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street leading up to the castle, in the house known as von
Karndorf’s, a feast was held that same evening. The guests
were sitting around the table, merry, and full of food and
drink. All but one were men who had left youth behind,
and this one was but eighteen years. He wore no periwig,
but his own hair was luxuriant enough, long, golden, and
curly. His face was fair as a girl’s, white and red, and his
eyes were large, blue, and serene. They called him the
golden Remigius, golden not only because of his hair, but
because of his great wealth. For all his youth, he was the
richest nobleman in the Bavarian forest—for he hailed
from the Bavarian forest.
They were speaking of female loveliness, these gay
gentlemen around the groaning board, and they all agreed that
when they were young the world was swarming with
beauties, beside whom those who laid claim to the name
in these days were as nothing at all.
“But who knew the pearl among them all?” asked a
chubby, red-faced man with tiny, sparkling eyes. “Who
ever saw Dorothea von Falkenstein of the Falkensteiners
of Harzen? She was red as a rose and white as a lamb. She
could clasp her waist round with her two hands and have
an inch to spare, and she could walk on larks’ eggs without
crushing them, so light of foot was she. But she was none
of your scrawny chicks for all that; she was as plump as a
swan swimming in a lake, and firm as a roe-deer running
in the forest.”
They drank to her.
“God bless you all, gray though you be!” cried a tall,
crabbed old fellow at the end of the table. “The world is
getting uglier every day. We have but to look at ourselves”—his
glance went round the table—“and think what
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