Bertram had at last attained the summit of his hopes. The lovely heiress, Eva Schommer, was his betrothed; his dearest wish was fulfilled, and yet he could not thoroughly enjoy his good fortune. He listened most amiably to the congratulations of the astonished and delighted Uncle Balthasar, and to those also of Aunt Minni, who was less astonished and less delighted, or at all events refrained from any distinct expression of astonishment and delight. He reciprocated good-humoured old Balthasar's expressions of esteem and good will, but yet he could not help feeling as if the betrothal in some way were not genuine.
And yet Eva, her resolution once taken, accommodated herself to her position with much more readiness than Bertram would, from what she had said to him, have supposed possible. She received her uncle's and aunt's congratulations pleasantly, and when Uncle Balthasar suggested that she should address her lover familiarly by his Christian name, and seal their betrothal with a kiss, she refused it is true, but not unkindly and with a smile. She gave Bertram permission to make the betrothal public after the usual fashion, by sending cards to all their acquaintances, but insisted that all congratulations should be addressed solely to him, positively refusing to receive the usual congratulatory visits. The next day, if her kind uncle Balthasar was agreed, she meant to leave K---- for several weeks or even months.
At this unexpected intelligence Uncle Balthasar opened his eyes in astonishment. "Good gracious, Eva my dear," he said, "the thing is impossible! You can't think of going alone, and how are we all to be ready by to-morrow?"
But Eva declared that it would be very easy. She had long desired to see Switzerland or the Tyrol, and very little luggage was necessary for a journey to the mountains. Nanette and Wilhelm could easily get everything ready in the course of the evening: she herself and Aline might assist; and, if her kind uncle and aunt would only not say no, nothing should hinder their departure by noon the next day in the express train.
When did Uncle Balthasar ever say no to any request of his niece's? He could no more do so than could Aunt Minni, who with a gentle sigh resigned herself to her fate, and only asked meekly whither they were going; a question which Eva could not answer. She begged her uncle to decide where to go,--it would perhaps be best that he should consult with Aline,--there was the whole evening in which to make their choice.
Eva never asked Bertram's advice as to their destination, and when, with some hesitation, he asked whether it would not be possible to postpone for one day their departure, in order that his aunt, Madame von Sturmhaupt, might express to Eva the pleasure she would so surely feel in her nephew's betrothal, he received from Eva so quiet and firm a refusal by way of reply, that it was plain to see that he was not to found upon the fact of his betrothal any right to make requests. She declared positively that she would receive no congratulatory visits,--not one. Her intention to leave K---- on the morrow was, since Uncle Balthasar had given his consent to the plan, unalterable, and would assuredly be put into execution.
This was very sharp and decided, but the effect of it was a little softened when Eva kindly added that she hoped Herr von Bertram would spend this last evening before her departure in her home-circle, and that when he returned with the intelligence that his quarrel with Herr von Heydeck was satisfactorily adjusted, he should learn whither they intended to go.
This was a distinct dismissal and reminder that his promise was yet to be fulfilled, and Bertram thus understood it.
He kissed the hand which Eva extended to him, did the same by Aunt Minni, and took his departure, refusing Uncle Balthasar's offer to accompany him, on the ground that only the absence of all formal ceremony on the old man's part could make him really feel like a member of the family.
But this was not his reason for desiring to leave the room alone; he had a presentiment that he should find Nanette in the antechamber, and he had good grounds for wishing to see her alone. He was not deceived,--the first thing that met his eyes as the door of the drawing-room closed behind him was the waiting-maid, who was busy very near the door. She greeted him with a low courtesy; her face was crimson, and she regarded him with a malicious smile as she whispered, "I give you joy, Herr Lieutenant----"
"You have been listening!"
"Of course; what was I here for?" she replied, pertly.
"I am not blaming you, my dear; quite the contrary."
"Oh, indeed, I'm not going to listen for you. It is bad enough without that to have brought me here to this proud Zantuppy. I hate her, I do! And I'll not stand it long in this low place, let me tell you! 'Tis a sin and a shame that I must look on while you betroth yourself to the creature, and you asking me to help you, too!"
In her agitation Nanette forgot to whisper, as she had done when she first addressed Bertram. She did not speak loudly, although sufficiently so to cause Bertram fear lest she should be heard in the drawing-room.
"Do be quiet; speak softly, my dear girl," he begged, seizing her hand. "You know it is only out of love for you, and that I may be able to provide more handsomely for you, that I am forced to make a wealthy marriage. But we cannot talk here,--we may be discovered at any moment. Come early to-morrow to my aunt's; I will be there. Keep your eyes open, my dear child, for both our sakes. Farewell, my little darling, till we meet."
He looked cautiously towards the door: it was tightly closed; he then snatched one kiss from the extremely placable Nanette and was gone.
This meeting with Nanette did but increase his anxiety of mind. The tie that bound him to Eva was as yet but weak and frail; until the betrothal was publicly known it might easily be dissolved, which it certainly would be if Eva's desire with regard to the quarrel with Heydeck were not fulfilled. It was of the first importance that this tie should be made firm and indissoluble, and to this end he must act with energy and promptitude.
He decided upon a plan of action as soon as he left the villa, but he did not proceed to its execution with any very great satisfaction, for he was staking his whole future upon a single card. He had made an appointment with Count Waldheim to meet him at the Casino, and thither he betook himself. This interview with Waldheim was the first step in the carrying out of his scheme; the first, and by no means the easiest,--he dreaded it.
Waldheim was a gay young officer, but a man of stainless honour, wherefore Bertram considered him a most important ally. He dreaded greatly lest he should refuse him his support.
When he reached the Casino he found to his satisfaction that it was nearly deserted. Count Waldheim sat solitary at a table in the large dining-hall, a cup of coffee before him, reading a newspaper. He had remained there solely to redeem his promise to Bertram. "You have sorely tried my patience," he grumbled, when the man he had been waiting for at last appeared. "I have been bored here for more than an hour."
"You will forgive me I know, my dear Count, when you learn that the hour has brought me the fulfilment of my dearest hopes. You are the first to learn from me the intelligence of my betrothal to Fräulein Eva Schommer!"
"Ah--I give you joy!"
The wish did not sound quite cordial, preceded as it was by a long-drawn-out 'ah,' not at all flattering in emphasis; but Bertram took no notice of this. He knew Waldheim's opinion of the connection, and he refrained from saying anything to induce a further expression of it.
"I am a fortunate man," he continued; "and to you, to your friendship, I owe my good fortune. Everything has happened as I had anticipated it would. After your speaking, according to your promise, to Balthasar, Eva sent for me. I should never have dared to declare myself to her if she had maintained her former cold reserve, but in this interview her pride gave way,--her heart betrayed itself. Her agitation, her maidenly terror, lent me courage. I confessed my love for her; she did not reject it, and thus I may thank you for my present happiness."
"You do not owe it to me, but to your own skilful play," the Count replied. "I only hope you will be as content in the end as you are at present; that you will not find Herr von Heydeck's friend waiting for you at your rooms."
"No fear of that; but indeed, to speak frankly, I am now extremely sorry for my attack upon Heydeck. I wish I could recall it."
