In the Courts of Memory 1858 1875. by L. de Hegermann Lindencrone

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Of course, it would have a moat around it (all old castles do); it would
have all the modern comforts combined with the traditions of past glories;
it would have avenues of grand old trees and marble statues, and terraces
leading into Italian gardens, and so forth. In fact, my imagination got so
riotous that I forgot to look at the treeless, muddy roads, and I never
noticed the wrenching of the ancient landau in which we were.

As we were jolted over the desolate landscape, Countess Westphal tried to
tell me the family history of the B----s, but I only gathered bits of it
here and there; such as that he was the fourth son of a very distinguished
father and mother, and had no prospect worth speaking of, except the
prospect of the dreary place we were careering over; that they never left
their native heath and had no children, and that they lived on their
estate (being the only thing they had to live on), and so forth and so
forth, all of which went in at the ear next the Countess and went out at
the ear next the road.

Finally we spied the _schloss._ It had been a convent in some former
century, and still had iron bars on the windows. We drove through a muddy
lane, passing a sort of barn with grated loopholes, and stopped before a
courtyard filled with chickens and geese; on the left was a pigsty,
smelling not at all like Westphalian hams, and on the other side a cow-
stable. In front was the _schloss_ and the lady of the manor, the
honorable Countess herself, on the steps, quite by chance, so it seemed.
She led us proudly into the salon. A large bunch of keys hung at her
girdle. I wondered why she needed so many! After the coal-bin, wine-vault,
and sugar-bowl, and linen-closet had been locked up, what more did she
need to lock up? There was no mention that the telegram had been received.
Strange!

Count B---- was not there, "but would be coming soon." I felt that I could
wait. The salon was of the kind that one often sees in houses where the
mistress, having no children and plenty of time, embroiders things. Every
possible object had a coat of arms and huge crowns embroidered on it, so
that you could never forget that you were in the house of ancient
nobility, which had the right to impose its crowns on you. All the chairs,
tables, sideboards, and things on the walls were made out of the horns of
stags and other animals the Count had shot. Sometimes the chairs were
covered with the skin of the same, minus the hair, which was missing and
moth-eaten in spots.

I was taken up-stairs to my bedroom, and I was thankful to see that the
horns and crowns had nearly given out before they finished furnishing the
first story, and that I had an ordinary middle-class chair to sit on.
There were many pictures of Madonnas and saints, from which I inferred
that our hosts were Catholics, and a _prie-dieu_, which, strange to say,
was made of horns; and the mat in front of my bed was a blaze of the
united coats of arms and _two_ crowns! So she was a Countess born, which
accounted for the doubleness.

We were obliged to make _le tour du propriétaire_, and, of course, as
there was no other place to take us to, we went to the stables. There we
admired the two cows (Stella and Bella) with horns. They had their names
painted in blue and white over their respective heads, but they had no
crowns.

Then the Count appeared in very nice clothes. I fancy, while we had been
admiring Stella and Bella, he had been changing his boots. Owing to these
fresh boots we were spared the pigsties. On our return to the house
Countess B---- said, "You know, we don't dress for dinner." I thought with
dismay of my trunk laden with all its superfluous contents, and what a
bore the bringing of it had been, and the opinion my maid would pass on
our noble hosts, who "don't dress for dinner," when she unpacked the
undisturbed finery which she had thought indispensable.

After dinner the conversation was chiefly pastoral, of the kind I do not
join in because I hate it. How many chickens had died, how Bella and
Stella had borne last winter's cold, how many sacks of potatoes had been
spoiled, etc. My Countess enjoyed it immensely, and sat on a horny chair
and sympathized. Our host took pity on me and taught me a patience. I had
known it all my life as "the idiot's delight," but I pretended I had never
heard of it before, and he had the satisfaction of thinking he was
entertaining me--which he wasn't! On the contrary, Job's patience never
could have equaled this one; the Count talked French fluently. The dinner
was not good, nor was it frugal.

The Count said, "Nous n'avons que le stricte nécessaire, rien de plus."

The Countess said, in English, "One can't have in the country all that one
wants."

I could not help feeling that one could not have even the half of what one
wanted, and more than once I caught myself thinking, "None but the brave
deserve this fare." They noticed if you took a second helping, and you
felt that they made a mental note if your glass was filled more than once
with wine. However, it was all very nice, and they were very kind, good
people. It was not the Count's fault if the stags he killed had too many
horns, neither was it the Countess's fault that time hung heavy on her
hands and embroidery occupied them.

