II.

After enduring so many and various emotions, it is hardly to be wondered

at that the baron required some consolation; so, after having changed

his trousers, he took himself off to his favorite turret to allay, by

copious potations, the irritations of his mind.

Bottle after bottle was emptied, and pipe after pipe was filled and

smoked. The fine old Burgundy was gradually getting into the baron's

head; and, altogether, he was beginning to feel more comfortable.

The shades of the winter afternoon had deepened into the evening

twilight, made dimmer still by the aromatic clouds that came, with

dignified deliberation, from the baron's lips, and curled and floated up

to the carved ceiling of the turret, where they spread themselves into a

dim canopy, which every successive cloud brought lower and lower.

The fire, which had been piled up mountain-high earlier in the

afternoon, and had flamed and roared to its heart's content ever since,

had now got to that state--the perfection of a fire to a lazy man--when

it requires no poking or attention of any kind, but just burns itself

hollow, and then tumbles in, and blazes jovially for a little time, and

then settles down to a genial glow, and gets hollow, and tumbles in

again.

The baron's fire was just in this delightful _da capo_ condition, most

favorable of all to the enjoyment of the _dolce far niente_.

For a little while it would glow and kindle quietly, making strange

faces to itself, and building fantastic castles in the depths of its red

recesses, and then the castles would come down with a crash, and the

faces disappear, and a bright flame spring up and lick lovingly the

sides of the old chimney; and the carved heads of improbable men and

impossible women, hewn so deftly round the panels of the old oak

wardrobe opposite, in which the baron's choicest vintages were

deposited, were lit up by the flickering light, and seemed to nod and

wink at the fire in return, with the familiarity of old acquaintances.

Some such fancy as this was disporting itself in the baron's brain; and

he was gazing at the old oak carving accordingly, and emitting huge

volumes of smoke with reflective slowness, when a clatter among the

bottles on the table caused him to turn his head to ascertain the cause.

The baron was by no means a nervous man; however, the sight that met his

eyes when he turned round did take away his presence of mind a little; and

he was obliged to take four distinct puffs before he had sufficiently

regained his equilibrium to inquire, "Who the--Pickwick--are you?" (The

baron said "Dickens," but, as that is a naughty word, we will substitute

"Pickwick," which is equally expressive, and not so wrong.) Let me see;

where was I? Oh, yes! "Who the Pickwick are you?"

Now, before I allow the baron's visitor to answer the question, perhaps

I had better give a slight description of his personal appearance.

If this was not a true story, I should have liked to have made him a

model of manly beauty; but a regard for veracity compels me to confess

that he was not what would be generally considered handsome; that is,

not in figure, for his face was by no means unpleasing.

His body was, in size and shape, not very unlike a huge plum-pudding,

and was clothed in a bright-green, tightly-fitting doublet, with red

holly-berries for buttons.

His limbs were long and slender in proportion to his stature, which was

not more than three feet or so.

His head was encircled by a crown of holly and mistletoe.

The round red berries sparkled amid his hair which was silver-white, and

shone out in cheerful harmony with his rosy, jovial face. And that face!

it would have done one good to look at it.

In spite of the silver hair, and an occasional wrinkle beneath the

merry, laughing eyes, it seemed brimming over with perpetual youth. The

mouth, well garnished with teeth, white and sound, which seemed as if

they could do ample justice to holiday cheer, was ever open with a

beaming, genial smile, expanding now and then into hearty laughter. Fun

and good-fellowship were in every feature.

The owner of the face was, at the moment when the baron first perceived

him, comfortably seated upon the top of the large tobacco-jar on the

table, nursing his left leg.

The baron's somewhat abrupt inquiry did not appear to irritate him; on

the contrary, he seemed rather amused than otherwise.

"You don't ask prettily, old gentleman," he replied; "but I don't mind

telling you, for all that. I'm King Christmas."

"Eh?" said the baron.

"Ah!" said the goblin. Of course, you have guessed he was a goblin?

"And pray what's your business here?" said the baron.

