The Initials: A Story of Modern Life

About twelve years ago (before the building of the Bayrischen Hof), the Golden Stag, kept by an old and very corpulent Frenchman, of the name of Havard, was considered the very best hotel in Munich. It was there that all crowned heads and royal personages took up their abode; and many and bitter were the complaints of English families obliged to turn out of their apartments to admit of the turning in of an emperor, king, or archduke! In the month of August, however, such guests were unusual; and, accordingly, a young English traveller had remained for a week in undisturbed possession of one of the most comfortable rooms in the house. He seemed, however, thoroughly dissatisfied with it or with himself, walked impatiently up and down, looked long and listlessly out of the window, and then, with evident effort and stifled yawn, concluded a letter which he had previously been writing. A few lines of this letter I shall transcribe. “I have continued to take notes most carefully of everything I have seen or heard since I left you; but I fear, my dear sister, the travels or wanderings, or sketches with which I intended to astonish the world on my return home, must be given up; for in the present day one can travel from London to Jericho without a chance of seeing anything not already succinctly described in the guide-books! I thought I had discovered why my brother John never met with any amusing adventures when my father sent him abroad. He spoke wretched French, and no German. Poor fellow; I did him great injustice. For even I, who, from not being the first-born, have a sort of natural claim to intellect—even I, who have studied German for six years, and can speak French fluently—even I must write stupid, commonplace letters, and acknowledge that composing a book is not so easy as I thought. I left home three weeks ago, and, excepting that lucky explosion of the steam-engine after we left Cologne, nothing has occurred worthy of notice. I must endeavour to get among these Germans; for travelling through a country without becoming intimate with some of the inhabitants, though it may enable me to judge of the beauty of the scenery, will leave me perfectly unacquainted with the manners and habits of the people. The Erskines are not here at present, so all hopes from that quarter are at an end. I am told that the Munich world is in the country, and I believe it; for nothing can be more deserted-looking than the streets which represent the west end. After all, one cannot go on forever looking at pictures and statues, etc.” The young man folded up and sealed his letter, with a look of infinite vexation, and putting it in his pocket while he murmured something about “taking it himself to the post-office, for want of other occupation,” he slowly left the room and sauntered down the staircase, drawing his cane along the iron stair-railing as he went.