"What! when it has been the means of your betrothal?"
"Yes, in spite of that, for I cannot but feel that I have done very wrong. I have attacked a man who possesses no means of defence. I thought Heydeck a coward, and was content to insult him, but I have learned better. He will not challenge me; he will bear my insult unavenged; not from cowardice, but because his principles forbid his fighting a duel, and he will sooner endure any disgrace than be false to them."
"Impossible! you are dreaming!"
"No, I am sure of what I say,--sure. If you doubt it ask Heydeck's best friend, Herr von Herwarth, who will confirm my words."
"Did Herr von Herwarth give you this extraordinary piece of intelligence?"
"No; I learned it from another source quite as trustworthy. I am not at liberty to say more with regard to it, but I am in a most embarrassing position. I have mortally insulted a man whose principles forbid his avenging the insult, which will consequently ruin his future career. He will be forced to leave the service in disgrace, and he has no fortune. In spite of his strange ideas Heydeck is an excellent officer. I cannot reconcile it to my conscience that I have been the means of driving so good an officer from the army. Advise me, my dear Count, what to do in this case."
Count Waldheim listened with increasing surprise to Bertram's words. "I advise you?" he replied. "I am utterly confused by the contradictory statements you make. Heydeck is an excellent officer and no coward, and yet his principles require him to prefer disgrace to duelling. This is incredible--a contradiction in terms. And then your sudden regret, this tender consideration for the man whom, saving your presence, you wilfully and grossly insulted to serve your own purpose. I cannot understand you nor advise you."
"I feared so, for unfortunately the whole matter is so strange that my regret must seem incomprehensible. Who can advise me if you, who saw the whole affair, cannot? I cannot be the ruin of this unfortunate man. He is capable of putting a bullet through his brains in his despair, and if by my fault he should do so I never should forgive myself. If you will not and cannot advise me, I must follow the dictates of my conscience. I must retract my offensive expressions to Heydeck in the presence of witnesses and ask his pardon."
"This then is what you wished to lead up to by the extraordinary story you have been telling me, Herr von Bertram," the Count said, with undisguised contempt in voice and look. He arose and buckled the belt of his sabre. "Do what you think best, or, as you are pleased to express it, 'follow the dictates of your conscience,' but pray do not require me or your other comrades to believe that Herr von Heydeck's unerring aim with a pistol has no share in your magnanimous resolve!"
Casting a last contemptuous glance at Bertram, the Count was about to leave him, but the dragoon detained him. "You must not leave me thus, Count Waldheim," he said, "with a suspicion in your mind of my courage and integrity. The disgraceful doubt which you have expressed gives me a claim upon your honour to see that justice is done me. I now request you to see Herr von Heydeck and learn from his own lips the confirmation of what I told you. If he announces his intention of calling me out for insulting him, I entirely resign all thought of begging his pardon. I shall gladly accept his challenge, and rely upon the fulfilment of your promise to act as my second. If, on the other hand, he confirms what I told you, and will not send me a challenge because his principles will not allow of his doing so, you will tell him from me that I shall await him at Büchner's to retract my words in the presence of witnesses. Only by fulfilling this my request, Count Waldheim, can you atone for the shameful suspicion which you have expressed of an old friend and comrade."
Bertram had his voice and countenance under perfect control, and was moreover, as we have said, an excellent actor. His simulated indignation would have deceived a much keener observer than honest Count Waldheim, and it produced the effect he had intended. Waldheim felt ashamed of his hasty judgment; he acknowledged that he had sinned against friendship for a comrade, and, in his regret for having done so, he consented to do as Bertram requested, which in any other case he would hardly have done. He promised to find Heydeck, and either to bring him to Büchner's or to return to Bertram with the intelligence that he might expect a challenge.
With a pressure of the hand, which the Count returned but half cordially, Bertram bade him farewell, and took a long and roundabout way to Büchner's, where the momentous interview was to take place.
When he reached the restaurant most of the tables beneath the awning were already occupied by the officers of the various regiments in garrison at K----. Many of those present had been witnesses of the morning's occurrence, and all were perfectly informed of what had taken place. The affair had made a great stir among the corps of officers, as Bertram could plainly see by the gloomy looks with which he was regarded by his comrades, some of whom took evident pains to avoid seeing him, that they might not be forced to return his salute.
His self-satisfied mood was somewhat impaired by the annoyance that the evident avoidance of his comrades caused him. He would have liked to turn away and leave the restaurant, but he had promised to wait for Count Waldheim and Heydeck. He looked round to find a seat. If any table had been quite unoccupied he would have seated himself at it; but there was not one such to be found,--a few single seats were empty, and towards one of these he made his way. It was at a corner table, and two of the officers of his own regiment, and his personal acquaintances, were already seated at it.
He approached, and, nodding with his usual easy familiarity, he asked, without noticing the icy acknowledgment of his greeting,--
"Is this chair taken?"
"No," was the reply, "nor the table either; we are just going." And the two men arose and with a brief salutation left the table, although their coffee-cups were scarcely half emptied. That they left simply to avoid Bertram's society was evident, since they stopped near another table, and, entering into conversation with some acquaintances, ordered a waiter to bring chairs. Thus they did not leave the place, but took their seats at another table.
Bertram bit his lips in a rage, but he was powerless to resent the silent contempt of his comrades. He could not demand satisfaction for cold glances and slighting acknowledgments of his salute. He was excessively uncomfortable among these men whom he had been wont to call his friends, but who avoided him as they would not have done had they been strangers. The minutes passed on leaden wings; he cast many an expectant glance towards the promenade outside, but full half an hour elapsed before Count Waldheim appeared--alone. The Count's humour was apparently none of the best: his brow was dark. He came up to the table at which Bertram was sitting, but did not take the chair which the dragoon pushed forward for him. As he stood beside it he said,--
"I did not find Herr von Heydeck at home; his servant told me that he had gone out just before, in plain clothes; whither he could not say, nor did he know when his master would return. From there I went to Herr von Herwarth, whom I found at home, and I asked him frankly if he knew anything of Heydeck's intentions with regard to your affair."
"Well? He must have confirmed what I told you."
"He did and he did not. At first he seemed unwilling to speak out. He believed Herr von Heydeck had not as yet made up his mind. He displayed a certain hesitation, a reserve, which I only overcame by extreme frankness. I asked him directly whether it were true that Herr von Heydeck was opposed to duelling from principle, and he admitted that it was so, but expressed the hope that in this case his friend would prove false to his principles and comply with the law of honour. I thought myself justified after this in telling him exactly what had passed between us, and it was well that I did so, for Herr von Herwarth is a man of honour, and quite agrees with me that this matter can be honourably adjusted only by a duel. He promised to find Herr von Heydeck, and to use all his influence with him to induce him to repudiate his extraordinary principles, and only in case he should prove unsuccessful is he to tell him that he will find you here, prepared to make him full reparation. I hope I have acted according to your wishes, Herr von Bertram."
This was not precisely the case, but Bertram dared not confess that the insistance upon the duel was not at all according to his wishes, and he thanked Waldheim warmly for his services.
