Our two colonists spent the next few weeks in such active pursuits, that
every night, when they threw themselves upon their beds, they were quite
exhausted.
Karl had been duly installed as bailiff, and held the reins of
management with a firm hand, and Anton had committed the care of the
house and kitchen to a hard-working woman, whom he found in one of the
German settlements around. The most difficult matter had been to
establish tolerably satisfactory relations with the adjacent village;
but Anton's calm decision had at all events prevented any outbreak of
opposition. One of his first measures had been to appeal, in all cases
of breach of trust or dereliction of duty, to the proper authorities.
Karl's cavalry cloak attracted a few men who had served; and through
these, the most civilized part of the community, the settlers gained
some influence over others. At length, several voluntarily offered to
become servants at the castle, or day-laborers on the estate.
Anton had written to the baroness, not disguising from her the state of
the property, nor the unfriendly feeling of the district, and his own
anxiety about the family moving thither in the course of the next
winter. He had asked whether she would not prefer to remain till spring
in the capital. In reply, he received a letter from Lenore, in which she
told him, on the part of her parents, that they abode by their former
resolve to leave the town, which had now become a painful residence to
them all. She therefore begged him to have the castle put into a
habitable condition as soon as possible.
Anton called out to his ally, "They are actually coming."
"They are, are they?" said Karl. "It is fortunate that we have heard of
workmen--masons, joiners, locksmiths, glaziers, potters, and so on. If
you will allow me, I will at once send a messenger off to Rosmin. If I
could only get off this ugly brown paint from the door--it hides the
beautiful oak carving. But lye won't stir it. And then how many stoves
shall we want?"
An important conversation now began. "We must leave the whole lower
floor unoccupied," Anton said, "closing up the windows with thick
boards; but we shall have to put up a strong door in the hall, because
one is constantly passing through it. These walls, too, can not remain
as they are, and we have no one to trust to but the Rosmin mason."
"Since that is the case," said Karl, "I propose that we paint the walls
ourselves. I am a dab-hand at marbling."
"You are?" replied Anton, looking at him with some anxiety. "No; I think
we had better make all the rooms one color. What do you think of brown?"
"Hum--not bad," said Karl.
"I know it is a favorite color of Fräulein Lenore's. It must not be too
dark, though, but a bright mixture of yellow, gray, red, and green,
with, perhaps, a little black in it."
"Aha!" said Karl, disconcerted; "a peculiar sort of brown, I suppose."
"Of course," continued Anton, eagerly drawing his chair nearer; "we will
mix it ourselves."
"That's my way," said Karl; "but I tell you beforehand, these chalk
colors are the very deuce! You paint a blue, the next day you have
white; you have the most beautiful orange in your brush, and when it has
dried on the wall it is a dirty yellow."
"Between ourselves," replied Anton, "we shall not succeed very
perfectly, but I think we shall manage to make things look tolerably
comfortable."
The following day the hammering and painting began. The joiner and his
men set up a workshop on the lower floor; above, the great brush of the
painter kept unwearyingly passing and repassing over the walls, and
white figures, with great aprons, carried buckets now up, now down. As
for Karl, he seemed to have a dozen hands. Whenever he could get away
from the farm, he painted woodwork and walls with all sorts of brushes.
He ran round with a foot-measure, drove in nails and hooks for curtains,
and the very next moment there he was again in the field or the stable,
but every where whistling his soldier's songs and urging on the
laborers. As the arrangements of the house progressed, his love of
beautifying became more and more developed. He bought a quantity of
oil-paint, which he found excellent, and displayed a decided talent for
the art. He now ventured to give to several objects, which seemed to him
qualified to receive it, the appearance of finely-polished wood, and,
with the aid of a soft brush and a bunch of feathers, succeeded in
producing wonderful effects. He even carried his brush and his
beautifying into the farm-yard, and teased Anton into consenting to a
general whitewashing of the mud walls. "They will dry in this weather
just as well as in summer," said he. "My only regret is, that I can't
wash the straw thatch." To make up for that, however, he was determined
to give the two new potato-carts and the best plow a coating of
beautiful blue oil-paint. "One must have something pleasant for the eye
to rest on here," said he, by way of apology. "And it will pay for
itself, for these Poles get on better with gayly-colored things."
