Chapter I: Part 1

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold is denoted by =equals=.

Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

THE TWO COUNTESSES

_THE “UNKNOWN” LIBRARY_

THE “UNKNOWN” LIBRARY.

1. =MLLE. IXE.= By LANOE FALCONER.

2. =STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT.= By MAGDALEN BROOKE.

3. =MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.= By VON DEGEN.

4. =THE FRIEND OF DEATH.= Adapted by MARY T. SERRANO.

5. =PHILIPPA.= By ELLA.

6. =THE HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE.= By LANOE FALCONER.

7. =AMARYLLIS.= By ΓΕΩΡΓΙΟΣ ΔΡΟΣΙΝΗΣ.

8. =SOME EMOTIONS AND A MORAL.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

9. =EUROPEAN RELATIONS.= By TALMAGE DALIN.

10. =JOHN SHERMAN, and DHOYA.= By GANCONAGH.

11. =THROUGH THE RED-LITTEN WINDOWS.= By THEODOR HERTZ-GARTEN.

12. =BACK FROM THE DEAD.= By SAQUI SMITH.

13. =IN TENT AND BUNGALOW.= By AN IDLE EXILE.

14. =THE SINNER’S COMEDY.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

15. =THE WEE WIDOW’S CRUISE.= By AN IDLE EXILE.

16. =A NEW ENGLAND CACTUS.= By FRANK POPE HUMPHREY.

17. =GREEN TEA.= By V. SCHALLENBERGER.

18. =A SPLENDID COUSIN.= By MRS. ANDREW DEAN.

19. =GENTLEMAN UPCOTT’S DAUGHTER.= By TOM COBBLEIGH.

20. =AT THE THRESHOLD.= By LAURA DEARBORN.

21. =HER HEART WAS TRUE.= By AN IDLE EXILE.

22. =THE LAST KING OF YEWLE.= By P. L. MCDERMOTT.

23. =A STUDY IN TEMPTATIONS.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

24. =THE PALIMPSEST.= By GILBERT AUGUSTIN THIERRY.

25. =SQUIRE HELLMAN, and Other Stories.= By JUHANI AHO.

26. =A FATHER OF SIX.= By N. E. POTAPEEKO.

27. =THE TWO COUNTESSES.= By MARIE EBNER VON ESCHENBACH.

THE TWO
COUNTESSES

BY
MARIE EBNER VON ESCHENBACH

TRANSLATED BY
MRS. WAUGH

NEW YORK
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE

COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY.

_All rights reserved._

THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.

THE TWO COUNTESSES.

COUNTESS MUSCHI.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
November, 1882.

The shooting season is over; all our guests have left the castle; we are as dull as ditch water, and I at length have time to write to you, dear Nesti.

Poor Fred, too, has gone. He was awfully kind and amusing, but woefully unhappy. I am truly sorry for him, poor fellow, but I cannot help it. His estate up in the mountains brings in next to nothing; and we could not live upon air, first-rate as it seems to be up there.

But I have something much more interesting to tell you about, and will plunge you at once in _milias res_--Latin, my love; comes from _milieu_. Where did I pick that up? Heaven only knows. I am awfully quick at learning, as my poor old governess Nagel, whom I have brought up, solemnly avers to this day.

So, now, prick up your ears!

Yesterday, while engaged in collecting postage stamps--you must know that one million stamps procures one a little Chinese baby; no humbug! You may trust my word for it, and send me a few thousands if you happen to have them by you--I suddenly came upon one from Würtemberg.

“Who is our correspondent in Würtemberg, mamma?”

“That is a secret,” answers mamma, and I see that she is burning to tell me. A few minutes later I know all about it. As a young man, papa had served in the same regiment with a Count Aich-Kronburg. Both fell in love with the same girl, a rich heiress; the Swabian was the successful lover, papa the first to congratulate him. So they remained friends. Now their son and heir, the young count, is on his travels, and is to stop at Sebenberg to do the agreeable to papa and mamma and--whom else? Mamma made me guess, and then embraced me, as our mothers have a way of doing when they hope soon to be rid of us.

So my probable lord and master is a Swabian! If only I knew what he was like, and that he has not great clod-hopping feet on which to stump off to drink beer with his steward and people through the long hours of the afternoon!

But, oh, my dear girl, after supper it was so deadly dull that I began to think if he had feet like an elephant I would accept him! An evening in which we are condemned to our own society, as sometimes happens now at Sebenberg, is quite too ghastly. Papa persuades himself that he is reading the _Sporting Times_, and goes fast asleep over it. Mamma knits white wraps, the patterns of which are decided by the form of her cigar ash as it falls. My uncle plays tactics with the singing-mistress, and Aunt Julia devotes herself to word-making with Fräulein Nagel.

“The fifty-seventh word, Fräulein?”

“A village in Servia.”

“In Servia?”

“Yes. It begins with a K and ends with an E.”

“Kindly pass me Meyer.”

“I have looked there, and cannot find it.”

“Then Ritter.”

And they fall to studying Ritter. There you have table No. 1.

At table No. 2, at the far end of the drawing room, the little ones are playing games with the nursery governess, and I sit on the _causeuse_ in solitary state, betwixt youth and age, like Dido upon Naxos.