While engaged in conversation with the Count, he had not noticed that there had suddenly arisen an unwonted stir among the military men assembled at Büchner's. All eyes were turned towards an aged officer, who had just appeared beneath the awning. He was standing at the entrance, leaning on a stout bamboo cane, scanning the assemblage; his grave stern glance passed from table to table, apparently seeking some one whom he could not readily distinguish among the numbers of officers present.
"Gentlemen, does either of you know First Lieutenant von Bertram?" the old man asked of two young infantry officers, who were seated at a table playing dominoes.
Before either could reply, Paul Delmar, who had appeared beneath the awning simultaneously with the old man, answered, "Do you wish to speak to Herr von Bertram, colonel? Yonder he sits beneath the awning, but in the farthest comer. Count Waldheim is standing beside him."
"My old eyes are not worth much," growled the colonel. "Sir, I thank you. Your face is familiar to me, but just at present I cannot recall your name; my memory leaves me in the lurch. 'Tis the curse of old age; my senses fail me, and even my memory forsakes me."
"It is many years, colonel, since I had the honour of seeing you, and I may well be changed since then. I went to school with your son, and as his friend used to be continually at your house. My name is Paul Delmar."
"Ah, little Paul, son of the wealthy banker. It is indeed long since I saw you last. And you know Herr von Bertram?"
"I do, colonel."
"Then do me the favour to conduct me to him and introduce me. I have something to say to the gentleman, and I know him but slightly, or rather not at all. Will you oblige me?"
"Certainly, colonel; this way, if you please."
Delmar led the way, the colonel following slowly. Every step evidently caused the old man pain, but he mastered it and walked on, leaning heavily on his cane, and saluted respectfully on all sides by the younger officers, who looked after him with unfeigned sympathy.
When he reached the table at which Bertram was sitting, Delmar said, by way of introduction, "Herr Premier Lieutenant von Bertram, Colonel von Heydeck."
Bertram sprang up and suddenly became very pale at sight of the old officer, whose approach he had not noticed. A grim smile hovered upon the old man's lips as he remarked the impression he produced; his tall, slightly bent figure straightened itself proudly as he gazed scornfully at the dragoon, whose glance could not meet the eyes so bent upon him.
"I have asked for an introduction, Herr von Bertram," said the colonel, in a loud voice that was distinctly heard everywhere beneath the awning, "that I might call you to account for a scoundrelly----"
"Stay, colonel! You must not go on!" Paul Delmar interrupted the old man at this point.
"Sir, by what earthly right?" the colonel burst out, angrily.
"I appeal to your honour, colonel. I am firmly convinced that it is an unalterable axiom of yours that no man of honour can fight with a scoundrel whose word is worthless, and it is one of my axioms that no man of honour has the right to quarrel with a scoundrel with whom he cannot fight. Herr von Bertram is no opponent for you. You can no more fight with Herr von Bertram than can any words spoken by him insult your son; and, besides, there shall be not the smallest provocation for your challenge, inasmuch as the gentleman will instantly declare before all present that he recalls every offensive word addressed to your son this morning, and that he humbly begs pardon for having uttered them."
Paul's words produced a truly magical effect. Bertram upon whom all eyes were fixed, stood, with downcast looks, like a condemned criminal incapable of any reply, the consciousness of guilt so manifest in his countenance that even the unsuspicious Count Waldheim was disgusted with his friend's cowardice, and stepped back leaving him standing alone.
The colonel was thunderstruck. That a civilian should dare to treat an officer thus in a public place transcended his power of belief; his amazement deprived him of utterance. He looked from Bertram to Delmar. What to think of it all he did not know. But one thing was perfectly clear,--that Herr von Bertram must be a scoundrel, with whom no man of honour could condescend to fight.
Delmar allowed several seconds to pass to give the old officer time to collect himself, and then continued: "Let me beg, colonel, that you will allow me to say several words to Herr von Bertram in private, after which you shall receive from him any satisfaction you may desire. Herr von Bertram, have the kindness to step into this empty room with me. You cannot but desire that what I have to say should be said in private. Go first, if you please."
Paul motioned towards the glass door of a room frequented by Büchner's guests in winter or in rainy weather. Bertram entered it, and Delmar followed him. They were quite alone in the large, empty room, and could speak in low tones without being overheard, although a hundred eyes were watching them through the wide folding-doors and open windows.
"You have heard what I require of you, Herr von Bertram," Delmar began the short interview. "I advise you to comply immediately, or you will force me to produce a certain worthless note, in which you promise to pay upon your word of honour, and to prove that you have broken that word by showing a certain check, bearing the signature of Count Waldheim, which I should like to have him verify."
"What have I done, Delmar, to provoke you to treat a friend with such cruelty?" Bertram asked, in despair.
"Do not profane the wordfriend," Delmar replied, sternly. "I never honoured you with my friendship, as you well know. I never concealed my contempt for you. I bought you with my money. It amused me for a while to be introduced to certain exclusive aristocratic circles which were closed to me in spite of my wealth. I made use of you for this purpose. When you presented me everywhere as your dearest friend, you knew perfectly well why you did so. I never said one word to you that could justify you in calling me your friend. But of what use are these explanations? They are entirely unnecessary between us. I ask now, are you willing to make the humble--I repeat the word--humble apology which I require, outside, beneath the awning? Decide quickly. I can give you no more time."
"If I do so, will you promise me to show no one my note and the check?"
"I will promise you nothing, except that in the case of your refusing to comply with my demand I will show both publicly."
"But by so doing you will destroy all chance of my ever paying you. You will lose ten thousand thalers."
"Which you never will pay in any case while you live!" Delmar replied, with a smile of contempt.
"Which I certainly will pay, and that shortly. I have been betrothed to-day to Eva Schommer."
"Indeed? I congratulate you. I never had an exalted opinion of the lady, but I should not have thought she would have chosen exactly such a husband."
"You see now that I can pay my debt as soon as I am married to the heiress, but if you ruin me----"
"You will be sent to jail as a forger, and will never refund the money which I once foolishly lent you and which I considered lost long ago. True, but that is a matter of entire indifference to me. I require you to obey me! Make up your mind! Do you hesitate? Well then your fate is decided!"
Delmar turned towards the door, but Bertram seized his hand, and cried in a tone of entreaty, "Have pity upon me! Do not ruin me! I will do what you ask,--only let me make the apology in a less humiliating form!"
"Not a word shall be changed. I insist upon a humble apology!"
"I will make it, but let me add that my betrothed has requested me to do so publicly."
Delmar laughed aloud. "A request as modest as it is extraordinary. For the sake of its oddity I will grant it."
Bertram's face, as he returned beneath the awning, followed by Delmar, was ashy pale, and there was a strange flitter in his eyes, but his demeanour was calm and composed. He stepped up to Colonel von Heydeck, who was awaiting his return with the utmost impatience.
"Colonel von Heydeck," he began in a low voice.
"Louder," said Delmar.
Bertram obeyed; he raised his voice so that it could be heard by most of those present. "It is my duty as a man of honour, Colonel von Heydeck, to atone for a wrong committed in my haste this morning, and this is the more incumbent upon me, as I have been earnestly entreated by my betrothed, Fräulein Eva Schommer, to do so."