The castle was temporarily arranged, and the arrival of the family
expected on a cold December day. The sky had carried out Karl's wishes,
most effectually covering the earth with a pure white mantle, and hiding
many an eyesore from the expected party. The snow lay thick on pasture
and sands, the summits of the pines wore white crowns, and the leafless
shrubs glittered with frost-crystals. The ugly straw thatches were
whitewashed to some purpose, the broken parapets of the bridge filled
up. Each projection of the castle walls, the top of the tower, the whole
roof, was capped with dazzling white, while the red-brown walls stood
out in bold relief below. Within, it was a busy and exciting day. Wagons
of furniture and stores were unpacked, and all arranged as well as the
haste allowed. The farmer's wife and the housekeeper wove great garlands
of fir-branches, and decorated the hall and the room doors. The sun set,
and the silver landscape turned to gold, till the rising moon suffused
it with a mysterious blue light. Several lamps were lit in the house, as
many candles as possible placed in the apartments, the stoves all burned
cheerily, and the fir-twigs filled the air with their fragrance. The gay
curtains were drawn, and the open suite of rooms looked so habitable,
that Anton asked himself in amazement how the labors of a few weeks
could have wrought such a change as this. Karl had placed pitch-pans on
both sides of the castle, and they shed a cheerful glow around.
Meanwhile all the dependents assembled in the hall--the forester in a
new green coat, the memorial of his battles on his breast, a deer-hound
at his side, stood in military attitude next to the German farmer and
the shepherd. The housekeeper and the farmer's wife had put their best
ribbons on their caps, and tripped to and fro in restless expectation.
Karl, too, appeared in his hussar's frock.
Meanwhile Anton went once more through the rooms, and listened for the
crack of the whip that should announce the baron's arrival. His own
heart beat: for him, too, a new era was about to begin. After all, his
life here had been a pleasant one enough hitherto: he and his trusty
ally had felt themselves the masters of the castle, and had got through
their anxieties cheerfully together. Now, however, Karl must take up his
quarters in the farm-yard, while Anton, according to the wish of the
baroness, was to occupy a room in the castle, so that he must come into
daily relations with the family, and he now asked himself of what nature
these would be. The baron was almost a stranger to him: how would he
suit this baron? And he was blind too--yes, blind. Lenore had written
him word that the surgeon gave no hope of the injured optic nerve ever
recovering. This had been kept back from the sufferer, who comforted
himself with the hope that time and skill might yet remove the dark
cloud from his eyes. But Anton confided the truth to Karl, and was
obliged to tell all the dependents that the baron was at present
suffering from his eyes, and obliged to wear a bandage over them; and he
read upon the faces of all that they felt this was a misfortune for the
property. And his heart beat unquietly, too, when he thought of Lenore,
with whom he should now be brought into constant contact. How would she
and her mother treat him? He determined carefully to suppress what he
now felt to have been idle claims, and so to behave from the first as to
afford them no cause for mortifying his self-respect. And yet he could
not help wondering whether they would treat him as a friend and an
equal, or make him feel that he was a hired dependent. It was in vain
that he said to himself that his own feelings made the latter
arrangement desirable; he could not check the delightful visions that
would arise of life led with Lenore on equal terms.
The crack of the whip was now heard in the village, and soon the family
and establishment arrived. The farm-servants, the landlord, and a few of
the villagers were grouped around the pitch-pans. The farmers rushed
forward to open the carriage-door, and as Lenore jumped out, and her
face was seen, the women pressed nearer, and the men broke out into loud
acclamations. All looked in eager expectation at the carriage. But the
welcome met with no return. The baron was got out with some difficulty,
and with sunken head, supported by his wife and daughter, he toiled up
the steps. The pale face of the baroness from behind him had only a mute
glance for the tenants and servants--only a short nod of recognition for
Anton, who proceeded to lead them to their suite of rooms.
"All very nice, Mr. Wohlfart," said she, with quivering lips; and as he
remained standing and waiting for his first orders, she dismissed him
with a wave of the hand, and the words, "I thank you." When the door had
closed upon Anton, the baron stood helpless in the strange room, and the
baroness broke out into loud weeping. Lenore leaned against the window,
looking out into the snow-covered plain, with its black wall at the
horizon, and great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It was with a
heavy heart that Anton returned to tell the people assembled that the
family were fatigued and overcome, and would not be seen by them till
the morning. Karl had the carriage unpacked, and led the old cook, who
wept like her mistress, into the underground kitchen. None of the family
reappeared that evening, and the light was soon put out in their rooms;
but the pitch still glowed and flickered in the wind, and a black cloud
rose above the window where the baron sat hiding his face in his hands.