Fortunately we would go away next day, so what did it matter? But getting
away was a very different thing from coming. When the Countess Westphal
suggested it, and said that we intended to take a certain train, the faces
of our hosts presented a blank look of apprehension! Their horses were
plowing! What should we do? The doctor, they said, who lived in the
village, had a carriage, but the horse was sick; there was, however, the
_schimmel_ of the baker, which, fortunately, was in good health, and
perhaps, in conjunction with the wagon of the doctor, one could manage. It
sounded like a gigantic exercise of Ollendorff:

"Avez-vous le cheval du boulanger?"

"Non, mais j'ai le soulier du boucher," etc.

After what seemed an eternity, the wagon of the doctor appeared, so did
the _schimmel_. The wagon of the doctor, usually dragged by two animals,
had a pole in the middle, to which the _schimmel_ was attached, giving him
a very sidelong gait. The question now was, who was to drive the
_schimmel_ attached to the pole?

The young man who milked the cows, killed the pigs, dressed the Count,
picked the fruit, drove the Countess, waited at table, served everybody,
did everything, and smelled _awfully_ of the stables--could he be spared?

Well, he was spared, and off we started majestically, but sideways, waving
a courtly adieu. We reached home in a drenching rain, wondering what on
earth ever possessed us to want to go to visit the noble B----s. I don't
think I ever want to see that establishment again, and I don't think I
ever shall.

FÜRSTENBERG, _December._

DEAR M.,--The Duke of Nassau had promised to come here to shoot wild
boars, for which this forest is celebrated. Count Westphal sent
invitations far and wide to call his hunting friends together. Before the
arrival of the Duke, carriage after carriage entered the courtyard; oceans
of fur-coats, gun-cases, valises, bags, and fur-lined rugs were thrown
about in the hall, to be sorted out afterward. Then the Duke drove up in a
sleigh with four horses, his aide-de-camp, two postilions, and a friend,
both of them so wrapped up in _pelisses_ and immense fur-caps that
you could only see the tips of their red noses, like danger signals on
railroads. No wonder! They had had three hours of this cold sleigh-ride!

The quiet old _schloss_ was transformed. Each guest had his own servant
and _chasseur._ The servants helped to wait at dinner. The _chasseurs_
cleaned the guns, lounged about smoking their pipes, and looking most
picturesque in their Tyrolean hats, with their leather gaiters, short
green jackets, and leather belts, in which they carried their hunting-
knives and cartridges.

His Highness (who is very short and what one calls thick-set) was
accompanied by a secretary, a _chasseur,_ a valet, two postilions, two
grooms, and four horses. He had six guns, six trunks, and endless coats of
different warmth. In the twinkling of an eye cigar-cases, pipes,
photographs, writing-paper (of his own monogram), and masses of
_etceteras_ were spread about in his salon, as if he could not even look
in his mirror without having these familiar objects before his eyes.

At twelve o'clock, high--very high--lunch was served. The servants brought
in the eatables in monstrous quantities, and disappeared; the guests
helped themselves and one another, and when without occupation fed the
fire, where logs smoldered all day.

At a reasonable hour, after cigars and cigarettes had been smoked, the
sleighs were ordered to be in readiness in the courtyard. Thirty or forty
_treibers_ (beaters) had been out since early morn. The Count has fourteen
thousand acres to be beaten, therefore an early start was necessary.

The hunters swallowed a bitter pill when they asked us ladies to accompany
them; but they knew their hostess would not let them go without her at
least, so why not take the tame bores while shooting the wild ones?

They portioned off one lady and one gentleman to each sleigh. These
sleighs are very small, and contrived for the confusion of mankind. You
sit in a bag of sheep's skin, or perhaps the bag is simply two whole
skinned sheep sewed together. You must stretch your legs, thus pinioned on
the sides, out as far as they reach; then the driver puts a board over
them, on which he perches himself, nearly over the horse's tail, and off
you go. I cannot imagine what a man does with his legs if he has very long
ones.