A murmur was heard among the officers present. "Betrothed to the lovely Eva Schommer! Impossible! Scandalous! Poor girl!" These and similar expressions were uttered so loudly that for a moment they interrupted what Bertram had to say, but when curiosity had got the better of surprise, he continued: "This morning I grossly insulted your son in this place; I herewith retract the offensive expressions I then made use of, and publicly beg his forgiveness."
"Humbly!" Delmar interrupted him.
"And humbly beg your son's pardon," Bertram obediently repeated.
"Disgraceful! Infamous! Shameless! The fellow must leave the service!" Such exclamations were heard on all sides, no longer muttered in low tones but spoken aloud in disregard as to whether or not they were overheard by Bertram. The officers retreated from about their late comrade as from some plague-stricken wretch whose vicinity was contagion, and Bertram, with Paul Delmar and the old colonel, was left standing in the centre of a wide circle.
"Are you entirely satisfied, colonel?" Paul whispered to the old man.
"You were right, the fellow could insult neither my son nor myself," the colonel replied, not deigning another glance at the lieutenant. "Come, my young friend, give me your arm, I need some support, and I may well look to you for it, for you have just done me a most important service. I should like to thank you, but not here with these hundred eyes upon us. Let us go outside and walk a while beneath the lindens."
And leaning on Delmar's arm, the colonel hobbled towards the entrance, the young officers saluting him respectfully as they made way for him to pass.
Thus Bertram was left alone, shunned by every officer and stared at by every civilian present. He felt that his fate was sealed, but he would nevertheless make one more struggle against it. His last hope was in Count Waldheim, who was standing at a little distance in conversation with two other dragoons. Bertram approached him, and the Count did not retreat, but with a haughty air awaited the address of his former friend.
This was a good sign. He was not too angry then to be appeased. Bertram relied upon his smooth words, which had so often imposed upon the Count's guileless good nature,--he summoned all his impudence to his aid, and succeeded in assuming an air of entire nonchalance as he said, turning to Waldheim, "That was a hard duty to fulfil. Come, my dear Count, let us go to Herr von Herwarth that he may confirm what I know to be true. The fulfilment of my intention of which you were informed and of which you approved, has been hastened by the appearance of the old colonel, for my conscience would never have allowed me to quarrel with one so aged and so honourable. I should----"
"I beg you, sir, to spare me any further remarks," Waldheim said, interrupting the flow of Bertram's speech; "I forbid you ever to address me again. I awaited your approach solely for the purpose of saying this to you. I should else have followed the example of my comrades and turned my back upon you with contempt."
"Count Waldheim, you shall answer to me for this. I demand satisfaction----"
"You have lost all right this day to demand satisfaction of any gentleman; the only weapon I should use upon you is a horse-whip."
The Count spoke so loud that his words were heard by all the by-standers. "Bravo!" they exclaimed, while Bertram, trembling with rage, half drew, his sabre from its sheath. His brother officers, however, closed in a group around Count Waldheim, as if to shield him from attack.
Bertram stood alone. He might have had the courage to reply to Waldheim's mortal insult by a cut with his sabre; but he could not brave such numbers of antagonists. With an oath, he dashed the sabre back into its scabbard, cast a glance of deadly hatred about him, and strode away. Behind him he heard scornful laughter and loud expressions of contempt, but he did not venture to heed them or to look back.
In the heart of the Tyrol, where the Rothwalderbach and Schwarzenbach unite to form the waters of the Tausenser Aar, lies the village of Tausens; it is the centre of the most retired portion of the Tyrolean highlands.
In former years, before there was any railway near, scarcely a single stranger ever visited Tausens, although the village is only about four leagues distant from the nearest town, which is reached by a very good high-road. Since this town, however, has been provided with a railway station the village is somewhat more frequented, although even now its visitors are still confined to a few stout Alpine explorers, who pass through Tausens to wander up the Schwarzenbach valley and find a path over the lofty Schiechjoch to the Zillerthal, or who seek the Tauern mountain group by the way of the Rothwald valley.
The inhabitants of the valleys look after such pedestrians with a smile,--they cannot imagine what these fellows, with their long mountain-staffs and ice-picks, their knapsacks on their backs, and their hob-nailed shoes, according so ill with their city costume, can want among the mountains. That these people from the city should undertake such difficult and wearisome expeditions for pleasure, that they should at peril of their lives ascend the most inaccessible mountain-peaks to find a passage to a place which they could otherwise reach much more quickly and easily, seems to these honest countryfolk so silly that they have but one explanation for it, doubtless a harmless insanity; and they call these restless, indefatigable climbers of glaciers and snow-peaks, Bergfaxes (mountain fools). They are very fond of the Bergfaxes nevertheless, for they always need guides and carriers for their mountain expeditions, and are willing enough to pay their guilders for service rendered, thus bringing some cash at least into the retired valleys.
With the exception of the Bergfaxes, who sometimes take up their abode in Tausens for a few days to make the ascent of the Drei Maidelspitz or the Weisshorn from the Schwarzbachthal, or of the Spitzhorn from the Rothwalden, and who finally depart for the Zillerthal over the Schiechjoch, scarcely a traveller ever visits Tausens, although its magnificent situation makes it well worthy of a sojourn.
The view from the platform in front of the inn, which is also the post-office, is magnificent, and enchantingly lovely. Towards the south the eye revels for leagues in the broad green fertile valley of the Tausenser Aar, lying between two fir-clad mountain-ranges, and closed in in the far distance by the jagged and rocky peaks of the Dolomites. To the northeast lie the beautiful forests of the Rothwald, with the snowy pile of the Spitzhorn for a background, and to the northwest the two glorious glaciers of the Maidelspitz and the Weisshorn.
In this wondrously lovely country the ancient castle of Reifenstein is a most striking object, commanding as it does the entire panorama of mountain, river, and valley. The glorious old pile is still in tolerable repair,--a careful hand has stayed the ravages of time, which have buried in ruins so many of its contemporaries. Some of the old walls are crumbling, it is true, but the main structure is in thorough repair, and two huge round towers are propped from decay by a modern substructure. Although in the interior these towers are so ruinous that their summits are inaccessible, their massive masonry defies the tempests that rage against them from the south and northeast, and will still for coming centuries bear witness to the despotic sway once exercised over the three valleys by the lords of Reifenstein.
The reason why, in spite of the great beauty of the view from Tausens, to which Castle Reifenstein adds its charm, so few travellers in comparison visit the village, is partly that such comfort can hardly be expected here as is to be found in the more frequented parts of the Tyrol, and partly that the passage of the Tausenser Aar valley is rather tedious, and tourists prefer to reach the chief points of interest among the mountains by railway. All the more welcome are the few who visit Tausens, all the more cordially are they received by mine host the postmaster.