"Don't be crusty with a fellow," replied the goblin. "I merely looked in

to wish you the compliments of the season. Talking of crust, by the way,

what sort of a tap is it you're drinking?" So saying, he took up a flask

of the baron's very best and poured out about half a glass. Having held

the glass first on one side and then on the other, winked at it twice,

sniffed it, and gone through the remainder of the pantomime in which

connoisseurs indulge, he drank it with great deliberation, and smacked

his lips scientifically. "Hum! Johannisberg! and not so _very_ bad--for

you. But I tell you what it is, baron, you'll have to bring out better

stuff than this when I put my legs on your mahogany."

"Well, you are a cool fish," said the baron. "However, you're rather a

joke, so, now you're here, we may as well enjoy ourselves. Smoke?"

"Not anything you're likely to offer me!"

"Confound your impudence!" roared the baron, with a horribly

complicated oath. "That tobacco is as good as any in all Rhineland."

"That's a nasty cough you've got, baron. Don't excite yourself, my dear

boy; I dare say you speak according to your lights. I don't mean

Vesuvians, you know, but your opportunities for knowing anything about

it. Try a weed out of my case, and I expect you'll alter your opinion."

The baron took the proffered case and selected a cigar. Not a word was

spoken till it was half consumed, when the baron took it, for the first

time, from his lips, and said, gently, with the air of a man

communicating an important discovery in the strictest confidence, "Das

ist gut!"

"Thought you'd say so," said the visitor. "And now, as you like the

cigar, I should like you to try a thimbleful of what _I_ call wine. I

must warn you, though, that it is rather potent, and may produce effects

you are not accustomed to."

"Bother that, if it is as good as the weed," said the baron; "I haven't

taken my usual quantity by four bottles yet."

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you, that's all. I don't think you'll

find it unpleasant, though it is rather strong when you're not

accustomed to it." So saying, the goblin produced from some mysterious

pocket a black, big-bellied bottle, crusted, apparently, with the dust

of ages.

It did strike the baron as peculiar, that the bottle, when once

produced, appeared nearly as big round as the goblin himself; but he was

not the sort of man to stick at trifles, and he pushed forward his glass

to be filled just as composedly as if the potion had been shipped and

paid duty, in the most commonplace way.

The glass was filled and emptied, but the baron uttered not his opinion.

Not in words, at least, but he pushed forward his glass to be filled

again in a manner that sufficiently bespoke his approval.

"Aha! you smile!" said the goblin. And it was a positive fact; the baron

was smiling; a thing he had not been known to do in the memory of the

oldest inhabitant. "That's the stuff to make your hair curl, isn't it?"

"I believe you, my b-o-o-oy!" The baron brought out this earnest

expression of implicit confidence with true unction. "It warms one

_here_!"

Knowing the character of the man, one would have expected him to put his

hand upon his stomach. But he didn't; he laid it upon his _heart_.

"The spell begins to operate, I see," said the goblin. "Have another

glass?"

The baron had another glass, and another after that.

The smile on his face expanded into an expression of such geniality that

the whole character of his countenance was changed, and his own mother

wouldn't have known him. I doubt myself--inasmuch as she died when he

was exactly a year and three months old--whether she would have

recognized him under any circumstances; but I merely wish to express

that he was changed almost beyond recognition.

"Upon my word," said the baron, at length, "I feel so light I almost

think I could dance a hornpipe. I used to, once, I know. Shall I try?"

"Well, if you ask my advice," replied the goblin, "I should say,

decidedly, don't. 'Barkis is willing,' I dare say, but trousers are

weak, and you might split 'em."

"Hang it all," said the baron, "so I might. I didn't think of that. But

still I feel as if I must do something juvenile!"

"Ah! that's the effect of your change of nature," said the goblin.

"Never mind, I'll give you plenty to do presently."

"Change of nature! What do you mean, you old conundrum?" said the baron.

"You're another," said the goblin. "But never mind. What I mean is just

this. What you are now feeling is the natural consequence of my magic

wine, which has changed you into a fairy. That's what's the matter,

sir."