The poor horses are so dressed up that, if they could see themselves, they
would not know if they were toy rabbits or Chinese pagodas. Over the horse
is a huge net, which not only covers him from head to tail, but protects
those in the sleigh from the snow flying in their faces. I should think
that this net would be excellent in summer to keep the flies off; it does
certainly suggest mosquito-netted beds and summer heat. Over the net is an
arrangement which looks like a brass lyre, adorned with innumerable brass
bells, which jingle and tinkle as we trot along, and make noise enough to
awake all the echoes in the forest. On each side of the horse's head hang
long, white, horse-hair tails.

What did we look like as we proceeded on our way? A procession of eight
sleighs, combining a _ranz des vaches_, a summer bed, and an antiquary
shop!

Arrived at the rendezvous, Count Westphal placed his guests by different
trees. The best place, of course, fell to the Duke, and I had the honor to
stand behind him and his gun. I hoped that neither would go off! The Duke
is very near-sighted and wears double-barreled spectacles, which have
windows on the sides, so that he can look around the corner without
turning his head.

Every one was requested to be perfectly quiet, otherwise there would be
disaster all along the line. I could keep quiet very well, _for a time_,
but the back view of a man crowned with a Tyrolean hat, and terminating in
a monstrous pair of overshoes lined with straw, lost its interest after a
while, and I began to look at the scenery. It must be lovely here in the
summer. The valley, where a little brook meandered gracefully through the
meadow (now ice and snow), bordered on both sides by high pine woods, must
then be covered with flowers and fresh green grass, and full of light and
shadow.

His Highness and I were under a splendid oak, and there we stood waiting
for something to happen. The Duke, the oak, and I were silence
personified. A dead branch would crack, or the trunks of smaller and
ignorant pines would knock together, and the Duke would look around the
corner and say "Chut!" in a low voice, thinking I was playing a tattoo on
the tree.

"Now the beaters are on the scent!" he said. After this I hardly dared to
breathe.

"They have to drive the boar with the wind," he whispered.

"I thought they did it with sticks," I answered in a low tone.

To this remark he did not pay the slightest attention. Between a sneeze
and a cough--we were rapidly catching our deaths--he said, under his
breath, "If they smell us they go away."

The _treibers_ work in couples, Count Westphal leading them. It is
not etiquette for the host to shoot; he must leave all the chances of
glory to his guests. Among the _treibers_ were various servants and
_chasseurs_ carrying extra guns and short daggers for the final despatch
(_le coup de grâce_). We heard them coming nearer and nearer, but we saw
no boar. Many other animals came wonderingly forward: some foxes, trailing
their long tails gracefully over the snow, looked about them and trotted
off; a furtive deer cautiously peered around with ears erect and trotted
off also; but it is not for such as these we stand ankle-deep in the snow,
shivering with cold and half frozen. A shot now would spoil all the sport.
One has a longing to talk when one is told to be quiet. I can't remember
ever having thought of so many clever things I wanted to say as when I
stood behind the ducal back--things that would be forever lost! And I
tried to enter them and fix them in my brain, to be produced later; but,
alas!

The Duke (being, as I said, very short-sighted) came near shooting one of
his own servants. The man who carried his extra gun had tied the two ends
of a sack in which he carried various things, and put it over his head to
keep his ears warm. Just as the Duke was raising his gun, thinking that if
it was not a boar it was something else, I ventured a gentle whisper,
"C'est votre domestique, Monseigneur." "Merci!" he whispered back, in much
the same tone he would have used had I restored him a dropped pocket-
handkerchief.

Finally (there must be an end to everything) we saw beneath us, on the
plains, three wild boars leaping in the snow, followed by a great many
more. They had the movements of a porpoise as he dives in and out of the
water, and of an ungraceful and hideous pig when hopping along.

The Duke fired his two shots, and let us hope two boars fell. The others
flew to right and left, except one ugly beast, who came straight toward
our own tree. I must say that in that moment my little heart was in my
throat, and I realized that the tree was too high to climb and too small
to hide behind. The Duke said, in a husky voice, "Don't move, for God's
sake, even if they come toward us!"

This was cheery! Abraham's blind obedience was nothing to mine! Here was
I, a stranger in a foreign land, about to sacrifice my life on the shrine
of a wild boar! Count Metternich, behind the next tree, fired and killed
the brute, so I was none the worse save for a good fright. It was high
time to kill him, for he began charging at the beaters, and threatened to
make it lively for us; and if Count Metternich had not, in the nick of
time, sent a bullet into him, I doubt whether I should be writing this
little account to you at this moment.

