A Story

by William Makepeace Thackeray

mother, I don't care if I shake hands with you. I ain't proud!"

  The Abbe laughed with great glee; and that very evening sent off to

  his Court a most ludicrous spicy description of the whole scene of

  meeting between this amiable father and child; in which he said that

  young Billings was the eleve favori of M. Kitch, Ecuyer, le bourreau

  de Londres, and which made the Duke's mistress laugh so much that

  she vowed that the Abbe should have a bishopric on his return: for,

  with such store of wisdom, look you, my son, was the world governed

  in those days.

  The Count and his offspring meanwhile conversed with some

  cordiality. The former informed the latter of all the diseases to

  which he was subject, his manner of curing them, his great

  consideration as chamberlain to the Duke of Bavaria; how he wore his

  Court suits, and of a particular powder which he had invented for

  the hair; how, when he was seventeen, he had run away with a

  canoness, egad! who was afterwards locked up in a convent, and grew

  to be sixteen stone in weight; how he remembered the time when

  ladies did not wear patches; and how the Duchess of Marlborough

  boxed his ears when he was so high, because he wanted to kiss her.

  All these important anecdotes took some time in the telling, and

  were accompanied by many profound moral remarks; such as, "I can't

  abide garlic, nor white-wine, stap me! nor Sauerkraut, though his

  Highness eats half a bushel per day. I ate it the first time at

  Court; but when they brought it me a second time, I

  refused--refused, split me and grill me if I didn't! Everybody

  stared; his Highness looked as fierce as a Turk; and that infernal

  Krahwinkel (my dear, I did for him afterwards)--that cursed

  Krahwinkel, I say, looked as pleased as possible, and whispered to

  Countess Fritsch, 'Blitzchen, Frau Grafinn,' says he, 'it's all over

  with Galgenstein.' What did I do? I had the entree, and demanded

  it. 'Altesse,' says I, falling on one knee, 'I ate no kraut at

  dinner to-day. You remarked it: I saw your Highness remark it.'

  "'I did, M. le Comte,' said his Highness, gravely.

  "I had almost tears in my eyes; but it was necessary to come to a

  resolution, you know. 'Sir,' said I, 'I speak with deep grief to

  your Highness, who are my benefactor, my friend, my father; but of

  this I am resolved, I WILL NEVER EAT SAUERKRAUT MORE: it don't

  agree with me. After being laid up for four weeks by the last dish

  of Sauerkraut of which I partook, I may say with confidence--IT

  DON'T agree with me. By impairing my health, it impairs my

  intellect, and weakens my strength; and both I would keep for your

  Highness's service.'

  "'Tut, tut!' said his Highness. 'Tut, tut, tut!' Those were his

  very words.

  "'Give me my sword or my pen,' said I. 'Give me my sword or my pen,

  and with these Maximilian de Galgenstein is ready to serve you; but

  sure,--sure, a great prince will pity the weak health of a faithful

  subject, who does not know how to eat Sauerkraut?' His Highness was

  walking about the room: I was still on my knees, and stretched

  forward my hand to seize his coat.

  "'GEHT ZUM TEUFEL, Sir!' said he, in a loud voice (it means 'Go to

  the deuce,' my dear),--'Geht zum Teufel, and eat what you like!'

  With this he went out of the room abruptly; leaving in my hand one

  of his buttons, which I keep to this day. As soon as I was alone,

  amazed by his great goodness and bounty, I sobbed aloud--cried like

  a child" (the Count's eyes filled and winked at the very

  recollection), "and when I went back into the card-room, stepping up

  to Krahwinkel, 'Count,' says I, 'who looks foolish now?'--Hey there,

  La Rose, give me the diamond-- Yes, that was the very pun I made,

  and very good it was thought. 'Krahwinkel,' says I, 'WHO LOOKS

  FOOLISH NOW?' and from that day to this I was never at a Court-day

  asked to eat Sauerkraut--NEVER!"

  "Hey there, La Rose! Bring me that diamond snuff-box in the drawer

  of my secretaire;" and the snuff-box was brought. "Look at it, my

  dear," said the Count, "for I saw you seemed to doubt. There is the

  button--the very one that came off his Grace's coat."

