by Bret Harte
A LEGEND OF SAMMTSTADT.
It was the sacred hour of noon at Sammtstadt. Everybody was at dinner;and the serious Kellner of "Der Wildemann" glanced in mild reproach atMr. James Clinch, who, disregarding that fact and the invitatorytable d'hote, stepped into the street. For Mr. Clinch had eaten alate breakfast at Gladbach, was dyspeptic and American, and, moveover,preoccupied with business. He was consequently indignant, on enteringthe garden-like court and cloister-like counting-house of "Von Becheret,Sons, Uncles, and Cousins," to find the comptoir deserted even by theporter, and was furious at the maidservant, who offered the sacredshibboleth "Mittagsessen" as a reasonable explanation of the solitude."A country," said Mr. Clinch to himself, "that stops business at mid-dayto go to dinner, and employs women-servants to talk to business-men, isplayed out."
He stepped from the silent building into the equally silent KronprinzenStrasse. Not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rows on rows of two-storied,gray-stuccoed buildings that might be dwellings, or might be offices,all showing some traces of feminine taste and supervision in a floweror a curtain that belied the legended "Comptoir," or "Direction," overtheir portals. Mr. Clinch thought of Boston and State Street, of NewYork and Wall Street, and became coldly contemptuous.
Yet there was clearly nothing to do but to walk down the formal rows ofchestnuts that lined the broad Strasse, and then walk back again. At thecorner of the first cross-street he was struck with the fact that twomen who were standing in front of a dwelling-house appeared to be asinconsistent, and out of proportion to the silent houses, as were theactors on a stage to the painted canvas thoroughfares before which theystrutted. Mr. Clinch usually had no fancies, had no eye for quaintness;besides, this was not a quaint nor romantic district, only an entrepotfor silks and velvets, and Mr. Clinch was here, not as a tourist, but asa purchaser. The guidebooks had ignored Sammtstadt, and he was toogood an American to waste time in looking up uncatalogued curiosities.Besides, he had been here once before,--an entire day!
One o'clock. Still a full hour and a half before his friend wouldreturn to business. What should he do? The Verein where he had oncebeen entertained was deserted even by its waiters; the garden, with itsostentatious out-of-door tables, looked bleak and bare. Mr. Clinch wasnot artistic in his tastes; but even he was quick to detect the affrontput upon Nature by this continental, theatrical gardening, and turneddisgustedly away. Born near a "lake" larger than the German Ocean,he resented a pool of water twenty-five feet in diameter under thatalluring title; and, a frequenter of the Adirondacks, he could scarcecontain himself over a bit of rock-work twelve feet high. "A country,"said Mr. Clinch, "that--" but here he remembered that he had once seenin a park in his native city an imitation of the Drachenfels in plaster,on a scale of two inches to the foot, and checked his speech.
He turned into the principal allee of the town. There was a long whitebuilding at one end,--the Bahnhof: at the other end he remembered adye-house. He had, a year ago, met its hospitable proprietor: he wouldcall upon him now.
But the same solitude confronted him as he passed the porter's lodgebeside the gateway. The counting-house, half villa, half factory, musthave convoked its humanity in some out-of-the-way refectory, for thehalls and passages were tenantless. For the first time he began to beimpressed with a certain foreign quaintness in the surroundings; hefound himself also recalling something he had read when a boy, aboutan enchanted palace whose inhabitants awoke on the arrival ofa long-predestined Prince. To assure himself of the absoluteridiculousness of this fancy, he took from his pocket the business-cardof its proprietor, a sample of dye, and recalled his own personality ina letter of credit. Having dismissed this idea from his mind, he loungedon again through a rustic lane that might have led to a farmhouse, yetwas still, absurdly enough, a part of the factory gardens. Crossinga ditch by a causeway, he presently came to another ditch and anothercauseway, and then found himself idly contemplating a massive, ivy-clad,venerable brick wall. As a mere wall it might not have attracted hisattention; but it seemed to enter and bury itself at right angles in theside-wall of a quite modern-looking dwelling. After satisfying himselfof this fact, he passed on before the dwelling, but was amazed to seethe wall reappear on the other side exactly the same--old, ivy-grown,sturdy, uncompromising, and ridiculous.