"A fairy! me!" exclaimed the baron. "Get out. I'm too fat."

"Fat! Oh! that's nothing. We shall put you in regular training, and

you'll soon be slim enough to creep into a lady's stocking. Not that

you'll be called upon to do anything of the sort; but I'm merely giving

you an idea of your future figure."

"No, no," said the baron; "me thin! that's too ridiculous. Why, that's

worse than being a fairy. You don't mean it, though, do you? I do feel

rather peculiar."

"I do, indeed," said the visitor. "You don't dislike it, do you?"

"Well, no, I can't say I do, entirely. It's queer, though, I feel so

uncommon friendly. I feel as if I should like to shake hands or pat

somebody on the back."

"Ah!" said the goblin, "I know how it is. Rum feeling, when you're not

accustomed to it. But come; finish that glass, for we must be off. We've

got a precious deal to do before morning, I can tell you. Are you

ready?"

"All right," said the baron. "I'm just in the humor to make a night of

it."

"Come along, then," said the goblin.

They proceeded for a short time in silence along the corridors of the

old castle. They carried no candle, but the baron noticed that

everything seemed perfectly light wherever they stood, but relapsed into

darkness as soon as they had passed by. The goblin spoke first.

"I say, baron, you've been an uncommon old brute in your time, now,

haven't you?"

"H'm," said the baron, reflectively; "I don't know. Well, yes, I rather

think I have."

"How jolly miserable you've been making those two young people, you old

sinner! You know who I mean."

"Eh, what? You know that, too?" said the baron.

"Know it; of course I do. Why, bless your heart, I know everything, my

dear boy. But you _have_ made yourself an old tyrant in that quarter,

considerably. Ar'n't you blushing, you hard-hearted old monster?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," said the baron, scratching his nose, as if that

was where he expected to feel it. "I believe I have treated them badly,

though, now I come to think of it."

At this moment they reached the door of Bertha's chamber The door opened

of itself at their approach.

"Come along," said the goblin; "you won't wake her. Now, old

flinty-heart, look there."

The sight that met the baron's view was one that few fathers could have

beheld without affectionate emotion. Under ordinary circumstances,

however, the baron would not have felt at all sentimental on the

subject, but to-night something made him view things in quite a

different light.

I shouldn't like to make affidavit of the fact, but it's my positive

impression that he sighed.

Now, my dear reader, don't imagine I'm going to indulge your impertinent

curiosity with an elaborate description of the sacred details of a

lady's sleeping apartment. _You're_ not a fairy, you know, and I don't

see that it can possibly matter to you whether fair Bertha's dainty

little bottines were tidily placed on a chair by her bedside, or thrown

carelessly, as they had been taken off, upon the hearth-rug, where her

favorite spaniel reposed, warming his nose in his sleep before the last

smouldering embers of the decaying fire; or whether her crinoline--but

if she did wear a crinoline, what can that possibly matter to you?

All I shall tell you is, that everything looked snug and comfortable;

but, somehow, any place got that look when Bertha was in it.

And now a word about the jewel in the casket--pet Bertha herself.

Really, I'm at a loss to describe her. How do you look when you're

asleep?--Well, it wasn't like _that_; not a bit! Fancy a sweet girl's

face, the cheek faintly flushed with a soft, warm tint, like the blush

in the heart of the opening rose, and made brighter by the contrast of

the snowy pillow on which it rested; dark silken hair, curling and

clustering lovingly over the tiniest of tiny ears, and the softest,

whitest neck that ever mortal maiden was blessed with; long silken

eyelashes, fringing lids only less beautiful than the dear earnest eyes

they cover. Fancy all this, and fancy, too, if you can, the expression

of perfect goodness and purity that lit up the sweet features of the

slumbering maiden with a beauty almost angelic, and you will see what

the baron saw that night. Not quite all, however, for the baron's vision

paused not at the bedside before him, but had passed on from the face of

the sleeping maiden to another face as lovely, that of the young wife,

Bertha's mother, who had, years before, taken her angel beauty to the

angels.