Dear me! another classical allusion. You really must overlook it; I am so bored I am growing quite stupid. My bulldog gives a stretch and yawns at me.

“_Venez_,” I say to her, “let us go out on to the balcony. Perhaps a bat may fly by for our amusement.”

As I gracefully recline upon the parapet I hear a manly tread behind me. It is papa. He, too, leans upon the balcony, and at first says nothing. Then suddenly:

“Pussy!”

“What, papa?”

“What are you doing?”

“Questioning the bats, papa.”

He laughs.

“I’ll tell you something, but, mind, no chattering.”

“Oh, no, papa.”

“You won’t say a word?”

“No, papa.”

He looks straight into my eyes. “Not even to mamma?” And then he told me all about the young count’s coming visit.

I merely asked did the Kronburgs keep a racing stud? Papa did not know--thought most probably not. Alas!

Your
MUSCHI.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
November 10, 1882.

DEAR NESTI: Do not be so impatient. I cannot sit all day long at my writing table keeping you informed as to our doings. We are not nearly so far advanced as you imagine; there is no talk of “congratulations” at present, and I beg above all things that you will not indulge in sentimentalities. The name of the _fiancé_--how ridiculous you are, child--is Carl, like our groom of the chambers, who, ever since the count’s arrival, has been called by his surname. He is not so tall as papa, though a very good height, and would have quite presentable feet if only he had a better bootmaker. But he wears square-toed boots that are simply hideous.

He arrived in a kind of cloth tunic, which the poor fellow apparently had made expressly for traveling. I must find out who is his tailor, that I may duly warn all my friends against him. It is unfortunate, too, that he wears gloves like any commercial traveler, or one of the _jeunesse dorée_ of a German novel.

Understand from this, Nesti, that I have not, by any means, made up my mind yet.

The amusing part of it is the intense amiability displayed by papa and mamma toward him. It is irresistibly funny. Papa even kept quite wide awake last evening; and he, who usually takes no interest in talking to people about anything but their horses or dogs, began inquiring all about the laws of forestry in Swabia; whether land was farmed out there; if owners lived much upon their estates; what kind of hunting there was, et-z-r-a (which stands for “and so on.” I am afraid it is not the right way to write it, but, to tell truth, I never could do it properly).

The count answered very nicely, only he is rather shy, and that gives him a somewhat pedantic manner. About nine o’clock it began to get decidedly tame, when, to my surprise and delight, Fred unexpectedly appeared with his brother and the two Hockhaus. They were on their way to the military steeple chase at Raigern, and came to beg quarters for the night. I at once got up a circus entertainment, sent for a four-in-hand driving whip, and trotted Fred out first as the thoroughbred mare Arabi. It sent us into fits to see how he sprang over chairs, and backed, and reared, and finally picked up my handkerchief from the floor with his teeth. Then we made Nagel sit down to the piano and play a set of quadrilles for the four to dance. They did it splendidly; they are such dear boys. The youngest Hockhaus is so good-natured, and he really has a face like a horse. At last Fred, jumping upon his brother’s back, introduced himself as Mlle. Pimpernelle upon her splendidly trained horse Rob Roy. If only you could have seen him--the coquettish glances he gave, his mincing airs, and the farewell kisses of the hand he sent back in all directions as he was gayly trotted off. I never saw anything so funny. We were immensely amused, papa and mamma as much, as any of us. But the count looked on stiff as buckram, until I thought to myself, “My good sir, if you happened to be stolen. I’d not be the one to send the crier after you.” The best thing of all in our circus was when the noble steed, having had more than enough of Mlle. Pimpernelle’s riding whip, suddenly took to rearing and plunging, and rolled over with his fair rider.

We were so overheated from laughing that, to cool down, I proposed a _jeu d’esprit_ of my own invention. The whole company sat round a table, a saucer of pounded sugar was brought in, and each one in turn had to dip his nose in it. Then, when all were ready, I gave the word--one, two, three--and everyone had to try to lick away the sugar from the tip of his nose. The one who did it first was the winner. Oh, to see the grimaces and contortions we made, and how indignant my dear old Nagel was, and yet had to join in it! description fails me.

Papa was the first winner, then Kuni Hockhaus, then I; and Fred only, with his dear little _retroussé_ nose, could not accomplish it; he was thoroughly beaten, poor fellow! He is such a dear old boy.

Your
MUSCHI.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
November 19, 1882.

With all due respect be it said, my love, you are as pedantic as any old bluestocking. Only go on in like manner and you will soon be eligible for a writer of penny dreadfuls.

I have given you, as yet, no description of his personal appearance? All right; I will ask him for his passport; therein you will read: Blue eyes, fair hair, reddish mustache, face clean shaven, regular features--and you will be just as wise as you were before. Clumsy? No, that he is decidedly not. His ears are the best point about him, small, well shaped, and close set. And disposition? That you needs must know, too. Well, good, a trifle quiet, with a touch of the grand-fatherly in it. But I will modernize him, poor fellow.

I told him the other day that the men about us were in the habit of getting their hosiery and a couple of suits, at least, from England every year: and that an ill-dressed man was an anomaly in society.

“Why?” he asked. “Please explain.”

His simplicity annoyed me, and I answered, “The thing is clear enough, and needs no explanation.”