Could it actually be a part of the house? He turned back, and repassedthe front of the building. The entrance door was hospitably open. Therewas a hall and a staircase, but--by all that was preposterous!--theywere built OVER and AROUND the central brick intrusion. The wallactually ran through the house! "A country," said Mr. Clinch to himself,"where they build their houses over ruins to accommodate them, or savethe trouble of removal, is,--" but a very pleasant voice addressing himhere stopped his usual hasty conclusion.
"Guten Morgen!"
Mr. Clinch looked hastily up. Leaning on the parapet of what appearedto be a garden on the roof of the house was a young girl, red-cheeked,bright-eyed, blond-haired. The voice was soft, subdued, and mellow; itwas part of the new impression he was receiving, that it seemed to bein some sort connected with the ivy-clad wall before him. His hat was inhis hand as he answered,--
"Guten Morgen!"
"Was the Herr seeking anything?"
"The Herr was only waiting a longtime-coming friend, and had strayedhere to speak with the before-known proprietor."
"So? But, the before-known proprietor sleeping well at present afterdinner, would the Herr on the terrace still a while linger?"
The Herr would, but looked around in vain for the means to do it. Hewas thinking of a scaling-ladder, when the young woman reappeared at theopen door, and bade him enter.
Following the youthful hostess, Mr. Clinch mounted the staircase, but,passing the mysterious wall, could not forbear an allusion to it. "It isold, very old," said the girl: "it was here when I came."
"That was not very long ago," said Mr. Clinch gallantly.
"No; but my grandfather found it here too."
"And built over it?"
"Why not? It is very, very hard, and SO thick."
Mr. Clinch here explained, with masculine superiority, the existence ofsuch modern agents as nitro-glycerine and dynamite, persuasive in theireffects upon time-honored obstructions and encumbrances.
"But there was not then what you call--this--ni--nitro-glycerine."
"But since then?"
The young girl gazed at him in troubled surprise. "My great-grandfatherdid not take it away when he built the house: why should we?"
"Oh!"
They had passed through a hall and dining-room, and suddenly steppedout of a window upon a gravelled terrace. From this a few stone stepsdescended to another terrace, on which trees and shrubs were growing;and yet, looking over the parapet, Mr. Clinch could see the road sometwenty feet below. It was nearly on a level with, and part of, thesecond story of the house. Had an earthquake lifted the adjacentground? or had the house burrowed into a hill? Mr. Clinch turned to hiscompanion, who was standing close beside him, breathing quite audibly,and leaving an impression on his senses as of a gentle and fragrantheifer.
"How was all this done?"
The maiden did not know. "It was always here."
Mr. Clinch reascended the steps. He had quite forgotten his impatience.Possibly it was the gentle, equable calm of the girl, who, but for herready color, did not seem to be moved by anything; perhaps it was thepeaceful repose of this mausoleum of the dead and forgotten wall thatsubdued him, but he was quite willing to take the old-fashioned chairon the terrace which she offered him, and follow her motions with notaltogether mechanical eyes as she drew out certain bottles and glassesfrom a mysterious closet in the wall. Mr. Clinch had the weakness of amajority of his sex in believing that he was a good judge of wine andwomen. The latter, as shown in the specimen before him, he would haveinvoiced as a fair sample of the middle-class German woman,--healthy,comfort-loving, home-abiding, the very genius of domesticity. Even inher virgin outlines the future wholesome matron was alread
y forecast,from the curves of her broad hips, to the flat lines of her back andshoulders. Of the wine he was to judge later. THAT required an even moresubtle and unimpassioned intellect.
She placed two bottles before him on the table,--one, the traditionallong-necked, amber-colored Rheinflasche; the other, an old, quaint,discolored, amphorax-patterned glass jug. The first she opened.
"This," she said, pointing to the other, "cannot be opened."
Mr. Clinch paid his respects first to the opened bottle, a good qualityof Niersteiner. With his intellect thus clarified, he glanced at theother.
"It is from my great-grandfather. It is old as the wall."
Mr. Clinch examined the bottle attentively. It seemed to have no cork.Formed of some obsolete, opaque glass, its twisted neck was apparentlyhermetically sealed by the same material. The maiden smiled, as shesaid,--
"It cannot be opened now without breaking the bottle. It is not goodluck to do so. My grandfather and my father would not."
But Mr. Clinch was still examining the bottle. Its neck was flattenedtowards the mouth; but a close inspection showed it was closed by someequally hard cement, but not glass.
"If I can open it without breaking the bottle, have I your permission?"
