Their estate was large, and as beautiful as heart could desire. It stood sloping up a rounded, richly-wooded hill in the neighbourhood of K——au; and from its great terrace, as well as from other less distinguished points of vantage, there was a broad and beautiful vista over the rich and many-coloured plain, to where in a silver line the Rhine might be seen winding his way towards Coblenz. Far distant, like blue clouds on the horizon, lay the soft outlines of the Rhine mountains; far over hill and dale shone the delicious sunshine, while the fair land spread her broad bosom, in the rich maturity of the latter July, to his fervent beams.
All the summer long, Frau von Trockenau loved to have her friends around her, and those friends were various. Coffee-parties and picnics—or rather the German equivalents of picnics in the shape of fêtes and Landparteien, suppers and dances, riding and driving, and, when it was late enough, shooting and die Jagd. An admirable cook, wines of a character not to disgrace the cuisine, a hearty welcome, and unlimited liberty to the guest to follow the bent of his own wishes—these were the attractions offered to their guests by the count and countess, and they proved so strong that Frau von Trockenau very rarely had an invitation refused. People refused or put off other visits in order to make one to Schloss Trockenau, and persons who were not spontaneously invited there schemed to get invitations.
To the initiated reader the remark will be almost superfluous that the practices at Schloss Trockenau must have been characterised by a certain unconventionality and laisser faire not always found in German or any other country houses, whether belonging to the nobility or to the Bürgerschaft. This was the case, and the guests of the countess were by no means confined to persons who were her equals in rank, many of whom, she was wont to say, might be excellent creatures, but were often old, and, when they lived in the country, were wont to be dull. And dulness was the bane of the countess’s existence. In their hatred of it she and her husband were sworn allies; they were never known to oppose one another’s schemes for killing time, though it often happened that in their zeal in that cause they would both have provided some entertainment for the same time. When this occurred, the rule was that each should give way in turn, and this plan was found to answer admirably, and to be productive of the greatest harmony, conjugal and social.
On the evening after that meeting in the Kurgarten, a large company, or Gesellschaft, was assembled in the rooms, or wandering about the gardens and terraces of the Schloss. It was a mixed and motley society. There were friends of the count, brother officers who were staying in the house, or who had come over from Coblenz for the occasion; young men from Berlin, fashionable or otherwise; some gay cousins of Countess Carla, very stylish young ladies indeed, who, with their pretty cousin as a chaperon, were creating havoc by their accomplishments, and by their airs and graces, in the hearts of all the shy young Junker in the vicinity, except in that of Hans von Lemde, who was irresistibly drawn in another direction. There were some young Englishmen from Bonn, fellow-students and friends of the count’s younger brother. There were two learned professors, and a poetess whose verses were fades, and who was rightly and universally voted a bore, but who was amongst the von-est of the vons, and who distinctly and unmistakably belonged to the genus irritabile, and apparently to no other.
There was Jerome Wellfield, who had just arrived, and who was talking to his hostess; there was Herr Rudolf Falkenberg, the great banker and picture-critic, who had arrived that morning. There was a knot of stout, oddly-dressed, gauche-looking ladies of a certain age, who clubbed together in a corner, and represented the local nobility and squirearchy.
‘No one knows who else may be coming,’ said one. ‘I think die Trockenau is much too careless. She does not consider the dignity of our position.’
‘Ach, lieber Himmel! Who is that?’ murmured another.
‘That’ was Sara Ford, who came sweeping down the room with her head in the air, followed by Herr Falkenberg, to whom she talked in her frank, audible, unconstrained English fashion, and who begged her to come with him to the terrace that he might show her a view which he said ought to be painted.
The pair were followed by the disapproving looks of the local Junkerthum before spoken of, and by the round eyes of a number of young German girls, just arrived at that stage in life which is known to their countrymen as the Backfisch. Now, a Backfisch is a kind of ingénue not often met amongst English girls; and Sara Ford could never, by any chance, have had anything of the genus about her. Consequently she was an object of wonder, and some disapproval to those who either were or had been Backfische themselves.
‘These English girls!’ sighed one of the native nobility, shaking her head portentously. ‘If I were to see my Paula monopolise a man in that way—but she is incapable of even speaking to a gentleman before he speaks to her. If a girl of mine were to be like that, I should die.’