The Schloss is a very large, square building, with rounded towers in the four corners. It has been remodeled, added to, and adorned so many times that it is difficult to tell to which style of architecture it belongs. The chapel is in an angle and opens on to the paved courtyard.
Our first evening was spent quietly making acquaintance with the other guests. The next morning we lunched at eleven o'clock, the gentlemen in knickerbockers and shooting attire, the ladies in sensible gowns of light material over silk petticoats. Simplicity is the order of the day. Our lunch consists of many courses, and we might have lingered for hours if the sight of the postman coming up the avenue had not given us the excuse to leave the table and devote ourselves to our correspondence, which had to be done in double-quick time, as the postman only waited a short fifteen minutes, long enough to imbibe the welcome cup of coffee or the glass of beer which he found waiting him in the kitchen. The Countess, although the mother of a young man twenty-four years of age, has a pink- and-white complexion and a fine, statuesque figure. She is a Russian lady by birth, and does a lot of kissing, as seems to be the custom in Russia. She told me that when a gentleman of a certain position kisses your hand you must kiss his forehead.
"Isn't this rather cruel toward the ladies?" I said.
"Why," she asked, "do you think it is cruel?"
"Ladies sometimes have on gloves when they give their hands to be kissed, whereas there are some foreheads which ought to have gloves on before they are kissed."
The young Count, when he returned from the races at Wiesbaden, brought with him a young American who had been presented to him by a friend of his, who said that Mr. Brent, of Colorado (that was his name), was very "original" and ausserordenlich charmant. And he was both charming and (especially) original; but not the type one meets in society.
He was a big, tall, splendidly built fellow with the sweetest face and the liquidest blue eyes one can imagine. He had a soft, melodious voice and the most fascinating manner, in spite of his far-Western language. Every one liked him; my American heart warmed to him instantly, and even the austere grande dame, our hostess, was visibly captivated, and the prim German governess drank in every word he said, intending, no doubt, to improve her English, which otherwise she never got a chance to speak.
The two young men arrived yesterday just in time for tea. When the Countess asked him, in her most velvety tones, "Do you take sugar, Mr. Brent?" "Yes, ma'am, I do—three lumps, and if it's beety I take four." (I trembled! What would he say next?) "I've got a real sweet tooth," he said, with an alluring smile, to which we all succumbed. The governess, remembering what hers had been before acquiring her expensive false set, probably wondered how teeth could ever be sweet.
While dressing for dinner I shuddered at the thought of what his dinner toilet might be; but I cannot say how relieved I was when I saw him appear (he was the last to appear) dressed in perfect evening dress, in the latest fashion, except his tie, which was of white satin and very badly tied. The salon in which we met before dinner is a real museum of rare pictures, old furniture, and curiosities. The walls are hung with old Italian faïences and porcelains. A huge buffet, reaching to the ceiling, is filled with Venetian goblets and majolica vases.
A vast chimneypiece, under which one can stand with ease, is ornamented with a fine iron bas-relief of the family arms, and a ponderous pair of andirons which support a heavy iron bar big enough to roast a wild boar on. Count G—— called Mr. Brent's attention to it, and Mr. Brent said, pleasantly, "I suppose this is where the ancestors toasted their patriarchal toes."