The goblin spoke to the baron's thought. "Wonderfully like her, is she

not, baron?" The baron slowly inclined his head.

"You made her very happy, didn't you?"

The tone in which the goblin spoke was harsh and mocking.

"A faithful husband, tender and true! She must have been a happy wife,

eh, baron?"

The baron's head had sunk upon his bosom. Old recollections were

thronging into his awakened memory. Solemn vows to love and cherish

somewhat strangely kept. Memories of bitter words and savage oaths

showered at a quiet and uncomplaining figure, without one word in reply.

And, last, the memory of a fit of drunken passion, and a hasty blow

struck with a heavy hand. And then of three months of fading away; and

last, of her last prayer--for her baby and him.

"A good husband makes a good father, baron. No wonder you are somewhat

chary of rashly intrusting to a suitor the happiness of a sweet flower

like this. Poor child! it is hard, though, that she must think no more

of him she loves so dearly. See! she is weeping even in her dreams. But

you have good reasons, no doubt. Young Carl is wild, perhaps, or drinks,

or gambles, eh? What! none of these? Perhaps he is wayward and

uncertain; and you fear that the honeyed words of courtship might turn

to bitter sayings in matrimony. They do, sometimes, eh, baron? By all

means guard her from such a fate as that. Poor, tender flower! Or who

knows, worse than that, baron! Hard words break no bones, they say, but

angry men are quick, and a blow is soon struck, eh?"

The goblin had drawn nearer and nearer, and laid his hand upon the

baron's arm, and the last words were literally hissed into his ears.

The baron's frame swayed to and fro under the violence of his emotion.

At last, with a cry of agony, he dashed his hands upon his forehead. The

veins were swollen up like thick cords, and his voice was almost

inarticulate in its unnatural hoarseness.

"Tortures! release me! Let me go, let me go and do something to forget

the past, or I shall go mad and die!"

He rushed out of the room and paced wildly down the corridor, the goblin

following him. At last, as they came near the outer door of the castle,

which opened of itself as they reached it, the spirit spoke:

"This way, baron, this way. I told you there was work for us to do

before morning, you know."

"Work!" exclaimed the baron, absently, passing his fingers through his

tangled hair; "oh! yes, work! the harder the better; anything to make me

forget."

The two stepped out into the court-yard, and the baron shivered, though,

as it seemed, unconsciously, at the breath of the frosty midnight air.

The snow lay deep on the ground, and the baron's heavy boots sank into

it with a crisp, crushing sound at every tread.

He was bareheaded, but seemed unconscious of the fact, and tramped on,

as if utterly indifferent to anything but his own thoughts. At last, as

a blast of the night wind, keener than ordinary, swept over him, he

seemed for the first time to feel the chill. His teeth chattered, and he

muttered, "Cold, very cold."

"Ay, baron," said the goblin, "it is cold even to us, who are healthy

and strong, and warmed with wine. Colder still, though, to those who are

hungry and half-naked, and have to sleep on the snow."

"Sleep? snow?" said the baron. "Who sleeps on the snow? Why, I wouldn't

let my dogs be out on such a night as this."

"Your dogs, no!" said the goblin; "I spoke of meaner animals--your

wretched tenants. Did you not order, yesterday, that Wilhelm and

Friedrich, if they did not pay their rent to-morrow, should be turned

out to sleep on the snow? A snug bed for the little ones, and a nice

white coverlet, eh? Ha! ha! twenty florins or so is no great matter, is

it? I'm afraid their chance is small; nevertheless, come and see."

The baron hung his head. A few minutes brought him to the first of the

poor dwellings, which they entered noiselessly. The fireless grate, the

carpetless floor, the broken window-panes, all gave sufficient testimony

to the want and misery of the occupants. In one corner lay sleeping a

man, a woman, and three children, and nestling to each other for the

warmth which their ragged coverlet could afford. In the man, the baron

recognized his tenant Wilhelm, one of those who had been with him to beg

for indulgence on the previous day.

