The Indiscretion of Elsbeth Page #2

"The Indiscretion of Elsbeth" by Bret Harte is a nuanced short story that explores themes of love, trust, and societal expectations in the context of the American West. The narrative centers around Elsbeth, a young woman torn between her independent spirit and the conventions of her time. As she navigates the complexities of her relationships, particularly with a captivating but misunderstood suitor, the story delves into the challenges of maintaining personal integrity while grappling with the perceptions and judgments of those around her. Harte's rich prose and keen observation of character provide a compelling glimpse into the moral dilemmas faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society.

• Short story

								

this little contretemps. You are aware, Mr. Hoffman, that your name is
German?"

"It was borne by my ancestors, who came from this country two centuries
ago," said Hoffman, curtly.

"We are indeed honored by your return to it," returned Sanderman
suavely, "but it was the circumstance of your name being a local one,
and the possibility of your still being a German citizen liable to
unperformed military duty, which has caused the trouble." His manner was
clearly civil and courteous, but Hoffman felt that all the time his own
face and features were undergoing a profound scrutiny from the speaker.

"And you are making sure that you will know me again?" said Hoffman,
with a smile.

"I trust, indeed, both," returned Sanderman, with a bow, "although
you will permit me to say that your description here," pointing to the
passport, "scarcely does you justice. ACH GOTT! it is the same in all
countries; the official eye is not that of the young DAMEN."

Hoffman, though not conceited, had not lived twenty years without
knowing that he was very good-looking, yet there was something in the
remark that caused him to color with a new uneasiness.

The Ober-Inspector rose with another bow, and moved toward the door. "I
hope you will let me make amends for this intrusion by doing anything I
can to render your visit here a pleasant one. Perhaps," he added, "it is
not for long."

But Hoffman evaded the evident question, as he resented what he imagined
was a possible sneer.

"I have not yet determined my movements," he said.

The Ober-Inspector brought his heels together in a somewhat stiffer
military salute and departed.

Nothing, however, could have exceeded the later almost servile urbanity
of the landlord, who seemed to have been proud of the official visit to
his guest. He was profuse in his attentions, and even introduced him to
a singularly artistic-looking man of middle age, wearing an order in his
buttonhole, whom he met casually in the hall.

"Our Court photographer," explained the landlord with some fervor,
"at whose studio, only a few houses distant, most of the Hoheiten and
Prinzessinen of Germany have sat for their likenesses."

"I should feel honored if the distinguished American Herr would give
me a visit," said the stranger gravely, as he gazed at Hoffman with an
intensity which recalled the previous scrutiny of the Police Inspector,
"and I would be charmed if he would avail himself of my poor skill to
transmit his picturesque features to my unique collection."

Hoffman returned a polite evasion to this invitation, although he was
conscious of being struck with this second examination of his face, and
the allusion to his personality.

The next morning the porter met him with a mysterious air. The Herr
would still like to see the Schloss? Hoffman, who had quite forgotten
his adventure in the park, looked vacant. JA WOHL--the Hof authorities
had no doubt heard of his visit and had intimated to the hotel
proprietor that he might have permission to visit the model farm and
dairy. As the American still looked indifferent the porter pointed out
with some importance that it was a Ducal courtesy not to be lightly
treated; that few, indeed, of the burghers themselves had ever been
admitted to this eccentric whim of the late Grand Duchess. He would, of
course, be silent about it; the Court would not like it known that they
had made an exception to their rules in favor of a foreigner; he would
enter quickly and boldly alone. There would be a housekeeper or a
dairymaid to show him over the place.

More amused at this important mystery over what he, as an American, was
inclined to classify as a "free pass" to a somewhat heavy "side show,"
he gravely accepted the permission, and the next morning after breakfast
set out to visit the model farm and dairy. Dismissing his driver, as
he had been instructed, Hoffman entered the gateway with a mingling of
expectancy and a certain amusement over the "boldness" which the
porter had suggested should characterize his entrance. Before him was
a beautifully kept lane bordered by arbored and trellised roses, which
seemed to sink into the distance. He was instinctively following it when
he became aware that he was mysteriously accompanied by a man in the
livery of a chasseur, who was walking among the trees almost abreast
of him, keeping pace with his step, and after the first introductory
military salute preserving a ceremonious silence. There was something
so ludicrous in this solemn procession toward a peaceful, rural industry
that by the time they had reached the bottom of the lane the American
had quite recovered his good humor. But here a new astonishment awaited
him. Nestling before him in a green amphitheater lay a little wooden
farm-yard and outbuildings, which irresistibly suggested that it had
been recently unpacked and set up from a box of Nuremberg toys. The
symmetrical trees, the galleried houses with preternaturally glazed
windows, even the spotty, disproportionately sized cows in the
white-fenced barnyards were all unreal, wooden and toylike.

Crossing a miniature bridge over a little stream, from which he was
quite prepared to hook metallic fish with a magnet their own size,
he looked about him for some real being to dispel the illusion. The
mysterious chasseur had disappeared. But under the arch of an arbor,
which seemed to be composed of silk ribbons, green glass, and pink
tissue paper, stood a quaint but delightful figure.

At first it seemed as if he had only dispelled one illusion for another.
For the figure before him might have been made of Dresden china--so
daintily delicate and unique it was in color and arrangement. It was
that of a young girl dressed in some forgotten medieval peasant garb
of velvet braids, silver-staylaced corsage, lace sleeves, and helmeted
metallic comb. But, after the Dresden method, the pale yellow of her
hair was repeated in her bodice, the pink of her cheeks was in the
roses of her chintz overskirt. The blue of her eyes was the blue of her
petticoat; the dazzling whiteness of her neck shone again in the
sleeves and stockings. Nevertheless she was real and human, for the
pink deepened in her cheeks as Hoffman's hat flew from his head, and she
recognized the civility with a grave little curtsy.

"You have come to see the dairy," she said in quaintly accurate English;
"I will show you the way."

"If you please," said Hoffman, gaily, "but--"

"But what?" she said, facing him suddenly with absolutely astonished
eyes.

Hoffman looked into them so long that their frank wonder presently
contracted into an ominous mingling of restraint and resentment. Nothing
daunted, however, he went on:

"Couldn't we shake all that?"

The look of wonder returned. "Shake all that?" she repeated. "I do not
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