“Good Heavens!” said he, “if it be our clothes alone which fit us for society, how highly we should esteem those who make them. A man ought never to be seen but arm in arm with his tailor.”

Have you ever heard anything so idiotic? Tell me honestly.

Yesterday we were out with the harriers. I, well in front on my good Harras, not caring so much for the hunt, but enjoying the exhilaration of meeting the keen wind, when, at a bit of a ditch my fool of a horse, hang it! gathers himself for a springs as if he were going at a hurdle, and I--Nesti--I flew over his head.

There lay I, and Harras standing snorting angrily, and looking as if he had never set eyes on me before. He seemed not to know me, would not believe I was his mistress, was ready to tear off away from me, and let me limp home on foot.

Nesti, my heart beat wildly. Rising very slowly, so as not to frighten him I kept saying, “Harasserl, quiet, my beauty, it was only a joke!” And while he snorted at me I caught hold of his bridle, and, looking round, saw no one near. Oh, what joy, thought I; led Harras to the bank of the ditch, and was just about to spring into the saddle, when he grows wild again, and gets quite unmanageable--and why? He hears a horse galloping, and true enough, that stupid count must needs come dashing up.

“What has happened, countess?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I answer, and turn away that he may not see my hot cheeks. “I was only doing something to my saddle.”

“You are all right?”

“All right.”

He springs off his horse, and without a word holds out his hand. I place my foot on it, and suffer myself to be lifted on to the saddle, and to have the folds of my habit straightened, without the slightest idea of whether he has an inkling of what has happened. Then, drawing out his handkerchief, he begins to wipe me down, and now for the first time I perceive that I am covered with mud from head to foot. You may imagine my feelings. Well! this done, the count tucks his handkerchief into his breast pocket and mounts again, and, giving Harras a taste of my whip, I jump him five times backward and forward over the ditch; not where it was dry and narrow, but further on, where it broadens and is full of water. Then we rode quietly along to meet papa. It was a long time before I could persuade myself to speak; yet it had to be, if I were not to feel uncomfortable all the rest of the day. So at last I said:

“Please do not tell a soul of my fall.”

Smiling, he answered, “I give you my word that I will not betray you.”

So for a moment we were good friends, and I absolutely began to think whether I would not have him after all. But it did not last long, and now I think him simply detestable. My dear child, he is nothing but a pedantic old German schoolmaster. Just listen. On our way to the stables I suddenly heard a rustling and crackling, and among the bushes espied a pair of little bare feet.

“A wood stealer!” cried I. “Hullo, I must see to that. I’ll catch the young rascal!”

And with a look at the count to keep still, I jumped off my horse and ran to the opening made by the little scamp. True enough, in a very short time out crawls my man, dragging a whole bundle of fagots after him. He looks up, sees me, screeches like a hare, and scampers off as fast as his legs will carry him toward the village. I fly after him; of course soon catch him up; stop, pull off his cap, and tell him if he wants it again he must come to the castle and fetch it. Where-upon he whimpers the usual tale; begs, entreats, kneels to me, until I have enough of it, and throw him back his cap. And then what do you think he did? With a grimace at me, he had the impudence to pick up the bundle of fagots and make off. I was on the point of going after him, to give it him hot and strong, when up rides the count with a face as long as my arm, and has the impertinence to say to me:

“You make an excellent ranger!”

“Is it not customary with you to protect your woods against wood stealers?” I ask.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he makes reply, “but we prefer to leave that somewhat subordinate occupation to our foresters.”

When I think it over calmly the answer in itself does not appear so exasperating; but the way he looked at me as he said it, making me feel so uncommonly small.

Your
MUSCHI.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
November 28, 1882.

We are the best of friends again. Our reconciliation was effected by means of Rattler and the little Chinese boy. You must know, Nesti, that ever since the count’s arrival papa has been more than odd. He who on my sixth birthday gave me my first pony, and allowed me to have as many dogs as I chose, is now forever frowning and saying, “Can’t you find anything better to talk about than horses?” or “Where on earth can the child have got this mania for dogs?” while mamma, as she lights a fresh cigar, remarks, “Muschi must always go to extremes.” That day it was her ninth since lunch. Sometimes I amuse myself by counting how many she gets through in a day. The end of it was that when papa heard that my English terrier had had pups, he declared that he would throw every man Jack of them out of the window if he caught any of them about the castle. So nothing remained for me but to ensconce the whole family party in the library. Not a soul goes in there, and the pups are under my eye.

They are such hungry little fellows, and are as comfortable as possible in their basket under the table by the fire, cozily hidden by the table cover, that hangs down to the ground. Three times a day I go to see the mother and take her some milk. To-day their was great joy; two of the pups had opened their eyes. I congratulated their mamma, and said, “Don’t you think you might move about a little now, you lazy thing! Get up, get up!” But she, giving me a limp paw, sets up barking, and I, in an agony of fear, take hold of her nose and hold it tightly, with a threatening “Quiet, Rattler, or you will lose your pups!” At the same moment I hear a laughing “Good-morning” behind me. You know the big armchair that stands in the window recess, its back turned to the fireplace? With one knee upon it, his arms resting upon the back, as if he were in an opera box, is the count. “Bother take you, Mr. Detective!” I think to myself; and the following conversation ensues:

_I._ When did you come in?