A mischievous glance rested on Mr. Clinch, as the maiden answered,--
"I shall not object; but for what will you do it?"
"To taste it, to try it."
"You are not afraid?"
There was just enough obvious admiration of Mr. Clinch's audacity in themaiden's manner to impel him to any risk. His only answer was to takefrom his pocket a small steel instrument. Holding the neck of the bottlefirmly in one hand, he passed his thumb and the steel twice or thricearound it. A faint rasping, scratching sound was all the wondering girlheard. Then, with a sudden, dexterous twist of his thumb and finger, toher utter astonishment he laid the top of the neck, neatly cut off, inher hand.
"There's a better and more modern bottle than you had before," he said,pointing to the cleanly-divided neck, "and any cork will fit it now."
But the girl regarded him with anxiety. "And you still wish to taste thewine?"
"With your permission, yes!"
He looked up in her eyes. There was permission: there was somethingmore, that was flattering to his vanity. He took the wine-glass, and,slowly and in silence, filled it from the mysterious flask.
The wine fell into the glass clearly, transparently, heavily, butstill and cold as death. There was no sparkle, no cheap ebullition,no evanescent bubble. Yet it was so clear, that, but for a faintamber-tinting, the glass seemed empty. There was no aroma, no etherealdiffusion from its equable surface. Perhaps it was fancy, perhaps it wasfrom nervous excitement; but a slight chill seemed to radiate from thestill goblet, and bring down the temperature of the terrace. Mr. Clinchand his companion both insensibly shivered.
But only for a moment. Mr. Clinch raised the glass to his lips. As hedid so, he remembered seeing distinctly, as in a picture before him, thesunlit terrace, the pretty girl in the foreground,--an amused spectatorof his sacrilegious act,--the outlying ivy-crowned wall, the grass-grownditch, the tall factory chimneys rising above the chestnuts, and thedistant poplars that marked the Rhine.
The wine was delicious; perhaps a TRIFLE, only a trifle, heady. He wasconscious of a slight exaltation. There was also a smile upon the girl'slip and a roguish twinkle in her eye as she looked at him.
"Do you find the wine to your taste?" she asked.
"Fair enough, I warrant," said Mr. Clinch with ponderous gallantry; "butmethinks 'tis nothing compared with the nectar that grows on those rubylips. Nay, by St. Ursula, I swear it!"
No sooner had this solemnly ridiculous speech passed the lips of theunfortunate man than he would have given worlds to have recalled it. Heknew that he must be intoxicated; that the sentiment and language wereutterly unlike him, he was miserably aware; that he did not even knowexactly what it meant, he was also hopelessly conscious. Yet feeling allthis,--feeling, too, the shame of appearing before her as a man who hadlost his senses through a single glass of wine,--nevertheless he roseawkwardly, seized her hand, and by sheer force drew her towards him, andkissed her. With an exclamation that was half a cry and half a laugh,she fled from him, leaving him alone and bewildered on the terrace.
For a moment Mr. Clinch supported himself against the open window,leaning his throbbing head on the cold glass. Shame, mortification, anhysterical half-consciousness of his utter ridiculousness, and yet anodd, undefined terror of something, by turns possessed him. Was he everbefore guilty of such perfect folly? Had he ever before made such aspectacle of himself? Was it possible that he, Mr. James Clinch, thecoolest head at a late supper,--he, the American, who had repeatedlydrunk Frenchmen and Englishmen under the table--could be transformedinto a sentimental, stagey idiot by a single glass of wine? He wasconscious, too, of asking himself these very questions in a stilted sortof rhetoric, and with a rising brutality of anger that was new tohim. And then everything swam before him, and he seemed to lose allconsciousness.
But only for an instant. With a strong effort of his will he againrecalled himself, his situation, his surroundings, and, above all, hisappointment. He rose to his feet, hurriedly descended the terrace-steps,and, before he well knew how, found himself again on the road. Oncethere, his faculties returned in full vigor; he was again himself.He strode briskly forward toward the ditch he had crossed only a fewmoments before, but was suddenly stopped. It was filled with water. Helooked up and down. It was clearly the same ditch; but a flowing streamthirty feet wide now separated him from the other bank.
