Tell me not of it — I could ne'er abide
The mummery of all that forced civility,
“Pray, seat yourself, my lord.” with cringing barns
The speech is spoken, and, with bended knee,
Heard by the smiling courtier, —” Before you, sir?
It must be on the earth then.” Hang it all!
The pride which cloaks itself in such poor fashion
Is scarcely fit to swell a beggar’s bosom.
Old Play.
Up stairs and down stairs tripped Annette Veilchen, the soul of all that was going on in the only habitable corner of the huge castle of Arnheim. She was equal to every kind of service, and therefore popped her head into the stable to be sure that William attended properly to Arthur’s horse, looked into the kitchen to see that the old cook, Marthon, roasted the partridges in due time (an interference for which she received little thanks), rummaged out a flask or two of Rhine wine from the huge Dom Daniel of a cellar, and finally, just peeped into the parlor to see how Arthur was looking; when, having the satisfaction to see he had, in the best manner he could, sedulously arranged his person, she assured him that he should shortly see her mistress, who was rather indisposed, yet could not refrain from coming down to see so valued an acquaintance.
Arthur blushed when she spoke thus, and seemed so handsome in the waiting-maid’s eye, that she could not help saying tO herself, as she went to her young lady’s room — “Well, if true love cannot manage to bring that couple together, in spite of all the obstacles that they stand boggling at, I will never believe that there is such a thing as true love in the world, let Martin Sprenger say what he will, and swear to it on the gospels.”
When she reached the young Baroness’s apartment, she found, to her surprise, that, instead of having put on what finery she possessed, that young lady’s choice had preferred the same simple kirtle which she had worn during the first day that Arthur had dined at Geierstein. Annette looked at first puzzled and doubtful, then suddenly recognized the good taste which had dictated the attire, and exclaimed — “You are right — you are right — it is best to meet him as a free-hearted Swiss maiden.”
Anne also smiled as she replied — “But, at the same time, in the walls of Arnheim, I must appear in some respect as the daughter of my father. — Here, girl, aid me to put this gem upon the ribbon which binds my hair.”
It was an aigrette, or plume, composed of two feathers of a vulture, fastened together by an opal, which changed to the changing light with a variability which enchanted the Swiss damsel, who had never seen anything resembling it in her life.
“Now, Baroness Anne,” said she, “if that pretty thing be really worn as a sign of your rank, it is the only think belonging to your dignity that I should ever think of coveting; for it doth shimmer and change color after a most wonderful fashion, even something like one’s own cheek when one is fluttered.”
“Alas, Annette!” said the Baroness, passing her hand across her eyes, “of all the gauds which the females of my house have owned, this perhaps hath been the most fatal to its possessors.”
“And why then wear it?” said Annette. “Why wear it now of all days in the year?”
“Because it best reminds me of my duty to my father and family. And now, girl, look thou sit with us at table, and leave not the apartment; and see thou fly not to and fro to help thyself or others with anything on the board, but remain quiet and seated till William helps you to what you have occasion for.”
“Well, that is a gentle fashion, which I like well enough,” said Annette, “and William serves us so debonairly, that it is a joy to see him; yet, ever and anon, I feel as I were not Annette Veilchen herself, but only Annette Veilchen’s picture since I can neither rise, sir down, run about, nor stand still, without breaking some rule of courtly breeding. It is not so, say, with you who are always mannerly.”
“Less courtly than thou seemest to think,” said the highborn maiden; “but I feel the restraint more on the greensward, and under heaven’s free air, than when I undergo it closed within the walls of an apartment,”
“Ah, true — the dancing,” said Annette; “that was something to be sorry for indeed.”
“ But most am I sorry, Annette, that I cannot tell whether I act precisely right or wrong in seeing this young man, though it must be for the last time. Were my father to arrive? — Were Ital Schreckenwald to return — ”
“Your father is too deeply engaged on some of his dark and mystic errands,” said the flippant Swiss; “sailed to the mountains of the Brockenborg, where witches hold their sabbath, or gone on a hunting-party with the Wild Huntsman.”
“Fie, Annette, how dare you talk thus of my father?”
“Why, I know little of him personally,” said the damsel, “and you yourself do not know much more. And how should that be false which all men say is true?”
“Why, fool, what do they say?”
“Why, that the Count is a wizard — that your grandmother was a will-of-wisp, and old Ital Schreckenwald a born devil incarnate; and there is some truth in that, whatever comes of the rest.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone down to spend the night in the village, to see the Rhinegrave’s men quartered, and keep them in some order, if possible; for the soldiers are disappointed of pay which they had been promised; and when this happens, nothing resembles a Lanz-knecht except a chafed bear.”
“Go we down then, girl; it is perhaps the last night which we may spend, for years, with a certain degree of freedom.”
I will not pretend to describe the marked embarrassment with which Arthur Philipson and Anne of Geierstein met; neither gifted their eyes, neither spoke intelligibly, as they greeted each other, and the maiden herself did not blush more deeply than her modest visitor; while the good-humored Swiss. girl, whose ideas of love partook of the freedom of a more Arcadian country and its customs, looked on with eyebrows a little arched, much in wonder, and a little in contempt, at a couple, who, as she might think, acted with such unnatural and constrained reserve. Deep was the reverence and the blush with which Arthur offered his hand to the young lady, and her acceptance of the courtesy had the same character of extreme bashfulness, agitation, and embarrassment. In short, though little or nothing intelligible passed between this very handsome and interesting couple, the interview itself did not on that account lose any interest. Arthur handed the maiden, as was the duty of a gallant of the day, into the next room wheie their repast was prepared; and Annette, who watched with singular attention everything which occurred, felt with astonishment, that the forms and ceremonies of the higher orders of society had such an influence, even over her free-born mind, as the rites of the Druids over that of the Roman general, when he said,
“I scorn them, yet they awe me.”