_He._ Oh, I was here long before you came.

_I._ Indeed! And pray what were you doing?

_He._ Reading.

_I._ Reading? You need not think I am such a little greenhorn as to believe that.

_He._ Your doubts surprise me! Why should I not have been reading?

_I._ On such a day, when you might have been following the hounds? You may tell that to the marines.

_He_ (springing from his post of vantage, and coming toward me with a forbidding expression on his face). Your opinion of the pleasure to be derived from books seems to be but small?

_I._ Were it a question of life or death with you, my opinion would remain the same.

_He_ (with expression still more forbidding). I am much obliged! I value my life too highly to stake it in such a cause.

_I._ I assure you, on my honor, you would not be risking much.

_He_ (like an old professor at an exam.). You apparently occupy yourself but little with reading?

_I._ Just enough to do penance for my sins, and to keep up my English.

_He_ (with a kind of fatherly solicitude which strikes me as intensely comical, and with an air of severity which exasperates me). And, may I ask, do you think it necessary to keep up your French in the same manner?

_I._ In the same manner.

(Oh, my dear, I grew crimson; for the thought of that wretched book flashed across my mind that Fred got for me last winter, and of which I would not tell you one word, despite all your entreaties.)

_He._ You are acquainted, then, with the modern French ideas of society?

_I_ (impatiently). I might say “No,” and you would believe me; but I hate a lie, and so, like an honorable fellow, I prefer to say “Yes.”

_He_ (looks at me a long while--not angrily this time, but quite sorrowfully--and murmurs, “What a pity! but ‘honorable fellow’ is delightful”). Tell me, old man--I beg pardon, honored countess--do you ever read a German book? We have some well worth reading.

_I._ Oh, Goethe and Schiller! Yes, I know----

Nesti, a weary prospect opened out to me. In imagination I saw ourselves sitting like the young couple on the title page of a German magazine--he reading aloud, of course out of Schiller; I, in “attitude of rapt attention,” nestling up to him; our baby, in the arms of my one maid and general factotum, gravely turning over the leaves of a family Goethe.

“If that is his picture of our domestic life,” thought I, “the sooner I undeceive him the better.” And as he hurriedly asked, “You know Goethe and Schiller?” I answered resolutely, “Pooh! do not expect me to study the classics. Goethe, I have always been told, is immoral; and Schiller is quite too long-winded for me.”

So that was settled once for all. We then talked about other things, principally about Rattler, whom he said was a jolly little creature, swearing not to betray me. And he was as nice as could be when I asked him to collect postage stamps for me. It certainly took him some time before he understood what I wanted them for, and that they have to be sent out to China, as soon as one has a million, to buy a little Chinese boy. “And what will you do with him when you have got him?” he asked. And I told him that he was to be christened and trained for me as my little page, to stand behind my chair and wait upon me at table, in a yellow dress with a long pigtail. The count laughed heartily (he is delightful when he laughs) and with a hearty shake of the hand, said, “All right, I will help you. At any rate, this is one ideal object.” _Addio._

Your
MUSCHI.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
December 6, 1883.

You may think yourself highly honored at my sitting down to write to you at this hour; it is 2 A.M., and I am dead tired.

My dear Nesti, we are in a whirl. Fred and his friends are back from Raigern, and have brought some officers with them. Old Countess Aarheim and her four daughters are staying here; the lake is hard frozen, and the snow a foot deep.

Our mornings are spent in visiting the stables and riding school; after luncheon we skate or go sleighing; in the evening we play games, or dance, or just simply lounge about. Cloclo, to my infinite amusement, has set up a furious flirtation with the count; Mitzi is still pining with love for Fred; and as for Kitzi and Pips, they remain faithful to each other, and will carry the day yet. What can parents do when their children won’t give in? It would be too absurd for a captain to marry on his pay. He certainly would not be my taste, but the two geese reply to every common-sense remonstrance that they love each other. As if they could have any reason more senseless for making each other miserable.

The count has quite joined the masculine community, and is first and foremost among them; he has given up paying compliments, and, do you know, my dear, I have made up my mind to accept him.

Fred, who of course scented at once the meaning of the count’s visit, is behaving so sensibly that one cannot praise him enough; he really is a dear old fellow. Do you remember at the last carnival his wearing my colors, and yet, even then, he never breathed a word to trouble me, nor has he now.

This morning I was trying the paces of a foal, and Fred, whip in hand, came up.

“How do you like the count?” said he. “I think him a capital fellow, and he has thirty thousand pounds a year.”

“And not a single racer,” said I; upon which, with a sly look, he replied:

“That will soon be altered. If you should want a first-rate master of the hounds, think of a friend at Rahn up in the mountains----”

I should think I would! He shall be one of the first I invite in my new home, to make people sociable together.

Good-night, Nesterl. I declare I am half asleep--a moment ago I was wide awake, but the thought of the admirable Clara Aarheim has set me yawning. “My domesticated daughter,” as the old countess calls her, because she has evidently given up all hope of establishing her--“my domesticated daughter” is more insipid than ever; she would do very well for a major’s wife--say a major in the infantry, who lives upon his pay. Now my young lady has renounced the world, she finds no pleasure in society--in other words, no partners. No one can endure her with her mincing ways and everlasting blushes. She bores even the count, and he is never as lively with her as with us. Only fancy, he considers her good-looking! A good-looking stick. That kind of beauty is not to my taste; it reminds me of those statues we pass by in museums, with downcast glance, when we walk along so discreetly with our mammas--poor mammas! if they only knew that we are not as demure as we look!

