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 11

XVII

Paris, 20 November 1832

God be praised! I'm back in Paris again, and the sea was not allowed to keep me, no matter how much it might have wanted to. If the mirror or any other quirk of imagination does not deceive me, seafaring has not at all

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narrowed my cheeks and Mr Gomis, the original Spaniard and composer, is right, as he stands under the door in surprise and exclaims: ‘O ciel! vous êtes double!’ Otherwise, everything is as usual. Your picture still hangs above the piano, and looks at me in kindly greeting. Again I send my warmest greetings to you, dearest father! and to my dear ones who are close to me, even if so far away.

Our journey here, dear father, lasted twenty days. On the first night after Dungannon we stayed in Slane, an ugly little town, but famous for the victories the Prince of Orange gained over the Catholics. Every year throughout Ireland, the Orangists commemorate their religious wars (if I am not mistaken in June and autumn) by constantly beating themselves to death for faith and freedom.30 One evening in the first days of June in Dungannon, I heard a great noise, shooting and wild music. I was told it signified the Orangists' Feast. Thousands of armed people poured in, the Catholics carrying green branches, the Orangists adorned with yellow flowers, and now one curses the other, and the dear Protestants are not behaving any better. The poorest Catholic must pay the Protestant preacher one shilling every Sunday for permission to go to his church. I could enumerate a lot of injustices, but it only makes me sad. When I think of Ireland, I am close to crying. Any travel journal about this country

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must finally dissolve into a sigh and a tear.

On Monday the 29 October we arrived in Dublin. We lived in the most beautiful street, Sackville Street, the longest and broadest street I have ever seen. In the centre a column higher than that of the Place Vendôme in Paris rises into the air. We intended to stay in Dublin for only two days. However, the fog seemed so impenetrable that embarkation was out of the question. On the same night that we decided to cross the sea, several sailing ships suffered averages (accidents) and the steamship we were supposed to take went missing. — Since the prevailing travel method of the English cannot satisfy me (they travel twenty times to London without ever seeing Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's Church — I can vouch for it) I decided to remain true to my German curiosity this time, if possible. In Dublin I hired a guide to show me the oldest churches, but this taste seemed so strange and new to him that he looked at me quizzically and assured me that he wanted to lead me into a ‘very new and pretty church.’ The more I asked for old ones, the more eagerly he tried to convert me to the new ones, so that I saw nothing, and returned home in a grumpy mood. — On Wednesday evening, at four o'clock, we went to the harbour. The ship was teeming with strangers. Twenty-two women were already imprisoned in the cabin, and for us they opened a closet as a special award. I fled to the top bed and was comforted by a

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small, round porthole, which I opened whenever I was close to suffocation. As a consequence, I breathed in the stinking smoulder of coal, pitch and fish oil, and heard the sailors' weird yelling. I was sicker this time than the first time. The sea made very high waves. The ship rose and sank to a regular beat, and you have to feel it in accordance with the movement of the sea; then you know what it is like — a cold death sweat ran from my forehead, and I felt such an indifference that I would even have considered death and shipwreck to be a pleasing prospect. At two o'clock in the morning the storm grew more violent, so that one could feel the fearfulness of the waves and the labouring of the ship, which was roaring and groaning at every moment. In the large cabin I heard screaming and lamenting, and on deck it got livelier. The sailors uttered twice as many broken cries — all of a sudden the ship stopped — the engine's wheels were still thundering, because it was examined if the ship had run onto a sandbank; and this was repeated at least six times. At five o'clock the attendant came to every bed with the greeting: ‘We are near land!’The word ‘land’ sounded so magical to me that I jumped down and fell to the ground because the ground was swaying violently beneath me. I threw my coat over my shoulders and crawled up the narrow stairs to breathe some air. The night was still dark. The rain hit my face and I was just about to turn back when I stopped, captivated. Through the fog I recognized the dark masts of many

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ships, illuminated with red lamps, and the agility of the fantastic black figures conjured up all kinds of images and dreams in me. — At eight o'clock we entered port majestically, and sitting comfortably in the carriage, we let the engines pull us up, and onto land. After breakfasting in Liverpool and an overnight stay in Lichfield, we drove through beautiful and rich England again, right across the estates and parks of the English lords. ‘The King of England is the poorest of all kings,’ I exclaimed, ‘what has he got? London is a mass of stones, but England's emerald meadows belong to the country's peers — a meadow for London!’

I love the irregularity and dark brown colour of the English house, half of which is covered with a rose hedge and half decorated with ivy; each house is a quaint little cell, and would make a pretty picture. The Irish country costumes are rags, the English costumes are black velvet frock coats, short grey pantaloons and gaiters; the wives of tenants and townsmen wear scarlet red coats. Real villages or cabins are nowhere to be seen. You drive across meadows transversed by fruit trees, and between hills covered with deciduous wood, and through clean small towns. There was an English hunting party that seemed really swashbuckling to me: The men, clad in scarlet, are flying along like crazy on splendid horses; a dozen hounds are in pursuit, and an elegant carriage with four horses follows them.

Friday the 2nd of November we stayed in Brickfield

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and the next day we came to H. . ., the castle of Lord C. . .31 The building is in the gothic style and had for a long time been the summer residence of Queen Elizabeth. The C. . . family is the most charming one I know, they are also enthusiastic Germanophiles, and free from the prejudice which has the German women only knit and smoke, and their men only drink and hunt bears. I had to repeat my little songs many times. In the evening at dinner I sat opposite a Persian scholar, who cheered everyone up with his mood; he told a splendid story, and one had to follow it, through thick and thin. He also spoke to us in Persian, and as far as the sound was concerned I found some affinity with my mother tongue. This was also confirmed by Mirza I. . . and my German heart jumped with joy.

