But having made this request, he was at least spared all farther waiting; for he was at once shown into the room in which stood the most luxurious arm-chair which the mansion could boast, and which, therefore, had long become the favourite dozing room of its master.
He rose from his chair as his young visitor approached, and extended a hand to him with so very condescending a bow, that the Count Adolphe felt his hopes most agreeably strengthened; and it was, therefore, with more firmness and courage than he had himself dared to hope for, that he avowed his attachment, and besought permission to offer his hand to the young baroness.
Nobody who had been half-a-dozen times in the company of the Baron von Schwanberg, could doubt that the first words he uttered would be prefaced by a sonorous “he-hem!” and the sound of this, on the present occasion, though it had, perhaps, something rather more than usually solemn in it, did not, therefore, greatly dismay the young suitor; but when it was followed by the drawing from his pocket a richly bound little book, which he held between his hands, and bowed over, with a sort of mysterious reverence, the young man knew not what to think, and almost began to doubt whether he had made himself clearly understood.
At last, however, the great man spoke, and uttered these words:
“No man, Count Adolphe, can become the husband of my daughter, with my consent, whose family have not yet found a place here.” —
Now, it is certainly extremely probable that the majority of highly-born young Germans know the Almanack de Gotha by sight, for it is, in its ordinary form, a queer-shaped little book, and easily recognised; but it so happened, that Adolphe Steinfeld did not recognise it; and he stared at this strange, and to him perfectly unintelligible appeal, very much as if the noble baron had answered him in Greek.
A silence, which appeared alarmingly long to the lover, followed; but as he happened to have so expressive a countenance that even the slow baron perceived that he had not been understood, this silence rather assisted the dénouement than delayed it.
“Is it possible, young man,” said he, “that you do not understand me? Is it possible that you do not know this book when you see it? This book, sir, is the ‘Almanack de Gotha!’”
“Oh, yes, sir!” replied Adolphe, “I have often seen it. But what has that book to do with the business which has brought me here? Surely I have not made myself understood.”
“Pardon me, Count Adolphe von Steinfeld! You have made yourself very clearly understood; and it is now necessary that I should make myself equally intelligible. Perhaps you are not aware that this volume, small as it is, contains not only the pedigrees of all the reigning dynasties of the earth, but records also the names of all those noble persons who are in any way connected with them? Both my own family, and that of the noble lady my wife, may boast of this honour; and no man, as I had the honour of telling you before, can become the husband of my daughter, with my consent, whose family have not found a place HERE.”
Count Adolphe looked at him steadily for a moment. Perhaps he was speculating upon the possibility of his being in jest; but if this idea occurred, it did not last; for this moment being past, the young man thanked him for having spared him the annoyance of uncertainty, by the unconquerable nature of the obstacle to which he had referred; and then, taking his hat from the table on which he had placed it, he made a low bow, and left the room.
He paused for a moment in the great hall, to decide whether he should ask for his horse... or for his friend, Rupert. At length, however, he decided upon the latter; and having made his presence known by aid of the door-bell, he said he should be glad to see Mr. Rupert Odenthal, if he were at leisure to come to him.
“The Herr Rupert is in the library, my Lord Count,” replied the servant; “shall I show your Lordship thither?”
“No!” replied the rejected lover, rather abruptly. “I wish to see him here, if he can come to me.”
On this, the servant disappeared, and Rupert obeyed the summons which had been conveyed to him, with as little delay as possible.
“Can you walk with me part of my way home, Rupert?” said Count Adolphe. “If you can, I shall prefer walking, and will send a servant hither for my horse.”
“Certainly, I think I can walk with you,” replied his friend; “but wait a moment, while I say one word to the baroness.”
“I had rather not wait here, my good friend,” replied the Count, with a smile. “I will go walking on slowly towards home, and you will follow me, if you can.”
“Whereupon Rupert gave an assenting nod, and they parted; but, within five minutes after, Adolphe heard a step behind him, whereupon he turned round, and in another moment the two friends were slowly proceeding together, linked arm-in-arm, the one speaking, and the other listening, in a way that showed them both to be very deeply interested in the subject-matter of the discourse.
“Good day, Rupert!” were Adolphe’s first words.
Rupert nodded his head in reply.
“I am cured, Rupert,” was Adolphe’s second speech.
“The devil you are!” was Rupert’s reception of this, uttered in a tone of dismay.
“How much the devil may have to do with it, my good friend, I am not certain; but not much, I should think, for, altogether, the work is a good work, and I am my own man again.”
“Explain! dear Adolphe, explain! No you mean to say that you are no longer in love with the Baroness Gertrude?”
“Perhaps I begin to doubt if I ever was very much in love with the daughter of our thrice-noble neighbour; perhaps you are right, and that the fact of this unfortunate young lady’s being the daughter of that insane old booby, is, and ought to be, reason good against any one being in love with her.”
“I never said so, Count,” replied Rupert, in a tone of indignation. “I think her very charming, and I know her to be very excellent; but one cannot — at least, I cannot — fall in love with the first pretty and good young lady that one sees. But this is all idle wandering. No tell me, and in an intelligible manner, if you can, what has happened to you.”
