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Her estate having finally been sold at auction, and she herself being quite without means, Frau von Febronius had gone to live with her younger sister at Stargard in Pomerania. In order to spare her daughter the spectacle of that final débâcle she had sent the girl to the countess in Weimar.
The three sisters were all widowed. The one in Stargard had been married to a circuit judge named Stojenthin. She lived on her government pension and the income of a small fortune that had been her dowry. She had two sons who strolled through the world like gipsies, wrapped their sloth in a loud philosophy, and turned to their aunt the countess whenever they were quite at the end of all their resources.
The countess yielded every time. Both young men knew the style of letter-writing that really appealed to her. “They will get over sowing their wild oats,” said the countess. She had been awaiting that happy consummation for years, and in the meantime sent them food and money.
It was not so simple to help Letitia. When the girl arrived she possessed just three frocks which she had outgrown and a little linen. The countess ordered robes from Vienna, and fitted out her niece like an heiress.
Letitia permitted herself calmly to be adorned. The eyes of men told her that she was charming. The countess said: “You are destined for great things, my darling.” She took the girl’s head between her two gloved hands and kissed her audibly on the porcelain clearness of her forehead.
Nor was she satisfied with what she had done. She desired to create a solid foundation and help her niece in a permanent way. That desire brought to her mind the forest of Heiligenkreuz.
On the northern slope of the Röhn mountains there was a piece of forest land having an area of from ten to twelve square kilometres. For more than two decades it had been the subject of litigation between her late husband and the head of his house. The litigation was still going on. It had swallowed huge sums and the countess’ prospects of winning were slight. Nevertheless she felt herself to be the future owner of the forest, and was so certain of her title that she determined to present the forest to Letitia as a dowry and to record this gift in proper legal form.
One evening she entered Letitia’s bedroom with a written document in her hand. Over her filmy night dress she wore a heavy coat of Russian sable and on her head she had a rubber cap which was to protect her from the bacilli which, in her opinion, whirred about in the darkness like bats.
“Take this and read it, my child,” she said with emotion, and handed Letitia the document according to which, at the end of the pending lawsuit, the forest of Heiligenkreuz was to become the sole property of Letitia von Febronius.
Letitia knew the circumstances and the probable value of the piece of paper. But she also knew that the countess had no desire to deceive any one, but was honestly convinced of the importance of the gift. So she exerted her mind and her tact to exhibit a genuine delight. She leaned her cheek against the mighty bosom of the countess and whispered entrancingly: “You are inexpressibly kind, auntie. You really force a confession from me.”
“What is it, darling?”
“I find life so wonderful and so lovely.”
“Ah, my dear, that’s what I want you to do,” said the countess. “When one is young each day should be like a bunch of freshly picked violets. It was so in my case.”
“I believe,” Letitia answered, “that my life will always be like that.”