Only fancy, the count can be satirical. He actually persuaded Clara to mount before us all, and then praised her riding to the skies. We were dying with laughter, and she looked so confused; and I, catching up a book, rushed forward, saying gravely:

“Allow me to celebrate the episode in verse,” and sang:

“Slow and sure, slow and sure,
To guard our bones is the best cure?”

Good-night, I am dead asleep; I must say my prayers in the morning. And only think, the count said to me:

“You have such a charming voice, what a pity you have never taken singing lessons.”

Here I went to sleep last night, my pen fell on the paper, and you will receive a letter adorned with blots. I have one thing more to tell you about the worthy Clara. You must know that she raves about the count, and took it upon herself to read me a lecture yesterday.

“With such a man”--oh! the emphasis on “such a man,” and her eyes lit up like a couple of Bengal lights--“with such a man you should conduct yourself very differently, dearest Muschi. He is not accustomed to the kind of conversation you indulge in with the fast young men you have about you. It is plain that he likes you; how could it be otherwise? but it is very evident that your talk and manners often horrify him.” And then she must needs launch out into a tirade against horsiness and stable talk, frivolity and lack of reading and thinking, and goodness only knows what. Heaven knows, I detest everything fast, but her way of depreciating the things that I most like and value exhausted my--never too great--stock of patience. I dare say I answered her very rudely, and I certainly told her that her room was as good as her company. And so my lady took herself off, looking uncommonly like a bedraggled poodle. And in my first fury I sat down then and there and made a sketch of her presiding over the school of needlework she had started at home, a book under each arm, one hand wielding a birch rod, the other displaying a darned stocking, upon the tip of her nose, flattened for the purpose, pirouettes a tiny weeny scholar. My caricature made the round of the drawing room, and everybody had a secret giggle over it. Nagel, of course, deplored my fresh piece of mischief, and had nearly let the cat out of the bag. Clara was more amused by it than anyone, which was far from my intention, and the count was amazed at my talent for drawing, and thought it a thousand pities that I had not had drawing lessons. The remainder of the evening he devoted to Clara, presumably talking to her about the school of needlework. Poor man!

Yours,
MUSCHI.

I open this to tell you that the count has begged me to grant him an interview. Things are becoming serious. My parents are beaming. I will telegraph to you when our engagement is to be made known.

SEBENBERG CASTLE,
December 28, 1883.

Yes, dearest, we shall soon be coming to Vienna, and I shall be jolly glad to see your sweet self again, and glad of Carnival. What a nuisance that it is cut so short now; there is no possibility of crowding in enough dances; and I feel inclined to rush in madly for gayety. Unluckily Fred will be away; he is spending the winter in Old England, as he wrote papa a few days ago, with apologies to the ladies for not having come over to say good-by before starting. Papa is angry because Fred rather did him over some horses--as if that----

Your letter has just come--the third in which you bombard me with questions. Don’t you see that I have been taking a rise out of you? How do you suppose that I should consent to be immured in Swabia, where the men go in for domestic life as a profession, and the women knit socks from conviction?

We certainly did have a conversation, Count Carl and I, but of a very different nature from what you have been imagining.

He began by saying that his visit to us had been a memorable one, in that it had given him quite new impressions--had opened out a new world to him.

“If it was new to you, you have adapted yourself very readily to it,” I made reply.

“What wonder, with such a guide as you, countess--such a model in all knightly arts and usages.”

“Is that intended to be ironical?”

“By no means. I return to my Penates richer than I came.”

“To where?”

“To my household gods.”

“Aha!”

Here the interview came to a slight hitch, but I set it going again by asking what was the gain he had made by coming among us.

“Of a friend!” he exclaimed; “a young, charming, reliable friend, named Countess Muschi.”

“_Pardi!_” I exclaimed.

And he, losing no time, seized my hand, coloring fiery red, and his voice shook. “A friend upon whose help and support I count in the most important moment of my life.”

“What moment do you mean?”

“That which must decide the weal or woe of all my after life--that in which you will win my eternal gratitude--by asking----” Here his shaky voice toppled over entirely.

“Whom am I to ask--myself?” I blurted out; but, luckily for me, in his agitation he was unconscious how I had given myself away, and went on:

“Countess Clara Aarheim.”

Here I must have looked uncommonly sold, for he exclaimed hurriedly, “You think there is no chance for me. Is it too late--is Countess Clara no longer free?”

Nesti, human nature would not stand it; and I broke out with “What a sell!” Upon which the poor count was thrown into fresh alarm, and conjured me to be frank with him, and only tell him if he must renounce the idea. Of course, it would have been a miracle if such a treasure as Clara had not already found a suitor, and he had been a fool to hope for such a miracle.

“Stuff and rubbish,” thinks I to myself; then aloud, “Not such a fool as you think! I know Clara’s affairs tolerably well. So far she has had no admirers.”

