by Graeme Davis
“And I have a very civil note from the inn at Silberbach, the ‘Katze,’” said Herr von Walden, pulling a mass of heterogeneous-looking papers out of his pocket. “Where can it be? Not that it matters; he will have supper and beds ready for us to-morrow night. And then,” he went on to me, “if you like it you can make some arrangement for the time you wish to stay, if not you can return here, or go on to any place that takes your fancy. We, my wife and I and these boys, must be home by Saturday afternoon, so we can only stay the one night at Silberbach,” for this was Thursday.
And so it was settled.
The next day dawned as bright and cloudless as its predecessors. The gentlemen had started—I should be afraid to say how early—meaning to be overtaken by us at Ulrichsthal. Reggie had gone to bed with the firm intention of accompanying them, but as it was not easy to wake him and get him up in time to eat his breakfast, and be ready when the Einspänner came round to the door, my predictions that he would be too sleepy for so early a start proved true.
It was pleasant in the early morning—pleasanter than it would be later in the day. I noticed an unusual amount of blue haze on the distant mountain-tops, for the road along which we were driving was open on all sides for some distance, and the view was extensive.
“That betokens great heat, I suppose,” I said, pointing out the appearance I observed to my companion.
“I suppose so. That bluish mist probably increases in hot and sultry weather,” she said. “But it is always to be seen more or less in this country, and is, I believe, peculiar to some of the German hill and forest districts. I don’t know what it comes from—whether it has to do with the immense number of pines in the forests, perhaps. Some one, I think, once told me that it indicates the presence of a great deal of electricity in the air, but I am far too ignorant to know if that is true or not.”
“And I am far too ignorant to know what the effect would be if it were so,” I said. “It is a very healthy country, is it not?”
“For strangers it certainly is. Doctors send their patients here from all parts of Germany. But the inhabitants themselves do not seem strong or healthy. One sees a good many deformed people, and they all look pale and thin—much less robust than the people of the Black Forest. But that may come from their poverty—the peasants of the Black Forest are proverbially well off.”
A distant, very distant, peal of thunder was heard at this moment.
“I hope the weather is not going to break up just yet,” I said. “Are there often bad thunderstorms here?”
“Yes; I think we do have a good many in this part of the world,” she replied. “But I do not think there are any signs of one at present.”
And then, still a little sleepy and tired from our unusual exertions of the last three days, we all three, Frau von Walden, Nora, and myself, sat very still for some time, though the sound of Reggie’s voice persistently endeavouring to make the driver understand his inquiries, showed that he was as lively as ever.
He turned round after a while in triumph.
“Mamma, Frau von Walden,” he exclaimed, “we are close to that place where they make the cups and saucers. Herr von Walden said we weren’t to forget to go there—and you all would have forgotten, you see, if it hadn’t been for me,” he added complacently.
“Grünstein,” said Frau von Walden. “Well, tell the driver to stop there, he can rest his horses for half an hour or so; and thank you for reminding us, Reggie, for I should have been sorry to lose the opportunity of matching my service.”
The china manufactory was not of any very remarkable interest, at least not for those who had visited such places before. But the people were exceedingly civil, and evidently very pleased to have visitors; and while my friend was looking out the things she was specially in search of—a business which promised to take some little time—a good-natured sub-manager, or functionary of some kind, proposed to take the children to see the sheds where the first mixing and kneading took place, the moulding rooms, the painting rooms, the ovens—in short, the whole process. They accepted his offer with delight, and I wandered about the various pattern or show rooms, examining and admiring all that was to be seen, poking into corners where any specially pretty bit of china caught my eye. But there was no great variety in design or colour, though both were good of their kind, the Grünsteiners, like their rivals of Blauenstein, seeming content to follow in the steps of their fathers without seeking for new inspirations. Suddenly, however, all but hidden in a corner, far away back on a shelf, a flash of richer tints made me start forward eagerly. There was no one near to apply to at the moment, so I carefully drew out my treasure trove. It was a cup and saucer, evidently of the finest quality of china, though pretty similar in shape to the regular Grünstein ware, but in colouring infinitely richer—really beautiful, with an almost Oriental cleverness in the blending of the many shades, and yet decidedly more striking and uncommon than any of the modern Oriental with which of late years the facilities of trade with the East make us so familiar. I stood with the cup in my hand, turning it around and admiring it, when Frau von Walden and the woman who had been attending to her orders came forward to where I was.
