The Baron of Rothsattel was one of the few men whom not only the world
pronounced happy, but who believed himself to be so. The descendant of
an ancient and honorable house, he had married, out of sheer love, a
beautiful young lady without any fortune. Like a sensible man, he had
retired with her into the country, lived for his family, and within his
means. He was a thoroughly noble-hearted man, still handsome and
dignified in appearance, an affectionate husband, a hospitable host; in
short, the very model of a landed proprietor. His means were not,
indeed, very large, but he might have sold his property over and over
again for a far higher sum than the sagacious Itzig had surmised, had he
felt any inclination to do so. Two healthy, intelligent children
completed his domestic happiness; the boy was about to enter the
military career, which had been that of all his ancestors; the girl was
to remain yet a while under her mother's wing. Like all men of old
descent, our baron was a good deal given to speculate upon the past and
the future of his family. We have said that his means were not large,
and though he had always intended to lay by, the time for beginning to
do so had never yet come. Either some improvement to house or grounds
was wanted, or a trip to the baths--rendered necessary by his wife's
delicate health--consumed the overplus income. Reflections of this
nature were occupying him just now, as he came galloping up the great
chestnut avenue. The cloud on his brow was, however, but a little one,
and it soon vanished in sunshine when he saw the flutter of feminine
garments, and found that his wife and daughter were coming to meet him.
He leaped off his horse, kissed his favorite child on the brow, and
cheerfully remarked to his wife, "We have capital weather for the
harvest; the bailiff vows we never have had such a crop."
"You are a fortunate man, Oscar," said the baroness, tenderly.
"Yes, ever since I brought you here, seventeen years ago," replied he,
with a politeness that came from the heart.
"There are indeed seventeen years since then," cried his wife, "and they
have flown by like a summer day. We have been very happy, Oscar," said
she, bending over his arm, and looking gratefully in his face.
"Been happy!" cried the baron; "why, so we still are, and I see not why
we should not continue so."
"Hush!" implored she. "I often feel that so much sunshine can not last
forever. I desire, as it were, to fast and do penance, thus to
propitiate the envy of fortune."
"Come, come," was the good-humored reply; "fortune has given us a few
rubs already: we have had our clouds, only this little hand has always
conjured them away. Why, have you not had plague enough with the
servants, the pranks of the children, and sometimes with your tyrant
too, that you should be wishing for more?"
"You dear tyrant!" cried the wife, "I owe all my happiness to you; and,
after seventeen years, I am as proud as ever of my husband and my home.
When you brought me here, a poor maid of honor, with nothing but my
trinket-box, and that a gift, I first learned the blessedness of being
mistress in my own house, and obeying no other will than that of a
beloved husband."
"And yet you gave up much for me," returned the baron; "I have had many
a fear lest our country life should seem petty and dull to you, a
favorite at court."
"There I obeyed, here I rule," said the baroness, laughing. "There I had
nothing besides my fine dresses that I could call my own; here, every
thing around is mine. You belong to me (she wound her arms around the
baron), and so do the children, the castle, and our silver
candlesticks."
"The new ones are only plated," suggested the baron.
"Never mind; no one finds it out," cried she, merrily. "When I look at
our own dinner-service, and see your and my arms on the plates, two
spoonfuls give me ten times more satisfaction than all the courses of
the court dinner ever did."
"You are a bright example of contentment," said the baron; "and for your
and the children's sake, I wish this property were ten times larger, so
that I might keep a page and a couple of maids of honor for my lady
wife."
"For heaven's sake, no maids of honor; and as for a page, I need none
with such an attentive knight as yourself."
And so the pair walked on to the house, Lenore having taken possession
of the horse's bridle, affectionately exhorting him to raise as little
dust as possible.
"I see a carriage," said the baron, as they drew near the door; "have
any visitors come?"
"It is only Ehrenthal, who wished to see you," replied his wife, "and
meanwhile expended all his pretty speeches upon us. Lenore was so
arrogant that it was high time I should carry her off--the droll man was
quite put out of countenance by the saucy girl."
The baron smiled. "I like him the best of his class," said he. "His
manners are at least not repulsive, and I have always found him
obliging. How do you do, Mr. Ehrenthal; what brings you here?"