The appearance of this unlooked-for obstacle made Mr. Clinch doubt thefull restoration of his faculties. He stepped to the brink of the floodto bathe his head in the stream, and wash away the last vestiges of hispotations. But as he approached the placid depths, and knelt down heagain started back, and this time with a full conviction of his ownmadness; for reflected from its mirror-like surface was a figure hecould scarcely call his own, although here and there some trace of hisformer self remained.
His close-cropped hair, trimmed a la mode, had given way to long,curling locks that dropped upon his shoulders. His neat mustache wasfrightfully prolonged, and curled up at the ends stiffly. His Piccadillycollar had changed shape and texture, and reached--a mass of lace--to apoint midway of his breast! His boots,--why had he not noticed his bootsbefore?--these triumphs of his Parisian bootmaker, were lost in hideousleathern cases that reached half way up his thighs. In place of hisformer high silk hat, there lay upon the ground beside him the awfulthing he had just taken off,--a mass of thickened felt, flap, feather,and buckle that weighed at least a stone.
A single terrible idea now took possession of him. He had been "sold,""taken in," "done for." He saw it all. In a state of intoxication hehad lost his way, had been dragged into some vile den, stripped of hisclothes and valuables, and turned adrift upon the quiet town in thisshameless masquerade. How should he keep his appointment? how informthe police of this outrage upon a stranger and an American citizen? howestablish his identity? Had they spared his papers? He felt feverishlyin his breast. Ah!--his watch? Yes, a watch--heavy, jewelled,enamelled--and, by all that was ridiculous, FIVE OTHERS! He ran hishands into his capacious trunk hose. What was this? Brooches, chains,finger-rings,--one large episcopal one,--ear-rings, and a handfulof battered gold and silver coins. His papers, his memorandums, hispassport--all proofs of his identity--were gone! In their place was theunmistakable omnium gatherum of an accomplished knight of the road. Notonly was his personality, but his character, gone forever.
It was a part of Mr. Clinch's singular experience that this last strokeof ill fortune seemed to revive in him something of the brutal instincthe had felt a moment before. He turned eagerly about with the intentionof calling some one--the first person he met--to account. But the housethat he had just quitted was gone. The wall! Ah, there it was, nolonger purposeless, intrusive, and ivy-clad, but part of the buttressof ano
ther massive wall that rose into battlements above him. Mr. Clinchturned again hopelessly toward Sammtstadt. There was the fringe ofpoplars on the Rhine, there were the outlying fields lit by the samemeridian sun; but the characteristic chimneys of Sammtstadt were gone.Mr. Clinch was hopelessly lost.
The sound of a horn breaking the stillness recalled his senses. He nowfor the first time perceived that a little distance below him, partlyhidden in the trees, was a queer, tower-shaped structure with chainsand pulleys, that in some strange way recalled his boyish reading.A drawbridge and portcullis! And on the battlement a figure in amasquerading dress as absurd as his own, flourishing a banner andtrumpet, and trying to attract his attention.
"Was wollen Sie?"
"I want to see the proprietor," said Mr. Clinch, choking back his rage.
There was a pause, and the figure turned apparently to consult withsome one behind the battlements. After a moment he reappeared, and in aperfunctory monotone, with an occasional breathing spell on the trumpet,began,--
"You do give warranty as a good knight and true, as well as by the bonesof the blessed St. Ursula, that you bear no ill will, secret enmity,wicked misprise or conspiracy, against the body of our noble lordand master Von Kolnsche? And you bring with you no ambush, siege, orsurprise of retainers, neither secret warrant nor lettres de cachet, norcarry on your knightly person poisoned dagger, magic ring, witch-powder,nor enchanted bullet, and that you have entered into no unhallowedalliance with the Prince of Darkness, gnomes, hexies, dragons, Undines,Loreleis, nor the like?"
"Come down out of that, you d----d old fool!" roared Mr. Clinch, nowperfectly beside himself with rage,--"come down, and let me in!"
As Mr. Clinch shouted out the last words, confused cries of recognitionand welcome, not unmixed with some consternation, rose from thebattlements: "Ach Gott!" "Mutter Gott--it is he! It is Jann, DerWanderer. It is himself." The chains rattled, the ponderous drawbridgecreaked and dropped; and across it a medley of motley figures rushedpellmell. But, foremost among them, the very maiden whom he had left notten minutes before flew into his arms, and with a cry of joyful greetingsank upon his breast. Mr. Clinch looked down upon the fair head and longbraids. It certainly was the same maiden, his cruel enchantress; butwhere did she get those absurd garments?