Such was the entrance of this family upon their new estate.
"How beautifully Wohlfart has arranged every thing!" said Lenore to her
mother the following day.
"These high rooms are dreadful," replied the baroness, wrapping her
shawl around her; "and the monotonous brown of the walls makes them
still more desolate!"
"It is surely time to send and ask him to come here and speak to us?"
suggested Lenore, timidly.
"Your father is not yet in a mood to speak to him."
"Do not leave my father alone with Wohlfart," implored Lenore. "It would
be horrible if he were to treat him rudely."
The baroness sighed. "We must accustom ourselves to pay to a stranger in
our house a degree of attention and observance which will be irksome
both to your father and to us."
"How will you arrange about the housekeeping?" asked Lenore, again.
"Wohlfart will, of course, have his meals with us?"
"Impossible!" said the baroness, firmly. "You know what a melancholy
thing our dinner is. Your father is not yet calm enough to be able to
bear the daily presence of a stranger."
"Is he to eat with the servants, then?" asked Lenore, bitterly.
"He will have his table laid in his own room, and on Sundays we shall
always invite him, and, if he is not disagreeable to your father, often
in the evenings also. More would be troublesome to all parties. It is
desirable to reserve at first a comfortable amount of freedom. Your
father's state will be sufficient excuse."
She rang, and Anton was summoned. Lenore went to meet him, and with
tearful eyes silently held out her hand. Anton was moved when he saw the
traces of suffering in her mother's face. The baroness prayed him to be
seated, and in well-chosen words expressed her gratitude for all he had
done, and asked him both for information and advice. Then she went on to
say, "My husband wishes to speak to you. I earnestly beg you to remember
that the baron is an invalid. He has suffered fearfully in mind and
body. He is never free from pain, and his helplessness distresses him
inexpressibly. We are careful to avoid whatever may excite him, and yet
we can not avert dark hours, nay, days. You, sir, will be considerate if
his gloomy mood should affect you disagreeably. Time, they say, heals
all. I hope it will restore him to peace."
Anton promised all possible consideration.
"My husband will naturally wish to be placed in possession of all the
facts connected with this property, and yet I dread any painful
impressions for him. Therefore, whenever you have any thing important to
communicate, try to make the matter intelligible to me in the first
instance. I may thus spare you much that is disagreeable. I shall have
my writing-table carried into one of the rooms near yours, and I shall
daily spend part of my mornings there. Lenore is her father's private
secretary. And now, be kind enough to wait till I have announced your
visit to the baron."
The baroness left the room. Anton looked down gravely. Lenore went up to
him and said, as cheerfully as she could, "Brown walls, Wohlfart! my
favorite color. You are not glad we are come, you ungallant man!"
"Only on your own account," replied Anton, pointing to the snowy plain.
"Whenever I walked through the fields, I have always thought how lonely
you would be here, and when I paced these great rooms of an evening, I
have feared that your time would hang very heavily. The town is more
than six miles distant, and even there you will find but little; the
wretched lending-library will hardly satisfy you."
"I will draw," said Lenore; "I will do fancy work. Alas! I shall find it
difficult, Mr. Wohlfart, for I am not skillful. I do not care for lace
on either cuff or collar; but mamma, who is accustomed to have every
thing so beautiful, and in such order--oh, how sorry I am for mamma!"
Anton tried to comfort her.
"We were obliged to leave the capital," cried Lenore; "we should all
have perished if we had remained in that dreadful _entourage_. Our own
property in other hands, cold, distant faces on all sides, every where
false friends, smooth words, and a pity which maddened. I am delighted
that we are alone here. And even were we to suffer cold and hunger, I
could bear it better far than the shrugging of Madame Werner's
shoulders. I have learned to hate my fellow-creatures," said she,
vehemently. "When you have been with papa, I will come down, and then
you must show me the house, the farm, and the village. I want to see
where my poor pony is, and what the people about look like."
The baroness now returned, and led Anton into her husband's room.
Helpless and confused, the baron rose from his chair. Anton felt the
deepest compassion for him. He looked at his sunken face, bent figure,
and the black bandage over his eyes. He warmly declared his ardent wish
to be of use to him, and begged his indulgence if he had in any way
erred in judgment hitherto. Then he proceeded to tell him how he found
the estate, and what had been done up to the present time.