Mr. Ehrenthal was a portly man in the prime of life, with a face too
yellow, fat, and cunning to be considered exactly handsome. He wore
gaiters, and a large diamond breast-pin, and advanced with a series of
low bows toward the baron.
"Your servant, good sir," said he, with a deferential smile; "although
no business matters lead me here, I must sometimes crave permission to
look round your farm, it is such a treat and refreshment to me; all your
live-stock is so sleek and well-fed, and the barns and stables in such
perfect order. The very sparrows look better off here than elsewhere. To
a man of business, who is often obliged to see things going to wrack
and ruin, it is a delight, indeed, to contemplate an estate like yours."
"You are so complimentary, Mr. Ehrenthal, that I can but believe you
have some weighty business on hand. Do you want to make a bargain with
me?" asked the count, good-naturedly.
With a virtuous shake of the head in refutation of the charge, Mr.
Ehrenthal went on: "Not a word of business, baron, not a word. _Our_
business, when we have any, admits of no compliments--good money and
good stock, that is our plan; and so, please God, it will be. I merely
came, in passing by"--here he waved his hand--"in passing by, to inquire
about one of the horses the baron has to sell; I promised a friend to
make inquiries. But I can settle the matter with the bailiff."
"No, no; come along with me, Ehrenthal--I am going to take my horse to
the stable."
With many bows to the ladies, Ehrenthal followed, and, arrived at the
stable-door, respectfully insisted that the baron should enter it first.
After the customary questions and answers, the baron took him to the
cow-house, and he then fervently requested to see the calves, and then
the sheep. Being an experienced man, his praise, although somewhat
exaggerated, was in the main judicious, and the baron heard it with
pleasure.
After the inspection of the sheep, there was a pause, Ehrenthal being
quite overcome by the thickness and fineness of their fleece. He nodded
and winked in ecstasy. "What wool!" said he; "what it will be next
spring! Do you know, baron, you are a most fortunate man? Have you good
accounts of the young gentleman, your son?"
"Thank you, he wrote to us yesterday, and sent us his testimonials."
"He will be like his father, a nobleman of the first order, and a rich
man too; the baron knows how to provide for his children."
"I am not laying by," was the careless reply.
"Laying by, indeed!" said the tradesman, with the utmost contempt for
any thing so plebeian; "and why should you? When old Ehrenthal is dead
and gone, you will be able to leave the young gentleman this
property--with--between ourselves--a very large sum indeed, besides a
dowry to your daughter of--of--what shall I say? of fifty thousand
dollars, at least."
"You are mistaken," said the baron, gravely; "I am not so rich."
"Not so rich!" cried Ehrenthal, ready to resent the speech, if it had
not been made by the baron himself. "Why, you may then be so any moment
you like; any one, with a property like yours, can double his capital in
ten years, without the slightest risk. Why not take joint-stock
promissory notes upon your estate?"
Ehrenthal alluded to a great joint-stock company of landed proprietors
which lent money on a first mortgage on estates. This money took the
form of promissory notes, made payable to the holder. The company itself
paid interest to those who accepted the mortgages, and advanced money on
them, raising from its own debtors, in addition to the interest, a small
sum as commission, for the purpose of defraying expenses, and also for
the gradual extinction of the debt incurred.
"I will have nothing to do with money transactions," said the baron,
proudly. But the string the tradesman had touched went on vibrating
notwithstanding.
"Transactions such as those I speak of are carried on by every prince,"
continued Mr. Ehrenthal, fervently. "If you were to do as I suggested,
you might any day obtain fifty thousand dollars in good parchment. For
it you would pay to the company four per cent.; and if you merely let
the mortgages lie in your cash-box, they would bring you in three and a
half. So you would only have a half per cent. to pay, and by so doing
you would liquidate the capital."
"That is to say, I am to run into debt in order to get rich," said the
baron, shrugging his shoulders.
"Excuse me, baron; if a nobleman like you has fifty thousand dollars
lying by him, for which he only pays a half per cent., he may buy up
half the world. There are always opportunities of getting estates for a
mere nothing, or shares in mines, or something or other, if you only
have the money ready. Or you might establish some kind of works on your
property; as, for instance, for making beet-root sugar, like Herr von
Bergue; or a brewery, like your neighbor, Count Horn. There is no
possible risk to be feared. Why, you would receive ten, twenty, ay,
fifty per cent. for the capital borrowed at four per cent."