“See here,” I exclaimed; “here is a lovely cup! Now a service like that would be tempting! Have you more of it?” I inquired of the woman.
She shook her head.
“That is all that remains,” she said. “We have never kept it in stock; it is far too expensive. Of course it can be made to order, though it would take some months, and cost a good deal.”
“I wish I could order a service of it,” I said; but when I heard how much it would probably cost it was my turn to shake my head. “No, I must consider about it,” I decided; “but I really have never seen anything prettier. Can I buy this cup?”
The woman hesitated.
“It is the only one left,” she said; “but I think—oh yes, I feel sure—we have the pattern among the painting designs. This cup belonged to, or rather was an extra one of, a tea-service made expressly for the Duchess of T——, on her marriage, now some years ago. And it is curious, we sold the other one—there were two too many—to a compatriot of yours (the gracious lady is English?) two or three years ago. He admired them so much, and felt sure his mother would send an order if he took it home to show her. A tall, handsome young man he was. I remember it so well; just about this time of the year, and hot, sultry weather like this. He was travelling on foot—for pleasure, no doubt—for he had quite the air of a milord. And he bought the cup, and took it with him. But he has never written! I made sure he would have done so.”
“He did not leave his name or address?” I said; for the world is a small place: it was just possible I might have known him, and the little coincidence would have been curious.
“Oh no,” said the woman. “But I have often wondered why he changed his mind. He seemed so sure about sending the order. It was not the price that made him hesitate; but he wished his lady mother to make out the list herself.”
“Well, I confess the price does make me hesitate,” I said, smiling. “However, if you will let me buy this cup, I have great hopes of proving a better customer than my faithless compatriot.”
“I am sure he meant to send the order,” said the woman. She spoke quite civilly, but I was not sure that she liked my calling him “faithless.”
“It is evident,” I said to Frau von Walden, “that the good-looking young Englishman made a great impression on her. I rather think she gave him the fellow cup for nothing.”
But after all I had no reason to be jealous, for just then the woman returned, after consulting the manager, to tell me I might have the cup and saucer, and for a less sum than their real worth, seeing that I was taking it, in a sense, as a pattern.
Then she wrapped it up for me, carefully and in several papers, of which the outside one was bright blue; and, very proud of my acquisition, I followed Frau von Walden to the other side of the building containing the workrooms, where we found t
he two children full of interest about all they had seen.
I should here, perhaps, apologise for entering into so much and apparently trifling detail. But as will, I think, be seen when I have told all I have to tell, it would be difficult to give the main facts fairly, and so as to avoid all danger of any mistaken impression, without relating the whole of the surroundings. If I tried to condense, to pick out the salient points, to enter into no particulars but such as directly and unmistakably lead up to the central interest, I might unintentionally omit what those wiser than I would consider as bearing on it. So, like a patient adjured by his doctor, or a client urged by his lawyer, to tell the whole at the risk of long-windedness, I prefer to run that risk, while claiming my readers’ forgiveness for so doing, rather than that of relating my story incompletely.
And what I would here beg to have specially observed is that not one word about the young Englishman had been heard by Nora. She was, in fact, in a distant part of the building at the time the saleswoman was telling us about him. And, furthermore, I am equally certain, and so is Frau von Walden, that neither she nor I, then or afterwards, mentioned the subject to, or in the presence of, the children. I did not show her the cup and saucer, as it would have been a pity to undo its careful wrappings. All she knew about it will be told in due course.
