A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance

“Have you any connections on the mother’s side in the army?”

“I am not aware of one.”

He gave a short, hasty cough, and walked the room twice with his hands clasped at his back, and then, coming straight in front of me, said, “And your name? What’s your name?”

“Potts! Potts!” said I, with a firm energy.

“Potztausend!” cried he, with a grim laugh: “what a strange name!”

“I said Potts, Herr Rittmeister, and not Potztausend,” rejoined I, haughtily.

“And I heard you,” said he; “it was involuntarily on my part to add the termination. And who are the Pottses? Are they noble?”

“Nothing of the kind, – respectable middle-class folk; some in trade, some clerks in mercantile houses, some holding small government employments, one, perhaps the chief of the family, an eminent apothecary!”

As if I had uttered the most irresistible joke, at this word he held his hands over his face and shook with laughter.

“Heilge Joseph!” cried he, at last, “this is too good! The Prince Max going out with an apothecary’s nephew, or, maybe, his son!”

“His son upon this occasion,” said I, gravely.

He, did not reply for some minutes, and then, leaning over the back of a chair, and regarding me very fixedly, he said, —

“You have only to say who you are, and what your belongings, and nothing will come of this affair. In fact, what with your little knowledge of German, your imperfect comprehension of what the Prince said, and your own station in life, I’ll engage to arrange everything and get you off clear!”

“In a word,” said I, “I am to plead in forma, inferioris, – isn’t that it?”

“Just so,” said he, puffing out a long cloud from his pipe.

“I ‘d rather die first!” cried I, with an energy that actually startled him.

“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I think it is very probable that will come of it; but, if it be your choice, I have nothing to say.”

“Go back, Herr Rittmeister,” cried I, “and arrange the meeting for the very earliest moment.”

I said this with a strong purpose, for I felt if the event were to come off at once I could behave well.

“As you are resolved on this course,” said he, “do not make any such confidences to others as you have made to me; nothing about those Pottses in haberdashery and dry goods, but just simply you are the high and well-born Potts of Pottsheim. Not a word more.”

I bowed an assent, but so anxious was he to impress this upon me that he went over it all once more.

“As it will be for me to receive the Prince’s message, the choice of weapons will be yours. What are you most expert with? I mean, after the pistol?” said he, grinning.

“I am about equally skilled in all. Rapier, pistol, or sabre are all alike to me.”

“Der Teufel!” cried he: “I was not counting upon this; and as the sabre is the Prince’s weakest arm, we ‘ll select it.”

I bowed again, and more blandly.

“There is but one thing more,” said he, turning about just as he was leaving the room. “Don’t forget that in this case the gross provocation came from you and, therefore, be satisfied with self-defence, or, at most, a mere flesh wound. Remember that the Prince is a near connection of the Royal Family of England, and it would be irreparable ruin to you were he to fall by your hand.” And with this he went out.

Now, had he gravely bound me over not to strangle the lions in the Tower, it could not have appeared more ridiculous to me than this injunction, and if there had been in my heart the smallest fund of humor, I could have laughed at it; but, Heaven knows, none of my impulses took a mirthful turn at that moment, and there never was invented the drollery that could wring a smile from me.

I was sitting in a sort of stupor – I know not how long – when the door opened, and the Rittmeister’s head peered in.

“To-morrow morning at five!” cried he. “I will fetch you half an hour before.” The door closed, and he was off.

It was now a few minutes past eight o’clock, and there were, therefore, something short of nine hours of life left to me. I have heard that Victor Hugo is an amiable and kindly disposed man, and I feel assured, if he ever could have known the tortures he would have inflicted, he would never have designed the terrible record entitled “Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné.” I conclude it was designed as a sort of appeal against death punishments. I doubt much of its efficacy in altering legislation, while I feel assured, that if ever it fall in the way of one whose hours are numbered, it must add indescribably to his misery.

When, how, or by whom my supper was served, I never knew. I can only remember that a very sleepy waiter roused me out of a half-drowsy revery about midnight, by asking if he were to remove the dishes, or let them remain till morning. I bade him leave them, and me also, and when the door was closed I sat down to my meal. It was cold and unappetizing. I would have deemed it unwholesome, too, but I remembered that the poor stomach it was destined for would never be called on to digest it, and that for once I might transgress without the fear of dyspepsia. My case was precisely that of the purseless traveller, who, we are told, can sing before the robber, just as if want ever suggested melody, or that being poor was a reason for song. So with me any excess was open to me just because it was impossible!

“Still,” thought I, “great criminals – and surely I am not as bad as they – eat very heartily.” And so I cut the tough fowl vigorously in two, and placed half of it on my plate. I filled myself out a whole goblet of wine, and drank it off. I repeated this, and felt better. I fell to now with a will, and really made an excellent supper. There were some potted sardines that I secretly resolved to have for my breakfast, when the sudden thought flashed across me that I was never to breakfast any more. I verily believe that I tasted in that one instant a whole life long of agony and bitterness.

There was in my friendless, lone condition, my youth, the mild and gentle traits of my nature, and my guileless simplicity, just that combination of circumstances which would make my fate peculiarly pathetic, and I imagined my countrymen standing beside the gravestone and muttering “Poor Potts!” till I felt my heart almost bursting with sorrow over myself.