The baron heard the report almost in silence, only making a few short
observations in return. But when Anton proceeded, with the utmost
delicacy indeed, but still with the precision of a man of business, to
state the obligations under which the baron at present lay, and his
inadequate means of fulfilling them, the nobleman writhed in his chair
like a victim on the rack. And Anton keenly felt how painful it must
needs be to him to have a stranger thus introduced into his most secret
affairs--a stranger anxious to spare his feelings, it is true, but at
every moment betraying that anxiety, and so giving fresh offense. The
baroness, who stood behind her husband, looked on nervously at the
attempts he made to control his irritation, but at length she waved her
hand so significantly that Anton had abruptly to break off his report.
When he had left the room, the baron flung himself back in the utmost
excitement, and exclaimed, "You have set a trustee over me." He was
perfectly beside himself, and the baroness vainly attempted to compose
him.
Such was Anton's entrance into the family.
He too returned sadly to his room. From that moment he felt convinced
that it would hardly be possible to establish a good understanding
between himself and the baron. He was accustomed, in matters of
business, to express himself curtly, and to be promptly understood, and
he now foresaw long disquisitions on the part of the ladies, succeeded
probably by no decision at all. Even his position with regard to them
appeared uncertain. True, the baroness had treated him with the utmost
graciousness, but still as a stranger. He feared that she would continue
the great lady, giving just as much of her confidence as might be useful
to herself, but warding off all intimacy by a cold politeness. Even
Lenore's friendly voice could not restore his equanimity. They went over
the premises silently and thoughtfully, like two men of business engaged
in making an estimate.
Such as these first days promised was Anton's life for the next few
months, anxious, monotonous, formal. He wrote, kept accounts, and ate
alone in his room, and when invited to join the family circle the party
was far from a cheerful one. The baron sat there like a lump of ice, a
check upon all free and animated conversation.
Formerly Anton used to admire all the accessories of the family, the
arrangement of their _salons_, and the elegant trifles around. Now, the
self-same furniture stood in the drawing-room suite--even the little
foreign birds had survived their winter journey--the same carpets, the
same worsted-work, even the same perfume was there; but now the very
birds seemed to him rather bores than otherwise, and soon nothing about
the room interested him but the share he had himself had in putting it
in order.
Anton had brought with him a profound respect for the polished tone, the
easy conversation, and the graceful forms of social intercourse that
prevailed in the family circle.
But, crushed and downcast as the Von Rothsattels now were, he could not
expect the same light-hearted grace that had captivated him at Frau von
Baldereck's parties. They had been torn away from their accustomed
circle; all the external influences, and the excitement which keep the
spirits elastic, and help us to vanquish sorrow, were wanting now, and
he modestly confessed that he could afford no substitute for them. But
there was more than this to disenchant him. When, after a silent
evening, he returned to his own room, he often regretted that they took
no part in much that interested him; that their culture, in short, was
of a perfectly different order; and, before long, he took the liberty of
doubting whether their culture was the better of the two. Almost all his
reading was new to them, and when they discussed the newspapers, he
marveled at their ignorance of foreign politics. History was by no means
a favorite study with the baron, and if, for example, he condemned the
English Constitution, he showed himself, at the same time, very little
acquainted with it. On another evening, it came out, to Anton's
distress, that the family's views of the position of the island of
Ceylon widely differed from those established by geographers. The
baroness, who was fond of reading aloud, revered Chateaubriand, and read
fashionable novels by lady writers. Anton found Atala unnatural, and the
novels insipid. In short, he soon discovered that those with whom he
lived contemplated the universe from a very different point of view to
his own. Unconsciously they measured all things by the scale of their
own class-interests. Whatever ministered to these found favor, however
unbearable to mankind at large; whatever militated against them was
rejected, or at least pushed out of sight. Their opinions were often
mild, sometimes even liberal, but they always seemed to wear an
invisible helmet, visor up, and to look through the narrow space on the
doings of common mortals; and whenever they saw any thing in these that
was displeasing, but unalterable, they silently shut down the visor,
and isolated themselves. The baron sometimes did this awkwardly, but his
wife understood to perfection how, by a bewitching turn of the hand, to
shut out whatever was unwelcome.
The family belonged to the German church in Neudorf; but there was no
choir there, and no pew near the altar. They would have had to sit in
the body of the church among the rustics: that was out of the question.
