Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
Magdalena von Dobeneck's Letters from Ireland to Paul Johann Anselm von Feuerbach (Author: Magdalena von Dobeneck née Feuerbach)
Chapter 2
Dungannon, 1 May.
After a fortnight's trip, we finally arrived at Dungannon Castle on 28 April. I was tired of the nomadic life, and longing for peace and quiet. It is true that after all the sights and matters of interest, home is still the dearest thing of all. But every place where I have to live will become my home, since I will have to do without my true home for now. On 12 April I took leave of my friends in Paris, and, remembering the raging cholera, I did not part with them without wistfulness. Recently I joined the company of a very amiable
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Parisian lady, Mlle. Jenny V.... attaching myself closely to her, and besides, I experienced so much kindness among noble people. So it happens, of course, that you only really appreciate something good when you are about to lose it.
On Friday the 13th, four swift horses carried us away. Lord and Lady D. sat on the so-called ‘siège’ (box seat) to enjoy the open air, and my lovely Miss Emily and the chambermaid were sitting next to me in the coach. The servant, a former courier of Charles X., now flew ahead of our coach. My neighbour did not fail to quickly tell me her concerns about the trip. What an unfortunate day had been chosen for departure! she exclaimed with French excitement — it was Friday, and the 13th to boot. Of course I tried to dissuade her of such worries, but quite frankly, secretly I was not exactly a free spirit. We had barely covered ten miles, when the horror started: We found the courier plunged into a ditch, while his horse, which had thrown him off, stood next to him pensively. The poor man was taken to the nearest small town in Picardy where he was assumed to be a cholera sufferer, and at first rejected, but eventually he was cured, being a cholera patient. — We had to leave him behind and continue our journey to Calais. On the first night we stayed in Rennes, the second in Calais. The next morning we had very small crabs for breakfast; I went for them, taking my spoon and gobbling up
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half a dozen at once. But that dish was not really to my taste. I made a sour face and was about to swallow an entire company again, when Lord and Lady D. exclaimed, laughing out loud: ‘Stop! Stop! Only the tails are eaten!’ And now the novice sailor had to complete an anatomy course. At nine o'clock we went to the port to embark there. The sight of so many ships, their delicate yet majestic construction, next to the masses of smoking steamers, speeding off to all regions of the globe, opened up a new world to me. I stayed on deck to make sure that I would not miss this spectacle for a single moment. As long as I still saw a little strip of land to my right and left, everything went well. But as soon as I was on the open sea, and my body could not but sense the mechanical movement of the waves, I felt miserable. Cold sweat ran down from my face, and I shivered. Noticing this, the captain wrapped me up in a sailor's cloak. There I sat, the saddest figure in the world, complaining about the poetic fever, because I had to swap it for a quite real one. At half past twelve we approached the English coast. The sight of the grey masses of rock had a reconciling effect on me; I jumped up wide awake, and infused with enthusiasm. We came closer — on the right hand side an image from prehistoric times is seen on the rigid rock, solemn and majestic, the fortress (Dover Castle), and beside it there is a friendly country side, green mountains, the city lying in a semicircle and, then the multitude of
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ships sailing off in all directions, and there are barges swaying on the waves. We disembarked. Many people were gathered on the shore to gape at the new arrivals from the Crusader i.e. the packet steamer. I will never forget the impressions of the first English city I saw. The houses are built of small bricks, and because of soot and time almost dark brown in colour; they have broad windows with small panes of mirror glass, the roofs are of slate and almost smooth, and the high chimneys give each house a castle-like appearance. Here you do not see portes cochères (coach gates, or carriage porches) as in France; the houses have narrow doors, and in Dover there is always a delightful little garden as in the small towns; however in London, Dublin, Liverpool, instead of gardens there is a kind of barricade on both sides, made of iron bars. — In Dover we stayed for a few days with Lady R..., the great-grandmother of my beloved Emily; she was very kind to me, and I loved that noble lady dearly. We went to some shops, because she gave me a painting kit containing the finest colours and papers, and taught me a style of oriental painting. How merry I was in Dover! My room had a sea view — sitting on my desk I revelled in the ships, which sometimes sailed closer, and sometimes further away. My greatest joy was to breathe the delicious air close by the sea; I was often overjoyed and cried out with delight when the waves at first sent their enormous arms over tentatively, becoming stronger and stronger, and eventually sank back again. Often I ventured so close that I could easily have been carried away, while white
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foam covered my feet. But what I would not have endured for the sea's sake! The prosaic fever had long since been forgotten, and now I was happier than a child. Assiduously I picked up the multicoloured little stones with Emily as if they were diamonds. On Monday we went for a carriage ride in the vicinity. From the high rock of the fortress, I took in the lovely sea, the coast, and Dover with one glance.