“Cut off at three-and-twenty!” sobbed I; “in the very opening bud of his promise!”

“Misfortune is a pebble with many facets,” says the Chinese adage, “and wise is he who turns it around till he find the smooth one.”

“Is there such here?” thought I. “And where can it be?” With all my ingenuity I could not discover it, when at last there crossed my mind how the event would figure in the daily papers, and be handed down to remote posterity. I imagined the combat itself described in the language almost of a lion-hunt “Potts, who had never till that moment had a sword in his hand, – Potts, though at this time severely wounded, and bleeding profusely, nothing dismayed by the ferocious attack of his opponent, – Potts maintained his guard with all the coolness of a consummate swordsman.” How I wished my life might be spared just to let me write the narrative of the combat I would like, besides, to show the world how generously I could treat an adversary, with what delicacy I could respect his motives, and how nobly deal even with his injustice.

“Was that two o’clock?” said I, starting up, while the humming sound of the gong bell filled the room. “Is it possible that but three hours now stand between me and – ” I gave a shudder that made me feel as if I was standing in a fearful thorough draught, and actually looked up to see if the window were not open; but no, it was closed, the night calm, and the sky full of stars. “Oh!” exclaimed I, “if there are Pottses up amongst you yonder, I hope destiny may deal more kindly by them than down here. I trust that in those glorious regions a higher and purer intelligence prevails, and, above all things, that duelling is proclaimed the greatest of crimes.” Remnant of barbarism! it is worse ten thousand times; it is the whole suit, costume, and investure of an uncivilized age. “Poor Potts!” said I; “you went out upon your life-voyage with very generous intentions towards posterity. I wonder how it will treat you? Will it vindicate your memory, uphold your fame, and dignify your motives? Will it be said in history, ‘Amongst the memorable events of the period was the duel between the Prince Max of Swabia and an Irish gentleman named Potts. To understand fully the circumstance of this remarkable conflict, it is necessary to premise that Potts was not what is vulgarly called constitutionally brave; but he was more. He was – ‘? Ah! there was the puzzle. How was that miserable biographer ever to arrive at the secret of an organization fine and subtle as mine? If I could but leave it on record – if I could but transmit to the ages that will come after me the invaluable key to the mystery of my being – a few days would suffice – a week certainly would do it – and why should I not have time given me for this? I will certainly propose this to the Rittmeister when he comes. There can be little doubt but he will see the matter with my own eyes.”

As if I had summoned him by enchantment, there he stood at the door, wrapped in his great white cavalry cloak, and looking gigantic and ominous together.

“There is no carriage-road,” said he, “to the place we are going, and I have come thus early that we may stroll along leisurely, and enjoy the fresh air of the morning.”

Until that moment I had never believed how heartless human nature could be! To talk of enjoyment, to recall the world and its pleasures, in any way, to one situated like I, was a bold and scarcely credible cruelty; but the words did me good service; they armed me with a sardonic contempt for life and mankind; and so I protested that I was charmed with the project, and out we set.

My companion was not talkative; he was a quiet, almost depressed man, who had led a very monotonous existence, with little society among his comrades; so that he did not offer me the occasion I sought for, of saying saucy and sneering things of the world at large. Indeed, the first observation he made was, that we were in a locality that ought to be interesting to Irishmen, since an ancient shrine of St. Patrick marked the spot of the convent to which we were approaching. No remark could have been more ill-timed! to look back into the past, one ought to have some vista of the future. Who can sympathize with bygones when he is counting the minutes that are to make him one of them?

What a bore that old Rittmeister was with his antiquities, and how I hated him as he said, “If your time was not so limited I ‘d have taken you over to St. Gallen to inspect the manuscripts.” I felt choking as he uttered these words. How was my time so limited? I did not dare to ask. Was he barbarous enough to mean that if I had another day to live I might have passed it pleasantly in turning over musty missals in a monastery?

At last we came to a halt in a little grove of pines, and he said, “Have you any address to give me of friends or relatives, or have you any peculiar directions on any subject?”

“You made a remark last night, Herr Rittmeister,” said I, “which did not at the moment produce the profound impression upon me that subsequent reflection has enforced. You said that if his Royal Highness were fully aware that his antagonist was the son of a practising chemist and apothecary – ”

“That I could have, put off this event; true enough, but when you refused that alternative, and insisted on satisfaction, I myself, as your countryman, gave the guarantee for your rank, which nothing now will make me retract Understand me well, – nothing will make me retract.”

“You are pleased to be precipitate,” said I, with an attempt to sneer; “my remark had but one object, and that was my personal disinclination to obtain a meeting under a false pretext.”

“Make your mind easy on that score. It will be all precisely the same in about an hour hence.”

I nearly fainted as I heard this; it seemed as though a cold stream of water ran through my spine and paralyzed the very marrow inside.

“You have your choice of weapons,” said he, curtly; “which are you best at?”

I was going to say the “javelin,” but I was ashamed; and yet should a man sacrifice life for a false modesty? While I reasoned thus, he pointed to a group of officers close to the garden wall of the convent, and said, —