So the baron set up a chapel in the castle, and sent every now and then
for a minister. Anton seldom made his appearance at this domestic
worship, preferring to ride to Neudorf, where he sat by the side of the
bailiff among the country people.
He had other vexations too. A wine-merchant's traveler forced his way on
one occasion through sand and forest into the very study of the baron.
He was an audacious fellow, with a great gift of the gab, and a devoted
lover of races and steeple-chases. He brought with him a whole budget of
the latest sporting intelligence, and bamboozled the baron into ordering
a pipe of port wine. Anton looked at the empty purse, cursed the pipe,
and hurried into the audience-chamber of the baroness. It required a
long feminine intrigue to effect the retraction of the order given.
The baron was displeased with his carriage-horses, which were no longer
young, and, besides, of a chestnut color. This last peculiarity might,
indeed, have been supposed immaterial to him now, but it had been an
annoyance for years, his family having always had a preference for
roans; nay, was there not an old distich to the following effect:
"Who rides thus through the fray alone?
I ween a noble knight,
The red drops fall from his gallant roan,
With red is the saddle dight."
This was supposed to allude to some remote ancestor, and on this account
the Rothsattels (red-saddles) prized roans above all other horseflesh;
but, as the color is rare in handsome horses, the baron had never had
the good luck to meet with them. Now, however, Fate willed that a
horse-dealer in the district should just bring round a pair. The blind
man evinced a delight which much affected the ladies. He had them
ridden, and driven backward and forward, carefully felt them all over,
took Karl's opinion as to their merits, and revolved a plan of
pleasantly surprising the baroness by their purchase. Karl ran to
advertise Anton of the impending danger, and he again entered the
audience-chamber, but on this occasion he met with no favorable hearing.
The baroness, indeed, allowed that he was not wrong in theory, but still
she implored him to let the baron have his own way. At length the new
horses were in all secrecy led to their stalls, and the purchaser gave,
besides the chestnuts and all the money he had in his private purse, a
promise of letting the horse-dealer have, after the next harvest, two
hundred bushels of oats at an unreasonably low price. Anton and Karl, in
their zeal for the estate, were highly indignant at this when it first
came to their knowledge months later.
The forester had the misfortune not to be an especial favorite. The
baroness disliked the abrupt manner of the old man, who, in his
solitude, had entirely lost the obsequiousness to which she was
accustomed. One evening a plan was disclosed of giving him notice, and
replacing him by a younger man, who might be dressed in livery, and
serve as a representative huntsman, the family having been used to a
functionary of this kind on their late estate. Anton had some difficulty
in concealing his annoyance while stating that, in the disturbed state
of the district, the experienced man, who was feared by every scapegrace
around, was of more use than a stranger. Lenore was on his side, and the
plan was given up, with a look of resignation on the part of the
baroness, and an icy silence on that of her husband. Both henceforth
endured the uncouth old man with outward composure, but with visors
down.
These were slight discords, indeed, such as must necessarily occur when
we live with people whose habits of thought and action differ from our
own; but it was no sign of contentment that Anton kept constantly
repeating this to himself. Not only did Karl suit him in many ways
better than the family, but so did the forester, and the shepherd too;
and he sometimes felt with pride that he was other than they were--that
he was one of the people. Lenore, too, was not what he had imagined her.
He had always honored in her the lady of rank, and felt her cordial
friendship a favor; but now she ceased to impress him as a distinguished
person. He intimately knew the pattern of all her cuffs and collars, and
very plainly saw a small rent in her dress which the careless girl
herself was long in observing. He had read through the few books that
she had brought with her, and had often, in conversation, overstepped
the limits of her information. Her way of expressing herself no longer
excited his admiration, and he would have been less indignant than of
yore if his friend Fink had made inquiry as to her sense. She had less
information than another girl of his acquaintance, and her tastes were
not half so cultivated; but hers was a healthy, upright nature; she had
quick feelings and noble instincts, and oh! she was beautiful. That he
had always thought her, but his tender reverence long wrapped her image
round with a sacred halo. It was now, however, when he saw her daily in
her simple morning dress, in the every-day moods of this working world,
that he first felt the full spell of her blooming youth. Yet he was
often dissatisfied with her too. One of the first days after her arrival
she had anxiously inquired how she could make herself useful in the
house, and he told her that her superintendence in the kitchen, and
exact keeping of accounts, might be of very great use indeed. He had
ruled an account-book for her, and had had the pleasure of teaching her
how to make entries in it. She threw herself warmly into the new
pursuit, and ran into the kitchen ten times a day to see how Balbette
was getting on; but her calculations were not much to be depended upon,
and after having for a week conscientiously labored at the task, some
days of sunshine came, and then she could not resist accompanying the
forester on his rounds after game, or riding far beyond the boundary of
the estate on her little pony, forgetting alike the cook and her
book-keeping.
