“You are right—we must take care to prevent it. Has not the countess been absent at her estate four days?”
“Yes, your highness, it is just this that troubles me. She went away as sound as a fish, and has suddenly fallen very ill. No physician has been called, but, to-morrow, the count will commission his dear friend the baron to drive to his country-seat, and bring him tidings of his better-half.”
“We must circumvent this. In the morning we will arrange a pleasure-drive, of the whole court, to the country-seat of Count Werther. It shall be a surprise. Let Fourier give out the invitations early to-morrow, for a country party, destination unknown. The distribution of the couples in the carriages shall be decided by lot. Take care that Lieutenant Einsiedel is your cavalier, so that when we arrive at the little Werther, he will already be appropriated, and then we will induce her to return with us and spend some time at Belvedere. Now, good-night, Thusnelda; I am very tired and need repose. Sleep already weighs upon my eyelids, and will close them as soon as you are gone. Good-night, my child—sleep well!”
The little deformed court lady kissed the extended hand, the candlestick, with only a stump of a taper in it, and withdrew from the princely sleeping-room, courtesying, and wishing her mistress good-night, with pleasant dreams.
The anteroom was dark and deserted. The lights were all extinguished, and Fraulein Goechhausen was, in truth, the only person who had not long since retired in the ducal palace. She was accustomed to be the last, accustomed to traverse the long, lonely corridors, and mount two flights of stairs to her bedroom upon the third story. The gay duchess, being very fond of society, had had the second story arranged guest-chambers and drawing-rooms.
Why should the little court lady be afraid to-night? She had not thought of it, but stepped forward briskly to mount the stairs. It was surely very disagreeable for the wind to extinguish her lamp at that instant, just at the turning of stairs, and she could not account for it, as none of the windows were open, and there was no trace of a draft. However, it was an undeniable fact, the light was out and she was in total darkness—not even a star was to be seen in the clouded sky. It was, indeed, true that Thusnelda was so accustomed to the way that it mattered little whether she had a light or not. Now she had reached the corridor and she could not fail to find the door, as there was but one, that of her own room. She stretched out her hand to open it, but, strange to say, she missed the knob! Then she was sure that it was farther on; she felt along the wall, but still it eluded her grasp. It was unheard of—no handle and not a door even to be found! The wall was bare and smooth, and papered the entire length. A slight shudder crept over the courageous little woman’s heart, and she could not explain to herself what it all meant. She called her maid, but no answer—not a sound interrupted the stillness! “I will go down to the duchess,” murmured Thusnelda; “perhaps she is awake, and then I can re-light my taper!”
The door was fastened; the duchess had locked the ante-room to-night for the first time.
Thusnelda tapped lightly, and begged an entrance humbly and imploringly. No answer, every thing was quiet. She recalled that the duchess had told her that she was very weary, and would sleep as soon as she was alone, which she undoubtedly had done.
Thusnelda did not presume to awake her by knocking louder. She would be patient, and mount again to her room. Surely she must have made a mistake, and turned to the left of the corridor, where there was no door, instead of the right, as she ought to have done. It must be that it was her fault. She groped along the dark flights of stairs to the upper gallery, carefully seeking the right this time, but in vain. Again she felt only the smooth wall. Terrified, she knew not whether she was awake or dreaming, or whether she might not be in an enchanted castle, or walking in her sleep in a strange house. Just here she ought to find her room and the maid awaiting her, but it was lonely, deserted, and strange—no door, no maid. Thusnelda, with trembling hands smoothed her face, pulled first her nose, and then her hair, to identify herself. “Is it I?” she said. “Am I, indeed, myself? Am I awake? I know that I am lady of honor to the Duchess Amelia, and that upon the upper story is my room. Do not be foolish, and imagine that witchcraft comes to pass; the door is there, and it can be found.” Thusnelda renewed her search with out-spread arms and wide-spread fingers, feeling first this side of the wall and then the other.
By daylight the deformed little lady of honor must have been a very droll figure, in full toilet, dancing along the wall as if suspended by her outstretched hands. Oh, it was quite vain to seek any longer. It must be enchantment, and the door had disappeared. An indefinable dream crept over Thusnelda, and she was cast down. For the first time a jest failed her trembling lips, and she wept with anguish. Yes, she, the keen, mordant, jesting little woman, prayed and implored her Maker to unloose her from the enchantment, and permit her to find the long-sought-for entrance. But praying was in vain, the door was not to be found, it was witch craft, and she must submit to it. The rustling and moving her arms frightened her now, and when she walked the darkness prevented her seeing if any one followed her; so she crouched upon the floor, yielding to the unavoidable necessity passing the night there—the night of enchantment and witchery.[Footnote: See Lewes’ “Life and Writings of Goethe,” vol. 1., p. 408.]