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.
[Illustration: colophon]
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.
[Illustration: Decorative image]
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.