I.

Once upon a time--fairy tales always begin with once upon a time--once

upon a time there lived in a fine old castle on the Rhine a certain

Baron von Schrochslofsleschshoffinger. You will not find it an easy name

to pronounce; in fact, the baron never tried it himself but once, and

then he was laid up for two days afterwards; so in future we will merely

call him "the baron," for shortness, particularly as he was rather a

dumpy man.

After having heard his name, you will not be surprised when I tell you

that he was an exceedingly bad character. For a baron, he was considered

enormously rich; a hundred and fifty pounds a year would not be thought

much in this country; but still it will buy a good deal of sausage,

which, with wine grown on the estate, formed the chief sustenance of the

baron and his family.

Now, you will hardly believe that, notwithstanding he was the possessor

of this princely revenue, the baron was not satisfied, but oppressed

and ground down his unfortunate tenants to the very last penny he could

possibly squeeze out of them. In all his exactions he was seconded and

encouraged by his steward Klootz, an old rascal who took a malicious

pleasure in his master's cruelty, and who chuckled and rubbed his hands

with the greatest apparent enjoyment when any of the poor landholders

could not pay their rent, or afforded him any opportunity for

oppression.

Not content with making the poor tenants pay double value for the land

they rented, the baron was in the habit of going round every now and

then to their houses and ordering anything he took a fancy to, from a

fat pig to a pretty daughter, to be sent up to the castle. The pretty

daughter was made parlor-maid, but as she had nothing a year, and to

find herself, it wasn't what would be considered by careful mothers an

eligible situation. The fat pig became sausage, of course.

Things went on from bad to worse, till, at the time of our story,

between the alternate squeezings of the baron and his steward, the poor

tenants had very little left to squeeze out of them. The fat pigs and

pretty daughters had nearly all found their way up to the castle, and

there was little left to take.

[Illustration: The Daughter of the Baron]

The only help the poor fellows had was the baron's only daughter, Lady

Bertha, who always had a kind word, and frequently something more

substantial, for them when her father was not in the way.

Now, I'm not going to describe Bertha, for the simple reason that if I

did you would imagine that she was the fairy I'm going to tell you

about, and she isn't. However, I don't mind giving you a few outlines.

In the first place, she was exceedingly tiny,--the nicest girls, the

real lovable little pets, always are tiny,--and she had long silken

black hair, and a dear, dimpled little face full of love and mischief.

Now, then, fill up the outline with the details of the nicest and

prettiest girl you know, and you will have a slight idea of her. On

second thoughts, I don't believe you will, for your portrait wouldn't be

half good enough; however, it will be near enough for you.

Well, the baron's daughter, being all your fancy painted her and a

trifle more, was naturally much distressed at the goings-on of her

unamiable parent, and tried her best to make amends for her father's

harshness. She generally managed that a good many pounds of the sausage

should find their way back to the owners of the original pig; and when

the baron tried to squeeze the hand of the pretty parlor-maid, which he

occasionally did after dinner, Bertha had only to say, in a tone of

mild remonstrance, "Pa!" and he dropped the hand instantly and stared

very hard the other way.

Bad as this disreputable old baron was, he had a respect for the

goodness and purity of his child. Like the lion tamed by the charm of

Una's innocence, the rough old rascal seemed to lose in her presence

half his rudeness, and, though he used awful language to her sometimes

(I dare say even Una's lion roared occasionally), he was more tractable

with her than with any other living being. Her presence operated as a

moral restraint upon him, which, possibly, was the reason that he never

stayed down-stairs after dinner, but always retired to a favorite

turret, which, I regret to say, he had got so in the way of doing every

afternoon that I believe he would have felt unwell without it.

The hour of the baron's afternoon symposium was the time selected by

Bertha for her errands of charity. Once he was fairly settled down to

his second bottle, off went Bertha, with her maid beside her carrying a

basket, to bestow a meal on some of the poor tenants, among whom she was

always received with blessings.

At first these excursions had been undertaken principally from

charitable motives, and Bertha thought herself plentifully repaid in the

love and thanks of her grateful pensioners.

Of late, however, another cause had led her to take even stronger

interest in her walks, and occasionally to come in with brighter eyes

and a rosier cheek than the gratitude of the poor tenants had been wont

to produce.

The fact is, some months before the time of our story, Bertha had

noticed in her walks a young artist, who seemed to be fated to be

invariably sketching points of interest in the road she had to take.