There was a great deal of shouting, and the hounds were baying at the top
of their lungs, and every one was talking at the same time and explaining
things which every one knew. Counting the guests, the servants, the
trackers, the dilettantes, there were seventy people on the spot; and I
must say, though we were _transis de froid_, it was an exhilarating sight
--the snow is such a beautiful _mise en scène_. However, we were glad to
get back into the sheep-skin bags and draw the fur rugs up to our noses,
and though I had so many brilliant things to say under the tree I could
not think of one of them on our way home.

Fourteen big, ugly boars were brought and laid to rest in the large hall,
on biers of pine branches, with a pine branch artistically in the mouth of
each. They weighed from one to three hundred pounds and smelled
abominably; but they were immensely admired by their slayers, who
pretended to recognize their own booty (don't read "beauty," for they were
anything but beautiful) and to claim them for their own. Each hunter has
the right to the jaws and teeth, which they have mounted and hang on their
walls as trophies.

Count Westphal has his smoking-room filled to overflowing with jaws,
teeth, and chamois heads, etc. They make a most imposing display, and add
feathers to his already well-garnished cap.

Howard said, in French, to the Duke, in his sweet little voice, looking up
into his face, "I am so sorry for you!"

"Why?" inquired the Duke.

"Because the Prussians have taken your country."

We all trembled, not knowing how the Duke would take this; but he took it
very kindly, and, patting Howard on the back, said: "Thank you, my little
friend. I am sorry also, but there is nothing to be done; but thank you
all the same." And his eyes filled with tears.

The next day he gave Howard his portrait, with, "Pour mon petit ami,
Howard, d'un pauvre chassé.--Adolf, Duc de Nassau." Very nice of him,
wasn't it?

In the evening they played cards, with interruptions such as "Der
verfluchte Kerl," meaning "a boar that refused to be shot," or "I could
easily have killed him if my gun," etc., till every one, sleepy and tired,
had no more conversation to exchange, and the Duke left, as he said, to
write letters, and we simpler mortals did not mind saying that we were
dead beat and went to bed.

The next day being Sunday, I sang in the little church (Catholic, of
course, as Westphalia is of that religion). The organist and I had many
rehearsals in the _schloss,_ but none in the church, so I had never
made acquaintance with the village organ. If I had, I don't think I should
have chosen the _Ave Maria_ of Cherubini, which has a final amble with the
organ, sounding well enough on the piano; but on that particular organ it
sounded like two hens cackling and chasing each other. I had to mount the
spiral staircase behind the belfry and wobble over the rickety planks
before reaching the organ-loft. Fortunately, Count Metternich went with me
and promised to stay with me till the bitter end; at any rate, he piloted
me to the loft. The organ was put up in the church when the church was
built, in the year Westphalia asserted herself, whenever that was; I
should say B.C. some time. It was probably good at that time, but it must
have deteriorated steadily ever since; and now, in this year of grace,
owns only one row of keys, of which several notes don't work. There are
several pipes which don't pipe, and an octave of useless pedals, which the
organist does not pretend to work, as he does not know how. However, there
is no use describing a village organ; every one knows what it is. Suffice
to say that I sang my _Ave Maria_ to it, and the Duke and my hosts, miles
below me, said it was very fine, and that the church had never heard the
like before, and never would again. Certainly _not from me!_...

The village itself is a pretty little village and very quaint; it has
belonged to the _schloss,_ as the _schloss_ has to it, for centuries. The
houses are painted white, and the beams of oak are painted black.

On the principal cross-beams are inscriptions from the Bible, cut in the
oak, and the names of the people who built the house. There is one:
"Joseph and Katinka, worthy of the grace of God, on whom He cannot fail to
shower blessings. For they believe in Him." The date of their marriage and
their virtues are carved also (fortunately they don't add the names of all
their descendants). Sometimes the sentences are too long for the beam over
the door, and you have to follow their virtues all down the next beam.

This is perplexing on account of the German verb (which is like dessert at
dinner--the best thing, but at the end), and _gehabt_ or _geworden_ is
sometimes as far down as the foot-scraper. Some houses are like barns: one
roof shelters many families, having their little booths under one
covering, and they sit peacefully at their work in front of their homes
smoking the pipe of peace, and at the same time cure the celebrated hams
which hang from the ceiling. I won't say all hams are cured in this way,
because, I suppose, there are regular establishments which cure
professionally. But I have seen many family hams curing in these barns.