"Willkommen," said a stout figure, advancing with some authority, andseizing his disengaged hand, "where hast thou been so long?"
Mr. Clinch, by no means placated, coldly dropped the extended hand.It was NOT the proprietor he had known. But there was a singularresemblance in his face to some one of Mr. Clinch's own kin; but who,he could not remember. "May I take the liberty of asking your name?" heasked coldly.
The figure grinned. "Surely; but, if thou standest upon punctilio, itis for ME to ask thine, most noble Freiherr," said he, winking upon hisretainers. "Whom have I the honor of entertaining?"
"My name is Clinch,--James Clinch of Chicago, Ill."
A shout of laughter followed. In the midst of his rage and mortificationMr. Clinch fancied he saw a shade of pain and annoyance flit across theface of the maiden. He was puzzled, but pressed her hand, in spite ofhis late experiences, reassuringly. She made a gesture of silence tohim, and then slipped away in the crowd.
"Schames K'l'n'sche von Schekargo," mimicked the figure, to theunspeakable delight of his retainers. "So! THAT is the latest Frenchstyle. Holy St. Ursula! Hark ye, nephew! I am not a travelled man. Sincethe Crusades we simple Rhine gentlemen have staid at home. But I callmyself Kolnsche of Koln, at your service."
"Very likely you are right," said Mr. Clinch hotly, disregarding thecaution of his fair companion; "but, whoever YOU are, I am a strangerentitled to protection. I have been robbed."
If Mr. Clinch had uttered an exquisite joke instead of a very angrystatement, it could not have been more hilariously received. He paused,grew confused, and then went on hesitatingly,--
"In place of my papers and credentials I find only these." And heproduced the jewelry from his pockets.
Another shout of laughter and clapping of hands followed this secondspeech; and the baron, with a wink at his retainers, prolonged thegeneral mirth by saying, "By the way, nephew, there is little doubt butthere has been robbery--somewhere."
"It was done," continued Mr. Clinch, hurrying to make an end of hisexplanation, "while I was inadvertently overcome with liquor,--druggedliquor."
The laughter here was so uproarious that the baron, albeit with tearsof laughter in his own eyes, made a peremptory gesture of silence. Thegesture was peculiar to the baron, efficacious and simple. It consistedmerely in knocking down the nearest laugher. Having thus restoredtranquillity, he strode forward, and took Mr. Clinch by the hand. "BySt. Adolph, I did doubt thee a moment ago, nephew; but this last frankconfession of thine shows me I did thee wrong. Willkommen zu Hause,Jann, drunk or sober, willcommen zu Cracowen."
More and more mystified, but convinced of the folly of any furtherexplanation, Mr. Clinch took the extended hand of his alleged uncle, andpermitted himself to be led into the castle. They passed into a largebanqueting-hall adorned with armor and implements of the chase. Mr.Clinch could not help noticing, that, although the appointments wereliberal and picturesque, the ventilation was bad, and the smoke from thehuge chimney made the air murky. The oaken tables, massive in carvingand rich in color, were unmistakably greasy; and Mr. Clinch slipped ona piece of meat that one of the dozen half-wild dogs who were occupyingthe room was tearing on the floor. The dog, yelping, ran between thelegs of a retainer, precipitating him upon the baron, who instantly,with the "equal foot" of fate, kicked him and the dog into a corner.
"And whence came you last?" asked the baron, disregarding the littlecontretemps, and throwing himself heavily on an oaken settle, whilehe pushed a queer, uncomfortable-looking stool, with legs like aSiamese-twin-connected double X, towards his companion.
Mr. Clinch, who had quite given himself up to fate, answeredmechanically,--
"Paris."
The baron winked his eye with unutterable, elderly wickedness. "AchGott! it is nothing to what it was when I was your age. Ah! there wasManon,--Sieur Manon we used to call her. I suppose she's getting oldnow. How goes on the feud between the students and the citizens? Eh? Didyou go to the bal in la Cite?"
Mr. Clinch stopped the flow of those Justice-Shallow-like reminiscencesby an uneasy exclamation. He was thinking of the maiden who haddisappeared so suddenly. The baron misinterpreted his nervousness. "Whatho, within there!--Max, Wolfgang,--lazy rascals! Bring some wine."
At the baleful word Mr. Clinch started to his feet. "Not for me! Bringme none of your body-and-soul-destroying poison! I've enough of it!"
