The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
are very nicely bound.”
“Do you read a great deal?” he asked.
“I once thought so, but on referring to the list of books actually read at the end of the year, it was so insignificant that I now make no pretension to being what is called a reader—a few memoirs, travels, an occasional novel, and the newspapers, fill up my time completely. But now you really must take a book, or admire the country in silence, for I cannot allow my Allgemeine Zeitung to remain longer unread. I have only time for one each day, and I get into a fit of despair when they accumulate.”
“I think if you won’t talk to me I should like to smoke a cigar.”
“A most excellent idea! Take the coachman’s place beside Herrmann, who, I am sure, will willingly drive in order to have the pleasure of your company. You can talk over your intended expedition, and boast of the quantity of grouse you would have shot had you been at home this August.”
The day had already closed as they drew near the little village of Siegsdorf; lights glanced gaily from the windows of the houses, and from the small inn the sound of singing and laughter was wafted far and wide.
“I don’t think we could do better than stop here for the night,” observed Baron Z—, turning abruptly to his wife.
“I expected some such proposition as soon as I heard the sound of the zither,” she answered.
“May I?” he asked, playing with the whip; while the horses, apparently unwilling to pass by a stable, the comforts of which they had probably experienced on a former occasion, turned of their own accord into the roughly-paved yard, and stopped at the door of the inn.
The landlady made her way with some difficulty through the passage, which was crowded with peasants, to the door, where she stood to receive the travellers, her rotundity of figure placed in strong relief by the light behind her. Baron Z—merrily returned the innumerable salutations made him, as, followed by his wife and Hamilton, he led the way to a room reserved for guests of the higher classes. One table was still unoccupied, and the landlady, having with her apron swept away the crumbs of bread, and removed some empty glasses which were upon it, placed chairs, asked what they chose for supper, gave the necessary directions to a girl who was standing near her, and then, with a sort of contented sigh, seated herself on a bench at the other end of the table, evidently waiting to be spoken to. Baron Z—looked round him as if in search of some one, and then said:
“Well, how goes the world with you? Are all the children well?”
“All in good health, thank you.”
“Where is my old friend Hauser? I miss him when he is not seated at the head of the table.”
“He is out shooting to-day.”
“Is there, then, a chance of my getting a shot, if I remain here to-morrow?”
“Indeed I cannot promise much. They say the game is getting very scarce. I am sometimes a whole week without venison. You expected better news, I know, for I saw your rifle in the carriage.”
“Not here,” said Baron Z—; “but I am on my way to Reichenhall and Berchtesgaden, and at one place or the other I hope to have a chamois-hunt. A friend of mine wishes to see the sport.”
“Ah, so,” cried the landlady, looking intelligently towards Hamilton. “I have part of a chamois in the house; perhaps the gentleman would like a ragout of it?”
“Should you like some chamois for supper,” asked A. Z., turning to Hamilton.
“Oh! of all things,” he answered eagerly.
“It is rather a dry kind of meat,” she continued, “I have eaten it but twice myself; once from curiosity, the second time from—necessity. You remember, Herrmann?”
“Yes; when we came out of Tyrol and went to the Klamm. I think we ought to show, at least, one of the Klamms to Mr. Hamilton. An expedition of that kind will be something new to him, and a day more or less is of no consequence to us.”
“I am sure you are very kind,” said Hamilton, delighted at the word “expedition,” but not in the least knowing what he was to see.
“We might have the carriage to meet us at Unken, and our landlady will get us a key of the woodman’s house.”
The landlady nodded assent.
“And cold chickens, and tongues, and coffee, and all those sort of things. I shall take guides from Ruhpolding.”
“Herr Baron,” cried a tall peasant, who had been leaning against the half-open door and listening attentively to every word that had been said—“Herr Baron, you promised to employ me the next time you went there. I could go to Frauenstein for the key to-night, and meet you in Ruhpolding to-morrow.”
“Off with you, then,” cried Baron Z—, “and be sure to be there at five o’clock to-morrow.”
“Or at half-past six,” said A. Z.; “and don’t forget to take the largest bags you can find.”
The man nodded his head, scraped one of his heavy shoes upon the floor, and disappeared.
Baron Z—, who was one of the most restless beings Hamilton had ever seen, now walked up and down the room, looked out of the windows as well as the thick leaves of the numerous cactus plants would permit, played with all the ugly, strange dogs in the room, and after having seated himself for a minute or two on every unoccupied chair he could find, he finally joined the guests at the other table, and in a few minutes was discussing politics with an elderly man who had been poring over the pages of the newspapers; then he listened and related sporting anecdotes to another, who from his dress he knew must be a Jäger; with the wood-ranger he talked of timber, the drifts of wood in the neighbourhood; and during the first pause in the conversation, he took up a guitar which was lying on the table and commenced singing Tyrolean songs, with such spirit and humour that his audience unanimously joined in chorus, each taking the part suiting his voice with a precision so surprising to Hamilton that he asked A. Z. if they had often sung together before.
“Never that I am aware of,” she answered examining more attentively the singers; “I do not think Herrmann is acquainted with even one of them.”
The music within seemed to inspire some musicians without, for no sooner had it ceased than the gay notes of a zither were heard—an instrument which Hamilton had never seen, and which A. Z. told him was well worth the trouble of an examination. He was about to leave the room for the purpose, when he met the landlady carrying in the soup for supper; he stopped embarrassed, but Baron Z—, without further ceremony, called in the peasant, who was the best performer, and gave him a place beside him at the table. The man tuned his zither and began to play what he called “Laendlers,” perhaps from the word land or country, simple waltzes to which the peasants dance, and which A. Z. assured Hamilton, when accompanied by a guitar, and the time beaten by the dancing of feet and the snapping of fingers, at a target-shooting match, or a wedding, was the very gayest music she had ever heard.
They were all in high spirits the next morning, when they met soon after sunrise, for the weather promised to be extremely fine, indeed sultry, if an unclouded sky at so early an hour might be depended upon. Hamilton was, therefore, not a little surprised at the number of cloaks and shawls with which the carriage was lumbered, and at Baron Z—‘s dress. He had on the same grey shooting jacket and green felt hat in which he had first seen him—but he had also black knee-breeches, and worsted stockings drawn half-way up his thighs, but which were so elastic that they could be pushed below the knees, where clinging to the legs, they formed folds at a distance resembling top-boots. A large pouch hung at his side, and in his hand he carried a long pole with an iron point. Hamilton was also given one as he got into the carriage, and they drove off amidst the heartiest wishes for good weather and their enjoyment of it.
“Mr. Hamilton would have got on better without straps and with thicker boots,” observed Baron Z—.
“It is of no consequence, for to-day we