Again she purposed studying history and learning a little English under
was getting on; but her calculations were not much to be depended upon,
and after having for a week conscientiously labored at the task, some
days of sunshine came, and then she could not resist accompanying the
forester on his rounds after game, or riding far beyond the boundary of
the estate on her little pony, forgetting alike the cook and her
book-keeping.
Again she purposed studying history and learning a little English under
Anton's superintendence. Anton was delighted. But she could not
recollect dates, found the pronunciation of English impossible, and
sauntered off into the stable, or went into the room of the bailiff,
whose mechanical achievements she could watch with the utmost interest
for hours at a time. One day, when Anton came to call her to her English
lesson, he found her in Karl's room, a plane in her hand, working hard
at the seat of a new sledge, and good-naturedly saying, "Don't take so
much trouble with me, Wohlfart; I can learn nothing: I have always been
a dunce."
The snow again lay thick on the ground, and millions of ice-crystals
glittered in the sunshine on bush and tree. Karl had two sledges in
order, one a double-seated one, the other a running sledge for the young
lady, which, with her assistance, he had painted beautifully.
At the next morning conference Anton had to announce to the baroness
that he must go in the afternoon to Tarow on some police business.
"We know the Tarowskis from having met them at the Baths," said the
baroness. "We were quite intimate while there with Frau von Tarowska and
her daughter. I earnestly wish that the baron should have some
acquaintance in the neighborhood. Perhaps I may be able to prevail upon
him to pay a visit with us to-day. At all events, we ladies will avail
ourselves of your escort, and make an excursion thither."
Anton gently reminded her of the vanished Bratzky and his own
suspicions.
"They are only suspicions," said the baron, soothingly, "and there can
be no doubt that it is our duty to call. Indeed, I can not believe that
Herr von Tarowski had any thing to do with the man's disappearance."
In the afternoon the two sledges were brought round. The baroness seated
herself with her husband in the larger one, and Lenore insisted upon
driving her own. "Wohlfart shall sit behind me on the seat," decided
she.
The baron whispered to his wife, "Wohlfart!"
"I can not allow you to drive alone," calmly replied she. "Have no
anxiety. He is in your service, besides; there is no great impropriety;
and you and I shall be together."
The little bells sounded merrily across the plain. Lenore sat in the
highest spirits in her little nutshell of a seat, and loudly urged on
her horse. She often turned round, and her laughing face looked so
lovely under her dark cap that Anton's whole heart went out toward her.
Her green veil fluttered in the wind, and brushed across his cheeks,
hung over his face, and concealed the view. The next moment his breath
moved the ribbon round her neck, and he saw that only that slight silken
covering lay between his hand and her white throat and golden hair.
Absorbed in this contemplation, he could hardly resist the delight of
gently passing his fur glove over her hood, when a hare jumped from its
form close to him, shaking its ears threateningly, and significantly
flinging its legs in the air. Anton understood the friendly hint, and
drew back the fur glove; and the hare, pleased to have done a good turn,
galloped off over the plain.
Our hero turned his thoughts into another direction. "This white road
bears no trace of man's presence, no slides, no footprints; there is no
life around to disturb the silent sleep of nature. We are travelers
penetrating into regions hitherto untrodden. One tree is like another,
the snow expanse is boundless, the silence of the grave around, and the
laughing sunshine above. I wish we were going on thus the whole day
through."
"I am so glad to drive you for once," said Lenore, bending back, and
giving him her hand.
Anton so far forgot the hare as to imprint a kiss upon her glove.
"It is Danish leather," laughed Lenore; "do not give yourself the
trouble."
"Here is a hole," said Anton, prepared to renew the attempt.
"You are very attentive to-day," cried Lenore, slowly withdrawing her
hand. "The mood suits you charmingly, Wohlfart."
