Pencil Sketches: or, Outlines of Character and Manners. Leslie ElizaЧитать онлайн книгу.
resolved to attract the attention of every one round.
"Bromley," said Mrs. Quimby, having called Captain Cheston to her, "is that a baron?"
"That is the Baron Von Klingenberg."
"Well, between ourselves, he's about as ugly a man as ever I laid my eyes on. At least, he looks so at that distance; a clumsy fellow, with high shoulders and a round back, and his face all over hair, and as bandy as he can be, besides; and he's not a bit young, neither."
"Barons never seem to me young," said Miss Turretville, a young lady of the romantic school, "but Counts always do."
"I declare even Mr. Smith is better looking," pursued Aunt Quimby, fixing her eyes on the baron; "don't you think so, Miss?"
"I think nothing about him," replied the fair Turretville.
"Mr. Smith," said Myrtilla, "perhaps is not actually ugly, and, if properly dressed, might look tolerably; but he is too meek and too weak. I wasted much time in trying to entertain him, as I sat under the tree; but he only looked down and simpered, and scarcely ventured a word in reply. One thing is certain, I shall take no further account of him."
"Now, Myrtilla, it's a shame, to set your face against the poor man in this way. I dare say he is very good."
"That is always said of stupid people."
"No doubt it would brighten him wonderfully, if you were to dance with him when the ball begins."
"Dance!" said Myrtilla, "dance with him. Do you suppose he knows either a step or a figure? No, no! I shall take care never to exhibit myself as Mr. Smith's partner, and I beg of you, Aunt Quimby, on no account to hint such a thing to him. Besides, I am already engaged three sets deep," and she ran away, on seeing that Mr. Smith was approaching.
"Well, Mr. Smith," said the old lady, "have you been looking at the shows of the place? And now the greatest show of all has arrived – the Baron of Clinkanbeg. Have you seen him?"
"I believe I have," replied Mr. Smith.
"You wander about like a lost sheep, Mr. Smith," said Aunt Quimby, protectingly, "and look as if you had not a word to throw at a dog; so sit down and talk to me. There's a dead log for you. And now you shan't stir another step till dinner-time." Mr. Smith seated himself on the dead log, and Mrs. Quimby proceeded: "I wish, though, we could find places a little nearer to the baron and his ladies, and hear them talk. Till to-day, I never heard a nobleman speak in my life, having had no chance. But, after all, I dare say they have voices much like other people. Did you ever happen to hear any of them talk, when you lived in England?"
"Once or twice, I believe," said Mr. Smith.
"Of course – excuse me, Mr. Smith – but, of course, they didn't speak to you?"
"If I recollect rightly, they chanced to have occasion to do so."
"On business, I suppose. Do noblemen go to shops themselves and buy their own things? Mr. Smith, just please to tell me what line you are in."
Mr. Smith looked very red, and cast down his eyes. "I am in the tin line," said he, after a pause.
"The tin line! Well, never mind; though, to be sure, I did not expect you were a tinner. Perhaps you do a little also in the japan way?"
"No," replied Mr. Smith, magnanimously, "I deal in nothing but tin, plain tin!"
"Well, if you think of opening a shop in Philadelphia, I am pretty sure Billy Fairfowl will give you his custom; and I'll try to get Mrs. Pattypan and Mrs. Kettleworth to buy all their tins of you."
Mr. Smith bowed his head in thankfulness.
"One thing I'm sure of," continued Aunt Quimby, "you'll never be the least above your business. And, I dare say, after you get used to our American ways, and a little more acquainted with our people, you'll be able to take courage and hold up your head, and look about quite pert."
Poor Mr. Smith covered his face with his hands and shook his head, as if repelling the possibility of his ever looking pert.
The Baron Von Klingenberg and his party were all on chairs, and formed an impervious group. Mrs. Blake Bentley sat on one side of him, her eldest daughter on the other, the second and third Miss Bentleys directly in front, and the fourth, a young lady of eighteen, who affected infantine simplicity and passed for a child, seated herself innocently on the grass at the baron's feet. Mrs. Bentley was what some call a fine-looking woman, being rather on a large scale, with fierce black eyes, a somewhat acquiline nose, a set of very white teeth (from the last new dentist), very red cheeks, and a profusion of dark ringlets. Her dress, and that of her daughters, was always of the most costly description, their whole costume being made and arranged in an ultra fashionable manner. Around the Bentley party was a circle of listeners, and admirers, and enviers; and behind that circle was another and another. Into the outworks of the last, Aunt Quimby pushed her way, leading, or rather pulling, the helpless Mr. Smith along with her.
The Baron Von Klingenberg (to do him justice) spoke our language with great facility, his foreign accent being so slight that many thought they could not perceive it at all. Looking over the heads of the ladies immediately around him, he levelled his opera-glass at all who were within his view, occasionally inquiring about them of Mrs. Blake Bentley, who also could not see without her glass. She told him the names of those whom she considered the most fashionable, adding, confidentially, a disparaging remark upon each. Of a large proportion of the company, she affected, however, to know nothing, replying to the baron's questions with: "Oh! I really cannot tell you. They are people whom one does not know – very respectable, no doubt; but not the sort of persons one meets in society. You must be aware that on these occasions the company is always more or less mixed, for which reason I generally bring my own party along with me."
"This assemblage," said the baron, "somewhat reminds me of the annual fêtes I give to my serfs in the park that surrounds my castle, at the cataract of the Rhine."
Miss Turretville had just come up, leaning on the arm of Myrtilla Cheston. "Let us try to get nearer to the baron," said she; "he is talking about castles. Oh! I am so glad that I have been introduced to him. I met him the other evening at Mrs. De Mingle's select party, and he took my fan out of my hand and fanned himself with it. There is certainly an elegant ease about European gentlemen that our Americans can never acquire."
"Where is the ease and elegance of Mr. Smith?" thought Myrtilla, as she looked over at that forlorn individual shrinking behind Aunt Quimby.
"As I was saying," pursued the baron, lolling back in his chair and applying to his nose Mrs. Bentley's magnificent essence-bottle, "when I give these fêtes to my serfs, I regale them with Westphalia hams from my own hunting-grounds, and with hock from my own vineyards."
"Dear me! ham and hock!" ejaculated Mrs. Quimby.
"Baron," said Miss Turretville, "I suppose you have visited the Hartz mountains?"
"My castle stands on one of them."
"Charming! Then you have seen the Brocken?"
"It is directly in front of my ramparts."
"How delightful! Do you never imagine that on a stormy night you hear the witches riding through the air, to hold their revels on the Brocken? Are there still brigands in the Black Forest?"
"Troops of them. The Black Forest is just back of my own woods. The robbers were once so audacious as to attack my castle, and we had a bloody fight. But we at length succeeded in taking all that were left alive."
"What a pity! Was their captain anything like Charles de Moor?"
"Just such a man."
"Baron," observed Myrtilla, a little mischievously, "the situation of your castle must be unique; in the midst of the Hartz mountains, at the falls of the Rhine, with the Brocken in front, and the Black Forest behind."
"You doat on the place, don't you?" asked Miss Turretville. "Do you live there always?"
"No; only in the hunting season. I am equally at home in all the capitals of the continent. I might, perhaps, be chiefly at my native place, Vienna, only my friend, the emperor, is never happy but when