We had delayed longer than we intended at the china manufactory, and in consequence we were somewhat late at the meeting-place—Ulrichsthal. The gentlemen had arrived there quite an hour before; so they had ordered luncheon, or dinner rather, at the inn, and thoroughly explored the ruins. But dinner discussed, and neither Frau von Walden nor I objecting to pipes, our cavaliers were amiably willing to show us all there was to be seen.
The ruins were those of an ancient monastery, one of the most ancient in Germany, I believe. They covered a very large piece of ground, and had they been in somewhat better preservation, they would have greatly impressed us; as it was they were undoubtedly, even to the unlearned in archæological lore, very interesting. The position of the monastery had been well and carefully chosen, for on one side it commanded a view of surpassing beauty over the valley through which we had travelled from Seeberg, while on the other arose still higher ground, richly wooded, for the irrepressible forest here, as it were, broke out again.
“It is a most lovely spot!” I said with some enthusiasm, as we sat in the shade of the ruined cloisters, the sunshine flecking the sward in eccentric patches as it made its way through what had evidently been richly-sculptured windows. “How one wishes it were possible to see it as it must have been—how many?—three or four hundred years ago, I suppose!”
Lutz grunted.
“What did you say, Lutz?” asked his mother.
“Nothing particular,” he sighed. “I was only thinking of what I read in the guide-book, that the monastery was destroyed—partly by lightning, I believe, all the same—by order of the authorities, in consequence of the really awful wickedness of the monks who inhabited it. So I am not sure that it would have been a very nice place to visit at the time you speak of, gracious lady, begging your pardon.”
“What a pity!” I said, with a little shudder. “I do not like to think of it. And I was going to say how beautiful it must be here in the moonlight! But now that you have disenchanted me, Lutz, I should not like it at all,” and I arose as I spoke.
“Why not, mamma?” said Reggie curiously. I had not noticed that he and his sister were listening to us. “They’re not here now—not those naughty monks.”
“No, of course not,” agreed practical Nora. “Mamma only means that it is a pity such a beautiful big house as this must have been had to be pulled down—such a waste when there are so many poor people in the world with miserable, little, stuffy houses, or none at all even! That was what you meant; wasn’t it, mamma?”
“It is always a pity—the worst of pities—when people are wicked, wherever they are,” I replied.
“But all monks are not bad,” remarked Nora consolingly. “Think of the Great St. Bernard ones, with their dogs.”
And on Reggie’s inquiring mind demanding further particulars on the subject, she walked on with him somewhat in front of the rest of us, a happy little pair in the sunshine.
“Lutz,” said his father, “you cannot be too careful what you say before children; they are often shocked or frightened by so little. Though yours are such healthy-minded little people,” he added, turning to me, “it is not likely anything undesirable would make any impression on them.”
I particularly remember this little incident.
It turned out a long walk to Silberbach, the longest we had yet attempted. Hitherto Herr von Walden had been on known ground, and thoroughly acquainted with the roads, the distances, and all necessary particulars; but it was the first time he had explored beyond Seeberg, and before we had accomplished more than half the journey, he began to feel a little alarm at the information given us by the travellers we came across at long intervals “coming from,” not “going to St. Ives!” For the farther we went the greater seemed to be the distance we had to go!
“An hour or thereabouts,” grew into “two,” or even “three” hours; and at last, on a peculiarly stupid countryman assuring us we would scarcely reach our destination before nightfall, our conductor’s patience broke down altogether.
“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “But I cannot stand this any longer. I will hasten on and see for myself; and if, as I expect, we are really not very far from Silberbach, it will be all the better for me to find out the ‘Katze,’ and see that everything is ready for your arrival.”
Frau von Walden seemed a little inclined to protest, but I begged her not to do so, seeing that three able-bodied protectors still remained to us, and that it probably was really tiresome for a remarkably good and trained pedestrian like her husband to have to adapt his vigorous steps to ours. And comfort came from an unexpected quarter. The old peasant woman, strong and muscular as any English labourer, whom we had hired at Seeberg to carry our bags and shawls through the forest, overheard the discussion, and for the first time broke silence to assure “the gracious ladies” that Silberbach was at no great distance; in half an hour or so we should come upon the first of its houses.