“Is it so--is it so?” and seizing my hand he kissed it passionately. “And she? Has she not seemed to care for anyone?”

“Not a bit of it. A girl is hardly likely to be so unpractical as to care for a man if he does not care for her. That is hardly our way.”

He heaved a deep sigh.

“You have no idea what a girl in your sphere can do, who has the courage not to ‘be led by fashion.’”

“Pray do not expect such _courage_ from me. To my mind it is as little like the real thing as is forced laughter to real honest mirth.”

“And yet I do not know. There may be a higher standpoint than that of society.”

“That is the one consolation of those who are excluded from it.”

“Then at least grant it to such poor devils, who would otherwise be left despairing,” he said, with a good-humored laugh; and, going back to his subject, he overwhelmed me with entreaties to find out from Clara, without her knowing it, if he were in any way obnoxious to her.

To this I answered that I could save myself that trouble; that he was anything but obnoxious to her.

“And you think, then, that I may hope in time----?”

“In time? This very day, if you only choose to ask.”

“Countess!”

“Why are you so surprised? Clara would never dream for a moment of refusing you. When has she ever had a chance of making such a match before?”

“Ah--of making such a match,” he repeated, crestfallen. “If it were only----You could not have given me greater discouragement, countess, than in that one word.”

And so, in his discouragement, he poured out to poor me an harangue about love, intellect, mutual understanding; winding up with the trite remark that nothing in married life is so important as are these things. Any poor devil who had not known a day’s happiness in his life, or what money can bring, could not have spoken more eloquently.

Awfully odd! it did not seem all nonsense to me--at least not the whole time. There were actually moments in which the thought came over me, perhaps, after all, he is not so utterly wrong; perhaps there really is something in sympathy of taste, as well as in suitability of position. (Certainly position alone does not promote happiness.) And then I thought to myself, “You are a good man and clever; I am not a bad girl or a stupid one; why should not we have suited each other? Perhaps I was a goose for my pains to have thrown you in Clara’s way! But that little _malaise_ soon passed over, and I began to picture her felicity, and the joke it would be to ask her if she would accept the count. Then, too, I remembered the many tricks I had played her; and how ill I had requited her friendship for me; and so, extending my hand in right good fellowship, I exclaimed:

“All right! Shake hands upon it. I will obtain permission for you to plead your cause. Take it all in all, Clara is well suited to you. She has always said that in marriage the bridegroom was more to be considered than his rentroll.”

My red sportswoman’s hands have often been kissed, but never so fervently as by the count at that juncture.

Suffice it to say, Nesti, all went off splendidly. Clara’s perplexity was tremendous; how at first she said No, in her humility and discretion; how the count then went at it with a will, swearing a man could only marry one woman--and what was to be done if that woman would not have him?

The bliss of Casa Aarheim can be more easily imagined than described. My people seemed less overjoyed. Mamma puffed away at her nineteenth cigar that day. Papa pinched my cheek, and said:

“I say, pussy.”

“What, papa?”

“You are a goose.”

“Family secret, papa. If you betray it, it’s at your own cost.”

Three days later, the count went home to make all necessary preparations for the reception of his young wife, to whom he is to be married during Carnival. His departure was quickly followed by that of the Aarheims.

The lovers’ parting was, Heaven be praised, accomplished without a scene. He held her hand for a long pressure in his, looking at her as if to say, “Trust me.” She, in the same language, made answer, “Unreservedly.”

It was a parting thoroughly _comme il faut_, and I thought to myself--but why always confess to you all that I think?

Farewell, dear girl, and observe that it is not always as pleasant as it looks to be a sporting countess, pure and simple.

Yours,
MUSCHI.

COUNTESS PAULA.

We had quite a crowded reception last night after the theater. He was there--more reserved and silent than ever. He is going away--about to be transferred to some other legation--probably to Serajewo.

My friends say it is the very place for him; they are merciless to any man who happens to be deficient in “style”; absolutely merciless.

Countess Albertine was for some time in conversation with the secretary of the French Legation, by whom he was standing. I heard the secretary remark that our German literature, otherwise so rich, was curiously deficient in memoirs. The countess, evidently not greatly impressed by this fact, murmured “Ah,” and smiled as sweetly as if the greatest homage had been offered at her shrine. But he whom I like so well and esteem so highly, he, who is so gifted and patriotic, replied:

“Yes; unfortunately it is too true.”

Oh, thought I, then the Frenchman is right; and I formed a resolution: If I do not marry--and I do not mean ever to marry--there shall I be my whole life without a single occupation. Were it not a worthy aim to devote my poor abilities to help supply so deplorable a deficiency? At least I will try. I enter, then, upon this work with a due feeling of its solemn import. May Heaven prosper it!

MY MEMOIRS.

The 15th of May, 1865, witnessed my entry into this world, to the anything but satisfaction of my parents. My sister was already married, my brother preparing for his final examination. During the first year of my existence my father never deigned to look at me. But I, nothing daunted, grew big and plump. Big, or rather tall, I am still; but plump, Heaven be praised, I am not. And as for my dear old father, if at first he did not love me, there is no trace of any such want now. He would do anything for me, and I have quite given up asking his permission to anything beforehand; his one and only answer being always, “Do whatever you like!”