It was always a holiday for Hansel, as he was called by his friends in spite or his dignified position as postmaster, when a traveller came to Tausens; not because he reckoned upon the gain it would bring him,--he cared little for that, for the couple or so of guilders were of but small account to him. His inn was frequented sufficiently without the tourists; its comfortable room was never empty of guests, for the peasants from all the three valleys came by choice to the Post at Tausens, where the best wine was to be had for miles around. Their marriages and their burials were celebrated at the Post. To the Post came every evening, in winter as in summer, the gentlemen of the place,--the district judge, his associate, the collector, and the forester. These constant guests were far more profitable to the postmaster than any traveller could be, and besides he possessed many an acre of meadow and pasture-land, a good strip of forest, and some beautiful alms.[1]He was accounted a wealthy man in all the country round, but his pride was hurt that so few strangers came to Tausens, while in the Zillerthal and in the Pusterthal the inns were filled to overflowing with tourists during the months of July and August. This vexed the worthy Hansel; he had so often heard the judge and the other gentlemen in his best parlour say that the natural beauty of Tausens made it well worthy to attract strangers, and hence the small number of tourists that came his way seemed to him like an unmerited neglect of his native place. The idea that he could conduce to render the village more attractive never occurred to him. He would have indignantly rejected any suggestion that he should modify or change the ancient customs of his inn for any stranger in the world.
He was standing at his inn-door on a certain beautiful day in July very much out of sorts. The day before he had been in Niederdorf, where he had found the inns so crowded that not another traveller could be received there, and a very grand gentleman had been forced to sleep in a hayloft, because there was no bed to be had. And he had heard that the inns at Sandro, Schleuderbach, and Cortina were just as full, not to mention Brunneck, where for a week every little farm-house had been filled with tourists.
The whole valley of the Puster was filled with visitors, and not a single one, not even a Bergfax, had come to Tausens! Thoroughly vexed. Hansel blew the smoke from his pipe in short angry puffs; he swept the landscape far and wide with his glance, but it was deserted everywhere, not a traveller was to be seen.
He turned away in disgust, and was about to enter the house, when suddenly the frown cleared away from his brow. He had accidentally overlooked the Schwarzenbach valley, thence, where he had least expected them, were coming the desired guests; his sharp eye recognized them in the distance. From his point of view he could see but a short stretch of the valley-road which followed the many windings of the rushing, gurgling Schwarzenbach, but walking along this very stretch he discovered three city-clad gentlemen, followed by two peasants. The gentlemen carried long alpenstocks, and were walking briskly down the valley towards the village,--the peasants were loaded with portmanteaus and plaids.
From the point which the travellers had reached they had a glorious view of the valley of the Tausenser Aar and of the village. They paused, and one produced a glass and looked through it. For a while they stood drinking in the beauty around them, and then they strode onwards, vanishing in the Lerchenwald, through which the road ran.
But Hansel had seen enough; he rubbed his hands gleefully, and called loudly into the house, "Nannerl! Nannerl!"
The inn-maid, a fresh, buxom lass, came running at his call. From the tone of his voice she judged that strangers were to be received, and she gave her smooth hair a stroke and twitched down her blue apron as she ran. When however she found no one but Hansel himself, she said, peevishly, "Here I am. What are you shouting for? There's no one here!"
"But they're coming,--three Bergfaxes on the way from Schwarzenbach,--they'll be here in a quarter of an hour!"
And true enough, they did come in a quarter of an hour, the three Bergfaxes,--three broad-shouldered young men, whose city clothes, terribly dusty although it was, showed that they were gentlemen of good position.
Hansel called out a lusty "God greet ye!" as they appeared, and offered his hand heartily to each in turn in sign of welcome. The one with a black beard shook it with great cordiality, and regarded the postmaster with a friendly smile. "Hail, beloved son of the Alps!" he said, with mock pathos. "Receive us weary wanderers beneath your hospitable roof; strengthen our famished and thirsty frames with food and drink. By Jove the eternal, I am so rejoiced to get out of that dark wood and to see your good, stupid face, that I could kiss it but for the stifling tobacco-smoke."
"Do hush your nonsense, Paul!" one of his companions entreated him.
But the one addressed as Paul exclaimed, "Who dares talk of nonsense when I give vent to my pent-up emotion in a poetic greeting? Be not annoyed, oh worthy son of the Alps, by the words of this prosaic person,--he cannot help it,--there is no poetry in his soul. And would you earn from me a gratitude that shall endure till time is no more, bring us wine,--a great deal of wine,--good wine,--the best in your cellar!"
Hansel understood very little of this address, the northern German dialect was unfamiliar to his ears; but he comprehended distinctly that the black-bearded stranger was a little crazy, and very thirsty, as was to be expected of Bergfaxes.
"A bottle of the best red," he called out to Nannerl, while he relieved the three strangers of their alpenstocks and conducted them into the spacious best room.
Here the black-bearded stranger looked about him with a sharp scrutinizing glance. "Bravo!" he cried. "I like this. Here let us pitch our tents! Everything clean and shining! Not a speck of dust on the window-panes, nor a spot upon the table. If the meat and drink are good one might stay here for a while very contentedly. What think you, Herwarth?"
"I think," replied the man addressed, "that I shall surely stay some time here, even although the meat and drink are not all that could be desired."
"You see, Leo, of what sacrifices a true friend to whom egotism is unknown is capable. Noble Knight von Herwarth, I bow myself in the dust before you; it is truly great thus to remain at hand at the service of your friend, resigning yourself to devour daily the toughest beef that the Tyrolean cow can afford. You are sublime in your self-renunciation. You have plunged with genuine heroism into all the perils that await the respectable northern German from Tyrolean cooking, and you even eat Leo's portion in addition to your own, lest the poor fellow should overload his stomach, which, sunk in melancholy as he is at present, might be injurious for him. Your efforts are Titanic. I daily bless the lucky star (I mean the golden one at Innspruck) which brought us together. I bless it in spite of the gnats there which kept me awake all night."
"Considering that he did not sleep, poor Delmar snored very loudly. What do you think, Leo?"
"I thought he did very well----"
"Very well; that is not the right word," Herwarth cried. "Delmar snored wonderfully. There is no discord, from the thunderous groan of a heavy wagon to the shrill creaking of a rusty lock, that he did not produce. He is a master of the art. I snore pretty well after a commonplace fashion, but I bow before you, Delmar."
"'Tis a base calumny. I never snore; you heard yourself in your dreams. I could not sleep for the gnats, and for admiration of the heroism with which you have followed your friend into exile. I admire you, and I long to resemble you, but unfortunately I am made of too coarse a material. I cannot waft myself aloft to the empyreal heights of your magnanimity. Now you are determined to remain in this inn even if the cooking is bad!"
"Are you not going to stay here too?"
"I shall probably stay, not for Leo's sake, but because I like it. I am determined, in the lack of all other suitable occupation, to devote myself in future to novel-writing. I can certainly emulate in that line the many crazy women and hungry literati who fill our magazines with their intellectual abortions. Leo is to be the hero of my first romance."
"How flattering! Much obliged, I am sure."