  Mr. Billings received it, and twisted it about with a stupid air.

  The story had quite mystified him; for he did not dare yet to think

  his father was a fool--his respect for the aristocracy prevented

  him.

  When the Count's communications had ceased, which they did as soon

  as the story of the Sauerkraut was finished, a silence of some

  minutes ensued. Mr. Billings was trying to comprehend the

  circumstances above narrated; his Lordship was exhausted; the

  chaplain had quitted the room directly the word Sauerkraut was

  mentioned--he knew what was coming. His Lordship looked for some

  time at his son; who returned the gaze with his mouth wide open.

  "Well," said the Count--"well, sir? What are you sitting there for?

  If you have nothing to say, sir, you had better go. I had you here

  to amuse me--split me--and not to sit there staring!"

  Mr. Billings rose in a fury.

  "Hark ye, my lad," said the Count, "tell La Rose to give thee five

  guineas, and, ah--come again some morning. A nice well-grown young

  lad," mused the Count, as Master Tommy walked wondering out of the

  apartment; "a pretty fellow enough, and intelligent too."

  "Well, he IS an odd fellow, my father," thought Mr. Billings, as he

  walked out, having received the sum offered to him. And he

  immediately went to call upon his friend Polly Briggs, from whom he

  had separated in the morning.

  What was the result of their interview is not at all necessary to

  the progress of this history. Having made her, however, acquainted

  with the particulars of his visit to his father, he went to his

  mother's, and related to her all that had occurred.

  Poor thing, she was very differently interested in the issue of it!

  CHAPTER X. SHOWING HOW GALGENSTEIN AND MRS. CAT RECOGNISE EACH

  OTHER IN MARYLEBONE GARDENS--AND HOW THE COUNT DRIVES HER HOME IN

  HIS CARRIAGE.

  About a month after the touching conversation above related, there

  was given, at Marylebone Gardens, a grand concert and entertainment,

  at which the celebrated Madame Amenaide, a dancer of the theatre at

  Paris, was to perform, under the patronage of several English and

  foreign noblemen; among whom was his Excellency the Bavarian Envoy.

  Madame Amenaide was, in fact, no other than the maitresse en titre

  of the Monsieur de Galgenstein, who had her a great bargain from the

  Duke de Rohan-Chabot at Paris.

  It is not our purpose to make a great and learned display here,

  otherwise the costumes of the company assembled at this fete might

  afford scope for at least half-a-dozen pages of fine writing; and we

  might give, if need were, specimens of the very songs and music sung

  on the occasion. Does not the Burney collection of music, at the

  British Museum, afford one an ample store of songs from which to

  choose? Are there not the memoirs of Colley Cibber? those of Mrs.<
br />
  Clark, the daughter of Colley? Is there not Congreve, and

  Farquhar--nay, and at a pinch, the "Dramatic Biography," or even the

  Spectator, from which the observant genius might borrow passages,

  and construct pretty antiquarian figments? Leave we these trifles

  to meaner souls! Our business is not with the breeches and

  periwigs, with the hoops and patches, but with the divine hearts of

  men, and the passions which agitate them. What need, therefore,

  have we to say that on this evening, after the dancing, the music,

  and the fireworks, Monsieur de Galgenstein felt the strange and

  welcome pangs of appetite, and was picking a cold chicken, along

  with some other friends in an arbour--a cold chicken, with an

  accompaniment of a bottle of champagne--when he was led to remark

  that a very handsome plump little person, in a gorgeous stiff damask

  gown and petticoat, was sauntering up and down the walk running

  opposite his supping-place, and bestowing continual glances towards

  his Excellency. The lady, whoever she was, was in a mask, such as

  ladies of high and low fashion wore at public places in those days,

  and had a male companion. He was a lad of only seventeen,

  marvellously well dressed--indeed, no other than the Count's own

  son, Mr. Thomas Billings; who had at length received from his mother

  the silver-hilted sword, and the wig, which that affectionate parent

  had promised to him.

  In the course of the month which had elapsed since the interview

  that has been described in the former chapter, Mr. Billings had

  several times had occasion to wait on his father; but though he had,

  according to her wishes, frequently alluded to the existence of his

  mother, the Count had never at any time expressed the slightest wish

  to renew his acquaintance with that lady; who, if she had seen him,

  had only seen him by stealth.

