indissoluble bond; at least, so Vaterchen assured me by the most emphatic of declarations, and that, do with him what I might, he was my slave till death.

“Who is ever completely happy?” says the sage; and with too good reason is the doubt expressed. Here, one might suppose, was a situation abounding with the most pleasurable incidents. To have escaped a duel, and come out with honor and credit from the issue; to have re-found not only my missing money, but to have my suspicions relieved as to those whose honest name was dear to me, and whose discredit would have darkened many a bright hope of life, – these were no small successes; and yet – I shame to own it – my delight in them was dashed by an incident so small and insignificant that I have scarce courage to recall it. Here it is, however: While I was taking a kindly farewell of my military friends, hand-shaking and protesting interminable friendships, I saw, or thought I saw, the Prince, with even a more affectionate warmth, making his adieus to Tintefleck! If he had not his arm actually round her waist, there was certainly a white leather cavalry glove curiously attached to her side, and one of her cheeks was deeper colored than the other, and her bearing and manner seemed confused so that she answered, when spoken to, at cross-purposes.

“How did you come by this brooch, Tintefleck? I never saw it before.”

“Oh, is it not pretty? It is a violet; and these leaves, though green, are all gold.”

“Answer me, girl! who gave it thee?” said I, in the voice of Othello.

“Must I tell?” murmured she, sorrowfully.

“On the spot, – confess it!”

“It was one who bade me keep it till he should bring me a prettier one.”

“I do not care for what he said, or what you promised. I want his name.‘*

“And that I was never to forget him till then, – never.”

“Do you say this to irritate and offend me, or do you prevaricate out of shame?” said, I angrily.

“Shame!” repeated she, haughtily.

“Ay, shame or fear.”

“Or fear! Fear of what, or of whom?”

“You are very daring to ask me. And now, for the last time, Tintefleck, – for the last time, I say, who gave you this?”

As I said these words we had just reached the borders of a little rivulet, over which we were to cross by stepping-stones. Vaterchen was, as usual, some distance behind, and now calling to us to wait for him. She turned at his cry, and answered him, but made no reply to me.

This continued defiance of me overcame my temper altogether, sorely pushed as it was by a stupid jealousy, and, seizing her wrist with a strong grasp, I said, in a slow, measured tone, “I insist upon your answer to my question, or – ”

“Or what?”

“That we part here, and forever.”

“With all my heart. Only remember one thing,” said she, in a low, whispering voice: “you left me once before, – you quitted me, in a moment of temper, just as you threaten it now. Go, if you will, or if you must; but let this be our last meeting and last parting.”

“It is as such I mean it, – good-bye!” I sprang on the stepping-stone as I spoke, and at the same instant a glittering object splashed into the stream close to me. I saw it, just as one might see the lustre of a trout’s back as it rose to a fly. I don’t know what demon sat where my heart ought to have been, but I pressed my hat over my eyes, and went on without turning my head.