SALZBURG.
WHILE waiting for dinner at the hotel, Hamilton amused himself turning
over the leaves of the “strangers’ book,” and saw among the latest
arrivals the name of an uncle he had wished much to meet when he had
been last in Salzburg; he would then have been glad to have had an
opportunity of presenting some respectable relations to Baron Z—, after
the old manner in which their acquaintance had commenced. He now wished
to see his relations from more natural motives, without either the wish
or intention of making them acquainted with his travelling companions.
There is something peculiarly agreeable in hearing the voices of one’s
countrymen speaking one’s own language in a foreign country; even if
they be merely common acquaintances, they rise at once to the rank of
friends: if friends, to relations—if relations, we are astonished at the
excess of our affection for them! Something of this kind Hamilton
experienced as he heard his uncle saying, “A young gentleman inquiring
for me! What is his name?” In a moment he had quitted the table, and was
in the lobby before the question could be answered. The surprise,
perhaps, heightened the pleasure felt by his two young and pretty
cousins, and their reception of him was so unreservedly affectionate,
that as they came near the door of the dining-room, Hildegarde and
Crescenz exchanged glances, and then fixed their eyes on them with a
slight expression of curiosity.
“What a pity you did not arrive earlier, Alfred; we have spent the whole
morning sight-seeing, and now the horses are being put-to, and we have
scarcely ten minutes to ask each other the thousand questions which——But
come to our rooms—we cannot possibly talk before these people.”
“They would not understand us,” said Hamilton, following them up the
stairs, by no means displeased with the arrangement.
Madame Rosenberg soon became impatient at the duration of his absence,
and leaving word with the waiter that Mr. Hamilton might follow them to
St. Peter’s cellar, she proposed herself as guide, and they set out on
their excursion.
Hamilton accompanied his uncle and cousins to their very handsome
travelling-carriage, and as he bade them adieu for the twentieth time,
his uncle called out, “God bless you, Alfred! I shall tell your father
and uncle Ralph that I found you greatly improved. If they had kept you
in London, your brother John would have spoiled you, and made you just
as good-for-nothing as he is himself. Nothing like travelling for
enlarging the ideas. Good-by!”
The waiter informed Hamilton that the ladies were gone to St. Peter’s
cellar.
“Major Stultz, you mean?” said Hamilton.
“No, sir—the ladies—perhaps they have gone to look at the excavation in
the rock. The cellar is in the mountain, and is worth seeing.”
The monks of St. Peter are the actual proprietors of this cellar, which
adjoins, and in fact is still a part of the monastery; it is the wine
from their Hungarian vineyards which is there sold, and the entrance to
the drinking-rooms is from the principal quadrangle. Arrived there,
Hamilton immediately accosted a man who, in a jacket and apron, and with
a green velvet cap on his head, stood before the entrance of the
excavation.
“Ladies! Oh, ha—yes—they are within,” he answered, leading the way,
through a small, dark passage, to two low rooms, filled with the fumes
of tobacco. Hamilton entered, and found his travelling companions
actually seated at a table, drinking wine, in a room crowded with
Hungarian officers, who seemed equally surprised and amused at the
unusual appearance of such an addition to their society. Madame
Rosenberg was quietly sipping her wine, and talking earnestly to Major
Stultz near a window, quite unconscious of the sensation which she and
her party had created and the by no means whispered exclamations of
admiration which were echoed on all sides, and which produced most
opposite effects on the objects of them. Crescenz looked
half-frightened, half-pleased, and blushed incessantly. Hildegarde’s
countenance denoted annoyance, bordering on anger, as she sat biting her
under lip, while every trace of colour had forsaken her face. Hamilton
felt extremely irritated, and looked round the room with a portentous
frown, to see if any _one_ had been more forward than the others; but in
vain—broad, sallow, good-humoured faces, and small, sparkling black eyes
met his angry glance wherever he turned; and as the conversation was now
principally carried on in their native language, he could only surmise,
but no longer be certain of, the subject of discourse. The eyes of all
were still turned on the two sisters; and Hamilton, after a moment’s
hesitation, proposed escorting them to the Maximus chapel, which was
near, and where they could wait for their mother. Hildegarde started up
without asking the permission, which, however, was accorded without
difficulty; and the two boys, to their infinite annoyance, were also
ordered off. On perceiving their mother engaged in confidential
conversation with Major Stultz, they had freely helped themselves to
wine, and were now in outrageous spirits. On entering the St. Peter’s
churchyard, they commenced springing over the graves in a most
irreverent manner, declaring they had never before seen so jolly a
churchyard! Crescenz looked infinitely shocked, entreated they would not
make so much noise; and finding her remonstrance useless, she turned to
the St. Margaret’s chapel, a small building in the middle of the
burying-ground, and leaning against the iron railing which formed at
once its door and gable-end, she folded her hands reverently, and
prayed. The custom in Roman Catholic countries of leaving the
church-doors constantly open, most certainly conduces to promote piety.
