Nancy by Rhoda Broughton - CHAPTER X
I have been married a week. A week indeed! a week in the sense in which the creation of the world occupied a week!�seven geological ages, perhaps, but not seven days. We have been to Brussels, to Antwerp, to Cologne. We have seen�(with the penetrating incense odor in our nostrils, and the kneeling peasants at our feet)�the Descent from the Cross, the Elevation of the Cross�dead Christs manifold. Can it be possible that the brush which worthily painted Christ's agony, can be the same that descended to eternize redundant red fishwives, and call them goddesses? We have given ourselves cricks in the necks, staring up at the divine incompleteness of Cologne Cathedral. And all through Crucifixions, cathedrals, table d'h�tes, I have been deadly, deadly homesick�homesick as none but one that has been a member of a large family and has been out into the world on his or her own account, for the first time, can understand. When first I drove away through the park, my sensations were something like those that we all used to experience, on the rare occasions when father, as a treat, took one or other of us out on an excursion with him�the honor great, but the pleasure small.
It seems to myself, as if I had not laughed once since we set off!�yes�once I did, at the recollection of an old joke of Bobby's, that we all thought very silly at the time, but that strikes me as irresistibly funny now that it recurs to me in the midst of strange scenes, and of jokeless foreigners.
After forty, people do not laugh at absolutely nothing. They may be very easily moved to mirth, as, indeed, to do him justice, Sir Roger is; but they do not laugh for the pure physical pleasure of grinning. The weight of the absolute t�te-�-t�te of a honey-moon, which has proved trying to a more violent love than mine, is oppressing me.
At home, if I grew tired of talking to one, I could talk to another. If I waxed weary of Bobby's sea-tales, I might refresh myself with listening to the Brat's braggings about Oxford�with Tou Tou's murdered French lesson: J'aime, I love.
Tu aimes, Thou lovest.
Il aime, He loves.
How many thousand years ago, the labored conjugation of that verb seems to me!
Now, if I do not converse with Sir Roger, I must remain silent. And, somehow, I cannot talk to him now as fluently as I used. Before�during our short previous acquaintance�where I used to pester the poor man with filial aspirations that he could not reciprocate, there seemed no end to the things I had to say to him. I felt as if I could have told him any thing. I bubbled over with silly jests.
It never occurred to me to think whether I pleased him or not; but now�now, the sense of my mental inferiority�of the gulf of years and inequalities that yawns between us�weighs like a lump of lead upon me.
I am in constant fear of falling below his estimate of me. Before I speak, I think whether what I am going to say will be worth saying, and, as very few of my remarks come up to this standard, I become extremely silent. Oh, if we could meet some one we knew�even if it were some one that we rather disliked than otherwise: some one that would laugh and have as few wits as I, and be young.
But it is too early in the year for many people to be yet abroad, and, so far, we have fallen upon no acquaintances. Once, indeed, at Antwerp, I see in the distance a man whose figure bears a striking resemblance to that of "Toothless Jack," and my heart leaps�detestable as I have always thought Barbara's aspirant; but on coming nearer the likeness disappears, and I relapse into depression.
Long ago, I had told my husband�on the first day I had made his acquaintance indeed�that I had no conversation, and now he is proving experimentally the truth of my confession. At home, our talk has always been made up of allusions, half-words, petrified witticisms, that have become part of our language. Each sentence would require a dictionary of explanation to any strange hearer. Now, if I wish to be understood, I must say my meaning in plain English, and very laborious I find it.
To-day, we are on our way from Cologne to Dresden; sixteen hours and a half at a stretch. This of itself is enough to throw the equablest mind off its balance.
We have a coup� to ourselves. This is quite opposed to my wishes, nor is it Sir Roger's doing, but Schmidt, the courier, knowing what is seemly on those occasions�what he has always done for all former freshly-wed couples whom he has escorted�secured it before we could prevent him. As for me, it would have amused me to see the people come in and out, to air my timid German in little remarks about the weather; albeit I have thus early discovered that the German, which we have been exhorted to talk among ourselves in the school-room, to perfect us in that tongue, bears no very pronounced likeness to the language as talked by the indigenous inhabitants. They will talk so fast, and they never say any thing in the least like Ollendorff.