"Not at all, not at all! A hero of romance must always be very high-toned, very exaggerated, and a little unsound in mind. You see how well it all fits. An unhappy love is desirable, but not indispensable. Also we must have a faithful friend. Here are two. Also a romantic situation. We have it. Leo ought to marry the daughter of a wealthy old uncle, but he hates the lovely Hilda, and is consumed by a secret passion for a little milliner's apprentice. Here we have the unhappy love. He is in deep despair, when his redeeming angel appears in the person of his faithful friend Kuno von Herwarth. Whilst Leo is suffering all the pangs of his unhappy love, and working away in the castle upon the mountains, Kuno, in a noble spirit of self-sacrifice, has been eating veal three times a day at the 'Post' in Tausens and drinking sour Tyrolean wine. He rushes to the castle to rescue his friend. He sees Hilda. He loves her; she loves him. He threatens to murder the wealthy old uncle if he does not release his friend. A terrible scene ensues. But he does not murder him: he overcomes him by his amiable conduct. Final tableau: the old uncle blessing Hilda and Kuno, while friend No. 2 joins the hands of Leo and his little milliner. Universal emotion and general content. End.
"There you have a romance as poetic as it is thrilling, especially if a few episodes are sprinkled about here and there, such as, for example, a small murder in the torture-chamber of Castle Reifenstein, and a combat with foils between Hilda and the little milliner, who has secretly followed her Leo and has gone mad with jealousy. Of course Kuno separates the combatants. What a scene that will make! I tell you the romance will produce a sensation. Now I am going to stay here to study up for this novel; not upon Leo's account. I yield the privilege of self-sacrifice to you, oh noble Knight von Herwarth, and cleave to my long-tried selfishness."
Leo and Kuno laughed, but were spared the necessity of a reply to Paul's long exordium by the entrance of the pretty maid-servant with the wine. "Will the gentlemen have anything to eat?" she asked.
"Indeed they will, Maidele" (Tyrolean for Marie); "they are as hungry as wolves," Delmar replied.
"Maidele?" the girl asked, in surprise. "And suppose I am not Maidele?"
"Why, then, you must be Nannerl?"
"Yes, I am Nannerl; but how could the gentleman know my name?"
"A little bird whispered it to me on the Schiechpass, of course; how else should I have known it? But never trouble your head about that, my pretty Nannerl, but tell us what you can give us to eat."
"Veal steaks, veal cutlets, veal chops, roast veal, and stewed veal."
"For heaven's sake stop! For one whole week I have heard, morning, noon, and night, nothing but that fearful wordveal, nothing but veal. I cannot understand how there can be an ox or a cow in the Tyrol. Ah, my poor Herwarth, my prophecy is about to be fulfilled: 'veal three times a day.' If there is a feeling heart in your bosom, pretty Nannerl, try to save me from veal for to-day at least."
Nannerl would have been very glad to do so, for she was much pleased with the stranger gentleman, but she could not, for, as she now explained, there was no beef to-day, and the chickens were all too young to kill. By night she could get a pair of larger ones from the castle, and the next day they could have plenty of beef; but for dinner to-day they must have veal, since the fisherman had happened to bring no trout; but Nannerl promised to give the gentlemen an excellent soup and capital fritters, and thus Paul's comical despair was allayed, the very good wine having already produced a soothing effect.
"You confuse these people with your nonsense, Paul," Leo said, when Nannerl had left the room.
"Not a bit of it; I shall get on with these worthy souls excellently well; they think me harmlessly insane, and they like it. Our noble Knight von Herwarth thinks the same of me, but I shall convince him that I can be very serious, and that immediately. We must now plan our campaign, for after the soup is on the table I refuse to open my mouth except to eat."
"What have you in your head now?"
"I am composing the introduction to my romance. After a week of wandering, after climbing the terrible Schiechpass, over rocks and glaciers, we are at last arrived in Tausens. We find ourselves at the foot of the rock that bears upon its summit the enchanted castle Reifenstein. High above us sits enthroned the old monster Uncle Heydeck and the wicked fairy Hilda, who intends to ensnare our Leo in her golden enchanted net; but we two, the Knight von Herwarth and the simple squire Delmar, must rescue our friend, our first duty being to learn how the land lies, so to speak. At present we know nothing of the old monster and the wicked fairy Hilda, for the little told us in the famous letter from Uncle Heydeck has, since it comes from himself, no claim to be believed. Before we can do anything we must know more of Uncle Heydeck: what he is thought of here, how he lives, what he does. We must know further what kind of a person is the blue-eyed Hilda who is to ensnare our Leo. A blue-eyed Hilda may be either pretty or confoundedly ugly, a good-natured fool or a dragon. The honest postmaster, mine host of this hospitable house, will doubtless tell us all we wish to know upon these points. And here I am ready to sacrifice myself to friendship. I will inhale the highly unfragrant smoke of the postmaster's pipe, I will treat the worthy man with the loftiest courtesy, and in spite of his shooting-jacket, short stockings, and bare knees, always entitle him Herr Postmaster, that I may learn what he has to tell. I will drink with him, lead him on to be confidential, and he shall reveal all that he knows of Uncle Heydeck and the blue-eyed Hilda. Thus we shall become familiar with the people. We will investigate the country when, being strengthened by our dinner, we conduct our friend Leo to the gate of the enchanted castle, where of course we must separate. He will take up his abode within its walls, while we, the Knight Kuno and myself, will remain here in Tausens ready to hasten to his aid so soon as he needs us. He will daily visit us here, and if possible present us to the old monster and the blue-eyed Hilda, that we may in turn visit him at the castle. This is a brief sketch of my plan of our campaign, the details must be left to the future. If any one has anything to say in objection let him speak now, or for ever after hold his peace. You first, Kuno, my noble knight; what do you think of my plan?"
"I do not see what else we can do."
"And you, Leo?"
"I agree in everything but the last part. I hope my uncle will not suffer my friends to remain down here in the inn. He will certainly invite you to stay at the castle."
"Don't reckon upon that too surely; I doubt very much whether he possesses the virtue of hospitality or indeed any virtue at all. Even should he do so, I shall not accept his invitation. I wish to be entirely free and unfettered, and am determined to live on veal sooner than stay at the castle. What do you think about it, Herwarth?"
"I agree with you. We will stay here at the Post and engage rooms, that Leo may be free to stay with us when we make excursions together among the mountains."
"Agreed; the rooms are a decided improvement upon my plan. Then it is all settled, and 'tis fortunate, for here comes the soup."
While the three strangers had been talking together in the inn parlour the postmaster had been having a gossip with the two peasants from the Zillerthal who had been their guides across the Schiechjoch. It was just such a gossip as he enjoyed.
The men, who were in the habit of seeing many strangers and of continually acting as guides across the glaciers and in difficult ascents, maintained that of all the Bergfaxes they had ever seen the gentleman with the black beard and the sallow face was the biggest fool. They had been with him and his companions four days, and he had some fresh nonsense for every hour in the day. But he hadnousenough for all that, and he was always first in all the steepest paths. He didn't care where they walked: ice or rocks were all the same to him; he was never dizzy, and never tired either. Day before yesterday, when they went up the Drei Maidelspitz, they had had such a snow-storm that the guides themselves had been almost frozen, but neither of the three gentlemen had uttered a word of complaint, and the black-bearded one had laughed and sung and thought it all right, and the whole expedition a capital joke.
He was teasing the others all the time, especially the youngest, whom he called 'Knight;' but he didn't mind it, he only laughed, and all three were the best possible friends. The youngest was a merry gentleman and joked a good deal, but he was not such a fool as the black-beard. The third gentleman, whom they called Leo, was the most sensible. When he was walking alone he often looked very grave, and even sad, but then Delmar would join him and talk such crazy nonsense that he had to laugh.