The three days in H. . . flew by sweetly and only too quickly. On the fourth day we took our leave and travelled to London. The next morning I noticed the preparations for making social calls, and concluded that again, no sights would be visited. So I asked to have the day off. But since you know the sights of London by heart, dear father, I would deem it both superfluous and tiresome to reel off to you the curiosities of London. Just something on Westminster Abbey. — After I had taken the address of our apartment with me, I was alone, without any guide, following my whim, on my way to the Abbey. Soon they sent me left, then right, and caused by an impenetrable

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orange-yellow fog you could see only two steps in front of you. Nevertheless, I courageously proceeded. I came through King Street. There I beheld, in the centre of high buildings, a little old barred house, flanked by guards on horseback. Curiously I approached and asked a passer-by: ‘Whose house is this?’ Of course I imagined nothing short of a state prison, and pitied the poor prisoners with all my heart, just as any honest journeyman would pity the Kannitverstan's death32.

‘It is the King's Palace!’ a grim-looking citizen or merchant grumbled rushing past, and the guard smiled. I remembered that during my first time in London the same thing had happened to me; only this time I saw the so-called King's Palace from another side, so this deception was not surprising. Finally, nearly exhausted with tiredness, I stood like a tiny beetle in front of a huge building, staring up. Imagine three Nuremberg churches, but a building twice as high as those, and strung together. After I had come to, I entered; thinking this was the Abbey; however, it was St Margaret's Church. Between it is the Peers' chamber, a venerable building, and close to this lies my dear, longed-for Westminster Abbey. A doubled up, little grey manikin who cleaned the halls of St Margaret's Church showed me the way. I could not get enough of the magnificent Abbey structure! Sixteen openwork columns or towers enclose

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a giant mass in a circle, and at the very top all kinds of gargoyles and horses are attached as ornaments. The gentle and powerful sounds of the organ now drew me inside. It was just vespers time. Twelve white-clad choir boys stood at each side of the preacher, singing their psalms. I was moved, and I could neither pray nor weep, but quietly recollecting myself, I got down to my knees in devotion, looking upwards. High above, a blue mist was floating, dividing itself into feathery little clouds; the pointed swinging arches rose immeasurably, so that I believed to be looking into heaven itself. But soon the shadows grew longer around me, and the light shimmered more sparsely through the church windows: dusk fell, reminding me to go home. Yet I was wandering through the halls, some of which were fenced in or built on, a sight that dampened my enthusiasm. Of the many tombs I still remember that of Mary, Queen of Scotland, and Queen Elizabeth; their portraits are magnificent, executed in white marble. Also the statues of Addison and Handel, likewise those of Milton and Shakespeare. From Shakespeare's drama The Tempest33, the following inscription is added:
  1. The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
    And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
    Leave not a rack behind.

When I stood in front of St Margaret's Church again, the grey manikin was still swinging his broom and asked in a friendly way how I liked the abbey. ‘It is so beautyfull,’ I said, ‘that even God may be pleased of it!’ And he lifted his cap cheering into the air and wished me well. The yellow fog grew thicker and thicker, the lamps on the street posts were already alight, and the way back of three quarters of an hour was still before me. I walked and walked, for a little fear of getting lost was taking hold of me. Without further happenstance I happily reached home. An Englishman whom I told about my enterprising walking tour was quite taken aback, saying that he himself would never dare go out without a map in London, as it would be difficult for a lost person to get his bearings again.

On Saturday we went to Dover via Rochester in continuous heavy rain. The night was impenetrable; the sea broke with a thundering noise at the coast, while the storm came raging our way, now with whimpers, and now with loud howls. The horses laboriously dragged the carriage ... Finally we arrived at Lady B. . .'s house.

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We rang the bell, we rapped the door, in vain. Sea and storm raged too violently, deafening everything; finally a gust of wind broke one window of the salon and only now they became aware of us. With dignity I staggered up the stairs, my teeth chattering with the cold, and a high fever descended on me so that I had to go to bed immediately. But it is quite a stretch from London to Dover. With four English horses we covered ten miles in sixty minutes.

I spent three more happy days in Dover, since the venerable grandmother leads a quiet and domestic life, which does you good. The location of Dover, with its castle and high sandstone cliffs34, seemed new and lovely to me again. Here you will not find the noise of the big world and nature also has a language that goes directly to your heart. — After the big storm, the air was so warm that I could go to the shore dressed very lightly in the morning with my Emily. This time the crossing from Dover to Calais was particularly favoured: the sky was blue and cloudless, with a fresh breeze, and the sea so high that the ship flew like an arrow. We sat on the upper deck. To prevent seasickness, I heard, you only have to fixate an object firmly, and do not move; my unmoving gaze was set on France's coast and in between I scrutinized our company. A slender male, with a thick fur cap, had our lapdog as his object, at which he

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smiled steadfastly; his neighbour burrowed in his pockets and counted; a third, his feet spread apart, bit into an apple without budging; a pale, sick lady was spending her time and dispelling her seasickness by sometimes palpably patting her chubby boy; another peered through a telescope, and the captain scurried around on the upper deck. After only three hours we made landfall in Calais. The first French sounds were those of the customs officers, but I found them lovely, and my heart cried out: Welcome, dear France! — We spent the night in Calais, and after a three-day trip we were back in Paris. Immediately I ran into our porter's lodge, hoping to find letters, and I had not been mistaken. First I kissed, and then I read your dear letter. A thousand thanks, dear father! And the most heartfelt blessings must constantly come to you.