“I will, if I can” replied the Count; “and the condition is but reasonable; for how is a man to make that appear intelligible in relation, which, when it occurred, had the very closest resemblance to a sort of obscure insanity?... But wait a moment, Rupert, and I will act the scene, and this will give you a clearer idea of what has just passed, than any narration of mine could do.... Now, then, just sit you down there, upon that fallen tree, and I will sit down upon this one.... You don’t happen to have a hook in your pocket, do you, Rupert?”
“The chances are in favour of it,” replied the young librarian, laughing. “You know my vocation, Count! Some of them generally stick to me, if they happen to he small;” and, so saying, he thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew thence a miniature edition of “La Fontaine’s Fables.”
“Selected by Fate, on purpose to assist my exhibition!” cried Adolphe, seizing it. “Only you must he pleased to fancy it a great deal more thick, and a good deal more stumpy. So! Now, then, remember, if you please, that you are the enamoured Adolphe von Steinfeld, and that I am the noble Baron von Schwanberg.”
“Go on!” said Rupert, placing himself in the most touching attitude which the seat assigned him would permit, and assuming an expression of countenance admirably calculated to suggest the idea of a mental struggle between Love and Reverence, Hope and Fear.
“Yes!” exclaimed Adolphe, “that is the way I looked at him — at least, I hope so — for that is the way I intended to look. But, now, mark me! I flatter myself that you perceive at once my utter contempt and indifference for you and your looks. My thoughts are here, sir; here, in this sacred little stumpy volume, which is neither more, nor less, than the ‘Almanack de Gotha,’ and thus I declare my will.... No man shall ever marry my daughter, with my consent, whose family have not found a place here.”
Rupert sprung from his pathetic attitude, and indulged in a hearty burst of genuine laughter.
“Ar
e you in earnest, Count?” he said, when he recovered the power of speaking.
“Most perfectly in earnest, my dear friend,” replied Adolphe; “and now, I presume,” he added, “that you will not wonder at my not wishing to delay my departure from the castle longer than was absolutely necessary.”
“That you should wish to get out of his way, if only to enjoy the laugh which I have enjoyed now, I can easily understand; but not that you should so suddenly have recovered from your tender passion as to run away from the object of it.”
“My dear Rupert!” replied the young nobleman, very gravely, “I certainly think the Baroness Gertrude von Schwanberg a very beautiful girl; and moreover, I have fancied, right or wrong I scarcely know, that she was more really intellectual, and more capable of being a rational companion, than any young lady I have yet seen.... But, be she what she may, my good friend, I would not take the daughter of that noble owl for my wife, if she were ten times more beautiful, and ten times more intelligent, than I thought her, when I galloped, with a lover’s speed, towards Schloss Schwanberg this morning.”
“You rather surprise me, Count Adolphe,” replied Rupert, looking at him with very genuine astonishment. “I must confess that I am, except in theory, extremely ignorant of such matters; but I certainly had fancied that a disappointment in love, was a much more serious affair than you seem to make of it.”
“Well then, I suppose it was only a fancy, and not a passion. But, at any rate, it works me and irks me no longer. I tell you I am cured, Rupert, and I am thankful! All I regret is the sort of shyness which I fear may arise between me and that dear library yonder; which means, being interpreted, that I shall not see so much of you, that I shall not be able to borrow so many books, and that I shall no longer have the refreshment of having freedom of thought justified, and made manifest, as you all seem to enjoy it there, without having the fear of priestly interference before your eyes. I am afraid I must lose all this, and I shall miss it greatly.”
“I do not see the necessity for your losing it,” replied Rupert. “Were I in your place, I should recount the whole affair to the young lady’s mamma, with precisely the same frankness that you have recounted it to me. She is a sort of second providence, in my estimation; and I do not much think that anything could go on well, in our region, without her advice and assistance.”
“Do you not think that Gertrude must have told her what passed between us?”
“She may have done so, but I do not feel certain of it. The young baroness only referred you to her father, I think?”
“Exactly so. She made no allusion to her mother,” replied Adolphe.
“And how do you mean to communicate to the young lady the rejection you have received from her father?” said Rupert.
“I don’t very well know,” replied his friend. “I am half inclined to think,” he added, “that she guessed what the result would be when she sent me to him.”
“And even if she did,” replied Rupert, “I do not see that you can blame her for it. She would not have been acting properly, according to all your noble notions! if she had taken it upon herself to reply either yes or no. Neither would she have mended the matter if she had referred you to her mother, for she would have known perfectly well that in that case her mother must have handed you to her father. Such being the immutable ultimatum in all such affairs.”
“Yes, Rupert, I know it as well as you do, and I am a fool in affecting to believe that the poor girl had any alternative. Nevertheless, I am a true man, and a wise one too, when I tell you that I am cured of my love-fit; for I swear to you, by all that is beautiful, and all that is good, I would not consent to become the thrall and the son-in-law of this old Almanack, for all the pleasure that beauty and wit united could bestow on me.”