My childhood was passed almost entirely alone; first with my nurse as sole companion; afterward with my governess, a perfect angel, knowing no more of the things of earth than angels do. For instance--of botany she simply knew nothing. If I asked her what was larkspur in French, she would answer, “_C’est le coucou bleu_”; a buttercup was “_le coucou jaune_”; eyebright, “_le coucou blanc_.” All flowers, that is all wild and field flowers, to her were various colored _coucous_. But I must do her the justice to say that she was fully authorized not to go too thoroughly into my education, my dear good father having engaged her on the express stipulation that what he required for his daughter was a good “superficial” education. And that was what I certainly obtained. Thus for a long time I thought I knew the history of the world from beginning to end; when suddenly I found that Mme. Duphot, at mamma’s request, had quietly suppressed the whole of one century--that of the Reformation. They desired that I should know nothing of Luther. But I discovered him--in the eleventh volume of Schlosser’s “History of the World,” accidentally forgotten and left behind when it had been decided to turn out my brother’s old books and pack them off to a second-hand dealer.

Heaven forgive me if I am a bad Catholic, but, honestly, Dr. Luther does not seem to me such a terrible creature that one dare not even know of his existence. Of course I did not venture to express so heterodox an opinion to my devout Duphot; it would have destroyed her peace of mind forever, and she would henceforth have been spending all her poor little savings on the reading of masses for the restoration of my endangered faith. But I did tell the chaplain when next I went to confession. He merely imposed an extra penitential prayer--nothing more; nor did he in any way alter his customary admonition, nor the sentence with which it always closed--“And then say, ‘Dear God, I thank thee for all the mercies which thou dost vouchsafe to me, and to my noble family.’”

I always used to think it strangely worded, and not exactly in accordance with the manner in which we should address the Divine Being, who takes no account of “noble” families, we being all equal in his sight.

And this was not the only thing in which the reverend chaplain gave me ground for astonishment. Upon learned subjects he held views shared by no one save, perhaps, Mme. Duphot and myself--and myself only up to a certain period. For example: he used to give me my geography lessons, we beginning with physiography as being the most difficult, and, once mastered, the rest being bound to follow as a matter of course. Among other things the reverend chaplain informed us: “At the North Pole it is cold, and at the South Pole” (Siedpol, he called it) “hot, I suppose.”

As he said it the thing seemed clear, but afterward I had my doubts, for, on reference to my dictionary, I found that _süd_ (south) and _sied_ (scorching, boiling) had nothing whatever to do with each other.

But now enough of my studies, and to turn to my home life.

It was as happy as it could be. At the first sign of spring, I and my Duphot used to repair to Trostburg, our country seat, whither my parents followed for a stay of some weeks during the hunting season.

As with the dawn, long before sunrise, the sky is light, so, long before my dear ones arrived, my heart would be full of joyful expectation. True, their coming never realized things exactly as I had pictured them. The many guests arriving simultaneously with them claimed their constant attention, and, with the departure of the guests, they, too, went off to pastures new. We would go down to the carriage to see them off, Duphot and I. Papa would kiss me fondly, mamma allow me to carry out her tiny lapdog to her, from which she was never parted for a day. On pretext of placing it on her lap, I used to get into the carriage, put my arms round her neck, and kiss her as much as ever I wanted. It may be imagined if my kisses were few! Then they would drive away, mamma waving her dear hand to me ever so far along the road. When I could see them no longer from the courtyard, I would run to the turret room and watch at the window until the carriage appeared like a tiny speck in the cutting through which they had to drive to reach the railway station. Half an hour later a dense white cloud would pass along the horizon, slowly to dissolve in fleecy streaks; and then I knew: They are gone! That cloud fading away in the sky had been emitted by the fiery engine which was bearing away from me those I loved best on earth.

After such partings I invariably cried, as I imagined, until far into the night--in reality until about ten o’clock; and the following morning I had already begun to look forward to our next meeting in Vienna.

There I was much better off. Papa would often come to visit me in the schoolroom; and mamma would send for me to the drawing room to see those friends who asked for me. Almost daily we would meet in the Prater, and that was the acme of delight to me. Mamma was always so pleased to see me--especially if I were prettily dressed. I got to know that she liked me best in my gray velvet pelisse trimmed with fur; and whenever my good Duphot took it into her head to have me dressed in anything else, I was like a little fury.

One day in spring--I shall never forget it; it happened to be my birthday, and I was ten years old--a very warm day. I had insisted on being dressed in my fur pelisse, much against Mme. Duphot’s better judgment. I was so hot in it I thought I should melt, what with delight and the temperature!

I was playing in one of the copses with some of my little friends near the walk, looking out the while for mamma, and thinking only of her. At length I saw her coming down the avenue with a party of ladies and gentlemen, and, pointing her out to my little friends, said proudly:

“There; that is my mamma--the tallest, most beautiful of all mammas!”

The children looked up eagerly, and one little precocious creature, with whom I often used to fight, exclaimed:

“Yes, she might be if she were not so old. My mamma says that yours is old, and already has a lot of wrinkles round her eyes.”

To hear this speech, fling myself upon her, and give her a slap, was with me the work of a second. Of course she struck back, and it became a free fight. Our governesses in vain tried to part us; all they got for their pains was a stray blow from one or the other, intended for the adversary. Suddenly I heard mamma’s voice calling me, and, forgetful of rage, scrimmage, and the enemy, I rushed off into the walk, with arms outstretched, toward her.