The fur glove was again stretched out to detain the hand withdrawn. At
that moment two crows on the nearest tree began a violent dispute,
screamed, croaked, and flew about Anton's head.
"Begone, you wretched creatures!" thought Anton, in his excitement; "you
shall not disturb me any more."
But Lenore looked full and frankly at him. "I am not sure, either, that
you ought to be so attentive," said she, gravely. "You should not kiss
my hand, for I have no wish to return the compliment, and what is right
for the one must be right for the other. Huzza! my horse, forward!"
"I am curious to know how these Poles will receive us," said Anton,
resuming their former conversation.
"They can not be otherwise than friendly," returned Lenore. "We lived
for weeks with Frau von Tarowska, and took every excursion together. She
was the most elegant of all the ladies at the Baths, and her daughters,
too, made a great impression by their distinguished bearing. They are
very lovely and refined."
"He has eyes, though, exactly like those of the forester's fox. I would
not trust him a yard out of my sight."
"I have made myself very smart to-day," laughed Lenore, again turning
round; "for the girls are, as I said, lovely, and the Poles shall not
say that we Germans look ill beside them. How do you like my dress,
Wohlfart?" She turned back the flap of her pelisse.
"I shall admire no other half so much," Anton replied.
"You true-hearted Mr. Wohlfart!" cried Lenore, again reaching out her
hand. Alas! the warning hare, the crows, would have been powerless to
break the spell which attracted the fur glove to the Danish leather;
something stronger must interfere.
When Anton stretched out his hand for the third time, he marveled to see
it rise against his will, and describe a circle in the air, while he
found himself outstretched in the snow. Looking round in amazement, he
saw Lenore sitting by the overturned sledge, while the horse stood
still, and laughed after his fashion. The lady had looked too much at
her companion and too little at the way, and so they had been upset.
Both jumped up lightly. Anton raised the sledge, and they were soon
galloping onward once more. But the sledge-idyl was ended. Lenore looked
steadily before her, and Anton occupied himself in shaking the snow out
of his sleeves.
The sledges turned into a spacious court. A long, one-storied
farm-house, whitewashed, and roofed with shingles, looked upon the
wooden stables. Anton sprang out, and asked a servant in livery for the
dwelling of Herr von Tarowski.
"This is the palace," replied the Pole, with a low obeisance, and
proceeded to help the ladies out of the sledges. Lenore and the baroness
exchanged looks of amazement. They entered a dirty hall; several bearded
domestics rushed up to them, eagerly tore off their wraps, and threw a
low door open. A numerous party was assembled in the large sitting-room.
A tall figure in black silk came forward to meet them, and received them
with the best grace in the world. So did the daughters--slender girls,
with their mother's eyes and manners. Several of the gentlemen were
introduced--Herr von this, Herr von that, all elegant-looking men in
evening dress. At last the master of the house came in, his cunning face
beaming with cordial hospitality, and his pair of fox's eyes looking
perfectly harmless. The reception was faultless--on all sides the
pleasant ease of perfect self-possession. The baron and the ladies were
treated as welcome additions, and Anton too had his share of attention.
His business was soon transacted, and Herr von Tarow smilingly reminded
him that they had met before.
"That rogue of an inspector got off, after all," said he; "but do not be
uneasy, he will not escape his fate."
"I hope not," replied Anton; "nor yet his abettors."
Herr von Tarow's eyes tried hard to look dove-like as he went on to say,
"The fellow must be concealed somewhere about."
"Possibly somewhere very near," said Anton, casting a significant glance
at the mean-looking buildings around.
Our hero looked in vain among the gentlemen present for the stranger he
had previously seen, and charitably attributed to him good reasons for
wishing to remain unseen by German eyes. However, to make up for him,
there was another gentleman of a striking aspect, who seemed to be
treated with especial respect. "They come and go, assemble and
disperse," thought Anton, "just as the landlord said; there is a whole
band of them to feel anxious about, not merely a few individuals." At
that moment the stranger came up and began a courteous conversation.
However unstudied the speaker's manner might appear, yet Anton remarked
that he led the conversation, with the view of extracting his opinions
and feelings as a German. This made him reserved; and the Pole, finding
him so, soon lost his interest in him, and turned to the ladies.