  The fact is, that after Billings had related to her the particulars

  of his first meeting with his Excellency; which ended, like many of

  the latter visits, in nothing at all; Mrs. Hayes had found some

  pressing business, which continually took her to Whitehall, and had

  been prowling from day to day about Monsieur de Galgenstein's

  lodgings. Four or five times in the week, as his Excellency stepped

  into his coach, he might have remarked, had he chosen, a woman in a

  black hood, who was looking most eagerly into his eyes: but those

  eyes had long since left off the practice of observing; and Madam

  Catherine's visits had so far gone for nothing.

  On this night, however, inspired by gaiety and drink, the Count had

  been amazingly stricken by the gait and ogling of the lady in the

  mask. The Reverend O'Flaherty, who was with him, and had observed

  the figure in the black cloak, recognised, or thought he recognised,

  her. "It is the woman who dogs your Excellency every day," said he.

  "She is with that tailor lad who loves to see people hanged--your

  Excellency's son, I mean." And he was just about to warn the Count

  of a conspiracy evidently made against him, and that the son had

  brought, most likely, the mother to play her arts upon him--he was

  just about, I say, to show to the Count the folly and danger of

  renewing an old liaison with a woman such as he had described Mrs.

  Cat to be, when his Excellency, starting up, and interrupting his

  ghostly adviser at the very beginning of his sentence, said, "Egad,

  l'Abbe, you are right--it IS my son, and a mighty smart-looking

  creature with him. Hey! Mr. What's-your-name--Tom, you rogue, don't

  you know your own father?" And so saying, and cocking his beaver on

  one side, Monsieur de Galgenstein strutted jauntily after Mr.

  Billings and the lady.

  It was the first time that the Count had formally recognised his

  son.

  "Tom, you rogue," stopped at this, and the Count came up. He had a

  white velvet suit, covered over with stars and orders, a neat modest

  wig and bag, and peach-coloured silk-stockings with silver clasps.

  The lady in the mask gave a start as his Excellency came forward.

  "Law, mother, don't squeege so," said Tom. The poor woman was

  trembling in every limb, but she had presence of mind to "squeege"

  Tom a great deal harder; and the latter took the hint, I suppose,

  and was silent.

  The splendid Count came up. Ye gods, how his embroidery glittered

  in the lamps! What a royal exhalation of musk and bergamot came

  from his wig, his handkerchief, and his grand lace ruffles and

  frills! A broad yellow riband passed across his breast, and ended

  at his hip in a shining diamond cross--a diamond cross, and a

  diamond sword-hilt! Was anything ever seen so beautiful? And might

  not a poor woman tremble when such a noble creature drew near to

  her, and deigned, from the height of his rank and splendour, to look

  down upon her? As Jove came down to Semele in state, in his habits

  of ceremony, with all the grand cordons of his orders blazing about

  his imperial person--thus dazzling, magnificent, triumphant, the

  great Galgenstein descended towards Mrs. Catherine. Her cheeks

  glowed red-hot under her coy velvet mask, her heart thumped against

  the whalebone prison of her stays. What a delicious storm of vanity

  was raging in her bosom! What a rush of long-pent recollections

  burst forth at the sound of that enchanting voice!

  As you wind up a hundred-guinea chronometer with a twopenny

  watch-key--as by means of a dirty wooden plug you set all the waters

  of Versailles a-raging, and splashing, and storming--in like manner,

  and by like humble agents, were Mrs. Catherine's tumultuous passions

  set going. The Count, we have said, slipped up to his son, and

  merely saying, "How do, Tom?" cut the young gentleman altogether,

  and passing round to the lady's side, said, "Madam, 'tis a charming

  evening--egad it is!" She almost fainted: it was the old voice.

  There he was, after seventeen years, once more at her side!

  Now I know what I could have done. I can turn out a quotation from

  Sophocles (by looking to the index) as well as another: I can throw

  off a bit of fine writing too, with passion, similes, and a moral at

  the end. What, pray, is the last sentence but one but the very

  finest writing? Suppose, for example, I had made Maximilian, as he

  stood by the side of Catherine, look up towards the clouds, and

  exclaim, in the words of the voluptuous Cornelius Nepos,

  'Aenaoi nephelai

  'Arthoomen phanerai

  Droseran phusin euageetoi, k.t.l. *

  * Anglicised version of the author's original Greek text.