The costumes of the women are wonderful, full of complexities; you have to
turn them around before you can tell if she is a man or a woman; they wear
hats like a coal-carrier in England, pantaloons, an apron, and--well! the
Countess had a woman brought to the _schloss_ and undressed, so that
we could see how she was dressed. I ought to send a photograph, because I
can never describe her. There is a bodice of black satin, short in the
back, over a plastron of pasteboard of the same, and a huge black-satin
cravat sticking out on both sides of her cheeks, a wadded skirt of blue
alpaca, and pink leg-of-mutton sleeves. I can make nothing of this
description when I read it. I hope you can!

Count Metternich entertained us all the afternoon talking about himself.
He has fought with the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico, and when he speaks of
him the tears roll down his bronzed cheeks. He has fought in all Don
Carlos's battles, and is a strong partisan of the Carlist party. His
description of Don Carlos makes one quite like him (I mean Don Carlos). He
said that Don Carlos goes about in a simple black uniform and _béret_
(the red cap of the Pyrenees), with the gold tassels and the Order of the
Golden Fleece on his neck (I call that fantastic, don't you?). During his
campaign he suddenly swoops down upon people, no matter what their
condition is, and immediately there is a sentinel placed before the door.
The _consigne_ is not strict: any one can come and go as he pleases:
photographers, autographers, reporters, without hindrance, and there is a
general invitation to tea at headquarters. He has an army of volunteers,
of whom the Count is one. The rations are one-half pound of meat, one-half
pound of bread, and three-quarters liter of Navarre wine, which the Count
says is more fit to eat than to drink, "it is so fat." Navarre furnishes
the wine gratis, and promises to furnish twenty-four thousand rations
daily as long as the war lasts. The artillery is "not good," Count
Metternich added, but the officers are "colossal," a word in German that
expresses everything.

Count Metternich is the greatest gentleman jockey in the world; he has not
got a whole bone in his body. They call him _der Mexicano_, as he is so
bronzed and dark-skinned and has been in Mexico.

But he cannot rival Count Westphal, who, in his time, was not only the
greatest gentleman jockey, but a hero. At a famous race, where he was to
ride the horse of Count Fürstenberg, he fell, breaking his collar-bone and
his left arm; he picked himself up and managed to remount his horse. He
held the reins in his mouth, and with the unbroken arm walloped the horse,
got in first, and then fainted away.

It was the pluckiest thing ever seen, and won for him not only the race,
but the greatest fame and his Countess, who made him promise never to ride
in a race again, and he never has. She told me that many ladies fainted
and men wept, so great was the excitement and enthusiasm! Count
Fürstenberg had a bronze statue made of the horse, and it stands on Count
Westphal's table now, and is an everlasting subject of conversation.

The Duke invited us all to come to Lippspringe. He and all the hunting-men
have clubbed together and have hired the estate from the Baron B----, who
owns both house and country and is fabulously rich, so people say. Here
these gentlemen (I think there are twenty of them) go to pass two months
every year to hunt foxes. There are forty couples of foxhounds, which have
been imported from England.

There were eight of us, and we quite filled the four-horse break, servants
and baggage followed later. We arrived at Paderborn, a thriving and
interesting town of historical renown (see Baedeker). A two hours' drive
left us rather cold and stiff, but we lunched on the carriage to save
time. At the hotel we found a relay of four fresh horses harnessed in the
principal street, the English grooms exciting great admiration by their
neat get-up and their well-polished boots, and by the masterful manner
they swore in English.

After racing through the quiet streets at a tearing pace, we arrived at
the villa (_alias_ club-house) at six o'clock, in time to dress for
dinner at eight. The gentlemen appeared in regular hunting-dress: red
evening coats, white buckskin trousers, top-boots, white cravats, and
white vests; the ladies were _décolletées en grande toilette_.

Our dinner lasted till ten o'clock. The French chef served a delicious
repast; everything was faultless even to the minutest details; the
servants were powdered, plushed, and shod to perfection. Then we went to
the drawing-room, where cards, smoking, billiards, and flirtation went on
simultaneously until the small hour of one, when we retired to our rooms.

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