All three were first-rate people, but they liked Delmar best; he saw to all the money matters, and was generous as a prince. He was always deceiving the others, and in a very odd way, very different from the usual one; when for example he paid three guilders he would pretend that he had only paid one, and would go on declaring that never in his life had he known travelling so cheap as it was in the Tyrol.
Jackel, the eldest of the guides, had settled with Delmar what he should pay them. He told how he had asked for himself and for Seppel four guilders a day; how Herr Delmar had fallen into a rage and declared that two guilders a day was extortion. The two other gentlemen had reasoned with him, but he had insisted that he was a poor millionaire who could not afford to throw his money away, and that nothing should induce him to pay more than two guilders a day. Jackel had then consulted with Seppel to see whether they should go for two guilders a day, and Herr Delmar had interfered and shouted and stormed and insisted that they should go for two guilders a day whether they wanted to or no, and then he thrust a twenty-guilder note into Jackel's hand and whispered to him to divide it with Seppel, but to say nothing about it to the two other gentlemen but consent to go for two guilders a day, and he would give them something besides. And then he went on screaming and raging as if he were crazy. And when Jackel said he would go for the two guilders, then Herr Delmar boasted to the others that he knew how to manage people so as to travel cheaply, and how would the others get along without him?
And so he had gone on all the four days. He must have as mach money as the king. He was a great fool; but he hadnousenough, and was so kind no one could help liking him.
The postmaster listened to all this with the greatest interest. Especially delighted was he when he heard that the three gentlemen had talked together of staying a long time in Tausens. He instantly called to Nannerl, and told her to prepare the best room in the house,--the large corner room, with the view of the castle and the Weisshorn,--and to make up three beds in it. Such guests were rare in Tausens, and Hansel determined that they should be made as comfortable as possible.
The Zillerthalers' account had made him very curious to see more of his odd guests, and especially of Herr Delmar. He was a little afraid of him, but he determined nevertheless to go to the inn parlour and have a gossip with the strangers.
He went at the right time. Delmar had just eaten his last mouthful and was about to light a cigar. The others had also finished their dinner, and that they had enjoyed it the empty dishes bore witness. The wine too, as Hansel saw with satisfaction, had been duly appreciated: the bottle was empty.
Herr Delmar--Hansel knew him at once by his black beard and sallow face--nodded kindly, and pushing another chair up to the table, said, "Sit down, Herr Postmaster. We want to spend some time with you here in Tausens, and would like to hear something about the place. But it's ill talking with dry lips. Let us have another bottle of wine; and I hope you will take a glass with us."
Hansel opened his eyes. Here was Herr Delmar talking very sensibly, and indeed courteously. "Herr Postmaster!" The title was all the dearer to the worthy man since he heard it so seldom. Friends and acquaintances always called him Hansel; the men and maids, as well as the peasants, called him 'Landlord;' but he never, or almost never, was addressed as 'Postmaster,' although he had as good a right to the title as the postmaster at Bozen. Whoever called him thus won his heart immediately, and Herr Delmar had taken it by storm.
It was not often that Hansel served the guests himself. He left that to Nannerl: it was her duty. But to-day he made an exception. He took the bottle from the table, and himself descended to the cellar, where he filled it with his very best. His round face beamed as he brought it to his guests; and when Paul again invited him to sit down and take a glass, he took his place at the table very proud of the honour.
Hansel was in the best of humours; he was ready to do anything in the world for these guests,--a mood of which Delmar was not slow to take advantage. He understood how, by skilful questioning and a remark thrown out now and then, to draw out the postmaster who was fond of talking, in the most thorough manner.
He began by asking about the various points of interest in the surrounding country; about the way to the famous Tausenser waterfalls; about the names and the height of the mountain-peaks that could be seen from the windows; thence he led the conversation to Castle Reifenstein, and of course to its possessor, Herr von Heydeck, and his daughter Hilda; and when it had arrived at this point all went swimmingly, for this was a theme upon which the worthy Hansel, who had no idea that he was being systematically pumped, could talk by the hour together.
With ready garrulity and in the broadest Tyrolean patois, which had frequently to be explained by him to his North-German questioner, he answered all questions put to him. The Herr who lived in the castle had been for many years an object of curiosity, of admiration, and of superstitious fear to all the country-people about, and to Hansel himself no less than to the rest. They whispered many a queer thing about him and his castle among the peasants in the common room of the inn; and there were terrible ghost-stories told of the old castle. Everything--the whispers and the stories--was faithfully detailed by Hansel. He was in his element, and Delmar's skilful questions and repeated glasses of wine combined to keep him there.
The worthy postmaster's story was no connected narrative, and he often diverged to expatiate upon other themes; but Delmar always managed to bring him back to Castle Reifenstein and Herr von Heydeck, so that the breaks in his account were gradually filled up and the strangers had at last a distinct picture of the life and character of Herr von Heydeck. Only the picture, it is true, which existed in the fantastic brains of Hansel and the Tausens peasantry, and which perhaps resembled but little the original. Truth and fiction, fact, and fable begotten of superstition, were mingled in the postmaster's account in a wonderful mosaic, as was plain to be seen; but nevertheless it possessed the greatest interest for Leo and his friends.
Many many years before, as Hansel related, the old castle had belonged to a Count Menotti, who had leased it to a peasant, for the Count never came to Tausens himself. He lived at Riva on the Lake of Garda, and cared nothing for his Tyrolean estate except to see that the rent was paid punctually; of course his tenant had no interest in preserving the huge pile in good order. Large portions of the gigantic walls fell down from the rocks into the valley below, and one of the three towers which Hansel could remember, as a boy, still standing, crumbled to ruins; but the main building where the tenant lived, and in which he had his barns granaries and cattle-stalls, was still standing. Its massive masonry had defied decay.
Although there were valuable forests meadows and pasturelands belonging to the castle, besides some fertile cultivated fields, the tenant paid only a small rent; and very naturally, for the Count could hardly have found another tenant.
In fine all was not right at the castle; strange things happened there and stranger sights were seen. It was haunted! There were very few old peasants in Tausens who had not, at some time, had a scare 'up there.' From the ruined part could often be heard, far down in the valley, shrieks and groans and wild laughter.
Even by day few of those who lived in the valley willingly went near the dreadful old pile, and by night no one could be induced to go there. Old Stoffel, the tenant, could not persuade either man or maid to sleep there, although he offered them the highest wages and assured them that the ghost would do no good Christian any harm. No one would believe him; and so he and his three sons and his two daughters had to live by themselves in the haunted castle. He had to pay high for day-labourers. In the brightest sunshine no one liked to enter the castle, and the bravest fellow would not have taken any money to go inside either of the great round towers.
Old Stoffel was afraid of these towers himself. Not of the ghosts, he said with a laugh, but of the stones that might fall from their crumbling walls. Still the people in Tausens knew better; they did not believe him; they were sure he had been frightened by the ghost there, and would not confess it for fear of getting no men to work for him.