Repelling me with a look which rooted me to the spot, she exclaimed:

“_Comme vous voilà faite!_”

And for the first time in my life I saw mamma angry. Turning to Mme. Duphot, who was courtesying to the ground, she haughtily inquired why I was not wearing my spring costume; and as she passed on we caught the words, “Really, these governesses are insupportable.” And I--I could have wept for pity over my poor Duphot, and for shame over myself; wept--but sparks of fire, like Shakspere’s Queen, of whom, by the by, I knew nothing in those days.

For three whole days we did not dare present ourselves in the Prater.

So I grew up.

Year by year my parents prolonged their stay at Trostburg, until they have got to spend the whole of the summer there. My dear mother’s life is now passed in good works. She treats the sick folk of the village homeopathically, and has already effected some marvelous cures among them. She has founded a _crèche_, and a house of correction, where the lazy are to be made to work, and the ne’er-do-wells to be kept under stern discipline. Nothing could be more practical; the pity is that one cannot force the people to go into it; and, left to their own choice, they prefer to stay away.

My Duphot is in her element.

She accompanies mamma twice daily to church, reads religious books aloud to her, and prepares homeopathic dilutions.

Meanwhile I am papa’s companion--and he is such a dear! We take long rides together. At first we used to follow the hounds, and he was delighted when I shot a hare--more delighted than I was. As far as I am concerned, hares might have free lease of their lives to the detriment of any number of plantations and cabbages. Last autumn something happened that forever put me out of conceit with hunting. The preserves were to be thinned, and some of the chamois to be shot. Papa, who had to leave home on a short absence, entrusted the commission to me, thinking I should thoroughly enjoy the task, and I had not the courage to tell him that it would be anything but an enjoyable one to me.

So, accompanied by the head ranger and my good gun, I sallied forth one afternoon into the peaceful shade and green depths of the deer park. Along the moss-grown path, whence I had so often heard the rustle of the herds going down to water, we came to the pond, skirted it, and saw, through a break on the other side, a young chamois just emerging from the wood on the slope. Stretching her slender neck, she snuffed the air and came slowly forward.

“That’s what we want, the female,” whispered the ranger. “Take steady aim--fire!”

His lips trembled with eagerness, his old gray eyes looked mistrustfully at me. As for me, an ice-cold thrill ran through me as, raising my gun in feverish haste and nervously pulling the trigger, I was only conscious of having taken aim. There was a report. “A dead hit!” exclaimed the ranger triumphantly, and ran forward. I slowly followed, my heart beating so loudly I could not run.

“Shot in the heart!” cried the old forester from afar. “A crack shot! Could not have been better.”

Intoxicated at my success he wildly waved his hat, then begged mine that he might stick a pine twig in it. While thus engaged, and I standing there gazing with wide-open eyes at the pretty young creature lying prone, its graceful head thrown back, there appeared on the verge of the wood a tiny kid.

“Good Heavens, Bayer!” I exclaimed. And looking up, the ranger cried:

“My word! had she got a little one! If I had only known it!”

Meanwhile the young one came confidingly and fearlessly up to us. Surely if mother could lie so quietly on the grass by those people they would do it no harm, it thought, and began pushing its mother with its moist shining nose, and then quietly to drink in its last nourishment from the accustomed source; and when no more would come, not one drop, left off trying, and stood up looking inquiringly at its mother and at us, looking as innocently as only an animal can look.

The ranger, taking it up in his arms, carried it home. It had the warmest corner in the pine plantation given to it; a little hut was built for it, with a soft bed of moss and hay. I have spent whole days by it. Never in all my life did I desire anything so ardently as that it should grow used to me and not be afraid of me. But trustful in freedom, timid and full of mistrust in confinement, it never grew used to me, never lost its dread of me--it died.

When my dear father came home I told him I never would go shooting again. He laughed; and in my excitement I cried:

“You ought not to desire it of me. If ever I married, and had a daughter who took pleasure in shooting any living creature, I should be utterly miserable.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense. You have grown quite idiotic, child. And,” he continued entreatingly, “and, above all, do talk in English.”

* * * * *

Now I am going to tell of my dear father. To describe him so accurately as that all who read these memoirs should seem to have his living presentment before them is beyond my power; I will only endeavor to portray him as he is, and, especially, as he is to me. He really often has occasion to find fault with me. I am either too noisy and too merry, or else too much in my own room reading. He says a learned woman is the greatest of all calamities. He looks upon learning as an importunate being ever ready to spring upon one unawares, on one’s making it the slightest advance. In vain do I try to comfort him with the assurance that I might know of the whole contents of my library by heart, and yet not have any pretensions to be a bluestocking.

“Heaven grant it!” is his answer. “A woman’s head should be in her heart. From her heart and disposition should come all her understanding.” He has said this so often to me, that I yesterday ventured to raise an objection.

“You tell me it must come; but it does not. There are things which even a woman cannot fathom from the mere depths of her temperament. So Baron Schwarzburg von Livland said lately; and I have not the least idea what he means, and my heart certainly has not told me.”

But I am anticipating events.