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“I only hope, reverend sir,” jestingly observed the vice-palatine, “that it will not happen to you as it did to the csokonai, not long ago. Some wags exchanged his sermon-book for one on cookery, and he did not notice it until he began to read in the pulpit: ‘The vinegar was—’ Then he saw that he was reading a recipe for pickled gherkins. He had the presence of mind, however, to continue, ‘—was offered to the Saviour, who said, “It is finished.” ’ And on that text he extemporized a discourse that astounded the entire presbytery.”

“I shall manage somehow to say my speech,” returned the pastor, meekly, “if only I do not stumble over the name of the lady.”

“It is a difficult name,” assented the vice-palatine. “What is it? I have already forgotten it, reverend sir.”

“Katharina von Landsknechtsschild.”

The vice-palatine’s pointed mustaches essayed to give utterance to the name.

“Lantz-k-nek-hisz-sild—that’s asking a great deal from a body at one time!” he concluded, in disgust at his ill success.

“And yet, it is a good old Hungarian family name. The last Diet recognized her ancestors as belonging to the nobility.”

This remark was made by a third gentleman. He was sitting on the left of the vice-palatine, and was clad in snuff-colored clothes. His face was covered with small-pox marks; he had tangled yellow hair and inflamed eyelids.

“Are you acquainted with the family, doctor?” asked the vice-palatine.

“Of course I am,” replied the doctor. “Baron Landsknechtsschild inherited this estate from his mother, who was a Markoczy. The baron sold the estate to his niece Katharina. You, Herr Surveyor, must have seen the baron, when the land was surveyed around the Nameless Castle for the mad count?”

The surveyor, who was seated beside the doctor, was a clever man in his profession, but little given to conversation. When he did open his lips, he rarely got beyond: “I—say—what was it, now, I was going to say?”

As no one seemed willing to-day to wait until he could remember what he wanted to remark, the doctor, who was never at a loss for words, continued:

“The Baroness Katharina paid one hundred thousand florins for the estate, with all its prerogatives—”

“That’s quite a handsome sum,” observed the vice-palatine. “And, what is handsomer, it is said the new proprietress intends to take up a permanent residence here. Is not that the report, Herr Justice? You ought to know.”

The justice had an odd habit, while speaking, of rubbing together the palms of his hands, as if he were rolling little dumplings between them.

“Yes—yes,” he replied, beginning his dumpling-rolling; “that is quite true. The baroness sent some beautiful furniture from Vienna; also a piano, and a tuner to tune it. All the rooms at the manor have been hung with new tapestry, and the conservatory has been completely renovated.”

“I wonder how the baroness came to take such a fancy to this quiet neighborhood? It is very strange, too, that none of the neighboring nobles have been invited here to meet her. It is as if she intended to let them know in advance that she didn’t want their acquaintance. At any other celebration of this sort half the county would have been invited, and here are only ourselves—and we are here because we are obliged, ex officio, to be present.”

This speech was delivered over the mouthpiece of the vice-palatine’s meerschaum.

“I fancy I can enlighten you,” responded the doctor.

“I thought it likely that the ‘county clock’ could tell us something about it,” laughingly interpolated the vice-palatine.

“You may laugh as much as you like, but I always tell what is true,” retorted the “county clock.” “They say that the baroness was betrothed to a gentleman from Bavaria, that the wedding-day was set, when the bridegroom heard that the lady he was about to marry was—”

“Hush!” hastily whispered the justice; “the servants might hear you.”

“Oh, it isn’t anything scandalous. All that the bridegroom heard was that the baroness was a Lutheran; and as the matrimonia mixta are forbidden in Vienna and in Bavaria, the bridegroom withdrew from the engagement. In her grief over the affair, the sposa repudiata said farewell to the world, and determined to wear the parta[2] for the remainder of her days. That is why she chose this remote region as a residence.”

Here the bell in the church tower began to ring. It was followed by a roar from the mortars on the hilltop.

The gypsy band began to play Biharis’s “Vierzigmann Marsch”; a cloud of dust rose from the highway; and soon afterward there appeared an outrider with three ostrich-plumes in his hat. He was followed by a four-horse coach, with coachman and footman on the box.

The committee of reception came forth from the shade of the beech and ranged themselves underneath the arch. The clergyman for the last time took his little black book from his pocket, and satisfied himself that his speech was still in it. The coach stopped, and it was discovered that no one occupied it; only the discarded shawl and traveling-wraps told that women had been riding in the conveyance.

The general consternation which ensued was ended by the agent from Vienna, who drove up in a second vehicle. He explained that the baroness and her companion had alighted at the park gate, whence they would proceed on foot up the shorter foot-path to the manor. And thus ended all the magnificent preparations for the reception!

A servant now came running from the village, his plumed czako in one hand, and announced that the baroness awaited the dignitaries at the manor.

This was, to say the least, exasperating! A whole week spent in preparing—for nothing!

You may be sure every one had something to say about it, audibly and to themselves, and some one was even heard to mutter:

“This is the second mad person come to live in Fertöszeg.”

And then they all betook themselves, a disappointed company, to their homes.

The baroness, who had preferred to walk the shorter path through the park to driving around the village in the dust for the sake of receiving a ceremonious welcome, was a lovely blonde, a true Viennese, good-humored, and frank as a child. She treated every one with cordial friendliness. One might easily have seen that everything rural was new to her. While walking through the park she took off her hat and decorated it with the wild flowers which grew along the path. In the farm-yard she caught two or three little chickens, calling them canaries—a mistake the mother hen sought in the most emphatic manner to correct. The surly old watch-dog’s head was patted. She brushed with her dainty fingers the hair from the eyes of the gaping farmer children. She was here and there in a moment, driving to despair her companion, whose gouty limbs were unable to keep pace with the flying feet of her mistress.

At the manor the baroness was received by the steward, who had been sent on in advance with orders to prepare the “installation dinner.” Then she proceeded at once to inspect every corner and crevice—the kitchen as well as the dining-room, astonishing the cooks with her knowledge of their art. She was summoned from the kitchen to receive the dignitaries.

“Let there be no ceremony, gentlemen,” she exclaimed in her musical voice, hastening toward them. “I detest all formalities. I have had a surfeit of them in Vienna, and intend to breathe natural air here in the country, without ‘fuss or feathers,’ with no incense save that which rises from burning tobacco! This is why I avoided your parade out yonder on the highway. I want nothing but a cordial shake of your hands; and as regards the official formalities of this ‘installation’ business, you must settle that with my agent, who has authority to act for me. After that has been arranged, we will all act as if we were old acquaintances, and every one of you must consider himself at home here.”

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2

A head-covering worn only by Hungarian maidens.