The baron stared. The servitors stared also.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Clinch, recalling himself slowly; "but Ifear that Rhine wine does not agree with me."
The baron grinned. Perceiving, however, that the three servitors grinnedalso, he kicked two of them into obscurity, and felled the third tothe floor with his fist. "Hark ye, nephew," he said, turning to theastonished Clinch, "give over this nonsense! By the mitre of BishopHatto, thou art as big a fool as he!"
"Hatto," repeated Clinch mechanically. "What! he of the Mouse Tower?"
"Ay, of the Mouse Tower!" sneered the baron. "I see you know the story."
"Why am I like him?" asked Mr. Clinch in amazement.
The baron grinned. "HE punished the Rhenish wine as thou dost, withoutjudgment. He had--"
"The jim-jams," said Mr. Clinch mechanically again.
The baron frowned. "I know not what gibberish thou sayest by 'jim-jams';but he had, like thee, the wildest fantasies and imaginings; saw snakes,toads, rats, in his boots, but principally rats; said they pursued him,came to his room, his bed--ach Gott!"
"Oh!" said Mr. Clinch, with a sudden return to his firmer self and hisnative inquiring habits; "then THAT is the fact about Bishop Hatto ofthe story?"
"His enemies made it the subject of a vile slander of an old friend ofmine," said
the baron; "and those cursed poets, who believe everything,and then persuade others to do so,--may the Devil fly away withthem!--kept it up."
Here were facts quite to Mr. Clinch's sceptical mind. He forgot himselfand his surroundings.
"And that story of the Drachenfels?" he asked insinuatingly,--"thedragon, you know. Was he too--"
The baron grinned. "A boar transformed by the drunken brains of theBauers of the Siebengebirge. Ach Gott! Ottefried had many a hearty laughover it; and it did him, as thou knowest, good service with the nervousmother of the silly maiden."
"And the seven sisters of Schonberg?" asked Mr. Clinch persuasively.
"'Schonberg! Seven sisters!' What of them?" demanded the baron sharply.
"Why, you know,--the maidens who were so coy to their suitors,and--don't you remember?--jumped into the Rhine to avoid them."
"'Coy? Jumped into the Rhine to avoid suitors'?" roared the baron,purple with rage. "Hark ye, nephew! I like not this jesting. Thouknowest I married one of the Schonberg girls, as did thy father. How'coy' they were is neither here nor there; but mayhap WE might tellanother story. Thy father, as weak a fellow as thou art where apetticoat is concerned, could not as a gentleman do other than he did.And THIS is his reward? Ach Gott! 'Coy!' And THIS, I warrant, is the waythe story is delivered in Paris."
Mr. Clinch would have answered that this was the way he read it in aguidebook, but checked himself at the hopelessness of the explanation.Besides, he was on the eve of historic information; he was, as it were,interviewing the past; and, whether he would ever be able to profit bythe opportunity or not, he could not bear to lose it. "And how about theLorelei--is she, too, a fiction?" he asked glibly.
"It was said," observed the baron sardonically, "that when thoudisappeared with the gamekeeper's daughter at Obercassel--Heaven knowswhere!--thou wast swallowed up in a whirlpool with some creature. AchGott! I believe it! But a truce to this balderdash. And so thou wantestto know of the 'coy' sisters of Schoenberg? Hark ye, Jann, that cousinof thine is a Schonberg. Call you her 'coy'? Did I not see thy greeting?Eh? By St. Adolph, knowing thee as she does to be robber and thief, callyou her greeting 'coy'?"
Furious as Mr. Clinch inwardly became under these epithets, he felt thathis explanation would hardly relieve the maiden from deceit, or himselffrom weakness. But out of his very perplexity and turmoil a bright ideawas born. He turned to the baron,--
"Then you have no faith in the Rhine legends?"
The baron only replied with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders.
"But what if I told you a new one?"
"You?"
"Yes; a part of my experience?"
The baron was curious. It was early in the afternoon, just after dinner.He might be worse bored.
"I've only one condition," added Mr. Clinch: "the young lady--I mean, ofcourse, my cousin--must hear it too."
"Oh, ay! I see. Of course--the old trick! Well, call the jade. But markye, Sir Nephew, no enchanted maidens and knights. Keep to thyself. Be asthou art, vagabond Jann Kolnische, knight of the road.--What ho there,scoundrels! Call the Lady Wilhemina."