“I am by no means surprised to hear you say so,” returned Rupert, laughing, “for methinks I can understand your feelings as well as if I were a Count myself. Nevertheless, dear Adolphe, I still abide by my opinion, that in order to make this queer little affair of love, and the Almanack de Gotha pass off without any ulterior bad consequences, your best adviser will be found in the Baroness von Schwanberg. But here we must part, my good friend, or I shall leave myself no time to perform any part of the duty for which I receive wages, lodgings, and sustenance. But if you will come to the castle to-morrow morning, and enquire for the lady of the castle, I will undertake so to arrange matters, as may enable you to tell her all that has passed, and receive counsel from her unerring judgment as to the best method to be pursued in order to leave things as if the events of to-day and yesterday had not passed at all.”
“I will in all my best obey you, sir,” said Adolphe, gaily. “Contrive to manage this for me, Rupert, and you shall be my great Apollo, for most truly can I assure you that I wish for nothing more.”—”
Rupert had not undertaken more than he was able to perform. His ever-kind patroness never threw any difficulties in his way when she perceived that he wished to consult her; and within a couple of hours after the deeply-offended Count Adolphe had received his dismissal from the baron, the baron’s lady was made acquainted with all that had passed, save and except the private interview which had taken place between Gertrude and her father. But, as it happened, the omission of that one little scene produced neither obscurity nor uncertainty in the mind of Madame von Schwanberg. The drama went on perfectly well to its catastrophe without it. It certainly required some little effort on the part of the baroness to preserve her gravity as she listened to the description of the almanack scene; and no little praise was merited on the part of Rupert, for the tone of respectful solemnity with which he narrated it. But this moment of danger being happily got over by both parties, no difficulty whatever seemed to rest on the mind of the lady, as to the manner of bringing this foolish little affair to a conclusion, without leaving any very painful recollections of it behind.
“If I understand you rightly, Rupert,” said she, “Count Adolphe will be made aware, before I next see him, that you have acquainted me with all that has passed?”
“Assuredly,” replied Rupert. “It is by his express desire that I have made this communication to you, madam.”
“And the advice which I shall give him will be this,” returned the baroness; “I shall advise him immediately to obtain his very indulgent father’s permission to travel for a month or two; and, if he follow my advice, he will visit us all after he returns, as if he had totally forgotten that anything of the kind had passed. Of course, Gertrude has told me of his abrupt proposal to her, and of the very proper manner in which she referred him to her father. It is evident to me, that she is much more disposed to forget, than to remember this silly fancy of our young friend; and I flatter myself, that Adolphe will easily be brought to follow her example.”
“Indeed, I hope so,” said Rupert, very honestly, but without deeming it proper to avow his knowledge that such was already the state of his mind.
Nothing, in short, could be more rational on all sides than the manner in which this juvenile fancy was permitted to evaporate and be forgotten. There was but one feature in the business which at all puzzled the sagacity of Madame von Schwanberg; she was a good deal perplexed to account for the baron’s silence on the subject, and for some time she lived in daily dread of being summoned to a private interview, for the purpose of hearing of the very magnificent manner in which he had thought proper to reject the splendid proposal which he had received from their high-born and very wealthy neighbour.
Had she been aware that he avoided the subject himself, and had commanded his daughter to avoid it, from the fear that any discussion on the subject might have led to the discovery that the noble refusal, and still nobler manner of it, had not originally been his own suggestion, she would have understood his silence concerning it much better.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE conversation between the Baroness von Schwanberg and the Frau Odenthal, which was recorded some chapters back, had been forgotten by neither
of them; nor was it likely that it should be; for they had both of them been deeply in earnest in the opinions they had then expressed; and though the subject had not been fully, nor even openly discussed, they had both made themselves sufficiently understood to have each created a lasting feeling of sympathy and esteem in the other.
But, to the regret of both, the intercourse so auspiciously began, and which seemed to promise so much mutual gratification and comfort, was suddenly and painfully checked by the earnest entreaty of Madame Odenthal’s last surviving sister, that, as her son no longer required her presence in order to ensure him a comfortable home, she would make her long-talked-of visit to England.
As this letter, in addition to its earnest entreaties, brought also the pecuniary means of complying with them; the good woman aroused her courage, and set off for England.
Once there, she soon reaped the reward of her exertions, by perceiving that her presence was indeed a comfort to the affectionate relative she went to visit, and whose failing health certainly made her presence more useful there, than it could have been in the house of her brother Alaric, who since his nephew had been domiciled at the castle, had greatly less need of her usefulness than her invalid sister.
The letters which passed between her and her son, were long and frequent; and it was so evident from those of the young man, that the home he had found in the castle was in every way more advantageous than it could ever be in her power to make that of Father Alaric, that the idea that it might be necessary for her to return for Rupert’s sake, soon died away, and was forgotten.
But though, in the case of her son, the weeks, months, and years, wore away without bringing any probability that he was likely to lose his present asylum, and return to the humble roof of his uncle, the case was different with herself; the sister of Madame Odenthal died, bequeathing to her all she possessed, which, although amounting to no very large revenue, was enough to ensure her the same peaceful home which she had so long enjoyed under the roof of Father Alaric, and with the additional comfort of being able to remunerate him for it.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 444