Anton had now time to look about him. A Vienna piano-forte stood amid
furniture evidently made by the village carpenter, and near the sofa a
tattered carpet was spread over the black boards. The ladies sat on
velvet seats around a worn-out table. The mistress of the house and her
grown-up daughters had elegant Parisian toilettes; but a side door being
casually opened, Anton caught a sight of some children running about in
the next room so scantily clothed that he heartily pitied them. They,
however, did not seem to feel the cold, and were screaming and fighting
like little demons.
A fine damask table-cloth was now laid on the unsteady table, and a
silver tea-kettle put down. The conversation went on most pleasantly.
Graceful French <i>bon mots</i> and animated exclamations in melodious Polish
blended occasionally with an admixture of quiet German. The sudden
bursts of laughter, the gestures and the eagerness, all showed Anton
that he was among foreigners. They spoke rapidly, and excitement shone
in their eyes and reddened their cheeks.
They were a more excitable people, more elastic, and more impressionable
than his countrymen. Anton remarked with amazement how perfectly Lenore
seemed in her element among them. Her face, too, grew flushed; she
laughed and gesticulated like the rest; and her eyes looked, he thought,
boldly into the courteous faces of the gentlemen present. The same
smile, the same hearty, natural manner that she had enchanted him with,
when alone, she now lavished upon strangers, who had acted as highwaymen
against her father's interests. This displeased him to the utmost. Then
the saloon, so incongruous in its arrangements, the carpet dirty and
torn, the children in the next room barefooted, and the master of the
house the secret patron of a dishonest rogue, and perhaps worse still!
Anton contented himself with coldly looking on, and said as little as he
possibly could.
At last a young gentleman struck a few chords on the piano, and all
sprang up and voted for a dance. The lady of the house rang, four
wild-looking men rushed into the room, snatched up the grand piano, and
carried it off. The whole party swept through the hall to an apartment
opposite. Anton was tempted to rub his eyes as he entered it. It was an
empty room, with rough-cast walls, benches around them, and a frightful
old stove in a corner. In the middle, linen was hung on lines to dry.
Anton could hardly suppose they meant to dance here; but the linen was
torn down by one servant in the twinkling of an eye, while another ran
to the stove, and was equally expeditious in blowing up the fire, and in
a very few moments six couples stood up for a quadrille. As there was a
lady wanting, a young count, with a black beard like velvet, and a
wondrously beautiful pair of blue eyes, bound his cambric handkerchief
round his arm, and with a graceful courtesy announced himself a lady. He
was immediately led out by another gentleman. Their dancing, in spite of
its fashionable character, betrayed at times the fire and impetuosity of
their race. Lenore threw herself into it heart and soul.
Meanwhile the baroness was conversing with great animation with her
host, and Frau von Tarow made it her occupation to amuse the baron.
Here, then, were all the social forms, the keen enjoyment of the
present, which Anton had so often admired, but now they only excited a
cold smile. It did not seem to him creditable that a German family
should be on terms of such intimacy with recent enemies--people who were
probably at this very time plotting against them and their country.
Accordingly, when the first dance was over, and Lenore, passing him,
asked why he did not dance with her, he replied, "I am every moment
expecting to see Bratzky's face appear in some corner of the room."
"We will not think of him at present," returned Lenore, turning away
offended.
Dance followed dance, the heads of the young people swam, their curls
hung down damp, and relaxed with their exertions. Another rush of
bearded domestics, and iced Champagne was brought in. The dancers tossed
it off standing, and immediately a cry rose on all sides for a Polish
mazurka--the national dance. Now, then, the dresses fluttered wide and
high; the dancers positively flew along; the ladies were tossed like
balls from one partner's arm to another; and Lenore, alas! in the midst
of it all.
Anton stood near the distinguished Pole, carrying on a spiritless
conversation, and coldly listened to the praises the former liberally
bestowed on the German dancer. The rapid movements and strong excitement
that were natural to the Polish girls made Lenore wild, and, Anton
regretted to see, unfeminine; and his glance wandered away from her to
the rough walls, the dusty stove, in which an immense fagot was burning,
and the ceiling, from which long gray cobwebs hung down.
It was late before the baroness broke up the party. The furs were
brought in, the guests were wrapped therein, and the little bells
sounded again cheerily over the snowy scene. But Anton was glad that
Lenore now drove her father, and that he had to take care of the
baroness. Silently he guided the sledge, thinking all the while that
another whom he knew would never have swung to and fro in the mazes of
the mazurka beneath the fluttering cobwebs, and in the house of her
country's foes.