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 4
X
Dungannon, 10 June.
Finally your letter has found its way to me. The long wait for this joy made its appearance even more gratifying to me. But as to your apology, that you do not know what you could write to me, I shall not accept it. Of course, the daily news in your Ansbach or Onolsbach (starting with O! and ending with Ach!) do not hold more interest for me than the heavenly bodies blowing their noses. I love you tenderly, and dearly love my good mother and siblings, which is why a greeting from my loved ones is enough to shower me with joy. The malaise of my dear E....7 frightens me a little, and when I console myself, it is because think that after the anemia is over the red cheeks will return doubled, and therefore many a vain female might wish for such a rosy paleness.
The quiet andante of our country life suddenly seems to turn into an allegro vivace. Concerts and balls alternate, and my job is to dress up after finishing my lessons and to be a singer. The Earl of Ranfurly's castle, meanwhile, might justly bear comparison with the residence of a German duke. Tomorrow, there will be a big déjeuner dansant in the house of a nobleman in our neighbourhood. Will I manage to slip away from the tedious dancing? For me, that is the greatest sacrifice demanded by
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society! On the other hand, such meetings serve to further my study of physiognomy; this and that is noted, and a silent observer can easily remove the nut from the shell. Of all the characters I have seen so far, that nobleman is the strangest to me. You know my happy instinct for discovering similarities; but finding a doppelgänger for him would be impossible for me. He enters; his bow is valid for a thousand, because due to his agility and skinniness everything about him clatters, the whole person participates in the slightest movement of his little finger. He speaks, and his mouth has the form of a mathematical triangle or an old German ‘Schnippe’8, but what does he say? Funny stuff, that is in his nature. He may be six and thirty years old, he is rather tall than short, has black hair, small sly, pale greyish-green eyes, an elongated, almost regular face, no lips, a blue beard, good teeth. I have never seen such an ensemble before, otherwise I would compare it to another human, due to my comparitis, as noted above. He imitates the sound of the German and French language perfectly, without uttering one word of German or French. The day before yesterday we played ‘aux graces’ in the gallery (small bangles you throw to each other and catch with two sticks) when by chance a journal sheet falls from the nearby table, he picks it up, quickly puts it on his head like a veil, a chair morphs into a boat, the two sticks into his oars, and now he exclaims, as tenderly as possible: ‘voilà l'amour dans un bâteau.’ His
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French, however, cuts through one's poor ears; the more effort he puts in, the more fanciful the words stumble along. The other day he asked me in all seriousness: ‘tous-ceux qui sont morts du cholera à Paris, ont ils été tous enterrés dans la chaise percée?’ (instead of Père Lachaise) Others provide material for anecdotes, too. An English lady recently thought it was highly improper that our lapdog was half shorn, and therefore going half naked. ‘You have to put little trousers on him,’ she said. As is well known, the Englishwomen in their decency have gone so far that they would not pronounce the word ‘shirt’ in the presence of another person, while often the arrangement of their dress is not exactly proper. — A little man with black eyes told me that on his travels through Germany he had found the tea to be so bad, especially in Erfurt, that he went straight away to the city magistrate to sue the innkeepers and their tea. Of course, he was told that there was no law concerning such a disgrace, and that he ought to calm down. In vain! Besides himself for being unable to go to court, he rushes back to the inn, tries to seize the tea provisions and scatters them over hallway and stairs, kitchen and cellar. The occupants of the house are alarmed, only the innkeeper keeps calm and demands the payment of an excessive bill. Meanwhile, the hotel has filled up with spectators curious to see the tea reformer, who shouts to the crowd from inside the carriage, by way of good-bye:
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‘You German robbers!’ ‘You English rascal!’ many throats shouted out after him. But you have to see this aesthetic tea figure yourself, and hear him relate this in broken German. In fact, the more I think about England, the more I find in that in every sense it is a land of extremes. The sky, for example, shows the extreme of sadness and so on. One is either exceedingly rich or miserably poor, quite beautiful, or a paragon of ugliness, unfathomably reasonable or heartily silly; in short, I miss the middle course of my sensible, sober and yet poetic Germany. Everyone has their particular quirk. Most of all, they suffer from a high opinion of themselves. The other day, a gentleman told me that he played the piano masterfully, another one that he was a wit. — As far as the way of life of the English nobility is concerned, I always compare it with the Turkish one. Firstly, their need for strong drinks, which even the ladies share, who drink Malaga wine like water, secondly their common sluggishness of mind and body, their stoicism, their callousness, their uncultured sense of music, and some of their customs, for example the fact that after every dinner, and even when husband and wife dine alone, the wife has to retire straight after the dessert, so as not to disturb her husband in his bottle-philosophy. Is it not understandable that the Englishman, by constant close intercourse with the Orient, becomes a bit of an Oriental himself namely in his luxuriousness?
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Since I have so little time for myself, I had to wait until today to continue this letter. In the meantime I made a trip to I..., the demesne of Lord S..., and also the great ‘déjeuner’ had taken place.9 We went there in six carriages, ladies and gentlemen neatly groomed, a journey of three hours. The park we passed first is not magnificent, but nevertheless rich in beautiful parts. The house in Gothic style resembles a monastery and is densely overgrown with ivy; inside it is lovely, here a large salon, there a beautiful library. I danced the first quadrille (resistance was to no avail) with the host's brother and then several times with the host himself. His parson was particularly kind to me, probably because I took pity on his German today, as usual. But in spite of that, I had a lot of time for more serious considerations. The news that the master and mistress of Dungannon Castle were passing through this area had attracted most of the underground cottage dwellers. Oh dear! What wretches! Even that youthful figure mentioned before is slumped. I'm not surprised to see so many ruined castles. But that is reality. The rich continue to splurge, and the people must go hungry instead. One's heart wants to break with sadness. I left the ballroom to walk through the park. Fifty ragged workers (vassals), who had just been given their meal were lying in a meadow. Today they had got wine and beer, shouting wild hurrahs after their own manner and language.
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But the family I am staying with is said be one of the most charitable in the country, and certainly they are. The people's misery may be increased in particular by the fact that as a rule the Irish lords are only pro forma resident in their home country from time to time, consuming their revenues in London or Paris, and therefore leave their estates with their tenants to arbitrary bailiffs.
Now marvel, dear father! A short while ago I also learned how to steer a carriage. In a cute cabriolet, with Emily by my side, we chase through the park, uphill, downhill, what a joy! Today I have again transgressed the order not to venture outside the park, and into the area of the poor hovels. In front of one of these miserable dwellings there were a few women sitting, cradling their dirty children on their laps. I enter, and find myself in a corner that serves as kitchen, bedroom and living room in one. A few sheep, dogs and cats add to the company. Civilly I greeted a woman who got such a fright, that turning pale, she left the hut in a hurry; a girl hid behind a bundle of straw in the corner, and my efforts to make friends with her were in vain. When I returned, I went to my favourite quiet place. It is a black, copper-coloured oak, the night of the plant kingdom. Under its shade, one feels so small and yet elevated to the creator, who has laid down, both in the blade of grass and in the highest
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oak tree, the revelations of his wisdom and grace.