It was the first time Mr. Clinch had heard his fair friend's name; butit was not, evidently, the first time she had seen him, as the verydecided wink the gentle maiden dropped him testified. Nevertheless,with hands lightly clasped together, and downcast eyes, she stood beforethem.
Mr. Clinch began. Without heeding the baron's scornful grin, hegraphically described his meeting, two years before, with a Lorelei, herusual pressing invitation, and his subsequent plunge into the Rhine.
"I am free to confess," added Mr. Clinch, with an affecting glance toWilhelmina, "that I was not enamoured of the graces of the lady, but wasactuated by my desire to travel, and explore hitherto unknown regions. Iwished to travel, to visit--"
"Paris," interrupted the baron sarcastically.
"America," continued Mr. Clinch.
"What?"--"America."
"'Tis a gnome-like sounding name, this Meriker. Go on, nephew: tell usof Meriker."
With the characteristic fluency of his nation, Mr. Clinch described hislanding on those enchanted shores, viz, the Rhine Whirlpool and HellGate, East River, New York. He described the railways, tram-ways,telegraphs, hotels, phonograph, and telephone. An occasional oath brokefrom the baron, but he listened attentively; and in a few moments Mr.Clinch had the raconteur's satisfaction of seeing the vast hall slowlyfilling with open-eyed and open-mouthed retainers hanging upon hiswords. Mr. Clinch went on to describe his astonishment at meeting onthese very shores some of his own blood and kin. "In fact," said Mr.Clinch, "here were a race calling themselves 'Clinch,' but all claimingto have descended from Kolnische."
"And how?" sneered the baron.
"Through James Kolnische and Wilhelmina his wife," returned Mr. Clinchboldly. "They emigrated from Koln and Crefeld to Philadelphia, wherethere is a quarter named Crefeld." Mr. Clinch felt himself shaky as tohis chronology, but wisely remembered that it was a chronology of thefuture to his hearers, and they could not detect an anachronism. Withhis eyes fixed upon those of the gentle Wilhelmina, Mr. Clinch nowproceeded to describe his return to his fatherland, but his astonishmentat finding the very face of the country changed, and a city standingon those fields he had played in as a boy; and how he had wanderedhopelessly on, until he at last sat wearily down in a humble cottagebuilt upon the ruins of a lordly castle. "So utterly travel-worn andweak had I become," said Mr. Clinch, with adroitly simulated pathos,"that a single glass of wine offered me by the simple cottage maidenaffected me like a prolonged debauch."
A long-drawn snore was all that followed this affecting climax. Thebaron was asleep; the retainers were also asleep. Only one pair of eyesremained open,--arch, luminous, blue,--Wilhelmina's.
"There is a subterranean passage below us to Linn. Let us fly!" shewhispered.
"But why?"
"They always do it in the legends," she murmured modestly.
"But your father?"
"He sleeps. Do you not hear him?"
Certainly somebody was snoring. But, oddly enough, it seemed to beWilhelmina. Mr. Clinch suggested this to her.
"Fool, it is yourself!"
Mr. Clinch, struck with the idea, stopped to consider. She was right. Itcertainly WAS himself.
With a struggle he awoke. The sun was shining. The maiden was looking athim. But the castle--the castle was gone!
"You have slept well," said the maiden archly. "Everybody does afterdinner at Sammtstadt. Father has just awakened, and is coming."
Mr. Clinch stared at the maiden, at the terrace, at the sky, at thedistant chimneys of Sammtstadt, at the more distant Rhine, at the tablebefore him, and finally at the empty glass. The maiden smiled. "Tellme," said Mr. Clinch, looking in her eyes, "is there a secret passageunderground between this place and the Castle of Linn?"
"An underground passage?"
"Ay--whence the daughter of the house fled with a stranger knight."
"They say there is," said the maiden, with a gentle blush.
"Can you show it to me?"
She hesitated. "Papa is coming: I'll ask him."
I presume she did. At least the Herr Consul at Sammtstadt informs me ofa marriage-certificate issued to one Clinch of Chicago, and Kolnische ofKoln; and there is an amusing story extant in the Verein at Sammtstadt,of an American connoisseur of Rhine wines, who mistook a flask of Cognacand rock-candy, used for "craftily qualifying" lower grades of wine tothe American standard, for the rarest Rudesheimerberg.