“What can have changed them?” said Annette; “when at Geierstein, they looked but like another girl and bachelor, only that Anne is so very handsome; but now they move in time and manner as if they were leading a stately pavin, and behave to each other with as much formal respect as if he were Landamman of the Unterwalden, and she the first lady of Berne. ’Tis all very fine, doubtless, but it is not the way that Martin Sprenger makes love.”
Apparently, the circumstances in which each of the young people were placed, recalled to them the habits of lofty, and somewhat formal courtesy, to which they might have been accustomed in former days; and while the Baroness felt it necessary to observe the strictest decorum, in order to qualify the reception of Arthur into the interior of her retreat, he, on the other hand, endeavored to show, by the profoundness of his respect, that he was incapable of misusing the kindness with which he had been treated. They placed themselves at table, scrupulously observing the distance which might become a “virtuous gentleman and maid.” The youth William did the service of the entertainment with deftness and courtesy, as one well accustomed to such duty; and Annette, placing herself between them, and endeavoring, as closely as she could, to ad-here to the ceremonies which she saw them observe, made practice of the civilities which were expected from the attendant of a baroness. Various, however, were the errors which were committed. Her demeanor in general was that of a greyhound in the slips, ready to start up every moment; and she was only withheld by the recollection that she was to ask for that which she had far more mind to help herself to.
Other points of etiquette were transgressed in their turn, after the repast was over, and the attendant had retired. The waiting damsel often mingled too unceremoniously in the conversation, and could not help calling her mistress by her Christian name of Anne, and, in defiance of all decorum, addressed her, as well as Philipson, with the pronoun thou, which then, as well as now, was a dreadful solecism in German politeness. Her blunders were so far fortunate, that by furnishing the young lady and Arthur with a topic foreign to the peculiarities of their own situation, they enabled them to withdraw their attention from its embarrassments, and so exchange smiles at poor Annette’s expense. She was not long of perceiving this, and half nettled, half availing herself of the apology to speak her mind, said, with considerable spirit, “You have both been very merry, forsooth, at my expense, and all because I wished rather to rise and seek what I wanted, than wait till the poor fellow, who was kept trotting between the board and beauffet, found leisure to bring it to me. You laugh at me now, because I call you by your names, as they were given to you in the blessed church at your christening; and because I say to you thee and thou, addressing my Yuncker and my Yungfrou as I would do if I were on my knees praying to Heaven. But for all your new-world fancies, I can tell you, you are but a couple of children, who do not know your own minds, and are jesting away the only leisure given you to provide for your own happiness. Nay, frown not, my sweet Mistress Baroness; I have looked at Mont Pilatre too often to fear a gloomy brow.”
“Peace, Annette,” said her mistress, “or quit the room.”
“Were I not more your friend than I am my own,” said the headstrong and undaunted Annette, “I would quit the room, and the castle to boot, and leave you to hold your house here with your amiable seneschal, Ital Schreckenwald.”
“If not for love, yet for shame, for charity, be silent, or leave the room.”
“Nay,” said Annette, “my bolt is shot, and I have but hinted at what all upon Geierstein Green said, the night when the Bow of Buttisholz was bended. You know what the old saw says — ”
“Peace! peace, ‘for Heaven’s sake, or I must needs fly!” said the young Baroness.
“Nay, then,” said Annette, considerably changing her tone, as if afraid that her mistress should actually retire, “if you must fly, necessity must have its course. I know no one who can follow. This mistress of mine, Seignor Arthur, would require for her attendant not a homely girl of flesh and blood like myself, but a waiting woman with substance composed gossamer, and breath supplied by the spirit of ether. Would you believe it? — It is seriously held by many, that she partakes of the race of spirits of the elements, which makes her so much more bashful than maidens of this everyday world.”
Anne of Geierstein seemed rather glad to lead away the conversation from the turn which her wayward maiden had given to it, and to turn it on more indifferent subjects, though these were still personal to herself.
“Seignor Arthur,” she said, “thinks, perhaps, he has some room to nourish some such strange suspicion as your heedless folly expresses, and some fools believe, both in Germany and Switzerland. Confess, Seignor Arthur, you thought strangely of me when I passed your guard upon the bridge of Graffs-lust, on the night last past.”
The recollection of the circumstances which had so greatly surprised him at the time, so startled Arthur, that it was with some difficulty he commanded himself, so as to attempt an answer at all; and what he did say on the occasion was broken and unconnected.
“I did hear, I own — that is Rudolph Donnerhugel reported — But that I believed that you, gentle lady, were other than a Christian maiden — ”
“Nay, if Rudolph were the reporter,” said Annette, “you would hear the worst of my lady and her lineage, that is certain. He is one of those prudent personages who depreciate and find fault with the goods he has thoughts of purchasing, in order to deter other offerers. Yes, he told you afind goblin story, I warrant you, of my lady’s grandmother; and truly, it so happened, that the circumstances of the............