Old Stoffel was a wild daring fellow who feared neither God nor the devil. Indeed, many people thought he had made a bargain with the Evil One. He never went to church, but frequented the tavern, where he drank up all his gains. He made his children work for him: he never did anything himself, and although he was a very old man, he spent his time in going from tavern to tavern until he died. One morning he was found dead on the road from Tausens to the castle,--his corpse was perfectly blue.
The postmaster remembered well that Dr. Putzer said that the old man had had a stroke, but no one in Tausens believed it, for the doctor was as great a blasphemer and tippler and as bad a Christian then as he is at present. Stoffel's time was up, and the devil had wrung his neck, which was why his corpse was blue,--every Christian knew that.
After the old man's death the Count could find no tenant for the castle, for no one could be found to pay rent for it. Stoffel's sons, although they could work, had not sense enough to know how to manage, and the daughters were not much better. They stayed all together at the castle, however, although Count Menotti never got much rent out of them. He tried to sell the estate, and offered it for almost a nominal price, but who wanted to buy a haunted old nest on a misty mountain in the Tyrol?
A couple of years had passed, when one day, how long since the postmaster could not exactly say, but nearly thirty years he should think, a grand gentleman with his beautiful wife had driven to Tausens. They stopped at the old Oberwieser's, the postmaster's father's,--the inn had not then been named the Post. The stranger was Herr von Heydeck, who had bought the castle of Count Menotti and had come to inspect it.
Hansel was then a young fellow about eighteen years old, and he had been bidden by his father to show the strangers up to the castle. He did not like to do it, but there was no joking with the old Oberwieser, and so he obeyed.
On the way he told Herr von Heydeck and the handsome lady-wife about the ghosts in the castle, and how the devil had wrung old Stoffel's neck when his time was up, and they both laughed,--the lady laughed most. She often paused on the way up and looked around. She thought the country lovely, and when they had reached the summit of the rocks and saw the view from the balcony of the main building of the castle, she was enchanted. The whole castle must be repaired and newly furnished, she said, and then it would be a delightful place to invite one's friends to in summer-time.
In a few days the old place was turned inside out; an architect arrived with numbers of workmen, and they all went to work. They began rebuilding in the middle of May, and by the middle of July everything was finished, and the whole castle splendidly furnished ready for the master and mistress, who were not slow in making their appearance, with quantities of servants and numerous guests, mostly officers. There were but a couple of ladies among them.
And now began such a life in the castle as no one in Tausens had ever seen before; no emperor and empress could have lived more splendidly. Every evening almost all the windows in the old pile blazed with light, and down from the rocks came floating the sounds of revelry and wild dance-music. In the old baronial hall there was singing and playing and dancing and feasting and carousing until deep into the night.
In the mean time nothing was heard of the ghost,--the devil was probably highly content with the goings on, for they were surely far from correct. Why the mistress and the couple of ladies went about in the evenings with their shoulders all bare and never minded the men, but danced and jested with them.
The mistress outdid them all: she was the gayest, and was always friendly and kind to her guests, and to the servants, and even to the country-people, to every one except to her husband; he must have felt very uncomfortable in the splendid castle, and he went alone among the mountains as often as he could.
Madame, too, often made excursions with her guests, to the waterfalls in the Rothwald valley, to the lake on the Frauenalm, and to other beautiful places, but she never went with her husband. She was a capital mountain-climber, but she was always accompanied by one of the other gentlemen, most often of all by Count Menotti, a younger brother of the former possessor of the castle. The Count and madame were always together, so that even the villagers talked about it. Whether they were right in declaring that there was sinful intercourse between the Count and the lady the postmaster did not know: he had never seen anything wrong, but there was plenty of malicious gossip about them, when one day there came to Tausens a travelling merchant, who said he had known madame before her marriage to Herr von Heydeck.
In a gossip over a can of wine he told of how the Count, although a married man, had been madame's lover for a long time, and that she had married Herr von Heydeck because it was the only way in which to avoid public scandal. And certainly all was not right between madame and the Count and Herr von Heydeck, for the latter's face would grow gloomier than ever when he chanced on his walks to meet his wife with Count Menotti. He avoided them as far as he could; accompanied by a guide only, he explored the loneliest parts of the country, and while madame was making merry with her guests he was collecting all kinds of herbs butterflies ugly worms, and even venomous snakes and vipers, which he would bring home to a room he had had arranged for himself in the castle.
This wild life lasted for four weeks, and then every one departed,--leaving however a theme for gossip in Tausens during the whole ensuing winter. Nothing else was talked of in the inn parlour among the gentlemen, or in the common room among the peasants. The postmaster, a young fellow at the time, had to serve the gentlemen who came in the evening to drink their wine at the inn, and he heard all they had to say among themselves. Of all the gentlemen there was only one. Dr. Putzer, who had ever been to the castle while its possessors were there, and he had gone only because one of the ladies had been slightly ill and there was no other physician to be had. Herr von Heydeck had received him very politely, but madame had hardly looked at him, and so he hated her, and had all sorts of bad stories to tell of her.
About a year had passed since the gay doings at the castle, when one day Dr. Putzer brought a piece of news to the gentlemen in the inn parlour that excited them greatly. He had just had a letter from his brother, an advocate in Vienna, and he read it aloud. The Vienna man wrote that madame had died in her confinement, and had left an immense fortune, not to her husband, but to her new-born child. Castle Reifenstein belonged to him now, and Herr von Heydeck was only his son's guardian. After the letter had been read, the gentlemen made many malicious remarks,--the worst came from Dr. Putzer, who in his tipsy mood boasted that if he were Herr von Heydeck he would tie a stone about the little bastard's neck and drown him like a kitten, but Herr von Heydeck had nonous. As he had shut his eyes for fear of his wife and Count Menotti, and taken no notice of what all the world knew, so now he would patiently acknowledge the Count's son, and live on as the brat's steward.
About four days after this conversation Herr von Heydeck arrived at Tausens, this time accompanied by no brilliant company or numerous retinue. Only one servant sat beside the coachman on the box of the carriage inside of which was Herr von Heydeck and opposite him a woman with a child carefully wrapped in shawls and blankets; it was the nurse with his dead wife's child.
The Herr only stopped in Tausens long enough to leave word at the inn for Dr. Putzer to come to the castle as soon as possible, and then drove on to Reifenstein. Here he took up his abode in his old room, while the nurse and child lived in another wing of the building. He sent to the farm in the valley for old Stoffel's two daughters. Trine and Lene, and the youngest son, Melcher, the stupidest of all, a perfect blockhead, and they were hired to do all the work of the household.
Henceforth Herr von Heydeck led the life of a hermit in the castle; the only man with whom he had any intercourse in all the country round was tipsy Dr. Putzer, whom he often sent for to visit the child and report to him the state of its health, for the Herr himself never saw it. The nurse was strictly forbidden ever to take it out of the apartments appropriated to her; if she was obliged to leave them herself, she was ordered to leave the child in the cradle and lock the door after her. Except the doctor, nobody in Tausens ever saw the baby; even the servants were not allowed to go into the room where it was.
The nurse was a very proud person; she never condescended to speak a word to any one except the doctor; she was always polite enough to him. They two understood one another extremely well; they would sometimes sit together for hours, while the master was in his room buried in his books. Once Trine saw him kiss her.