I can only write to you intermittently, dear father, because my professional duty takes up most of the day. Yesterday I left you in Dover, and today I must ask you to accompany me to London. I hated to part with the gracious old lady. Old age is always venerable to me, especially when the heart and spirit still breathe life's freshness. On Wednesday we departed and passed through Rochester and several cities, where I often observed the beautiful churches with longing being unable to view their treasures. In the evening, of 17 April3 we arrived in London. We drove and drove through endless suburbs, and when I asked: ‘Is this London yet?’ the only answer was: ‘We are still in the suburbs:’ — ... huge plains with a dozen Nurembergs, and not yet London? My head was dizzy. Paris seemed to me, as a quasi-Parisian, just like a rather large city, and the hustle and bustle on its streets like child's play compared to the London suburbs. What a
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flood of pedestrians and horsemen! What a deafening rattle of diligences and equipages! You can imagine Paris, but London? — Finally, we stopped in front of barriers — and there were suburbs yet again. Then one crosses the big London Bridge, and the Thames. On the left, through clouds of fog, I can spot the towers of St. Paul's Church and others — we drive through endless streets that are so wide that the footpaths alone could have made wide Karl Streets in Ansbach on both sides, and despite all the hustle and bustle, how clean the streets are! That seemed to me the only advantage over Paris, because what good are palaces and beautiful streets to me, when stinking fog and dark air envelop my soul in melancholy to such an extent that admiration cannot reach it? Yes, the sun in England is squinting. Only then did I realized how fond I had grown of Paris and the harmless, cheerful life on the boulevards! Here, most everyone seems to sneak by brooding, and weary of life; everyone seems to be absorbed in himself, mulling over a difficult example of accounting. But is this opinion not too hasty? That was the first impression of London, but the lovely people around me have long since made me forget it. I will certainly make friends with England yet. And if you should ask me, my dear ones: ‘Well, what strange things did you see in London (according to Pitt: the emporium of the world)?’ I will answer: ‘Endless streets, magnificent palaces, squares (large lawns in the middle of the city), St James' Palace, which has a striking similarity to a fortress full of bondsmen,
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very beautiful magazines,...’ and then Lady, Miss Emily and I went to visit the high relatives. Since on that day the wind was blowing the coal smoke from the chimneys down into the streets more than ever, I came home with a sooty speck on my face — et voilà les souvenirs de Londres! Do you want to know what a London House of the High Nobility looks like? All right, then! At the entrance a powdered porter is sitting comfortably, all the servants are powdered, and in livery; you ascend the wide stone staircase covered with carpets; at first there is a beautiful anteroom, adjacent the Lady's parlour proper that may be the size of your casino hall in Ansbach. At the lower end there are two sofas, two at the upper end, and two sofas again in the middle, with a round or square table in front of each of them. On this table embroideries are arranged, on another copper engravings, here books, and there floral paintings; the walls are decorated with paintings, alcoves with busts from the workshops of Italy; in that corner there is a small orangery, porcelain vases, candelabras and so on. Tidy disorder and uncomfortable comfort rule here.
I quietly spent Good Friday in London, glad that due to the holiday we did not make visits. In the evening I dined with my lord R..., the father in law of the young lady. This gracious old man often reminds me of our friend Tiedge, who despite his years seems ageless. My Lord said, probably because I spoke a little English, that I was already quite ‘like an English Lady’ and he was not quite
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wrong, since as far as the whispering twitter sound of this angelic language is concerned, I have already mastered it. Yes, even when pronouncing the article 'the', this veritable cliff of danger, my tongue is already beginning to develop the necessary momentum. At the table I now know how to use ‘no, thank you!’ (Nein, ich danke Ihnen!) and ‘yes, thank you!’ (Ja, ich danke!). Poor me! Whenever Lord D. offered me a piece of bloody mutton roast (I could not stand it), I plainly said, by way of declining ‘thank you!’ But according to English custom this means ‘yes!’ and so he keeps offering me one piece after another, until finally, noticing the error, I add another ‘no’ to my thanks, as convention requires. Only now I was released from being chased by the bloody mutton. In Paris I did not fare any better. When Mary came in the morning to fill the fireplace with stone coal, she asked me in English if the fire was all right with me. But because I did not understand her, I said no where I should have said yes. In consequence, when I pined away with heat, she stoked more and more, and when I was freezing, she even extinguished the coals. —
Before I leave London, I must describe to you an English dinner, dear father, so that if ever you have to entertain a lord, you know how and when to do so. Dinner time is usually seven in the evening. Seven o'clock? I hear you exclaiming. But slowly! It all comes down to seeing things clearly. You have supper at 8 o'clock,