There was one particular tree, exactly in the path which led from the

castle-gate, which he had sketched from at least four points of view,

and Bertha began to wonder what there could be so very particular about

it.

At last, just as Carl von Sempach had begun to consider where on earth

he could sketch the tree from next, and to ponder seriously upon the

feasibility of climbing up into it and taking it from _that_ point of

view, a trifling accident occurred which gave him the opportunity of

making Bertha's acquaintance,--which, I don't mind stating

confidentially, was the very thing he had been waiting for.

It so chanced that, on one particular afternoon, the maid, either

through awkwardness, or possibly through looking more at the handsome

painter than the ground she was walking on, stumbled and fell.

Of course, the basket fell, too, and equally of course, Carl, as a

gentleman, could not do less than offer his assistance in picking up the

damsel and the dinner.

The acquaintance thus commenced was not suffered to drop; and handsome

Carl and our good little Bertha were fairly over head and ears in love,

and had begun to have serious thoughts of a cottage in a wood, _et

cætera_, when their felicity was disturbed by their being accidentally

met, in one of their walks, by the baron.

Of course the baron, being himself so thorough an aristocrat, had higher

views for his daughter than marrying her to a "beggarly artist," and

accordingly he stamped, and swore, and threatened Carl with summary

punishment with all sorts of weapons, from heavy boots to blunderbusses,

if ever he ventured near the premises again.

This was unpleasant; but I fear it did not _quite_ put a stop to the

young people's interviews, though it made them less frequent and more

secret than before.

Now, I am quite aware this was not at all proper, and that no properly

regulated young lady would ever have had meetings with a young man her

papa didn't approve of.

But then it is just possible Bertha might not have been a properly

regulated young lady. I only know she was a dear little pet, worth

twenty model young ladies, and that she loved Carl very dearly.

And then consider what a dreadful old tyrant of a papa she had! My dear

girl, it's not the slightest use your looking so provokingly correct;

it's my deliberate belief that if you had been in her shoes (they'd have

been at least three sizes too small for you, but that doesn't matter)

you would have done precisely the same.

Such was the state of things on Christmas eve in the year----Stay!

fairy tales never have a year to them, so, on second thoughts, I

wouldn't tell the date if I knew,--but I don't.

Such was the state of things, however, on the particular 24th of

December to which our story refers--only, if anything, rather more so.

The baron had got up in the morning in an exceedingly bad temper; and

those about him had felt its effects all through the day.

His two favorite wolf-hounds, Lutzow and Teufel, had received so many

kicks from the baron's heavy boots that they hardly knew at which end

their tails were; and even Klootz himself scarcely dared to approach his

master.

In the middle of the day two of the principal tenants came to say that

they were unprepared with their rent, and to beg for a little delay.

The poor fellows represented that their families were starving, and

entreated for mercy; but the baron was only too glad that he had at last

found so fair an excuse for venting his ill-humor.

He loaded the unhappy defaulters with every abusive epithet he could

devise (and being called names in German is no joke, I can tell you);

and, lastly, he swore by everything he could think of that, if their

rent was not paid on the morrow, themselves and their families should be

turned out of doors to sleep on the snow, which was then many inches

deep on the ground. They still continued to beg for mercy, till the

baron became so exasperated that he determined to put them out of the

castle himself. He pursued them for that purpose as far as the outer

door, when fresh fuel was added to his anger.

Carl, who, as I have hinted, still managed, notwithstanding the paternal

prohibition, to see Bertha occasionally, and had come to wish her a

merry Christmas, chanced at this identical moment to be saying good-bye

at the door, above which, in accordance with immemorial usage, a huge

bush of mistletoe was suspended. What they were doing under it at the

moment of the baron's appearance, I never knew exactly; but his wrath

was tremendous!

I regret to say that his language was unparliamentary in the extreme.

He swore until he was mauve in the face; and if he had not

providentially been seized with a fit of coughing, and sat down in the

coal-scuttle,--mistaking it for a three-legged stool,--it is impossible

to say to what lengths his feelings might have carried him.

Carl and Bertha picked him up, rather black behind, but otherwise not

much the worse for his accident.

In fact, the diversion of his thoughts seemed to have done him good;

for, having sworn a little more, and Carl having left the castle, he

appeared rather better.