“Though as for the ‘Katze,’” she added, “that was farther off—at the other end of the village;” and she went on muttering something about “if she had known we were going to the ‘Katze,’” which we did not understand, but which afterwards, “being translated,” proved to mean that she would have stood out for more pay.
Sure enough, at the end of not more than three-quarters of an hour we came upon one or two outlying houses. Then the trees gradually here grew sparser, and soon ceased, except in occasional patches. It was growing dusk; but as we emerged from the wood we found that we were on a height, the forest road having been a steady, though almost imperceptible, ascent. Far below gleamed already some twinkling cottage lights, and the silvery reflection of a small piece of water.
“To be sure,” said young von Trachenfels, “there is a lake at Silberbach. Here we are at last! But where is the ‘Katze’?”
He might well ask. Never was there so tantalising a place as Silberbach. Instead of one compact, sensible village, it was more like three or four—nay, five or six—wretched hamlets, each at several minutes’ distance from all the others. And the “Katze,” of course, was at the farther end of the farthest off from where we stood of these miserable little ragged ends of village! Climbing is tiring work, but it seemed to me it would have been preferable to what lay before us,—a continual descent, by the ruggedest of hill-paths, of nearly two miles, stumbling along in the half light, tired, footsore past description, yet—to our everlasting credit be it recorded—laughing, or trying to laugh, determined at all costs to make the best of it.
“I have no feet left,” said poor Frau von Walden. “I am only conscious of two red-hot balls attached somehow to my ankles. I daresay they will drop off soon.”
How th
ankful we were at last to attain to what bore some faint resemblance to a village street! How we gazed on every side to discover anything like an inn! How we stared at each other in bewilderment when at last, from we could not see where, came the well-known voice of Herr von Walden, shouting to us to stop.
“It is here—here, I say. You are going too far.”
“Here,” judging by the direction whence came the words, seemed to be a piled-up mass of hay, of proportions, exaggerated perhaps by the uncertain light, truly enormous. Was our friend buried in the middle of it? Not so. By degrees we made out his sunburnt face, beaming as ever, from out of a window behind the hay—cartful or stack, we were not sure which; and by still further degrees we discovered that the hay was being unloaded before a little house which it had almost entirely hidden from view, and inside which it was being carried, apparently by the front door, for there was no other door to be seen; but as we stood in perplexity, Herr von Walden, whose face had disappeared, emerged in some mysterious way.
“You can come through the kitchen, ladies; or by the window, if you please.” But though the boys and Nora were got, or got themselves, in through the window, Frau von Walden and I preferred the kitchen; and I remember nothing more till we found ourselves all assembled—the original eight as we had started—in a very low-roofed, sandy-floored, tobacco-impregnated sort of cabin which, it appeared, was the salle-à-manger of the renowned hostelry “zur Katze” of Silberbach!
Herr von Walden was vigorously mopping his face. It was very red, and naturally so, considering the weather and the want of ventilation peculiar to the “Katze”; but it struck me there was something slightly forced about the beamingness.
“So, so,” he began; “all’s well that ends well! But I must explain,” and he mopped still more vigorously, “that—there has been a slight, in short, a little, mistake about the accommodation I wish to secure. The supper I have seen to, and it will be served directly. But as to the beds,” and here he could not help laughing, “our worthy host has beds enough”—we found afterwards that every available mattress and pillow in the village had been levied—“but there is but one bedroom, or two, I may say.” For the poor Herr had not lost his time since his arrival. Appalled by the want of resources, he had suggested the levy of beds, and had got the host to spread them on the floor of a granary for himself, the three young men, and Reggie; while his wife, Nora, and I were to occupy the one bedroom, which luckily contained two small beds and a sort of settee, such as one sees in old farmhouses all over the world.