Part 3 (1/2)
”Yes, that is the way in the country.”
”No, I won't stay here--I would rather spend the night in the carriage.
How can people exist in this place, even for a day,” thought the countess.
”Won't you have something to eat? Shall my daughter make a schmarren?”[2]
”A schmarren! In that kitchen, with those flies.” The countess felt a sense of loathing.
”No, thank you.” Even if she was starving, she could not eat a mouthful in this place.
The bay was at last tied and, for want of other occupation, continued to gnaw his crib and to suck the air, a proceeding terribly trying to the nerves of his fair neighbor in the next room. At last--oh joy, deliverance--the second carriage rattled up to the house, bringing the maid and the courier.
”Come in, come in!” called the countess from the window. ”Don't have any of the luggage taken off. I shall not stay here.”
The two servants entered with flushed faces.
”Where in the world have you been so long?” asked their mistress, imperiously, glad to be able, at last, to vent her ill-humor on some one.
”The driver missed the way,” stammered the courier, casting a side glance at the blus.h.i.+ng maid. The countess perceived the situation at a glance and was herself again. Fear and timidity, all her nervous weakness vanished before the pride of the offended mistress, who had been kept waiting an hour, at whose close the tardy servants entered with faces whose confusion plainly betrayed that so long a delay was needless.
She drew herself up to her full height, feminine fears forgotten in the pride of the lady of rank.
”Courier, you are dismissed--not another word!”
”Then I beg Your Highness to discharge me, too,” said the excited maid, thus betraying herself. A contemptuous glance from the countess rested upon the culprit, but without hesitation, she said, quietly:
”Very well. You can both go to the steward for your wages. Good evening.”
Both left the room pale and silent. They had not expected this dismissal, but they knew their mistress' temper and were aware that not another word would be allowed, that no excuse or entreaty would avail.
The countess, too, was in no pleasant mood. She was left here--without a maid. For the first time in her life she would be obliged to wait upon herself, unpack all those huge trunks and bags. How could she do it? She was so cold and so weary, too, and she did not even know which of the numerous bags contained dry shoes and stockings. Was she to pull out everything, when she must do the repacking herself? For now she must certainly go to another house, among civilized people, where she could have servants and not be so utterly alone. Oh, if only she had not come to this Ammergau--it was a horrible place! One would hardly purchase the salvation of the world at the cost of such an evening. It was terrible to be in this situation--and without a maid!
And, as trivial things find even the loftiest women fainthearted because they are matters of nerve, and not of character, the lady who had just confronted her servants so haughtily sank down on the bed again and wept like a child.
Some one tapped lightly on the door of the workshop. The countess opened it, and the short, stout sister timidly entered.
”Pardon me, Your Highness, we have just heard that you have discharged your maid and courier, so I wanted to ask whether my sister or I could be of any service? Perhaps we might unpack a little?”
”Thank you--I don't wish to spend the night here and hope that my companion will bring news that he has found other accommodations. I will pay whatever you ask, but I can't possibly stay. Ask your father what he charges, I'll give whatever you wish--only let me go.”
The old man was summoned.
”Why certainly, Countess, you can be entirely at ease on that score; if you don't like staying with us, that need not trouble you. You will have nothing to pay--only you must be quick or you will find no lodgings, they are very hard to get now.”
”Yes, but you must have some compensation. Just tell me what I am to give.”
”Nothing, Countess. We do not receive payment for what is not eaten!”
replied Andreas Gross with such impressive firmness that the lady looked at him in astonishment. ”The Ammergau people do not make a business of renting lodgings, Countess; that is done only by the foreign speculators who wish to make a great deal of money at this time, and alas! bring upon Ammergau the reputation of extortion! We natives of the village do it for the sake of having as many guests witness the play as possible, and are glad if we meet our expenses. We expect nothing more.”
The countess suddenly saw the ”hang-dog” face in a very different light! It must have been the dusk which had deceived her. She now thought it an intellectual and n.o.ble one, nay the wrinkled countenance, the long grey locks, and clear, penetrating eyes had an aspect of patriarchal dignity. She suddenly realized that these people must have had the masks which their characters require bestowed by nature, not painted with rouge, and thus the traits of the past unconsciously became impressed upon the features. In the same way, among professional actors, the performer who takes character roles can easily be distinguished from the lover.