Many a giddy girl whose thoughts have wandered as unrestrained as her
glances down the crowded aisle, has sought the same spot afterwards in
solitude, to offer up supplications and thanksgivings as fervent,
perhaps, as ever were breathed. Much as has been said of the imposing
ritual of the Church of Rome—of the almost irresistible effect of high
mass, when properly celebrated—it is nothing in comparison to the solemn
silence of a week-day afternoon, when the stillness around makes the
solitary footfall echo, and those who come to pray can bend the knee and
clasp the hand, without exciting the inquisitive gaze of a less piously
disposed neighbour.
Hamilton had gone in search of the person who had the keys of the
Maximus chapel. On his return he found Hildegarde standing thoughtfully
opposite a newly-made tomb, on which a placard was placed, with the
words:—“This tomb is to be sold.”
“I should like extremely to know your thoughts,” he said, quietly
placing himself beside her.
“Should you? They would scarcely repay you for the trouble of
listening.”
“I am quite willing to make the trial.”
“But I am much too lazy to attempt collecting all the scattered thoughts
of the last ten minutes.”
“The very last I can guess, perhaps,” said Hamilton; “your eyes were
fixed on that placard, and you thought——”
“Well, what?”
“Where are now the future occupiers of that tomb? Am I not right?”
“Quite right. Wherever they are, and whoever they may be, they certainly
have no wish to enter here. The buyers of _tombs_ are seldom disposed to
enter into actual possession. But where is this Maximus chapel? You said
it was in the mountain, and I see nothing in the least like an entrance,
although there are three windows and a wall up there.”
“The windows were formerly mere holes made in the rock, and ought never
to have been glazed. Through the largest of them fifty monks, who had
taken refuge with Maximus, were thrown headlong down the mountain by the
barbarians who took possession of Salzburg in the fifth century.”
“And Maximus?”
“He was hung.”
“That was a pity—I dare say he would have preferred being thrown over
the precipice.”
“Do you think so? As it all came to the same in the end, I should
imagine it must rather have been a matter of indifference to him.”
“But I do not,” cried Hildegarde, stopping suddenly. “I think the manner
in which one is put to death of great importance; I am sure you would
prefer being beheaded to being hung.”
“The choice would be distressing; but I believe you are right; I should
certainly choose being beheaded, as the more gentlemanlike death of the
two, though I remember reading in some book of the horrible
hypothesis—that the eye could see, the ear hear, and the brain think,
for some moments after the head had been severed from the body.”
The guide jingled his keys. He probably thought the discussion of such
subjects might be deferred until he had received his _Trinkgeld_, and he
now threw open the gate and motioned to them to ascend. The tolerably
numerous steps leading to the former abode and chapel of the anchorite
were hewn in the mountain, the passage somewhat dark, and Hildegarde
having declined any assistance, Hamilton, notwithstanding all his good
resolutions to avoid Crescenz in future, turned towards her, was greeted
with a soft smile, and his arm accepted as willingly as it was offered.
He now took upon himself the office of guide, exhibited the chapel with
its solitary Roman pillar, the sleeping-room of Maximus, and the place
from which his companions had been precipitated. He was obliged to hold
Crescenz, while she childishly stretched as far as possible over the
mountain side, all the while declaring that she could not stand on the
brink of a precipice without feeling an almost irresistible inclination
to throw herself down it. No sooner had her two brothers heard this,
than they rushed forward and thoughtlessly pushed her with a violence
that might have had most fatal consequences had not Hamilton at the
moment thrown his arm quite around her and drawn her back. Crescenz
screamed violently, Fritz and Gustle laughed immoderately, Hildegarde
remonstrated angrily, and in the midst of the clamour Madame Rosenberg
and Major Stultz joined them. Crescenz blushed deeply, and, with a voice
trembling from agitation, related what had occurred, and complained
bitterly of her brothers’ rudeness. Madame Rosenberg scolded her for
having looked down the precipice; Hildegarde for not having watched her
brothers and prevented such a scene in such a place; and concluded by
seizing both the brothers by the shoulders and shaking them violently,
while she declared that she had a great mind to send them back to the
inn, and not let them see either the Don church or the fountain. She
turned to thank Hamilton for having taken charge of so riotous a party,
but he had disappeared, annoyed at what had occurred, and internally
vowing never to take charge of Crescenz or her brothers again.