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don't you? All right, then! the Englishman has his ‘Souper’ at one o'clock, and renames it, calling it luncheon, and then he has your ‘Diner’ (his ‘Dinner’) again and has it instead of one o'clock at the hour of your ‘Souper’. This is where the great secret lies. The dishes are served with beautiful silver lids at the table, the Lord carves and serves himself: there is hearty soup, followed by fish, cutlets, cauliflower (the sauce is served separately), then leg of beef or mutton, floating in blood, spicy mustard, chicken; but never salad, because it could be detrimental to the ladies' red cheeks. I must not forget the pudding, which is often nothing more than a mush. Next, the Indian-yellow cheddar cheese deserves to be mentioned, and quite a few pepper cans. And ale or porter flows into the glasses, and there is plenty of Madeira wine. I am partial to a glass of ale; this is not the juice of the mountains, not your poor ‘beer electuary’, no, it is something much nobler! After dinner, everyone throws himself on a sofa of which there is no lack, dozing or sleeping in peace and quiet. Here and there I even see a blond Brit lying on rugs at the feet of a beautiful lady. This custom seemed a little foreign to me, and I asked the witty Lady S.... whether these digestive parties were imported to England from Spain or where else they originated. ‘Let me know,’ I said, ‘I am writing a diary — everything will be noted down.’ ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well! Just do not do it like the author of the Briefe eines Verstorbenen, [i.e. Prince Pückler-Muskau's Tour in England, Ireland, and France, in the years 1826, 1827, 1828, and 1829, London 1832.]
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who had enjoyed our hospitality, only to ridicule us in his writings afterwards.’ I reassured her that as a lady I considered it my duty to restrain my moods, without being a member of a temperance society.
We left London on Saturday 21 April. The palaces along Regent's Park look beautiful and are kept in noble style, and I was not entirely satisfied that the horses flew along like mad. Imagine that within three hours we covered two and thirty miles. Instead of our cumbersome German stage-coachmen, little jockeys jump quickly onto the horses which are waiting at each stage. They are lightly and tightly dressed, adorned with a scarlet red jacket and red cap. At one stage we were denied the horses because they were all already engaged to chase after a lady kidnapped by an English knight. The horses are lightly harnessed, just like on equipages. I can only compare this daring, flying type of travel with the seven-league boots of our fairy tales. We spent the night in Dunstable, the next in Lichfield and on Monday in Warrington. I found the whole journey through England charming and peculiar. There were hills with lush greenery, emerald meadows where fine flocks graze, and all the trees I saw covered in broad ivy leaves from the trunk to the smallest twigs. The smallest and largest houses in the villages are richly and picturesquely covered in ivy. The clear windows are shining between the dark green and behind them you can see
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fresh and sweet faces. But despite all this, England's regions have a strikingly sombre character; there is a lack of air and sun. Grey skies, reddish-brown houses, dark ivy green and nothing but darkness and shadows do not make a cheerful painting. And that is why it is good that the Englishman, instead of the shine of the sun, has at least that of gold.
On Tuesday we dined in Liverpool, a handsome city. The air was foggy due the smoke billowing from the many factories — I could see nothing. At half past three, we drove to the harbour. The large number of ships, far more than in the port of Calais, astonished me again. We sped along in a beautiful steamer towards Ireland. I really liked the towering lighthouse, against which the impetuous waves broke in vain, considering it could provide help and comfort. On the left hand side you could see many pointed rocks, showing dangerous places. The Irish Sea is among the most dangerous, and insidious enough — ships often run ashore here. I chatted and played merrily with Emily on deck, and did not want to know about seasickness. I did what I did in childhood: whenever I was in a dark room, and fear of ghosts came creeping over me, I began to sing loudly as if I were the greatest heroine. — The sun was going down blood-red in the sea. Behind me, towards Liverpool, the sky was blackened by smoke and fog — on the right the open sea, on the left the view of shores with settlements, mountains, castles, towns and villages. —
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At eight o'clock I crawled into the cabin. Aw! How awful I felt! I jumped from the bed to the sofa, from there into bed. I sighed, I moaned, and was so weary of life I would have loved to give over my soul. I am sure Columbus did not greet terra firma as joyfully as I the greeted the port of Kingstown. We arrived in Dublin at eight o'clock in the morning and stayed until Friday. And that is where I want to stop now, and even the desire to chat even longer to you cannot take me one step further. The clock is striking eleven. Too great is the need I feel to recover from my heroic deeds by sleeping. I cannot think any more, and write even less. Twice the pen has fallen out of my hand. A learned ink blob adorns the rosy face of my English stationery like a beauty spot — a second one is threatening to gather in my stumbling pen. If you could see me, you would have compassion, and would cry out: bon soir, dormez bien!