The keen features, and bones almost starting through the pallid skin,

showed how heavily the hand of hunger had been laid upon all.

The cold night wind moaned and whistled through the many flaws in the

ill-glazed, ill-thatched tenement, and rustled over the sleepers, who

shivered even in their sleep.

"Ha, baron!" said the goblin, "death is breathing in their faces even

now, you see; it is hardly worth while to lay them to sleep in the snow,

is it? They would sleep a little sounder, that's all."

The baron shuddered, and then, hastily pulling the warm coat from his

own shoulders, he spread it over the sleepers.

"Oho!" said the goblin; "bravely done, baron! By all means keep them

warm to-night; they enjoy the snow more to-morrow, you know."

Strange to say, the baron, instead of feeling chilled when he had

removed his coat, felt a strange glow of warmth spread from the region

of the heart over his entire frame. The goblin's continual allusions to

his former intention, which he had by this time totally relinquished,

hurt him, and he said, rather pathetically,--

"Don't talk of that again, good goblin. I'd rather sleep on the snow

myself."

"Eh! what?" said the goblin; "you don't mean to say you're sorry? Then

what do you say to making these poor people comfortable?"

"With all my heart," said the baron, "if we had only anything to do it

with."

"You leave that to me," said the goblin. "Your brother fairies are not

far off, you may be sure."

As he spoke he clapped his hands thrice, and before the third clap had

died away the poor cottage was swarming with tiny figures, whom the

baron rightly conjectured to be the fairies themselves.

Now, you may not be aware (the baron was not, until that night) that

there are among the fairies trades and professions, just as with

ordinary mortals.

However, there they were, each with the accompaniments of his or her

particular business, and to it they went manfully. A fairy glazier put

in new panes to the shattered windows, fairy carpenters replaced the

doors upon their hinges, and fairy painters, with inconceivable

celerity, made cupboards and closets as fresh as paint could make them;

one fairy housemaid laid and lit a roaring fire, while another dusted

and rubbed chairs and tables to a miraculous degree of brightness; a

fairy butler uncorked bottles of fairy wine, and a fairy cook laid out a

repast of most tempting appearance.

The baron, hearing a tapping above him, cast his eyes upward, and beheld

a fairy slater rapidly repairing a hole in the roof; and when he bent

them down again they fell on a fairy doctor mixing a cordial for the

sleepers. Nay, there was even a fairy parson, who, not having any

present employment, contented himself with rubbing his hands and looking

pleasant, probably waiting till somebody might want to be christened or

married.

Every trade, every profession or occupation appeared, without exception,

to be represented; nay, we beg pardon, with one exception only, for the

baron used to say, when afterwards relating his experiences to bachelor

friends,--

"You may believe me or not, sir, there was every mortal business under

the sun, _but deil a bit of a lawyer_."

The baron could not long remain inactive. He was rapidly seized with a

violent desire to do something to help, which manifested itself in

insane attempts to assist everybody at once. At last, after having taken

all the skin off his knuckles in attempting to hammer in nails in aid of

the carpenter, and then nearly tumbling over a fairy housemaid, whose

broom he was offering to carry, he gave it up as a bad job, and stood

aside with his friend the goblin.

He was just about to inquire how it was that the poor occupants of the

house were not awakened by so much din, when a fairy Sam Slick, who had

been examining the cottager's old clock with a view to a thorough

repair, touched some spring within it, and it made the usual purr

preparatory to striking. When, lo! and behold, at the very first stroke,

cottage, goblin, fairies, and all disappeared into utter darkness, and

the baron found himself in his turret-chamber, rubbing his toe, which he

had just hit with considerable force against the fender. As he was only

in his slippers, the concussion was unpleasant, and the baron rubbed his

toe for a good while.

After he had finished with his toe he rubbed his nose, and, finally,

with a countenance of deep reflection, scratched the bump of something

or other at the top of his head.

The old clock on the stairs was striking three, and the fire had gone

out.

The baron reflected for a short time longer, and finally decided that he

had better go to bed, which he did accordingly.