Major Stultz had suddenly become jealous and out of temper; all the
efforts of Madame Rosenberg to turn “the winter of his discontent” to
“glorious summer” were vain; he followed her, half whistling, with his
hands clasped behind him, intending to look extremely unconcerned; while
his heightened colour, as they overtook Hamilton, betrayed to all the
cause of his annoyance. Crescenz seemed perfectly indifferent, or
rather, half disposed to brave his anger; for as they stood by Haydn’s
monument, in the St. Peter’s church, she placed herself beside Hamilton,
and spoke to him in French. It is true, the conversation was about the
skull of Haydn, and the black marble urn which contained it; but Major
Stultz could not be aware of this circumstance; and, with increased
anger, he strode down the aisle, seeming disposed to quit them, had not
Hamilton, weary of these misunderstandings, and provoked by Crescenz’s
coquetry, said that he would meet them at the hotel in an hour; he was
going to the cavalry stables to see the horses, which, of course, would
not be interesting to them, and without waiting for an answer, he walked
away.
Hamilton’s absence did not seem to have much improved the state of
affairs, for on his return to the inn, no one but Madame Rosenberg
seemed disposed to be loquacious; and when they got into the
_char-à-banc_, which was to take them to Berchtesgaden, Crescenz
absolutely maneuvred to avoid Major Stultz; and on being ordered by her
mother to sit beside him, pouted in the most significant manner. Madame
Rosenberg chose this time to take charge of her two sons herself; she
thought their vicinity might interrupt the reconciliation between Major
Stultz and Crescenz, which she evidently wished to promote, but which
seemed less likely than ever to take place, as Crescenz chose now to
appear or to be excessively offended. This line of conduct had the
effect of making poor Major Stultz imagine that he had been, perhaps,
too hasty—unjust—uncivil—in short, he very soon accused himself of being
a savage! and as these thoughts passed through his brain, his manners
and words softened; he became humble, and even entreated forgiveness for
the unknown offence; but all in vain—Crescenz scarcely answered him—in
fact, she had not heard him, for her whole attention was absorbed in the
conversation of her sister and Hamilton, who were immediately before
her; she fancied that neither had disliked the arrangement which had
placed them together. The latter, especially, seemed determined to amuse
and be amused, and for more than an hour and a half the conversation
never flagged. Madame Rosenberg occasionally joined in it, and Major
Stultz also chimed in when he found all his efforts to obtain answers
from Crescenz fruitless. They had nearly reached Berchtesgaden, and
Hamilton had just begun to congratulate himself on having at length
discovered the possibility of talking to Hildegarde without quarrelling,
when Major Stultz abruptly asked him if he had been to see the summer
riding-school.
“Can you doubt it? It is the prettiest thing of the kind I have ever
seen—the _beau ideal_ of an ancient theatre. That the tiers of seats for
the spectators are hewn out of the mountain, enhances its grandeur, and
makes one forget that it is only a riding-school. What a place for a
tournament! or for gladiators; or what an arena for wild beasts!”
“Exactly what we all said when we were there to-day,” exclaimed
Hildegarde.
“Yes,” said Crescenz, for the first time joining in the conversation;
“we all said that; but Hildegarde and I thought of Schiller’s _Ballad of
the Glove_; didn’t we, Hildegarde?”
Hildegarde nodded.
“It is odd enough, I thought of it too,” said Hamilton; “the tiger
attacked by the two leopards; the lion rising to join in the combat—I
saw it all in imagination—fancied myself the Knight Delorges, and looked
round to see if no Cunigunde were there to throw her glove amid the
combatants.”
“Did you think of any particular person as Cunigunde?” asked Crescenz,
softly, and with a slight blush.
“Perhaps I did,” replied Hamilton, laughing.
“Oh, I should like so much to know whom you thought of! Should not you,
Hildegarde?”
“If Mr. Hamilton wish to tell——” began Hildegarde.
“I prefer walking up the hill into the town,” said Hamilton, springing
out of the open side of the carriage.
“Let us all walk,” cried Madame Rosenberg, desiring the coachman to
stop; “my feet are quite cramped.”
Hamilton had hoped to escape further questioning, but Crescenz commenced
again as they walked along together.
“Your avoidance of my question has raised my curiosity, and you
positively must tell me of whom you thought in the riding-school,
to-day.”
“Pray, Crescenz,” said Hildegarde, “do not force Mr. Hamilton to give an
answer; it must be totally uninteresting to you—remember the number of
acquaintances he must have in England whose names are unknown to us.”
“If it had been anyone in England, or anyone unknown to us, he would
have answered my question at once, and without hesitation,” replied
Crescenz, with unusual decision of manner.
Hildegarde, struck with the reply, experienced herself a feeling of
curiosity which greatly surprised her. She walked on in silence, and
soon heard her sister continue in a very low voice—
“I am sure you did not think of _me_!”
“Certainly not,” he replied, in the same tone; “you are too kind and too
gentle to place the life even of an enemy in such jeopardy.”