Sixteen hours and a half of a t�te-�-t�te more complete and unbroken than any we have yet enjoyed. All day I watch the endless, treeless, hedgeless German flats fly past; the straight-lopped poplars, the spread of tall green wheat, the blaze of rape-fields�the villages and towns, with two-towered German churches, over and over, and over again. Oh, for a hill, were it no bigger than a molehill! Oh, for a broad-armed English oak!
At Minden we stop to lunch. The whole train pushes and jostles into the refreshment-room, and, in ten galloping minutes, we devour three filthy plats; a nauseous potage, a terrible dish of sickly veal, and a ragged Braten. Then a rush and tumble off again.
The day rolls past, dustily, samely, wearily. There have been flying thunder-storms�lightning-flashes past the windows. I hide my face in my dusty gloves to avoid seeing the quick red forks, and leave a smear on each grimy cheek. Every moment, I am a rape-field�a corn-field, a bean-field, farther from Barbara, farther from the Brat, farther from the jackdaw.
"This is rather a long day for you, child!" says Sir Roger, kindly, perceiving, I suppose, the joviality of the expression with which I am eying the German landscape. "The most tedious railway-journey you ever took, I suppose?"
"Yes," reply I, "far! It seems like three Sundays rolled into one, does not it? What time is it now?"
He takes out his watch and looks.
"Twenty past five."
"Seven hours more!" say I, with a burst of desperateness.
"I am so sorry for you, Nancy! what can one do for you?" says my husband, looking thoroughly discomfited, concerned, and helpless. "Would you care to have a book?"
"I cannot read in a train," reply I, dolorously, "it makes me sick!" Then feeling rather ashamed of my peevishness�"Never mind me!" I say, with a dusty smile; "I am quite happy! I�I�like looking out."
The day falls, the night comes. On, on, on! There is a bit of looking-glass opposite me. I can no longer see any thing outside. I have to sit staring at my own plain, grimed, bored face. In a sudden fury, I draw the little red silk curtain across my own image. Thank God! I can no longer see myself. Sir Roger ceases to try his eyes with the print of the Westminster, and closes it.
"I wonder," say I, pouring some eau-de-cologne on my pocket-handkerchief, and trying to cleanse my face therewith, but only succeeding in making it a muddy instead of a dusty smudge�"I wonder whether we shall meet any one we know at Dresden?"
"I should not wonder," replies Sir Roger, cheerfully.
"Is the H�tel de Saxe the place where most English go?" inquire I, anxiously. "Ah, you do not know! I must ask Schmidt."
"Yes, do."
"I hope we shall," say I, straining my eyes to make out the objects in the dark outside. "We have been very unlucky so far, have not we?"
"Are you so anxious to meet people? are you so dull already, Nancy?" he asks, in that voice of peculiar gentleness which I have already learned to know hides inward pain.
"Oh, no, no!" cry I, with quick remorse. "Not at all! I have always longed to travel! At one time Barbara and I were always talking about it, making plans, you know, of where we would go. I enjoy it, of all things, especially the pictures�but do not you think it would be amusing to have some one to talk to at the tables d'h�te, some one English, to laugh at the people with?"
"Yes," he answers, readily, "of course it would. It is quite natural that you should wish it. I heartily hope we shall. We will go wherever it is most likely."
After long, long hours of dark rushing, Dresden at last. We drive in an open carriage through an unknown town, moonlit, silent, and asleep. German towns go to bed early. We cross the Elbe, in which a second moon, big and clear as the one in heaven, lies quivering, waving with the water's wave; then through dim, ghostly streets, and at last�at last�we pull up at the door of the H�tel de Saxe, and the sleepy porter comes out disheveled.
"There is no doubt," say I, aloud, when I find myself alone in my bedroom, Sir Roger not having yet come up, and the maid having gone to bed�addressing the remark to the hot water in which I have been bathing my face, stiff with dirt, and haggard with fatigue. "There is no use denying it, I hate being married!" |
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