  Or suppose, again, I had said, in a style still more popular:--

  The Count advanced towards the maiden. They both were mute for a

  while; and only the beating of her heart interrupted that thrilling

  and passionate silence. Ah, what years of buried joys and fears,

  hopes and disappointments, arose from their graves in the far past,

  and in those brief moments flitted before the united ones! How sad

  was that delicious retrospect, and oh, how sweet! The tears that

&n
bsp; rolled down the cheek of each were bubbles from the choked and

  moss-grown wells of youth; the sigh that heaved each bosom had some

  lurking odours in it--memories of the fragrance of boyhood, echoes

  of the hymns of the young heart! Thus is it ever--for these blessed

  recollections the soul always has a place; and while crime perishes,

  and sorrow is forgotten, the beautiful alone is eternal.

  "O golden legends, written in the skies!" mused De Galgenstein, "ye

  shine as ye did in the olden days! WE change, but YE speak ever the

  same language. Gazing in your abysmal depths, the feeble ratioci--"

  * * * * *

  There, now, are six columns* of the best writing to be found in this

  or any other book. Galgenstein has quoted Euripides thrice, Plato

  once, Lycophron nine times, besides extracts from the Latin syntax

  and the minor Greek poets. Catherine's passionate embreathings are

  of the most fashionable order; and I call upon the ingenious critic

  of the X---- newspaper to say whether they do not possess the real

  impress of the giants of the olden time--the real Platonic smack, in

  a word? Not that I want in the least to show off; but it is as

  well, every now and then, to show the public what one CAN do.

  (* There WERE six columns, as mentioned by the accurate Mr.

  Solomons; but we have withdrawn two pages and three-quarters,

  because, although our correspondent has been excessively eloquent,

  according to custom, we were anxious to come to the facts of the

  story.

  Mr. Solomons, by sending to our office, may have the cancelled

  passages.--O.Y.)

  Instead, however, of all this rant and nonsense, how much finer is

  the speech that the Count really did make! "It is a very fine

  evening,--egad it is!" The "egad" did the whole business: Mrs. Cat

  was as much in love with him now as ever she had been; and,

  gathering up all her energies, she said, "It is dreadful hot too, I

  think;" and with this she made a curtsey.

  "Stifling, split me!" added his Excellency. "What do you say,

  madam, to a rest in an arbour, and a drink of something cool?"

  "Sir!" said the lady, drawing back.

  "Oh, a drink--a drink by all means," exclaimed Mr. Billings, who was

  troubled with a perpetual thirst. "Come, mo--, Mrs. Jones, I mean.

  you're fond of a glass of cold punch, you know; and the rum here is

  prime, I can tell you."

  The lady in the mask consented with some difficulty to the proposal

  of Mr. Billings, and was led by the two gentlemen into an arbour,

  where she was seated between them; and some wax-candles being

  lighted, punch was brought.

  She drank one or two glasses very eagerly, and so did her two

  companions; although it was evident to see, from the flushed looks

  of both of them, that they had little need of any such stimulus.

  The Count, in the midst of his champagne, it must be said, had been

  amazingly stricken and scandalised by the appearance of such a youth

  as Billings in a public place with a lady under his arm. He was,

  the reader will therefore understand, in the moral stage of liquor;

  and when he issued out, it was not merely with the intention of

  examining Mr. Billings's female companion, but of administering to

  him some sound correction for venturing, at his early period of

  life, to form any such acquaintances. On joining Billings, his

  Excellency's first step was naturally to examine the lady. After

  they had been sitting for a while over their punch, he bethought him

  of his original purpose, and began to address a number of moral

  remarks to his son.

  We have already given some specimens of Monsieur de Galgenstein's

  sober conversation; and it is hardly necessary to trouble the reader

  with any further reports of his speeches. They were intolerably

  stupid and dull; as egotistical as his morning lecture had been, and

  a hundred times more rambling and prosy. If Cat had been in the