The baron looked down thoughtfully. Ideas of the sort had often flitted
across his mind. It was just the time when numerous industrial
speculations had started up, and landed proprietors looked upon them as
the best way to increase their means. Mr. Ehrenthal perceived the effect
his words had taken, and concluded in the obsequious tone most natural
to him: "But what right have I to give any advice to a nobleman like
you? Only, every capitalist will tell you that in our days this is the
surest method by which a man of rank can provide for his family; and,
when the grass is growing over old Ehrenthal's grave, you will think of
me and say, 'Ehrenthal was but a plain man, but he gave me advice which
has proved advantageous to my family.'"
The baron still looked thoughtfully down. His mind was made up, but he
merely replied, with affected indifference, "I will think the matter
over." Ehrenthal asked no more.
It was a pity that the baron did not see the expression of the
tradesman's face as he got into his conveyance and drove away. He told
the coachman to go slowly through the grounds, and looked with delight
at the flourishing crops on either side. "A fine property," he went on
muttering to himself; "truly a fine property."
Meanwhile the baroness sat in the shrubbery, and turned over the leaves
of a new magazine, every now and then casting a look at her daughter,
who was occupied in framing, with old newspapers and flowers, a
grotesque decoration for the pony's head and neck, while he kept tearing
away all of it that he could reach. As soon as she caught her mother's
glance, she flew to her, and began to talk nonsense to the smart ladies
and gentlemen who displayed the fashions in the pages of the magazine.
At first her mother laughed, but by-and-by she said, "Lenore, you are
now a great girl, and yet a mere child. We have been too careless about
your education; it is high time that you should begin and learn more
systematically, my poor darling."
"I thought I was to have done with learning," said Lenore, pouting.
"Your French is still very imperfect, and your father wishes you to
practice drawing, for which you have a talent."
"I only care for drawing caricatures," cried Lenore; "they are so easy."
"You must leave off drawing these; they spoil your taste, and make you
satirical." Lenore hung her head. "And who was the young man with whom I
saw you a short time ago?" continued the baroness, reprovingly.
"Do not scold me, dear mother," cried Lenore; "he was a stranger--a
handsome, modest youth, on his way to the capital. He has neither father
nor mother, and that made me so sorry for him."
Her mother kissed her, and said, "You are my own dear, wild girl. Go and
call your father; his coffee will get cold."
As soon as the baron appeared, his head still full of his conversation
with Ehrenthal, his wife laid her hand in his, and said, "Oscar, I am
uneasy about Lenore!"
"Is she ill?" inquired her father, in alarm.
"No, she is well and good-hearted, but she is more free and
unconventional than she should be at her age."
"She has been brought up in the country, and a fine, clever girl she
is," replied the baron, soothingly.
"Yes, but she is too frank in her manner toward strangers," continued
his wife; "I fear that she is in danger of becoming an original."
"Well, and is that a very great misfortune?" asked the baron, laughing.
"There can be no greater to a girl in our circle. Whatever is unusual in
society is ridiculous, and the merest shade of eccentricity might ruin
her prospects. I am afraid she will never improve in the country."
"What would the child do away from us, and growing up with strangers?"
"And yet," said the baroness, earnestly, "it must come to this, though I
grieve to tell you so. She is rude to girls of her own age,
disrespectful to ladies, and, on the other hand, much too forward to
gentlemen."
"She will change," suggested the baron, after a pause.
"She will not change," returned the baroness, gently, "so long as she
leaps over hedge and ditch with her father, and even accompanies him out
hunting."
"I can not make up my mind to part with both children," said the
kind-hearted father; "it would be hard upon us, indeed, and hardest upon
you, you rigid matron!"
"Perhaps so," said the baroness, in a low voice, and her eyelids
moistened; "but we must not think of ourselves, only of their future
good."
The baron drew her closer to him, and said in a firm voice, "Listen,
Elizabeth; when in earlier days we looked forward to these, we had other
plans for Lenore's education. We resolved to spend the winter in town,
to give the child some finishing lessons, and then to introduce her into
the world. We will go this very winter to the capital."
The baroness looked up in amazement. "Dear, kind Oscar," cried she;
"but--forgive the question--will not this be a great sacrifice to you in
other respects?"
"No," was the cheerful reply; "I have plans which make it desirable for
me to spend the winter in town."
He told them, and the move was decided upon.