Crescenz seemed not quite to know whether she were satisfied or
disappointed. She would have liked to have been his lady-love, would
have wished to imagine that he would have picked up her glove at such an
imminent risk; yet his manner and words implied nothing flattering to
the supposed Cunigunde; and although she did not quite understand his
meaning, she knew that he had said that she was kind and gentle, and she
felt that she ought to be satisfied. Not so Hildegarde; she understood
well the vanity and callousness of the character sketched in a few words
by Schiller; she fancied that Hamilton disliked her, and an irresistible
impulse made her turn on him, and say, abruptly, “You thought of _me_!”
The blood mounted to his temples, and seemed to take refuge in his hair,
as he returned Hildegarde’s glance, yet hesitated in answering; but he
could not deny it, and replied, after a moment’s consideration:
“Thoughts are not subject to control; you have no right to make me
answerable for them.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” she replied; “I care too little about
you to give myself the trouble of convincing you that you do not
understand my character in the least. On the contrary, I confess that
were you disposed to play the part of the knight, perhaps I might throw
down my glove, and be glad to get rid of you on any terms.”
“Even were I to be torn to pieces in your presence by the wild beasts? I
did not think you were so cruel!” said Hamilton, amused at her irritated
manner.
“The danger for you would not be very great. You are the last person in
the world to do any thing of that kind.”
“Do you doubt my personal courage?”
“No; but I doubt your possessing knightly feelings.”
“I am, it is true, no ‘Don Quixote,’ no knight of the sorrowful
countenance——”
“No, indeed; you much more deserve the name of the knight of the
scornful countenance—that is, if one could fancy you a knight at all.”
“I have no doubt, mademoiselle, that were your fancy to form one, he
would in no respect resemble me; however, we need not quarrel on the
supposition of what we should have done had we been born a few hundred
years sooner; it is evident you would not have chosen me for your
knight—nor I—perhaps—you, for my lady-love.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Crescenz, “if I had thought that you two would
have quarrelled, I would not have asked any questions; though I do not
understand why Hildegarde is so offended at being thought like
Cunigunde, who, I dare say, was the handsomest lady present.”
“Your sister is not satisfied with being merely handsome; she wishes to
be thought amiable also, and seems disposed to force people to say so,
whatever they may think to the contrary.”
Hildegarde walked haughtily towards her step-mother, and reached her
just in time to hear the concluding words of what appeared to be Major
Stultz’s remonstrances.
“His being an Englishman does not, in my opinion, alter the case, or
make him a less dangerous companion for your daughters. I do not presume
to dictate. I merely offer advice, which you do not seem disposed to
take; and nothing now remains for me but to beg of you to hurry as much
as possible the preparations for Crescenz’s marriage. A few scenes such
as we have had to-day would soon cure me of all fancy for her. You told
me she was good-tempered, and I have found her so sullen since we left
Salzburg, that it is impossible to obtain a word from her.”
“My dear Major, you may depend upon my reprimanding her severely for
such conduct——”
“By no means, madame; I don’t wish her to be reprimanded. I shall speak
to her myself, and tell her that I have a comfortable home to offer her;
that I am supposed to be an indulgent husband, but that I am too old to
play lover, and altogether decline entering into competition with such a
rival as that tall Englishman, who, however, I can also tell her, has no
more idea of marriage than the man in the moon!”
“But, my dear Major, I really must beg of you not to mention the
Englishman to her. It will only put an idea into her head which I am
convinced has never entered it. You forget what a mere child she is—not
yet sixteen!”
Major Stultz turned round suddenly to look at his betrothed; the moment
was unpropitious for removing jealous doubts. She was walking alone with
Hamilton, and speaking with an earnestness totally foreign to her
character, while the expression of her upturned eyes denoted anything
but childishness.
“This will never do!” exclaimed Major Stultz, angrily.
“You wrong her most assuredly,” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a sort of
blind reliance on Crescenz’s childishness, which this time, however, did
not deceive her: “You wrong her, and I will prove it by asking her what
she is talking about. Crescenz, my love, we wish to know the subject of
your discourse—it seems to be interesting.”
Crescenz answered without hesitation, “I am defending Hildegarde; Mr.
Hamilton and she have quarrelled about the _Ballad of the Glove_. He
says she was rude; and I think he was rude; for he said if he had been a
knight he would not have chosen her for his lady-love. I do not think of
being angry, and he did not choose me either,” she added, glancing half
reproachfully.
On another occasion Madame Rosenberg would have inquired further, and
given, perhaps, an edifying lecture on politeness and propriety of
language; she was now too well satisfied with Crescenz’s answer to think
of anything of the kind, and turning triumphantly to Major Stultz, she
whispered, “You see I was right. I cannot answer for Hildegarde.
Rosenberg says I do not understand her; but Crescenz _is_ a good
girl—almost too good and docile. You can make whatever you please of
her.”
They all walked together to the inn, and _The Glove_ seemed to be quite
forgotten.
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